My grandfather, Menachem, whom I was called after, has died 53 years ago, today. I was born exactly ten years after that day. He came to the land of Israel with my grandmother one moment before psycho World War II began, as my grandmother left him no choice.
When the British army started recruiting Jewish people from the land of Israel, he joined the forces and served as an army truck driver till the end of the war. Then he drove trucks to the besieged Jerusalem during Israel’s independence war and after the war he owned the first truck in the city of Rehovot, Israel. He was a talented sportsman in many fields and trained some of Israel’s most successful swimmers ever.
When his only daughter, my mother, reached Bat-Mitzva (12), he wrote her this humble greeting, saved with me until today. It was wrote in Hebrew letters with Hungarian accent: “My Rachel. You need to be a good daughter. Till 120. Many kisses from dad and mom for your 12th birthday. Dad”.
Two years after he passed away.
[Chami Zemach November 17, 2013]