Making the connection

It was easier, oh - so much easier, to see him as a relative living in a faraway land. Not that he isn't still living far away, but he's becoming so much more to me.

In a more and more insistent manner my family history is pressing itself into my life. Actually, maybe I am seeking it out, becoming more aware of the little signs in my everyday life. Who knows how these things happen.

My family's history has always been something of which I was proud - the diversity, the amazing stories of exotic places, adventures, and survival. My grandparents have lived lives that are inspiring in so many ways, and their stories have never seized to amaze or enthral me. I have listened to endless repetitions of journeys to China that took months, life in suburban Long Island, and once in a rare while second hand stories of those moments that are too tough to be spoken by those who experienced them.

The history that has been nearing my consciousness is the life of my maternal grandfather. Granpa's is perhaps the most difficult to deal with and understand, and I have a feeling that the signs I have been sensing over the last while are sparking some kind of consciousness within me, pushing me to, if not be able to understand, then at least reflect on the importance his life holds over mine.

Since moving to the UK three and a half years ago I have learned of a distant relative. I am sure my mother or aunts have spoken of her before, but she never registered in my world until my mom arranged for her to meet up with the whole family, who had come to London to visit me. She seemed lovely, a bit feisty, and certainly a very self-confident woman who rested in an awareness of herself. I was going through personal issues at the time, and was in no way interested in taking up her friendly offer of coming to stay with her in Devon. "What, me, visit some woman I've just met in the middle of nowhere? I don't think so. I don't care that she sees some obscure family link. Besides, I'm upset and confused and hurting right now."

Over a year later my mom came to visit and arranged for us to go to Devon to see her in the countryside. It was lovely. I then realised that my mom's side of the family are her only surviving family. My grandfather's cousin was her mother, which I think means that she is my second cousin once removed. The vast majority of her family succumbed during the second world war, which makes sense. So did most of my Granpa's. This link is seemingly obvious but never the less to me this link was hard to make initially. She is family. I just didn't know her.

We had a lovely time, and I have stayed in touch with her since, visiting her a couple of times. I like to think that we are building a warm relationship. I appreciate her a lot. I even dreamt of her and my granpa recently. Since then I have finally managed to join her for a meeting of the group of second generation holocaust survivors she attends. I snuck in as a third generation, as I had been hoping to over the last year.

Two days later Granpa had a stroke. The frequency of connections made in my head to my grandfather and to the hardships he has endured are becoming denser. I wonder if it's because I am "ready" now to deal with this now, or it is because he is getting older. Or because the very presence of her in my life is a reminder of the preciousness of family ties, and she sees the connection between the holocaust and our family's development. It's horrific to finally be opening up to realities my grandfather faced, only to realise how vulnerable and fragile the memory of it is in his hard worn body. Who will know his hardships when he has passed?

Today is Holocaust Memorial day. I have never observed this before, but it strikes me and strengthens my feeling that I am pursuing something of great importance to me. My family history. A history that reaches beyond me and you, and touches on something deeper in all of us. I'm sorry to say it, but it's love, darling, and hope.

Family matters

It's as though I've reached the cusp of this long dark slog, nearing what seemed to be an airy, bright time. But an ominous dark is spreading throughout, grey and laden with tears.

My grandfather has had a stroke. He lives on the other side of the ocean, overseas and over land. He lives yet. He has taken his numerous sets of pills many times daily for many years now, it's hardly a shock that something more serious has happened. His body is old, and worn out with working long, hard hard hours; some for others under force, others for his family. Life as a labourer takes its toll. Life as a persecuted man, however young and strong he was, has taken its toll. My grandfather is a large man. His body is hard, even where roundness has added to his bulk. His legs carry him still, but every step he takes is so painful he winces. It's been like this for years, but slowly the decline is reaching new lows.

His daughters are there, with each their own burdens to carry, each bringing a bit of misery and a lot of love. They congregate as his broad frame feels frail, distraught, heavy.

And I am far away, finally beginning to realise the importance of roots, the depth of lives lived, and the impact of our history on our lives. And there is nothing I can do.