If I close my eyes, I could believe that I am in Paris. Zaz’s Je Veux is playing on the sound system’s mix. A pair of middle-aged gentlemen is engaged in a spirited conversation in French just over my right shoulder. I am enjoying a strong café crème alongside my pain au chocolat as the Shabbat errands get underway.
Screech, as if the needle of an old LP got dragged along the background sounds. I eavesdrop again, but instead of the lilt of French, the soundtrack shifts to very understandable Hebrew. “Mah shlomech?” the woman facing me is asked by the exiting shopper when I notice her black T-shirt bearing a piece of masking tape with the number 315 written in a black marker. As all locals know, this is the number of days since the October 7 massacre, when Hamas viciously attacked Gaza’s border communities.
All Jerusalemites also readily identify it as the symbol initiated by Rachel Goldberg-Polin in her family’s campaign to keep her only son, Hersh Goldberg, on everyone’s minds. He is an Israel-American among the many other hostages still in the dark and alone. Significantly, there is hardly an empty space in Jerusalem that has not been repurposed with graffiti toward this effort.
As the entering shopper answers, the crease across her forehead deepens as she replies back in Hebrew to her acquaintance, “So, one son is in Gaza now; his reserve duty continues on a weekly basis.”
My drink has reverted to a simple café hafuch, what many call a latte. It is reduced back to the mundane, nothing exotic, no whiff of the Olympics or fantasizing about other locales. There is more and more French heard on the streets here as many olim have relocated in recent years. It is probably easier to get authentic French bakery goods on my block of the German Colony than anywhere on this side of the Seine (even Kosher Mehadrin).
We are still in Jerusalem, we are still at war, and we still have the worries of a complex reality bearing down on every aspect of our lives. That semi-automatic question that sheer courtesy demands when we run into each other – how are you? – has become fraught. Do people really want to know?
Many have prepared answers that can shut down the inquisitiveness – such as an ideological reply like ani kfi sh’ami, which means I am as the rest of my people are. Or something more flippant. I have tried out achla, slang for great, delivered with an exclamation mark and a dollop of irony. I have even used Hamdulillah, which is really just like saying the more common Baruch Hashem, (Thank God) but definitely gets some raised eyebrows when delivered in Arabic. You really have to know people’s sarcas-o’meter to pull off that one.
And for those with an extra few seconds who are just as perplexed on how to answer, I have devised, “Well, as far as I know, my kids are ok, so on the spectrum of ok, we are on the spectrum.” Again, the secondary drollness is not for everyone.
Perhaps the best is to bounce back the hot potato question to the asker: “So, how are YOU?” I get to hear about a range of family milestones, like first grandchildren, bar/bat mitzvahs, and yes, the state of the injured, the shiva mourning periods, and the extended circles of concern.
In these days when we are in constant touch via phone apps – not for the weather, not for the traffic updates – but for glimmers of home front changes that the public needs to know, it is a bit touchy. Our young ones once loved Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs as a bedtime story. Now that they are parents, the new meme concerning the story that ends in “with a chance of missiles” is not so funny these days.
We must enjoy life
Activities for young charges includes proximity to shelters, at least for us infrequently targeted Jerusalemites. Now for the schlep bag: Sunscreen, water, hats, sunglasses, Band-aids, locate shelter. Check.
On the one hand, we need to live. We need to enjoy the life we have, so, while subdued, the coffee shops are busy and people are out and about, as it should be. These are the private victories we win. The gold medal for keeping life normal goes to Israel.
In the meantime, ask at your own risk. You have no idea what people are dealing with and if you ask, you might just regret it, because you may not want to know.
May we hear good news soon.