“Why Israel?” I answered. “Because you taught me to love Israel. You taught me to love Jews

As I was saying goodbye to my father recently at the end of a short trip to the United States, he asked me why I had chosen to live in Germany.

But I don’t live in Germany. I live in Eretz Yisrael.

A few days earlier, when I had visited him in the hospital after a minor medical procedure, he mentioned how nice it was that Yossel, his cousin, had driven him there. But Yossel, a childhood companion in Poland whom he had seen exactly once in the intervening 60 years, died about 15 years ago.

Such are the challenges of living with a parent with Alzheimer’s. In this case, I thought the mix-up was poignant. His mind was obviously elsewhere, back in the DP camp in Germany after the war, where he and Yossel had hustled cigarettes for a few extra coins, before Yossel and his family got on the boat to pre-state Israel and my father and his family sailed to New York.

“But why Israel?” he asked. In his eyes was a look of concern. He’s been reading the newspaper cover to cover for years, and knows that Israel can be a dangerous place. Suicide bombs. Missiles from Gaza. Knife attacks as a family sleeps.

“Why Israel?” I answered. “Because you taught me to love Israel. You taught me to love Jews. You taught me that the Jewish people need to be strong.”