Hammer

How else can it be that when I hear the word 'hammer' I think about Granddad, the only grandpa I can vaguely remember and got to know better long after he is dead by reading his travel journal to Israel and watching the photos he took. The man who was born at the end of 1800, in the 19th century didn't turn old.

Although I could have known he wasn't the mean person they told me he was, since he did take me out for a drive in his Mercedes, or to visit an attraction park in Arnhem city, I was somehow afraid of him. The always-busy, developing, creating, repairing, arranging, reading, trumpeter, who was hiding once home in his private domain scared me for an unknown reason.

The forbidden area, a shed filled with antiques and ancient tools, could not be entered without his permission. Did he hate, like just tolerate me on those rare occasions I was around?

I never asked him how he felt about me if it was me, the black sheep, who made him uncomfortable.

Grandpa was a hard-working, old-fashioned man who loved to eat each Saturday his favourite meal: rice porridge with brown sugar without being disturbed. 

I like to think he didn't care about my looks, because he and my other grandfather had a gentleman's agreement about taking care of each other's wife and after all the war was over. I like to think that he got over the hateful thoughts being spread and used his hammer to wake up everyone to be the Samaritan, to help out his brother.

If Grandpa went to his shed no one entered. On rare occasions the door was open and I just stood there and watched him being busy. I was at least once allowed to set foot inside. I loved to watch him at work, study his face so different from mine and the tools he used. Everything looked so easy in his hands, it all went smoothly for sure he wasn't so clumsy as I was. Granddad always hit the nail on its head, never his finger.

Till today, if I see an old tool, I think of the Granddad I once had, his drawings, the shop, the bombed houses he renovated after the war and the life he led.

He did reach out to more than one "brother" but not a single person was grateful for that. Each one of them stabbed him in the back. Those he hid during the war, his brother-in-law, his inlaws, family and employees. No matter how ill he was he kept working, solving, sharing, reaching out and uniting when asked.

As a child, I observed Granddad frequently and mostly he was alone not only in his shed but also in his office where he played the trumpet. He had a song and always played it alone. Many times I stood shivering in the cold hallway to listen to him. If I found the courage I stood right behind the door but fled as soon as he stopped playing. It's unclear who taught him how to play the trumpet my guess is he learned it himself just like everything else. My grandpa was an autodidact and learned to take care of himself at a very young age. It's hard to believe that he was already an architect at the age of eighteen.

18-1-2024