My Dearest Danielle,
“My best friend in the world is flying off to Australia for a whole year? Can we talk about this?”
This was the opening of the letter you wrote when I set off for Australia, less than a week before you were taken, restored to a world of only good. We still chatted on Whatsapp, and like always, promised to be in touch soon… Oh, Danielle!
Danielle, your birthday falls shortly before Purim. It was always easy to remember the date, because it’s only natural that you—a person so full of joy and giving—would celebrate each year of new life together with Purim. It always felt so right … And this year’s Purim was so sad without you!
My Danielle. That’s how I always called you. It wasn’t enough to know that you were my friend. I needed that extra special sense of belonging, to call you in a way that proclaimed to the world that you were mine—my very best friend in the world.
On Sunday, when I called you just two days before… I missed you so much, I missed your wisdom, your advice. I missed our special jokes, our secrets, the anecdotes we always shared. Most of all, I missed hearing your voice.
We spent many a Shabbos together. I’d come to your house, and we’d spend hours together. We did so much together, between studying, matriculating, working, volunteering, and then, later on, in National Service. We were always busy together.
Your mother, your wonderful, special mother, always greeted me with a glowing smile and warm welcome that gave my heart a boost. In her generous way, she’d urge me to have a bite to eat, maintaining a steady stream of friendly chatter, sharing great stories and video clips with Yoel and Yonatan, and private jokes about the great Caesars.
Feeling so accepted and loved on someone else’s turf isn’t the norm. It can’t be taken for granted, and certainly not in your best friend’s house. But I did. I always felt right at home in your house. I was lucky, so, so lucky!
My Danielle! Ever with your perpetual smile, ever with your happy, rolling laughing. Your kind eyes glimpsed directly into a person’s soul. Your gentle hands touched so many hearts, offering immediate help and support in every situation. Your beautiful words, ever comforting, ever caressing, simultaneously vibrant, energetic, supportive, and busy weaving dreams.
We used to joke about who was the luckier one—me or you? Who was more fortunate to be blessed with the other? You insisted that I was the only one capable of offering you a different perspective, one more optimistic than reality. I argued that you were the one who empowered me to see the world in that positive light!
Together we could always turn lemon into lemonade and party for no reason at all! I still stand firm behind the statement I made so many years ago: If I’d never known you, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I’d be a different person, much less a person than I am today. You changed so much inside of me, Danielle. Your very presence had the power to keep a smile on my lips for months at a time… or until we’d meet again.
We were the best of friends, although we had virtually nothing in common. The first time we met was when you came to Israel on vacation from Brazil and joined my first grade classroom. You sat down next to me during group time, and we even sat next to each other at the siddur party! In second grade, you returned for a month; and the next year, when we were in third grade, your family made aliyah and you changed schools.
But we kept in touch ever since and were always there for one another. There were interludes in our friendship, but ultimately, we got back together, stronger than ever. It was ironic, really, because we weren’t even in the same schools, and you never, ever came along with me to Bnei Akiva, despite my best persuasive efforts.
We were never in the same framework, nor did we even have many common friends. It was just you and me, Danielle. We had nothing in common, but we had everything in common: Bursts of laughter for no reason at all, a hopeless love of books, regular lack of availability (because we were both always so busy!), lots of love for people, and endless love and friendship for each other.
Dearest Danielle, last Yom Ha’Atzmaut, the one before you left me, we went out. Taking advantage of our day off from National Service, we decided to spend the day together. We drove to the Herzliyya beach and had a fabulous time just reveling in each other’s company. Looking back objectively on that day, I know that many things went wrong. It took us an hour to find parking, and when we finally got to the beach, it was noisy and crowded. Later, when we left in search of somewhere to eat, we realized that most restaurants in Raanana were closed because of Yom Ha’Atzmaut. We almost gave up until we finally found one open place and sat down to eat in relief. It’s only in retrospect that I even remember all these hitches, because we were so happy at the time that we didn’t even notice! We were ecstatic that we finally found a parking spot, thrilled that we finally found an open restaurant (and a decent one, too!), euphoric just to be able to walk along the sandy beach barefoot, hold hands, and speak openly from the depths of our hearts, knowing that we understand each other, support each other, want only the best for each other, and above all, love each other.
We were so happy just being together—the best of friends. I remember that when we paused for a selfie, someone stopped us and asked if we were sisters.
We stopped, looked each other in the eye, and with matching grins chorused, “Yes!” without further explanation… That moment lives inside of me now, forever engraved upon my heart…
My mother often says that every person has a biological family into which he’s born, and a family that he chooses for himself.
Danielle, you were—and still are—my sister. I know that I was your sister too. Not just a sister by birth, but a real sister, a sister by choice.
I remember the time when we were discussing how to celebrate our belated birthdays. Since we were both so busy at the time, we decided that we’d simply make the time to have a shared birthday party—just the two of us! Ultimately, we decided that we’d go together to Schneider to donate blood. That was shortly after the “sister episode,” and we joked on the way that, this time, we’d be more than sisters. We’d be blood sisters…
Every shared moment with you, every experience and event—even if it was just going out to a movie, always ended with a long, deep, heart-to-heart discussion in your car. Our discussions would go on and on until one of our mothers would inevitably call to find out if everything was okay, because it was already the middle of the night!
My Danielle, I miss you. I miss you so, so much. I miss our talks. I miss your advice. I miss the laughter we shared. I miss everything we had together. I miss your hugs and your smiles that illuminated my heart and soul.
I miss my sister. The sister I chose for myself. I miss you so much!
Danielle, I still keep in close touch with Rachel. I listen to the aching melody in her voice… I’m so proud that she’s taking your place in Schneider, perpetuating your legacy by helping sick kids. I’ve discovered a whole new side of her and understood that a magical child like you is delivered as a gift only to special parents—generous, big-hearted people, and to an exceptional family.
Danielle, when we visited your grave at the end of the shivah, your father approached me and told me that the friendship we shared was true friendship. He said that he’s seen very few friendships the likes of ours, friendship expressed by deep, honest sharing. Your father explained that this sharing, this kind of partnership, never breaks or ends; it just changes. He said that you’ll continue being my partner forever. I should continue doing my best, and you’ll help me from above. Your father also said that I need to be even happier now than before—for you. Stronger, confident, and happier—for you, and that you’ll help me attain and hold on to that happiness.
Your father, so special and wise, was right! In a strange, but beautiful way, I still feel you as an integral part of my life even after your passing. I see you in a rainbow of color that appears in a puddle on the ground. I hear you in every poignant song. I feel you in every good run. I read you in every good book, and hear your voice together with my alarm clock urging me out of bed because there is so much to accomplish today. I hear you saying that if I get up now, I can accomplish even more. I listen to the rhythm of your counsel, wisdom, and advice echoing in my mind; and when the going gets tough, I know that you’re standing here right beside me, believing in me, knowing that I’m the best I can be!
You continue guiding me through your wonderful friends and family members. It’s no surprise that everyone loved you, and that you were so special. All the people that you gathered around you… One is more incredible than the next! The people from Scheider who refused to leave your house during shivah, the friends who wept copiously at your grave, the wonderful people from the ward—doctors, parents, and directors who invested their hearts and souls to sponsor the most beautiful evening I’ve ever attended in my life, and even the family friends who were there the whole time, supporting, consoling, and taking care of your mother and family.
Your family and all those special people with whom you surrounded yourself, each and every one of them hugged me and comforted me—some with words and some with actions. These people and all the beautiful moments that we accumulated over the years remind me that you are still here, lovingly guiding and protecting me.
I’m certain that you’re there, watching over me from above with your arresting blue eyes, helping all you can. I know that during the hard times, you always appear in my life as a ray of dazzling sunshine, sending me little hints of you, supporting me, and lighting my path. Even in the letter that you wrote before I flew off to Australia, you wrote that you’re so proud that I’m striving to fulfill my dream.
“Despite it all, life isn’t all roses. Doubtless, there will be challenges, but without hardships and challenges, what do we accomplish? How will we grow and learn to improve?”
You wrote that you trust me to know how to surmount the challenges I will inevitably face in the best way possible, and you asked me to believe you when you wrote that I am amazing. You also reminded me that, luckily, we live in the 21st century and there are zillions of great ways to keep in touch, and that we’ll always be there for each other—even when far apart.
Every time we met, and every time we wrote each other, we’d end with genuine words of thanks. We thanked each other for the big things and the small, and you always insisted on getting in the last word and finding something else to thank me for.
Dear sister, if I begin listing all that I have to thank you for, I’ll never finish this letter. The thanks keep piling up, increasing with each passing day. But there is one final thing that I will thank you for, Danielle.
Thank you for every magical moment together. Thank you for the shared experiences, the heart-to-heart discussions, the unconditional love, for understanding me just by looking into my eyes without forcing me to say a word. Thank you for offering me a shoulder to cry on, for strengthening me, and infusing me with strength and power. Thank you for giving me the privilege of being your best friend and partner, a partner for life, a partner for eternity.
Danielle, your very essence was a bright smile. You were a person full of joy and light. You illuminated the worlds of all who surrounded you, and especially my world.
You left an unbearable void in our hearts. I miss you so much, even as I know that we’ll always have each other, because you were always a part of me, just like I was always a part of you.
Beyond the hardship and indescribable agony, and beyond the veil of tears blurring my eyes, I still can’t help but smile whenever I think of you—and you will forever live within my smile.
Today is Yom Hazikaron—Remembrance Day, the day when we commemorate our fallen soldiers and heroes.
Not a moment passes, and certainly not a day, when I don’t think of you. Danielle, you are always with me in my thoughts… And especially today.
I can’t help but think that if life had taken us in a slightly different direction, and if the two of us would have enlisted in the army, you would be recognized as one of the IDF’s fallen heroes. There are IDF soldiers who fall in battle, who are killed in the midst of an operation, accident or terrorist attack. They are all heroes killed in action. The difference between us and them is that we chose to contribute and serve our nation sans uniform and sans glory—simply to contribute our part and give wholeheartedly to our nation, without fanfare. Despite being killed in the line of duty, while driving one of the hospital volunteers home after arranging the Purim party at Schneider, you remain “Danielle,” with no extra titles attached.
On one hand, I can’t help but think that you, more than the rest of us, deserve a place in history books. You deserve to stand with all the heroes of Israel. You demonstrated true strength and valor, contending with the daily challenge of suffering and death—not with guns and artillery, but with needles, treatments, and chemotherapy that is the tragic lot of the precious children that you loved and who loved you at Schneider.
Danielle, you were and will always be my great Israeli heroine! Not only because of your dedicated National Service, but because of the person you are. You are the happiest, most energetic, and vibrant person that I ever had the privilege of meeting. Your very being radiated love, giving, and joyful laughter.
I remember when I broke the news that I was planning to travel to Australia for a year. You were so shocked that all you managed to utter was, “Wow.” When I asked you to explain, you just smiled that genuine smile of yours and answered, “Wow! I’m so, so happy for you. But… How will I manage without you for a whole year?” You were so happy for me, even though deep in our hearts we worried and wondered how we’d keep in touch and how the year would turn out. But we were happy for each other, and we supported one another throughout.
Although it’s hard for me to accept that you’re not officially recognized as an Israeli heroine, something inside me knows that this isn’t what you were about, and that you would never have wanted such an accolade. You were the most modest, unassuming person I knew. You always said that the necklace you wore, which was a gift from your mother, was crystal, not diamonds (although we both knew it wasn’t true…) Whenever you told me about something you did or shared a piece of your natural wisdom, and I’d be amazed and tell you how special you are, you’d dismiss it with a wave of your hand and respond, “Me? Look at you!”
Your favorite stores were bookstores, and our birthday trip was to the hospital to donate blood…
So yes, something inside me admits that this isn’t what you were about, and that you would never have wanted the rank, ceremony, or certificate on the wall. Something inside me whispers that this was also your way of connecting to all levels of our people, your way of saying, “I’m one of many.”
Danielle, you will forever remain my Israeli heroine and live eternally in the deepest place in my heart. I love you so, so much, and I miss you terribly.
Danielle, please, watch over us from your place in heaven, and especially watch over your beloved family—Rachel, Moti, Yonatan, Yoel, and Giselle who live with the constant ache of the dimmed radiance in your home. Watch over us—your friends and the countless people whose lives you touched during your too-short life, and give us the strength to continue living without you.
Watch over me and continue guiding me. I promise to continue striving with all my might to continue being happy, giving, and being the best person I can possibly be. With your help, I promise to succeed too!
Love you tons, not just all the way to Australia, but to the world-to-come,
Sapir Ophir