Ode to Opa
Opa died today. I'm not sure why, my father won't tell me anything. This is yet another one of the things I cannot do anything for, I can't go back home except to see his grave. I won't be there for his funeral, I won't be there for my father who would appreciate the company right now. I'm a thousand miles too far away for anything to be done except mourn, I suppose.
I guess the shit thing is, I really wanted to see him when I got old enough to have a decent conversation with him. I wanted to engrave his image in my brain, this is my blood, he is my blood. This is a man who was born before the holocaust. This is a man who survived refugee camps, fled to Indonesia, knew people who were in concentration camps and was a prisoner of war on the Malaysian-Thai death railroad. This is a man who was persecuted for his heritage and the colour of his skin and still fought to keep his name.
I was brought up to be proud of my family name. Even after my grandmother and grandfather divorced, they ensured that we knew how important our names are. I suppose that's the only real thing I have to remember him by. Well, I have a few pictures of him. One where he's dancing in his underwear drunk, another on his wedding day kissing my oma and one respectable one. Them, and his antics in the hospital. Apparently during the time he was going senile he used to keep his shit in a jar in a fridge. He also used to pinch the nurses' genitals whenever he got the chance.
It gives me giggles to know that the naughty streak runs in him, my father and myself. What pleases me more, is that those pictures also showed his personality. He was a man who knew how to have fun but be serious when the time called for it. A man who not only knew how to survive a horrible time, but to live through it. A man who lost everything and built up businesses from scratch during the great depression. Any man who can do that is a great man, one who deserves being remembered. I'm just sorry I didn't really get the chance to know him more, even though I can probably gauge what sort of man he was based on his actions, experience and through my own father.
May he rest in peace, pinching vag in the afterlife.
9 comments:
I think You have written him quite a tribute, Adena.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing
It's a good thing, Adena, a good thing.
A biography -- or a eulogy -- should tell the truth about a person, good and bad. It doesn't need to be an expose -- but no one is served by pretending someone's a saint when he ain't.
Heh, thanks
A man like that, fearless and strong deserves to be celebrated... what you wrote about him is great, just imagine all his stories! Stay strong girl!
Our thought are with you and the memory of (your) Opa.
Best Wishes,
Anonymous
PS: We're not bastards, we do have a heart, and by the sound of, almost as naughty as ur opa's.
Fearless? Doubt it, I'd say more scared shitless half the time.
Thanks though guys
Sorry for your loss. ecd, is right. This was a wonderful tribute. You are right to be proud of him and your heritage.
Hahaha, you know what's funny? My mom's muslim so I'm technically not jewish but I still have the last name. Going to Islamic school as a kid was really interesting, then again they kept it a secret that I of jewish descent till I was 16. If my oma had her way she'd keep it a secret forever. Ho well! Thanks squirrel.
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