JoelNothman.com

I noted a few months ago that I had a difficult experience when my family informed me that Poppy, my grandfather, was in hospital, followed starkly by the happy news of my brother’s engagement. When I saw that the phonecall coming in on my phone this Saturday night was from home, I was nearly sure Poppy had passed away. While in 2002, my family usually called me, on this trip it has been very rare, and I spoke to them only a few days ago, so their irregular calls mean news. And for months I’ve been updated roughly
on Poppy’s situation—revived after a few strokes, usually debilitated and irritable—and hearing Nanna, his wife, wishing I will be able to return to him each time we speak. Again and again it is difficult knowing that so far away I am helpless.

And now with the family mourning, but no one around me crying, it is hard to feel the emotion I think I should have. Although for a while it has only been a matter of time; only a matter of whether or not I would get back to see Poppy in the high-attention ward of the nursing home. The last few months have been altogether difficult for the family. Hopefully after the next one, things will start to ease, but even so, this is a tension I have been distanced from completely.

I had intended to go to Jerusalem this Saturday night (not to a party, rather a book fair), yet after mum called, I couldn’t decide whether or not still to go. I started out, but the uncomfortableness grew inside me, and I realised that the hassle waiting for transport would not be worthwhile; all that time I would surely be anxious and unsure about being out altogether. So I returned before going very far. I had plenty of things to do otherwise.

Still, I don’t know whether (but hope) there will come a point soon when I will really feel the loss of our beloved and admired Poppy, as much as I know I should. Much of his later years were spent sitting in the sun on his front porch, with or without Nanna, who he was married to for over 66 of his 88 years. She, at least for my lifetime, was certainly the dominant partner, and while she always had something to say at the Shabbat dinner table, he was more renowned for remaining quiet, except for the occasional witty remark (or maybe his latest years have shadowed my image of him from earlier days). Still, despite his silence, he would almost always be found cheery and smiling, as Dad is happy to say he was on his last Friday night.

Among Nanna’s stories, of course, was the one that started the Nothman dynasty: where he noticed her in the audience at a soccer game in Germany, and offered her some of his birthday cake. So they met, and travelled to Australia separately, but bound together, with the relative advantage of forewarning that German Jews had over those of France or Poland or Greece.

After his role as a soldier, most of his life was spent in Bondi as a baker, and as a father (and often Dad puts the two together, noting the size of his belly and the years he spent helping out at the bakery).
Nonetheless, by the time I was growing up, he rarely if ever did any baking. So I never tried the buns that Nanna proudly relates having given free to the unemployed on occasion, or the challot that Rabbis supposedly purchased through the back door, lest they be seen buying from the uncertified-kosher bakery. The baking business was essentially ended by a work accident, and recovery with a skin graft to his hand.

I have heard, that although 1930s Germany gave no such opportunity, one thing Poppy really wanted to be was a chazan (cantor). Truly, I don’t recall having heard him sing. Still, there may be some hereditary influence in me also treading these paths. And one can only wonder what a difference it might have made if such opportunity came his way instead of World War II.

But at least, we are very fortunate for the successes that did grace Poppy.
That allowed him to raise the large and growing, successful family I have and am proud of. And it is easy to forget the luck and the ease of the younger generations due to the trials our grandparents—a large reason for the Jewish grandparent’s obsession in their grandchildren and their achievements. It is upsetting knowing that Poppy couldn’t see me in the last months of his life, and that I couldn’t see him (although Simon reminds me that being seen and not recognised is often worse).

His witty comments, his laugh, and his presence will be missed.

More emotionally, I can only imagine how difficult it must be to lose and have to bury your father. No matter their age, or their incapacity and fragility towards the end of their life. Even as hard as it is to keep a person alive, it is still stressful when the case is finally closed, as much as you expect it. I know my father and his brothers, as well as the rest of my family, are going through very difficult times, and I am left apart from it all. Deaths are times when difficult decisions are made too.
Difficult not because of their significance, but because of the stress and the memories weighing on the mind constantly, remembering the years shared and the relationship and teachings from father to son. I also know it is no comfort to be consoled among the mourners for Zion and Jerusalem; no comfort to be wished a long life. And still I wish it.

A final note. Instead of bringing me to tears, there was a point in my conversation with Mum where she brought me to laughter. Of course I felt guilty, but I guess she had meant it that way. It seems my 4-year-old cousin, Tara, has understood the situation well, and asked her parents “Are they going to put him in a box now?” And then, after some contemplation, she stated, “Then Nanna will have to find another boy.” Nanna, I hear, agreed with the first statement, but was not as sure about the second.