My parents, Yehudit (Nazira) and Yossef Rachamim Levi immigrated to Israel from Turkey in 1948. My parents immigrated to Israel with four daughters, when I was four months old. At the time of this case we were eight siblings—six girls and two boys.

We lived on Eliyahu Shama Street in the Mamilla neighborhood in Jerusalem. In 1958, my mother gave birth to her tenth child in the Bikur Cholim Hospital in Jerusalem. When the baby was born, my mother managed to nurse him for one day, and he was healthy and vital. No one from the medical staff spoke to her in any way of a health problem.

The next day she was told that his hand was broken in childbirth and he died. They did not let her see him and so she felt that he was alive. My brothers and I even got to see the baby once. All her life my mother talked about the lost son. The deep grief of not being able to raise her own son accompanied her, my father, and the whole family throughout our lives.