Jewish Heritage in the Twenty First Century

One of my favourite ways to spend time is to view a city through a flaneur's eyes. On the day in question I'd planned to visit the Jewish sights of Budapest, some lighter than others.

It had occurred to me a couple of days previously that the same cobbles I was walking along may be the very same ones Nazi troops marched across, and I'd found that a difficult thought to hold. 

I've known from a young age that my only a few generations ago my family was Jewish. In fact my ignorant father used to make antisemitic comments about my Mum's side of the family. Charming. 

I slipped into the Orthodox Synagogue through a cobbled side street and a delightful old lady gave me a guided tour of the stunning building. She explained all the symbolism, told me all about the Torah, and then calmly told me that during World War 2 the Nazis used the Synagogue as horses' stables. She grinned as she told me the Jews had hidden the main treasures behind a metal wall, and the Nazis hadn't bothered to look behind. A triumph indeed, but such desecration to let animals shit in the house of God. Such hatred.

The Jewish people have been persecuted many times throughout history, being viewed as less than human so very often. How evil we are as a race never fails to surprise me. I've had a fascination with Judaism for as long as I can remember, and recall asking my RE teacher at the tender age of 12 how I could convert.  Mr Gent kindly explained it wasn't that simple, and so when Charlotte in Sex and the City did just that for love I was green with envy, that she became the Jewish woman I had wanted to be. 

I've recently discovered Kindle for the iPhone. It 's a great way of keeping me entertained throughout the long stretches of sleepless night, without completely waking my eyes by putting the light on. Before I left for Budapest I downloaded a number of books by people I know, one of which being my great-aunt's memoirs. My Mum had warned me she had used this platform to romanticise her marriage to a Mills and Boon standard, but despite this caveat I found myself being drawn in to these tales of her life, particularly the war time years. She talked about how her father, the gentleman who converted from Judaism to Christianity for love, had seen what was going on in Germany, and paid for a family of Jews to leave the country while they still could. Amazing in itself, but he never acknowledged it, simply stating 'one does what they can'. How proud I am to call this man a forefather, and how much I owe to those from generations before mine so I can idly post online about my Jewish heritage, without having to fear for my life.

Back to the present time, and my day took several twists and turns, and late afternoon I ended up in a museum of Jewish Heritage. It didn't exactly sound thrilling, but interesting nonetheless. I'd paid for a tour, and the elderly gentleman leading us around smelled of lunchtime wine, and a prerehearsed script. 

The rooms of the museum were hot, the subject matter pretty dry, even to the most interested of us, and a few of the group became tired and irritable to be shown yet more paraphernalia. As lovely as the man was, even I was getting restless, and when he told us about his latest grandchild we feigned interested smiles.

The last room of the museum was dedicated to the holocaust. The guide had showed us around half the exhibition when he casually showed us a picture of people being herded into a concentration camp. And then even more casually mentioned this was the camp where his father died. 

It wasn't mentioned lightly to belittle the fact, or to underplay the emotion behind this information, or to underwhelm. This brave man conducts this tour day in day out and has found a way to integrate his personal experience without overwhelming the visitor.

He later went on to explain the story of Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish man who rescued tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews from Nazi occupied Budapest by giving them Swedish passports. He then casually explained that this was how he, his mother, and his maternal grandparents had escaped the slaughter.

The group of us seemed to all exclaim a sigh of disbelief simultaneously, each finding it hard to believe this jolly man had experienced the greatest horror of the 20th century first hand. He had each of us sitting in the palm of his hand during those final minutes. 

After the tour I stopped and thanked him for his time, and for sharing his story. He showed such interest in my life, and when he learned I was from Birmingham he told me about his visits during Thatcher's Britain, as the miners were being shafted and the economy turned to shit. "A difficult time" he told me, "but that was when my daughter was born, and she bought such happiness to our lives that the rest didn't matter".

Such humbleness, and such a profound sense that love and family are all that really matter in life. I said some earnest thank yous, and stumbled out of the museum in a daze. I finally let the tears fall, the tears for that amazing man, his extraordinary life, and for those that hadn't been so lucky.

I went and sat in the garden at the Synagogue, a mass grave, where the thousands of murdered Jews, who died inside the ghetto, were buried upon liberation. 

There's a Jewish prayer called Kaddish, recited when Jews die, and then on the anniversary of their death. Sadly there aren't enough relatives remaining to say Kaddish for those who have gone before, so I said it there, to help at least one poor soul rest. It felt like the least I could do. Then I turned on my phone, and texted my Mum to tell her how much I love her.

It's not every day you meet a holocaust survivor, but as trite as it sounds I feel like I left a piece of my heart with him forever. Tomorrow I plan to get a tattoo of the star of David, to show my pride of my heritage, and how lucky I am that so many gave the ultimate sacrifice so I am able to open talk about this heritage. 

Shalom.

Neil

Childhood friendship is the tightest of all bonds, and something we're trying to recreate our entire adult lives. It's an incredible time, before you learn that 'grown up' skill of keeping a distance between you and the next person. You've never been hurt and emotional vulnerability is something you've yet to learn, a glorious time. I feel an aching pity for only children, growing up with three brothers of course you compete for attention and affection, but my little brother became my playmate, my best friend and my soul mate.

We got into terrible fights, naturally, but the hours spent exploring nearby fields, flying kites and making him dress up in Mum's clothes far outweighed the bloodshed and tears. We were unaware of it at the time, but when times got really tough at home the fact we were in it together brought us much closer. 

Many years later I was 17, and in London for a gig I was thrilled about. I randomly phoned home afterwards to jabber away to Mum about it, yet my Dad answered the phone and immediately gave me a clue something was wrong. He didn't tell me much, but calmly told me Mum wasn't in, as Neil was in hospital. I was instructed that there was nothing I could do, and should stay in London and enjoy myself. 

There was very little choice, the last train home was long gone, so my friend and I spent the night in a shitty Earl's Court B&B. She attempted to sleep while I paced the room and cried. The next day I tried my best to have some fun, but failed miserably and got the next train back. It just felt all wrong. 

When I got back I discovered the extent of Neil's illness. He had suffered a brain haemorrhage and had been in brain surgery for the entire night. There had only a 50% chance he'd survive the operation, and survival meant he would most likely be in a vegetative state at best. 

The clearest detail I remember is when I arrived at the hospital panicked and teary. I was shown the bed where my little brother lay unconscious. At that point I lost it, and my eldest brother held on to my hand as if trying to press love and hope directly into my palm. It really is the littlest of things sometimes.

It took weeks, but Neil slowly recovered. My Mum and I visited him in hospital every day, and I showed my sisterly dedication by taking the piss, and eating all of his custard creams. The specialist told us that he was one of only six people in medical history to ever suffer a brain haemorrhage without a preceding head trauma. Not quite the 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol may have had in mind, but we're all exceptional at some point in our lives.

I don't know if I'm one to believe in miracles really, but the odds of him fully recovering were slimmer than Kate Moss, and yet he did it. Within a year he was back to normal, albeit with a huge scar across the top of his head to show for it. No noticeable effects on his personality or memory, or so we thought. I wonder about that now.

 There was a scandal at primary school when I was 11. Whispers told me that Neil had been caught stealing sweets from Galloway's News. Galloway's was the local hub of activity - everyone competed for the paper rounds there and spent their pocket money in there too. For my little 9 year old brother to be caught stealing from there was a real shock. But that was just the start, and his stealing got more bizarre the older he got. My parents despaired at having a second naughty son, it's only when I look back now that it's clear that he was desperately seeking attention in any way he could get it. Indeed I have been told that the brain tumour was a physical manifestation of all his psychological pain, but I find that a bitter pill to swallow.

My 'little' brother is now 32. He's one of the most intelligent, creative, yet self-destructive people I know. His entire adult life has been a vortex of chaos. He repeats a cyclical pattern of just managing to hold down a semblance of a life for a while, then all of a sudden he'll start to pick it apart, and it all starts to unravel. He's started again from nothing about 6 times now, each time a family member picking him up and bailing him out, yet again.

A psychotherapist told me a number of years ago that he unconsciously wants to be babied, and gets himself into these situations so he'll be scooped up, mollycoddled, and taken care of. And time and time again we have, because we can't stand to see him suffer. And yet every time he's utterly ungrateful, and indignant with his belief that the problems are caused by everyone else. 

On Monday night he was broken, and crying on my shoulder. Telling me his houseboat has been repossessed, he's being evicted from the house he's staying in, and he doesn't have a penny to his name. I know he doesn't get himself into these scrapes on purpose, but he's just not learning the lessons life is trying to teach him. I've talked to him for so many hours about what keeps going wrong, but he just fails to see that he's not taking care of himself and doesn't even know where to start. I've been told that the best thing to do is to let him get himself out of the mess this time, that might break the cycle. 

So tomorrow, when he becomes officially homeless he's being referred to a homeless shelter.

It's clear Neil has severe psychological trauma from the dreadful things that have happened to him, too many to recount here. I've tried to get him to access mental health services on so many occasions, and have had to learn the hard way how true 'you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink' really is. My heart is screaming to scoop him up and make it all better one last time, this will be the time when he sorts himself out, but I know the stomach churning reality. It won't be.

So it's with a heavy heart and an aching soul that we're going to have to stand back and let him enter the system. I can't bear to think what may happen to my baby brother. He's just a product of his past, and I'm screaming on the inside, hoping this might be the jolt he desperately needs. I hope it is.