...1959...

Coming out from under the railway arch and into a quiet and familiar cobbled turning which led out onto a main road, shy and sensitive thirteen-year-old Nathan Cohen screwed up his eyes against the glare of the bright July sunshine. He pushed his round, loose National Health glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and did his best to focus on a small group of lads who attended the same school as he - lads who were known as bullies. In the midst of them was not one but two local ruffians who loved to pick on boys who were loners through no fault of their own, and who unin- tentionally invited humiliation of one sort or another any day of the week.

Too late to turn around and make a cautious retreat. Nathan, who was overweight and a touch short for his age, felt a rush of fear sweep through him as he realised that he was already the focus of the gang's attention.

His lips beginning to quiver, he felt his throat go dry. The boys were forming a kind of human chain across

the worn cobblestones and each one, arms folded, was grinning at him - bar one, who hunched his shoulders and splayed his arms, palms upwards, as if to mimic a distinguishing posture of an East End Jewish elder. Clearly, he was mocking Nathan's grandparents, who ran a small local grocery shop-cum-Jewish delicatessen in a back turning.

Nathan knew from experience that it would be folly even to try and retrace his steps, never mind run for his life as he had done before, only to be chased and caught. It was certain that there was going to be no escape from humiliation of one sort or another, per- haps a good thrashing, for they saw only that he was faint-hearted and fat and an easy target. So, trying to act natural and friendly even though beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead, Nathan did his best to keep an easy pace as he strolled closer to his five would-be tormentors, who were at a loss to do much else with their time other than taunt those weaker than themselves.

On his way to visit his grandparents who lived close by, Nathan was in his faded spinach-green school blazer and an open-necked cotton shirt tucked into his grey school trousers. These were the clothes he wore day in day out, come rain or shine. His only pair of stout black shoes was a touch shabby but, as ever, had been highly polished by himself that very morning while his mother, Lilly, was at work in the local umbrella factory. Nathan's father Jacob, an accom- plished tailor, worked in a small sweatshop in the back and beyond of old Aldgate East and had done for several years. Jacob had always taught his three sons and his only daughter that they should make the best of whatever talent they had and work hard so as to achieve a more comfortable way of life.