A short time ago my mom called with some sad news. At the time I was in the middle of a term paper, lost in thought, annoyed by the ringing phone. Upon hearing the resigned tone of my mom's voice, I instinctively braced for the worst.

"Do you remember Lola," she said, "who ran the deli down the street." In the instant my mom paused before continuing, my heart hit rock bottom.

"She died in a fire last Wednesday, there was nothing they could do. Everybody feels horrible."

Lola's American Deli sat in between Lair's Hallmark and McKenzie's Food Market in a shopping center near my home in Columbus, Ohio. For as long as I can remember, five foot tall Lola ran the deli, a modest establishment somewhat out of place amidst its upscale neighbors.

When I was a young child, my mother would take my brother and me there for a yogurt cone if we behaved during the weekly trip to the grocery next-store. My favorite flavor was boysenberry. Lola made sure I always got a big serving.

Once settled into our yogurt-cone routine, my brother and I skipped shopping all together and visited with Lola and the other customers while my mom went by herself. Lola had us sit up at the counter, right with the adults, who would talk with Lola while she worked.

The newspaper article about her death juxtaposes customers' fond memories with tragic details of the fire. Wheelchair bound since radiation treatment for a brain tumor left her partially paralyzed two years ago, Lola was trapped inside. Her husband ran for help to their trusted neighbor, an off-duty fire captain. The two men tried to enter the burning building.

"I could see Lola," the fire captain said, "but I couldn't get to her." He tried once more but was called back by his hysteric children who were begging him to stay outside. Lola's husband ran in once more too, yelling, "My Lola! My Lola!"

Thirty firefighters responded but within minutes, the entire residence was destroyed.

Lola's neighbors, who once gathered to help purchase a wheelchair ramp for her house, gathered again to clean up after the fire.

Working as an Egyptian immigrant in a predominantly white suburb, Lola took care to invite newcomers to sit at the counter with her regular customers. Her deli is the only spot in town where business executives would mix with construction workers. When her brain tumor confined her to a wheelchair, she keep working, and the customers kept coming, choosing to make their own sandwiches rather than go elsewhere.

In the days following the fire, those who knew Lola spoke of the noble role she played in making her deli a welcome place for all. "To walk into Lola's deli was a lesson in diversity, a place where ethnic culture was a matter of open communication and friendliness," said a customer. "This was one small place in greater Columbus where no one was a stranger, no matter one's background or economic status."

My mom said Lola's deli now sits empty, the lights turned off.

While I had not been to see Lola in a long time, something I now deeply regret, I will never forget her. There was the biggest person in that little deli worker, an unsung hero whose smile cut across ethic, racial and class lines. Lola was special because she gave people the courage to come together when they could not do it themselves.

My mom and I talked for a long while that day, trying to come to terms with a horrible loss. Life is so unjust, so brutal. It passes so quickly. Now for a whole community it just got a lot harder.

Tragedy, for all its anguish, brings into sharp focus the human predicament. Each day we have on this earth may be our last, the last of a loved one, or of the person who runs the deli down the street. If Lola, a little deli worker from Egypt, so-willingly gave open-ended friendship, even unqualified love, to everyone, then surely, in a simple way, we can too.

Christopher M. Kirchhoff '01 is a history and science concentrator in Winthrop House. His columns appear on alternate Wednesdays.