Names from past abandoned to grass and vagrants

slowly, was drifting off down a row of graves in the sunshine.

My grandfather – who had been here 10 years before – had told me it was a lovely cemetery with lots of room between the graves, but these graves were packed even closer together than at Westpark and it was quite brambly and overgrown. When I caught up with him, he was breathing audibly. “You know, this is bloody difficult,” he said.

He thought he had an idea where the grave was, but for the longest time we couldn’t find it. We were looking for 1938, but there seemed to be no stones from that year. We moved from the graves of people buried in 1940 to the graves of people buried in 1939.

At last, to help the search, we split up. I went this way, towards the fence, and he went that way, towards the middle of the cemetery.

After about 10 minutes, I started to despair of finding it. Solomon; Ginsberg; Skudowitz; Tobiansky. Also I couldn’t see Bram. I looked over at my grandfather, stooped in his religious man’s hat and battling in the long grass, holding on to tombstones to prop himself up.

At last I spotted a grave from the year 1938, and after that it wasn’t long before I found the one we were looking for. It was a black obelisk. There was a lot of Hebrew writing on it – and underneath, in English: isaac browde died 10th of oct. 1938 aged 59 years

The grave was in pretty good nick, considering how some of the others looked. I called out into the quiet day.

My grandfather came stepping slowly towards me. And I saw Bram now; he appeared as if from thin air, far away, lumbering towards us.

Behind him, further in the distance, I noticed the Brixton Tower, and for a second it looked like a tall solitary tombstone against the blue of the sky.

My grandfather took off the hat again. Then he stood close to the headstone and read the Hebrew, trying to translate it for me. He pointed out our surname formed by the ancient characters.

After reading the Hebrew out loud, he fell silent. He came to stand next to me at the foot of the grave. It was a Sunday, and except for the occasional hollow swoosh of a car there was only silence.

My grandfather asked Bram if he could put this grave under the Eternal Care package as well. Bram said, “Of course.” “I really think I should, you know,” my grandfather said to me.

On our way out I hung behind, reading the names on some of the stones. I saw the grave of Annie Slovo, Joe’s mother; she had also died in 1938. Back near the gutted ohel I saw an image that has stayed in my mind: a beer bottle standing upright in the middle of a grave. I thought of taking a picture, but I’m glad I didn’t.