The kindest eyes – a tribute to Lionel Slier

This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to write. There’s so much to say, and then there’s nothing really, except, “I love you.”

My sister, Hayley, and I were holding our dear father’s hands as he took his last breath. My brother, Jack, was pacing the room, and we were softly singing Adon Olam, which ends with the words, “With my soul, my body too, the Lord is with me, I shall not fear.”

Our dad, whose full name was Leo Lionel Slier, had held on for days, waiting for Hayley to arrive from London. His eyes were closed, his breathing was laboured, and he was on oxygen, but he heard our anxious pleas and was able to squeeze my sister’s hand one last time when she told him how much she loved him. And no sooner did we tell him he could go, than he left us.

Our precious, darling father, about whom no-one ever said a bad word, died on the first day of Sukkot. There’s a Jewish belief that those who die during the holy days are “tzaddiks”, people of true righteousness. He was one of them!

My father was born and lived most of his life in Johannesburg. I asked him years ago where he’d prefer to be buried – Israel or Johannesburg. In his usual wit, he replied, “Johannesburg”, as his friends, family, and community were buried there, and “I know more people in Westpark cemetery, than out,” he chuckled. He would’ve been genuinely surprised, and touched, at how many people came to his funeral, bearing in mind that at 93 years old, most of his contemporaries had passed on.

My father drew up a resume for people to introduce him whenever he gave one of his delightful speeches, often about the “Ochberg orphans”, of which his mother was one, or about his popular column in the SA Jewish Report, Community Buzz. He listed among his achievements getting chosen for the Balfour Park Under-10 soccer team, and wearing a jersey when it was cold “just like my mother told me to”.

He was a diamond polisher by trade, taking after his father, Itzhak, who had come to South Africa from Holland with his brother, Andries, in 1925. They had been waiting for visas for America when they were recruited by South Africans who convinced them they “spoke the same language”. My grandfather opened one of the first diamond cutting factories in South Africa, Amsterdam Diamond Cutting Works, around 1926.

Later, my grandfather’s brother, Andries, returned to Amsterdam and was one of 119 Sliers – direct family – murdered by the Nazis. This affected my father deeply, and he instilled in us a deep respect and appreciation for personal and Jewish history.

He often spoke, and wrote, about the Jews of Holland, the Holocaust, and his mother’s story, which was also remarkable. Born Sara Altuska, she and her siblings were among 177 Jewish orphans rescued in 1921 by a Ukrainian Jewish philanthropist, Isaac Ochberg, and brought to South Africa. We travelled twice to her home town of Brest in Belarus and when I asked my father what she’d think of us being there, he’d say, “Meshuga, for sure!”

Dad was a historian and a writer, and in later years, he turned his attention to these two pursuits and became actively involved in the South African Jewish community. He wrote regularly for the SA Jewish Report, the South African Jewish Board of Deputies’ Jewish Affairs journal, the Jerusalem Post, and the Sunday Times. He loved answering the question about whether I, as his daughter, had inherited my journalism from him. He’d always chuckle and insist that no, he got it from me!

For many years, he served as the chairperson of the Zionist Luncheon Club at Our Parents’ Home, a position he insisted he was elected to only because he’d missed the meeting to vote against his appointment. He loved Israel and his favourite place, from where there is a beautiful panoramic view of Jerusalem, was the Montefiore Windmill in the Mishkenot Sha’ananim neighbourhood. What I would give to have just one more moment there with him, to look into the kindest eyes I’ve ever known and tell him I love him!

I finally understand why we sit shiva. It has been comforting to hear stories and receive emails and WhatsApps about the memories people have of our father. He was one of the good guys. He had an amazing ability to connect with people from all walks of life, from the car guards at Pick n Pay in Norwood who would rush to help him with his groceries, to the security guards outside our favourite restaurant, who would fist-punch him as he’d arrive, sitting in a wheelchair with a cap pulled low, declaring that “backup” was here!

My sister writes, “The loss of my daddy is so earth shattering and monumental, that I look at the trees and wonder how they are still standing. The thought of never being able to hold his beautiful hand or look into his kind eyes or share a joke with him is so gut wrenching and just so unbelievably sad. My dad and I shared so many private jokes between us, so many little private sayings and actions that only we understood, and now I have no-one to share those with, who will understand the way my daddy and I did.”

Our father always thanked us for choosing him as our father. It’s us who must thank him for the privilege of being his children. Rest in peace, darling dad, until we meet again.

• Paula Slier is a former columnist for the SA Jewish Report.