On Sunday, 29th November, at 9:45 my father died in Jerusalem Hospital in Hamburg; one week after heart surgery where the doctors couldn’t do anything any more. He was 70 years old.

My father, Gerhard Brehm, was born on May 14th 1939 in Berlin. He spent most of the first ten years of his life with the cold and hunger caused by the situation during and shortly after World War II. Rheumatic fever led to heart disease and heart disease finally caught up with him last month. He underwent surgery before in 1986.

My father started his career as a construction worker in Berlin and became a construction engineer and college teacher. Two months before his death, already suffering from kidney failure, he was still taking the final exams at his college in Berlin. He would have retired years ago but every semester the student evaluations made the college renew his contract for another semester.

He never retired. He always worked. He was the best role model I could have wished for. He taught me work ethics and I wished I had learned better. He taught me the belief in G-d. And he always supported what I wanted to do.

When after a few years of laziness I finally turned my life around, he was ecstatic with happiness. He never admitted that he was disappointed with me for a while, but I could see that he was proud of me in the last few years, especially after I learned Hebrew (at an Israeli university) and visited Israel more often (where my dad spent some time in a Kibbutz long before I was born).

He was also one of the first people in Germany to work with computers. Every time he had half a chance he told me the stories of how he wrote useful programs decades ago. I work as a build engineer/programmer now and it was clear that he approved of my career choices now.

I called him the day before the evening of his surgery, which was planned very quickly and in which he had a 70% chance of survival. He came through, but it was clear that it would be over soon. Three days after the surgery my mother called me at work and told me that the situation had become even worse. I took the next flight to Hamburg and arrived at his bed side within 24 hours.

For the last week of his life my mother and I visited him daily. Before I came my mother also stayed in the hotel opposite the hospital.

And then, finally, the call came Sunday morning that he had died.

I flew back home Monday and went back to work.

A memorial service is in January and I will return to Germany then.

I have a flat in Berlin that is now no longer used. I am considering selling it.

I don’t know what to do.

The worst part is that I can no longer know what he thinks of what I do. He still knows, I am sure, but while he can still see me, I can no longer learn from him.

P.S.: Thanks for the card, Ted!