I have no idea how my father met Eshkol, but there has never been more than a handful of Israelis living in Ottawa. Eshkol’s television sales and repair shop had an oblong white sign with large navy blue lettering hanging outside, the kind you see on cheap motels: Open Seven Days a Week. My brother, Our-Stan, and I hung out there on Sundays and sometimes after school. This allowed my mother to shop uninhibited without the bother of two kids tagging along. She couldn’t leave us at home with my father because he disliked days off. They were something to be avoided like running out of gas or milk. So, we were dropped off at Eshkol’s and tried to stay out of the way while my father worked. ‘Whatever you do, don’t bother Eshkol,’ Abba warned us every week. ‘Without him you wouldn’t have food in your stomachs,’ he added.
Tal, Gila, The end of Jewish Jerusalem, Kunapipi, 29(1), 2007.