The memory of dear old Ruchel would forever remain, even when we were back at home in dull, drizzly London

W

hen I was young, my family didn’t travel to Israel too often. But when we did, there were three mandatory items on our to-do list. One, head to the Kosel. Two, take the bus to Kever Rochel. And three, visit Ruchel.

Ruchel was my great-grandmother’s cousin through marriage. Born and raised in Batei Ungarin in the 1930s and 40s, she was your quintessential Yerushalmi meidel. She plaited her hair every morning into two tight braids, spoke Yerushalmi Yiddish, and was acquainted with every stone passageway in the vicinity.

Her family lived in extreme poverty. A single orange was a cause for excitement, and every child would await to receive a segment with wide-eyed anticipation. Ruchel’s father, originally from Hungary, died of starvation when she was a young girl, and she and the rest of her siblings were raised single-handedly by their blind mother. Their apartment was pitifully small and crowded, food was in scant supply, and clothes were passed from child to child until they were falling apart.

But they were happy.