You may have met the survivor only once, or worked with them a few times. Sometimes, however, you form a real friendship with them over several years. Conversation evolves from their experiences to other parts of life, and you get to know the person behind those terrible formative years. This was very much my relationship with the wonderful Zigi Shipper, so when I received an email on Tuesday morning informing me of his death on his 93rd birthday, I was utterly heartbroken.
Zygmunt ‘Zigi’ Shipper was born in Łódź, Poland, on 18 January 1930, the only child of an Orthodox Jewish couple. During his infancy, his parents divorced; this was severely frowned upon, so Zigi was told his mother had died and was raised by his paternal grandparents. Shortly after Germany invaded Poland in 1939, Zigi’s father fled to the Soviet Union; Zigi never saw him again, and never discovered his fate.
Zigi and his grandparents were forced to move to the Łόdź Ghetto in 1940. It was not long before his grandfather fell ill and died. Aged just 10, Zigi gained employment in a metal factory, whilst his grandmother produced German Army uniforms. They remained there until July 1944, when the ghetto was liquidated (although Zigi had already escaped one deportation, jumping off the back of a truck full of children and elderly people, when he realised they were not being sent eastwards for further forced labour). Zigi and his grandmother were loaded into an overcrowded freight wagon and, a few days later, arrived at Auschwitz-Birkenau. He always recalled – with a palpable sense of shame – hoping that other people in the wagon would die so he could sit down, such was the extent of his dehumanisation.
Upon arrival, Zigi was selected to work and given the prisoner number 84303. After a few weeks, all those who had worked in the metal factory were transferred to Stutthof concentration camp, near Danzig (Gdańsk). From there, Zigi was also put to work in the Stolp and Burggraben labour camps. As the Allies approached, the surviving prisoners were forced on a death march to Gdynia, before being put on barges to the German naval town of Neustadt. It was 3 May 1945. Suddenly, there was a British air attack, and in the ensuing chaos Zigi realised his German guards had disappeared and been replaced by British soldiers. The prisoners had been liberated.
Zigi was suffering from typhus and malnutrition, and was hospitalised for three months. Some time later, whilst living in Neustadt Displaced Persons’ camp, he received a letter from England. The author had found his name on a Red Cross list and asked him to check for a scar on his left wrist. If there was one, the letter said, then Zigi was her son. In 1947, Zigi left for London to be reunited with the mother he had long thought dead. It was upon entering a young survivors’ club in Primrose Hill, however, that Zigi felt he had really found his family. At this club he met his wife, Jeanette; they were married until her death in 2020. Together they had two daughters, six grandchildren and six great-grandchildren. He established a stationery company and began to speak publicly about his experiences in later life. Zigi was awarded a British Empire Medal for services to Holocaust education in 2016.
Despite everything he endured as a teenager, Zigi was one of the kindest, warmest and most trusting people you could ever hope to meet. When he walked into a room, it lit up; heads turned and there were excited whispers of “It’s Zigi!” His smile was infectious, and he held a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Zigi was also a notorious (gentlemanly) flirt. In 2015, for instance, I saw Zigi at a few different events within the space of a couple of weeks. The last one was a survivors’ consultation at Wembley Stadium, where I was helping to run the registration desk. Zigi arrived, and caught my eye across the foyer. “You again!” he joked, walking towards me with arms outstretched. We hugged, then he drew himself back, took me by the shoulders and said, “Where were you 50 years ago?!” I have no doubt this is a scene that played out many times over the years. Poor Jeanette!
Alongside the friends and family he adored, and his passion for Holocaust education, one of Zigi’s greatest loves was Arsenal Football Club. I once organised for Zigi to speak at The University of Worcester. My father offered him a lift, and the two got along famously, especially when they discovered that they were both Gooners! Zigi finished his talk that day – as he often did – with a message not to hate, because hatred can only be self-destructive. Afterwards, my father thanked him for sharing his story, but confessed that he could not reconcile his hatred of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. “Oh, that’s different,” Zigi replied with a wink, “I can’t stand Tottenham!”
Zigi always insisted that he had had a wonderful life and was a very lucky man. But, really, we were the lucky ones. It was a privilege to know him, to hear his story, and to call him a friend. The flood of tributes across social media over the last few days is testament to how special he was, and how loved he was by so many people. As another friend wrote, the world is a poorer place without Zigi Shipper.
