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.

 

Her brother Noam

 

When Tali was a baby, she used to sleep by her mother’s side. Her voice was too weak, and her parents would not have heard her from another room, if she would wake up and need them. Her twisted, useless arms and legs hurt so much, that the kind Dr Katznelson gave her parents a “very strong medicine”, but they never let her have it. Tali cried, threw things that landed not at all where she wanted them to land, and tried so hard to form words, to explain, to get through to them – but words would not come. She cried when food fell out of her mouth, she wept when the physiotherapist hurt her, trying to get her to stand on matchstick legs that would not support her weight. And so it went, week after week, interrupted only by Shabbat, when nobody tried anything with her, and just let her dream sitting in her wheelchair on the porch, and her parents gave her sweet juice to drink through a straw.

She grew slowly, and Jerusalem grew with her. A stunning bridge that resembled the inner workings of a piano arched now by the entrance to the city; soon, digging began on Jaffa Street for the long-awaited tram. Tali could see both from their tiny porch on Hertzl street, from a building that had turned brown with age and did not resemble the usual golden Jerusalem stone anymore. Buildings grew taller and taller, and if you did not visit a street for a year, you might not recognise it next time you showed up. Her father, a kindly man named Rami, would carry Tali downstairs, place her in the enormous wheelchair with restraints for her hands and feet and a supporting pillow for her perpetually shaking head, and take her for long walks. He would point out cats and dogs, trees and stones, but never waited to hear her opinion on them. He knew he wouldn’t understand her attempts. They just continued as if nothing happened.

Her mother would roll her bed in front of the TV and put on cartoons, but Tali had no voice and no words to explain to her that cartoons were boring, and that she wanted to watch something new. She wanted to sit up, to move… She cried; but her mother was busy in the kitchen, cooking or washing dishes, and ignored her whining. Sometimes, her mother cried, too, using the TV to mask the sound, but Tali knew. Tali just wanted to talk to her, to hear her mother’s words directed to her, and not to someone else about her, but that was not to be.

So it went on, until Dr Katznelson looked into her eyes when she was nine years old, and gave a long whistle. “Pnina, Rami, I believe she understands us!” Things began to change then, mainly in the matter of her schooling. Now, Tali had to wake up at 6 in the morning, and wait downstairs with her father for the special bus that took her to her “school”. It was still stupidly boring, they showed her cards with everyday objects and named them, then put on some more of the same cartoons. Tali hated it, but didn’t cry, because the privilege could have been taken away just as easily as it was given, if she was deemed unworthy – or too stupid. She got to see other kids, but they had saliva dripping down their chins, or vacant eyes, or features that just looked wrong. Some of them had to breathe through an opening in their necks, which made funny whistling sounds. There was no talking to them, either. Now her parents talked to her – later, Tali would refer to it as “talking at her.” They still did not expect – or receive – an answer. They carried on, as if nothing happened.

“You must keep her happy!” – The doctor would emphasise, looking at their dour faces. “Happy, do you understand? No matter what it costs you. She will only develop if you make the effort.”

They tried their best. The stupid cartoons were replaced by adventure films on big video cassettes called VCR, and Tali was happy for a while.

There was one bright light throughout it all, though, and it was her brother Noam. He came home late, when their parents were already sleeping, and left before they woke up. It was always this way, and when you grow up with something, you don’t question it, even inside your own head. He never ate or watched TV with them, and her parents never mentioned him. There were three pictures of him in the living room, one – in a large golden frame. Noam looked so proud of his army uniform in that one. The others were Bar mitzvah photos, one – of him with their parents, and one – of a little boy wrapped in a tallit. But there were no photos of Tali anywhere, with or without anyone else. She knew they were ashamed of her, and maybe even wished she didn’t exist, and the realisation tasted sour in her mouth. She knew she was a burden, that she made their lives miserable, that her mother cried because of her, and it made her rage inside – not at them, and not at herself, just futile rage that comes before giving up, perhaps at life itself.

Noam was the only one who understood her miserable attempts at speaking, and encouraged her. He read her stories from the books they kept in the living room, about Sinbad the Traveller and Aladdin, and even the princess stories, like Cinderella. Then, he began reading her the more advanced books, and asked her questions afterwards. He would explain the unfamiliar words, and wait for her to nod. Noam told her about the neighbouring countries, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. Yes, they were enemies, but mostly they were just confused and unhappy. “Like me,” – Tali had thought then. Sometimes, he would bring her little snacks, letting her explore tastes that their home did not have, like halva, or smoked fish, or bitter olives, which he fed to her carefully, piece by piece.

“Why don’t you take me with you? I want to see the port of Tel Aviv and the Luna Park. I want to see Eilat.” – Tali had said once, and he understood. His face darkened; he was silent for a while. Then he said very seriously, “I wish I could, little sister. But it’s impossible. You will go when you are grown up, I promise you. You will see all these places.”

That was not good enough, and she cried. He sat there, holding her little pale hand with his big and strong one, and did not explain.

When Tali was twelve, a miracle happened – a company that made communication devices reached out to them, asking if Tali would like to participate in a trial. Her parents started teaching her letters, and she could not tell them that she knew how to read already, that Noam taught her years ago, and she would have loved to read books, if only someone would sit by her and flip the pages. In anticipation of the device bridging the gap between them, her parents tried talking to her more, though, and really started trying harder to understand her.

The night before she was due to receive the device, Noam put away the book he had been reading her, and said very seriously, “I won’t be able to come to you anymore, darling sister.”

At first, Tali did not understand.

“Are you getting married?”

“What? Oh… no, no.”

“Are you flying to another country? America? Will you send me pictures?”

“No… it’s not like that. I just won’t be able to come anymore.”

She did not understand, and began crying. Noam hugged her tight, and whispered in her ear: “Remember me, and you will see me again. The time grows short… Sleep, sister.”

She slept.

Indeed, Noam had stopped coming after that. Her nights were now her own, with no stories or treats. Tali couldn’t wait to communicate with her parents to ask about him. She learned to type individual letters on a screen by operating a small joystick, then pressing the button on top of it when she had the right letter. Then, a mechanical voice would read her question out loud to her parents.

“Where … is… Noam?” – The voice read.

Her parents’ reaction was unexpected. They wept with joy at her first communication, but there was also something wrong, she could tell.

Then, her father blew his nose on a large checkered handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and said, “Oh, baby… We didn’t know you remembered him. Noam was killed in Lebanon when you were two years old.”

“But… I… saw… him!”

Her parents exchanged glances.

“Children will have funny ideas sometimes.” – Her mother said. It was clear that she did not believe her. They looked at his photo in the army uniform, and then at each other. Then, as always, they continued as if nothing happened.

Tali thanked her brother in her college graduation speech, pre-recorded into the newest communication device, and followed by a storm of applause from all the people who tried very hard not to notice her for the last 4 years. Her parents still did not understand. But it no longer mattered. She had a trip to Eilat already planned out on her device.