The Lull, part 17

A retrospective: We dine last night after Erev Shabbat services with our rav (rabbi) and his family. Their four-year-old daughter, a kinetic little wind-up toy, has somehow fused the war experience with The Lion King, and her all-consuming worry is that a ketusha will fall on Pride Rock. During the short walk from the beit knesset to their home, she asks several times if we have to run to the miklat (bomb shelter). What makes this all the more surreal is that little Miri was out of the country during the war, and didn’t directly experience a single siren or attack! Her parents report that she picked up some stuff from the conversations of adults around her, and that on returning home, her little classmates in gan (nursery school) filled her in on what she missed. Her exciting jabbering is giving both of us a splitting headache. Meanwhile, her little sister, a cherubic-cheeked two-year-old, solemnly works on a bowl of dry Cheerios and baked salmon. Gill looks at me and says, “Fear Factor.”

It is the end of a very long day for me. Up at 04:10, out of the house shortly after 05:00, I catch the train from Akko and head down to Tel Aviv for the last session of the current class. The brutal heat has broken, so the morning walk from the station to our training center is pleasant, and I have time to stop for an extra strong coffee.

I always say goodbye to a group of students with mixed feelings. Some groups come together and form bonds; they plan, scheme, and throw a mini-party at the end. Sometimes I get cards and gifts. But some groups never really gel; this group, geographically-diverse and from wildly varied backgrounds, had the added disruption of the war in the middle of the term. So they remain individuals, who simply trickle out at the end of the final session and go their separate ways. As always, I look forward to their final projects and hope that I have managed to teach them to swim in the sometimes treacherous waters of high tech.

Despite the cooler weather, it is still warm and sticky in the afternoon. By the time I get to the train station for the long ride back to Akko, I am already grungy. Tel Aviv makes you want to shower three times a day. By the time I finally get home, it is just a bit shy of 17:00. A long day, and not over yet. I take a few minutes to chat with Gill, glance at the paper, and then it is time to shower, change, and head to t’fillot.

The walk to our beit knesset is a long climb up to a midway point, and then a long walk down. Karmiel is hilly, and there is no route between any two points that is flat. But the evening is cool and fresh and the walk is a pleasure. I pass dozens of people taking advantage of the lovely evening, walking their dogs, strolling in pairs, power-walking, or jogging. A few fathers escort small children still learning to balance on their first bicycles. A group of Russian adults walk by; one woman is holding a small, red-haired child who is clearly the sun around which their world evolves. Every dimpled smile brings cries of delight from the adults.

It is all perfect. For this one brief moment, our world is a vision of everything good and true—a promise of what humans can be. I’m late for t’fillot, but with only a few blocks to go, I slow down, savoring the feeling of peace. There’s a pick-up game of basketball in the court next to our beit knesset, and some children playing in the sand box. A small dog trots by purposefully, too busy to stop and play with the toddlers.

I see the usually sprinkling of guests, visitors, and new members among the familiar faces as I slip in. My heart jumps when I see our gabbai. Didn’t he pass away last month? But no, there he is, a short, stocky figure with a gap-thoothed grin, crooked Coke-bottle glasses, a colorful Bukharan kipa covering his wispy hair, and pants belted high. He throws back his head and belts out the tunes in a overpoweringly off-key rendition that throws off the rest of the congregation. We sound, well, horrible. I catch a friend’s eye and we both giggle.

It is the perfect start to Shabbat.