As a little girl, she was used as a 'runner'. She would creep through alleys so narrow she would have to walk sideways, pressed against one wall as she walked. When gunfire broke out, she would fly like the wind, praying that her very slightness of stature would protect her from being struck down by a bullet as she ran from one street to another with notes of battle plans clutched in her hand.

She didn't think of herself as being brave, she just did what had to be done. She just did what everyone else she knew did, she risked her life to fulfill a dream. Later on, as an adult, she would continue to serve as a sergeant in her country's army, in a war that took the life of both her father and an older brother.

There weren't many pleasures or treasures for a young girl in that time and place, but music was one. She would talk of making her way through battle scarred empty buildings on her way home from school. Of the excitement of arriving there and finding that one of her friends had received a new record as a gift. These records were never of the 'rock and roll' variety listened to in American teenage society. These were classical music records these little girls listened to as they huddled together in rooms without heat and with windows long since shattered. Those records were their only toys, their most precious posessions.

Malka never thought of herself as a linguist. She spoke German because it was her father's native tongue. She spoke French because her mother was from France. An aunt and uncle had taught her Spanish and Greek was the most common language spoken in her little part of town. Everyone spoke Hebrew of course because this was the language of their tiny country. Malka was a Sabre, a first generation Israeli girl.

With her flawless dark skin, jet black hair and seagreen eyes, Malka was one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. In the presence of such a woman, most men would have been struck mute with admiration for her beauty. With her, this didn't happen because Malka had a personality that made everyone she met feel immediately comfortable. Her smile made all feel welcome and her habit of touching those around her made us all feel we were an important part of her life.

She worked as an interpretor at the Israeli consulate in Los Angeles. Her command of many languages and her Master's degree in Political Science made her a valuable employee there. She was twenty six years old when I first met her. A year later, we were engaged to be married. Less than a week after she agreed to marry me, I broke the engagement and never saw her again.

I broke the engagement because Malka had one fault I couldn't live with. She loved with a love that was so overwheming, so deep that it frightened me. I was twenty eight years old and that kind of love scared the living hell out of me. To be cradled as I slept, to be the focus of someone's every day, to be served as though I were the most important person in this world was more than I could handle. I broke the engagement and left her with only a note on her dresser that last night.

I don't think of her often these days, maybe once a year or so. When I do, it's not with sadness or longing. It's with a prayer that she found someone better than me. Someone not so shallow, someone with more to offer her than I.

L'Chayim, my dear Malka. You taught me so much.