My Community of Jews in Kilts

I would never have imagined myself sitting in the darkened carriage of a late-night Haifa-bound train, peering excitedly at old photographs through the dull glow of a tiny illuminated magnifying glass. But there we were, hunched over, heads together, Significant Other and myself (two ex-Glaswegians) poring over faces and places, looking for something familiar, or a family likeness among the crowds.

We had just attended the launch in the Diaspora Museum at Tel Aviv University of “Jewish Glasgow – an Illustrated History” published by the Scottish Jewish Archive Centre in Glasgow.

Sitting amongst the lively buzz and brogue of the 250 Israeli-Glaswegians (my estimate) gathered at the museum, I realised that had we all been standing, it would have been the post-service schmooze outside shul on Rosh Hashanah; clearly we were there as much to reconnect with old friends as we were for the book launch.

(I commented later to Significant Other that in my 27 years in Israel, I’d never heard so much Scotbrew spoken in a single place.)

I’ve seen volumes before about Jewish communities – usually wordy analyses with emphasis on history. They seem written by academics for academics, usually long, factual descriptions of historical details, not of great interest to the average reader. 

But this book is different. It is large format, beautifully presented and exquisitely readable. It overflows with photos, documents and vignettes, and is hugely entertaining if you’ve been part of the Glasgow community. (And fascinating if you haven’t). It’s clearly meant for the masses, illustrating the vitality of a unique Jewish community. I take my hat off in admiration to its team of producers: Stephen Kliner, Kenneth Collins, Harvey Kaplan, and Jacqueline Speyer Friedman. They’ve done a wonderful job.

So there we were, on the train, speeding towards Haifa.

When you’re holding a thousand photos of your distant home community, what’s more natural than searching for familiar faces? Significant Other and I jostled for position, vying to see who could identify most people. (Subconsciously, I’m sure, we were searching for self-affirmation; perhaps I was significant enough to be recorded for posterity?) We’d been at it for about 15 minutes – much to the puzzlement of our fellow travellers who were as fascinated by our studious antics as we were by the book.

I was beginning to despair. We’d examined by now about 500 faces and none of them were ours.

Then I turned to page 105 – and there I was, aged seven, first row, Calderwood Lodge, 1965. I then joyously named everyone in the picture, in awe at the human brain’s capacity to retain such information un-accessed for nearly 50 years.

Below, from the same era, in a picture I’d never seen before, I spotted myself again, this time in the Superman outfit I’d worn at Purim. (Truth is, it was the outfit I recognised; I don’t remember ever looking so cute.)

My spirits now raised, I was feeling for S.O.; we had to find someone for her too. Her ancestors had been significant contributors to the community. She has a photograph of her grandfather, Philip Gaya’s electrical installation shop, right next door to Geneen’s.

I was beginning to wonder about my own father too. He’d been very active in the community for decades. Surely he’d be mentioned?

I’d just expressed this thought to S.O. when I turned the page and saw him staring at me from his very own half-page –  wearing that hideous shirt of newspaper cuttings he’d worn to the family’s collective embarrassment, a few too many times.

Reading about his achievements brought tears to my eyes. He’s 87 now, his memory fading. My brother – who is still in Glasgow – will show him the book and I’m sure he’ll be greatly appreciative that his efforts for the community haven’t been forgotten. Later, examining the index, I noticed his autobiography, Can You Get My Name in the Papers is quoted several times throughout.

In my last two blog posts I’ve referred to coincidences that may not be coincidences. Coincidentally, this post contains another. You see, immediately opposite my dad in his hideous shirt are a couple of photos of the Glasgow Jewish Choral Society. There, peering cheekily over Ernest Levy’s head, is my mum, long since passed. She appears again, on the same page, albeit greyed out at the end of a row.

I take comfort in the knowledge that when the book is in its natural closed state, my parents are side by side once again, in their natural state, and I thank the authors for this “coincidence.”

I talked to Stephen Kliner a few weeks ago, when I helped distribute news of the book launch through my Yahoo Group “Scots in Israel“. It’s attached to the Scottish Jewish Archive, and if I’m not mistaken, a few photographs in Jewish Glasgow are taken from those supplied by group members in Israel. Stephen told me something interesting that I’m sure few readers will notice. The book was printed in Israel because the costs were so much lower – including shipping – than doing the job in the UK. What does that say about our respective economies?

Despite its producers’ intentions, I suspect there will be more interest in this book among ex-pats than the current Glasgow community. For us, it’s a link to our heritage that I fear they won’t value as strongly.

If anyone has an ex-Glaswegian Jewish relative or friend living somewhere in the world, you must gift them this book. It’s a record of their origins and will remain on their family bookshelves for generations to come. Trust me – they’ll love you for it.

You can order it here.

 

PS. Significant Other did find her mum in the end. Fifteen years old, Habonim, frolicking in the glens. She too now feels suitably affirmed.