Where it all began

‘I think I would describe it as…amazing’, Papa (dad’s dad) said through teary eyes and a choked voice. For the first time in my life I saw him speechless. We were in Argentina, in the cemetery where his deceased parents and younger brother are buried. Two of his grandkids were saying a prayer for them. It meant so much to him. Family means so much to him.

I think a big reason family is so important is legacy, leaving your mark on the world. The colliding of past and present was really special for Papa. It meant a huge deal to Dylan and I as well. I sometimes think about the qualities that my grandparents have passed down to me. I have just spent a whole month behaving like a child with Papa in his country of birth. Whilst he definitely outdid me on the cheeky scale, our similarities were really clear to me. I was even called ‘little Papa’ (in Spanish) a few times, one of the best compliments I could receive. If I can make people smile half as much as he does, I will be a very happy man.

The story is different with Zaida (mum’s dad) though. When I thought of his defining qualities, I thought resilience and strength. I found these qualities harder to connect with, less me. But Zaida’s story is complicated. Did I ever properly know who he was? Did anyone? Enduring and surviving the holocaust at age 20, losing his entire family and moving halfway across the world to start a new life in Australia must have changed him forever. I wanted to find out who my grandfather was before he became a fighter, a survivor, the strongest man I have ever known.

So in October, Mum, Dana and I jumped on a plane to Slovakia to see where he grew up and where his life was changed forever. I don’t think the meaning and importance of this trip can be captured in words, yet I feel compelled to write.

My Mum had visited these places with her dad 28 years ago and armed with some grainy photos from their trip; we drove off into the Slovakian villages. Our first stop was the place where Zaida was born, a tiny village called Vagrinec. We drove slowly through the streets, analysing each house for shape, colour, and surroundings – anything to find the perfect match for mum’s photo. Dana, our touring party’s most accomplished spotter, lived up to the label. She recognised Zaida’s birth house instantaneously. After a bit of conjecture, we jumped out to walk the streets that he grew up in.

Next door a lady was outside gardening, a regular day in this small village. Mum and our guide/interpreter Marta approached her with a photo of Mum, Zaida and some locals, and proceeded to ask if she knew any of them. A big smile beamed across her face as she excitedly told us the locals were her parents and cousins. She then took Mum’s hand and told her in Slovak how special her father was, that he used to help everyone in the community. He would bring them medicine when they were sick, help them with farming work and feed them when they were hungry (which was quite regular). She told of a deeply caring young man from an amazing family that was always thinking of others. Incredibly, she had only heard these stories second-hand but this was size of the impact Zaida had on her family. She then held Dana and my hands and made us promise to bring our kids and grandkids back there, to keep coming back to their village. I haven’t felt warmth like that in my life. I can feel it right now writing this. Mum hugged the woman tight, cried and repeated the words ‘thank you’. It had been 5 years since Zaida had passed away and to hear how his impact in the world still lives on was incredibly special. 

As we drove away I started to think ‘what if’? What if Zaida did not have to go into hiding? What if he never had to leave that quaint little village? The trait that I always thought described my Zaida best was his strength and his ability to endure. He had been a fighter his whole life. But these stories painted a different picture, a caring young man who was always thinking of others. Part of me thinks the Holocaust stole that away from him. The Holocaust took so much more than just the millions of lives. A week prior our family stood in a forest where we believe his parents and siblings were murdered. As I recited a prayer, I felt defiant, like the living embodiment of Zaida’s incredible will to endure. Now, upon reflection this moment is much more human. I think all that caring young man would have wanted was for his family to be remembered and to have their memory honoured in a dignified way.

In the past my link to Zaida had not always been clear. I found it really hard to connect to such an unimaginable experience and to the trauma that remained with him his entire life. But I now think that rather than needing to share his qualities, I have a responsibility to be that caring young man that he wasn’t allowed to be. That feels like the best way to honour him and live out his legacy.

The past 6 months have been some of the most special in my life, immersing myself in the places and people that define my family’s story. I feel more connected to my family than ever before and I hope that I too can have a lasting impact on the world like my Zaida and my Papa.