Then they announced that the usual after Yom Tov procedure of the Rebbe making havdalah would be followed. After which all would file past the Rebbe, in an orderly manner, gently and with decorum, to receive the kos shel brocha directly from the Rebbe’s hands.

A strong appeal was made that there should be no pushing nor standing on tables; everyone should file past with dignity.

I was asked to get off the table, which I did because I also wished to set a good example to others.

We in England are well trained to queue, which is a sane and sensible way of “getting served.”

A cheerful, exhilarating tune was started and the pressure of the boys was so great that it was now impossible to stand on one’s own feet. I felt myself being pushed slowly but relentlessly forward and right past where the Rebbe was standing above on the platform.

To add to my distress, I noticed that many men and students were committing the unpardonable sin - to an Englishman - of jumping the line.

To make matters even worse, another line had formed, on the very tables, which I had vacated only a short while ago. A couple of students, supposedly organizers, had joined hands below these tables and allowed no one to jump up on these, except of course their own friends.

It was now 2:30 in the morning. Normally I may have been satisfied to wait another two hours singing and watching the Rebbe, but Roselyn was waiting for me to take her home. It was pretty dangerous – to say the least – for a lady to walk alone at that time of the night (or early morning) in Brooklyn, New York.

So... Well! It was short, sharp and to the point. There I was back at the same spot, which I had relinquished only ten minutes earlier. I still held the large paper tumbler in my hand, very crushed, but still usable.

I am sure there must be a better way and a fairer method of organizing kos shel brocha, without it being a “free for all.”

Meanwhile, amidst all this excitement, the Rebbe is carrying on, unperturbed, and pouring out the wine into everyone’s cup or other container.

It was soon my turn. I told the Rebbe that I had sixteen customers waiting in England for this kos shel brocha.

“Very good,” said the Rebbe, smiling, and he started counting (in Yiddish): “Ains, tzvei, drai ... fertzen, fuftzin, zechtzen.” My cup was now literally “full to the brim.”

This certainly made up for all my previous upsets and arguments.