The city my grandfather used to call home no longer exists â except in our minds
âIâm numb and shivering. Thereâs no trace of my heritage, nothing here to connect toâ: Michael Segalov. Photograph: Piotr Malecki/The Observer
âIâm numb and shivering. Thereâs no trace of my heritage, nothing here to connect toâ: Michael Segalov. Photograph: Piotr Malecki/The Observer
After his death, I wanted to know more about his life, and the city that made him and very nearly killed him
Sat 24 Apr 2021 11.00 EDT
Every Hanukkah through my childhood, if I was visiting my grandparentsâ Liverpool home, my Grandpa Oskar told me the exact same story. With a pickle on his side plate â my grandma serving up his favourite dinner of latkes, vusht (smoked sausage) and eggs â heâd recount the night during this very Jewish festival in 1937 that his family â our family â fled for their lives from the Nazis.
Last modified on Wed 17 Mar 2021 10.46 EDT
My dad is bald, and always has been. Heâs had a shiny, hairless head with some growth protruding around the edges for the 27 or so years that Iâve been around. Throughout my childhood, his father always had the same carefully crafted combover â grey locks pulled forward neatly hid the tanned, hairless crown which sat underneath.
Mumâs dad â my Grandpa Oskar â just had a giant forehead for as long as anyone can remember: rear bushy follicles formed what could generously be described as a highly pronounced widowâs peak. Mumâs two brothers are the only other older male blood relations in my immediate family. Theyâve both fared better. Receding? Yes. But still, hair is hair.