OPINION: Another typically Zigi moment of magic, even in death
'The baby is a boy and his name is Zigi'. Holocaust survivor Zigi Shipper didn't live long enough to meet his sixth great-grandson, but believed a large family was the ultimate riposte to the Nazis.
I am prone to magical thinking. I tend to make deals with a God whose very existence I deny on the off chance it might make a difference.
For the last few years, I have used every single wish, be it blowing out birthday cake candles or dandelions in the park, on the same thing. I have never wanted something for somebody else as much as I have wanted my sister and her husband to have a baby.
It has been a long and painful process but that is not my story to tell. Ultimately I struggled to find reassuring words because I couldn’t help but feel either it would happen or, on some level, Emma and Daniel would feel incomplete for the rest of their lives. The only words of wisdom I could impart were based on anecdotal evidence: in my experience people who have gone through an IVF journey tend to have a long story with a happy ending.
In February, I was abroad with my wife’s family when Emma messaged to say, after three years and five rounds of IVF, she would be, once again, taking a pregnancy test the following morning. Our grandfather, Zigi Shipper, had died a few weeks earlier and the message concluded simply, “Hoping grandpa’s watching over us and helping.” I told my sister I would cross everything. I would have prayed if I thought it would help but ultimately even my magical thinking has its limits.
The following morning, I awoke to good news. At long last, Emma was pregnant. This was before the 12-week mark so very early days but, at the very least, we finally knew they were able to conceive. Emma and Daniel were philosophical and felt this was something to cling to, whatever the outcome on this occasion.
Their resolve was strengthened soon after, however, when the doctors crunched the numbers and it transpired Zigi’s birthday, the day that he died, was the very first day of the pregnancy. Another typically Zigi moment of magic, even in death. Either our family is like some provincial nightclub with a one in, one out policy or some things are just meant to be.
On 18th January, the date of Zigi’s first and last days on earth, Emma wept as she told us she’d never get to tell our grandpa the one thing he most wanted to hear from her. Zigi felt he was lucky to reach 19 let alone 90 and if the best revenge is living well than a large family is the ultimate riposte to the Nazis. He was reduced to a number, 84303, during his time at Auschwitz and would occasionally bemoan the fact that, as a father of only daughters, the Shipper name would die with him.
Despite my proclivity for magical thinking and irrational fear of jinxing things (a 5-0 lead at half-time is not enough to convince me a football match is won), I was absolutely certain of three things when I learned about the confluence of dates. The first of those things was that the pregnancy would make it well past 12 weeks and all the way to birth. The last few weeks were fraught with complications but, from the outside, I remained uncharacteristically sanguine.
The baby displayed some of Zigi’s instinct for survival and was born at the end of September. The two other things I was certain of turned out to be the case when a tearful Emma called me with the news that Friday afternoon. The baby is a boy and his name is Zigi.
The Shipper name may not live on but our grandfather didn’t do too badly with one great-grandchild, my son, named Isaac Zigi and now this. Given the timing of the pregnancy and the survival aspect, in Emma’s words, “How could he be called anything else?” There is magical thinking and, occasionally in life, there is just magic.
- Darren Richman, grandson of the late Zigi Shipper, is a writer.
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