That Night
by Michelle Faerber
Life is a series of moments shaping and molding your destiny. We have all heard this notion in some form, generally understood to be equated with the people you are familiar with. Individuals like neighbors, relatives, friends, and others you encounter who say hello and never bid goodbye. But seldom do moments transpire where the person is catapulted into the lives of strangers. People you don't know generate your tears, imprint invisible scars, and seize your throat to scream. And the oddity is you most likely will never meet, see, or speak with them. Yet their presence may linger in your dreams, their anguish spill onto your prayer books, and their losses blur your eyes when you smell smoke.
A sunny Tuesday in Jerusalem, Israel was one such moment for me. My first week in Israel had passed and already the land had fashioned a transcendent cloak for my donning. I visited the Kotel for the first time, explored the shops in Geula, and settled into my apartment in Darchei Binah Seminary for Girls, my surrogate home for the next nine months. That day, we were informed we would all be meeting with our group leader for brunch. Each year, the girls were divided into three main groups, each with their own name, leader, and formal class scheduled to meet once a week. Thus, each leader hosted an informal lunch as a means for the girls to converse and get acquainted with the other twenty five members of each division.
While standing on my leader Danielle's porch, simultaneously breathing in the view of Bayit Vegan, Jerusalem and balancing a half consumed falafel, my cell phone began vibrating. Puzzled at the strange sensation, I reached for the phone and from the crevice of my eye, noticed the others following suit. One volunteer then read the text message out loud, which stated "All girls are to report back to the dorm and must remain in Bayit Vegan for the remainder of the evening." Discussion of why and when followed, with a single word reverberating - "lockdown." "Lockdown"? Sounds like a protocol for maximum security prison wards, I thought. In fact, "lockdown" was a term I became intimately familiar with for the duration of the school year. When under "lockdown", no one in the school was allowed out of Bayit Vegan, and sometimes, even out of the school buildings themselves. And of course lockdown could only be synonymous with a universal concept to all: terrorists.
Perturbed and bewildered, lunch ended prematurely and we all trudged back to our dorms. Speculation and musings were entertained between the girls, some terrified others passive, but all pondering the same notion: what was transpiring somewhere along the machine gunned checkpoints and sniper sprinkled mountains that frightened citizens and tourists alike, confining them to homes in a city that yearns for companionship? An answer arrived approximately eight o'clock when an explosion on the horizon jerked us from our dorm rooms and onto our balconies. Amidst the ebony heavens, swirled a sashaying cloud of grey smoke. Miniature vehicles were gathered around the smog and multiple wailing echoed around the scene. A terrorist bombing had occurred, our first and what would be the most meaningful that year.
The girls then stormed downstairs into the dorm counselor's room. She confirmed its location in Katamon, only a twenty minute car ride away, thus providing the reason for its microcosm in our balcony view. A tehillim recitation was organized in the dorm basement. Along with the rest, I prayed for strangers while nursing not even a fraction of the hurting coursing through the event's victims. The girls then dispersed into rooms for discussion and possible explanations. But with the lack of details and information, only thoughts were sounded, until the lull tug of slumber took hold and sent us to bed.
Victims were named over Wednesday morning's breakfast of cereal and milk. Among them were Dr. Applebaum and his daughter Nava, who were sharing an intimate father-daughter moment over lattes when murdered. The episode sickened when it was learned that she was to be wed the day she was buried. Both she and her father, Director of Emergency Medicine and founder of Terem Emergency Medicine Service, shared a funeral attended by many, among them the newly arrived students of Medrash Moriyah, whose dorm was located in the hospital. During the weeks' classes, various anecdotes and condolences were offered by the teachers, with one teacher's thought residing with me and continuing on nearly a year later. She recounted that Nava's fiance threw his would be wedding band into her grave. "Perfection," she explained, "cannot be competed with for he never lived with his bride to learn her flaws." Thus, the process of dispelling the notion of the ultimate spouse immortalized in one's mind is not an easy task. I cannot fathom what his life will look like as each day without her passes. Yet having heard this, a certain melancholy now accompanies my happiness each time I attend another wedding ceremony.
A friend recently inquired why my eyes look hopeless as we watched the wedding ceremony of a mutual acquaintance. I would not tell her that selfishly, my heart sinks slightly more when I gaze upon another bride walking down her aisle towards, G-d willing, matrimonial bliss. Interestingly and perhaps not so ironically, Nava's wedding gown was used temporaliy for less well off brides, before finally resting as part of the curtain in Rachel's Tomb in Beit Lechem, Israel. Thus, I never knew nor will ever know Nava, but she joins me at every wedding I attend, as a fictionious image of a young woman floating down an imaginary wedding hall aisle. And I welcome her presence as a gentle reminder of the frailty of life and the gratitude I should feel when another couple is united to build a marriage void of discarded wedding bands and never worn bridal gowns.
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