Decent Pyjamas and Slip-on Shoes, Just in Case

Yesterday evening the sirens sounded over Jerusalem. I'm not going into the politics of who, what or why - this post is purely about our responses. 

I, along with all my neighbours, emerged onto the balcony where we chatted about what could possibly be happening. Was it a drill? A mistake? Who knows? 

Suddenly we heard the booms of exploding missiles and we realized that this wasn't a drill or a mistake. "OMG!" We dashed for cover. I ran into the apartment and called out, "DD down to the shelter, NOW!" DD came racing out of  her bedroom as I fumbled with the lock on the front door. 

Of course once the Iron Domes had intercepted and exploded the missiles before they made impact, it was all over and the sirens stopped before I'd even got the front door open. 

Here in Jerusalem we're out of the habit of thinking about the sirens except for announcing the beginning of Shabbat (when they are much quieter), minutes of silence on memorial days, drills, and the occasional error. 

Back in the days of the second intifada, now almost 20 years ago, even a door slamming would make me jump with fright. When I'm visiting my friends on their kibbutz near the border with Gaza, I know that a siren means: Run for cover! I expect it. They live with it. 

So there we were, with seven rockets fired on Jerusalem, speeding through the skies in our direction, all standing on our balconies to chat about the warning sirens. It reminded me of one of Rudyard Kipling's Epitaphs of the War - The Beginner.

Afterwards we laughed at ourselves but it wasn't funny. How many wars and attacks have we lived through and yet we behaved like beginners? It was a lesson in complacency. Next time we hear sirens we run to the bomb shelter and ask questions later. 

Last night DD and I both wore decent pyjamas and put easy to slip on shoes by our beds. 

the beginner 

On the first hour of my first day 

    In the front trench I fell. 

(Children in boxes at a play

    Stand up to watch it well.) 

Overheard on the Bus - Holocaust Remembrance Day

Tonight and tomorrow is Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel and in the Jewish world. I lit my candle and now I'm going to tell you a story I overheard on the bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem in about 1990. I can't be sure of the year but the lady who told the story was about 55 years old so that would fit with her being born in about 1935. My dates are approximate but my memory is clear. The bus was crowded. I had a seat and she was standing next to me in the isle, talking to another woman. She was slim, with wavy black hair layered to her shoulders, and spoke with a New York accent. This is the story she told her friend.

"I was born in Germany. I was one of three. We were triplets. We came early as multiple births often do, and we were very small. After a week or so they sent my mother home to recuperate and kept us three baby girls in the hospital to grow stronger. Our father visited us every day after work. 

One day a nurse took my father aside and urged him to take us home immediately. The situation for the Jews was already compromised and he understood enough to take her words seriously. He had come straight from work so he had no way to take all three of us home on the bus without a bassinet or any way of carrying us. He could only manage one baby, and he took me. 

The next morning my father went back to the hospital with a bassinet to collect his other two daughters. It was too late, they were gone. The head of hospital told him that they had died in the night. There were no bodies and no further information could be dragged out of any of the staff. 

Soon after that we moved to New York. My two younger brothers and I always knew that I was one of triplets but my mother was always adamant that the other two had died. She couldn't cope with any other scenario. My father never contradicted her but we knew he believed otherwise. 

I became an art teacher. Many years later I was teaching in a high school in New York when a college student came to do her training placement with me. One day she told me that her college supervisor would be coming in to observe her lesson. We told the class and we waited to start until the supervisor arrived. 

The classroom door opened and another member of staff brought the supervisor in. Everyone in the room gasped. All the kids could see it. The supervisor was my identical double. And she was wearing an enormous cross around her neck. All the kids knew that I am Jewish. When she saw me she went white, but she sat through the lesson and then quickly left. She didn't speak to me afterwards, which is very unusual, and I never saw her again. But I know she was my sister and that somewhere out there there's another one of us."

I was eavesdropping so I couldn't ask any questions. Luckily the friend asked what I too wanted to know. "Didn't you try to find her?"

"No never. I discussed it with my brothers and we decided not to even tell my parents. My mother had lived all her life insisting that two of her daughters had died. What would it do to her to have to face a different truth now? And the woman with the big cross around her neck - who knows what she has been through? Who knows what kind of life she had? I was the lucky one who got to grow up with our parents. It wasn't up to me turn her life upside down. She knew where to find me if she wanted to. She never did."

This is the first time I've told this story overheard on a bus in Israel more than 30 years ago. The lady would be about 85 now if she's still alive. It's an incredible story but not unusual for Israel or in the Jewish world. As time goes on we hear these incredible stories less and less. In another generation they will be second-hand stories. I am the generation who heard directly from the people who survived. We must continue to tell the stories. 

Cooking from the HeART

What do you do when you find yourself in quarantine with a fortnight's worth of free time? For Sally-Ann Thwaites the answer was simple. She would use the time to collect all her recipes, hithertofore on scraps of paper or on her phone, together into one convenient file. 

Sally-Ann (Sassy to her friends) is a great entertainer. Her passion is to have upwards of 10, and sometimes 20 friends around her dining table almost every Shabbat. Her greatest joy is a house full of guests for a party, a barbeque, or a celebration of any sort. So, on hearing of her plan to collate all her delicious recipes, everyone encouraged her to go the extra mile and make it into a book.

Thus began a five month project which resulted in Cooking from the Heart, a 260 page cornucopia of entertaining know-how, recipes, tips and luscious photos. 

Emerging from her solitary confinement, Sassy invited all her friends whose dishes she'd been borrowing for years, to send her the actual recipes. She contacted the chefs of restaurants and hotels to request the recipes of dishes she and her husband have particularly enjoyed locally and on their travels. 

She also dug deep into her memory to recreate the best loved dishes of her childhood. Recipes from her beloved mother, also a great cook and entertainer, and her first inspiration in the kitchen. In fact the book is dedicated to Monica Slater, a lovely lady whom I remember well from my childhood in our community in London.

When I offered to do some editing, I was told there would be about 25 recipes a week for three weeks. No problem, we were in lockdown, I wasn't going anywhere. But the recipes kept on coming. When, five months later, we reached 130 recipes I asked if this was a book of her favourite recipes or of every dish she'd ever eaten. Haha, very funny. These things often take on a life of their own. 

If you're going to do something, do it properly, right? A professional photographer, graphic designer and printer were essential to make the leap from crafts project to coffee table splendor. Fun for us, because every few weeks, in between the lockdowns, there was photo shoot and a whole bunch of friends had to come over and eat all the food. 

Sally-Ann setting the table.

I learned a few things too. Apparently a grazing table is a thing. But don't worry if you've never heard of it before as there's a page dedicated to telling you how it's done with elegance and panache*. Ditto for other more familiar concepts like table settings, buffets, reception food, and fruit platters.

Obviously after all the time, effort and expense, this is not the sort of thing where you print five copies and give them to your closest family. With the help of a sponsor, Cooking from the Heart is being distributed in aid of Beit Halochem, an organisation that supports military veterans in Israel. (Suggested donation £30 and all the proceeds go straight to the charity.) 

There's a facebook page where people are posting photos of their dinners from the book. It's fun to see everyone's choices, interpretations (because no two cooks are the same), and comments. And you can find information about how to get your very own copy. 

I've completed a few little projects during this pandemic, but Sassy raised the bar considerably. In fact, in my Jerusalem neighbourhood, I'd say she won the lockdowns by a mile. 

*I am particulalry interested in panache at the moment, having just started this new blog.

The Call to Vacction (It's a Play on Words).

Jerusalem Payis Arena
The sign says: Maccabi Always With You. 
 

 3.20 pm: I'm giving a zoom English lesson to six 4th Graders. The phone rings. I don't give the lady time to tell me anything. I say I'm a teacher giving a zoom lesson and I'll be able to talk in another 30 minutes. Had I known what it was about, I would never have hung up.

 3.50 pm on the dot: She calls back. She's from Maccabi, my health fund. Would I like to make an appointment for the first round vaccination? Of course I would but as I told the person I spoke to a couple of weeks ago, after receiving invitations by sms, email and a phone call, I'm allergic to latex and they warned people with allergies to speak to their doctor first. Last time I was told that as I'm not yet 60, I don't really qualify. Which begged the question - why invite me to make an appointment then? 

Since then they are filling in free slots with people in their 50s so as not to waste opened batches of vaccination that have been out of the freezer too long to put back. 

This nice lady asks if I'm allergic to any medicines and specifically any inoculations. No and no. So you're fine, can you come at 4.20? Whoa, I'm not sure I can get there by 4.20. Ok, 4.40? Done. 

I am about to hang up when she says, "one more thing. Your second jab will be on the 25th January also at 4.40." I'm amazed. Are you an angel from heaven? The truth is that Israel does what it does best in a crisis. We're used to crises.  

 3.55 pm: I dance around my apartment feeling like I've won the lottery. 

 4.05 pm: I jump in a taxi. "Driver! The Jerusalem Payis Arena! And don't spare the horses!" (I'm paraphrasing.) 

 4.20 pm: I walk into the Arena. They give me a number at the door which corresponds exactly to the number showing on the screen. Cubicle 9. Straight in. 

 4.21 pm: I give my ID number. "Rachel Selby? I see you had your flu shot three weeks ago." Yes and yes. "Which arm?" Reader, I didn't feel a thing. 

 4.22 pm: I'm sitting in the lobby having been instructed to wait 10 minutes before leaving. 

 4.50 pm: I'm home and half vaccinated. The trouble is that no one knows which half. And anyway, my 50% immunity doesn't kick in for 8-10 days. But who's going anywhere in the next month anyway? We too are heading for a strict stay-at-home lockdown due to start within 48 hours.

Apparently we are stopping the first round of vaccinations at the end of this week and spending the rest of January giving the second round. I wasn't going to bother with this first round. I thought I'd contact my GP, maybe have to get an epipen and a doctor's note. Whatever, I planned to be ready for the February intake. I was quite happy to let the first 1.5 million people try it out before me. But, now I'm happy, relieved, honoured, and very grateful to have been given this opportunity.