Broken threads

My maternal great-great grandmother, Leah Lopes Dias Mercado, is buried in London. She rests in the Sephardic Jewish cemetery at Mile End, or what is left of it after much of it has been taken over by Queen Mary University’s expansion in the 20th century. One of the buildings that was erected is the chemistry building, which now abuts the northeast edge of the cemetery. I wonder if my great great grandmother would’ve been pleased to discover that her great granddaughter and great great granddaughter were both university trained chemists.

I visited her grave this week in between London rainstorms. Finding the university was no problem, getting in a bit more of a problem. It’s an urban campus and closed, except for those with IDs. When I asked to visit the cemetery, the security guard told me that I needed to have arranged for that ahead of time by email. I had checked the university website, which did not mention that and asked her who I could contact because I was only here from the US for a short period. At which point she said, “Well, just this one time!” and waved me in. The graveyard is just 100 feet or so beyond the entrance. It was also locked up. But as I circled it for an entrance that might be open I found the spot where people clearly climbed over the wall, and I followed suit. I was a little worried that I might get booted from campus by security for trespassing, but thankfully was left undisturbed.

I had an index to the burial ground, but it was still challenging to find her grave given how worn the inscriptions were on most of the graves. I found a grave where the inscription was legible and a relatively uncommon name, Jane Botibol, wife of Isaac. As I tried to find it on my online index on my phone, it finally popped up and turned out to be only three graves away from Leah. It was an extraordinary experience to stand there, and to pray for her, and to wonder what her life must’ve been or like that of her daughter, my great grandmother, who was orphaned at 12 and eventually immigrated to the US. I left two pebbles on her grave so that she might know she’s remembered. There were a few others, and I wonder if family members here in London might’ve left them. I washed my hands and did not dry them and wished I  I knew more about this part of my family, but I fear too many connecting threads have been broken to ever know much more.