Davidka

 

Right in the centre of the city, where the homemade mortar that was used to defend Jerusalem at the dawn of our statehood remains pointed at the perpetually windy sky, where pigeons pick at the crumbs of bourekas and drink from the miniscule fountains, there is a corner where respectable people don’t go. The kerchiefed mothers of reclusive Chassidic families pinch their lips in disgust and hurry by without looking back, clutching their purses to their chests. Men stick their hands deeper into their pockets and turn their noses away from the draft. Kids point and wonder; the elderly shake their heads and shuffle sadly away.

It’s the place where people go when life had left them nothing much at all, when disasters steal their health and hope, and when thoughts and pondering could kill just as surely as the contents of the syringes underfoot. They lie despondently on the benches, yesterday’s newspaper spread over their faces against the sun, or on the cold stone floor of the monument itself, paved with black granite. They are missing teeth, and they haven’t showered in longer than anyone can remember. Police don’t bother them; sometimes, people hand them sandwiches or a can of coke. They laugh and tell stories, or just sleep the day away. The days pass slowly; the children hurry to and from school, offices and shops open and close, until the bakeries put the leftover pitas and loaves outside at sunset, and Jerusalem settles down for the night under a blanket of heatwave mire.

There is a wine shop in there, hidden in between the square columns. On the top shelves they store the sunlight of Judea, bottled with the fragrance of the mountains intact. In the middle, there are the wines for Kiddush and for Havdala, for the meal and for the party. On the lowest shelves and outside they offer the slipslop that the desperate pay for with a handful of coins.

Next door to it stands the little grocery shop. Five steps separate the ground floor of the shop from the top, where the fridges are stacked with milk and yoghurts.

Shimmy stood on the ground floor, swinging to and fro on his crutches. It’s been nearly ten years since he was pushed off the growing wall at a building site by a fellow contractor, one named Ahmad. Shimmy broke his back, and was instantly paralysed. A year in a rehab hospital gave him his legs back, but not enough of them to ever walk properly again. Ahmad spent a month in jail, but in the end, his version of being dizzy and slipping was accepted by the court. He walked out pumping his fist in the air. Shimmy was wheeled out by his daughter, who had since moved to Canada. Now, Shimmy needed cottage cheese and some pasta, and the owner of the shop was getting it from the top floor. “And soap! I need dish soap!” – He called, looking up. The owner nodded. He was always moody, or so it seemed. Some said he had seen things in Lebanon, his friends being torn to pieces by an anti-tank missile. Others claimed he was just slightly autistic. Yet others still proposed the theory of him being slightly deaf.

Either way, Gadi was not a man of words. He nodded when he could, or remained silent. His impressive height ensured his safety from any questions about it – he could reach the ceiling on the light rail tram without trying much. His face was still smooth, for all his hair had turned grey long ago. His wounds, if he had any, did not show enough to satisfy people’s curiosity.

Another customer wandered in, a purple-haired Russian woman with a face so deeply furrowed by wrinkles that she resembled a desiccated apple. She wanted cigarettes and a loaf of bread. Gadi processed the purchase, then nodded at Shimmy’s shopping. “Going home?”

“No, I think I’ll vacation in Eilat for a bit first. What do you think?”

Without a word or a laugh, Gadi picked up the bag, dropped in a litre of milk and some crackers as a gift, and walked out. He got on the motorbike and was gone in a cloud of stinky exhaust fumes, but the man wasn’t worried. He knew he’d find the bag by his door. It wasn’t the first time.

When Gadi got back, a customer was waiting inside. A boy, barely sixteen years old, his hands shaking with the effort of restraining a fully-grown black Cane Corso on a thick metal chain. The dog’s head alone was the size of a large watermelon. If he had stood on his hind legs, he could’ve reached some of the quality wines next door. Drops of hot saliva were falling from the metal-and-leather muzzle. “We need water…”

Without a word, Gadi got out plastic bowls and a bottle. The boy strained to remove the muzzle off the beast, so Gadi helped him by holding the chain, so he could press the button.

Then a woman stopped by to chat about politics. She bought a packet of chips as an excuse, then sat under the air-conditioning for a good half an hour, filling Gadi’s head with her opinions and relatives’ misfortunes. He nodded, only half-listening. She was talking at him, not to him, and that was just fine. People needed to do that sometimes. He handed her a packet of Bamba on the way out, and would not accept payment.

One of his regular customers, a Holocaust survivor called Isaac, hadn’t shown up in a while. Perhaps checking on him would be a good idea.

An Ethiopian teenager ran in to buy two packets of chocolate milk for her sisters, then ran out again, swift as a dancer. The street sweeper came in to beg for a cigarette, and Gadi gave him a packet, as the man knew he would. The sweeper didn’t abuse the kindness and showed up exactly once a month, not more.  

A gaggle of yeshiva students bought sweets and cakes for the end of term party.

Then, a woman in a hijab bought a packet of pepperoni with a bread roll, as silent as Gadi himself, and sat outside eating them for a while.

Gadi flipped on the TV, suspended right by the ceiling. Elections, parties, hopes and disappointments filled the space.

Then he heard screaming from the outside. One of the drunks had become unresponsive. An ambulance motorbike pulled up almost before anyone could dial for one. People stopped to stare at the resuscitation attempts. Gadi knew it was useless, but watched along with everybody.

A Swedish tourist walked in, her face burnt to the colour of a ripe pomegranate. She had come to Jerusalem on tour but a year ago, and was blessed – so she said – with a vision of Jesus on the Golgotha, and now only she knew when the war of Gog and Magog would start. She had lost a frightening amount of weight, her sandals were fraying, but she could not leave the country where the Messiah would reveal himself, riding on a white donkey. She had even picked up some Hebrew. Nobody cared much for where she went and what she did, neither the embassy nor the psychiatric services, as long as she remained harmless. Gadi sold her a loaf of bread and a tub of hummus, then threw in some biscuits. Perhaps she would nibble on them next time she had nothing at all. Her new partner, a lost-looking German hippie with washed-out grey eyes and a goatee had waited for her outside.

Gadi switched off the TV when the sky began to darken. A waft of smoke reached his nose – there was a forest fire in the mountains again. He sighed, trying to push away images of another forest fire engulfing his fire engine, stealing the air from his nostrils, until the words of “Shma Yisrael” were all that remained to him. No, that was not a good place to go, not now, not ever. With an effort, he pulled himself to the here and now, and found a little girl staring at him from behind the counter. She was holding a pathetic-looking kitten.

“He is hungry… do you have cat food?”

One of the kitten’s eyes was glued closed by infection. His right front paw looked broken, and he was teaming with fleas. Gabi sighed. He reached down and took out a can of cat food from under the counter. Too often, the drunks bought it for themselves, because it was cheap, claiming they had a pet, so now Gadi started hiding it. “Six shekels.”

Really, it cost fifteen, but Gadi doubted she would have even six.

“I have five…” The girl’s eyes filled with tears, and Gadi, silent as ever, pulled up the metal ring on the can. “Oh, thank you! I will bring it… later…”

Gadi nodded. People still did that sometimes, like in the fifties, when the country had been young and everybody knew everyone else. It had been so in his now distant childhood, by the port in Ashdod, where they swam and ate ice cream all summer long. Things are always better perceived from a distance.

For a while, the shop remained empty, leaving Gadi with his thoughts. The streets were quiet, and the light rail rumbled by much more rarely.

He locked up the shop, not bothering with the alarm system, and walked across Yaffo and into Shaarey Chessed. Tiny, crowded streets that were built for donkeys, not cars, engulfed him, until only his shadow floated behind him, not quite touching.

He went up a flight of broken stone stairs and knocked on a faded brown door. It swung open, and a man stepped back from the entrance.

They sat down by the empty fireplace. The house had been built for an Ottoman functionary two centuries ago, and the walls were as thick as those in a fortress. The air was still and heavy, without the smells of food or rubbish. The windows were never opened.

The other remained in the shadow, created by a little night light. “How many?”

“Only four. I can’t just give out a lot, people will suspect…”

“And you will tell them it’s sponsored by an organisation. Is it not?”

“I guess it is…”

“You must find a way to do more. I insist on it.”

“Fine.” Gadi sighed. In the multitude of weirdos and crazies populating Jerusalem, his own bizarre behaviour was barely noticeable.

The other pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket. “Take a full basket of food to Isaac. And the rest is for today and tomorrow.”

Gadi shifted on his seat. “It’s not much… why do you take my mitzva away by paying me for it?”

The other laughed. “You know nothing, man. Just let it be, will you?”

He nodded.

“There is a young man there who wants to go to rehab. You will find him and pay for it.”

“Name?”

“No names. I want you to figure it out.”

“Uh-huh. I will.”

“See you tomorrow, then.” The Other was always business-like, and Gadi never saw his face. He could not ask… What choice did he have? He had agreed to it, all that time ago, when his fire engine was engulfed by flames, and he had floated above his own body for a while.

Gadi left, carefully closing the door behind him, just as the other spread his wings above the defunct fireplace. Jerusalem slept uneasily. Her multitude of people ached her, as always.  

A Shabbos story

 

They came home from the synagogue sweaty, tired, and ready to enjoy their mother’s food. This spring day was more like summer, and in a couple of weeks the cool weather would be nothing but a distant memory. The Shabbat meal proceeded as usual, with hot cholent, and schnitzels, and vegetables, and a gooey chocolate cake Rabbi Shapira had bought from the bakery the day before. The family ate and sang, and played charades, and sang some more, until the Rebbetzen started frowning, and whispered “Nu?” right into her husband’s ear.

“Don’t worry, Neshamale, you will get to nap today. I will mind the baby.” – The kids were used to their father calling their mom “his soul”, or just “the soul”. She called him “the rabbi” when she was angry, and “Arele” when she was pleased with him. Aaron Shapira was not really a rabbi, but the kids were not supposed to know that. Expelled from the yeshiva for joining the army, Aaron was known as a bit of a rebel even in his new community. He always had his own opinion about everything.

Devora got up heavily. If it wasn’t her back, it was the veins in her legs. And if it was neither, she would get spring allergies, or a migraine, or stomach cramps. “God dishes out the measure of health rather unevenly, some people are left wanting.” - She used to say, until her older sister gave birth unexpectedly at the age of fifty-two to a child so ill that the doctors struggled with naming his syndrome even five years later. But nobody ever heard a complaint again out of Devora.

She lifted Libby, the two-year old, out of the high chair, wiped her face, and said, “Don’t worry, Arele. I’ll get her to sleep… you mind the rest. And wake me up at three, no later.”

“The rest”, namely, David and Avroomie, and the four-year old Nechamie, knew that their friends and neighbours, the kids of the Borshov family next door, wanted to come with them to the spring to catch tadpoles. They also knew – as well as they knew their own names – that their parents absolutely, totally and utterly, prohibited them from going to the tiny rivulet on their own. “Any amount of water can kill, if you’re careless enough!” – their mother would always say. That meant they had to wait.

Peeking from behind their books and looking up from their puzzles, the children waited and waited, until Libby stopped fussing and dozed off together with their mother, behind the tightly closed door of the parents’ bedroom. Their father diligently tried to learn some Torah, only to wake up a few times with his nose touching the densely-printed page. He sighed, got up, and settled in the armchair with the Shabbat newspaper. Exactly five minutes later, his snores were rustling the pages of the paper that had fallen onto his chest. His head was titled backwards, so the bottom side of his beard was visible, shaggy and unkempt.

Quietly, holding a finger to his lips to demand silence, the seven-year-old David creeped to the door in his stockinged feet, carrying his sandals. His mom would be livid if they got mud into their shabbat shoes. Avroomie and Nechamie followed him. The boys knew better than to try and stop their sister – she would raise an absolute bedlam, wake up their parents, and get them all punished. Yet, they were not going to help her change, so she came as she was, in her Shabbat best, a frilly lilac dress, white stockings with pretty bows, and her lacquered shoes. David made sure the door wouldn’t slam, and presto – they were free.

The Borshov kids, Moshe and Tammy, were already playing with sticks and stones downstairs.

“Why did you have to bring her again?”- Moshe demanded. He was almost nine, and could dictate the rules to everyone else.

“It’s either that, or nobody goes anywhere, all right?” – David answered.

Moshe shrugged, mumbled “Fine…” - and continued leading the group down the very steep street, to where the roof of the neighbourhood mall seemed so close that you could almost imagine jumping onto it. They walked around the parking lot entrance, and, looking in, saw four older boys riding their rollerblades and skateboards down the ramp leading into the upstairs parking. Round and round the ramp went, rising all the way to the fourth-floor parking. The boys were wearing colourful helmets and knee pads, except one, known to the whole neighbourhood as “Off-the-path-Simcha”. He was rebellious enough to smoke the cigarettes he had pinched off his dad right after the candles were lit for shabbat and the sun had fully set behind the hills of Judeah, on his porch, in full view of the whole street. He swore, spat on the sidewalks, and shaved the sides of his head in a way that almost made him look like an Arab. Simcha’s parents didn’t have money for a helmet, and even his skateboard was a second-hand one, possibly bought with stolen money, because nobody had ever seen him do any kind of work. Despite that, he was still “cool”, by virtue of being a rebel.

They watched the older boys for a while, then carried on down the hill, to where the springs that flowed only in the winter gathered up to create a tiny pond. The sun was almost two-thirds of its way through the sky, and David estimated that it was about three o’clock, and they had at least a couple of hours to enjoy the water. Avroomie, despite being only six, (well, almost!), was the caring and the careful one out of all the siblings. He made sure Nechamie removed her fancy shoes, and helped her hide them under a bush. Then, he took a rubber band off one of her braids, and tied up her dress the best he could with it, so she won’t get wet. His own pants he removed altogether, the same as David. Then they tucked their tzitzit and shirts into their underwear, and waded into the murky water.

“Look, look!” – Nechamie cried. There was a big red dragonfly hovering right over her head. “It’s so pretty!”

The insect settled on a floating leaf, and Nechamie settled down into the water to watch it, getting wet up to her armpits.

“You fool!”- David almost couldn’t hold his rage. “Now mom will never let us get out again! Look what you did!”

Nechamie began to cry, and they had to comfort her together, promising to let her hold a tadpole, when they can catch one. Moshe pretended not to see, “girl stuff” was his pet peeve, as he came from a family of six girls, and only one boy – his glorious self. Tammy offered to help, but the boys were managing nicely, so she wandered off to talk to a friend. The pond was full of kids – some were playing on the monkey bars next to it, some were pushing each other to get onto the slide, some were just sitting and talking. The boys hung Nechamie’s dress to dry – luckily, she had been wearing a T-shirt under it.

And then Moshe caught a snake. At least he thought it was one, until they noticed that it had tiny little legs. “A lizard, then,” – he said disappointedly.

“It’s called a skink,” – someone said from above. They looked up, and saw Mindy, the neighbourhood know-it-all, a girl of ten years old, with glasses and a book – of course. She was pretending to read, though, they all knew. Really, she hoped someone would finally play with her. But nobody would – because she was mean to anyone who couldn’t quote books by heart the way she did.

Moshe put the skink in a glass jar that he had brought for the tadpoles, but made sure to leave the jar open, so the creature could breathe. Nechamie bent down to it to see the creature a bit better. “Shall we give it a name?”

Without any warning, the air was rent by a howling, terrifying, unbearable noise.

“A siren!”

“Rockets!”

“To the mall, quickly!”  

As if woken from a dream, the two boys began running around, collecting their things. The mall should be safe, if they could reach it fast enough. Nechamie just cried, holding her sopping wet dress, her shoes under a bush, and everyone around her running in a panic. David put his clothes on, but had no time for shoes, while Avroomie had no time for either, but he did remember to grab Nechamie’s shoes and dress. They ran, together with the other kids, Moshe and Tammy leading the way, to the ramp of the mall. Behind them, Mindy yelled, “My Aba says that those who hide are lacking faith! Why should Hashem save people who don’t believe in Him?” Hearing that, two of the children turned back. Others hesitated, unsure. The jar slid out of Moshe’s hand, breaking into a thousand pieces and releasing the skink, which seemed unharmed, and slithered away in the grass.

They ran, sweaty and out of breath, until they could all hide under the concrete ramp of the parking lot. Of course, the mall and its parking were closed for Shabbat. Above them, “Off-the-path-Simcha” and his cronies were hollering, pointing out shiny dots in the sky. “It’s flying to Ramot.” – One of them said importantly. “It’s heading south!” – Objected another. “No, stupid, it’ll be intercepted!”- Declared the third. David picked up Nechamie off the ground and helped her get the dress back on, but Avroomie would have to manage on his own. He sat down to tie his shoes.

Then, the ground under them sighed, or so it felt, and flipped, throwing them all up and sideways, then coming to rest again as it was. The concrete ramp above them warped, and pieces fell off it, as big as any of the children. Then, all was silent. White dust filled the air. Somewhere, far from them, a baby began wailing, but the children barely heard it. It was as if sounds came through a thick pillow. David could see Nechamie’s mouth opening, knew she was screaming, but did not hear a thing. Avroomie was pulling his ears, as if that could help free them from the blockage. Moshe had a large cut on his arm, and it was bleeding profusely. The boy was staring at it with mute horror.

“Help… me…”

David read his lips more than he heard him. Simcha was lying on his back right in front of them, and a huge chunk of concrete was on his belly. Above them, a gaping hole in the ramp showed where the piece had come from. A thin stream of blood was running out of the corner of Simcha’s mouth, and soaking into the white dust. David dropped his sister, and ran to lift the stone, screaming for help, but not hearing his own words. “Help, help! Simcha is injured!” Other children joined him, and together they rolled the stone off the boy’s belly. Not a sound was heard from above them, where the other big boys had been. Simcha’s face was so pale, it almost invisible against the dust, but the puddle of blood by his head grew and grew. Taking initiative, David screamed, “Who lives the closest? We must call Hatzala!” But the others just stared at him, gone deaf, just as he did. One of the older boys took off his shirt and folded it under Simcha’s head, and almost at once, the white cloth became red.

An ambulance pulled over by the entrance to the parking lot, and two paramedics, a man with a black kippa and a teenager without one, jumped out. Then, police and two more ambulances arrived, and all was a whirr of activity.

Later, the children did not remember much of it, but David would always recall the freckled and pimply paramedic who gave him a lollipop, and the woman in a beret, who held Nechamie all the way to the hospital, telling her stories and keeping her calm. When their parents had finally arrived, David allowed himself exactly one tear, and one question, “Did Simcha live?” His mom just looked at him, not saying anything, but his dad shook his head sadly. “We don’t know yet, he is fighting for his life.” Immediately, David imagined Simcha in one of the rooms of the hospital, armed with a large butcher’s knife, fighting the Angel of Death wielding a huge scythe in mortal combat. “Will he win?” Avroomie wondered. He was lying in a bed that was too large for him, his leg in a cast. A chunk of concrete landed on him, too. “We must pray.” Their mother said. David still heard everything as if through a thick blanket, but he could make out what was being said. “Pray for him.” – Their dad agreed.

David felt cold all of sudden. Slimy fear was spreading in his chest. Simcha was an outcast, but right now it looked like nobody cared whether he lived or died, leaving him alone with the Angel of Death.

“I want to call my school teacher. If the whole school prays for him, he will win. I know he will.” He was pleading, his eyes glistening with tears.

“But it’s still Shabbos.” – His father replied.

“But he is fighting the Angel of Death!”

His parents exchanged looks, but did not say anything. Rabbi Shapira stepped outside, and brought a big book of Tehillim from the hospital synagogue. David climbed up next to Avroomie, and together, reading very slowly, they got through five or six pages, until Avroomie fell asleep, exhausted by his pain and the fear. David dozed off right after him, and his dad moved him to the other bed again.

Outside, unseen by human eyes, the angels fought on.