Her name was Esther. She was 96 years old, porcelain beautiful, with short hair and a presence that seemed impossibly delicate and strong all at once.
I first noticed her in the gym. Day after day, she would come to train, moving slowly, deliberately, but with a determination that put the rest of us to shame.
I went up to her once and said what I felt: “You’re an inspiration.”
She looked at me with surprise, as though no one had ever told her so. “My name’s Esther,” she said.
“My name’s Jack.”
A few days later, she came up to me with a smile: “Jack, I’ve known you since you were a little boy.” And so it was.
She and her late husband, an American visiting professor in London, had been friends of my parents. Our lives had circled back to meet here, two generations later, on treadmills and stretching mats.
Over time, we became friends. I would sometimes drive her home instead of letting her take the bus. On one such drive, she mentioned that she had a wedding to attend. It was her granddaughter’s wedding. Her voice carried both joy and sorrow. Nearly two years earlier, in Gaza, her grandson had been killed serving in a tank. “It has been difficult,” she said quietly.
It broke my heart. And yet she would dress up and go to her granddaughter’s wedding. Such is the courage of our people, shattered and celebrating at the same time, grieving and dancing in the same breath.
That wedding was just a week ago. On Thursday, I spoke to her again. I told her once more that she was an inspiration. She laughed softly, almost incredulous, with that charming way she had of deflecting praise. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” I said.
The next day, Esther died.
Tread softly among our torn, beautiful people
I think of her now, and of so many like her. Survivors, parents, grandparents, people carrying wounds that most of us could not survive, and yet they endure, they bless, they celebrate, they love.
It leaves me with this thought. We must tread more softly among our torn and beautiful people. Every face around me may carry both heartbreak and triumph. Every neighbor may be holding fragments we cannot see.
The triumph of the human spirit is everywhere here, but it is fragile. We must not walk carelessly among it. We must move with reverence, with gentleness, with love.
The writer made aliyah from the UK.