However, I did manage to learn to read and write Yiddish. Looking back at those early years, it seems that all through my life, I have had an unquenchable thirst for learning. My younger brother, four-year-old Yechiel, was already at cheder where he was learning his Talmud. I was usually sent to bring him home. Collecting him outside the cheder I always felt frustrated that I could not go inside, where there was so much to be learnt.

One day, my dreams appeared to be answered. As I waited, the Rabbi noticed me when he came out for a breath of air during a break.

"Would you be more comfortable waiting inside, my child ?" he asked.

Would I ? I could only nod dumbly and he stood aside to let me in.

That first time I studied the short thin man with red bloodshot eyes. Next to him stood a tall woman - his wife. The cheder was a large room with a long table in the centre. The Rabbi was seated near the window while the children sat on long wooden planks placed upon wooden blocks. Though traditionally only boys attended cheder, I saw that I was not the only little girl in there. Who the other one was, I never found out. Although he had been so kind to me, I could not help being revolted at his rheumy eyes. However, his mood changed at some perceived misbehaviour, and he screamed at us children, "Shaigits, shkutzim" (gentile scallywags). At this I suddenly began to laugh uncontrollably, which went no way towards improving his temper.

"Shikse, die shikse," (a derogatory term for a common gentile female) he roared, literally shaking with rage. Frightened , I ran from the room and all the way home, without my brother.

My father looked at me quizzically, as I said, "Never again.". When he asked what had happened to upset me so much, I blurted out " I cannot go where its impossible to keep a straight face, then have a bleary-eyed bearded old man call me names.".

It was a rarety to see my father lose his self-control, but I managed it that time.

"If that is what you think, then you really are a shikse," he replied, angrily. "Age deserves reverence, and learning even more so.". Those words have never left me.

Some time later, I discovered that there was a Rebbetzen who taught girls and who did not charge a great deal. When I approached her and told her that I wanted to learn Yiddish and the role of a woman in our religion, she accepted me. Papa was happy to pay the few groschen. I loved going there. Despite the episode in the cheder, I ached to absorb learning, with my whole being. Even today, this determination burns just as strong within me. (At the age of seventy-odd I attended Adult Education courses, and my thirst for biblical and historical study is insatiable). I loved this Rebbetzen, who always gave me extra books to take home.

My parents led a very harmonious life and the closest I can remember to seeing my parents come to an argument was due entirely to me. Vain as any other young girl, I combed my hair one Sabbath before going out to meet my friends. I left the comb lying around where inevitably it was found by my mother. She, the daughter of a shochet was outraged, and in my presence, tackled Papa about the lack of proper training given to his children. His handling of the situation was typical of the man I was proud to call my father.

"Tell me, Frymet. What would you have her do? Go out uncombed? Surely you know that the greatest sin we can commit is to lead another to sin. If a girl goes out dishevelled, then she is bound to become the object of malicious gossip. God, of course, frowns severely on those who speak ill of others. You want your daughter to bring divine wrath down on a fellow human being? I would therefore suggest that for Faigale, it is a lesser crime to violate the Sabbath by making herself presentable before going out than to risk such a thing."

Later, he called me aside.

"My child, I understand that you want to look your best when you go out with your friends. Does it take a genius to clean the comb? Honour your mother and your father is still a valid commandment, and with a little consideration you could have saved your mother that grief."

My father was such a wonderful man. We adored and respected him unreservedly. My eldest sister Sarah, had married a lovely young man but one who had little regard for ritual whether it was keeping a kosher kitchen or religious studies. Despite her own piety, Sarah would never have dreamed of imposing it on her husband. Out of respect for Papa, she did insist on one thing. Knowing full well that her husband was unlikely to fast on Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), she prepared a meal so that Reb Itchi-Boruch's son-in-law would not be seen in public eating on a fast day, especially in a non-Jewish restaurant. Further, she was able to persuade her husband to join his father-in-law, if only briefly, at his prayers on that day.

In their early life together it seems that my parents were comfortably off, due no doubt to my father's winning ways with people and the quality of his merchandise. However, by the time I arrived, their fortunes had declined considerably and in fact, never recovered. To make things worse, Papa's health was destroyed by tuberculosis. Thus, I was forced to leave my home in Michow, to work and live in Warsaw. Though it was obviously heart-wrenching to leave my family at such an early age, my contribution was vital to their very existence.

As we were so many children, my mother constantly used our sewing machine to sew and alter clothes for us. Our neighbours had family in Warsaw who owned a clothing factory and my father believed that I would be suitable for such work, as I was quite skilled in using our machine. The factory owners had lived in Miechow before moving to Warsaw and were known to my parents. As such, Papa had no qualms about allowing me to work for them. In fact, the Warsaw family felt privileged to have a daughter of Reb Itchi-Boruch with them.

My father sent me to Warsaw with our neighbour's son. He was older than I and was already working there. I lived on Wolinski Street in Warsaw and that is where I spent my eleventh birthday. Any money that I earned was saved and sent home, especially during autumn when my family had to prepare for the bitter winter. There, I lived with my mother's sister Chuma and her husband who had a small knitting factory at home. They had no children and were quite happy to have a young person living with them. My sister Rachel who had already been in Warsaw for some time, worked for a tailor who made coats. My other sister Yidis, was also working in Warsaw. They did not live with the aunt but visited her from time to time.

By 1925 my father's tuberculosis worsened. My parents sold their two-bedroom and kitchen home in Michow and moved to Warsaw where my father and sister could be treated. My parents rented a home on Wolinski Street and for the first time in many years, all the family was together at this critical period while Papa was still alive.