And the More We Retell the Story

Sing for your supper,And you'll get breakfast.Songbirds always eatIf their song is sweet to hear.(refrain from “Sing for Your Supper,”from “The Boys from Syracuse,”music and lyrics by Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart)
It’s good to have friends. It’s better to have good friends. It’s best to have good friends who have good friends, as you will shortly see.
Yom Hatzmaut (Independence Day), in fact the sixtieth Yom Haatzmaut, was fast approaching, along with its twin, Yom Hazicharon, the day of remembrance for Israeli Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terrorism (whose number is approaching 24,000.) This being our first year here, we had no idea what to expect, except I sensed that it would seem more real, more urgent than these days would be back in The States. In many communities, there is always some kind of event, a commemoration/celebration, as the two days are smooshed into one event. In Passaic, where we lived for nine years, the event took place at “The Adas,” an older, mainstream Orthodox synagogue eschewed by the newer, more Yeshivish crowd that now dominated the community. You had to show up, if for no other reason than to be seen, to reaffirm your place as a “Zionist.” The evening service seemed perfunctory, even interminable, and there was a modest spread afterward. Whereupon, we would get in our car and drive back to our side of town, and that would be that. In Teaneck, I also had to show up for this event if for no other reason that I was always on the planning committee, which meant attending one meeting and coming early to the celebration to help set up. Usually, my job included putting out the chips and the pretzels and several thousand individual packages of an Israeli snack food called “bamba,” which were vacuumed up by hundreds of children, seemingly before the packages hit the table. There was a real attempt to make the event meaningful, and appropriately festive, but it never quite made it. It was always held in the largest, fanciest synagogue in Teaneck, and one could opine that the money poured into that building could have built a primary care facility in the Negev. (There seemed to be a subtle, unstated message: “We love Israel; but we’re staying HERE.”) Again, when the event was over, we got back in our car and drove to our more modest side of town. In Teaneck, there was at least one additional wrinkle. My buddy Arvin would pull together a minyan in the morning using the special Yom Haatzmaut service found in most Israeli prayer books. Of course we had to hurry through it, because we were all expected to get to work.
Here, a little bit east of Yerushalayim, as in most places in The Land, a week or so before the Big Day, Israeli flags began appearing – from windows, flagpoles, and streetlights, on balconies, fences, and cars. On the Friday before the Big Day, we received two polyester flags: a medium sized one with our Haaretz-International Herald Tribune, and a larger one with our Jerusalem Post. They were courtesy of Bank Hapoalim, which was giving out flags at all its branches throughout the country. The medium sized one fit perfectly on our gate, and was duly hung there, where it remained until we took it down, somewhat torn and tattered, after Yom Yerushalayim, (the topic of my next post, please be patient!) several weeks later.
Tina had asked us to join her in Tel Aviv for Yom HaZicharon. Two years before, she had been at the large, annual commemoration held in Kikar Rabin; now she is living on Rehov Mendelsson, a ten minute walk from where the event would take place, and she wanted to share this emotional experience with us. Barbara, Natania, (off from the army), and I hustled into Tel Aviv a few hours early in order to get some dinner (we had been warned that during the evening hours of Yom Hazicharon, everything, everything, is shut down [I don’t know about places like Mea Shearim] all across the country). We got to Kikar Rabin a little before 8PM when it was scheduled to start. Thousands of people were already there, with enough benches to hold the many thousands more who would keep drifting in. At exactly 8PM, the sirens went off for a minute or so, just as they had on Yom Hashoah. It was definitely becoming night, and the mournful sounds of remembrance coming from loudspeakers all around us contrasted with the lights from the large, new buildings surrounding us in this modern, Jewish city. As we are getting used to expecting, very little in Israel starts on time. Tina and Barbara wanted to stay at Kikar Rabin for the ceremony; but by 8:45, Natania and I were getting antsy, so we went back to Tina’s apartment and watched the event on TV (the only thing being show on local Israeli channels). I hope I’m not belaboring the obvious, but there is a substantial difference between having Teaneck children read out the names of Israeli men, women, and children who died in the last year – and whose names remain only names – and seeing the faces of their bereaved survivors, parents, spouses, friends – who are now our neighbors – on national TV, along with tributes by national leaders and music by the biggest stars in popular entertainment.
The next morning, Natania headed back to Jerusalem, and Barbara and I decided to take a short, self-guided tour of some of the Bauhaus buildings in central Tel Aviv, thanks to a local bookstore which, for a modest fee, would give you a set of earphones, a map, and some directions (more about this some other time). After this, we too headed back to Jerusalem and from there to our headquarters a little bit east thereof.
It would soon be time for Yom Haatzmaut. Preparations had been going on for several days for the really big celebration in Kikar Tzion at Ben-Yehuda St. Barbara wanted to join the fun; I just wanted to go to our beit knesset and thank Hashem for sixty good years for our State and ten good months for us. (It occurred to me later that I could have done both: gone into Jerusalem, davened there, and then gone to the celebration. Next year.) There was a larger than usual crowd at Mussar Avicha for the Yom Haaztmaut davening. No speeches, no refreshments; none were required. We were home. We are home. We are very grateful.
The shacharit service the next morning was at some semi-normal time, late enough for me to get there. Thanks to Arvin’s minyans in Teaneck, I was able to follow the special service. The difference was that we were not in any hurry to finish because in The Land, everyone is off from work on Yom Haatzmaut, and almost nothing is open.
Now would come the real test: if we were going to be authentic Israelis, we would have to participate in a barbecue. (I’ve heard unconfirmed rumors that anyone who didn’t smell of charcoal was liable to have his citizenship revoked.) Now it is true that American Jews have barbecues on Memorial Day, July 4th, and Labor Day, but these backyard affairs cannot match in scope or zeal what the Israeli collective will undertake whenever the opportunity presents itself. Like ants scurrying about, tens of thousands of families will take over any available space in parks or by the side of a road or highway. Each man of the house will commence a virtuosic performance over his grill or mangol, fanning the flame with a makeshift cardboard device just so, as an orchestra conductor would wave his baton to get exactly the right sound from his musicians. After witnessing this passion for grilling and the over-the-top enthusiasm for bonfires on Lag b’omer, I have an idea (which I cannot prove) that this pyromania stems from an unquenchable, if subconscious, national longing for the restoration of our Temple and the prescribed daily sacrifices – the barbecue of all barbecues.
On our own, we would have been left out of this national experience (probably having spaghetti for dinner). But once again, our friends Jeff and June came to our rescue. They had been invited to “Israeli friends” in Rosh Ha’ayin, and a phone call by them later, we were invited as well. The only thing we had to know was that we would be asked to “sing for our supper.” Everyone present was expected to speak for a few minutes about their experience in Israel. Well, you know me: I can always be called upon to offer a few thousand well-chosen words on virtually any topic. So this would not be a problem.
With difficulty, Barbara and I made it into Jerusalem, after waiting an hour for a bus (we were slowly getting the picture of how little was working on this day) where we met the Glazers in their rented car, and we headed out to Rosh Ha’ayin to their “Israeli friends.” As with most things with Jeff and June, there is a story involved. It seems that they were living in San Antonio at the time, where they were allegedly the only “observant” family in the city. They got a phone call from someone in the community, asking them to host a religious Israeli family who was visiting Texas. So June got on the phone and invited them for Shabbat, but with the following caveat: she was seriously pregnant; if she went into labor and Jeff had to get her to the hospital, Avi and Rivka would have to take care of the Glazer’s two sons. Somehow, everyone agreed to this arrangement, and, sure enough, June and Jeff had to leave for the hospital, leaving Avi and Rivka with the two boys. From this rather odd beginning, a twenty plus year friendship developed. When the Glazers moved to New Jersey, Jeff was always available to pick up the Ginsbergs from any local airport, day or night. The Glazers had visited their friends in Rosh Ha’ayin several times, and, in fact, all of their three sons had been there for a Yom Haatzmaut barbecue at different times, but this would be the first time the parents were there.
As we drove on the highway going to Tel Aviv, we began discussing an article I had seen in one of the English language newspapers about Israeli flags. There is one local company which makes real flags, I assume, out of cotton. Of course, their business is not helped by their synthetic competition, polyester flags which last as long as a “truce” with Hamas. Then, there is the protocol of the magen David on a flag which can be hung horizontally or vertically. Take an American flag, with its stripes and its fifty five-pointed stars. It’s good to go whether you hang it horizontally on a flag pole, or vertically draped, say from a window. The Israeli flag is different. Stop for a minute and think about how it looks: the two blue horizontal stripes on a white background with a six-pointed star in the middle. Now turn it on its side, so it’s now vertical. The magen David is now sitting on its side! To hang the flag vertically, you need a different configuration, one with the star turned around. A company which makes real flags has this all figured out, and they are, justifiably, upset with imitations made in Asian sweatshops where such niceties are not observed. We had a grand time looking at all the flags and pendants hanging either horizontally or vertically along the way, seeing which ones had the star rotated correctly – much as you would play “let’s find the out-of-state license plates” with your kids on a long trip.
With only a few missteps along the way, we arrived safely in Rosh Ha’ayin. Hooray for the Ginsbergs, because otherwise we might all have lived out our lives in Israel and never visited this community. Simply put, olim don’t live there. (There are sixty one listings in the Kehilot Tehilla community guide and forty two in the NBN listings, but you will not find Rosh Ha’ayin in either one). Not that there is anything wrong with this town; on the contrary, it is one of Israel’s successes. This was one of the many places in which Ben-Gurion’s Labor government dumped North African refugees (in this case, Yeminites) during the early 1950’s. It could have remained one of the country’s economic basket cases, but because of good fortune, good planning, and especially good location, is now a thriving community – about as big as Maale Adumim – with lots of Israelis who do quite well, thank you very much.

One look at the Ginsberg’s home and you know that they are part of that group of very middle class Israelis. Despite the fact that we arrived considerably later than we had planned, we were easily the first guests there. We met Avi and Rivka, their son Yoni (the grill master) and their daughter Achinoam, and thanked them from saving us from a spaghetti dinner in Maale Adumim. We insisted on helping them set up, and I got to put out forty plastic chairs in the front yard. (I kept thinking, “How many people do they expect to show up?”). But sure enough, slowly but surely, people began to show up. There were some of Yoni’s and Achinoam’s friends, but we discovered that most of the people who came were friends that Avi and Rivka had made during their stay in America and who over the years themselves had made aliyah. (Our hosts are among the certain wonderful people in this world who collect friends and maintain those friendships over the years.)
And so we ate, made some new acquaintances, ate some more, talked some more, and (I’m embarrassed to say) ate some more. Finally, as afternoon clearly was becoming evening, It Was Time….. We were all asked to congregate outside, take one of the chairs, and get ready to “repay” our hosts. We were all going to “sing for our supper.” Say something about why we came to Israel, how life has been here, something, anything appropriate for Yom Haatzmaut. Most of the former Americans had mastered the native Semitic tongue and many gave their remarks in Hebrew. For some of us, unfortunately, our eloquence (even our full comprehension) still remains uni-lingual. So I listened politely and absorbed as much as I could. I am proud to report that June did us proud by reading a statement in Hebrew which she had written (and had corrected first by her ulpan teacher). If you are wondering what I said: I never speak from notes, so weeks later, I do not remember exactly what I said. But if you are part of my audience, I think you have some clues about what I was talking about. I must have received a passing grade, because we have already been invited back for next year! We “benched,” (recited the blessings after the meal) convened a minyan for maariv, and finally people headed to their cars (we would not get beakfast!). The Glazers kindly drove us back (we only got slightly lost) to Maale Adumim, and our first Yom Haatzmaut was over.
It was a week or two later that something “struck me.” I was working on one of my projects, editing the English language version of R’ Aviner’s commentary on the Haggadah (which I am relieved to say I have finished), when I re-read the following fairly familiar lines, “So even if we were all wise, all clever, all old, and all expert in the Torah, it is incumbent on us to discuss the Exodus from Egypt. And the more one talks about it, the more praiseworthy one is.” Then it occurred to me that the Ginsbergs and those of us assembled in their home were following some very good advice in expressing their thoughts and gratitude for this miracle in our lifetime, the creation of our Medina and our return to The Land. Even though I lived for sixty six years in America, my circle of friends and acquaintances remained fairly narrow; so I have no idea how many people in Middle-America gathered around a Thanksgiving dinner or Memorial Day/ Fourth of July picnic would think about asking their guests to say something about the bounty of their life. I must admit that I do not know if this is at all common here; I am sure that there are many Israelis who never get beyond waving a piece of cardboard over burning charcoal. But what an introduction to this wonderful day in Jewish life! My own personal assignment is that when, please G-d, we return next year, I will understand a little more of what is being said, so that I can report back to my faithful audience.

"Lifnei Herodion

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal Wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.
(from “Ozymandias” by Percy Byshe Shelley)
Smola. Lifnei Herodion. There are occasions when we take a munit (taxi) back from the center of town, usually with our groceries, or, on rare occasions, get a ride with a friend. When we get to the top of our street, and we need to give specific directions to find our house, invariably one of us will say “Smola. Lifnei Herodion.” Our little section of Maale Adumim is known as Hamitzadim. It consists of one main horseshoe shaped street, called for convenience sake Hamitzadim, and two intersecting streets, first, Horkania and then, Herodion. And there we are at number 33, on the left side as you are going down the hill, right before Herodion.
One thing I have noticed about street names in general. People accept them as identifiers, but rarely consider their meaning. Some places, like New York City, use numbered streets. It’s hard to quarrel with E. 208 St, where I grew up in the Bronx (even though it was nowhere near E. 207 St. or E. 209 St, and I don’t think there was ever a W. 208 St; but we’ll ignore that). The other streets in my neighborhood, the ones with names, were familiar to us from American history: Rochambeau, Steuben, Kossuth, Hull Ave., all named for heroes in the American Revolution or the War of 1812. But as I moved away from my childhood home, the connections to the street names became less and less clear. The first apartment of my own, still in The Bronx, was on College Ave., but there was no institution of higher learning anywhere near where I lived (unlike University Place, which was near the Bronx campus of NYU). In Passaic, we lived on High St., which was higher up the hill from Main Ave., but lower than the next street, Pennington, which was in fact on the top of the hill. In Teaneck, many of the streets seemed to be named for families that lived there long ago: Churchill, Winthrop, Garrison, Grayson, Carlton, Cranford. I had no idea who these people were or when they lived there; nor can I imagine how I would have done any research. But after a while I realized that even when I did know (for example, that Votee Park was named after Milton Votee, a long-deceased former mayor) it added no meaning to my life. And I don’t think I was alone. I suspect that for Congregation Beth Aaron as a group, both the old-timers who had been living there for twenty or thirty years or the younger crowd moving in, Queen Anne Road was simply where the shul was, with no connection to any royal family or personage.
Here a little bit east of Yerushalayim, most of our streets have some connection to The Land or The Torah. Now when I walk to my current synagogue, Mussar Avicha, which is in the neighboring Clei Shir (musical instruments section), I go past Hagittit (“a musical instrument named after the town of Gath,” according to Rashi). Psalm 81, which is said every Thursday, sounds like a street map of that area: Hatof (drum), Hanevel (lyre), and of course Hashofar, names which any schoolchild here can identify. Nonetheless, I hadn’t given much thought to Herodion, named for the fortress south of Jerusalem built by Herod “The Great,” that same Herod who, despite his ignoble lineage, ruled over Judea for thirty four years, expanded the Temple Mount, rebuilt the Second Beit Hamikdash, built cities, excavated harbors, and remade a mountain to house this grand complex. I should add that he also murdered most of his family.
My ignorance would soon come to an end. We had signed up for a tiyul to Herodion for Sunday, April 27. We here in The Land were through with Pesach, while those of you still in Exile were sentenced to one more day of chewing matzoh, with its concomitant damage to one’s intestines. To be fair, we too had an ordeal, undergoing a surreal sharav (heat wave) during most of the intermediate days. The temperature in Jerusalem at several times reached close to 100° F., not hot enough to stop sundry Hassidim from sporting their shtreimels, but beyond the comfort zone for most of us. Nonetheless, schools were closed, many people were off from work, and it was time to travel the Land. Barbara and I had taken a number of tiyulim, of which I remember precious little because of the heat, but we could see everywhere we went how many Israelis, by car or by tour bus, were visiting the parks, nature preserves, or historic sites that cover our tiny country. I read later that an estimated two million Israelis visited one of the sixty three national park and reserves during these intermediate days. That’s a third of the country! That would be like a hundred million Americans visiting Yellowstone, Yosemite, etc. the week of July 4th.

Fortunately for everyone, the sharav finally broke as Pesach ended, and it would be perfect weather to visit Herodion, fifteen kilometers from the southern edge of the city. The tiyul we were going on was sponsored by an organization called Tanachtiyulim, and therein lies one more story. Ezra Rosenfeld is one of the many Anglo-Israelis I have met who have reinvented themselves in The Land. For many years he was part of the administration of Tzomet (or Zomet), an organization which, among other things, uses scientific knowledge to provide technological solutions to issues of Jewish law (like running a hospital on Shabbat). One day, Ezra decided that he had spent too much time behind a computer and decided that he wanted to get out into the fresh air. He had seen over the years the creation of several organizations which gave tours visiting sites of historical and Biblical interest and decided to see if there was a market for these tours, catering to an Anglo crowd. He had been in business for less than one year, and was working hard to make these tours as exciting and factual as possible.

The guide for this tiyul was his neighbor, Aryeh Routenberg, another man who had reinvented himself. He had started out in life as a New Englander; once he moved to Israel, he decided that he was now an official Israeli, and for all intents and purposes spoke only Hebrew. Ezra had practically begged him to conduct tours in English for him. He was touted as the best tour guide in Israel, and, in a crowded field, he is at the top.

And so we were on our way, a mixed group of part time and full time Anglo-Israelis and some tourists, one young man studying in yeshiva, another having made aliyah, and one elderly couple that no one thought would make it through the day, but who held up surprisingly well. As promised, we arrived at Herodion on the new road in about fifteen minutes from the southern part of Jerusalem, passing Beit Lechem – where no Israeli citizen is allowed to go – along the way, and disembarked at a parking lot in the lower part of this national park. There we were, standing in a flat field where the lower part of this enormous complex had stood: the large pool used for swimming and boating, the bath house, (both requiring elaborate systems to bring in water, a rare commodity in the desert), the large area in the distance on which Herod’s elaborate funeral procession had been staged. Aryeh was continuing his running commentary, giving us some needed historical background, and explaining what these glorified piles of rocks had once been. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some activity in what seemed to be an abandoned structure right off the main road. No, it was not abandoned; there was a Bedouin family living in this hovel. I began to think of Ozymandias and the ephemeral nature of monuments to oneself.

Of course, Ozymandias did not have Ehud Etzer at his disposal. This eminent Israeli archaeologist has spent the last thirty years excavating at Herodion (taking over from a French team which was digging when this area was under Jordanian control), all the while looking for the long lost site of Herod’s tomb. If you are up on your archaeology, you will, of course, remember that Etzer’s team stumbled upon it – half way up the mountain, not where anyone had thought to look – just about a year ago. To see what all the fuss is all about, we got back on the bus and were driven to the upper parking lot. Before we began our short journey to the remains of Herod’s palace and the site of his tomb, most of us stopped to admire the view, looking down and around at the surrounding countryside, a patchwork of barren land, Bedouin homes, and a little bit southwest of us, the community of Tekoa with its red roofs, distinctive of Israeli homes. Two things crossed my mind: a recent discussion and an obscure board game that I used to watch thirty five years ago.

Directly after the expulsion of the people from Gaza and the attendant discussion of how this fiasco could have occurred, there was an idea that the National-Religious community had spent insufficient resources in a dialogue with the rest of the Israeli community to explain the importance of a Jewish presence in Gaza and the futility of abandoning land to the PLO. One of my friends in Teaneck had for many years taken the position that by not directly confronting ideologically the political Left and focusing instead on settling empty hilltops, the religious Zionist forces were sowing the seeds of its own destruction. His point of view has much to recommend it; but looking down at the Bedouin homes in the valley, it occurred to me that there was one consideration his point of view could not take into account.

Are you at all familiar with a game played in China, Japan, and Korea called Go (or Goe)? I had the opportunity to witness this arcane game being played when I was still working as a caseworker in a social service center in New York. Late in the afternoon when all the clients who had shown up had been serviced, one of the supervisors would pull out the board (a rectangular grid) and begin a game with one of his workers (he subsequently left his wife and moved in with the young lady, but that’s not relevant to our story). The idea of the game was to continue placing your markers (black or white pieces each the size of a “mento”) one at a time on the board in such a way as to surround and thus capture some of your opponent’s markers. Exactly how you did this, I never understood, and thus, much of the strategy of the game eluded me.

But what I was witnessing below in the area known as “The Gush” was fairly straightforward. No Bedouin who had built a structure had obtained or sought a “Permit.” Almost all of the housing built recently by and for the Arab population anywhere in Israel is “illegal” under the law, none of which is any concern of the United Nations, the European Union, Haaretz and the Israeli Left, or Condoleeza Rice, as it would be if some religious Jew – under the impression that G-d had given us The Land to settle – was camping out in a tent next to an Israeli flag on a desolate hilltop somewhere in Samaria. It is essential to realize that our Go grid will not stay empty forever; the situation on the ground is not static. If we do not continue placing our human markers on The Board we have been given for an eternal inheritance, the other guys will not wait around. They will keep on Go-ing until they, G-d forbid, by intent or by circumstances, surround us. And if someone suggests that we don’t have enough human markers on The Board to win The Game, I say that we do, and I know where to find plenty in reserve.

After these rapid ruminations, we joined the others, climbing through the (now empty) water tunnels, and, at last on the top of this leveled off high hill, we could see what was left of this imperial palace that Herod built to glorify himself. And we could take pride in a poignant postscript. In the year 66 of the Common Era and again in 132, this pleasure dome became a fortress for the “Zealots” who fought the Romans. (It’s important to get our terminology straight: if you were or are a Jew fighting to preserve our monotheistic religion, you are a “Zealot.” If you are a human hand grenade today, you are a “militant.” Please keep the distinction clear in your mind.) And so, the water tunnels became an assault network to attack our persecutors. In addition to the hot and cold bath houses, a mikvah was added. And yes, in one corner of what had been the palace, we could stand in the ruins of a first or second century synagogue. I thought I could make out in faint Hebrew letters on one of the walls the inscription “No talking during davening,” but I might have been imagining things.

Before returning to Jerusalem, we made a little detour and to eat our lunch in the pretty community of Tekoa, near but not on the site of its ancient namesake. A few local families had joined together and opened a shop in which they manufactured and sold olive oil, where one could buy hot and cold drinks, and, in the near future, sandwiches. We got to sit and chat with some of the fascinating people with us and then to get a tour of the olive oil making facility, after which, many of us bought some oil, although I was careful not to buy the harif (spicy) variety. I figure that life in these environs can be harif enough, without adding it to one’s oil. Earlier, Ezra (remember Ezra?) had mentioned to us that because of the new road, the travel time from Jerusalem to Tekoa had been reduced by two thirds. And, not surprisingly, real estate value in this sleepy little town had sky-rocketed. All this, despite the fact that the current government could well try (they will not succeed!) to give away this part of our inheritance.

There are those today who, perhaps because they are overly focused on the here-and-now and not on the big picture, or perhaps because they do not take to heart how we fared in The Land when we had Kings, take an overly pessimistic view of the current Situation. Then, we had a brilliant leader, a courageous warrior, an orator, a master builder, and a delusional psychotic who murdered many people, including some near and dear. Now, we just have an inept, possibly corrupt, mediocrity, whose boldest action to date has been to stop combing his hair over his bald spot. (Maybe he took all that money for some unsuccessful hair transplants?) But his wife is alive and well; in fact, she is a successful artist, whose reputation will outlive his. His sons are also alive and well, living………outside The Land. It is unlikely that I will be tortured for writing this critique. All we need are enough hands raised during the next election – assuming he makes it that long – to get rid of him. (Your hands could be the deciding votes!)

So while physically Barbara, Natania, and I are living “before Herodion,” time-wise we are living and thriving after that structure and so many like it: the Parthenon, the Colisseum, the Aztec temples have all fallen; unlike the “Sukkah of David,” their civilizations will not rise again. It is now almost four weeks after this tiyul. We began counting “sefirat haomer,” the fifty days between Pesach and Shavuot. We have commemorated Yom Hashoah and Yom Hazicharon and celebrated Yom Haaztmaut (the subject of the next post, G-d willing). Day #33 meant Lag B’omer (still another topic). The counting continues. I am getting up early now to get to the morning minyon; I am saying Kaddish for my cousin Hank (no closer family member available) who died last week at the airport on his and Jane’s way to visit The Land for the first time. As I walk up Hagitit at 5:30 in the morning, the sun is rising to the east. If I return for the afternoon prayers, the sun will be dipping behind the hills between us and Jerusalem, no longer a painfully desolate city. There is nowhere I would rather be.

Twenty Two Years from Today

Have you ever been in a situation in which you were overhearing a conversation, discussion, or argument between two people, and you wanted to jump in, but you decided not to because you hadn’t been invited? Here is an argument that I was thinking about in the past weeks as the sirens blew in The Land first for Yom Hashoah and Yom Hazikaron and the barbecues blazed for Yom Haatzmaut. In January 2006, Barbara and I were headed to Israel for what would be our “pilot trip,” our attempt to figure out where we wanted to live once we made aliyah. We were flying on Israir, a less expensive, fewer frills airline. This plane was quite small, with two seats on either side of the aisle. We were sitting all the way in the back, the next to last row before the toilets and the kitchen. Two men, not together, came aboard and sat down in the one row behind us. They looked at each other; both men were wearing black yarmulkes and were dressed similarly: white shirts and dark pants. They began a conversation, and it would seem that they would have a lot in common. Up to a point yes, but there was one enormous difference between them: one of them had been living in Beit Shemesh for many years; the other one considered his neighborhood in Brooklyn to be the center of the Jewish world. So what might have been an interesting discussion about Jewish law, something to pass the many hours on the plane, turned into a heated discussion about Zionism.
Now I have “this thing” about yeshiva education, or at least some of its products. Generally speaking, the specific focus in yeshivas around the world is a close examination of Jewish texts, concentrating on the Talmud Bavli. This massive work is a compilation of discussions held in the major academies in Babylon over a period of 300 years, which attempt to clarify and amplify what is found in the Mishnah, itself a compilation of the oral tradition which we understand was given to Moshe at Mount Sinai. The importance of this work in Jewish life cannot be overstated. But from any point of view, the Talmud Bavli must rank as one of mankind’s greatest accomplishments, perhaps the greatest sustained collective intellectual achievement in human history, in terms of its willingness to look at any subject dispassionately, exhaustively, and comprehensively, whether or not there seemed to be any immediate, practical application. It would be unrealistic to expect anyone who spent his years in such a study would be familiar with world literature, music, philosophy, or science. But to my jaundiced eye, it seems reasonable to expect that any yeshiva bocher, if nothing else, would be able to think his way out of a box, to present a cogent, coherent case for or against something, not one that a child could demolish in two minutes.
So what was I to do when I heard this Brooklyn bocher on the plane (remember the plane?!) presented this line of reasoning why Jews shouldn’t live in Israel. He asked the Beit Shemesh guy how many Israelis have been killed in wars or terrorist attacks since 1948. (The current answer is about 24,000, including chayalim and civilians.) That proves it! They would all be alive if they lived in Brooklyn! I had this sudden urge to shoot this fool and put him out of his misery. But I kept my piece; after all, it wasn’t my argument. Incidentally, after the plane landed, Barbara and I went over to the Beit Shemesh guy and congratulated him for the calm way he dealt with the bocher. He told us that it was very, very difficult for him to keep his cool.
How do you explain to a fellow Jew that, while losing 24,000 of our brothers and sisters over the 60 year period is horrifying, it pales in comparison with losing 6,000,000 in less than ten years because those poor souls had no place to run to or hide? How can you bring “up to speed” someone who is living in Brooklyn – which is theoretically in the continental United States – but who is clueless about American history, who Breckinridge Long (FDR’s reactionary Secretary of State, who singlehandedly prevented Jewish immigration) was? Especially when this self-styled expert on what the Jewish people should be doing probably didn’t have the mathematical skills to do a cost analysis: that were talking about 400 deaths a year as opposed to 600,000. And how do you suggest, without being overly insulting, that there is something dramatically different about dying in the process of remaking a Jewish homeland as opposed to standing naked in the snow, waiting to be led into a chamber from which there would be no return?
There is, however, another line of reasoning which is perhaps more subtle but equally as compelling. Take the number 100,000. That represents approximately the increase in the Jewish population in The Land last year. Maybe the number of Jews in America decreased by 100,000 last year. Maybe not; there is no longer any way to quantify the actual Jewish population in America because there is no longer agreement as to who qualifies to be counted. But it’s not just a race, whether the Jewish population in Israel will increase faster than the same population in America will decrease. Consider how many were born here after 1948, in the only country in the world which encourages the birth of Jewish babies. How many of those precious children would never have been born if their parents had lived elsewhere, perhaps in a land of fancy homes and demographic decline?
The same official statisticians are projecting (please remember that projections are based on the assumption that events will keep occurring as they are doing now, which kind of ignores the fact that G-d is in charge) that Israel’s total population will increase to ten million, meaning seven to eight million Jews, by the year 2030 of the Common Era. By then, G-d willing, the forty two percent of the world’s Jewish population currently living here will have, slowly but surely, edged up to at least fifty percent. We will have returned. For the first time since the destruction of the First Temple in the year 586 before the Common Era, the majority of the Jewish people will be living in The Land which was promised to us.
Maybe I will be alive twenty two years from today for the Yom Hashoah, Yom Hazikaron and Yom Haatzmaut in 2030; that would make me 89. Statistically, the two men on the plane have a better chance of making it; both of them were considerably younger than I am. When that day comes, when, somehow, someone figures that we have reached 50.1%, will either of those two men remember their argument on the plane? And will both of them join in the celebration?

Three Days in Nissan (Day Three At the Army Base)

DAY THREE: WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9 (NISSAN 4) A DAY AT THE ARMY BASE
We all have memories that are virtually indelible, part of our mental landscape, and more often than not, they involve our children. One of mine goes back to an autumn day several weeks after Natania had started Pre-K at the Yavneh Academy in Paramus, which as some of you know is a large, sprawling school with over 700 students. On that particular day, I had to drive Natania to school. I stopped the car at the designated place in the front and watched her get out and walk towards the entrance. Her book bag was almost as big as she was. She knew where she had to go and strode purposefully off, one tiny child in a sea of big kids. I imagine the emotion that overcame me at that moment could be described as a combination of pride and…. fear. She had just finished Day Care, and there she was, starting on the path to a PH.D! I also remember collecting my entire family (my mother, my brother and sister-in-law) and bringing them to her graduation ceremony ten years later. Somehow she and her classmates had grown imperceptibly year by year, and ten years of our lives had stolen by.
And now we were sitting on a bus heading up to Michve Alon, an army base located between Karmiel and Tiberias. Improbable as it would have seemed several years before, our darling Natania was now a chayelit in the I.D.F.. She had completed her tiranoot (basic training) and her kurs Ivrit, and we would be present at a tekas siyum (completion ceremony) for the eighty young women who started with our daughter two months ago, all of whom would be shortly going to their new assignments.
We had not been “up north” since 1980, long before Natania (or Tina, for that matter) was born. That was my first time here, and we had five weeks to tour most of the country. (Flashbacks to a brief stay in Tiberias: eating freshly caught fish at a restaurant so close to the Kinneret that I could have reached over the retaining wall and gotten my hand wet; wading in that same Kinneret at night; a real-life comedy scene at a kiosk at the bus station when the attendant told me they didn’t have orange juice and was absolutely uninterested in selling me anything else; meeting a young American woman who was teaching music in a completely out-of-the-way settlement town in which she was the only non-Moroccan; the pair of sandals made from the rubber of old tires which I purchased there and still have.) Now in 2008 we were traveling on route 6, the new toll road, with signs before each exit that you will be billed for your usage at the end of every month. (I don’t know how this is done: there are no toll booths; no one seems to have a transponder on the windshield. Modern Israel. Now if they could only get the lines at the bank or the post office to function as efficiently.) Route 6 goes north-south, winding past countless Arab villages. Many of these towns are Christian or Druse, so one feels reasonably safe. The bus made one full stop, at Afula, which is not as dreary as I thought it would be. If you need to use the facilities at the terminal, the attendant will collect one shekel, which entitles you to some toilet paper. Definitely Old Israel. The bus started again, and we got off in the most middle-of-nowhere tzomet (junction) you could ever find, where we would wait for another bus to take us to the base. Total travel time? Over three hours. We finally arrived, and followed a number of chayalim and chayalot off the bus and up the hill to the base, which would under normal circumstances be impenetrable, but because of the tekas, we were waved in with a smile.
Here, without the smile, was where our daughter had spent the last two months (except when she was home for Shabbat or when she was assigned to another base for shmirah, guard duty). Here she had been yelled at by mefakdot, argued with Russian recruits, and began to make friends. Here she had done pushups, learned to shoot and maintain an M-16, eaten her meals in less than eighteen minutes, and learned to keep that M16 with her at all times. In short, she had survived the experience, most of the time, wondering why she was doing any of it.
We took a short walk around the base, and then it was time for the ceremony to begin. We stood in a little grandstand area on one side of what passed for a “parade grounds,” along with a small collection of family and friends of the “graduates.” Many of the attendees were also in the military. I assume that they understood more than I what was going on than I did. The eighty young women marched down one side of the field, made a right turn, and made a formation near us. Finding Natania in this mass of women was not difficult: she was in the same unit as a six foot five blonde Russian who towered over everyone like an enormous antenna. My surmise is that the point of the exercise was to demonstrate that the chayalot could collectively follow instructions. There was a lot of “attention,” “at ease,” “left face,” “right face” – all in Hebrew, of course. Whenever I see this kind of stuff, I invariably think of my Mr. Autote, our fifth grade gym teacher at P.S. 80, who had us spend the entire semester marching around the gym, by which time, all of us Jewish kids could do a pretty snappy “left face.” I cannot say that the tekas was in and of itself very stirring to a bystander, but it was certainly meaningful to the participants, all of whom had finished what was probably the hardest two months of their lives. The strangest part of the ceremony was when the soldiers stood at attention in formation and their mefakdot walked through the ranks and, one by one, seemingly at random, went to each girl and cut off the “trainee” ribbon from her uniform, giving each girl a playful punch in the arm. All of a sudden, these same people-in-charge who had spent the last two months yelling at everyone and docking them time for seemingly minor infractions were trying to be friendly. (After the ceremony was over and we were walking around the base, a young woman who reached somewhere on my chest approached us and asked – in decent English – if we were Natania’s parents. She told us that she lived in Kfar Adumim, a small neighboring community. Only afterwards did I find out that she was an M.M. [a rank above a mefakedet.] We realized that all the women-in-charge were girls, younger than Natania and half her size.)
The ceremony was over. A few outstanding chayalot were honored; the obligatory “throw your hat in the air” was performed as well as the “let’s form a big circle and do some pushups.” One by one, we got to meet the young ladies with whom Natania had made friends on the base: a few Americans and others who spoke English as a second language. Each one was apprehensively waiting to hear where and to what she would be assigned. There was one tiny person from California, Shira, who was hoping to get into Search and Rescue. She had relatives here, but her family was back in America. She, like most of the women in the program, was a “bodedet” (lone soldier) who, for whatever reason, had chosen to come and join, as I so often describe it, the first Jewish army since the time of Bar Cochba. Two days earlier, I was helping assemble packages destined for Lone Soldiers, and here they were! Perhaps someday the socks that “Packages from Home” (project coordinator, Shira), sends out weekly will grace the feet of little Shira from California.
We walked around with Natania explaining what happened in each of the buildings on the base. Soon it was time to leave; we had wangled a ride back to the tzomet with a woman who was serving as temporary mom for one of the lone soldiers. We waited there for almost an hour for the bus back to Jerusalem, through Afula and the many Arab villages, now seen in the evening light. Total travel time both ways: over six hours. Total time at Michve Alon: two and a half hours. Amount of satisfaction: more than I could ever measure.

Three Days in Nissan (Day Two At the Airport)

DAY TWO: TUESDAY, APRIL 8 (NISSAN 3) A DAY AT THE AIRPORT
One of the many things I have to be grateful for is that over the course of my life, I – and now we – have made some amazing friends. Included in this ever-increasing list are Jeff and June Glazer. They made aliyah in grand style: they sold their house in Teaneck and took to the road, driving around the U.S., all the while regaling us with pictures and tales of their adventures, before boarding the Nefesh B’Nefesh winter flight last December. So when the next of the never ending stream of Teaneck olim, the Reubens, were set to arrive, of course, Jeff was the one to organize the trip to the airport to greet them. The plan was for the five of us (Jeff, June, Barbara, me, and Oriyah, the daughter of another of our Teaneck families) to meet at the very tall Sheraton hotel on King George St. near Agron St. and take the munit (taxi) which Jeff had hired to the airport. Barbara and I arrived a few minutes before nine; Jeff and June had already arrived, and – surprise, surprise – Jeff was engaged in a conversation with……..one of John Hagee’s entourage, the same group we had seen the day before. (It seems that the Hageeites were among the many, many tour groups staying at the Sheraton.) Soon the four of us were talking to several couples who were waiting to board their buses for yet another day of morning to night travel throughout the length and breadth of our admittedly tiny Land.
I am personally weary of the endless prattle about the motivation of these Christian individuals and groups that profess love for our people and our nation. That’s because I am a professional pragmatist. If the boat I’m on is leaking and I’m up to my skivvies in water, I would never question the motives of someone heaving a life raft in my direction. Perhaps it’s part of Hashem’s plan for me; leave it at that. However, when you engage in conversation with Christians who have taken their time and money to come here, you generally come away with a sense that, for whatever their reasons, they truly love our Land. They are truly interested in why one person authentically from The Heart of Texas or another who has spent his life leaving The Bronx would finally come to live near the Old City in Jerusalem. When you tell them that you have simply Come Home, they look at you with admiration, not with a blank look. I think that, somehow, they do understand.
Oriyah was slightly delayed, but she did show up, and the five of us got into our munit and off we went. Barbara had actually been back to the Ben-Gurion airport in order to meet her Sar-El group, but Jeff, June, and I had not been back since we arrived in Israel, they in December, me in July. And it is a strange sensation, going to an airport when you are not in fact going anwhere. It was only later that we all realized that we were having the same emotion: Thank G-d we don’t have to leave!!! We were not experiencing that feeling of loss that most or many Jews feel when their brief trip to Israel is coming to an end, and they are preparing to “go home.” We could stay! We could get back in a sherut, a cab, a bus and really go back home – to Jerusalem, or a Little Bit East thereof! What a glorious feeling! You will never know just how glorious until you can experience it yourself. For Barbara and me, we know full well that we will be back in The States sooner or later: to visit Barbara’s mother, to see family, friends and places, to go shopping. But not just yet. Right now, we are too busy living in the Land and experiencing the sensation of Being Home to get on a plane.
Planes! We were heading to Ben-Gurion to greet Hedda and Michael Reuben and Zaide, who is Hedda’s father. Now most Jewish men, if they live long and they have resisted the temptation along the way to murder their children, will arrive at that moment in time when they are grandfathers, sabaim, or zaides to their grandchildren. But this man had been, by general consent and acclimation, everyone in Teaneck’s zaide (you can’t “run” for this position, just as in American politics you can’t “run” to be nominated for Vice President. It takes a special person to be the Zaide for an entire community). But Zaide was not getting any younger, and he had been ill, and the Reuben’s aliyah had been postponed several times, until now, when they were at last on their way, they had become known as the “sof sof” (finally!) Reubens.
Because of the timing, the Reubens were not arriving on a Nefesh B’Nefesh charter flight, meaning a full plane of olim, NBN staff, and various and sundry dignitaries, with a small farewell ceremony and a HUGE welcoming ceremony upon landing. (I never got to write about our arrival because it was almost a month after we got here that we were successfully hooked up with a computer and internet access, and by then I was on to other matters.) In between these full flights, NBN has “group flights” on which they purchase fifty or so seats on a regular El Al flight. So while there are NBN personnel to assist the olim, most of the newbies don’t get the huge welcome which they richly deserve. But not the sof sof Reubens! What a reception they were going to get! In addition to the five of us, there were the Wimpfheimers, a Teaneck family who had made aliyah about three and a half years ago, and several other friends and old school mates of Hedda. Then there were the kids. Both of the Reuben’s children, Tehila and Yair, had previous made aliyah and they and Yair’s wife and baby were there……and all of Tehilla and Yaer’s friends, with banners and posters and smiles. The Reuben’s rooting section was probably larger than the contingent of olim getting off the plane!
We had at least an hour before the olim would complete their paper work and clear customs, time aplenty to have some coffee, chat with old friends, and make new ones. (Barbara discovered that one of Hedda’s friends had been in her youth group at Beth Shalom in Rochester forty five years ago.) Time aplenty for a flood of memories about what it was like to make aliyah the previous year: the packing, the moving, the trip to the airport, the flight, the reception, but mainly the emotion. We had done it. In fact, everyone in our group, young and old had done it: join the ever-growing but still small number of American Jews who had escaped the blandishments of Exile. So we all understood, and we all knew we understood what this moment was about.
Sof sof, the olim were starting to come through the exit. Sof sof, we could see the Reubens. They had so much luggage with them; had they left anything behind? They were remarkably cheerful, considering that they had not slept in several days, what with orchestrating an Open House on Sunday for their still unsold home and then getting ready for the flight. I am certain that having a welcoming committee waiting for you makes any such journey more rewarding. Zaide seemed to be OK; NBN had purchased an additional seat so he could have an oxygen tank on the plane with him. Many hugs, many digital pictures, many warm words of welcome, perhaps a few tears. And then, sof sof, it was time for Hedda, Michael, and Zaide to get into the munit (paid for by NBN) and head off to their new home in Beersheva. Thanks to their children, it was all set up, even having a phone and internet connection. I guess the secret is to have your kids make aliyah before you!
Thanks to my gregarious wife, we got a ride back to Jerusalem with a couple (the woman had gone to school with Hedda at Bar-Ilan) who needed to go to a specific supermarket in the Givat Shaul section which caters to an Ashkenazik crowd (Pesach!) On the way we got a fascinating tour of side streets that wend their way through the Jerusalem forests and somehow lead to Givat Shaul. We had left the airport as soon as the Reubens had departed, yet before we got dropped off, I could see Oriyah standing on Kanfei Nesharim St., using her cell phone. Maybe someday I will find out how she beat us back to Jerusalem.

Three Days in Nissan (Day One Olam Hamitnadvim

DAY ONE: MONDAY, APRIL 7 (NISSAN 2) “OLAM HAMITNADVIM” There was a time back in Teaneck when Natania, like other kids going to Jewish Day Schools, was scrounging around for “chesed hours” (time spent on philanthropic projects required by the schools for promotion or graduation). We had to arrive at something which she would want to do (not a lot!) and that we could get her to. Our solution: Tomche Shabbos! This is an organization that arranges for discrete delivery of food for Shabbat to needy families in the Bergen County community. Every Tuesday evening, the packing, which took less than an hour, was done at a synagogue about a ten minute drive from our house. Perfect! So for several months, I schlepped Natania up to B’nei Yeshuran; and because it made no sense to drop her off, come home, and come back forty minutes later, and because I wanted to set a good example, I joined her for the project. The guy in charge, who was named Boris, supervised the six or eight youngsters and one or two adults who would take quantities of onions, fruits, vegetables, bread, grape juice, whatever was there, and drop them in baskets placed on shelves around the room. I admit to having a certain visceral pleasure in this activity. I was literally feeding the hungry. Somebody else may have donated a thousand dollars to the organization, but I was taking a cauliflower in my two hands and putting it in the basket which would be delivered to someone’s door to be cooked and eaten. The several months passed by and Natania had done her hours. We stopped going – I’m sure to be replaced by other “needy” kids – and I lost out on this visceral feeling.
Here in The Land, there seems to be even more of these Tomche Shabbos-type activities: volunteer projects to help the needy. And, thank G-d, here in The Land, there seems to be armies of volunteers to do the work – especially in Jerusalem. Yes, there are students from schools, yeshivas, and seminaries; but, in addition, there are scores of retirees, many of whom are Anglos, willing and able to help out.
Among the recruits to this force of mitnadvim (volunteers) are friends, Beth and David, who have been living a little bit east of Yerushalayim a year longer than us. Beth has learned zero Hebrew, but she has racked up more “chesed hours” than anyone else I know. Every Monday, they are working for an organization called “A Package from Home.” It appeared that more volunteers were needed on this particular Monday – the last effort prior to Pesach – so they recruited Barbara, who, always willing to share, asked me if I wanted to come along. Now Barbara, if I haven’t mentioned it already, spent three weeks volunteering on an army base – part of a program called “Sar-El” – on which she packed medical supplies and painted walls, while others cleaned out an underground hospital which hasn’t been used since the most recent military activity in Lebanon two years ago. She also has volunteered at a soup kitchen on recent Fridays (while I was home making Shabbat soup for us). So she had a certain amount of moral suasion to convince me to go with her. Besides, I was curious to see what the world of volunteers was like here in The Land. We agreed to meet our friends on a specified 174 bus, and we traveled together into Jerusalem where we got on another bus going to a neighborhood called Katamon. Along the way, I got a crash course on the organization I was going to help.
Like many things, there is a history here. And like many things, there is something I call a “moment of decision.” Some of you (at least the people in Teaneck) know about Clara Hammer, “The Chicken Lady,” a woman who was simply standing on line (for those of you who don’t appreciate the linguistic subtlety, while most Americans stand “in line;” because I’m from New York, I stand “on line.”) waiting to purchase her Shabbat chicken, when she realized that the family who was in front of her on/in that line in that butcher shop was getting almost inedible chicken scraps because they were too poor to buy a real chicken. Mrs. Hammer decided to pay for that family’s chicken for that Shabbat, the next Shabbat, and every Shabbat. And, because there were so many other families in similar situations, Mrs. Hammer decided to become “The Chicken Lady,” soliciting funds to provide chickens for hundreds of needy families in Jerusalem.
Let me now introduce you to Barbara Silverman, like Clara Hammer, an American olah. It seems that in 1985, she and her husband were driving past a roadblock near the Arab village of Ramallah. There are many, including some Israelis, who thoughts on passing such a roadblock, put up to prevent terrorists from gaining access to heavily populated areas, would dwell on the “plight” of the “Palestinians” (although, in truth, the roadblocks and road closings are a serious difficulty for many Arabs who are just trying to get through their day). Most of us would be grateful for the soldiers protecting our lives, but would leave it at that. But Mrs. Silverman took it one step further. It occurred to her that while she would be enjoying her Shabbat day of rest in the comfort and safety of Rehavia (one of Jerusalem’s nicest neighborhoods), a group of young men would be standing on duty at this machsom in the heat of the summer, making do with what passes for cuisine in the I.D.F. And so Barbara Silverman came back before that Shabbat to that machsom with enough home cooked food for six Shabbat meals. When she came back for the following Shabbat, she found out that there were more hayalim in another machsom just down the road. It wound up with her preparing and bringing forty eight meals every week for years, until the ID.F. asked her to stop because the trip had become too dangerous for unarmed civilians. But you can’t keep an intrepid soul like Barbara Silverman down for long! After a few year’s hiatus to take care of family matters, she began her current project: to provide every week “A Package from Home” for the many bodedim and bodedot, “lone soldiers”, young men and women who come on their own from across the globe to volunteer and serve in the first Jewish army since the time of Bar Kochba. She began this project in her apartment in Rehavia, only to have it overwhelm her living space and threaten to destroy her furniture. Recently, the project has been on the move, and Beth, David, Barbara and I were on our way to its most recent home, a matnas (community center) in Katamon, which we finally located by virtue of walking around the neighborhood.
Here in a small room was a table laden with merchandise, more boxes on the floors, plastic bags all around, packers and soldiers milling around, from which seeming chaos would come an hour or so later over 400 packages ready for delivery. The procedure was simple enough: take a plastic bag, put in it a package of socks, a package of underwear, a tee shirt, several kinds of snacks, some toiletries, and some sheets of paper containing messages of encouragement in at least three languages. How this was done reminded me of shul kiddushes I have witnessed: find a plate and a fork, reach over several people to spear a few pieces of herring, go around another mass of surging people to locate a piece of kugel, walk around the table to get some pastry, balance this carefully as you head over to where you think they might have some Scotch, find a napkin, etc. In our situation, a dozen or so people were performing a dance, weaving in and out around the small tables laden with stuff, sometimes improvising a relay where a bag might be handed from person A who was near the socks to person B who stood by the snacks to person C who would flip in some shampoo or a toothbrush to person D who had the letters to person E who would tie the bag and place it in one of several piles. How the counting as done, I couldn’t figure out, but finally we had packed the requisite number of bags, and we were done. People began to leave, stuff got packed up, the floor was swept, and the room became quiet.
At this point, I approached Shira Gilor, who has served as the program coordinator for the last several years. I told her that I had just finished a course in grant writing, and before I started charging for my services, I was willing to write a few proposals gratis to polish my skills. Well, did I feel like Santa Claus! Shira’s face lit up; she told me that she had wanted to apply for a grant, but she didn’t have the time, didn’t know how to do it, and didn’t know where to apply. So, in effect, I was “hired,” starting after Pesach.
Our farewells said, Barbara and I followed Beth and David out the door, down the block, through the neighborhood, to Beit Lechem Street in the German Colony. Our destination? A tiny (I mean tiny) shop that, according to David, makes the best falafel in town. One thing about David Gordon: he knows his falafel. We had a simple, inexpensive meal and continued our perambulation through the German Colony back to the center of town, where we stopped at the new Cup o’ Joe for an Israeli “Iced Coffee” (not the same as a plebian “kafe kar” [cold coffee]). At this point, none of us was in a hurry. David was considering a pre-Pesach haircut, Beth had a little time before her next tzedekah project, and Barbara and I had several hours until our next appointment: we needed to get pre-approval for a larger mortgage (the dollar has shrunk in value; the price of real estate throughout Israel has risen because the economy keeps growing). We ran a few errands and headed to our mortgage banker in the Bank Leumi on King George St. There in front of the Mashbir (Israel’s first “department store”) was an enormous contingent of Christians, mostly from America, supporters of Rev. John Hagee, who had come to The Land to show their support of our beleaguered country. Barbara spoke with a few of them briefly before we went in to see Dafna, our banker, who had our much larger request pre-approved on the spot.
Finally, it was time to head back to Ma’ale Adumim. We waited for our bus and headed off. But Jaffa Street ahead of us was blocked up. The large contingent we had seen before was now marching a thousand strong through the midrechov (promenade) on Ben Yehuda and on to I know not where. My initial reaction was one of annoyance. But as I watched this demonstration with its banners “Israel, we support you,” I had a change of heart. Usually, if traffic is stopped in Jerusalem, it is either because of a chefets chashood (a suspicious object; i.e, a bomb threat) or because some foreign dignitary – who is most likely here to convince us to divide our City and relinquish our land – is passing by. Here were a thousand people who have no direct stake in the outcome of our conflict with our neighbors coming to offer us their encouragement. Let them march. In fact, we would meet them again the next day, another day in Nissan.

Avraham, where art thou?

(Considering that I used to make my living “managing data,” this past week was not a good one in that department. First I dropped my Nikon. Loss: one roll of film. Cost to repair: about $100. Then my computer stopped working. Diagnosis by company: defective sectors on the hard drive [in simple English: dead as a doornail] Cost to repair: probably nothing, as it was seven months old and under warranty. Loss: a lot of work in progress, including the last 47 pages of Rav Aviner’s commentary to the haggada which I was editing from a rough translation. Also gone is the second part of my entry about Purim, entitled ‘And You Forgot to Remember.’ I will try, bli neder (no promises), to reconstruct it from memory. This third part was composed on Natania’s laptop, which has worked flawlessly for several years. All of the previous entries are available at www.alittlebiteast.blogspot.com)

It goes without saying that we were eagerly anticipating our first Purim in The Land, even though I hate it (hate, hate, hate!) when Purim is Thursday night and Friday. I definitely think the Rabbis dropped the ball on this one. Normally, you hear Megillat Ester in the evening and then again the next morning. After that, those wonderful people who lovingly prepare shalach manot for their friends have plenty of time to run around in the morning and give their packages away. (Also, in communities like our beloved Maale Adumim, there is always a Purim parade in the morning.) And there is still plenty of time to pray, to drink, and to have a leisurely seudah (festive meal) sometime in the afternoon. (And for those unfortunate people in The Exile who have to work on Purim, they can take at least take off a little early and get home in time for the meal.) But when Purim comes out on Friday, the overriding concern that these activities would impinge on preparations for Shabbat. So the seudah is pushed up to the morning, which presents certain obvious difficulties. First, you can talk until you are blue in the face, you will never convince me that scrambled eggs is a festive meal, nor that I am going to want pot roast at 9:30 in the morning. Second, my approach to my A.D.D. is to do only one thing at a time. So if you tell me that I should hand out shalach manot, go to a parade, and have my festive meal at exactly the same time, my response is to smile and tell you politely “No.” We simply do not multi-task. In my mind, there is no logical reason why the seudah is not put off to Sunday so that people can enjoy it.

Anyway, we were invited to our friends Ian and Thelma Reed for the seudah; they were going to have a bunch of people over for a buffet and to sample some of Ian’s single malts. We were definitely looking forward to that; until Wednesday morning, when we got a phone call from one of their friends that Ian’s mother just died, and they were on their way back to Manchester for the funeral. I guess we would be on our own for the Purim seudah. When you have a lemon, always, always make lemonade. I got on the phone and called some other friends, the Aarons, who are also here without extended family, and invited them to join us, which they happily agreed to do. Natania would be back from doing shmirah (guard duty) on Wednesday; she would make some of her delicious eggplant parmesan, and I – because summer seems to have arrived here in one day – would make some gazpacho and some cold pasta dishes. That and a salad, coffee and dessert, and you actually have something like a festive meal.

Then the phone rang – again. (Maybe we should stop answering it.) Our friend Avraham just died and his body was being flown in from Columbus, Ohio in time to be buried on Friday in Jerusalem. (I first met Avraham in Jerusalem in 1980. His wife, Varda, is one of eight siblings in the very large and ever growing Habshush family. He was then a successful lawyer who got into trouble with the Israeli tax officials because they refused to believe that he had not charged some of his clients. The family moved to America where, brilliant has he was, he was never able to pass the bar examination. His health ultimately failed him, partly because he was too stubborn to take care of himself. His son, then Udi, a boy of about five, now Rabbi Ohad Yishai, was accompanying the body)

Back in touch with the Aarons. Can they come over earlier, and do you mind if Barbara leaves in the middle so she can go to a funeral? So the Aarons came a little earlier and we sat down to a very delicious meal. There are a considerable number of gentlemen here in Maale Adumim with larger libraries of single malt whisky than I have, but I do have a few bottles, and it was Purim. In the middle of our tasting, I remembered that Ron had brought over the remains of a bottle of Arak. I told him we could put it on the table; just not too close to me. Otherwise I would need to get a cushion for my chair. Why would that be? Because without a cushion, I would be between Arak and a hard place. (It was Purim, after all.) At this point, our neighbor, Tzippi – one of Maale Adumim’s finer cooks – came over with some home baked pastries, just in time for dessert. Barbara left to go to the funeral; later, the Aarons left. It was time to clean up and get ready for Shabbat. So I began washing dishes; Natania began working on some chicken soup; then I began making some meat loaf. (In theory, some of the cooking could have been done earlier, but for many reasons it wasn’t.) I remembered reading some advice from someone that on Purim Friday, it would be good to take a nap before Shabbat. I was considering some choice remarks for this time management expert; maybe I could find fifteen seconds to rest when I wouldn’t be busy. I was also considering a more realistic seudah the next time Purim was right before Shabbat: how about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

At this point, the phone rang. Should I even consider answering it? What new catastrophe might there be? It was Barbara on the line. “I’m on my way home. The funeral was canceled. They couldn’t find the body.” (Do you know the classic distinction between comedy and tragedy? Comedy is when somebody else slips and falls on a banana peel; tragedy is when it’s you.)

After Shabbat was over, Barbara got the word: they think that Avraham’s body had been located, and the funeral would be that night. (Only in Jerusalem are Jewish bodies buried at night.) So Barbara went, and, yes, the body had arrived on a subsequent El Al flight, and the funeral was held.

The next day was Shushan Purim, the day the holiday is celebrated in Jerusalem, and we went into the city to the home of Arleen and Yehuda, Avraham’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law, where Ohad would be sitting shiva for the one day before he returned to his wife and children in Toronto. I should add the following: Arleen Osband and Barbara were neighbors back in Rochester, New York. When Arleen married Yehuda Habshush, Barbara got to meet his family; and when she spent a year in Israel in 1968, she became the unofficial ninth child in the family. The eight official Habshush children have so far spawned more than thirty grandchildren and now a growing number of great-grandchildren. The only one who can keep track of who’s who is the matriarch of the family, Bracha Habshush, still going strong in her eighties.

Now it would be virtually impossible for all the Habshush clan to fit into one apartment (maybe the White House), but there must have been at least forty people – from Mrs. Habshush herself to the newest grandchildren– coming and going in Arleen and Yehudah’s small digs in Arzei Habirah. And they were all there to comfort Ohad and to celebrate Shushan Purim with the rest of the family – at the same time. We arrived after the family more or less had completed its seudah; and as there were almost ten men present, they decided to get a minyon for minchah. As we were waiting for reinforcements, I stood by a large open window, looking out at the neighborhood. I watched as throngs of people passed by on the street below, all coming and going to their Purim destinations. Even if I were not anywhere near the window, I would have heard the soundtrucks blaring away with festive music. One thing about the Hareidim in Jerusalem: they sure know how to party on a festive day! Nothing I can write could remotely capture the holiday freilichkeit that I have experienced over the years in these overcrowded neighborhoods, with huge families going this way or that, coming or going, Sukkot or Purim. It’s Yuntif! Ohad later related to us the surreal feeling he had the previous evening, watching his father’s body placed in the ground, and then seeing the celebration all around him. There are moments when the expression about not knowing whether to laugh or to cry becomes very real. I had been “bummed out” because I felt that my Purim had been diminished by its being squished together with Shabbat. Ohad had no Purim whatsoever. While everyone around him was experiencing simcha, he couldn’t even pray – let alone hear the Megillah – from the time his father died until the corpse was buried Saturday night. Maybe I should reconsider the idea of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich seudah.

A little while later, a few more men arrived, enough for a minyon for minchah. Afterwards, one of the new arrivals who seemed vaguely familiar began talking to me. (I’m beginning to notice an increase in the number of times when my Hebrew is better than an Israeli’s English.) He seemed to know who I was and began talking about our being with him for Pesach two years ago. I finally realized that he was talking about Tina and Natania being with him in Maale Levana. So I told him that Tina was living and working in Tel Aviv and that Natania was now in Tzahal (I.D.F.) – although Israelis just say tzavah (army). Now it was his turn to be confused. I figured out that he didn’t know that our family was now living in Israel, so I said proudly that my family had made aliyah. Whereupon he welcomed us to The Land.

Finally, it was time for us to leave. We declined the offer of more food and said goodbye to everyone there, cheerfully to the many people we knew, more somberly to Ohad, both because he was in avelut (mourning) and because it might be years before we will see him again. Barbara wanted to walk over to the midrechov (the promenade?) at Ben Yehuda because there were supposed to be activities there all day. And so we walked up the long, steep hill on Yehezkal Street until Meah Shearim where it becomes Nathan Strauss Street, past Bichor Holim Hospital and down to where the street becomes King George and the neighborhood changes immediately and markedly. We passed more families, more soundtrucks, increasingly intoxicated yeshiva boys, tourists staring in wonderment at this totally strange world. We finally did get to Ben Yehuda, but after the spiritual high of the Hareidim, this “more normal” area seemed a decided letdown.

I started to tell Barbara about my conversation with the vaguely familiar man with whom I had been speaking. He looked something like Moshe, but much, much older (we had met Miriam [a Habshush daughter] and [son-in-law] Moshe in Jerusalem in 1980 when she had just given birth to quadruplets [three of whom survived] and then in Maale Levana in 1988 when their sukkah was bigger than their caravan). I wondered if that could have been Moshe’s father? – although I don’t remember meeting any of his family. Barbara set me straight. “That was Moshe,” she said.