ByNicola Loftus , Nicola Loftus
Do you remember Harry Melvin? I introduced the 89-year-old to Jewish Chronicle readers earlier this year. Actually, his real name was Malcom Kayne. A war veteran, who climbed on to the beaches of Normandy -with his tefillin strapped under his helmet - fighting for our freedom.
But war wasn't his biggest battle; it was loneliness. He spent years as the devoted carer of his mother so he never had the opportunity to marry or have children. After his sister and mother passed away, he was left alone with no relatives. Despite being a regular "face" in the community, no one knew that he needed help. Harry was a proud man.
He became oblivious to the mess that was building up around him. He never noticed the rotting food in the fridge, the mugs lined with mold, the stained sheets, the ripped towels, the draughty windows, the filthy bathroom. He never noticed the dreadful smell and the squalor.
But I did, and so would you. Together with a social worker from Jewish Care, his rabbi, and his accountant we managed to organise a carer to live with Malcolm. Together we engaged the community, and gave him back his dignity and sense of purpose.
A passionate, practising Jew who adored Israel, he prayed that at the end of his life he'd be buried alongside his sister in Jerusalem. Last weekend, that particular wish came true.
This was people together showing some real value and purpose
Late Thursday afternoon, Sonia, his devoted Sri Lankan carer, called telling me to come over straight away.
When I arrived at his house in Willesden, which he had bought for £50 almost 65 years ago, an ambulance and two paramedics were already on the scene. The tattered front door of his dilapidated house was hanging open.
Harry was lying on the floor of his front room, his bloodstained shirt had been ripped open and two paramedics were performing CPR. There were beeps from the equipment, radio interference from the walkie talkies and sobs as Sonia, who had lived with him for more than three years, threw herself into my arms crying.
"He always said we were two meshuganers living together."
A small, elderly man wearing a cap with a look of total bewilderment stared down at his friend with tears in his eyes. It was Bennie, a friend Harry had made at the Sobell Centre.
A neighbour and his wife were also in the kitchen. "My father died in his 50s," said Andy, a taxi driver who had come to feel that Harry was "like a father figure." A regular at Willesden synagogue, Harry had enjoyed many a Shabbat lunch and Kiddush with the Pitch family, and their children had taken him as an adopted grandpa.
The paramedics tried for an hour-and-a-half to bring him back to life and finally one came out and asked for the next of kin.
He had had a stroke followed by heart attack. Everyone shuffled uncomfortably and relevant details were given - thankfully Rabbi Baruch Levine appeared magically bringing a calm and sense of purpose to what was happening.
Later, I went home and lit a yahrzeit candle - conscious that no one would be sitting shiva or bringing the light in for Harry. The next day, Andy and I went to Wembley town hall to collect his death certificate. The clerk processing the request was not surprised that Harry had no next of kin. She explained that, in many cases, social care workers come in to collect the death certificate.
The forms were faxed over to the cemetery in Jerusalem and arrangements were made for him to be flown out to Israel that night.
Later in the day, I received a call from Rabbi Levine who told me that as part of Harry's final journey the Chevra Kadisha would drive him past Willesden synagogue so anyone who wanted to would have a chance to pay their final respects.
At 6.15 on a miserable dark Thursday night I arrived with my husband to see an ever-growing crowd gather. The old and young stood shoulder to shoulder. People paid tribute to Sonia and how well she cared for Harry. There was not a moment when someone's arms weren't holding her.
A 12-year-old boy lamented the fact that Harry would not get to see him barmitzvah-ed. His Irish neighbour, dressed in a suit and tie, wiped tears from his eyes. Brian, who works in the Sobell community centre, had made the trek from the other side of London, on his week off, just to be there.
We listened to the rabbi say a few heartfelt words and together said the memorial prayers. A community together with real value and real purpose. I felt a sense of pride. This is what the veterans fought for - a community that cares, that takes an interest.
Harry Melvin surely would have been proud as slowly and silently we walked behind the hearse as far as we could until gradually it pulled away to take "Harry" on his final journey.
In tribute to Malcolm Kayne 10/01/1925 – 30/10/2014