Helen touched the lives of thousands. I was only one.

PAULA SLIER

She told me I’d done a great job there and, as my mentor, she was proud of me but had to find something to criticise. We both chuckled. Turns out I’d mispronounced the word “just” – although only once, she pointed out.

It was my flat vowels more than anything that Helen would roll her eyes about. She’d always tell anyone who would listen – and many, many who wouldn’t – that when we first met, I told her I wanted to be on “teleeeevision”.

I was 18 years-old and in first year university when I read a newspaper article about a Jewish community programme, Shalom TV, starting on M-Net. I phoned the number listed, and nervously asked to speak to the programme director who, as it turned out, I was already speaking to.

At that time Helen was the boss, chief producer, receptionist, and tea lady. My palms were sweaty, and I’d placed a glass of water next to the phone to calm myself down.

Years later, we’d laugh at how we both remembered the story. She invited me to her office, and I recall arriving as an awkward teenager with a list of story ideas for a youth show. She remembered “this know-it-all Wits student” marching into her office, albeit with those bad vowels.

I begged Helen to give me a chance. I promised to be at her house each morning for speech lessons, and swore I’d do anything she told me to. She gave me more than a chance.

She took a shy teenager with big dreams, little self-confidence, and no connections – and changed her life.

Helen believed in me. And, because she believed in me, I believed in myself. I always told her I owed my journalism career to her. She’d laugh and say no, I had done it by myself. But it wasn’t true. She gave me the chance. All of us needs someone to give us that first leg up the ladder.

My stint at Shalom TV was followed with an anchoring position for Le Chaim, the first weekly Jewish programme on the SABC, that Helen also came to produce. My sweetest memories of my career are from this period.

Helen and I must have interviewed the entire Jewish community in South Africa. We travelled to Ukraine, where in the middle of nowhere, Helen embraced a group of – mostly toothless – old Jewish women, and stood speaking to them in Yiddish for two hours.

She woke me up at 02:00 on a plane to record an interview. She forgot the filming tapes on the roof of her car, and we drove for two hours only to return to find them lying in the driveway.

She had a reputation at the SABC among the cameramen that if they were hungry and wanted a home-cooked meal, they must get themselves booked on a shoot with Helen.

Wherever we went, laughter followed.

A certain Mr Oded Guy from the Israel Broadcasting Authority, who we aptly nicknamed “The dead guy” took quite a shine to her on one filming trip to Israel. He arrived one evening at our hotel with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered in panic, promptly announcing to Mr Guy that she’d promised my parents she’d never leave me alone. He was, to put it mildly, rather baffled.

Another time, an important official phoned looking for her. I answered her phone, and explained she was on the toilet. We both laughed about that for years.

I can’t stop crying as I write this. I knew Helen for two-thirds of my life, and her passing has left a huge hole. When does the student overtake the teacher? Helen often told me that she was now the student, but she was wrong.

Sometimes, when I felt sad, I’d ask Helen how she managed to keep smiling. She told me that each morning when she opened her eyes, she’d think “I’m still alive … I have one more glorious day to live!”

Helen taught me gratitude. I read somewhere that G-d loves South Africa because he gave us Mandela. I always felt G-d loved me because he gave me Helen.

Whenever an aspiring journalist reaches out to me for advice, I always make myself available, whether for a cup of coffee or a Skype chat. It’s the best way I know to thank Helen for everything she did for me.

During that last phone call, she told me she loved me. I said “I love you too,” and I find relief knowing she knew that.

We always spoke about watching old VHS tapes of our Le Chaim days, but we never did. Well, Mrs Heldenmuth, as I loved to call her, I’m lighting a candle and playing re-runs on an antiquated VHS player I found. You are with me, larger than life, laughing into the lens, and guiding me every step of the way. You might not be opening your eyes again, but your light is shining as bright as it always did.

For the last time, I love you. And thank you for everything.