Combining Faith & Fruitcake
A special state of emergency was declared for the entire country and we’d been warned that Shabbos might be rough.
It was so rough. Our dinner guest came early because synagogue prayer was cancelled by order of the Home Front Command. I lit candles and, with the sky still light, our friend Zeesi came over before dark set in. She hadn’t brought her customary fruit platter from the elegant shop in town because all non-essential activities were forbidden. In lieu, I’d baked a fruit-laced cake without using a recipe, thinking it might serve as an adequate finale to a lovely Shabbat dinner. (Note to self: Find a recipe. The cake was inedible.)
The first missile barrages began during the salad course. Our bomb shelter is four flights down and, not yet inebriated from Shabbat wine, tequila and vodka or stuffed with challah, my husband Ronney (72), Zeesi (75+) and I (none of your business) skipped down the marbled stairways and took our places with other intrepid neighbors. The crowd included Ethiopians, Russians, Sri Lankans, missionaries and us. Greetings of “Shabbat Shalom” filled the air. Those with cell phones filled us in on what our miraculous air force was achieving. Although we were well underground, we could feel a gentle rumbling outside and, from time to time, some distant booms.
We returned to dinner and added liquor to the mix. Just before I served dessert (the ayatollahs probably knew about my cake), the sirens sounded and missiles began flying. Ronney and Zeesi, both stalwart and sporty, went all the way down while I cockily sat on the stairs outside of my apartment door. Our border collie was terrified, barking wildly and I didn’t want to be far. But unlike earlier, these missiles/bombs were shaking the ground, rattling windows and I suddenly flew down the stairs to get closer to safety. If I wanted to better ensure that I made it through the night, better to follow orders from Home Command Front and not ad lib survival.
Zeesi didn’t want to stay over and I walked her to the street. She promised she would try to return for kiddush the next morning. Exhausted, Ronney went to the bedroom and I slept in the living room. Or hoped for sleep.
Just after 3 am, the mightiest of barrages occurred. This time, even Ronney wore fear on his face. As we huddled with others on the lowest floor, he rubbed my head. This small act gave me great strength. We were together, experiencing the unimaginable. Even in this moment, my gratitude to G-d was immeasurable.
Finally asleep on the sofa, at about 4:45 a.m., I heard/felt enormous trembling of the building, the windows rattling something fierce. Apparently an enormous attack was underway, too far off for the sirens to alert in Jerusalem. It was the most prolonged bombing I’d experienced. I did what I wasn’t supposed to do; walked to the balcony and looked out, the pre-dawn sky streaked with missile vapors.
And this morning, my son returned to fight in Gaza.
Looking only at the trees, the story is scary and my hopes lie with men and women in leadership who are tasked with our safety. But then I look at the forest. We who are blessed to live in the Holy Land at this moment in time are sitting in the front row of prophesied Jewish history. Our role has been decreed and, whether foolish or undeniably brave, we are imbued with unwavering faith as we take up the gauntlet toward our ultimate—let it be soon—Redemption.
New York native Andrea Simantov has lived in Jerusalem since 1995. She writes for several publications, appears regularly on Israel National Radio and owns an image consulting firm for women.
