Yesterday, I watched A Real Pain in the cinema. The film is a beautiful representation of two cousins, united in love and grief for their grandma, exploring their family history on a heritage trip to Poland. This experience is familiar to so many Jews I know – whether attending a trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau or visiting Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the idea of a poignant pilgrimage to see where our ancestors lived, died, survived and escaped from, is commonplace.
I’ve certainly had these experiences. When I was 12, my paternal grandparents, Ann and Henry Ebner, took me to Vienna, where Henry fled from the Nazis with his parents when he was two, arriving as a refugee in the UK just weeks before the start of the second world war. In the same year, my maternal grandma, Anna (Panni), took me to Budapest, to see where she and her husband, my grandpa, George Garai (Gyuri), had lived. Panni was six when Hitler’s troops invaded Hungary in 1944, and she survived by being hidden in an orphanage. The memories shared with me on this pilgrimage were painful ones; being separated from her parents, returning home after the war and sitting by the window waiting to see which family members would come back – and so many never did.
