The Jew from Subotica

The old man sat fingering his glass of fresh lemon, staring across the cafe tables in the strong September sunlight through darkened glasses. He was alone. I asked him if I might sit with him. I thought he might be glad of some company, as was I, and always it is interesting to listen to someone's story.

Sure enough, he had much to tell. He was born here in Subotica. He was a Jew. Before the Second World War some 400,000 Jews lived in Subotica. Today there are perhaps 150. Most were transported by rail to Auschwich and perished. This man had gone but was a survivor. After the war he had returned to his birthplace to find that the property of most Jews had been taken by the newly formed communist government. They encouraged Jews to leave and head for Israel, to the fledgling Israeli state that was providing a haven for thousands of displaced and persecuted Jews. 

He had married, and his wife had born him two daughters, now themselves mothers and living in Tel Aviv. He had been a jeweller and had made good money. Now, against the wishes of his family (because he was an old man of 80), he had wanted to return to the land of his nativity.

So, there he was, sitting in the sunshine, reflecting on a lifetime of memories. Not far away the Jewish synagogue stood in disrepair, a monument to the terrible events that had overtaken his people and changed the direction of his own life. The synagogue had been splendid in its heyday. Now only the bats, the mice and the birds and the spiders found shelter under its damaged roof.

I had to leave. He thanked me for listening to him. As I walked away along the street where young mothers, business people and workmen passed on their way, with schoolchildren, stylish girls and babies, he remained in his seat at the cafe table, the sun shining down on his frail figure and bald head. He waved and smiled and returned to his thoughts, reaching out to take another sip of cold lemon juice.