
In our first years after aliyah, we lived in Jerusalem. A tiny apartment on King George Street, right in the city center. The whole building belonged to an old woman from an entirely different era, and her son, with his thick black beard, worked at the pizzeria on the ground floor.
Hard times. And happy times. Almost embarrassingly happy. So many years have passed, and I still remember every stone.
The other day I walked past that same pizzeria. Behind the counter stood an old man with a grey beard. Time had left its mark on his face, but his eyes were the same, still young. Just like our City.
Happy Jerusalem Day.

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