My father died recently. He was 72, and had been living in a hotel in northern Thailand. He was busy writing a book. From what I've seen of it, the book was about his early years as a German Jew set adrift in the boarding-schools of wartime England. Six decades later, my father was still adrift. Homeless, transient, unpredictable. He flew to Europe and left a message on my answerphone. 'Jake? Is that you? It's Harold . . . Dad. I'm in London. Jake?'

LRB 3 April 2003 | PDF Download