My beloved father, It’s been 50 years. 50 years of you being gone, yet you are present in every day of my life, especially every night. I can’t shake the moment when the house became filled with cries of happiness and excitement as we heard the announcement that the hostages were being released. I’ve cried every night since that moment, feeling as though you had somehow been saved. As if by coincidence, Mom had just returned from her visit to Romania, the same morning I heard about the kidnapping of the Israeli delegates on the radio. I felt you weren’t among the hostages, since I thought you’d stayed the night with your friends in Munich after seeing a show that evening. I only received the phone call from the Olympic Committee of Israel that afternoon, and went to break the news to Mom. From that moment on my nights were over. During the day I was fine; I worked, I ran a school, but at night I had time to be with myself, with my pain, to imagine what had happened there over and over. Every night I was overcome with thoughts of you. I couldn’t bear the fact that you hadn’t been saved, and could only fall asleep with the help of sleeping pills. I was 14 and a half when we came to Israel from Romania, an only daughter to parents who’d had a hard time immigrating because Romanians were under a strict quota. Mom had gone through many abortions in the hopes of getting the immigration permit, which we only received after 20 years of trying. At home we spoke only Yiddish, and you were the only one who knew Hebrew. We lived in a sort of a commune, with a yard we shared with your brothers and sisters who had survived the Holocaust, and I had many cousins. We arrived in Israel on September 5th, 1963. Yes, the very same date on which you were murdered 9 years later. We rented an apartment in Ramat HaHayal, and from there the road to the shooting range in Ramat Gan was a short one. After a mere few months you had already found your place in Israel, while I was sent to spend a year at the Ben Shemen boarding school, where I learned Hebrew. When I came back Neve Sharet was newly-built, and we purchased an apartment there. What a time that was. There were many Romanian immigrants in the neighborhood, as well as Moroccans, and many friendships were formed among the neighbors. You and Mom were constantly hosting people, since Mom was a wonderful cook; you had many friends, and on Fridays you loved playing poker with them. This was a happy, lively, cohesive neighborhood. You were very handsome, very tall and charming, with a smile and charisma that couldn’t be missed in terms of your looks and presence. You’d spent some time studying in Paris, where you fell in love with the culture and fashion. You had been exposed to the theater and the opera, gained an education, and had become a man of great conversation, with leadership qualities. Each morning you’d read the newspaper, and not a day went by without you reading another book. You loved music and theater shows, and in addition to your athletic endeavors you became a theater manager as well. You were a teacher, an educator, and even today there are students you used to teach who come and tell me stories about you and how you changed their lives. Everyone speaks of how caring you were, how you were always concerned for the weak, and how you always strived for excellence. You would spend whatever free time you had with Mom, who you loved so much, with me, and with your friends from the neighborhood. We youngsters would party every Friday night, and it was during one of those parties I had met Adari and we became a couple. Every year we would travel to Romania, to the mountains or the beach, and I remember your “joie de vivre.” You loved to dance and laugh, and you had such passion for food, especially the amazing food Mom cooked for you, and she always loved inventing new recipes for you. I remember you devouring the 10-egg omelet she’d make for you. I inherited your passion for world travel, eating good food, and enjoying life. The year before Munich I married Adari, and my relationship with you became even stronger. You’d talk to me about your job and things that bothered you personally and professionally. You’d share your thoughts about being at home more often after the Olympic Games. You wanted to spend more time with Mom. How happy I am today about the closeness we formed during that short but significant time. Suddenly I felt like your equal. For a short time we were not only father and daughter, but simply two people who enjoyed exchanging ideas and opinions about life and the world. This was a win-win for me. I had a warm and supportive father as well as a soulmate. You gave me the space to express my opinions, and the fact that you chose me to advise you helped me build confidence and made me feel valuable and capable. You and Mom were so in love. You knew how to give each other space, and you never confined one another. Just as you had your teaching and athletics, she had her own life as well. After your murder she couldn’t stop talking about you, and yet she built herself a new life. She even had a partner for a while, but he wasn’t you. She couldn’t make peace with your death; she compared him to you, and in the end it was over between them. Right before the Munich 1972 Olympic Games, you and Mom traveled together to the training camp in Romania, where the weather and training conditions were similar to those in Germany. Mom stayed in Romania and you came back to make the final preparations for your trip. Adari had driven you to the airport, from which you never returned. He still can’t forget what happened to the both of you on the way there. You were driving in a Mini Minor with your teammate, and at Yehud the car stalled, as though it didn’t want to reach the airport. You were stressed that you’d miss the flight, so you had order a cab. You all went to the airport, and returned in coffins. I grew up to be the type of person who doesn’t expose her feelings for all to see. In the beginning I had a hard time believing it had actually happened, and for many years I lived with a weight on my chest, a terrible pain in my heart. Mom was in an awful state, so I assumed responsibility and didn’t let her be by herself. Luckily I had Adari, who took it upon himself to take care of us, and he was there for me and Mom. After finishing my studies and completing my first year at work, and after I was promoted to Vice Principal of the school, I got pregnant and it was clear I would name the baby Kehat. I knew it was a boy and that I would name him after you, I saw no other options, and so it was. You were 53 when you were taken from us, and Mom passed away at 92, during Rosh HaShanah, same as you. She was completely fine, and just the year prior we’d hired someone to watch over her and sleep there after Mom fell and broke her hip. She never fully recovered, and I think she just made the decision not to live anymore. Throughout all my years at the Ministry of Education it was important for me to promote athletics at school, and I always participate in all your memorial ceremonies. Of course this isn’t an easy feat for me, since I’m an introvert; but I still do it, and when I think of you, it helps. When I tell your story during events and speeches, I see you in my mind’s eye, and hear your words in my ear; I’ve internalized your advice to dare and achieve. This happened when I was giving a speech at the United Nations, during the memorial ceremony for the 11 athletes, and even during the torch-lighting ceremony. I was made District Principle of the Year in Sports and Education. As I stood there with the torch in my hand, and as I mentioned you, I could really feel you there. During the Atlanta 1996 Olympic Games I was studying for a Masters degree in Boston, but I couldn’t get to the opening ceremony with the delegation of Munich orphans who had traveled there together. I joined them towards the end of that week, and had to make a decision: whether to view the documents and photos showing the torture you all went through, or to give up this new information and leave you in my memory, as full of life as the last time I saw you before you left for Munich. I chose to see everything, Dad, and that was another step in saying goodbye to you. All our children and grandchildren are active athletes, and everyone knows what happened in Munich and your story. They’re used to participating in ceremonies and memorials, and when Kehat’s son Barak came to see the monument for the first time, they wrote that he was the first great-grandchild of the 11. I usually watch television in bed, and so I was lying down to watch the opening ceremonies of the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games. I didn’t know there would be a moment of silence, and it caught me by surprise. I was left in tears, and a moment after came the phone calls, countless phone calls from friends started rushing in. It’s true, I would have wanted each of your names to be spoken clearly, but I am a realistic person, and I know we may never get there, since there are a lot of politics involved. Since Munich I have this relentless internal anguish in my chest, a concealed lump of grief. I have the picture of the airport in my mind, the picture of the helicopter. I have flashbacks that come and go. It is that place where I still find it so hard to believe, and a thought crosses my mind that maybe it didn’t happen. But it did happen, Dad. And you’ve been gone for so many years, yet you’re still present. Without meaning to, you’ve shaped my life even after your death. Every time I’m at a crossroads, I find myself consulting with you and relying on what you would have told me if you were here. I have entire conversations with you in my midn, and sometimes a few sentences from you leave their mark on me and give me answers. I have no more words to explain how much I love and appreciate everything you ever did for me and Mom. I miss you. Rest in peace, my dear father. Your daughter Michal