How I rescued a damsel in distress!

By the time I was 17 I had visited and holidayed in 7 countries on 3 Continents on 12 different occasions; travelled the Madrid subway system at 10 years old by myself; roamed the streets of Jerusalem and Haifa alone and travelled across France by train twice. I got to the holiday destinations with my mum or in a group, but once there I was prone to exploring. So it was that in 1960 I travelled with a group to Riccione, on the Adriatic Coast of Italy. There must have been 20 of us ranging in age from 17 to 60. I was the youngest and as it turns out the most experienced traveler. My mother had come across the group through an ad’ in the Jewish Chronicle, the leading place for information on British Jewry in the 60’s.

We left from Southend-On-Sea in Essex in an old DC3. You may remember that the DC3 was the workhorse of the McDonnell Douglas line of aircraft. Very safe, but not much of a flying range. It only travelled at 200 mph and couldn’t carry a lot of fuel. And so we hopped and skipped across France and Italy finally arriving in Venice, the closest airport, late in the evening. We cleared customs, well most of us did. There was a delay. It seems that one of our group, a 25 year old young lady had left England with a passport that would expire during the 2 week holiday.

After a lot of negotiating, customs allowed Carol, the errant passenger, to continue on holiday with the strict proviso that the passport be renewed on Monday and today was Saturday.

Carol was in her mid 20’s, very attractive and very personable. It was obvious that by Monday there would be a line-up of guys wanting to escort her to the British Consul in Florence.

Monday morning arrived and Carol was getting ready to go to Florence. I asked her who she was going with and was surprised to find out that none of the eligible men had volunteered to escort her and she had not thought it reasonable to have an escort. I explained to her that a young woman traveling alone in Italy was inviting trouble. She didn’t speak Italian and she really wasn’t sure of the route. I told her that I would go with her as I had a lot of experience traveling on the Continent. After a lot of back and forth arguing she relented and agreed to my accompanying her. Did I mention that I had a crush on her? Probably not. I did have a thing for older women which, fortunately, I have grown out of.:)

So off we went by train from Riccione, on the east coast of Italy, to Florence, essentially in the middle of Italy. The journey took over 3 hours and we had to change at Bologna. We finally arrived around midday and went straight to the British Consul and the passport office.

Over lunch Carol filled out the passport renewal application. Finally the application was ready to complete. There was only one problem. The application needed a signature from a 3^rd party whom she had known for more than 2 years. I pointed out that sitting for 3 hours in a train together could be interpreted as a lifetime and easily be considered 2 years. Carol agreed, I signed and that was that. With one signature I was a hero. She got her passport renewed, we walked around Florence and caught the train back to Riccione. I had spent the better part of 12 hours with a beautiful woman, I was a hero in her eyes, but I was just a kid. Too young. Bummer! Oh well at least I had a story I could tell my children and grandchildren about. I was 17 years old and had just saved a damsel in distress.

On Tuesday morning when the rest of the group heard the story I was indeed the hero. I could do no wrong for the rest of the holiday.

Had I not insisted on going with her what would she have done at that point? Strange how things work out. But the story isn’t over yet.

I had a wonderful holiday, made lots of friends, and felt great. Couldn’t wait to tell mum about the whole adventure.

Naturally I told mum the whole story as soon as I got home. She asked me the girl’s name and I told her Carol Manning. And then she did what most Jewish mothers do, she played Jewish Geography. “Did her name used to be Mannheim?”, she asked. Fairly agitated, I said, “Mum, why would you ask that?”. Mum then told me to phone Carol and ask. I hadn’t even unpacked yet. So I phoned Carol and asked if her name used to be Mannheim. “Yes”, she replied, “how did you know”? I told mum that her name used to be Mannheim and mum said “let me speak to her dad”. Carol put her dad on the phone and he and mum chatted for several minutes. At the end of the conversation I heard mum say something that made no sense to me.

At the end of the phone conversation mum finished by saying, “well now I’ve been able to pay you back for your kindness, thank you”, and that was that. I never saw or heard from Carol again. The debt was now repaid, by me.  Mum had found the group for me and she had no idea who was traveling in the group.

Here’s the rest of the story.

During the 2nd World War, mum was employed by Mannheim Modes hat making company. Her friends were all hat makers, known as milliners, even her brother Lou was a milliner. Mum wasn’t a milliner, she was a sweeper. The factory was being commandeered to make uniforms for the army. It was all hands on deck, so to speak. And so it was that mum, who was pregnant, was told that her services were no longer required. The company needed hat makers not sweepers. Mum argued with the owner, Mr. Mannheim, but Mannheim would not be swayed. “If you can’t make hats, we can’t employ you”, he argued. Mum insisted that she could learn very quickly. Mannheim said “If you can make me a hat by tomorrow, you can stay”.

Mannheim didn’t know my mum. Mum got together with her friends and they taught her very quickly how to make a hat. The next morning mum confronted Mr. Mannheim with her creation. It was a beautiful hat with golden brown leaves on it. “Okay”, said Mannheim, “put it on and let me inspect your work”. Mum put on the hat and as she turned around the leaves started to fall off. “What do you call this hat, the leaves are falling off”, Mannheim said gruffly. Mum replied with the only thing she could think of. “I call it Autumn”, she said and laughed. Mannheim laughed too and mum was rehired as a milliner.

You never know, when you sow seeds, what will grow.