This is what my aunt wrote to me, it was the first time that I saw it so real, hard: "HHhisHisHis name is Yehia Ben Yehuda Atari, around one-year-old, light skin and healthy child. On the last day, mom blessed her memory, breastfed him before the evening, and when she left the hospital, she looked through the window of Hadassah hospital because the separation was hard. Yehia stood in his bed and called: mama, mama maim, which means 'mother mother water.' The next morning (mother) came to feed him like every day, and he wasn’t in his bed. She asked: where is my son? They told her he had died. She screamed that it was not true, he was healthy. They said he had died, and she asked them to show him to her. They showed her other dead children, and she screamed: it is not mine; this is not my son. They told her it was him (and said to her to) come the next day to the funeral. she told dad blessed his memory and said: he wasn't sick. He ate and laughed and called me out from the window: mama maim.
The next day they went to the hospital, and they were told that he was already buried, and that was the end of the story. It was in the fifties in Hadassah hospital in Rosh Ha'ayin. The mother's name is Rumia, and the father's is Yehuda Atari".
The next day they went to the hospital, and they were told that he was already buried, and that was the end of the story.
They showed her other dead children, and she screamed: it is not mine; this is not my son.