David Robbins’ notebook 1922-1933

IWISH I had encountered David Robbins and would have loved him to consider me as his friend. He noted in his memoirs that “…true friendship is like true duty that acts and reacts on the other…” and old friends are “valued for their different good qualities and remembered in different ways”. His book, which is part of the 40,000 objects in the collection of the Jewish Museum London, is an account of his revisit to his homeland, Latvia in 1922, after 50 years of absence.

Originally from Latvia, David Robbins (1854-1935) left his home, and everything he loved, at the age of 18 to have a future. He built a life in England, launched a business, brought up children, enjoyed grandchildren and saw his business grow and shrink. At the age of 68, he solemnly made another lifechanging decision — to revisit Kurland, his homeland. “I take my pilgrimage to visit the place of my birth as a duty and respect to the departed”, he wrote.

Preparations for the trip were both practical and emotional. Getting a passport from Whitehall, informing the Board of Trade, obtaining visas from the consulates of the countries he would pass, and eventually getting permission from the Latvian Legation were complicated and time consuming. Still they were simpler than the trepidation that, for the second time, he was leaving behind everything he held dear, and that there was a chance he might not return.

Fortunately, David Robbins safely came back to London, and recorded his journey, alongside his thoughts and impressions in a purple, marble-effect hardback ruled notebook of W Straker Ltd of Ludgate Hill, EC. Titled, MY REVISIT To My Place of Birth After 50 Years Absence And Its Impressions. The endeavour started in Harlesden in 1922 and was revisited and rewritten in North Kensington in 1933. Two main types of ink, a red-sepia one and a black one, were used. The words in black appear more factual than the red-sepia ones that seem more reflective and emotive.

Early on, David stated that he had no qualifications to be writing the book, but also rightly added that a measure of toleration and a respect were due to him as he was nearing 79 years and knowing something about life. David has not written a travel book, diligently describing the places he had visited, neither has he written a philosophical diatribe on nostalgia and belonging. Wandering through his writing, I am connecting with the story of a man, that had lived a full life, that had two homes and was willing to reflect on his past. I agree with David that his memoir is no “literary masterpiece”, but it does make compulsory reading.

“I picked these flowers from the grave of my parents, at the time of parting’’ he noted, next to some yellowishbrownish pressed flowers, reminding me of the human instinct to keep mementos of our loved ones and of my own wish to do the same when visiting my family grave.

I originally, selected David Robbin’s book from the Museum’s collection because I thought it would be a scrap book of photos, tickets, documents from his travel and mementos from his childhood. And even though there are a few photographs of loved ones and a couple of maps and documents, what I found most poignant, reading through the pages, were his thoughts and feelings, anticipating the trip and dealing with the reality. His recognition that finding their family home was not as straightforward as he remembered and that memories do not die but instead connect us from one generation to the next, struck a chord with me. Unlike David, I regularly travel to my place of birth but like David, the image that I hold of it is a fantastic dream and a tapestry of recollections, of what I left behind, decades ago.

I take my pilgrimage to visit the place of my birth as a duty