I'm driving north of Toronto to see Jonathan Sherman, Barry and Honey's only son.

My wipers clear an icy wall of sleet from an 18-wheeler that thunders pass.

It's a Saturday afternoon in December 2020, gloomy, just below freezing. I've never met Jonathan,

but I've heard a lot about him, Columbia engineering grad, self-storage magnate, marina owner.

After three years of trying, I've finally been granted an audience with the only one of the four

children to deliver a eulogy at their parents' funeral.

These last few days have reminded us what it means to be a Jewish family.

When someone tries to snuff you out or eliminate important parts of your family,

we rally together and emerged stronger than ever.

Our family legacy, like so many others,

emerged like a phoenix from the ashes

of the European Holocaust, shattered and broken,

only to rise and rebuild and to thrive.

In honor of our parents, we promise to do the same thing now.

My sisters and I pledge to rise again and to continue thriving

and to continue building our parents' legacy of loving life, caring for others, and knowing, as our parents always reminded us, that with great privilege comes enormous responsibility. At a break in traffic, I turned left down a quiet country side road,

searching for a small green sign bearing his street number.

At the funeral, Jonathan painted a picture of a family unified,

but that fell apart within a year.

I spot his driveway and keep going.

There's a car and a small white van parked on the other side of the road.

Each has a man with dark hair behind the wheel, and they watch as I pass. I'm pretty sure this is the security detail I've heard about. Israeli guards that follow him everywhere.

...