Ruchel was my great-grandmother’s cousin through marriage. Born and raised in Batei Ungarin in the 1930s and 40s, she was your quintessential Yerushalmi meidel. She plaited her hair every morning into two tight braids, spoke Yerushalmi Yiddish, and was acquainted with every stone passageway in the vicinity. Her family lived in extreme poverty. A single orange was a cause for excitement, and every child would await to receive a segment with wide-eyed anticipation.
