We know more about the other great-grandmother, Sarah (abandoned by her husband, left with four small children) and here was a picture of her standing proud in front of her sweet shop in Notting Hill – the shop that enabled her to feed and clothe her four children, something which, a hundred years later, probably explains the relative stability and prosperity of her many descendants – at least four of us are named after her.
Sarah in front of her sweet shop in Notting Hill[Missing Credit]
On my dad’s side I have pictures of a posh-looking lady in a stiff silk frock – he’s written Great-Grandmother on the back, meaning that this is my great-great grandmother – if only I knew her name and her story.
[Missing Credit]
Even more poignant are the pictures from Warsaw of my paternal grandfather’s parents and sisters. We don’t know the sisters’ names, but one died during the Spanish Flu, possibly in childbirth, and the other is rumoured to have died in a Bolshevik riot. My great-grandmother holds a postcard – no doubt written by her sons, sent off to Wales as teenagers – and her husband clutches his spectacles and an envelope. The message is clear: we love you, we miss you. He died in Auschwitz, years later. And this is the issue with Jewish family photographs – especially the ones with no names or details attached. How can we get rid of any of them? They may be the last proof of someone’s life, someone who was cruelly murdered, whose existence I hardly know about.
Keren's great-grandparents and their daughters pose for a picture in Warsaw holding letters from their sons who had moved to Wales[Missing Credit]
So I sift them and put them in folders, and keep them safe while pondering what on earth to do with them. And even though I feel that I’m drowning in paper, I’m also aware how lucky I am. Some Jewish families have no pictures at all.
The pictures from my past are just as hard to part with. Here’s me as a baby – look at those curtains, re-used as the dog’s bed well into my teenage years. And Dad’s hand, holding a cigarette … a flood of memories are triggered.
Keren as a baby[Missing Credit]
I was thrilled to find a picture of myself and my cousin at my grandparents’ ruby wedding party in 1973. I remembered everything – the dress I wore, the buffet, the array of presents, most made of onyx. My cousin remembered nothing and hardly recognised herself, but she was a cool teenager, I was ten, delighted to be at my first grown-up party.
Keren (right) with her cousins and grandparents at their ruby wedding party[Missing Credit]
My own children were born just before the era of mobile phones and digital cameras, so printed pictures of them are precious too, although I have done a little light editing. Because they grew up in a different country, and their old school friends are now scattered worldwide, the images are ways to recall a way of life that’s now disappeared.
In the last few years I have taken up a new hobby – one which offers a solution of sorts. I make collages using all kinds of materials, a joyous artform for people like me who love ephemera, printed scraps, patterns and fragments and yearn to make art but can’t actually draw .
I’ve started a series of family tree collages, using images of my family, scraps of paper, dried leaves and music (a score of HMS Pinafore that I think was from the production at the West Central Club where my grandparents met) and tying them with yellow silk – chosen in part because yellow has been weaponised against Jewish people. But do I use the original images? Nope, they are too precious. These are photocopies. Back to the drawing board.
Keren's collages using family photos[Missing Credit]
Of course, this is a problem from the past. Nowadays our photographs sit in our phones, and are sent around the world in seconds. They are easily accessible, but equally easily deleted. What will remain of them for future generations?
Still, when my sister in Israel WhatsApps me a video of her beautiful grandchildren in New York, I think of that picture of our great-grandparents in Warsaw – sending love, in a picture, over thousands of miles.
Keren's great grandmother Rivie[Missing Credit]
Two of Rivie's children, Hymie (Keren's grandpa) and Jessie were taken to Argentina for several years by her husband.[Missing Credit]