My thanks to Canongate Books for a review copy of this book via NetGalley.
Powerful, poignant and beautifully written, Homelands (2023) by Chitra Ramaswamy is part biography, part memoir, also a story of friendship in a sense which explores themes of belonging and identity, home and family and much much more. Although separated in age by five decades, when the author (also a journalist) Chitra Ramaswamy is assigned a story on an elderly Jewish couple, Henry and Ingrid Wuga who had first arrived in Britan in 1939 as part of the Kindertransportees, a friendship immediately develops between the two, one that translates into many conversations and visits, as the two and soon their families bond in part over the thing that ties them, the immigrant experience. Eventually these conversations, the sharing of stories and experiences and along with them the developments in their lives in the present weave together and start forming into a book—the one we are reading. (There is an interesting ‘breaking the fourth wall’ moment with the book being written and coming together inside itself!)
The book can perhaps be described as set essentially around Chitra (whose parents emigrated to England in the 1960s) and Henry, but as is obvious no life is ‘independent’, rather it is tied with many others (family, friends, parents, partners, children, neighbours) and so all of their stories intertwined as they are or become, are what we read. Going back and forth in time, between present, past, recent past, in various vignettes we visit little episodes, small snatches of memory, moments, each bringing with it a gamut of experiences and emotions, and all of which together in their way form a story or several intertwined ones.
Born in Nuremberg to a Jewish mother and Austrian (non-Jewish father), the rising power of Hitler’s party and the increasing violations and dehumanisation of the Jewish community being witnessed every day, means his family tries to send Henry to safety taking advantage of the Kindertransportee programme, which is not the generous venture it is made out to be by the English government—children sent must have some sort of sponsor or one has to be found for the government is willing to bear no expense (besides other conditions as you can imagine). While Henry’s (who luckily does have a sponsor) arrival and initial time in England is comfortable, his correspondence with his family in Germany (even though he is only 15 years old at this time) marks him for the government as ‘dangerous’ and once he turns 16, he finds himself transported from one interment facility to another—some reasonably bearable (pleasant even), others torturous in their conditions and attitudes, essentially a situation Hannah Arendt’s words, which Ramaswamy quotes aptly describe:
… history has created ‘a new kind of human beings—the kind that are put in concentration camps by their foes and internment camps by their friends’.
Ultimately freed, narrowly escaping terrible fates (whether the SS Arandora Star on which he well might have landed, or denial of naturalisation—the latter he learns many years later), Henry falls in love, continues his training as a chef (begun in Germany by the foresight of his mother who knew that he would have to be trained to do something given the circumstances) and goes on to build a successful career and life over the decades that follow. While he may be seen as having ‘escaped’ what lay before him in Germany, his life is by no means easy, with various hardships and challenges from the internment camps to later those of language and identity, decisions which illustrate how lived experiences can’t all be black and white, and contributing to advocacy and awareness as Holocaust educators, sharing their stories and experiences as Kindertransportees and as refugees with others who might be unaware or have their own experiences and much more. Reading Henry’s story as he tells Chitra and as she further explores through documents, his lectures, and much else, one can’t but admire and be in awe—not only that after being though so much, how Henry (and indeed Ingrid) managed to do so much (they were active skiers and ski instructors till their late 80s, and Henry was at least lecturing well into his 90s. While Ingrid sadly passed in 2020 aged 96 [she could still thread a needle till a few years earlier], Henry is still with us at 99), but also from the hope that they kept up all through. He has been though much, and yet when he narrates it, he seems to take it far better than any of us ever would.
In fact even reading it, especially of the fates of his family and others (neighbours, people they knew) in Germany, one can’t but be heartbroken (and very angry), and still unable to process how humans can knowingly, intentionally (and clearly sadistically) do what they did, and continue to do so. While we don’t go into terrible detail, it cannot but wrench one’s heart and bring out all emotion.
Alongside is the author’s own story—life as a second-generation immigrant with her own experiences of belonging, racism, her partner and children, the story of her parents, relationship with her family as also loss and grief (another that she and Henry share).
Homelands is of course these personal stories, but interwoven in them are also issues of history, of government and politics—the appalling (yet unsurprising) lack of humanity exhibited and which continues to be so and its counterpart of sorts in society or amongst the general popular in racist and like attitudes.
In telling these stories, the author is not simply conveying fact but emotion, and does this both in her own case and that of Henry by describing the moments in all their dimensions—whether the flowers she is looking on at when told bad news, or the smell and taste of food her mother created, or in Henry’s listening to the music that he speaks of having enjoyed or the scents that he associates with specific moments or people.
Just earlier in the week I was reading a review by Susan at A Life in Books where she described an unusual set of acknowledgements in the volume she reviewed. In this one interestingly was an unusual bibliography, since not only does the author list the different volumes (also audio, film and journalistic sources) that have inspired her and that she had relied on, but also describes what she got from each—not content as much as approaches, literary devices, techniques, ways of being and much else. These range from W.G. Sebald who forms a pivot of sorts for the narrative to Hannah Arendt, Deborah Levy, Walter Benjamin, Susan Sontag and many others.
Deeply felt and emotional, with moments heart-wrenching and despairing, but also plenty of warmth, love, joy and friendship, this is an account that mightn’t fall within neat categories but is an excellent one to delve into, which will lead to many thoughts and touch many chords.