Message from Ella Goschalk

When I think of Grandpa, I think of Sunday lunch. I often joked that he had a busier social life then I did, a rotation of friends and family members who were delighted to host or be hosted by him.

But most often it was Sunday lunch when I would see him, with Mya, Adit or both, with friends, partners and whoever happened to be at home that day. From my teenage years, he was a constant presence and whether I was living with my parents or not, I always tried to check 'is Grandpa coming for lunch on Sunday?'

He would have a whisky with dad, sit out in the garden in the summer, and we would have all sorts of gentle conversations, about his latest travels, social arrangements, and which books we were both reading. Sometimes he was content to listen, other times we got to hear some of his wonderful stories about the clothes factory, his siblings and parents, life in London before a time we could even imagine.

I saw him on the Sunday before he passed away - it was a hot one, and we sat outside with Nadja who was visiting from Boston. Grandpa gave us his classic wry smile and chuckled as mum and dad battled with and resurrected a dusty, cobwebbed parasol to give him some shade. Nadja gave him a kiss on the cheek goodbye and I said 'have a good week'.

When I think of Grandpa, I think of his thoughtfulness, his wisdom, his wry smile, and how accepting and supportive he was. I am so grateful to have had all those Sunday lunches (and Shabbat afternoons, and birthday celebrations, and evening chats, and brief Whatsapp messages) to remember.