Jerusalem Stone

by Susan Sofayov

  ***

  We meandered through rows and rows of stalls selling fruit, vegetables, candy, and mouthwatering breads of every type. The shuk palpated with noise and energy generated by shoppers, children, tourists, and shop keepers. Peddlers hollered in Hebrew and English, hoping to draw customers away from the other stalls. Even the air smelled exciting, rich with the aroma of spices, baking sweets, and roasting meat.

  As we walked, my sexy tour guide kept up a running commentary on the history of the shuk and the area surrounding it. As I listened, people passed by, obviously checking out Avi. Teenage girls walked by giggling and whispering. A couple of courageous ones pointed and yelled, “Hi, Avi,” before running away.

  He looked at me flushed with embarrassment. I kissed his cheek. “Relax, it’s no big deal.”

  “Don’t get freaked out by it, please.”

  “It’s not freaking me out.” I tweaked his cheek. “It’s kind of funny. Now, let’s get back to the shuk history lesson. I remember my brother talking about this place when he came back from a Birthright trip.”

  “He did Birthright, and you didn’t?”

  I shook my head. “Now that I’m here, it’s apparent my decision not to take the trip was completely stupid. When Jack came home, all he could talk about was the market in Jerusalem, the old city, and the beautiful girl he fell in ‘love’ with.” I air quoted the word love and feigned a love-sick facial expression.

  “Really, love?”

  “I teased him about it all the time. He emailed her and called her for two years. When he got his first job out of college, he started saving to fly over and see her. Must be a family thing, Wassermans can’t resist sexy Israelis.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “If Jack knew I was with an Israeli, he’d be jumping up and down singing ‘I told you so.’ I’d never have heard the end of it.”

  “Why?”

  “He begged me to go on the trip with him, and I continually refused.” I bumped my hip into him. “You’re a much better noodnik than Jack. I accepted a summer job and used it as the excuse. But he knew I didn’t want to leave the non-Jewish guy I was dating at the time, who Jack hated.”

  ‘Because he wasn’t Jewish?”

  “Partially. According to Jack, the guy was ‘a total dick.’”

  “Protective brother. That’s good. I’m like that with Rivka. She’s your age and has brought home a few questionable dates.”

  I picked up a tomato and twirled it around my hand. “Jack loved acting the part. I’ve had two long-term relationships. He hated both. His mission was to get me to Chabad and introduce me to someone who met all his qualifications. I guess he didn’t trust my judgment in men because he always seemed to be interviewing someone for the role of Julie’s boyfriend.” I put the tomato down and reached for his hand. “You, he would approve of.”

  ***

  We stopped at a small restaurant just outside the shuk, and he introduced me to schwarma. The man behind the counter handed me a pita stuffed with the spicy meat, hummus, Israeli salad, and French fries. When I bit into it, juices streamed down my chin. “Napkin,” I muttered through my stuffed mouth.

  Instead of handing it to me, he wiped my chin. The gesture melted me to the core. We sat down at a small table outside the schwarma stand. “This is delicious,” I said. “But very messy.”

  “That’s part of the fun,” he mumbled through a mouth full of the luscious meat.

  “I haven’t run since Koh Samui. Is there a park around here? Maybe I could run for an hour this evening?” I said, between bites.

  He thought for a moment. “I could take you to the track at the university, and while you run, I’ll swim. When we're finished, I’ll give the scenic tour of my office and lab. But, right now, our next stop--the Old City--awaits. Walk or bus?”

  “Walk, of course.” I gathered our waste from the table, dumped it into the trashcan, and locked my fingers with his. “Lead on, sexy tour guide.”

  Chapter 15

  As I looked up at the ancient stone archway, and the stone wall that extended above it, Avi explained Jaffa Gate was one of eight gates leading into the Old City.

  Just inside the Gate, an Arab man resplendent in white robes and a keffiyeh covering his head sat on a small stool next to his bored looking camel. He tried talking us into a ride and a picture, but Avi brushed him off and tugged me along the ancient stone road. “Hey, stop,” I said. “I’ve never ridden a camel.”

  “If you want to ride a camel, I’ll take you to the Negev and sell you to a Bedouin. You can spend the rest of your life riding camels.” He slung his arm around my waist. “Nah, you’re too skinny. I wouldn’t get much for you. Bedouin men like meat on their women.”

  For some reason, I thought we'd see the Wall when we passed through the gate. Instead, he led me down a narrow stone road that had been polished smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet. “What’s that?” I pointed across the street at a minaret attached to the outer wall of the city. He explained that it was known as the Tower of David constructed by the Turks in sixteen thirty-five.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Sure, later, and if you want we can walk the ramparts.”

  I nodded. “I’m up for that.”

  “First, the Western Wall.”

  We wound our way along the street, which was barely the width of a car. But that didn’t stop the Israelis from driving on it. Each time a car passed, we flattened ourselves against the wall of the building.

  We paused for a moment in front of the Armenian Museum long enough for him to explain that the Armenians had been present in Jerusalem since the fourth-century CE.

  The road ended at the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Wall. We stood in the short line to get through the metal detector of the security gate.

  The plaza in front of the Wall looked and sounded like a meeting of the United Nations. In addition to Hebrew, people chattered in English, Russian, French, and a few languages I didn’t recognize. The air crackled with energy. The Wall looked much bigger in real life than in pictures. I wondered how the ancient builders managed to set huge stone upon huge stone without modern equipment. Architecture was more Jack’s thing than mine. Despite my limited knowledge of the period, I recognized that building such a massive structure without the luxury of modern tools and engineering rendered the Wall rather miraculous.

  High above our heads, perched on the rooftops were heavily armed sharpshooters. I pointed to one and looked at Avi questioningly.

  He shrugged and clasped my hand. “Most likely it’s security for a military basic training graduation ceremony. But, this is Israel. Sometimes, it’s just what we have to do, otherwise...”

  “Were you in the military?”

  “Yep, we all serve--mandatory, except for the ultra-religious groups. But let’s skip the whole military/political stuff today. Today is about Jews, history, and seeing you smile.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Okay by me. Politics, Israeli or American, aren’t my thing.”

  We walked across the left side of the plaza, which was open to everyone. On my right was the Wall. I looked up, in awe of its height. Avi pointed. “That’s the women’s side. The ladies down there are going to want you to cover your legs, so they’ll give you a scarf.”

  “Like the Buddhist temples.”

  “Yeah, but these ladies are much tougher.” He smiled.

  For a few moments, I stood watching the women praying at The Kotel. Some sat in the rows of folding chairs lined in front of it. Others stood, leaning their faces against it.

  “If I go over there, I don’t know what to do. Stare at it?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I forgot--non-believer. Think of it this way, thousands of years of your ancestors have touched this wall. By standing in front of it and touching it, you will be continuing that tradition, which has bound our people together.”

  I heard his words and scanned the area, thinking about tradition and the past. Whether I cared or not about my
religion, he was right. This was my heritage. Without the people who built this wall, I wouldn’t exist.

  “It’s a tradition that when you pray at the Wall, you write on a tiny piece of paper your deepest prayer. Then you fold it up and stick it into a crack in the Wall.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Some people pray for health. Others pray for wealth. Some people want love. And, I suspect many are just praying for peace in their heart and in the world. What you write on that paper is between you, the Wall, and God.”

  In front of me, a hundred or so women prayed fervently. A few cried, while others swayed as they clutched their prayer books. “Okay, let me give this a try.” I released my grip on his hand and walked toward the table stacked with prayer books. Half way there, I turned and glanced back at him. He nodded in encouragement. I wanted to run back and jump into his arms, but I didn’t.

  Before reaching the table, an old lady handed me a scarf and quickly figured out that I didn’t understand her Hebrew words. She switched to charades, acting out the way she wanted me to tie it around my waist. Then she handed me another scarf and demonstrated how to cover my shoulders. Once I was modestly draped in mismatched fabric, she pointed at the table covered with prayer books. I walked over and dug through the pile, hoping to find one with an English translation. The woman supervising the table surprised me by addressing me English.

  “All the English ones are taken. You can always say your own prayer. Hashem understands English.” She smiled a warm smile. “You look nervous. Relax, it’s a personal experience.” She handed me a slip of yellow paper and a pen. “This is for you to write a request, a prayer or blessing. Again, it’s a private thing.”

  I looked at the paper. What did you ask a wall for? “Thank you, but I’ll pass on that.”

  I hesitantly approached the Wall. With each step closer, it grew larger. I thought back to Jack, and the excitement covering his face when he told me about praying at the Kotel. He looked radiant. I wondered why I couldn’t find that kind of belief.

  A woman walked backward away from the spot against the Wall where she had been leaning. I slipped into the space and placed my hand on the cool stone. It felt smooth, worn by the millions of hands who stroked it in prayer. I slid my hand to the left, and then to the right. My eyes watered, and my heart spoke.

  If you exist, God, please help me, because the pain in my heart is unbearable. I need to know where Jack is. I could accept him being gone if I could believe he’s someplace else. How could someone be so alive one minute and nothing the next? Why do we bother living if we just end up a pile of dead bones in a box? There’s no reason to get out of bed. Why set goals or have dreams or even create memories? Are we just a cosmic accident? A bag of biology? Or something else?

  I walked back to the table and asked the woman for that slip of paper and a pen.

  Dear Hashem, if you exist, help me find you.

  I wadded it up and returned to the Wall. Stretching onto my tiptoes, I stuffed it into the highest crack in the stone I could reach. Then I placed my forehead against the Wall.

  This is my prayer, Hashem. If I can’t find you, could you find me? And maybe let me find Jack, or at least find a peace that allows me to keep living.

  Like the other women, to show respect, I walked backward for about fifty feet before turning my back to the Wall. I returned the scarves to the old woman. She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Bless you,” she said in English.

  My reaction to the Wall was more than emotional and spiritual. It was physical. My heart pounded against my chest, and my legs felt shaky.

  I scanned the area for Avi. He wasn’t where I left him. I walked across the plaza and stood back from the men’s side of the Wall. In front of it, throngs of black-coated, Hasidic men crushed against each other to get within touching distance. It took a few minutes until I spotted him in the far-left corner, facing the Wall, holding a prayer book. His dreadlocks topped with a tiny yarmulke, and his cargo shorts stuck out amidst the black hats and black pants

  I stared at his back, admiring his broad shoulders and strong arms. The thought of never being wrapped in them again caused my body to cringe. I didn’t want to live without Jack or without Avi. If God did exist, it felt like I failed to make it into his good graces.

  There was an empty spot, on a long bench, between a group of tourists and some school children. I sat down and waited. People of every type, speaking all different languages, filled the plaza. It was impossible to deny the pull of the Kotel and of Jerusalem on Jews.

  “Hey, sunshine.” Avi approached the bench. “Any reaction?”

  “It’s a nice wall. Very smooth. I wrote a prayer and stuffed it into a crack.” I shrugged. “Not sure what it’s worth.”

  He reached for my hand. “Do you realize we’re standing on the land Abraham crossed on his way to sacrifice Isaac?” He pointed toward the golden Dome of the Rock, sitting high above The Kotel. “Up there, under the Dome of the Rock, is the Foundation Stone. Do you know what that is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Our sages believe that the Foundation Stone is where God gathered the dirt to create Adam. This is where it all began.”

  Above us, the golden dome flashed in the sunlight. “Can we go up there?”

  “Well...” He drew out the word. “Technically, if the ramp is open to tourists today, we could, but we shouldn’t.”

  “Too dangerous?”

  “No.” His gaze climbed the Wall. “Jewish law forbids us from going there.”

  I flashed him a quizzical look. “If it’s such a holy place for Jews, why does the law forbid it?”

  He inhaled deeply and let out an exhaustive exhale. “The most sacred area of the Temple was the section called the Holy of Holies. Only the Kohen Gadol, the high priest, was permitted to enter the Holy of Holies and only on Yom Kippur. Today, we’re not one hundred percent sure of the exact location of the Second Temple or the Holy of Holies. The rabbis agree it’s better to stay off the Temple Mount Plaza than risk walking on sacred ground.”

  “What would happen if a Jew goes up there and steps on the spot?”

  He shrugged.

  “So, no Jew has ever set foot up there?”

  “Israeli soldiers guard the area, and many others have gone up. Personally, I’d prefer not going there. Standing here, at the base of the Temple’s retaining wall is good enough for me. Besides, there are plenty of amazing places to see in this city besides the Temple Mount.

  “I want to do all of it.”

  He looked deep into my eyes. “You know, Israel has a way of changing Jews. Many arrive here secular and leave more religious. Some come for a visit and never leave. You may not believe it, but the draw comes from the land. It’s magnetic for us--it recognizes our soul, grabs on, and doesn’t let go. Think about it, every Jewish soul stood at Sinai when Moses presented us with the Torah. Sparks of those souls still exist and reside in us. It’s the centuries of Jewish dead who lock us to the land to satisfy a desire to be close to that small part of them that exists in us.”

  The Western Wall plaza, even as people prayed and rushed to and from the Wall, felt comforting, despite the soldiers with guns poised above my head. The whole experience left me with an undeniable sense of peace.

  “Let’s go make reservations for the Western Wall Tunnel tour. Hopefully, the first tour tomorrow morning will still have a few open spots. Then we can walk back to the Tower of David, tour the museum, and watch the sunset from the ramparts.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “I’m going to make a Jerusalemite out of you.”

  Chapter 16

  It was disappointing to hear Avi say that the Tower of David had no connection with King David. The Ottomans built it on the ruins of the city fortifications built by Herod. No matter who built it, the Jerusalem stone whispered the stories of long gone men and women who dedicated themselves to protecting the walls of the city.

  We climbed copious amounts of steps carved out of sto
ne that led us under ancient archways to lookout spots along the walls. Inside the exhibit rooms, we wove our way through a large group of college students. “Birthright trip,” Avi said. “Looks like those kids are having a lot of fun.” He shook his head. “Too bad you missed the opportunity.”

  Standing near a diorama of the First Temple under siege by the Assyrians, I spotted a lanky kid sporting a backward baseball cap. Black curls poked out from under it.

  My heart hitched as I watched him smile and clasp the hand of a girl wearing an Israeli army uniform--gun slung over her shoulder.

  During that moment, it dawned on me that Jerusalem was not just showing me her past, but revealing a part of my brother’s past that didn’t include me.

  “What are you staring at?” Avi asked, interrupting my reverie.

  “Over there, the boy wearing the backward baseball cap.”

  “Reminds you of Jack, right?”

  I nodded and watched the teenage couple as they walked across the room.

  “The girl walks like my sister, Rivka, long stride. Let’s go into the courtyard and take a break.” He clasped my hand and led me outside into the fresh air of a stone balcony overlooking an archeological site that doubled as a courtyard.

  We walked down the steps into a small area shaded by a species of tree I didn’t recognize. The rooms inside the museum were air conditioned, but outside, the August Jerusalem sun demonstrated its ability to bake the land and the people on it.

  “Let’s sit here for a few minutes,” I said, inhaling the scent of flowers growing along the walking path.

  “When we were little, my mother worked for the Israel Antiquities Authority. She spent a lot of time here when we were kids,” he said. “She’d bring the three of us with her and let us play in this courtyard. Aviva loved running up and down all the steps. Rivka was still very young. I’d stay with her. We’d sit on this bench, and I’d make up stories about the people who lived here during the Temple days. She liked my stories about little girls who received warnings from the wall sentries and had to run through the narrow streets warning the people of the danger outside the wall.” He smiled and appeared to gaze back in time. “I was only about eight years old, but I remember feeling very grown up when she hung on every detail of my stories.”