I Was There

She arrived with a group of women who stormed to touch the mezuzot on the doorposts with heart-rending wails; some even prostrated themselves between the puddles of mud and snow in the entrance hall, and then crawled toward the threshold or the caregivers’ shoes, whichever they

reached first, just so that they could put their lips to something and kiss it. The administration officials rained orders on the maintenance workers, and the medical staff – two nurses and a doctor – were rushed in to admit the newcomers. In pairs or groups, some arriving in vehicles and others on foot, the refugees streamed in, their cheeks slightly flushed, their bodies relatively clean, with shoes rather than cloth leggings, and supporting each other – for there’s no stronger support than having to support someone else. Volunteers from Zionist youth movements met them at the train stations and at the main city crossroads, gave them hot soup to drink and led them to the Jewish community building for registration, admission and rehabilitation. That’s where she arrived on that cloud-darkened morning.

This happened during April, or early in May, or perhaps even earlier, toward the end of March, there’s no way of knowing. The only hint that she let drop – the bowl of soup that kept her alive for nine days on the road – could not be followed up because she only mentioned it to a neighbor by chance, and although I listened to the story intently, I could not fix it in place or time. Years later, there...