חן רדליך - Stone, my dear stone

How grief Is an orphan “Stone, dear stone You were my "צַּבָּר" son Now you are like my heart A cold stone and a constant pain…” Grandma Hela (the beautiful ) Every time we went up to visit my father’s grave ( my heroic father ) this is what she would say, her voice broken and trembling. This is my memory from the age of five until she passed away when I was about twenty. She was a special grandmother , not rich, not well-off, not formally educated. She lived in a small rent-controlled apartment in Tel Aviv and worked as a seamstress. She came to this country from the “bustling city” of Łódź in Poland. Zionism ran through every fiber of her being, and she was active in the youth movement “HaTechiya.” She was a true secular Zionist. The kind who, back in 1934, entered into a fictitious marriage just to obtain a certificate and make aliyah. And as soon as she arrived in the Land of Israel, she divorced (apparently it started even back then) only to marry the same fellow again, Yitzhak… (He too was a remarkable man, but he deserves a story of his own.) My grandmother was, how should I put it… somewhat short in stature. So she always wore her hair high, styled tall, to make up for what was missing. Whether there was money or not, she dressed elegantly like a woman from the movies. My father was one of those deeply devoted military men the kind who finishes his service and then goes back to serve again. He was wounded and kept going. He ran operations to rescue missing soldiers and brought them back wounded but alive. He charged Jordanian soldiers without fear. In short — Chuck Norris. He stood 195 cm tall, with a magnificent thick black beard, wore the red background behind his paratrooper wings, and received a military citation. My father died in the hospital at the age of 36 from an illness that developed from that wound. He left behind a widow with three children under the age of ten (my mother, for those who didn’t catch that). She deserves a whole book, not just a story. Maybe someday. My grandmother adored her heroic son Hanoch, and her world collapsed. But that didn’t stop her from keeping her composure and elegance and deciding that in the Tel Aviv heat it was still important to own a coat with silver fox fur. This small but striking woman stood in the cemetery every year. Her body trembling with every volley of the honor guard, her voice cracked, repeating the four lines she had written as a mantra of acceptance before fate. I love you, Grandma. You lost most of your family in the Holocaust, yet you left behind an entire tribe that continues the Zionist and moral family chain. Grandma, in your honor I wrote this song And may no other family ever have to join the family of grief. May your memory be blessed for all eternity