(Author: Zita Nurok, Vol. 80, #2, Spring-Summer 2025)
My father moved his bicycle shop from Gustav Street on the outskirts of Roodepoort, to Croft Street which was closer to town. It was the last building in the White section of the town. Next to it was the Indian tailor’s shop – the first building of the businesses in the Non-White section of town.
After Cheder during the week, instead of going home as did my friends, I would often walk from the shul to the shop which was close by. I never knew what to expect. Would my father be helping customers? Would anyone be buying a bike? Would my mother be there?
When Dad arrived in South Africa from Kurshan, Lithuania, his older brothers had already emigrated to South Africa. They knew of the shop in Roodepoort. They impressed upon him that if he married and had a family, the shop would be a good way for him to support the family, and this indeed came to pass. However, in order not to lose his knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish that he’d learned as a boy and as a student in Kurshan, Lithuania, he became an active member of the Roodepoort shul, speaking Yiddish to a number of members who also spoke the language, conducting services and reading the Hebrew if the Reverend wasn’t available, and attending meetings relating to shul matters.
Most customers came from the gold mine in Durban Deep that was a short distance from our shop. The mining industry employed Black migrant workers who could have come from Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Swaziland, Lesotho. Their common language was Fanagalo spoken by those people from different linguistic back grounds. Many of them lived in close mining communities, or places where they could afford available housing. If they needed parts for their bikes they knew that my father’s shop was where they could get whatever they needed. Dad interacted with his customers in a friendly, firm manner. He spoke to them, often using African words he’d learned over the years. They warmly referred to him as ‘die Oubaas’ He was always busy helping customers, organizing the goods, deciding what he would need to buy from the wholesaler in Johannesburg, deciding what he didn’t need if items had been on the shelves for many months.
I had a favorite glass cabinet in the front of the shop. I liked to rearrange the variety of items for sale, the inexpensive colorful bangles on the shelves, the plastic colored combs, hairbrushes, small round mirrors, and bigger ones with handles, colorful dishtowels and dish cloths. African women looked at this cabinet. They enjoyed hearing me use African words that I had learned from them, and they always enthusiastically suggested new words.
Mother sometimes came to help with the running of the business. She dealt with African music that blared from records she put on the record player and into the speakers attached to the front windows. Africans sang and danced rhythmically in the street or on the pavement, to the beat of the music. Women clapped and sang. All these rhythmic movements intrigued me. After their singing, dancing, and clapping, customers often came into the shop to browse, and sometimes to buy things they could afford.
When she wasn’t organizing the music, Mother usually sat in the back of the shop knitting sweaters, gloves, socks for our family, only stopping to help perspective customers. If business was really quiet she enjoyed going to talk to the butcher and his wife in the butchery across the street. They spoke Yiddish to one another. Whenever I decided to accompany her, it seemed as though the butchery was always loud and busy with a variety of customers. They sold kosher meat on one side of the shop, and non-kosher meat on the other side. The smell of raw meat hanging on hooks or in the counters pervaded the air, and sawdust on the floor kept it clean.
Gibson, who was African, worked for my father. He repaired bicycles, and he understood how each part of the bicycle worked– the spokes, the wheels, the tyres, the bicycle seat, the brakes, the handlebars, the bell. Sadly, he only had one functional eye but it didn’t interfere with his disposition. He never told us how that happened, and he just seemed to accept the situation. If he wasn’t repairing bikes for specific customers, he’d be cleaning and polishing those that he’d place in the front windows, to make them attractive for buyers. He and Dad had a respectful relationship.
Towards the end of the day Dad would count the takings for the day, before closing up to return home. He’d lock the door and close the iron gate that was the burglar proofing. If I had not yet left to go home as Mother did earlier, we would walk home together, talking about the day. He was always interested in what we were learning in Cheder.
The shop has different owners now, and while the building still stands there it’s no longer a bicycle shop. No-one knew of Gibson’s whereabouts. When the shop was sold my father paid him his salary for several more months after it was closed. My parents moved out of Roodepoort as did the other people in the Jewish community during that time and in years later, resulting in closure of the shul, the community hall, and the gradual dismantling of the small Jewish congregation.
- Zita Nurok, a regular contributor to Jewish Affairs, is a former elementary school teacher who grew up in South Africa. In 2019, she retired after 48 years of teaching, nine of which were at the then Jewish Government School in Doornfontein.
