Talia, my sister. Even now I cannot take it in. It seems far more natural to hear you beginning an energetic conversation with me, as always: “How are you, my brother...” During the past month, everyone has told us of the great support you gave them through true friendship; of your concern for a friend in trouble, which would make you rush immediately to help, even if it meant a long and exhausting journey to the other side of the country.
I, Talia, did not see all of those things in you. First and foremost, I saw my little sister. It was not for nothing that throughout the shiva the opening line of Matti Caspi’s song “My Little Sister” played constantly in my mind.
Before anything else, Talia was a typhoon that arrived in a storm. When she came, she swept us along at her pace and with her energy; the moment she left, silence descended. Like every little sister, she could also be a nuisance, someone who came and bothered you at impossible hours. Tactless and restless, but also loving and adoring. If I dared to become annoyed, she would immediately say: “What do you want? That is my job — I am your sister.” Like every task she threw herself into, she took on the role of little sister totally and patronisingly.
Whenever she saw me, she would come and embrace me in an enormous, enveloping hug. In the past, it was embarrassing. What do you want from me? At home is one thing, but why in public?
She was the one who telephoned all her brothers every Friday evening. Just before Shabbat, my whole house looks as though a storm has passed through it. I have not yet managed to shower; on the way to the shower I remember another million last-minute tasks, and suddenly the telephone rings loudly. I immediately know who it is. Yes, it is Talia at the other end: “I just wanted to say Shabbat Shalom.” “Thank you, you too. Bye, I have no time to talk.”
Whenever Talia was not returning home to Haifa for Shabbat, she began working on your conscience as early as Monday. Perhaps you will go to Mum and Dad for Shabbat; perhaps you will invite them to eat with you; they are alone. And I would persist: Talia, perhaps you could stop nagging. All right, all right, I heard you. If it matters so much to you, why are you not in Haifa? But when she was in Haifa: come for a meal, I am here for Shabbat, I am bored, only Mum and Dad are at home.
Talia was the one who turned every family member’s birthday into a true celebration. She never forgot to telephone the evening before. In that same telephone call, in December, she would also take the trouble to remind me that her own birthday was approaching and would take place in another seven months.
Talia knew how to stand her ground. Every bureaucratic obstacle before which an ordinary Israeli citizen would despair became a target for Talia. The IDF, the Ministry of Education, the National Insurance Institute and many more fell into her net. More than once, she offered to fight on my behalf.
Talia was a combination of so many small things that, without the real person, cannot be described. During the shiva, a minor question troubled me: now, when people ask me how many siblings we are, what shall I answer? Today I already know the answer: “We are four siblings.” Talia, without you we are not complete. Completeness is four — three boys and one girl who complete the puzzle called the Hyman family.
“And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven...” Our typhoon storm has gone from us, never to return, and there is no quiet — only a thunderous silence...