ABSTRACT

when i was a child, growing up in 1970s and 1980s London, my grandparents’ house was a magical place. My grandfather Chimen was a history professor, my grandmother Mimi, a social worker. Their home on the edge of Hampstead Heath—bought during the dog days of World War II, when London was under aerial bombardment and real estate could be had for a pittance—was an extraordinary mixture of intellectual salon, place of refuge, and center of entertainment. People from around the world came to visit: family, friends, friends of friends, strangers wanting good conversation and a hearty meal. There were historians, artists, politicians, refugees, rabbis, priests, musicians, exiles, orphans, and often just wandering travelers who’d heard about the legendary hospitality of my grandparents. Nobody was turned away.