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I was conceived during a world war and was born during
a catastrophic revolution. Somehow, I have managed to
survive the most dangerous and violent century of our
time so far. Not only this, but I have suffered a great
many upheavals in my way of life. I was driven out of the
country I loved, and later, was evacuated. I have lived
through two wars and have found myself in many difficult
situations.
My home has been in the heart of a military zone since
1974. I continue to live here now, surrounded by ghost
houses.
I am permitted to travel and return to my home, to this
place which is normally barred to civilians. I think that my
new political classification would probably be ´harmless
relic of long ago, whom no one wants to destroy´.

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Introduction
When one reaches old age, one quite often observes
that one´s former understanding of and sympathy with
the outside world have undergone a radical change.
Those things we once considered all important become,
with the passing of time, simply irrelevant. Even very intelligent
younger people place a great deal of importance
on things which seem to us almost trivial when measured
against the history of humanity. This new perspective is,
I think, an attribute of becoming old.
In the course of my life, I have had to endure extremely
testing situations and upheavals. Now that I can boast a
very mature age, I can say that there are some things that
have always remained constant: the deep love I bear for
my husband, David, and my children, Reuven and Daphne,
and the love I feel for long absent friends - these are
emotions which time can never erase.
I feel privileged by fate that I had a husband, a son and
a daughter, and that I had the opportunity to experience
the wonderful satisfaction of caring for one´s own family.
And now that I am a great grandmother, I can say
that I am truly blessed. Because I have given much love, I
have found that many acquaintanceships have developed
into great friendships - and I am happy to say that I have
many friends.
But living so long has also brought me much pain.
This is the other side of the coin. I have outlived all my
immediate family: my husband, both my children, my
parents and many friends - apart from my older sister.
The pain one feels at losing a child is always with me.
The same pain greets me when I see a book my husband
liked, or even if I find an old knife and fork belonging to
my children lying in a drawer. This pain will never leave
me, I know, but in spite of this, I derive great comfort
from the steadfast love I continue to have for my family.
My daughter, Daphne, suffered terribly from manic
depression for five decades, and had terrifying episodes
- but I never left her when she needed me. We passed
through difficult times, and I know that even at my most
desperate, I still helped her as much as I was able. And I
was always there for my son, Reuven.
Now the memories come thicker and faster than ever.
Some I have written in an earlier book, and in their
repetition here, I have tried to convey my gratitude for
the steadfast love and grace which pervaded my childhood.
This, I am sure, gave me the resilience and fortitude
to bear the later tragedies of my life, and enables
me to treasure still the miracles of nature and the positive
events that happen to me. Memories can hurt very
much, and sometimes I think that only the sun rising in
a blue sky, heralding a lovely new day, makes my life
bearable. Memories of my grandparents, their own journeys
through life and the impression they made on me
have been formative. Although I have written particular
stories about them in detail in my previous book, I feel
that this account would not be complete without a general
description of how they still inhabit my imagination,
with their courage, their drive for happiness and their
zest for life.

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