Dear Lazik, For three years we were brothers-in-law; just three years in which I got to know and love you, in which you were like a brother to me. I find myself remembering how it all started. You came to Israel from Latvia. Your parents, Chaya and Eliyahu and your sister Rima, who would in time become my wife, only a year or so older than you. About 6 months after you came to Israel, we met at a social event at a friend’s house. We were both busy, and mainly saw each other on the weekends when I came to visit Rima. During those encounters our relationship formed. We had hours of heart-to-heart conversations, a connection that only deepened as my wedding to Rima approached. You were a very strong young man. You sat and trained endlessly with a rubber band against the bars, but as strong as you were, you were also a gentle man, very friendly, pleasant and always willing to help. After the wedding, when our firstborn son Zvika was born – who you managed to know – you helped Rima with every spare moment you had. Your relationship with Rima was something special. Siblings who were always there for each other. You even had a special language that was just yours. I speak Russian myself, after all, and I never understood what you said to each other. You’d just invented a language and kept it between you. You were that close. Before you went to the Olympics from which you never returned, you even let her in on your decision that when you came back, you’d propose to your girlfriend. You never made it down the aisle, but you’ll surely be happy to know that years after the tragedy, Rima has stayed in touch with her. Writing brings up many memories for me, and in one of them I recall how much you loved Zvika. You’d swing him in your arms, play with him, crawl on the carpet with him. You were a family man, and you never passed up the family get-together at your parents’ house for dinner. You had time for everything – your girlfriend, your family, your studies, your work and sports. Not many know this, but you came to wrestling by chance. The start of your sports journey was actually tennis, but you didn’t find your calling there. One day you met a friend who was taking wrestling classes, you joined him for one practice session and it was a done deal. You were serious and focused, and quickly became the teen champion of the Soviet Union. When you came to Israel, you signed up for HaPoel Tel-Aviv and kept progressing until you reached the Olympic criterion, and earned a spot on the Olympic delegation of Munich 1972. Right before your trip we visited you at the training camp, and you were so excited. As you took off for Munich and the start of the Games, we counted the days until you were meant to compete. Unfortunately, before that moment arrived, the event began to unfold. We heard the news on the radio, and I was on reserve duty at the time, staying by the radio that was at the time our only source of information. Reports were confused and contradictory. First, they announced everything was fine, and then, the next morning, the cruel news reached your parents’ house. Since then, our lives have been turned upside down. I returned from reserve duty and stayed close to the family, wrapped in mourning and turning inward in its grief. Your parents were broken and even needed sedatives. The days of shivah were unbearable, and all of Israel arrived to offer condolences. Zvika crawled between the chairs to be next to his mother, and Rima just wanted to be by her parents’ side. At that point, we didn’t really understand what had happened there, and we had more questions than answers. Such thoughts. Why had it happened? How could it have happened? Why hadn’t the Germans asked for help? Why had they carried out the operation themselves? We have special units, after all. But they would not agree to our intervention under any circumstances. Then we were told that the head of the Mossad, Zvi Zamir, had been in the airport control tower at the time, and had asked the Germans not to attempt to extract you, and despite that they’d gone ahead anyway and led a failed operation that ended with German bullets killing some of you. I remember that, at one point, there was a hope that you’d be flown as hostages to Egypt. We thought that if you were there, you’d be held until an opportunity arrived for negotiations, because it was after all a country, not a terror organization. But it didn’t happen, and you returned in a coffin. So yes, I was angry, and I’m still angry sometimes. It changed all our lives. Your parents were never themselves again, till their dying day. Rima would be reminded of something in the middle of the day and weep, and everything revolved around your absence. I wanted my ordinary life, but you can’t go on after something like that. Every day for years, your mom would drive to Kiryat Shaul, where you are buried, taking care of the grave, laying flowers and returning home. As the years passed she grew older and had a harder time going, and instead she would sit with your photo album. Just like that, every day. But Lazik, how long can one stay angry? And where is that anger to be directed? First we needed to pick up the pieces, because we were broken. We were all sucked into our mourning, and people started growing distant. Our friends who’d been with us in the group, our neighbors. Maybe it was hard for them to see what we were going through. But time heals, and life goes on. Your parents, whose child was released from the army to represent Israel at the Olympics and never returned, had to deal with the insult from the International Olympic Committee as well, who only stopped the Games in Munich for one day to hold the memorial. As if the loss weren’t enough, we also had to face the offense of the International Olympic Committee lack of recognition, which lasted years. Lazik, I want to tell you that despite all the difficulties, your parents lived long lives. Your mother passed away at 88, and your father at 99. They got to know the two children we had after Zvika, his sister Shelly and brother Cheli, named after you. An unorthodox name, but it includes your name, H for Halfin, and “li” is short for Lazer. Zvika lives in Hod HaSharon, Shelly in Eilat and Cheli stayed nearby in Ariel, where we moved to from Tel-Aviv. You’d probably be glad to know they’re all working and stable, that we have nine grandchildren and that our home was a happy one, full of children, friends and the happy sounds of children coming from the small garden. Unfortunately, three years ago Rima got sick and passed away, and since then I’ve remained the family torchbearer. We keep being invited to competitions held in honor of the 11, to memorials and ceremonies. While Rima was alive, she was the one who kept in touch with the other families who’d lost their loved ones, and took part in those matters. With her gone, I represent the family, and do it most willingly and wholeheartedly. Your story and the story of the 11 is told by everyone, and you even appear in each of the children’s and grandchildren’s school assignments about their roots. To this day they ask questions and take an interest, and I tell them. Rima was my wife for almost 50 years, and your loss touched me personally. I see myself as representing the Halfins, and carrying the memory forward. I’m the only one left, and I feel obligated. It’s inside me, Lazik, and I promise that I’ll keep fulfilling my role for as long as I can. Just before the end, I must tell you about a particularly moving moment we had in 2011. 39 years after the awful massacre, somehow, through the son of a German officer who’d taken part in the action, we found your Athlete’s Certificate for the Olympic Games. Of course it brought back everything. I was working at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at the time, and with their help we managed to obtain the certificate and bring it to Israel. When it arrived, we were invited to receive it at a special ceremony at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Rima was deeply moved, and all her emotions rose and resurfaced again. After all, it might have been the last thing you touched. Rima didn’t get to see the moving moment when at the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games had a minute of silence in your honor. I was at home in front of the television, and like everyone I was very surprised because we didn’t know there would be a minute of silence. I was moved and happy they’d mentioned the massacre, though they didn’t speak your names. But I was mainly sorry that Rima didn’t get to have that moment after such a long struggle. Lazik, we take all kinds of memories with us, some tangible and some transient. In this letter to you I’ve spoken of my thoughts, but I have something else of yours in my possession, something tangible. You, who in life, were a technical man who loved to fix and upgrade cars, left me your tools, and I’ve kept them safe from all harm. In the next letter I’ll send pictures too. Yours, Arie