After World War Two, a few surviving relatives made their way to Palestine, which of course became Israel in 1948. A couple of years later, my mother received a letter from one of the relatives, telling about a young son who was ill. The doctors said that a new medicine available in the U.S. could save his life.
My paranoid father yelled about people who wanted to take advantage, but my mother, in her compassion, defied him. She had her brother, a pharmacist, obtain the medicine, and one night — or late afternoon, already dark in December — we drove to Logan Airport in Boston, where you could send a package overseas by airmail.
Last week — in July of 2018 — I was found on Facebook by someone whose name wasn’t familiar, an Israeli. He wanted to connect with relatives; his grandmother and my grandmother were sisters, he said.
We exchanged stories. One he told was of being sick as a boy and how a package from America saved his life.
That’s what I read, many decades after the trip to the airport in the dark.


One comment

  1. Ed Curtis · · Reply

    That is a wonderful story to have in your collection, Lew.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: