What was your father like?

My father was from Libya, from Bengazi, I believe.  Growing up, my father's family was very poor.   There were many stories of not enough food to go around.    My grandfather was very strict, and my father had many scars on his hands to prove it.    There were many children:   Victor was the oldest, Zvi was next, Tony, Joseph, Miriam and Ruben.   I was also told that there was a set of twins that died when they were one month old.    
My father was born in 1930, and soon after Libya was taken over by fascists under Mussolini.   My father and his family were held in concentration camps because they were Jewish.   My grandmother was an excellent seamstress, and she would often do sewing for the soldiers.   They would throw clothing over the fence, and she would do this in exchange for food.    Eventually Mussolini told the soldiers to allow the prisoners free, and they were spared execution.  My father always loved Mussulini for this.   When my father was in third grade, Jews were no longer allowed to attend school.   Dad was very excited about this, as he was excited to play soccer in the streets and live free.   He was a big troublemaker according to his mother.   

When my father was 18, he moved to Israel.   He always spoke of this time with such great joy.   When he told stories of moving to a kibbutz in Israel, being a part of the war, and serving in the Israeli army, it was with such joy and happiness.   As a child, I could see the beauty of Israel through his eyes.    He loved to tell war stories.    We went on to marry and have a son Amos.    His wife cheated on him, and in shame, he left Israel.  
He moved to New York City in the 60's.   This was a free and wild time in New York City, and I think my dad was a big womanizer.   He married a woman named Chuck or Chip, but divorced soon after.   He worked at the Keneret, a restaurant he owned with his brother.   My father loved to cook, and owning a business was also very important to him.    The Keneret was a hot spot in Greenwich Village, and it was during this time that Dad met my mother.    They met on an airplane and eventually married.    They moved to Brooklyn, had a family and played house.
In the eighties, AIDS came to New York City, and the restaurant business really suffered.   No one knew how AIDS was contracted, and people were afraid to eat at restaurants.    Dad was fighting with his brother Victor, and it was a good time to get out of New York.
In what seemed like a dream come true, my parents bought a big house on the water in Miami Beach.   They opened a small restaurant and lived a simple life.    I think that this was really the beginning of the end.   I think that my father went from having a fashionable business in New York City to selling bagels to old people in Miami Beach.   His spirit was a little crushed.    They made a fine living and enjoyed family life, but it was anticlimactic for my dad.    

I always remember my father having a touch of sadness.   My mother always believed that he was unable to overcome his childhood and enjoy his success.  At his restaurant in Miami Beach, he fed all of the homeless people.   He would give his shoes off of his feet to anyone in need.   He was loud and frightening, but he had a charitable heart.   

My father was truly fearless.    He used to shovel snow with short sleeves and he never got sick, so his fate was surprising.    

In 1990, he became ill with lung cancer, which was a death sentence the moment he heard the diagnosis.   The only thing he feared in life were doctors and needles; cancer was the most terrifying word he had ever heard.    The day of diagnosis, my parents shut down the restaurant, and my father underwent treatment.   He was devastated.    A few months after Dad's diagnosis, our beautiful, strong boxer Pudge developed a lump in his throat and died of cancer.     Any bit of hope my dad had was immediately gone.   

This was around Passover 1991.   And Mom cooked her usual holiday dinner, but dad was too tired to make it to the table, so I went into his room and sat with him.   He took a bottle of red nail polish and he polished my nails.  
Just a few weeks later he lost consciousness, and Mom cared for him at home.   He was frightened of dying, and mom just wanted him to be comfortable.    He didn't eat, and his skin was yellow.
By this time, I was skipping high school, out drinking and basically avoiding all reality.    One morning, after being out all night, I called my mom.   She said, "Come home.  Your father died last night."
And on May 2nd, he had died, just like my mother's father had died on May 2nd, 30 years earlier.