My grandmother Esther, may she rest in peace, a Moroccan through and through on both sides, has told all her life the story of how she took her two-year-old son, Eliahu, a golden-haired and fair-skinned child who stood out for his beauty, to the 'Bikur-Holim' hospital when he came down with the flu. At one point the nurses begged my grandmother to go home for a short break, to have something to eat and rest for a few hours because the child's fever had gone down and he was no longer in danger. In her naivety, my grandmother accepted the nurses' advice and left to her house which was half an hour from the hospital. The next part was a few hours later. When she returned to the hospital, she was told that her son had passed away, and when she asked to see his body, she was told he’d already been taken for burial. To this day, Eliahu’s burial place remains unknown and no trace of him was found. Her heartbreak lasted years, until her death.

To this day there is no trace of the golden-haired Eliahu.