Mark, the brother I didin’t know I’m sitting in the living room of my apartment in Ramat Gan, in front of the little wooden dresser you bought in Munich, the dresser that was returned to Israel in the same plane as you. It became a monument in Mom’s living room. It held the gifts you’d bought for everyone, and pictures of you, and no one was allowed to touch it. I, who came into this world a year and a half after you left it, would crawl around the monument, and over the years I became truly obsessed with the dresser and the treasures it held. When Mom and Dad died, I decided to turn it into a piece of furniture like any other. At some point your little niece Mia, still a baby at the time, broke the glass door, and I was happy to turn your memory into a daily accessible thing. Mark, my beloved brother, we never met but we’re connected forever. After all, if you’d lived, Dad wouldn’t have insisted on more children. Mom was already 39, but Dad’s heartbreak convinced her to keep the pregnancy, and I was his consolation. It accompanies me every day, that’s how you’re imprinted on my entire existence in this world, and I thank you for the privilege of life. Your story is larger than life, almost inconceivably so. A collection of coincidences that funneled into that moment when you left us at just 18 and a half. We’d only been in Israel three months before you went to Munich to fulfill your dream. Mom and Dad were pleased with the life we’d had in Russia, and never even thought of immigrating. When you were two, our brother Alik was born, and when you were ten our sister Tali was born. As mentioned, I really wasn’t part of the plan. You were so strong that at 12 you could already swing Dad in the air. You were accepted to the Sports Academic in Minsk, where you met and fell in love with wrestling. At 16.5 you were already the teen champion of the Soviet Union in Greco-Roman wrestling, and a bright future lay in store for you. You were a prodigy in the field, thorough and diligent, kind-hearted and loving. So thorough that you got textbooks to understand human psychology, so you could use that information against your opponents in the ring. At the same time, antisemitism was on the rise in the Soviet Union, and you and Alik experienced it firsthand in school and in the streets, and you had to defend your brother again and again, as he was a prankster and would always get in trouble with other kids. Then you decided you didn’t want to live in a place like that, where you were called “Yid” and discriminated against time after time. In December 1971, when you were told you’d been chosen to represent the Soviet Union in the Munich 1972 Olympic Games, you realized that your dream was actually to immigrate to Israel and win titles and medals for that country, not for the Soviet Union. When you announced that you were going to immigrate to Israel, Dad said you had no chance of joining the Israeli delegation to Munich because it required at least a year of residence in the country you were representing. You didn’t bat an eye, and said you’d be willing to wait four years for the next Olympics if you had to, but that you had to go to Israel. Representing Israel was your dream, and you wouldn’t give up on it. You started out making travel arrangements all on your own, and in the end the family saw how determined you were and decided unanimously to join you. The Russians put heavy pressure on you. They had hopes of winning gold medals in wrestling through you, and offered you your own apartment, a scholarship and money. When that didn’t help either, they asked you to return all the medals you’d won and struck all your wins from the record. That only bolstered your feeling that you were doing the right thing, and thus you moved to Israel, 17 family members, just for you. As soon as we settled into the apartment we received in Bnei Brak, you walked to the HaPoel sports club in Tel-Aviv. You had no papers to attest to your achievements, and no one knew you. The coach, Muni Weinberg, asked you to compete against Eliezer Halfin, who was the Israeli champion at the time, and when you won other opponents were brought in, some weighing more than you, all older and more experienced than you. And yet you beat them all. It was decided to invite the world wrestling champion, Frenchman Daniel Rubin, and Muni decided that if you beat him, you’d join the delegation, and if you were defeated, you’d keep training until the next Olympics. When you won it was clear there was potential there for an Olympic medal, and another competitor was removed from the team so that you could participate in the Games. Then another obstacle arrived. You’d only been in Israel for three months instead of the required year. But the Olympic Committee of Israel received a special exception to add you to the delegation, and thus against all odds you reached Munich. Look how many things had to happen, how many obstacles stood in your way for you to make your dream come true and represent Israel in the Olympic Games, only for you to never return from there. Muni Weinberg took you under his wing, took care of you in every way, and Mom and Dad knew you were in good hands. You started preparing for the trip and you were the happiest you could be, because you’d already been prepared for the possibility of waiting four years until the next Olympics in Montreal 1976. Alik helped you pack and said: “This is the first time you’re leaving me,” and you answered: “You don’t need me to protect you anymore. You’re in Israel, no one will ever call you Yid again.” And you left. Your competition was supposed to be held on the morning of September 5, that awful day. At 4:30 AM the terrorists infiltrated the Israeli delegation’s quarters and took you hostage. Your body was found in the helicopter, incinerated after a grenade was thrown in, pierced with four German bullets. I still struggle with two thoughts. The first is of that moment you sat there, bound, next to the body of Yossi Romano, when your coach’s body had previously been thrown out a window. What was going through your mind? Were you scared? What were you thinking of? All those long hours you sat there with your friends won’t leave me be, and turned many of my nights nightmarish and sleepless. The other thought is the whole journey you had to take to reach that moment of September 5, that you’d been awaiting for so long. That moment, representing Israel in the Olympics, that you did so much to reach, and couldn’t make it. Our parents awoke the next morning in a parallel world. They left the house early, and went on errands together at the bank and to prepare for Rosh HaShana eve. They passed by a kiosk, and Mom saw a picture of your coach on the cover of one of the newspapers and asked Dad: “Why is Muni in the papers?” They bought the paper, and at the bank they asked someone to explain why Muni was on the cover. That was how they learned what had happened. When they hurried home, the representatives of the Olympic Committee of Israel were already there to give them the news. Dad had a heart attack, and Grandpa, right after him. They never really recovered, and remained sick. It was a mass nervous breakdown. Grandma forced Grandpa to buy a burial plot behind you in Kiryat Shaul, while she was still 59 and healthy. A year later she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and she passed away and joined you, her beloved eldest grandson. In February 1974, a year and a half after your death, I was born, and we moved to Petach Tikva, next to Beilinson Hospital. Dad was hospitalized for long periods of time due to heart attacks and brain aneurysms that struck him ceaselessly, but he insisted on giving anti-terror lectures to the world in Russian. He was furious that the Germans had cooperated with the terrorist unit, and insisted the Germans had been involved in the murder of the 11 delegates. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been in hospitals and cemeteries. I had a happy childhood, I was loved and spoiled, but home was shattered. My memory as a little girl of 6 or 7 is sitting on our mother’s knees, wiping her tears. Alik, who was 16 when you were murdered, never recovered, and that hole left in his heart when you flew away and never returned was never closed. He married Simona and had four amazing children, Ze’ev, Livia, Molly and Tali. One of his grandsons, Boaz, has your strength. At 5 he’s learning judo with second-graders, a particularly strong boy who doesn’t yet understand his strength. Tali, who was eight when you disappeared from her life, didn’t have a simple journey either, and she had two amazing daughters who you’d certainly be proud of, Adi and Liori. Just before Dad passed away, at the age of 68, he asked me to keep taking care of you, remembering and reminding others of you, to carry on what he steadfastly did all those years. At first I couldn’t, even people close to me didn’t know I was your sister. I felt it was such a huge request from Dad. But over the years, and especially after becoming a mother and having my daughter Anouki come with me to every ceremony and unveiled monument, I really try to do what I can so as many people as possible know you and your amazing story, that gives so much strength and inspiration to so many people. To this day I find it inconceivable that they weren’t willing to have a minute of silence at the Munich stadium, where you proudly marched with the Israeli flag. I don’t understand how something as obvious as commemorating the place where you were murdered was a failure, and how there wasn’t a minute of silence as far back as Montreal. I watched the opening ceremony of the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games from home, with my daughter Mia sitting in my lap. It was Friday, the ceremony began, and for the first time after so many years it happened. A minute of silence after 49 years. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it was happening. The President of the International Olympic Committee said that there might be something, but he made no promises. It was an insane moment, a turning point in a war that had lasted almost 50 years. We were given worldwide recognition, and we were so moved we wept. Mark, my dear brother. You left first, then Mom and Dad couldn’t go on anymore and joined you. It’s not an easy inheritance I’ve received, and sometimes the burden is heavy. But know that I managed to build a home in Israel and bring my Anouk and Mia into the world, and you are the inspiration of my life. You are in our hearts, always. Yours, Mika