Slice of Life

Part 3

Continued from last week

 After being evicted from their homes and from their country, the Jews of Kittsee were forced to live on a rat-infested barge for five months, after which they were transferred to a detention camp in Budapest. While they were in Budapest, the workers at HICEM, HIAS, the Jewish Agency, and the American Joint Distribution Committee made efforts to find countries that would be willing to take in these homeless refugees. The families had to prove that they were upstanding people and would not be a burden on society.

Clear communication between people is far from automatic. As a matter of fact, it’s often the exception rather than the rule.  When people don’t speak the same language, they will obviously have difficulty conversing.  But even when people speak the same language, they often don’t really speak the same language. And this is where the trouble begins.

As I return to activities I engaged in prior to corona, I am amazed as to how happy I am to see things I didn’t even know I was even missing. I am actually referring more to people than objects. Of course, I missed seeing my friends and family. But that was no big surprise. But as I return to doing my power walk on the main drag of Ramat Beit Shemesh, I am reunited with the people whom I have gotten to know (aka formed opinions about without ever having spoken to them) while doing my rounds. There’s the guy who, rain or shine, winter or summer, can always be spotted sporting a pair of shorts, talking on the phone with one hand and drinking an iced coffee with the other. He brings me right back to the days I used to visit my aunt and uncle in Vacation Village and makes me feel like I should be walking to the social hall rather than around Nachal Dolev. There is something about his presence that screams Sunday (and we don’t even have Sundays) and relaxes me no matter what kind of stress I’m under. I definitely could have used some of that during lockdown. Then there’s the sweet older woman who also walks to keep in shape. As fellow “walkers,” we always nod and say hello when we pass each other. She always brings a smile to my face. I’m so happy to see her again. There are the teenage girls who sit at the bus stop talking for hours and hours, with no intention whatsoever of getting on a bus. And the Ramat Beit Shemesh resident who walks around picking litter up off the street. I didn’t think about any of these people at all while I was on lockdown. But now I realize that just by doing the normal things they do, they sprinkle my life with joy. I certainly hope that we don’t have to go into lockdown again, but if we do, I think that with my newfound sense of appreciation, I would actually miss these people.

Here in Israel, there is a culture of spoiling soldiers. People want to express their appreciation for all that they do to protect the country and want to pamper them a bit. It is not uncommon for restaurants and cafes to throw in a little something extra for chayalim who patronize their establishments. One can find 17 pinot chamot (Warm Corners) with 3 more on the way, stationed in various, often considered dangerous, locations around the country. A Warm Corner is a small air-conditioned structure where soldiers patrolling these areas are invited to stop and rest. These Warm Corners are stocked with coffee, drinks, and snacks for the soldiers to enjoy – for free. Several weeks ago, my son was waiting with his fellow chayalim for the bus to pick them up to take them back to their base. The bus was more delayed than usual so they ended up waiting for quite some time. Total strangers came up to them with their hands laden with pizza pies, drinks, and candy. Anything for the chayalim.

It became clear to me very early on in the lives of my children that the M’s (mem in Hebrew) are in charge. It began with pre-school. My son would come home from gan and talk about the M, Morah Rivkah, whom he adored. He spent an entire year pretending to be Morah Rivkah and had her down to a tee. He would even make brachos out loud with his “students” by saying, “Baruch Ata Ado…Elo…,” being careful, as she was, not to say Hashem’s name. Morah Rivkah was an absolutely fantastic ganenet. The love and structure that she provided when she took charge as an M was a very positive thing.

We are moving full steam ahead.  And fast.  It seems as though every few hours more corona restrictions are being lifted, for better and for worse.  There are those who have literally been counting down the minutes and welcome these changes with open arms. They are eager to get back to work, family, friends, hobbies, and life as they knew it before the days of corona.  They felt terribly stifled and are raring to go, like a horse that charges out of its stable as fast as his legs can carry him.  No hesitation whatsoever. As far as they are concerned, the coronavirus is over. Done.  A thing of the past.  But that is not me.  I was never one to jump into the pool.  I always get my toes wet and then ever so gradually lower myself into the water as I slowly adjust to the frigid temperature.  So, I still find myself looking at the stats and predictions, and calculating the cost and benefit of every outing I take.  But I have, ever so tentatively, begun to step out of the very distinct and defined comfort zone of my home. When I do, I feel like a toddler in the rapprochement phase, navigating the tug of war between the desire to assert his independence and conquer the world, and the need to run back to safety and fiercely cling to his mother.  My hesitation accompanies me but yet, I step outside wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as I am reunited with people I know and places I’ve been. There is almost a nostalgic quality to these excursions. With the word “unprecedented” being used an unprecedented number of times these past few months as the world has undergone a monumental transformation, the people I see seem like landsmen from my old country.  When I return to places I used to frequent, I feel like a participant in a roots trip, seeing relics of the past while getting a glimpse into what life was like in a different era.  Every trip out the door is somewhat of an adventure.