In 1933, my father spent his 18th birthday hanging upside down in a cell in Vilna’s infamous Lukiskes gaol, urine poured into his nostrils by the guards. His crime — releasing pigeons on May 1, red ribbons tied to their little Bolshevik legs. Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Shirley Temple celebrated her fifth birthday by signing her first movie contract, filming of the Bride of Frankenstein started, and the original King Kong movie was screened at Radio City. The board game Monopoly was invented, the choc-chip cookie came into being, the first-ever drive-in movie theatre opened in New Jersey, and construction of the Golden Gate Bridge had just begun in San Francisco. Walt Disney released The Three Little Pigs and the cartoon wolf was born who, three decades later, would lurk under my bed at night, ready to reach out and drag me into its lair. President Roosevelt was busy telling everyone: “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”