大象传媒

We lived in rented rooms, upstairs in an old house in Stamford Hill, North London. There was one bedroom for my parents and a tiny one shared between my older sister and me, a small living room, and a tiny scullery which looked out over the garden. The landlords (Mr and Mrs Bellchamber - not surprisingly, I thought that was a funny name) were not friendly. They banned us from going into the garden, and would not let me or my sister (five years older than me) have keys to the house; they complained if I made any noise at all.
My father, Jack Goldstein, was away in the war. I now know he was with Bomber Command, 166 Squadron, but as a five-year old, all I knew was that he was in the Air Force. I don't remember him personally at all, except for one fleeting incident which, even after over sixty years, I can still see in my mind's eye.
It was the occasion of a birthday - I don't remember if it was mine or my sister's. Our birthdates are only six days apart, so I can pin the date down to around the end of April or the beginning of May. It must have been 1944, because Dad enlisted on 22 January 1944 and was killed in action on 16 March 1945.
There was a knock at the door. It was Dad, on leave for the birthday party. I rushed downstairs and raced to the heavy street door. As I struggled to open it, I caught a glimpse of my Dad, but only for an instant. In my anxiety to get the door open as quickly as possible it banged against my forehead. An immediate cry, and I was in someone's arms (I like to think, my father's), being comforted. Out came the cold penny and the knob of butter for the bump....
I have no recollection of the party, or indeed of anything else that day. Just a brief glimpse at the person I was never to get to know, never to play with in the park, never to share growing up or being a man. But how that brief glimpse remains in my mind and in my heart.......

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