, had triggered a shock of recognition. There was an uncanny resemblance to my grandpa, Morrie Narotzy, who had run a record and lighting shop in Islington's Chapel Market in London. Mere fanciful thinking perhaps? Not really. I had come to Lithuania, more than 100 years after my four Litvak great-grandparents left the country – fleeing the country's first wave of pogroms in the 1890s – and these were just the connections I was seeking. More than anything, I wanted to understand where my ancestors had walked, to know what life would have been like for my relatives and those of many of my Jewish friends, and to explore my own connection to my ancestral home. For years, I had talked about visiting Vilnius – but it was only when, during a pre-move sort out, my history-loving 90-year-old dad came across the passports of both my great-grandfathers (alongside jaunty photos of them holidaying in the UK in the early 20th century, and some older, rather severe, studio childhood photos, inscribed in Russian) that I finally decided to make the trip. My first stop was the Jewish Culture and Information Centre, just across the cobbled street from the statue of the kind doctor, where I was fortunate to talk to author Rima Kazlauskaite, the centre's manager. Housed in a typical Baltic low building with heavy-timbered windows, inside there's a small, poignant photographic exhibition of life in the Jewish ghetto. Rima explained that though my great-grandparents probably hadn't lived in the city itself, they would likely have visited it to trade. Rather, she said, they had probably lived in the Duchy of Vilnius – a vast empire extending into present day Poland and Belarus, for 200 years the co-capital of what was then Europe's biggest empire. Nex){kind=link}
Keen to connect with her forefathers and the Vilnius they left behind, our writer discovers a city now full of life, joy – and food
Strolling along Mesiniu Street – the edge of what was once the Jewish heart of Vilnius – I was suddenly stopped in my tracks. The statue of Tsemakh Shabad (known as the Litvak Dr Doolittle, since he treated pets as well as their owners), had triggered a shock of recognition. There was an uncanny resemblance to my grandpa, Morrie Narotzy, who had run a record and lighting shop in Islington’s Chapel Market in London.
Mere fanciful thinking perhaps? Not really. I had come to Lithuania, more than 100 years after my four Litvak great-grandparents left the country – fleeing the country’s first wave of pogroms in the 1890s – and these were just the connections I was seeking.
More than anything, I wanted to understand where my ancestors had walked, to know what life would have been like for my relatives and those of many of my Jewish friends, and to explore my own connection to my ancestral home.
For years, I had talked about visiting Vilnius – but it was only when, during a pre-move sort out, my history-loving 90-year-old dad came across the passports of both my great-grandfathers (alongside jaunty photos of them holidaying in the UK in the early 20th century, and some older, rather severe, studio childhood photos, inscribed in Russian) that I finally decided to make the trip.