else whispered, “Kike!” Like mymother, I was an alien in an enemy country and I, too, made a pact with myself that no one would know my horrible secret.
My course load was drowning me: French, Spanish, English Language, English Literature, History, Geography, Science, Homemaking, Art, Arts and Music History, and Religious Instruction. It was far too heavy after having cut school for two years.
During my second month I met Mark Blakey, a boarder since childhood and the designated Head Boy. The students called him Brutus because he was six feet tall, an athlete, and kindhearted. He was gentle, firm, well behaved, and the school pet. I felt secure in his presence. Instructive, almost fatherly toward me, he tried to protect and guide me through the cloistered boarding school society and I began to idolize him. He, in turn, seemed fascinated by my wild spirit and willingness to buck the system. I struck a chord in his quiet demeanor and turned what must have been a rather boring boarding school existence into a daily soap opera.
But Mark’s goodness couldn’t keep me from gravitating toward those with whom I felt more comfortable and had a greater allegiance: the outsiders. It was very reassuring that there were kids like me, and without their enduring kindness my experience would have been vastly different. I began to smoke, and soon, so did Mark. Within six months, although I was going steady with Mark, the school’s most popular bloke, I was having difficulty with my studies and was prone to argue with dictatorial instructors. I started drinking cough medicine to make myself hallucinate. Mark’s parents must have heard stories about me from the staff and were worried that he had chosen such an oddity for a girlfriend. They were bothered by me. I was not blue-eyed, fair-haired, light-skinned, or Anglo-Saxon, but a shade darker than they would have liked. Perhaps I was Italian, Jewish, or East Indian? When Mark’s mother came to fetch us, for the Christmas term-break, she took us to a lovely restaurant before our long ride north. While we reviewed the menu, I overheard a couple speaking at the table next to us. “She’s probably Jewish,” the woman declared, “and hopefully not an American Jew.”
I looked up in shock, wondering who they were talking about, praying it wasn’t me. Mark and his mother exchanged quick glances, then continued studying the menu. But I was suddenly deeply hurt, ashamed, and embarrassed.
In that moment I wished I had gone home to Reigate with Ruth, even though they didn’t celebrate Christmas. Feeling a sudden connectionwith my Jewish heritage, I wanted to be there when they didn’t turn on the lights from Friday evening through Saturday, recited hymn-like prayers over the braided bread they called challah, then sprinkled it with sea salt. I wanted to be home … with my own people.
Christmas at the Blakeys’ farm was educational. Everyone rose before 6 A.M. Mark, as the eldest son, was expected to work the land with his father. On the occasions when he was not too busy, Mark taught me how to “lamb,” a term for assisting sheep to birth their young, drive the tractor, to ride sidesaddle, English style, and he took me on a foxhunt. Mark’s mother, Marion Blakey, tried to like me, took me sightseeing, and was very kind; but her instinct was correct: I was a bad influence on her son. Although he did well on all his exams, Marion believed her son was far too taken with the troubled waif from America. But Mark vigorously defended me and I was profoundly grateful for his devotion. I had been missing someone, anyone, who thought I was special.
In a letter to Ruth, six months into the school year the telltale signs of my troubles were present:
… I don’t seem to be able to do anything right. I wonder what’s wrong with me. I hate most of the authorities in this school. I’m tired and want to come home for a long rest.
My poor relations with my teachers finally came to a head
My course load was drowning me: French, Spanish, English Language, English Literature, History, Geography, Science, Homemaking, Art, Arts and Music History, and Religious Instruction. It was far too heavy after having cut school for two years.
During my second month I met Mark Blakey, a boarder since childhood and the designated Head Boy. The students called him Brutus because he was six feet tall, an athlete, and kindhearted. He was gentle, firm, well behaved, and the school pet. I felt secure in his presence. Instructive, almost fatherly toward me, he tried to protect and guide me through the cloistered boarding school society and I began to idolize him. He, in turn, seemed fascinated by my wild spirit and willingness to buck the system. I struck a chord in his quiet demeanor and turned what must have been a rather boring boarding school existence into a daily soap opera.
But Mark’s goodness couldn’t keep me from gravitating toward those with whom I felt more comfortable and had a greater allegiance: the outsiders. It was very reassuring that there were kids like me, and without their enduring kindness my experience would have been vastly different. I began to smoke, and soon, so did Mark. Within six months, although I was going steady with Mark, the school’s most popular bloke, I was having difficulty with my studies and was prone to argue with dictatorial instructors. I started drinking cough medicine to make myself hallucinate. Mark’s parents must have heard stories about me from the staff and were worried that he had chosen such an oddity for a girlfriend. They were bothered by me. I was not blue-eyed, fair-haired, light-skinned, or Anglo-Saxon, but a shade darker than they would have liked. Perhaps I was Italian, Jewish, or East Indian? When Mark’s mother came to fetch us, for the Christmas term-break, she took us to a lovely restaurant before our long ride north. While we reviewed the menu, I overheard a couple speaking at the table next to us. “She’s probably Jewish,” the woman declared, “and hopefully not an American Jew.”
I looked up in shock, wondering who they were talking about, praying it wasn’t me. Mark and his mother exchanged quick glances, then continued studying the menu. But I was suddenly deeply hurt, ashamed, and embarrassed.
In that moment I wished I had gone home to Reigate with Ruth, even though they didn’t celebrate Christmas. Feeling a sudden connectionwith my Jewish heritage, I wanted to be there when they didn’t turn on the lights from Friday evening through Saturday, recited hymn-like prayers over the braided bread they called challah, then sprinkled it with sea salt. I wanted to be home … with my own people.
Christmas at the Blakeys’ farm was educational. Everyone rose before 6 A.M. Mark, as the eldest son, was expected to work the land with his father. On the occasions when he was not too busy, Mark taught me how to “lamb,” a term for assisting sheep to birth their young, drive the tractor, to ride sidesaddle, English style, and he took me on a foxhunt. Mark’s mother, Marion Blakey, tried to like me, took me sightseeing, and was very kind; but her instinct was correct: I was a bad influence on her son. Although he did well on all his exams, Marion believed her son was far too taken with the troubled waif from America. But Mark vigorously defended me and I was profoundly grateful for his devotion. I had been missing someone, anyone, who thought I was special.
In a letter to Ruth, six months into the school year the telltale signs of my troubles were present:
… I don’t seem to be able to do anything right. I wonder what’s wrong with me. I hate most of the authorities in this school. I’m tired and want to come home for a long rest.
My poor relations with my teachers finally came to a head
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