Notebook
The fine church at Bere Regis in Dorset contains, among other attractions, the tombs of the Turbervilles, a great Dorset family whose name was adapted by Thomas Hardy for the heroine of Tess of the D'Urbervilles and which has since been made rather more famous by Mr Roman Polanski's film of the novel. The same church also contains, on Sundays, a Mr Simon Regan, until recently a name known to nobody, but which is now celebrated as belonging to the archetypal grubby journalist, 'a shoddy little spiv', as a Daily Telegraph editorial called him. Mr Regan is the man who obtained in Australia supposed tape recordings of five tapped telephone conversations between Prince Charles, Lady Diana Spencer, and the Queen and has been trying to sell the transcripts for publication abroad through a preposterous German agent called alternatively Baron Clemens von Blezard (the Guardian) or Herr Clements von Bizzard (The Times). This Bavarian nobleman, or possibly commoner, has described Mr Regan as 'a serious and reliable journalist', a description which sounds odd when applied to a man who has spent most of his professional life freelancing for the News of the World and whose contributions to literature comprise two books — The Clown Prince about Prince Charles and Margaret: A Love Story about Princess Margaret, Lord Snowdon and Mr Roddy Llewellyn. If there is anything grubbier than writing about members of the Royal Family, it is possibly writing a book about Mr Rupert Murdoch, which is another of Mr Regan's intentions. And if his grubbiness is still in doubt, consider the sum of money which was reportedly being asked for the transcripts of the Prince's telephone calls. This, according to The Times, were a mere £4,250 — which puts Mr Regan into the wettest and dingiest class of villain. But there is a good side to everyone, and you will be pleased to hear that there is a good side to Mr Regan. He is not only a churchgoer, but he is the editor — or joint editor, anyway — of the Bere Regis Parish Magazine, a publication which contains not only an uplifting monthly letter from the vicar, Canon Shaw, but also the comments of Mr Regan himself on the local issues of the moment. Mr Regan, for example, is Concerned about the unruly behaviour of the youths of Bere Regis, where he lives in an uncomfortably small council house with his wife and four children (two by a previous marriage). His campaign against young People has provoked some irritation among readers. A letter in the latest issue of the magazine from a Major C.M. Barnes calls for more 'balanced and accurate reporting of their activities' and claims, rather curiously, that young people often 'cannot hit back'. Mr Regan (for I believe it was he) retorted in an unsigned comment that his car 'had been pelted with rotten eggs on Mothers' Day', which shows not only that young people can hit back but that they are capable of fine judgment in their choice of target. Given the enthusiasm with which Bere Regis is preparing to celebrate the Royal Wedding, I doubt if Mr Regan's latest journalistic coup will have done anything to stem the hail of rotten eggs. (Where does one find rotten eggs, incidentally?) So, on compassionate grounds, I would urge that his application to move to a larger council house in an isolated hamlet several miles away should be approved with alacrity . by the Purbeck Housing Committee.
I have not seen Sir Harold Wilson's book on Israel, which is harshly reviewed by Paul Foot on another page, so I do not know what Sir Harold writes, if anything, about Mr Menachem Begin. But I do know that even Sir Harold, the enthusiastic Zionist, speaks of Begin in private in terms of almost passionate dislike. There are, indeed, very few English people of that generation who speak of him in any other terms. Mr Begin's career of terrorism was a disgraceful one, which cannot be excused by his devotion to the cause of a Jewish state. Among the incidents which are recalled with the greatest bitterness were the hanging of two British sergeants in an olive grove, the blowing up of the King David Hotel (causing 91 deaths), and his attack on the Arab village of Deir Yassin, in which 254 men, women and children died. Compare this record wilh that of Helmut Schmidt, the Chancellor of West Germany. He was drafted into the Wehrmacht at the age (118, served with an anti-aircraft unit on the Russian Front in 1941-42, was subsequently commissioned and transferred to the Western Front, and then captured by the British in 1944 during the Battle of the Bulge and held for the rest of the war as a British prisoner. Herr Schmidt's offence, if he is guilty of any, is that of being a German at the wrong time. And yet, because Herr Schmidt talks of a moral commitment towards the Arabs, Mr Begin sees fit to accuse him of not caring if Israel ceases to exist, and of being in some way personally responsible for the extermination of the German Jews. These accusations are not only untrue and contemptible, but astounding in the light of Germany's efforts over 35 years to mitigate its very real crime against the Jewish people. By January 1980, Germany had already paid to Israel nearly £7,000 million in reparations, pensions and so on, not counting generous sums in development aid, and the payments continue. If any country is committed to Israel's survival, it is Germany. What surprises me most, however, is not that Mr Begin should have said what he said, but that what he said should be reported (in The Times) as being popular among the Israelis and likely to win him votes in the election.
I had hoped that my family, at least, would have earned a little Israeli gratitude. While, according to Mr Begin, Herr Schmidt was serving Hitler's purposes, we were trying very hard to get rid of the monster. My two sisters, who were very small at the time, spent several weeks planning an assassination attempt. Their aim was to send Hitler a parcel of poisoned butter. They put some weedkiller into a bottle of milk and sat in a Hertfordshire ditch for many days, shaking the bottle about. Milk, when shaken sufficiently, is supposed to turn into butter, but on this occasion it failed to do so. My sisters comforted themselves with the argument that it would turn into butter in the post, and so took the bottle, cunningly labelled 'This is not poison', to the village post office and posted it to 'Hitler, The Palace, Germany'. The attempt failed, but it was a good try. Even I, though only five years old at the end of the War, had prepared myself for a German invasion by playing with my mother's loaded revolver. So it seems unduly harsh of the Israelis to have expunged the name Chancellor from the street map of Jerusalem. 'Chancellor Road' was named after my grandfather, who was High Commissioner for Palestine from 1928 to 1931, and he always claimed it was in the Red Light district of the city. My brother, paying his first visit to Jerusalem last month, went in search of it, only to find it had been renamed 'Nathan Strauss Road'.
Ours wag a patriotic generation, decent and clean living. But times have changed. The most recent issue of Harpers and Queen, the glossy monthly magazine, contains an article entitled 'Teenage Vice Shock' about the smoking, drinking and drug-taking habits of 'public school sixth-formers'. On the same page, under the heading 'Hard Livers', there is a list of 24 names. And of the 24 people listed, three are my nieces. The shame is almost too terrible to bear.
Alexander Chancellor
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