Table of Contents ABOUT THE AUTHOR:.............................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER 1 –NEW FRIENDS .................................................................................................................3

CHAPTER 2 - ES CAPE TO THE BEACH ....................................................................................................... 23

CHAPTER 3- ANAT 'S TESHUVAH .............................................................................................................. 36

CHAPTER 4- A HIDDEN SISTER ............................................................................................................... 65

CHAPTER 5 - CHAGIT KEEPS BUSY ........................................................................................................... 85

CHAPTER 6 - A QUESTION OF INTERMARRIAGE .......................................................................................... 98

CHAPTER 7 - SURPRISE PARTY .............................................................................................................. 133

CHAPTER 8 - ELITZUR'S LONG JOURNEY ................................................................................................. 159

CHAPTER 9 - THE SECRET ABOUT ANAT .................................................................................................. 191

CHAPTER 10 - BREAKDOWN ................................................................................................................ 209

CHAPTER 11 - OLD FRIENDS ................................................................................................................ 227

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mrs. Nechama Kramer, is married has 11 children and lives in the Shomron, Israel (the Samarian hills). She has started to write this story when she was already in high - school, and after many years of work on it she had it published in Hebrew and later on translated in English.

The story is based on true facts! The people are real, they were her friends,she knew each one of them. Yet the story as written never happened! She took facts, stuff that happened, things that she personally experience and put it together in a lovely story.

Up to date she published 6 other books, sorry, but they are still in Hebrew, and hope that some more will be published.

Who is the Author in the story? The most frequent question asked, and Mrs. Kramer usually answers, "All and none", She put a bit of herself in all of the characters, in fact she made it so, that none of her friends know who is who in real life.

[but if you ask me - I think mostly she is Tammi, but who knows...].

Well, we hope you really enjoy the story, and we thank Mrs. Kramer for sharing it with all of us!

May G-D give her strength and courage to continue her great contribution to the world!

The kids@torah.net staff.

Now on to the story!

PREFACE Not being gifted with the exceptional talents of other authors, I do not know how to imagine and invent stories. All I know how to do is to look attentively, with open eyes and open mind, at the things going on around me, to be quiet, and listen to every word, including the unspoken ones. To try to catch every blink of an eyelash, every movement, even those that are barely noticeable.

I try to store all these things in the personal built-in computer in my head, and to pull out the information when it is needed.

What I mean to say is simply that even if certain things in the story you are about to read seem like the far-fetched products of imagination, that is not so. The vast majority of the events related in this story actually happened, either to me, or to my friends when I was present.

What I had to do was to push the right button in my "personal computer" and recall the information, then go over it, connecting one item with another to construct this story - which you can read now.

May it be pleasant and worthwhile reading!

CHAPTER 1 –NEW FRIENDS

Pushing in among the dozens of girls who crowded the schoolyard, I managed to blaze a trail through, without knowing exactly where I was trying to get to. The girls stood in bunches of three, five, ten, or even more, talking excitedly. I was excited too, but I didn't have anyone to share my feelings with.

It was the first day of high school - or, to be more exact, the first time that all of us, the girls of the freshman class, were together. I estimated that about a hundred girls were gathered here in the schoolyard. That meant there would probably be three ninth-grade classes.

I stood off to one side and tried to put my thoughts in order.

"Everything's going to be all right," I told myself, trying to calm down for the umpteenth time. "This nervousness will go away fast. We'll get sorted into classes. I'll get to know my new friends, and they'll get to know me. For sure I'll be able to regain the status I had in my class last year."

But here, in the middle of the noise and commotion, the cries of joy, outbursts of laughter, and hearty back-slapping, it was hard to convince myself that I would succeed all that quickly. I envied all these girls who had arrived here with groups of their friends from the same school. They had the privilege of being surrounded by familiar faces, they knew each other - and most important, they came with their friends from their previous school. Getting adjusted to a new school would be much easier for them than for me. I was a stranger. I didn't know a soul.

In the middle of summer vacation my family had moved from Tiberias to Jerusalem, and I hadn't yet had a chance to make new friends. At this moment, I had no one to talk to. And I wasn't brave enough to walk up to one of these bubbling groups of girls and announce: "Shalom! I'm Tammi Har-el. We moved here from Tiberias three weeks ago..." No doubt they would just stare at me wide-eyed and make up their minds that I was a weird girl. They would laugh at me. After all, first impressions are very important; it’s usually the decisive one. No, no, it wasn't worth taking a chance. "I'll just stand here quietly for the time being," I thought. "No doubt I'll soon have plenty of chances - more opportune and reasonable - to introduce myself."

All of a sudden I heard a voice near me. "Shalom..." I turned my head quickly, to find myself looking at a young woman, blonde and smiling. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Tammi," I managed to stammer, wondering who this person could be. "Tammi Har-el."

"Where are you from, Tammi? You seem to be new here. Are you a Jerusalem girl?"

"Yes, I live in Jerusalem... I mean, now I do...We moved three weeks ago from Tiberias." I stopped and took a deep breath. I was nervous. Who could this woman be?

"I understand, Tammi. It's hard for you today. You don't know any of these girls, so it's natural to feel isolated and that you don't belong yet. But that feeling will pass, too. I'm sure you'll quickly succeed in making new friends, and all the girls in your class will like you. Tammi Har-el, did you say?" She glanced at some papers in her hand. "Yes, Tammi. I see your name appears on my list...You'll be in my class."

I almost lost my breath. "You're a teacher here?"

"Yes." She gave me a friendly smile. I'm going to be the mechanechet for class 9-1; and here, in this list I'm holding, your name appears. So you're going to be my student. We'll get better acquainted later today, Tammi. Good luck!" She turned and went on her way. I saw her stop to talk to another girl.

So I'm going to be in class 9-1...I'm curious on what basis they assigned the girls to the classes. And that nice woman is going to be the mechanechet of my class. I wonder how she'll be. She was very friendly to me. Is that her natural personality? Will she be like that all year? What are the other names on that list she had in her hand? Which of all these dozens of girls swirling around me match up with those names?

I began to calm down a little from my previous state of nervousness. I could concentrate better on my surroundings and take in more details. I realized that I was not the only one who was standing off to one side, isolated from the general jubilation.

Over there, leaning against the building, was a short, thin girl with black hair. She stood by herself, but she didn't seem at all confused. She was interestedly observing everything going on around her, an amused expression on her face. She seemed to be enjoying the show.

Right opposite me, leaning on a tree trunk, stood a tall girl. I suddenly realized that all the girls who were standing by themselves were leaning on something. I, too, was leaning against a column. This probably came from an unconscious need to draw support from something, even an inanimate object.

I surveyed this tall girl with interest. She had blond hair that felt onto her shoulders in two long, thick braids.

Her eyes were clear and bright; I couldn't make out their exact color at this instant. Later, I was to learn that her eyes changed color in accordance with her emotions and feelings. Light blue, dark blue, green, grey. When she was tranquil, her eyes were light blue. When she was gay and happy, they turned dark blue. Her eyes turned green when she was deeply moved, and grey when she got angry.

However, I was to learn all this only later, after I got to know her. At the moment, and at this distance, I couldn't see the color of her eyes at all. I didn't even know her name. She looked like a mature, serious girl. She watched the girls around her with great concentration, as if trying to penetrate their outer appearance and discover their inner secrets.

Just then, her eyes turned and rested on me. For a moment we looked at each other, and then, involuntarily, I lowered my eyes. When I raised them again, I saw that she was still looking at me.

"Open the doors of the lecture hall! Everybody go in!" I heard voices announcing behind me. "Girls, everyone into the hall! The principal has arrived. There he is." A girl pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered man who strode rapidly past the girls.

I sat on one of the front benches in the lecture hall. I didn't know any of the girls sitting around me. For a moment, I thought the girl sitting next to me wanted to say something to me, but just then the principal walked onto the platform, and

a hush fell over the hall. Suddenly the chattering and laughing ceased. All of us looked at our new principal.

He welcomed us to the start of the new year that we would all share together, and expressed the hope that we would all be satisfied, both the students and the teaching staff. He gave a general description of how the school was run, promising that we would hear the rest of the details from our new teachers. His speech was short, simple, and to the point.

The next speaker was the supervisor responsible for all the classes of the ninth and tenth grades - six classes in all, she explained. She told us to disperse to four different rooms, according to the initial of our last name. There we would hear which class we had been assigned to, and which room we should go to.

I, of course, already knew that I was going to be in class 9-1. But which room was that? I was on my way out of the lecture hall, swept along in the stream of girls. Outside, I could breathe more freely, after the stuffy atmosphere of the big hall. If I could figure out which room belonged to class 9-1, I could save myself the trouble of going to the room for those whose last names started with "H," avoiding that much more jostling and stuffy air.

As if reading my thoughts, the blond woman, my new mechanechet suddenly appeared opposite me.

"In which room is our class meeting?" I asked, before I even realized what I was saying. She gave me a surprised look, as if she didn't understand what I wanted of her. But immediately a spark of recognition flashed into her eyes.

"Oh, you're...Tammi, right? Our class meets in room twenty- three." And she turned and went on her way. I wasn't mad at her for not recognizing me at first. She must be very busy. ..the first day with a new class. It's not easy to be the teacher. No doubt during the last few hours she had gone up to other girls who were standing by themselves, had spoken with them and tried to cheer them up. It was hard to remember everyone's name. Of course, it would have been more pleasant for me if she had remembered right away who I was, but even as it was I was not especially disturbed. I followed after her, staying a certain distance behind. She walked energetically through the long corridor. I kept looking up to see the signs over the doors. I stopped in front of room fifteen. It was at the end

of the corridor, the last room on that floor. The teacher went into a room marked "Office."

I heard someone speaking to me: "It looks like room twenty- three must be on the second floor." I turned my head to see who had spoken. "There were about ten girls near me in the corridor, but the one who had spoken to me was the tall girl with the braids, the one who had studied me while I was leaning against the column.

"How do you know I'm looking for room twenty-three?" I asked with a smile.

"I overheard when the teacher answered your question," she answered in a natural tone of voice, showing no sign of being caught off guard.

"Are you going there, too?" I asked, curious.

"Yes. Let's go together. My name is Anat." "I'm Tammi." And that's how I first got to know Anat.

We were the first ones to get to the classroom. We took chairs and sat down. Right after us, a laughing group of girls arrived, and within two minutes the classroom was full. The mechanechet arrived too, and everyone sat down, full of expectant suspense, to see what she would say.

I surveyed the class: thirty-two girls, tall and short, thin and chubby, dark and light. A few of the faces were already familiar to me from the schoolyard. Or perhaps from the assembly in the lecture hall. Where was the short, thin, dark- haired girl I had noticed before the assembly? I already knew that her name was Chagit. I had heard a friend of hers calling to her joyfully, "You're already here, Chagit? You beat us!" But she wasn't in this room. She must be in one of the other classes.

Suddenly I heard the teacher say my name. I gave a startled jump; but a moment later, when I heard her continue, "Vardi, Rinah," I relaxed, realizing that she was just calling the roll.

We sang a few songs; danced a little. The tension evaporated. I managed to exchange a few words with some of the girls in the class. I made an effort to memorize the names of the new girls I met. I wanted to surprise them tomorrow

by calling them by name without getting mixed up or forgetting. Everyone likes it when people call him by his name, instead of "Hey, you...What's your name again? I've forgotten..." I noticed Anat on the other side of the classroom, with a girl I hadn't yet had a chance to talk to. I went over to them. Anat welcomed me with a smile.

"Tammi, this is Ronit. I don't think you've met yet." "But now we've met," Ronit said with a smile.

I found out that Anat did not live in Jerusalem. She came from Rechovot, and would be living in the dorm. Ronit also lived in the dorm. She came from Beer Sheva. The conversation among the three of us flowed very naturally and easily. We told each other about our previous schools, our teachers, our friends...until the teacher announced that the hour was late and it was time to leave.

"Don't forget," she said with a smile, "Tomorrow you have a day of learning ahead of you. Summer vacation is over."

"See you tomorrow. See you tomorrow" - that was the sounds that accompanied me on my way home. Our new house was near the school, and even nearer to the dorm building, which was only about five doors up the street from us. In one minute, walking quickly, I could cover the distance from my house to the gate of the dorm building. Running, no doubt I could do it in half a minute; maybe less. If Anat and I were going to be friends - yes, she did seem very nice - it wouldn't be hard for us to keep in touch with each other. We could see each other often.

That night I lay in bed, turning from side to side, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I was thinking about tomorrow. The first day of learning in high school, in a new city, with all new friends. New routines and rules, unfamiliar procedures. Surely I would easily adapt to the new situation and society. In the past, whatever surroundings I found myself in, I had always been the life of the group. There was no reason why things should be any different here. I wasn't dreaming of becoming the "queen of the class." I didn't even want that. But I was sure all the girls in the class would like me...

I don't remember at what stage in my thoughts I dozed off. When I woke up, my room was flooded with blinding sunlight, making it hard to open my eyes. All the same, I managed to look at my clock, only to discover, to my panic, that it was

already twenty-five past seven. I jumped out of bed fast. This was no way to get started - late on the first day of learning!

I filled my lungs with a deep breath. The air was warm and dry, uncomfortable to breathe. I ran to the sink, washed hands, and splashed my face with cool water. I wasn't at all pleased to think that a heat-wave lay in store for us today. Fortunately, the humidity is low in Jerusalem, so one doesn't become too sweaty, even on a hot day. In Tiberias the hot, humid weather had been really awful. There, in the summertime, I used to spend most of my time in the shower.

I drank a cup of orange juice, deciding to forget about breakfast. Who could eat on a day like this, when already in the morning the air was heavy, suffocating, blazing and dry, even indoors? I hurriedly threw together my sandwich for the ten o'clock break, said "Shalom" to my mother, and went out.

I could hear my mother's voice behind me: "What about breakfast, Tammi? And did you drink a glass of milk?"

"When I get home. Mom, when I get home. Breakfast I'll eat some other time," I mumbled to myself. I felt a bit guilty that I hadn't done anything to help my mother with the housework. I should have dressed Natti, my little brother, or straightened up the bedrooms, as I was used to doing on those mornings when I was gracious enough to get up early. This morning I had barely managed to make my own bed. I decided that tomorrow I would try to get up earlier.

By the time I had reached this decision, I was at the gate of the school. There were still five minutes until the bell would ring, and I could relax for a moment and look around. A caravan of girls was streaming in the direction of the old three-story school building, whose grayish-brown walls gave undeniable testimony of the long years they had already held themselves up.

I turned around and threw a quick glance at the street behind me, taking in the whole scene at once. The sidewalk leading to the school was flooded with a sea of hair-do's - a heart-lifting sight of girls hurrying to their classes on the first day of school. In that deluge of bobbing heads it was hard to single out any of the girls from my class. I turned and went through the gate, walked up to the second floor, and entered my classroom.

"Good morning, good morning," came from a few of the girls. I answered with a rather dry, "good morning" of my own and scanned the classroom, trying to spot a good place to sit. The class was arranged in rows of tables, with two chairs at each table. I wanted to find a good seat, because the place I chose now would be mine for the whole year. A few places were already taken, as I could tell from the briefcases that were dumped on the chairs. I didn't want to sit in the first row; I don't like being right under the eyes of the teacher. On the other hand, the back row is also not a good idea. The teachers have a habit of keeping a special look-out on it. A desk in the next-to- last row would be good, and that's what I found, in the fourth column of desks, which was the farthest to the left, next to the window. The table was vacant. I went over, put my briefcase on one of the chairs, and sat down on the other.

Now what? Suddenly I ran out of steam. I wanted to go up to them, to my new friends; to talk, exchange impressions. But something unexplainable held me back. The girls were standing in groups, chatting among themselves about things that I didn't know anything about. Those topics formed a bond among them, cementing friendships from the past that were continuing into the present. Even the dorm girls, who came from various other cities, had already formed definite groups. They had had time to get acquainted since yesterday. I wanted very much to take part in one of the conversations, but I had no idea how to go about it.

"Yesterday I met her!" I heard one of the girls - I remembered that her name was Tirtzah - saying with sparkling eyes to a group of girls. "She was so nice. She asked me how it felt to be in high school, and she even - you won't believe it - she even told me she wants to invite us to her house for a party some Shabbat..."

The girls drew in their breath. "Us? All of us?" they asked in amazement.

"A-L-L of us!" Tirtzah repeated in a loud, emphatic voice. "That's exactly what she said to me!" It took me a while to realize that she was referring to the madrichah, the girl from an upper class who had organized and led these girls’ social activities last year. But how could I take part in a conversation like that?

"Is the seat next to you available?" I heard a familiar voice - refined and quiet - say to me. I looked up and saw Anat gazing at me with extremely light-blue eyes.

For a moment the words got stuck in my throat. Without making a sound, I stood up and moved over to the next chair, leaving room for Anat to sit down. I put my briefcase in the special shelf for that purpose, under the table.

"Please sit down, Anat," I said in the most natural-sounding voice I could produce at that moment. "I arrived a minute ago, and just now sat down." She put her briefcase down, and the bell rang.

Our mechanechet came into the room, a faint smile on her face, and we all stood up. With a motion of her hand, she indicated that we should be seated. Our day began with the morning prayers, which lasted until 8:30. After that, we started learning, according to the schedule we had received at yesterday's assembly.

One would have thought we were already in the middle of the academic year. Each lesson was conducted with exaggerated seriousness - began right on time, ended slightly late. All the teachers of the various subjects showed up, and they all stuck to business throughout the lesson. All at once, vacation was a thing of the past. We had begun the routine of study.

The quiet, serious Anat turned out to be the top student of the class. She was the best in every subject, but that fact made no impression on her. Most girls in her position would have become proud, but she didn't. In a short time the whole class got to like her. And I, who knew her better than anyone else did, simply adored her.

I, too, achieved quite a respectable position in the class. I wasn't number one, but it would be fair to say that I was among the top five. The truth is that I could have made far more impressive achievements, but I chose not to invest the extra effort, since I was satisfied with my already quite honored status. Apparently my friends were also satisfied with it.

In the social life of the class I was much more active than Anat. Looking back, I think that if I hadn't been her best friend, Anat wouldn't have been very involved in the affairs of the class; and that in spite of - or maybe because of - her special academic abilities.

Not long after the beginning of the year, I-all of us - discovered another side of Anat's nature.

It was a few days before Rosh Hashanah. Our religious studies, of course, were concentrated on the main topic of this season. We were learning, reviewing, discussing, and hearing talks about teshuvah, repentance: about how important it is - especially in Elul, the month of mercy and forgiveness - to regret the mistakes of the past and to improve our deeds for the present and future.

We - and I in particular - learned an original insight into this topic from Anat.

It happened during a history lesson. Our history teacher was a little comical. She was tall and very thin, very narrow-faced, with high cheek-bones. It had taken us some time to get used to her high, thin, squeaky voice. Even after we got used to her voice, and to her, the history lessons didn't go exactly as lessons should. Students naturally tend to take advantage of any weakness or helplessness on the part of the teachers. We, too, would sometimes act up in lessons where we knew that such behavior would pass more or less without any unpleasant consequences. That included the history lessons. And when I say, "act up," I don't think I have to go into detail. Everybody knows what I mean.

The only one who uncompromisingly opposed any kind of misbehavior in class was Anat. She argued that it wasn't nice; it was impertinent; it constituted insult and public embarrassment to the teacher; and that teachers, too, are human beings. Deep in our hearts we all knew that Anat was right. But we also knew that if we never disturbed the lessons, our life would become boring and uninteresting, and it was hard for us to accept that prospect. So there were some girls who criticized Anat for being excessively self-righteous. But Anat paid no attention to such criticism. During the lesson she sat quietly, listening and taking part - a model student.

I, who sat next to her, was influenced by her. That doesn't mean that I didn't occasionally turn around to exchange a few words with Ronit, who sat behind me. Or sometimes I would use the history lesson to do my homework for geometry, which was the next subject. However, under the influence of a friend like Anat, I couldn't permit myself to take part in the pranks and naughtiness of my friends.

In this particular history lesson, as it happened, I was listening attentively. From time to time one could hear rustlings, whispering, and humming from girls who were not especially interested, even though, in my opinion, the topic was a

fascinating one. Anat sat next to me, fully concentrating on the teacher as usual. Chedvah, who sat at the table in front of us, twisted around towards us. She held something concealed in her closed hand.

"Anat, can you lend me an eraser?" she asked. But the gleam in her eye told me that the eraser was only an excuse and disguise for something else. Without looking at her, Anat handed her an eraser. The closed hand opened to take the eraser, and in the process a tightly folded note dropped onto our table. "Top secret," she whispered dramatically, and then turned around again.

I saw that Anat gave a swift glance at the note that lay crumpled on the table, but immediately resumed looking at the teacher. How strange she was! She had no intention at all of opening the "secret letter" which so awakened my curiosity. But Anat, I had long since learned, knew how to overcome such insignificant feelings as curiosity.

The note was folded many times, forming a square on which was written, in Chedvah's rounded, careless handwriting, "Exclusive to Anat. Top Secret." Under the words "Top Secret" were three thick, dark lines.

I felt extremely curious, and also somewhat offended. It wasn't nice at all of Chedvah to send Anat a note that she was forbidden to show to anyone else - and right in front of my eyes! At least she could have done it in an unobtrusive way, not in such an obvious manner. At the break I would pester Anat to show me the letter. But I already knew my friend - she would never agree. So maybe I would try to get Chedvah's permission. And if Chedvah would not agree, that would be a sign that the letter was about me. And if that was the case... and if...

The high, thin voice of the history teacher suddenly rang out. "Chedvah, what is that note that you passed to Anat? Anat, give me the note immediately!"

The class fell silent. The whispering stopped, and all eyes were riveted on Anat. Anat quickly picked up the still-folded note. Her face turned red and her lips trembled.

"Didn't you hear what I said, Anat? Put the note on my table immediately!"

Chedvah half turned towards us. Her face was white. "No, Anat! Don't you dare, please!" she begged in a shaking voice. I felt sorry for her and mad at her at the same time. Why did she have to put Anat in such a horrible position

unnecessarily? Didn't she know that Anat never read notes that were thrown to her in the middle of a lesson?

The menacing voice of the teacher sliced the silence of the classroom.

"Anat..." And she moved towards our table.

Deliberately and without haste, with lowered head, Anat opened the note, but not completely. She left it folded in half, so that it could not be read. With decisive motions, she began tearing the paper - into two parts... then four... then again...

"Give me the note whole, not torn!" The thin voice rose excessively high, and then cracked. "I want it immediately!" Apparently the teacher sensed that something was going wrong. Perhaps she had heard the sound of paper being torn.

"Too late," came Anat's calm voice. "It's already torn."

"Stand up, Anat, and leave the class. You do not have permission to return to my lesson without written confirmation from your mechanechet."

Anat left the room, and the class exploded in an uproar. The teacher tried to quiet us down, but to no avail. She had no choice but to continue her lesson in the midst of the noise and commotion.

Soon after, the lesson ended. The history teacher hurried for the exit, but didn't get past the doorway. It was Anat who had stopped her. Later, she told me what had been said between them.

"I asked her to forgive me," Anat told me with downcast eyes, "and I really am ashamed. I'm not ashamed, G-d forbid, that I asked her to forgive me. That's exactly what I should have done. But I'm ashamed that she didn't understand me. She didn't agree to forgive me." Anat looked very miserable.

"You don't have to feel guilty," I tried to encourage her. "The teacher is the one who should be ashamed!"

"Don't judge her hastily," Anat said in her considerate, measured voice. "When I try to put myself in her place. I'm not sure I would have done any different."

"You, Anat, would certainly have understood and forgiven," I cried out heatedly. "You, you're an angel!"

Anat looked at me reproachfully. "Don't talk nonsense, Tammi." Her voice was frank. "You're flattering me in order to comfort me, and that's completely unnecessary. I know the truth. She thought that I had read the letter I got from Chedvah, and that since it was about her, I tore it up so that she wouldn't be able to read it."

"Is that what she told you?" I asked in wonder. "Exactly." "What inferiority feelings!" I hissed contemptuously.

Anat was angry with me. "Don't think, Tammi, that I didn't see the look on your face when Chedvah put the note on our table. You were very offended. But it's easy for you to be sympathetic towards your own feelings. To be sympathetic towards someone else's feelings is much harder. All the same, I hoped that she would forgive me herself, without involving our mechanechet in the affair. Not that I'm afraid of our mechanechet I feel sure of myself because I know that I did the right thing. But it would be better not to draw attention to the matter and puff it up."

"Do you think that the history teacher would have read the note?" I wondered out loud.

"I don't know. Maybe yes. Maybe no. And I didn't want to put Chedvah in an unpleasant position, or even the possibility of one, even though the whole incident was her fault to begin with - especially since she knows I don't like it when she turns around and talks to me in the middle of a lesson. But I think that as a friend I was obligated to do what I did."

"You're a real saint, Anat!" I cried out in admiration. "Who taught you to behave this way?"

I expected her to reply with some expression of humility, but she only looked at me in silence, with contemplative, dreaming eyes - and didn't answer. She didn't comment at all.

Our mechanechet treated the whole incident with a degree of understanding that I had not expected. She listened to Anat, and seemed to have to fight an inner battle in order not to say out loud what she was thinking. A small, forgiving

smile flickered around the corners of her mouth as she listened to Anat's story. I stood off to one side at a distance, as if staying out of the conversation, but I managed to glance at the two of them from the corner of my eye. The mechanechet face didn't look at all angry. She understood who she was dealing with here.

Anat ran toward me joyfully. "She allows me back in class!" "What did she say to you?" I probed curiously.

"She told me: I understand you, but I hope there will be no further incidents of this sort.' "

I smiled. "Excellent! You see, you didn't need any favors from the history teacher!"

Anat pierced me with a serious glance. "You're wrong, Tammi. I'm still going to ask her forgiveness again."

"Are you crazy?" I yelled, "Have you gone out of your mind? Did you fall on your head and knock a screw loose? You don't have anything better to do in life?"

"It's the day before Rosh Hashanah," she reminded me. "Did you forget, Tammi? The truth is, even if today were an ordinary day in the middle of the month of Adar, I would do exactly the same thing. But I'm sure it will be easier for you to understand me if you remember what time of year this is."

I lowered my head in shame. I understood the reproach that her words implied. Of course, the day before Rosh Hashanah the custom is for all to ask forgiveness from each other. At this time of the year, the need for pardon is clear - so much so, that we forget that the things we ask forgiveness for on the day before Rosh Hashanah are just as wrong to do on an ordinary day. Once more my friend had proved more righteous than I.

I tried to change the subject. "Did Chedvah tell you what she had written in the note?"

"No. And I didn't ask, either. She thanked me and apologized to me for the incident, and I didn't cross-examine her."

"It's interesting that Chedvah apologized. I wouldn't have expected it from her. It's not like her at all."

Once again Anat's large, light-blue eyes seemed to penetrate through me. "Tammi, Tammi," she said gently, as if speaking to a little child. "Don't you think that what you're saying borders on Lashon Harah, slander?"

Once more I turned red. "Anat!" I exclaimed, trying to get out of my predicament by clowning, "At the rate we're going, I'll soon be as saintly as you!"

She didn't answer. The bell rang, indicating the beginning of the next lesson.

Bell followed bell, lesson followed lesson. In between were short breaks, mostly given over to conversations with Anat - for, after all, during the lessons she didn't converse!

I wondered about the note that Chedvah had written. I couldn't contain my curiosity, and at the next break I tried to probe her on the subject. Chedvah avoided giving me a straight answer, but from her evasive words I understood that in truth she probably had chosen the history teacher as the topic of her ill-fated letter. Thus I appreciated Anat all the more, and my own feelings of guilt and embarrassment grew stronger. Why didn't I know how to put a stop to my thoughts, to control and select them? That's an extremely hard thing to do. But at least I should be able to muzzle my mouth, and not blurt out everything that came into my head!

Anat became a topic of conversation for the next few days.

"She's not just a coward worrying about her own skin and her reputation," the girls told each other. "Look at the facts. She refused to hand over Chedvah's note, and even tore it up. A different girl would have been afraid to do a thing like that!"

"That's true. She's really something special. You can see she demands a lot of herself. She's a girl with principles!"

Little by little we accepted Anat as one of the group, including her strange ways - strange, at least, to us, mischievous girls who were not used to such ways of behaving. We accepted her as she was, and didn't try to make trouble for her. Her tremendous integrity, a courageous and stubborn integrity that never retreated from the principles she had set for herself, made us relate to her with awe and respect. We forgot that she was our own age, a girl like the rest of us.

Anat probably realized how we felt about her. But because she was who she was, with all her unique qualities, she didn't react as any other girl would have. She didn't take advantage of her special status by trying to "take over," to impose her opinions and desires on us. In her quiet, pleasant way, she served as a model for us of a girl whose whole ambition was to reach perfection in her personal traits, in her behavior, thoughts and feelings.

On the day before Rosh Hashanah, when we were about to part, wishing each other a good year, I saw that Anat was a little hesitant, as if there was something she wanted to tell me, but she was weighing how to say it or whether to speak at all.

"Will you be coming back right after Rosh Hashanah?" I asked, trying to get a conversation started.

"Of course. After all, we'll be having classes between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. And Rechovot isn't that far from Jerusalem."

"Rinah surely won't come back from Safed," I said. "She got permission from the mechanechet not to come back until after Sukkot." Then I added: "For that alone it would have been worthwhile for me to have gone on living in Tiberias!"

Anat didn't seem to be listening. "Tammi," she said, "I want to ask you a favor. There's still plenty of time, but I prefer to ask now, so that you'll have time to get your parents’ permission. I want to stay in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur. I want to pray at the Western Wall. If it's not especially hard for you, I would be very happy if I could be a guest at your house..."

I didn't let Anat finish her sentence. I was so happy I almost pounced on her.

"Anat, you're so funny! You hesitated such a long time, struggling with yourself until you finally got your question out. My parents certainly will agree, and I - I'm in seventh heaven! But..." I suddenly thought of something. "Are you sure your parents will agree to let you be away on Yom Kippur? They won't be mad at you?"

It seemed as if a shadow darkened her face for a moment. Her eyes lost their sparkle when she said, "No, they won't be angry." Then as if talking to herself she mused: "That will be wonderful. The eve of Yom Kippur, Kol Nidrei, by the

Western Wall..." The cloud that had just shadowed her face and eyes was replaced by a concealed tremor of deep excitement.

From that moment, I waited impatiently for the time to go by, for Rosh Hashanah and all the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to pass. A whole day with Anat - that would be marvelous! For sure I would learn a lot from her, from her behavior...

Finally, Yom Kippur arrived.

Dressed in our festival clothes, wearing cloth shoes, our prayer books in our hands, the two of us walked through the streets of Jerusalem in the direction of the Western Wall. A Jerusalem late-afternoon wind cooled our faces, fluttering through our hair. I filled my lungs with air. Jerusalem has a special wind, unlike that of any other city in Israel - or, I suppose, in the whole world. And now one could smell the fragrance of the eve of Yom Kippur. One could almost touch the special atmosphere, the holiness of the day. Around us flowed crowds of people, all in a hurry to be on time for Kol Nidrei. There was such a variety of Jews - Jerusalem's in gathering of exiles. Jews of every type and origin, from countless different lands, each with the special way of dressing that typified his group.

"The Jewish people are unique," I thought to myself. "We are so different from each other in our customs, our lifestyle, our dress, our language - in everything! And all the same, all of us run side by side to the Western Wall to pray Kol Nidrei on the eve of Yom Kippur. For the differences between us are only on the outside. The inner essence and way of life are the same for all of us. We are all Jews. What unites us is the Torah of Israel, which remains forever one, nev er changing from land to land or from era to era. And even if the customs differ in some details from one geographical area to another, or from one type of Chassidim to another, the source and the guiding force is always the Torah of Truth which was given to Moshe at Mt. Sinai."

Anat walked along beside me in silence. I had no way of knowing what thoughts filled her head. With eager eyes she drank in the picturesque human panorama that flowed all around us, near and far. Her eyes couldn't get their fill of looking; her lips were trembling with excitement. It seemed to me that she was controlling herself, forcibly holding back tears. I would never have imagined that Anat,

always so quiet, moderate, and restrained, could be filled with such powerful emotions. I didn't want to disturb her, and so we strode along together, neither one of us uttering a sound. It was Anat who finally broke the silence.

"To think that a few thousand years ago, exactly where I'm walking, Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, and the other great men and women of our nation walked, and now I'm stepping on the exact place where, perhaps, Adam stepped. Just imagine it!" she cried in a storm of feeling.

Here was an exceptional way of thinking. Only one person would have thoughts like those - Anat.

We reached the Wall. For a moment, we lost our breath. Never in our lives had we seen such an ocean of people. And all of them had come in order to unite themselves with the remnant of our holy Temple, and with the whole Jewish people. Their faces were imbued with the holiness of the day. All at once they had left behind the everyday routines of life, the material concerns with which they were almost constantly occupied. For one day they would rise far above the ordinary world.

We prayed with feeling, drawing ourselves close to our Creator. Every now and then I darted a quick, hopefully unobserved glance in Anat's direction. But she apparently didn't notice my frequent looks at all. She was completely immersed in the uniquely exalted prayers of the day. Her eyes were veiled with a strange glaze that hid them and her - or perhaps not her, but me? - and separated us. It was as if she hovered in a different world, far above mine. No matter how much I wanted, it was beyond my ability to pull myself up and reach her. I sensed it. This sensation enwrapped me entirely, and for a moment I was filled with feelings of inferiority in comparison with her. But immediately I reminded myself that Anat - was Anat. She was always different, always special. In everything. I had to accept that reality, and be happy that she was willing to be my friend and allow me to observe and learn from her.

The prayers ended. Full of feelings, we turned to go home. Suddenly Anat stopped and stood still as if riveted to the spot. Her brows gathered, her lips compressed to a thin line. I was getting ready to intervene, for her eyes had turned grey. I knew they had, even in the dark. Anat was angry. Why? What had upset her so much on this holy night?

"What is SHE doing here?" The words were forced from between her teeth.

"She? Who?" I didn't know who she was talking about.

"She!" Anat still spoke to herself, as if unaware of my presence. "How dare she come here - and on this day!"

For a moment I panicked. I was worried about Anat. Had the fierce currents of emotion unsettled her mind? But I recovered immediately. When I looked in the direction Anat was staring, I understood the reason for her indignation. A young woman, straight and thin, was walking towards us from the distance. She wore a long black dress and a wide, dark-colored scarf, which came down over her forehead with a broad white stripe. A large cross swung on the front of her dress. She was a nun. She looked at us with quiet, tranquil eyes, a serene expression on her young face. No doubt she had no idea of the feelings her appearance had aroused in Anat. She passed us and continued on her way.

Anat had not yet calmed down. "How can it be?" she stormed. "A gentile, a nun, in the holy city of Jerusalem, the capital of the Holy Land... beside the Western Wall, the remnant of our Holy Temple... on the night of Yom Kippur!" For her, there could be no greater contradiction. Reality had suddenly pulled her out of the dream in which she had been immersed, had yanked her down from the heights of the spiritual world in which she had hovered - and apparently had also caused her to become immersed in unhappy thoughts.

"That's the way it is, Anat," I tried to console her. "But that very fact shows the greatness of Jerusalem, the Holy City. All the nations are drawn to it like a magnet. All of them claim ownership rights - and not just partial ownership, or partnership - over it. Does the world lack beautiful cities, ancient ones, steeped in historical grandeur and tales of heroism? And all the same, every nation, every religion, turns its eyes towards Jerusalem - Jerusalem, which we know is ours, and which they all wish were theirs."

A spark flashed in her eyes, which had returned to their usual light-blue color as she gazed at me. "Thank you, Tammi," was all she said. And I felt myself zooming into seventh heaven.

Ever since that Yom Kippur, whenever I strolled through Jerusalem and saw a nun, or a priest, or a church - and unfortunately they are very numerous in

Jerusalem - I remembered Anat: her burning glance, her compressed lips, her eyes flashing anger - Anat who had become angry the first time she had seen gentiles, and not just any gentile, but those who represented the Christian religion, walking around Jerusalem and acting as if it was theirs. And not only the first time. Anat remained in Jerusalem for nearly a year all told; and whenever such a phenomenon appeared, she became wrapped in an inexplicable anger.

The night following Yom Kippur, after we had broken our fast and my little brothers had been put to bed - with Anat's help, of course - the two of us sat on the balcony of my house. The skies of Jerusalem, dark and sparkling with thousands of tiny points of starlight, spread over our heads, and a large bowl filled with cubes of red, sweet watermelon sat on the table in front of us. I stuck my fork into a cube of watermelon. A Jerusalem night is something I'm incapable of describing, even with the strongest words and the most vivid adjectives. The only way to understand it is to experience it.

"I owe you my thanks, Tammi," Anat said. "Thanks? What for, Anat?"

"Because you agreed to have me as a guest in your house. This Yom Kippur is the most tremendous I've ever had."

"Me too. On your merit. Maybe I'm the one who has to thank you."

"There's no contradiction." She gave a little smile. "You can thank me, and I can thank you."

"You're funny." I couldn't find any other words to define what I wanted to say.

Anat suddenly became serious. "No. You don't understand, Tammi. You don't know..."

"What don't I know?" I became a little curious. Her voice didn't sound exactly ordinary.

"Perhaps it's better if you don't know yet. Another time. Not this evening."

"All the same, Anat, if you've already started..."

She fell silent, closing her lips forcefully. I didn't urge her any more.

We continued talking about truly unimportant things, ordinary things that I don't even remember anymore. We finished eating the watermelon cubes and went to sleep.

CHAPTER 2 - ESCAPE TO THE BEACH

The moment I walked into the classroom, one morning between Yom Kippur and Sukkot, I saw that something was happening. The class was all in a stir. A sea of heads formed a large, tight circle which occasionally shook and quaked, creating an opening that immediately closed again. This sea rippled with waves and breakers of hands fluttering upwards and to all sides from an excess of energy and excitement as all the girls formed a ring around - yes, I should have guessed it before I looked. In the center of the circle stood Chedvah, specifying, explaining, and arguing in high gear.

Chedvah. I hadn't yet managed to explain this girl to myself. All she had allowed us to discover about her was that she was a good-hearted person, cheerfully willing to help anyone who needed her. She was a bright girl. She wasn't at the top of the class, but her answers during the lessons, her written work and her test scores - just imagine, we had already squeezed in two exams since the beginning of the year! - showed that she had a head on her shoulders. She didn't always bother to use this head of hers for studying, but generally speaking she was always using it for something. She was constantly coming up with ideas - usually daring and unusual ones.

This time, too, Chedvah had an idea. Within a few minutes after walking into class, I had succeeded in understanding what the subject of all the excitement was: The day's schedule consisted of six lessons, ending at 1:45, and the Final lesson was history. It was such an exasperating lesson! Chedvah claimed. And the history teacher wasn't exactly the type that had us all trembling in our boots. Therefore

Chedvah proposed that we skip the last lesson, get on a bus, and go to Tel Aviv - to the beach, of course!

"Summer's almost over!" Chedvah explained. Her voice was already hoarse from yelling, but she was still full of energy and enthusiasm. "How many warm days like today will we have until next summer? Hardly any! In fact... in fact... today might be the last day!" she exclaimed dramatically.

Suddenly a quiet, calm voice was heard. "Why the last day?" It was Anat, who had just that moment walked into the classroom.

Chedvah was thrown off guard for a moment. "Oh, Anat!" she stammered, "For sure you won't agree. You'll say it's not allowed."

"Why the last day?" Anat repeated her question.

"Well, it's not sure... but it might be... the last day we can go to the beach..." The lame declaration sounded ridiculous; and even more ridiculous was the confused expression on Chedvah's face, which was turning slightly red. The whole class broke out in thunderous laughter. Our hilarity jolted Chedvah out of her confusion.

"Yes, it's not at all funny! We've only been learning for three weeks, but to me it seems already like three months!"

Just between you and me, Chedvah was definitely right about that.

"These teachers," she went on, "have put us under such pressure from our studies that we've forgotten there's anything else in the world besides studying. Can't we enjoy life a little, too? So we'll miss one lesson. What's so terrible about that? If we leave right after our Navi lesson, and get away right at quarter to one, we can catch the one o'clock bus to Tel Aviv. We'll get there by two, stay at the beach till four or four-thirty and take, let's say, the five o'clock bus back. We'll be home by about six. What's wrong with that plan?"

"Excellent! It's a wonderful plan, Chedvah," Ruth broke into the rush of Chedvah's enthusiasm. "But there are a few holes in it."

"Holes? What do you think it is, a pair of shoes?" Chedvah screeched irrelevantly. She wasn't about to let anyone ruin her plan. "What are your problems, Ruthy? I'll solve them for you one by one."

"First of all, where will we leave our briefcases? Surely you're not suggesting that we take them to the beach with us."

"Why not?" Yael spoke up. "Maybe the fish are bored. We could teach them something. History, maybe..."

"You're beginning to talk nonsense!" Chedvah lost her patience. "You think I don't know what to do with the briefcases? In the schoolyard there's a little hut, kind of a storeroom. I checked. It's always open. We'll put our briefcases there, and pick them up when we come back."

"And what about our parents? We didn't tell them we'll be late... and where will we get swimming suits?"

For a moment the room fell silent. Was Chedvah defeated? No. She refused to give in. All the same, her voice lost a little of its self-assurance.

"O.K. So we'll change the plan a little. At quarter to one, everyone will race home, with briefcases - we'll forget about the storeroom. We'll tell our parents, take swimming suits and food, and at one-thirty - not a minute later! - we'll all get on the bus. Everybody got it?"

"What if some of the parents don't agree?"

"And I live far away. I won't make it in time." Peninah raised a reasonable objection.

"I also live far away. Ruthy, can I come to your house to call home and get permission from my mother? And maybe you have a swimming suit I could borrow?"

"Chedvah, you've forgotten about the girls that live in the dorm." Ednah, who lived in Haifa, joined in. "We'd have to get permission from our madricha or dorm mother, and if you think one of them would agree to your plan, you're dreaming, though it’s true that nothing special is planned for today, and the dorm is a bit deserted, since quite a few of the girls haven't come back yet. They live too far away and will only come back after Sukkot. They're living the good life," Ednah grumbled.

"So let's live the good life, too!" Chedvah urged her. "And whoever is afraid to come - let her stay home! Tomorrow, when she hears us talking about what a good time we had, she can pop with jealousy!"

Anat and I stood together, a little away from the group, and listened to the debate.

"What's your opinion, Anat?" I asked. The truth is, Chedvah had succeeded in getting me on her side. It was a little cool inside the room, but outside was a heat wave. You couldn't even look up at the sky, or your eyes would immediately dry out and be scorched. The sun was flaming, blinding. Your mouth and whole body felt dry, the air was still and suffocating. They say the end of summer is hotter than the summer. How true. The beach - just thinking about it gave a refreshing feeling to the whole body. To dive under, to be swept along among the moist, cool, caressing waves...

Anat shrugged her shoulders. "I'm crazy about the beach," she admitted half-heartily, "But, to run away from class? And without the madrichahs permission? I can't do a thing like that."

"Are you afraid, Anat?" Only after I saw the look in her eyes did I realize that the provocation, even if unintended, was pointless. For a moment I thought she would choose one of two possibilities: Either she would gaze at me silently, with penetrating eyes, and not even bother to answer; or she would reproach me with her characteristic gentleness - the kind of reproach that always left me feeling like a wayward sinner in comparison to her.

But Anat's reaction was not what I expected. "Afraid?" she answered, after a moment's thought. "I suppose I am. The question is, who am I afraid of? Certainly not of the teachers..." And even though I'm convinced she hadn't at all intended her words as a reproach, that's the effect they had on me. Only two days ago had been Yom Kippur.

The excited voice of Dalyah rose into the air: "I've got a different idea! Maybe we could put off the plan till tomorrow? If so, we'll gain a couple of advantages. Since tomorrow is the last day of school before Sukkot vacation, we can do whatever we want! After Sukkot, who's going to remember that, way back then, we ran away from a. lesson? Which is the last lesson tomorrow? History again! Aha! Nothing's changed, just the day! And besides, tomorrow the dorm girls

won't have a problem. They're all travelling home anyway after school. No one has to know that instead of going straight home they made a detour to the beach." Dalyah herself was one of the dorm girls.

Murmurs of agreement were heard. "Makes more sense. That way we also have a better chance to get our parents’ permission. We can bring everything we need in the morning, and go straight from school to the central bus station."

"Chedvah, we'll have use for your storeroom, after all. We'll have to hide our briefcases there!" someone remarked. But the comment went unnoticed.

Chedvah once again became full of energy. "O.K. Good. So it'll be tomorrow. But remember. Not a word to our parents about the fact that we're going to skip the history lesson. And be careful that none of the teachers get wind of the plan. Don't even talk about it with girls from the other classes!"

"But I thought today was the last day of summer, winter already begins tomorrow and it will be impossible to go to the beach!"

"Don't be silly, Anat!" Chedvah sounded a bit insulted, more from our satisfied laughter than from Anat's remark. "I only said 'might be.' You never know for sure, so we have to make good use of every day."

But Anat didn't let up. "In that case, why not make use of Sukkot vacation? Why do this at the expense of our learning?" "Sukkot!" Chedvah hissed contemptuously. How would we manage to get the whole class together during Sukkot? You're the first one that for sure won't show up, and besides, that would take all the fun out of it. During Sukkot, everyone can do whatever she wants. During Sukkot, it's allowed to go to the beach. The teachers can't tell us what to do on vacation. What's the point of doing what's allowed anyway?"

Cries of agreement were heard, along with a few opposing voices. We must have been making so much noise that we didn't hear the bell that signaled the beginning of classes. We also didn't notice the teacher standing in the doorway, until a voice announced: "Girls, the teacher's here!" We hurried to our places.

"Good morning, girls," she said in a calm voice. "I see you're having a great time."

"Yes," answered Yael, whose enthusiasm was still at a height. "We're very happy today." Her words caused yet another outburst of glee.

"Very nice. It's good to be happy. Perhaps you'll share your reason for happiness with me as well?"

Confused silence reigned.

"What's the matter? Don't you want to make me happy too?" Silence. Hesitant smiles.

"Chedvah," the teacher said, turning to her, "First of all, when I was standing at the door I noticed that you were at the center of the activity. Perhaps you can tell me what happened?"

"It's, um, nothing special. Teacher. Just... nothing."

"Still, I can see that it is something - and something happy, it would seem." Our teacher wasn't backing down.

"It's happy as long as the teacher doesn't know about it." Ruthy was a girl who didn't think a lot before she let words slip out of her mouth. "If we tell the teacher, we won't be able to be happy anymore." Tension was felt in the room. Chedvah fixed a pair of furious eyes on Ruthy. What would happen now? How would the mechanechet react?

It seemed that Ruthy's thoughtless remark amused the teacher. A tiny smile, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide, fluttered around her lips. She had a special talent for smiling just at the moment when any other teacher would have begun to yell, get angry, launch a major investigation. It was a sign that she understood things, this woman! And that was even more dangerous, because a teacher like that can wreck everything.

"If so, I don't want to know any more details. I don't want to ruin your happiness." And as if nothing had happened, she went on to begin a regular day of learning.

The next day was even hotter and dryer. I can't remember ever being so happy during a heat wave. The hotter the day, the more we would enjoy swimming in the ocean.

That afternoon, I told my mother about our plan. Of course, I went out of my way to explain that all the girls had thought up the idea together, and I didn't want to be the exception. I didn't mention the part about skipping the history

lesson. After hearing me out, my mother wrinkled her nose. Basically, the idea didn't appeal to her. On the other hand, she realized that I was concerned about becoming socially accepted in my new class, and therefore she leaned towards adopting a soft stance and allowing me to take part in "the crazy trip," as she called our plan - just so I wouldn't be different from my friends.

"One thing I don't understand," my mother puzzled. "Why did you decide to go all the way to Tel Aviv? What's wrong with a swimming pool here in Jerusalem?"

"Swimming pool? Fooey, Mom! What can you do in a swimming pool? All the fun is swimming in the waves - topping them, diving under them, letting the surf pull you back to the beach..."

Apparently I started to get carried away. My mother smiled. "Nu, nu, O.K., that's enough. The more you go into ecstasy about it, the more you persuade me not to let you go. When will you get back, did you say? About six? I just want to know when to start worrying about you."

When I got to class the next morning, I found out that all the girls had got their parents’ permission for the planned trip. The girls who lived in the dorm all planned to take part. They hadn't even bothered to ask permission. The only exception was Peninah, who announced that she wasn't going with us. She didn't explain why. We tried to probe and discover her reason, but she avoided giving an answer. Our questions seemed to disconcert her, and also to darken her mood. Once, when Dalyah went up to her and tried to find out why she wasn't coming with us - and she approached her in a very friendly manner, without being critical at all, I thought I saw tears welling up in Peninah's eyes.

"They don't have money," I heard Chedvah whisper to Yael. "They're actually impoverished. Don't you see how thin she is? They hardly even have food in their house!"

It's a good thing Peninah didn't hear what Chedvah said. She surely would have been very hurt. It was true, though, that Peninah was very thin. Tall, but thin. The bones of her hands and cheeks stuck out, as if only skin was hanging on them. It was strange that we had never connected this with the possibility that there might not be enough to eat in her house.

"So what will be?" someone asked Peninah. "You'll stay for the history lesson? The only one in the class? And you'll tell the teacher where we disappeared to?"

Peninah was confused. She didn't know what to answer.

"She doesn't have to stay in class," someone suggested. "She can go home. That way she won't snitch on the class."

This last remark hurt Peninah's feelings very much. She lowered her head, her face turning bright red.

Once again. Anat's calming voice intervened. "Peninah, for her own reasons, doesn't want to go along. Your remark was out of place, Ruthy. Next time, think twice before you say something."

Ruthy lowered her head and mumbled something like, "Don't you tell me what to do." But she took care not to be heard too clearly.

"Yes, yes. She almost ruined everything for us. How did you dare to talk like that to the mechanechet? You almost gave away the secret."

Anat ignored this last remark. "And you should know," she continued, "that Peninah isn't the only one who's not going to the beach. I'm also planning to stay here."

"You? Anat, you're not going with us?" A number of shocked voices sounded the question simultaneously. But I heard only my own voice. From everything I knew of Anat until now, I had been sure that she would come with us. It never occurred to me that she might do anything else.

"I've decided to stay here," Anat answered calmly. "For the history lesson?" asked a chorus of indignant voices.

"I don't know yet whether I'll stay for the lesson. But I'm definitely not going with you."

Did I only imagine that a look of relief and happiness came into Peninah's eyes?

"But, why, Anat? It's not like you! You always go with the whole class."

"Well, this time, I'm not. And, believe me; I thought a lot before I made my decision. I wish I could say the same about the rest of you. You made up your minds without thinking!"

That stubborn Anat! Once she decided about something, and was sure she was in the right, it was impossible to change her mind. But I - what was I going to do? How could I go without Anat? But it was so hard for me to give up the idea of the trip, especially after I had looked forward to it so much. Should I go? Or should I stay?

"Maybe, all the same, you'll come with us, Anat?" I tried to persuade her. "You told me that you love to go to the beach." "True," she smiled. But she didn't say any more.

As the day went on, I kept nudging her, hoping that I might be able to talk her into it at the last minute. But I got nowhere. At the last break - not the one when we had planned to make our getaway, but the one before that - Anat came to me and said: "Understand, Tammi. You don't have to feel guilty as if you were leaving me behind. You don't owe me anything. No one tied you to me, and you're free to do whatever you want. Believe me; I won't be mad at you at all."

I reddened. Could I answer Anat and explain that it was I who had tied myself to her? That whatever Anat was unwilling to do seemed forbidden to me, and that the only way it could become permissible in my eyes was if Anat would come with us, with me?

I fought a hard battle with myself. In the end, of course, the winner was - the beach. At quarter to one, exactly when the bell rang - no, sorry, half a minute after the bell rang, for we waited until the Torah teacher had left the class and disappeared down the stairs, we grabbed our briefcases and escaped from the classroom. I paused a minute by Anat. "If...if I don't see you before Sukkot, have a happy holiday."

"You, too. Have a happy holiday." She smiled at me. But why did it seem to me that her smile was more sad than happy? Could it be that, in spite of what she had said to me before, she was angry with me? Or was something else bothering her? I didn't think about it deeply. My friends were calling me, and I hurried after them.

We got to the beach about a quarter past two. It was still very hot, and as soon as we touched the water we went crazy. All at once we forgot everything and dashed into the waves. We floated, dived. Some of the girls, including me, knew how to swim. We held a swimming race. We played in the water and in the sand. I didn't at all regret coming. I didn't even think about Anat. Let her stay in the class if she wanted. She could study history, if that was what she preferred. As for me, even if I got punished afterwards, it was better to go to the beach!

At quarter to three they appeared. Anat, and right beside her, Peninah. We pounced on them in our excitement. "What are you two doing here? Did the history teacher agree to let you go?"

"The history teacher never even came," Peninah answered.

"What? What are you talking about? What does that mean?" everyone clamored. For a minute, it got so noisy that I thought our loud voices even silenced the thundering surf.

"About five minutes after you left," Peninah explained patiently, "a girl from one of the other classes came. She said that the office had sent her to announce that the history teacher hadn't come today, and we could go home an hour early."

"Great! Now for sure we won't get punished. The teacher didn't show up anyway!" Yael rejoiced.

"Just the opposite," said Chedvah, disappointed. "It means we ran away for nothing." For her, the minute the trip became allowed, it lost all its charm.

And I? I was simply delighted. Now Anat was with us too! And besides that, I was relieved that it turned out we hadn't done anything wrong. True, I hadn't been especially bothered by it before, but apparently somewhere in my unconscious it had disturbed me. Especially next to a friend like Anat. "But what is Peninah doing here? What made her suddenly change her mind?" someone remembered to ask.

Anat hurried to answer, before Peninah's consternation could become obvious.

"Peninah told me why she refused to join the trip at first, and I persuaded her to change her mind."

We all accepted this explanation. Peninah looked relaxed. But again I managed to overhear Chedvah whispering to Yael: "Anat must have given her money for the bus tickets." I had never thought of that. If that was really the reason for Peninah's change of heart, Anat deserved a blessing. She had a heart of gold, that girl.

"Did you hear the news?" It was about two weeks after we had returned from Sukkot vacation. Studies had quickly returned to their normal routine. As for our trip to the beach, no one had said a word. No one even hinted to us anything about it. We knew that two full months of high-pressure studying lay ahead of us. No more vacation until Chanukah! And now Ednah had come in all excited. "Classes 9-2 and 9-3 are going on a field trip tomorrow. And what about us? Why didn't they tell us anything? It's a sign that we're not going!"

"What? Really? How do you know?"

"Orah from 9-3 told me. She was surprised to hear that we didn't know anything about it. They took it for granted that we were coming along."

"We're going to have to check this out with the mechanechet"

The next hour was scheduled to be with our mechanechet. Before she could even take roll, we jumped on her excitedly. "What's going on? Why aren't we going on the field trip?"

She smiled, of course. Was there ever a time that she didn't smile?

"First of all, I want quiet here. This is not how you greet the mechanechet"

We got quiet. We knew she was right. All the same, we felt very grumbly. Only after the class had become completely silent did the teacher begin to speak.

"You asked why you're not going on a field trip tomorrow..." Again sounds of protest began to be heard, but the teacher silenced them with a wave of her hand. "In view of the fact that this class has already had a field trip this year - excuse me, I mean a beach trip." She surveyed us with a penetrating look. "The teaching staff and the administration decided that you will have to forego the yearly joint field trip."

Shocked silence. "What-what does that mean? What's the connection?"

"If I remember correctly, on the last day before Sukkot vacation you organized a trip to the beach for yourselves."

"But that wasn't instead of anything else!" a number of voices protested.

"Just instead of a history lesson," the teacher rejoined. For a moment we didn't know what to answer.

Yael tried to save the situation. "It wasn't even instead of a history lesson. In the end, the teacher didn't come."

Our teacher smiled. But this time it was a cold smile. "And do you know why the history teacher didn't come?"

"What? We don't understand!" voices were heard. "It must be that she didn't come on purpose!" The light suddenly dawned in someone's mind, and she immediately blurted out her thoughts.

"In fact, I myself told the history teacher not to come that day," the mechanechet announced.

"But why? Why not?" We were still mixed up. Our nice, refined mechanechet had suddenly become tough.

"Why, you ask? For your information, the history teacher comes here from one of the most distant neighborhoods of Jerusalem in order to give your class a history lesson. The teaching schedule didn't work out in such a way that she could have a number of classes on that day, so she has to come just to teach one class. Your class. What did you want me to do? Allow her to make that whole trip, and waste her time and strength, just so she could meet an empty classroom? And just before a big holiday, when she certainly had enough things to do?"

She spoke in a loud voice, forcefully, and we were silent with shame.

"But how did the mechanechet know that we planned to go to the beach?" came a hesitant question.

"Is it so hard to imagine that I figured out why you were all so joyful that day?"

"Somebody told the teacher. ..There's a spy in our class!" angry voices proclaimed. "No way! We won't put up with a thing like that. Who could it be?"

"Girls, be quiet!" the teacher reprimanded us. "No one in this class is a 'spy'..."

"That's impossible! Otherwise, how did the teacher find out?" Someone held stubbornly to her opinion. A voice I didn't manage to identify dared to say, "Anat and Peninah, they didn't want to come with us..."

"Quiet!!!" the teacher silenced us. This time she was truly angry. "Don't you know our Sages saying, 'Whoever casts suspicion on the righteous will be punished with physical suffering?' And what happened to all that you learned about the rule, 'Always judge a person with a presumption of innocence? The truth is, it never entered my mind that I had any obligation to reveal to you how I know things. But since you've raised such ugly suspicions, I'll tell you. I called up a number of mothers - yes, your mothers! - and by talking to them I discovered your plans. I don't need to make spies out of my students. As for Anat and Peninah, it's you who should ask their pardon. Just because of you, both of them are losing out on the field trip. To the best of my knowledge, they are the only ones who didn't leave the classroom that day. Isn't that true? And from now on, I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk. Understood?"

We understood, and we were ashamed of ourselves. I'll go so far as to say that we even regretted what we had done. But there's always one who recovers faster than the others, and we soon heard the complaining voice of Chedvah. "All the same, it's not a fair punishment. We only missed one lesson. Classes 9-2 and 9-3 get to miss a whole day of studying."

"You can leave the determination of the punishment up to me," said the mechanechet, fixing Chedvah with a cold look. "For now. I'm the teacher here, not you."

Yes, our quiet, refined teacher knew how to be tough when she wanted to. And this time, like it or not, we had to admit that authority was in her hands, and maybe justice, too. The second part was harder to admit to than the first, but whoever thought about the matter without allowing personal prejudice to interfere - like me, for example - had to admit, to herself at least, that the mechanechet was right.

f I meet my spouse on a Taglit-Birthright Israel trip, do we get a free honeymoon?

A. No. Taglit-Birthright Israel does not give and has not given free honeymoons to couples that meet on our trips.

.

….

The Unanswered Cry

By: Mrs. Nechama Kramer

CHAPTER 3- ANAT'S TESHUVAH

"Mommy's not home," Natti, my two-and-a-half-year-old brother greeted me. Before I could ask him where she was - usually my mother was home by two o'clock, when I got back from school - the little guy hurried to share his anxiety with me. "Mommy went to the hospital!"

"To the hospital?" I asked, worried. "Why, Natti? Did something happen to Mommy? Tell me, quickly! Tell me everything you know...wasn't Mommy feeling well?" When I saw that he didn't understand what I wanted of him, I quickly asked him, "Are you alone here? Did Mommy leave you here all by yourself?" Without waiting for an answer, I called aloud, "Arik! Boaz! Shuki! Is anyone home?"

"Ilanah...balcony." The advanced audio-visual aid I had used - my loud voice - had made it clear to my little brother what I wanted to know. At that moment, our neighbor Ilanah appeared in the room. In one hand she held a clothespin, and in the other, a wet shirt of Natti's. She was hanging up the laundry. What was she doing hanging up laundry in our house?

"Where's my mother?" I cried anxiously. "What happened to her that she had to go to the hospital?"

"So Natti, that smart little guy, already managed to tell you?" She had chosen just the right time to start admiring my brother. "Why are you so upset, Tammi?"

How cold-blooded could a person be? "What do you mean, why? What happened to my mother? Why did she go to the hospital?"

"To your mother? Thank G-d, nothing happened to your mother. Why should something happen to her?"

I was so tense and nervous I was ready to jump on her. Fortunately for her, she went on immediately, "It's your brother Boaz, that little rascal. She took him to the hospital." That saved her from my impending attack. But I still didn't completely understand what was going on.

"What happened to Boaz?" I asked.

"Nu, that little rascal. You know him. He's always into everything. At ten-thirty this morning they phoned your mother from his school. The principal told your mother that Boaz was in Hadassah hospital, and she should go there. Of course, she left her store and went straight there."

We have a fabric store, and my mother and father both work in it. Father sells cloth, and Mother does custom sewing. Father opens the store at eight-thirty in

the morning, and Mother joins him there later, around nine, after getting us all off to school and straightening up the house.

"But what happened? Maybe you'll tell me already?"

"I don't know exactly myself. From what your mother told me as she was rushing to the hospital, and she asked me to pick up Natti from the nursery school at one o'clock and stay with him here in the house until two, it seems that Boaz was playing with his friends during their ten o'clock break - oh, those boys, those boys, they're such little rascals - so Boaz was climbing on the roof of the bomb shelter in the schoolyard, and somehow he managed to fall off. Maybe someone pushed him..."

"That's how he went to the hospital? That bomb-shelter isn't high at all," I said in surprise.

"Right. But with his luck he fell on a sharp rock and cut his head. It seems he got a concussion..."

I saw that Ilanah, after all, had pretty detailed information about the incident.

"Don't be upset," she added, "It's something they get over. I know a few people who had something tike that happen to them, and their life went on as usual...But you're so pale, Tammi. Do you want me to bring you something to drink?"

"Thank you, but I'll manage by myself, Ilanah. Really, thank you very much for taking care of Natti. I can take care of him now and look after the house. Really you didn't have to hang up the laundry. You could have left it for me."

Ilanah brushed off my words with a wave of her hand. "It's nothing, really. I'm allowed to help a neighbor once in a while. By the way, Natti's had lunch already. He seems very tired; I'm sure he'd be happy to lie down for a nap."

"Natti isn't happy to lie down for a nap!" the little fellow broke in. If we had forgotten that he was standing next to us, that hadn't kept him from straining to catch every word we were saying. "Natti wants to play with the Lego!"

"O.K., Natti. Go to your room and play like a good, big boy. Tammi just got home from school, she's hungry and wants to eat."

Natti went off to his room. Ilanah said Shalom to me and wished a speedy recovery for Boaz, and I thanked her again for everything she had done for us. Then I was by myself.

I heated up the lunch that my mother had been careful to leave for us, and ate. Mom always knows what we like to eat. In the summer she usually fixes something cool, and not too heavy. Today she had made a hot meal, just right for the coolish fall weather. Winter was already knocking at the door. Just as I finished saying Birkat Hamazon, the phone rang. It was my mother.

"Tammi? I just wanted to let you know I'll be a little late getting home. Should be back about eight. Yes, your father's here with me. Don't worry, Tammi, everything will be O.K., G-d willing."

"How is Boaz?" I and my brother Boaz, who was eight, had never been good friends. To be more exact, ever since I can remember, whenever we were together, we did nothing but quarrel and squabble. With Arik, who was ten, I actually got along fine. Shuki, the five-year-old, also didn't give me any problems. True, they too would complain sometimes that Mom and Dad pampered me more than all the other children, because I was the oldest, and because I was the only girl. But my brothers generally didn't make a big deal out of it. They realized that besides my special privileges I had extra responsibilities that they, as boys, were exempt from. Just Boaz - Boaz was always starting something, always criticizing. Not infrequently we even came to blows.

"How is Boaz, Mom?" I asked again. The first time, my mother had been interrupted by someone at her end of the line who had asked her for something, and so she hadn't yet answered my question. "Is it true he has a concussion?"

"It's true, Tammi, but it's not a serious one. His head is all wrapped up in a big bandage, which gives the impression that his injury was much more serious than it actually is. But, as I told you, his condition is not too bad. Boaz is even in a good mood; but he's a tittle weak."

"How long will he have to stay in the hospital?"

"It's still too early to tell. The doctors think it'll be at least a week."

"Ohhh," I reacted, "that's a long time..."

Mother interrupted me. "Tammi, there are people here waiting to use this phone. I just wanted to tell you that Shuki is at Itzik's house. I spoke with him before I went to the hospital, and I also arranged with Itzik's mother that Shuki should go straight to their house after school. At four, when Arik finishes school, he'll pick up Shuki on his way home. Make sure they eat, and do their homework, and get baths...O.K., Tammi? You have to be like a little mother right now. How is Natti?"

"He's being a good boy. He's playing with the Lego now." "Wonderful. I'm depending on you, Tammi. See you soon."

It was quarter to three. I had some time before Arik and Shuki would get home, so I used it to do my homework. At four-fifteen they burst into the house like a cyclone. "Tammi, Tammi, do you know what happened?" When they realized they weren't the first to tell me the news, their disappointment was tremendous. I was happy to find that they obeyed me and did everything I asked them to do, without the usual remarks of, "What's going on here? Just because you're older than us you think you can tell us what to do?" Or: "Why are you bossing us around? You think you're our commanding officer?" They understood that at present, with Mother gone, it was my job to make sure they did everything they were supposed to. If Boaz had been there, I'm not sure he would have let me perform this task so easily.

"Tammi, can I go out to play?" Shuki asked. "I already went over everything I learned in school today. Itzik checked me."

I shot a quick glance out the window. The sky was knotted with dark clouds, and a strong wind was blowing. It looked like it could rain any minute...

"You'd better stay in, Shuki. It's cold outside. And it's already getting late."

"It's not late at all. It's only five-thirty. I know because Arik told me. We're always allowed to stay out until seven." He was thinking of the long days of summertime. It was hard for him to get used to the fact that the summer fun was over. He continued trying to talk me into letting him go out. "And it's not cold out at all, either. What do you think I did at Itzik's house after we ate and studied? We played outside the whole time. And we weren't cold at all!"

"If so, then you've played outside enough. Now you have to play in the house, with Natti. Maybe you could, um...maybe you could teach him aleph-bet? You can be his rebbe!"

To my great joy, the idea appealed to Shuki and he set about putting it into action right away. Arik turned to me with a mischievous smile in his eyes. "I have to admit, Tammi, you're doing a good job of being the mother. Listen, maybe you'd like to get married? There's a boy in our class, a real genius..."

I almost walloped him one. Fortunately for him, I managed to control myself. Seeing how mad I was, he hurried to apologize. "Sorry," he said. "Actually, he's only ten, same as me, and you're already fourteen. It wouldn't work out."

That's how it is when you have to live with brothers. You have to put up with all their stupid nonsense. If only I had sisters... but I'd long ago given up that hope. I was going to have brothers only, and that was that. I would just have to accept it.

To tell the truth, it wasn't too hard to be in charge of the house for a few hours, although it was a responsibility I would gladly have passed up if I had had the choice. All the same, I made an effort to do everything right, so that Mom would be satisfied. No doubt she would be all worn out when she got back from the hospital.

At eight o'clock she returned. "Father is sleeping at the hospital tonight, to be near Boaz," she explained. "Let's hope he'll get a good night's sleep, so that he can open the store tomorrow morning as usual." She threw a rapid glance around the room and then gave me a beaming smile. "Tammi, you're great! The house is so neat and clean! And the children are all bathed and in their pajamas. I can see they were good children. Did you do your homework, children?" she asked the boys, who had gathered around her, waiting to hear some good word.

"Yes, we did. I even learned Mishnah by heart. And Shuki studied with Itzik. Tammi made us a very good dinner."

"With a lot of fried potatoes!" Shuki broke in. "She gave me as many as I wanted."

"And I did homework with Lego!" Little Natti wasn't about to be left out. Mother picked him up and hugged him.

"Mommy, do you know who cleared the table tonight? Me!" Shuki revealed. "And Arik washed the dishes. We all wanted to help Tammi. And in the meantime she gave Natti his bath. We wanted to be good children and surprise you. Tammi said you for sure would be a little sad because Boaz is in the hospital and you would be happy if we gave you a surprise."

"I am happy, my children," Mother said. "I'm really delighted. You are wonderful children!"

She gave everyone a kiss. "What's this, Shuki?" Mother's face darkened a little. She kissed Shuki again on his forehead. "You're warmer than usual. Aren't you feeling well?"

"I feel fine. Mom. Nothing's hurting me..." Shuki seemed taken aback that Mother was so worried about him. "Boaz is the one that's sick, not me!"

"In just a minute we'll take your temperature. Come, Natti. You get a good-night kiss too, and then off to bed... 0y vavoy! What's happened to my children? Natti has a fever, too! Just the right time to get sick! Trouble always comes in bunches," she murmured, smiling a little nervously. She quickly felt my forehead and Arik's. "Thank G-d, at least you don't have fevers!" she sighed in relief.

The thermometer showed that Shuki and Natti did have low fevers. However, they didn't complain of any special pains and didn't feel bad, so Mother felt calmer. She gave them something to bring down their fever, and then put them to bed.

In the middle of the night the ruckus started.

"Mommy!" a yell was heard. "Mommy, come fast!" It was Shuki.

I cocked an ear. Mother jumped out of bed and hurried to him. "What happened, dear?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm on fire... I'm burning up with fever! And so thirsty... My throat is dry. And my head feels heavy. Mommy. Mommy, I'm afraid to touch my hand. It's burning like fire... am I getting sick, too, like Boaz? But I didn't fall off the bomb-shelter at all...!" He burst out crying.

"Calm down, Shuki," said my mother's voice. But I was still too lazy to get out of my bed. I heard her tell Shuki, "I'll bring you something to drink right away.

You're flaming with fever... I'll give you some medicine, too." Mother went into the kitchen. Should I get up, or not? I fought with myself. Outside, a fierce wind was blowing. It was so nice to lie under a warm blanket and listen to the howling of the wind... A flash of lightening penetrated the cracks of my shutters and lit up the room for a second.

"Mommy, what is that light?" Shuki cried, startled. I jumped out of bed to calm him down, but I was too late. A deafening peal of thunder exploded, and Shuki burst out in terrific shrieks that woke up little Natti, who also started yelling. It was a real hullabaloo. I took Natti in my arms. He too was burning with fever! What was happening to my brothers? I sat beside Shuki, on the edge of his bed, took his hand, and tried to calm him down. His hand was so burning hot that I let go of it fast. Natti broke out into prolonged coughing that took his breath away and made him start crying again.

I summoned every bit of patience that I had. To take care of two children who are screaming, and sick into the bargain - it's not so simple. Fortunately, my mother returned from the kitchen quickly. She gave Shuki some medicine, and then immediately helped him drink. He drank two full glasses with noisy slurps, as if he hadn't had a drop of water for at least three days. Apparently the high fever had dehydrated his body.

"Mom," I said, "Natti has a fever, too."

"I thought so," she answered with resignation. She felt Natti's forehead. He was still screaming and throwing a fit. Without saying a word, my mother gave him a spoonful of that same cure-all for reducing fever. But the fact was that they had both already had a spoonful of that same medicine before they went to sleep, so why hadn't their fever gone down, and in fact even gone up? Mom always says that at night a fever goes up. Well, I suppose she's right, but I claim that those medicines are mostly worthless. Personally, I don't believe in medicines. Especially the ones that are supposed to bring down fever.

Shuki was totally unwilling to let Mother return to her bed and leave him alone. "I'm afraid. Mommy. Sleep by me tonight," he pleaded. After repeated efforts to persuade him to sleep by himself, she realized that she had no alternative, so she picked Shuki up and carried him into her room, tucking him into my father's

bed. I tried putting Natti back into his bed, but he cried and protested so violently that I soon gave up. I put him in Shuki's bed and tried to get him to fall asleep. I stroked his forehead, sang him lullabies, held his hand - what didn't I try! That little tyke lay with wide-open eyes, not even giving a sign that he was trying to fall asleep. Every once in a while he would break out in a hacking cough, accompanied by a couple of howls. I was already sick and tired of sitting by him, and almost fell asleep upright. I was cold, and so tired!

"Tammi?" I heard my mother's soft voice. "Maybe you'll go back to bed?"

"And what about Natti," I almost burst out crying. "He doesn't want to sleep!"

"I'll stay with him myself, Tammi. It's too hard for you." "But who will stay with Shuki?"

"Shuki's already asleep. Let's hope he won't wake up for the rest of the night. Go to sleep, Tammi."

"I can't. Mom. You're the one who needs to sleep. Tomorrow you have to go to the hospital to see Boaz. Dad can't stay with him during the day. Someone has to be in the store."

"You're right, Tammi. But all the same, I'll manage somehow. Mothers have to cope with any situation."

"No!" I insisted stubbornly. "I'm staying with Natti. You go to sleep. Mom."

Mother stroked my cheek. "Do you know what, Tammi? Pull out the sliding bed underneath Shuki's, and sleep in it tonight. Natti can stay in Shuki's bed. Maybe when he sees that you're near him he'll relax."

I pulled out the sliding bed. Mother brought my blanket from my room and I fell into bed with my last ounce of strength. I was completely exhausted. Natti stared at me in silence. But apparently when he saw that I had been permanently stationed by his bed for the duration, he calmed down. He rolled over onto his stomach, his eyes still open. I pulled my blanket up over me and rested one hand on Natti's back, so that he would know I was constantly by his side, and wouldn't start his terrible screaming.

Mother said good-night to me and went back to her room. I must have fallen asleep. But it was a very light sleep, interrupted from time to time by little

Natti's coughing, which was usually accompanied by a few wails. Sometimes, too, a kind of choking scream escaped him, which startled me and woke me up, and also made me angry. I had forgotten that he was sick. Why did he have to yell like that, for no reason? Or maybe for some good reason, by that time it was all the same to me.

The next morning I woke up tired and weak, with burning eyes and heavy head. But there was no choice. I had to get up and help my mother. Our two little patients were already awake. Natti had managed to get up and crawl into Mother's bed, and I hadn't even noticed. Mother reassured me that he had left Shuki's bed only a short time ago. The two boys' faces were not normal, and appeared very strange. Their cheeks were red and their eyes bulging.

"What do you think they have?" I asked my mother. "They look terrible!"

"I'm sure it's nothing serious, it must be because of the change in weather. All the same, we have to take them to the doctor. Shuki's complaining of an earache, and Natti says his throat is sore, hey might have an infection that needs medicine. You heard Natti's coughing last night."

"But how can you take them to the doctor. Mom?" I asked. "You have to visit Boaz!"

Mother looked at me, and I saw an apology in her eyes. I could see she felt uncomfortable, "I thought of that, Tammi. I don't have any choice but to ask you to stay home from school today. You'll have to take the boys to the doctor instead of me."

I frowned, but didn't say a word. One of the places I most hate to go is the doctor's office. But this time I had no alternative.

Arik went to his Talmud-Torah. He asked simply, "Did something happen last night? I thought I heard voices."

He thought he heard, lucky boy! How could he have slept through an uproar like that? Mother went to visit Boaz, and I set out on my way to the doctor's office.

The pediatrician confirmed my mother's fears. Shuki had an ear infection and would have to take an antibiotic, as well as eardrops. For Natti she prescribed

cough syrup. Natti was very happy, for it was a sweet syrup that he liked very much. If he could have got permission, he would have downed the whole bottle in one gulp.

"It's the weather," the doctor told me. "That's one of the signs that winter has arrived. Sick children."

How I managed to get through that day, I'll never know. I was so tired I almost fell asleep on my feet, my head was spinning like a top, and besides, I had to take care of my two little invalids, who took advantage of their situation to nag and nudge me mercilessly. All I remember is that it was very hard, and that I was a bit irritable.

At two o'clock that afternoon, I heard a knock on the door, and there stood - Anat.

"Tammi!" She seemed shocked. "Are you sick? You look terrible!"

"Shuki and Natti are the ones that are sick. Boaz, too. He's in the hospital." I was trying to explain everything quickly in shorthand. "I'm just tired. Come in, Anat. It's nice of you to visit me." She came in, we sat down, and I gave her a more detailed report on the situation.

"You've got to go to sleep, Tammi!" she decided in an instant. I looked at her skeptically. "And who's going to take care of my little brothers? Who's going to make sure they get their medicine on time?"

"Why, do I look like a dummy to you? Just tell me everything I have to do, and you'll see that everything will be taken care of first class."

I tried to correct my blunder. "My brothers don't know you. It would be hard for you. You have no idea how they can nag..."

"Leave those problems to me," Anat interrupted. "You go to sleep immediately. No excuses!"

I was urgently in need of sleep, so I gave in. After bringing out all the food I could find in the house and setting it in front of her on the table - against her numerous protests - and after telling her to feel at home and act as if it was her own house, I went into my room. Within two minutes from the moment I touched the bed, I was unconscious. At five o'clock I woke up, feeling like a new

person. I jumped out of bed. I had slept two and a half hours, leaving Anat alone with my brothers...! I hadn't meant to sleep more than an hour, but my great weariness had made that time more than double itself.

Outside, it was already getting dark. I went into the children's room. Arik was sitting in his corner doing his homework. Shuki was sitting up in bed; from his expression he seemed to be feeling better. Next to him sat his good buddy Itzik, and the two of them were chatting excitedly. But - wonder of wonders - the best news always comes in the form of a still, small voice - Natti was sitting on the carpet, playing with his toy cars! I was amazed. I didn't know I had such good, well-brought- up brothers.

"Look, Tammi woke up!"

Shuki looked up. As soon as he saw me, he broke out in a cry of glee: "Now we can yell and run around!"

"What do you mean?" I didn't understand him. "And where's my friend?"

"Anat's sitting in the livingroom," Shuki explained. "She asked us not to make noise, so you could sleep."

And these little guys had obeyed her! I wondered how she had talked them into it, but of course, I had forgotten. Anat's power to influence...

"What nice stories she told us!" Natti exclaimed. "I asked her to be my nursery school teacher."

"And did she agree?" I asked, chuckling at the idea.

"No," he said in a tone of disappointment. Then he perked up immediately. "But she said she would come here a lot to play with me and tell me stories."

I went to Anat. She was deeply absorbed in reading a book she had taken from the shelf. At the sound of my footsteps she looked up from the book and smiled at me. "Did you get a good sleep?"

"Excellent! How did you manage to keep them quiet?"

"I just explained to them how tired you were. You'll be surprised to hear that children are willing to listen and obey, if you just know how to talk to them. I

told them stories until Arik got home, about four-fifteen. That was about an hour ago. A few minutes after him, Itzik arrived, and then I got some time off."

"I don't know how to thank you," I stammered.

"So don't thank me! Don't tell me you're starting to get like those grown-ups, who act so polite!" she teased. This was a new Anat I hadn't met yet. Apparently it was going to take me some time to get to know all the hidden sides of my friend's personality that she hadn't yet revealed to me.

"Won't they worry about you at the dorm?" I asked. "Won't they be mad at you?"

"No. I managed to run over to the dorm and get permission from the madrichah. She understood the situation and said it was alright for me to come back late."

They wouldn't have given permission like that to just anyone. Only to Anat...

We went into the kitchen to make dinner. In spite of my protests, Anat helped me with everything. "Do you have brothers and sisters?" I asked. Strange as it may seem, Anat had never told me about - had never even mentioned - her family. She always seemed to avoid the subject. "You managed beautifully with my brothers," I said, as if to explain why I had asked the question.

"No," Anat answered. "I'm an only daughter."

"I'm also an only daughter," I wisecracked. "But all the same I have four brothers."

"I don't have brothers or sisters," Anat explained patiently. She didn't seem interested in discussing the matter, and I didn't know what to say, how to continue the conversation.

"You did a great job of keeping my brothers busy, they like you."

"True. But do you know, up until recently - until about two years ago - I didn't have any idea how to act with little children. For me they were troublesome creatures, it was better not to be around them. That was until I got to know my cousins. Then I learned to understand the world of these little people, and even to like it. Ever since then, I've known how to spend time with young children, and I even like it."

"But..." I was a little shy to ask, but the question was bothering me. "You don't live with your aunt, do you?"

"Certainly not! Thank G-d, I have good parents who love me, and I live with my own family. But I've become very close with my aunt and her family."

"Does she also live in Rechovot?" I inquired. "Yes," she answered briefly. She didn't add any details.

I jumped to a hasty conclusion. "I suppose they must have moved to Rechovot just two years ago."

"No. What makes you think that? She lived in Rechovot long before I moved there. She was born and grew up there. This aunt of mine is my father's sister."

"It's just that you said you only got to know your cousins two years ago. That's why I thought they had recently moved there. But maybe it was your family that moved to Rechovot two years ago."

"Ahh." An unexpressive reply, from which I learned nothing. Anat bit her lower lip and silently continued cutting vegetables for the salad.

I felt very uncomfortable. There was something strange about Anat's expression. I wanted to go on asking questions, but couldn't bring myself to do so. Anat apparently noticed my uncertainty. "Some other time I'll tell you everything, Tammi," she said hastily, but with a touch of softness in her voice. "Maybe... maybe even tonight. I got permission to go back to the dorm late. They turn off the lights there at ten, so I'll have to be back a little before that. You're planning to feed me dinner, I hope?" She smiled mischievously, camouflaging her tenseness.

We sat on the enclosed balcony of my house, Anat and I had opened the shutters, but left the windows closed, so that the very cool wind of Jerusalem at the end of fall couldn't get in. Through the windows we could see the dark, partly cloudy sky, and hear the whistling of the wind that was even now bringing more clouds with it. Tonight it would probably rain. That year, Anat and I were together on many evenings like this one. Whether it was a summer night or a winter one, each was an experience all its own.

"What about your homework, Anat?" I asked, when I could no longer stand the silence between us.

"Most of it I already finished during the breaks. After all, you didn't come today, so I didn't have anyone to talk to. For algebra I haven't yet solved all the exercises, but I'll do it tomorrow morning early."

One question had been bothering me for some time. Why had Anat chosen me in particular to be her friend? True, she had other friends in the class, but she had formed her, closest tie with me. I was happy, but also surprised. What had she discovered in me that she didn't see in some other girt in our class? I dared to ask her.

"You're different," Anat declared decisively. "As a matter of fact, you're like all the others, but at the same time, you're not like them. And that's what I like about you. If you were completely like the others, or else extremely different. I'll use an extreme expression: If you were starry-eyed - like me, for example..." She smiled naughtily. "I wouldn't want you for a close friend. And also if you were an ordinary, superficial girl like any other, I wouldn't be especially interested in you. But you are a combination of same and different; that's what appeals to me."

Yes, and it appealed to me to hear Anat praising me, despite the fact that I hadn't understood exactly what she was praising me for. I asked her to explain.

"You're an ordinary girl, it's true. You like to fool around, you don't make special efforts to study. You aren't always careful to make sure that you're doing the right thing. And yet, all the same, when someone criticizes you, you're willing to accept the criticism with understanding and admit when you're wrong. There aren't too many like that in this world. People don't like to hear criticism or reproof. They prefer to get compliments."

"Do you think I'm not one of those who prefer to get compliments?"

"You prefer, yes. But you don't get angry at me when I reprimand you honestly, with good will. Someone else in your place would never look at me again."

"Don't exaggerate."

"But that's how it is, you'll be surprised to know.You see, I have the feeling that when I tell you something, you understand me, not just the ordinary kind of

understanding, the meaning of the words and the sentences. But an understanding that is a feeling. You feel what I feel."

I liked this revelation of her inner thoughts, which was spoken with great simplicity. Without beating around the bush, she said what was in her heart. She was probably right. But since I was more inhibited, I didn't reply.

Anat went on heaping compliments on me. "You are thoughtful and you use your judgment, and you're intelligent, even if you sometimes hide those qualities behind a mask of naughtiness."

I reddened. I hadn't been prepared to be exposed so openly. "I'm not brilliant and intelligent like you, Anat." I felt I had to return her compliments. "I don't even come up to your ankles."

"That's your good luck," she said with a short laugh. "I'm just a strange girl."

"In my opinion, you're something special."

"You think so, because you don't know me yet."

"And what makes you think you know me?" I asked.

"On the contrary. If I'm wrong, just tell me."

I didn't answer, and my silence was an admission that she was right. Anat's definition of my personality had hit the mark - even if to some people that might sound like boasting. But every once in a while I'm in the habit of admitting the truth about myself, even if that includes good qualities. I never claim to be what I'm not. I can't stand people who act with unnecessary humility just to seem modest and humble. In my opinion, that's plain hypocrisy.

My mother came out onto the balcony. "Tammi," she said, "I'm going up to the neighbor's apartment for a minute. I've just been to the post office. A letter came from Aunt Shirley in America. I want to ask our neighbor Esther to translate it for me. I'll be right back. Just keep an eye out in case one of the children wakes up and wants something."

"O.K., Mom." Anat made an almost imperceptible gesture as if she wanted to say something. But since she didn't say anything, I thought that my eyes had tricked me, and I didn't pay any attention. ' After about a minute and a half, my

mother returned. I heard the door open, and then her footsteps. "It was such a short letter?" I called from the balcony.

"Esther's not home. She went to a wedding."

"Tell your mother that if she wants, I can translate the letter for her," Anat said, trying not to speak too loudly.

"You!" I asked skeptically. "You can decipher a letter in English? And you know all the hard words?"

"First of all, not every handwriting is necessarily difficult to decipher. And not every letter has hard words in it."

"You don't know Aunt Shirley's letters. She writes even the simplest things in fancy language. The ordinary English we learn at school isn't enough to translate her letters. If that were possible, I'd do it myself."

Anat shrugged. "Not that I have any special interest in reading your aunt's letter. I just wanted to help your mother. We speak English at home, my parents and I. English is my mother- tongue. Before I even started to study English at school, I already spoke and read it fluently."

I opened both eyes wide in amazement. "But you study English with us at school!"

That's true," she smiled, "and not true. I do sit in class like any other student. But usually there's nothing for me to learn. Except for the rare times when the teacher teaches an unusual verb, I sit and daydream. Even I have a right to daydream for one class, don't I?"

I was surprised. And how could it be none of us had ever noticed that Anat spoke English? "Mom," I called, "Anat can translate the letter from Aunt Shirley."

Our aunt wrote the good news that she had a new grandson, just born to her oldest daughter: She also told us that she planned to visit Israel at Channukah time, and it seemed she would be staying with us for a while. She went on to relate new and not-so-new events - a normal letter from a good aunt. "Why do you speak English in your home?" I asked, after Mother had thanked Anat and left us to ourselves.

"As I told you, English is my mother-tongue. Until the age of five, when I entered kindergarten, I didn't know a word of Hebrew. My family came to Israel when I was four and a half."

"You weren't born in Israel?" I was completely amazed. "You have such an Israeli accent! It's impossible to believe that you came from a different country. Where were you born?"

"In the United States. Don't forget that I arrived in Israel ten years ago, at a relatively young age, so it was easy for me to pick up a 'Sabra' accent."

"Wait a minute." I didn't understand yet. "You told me before about your aunt, your father's sister, who was born and raised in Rechovot. So where was your father born?"

"He also was born in Eretz Israel." "So how did he..."

Anat took a deep breath. "All right. We've arrived at the suspense story I promised you this evening. I'll start from the beginning. My father works for the Israeli Defense Department, some secret job that even I don't know what it is. Something to do with atomic physics, research, in the past I've tried to look into it, but I ran into a blank wall and gave up on the idea of finding out more, that is, more than I already don't know. About sixteen years ago, or a little less - my father was twenty-five then - he was sent to the States by the Defense Department for study, professional training - I'm sure you've heard of things like that. There he became acquainted with my mother, a typical American, and that acquaintance led to their marriage. My father's stay in America, originally planned for three years, dragged out to more than five. My mother wanted to finish her degree in computer science. In the meantime, about a year after the wedding, I was born. When my mother had finished her studies, and my father couldn't extend his assignment in America any more - and besides, he missed Israel very much - we came here, the whole family. So there. That's the story."

"So your father is Israeli and your mother is American, a strange combination."

"Strange, perhaps, but not rare. Today you'll find a lot of couples like that."

"You're right. And what was it like coming to a foreign, unfamiliar country?"

"The truth is that I was still little, and adapting to a new society wasn't especially hard. My mother suffered more than I did. To be more exact, to this very day she hasn't got used to the lifestyle and atmosphere here in Israel. Unlike me, who wouldn't trade Eretz Israel for any other country in the world, she would gladly pack up her things and go back to the land where she was born. It's only because of Father that she stays. And because of me, of course."

"But the family... your father's family. You told me that they live in Rechovot, too. They must have tried to make it easier for your mother to get adjusted, and to help her like the country, didn't they?"

"That's the problem," Anat sighed. "We don't have any connection with the family. For a long time I didn't even know that I had a grandfather and grandmother, uncles and aunts, cousins..."

I tried to conceal the unease that came over me when I heard about her family problems. "Until two years ago you didn't know," I said, recalling what she had told me. "Then, according to what you said, you first got to know your aunt's family."

"Yes, and through her, the rest of the family. You can't imagine how angry my father was when he found out that I had made contact with his family, whose very existence he had tried for years to hide from me. In the end he accepted the situation, he didn't have any choice. But the connection remains with me alone. My parents aren't willing to hear even about a telephone conversation with someone from the family. It's so painful for me..."

"It's a very unusual situation. What could have caused such a stand-off? They must have had some kind of a fight," I suggested. I felt that Anat was waiting for some kind of verbal-emotional participation on my part, that she wouldn't feel comfortable if I remained just a passive listener. And even though it wasn't particularly pleasant for me, because for me this felt like an intrusion into the territory of her personal and family problems, a territory where I had no right to enter - still, I felt obligated to do so. Besides, it naturally interested me to learn as many details as I could about this strange story.

"Well, at a young age my father left his parent's home and began his own independent life. The reason he did that..." She paused a moment, took a deep breath. "He didn't like the way of life in which he had been brought up, and

which he was forced to follow in his parent's home... My grandfather is a religious man, who observes Torah and mitzvot and is strict about every detail, minor or major. And my father wanted to throw off that yoke. At the age of eighteen he left the yeshivah where he had been studying and enlisted in the army. Since he had no other aspiration in life, he made his own personal advancement his exclusive goal. That was what he decided to achieve, and that was what he pushed himself to reach. And he succeeded. He chose to serve the government of the state of Israel. His brilliant mind, the many talents and abilities with which he was blessed - he turned everything to the service of the Defense Department. And it must be said that he succeeded beyond all expectations. That is the life in which he is totally immersed, and he's not willing to hear about any other way of living."

"You grew up in a non-religious family," I noted. I began to understand a number of things that I had wondered about. Until now, I had found no explanation for them.

"I grew up in it, and I'm still in it. Don't make any mistake, my parents, as human beings, are wonderful people. My father is a little more closed and introverted than my mother, but he has always been extremely devoted to me. He's given me more than a daughter usually receives from her father. Especially from such a busy father. And as for my mother... my mother is really marvelous. We've always been good friends. For years she was my very best friend. I told her all my secrets, shared all my experiences with her. Whenever I was uncertain what to do, I went to her for advice, and I was never disappointed. There was always friendship and understanding between us. Until... until I met Batyah. It's true that even after that we continued to be, and we still are, very close to each other. But something changed... it's not the same thing anymore. I feel it's really too bad that I've lost my mother in the way she was before I met Batyah."

"Batyah? Who's that?"

She had been expecting the question. "Batyah is the one who changed my whole life. It was really a case of divine intervention. Maybe you'll laugh when you hear how I met her. I was in seventh grade then. That was two years ago..." She made an effort to remember. "Yes, it was right at the beginning of the school year, the end of summer, and the days were extremely hot. I was travelling by bus - I don't remember where I was going, even though it's pretty rare for me to go anyplace

by bus. Usually my parents drive me everywhere. My father and mother each have their own car," she said without boasting. She just mentioned it as a fact. "Maybe I had decided to go by bus just for the experience. It's more interesting, you meet people..."

"As I mentioned, today I realize that it was the hand of Providence that led me there. Sometimes we find ourselves doing things that seem at first sight completely unnecessary. We don't understand why, what's the sudden impulse to act a certain way and not some other way. Sometimes heaven helps us and we discover the meaning of certain surprising things. Many other times, we never find out what it was all about, because we look at every event as if it were just 'accidental.' We've already got used to accepting whatever happens, without trying to understand what each event is meant to teach us, whether it concerns us personally, or our surroundings.

"On that particular summery day, I was sitting on the bus. As I said, it was extremely hot, and of course I was dressed accordingly..." Anat stopped for a moment. Her cheeks turned red. "Today I can't understand how in the very recent past I used to go around like that, in short pants and a shirt even more skimpy than a T-shirt... All that came from the upbringing and the lifestyle I'd been accustomed to. I didn't know any other life. And I didn't have the necessary data to begin thinking along the lines that would have led me by myself to the conclusion - the intellectual conclusion, I mean, not an active decision to change my way of life - that, even aside from matters of religion, Mitzvot, or transgressions, this kind of clothing doesn't honor a person. This was the way my friends dressed, and I dressed the same. This was also the kind of clothing I saw around me on the bus.

"Until... until Batyah got on the bus. Just at that moment, the seat next to me became vacant, and Batyah sat down beside me. A girl a few years older than me. Afterwards I found out that she was - at that time - seventeen. Five years older than me. Of course I didn't yet know her.

"I stared at her in amazement. I couldn't believe my eyes. In the middle of summer a girl was walking around in a long- sleeved blouse, buttoned right up to the neck, and she was even wearing long tights.

"Apparently my stares didn't escape her. After the bus had driven on for a few minutes, during which I could not manage to take my eyes off her, she turned to me with a smile.

"Something wrong?"

"I was confused, and felt very uncomfortable, but she continued in a natural tone, as if we were old acquaintances:

"Don't be shy. Tell me..."

"When she saw that I didn't utter a sound, she told me with a smile:

'You know, your wondering glances remind me of something... Once I was walking in the street and a strange boy, whom I didn't know, asked me: 'Hey, girl! Why do you have only one earring?' I almost raised my hand to feel my ear, but at that moment I saw the teasing look in his eyes and realized he was only making fun of me. That's exactly what he was hoping I would do, check my ear. I told him, 'Pardon me for touching on a sensitive point, but it just looks that way to you because you're cross-eyed.' He stood still, with the wind knocked out of him, and I continued on my way. I assumed that both my earrings were in their usual place, but all the same, when I got far enough away from that boy that he couldn't see me, I checked my earlobes. Just as I had thought, both earrings were in place.'

"We laughed together, Batyah and I, and my tension and discomfort dissolved. When she saw that her story had had the desired effect, she asked again: 'But you seem to be genuinely surprised. What is it about me that bothers you?'

"It's...nothing," I stammered. "No doubt you're not feeling well... sick..."

"Do I look to you like I'm sick?" she laughed. "Thank G-d, I'm at least as healthy as you. Why did you think I was sick?"

"It's - because of the clothes you're wearing. Long blouse... tights... I thought you had a fever, felt cold..."

"This time she didn't laugh. She didn't smile, either. She just looked at me with an expression in her eyes that was sort of - kind. I can't define it any other way. She was quiet for a long moment, as if choosing her words. She was searching for a

way to explain the matter to me without offending me. I could see that it was hard for her.

"Is this the first time that you've seen someone dressed like me?" she finally asked.

"In the summer...yes." I admitted. "That's really too bad."

At that time, I didn't know what she meant by those words. Later, she explained to me. It was too bad that people, even if not brought up according to the Torah, didn't at least have a positive awareness that a different way of life existed. Like myself, for example, who when I saw her for the first time, thought that she was sick. To tell the truth, my first thought had been that she wasn't in her right mind; that she was simply crazy. How could anyone go around in clothes like that on such a hot day?

"And Batyah - during the conversation I had learned her name - continued: "You see, I'm Jewish..."

"I'm also Jewish!" I interrupted her, rebelling. Was she trying to take away my Jewishness just on account of my clothes which were shorter and more sensible than hers?

"G-d forbid, I didn't say you're not Jewish. You're undoubtedly just as good a Jew as I am. But I'm a Jew who knows that my people, the Jewish people, are a special people."

"I was curious. 'Special in what way?'

"In that they received a certain thing that was not given to any other people."

My curiousity grew. "And what is that thing?" "Torah."

"One short word. It was familiar to me from somewhere or other, but only as a blurry concept. Batyah noticed my hesitant expression and explained: 'The book of Mitzvot and laws that was personally given by G-d to Moshe Rabbeinu so that he would pass it on to the Jewish people."

"But I don't believe in G-d!" I was repeating a well-known, familiar statement.

"How can you say that you don't believe in something if you don't have any idea what it is? If you don't understand the word, or know what it stands for?"

"I thought about her words for a minute. 'But I do know! G-d is something invisible, which no one has ever been able to see, but which they claim created the world. It's not realistic at all!'

"She wasn't flustered by my attack, and explained to me patiently: 'Let's say we were talking to someone who lived two hundred years ago. Assume we found a way to talk to him, and we told him: 'Let's go for an airplane ride!' He would ask, 'What's an airplane?' and we would tell him, 'It's a machine that flies in the air.' 'I don't believe such a thing exists,' he would answer. 'It's not realistic!' Now, what do you think about that?' she asked me.

" 'You'd have to show him,' I answered without thinking twice. Then he'd believe.'

" 'Of course you're right. We'd have to show him, and we could show him. Because an airplane is a realistic thing, as every child knows. And today we know that even hundreds and thousands of years ago, when airplanes didn't yet exist, the idea of an airplane was realistic. It's just that its reality hadn't yet taken on a physical form that anyone could see. Therefore it was hard to believe that such a thing could exist...' She was silent for a moment, giving me time to think over what she was saying - and I was thinking, believe me! Then she continued.

" 'Now I'm telling you that G-d, too, is realistic, exists. And you'll answer me, 'I don't believe.' Therefore, you have to be shown... but not visually. There are things that can only be seen by the eye of the intellect. Intellect itself, for example. Such seeing is possible, but more difficult. But the day is coming, and we hope it will be soon, when the reality of G-d will be clear and obvious for all to see, so much so that people will be surprised at themselves: 'How is it that we didn't see before?' Just as today people wonder, 'How can it be that in the past no one believed in the possibility of a machine that flies in the air, an airplane?'

"It was this conversation with Batyah, during a bus trip, that opened a door for me into a new and unfamiliar world, the world in which I now exist. At that moment, in the bus, I wasn't yet convinced, of course. But she had succeeded in awakening my curiosity and stimulating me to think and meditate on the subject.

We weren't able to continue our conversation. I reached my destination and had to get off the bus. We parted, but not before she had taken my phone number and promised to give me a call.

"She kept her promise. When she called the next day, I was very happy. I had a lot of questions to ask her. Since we had said good-bye, I had had quite a bit of time to contemplate our conversation, to think, to understand - and also to raise questions. I was also happy to know that she had not forgotten me, that she had thought to call me.

"During that phone conversation she also invited me to be her guest for Shabbat. It wasn't easy to get my parents to agree to that. But since it had always been hard for them to say no to me about anything, they gave in to me this time, too. I'm sure that if they had been able to foresee how things would develop, and what would come of it, they would have firmly insisted that I break off all connection with Batyah immediately, before the relationship could get started. But, fortunately for me, things turned out otherwise. And when I got to Batyah's house on Friday afternoon, dressed modestly - more or less - the surprise of my life was waiting for me!"

I was in suspense. Anat took a breath. Maybe she was deliberately delaying, to increase my suspense? She glanced at her watch. I, too, looked at my watch. How I wished that time would stand still, at least until Anat could finish her story! The watch, of course, paid no attention to my wish, and its hands continued racing ahead.

"I have a little more time," Anat said, to my great relief. "I'll try to finish my story quickly.

"Batyah's family received me with great friendliness. Later on I found out that the strange, almost astonished glance which Batyah's mother fixed on me when she first saw me had not been a figment of my imagination. In spite of that, she didn't hold herself back, and welcomed me heartily, with really motherly warmth. We sat down in the guest room and had an ordinary, routine conversation. You can imagine what we talked about. What school I went to, and which grade I was in, if I liked it, and what my hobbies were. Today I know that Friday is a day when it's hard to sit down and talk to guests. At the time, I didn't realize that. For me, Friday afternoon was just a day like any other. In Batyah's house I didn't at all feel that her family were nervous or under pressure to get ready on time. Everyone was so calm and relaxed... as if the mother of the house had nothing else to do but sit and chat with me on Friday afternoon - and

that, despite the fact that the home was blessed with eight children, may they be well.

" 'Your first name is Anat, that I know. But what is your family name?' Batyah's mother asked. She asked me to call her by her first name, Hadassah.

" 'Zahavi,' I answered.

" 'Zahavi?' She thought for a moment. 'Certainly that's not your family's original name. Perhaps your father 'hebrew-ized' the name?'

" 'True,' I said. The name was originally Gold.'

"Again I felt that strange glance directed at me, as when I had first come in. Hadassah asked me in a slightly trembling voice, 'Tell me...what is your father's first name?'

" 'Eli. Elitzur.' I was surprised at her unusual behavior and strange questions.

" 'Elitzur Gold!' she exclaimed. For some reason she used the old name instead of the present one, and I still didn't understand why. 'How old is your father? Tell me. I have to know! Forgive me, but it's important!'

"I looked at her closely and, perceiving that she was very emotional, decided that nothing terrible could happen if I gave her the information she was asking for.

" 'My father is thirty-nine.' I remembered his age, because his birthday was coming up soon and I had been racking my brains to find the right present for him. 'But,' I added, 'our family name is Zahavi, not Gold!' She ignored these last words.

" 'Elitzur...' my hostess murmured, 'Yes, by now he would be thirty-nine. In about another month, or a little more. He was born the day after Simchat-Torah...' " 'Who do you mean?' I was brave enough to ask. 'Who are you talking about?'

" 'Elitzur...my brother!' she answered, her eyes still fixed on me with a strange expression.

" 'Ahh,' I said, pretending to understand. 'Your brother is also named Elitzur?' Then suddenly the questions started pouring in on me like a flood. 'Was your father born in Rechovot? Did he work, maybe still works, for the Defense

Department? And he went overseas about thirteen years ago on a government assignment? Did he meet your mother in the United States and marry her there?'

"I nodded my head. That's all I could do, just sit and nod my head up and down, again and again. I didn't understand where she had uncovered all these details about my family. Then suddenly she stood up, came over to me, took my hand in hers, put her other hand on my shoulder, and told me in a soft voice:

"Anat. My niece... Yes. You are the daughter of Elitzur...of Eli. I'm so happy to know you!'

"And that's how I first met my aunt.

"Afterwards we sat and talked, the whole family. We spoke, told stories, discovered details we had never known. Now I understand why she had transfixed me with those strange glances as soon as I came in.

" 'One can't say you resemble Eli,' Hadassah declared; and I confirmed the fact: 'That's right; everyone claims I very much resemble my mother.' And she continued: 'But the expression... that same look in the eyes, that same line of the mouth... when one looks carefully at the details, it's impossible not to see that you're the daughter of Eli... your father, I mean.'

"She told me that since my father had left home, he had broken off all contact with the family. Everything they knew about him they had gleaned indirectly, through common friends, and these pieces of information were not exact.

'Only once did we get a letter from him, from America, in which he informed us that he had married. He didn't send us an invitation... and he didn't give details. I didn't know he had a daughter. Do you have other brothers or sisters, Anat?' I shook my head no, and she continued, 'We also didn't know that he had returned to Israel...'

"As soon as we got over the shock of our meeting, my Aunt Hadassah phoned my grandfather and grandmother. What can I tell you? Do you know what it is to speak with your grandfather for the first time in your life when you're twelve years old? With a grandfather who lived not far from your house, and who you never even knew existed? The excitement was mutual. They phoned all the uncles and aunts, and all those who lived nearby were invited to come over on Shabbat afternoon to meet their long-lost niece.

"That was a very emotional Shabbat. Besides the fact that until then I had never experienced the taste of a real Shabbat. The following night, I was in a state of confusion and amazement, but also delighted - though I can't say the same about my parents. When I came home all enthusiastic and told them that I had met my Aunt Hadassah, and Aunt Margalit, and Uncle Shaul, and Uncle Mordechai, and even Grandpa and Grandma - for a moment I thought my father was going to have a fit. Afterwards began what I call 'operation persuasion.' In a nice way, my parents tried to explain to me that it would be better for me if I didn't maintain contact with that old-fashioned family. But what could I do if I just happened to like all my relatives? I couldn't agree to my parents demand. Even when they tried to threaten me, that only made me more stubborn. I insisted on my right to stay in touch with the members of my family.

" 'But don't you show up suddenly with a prayerbook in your hand, understand?' my father cried angrily, when he understood that he couldn't force his attitude towards the family on me. 'I'm not willing to hear a single word about Mitzvot and Torah! I left all that so I could start a new life. Don't you start bringing home the things I ran away from!'

"And my mother nodded her head in agreement and said in a slow, quiet voice: 'You're not allowed to be religious, Anat. You must remember what I'm telling you. For your own good, listen to me. Stay away from traditional Judaism. It will only make life hard for you.' "

Anat sighed. The memories were very painful for her. "I didn't stay away from Judaism. I got closer, much to my parents dissatisfaction. The truth is that at the start I didn't believe it would happen. And it didn't happen all at once. It was a period full of crises. Fights, battles, confrontations, situations that I had never imagined could take place between me and my parents. To this day I don't understand the reason for their stubborn opposition. After all, it was my private life, which I had a right to live as I saw fit. I didn't try to force my new ways on them. Why was it permitted for my father to run away, but forbidden for me to go back?

"In the end, my parents gave in. And when they agreed - an unstated agreement - the war between us died down, and that truce was enough for me. They began, without my requesting it, to meet me halfway. The kitchen in our

house was koshered. They are careful that any food that comes into our house meets the highest standards of Kashrut. They don't openly desecrate Shabbat, and there are other things, too. Little things, but highly significant."

"You went through a difficult period," I remarked, after Anat had remained silent for a moment.

"Yes. Today the situation is much better. At Sukkot my father built a Suckah, just for my sake, he didn't use it himself. And even though Jewish law exempts me from the Mitzvah of the Suckah - besides the fact that my father knew I'd be spending the holiday evenings with our relatives - it was nice of him to think of me and want to give me the feeling of the holiday at home as well. On Yom Kippur, for example - do you think my parents go to the synagogue? They also don't consider it necessary to fast on Yom Kippur. My parents have disconnected themselves completely from Jewish tradition."

I began to understand. That was why Anat had asked to be my guest for Yom Kippur, and that was the reason for her sad smile on wishing me a happy holiday when we parted for Sukkot vacation.

"You must be a real heroine, Anat, if you managed to stand up under pressures like those and not break."

She didn't reply to my comment. She thought silently for a moment and then said, "Yet, all the same..."

"All the same - what?"

"All the same, it's still hard for me, the psychological pressure... I can't ignore it. Every once in a while my mother tells me, 'You'll see yet, Anat, one day you'll drop all this... you'll throw these old-fashioned customs behind your back... you'll understand that all these things are irrelevant to you, and you'll regret these days, in which you unnecessarily burdened yourself with a pointless yoke...' "

"Of course she would say that. She doesn't want you to be religious. Your mother is angry that you observe Torah and Mitzvot."

"That's true, and yet there's something else hidden behind her words... something that I, too, don't understand. She says these things and others like them with great seriousness, and with complete assurance. She's convinced that she's right!"

"To me it's quite clear," I answered. "Your mother is incapable of understanding your way of life. Why live a hard life, hemmed in at every step, when an easier way is available? And since she truly loves you and worries about you -in her own way, of course - she's interested in persuading you to adopt the outlook which she is sure is right and true, and, most important of all, the easiest and most convenient!"

"That's probably the real reason, and it's only my imagination... but all the same I have the feeling that something else is hidden behind these predictions of my mother's. She has some secret intention - and it bothers me that I don't know what it is!"

The hour was late, and we parted. It's not hard to believe that I had a hard time falling asleep that night. After all, I had slept until five in the afternoon! But that wasn't the main reason for my sleeplessness.

CHAPTER 4- A HIDDEN SISTER

The next day, too, I had to stay home. But this time it was more pleasant, perhaps because Shuki and Natti were feeling better. They both still had a little fever, but Natti wasn't coughing constantly as he had been the day before, and Shuki hardly complained at all about his ears hurting him.

"It can't be that the medicine helped them in one day," I told my mother. It was a logical theory, wasn't it? "Therefore obviously their condition would have improved even without the medicine. So maybe it would be a good idea to stop feeding them that poison?" But my words were in vain. Actually, I had known from the start that my mother wouldn't agree.

The chilly weather that had prevailed for the last few days cleared up. One could even call it hot. Maybe that improved my mood. That day I enjoyed staying home. Shuki and Natti behaved very well. Shuki told Natti a story, while I relaxed luxuriously on the living-room couch. My situation now was certainly better than that of my friends who were sitting in class hunched over their books and notebooks, listening to the teacher. Who's teaching now? I wondered. That's right, now is geography. It's certainly better, I decided, to sit at home licking an ice-cream, as I was doing now - one of my hobbies is eating ice-cream in winter - than to study geography. All the same, I couldn't help being bothered by a feeling of boredom. It was alright to stay home for a day or two, but more than that I would never agree to! I thought about my friends in class. Suddenly, I began to miss them. Especially Anat. I hoped she would come to visit me today, as she had yesterday.

Anat didn't let me down. In the afternoon she arrived, but she began her visit by telling me apologetically that this time she couldn't stay with me for very long.

"I have to go someplace," she said, and before I had time to wonder whether it would be polite to ask her where, she explained: "I promised Peninah I would come and visit her today."

"Peninah!" I was very surprised. Why her? "Is there some kind of test tomorrow that she asked you to help her study for?" Peninah was not the type of girl that friends usually wanted to visit. She had no social prestige in the class. Academically, too, she was one of the weakest, even though I sometimes got the impression that she was making a big effort to achieve.

"Why shouldn't I visit Peninah?" Anat probed me attentively. "Have you found something wrong with her?"

"No." I tried to explain. One couldn't talk about such subjects with Anat. She wasn't like the rest of us; she was different. She wouldn't understand. I could just picture the pair of eyes she would fix on me if I said that Peninah wasn't socially

popular in the class; that her test scores were among the lowest, that her clothes were old, threadbare. And as a matter of fact, Anat was right! "Of course I don't have anything against her, but Peninah..." No, I couldn't explain. "I didn't think you and she were such good friends that you would go to visit her," I said all in one breath, happy for the flash of inspiration that had rescued me.

"If that's the case, then you should know that in the past few weeks I've had a chance to get friendly with her. I've talked with her a number of times and discovered that she's a wonderful girl. Smart, perceptive, good-hearted, just today we had a talk. I asked her if she wanted me to visit her. Do you want to know the truth? It seemed to me that she wasn't especially enthusiastic about the idea. But she couldn't tell me no. I was quick to explain that if it was hard for her, I didn't have to come today especially. I could come another time. But she suddenly changed her mind and said that it was O.K., I could come. So I promised her."

"Stay a tittle," I asked Anat. I couldn't deny the feeling of jealousy that had begun to gnaw at me. Was Anat beginning to get close with Peninah? Deep inside I knew my fears had no logical basis. The fact that Anat was going to visit Peninah didn't prove anything. And even if it was true, Anat had never signed a contract with me not to become friends with any other girl.

"I'll stay," she said, "but not for a long time. Peninah lives far away, and I have to take two buses to get there. And don't forget, I have to get back on time, too. This time I didn't get permission to stay out late. I've got to be back at the dorm for dinner at seven."

I understood. I was a little mad at Peninah - through no fault of hers, of course - and also at Anat. Couldn't she have realized that I had been looking forward to her visit? That after a boring day at home with two little brothers who could drive a person crazy even when they're behaving well, I might want a little longer visit? But of course deep in my heart I knew that Anat didn't owe me anything and actually I would have had no right to complain even if she hadn't bothered to visit me at all. The only thing I should feel towards her was gratitude.

"What's happening in class? Anything new?" I tried to cover up my dissatisfaction. I was sure the answer would be in the negative. But Anat surprised me.

"Yes. Do you know Chagit, from the other ninth-grade class?" I knew who she meant. I still remembered her from the first day of school. "She's transferred into our class."

"You don't mean it!" I said, surprised. "It can't be that she just transferred without any reason."

"To me she said that it was done at her request - that she wasn't happy in her previous class, so she asked to be transferred. That's all I know."

"And what does everyone say?" As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Anat would surety yell at me, 'What difference does it make what everyone is saying? 'Everyone' usually talks nonsense. Their words don't necessarily match the truth...' I knew Anat by now! I corrected myself: "How did the mechanechet explain it?"

"She didn't try to explain it at all. She just asked us to give Chagit a nice reception and treat her properly."

"Just a minute." I remembered something important. "Where does she sit?" There were thirty-two girls in the class, seated in four columns of desks. In every column there were eight girls, at four tables. "Did they bring in another table?"

Anat smiled. "I was waiting for just that question. They didn't bring in another table, the mechanechet put Chagit next to us, at our table."

"What!" I cried, shocked.

"She decided that we three should sit together. We have a new table. You know the new tables, the one's covered with blue formica? They're longer."

"A historical precedent," I declared unenthusiastically. "And why at our table?"

Anat tried to swallow a smile. "The mechanechet said that we were the only ones she could depend on that this kind of seating arrangement wouldn't lead to disturbances in class. She said that our 'trio' could be trusted not to waste our time chattering or fooling around."

That was the first time, to the best of my recollection, that I was sorry Anat was such a good girl, a girl who demanded of herself that she set an example for others. Undoubtedly Anat was the one the mechanechet had been talking about when she had said that she trusted "us" and was sure about "us." By myself,

without Anat, I was no different - in terms of disturbing the teachers - from any other girl in the class. And now, because of Anat's good habits, they had put Chagit with us! Who needed her? I wanted to be the only one sitting with Anat!

In the morning I had waited impatiently for Anat's visit. But after she had gone, I felt very grumpy. For a minute I thought it would have been better if she hadn't come at all and told me the news. I was filled with a feeling of bitterness. The news about Chagit's joining our table upset me. Anat's 'running away' so quickly to visit Peninah also disappointed me. I looked for a scapegoat on which to take out my anger, and got mad at our mechanechet. Why hadn't she consulted us before deciding to put Chagit next to us? Why hadn't she bothered to find out if we agreed? I was mad at Peninah, and also at Anat.

It didn't make me any happier when my mother came back earlier than usual from the hospital and announced joyfully that Boaz felt much better and probably would be sent home on Friday.

"Boaz didn't mind staying by himself?" I asked, not because it really interested me, but because I knew that my father was still at the store.

"Actually, he probably would have agreed to stay by himself, because his condition has greatly improved. He can already get out of bed without me or Father to help him - something that had restricted him very much the past few days. He's also made a few friends his own age, so he's not too bored. But all the same, I didn't leave him alone. Grandpa and Grandma arrived to visit him, and they'll stay with him until the evening. Tonight Father won't sleep at the hospital. Boaz assured us he could manage by himself. I also think he's grown-up enough that we don't have to inconvenience Father too much. And especially since his condition is much better, there's no reason why we have to be at his bedside around the clock."

"Will Grandpa and Grandma visit us too?" I asked. I loved my grandparents, and hadn't seen them for a long time, actually not since we had moved to Jerusalem. They lived in Haifa, which was too far way for frequent visits.

"What do you think, they'd come to Jerusalem and not visit their dear grandchildren?" Mother smiled, but I didn't. "Of course they'll come! And they're even staying over Shabbat."

At any other time, I would have been jumping out of my skin with happiness. Now, I simply surprised my mother - and myself - with a question. "Did Grandpa and Grandma bring a present for Boaz?" I myself didn't understand what had happened to me. How had I suddenly become such a jealous type? Was it just because of Anat and Peninah and Chagit? Or had the tension of the past few days affected me?

My mother was surprised, but I could tell she was trying not to show it. In a restrained voice she replied: "Did you ever see Grandpa and Grandma visit a sick grandchild in the hospital without bringing a present? Of course they brought Boaz a present! In fact, they brought something for each of you, and this time the gifts are especially big," she said with a smile, patting me on the back, "- because this time they're in honor of our move to the new apartment, and also for Channukah presents. Grandpa and Grandma won't be able to visit us at Channukah time."

Mother was trying to raise my spirits a bit, but I wasn't at all cheered up by her last statement, about the presents. Instead I asked: "What did Boaz get?"

"What's happened to you, Tammi. Is something wrong?" she probed. "It's not like you to ask such questions!"

"What's the matter?" I excused myself with pretended indifference. "Can't a person ask?"

Mother shrugged her shoulders. "Boaz got a small portable electric organ. I'm sure the whole hospital is already hearing the music of our little composer. I imagine the nurses are going crazy... or at least using earplugs."

I didn't let my mother continue. "An electric organ! - but that's just what I've been asking for for such a long time! It's not fair. Mom! I should have gotten it!"

"Sorry, Tammi," Mother said coolly. "I didn't order the presents. Grandpa and Grandma decided on their own what to buy. I think it would be an act of ingratitude on your part if you make an outburst like this in front of Grandpa and Grandma. You should say thank you and be happy with whatever you get."

"I don't need any presents!" I think I was shouting. "Boaz for sure won't let me play his organ. What a brother. He only thinks about himself all the time. And because of him I worked so hard these last few days! He doesn't have to come back from the hospital, I don't need him, because he's so naughty, such a wild kid. For that he deserves a prize? O.K., tomorrow I'm going to jump off something high and break something... maybe a leg..."

Mother came over and tried to put her hand on my shoulder, but I slipped away quickly and ran to my room. I threw myself on my bed and immediately broke down in uncontrollable crying. I didn't consider myself too big to cry, and my mother sensibly left me to myself. If she had come in and tried to calm me or cheer me up, it would only have made me more angry.

When I came out of my room I was almost completely calm. The crying had gotten rid of all my feelings of anger and egoism. The only thing left was a remnant of indifferent bitterness, deep deep within, in a place where one has to work hard to get it out. I washed my face and eyes with plenty of water, and looked almost normal. To my relief, none of the family mentioned anything to me about my behavior, and that afternoon I also didn't say a word about it.

It was late in the evening, but Grandpa and Grandma hadn't yet arrived. The boys were already in pajamas, waiting impatiently for the important guests.

"You know what, Tammi?" Shuki whispered to me excitedly, glancing sideways at Mom to make sure she wasn't listening, "Grandpa and Grandma bought us presents in honor of our new apartment!"

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. "So what," was all I answered, and Shuki looked at me as if I were not in my right mind.

Grandpa and Grandma arrived. They squeezed the breath out of us with their hugs, and thoroughly plastered us with kisses. At a certain point in the evening, the time arrived for the presents, which really were very special this time. Arik got a microscope, and immediately got busy with it, investigating how many germs he could discover on the palm of his hand. This evening Mother made an exception and allowed all the children to stay up late. To Shuki, Grandpa and Grandma gave binoculars. "But don't you dare spy into peoples' houses!"

Grandma warned him. Natti got a little tricycle, and immediately began racing around the whole house on it.

"Didn't Tammi get a present?" Arik asked in wonder when he saw there were no more presents and I still hadn't received anything.

"We didn't know what to buy for Tammi," Grandma explained. "She's a big girl already, and maybe there's something she specially wants. We decided it would be too bad to buy her a present without asking her opinion first. It might be that we could make her happier with a different gift..."

I almost shouted, "Great! I want an organ like the one Boaz got!" but caught myself in time. I wouldn't ask for anything. I lowered my head and didn't answer.

"Nu, Tammi, what do you want?"

"Nothing," I muttered. I knew I wasn't telling the truth, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for anything. Mother glanced at me and smiled understandingly. Was it also a happy smile, or was I just imagining it?

"That can't be, Tammi!" Grandma exclaimed as if in disbelief. "There must be something that you want very much!"

"Why didn't you ask me?" Shuki complained. "I would have asked for an airplane ticket to America instead of binoculars."

"And I would have wanted a ship!" Natti cried enthusiastically, having returned from his tricycle journey around the house and decided, apparently, that it had been too short and boring. "A real ship, that goes on the ocean! And I would be the driver, and drive to the whole world!"

Everyone laughed. I understood that I couldn't get out of giving an answer. "Not now. Grandma," I said, "Tonight I can't make up my mind. I'll think about it, and when I know what I want, I'll tell you. Getting a present is not so urgent, thank you very much!"

"She didn't get anything yet, and she's already saying thank- you," Grandma joked. "Who knows what she's planning to ask for!"

In spite of everything it turned out in the end to be a pleasant and enjoyable evening. I almost forgot what had happened earlier that morning. But I was reminded when I arrived at school the next day - Grandpa and Grandma had taken my place babysitting - and saw the long, blue table that stood in the place of our previous one. Anat and Chagit were already sitting in their seats, chatting like old friends. When I got to my place Anat said to me: "We were waiting for you, Tammi. We wanted to know where you're interested in sitting, on the end or in the middle?"

"I'll sit in the middle," I answered quickly. Although it wasn't such a comfortable place, at least I would be separating Anat and Chagit.

At the ten o'clock break Anat asked to speak with me. I didn't let my happiness show. We strolled around the schoolyard, and Anat opened the conversation: "It's about my visit yesterday to Peninah."

I bit my lower lip. Was she going to start telling me how much she had enjoyed it, and what a warm, friendly atmosphere she had found, despite the humble surroundings? Was she going to tell me again enthusiastically that Peninah was a wonderful girl?

But Anat said just three words: "I was shocked." Then she stopped and took a long, deep breath. Only now did I notice the tense expression on her face.

After a moment she continued: "I still haven't managed to calm down from what I saw."

"What did you see?" I asked, feeling myself pulled into her emotional state. "Is the situation all that terrible?" "More terrible than you can imagine! The one who opened the door for me was Peninah's mother. Peninah is thin, right?"

"Very thin," I agreed.

"What would you say if I told you that her mother is twice as thin as she is?"

"Impossible!" I cried incredulously. "Thinner than Peninah?"

"I told you. Twice as thin as her!" Anat repeated emotionally. "It was frightening to see her... like a walking skeleton."

We were both silent for a long moment, until Anat continued:

"I went in. Her mother welcomed me with a smile. Peninah was waiting for me, a little embarrased. Would you like to know what kind of house they live in?" I prepared myself for the worst.

"Half of their house is a tin hut. Poverty is crying out from every corner. The other half of the house consists of one room and a small kitchen. The walls are leaning over; the furniture is falling apart... In that one room her parents and her baby brother sleep. The other two boys sleep in the kitchen, on mattresses straight out of the Middle Ages, and the five girls sleep in the tin hut, all together on one big bed made out of a few mattresses, which completely fills the hut. Peninah told me that when the family got bigger and the house became too small, her father 'built' that so-called 'extra room'. Since it's made from tin, it's boiling hot there in the summer, and freezing cold in winter. The rain leaks in through the cracks between the roof and the wall, drips down on the beds, and soaks the girls sleeping there. And do you think they have regular blankets? You won't believe what they cover themselves with! I almost fainted when I saw the heap of old clothes, torn thin blankets, frazzled curtains - I asked what it was, and Peninah told me, trying to hide her embarrassment, 'Those are our blankets.' When I asked her, 'Aren't you cold at night?' guess what Peninah answered me. 'Of course we're cold. So we go to bed early, and that way we don't feel the cold.' And that's not all yet, Tammi!" Anat's feelings were storming. "But from the description you've heard, you can understand how serious the situation is. We've got to do something!"

"What can we do?" I was very skeptical. "After all, we're only young girls."

"If we want, we can do a lot. And we're already not such little girls."

"Maybe we could buy a lottery ticket for them?" I suggested.

"Be realistic, Tammi," Anat answered patiently. "How do you know our ticket would win? Anyway, we have to do something urgently, immediately, without waiting around until luck smiles on us..."

"But what can we do?" I was out of ideas. "Give me a suggestion. I'm willing to do whatever you tell me!"

"We have to collect clothes for them. You've seen how Peninah dresses."

I thought about the feelings of repulsion I had felt towards Peninah because of her frazzled clothes, and I was ashamed of myself. Was it her fault that her economic situation was so poor? I also remembered how I had felt about her homework and test scores. Now I could understand her situation. It wasn't for nothing that our Sages said: "Don't judge your fellow man until you stand in his place." If I were in her place, I wouldn't be able to study and do homework, either. I wondered where she did her schoolwork. In the kitchen, where her big, crowded family ate and her brothers slept? Or in the so-called 'bedroom,' sitting on one of the mattresses with her little sisters jumping all around and acting wild? Or maybe in her parents' room, which no doubt also had plenty going on in it in a family like that?

"We also have to make sure they get warm blankets," Anat went on. "Another thing that's extremely important is to stop all the leaks in the roof. Winter is almost here. As for a different, more comfortable apartment, we'll talk about that afterwards. In the meantime, it's very important that the rain shouldn't leak into the 'girls' room.' It would also be good if we arrange for food to be sent to their home, let's say once a week. Anonymously, of course..."

"How are you going to do all that?" I asked skeptically. "Are you going to go from door to door asking for clothes and blankets?"

Anat reflected for a moment. "I thought about that," she answered. "We can't organize all this by ourselves. We have to get someone grown up to help us. I think we should talk to our teacher about it. As the mechanechet of the class, she has a certain amount of responsibility for the situation of her students."

"Won't you be embarrassed to talk with her about a subject like this?"

"Embarrased?" Anat didn't understand what I was talking about. "One of our friends needs help. Why shouldn't I speak with anyone I think can help us? So what if she's our mechanechet That's exactly why..."

"I've got an idea!" I broke in. Quickly, I told Anat about yesterday's events, explaining all about the organ. "Grandpa and Grandma are waiting to hear what I want for a present - now I know what to ask for! I'll ask that instead of giving me a present, they'll give me the money they had set aside for my present. I won't tell anyone what I'm going to do with the money. It will be the first contribution to the fund for helping out Peninah's family!"

Anat gave me a long look. Then she asked very softly, "Are you sure you're willing to give up the present you have coming to you?"

"Of course I don't want to give it up," I admitted frankly. "Obviously I'd prefer to get a present. But when I think what is more important - that I should get a present, some kind of thing which is certainly a luxury for me, or that Peninah's family should sleep under warm blankets starting this winter - I don't have any doubt which is more important."

Anat didn't fall all over me with praise and compliments. I hadn't expected her to. She just said: "It's very nice of you to think like that. All the same, Tammi, it would be better if you think it over carefully before you make a final decision, so that you won't have regrets afterwards."

"I'd better not think," I answered. "The more I think about it, the less I'll want to give up my present, and yet I know that's the right thing to do!"

Anat didn't answer this comment of mine, she just smiled. That same afternoon, I told Grandpa and Grandma that I was interested in receiving money instead of a present. They were a little surprised, but agreed without probing into the matter too much. Grandma did try to find out if I was interested in opening a savings account at the bank, but Grandpa interrupted her, saying, "Let our Tammi alone. Grandma. She's already a big enough girl that we don't have to mix into her business. I'm sure she has something good in mind to do with the money."

I thought to myself that in fact I was going to open a savings account, but in a much safer bank than the ones people use so much. My savings would be deposited in the bank of the Holy One, Blessed is He...

Anat, too, didn't sit around twiddling her thumbs. The next day she told me that she had gone to the mechanechet's home to speak to her - after making an appointment beforehand, of course - and that our rescue plan was getting into high gear.

"Wasn't the mechanechet surprised when you brought up the idea?" I still couldn't believe that Anat, a fourteen-year-old girl, was acting in such a grown-up way, enlisting the cooperation of people many years older than her.

"If she was surprised, she didn't show it. What did shock her was that such a serious situation had escaped her notice. She promised that she would speak with teachers, neighbors, friends, and relatives, and organize urgent help - without revealing the name of the needy family, of course, she promised me that. I don't want to put Peninah in the uncomfortable position of everyone pointing at her - even if they would do it only behind her back. The mechanechet also said there is a possibility of getting them an apartment in which they can live like human beings, for a nominal monthly payment. There are government-financed housing companies that have large numbers of apartments which they rent out for a small sum to families qualifying for help - and Peninah's family certainly qualifies!"

"It looks like things are beginning to move in the right direction," I said, handing Anat an envelope that contained my contribution - which, to tell the truth, was quite a considerable sum of money. "And it's all because of you, Anat. Only you are capable of bringing about wonders like this! Anyone else in your place would have let matters go along as they had been, without making the effort to change the situation."

"I don't think anyone in the world would have been able to ignore a situation like that if they had seen it with their own eyes, as I did. It's simply shocking."

On Friday around noon, Boaz came home. Except for the bandage that stood out prominently on his forehead and the fact that he had gotten a little thinner,

he was the same boy I remembered from before he went to the hospital. Outwardly, I mean. Inwardly, as I very soon found out, this was a different Boaz.

"How do you feel, Boaz?" I asked, just because I felt I was supposed to.

"Thank G-d, O.K." he answered with a politeness I wasn't used to from him. "And how are you? Mom told me you worked very hard at home while I was gone."

"True." I didn't deny it. "The important thing is that it's over now."

Boaz opened up his bag which he had brought back with him, and with a spirit of generosity I never knew was in him, began passing around sweets to his brothers who hadn't had the "privilege" of being in the hospital.

"Stop, Boaz, enough!" Mother decided. "They can't eat so many sweets all at one time. We'll save the rest for Shabbat. We'll make a little party for you and your friends, to thank Hashem for your recovery."

"What's in that little bag?" Shuki asked, when he realized that the unexpected shower of sweets had stopped.

"Those are presents I got," Boaz said. "I'll show them to you one at a time - but don't you dare touch anything without permission! I don't want everything to get broken and ruined in a minute. This is a magnetic chess set, but only Tammi and Arik are allowed to play with it, if they want. Anyway Shuki and Natti don't know the rules. And this is a helicopter that really flies." Boaz pushed a button on the side of the toy and demonstrated for us. "See how it takes off... circles... and sets down!" The little boys got excited. Boaz thought for a moment and then decided: "O.K., I agree to give the helicopter as a gift to Shuki and Natti. But only on condition that they don't fight over it!"

What happened to Boaz? I wondered. He never used to be so good-hearted and generous.

"And this is a book I got from one of my friends. Of course, it's still mine, but Tammi and Arik are allowed to read it... and this is the present I got from Grandpa and Grandma." He pulled out the last item.

My brothers pounced on him with excitement. "Let us play it a little!" they begged. I stood off to one side. My eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets from envy. I too had once had it within my power to get myself an organ

like that, with its brilliant white keys, its black keys above, and any number of buttons at the side which no doubt could produce wonderful sounds, sweet to the ear, didn't even go over to look at the organ close up. For sure Boaz wouldn't allow anyone to touch it - and I didn't want to beg. I wasn't about to let him see how much I yearned to try playing it.

"I don't allow anyone to touch my organ!" Boaz decreed. What I allowed, I allowed. The organ is only for me!"

There. I knew it. Something had happened to Boaz that had changed him for the better. But even that change had its limits. And really... I didn't hav e time to finish the thought before I heard Boaz's voice: "The only one I allow to play the organ sometimes is Tammi. She's big enough to be careful with it. I trust her to take good care of it and not break it." I fixed a pair of amazed eyes on him as he continued: "Come here, Tammi. I'll explain to you how to use all the buttons. I met a boy in the hospital who taught me what every button is for. I had plenty of time to practice. It'll be nice when we can play it together, with two hands..."

I forgot my pride, my indifference, my anger at Boaz. We left our little brothers grumbling behind us, and went into my room, where Boaz showed me how to operate all the magic buttons. I already knew the notes, more or less. We tried playing different tunes - sometimes a little off key, and sometimes getting stuck and not knowing how to continue.

"That's only at the beginning," Boaz promised. "The more we practice, the better we'll know how to play it. That's what my friend in the hospital told me. He plays great, and he learned by himself!"

Playing the organ together made us better friends. I wasn't afraid to ask him, "Boaz, why are you allowing me to play on the organ?"

He smiled in embarrassment. "It's... for two reasons. The first one is that when I was lying in the hospital Mom took care of me with so much devotion that I felt like I had to give her a present. But what could I give her? Then suddenly I remembered that her birthday is coming soon. Don't you think it would be wonderful to make her a surprise party? We can play the organ, and the little children can sing... and I want you to help me."

"Great!" I said enthusiastically. "I see you must have been bored there in the hospital. Otherwise you wouldn't have thought of such a brilliant idea. You know what else we can do? I'll write a song in honor of Mom, together we'll put it to music, and that song, sung by all the children, will be a birthday present for her!"

"And you, I see, don't even have to be stuck in the hospital to come up with terrific ideas!" Boaz said.

A compliment from Boaz? That was something I wasn't used to at all. Then I remembered that he had started out by saying that there were two reasons. I asked about the second one. Boaz reddened. "But you won't tell anyone?" Only after I had promised did he agree to reveal his secret to me, which clarified what had brought about the surprising generosity he had shown today.

"That's also a present for Mom," he explained. "I know how dissatisfied she is with my behavior. Every once in a while she complains about how egotistic I am, and only think about myself. It never bothered me personally. It was convenient for me to worry just about myself. Until I saw how Mom was willing to give up everything for me - and then my conscience started bothering me. That's what grownups call it, right? I started feeling sorry for how I acted. Dad and Mom took such good care of me and tried to make things easy for me, and I... I never thought about anyone else. I felt like I was getting treatment I didn't deserve. So I decided that from now on I would try to deserve that kind of treatment."

"That's why you gave out your things?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Right. It was real hard for me. It's not easy to change and act the complete opposite of how you acted before. But I made up my mind - so I had to stick to it! I thought of some things my teacher taught me in the Talmud-Torah. He said we're supposed to walk on the 'golden path,' in other words in the middle, not to be extreme in any one direction. But he said that when a person has a certain fault that's already extreme, he has to first go all the way to the other extreme, and do just the opposite of how he was used to acting, and from there after a while he'll get back to the middle, the 'golden path.' So that's how I'm planning to fix my problem of selfishness."

We both were silent. Boaz must have been in the mood for sharing his feelings, for after a few minutes of silence he went on.

"You know, Tammi, the first day when I was lying in the hospital, I was sure I was going to die! I'd never been in a hospital before, and everything around me scared me. Mom cried, Dad looked pale and worried, and the doctors had serious faces. At first, of course, I didn't know what was going on around me, but when I came to I heard words like 'unconscious... concussion'... I was so weak I couldn't even talk. And I was sure that my condition was fatal. I wanted so much not to die! I was afraid! I was afraid that in a little while my soul would go up to heaven, and there they would show me the charge sheet for everything I had done in this world, and send me straight to Gehinnom. During those minutes I decided that if the Holy One, Blessed is He, would help me and I would be saved and stay alive, I would try to be better... to act like I should..."

"Poor Boaz!" His story made me feel pity for him. "What a terrible experience! But you weren't close to dying at all. Your condition wasn't all that bad."

"Now I know that. But then, when I was lying in bed surrounded by green walls, and by doctors who were also dressed in green - lots of doctors, and nurses, and all kinds of machines - it was impossible for me not to feel sure I was going to die. And even though I know now, all the same I intend to keep my promise that I promised in those scary minutes. But do you promise you won't tell anyone?" His voice had a pleading tone. The truth is that I would have wanted to tell someone. Anat, of course. But his imploring eyes forced me to promise. Was this the beginning of a new era in the relationship between me and my brother Boaz?

On Sunday, after one quick glance at Anat, I asked her:

"Something's bothering you a lot, right, Anat?"

"Right." But she wasn't impressed by my talent for mind- reading. She had long before revealed to me her "secret code" for reading her feelings. "My eyes are green today, I suppose."

"Didn't you look in the mirror this morning?" She smiled at my answer, but her lips were trembling a little.

"Did something happen?" I was starting to get worried.

"No, nothing happened. I'm upset because I've found out something I don't understand. Something extremely puzzling. But before that, I have good news. It's about Peninah." A small cloud appeared on my forehead, and disappeared as fast as it had come. "I had a talk with my parents," Anat continued. "They are willing to deposit a certain amount of money every month in Peninah's parents' bank account. All I have to do now is find out the account number. I don't suppose that will be especially hard. Don't I have marvellous parents? They're so understanding! It's just too bad that..." She bit her lip and stopped herself in mid-sentence, but I knew what the next words would have been if she had said them: '...too bad they don't understand that they, too, should live like Jews...'

Anat never used words like "religious" and "non-religious." "There's no such thing," she once explained to me. "We're all Jews. There aren't any non-religious Jews. Non-religious means, 'secular, non-holy,' and the Jewish people are all holy. It's just that unfortunately there are Jews who don't act like Jews, like sons and daughters of the Jewish people. They try to resemble non-Jews. But whether they like it or not, they remain Jews, a holy people, sons and daughters of the Holy One, Blessed is He." That's how Anat explained it to me, and I agreed with her.

I didn't pry into what was bothering her this morning. I knew she would tell me herself. She didn't keep me waiting long.

"When I got home Friday, no one was in the house. My parents were still at work. I went in, put away all my things in their regular places and then, as I always do, looked around to see what was new at home. You know, it's pleasant to get back home after three weeks of being far away from your house. When I come home, I always roam through the rooms, look on all the shelves, peek into all the drawers - only the ones used by the whole family, of course - sniff the familiar, beloved smell of my house, discover new things that have been added while I was away, go through the mail to see if there are any letters for me. I don't open my parents' mail, but this letter was different. It wasn't in a sealed envelope. By chance it was stuck between the pages of a book my mother was in the middle

of reading. I picked up the book, and two sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked them up and started to read them, just out of curiosity, but then couldn't stop. It was a very strange letter, written in English, in an unfamiliar handwriting. The first words gave me a jolt. Fortunately, there was a chair right by me, otherwise I would have fallen on the floor. The first line of the letter said:

"My dear mother..."

For a moment I didn't take in what Anat was telling me. But then I understood. She shook herself out of her sudden silence. "I couldn't help reading it, not knowing if it was right or wrong to do so. I translated the letter and copied it down. I just had to share this discovery with someone!" With that, she opened her schoolbag, took out a folded piece of notepaper, and held it out to me.

I read. It was a very ordinary letter, which no one would have found surprising at all, if it hadn't been - if it hadn't been so totally unexplainable.

My Dear Mother.

Everything is O.K. with me, and I hope with you, too. I haven't

written for a while. I simply haven't had a spare moment. We were

in the middle of finals at the university, and I wanted to do well. By

now I can tell you that I did very well on the finals, and got very

high grades. One thing I've certainly inherited from you is your

sharp mind. I hope you're proud of me and happy to hear the good

news.

How are Eli and Anat? Nothing that you've been telling me in your

recent letters surprises me at all. It was obvious to me from the

beginning that this would happen sooner or later. How could you have

thought that she wouldn't run into someone from her father's family,

when you live in the same city with them? And of course the next

logical step is that they would influence her to follow their way, and

also to go to a school where the education fits their outlook.

Mother! I've received all the pictures you sent me, and enjoyed

seeing them very much, but all the same I very much want to see

you face to face. And also to see my little sister, who has grown up

over the years. You say she very much resembles me, and I can see

that when I look at her picture. Why don't you bring her with you

for a short visit? Isn't there some way you can get some time off

from your work? Perhaps you'll make a special effort, for my

sake? I've almost forgotten how you look in real life. It's been

almost ten years since the last time I saw you.

I'd better not nag you any more. I'm sure you know how fiercely I

long to see you. I would come to visit you myself, except that you've

forbidden me to do so. You don't want Anat to know about me. And I

respect your wish, even though I don't understand your reason.

What's wrong with her knowing that she has a big sister?

That was all. I looked at Anat in amazement.

"That's as far as I copied," she whispered. "The rest wasn't important."

"You have a big sister?" I asked in surprise, though I knew that on this subject Anat was exactly as well-informed as I.

"That's what I gather from the letter. That I have an older sister and that my mother, for some reason, doesn't want me to know that fact. Why? What could be the reason? Why are my parents hiding this from me? I didn't ask them. I didn't want them to know that I've discovered it. I want to investigate the matter myself. One thing I'm already sure of, My father is not the father of Maggie - that's the name she signed the letter with. She refers to him by his first name, Eli, while she writes of my mother as 'Mother.' She asks how he is, briefly, just for the sake of politeness. She speaks about him as being my father, and hardly discusses him at all. Her letter is concerned with herself, with my mother, and with me. I'm interested to know - who is her father? I never knew that my mother had been married before..."

"A mystery," I agreed. Do you think you'll be able to unravel it?"

"I'm going to try," she murmured. "The matter gives me no rest. But one thing I'm almost sure of, I'm not going to ask my parents for information on the subject."

CHAPTER 5 - CHAGIT KEEPS BUSY

Anat and I didn't speak again about her family. I had known for a long time that this was a sensitive subject for her, and now, after the revelation of the letter, I was more cautious than ever. Besides, I was sure that if she felt a need to talk, and if there was something to tell me, she would share any new discovery with me.

I must admit that Chagit's joining us at our table - a development I had been so afraid of at first - turned out to be a refreshing change for me. It was just the opposite of what I had expected. Instead of Anat, it was I who began to become friendly with Chagit. Now, as before, I enjoyed sitting by Anat, learning from her deeds and behavior, but I'd been lacking a certain electricity in the air, the chance to break out of the routine once in a while. Chagit solved that problem for me. From the very first day, she caught on right away to what kind of people she was dealing with. She realized that she couldn't expect to get any reaction out of Anat, while I, on the other hand, was a lot easier to entice into joining her escapades - at least as an observer from the sidelines.

From her first days among us, she tried to get the attention of the girls of our class through various and sundry antics. Studying she had no use for, and generally didn't listen to the lessons. Instead, she would sit and draw - terrific pictures! I used to peek into her notebook as she filled it with doodles, fanciful sketches, landscapes; and I was amazed by the immense talent unveiled in front of my eyes. She told me she had never taken drawing lessons. "What do you think, that my parents have extra money to send me to an art teacher?" There was a certain bitterness in her voice. I suppose she certainty must have wanted to develop her talent, but she covered up her disappointment about not being able to do so, declaring: "I know how to draw by myself; I don't need an art class! What's the matter, my drawings aren't nice enough?"

"They're wonderful," I affirmed sincerely.

All her notebooks were filled with drawings. Instead of doing homework, she would draw. And when she got tired of exercising her fingers, she would start exercising her brains to plan all kinds of adventures. Every day she would come to school with a new scheme. The first few days, we found her very entertaining. We got excited, laughed, and enjoyed it when she bounced a ball in the classroom in the middle of a lesson.

"Chagit, give me the ball," commanded the science teacher angrily.

"But why?" Chagit asked innocently. "I didn't do it on purpose. It bounced out of my desk."

"If so, put it back immediately. Or better yet, in your schoolbag. So that it won't bounce out 'accidentally' again."

Chagit began pursuing the ball - of course, with the aim of not catching it. Whenever she got near it, she made sure it would get away from her. A tiny unnoticed touch of the foot whizzed the ball under the desk of Batyah and Orly, the top students in the class. Just as she almost captured it there, "by mistake" she knocked it with her finger, and it flew straight under Chedvah's desk. Chagit, down on all fours, neck stretched out ahead of her, crawled around the floor to catch it. At this point Chedvah saved her some effort, giving it a kick that sent it flying right onto the teacher's desk.

"Enough of that game!" The teacher's face was red with anger. She nearly lost control of herself, and no wonder. "This is not a soccer field! Chagit, forget the hot pursuit and get back to your place!"

"But, Teacher," protested Chagit, who also enjoyed a talent for very successfully acting innocent "the ball will disappear and be lost for good unless I catch it now."

"Let it be lost!" the teacher yelled. "Sit down immediately in your place - otherwise, I'm putting you out of the class, and writing it down in the mechanechet's journal!"

This threat had its effect. Chagit returned to her seat, mumbling with feigned sorrow and indignation.

The rest of us laughed, of course. We enjoyed Chagit's comical chase after the ball. We also enjoyed the fact that ten minutes had been wasted at the expense of the science lesson.

"We're going to have to replace the janitor," Chagit announced to me in a whisper when she came back to her place next to me. For a moment I didn't catch the connection. "Look how I'm covered with dust; it's a sign that he didn't

mop the floor..." I couldn't keep myself from laughing. In front of my eyes again I saw Chagit crawling on all fours from one end of the classroom to the other.

"Chagit!" The teacher's voice rang out again.

"What did I do?" Chagit raised a pair of long-suffering eyes to the tall figure that was approaching her. "They always pick just on me!"

The teacher was thrown slightly off guard. "Stop talking. And you, Tammi..." She turned to me. "I don't want to see you laughing again in the middle of a lesson."

I managed to restore my usual attentive expression. Chagit, too, went back to business as usual. This time she chose to draw the science teacher with her face puffed up in outrage. The drawing was terribly amusing, and I had to summon all my strength to keep from bursting out laughing. I was afraid of the teacher's wrath.

Every day Chagit came to school with a new idea. At first we enjoyed this very much, but after a few days we too began to feel that she was carrying things too far. And some of the girls weren't shy to tell her what they thought about her. But she wasn't impressed. "What do they care?" she asked casually. "I want things to be fun in our class."

"It's not hard to understand why they transferred her out of the other class," the girls whispered to each other. "What a trouble-maker!"

Ours was known as the best and quietest of the three ninth-grade classes. Ever since the incident of the "get-away to the beach," we had learned our lesson. The moderate and reasonable element in our class had prevailed over the reckless and light-headed side, which constituted a very weak minority. Apparently the administrative staff had hoped that Chagit would be influenced by us to change for the better.

I sensed that it was not easy for Anat to sit at the same desk with Chagit, but she didn't express her feeling out loud. I, on the other hand, wasn't bothered so much. Even if I didn't listen well, I could always ask Anat for her notebook, to copy down her summary of the lesson, and that way I would know what had been taught. Chagit didn't even bother to do that.

It happened in a Torah lesson.

"Did everyone prepare the homework?" the teacher asked, surveying the class with her glance.

No one answered.

"I asked, did everyone prepare the homework? Any girl who didn't do so, and doesn't tell me now, will be severely punished if I find out afterwards!"

Two hands went up hesitantly. "Edna...Yael - why not?"

Both of them gave rather lame excuses. The main thing was that they apologized and promised that at the next lesson they would show the teacher well-prepared homework. She forgave them and didn't punish them.

"I repeat," the teacher declared for the third time, "if anyone didn't prepare the homework, this is her last chance to tell me about it without getting punished!" No more hands were raised. I glanced at Chagit's notebook. Under the heading, "Answers," which was written in fancy curly- cue letters, bobbed a battleship on the waves of the Atlantic Ocean - complete with full rigging, all sails spread, and a deck thronging with people in the dress of five hundred years ago. The Spanish flag even waved at the top of the main mast.

"You'd better tell her now, before it's too late," I whispered to Chagit.

"Nonsense," she hissed, also in a whisper. "What for?"

We began reading the homework. Rinah was asked to read the first question. Anat read the answer to the second question.

"You see?" Chagit said calmly. "Anat was the representative of our table. The teacher's not going to know at all that I didn't do the homework!"

I don't think the teacher heard her words, which were spoken in a barely audible whisper. And I don't think the teacher was a mind-reader. All the same, she called on Chagit, saying: "Chagit, question number three, please."

I thought that Chagit would become confused, turn red, lower her head in embarrassment and not know how to escape from her difficulty - but I was wrong. With exaggerated self- confidence she picked up my notebook, stood up, and with great naturalness began to read out the answer which I had written late the previous night, after deep study of the commentaries of Ramban and

Ibn Ezra, while my eyes were closing and I was already yearning to climb into my bed... I didn't know whether I should get mad, or enjoy the original idea.

"Very good, Chagit!" the teacher praised her. "I see that when you want to, you know how to study! It seems I should let you take part more often in the lessons. Rachel, the fourth question."

Chagit pretended to be mad at me. "Couldn't you have written a less successful answer? Now she's going to start making me take part in the lessons!" She was worried that she might be disturbed in her occupation of decorating her notebooks with artistic drawings.

The first time Anat spoke to me about Chagit was when she said to me: "Tammi, I don't want you to get angry with me. Don't think that I'm jealous - I know you're capable of thinking that. I hesitated a long time about whether I should say anything to you, until I decided that I have to do it, for your good. Lately you're getting too friendly with Chagit. You're very much influenced by her, and not for the good."

"How do you know?" I asked defensively. "I can see it," she answered in a quiet voice.

"You can see it!" I attacked her. It's a time-tested defense mechanism. "Do you know anything at all about me lately? You spend the whole day with Peninah. Walking with her, talking, sharing secrets, doing homework with her. You invite her to your room at the dorm and the two of you study for tests there. What did you think, that I didn't know?"

She listened to my onslaught in silence. When I was finished, she said: "I knew that's what you would say, Tammi. Apparently you didn't notice that only after you became so tied up with Chagit did I strengthen my connection with Peninah."

"Not true!"

"Come, let's not argue about it," she said in her calm - but authoritative - voice, which made you want to obey her without another word. "I also don't want to dwell on the point that Peninah very much needs the attention she gets from me - or from you, or from anyone else in the class. What I wanted to tell you is that your new friend has a bad influence on you."

"And that bothers you?" I tried to criticize her. "Very much," she answered simply.

I felt ashamed for my aggressive behavior. "But Chagit needs someone to make friends with her!" I tried to justify myself. "You yourself once told me that when a person feels herself on the fringes of the group, she tries to get attention by abnormal, exceptional behavior - that negative actions are usually caused by lack of self-confidence, a feeling of weakness which the person is trying to hide and cover up. That's how it is with Chagit, and I'm trying to be friendly with her and help her! And here you come and start scolding me for it..."

"It's very good that you're trying to help her. But it's impossible that such help can come about through damaging yourself. Have you counted how many times you've been thrown out of class in the past week? And today, for the first time this year, you didn't have your homework done!"

I put my head down and fought a quick battle with myself. To tell - or not to tell? Chagit had forbidden me to reveal her secret, did I have to hide it even from Anat? I decided to guard my tongue. All the same, I understood that Anat had the right intentions and only wanted my good. And besides, what she said was true.

"You're right," I admitted. "But what can I do? The mechanechet is the one who seated Chagit next to me. You have to understand, Anat, that even if you happen to be an angel, not everyone is. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm an ordinary girl, and when someone sits next to me whispering jokes and telling entertaining stories all through the lesson - I laugh! And I didn't have time to do the homework, because Chagit asked me to come with her to a certain place, we were there until late, and when I got home I was very tired, and couldn't concentrate, and I thought I would get up early in the morning and do my homework. But I didn't have time..."

Anat's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Where did you go with Chagit?"

I began to stammer. "It's, uh, I can't tell you, Anat. Chagit told me I mustn't tell."

"You even have secrets with her already?" she exclaimed, half joking and half pained.

"As far as I'm concerned it's not a secret. Chagit's the one who doesn't want it to be known." "I think I'm going to ask the mechanechet to move Chagit to a different seat," she said after a moment of thought.

"All the better. Do that." I agreed to the idea. I understood that only good could come from it. "Shall I tell you the truth? I'm the first one who'll be happy about it. But I'm not capable of going to the mechanechet and asking something like that. You're brave, and these grown-ups, for some reason, treat you like their equal."

She couldn't hold back a smile. I smiled too, and the tension that had held sway between us since the beginning of our conversation eased.

I brought up a new subject. "What's happening with Peninah?" Too late, I regretted it. I was afraid that this topic would cause another short-circuit between us, and I didn't want that. But once something is done, it can't be undone. I made up my mind to be moderate and restrained.

"Thank G-d, her situation has considerably improved." Anat hadn't noticed my inner struggle at all. "Soon they'll receive a new apartment, from the government housing company. With the money we collected we bought essential things for the winter, warm blankets, sweaters and coats for the children..."

"I've noticed that Peninah's wearing much better clothes," I commented, but I didn't get an answer. Anat was glad that Peninah was better off, but I could well imagine that it wasn't that - the nicer clothes - that was causing Anat to be friendly towards her.

"They're also eating better, and her father has a new job, which is easier, and also pays better. Our mechanechet has done a lot for them. She's really a wonderful woman!"

"Were you with her all along the way?" I inquired.

"You could say so."

"Now I understand how it is that you can say you'll speak with the mechanechet - about Chagit, I mean - and be sure she'll do what you ask. You've become good friends, I see."

"Call it that, if you want, even though your definition is not accurate..." After a moment of silence, she changed the subject. "I have something to tell you, Tammi. I spoke with my mother. I couldn't stop myself, and I asked her." Right away I guessed what she was talking about. "It's true. I have a sister in America, and her name is Margaret - Maggie for short. She's twenty - six years older than me - and studies at one of the biggest universities in the United States..."

"How did your mother react when you asked her? Did she get mad?"

"She wasn't angry at all. Just a tiny bit shocked. When I told her that I had read the letter, she thought a little while and then told me in a quiet, calm voice that if I already knew, there was no reason to hide it from me, and in fact she had been married earlier, before she met my father. 'I married at a relatively young age, for America,' she told me. 'I was just a little girl of eighteen. At nineteen, I gave birth to Margaret, and when she was three I separated from her father. Our marriage hadn't worked out. Two years later, I met your father. When we decided to marry, I sent Maggie to be with her father. He's a good man, is devoted to his daughter, loves her very much. The problem was ours, between us, we didn't get along.' "

"There are so many cases of divorce in these times," I sighed, trying to share in Anat's feelings, even though I couldn't have defined what they were exactly. Sorrow? Pain? Embarrassment? Wonderment? Maybe nothing at all? Or perhaps all of those at once?

"Maggie grew up in the home of her father, who remarried. My mother kept up a steady correspondence with her. They also met from time to time, until we moved to Israel. From here she also continued writing to her. It seems that Maggie has no complaints about her life, which is a very comfortable one - except for her fierce desire to meet again with the mother we share in common, and with her new sister - me."

"Would you want to get to know her?" I asked curiously. "Maggie? Of course! Wouldn't you want to know all your brothers and sisters? I asked my mother to let Maggie come for a visit, now that I already know of her existence. But Mother completely refuses. She also won't explain why. What's the reason for her strange stubbornness? There's something hidden behind all this. I feel it, Tammi."

"Maybe you're just imagining it. Probably your father is the one who's not interested in having your mother's daughter visit. Maybe he's worried that..."

"It's true that my father also doesn't agree. But my mother also refuses. And her reason is not connected at all with my father. She has her own motivation! I have the feeling it's because of me...that she's worried for me, trying to protect me from something hidden... one of these days I'll clear up the whole mystery - you'll see!"

"Have you told Peninah... about all this?" I asked hesitantly. I had to get the situation completely clear for myself.

Anat looked at me with wide, very grey eyes. She was angry at me. "Are you crazy?" was all she said, but the way she said it, and her tone of voice, were enough for me. I was filled with a great feeling of relief. After all was said and done, I was still her best friend, and she told her hidden secrets only to me...

Due to an incident with a piece of elastic and a safety pin, the mechanechet moved Chagit from our shared table to a seat at the back of the column. There she was given a desk of her own, where she sat by herself and engaged in her private business - drawing - with no one to disturb her.

The day after our conversation, Anat informed me that she had spoken with the mechanechet and had requested that Chagit be given a different seat. "She didn't promise to do it," Anat explained. "She just said she would think about the matter and decide what to do." It was Chagit herself who - without meaning to - speeded up the process.

That day, the grammar teacher had decided to give a surprise quiz. She called the girls to the board one at a time and asked us to write a few sentences, add all the correct vocalization marks, divide the words into "open" and "closed" syllables - and all the rest. The truth is that grammar is not my favorite subject, but I more or less make an effort to understand it. I can't say the same for Chedvah, who sits at the desk in front of us. She harbors a genuine hatred for the subject of grammar, including the grim-faced teacher whose job it is to make us wise in its ways. When she heard about the unexpected quiz, Chedvah turned around towards us and with a pale face announced: "I'm done for! Pray for me that I don't collapse beside the blackboard and faint from fear that I don't know

anything!" Chagit looked at her with pity, and suddenly a broad grin spread over her face. "Don't worry," she reassured Chedvah. "Everything will be O.K."

"How?" Chedvah couldn't understand her. "I promise you, I don't know a thing!"

"Turn around now, before the teacher gets mad at you and decides to call you up to the board first. If I tell you everything will be O.K., you can depend on me."

Chedvah turned around, and I, who was keeping an eye on Chagit, saw her open her briefcase, take out a not-so-large piece of elastic, a safety pin... "This girl comes prepared for any emergency," I thought to myself. "What are you doing?" I asked, but the only answer I got was: "Shh... shh," and no more. I kept a watch on the situation. While the girls went up to the blackboard one by one, Chagit opened the safety pin and stuck it through the piece of elastic. The other end of the elastic she fixed firmly to the leg of Chedvah's chair. No one except me noticed what was going on. Even Chedvah didn't feel it when Chagit, with great care, opened the safety pin and used it to fasten the elastic to the belt of Chedvah's skirt.

"Now wait and see what will happen!" Chagit told me, beaming all over with satisfaction, when she had finished all her preparations. I could imagine what was about to take place, and waited in great suspense. I glanced at Anat out of the corner of my eye. She hadn't noticed anything. Or was she deliberately ignoring it?

"Chedvah, come to the board." Our friend stood up, shaking from head to foot. She darted an accusing glance at Chagit, and tried to lift her leg and take a step forward. The chair jumped with her.

"What's this?" Chedvah said in surprise. She took another step forward. A grating sound was heard. The chair moved, too. It had decided to accompany Chedvah to the blackboard. Perhaps it was worried that she might faint to the floor, and had decided to position itself in the right place to save her.

"What's going on there?" the teacher demanded. "Chedvah, why aren't you coming to the board?"

"Go! Go!" Chagit urged, and Chedvah took two more steps. So did the chair. Every eye in the class turned towards the two inseparable partners, Chedvah and her chair. Both of them were approaching the blackboard. Giggles and

smothered laughter were heard here and there. We were afraid of the grammar teacher, and didn't dare laugh out loud.

"Do you need an escort, Chedvah?" the teacher's voice mocked. "Why are you dragging the chair with you?"

"It's... not me!" Chedvah began to realize what was happening, but played the game well. "I don't understand why... the chair's dragging after me!"

The teacher came closer. Just one quick glance was enough for her to catch on to what was happening. "Immediately unfasten the safety pin from the skirt!" she screeched. With trembling hands, Chedvah searched for the safety pin. Since she hadn't put it there, she didn't know where it was, and searched for it in vain. "Wait, I'll help you!" Chagit generously offered, standing up.

"Why did you do that, Chedvah?" the teacher asked angrily.

"Not true! I didn't do it... I didn't even know!" And suddenly Chedvah burst out crying. She covered her face with her arm, pulled the chair back to its place with her other hand, sat down on it, put her face on the table - and disconnected herself from everything that might happen in the lesson until the end of the hour.

"Chedvah, wipe your tears and come to the board," the teacher requested, after fixing a threatening glance on Chagit, who wasn't at all flustered. Chedvah didn't show any sign of being willing to obey. Her shoulders were still shaking. She was crying.

"You did this, Chagit." It wasn't a question. The teacher was stating a fact. Chagit shrugged her shoulders indifferently and lowered her eyes.

"For now, leave the classroom," the teacher told her. "I'll discuss this with the mechanechet. An act of this kind can certainly not be allowed to pass without a reaction." Then she continued calling girls up to the board. Chedvah, of course, she didn't call. She remained bent over her desk until the end of the lesson. Chagit had kept her promise, Chedvah had been rescued from the quiz.

During the next lesson, Navi, Chagit was not in class. She had been summoned for a talk with the mechanechet. At the following break, she came into the classroom, went up to Chedvah, and I heard her ask her to come to the storage

shed. "I have to bring a desk," she explained. "The mechanechet told me to move to a new place at the end of the column."

When she came back with the desk I asked her: "Is that all the mechanechet told you? She just moved your seat?"

Chagit laughed. "That's what you think! She warned me that if I don't act right in my new place either" - she was imitating the mechanechet's voice - "she'll be forced to take more serious steps..." As if I'm scared. What can she do to me, anyway?"

All the same, from that day on we hardly noticed that Chagit was in the same class with us. Every once in a while I would go over to her desk and exchange a few words with her. A heap of papers was always piled there, all of them filled with drawings and decorative designs. "I'm practicing," she explained to me. "A teacher I'll certainly never be. Maybe I can illustrate books for a profession. Or maybe, later on, I'll study graphics... when I have enough money to finance my studies myself," she added after a pause.

I thought of that afternoon when I had accompanied Chagit to look for work, going by a list of addresses that she had copied out of the newspaper. I had come home late and hadn't had time to prepare all the homework for the next day. Anat had reprimanded me for not having my homework. That day, Chagit hadn't succeeded in finding work. Either the jobs didn't appeal to her, or she wasn't qualified for them.

"Have you found work?" I asked cautiously. "Yes," she answered. "I've already been working a week."

"Where do you work?" I was interested. Chagit turned slightly red, but immediately overcame her embarrassment, and with the feigned indifference so typical of her, told me off- handedly: "In a shoe store. I help the proprietor take care of customers."

"Do you like it?" I probed further.

"Yes..." A slight pause. "It doesn't matter how much I like it, the main thing is that I have money, that I'm not dependent on my parents, who certainly don't have enough to provide me with everything I need and want."

That was why I admired Chagit. She took care of herself, knew how to get along on her own strength, without turning to others for help. She had already told me that she bought all her clothes, books, notebooks, and writing supplies with her own money. "I've always found some kind of work to pay for my needs myself," she said to me once, in a moment of openness. "I take whatever job comes along - babysitting, helping the neighbors with housework, but the best and most interesting work I ever did was when I illustrated a childrens' book written by the mother of one of my friends in eighth grade. That friend liked my drawings very much and suggested to her mother to give me the job. I enjoyed it very much. But what can you do? You don't always find work like that. So I do anything. Whatever I can. And now I sell shoes."

She took life naturally, with wonderful simplicity, and yet with a seriousness not usually found in a girl her age.

CHAPTER 6 - A QUESTION OF INTERMARRIAGE

At first, that morning at the beginning of the month of Kislev was just grey. But by the time I reached the gate of the school, large raindrops were falling, and I ran fast to take shelter between the walls of that large, antiquated building, which today was looking more smudged and greying than ever. Glancing out the window in the corridor, I could see clouds crowding, pushing each other, and joining together. Perhaps they, too, felt cold? The grey curtain covering the sky

turned almost black. Holding onto my briefcase with one hand, I passed the other over my damp hair. My clothes had also gotten a little wet, but it wasn't too terrible. As winter went on, they would no doubt have a chance to get much more soaked than they were now.

In class, a festive winter-day atmosphere prevailed. The electric lights gave a unique shade to the greyness that penetrated the room from outside. It was nice to see my friends dressed in their winter clothes for the first time this year. We were gay and merry. Someone was reminded of the good old days in kindergarten, and began to sing: "Drip-drop, drip-drop, the first drops of rain!" Then, suddenly - the heavens were illuminated with a blinding flash of lightning. "Girls!" someone reminded us, "Don't forget the blessing: '...Who did the work of Creation.' But before we could recite the blessing over lightning, thunder began rumbling through the sky, and the lights went out.

"No electricity!..." "Great! Now we won't be able to write!" someone said, hopeful that today's lessons would be an exception to the usual routine. "Don't worry," someone else hurried to pour cold water on our enthusiasm. "Even without electric lights there's enough light to see what we're writing in our notebooks."

"Too bad... but maybe anyway the geometry teacher will let us out of the quiz she announced for today?"

Unexpectedly, the mechanechet appeared in the doorway of the classroom. "What's this? The bell didn't ring yet!" a few voices grumbled.

"According to my watch, it's two minutes past eight. Is that late enough for you?" Our mechanechet wasn't impressed by the dissatisfaction of her students.

"The bell didn't ring because the electricity's off!" The light suddenly dawned on one of the girls. "I imagine there will be more days during the winter when the electricity will go off," the mechanechet remarked, "and no doubt sometimes it will even stay off for several hours. It will be very ridiculous if we don't begin studying until the bell rings."

Chedvah couldn't resist, and declared jokingly: "Why not? We can start learning at ten... or eleven!"

"Right now," the teacher continued, "it's five after eight. "And in case it's not yet perfectly clear to everyone, the first lesson will start exactly at eight-thirty, as usual."

"What does that mean? We already knew that."

"All the same, it seems to me there are a few girls who forget that fact now and then, and finish praying a quarter of an hour - sometimes more, sometimes less - late."

We looked at one another. True, there were girls who on certain days decided to "do teshuva" to be more "righteous," and to pray with great concentration and intensity, and their prayers lasted more than the allotted time. When the bell rang for the beginning of the first lesson, these girls would get up, prayerbook in hand, leave the classroom and go into the next room, the "emergency room," which was designated as a bomb shelter and was usually empty. There they would finish their prayers. When they had concluded, of course they came into class, but by then we had almost always finished reading out our homework and reviewing the summary of the previous lesson. For someone who hadn't bothered to study or prepare homework, this was an excellent way of keeping the teacher from finding out.

"For those girls," the mechanechet continued decisively, "I'm announcing, so that there won't be any doubts about the matter, the time for praying is until eight-thirty exactly! Anyone who doesn't finish praying on time will be written down as late for the lesson. The teachers will take those latenesses into account when making out the semester grades for your report cards."

"That's not right," I heard a voice next to me assert. Anat? Even the mechanechet looked surprised, and for a moment her self-confidence seemed a little shaken. "Did you say something, Anat?" she asked my friend. Perhaps she was hoping that she hadn't heard right.

"I said that it's not right to limit the time for praying in such an arbitrary manner," Anat explained herself. "It's definitely possible that I might suddenly feel a need to pray with more concentration than on an ordinary day..."

The teacher thought for a moment. "I can't contradict your claim, Anat. All the same, the real reason for prolonging the prayer, with most girls, is not the one you just mentioned."

"But it's not right," Anat insisted, "that those who really want to pray with more concentration should suffer because of other girls!"

The mechanechet stuck to her position. "We're operating in the defined framework of a school, studies, and lessons, and for every activity a specific amount of time has been allotted. I'm not the one who decided how much time it should take to pray the morning prayers. Bigger and better ones than me have decided and ruled on this question, and we are obligated to follow their ruling. If, all the same, this causes you a problem personally, Anat, come to me, and together we'll find a solution. For now, enough said. It's already ten past eight. This time, you may pray until eight-forty, half an hour from this moment. Begin now."

Anat had a dissatisfied expression on her face. It was hard for her to agree with the mechanechet's opinion, but she had to accept the fact that in this place her own opinion was not the deciding one. Like the rest of us, she opened her prayerbook and began to pray.

During the English lesson, I knew, Anat didn't need to listen or study. After all, English was her mother tongue. During this lesson, she was sometimes willing to answer me when I wanted to communicate with her. Not out loud, of course. She felt that if we talked it might keep the girls sitting around us from understanding what the teacher was saying. I would write my question on a piece of paper, and she would answer in the same manner. And even this she would do only when she knew that the teacher, for the benefit of girls who hadn't yet caught on, was repeating for the second time - sometimes even for the third or fourth time - some point which I had already understood.

"Why did you object to what the mechanechet said this morning?" I wrote on a piece of paper, one of a stack that I always kept ready at hand. "Anyone would agree that half an hour is long enough to finish praying."

"Who is 'anyone?' " she wrote back. She was such a funny person! "Everyone," I wrote.

"I'm also included in 'everyone.' And in my opinion, sometimes that half hour is too short."

"Why? How much time do you need to pray?"

Anat read this last question, and hesitated before answering. She twirled the pen between her fingers, passed it from hand to hand, and finally wrote carelessly: "It's too long. At the break I'll explain to you. The teacher's starting a new subject. Pay attention!"

At the break, Anat explained to me.

"Praying with concentration doesn't mean dragging out the words, praying word by word, letter by letter, so that each word takes five minutes to pronounce, and the whole prayer lasts a few hours. Anyone who thinks so is wrong. And those who do that are acting silly."

I almost yelled at her. "How are you talking, Anat? You're not ashamed? Of course you have to pronounce every word and every letter!"

"Of course," she agreed with me. As usual, she wasn't flustered by my attack. "One must correctly pronounce every letter and word, not getting letters switched around, and not changing the vocalization. A mistake like that can spoil the whole meaning of a verse. Sometimes it causes us to say terrible things. But that doesn't mean that we have to pray like this: 'I - gi - ve - tha -nks - be - fo - re - You - 0 - Ki - ng -- ' Do you understand what I mean?"

"So then what does it mean to pray with concentration?" When Anat started explaining things, I was all ears. All kinds of new things would become clear to me, thanks to her. Many things that I had understood in a certain way took on a different meaning - much more logical and right - after I had talked them over with Anat.

"Praying with concentration means - thinking about, contemplating, what we're saying. When I say, 'I give thanks,' I think, 'Thank you.' I feel 'Thank you.' It's... it 's much more than that, much more than just outwardly thinking and feeling. I become transformed completely into the reality of thankfulness. 'Before You' - Imagine! Before the Holy One, Blessed is He! What a tremendous feeling... it's impossible to describe. And when I begin to think what "King" means, how much we fear a king of flesh and blood, and how much we honor him - how much

more so when we speak of the King Who 'lives and endures' forever! Then something deep, deep inside me cries out; "Thank You! Thank You for allowing me, flesh and blood, to give thanks to You - the living and enduring King!" Anat took a deep breath, like someone who had just lifted something heavy.

"Don't think that it's so easy for me to explain to you," she apologized. "And even what I've said doesn't explain the full depth and significance of the concept of 'contemplation,' Hitbonnenut, in prayer. hitbonnenut is not something you say, Hitbonnenut can't be seen in the movement of the lips. Hitbonnenut is a deep, inner feeling, hidden - so that you can see a person standing with an open prayerbook, lips closed and eyes gazing far into the distance, and he is praying! Deeply absorbed in the might of the words of prayer. And on the other hand, another person may be moving his lips enthusiastically and energetically, his whole body swaying back and forth powerfully, yet he hasn't any idea what his lips are saying. Of course, it could be just the other way around. It's not for nothing that prayer is called 'the work of the heart.' "

"Are you telling me that that's how you pray?" I asked incredulously. "Just like you explained to me now - with Hitbonnenut"

She smiled in embarrassment. "I'm not telling you any such thing. But since you asked - it's very hard work. No, usually I don't succeed in praying like that. Only under special circumstances... such as..."

"On the night of Yom Kippur, beside the Western Wall!" I broke in. I remembered her prayers on that unforgettable Yom Kippur when I had sensed that Anat, though standing by my side, was far away and high above me.

"That's right. That Yom Kippur, my first at the Western Wall, was something special... But, even if I don't have the strength to pray the whole prayer with hitbonnenut, at least I've chosen one of the blessings, which I say with hitbonnenut, and which I always try to recite with the proper concentration."

"Which blessing have you chosen?" I was curious to know.

"The blessing in which I give thanks for the biggest gift I've received from the Holy One, Blessed is He. You know, before I did teshuva, I knew that I was Jewish, but I didn't see the slightest difference between myself and those who are not Jewish. For me, everyone was equal. All were human beings. How can we

realize the special privilege of being a Jew, if we don't know what a Jew is? That was until I met Batyah, on the bus, that time I told you about, and I thought that she wouldn't accept the idea that I was Jewish, since I didn't dress modestly like her, and I rebelled at her supposed rejection. Then I realized how important it was to me, how proud I was to be Jewish! And that, in spite of the fact that I didn't yet know what it means to be Jewish! Later, I investigated the subject more. I asked questions, did research, read books... today I think the fact that I was created a daughter of the Jewish people is the greatest gift of all that I've received from the Holy One, Blessed is He. Nothing else is worth that. And I give thanks every morning: 'Blessed are You, Hashem, Who did not make me a non-Jew!' If I weren't Jewish, how much I'd be missing!"

Anat was carried away by her own enthusiasm. So was I. Neither of us noticed Chedvah and Chagit, who were standing not far from us and conversing. Apparently they had stopped talking some time ago, and were now standing there listening to our dialogue. Chagit was spellbound, like me, while Chedvah made numerous efforts to distract Chagit's attention from Anat's speech and convince her to listen to her.

When Chagit realized that we were looking at her she hurried, somewhat embarrassedly, to turn her head away. Eventually she succeeded in listening to something that Chedvah had already been trying several times to explain to her. But it wasn't Chedvah's lucky day. Just when she had finally managed to get Chagit's attention, a girl from one of the higher grades arrived, planted herself in the doorway of our classroom, and asked in a loud voice: "Is this Class 9-1?" When she heard that it was, she asked.

"Is there a girl in this class named Chedvah?"

"Yes, that's me!" Chedvah hurried over to her.

"They want you in the office. There's a phone call for you. Urgent." She turned around self-importantly and left the room, with Chedvah at her heels.

When Chedvah returned, she was very pale. "Did something happen?" we all asked her fearfully. "I don't know..." she said in a shaking voice. "My mother phoned and asked that I come home urgently. She didn't want to explain over the phone. I'm so afraid!"

The mechanechet, who had come into the room, reassured our panicky classmate. "I'm sure it's nothing serious," she said, trying to encourage her.

"My mother's voice sounded strange," Chedvah insisted. "I almost couldn't tell it was her. For a moment I thought it was some other woman pretending to be my mother."

"Probably you are the one who was upset and nervous, and so you thought your mother was, too. The best thing is for you to go home, so that you'll see for yourelf that there was no reason for worry, and you were afraid for nothing."

"I'm afraid to go by myself..." Chedvah's face had lost its normal color. "I feel that something terrible has happened!"

"Do you want someone to go with you?" the teacher asked, and when Chedvah nodded her head yes, with a pleading expression on her face, the mechanechet went on to ask: "Who do you want to go with you?"

I was sure she would choose Chagit. Ever since Chagit had "saved" her from the grammar teacher, the two had become good friends. To my surprise, Chedvah said: "Maybe it's best... if Peninah agrees, she lives in my neighborhood... that way I won't be a trouble to a different girl, who would have to travel back afterwards... Peninah can stay at her own house... anyway by the time she gets back, school will be over."

I wondered at her great considerateness. Peninah agreed, of course. The mechanechet also agreed. The next lessons passed quickly, and in relative quiet. We were all curious to know what was the meaning of the phone call that had so upset Chedvah. The next day, we found out.

When I came to class in the morning, I was greeted by worried faces. The girls directed my attention to the blackboard, where a large announcement was written in bold letters:

Please say Tehillim for

Mattitiahu ben Esther

for a complete recovery

"What's this? What happened?" At first, I didn't understand. "It's Chedvah's father. He's in critical condition."

"So that's what the telephone call she got yesterday was about. What happened?" I inquired worriedly.

Then I heard the story. Peninah, Chedvah's neighbor, was the one who had written the notice on the blackboard, and it was also she who told us what had occurred. "Chedvah's father is blind. He was wounded in the Yom Kippur War, about six years ago. He underwent many operations, tests, and treatments, but nothing helped. The doctors also didn't know exactly how he had been wounded. His eyes outwardly looked perfectly healthy. And yet he couldn't see with them. At that time, Chedvah was eight years old. We were in the same class, at the beginning of third grade. I still remember the day she went up to the teacher and told her in tears: 'My father can't see me. He'll never see me. Never! He has eyes, but he can't see with them, because there's something wrong with them. It's the goyim who ruined his eyes!' "

We almost cried ourselves, hearing Peninah's vivid and moving description. She continued:

"As time went on, he was rehabilitated and managed to get along by his own efforts, despite his handicap. Chedvah's mother is now the main wagearner of the family. She had always worked as a bookkeeper, but now the burden of earning a living, and all the other things that had to be done for the home, fell on her shoulders. When the girls - Chedvah and her sister - were little, it was very hard. Now that the girls are older, it's much easier for her.

"And this is what happened yesterday. Opposite the entrance to Chedvah's house is a large open square. On the left side of it there are stairs, about fifteen stone steps leading down to a big public park. Chedvah's father never goes down the stairs by himself. When he wants to go down, someone leads him, step by step. Yesterday he was standing outside - apparently he had been walking in the square and didn't realize exactly where he was - and suddenly his foot slipped. No one knows just how it happened, maybe because it was raining hard. He slipped and fell from the top of the stairs all the way to the bottom, and was hurt in every part of his body; but the main and most serious injury was to his head. He got a severe concussion and is now lying unconscious..."

We were all silent. We didn't have any words we could say. I thought of Boaz's fall, and shuddered. He, too, had a concussion! Thank G-d his injury wasn't serious and he came through it easily. I couldn't imagine how I would feel if I had lost, G-d forbid, my dear brother, with whom I had now become so close.

That day all of us, without exception, prayed with intense concentration. We prayed for Chedvah's father in the blessing for healing, and also said tehillim for him. The mechanechet allowed us to say tehillim for ten minutes during the algebra lesson. We all thought about Chedvah. We worried about her and sympathized with her. We wanted very much for her father to get better, and that shared desire unified and solidified us, all the girls of the class.

For three days Chedvah's father lay unconscious, he heard nothing and knew nothing about what was happening around him. The members of his family stood constantly by his bed reciting tehillim. When one had to leave, another took his or her place. We girls, too, said tehillim in class every day, and our behavior in general was different from usual. It was as if we had become more grown-up. It is interesting how events that are painful or shocking influence people, changing them decisively.

On the fourth day, Peninah brought us news which threw the class into an uproar: "Chedvah's father woke up! And just imagine - he can see!"

We were so delighted and happy, we almost raised the roof. "How did it happen?" we demanded to know.

"Even the doctors don't understand what happened. They claim that it's what's called a 'medical miracle.' Suddenly he opened his eyes! Chedvah, her mother and her sister were standing right beside the bed, and he asked: 'Where am I? And who are these two girls next to you?' He didn't recognize his daughters. The last time he had seen them, Chedvah was eight, and her sister Tirtzah a little girl of four. Is it any wonder he didn't know them? Just imagine how happy they all were! Of course, he's still not completely well. Chedvah told me that the doctors are giving him all kinds of tests to make sure that everything is O.K., that he didn't lose any of his memory, that he didn't have any brain injury that might affect his ability to function physically. The shock of being able to see again has also somewhat weakened him. So far, it seems that everything is alright. Nothing

has changed, except that he got his sight back - apparently as a result of the concussion."

That day was one of the happiest of my life, and I don't know why. That is to say, I do know, of course, it was because Chedvah's father recovered. What I don't understand is why this had such a strong effect on me. I had never felt especially close to Chedvah, to the point that her sorrow should so touch my heart, or her happiness should cause me such indescribable Joy.

"It's very simple," Anat explained to me after school as we walked together towards my house. I had asked her to visit me today. "All the Jewish people are brothers and sisters. We are all related to each other, even if sometimes we don't feel it. We are like one body. When the hand hurts, the functioning of the entire body is adversely affected. When the hand recovers, the entire body feels better and again functions normally. That's what's special about the Jewish people, something that doesn't exist in any other people."

"Mom... children... who's home?" I called as soon as I opened the door. And without waiting for an answer I proclaimed,

"Chedvah's father recovered! And he's not blind anymore!"

Mother and Natti were at home, and so was Boaz, who had caught a bit of a cold and had stayed home from the Talmud- Torah. They all pounced on me, wanting to hear the happy news again, this time with more details and explanation. All of them had lived through these days with me, worrying along with my worry, and now they wanted to share in the joy as well. I told them what I had heard from Peninah.

"It's good that happy things can also be caused by a concussion," my mother summed it up, relieved. "If it hadn't been for that, he would have remained blind for the rest of his life. Of course, his family went through some hard days, but in return they were given happiness that far outweighs their suffering." Then she repeated the words of the blessing we recite every morning on waking: "Blessed are You, Hashem, Who cause the blind to see!"

"And I know something else good that happened because of a concussion that a certain boy in this family got," Boaz began in a light mood. But when we turned towards him he became shy, blushed to the tips of his ears, and lowered his head

in embarrassment. Mother put a loving hand on his head and stroked his cheek affectionately. We all understood what he was talking about.

Mother took pity on Boaz and hurried to change the subject. "And now," she said, "I want to tell you some more good news! True, it's not as wonderful as the news Tammi told us, but it's very happy all the same. Aunt Shirley phoned today from America to tell us that she's arriving here next week, on Wednesday afternoon. She's going to stay with us for two weeks. We'll be able to go on a lot of trips together, to show her Eretz Yisrael, on condition that the weather is nice, of course. The first night of Channukah comes out on Shabbat this year, so we'll have a full week of vacation."

"Great!" we declared, and Boaz and I exchanged conspirational glances. Mother noticed, but didn't ask any questions or try to find out the meaning. She certainly couldn't have guessed that our shared secret concerned her, her birthday which would fall on Sunday, the second night of Channukah, and the surprise we were preparing for her...

"I want you to be at the birthday party we're getting ready for Mom," I told Anat. We were standing at the gate of the dormitory building. As whenever one of us had accompanied the other somewhere, it was hard for us to part.

"I'd be out of place there," she tried to talk her way out of it. "It's a family party, and I'm not one of the family. And especially since your Aunt Shirley will be there..."

"You know very well, Anat, that you've become part of my family!" I told her emphatically. "Mother likes you, and my brothers look up to you. Little Natti is in love with you. And as for Aunt Shirley... she... wow, that's right! She certainly will be happy to have someone with whom she can talk easily in her language. Do you remember that you once translated her letter for us? If I recall, that was the letter in which she told us that she was planning to visit us and stay in Erez Yisrael through Channukah."

"Yes, of course I remember!" Anat answered. "How could I forget? That was the night I told you my life story... Does your aunt speak Hebrew?"

"As a matter of fact, she does," I confirmed. "For letters, she prefers English. She claims it's easier for her to express exactly what she wants to say. But she also

speaks Hebrew - actually quite well. All the same, I'm sure she'll be happy to use her English a bit so that it won't get rusty by the time she goes back to the States. Won't you come, Anat?" I begged.

"Alright, I'll come," she responded to my pleading. "Anyway, I have to stay in the dorm this Shabbat. So I'll stay one more day. You know, Tammi," she continued after a slight pause, "I also wanted to invite you to visit me for one of the days of Channukah. It's true you won't have much to do at my place, Rechovot isn't Jerusalem. All the same, I thought... perhaps we could go to visit Batyah together. But now I already don't dare offer you the invitation. For sure you'll want to join your family on their tours throughout the Land."

"Of course I'll join them," I agreed. "But that still doesn't mean that I'm giving up on your invitation. If I see it's not going to be such an interesting day... if they're going somewhere I've already been dozens of times, or someplace that just doesn't especially attract me - of course I'll prefer to come to you"

"Excellent!" Anat was excited. "I'm so happy, Tammi!"

"You just have to give me directions how to get to your house. I've never been to Rechovot."

"In that case, this will be an excellent opportunity to go there. It's so simple. You go to the central bus station in Jerusalem, take a bus from there to the central bus station in Rechovot, and from there..."

"Wait, wait, not now," I interrupted. "Tell me another time, just before I make the trip."

"And if you don't like the idea of travelling by yourself," Anat said in an attempt to be considerate, "You can ask Peninah to go with you." But her words didn't have the desired effect.

"Travel with Peninah? What makes you think I'd want to do that?" I was a little upset. "Maybe... you invited her to visit you too?"

"Right." Anat didn't understand why I was so grumpy. "I suggested that she visit me during the Channukah vacation. She liked the idea, but said she still doesn't know if she can make it. Perhaps the two of you could plan something together..."

"Nothing doing!" I put my foot down. "I don't want to come with Peninah!" How could it be that Anat, who was so understanding, so smart, so wise, didn't realize that I was interested in visiting her - alone? That I wanted the two of us to be by ourselves, so that we could talk and discuss things freely, opening our hearts to each other like good friends, without a third party interfering?

"If you don't want to travel with her - so come by yourself!" Anat still didn't understand what I was upset about. She thought I had long since stopped being jealous of Peninah, but that wasn't the case. "It was only a suggestion," she continued, "but you certainly don't have to take it. Come by yourself, if that's more convenient for you. You know I'll be very happy to see you."

"I'm already not sure if I want to come! What if I suddenly find Peninah there when I arrive?"

"We can plan ahead. I'll let you know which day Peninah is planning to come, if at all. That way you can avoid running into her. I can see that for some reason she bothers you very much."

"I'm not promising anything," I backed down from my previous enthusiasm. "I'll think it over. If I decide yes, I'll let you know."

"As you like." Anat accepted my mood. "Just don't think I'm going to punish you by changing my mind about coming to your mother's birthday party. I'm planning to be there, as we just now agreed!" she warned me with a smile, and the ice between us melted.

During the last two days, I had noticed that something was not as it should be with Chagit. Her usually cheerful mood had disappeared. She had become very quiet - dark and closed. She began to be dreamy, a characteristic I had never observed in her before.

At the ten o'clock break I went over to her. Anat hadn't come to school that day, and I was a little bored. Ronit, her roommate, told me that Anat had not been feeling well that morning, and I made plans to visit her in the afternoon.

Chagit sat at her table, drawing. When I came over, she covered the page with her arm, as if unintentionally, but her aim was clear to me. She wanted to hide the drawing from me. All the same, I managed to get a glimpse of two large,

green eyes. She colored most of her drawings with colored pencil. She had drawn only the eyes, nothing more.

"What's new, Chagit?" I asked casually. "Have you eaten already?"

"Yes, certainly. Didn't you see?" She seemed a little restless.

"I didn't see... I always just see you sitting and drawing. Maybe you finished eating fast..." I tried out my guessing powers. "Did you get another illustrating job?"

"Don't I wish! Unfortunately, the answer is no. I just like to draw for myself."

"Can I see what you're drawing?"

I sensed that I had put her on the spot. "I'd rather not show you. It's not finished yet."

"When it's finished, will you show me?"

She became confused. "Uh... yes. Why not, actually." She thought to herself, and then suddenly changed her mind about her original decision. "You can see it now." She took away her arm. Out of the paper two large, green eyes looked at me, startlingly lifelike.

"Are you trying to draw someone in particular?" I inquired.

"No," she answered with a forced smile. "Just the eyes of someone in particular."

"Am I disturbing you?" I asked, trying to be polite.

"No, not at all," she said casually, but her glance said the opposite. I didn't pay any attention. I had come over to her with a certain purpose in mind, and I intended to say everything I wanted to before I went away.

"The last few days, you seem a little strange, Chagit." I looked her right in the eyes. She averted her glance to avoid mine, which proved to me that I hadn't been mistaken. "Something's bothering you," I continued mercilessly. "You're daydreaming. You're closed off, you're... something's disturbing you. Am I right?"

"And if you are, so what?" She preferred to answer with a question.

"If so, maybe I can help you!"

She was silent. So was I. The silence continued too long and made me feel uncomfortable. Just as I was trying to think of some way to get the conversation going again, I heard Chagit say in a confidential whisper: "Do you really want to help me? The truth is that I thought about talking to you... but I hesitated. I wasn't sure how you'd react, I was afraid that... I thought that you and Anat could help me. But I was embarrassed to speak to you."

"Enough apologies!" I said with emphatic friendliness. "Maybe it's something to do with the place where you're working?" I tried to ease her confession.

"Yes - and no. It's connected, but not exactly..." "Stop keeping me in suspense," I told her. "Alright. I'll try... It was caused by the fact that I'm working, but it's not exactly a matter of my work... oh, it's too complicated to explain it that way!" Her thoughts were not collected. She was trembling a little, and had turned paler. I decided not to pressure her, but to let her pour out her heart in whatever way was easiest for her.

"Sit down, Tammi." She made room for me on the seat next to hers. "I don't want you to faint standing up," she added with a sad smile.

I sat down, but didn't say a word.

"You know that I work in a shoe store. It's pleasant work, and usually I enjoy it a lot. The owner is a good-hearted man and always willing to help me. Recently, for example, I needed money to buy a geometry book and some notebooks, and he gave me an advance on my salary. I get to see people, talk with them, hear interesting stories. It's not boring. Sometimes it's a little hard, especially when I have to climb a ladder a few times a day to get shoes from the top shelves. But I'm young and strong, and it doesn't especially strain me. All in all, it's very comfortable work." She smiled. I smiled back. She took a deep breath, and I listened.

"My boss has a buyer, whose job is to purchase stock for him from the various companies. He's a nice boy, around twenty. Whenever he gets to the store he always turns to me and says, "Shalom, how are you?" He takes an interest in my work, and asks if it's not hard for me. He has a good heart, you can see that in his eyes..." Without meaning to, I shot a glance at the green eyes of the drawing. I didn't say a thing. "When he brings the stock, one of my jobs is to arrange it on the shelves. He always helps me to put the boxes of shoes on the higher shelves.

'Why should a girl have to climb a ladder if there's a man here?' That's what he says to me. Once he told me that I was nice." She blushed. "I didn't pay any attention. A few days ago, he asked me if I was willing to marry him."

"What!" I was flabbergasted. "You're only fourteen!"

"Fifteen," she corrected me. "I lost a year of school. It used to be that people would marry at that age, and even earlier."

"Tell me, is he even a religious boy? Does he keep the mitzvot?"

She took a deep, deep, breath. Then she let out all the air, took another small breath and told me: "He's an Arab." The shock that hit me was complete. "An Arab! Poor you! And when you told him that you are Jewish, and he shouldn't dare think that you would agree to his silly idea, he started bothering you? Because of that you're trapped in fear, and you're asking my help?"

Apparently I had jumped to conclusions too fast. "No," Chagit explained patiently, "I want you to help me decide."

"Decide what?"

"Whether to tell him yes."

"What! You can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious!" It seemed that the task of explaining things to me was hard for her. "I think about it all the time."

"Think about what?" I was in shock.

"He's a wonderful boy... refined and good-hearted. He's so nice. You have to see him when he looks at you like that, with his big green eyes. He doesn't look at all Arabic! And he speaks exactly like anyone else, with no accent at all. If you saw him, you'd say he was a Jew! I'm sure I'll have a good life with him, so why not? Of course, I'll still be Jewish!"

I almost blacked out. I thought I was dreaming. She was considering it seriously! "Have you lost your mind, Chagit!" That was all I could say. "What kind of crazy nonsense has got into you? Marry an Arab?"

"That's not an answer. I need a stronger and more logical reason. What's the matter, isn't an Arab a human being? He lives, breathes, thinks, feels - exactly like any Jew! And he's good- hearted, understanding, considerate, much more - I'm sure of it! - than a lot of Jews. He agrees that I'll remain Jewish. He doesn't even mind if I keep the mitzvot. He told me so specifically. According to the halacha, my children will be Jewish. So what's the problem?"

"You already want to get married?" I asked out of curiosity, after I had somewhat recovered from the initial shock.

"Not yet, of course. But in another two or three years, it would be possible. We'll see. But right now I need to know where I stand. What to tell him. I'm still hesitating."

"Of course you'll tell him no!"

"But why?"

I sighed. "Chagit, all I know is that it's forbidden for a Jewish girl to marry an Arab... that it's forbidden for the Jewish people to become intermarried among the other nations. But Anat will certainly know how to explain it better than me. If you give me permission, I'll tell her. She'll know what to say to you, how to convince you in a way that will put your mind at rest."

To my happiness, Chagit replied: "I agree that you can tell Anat - but only her. And also she's not allowed to talk about this thing to anyone in the world! And..." She hesitated for a moment. "Are you sure that Anat will understand me? That she won't laugh at me?"

"Do you want to know the truth?" I answered. "I myself don't understand you. If anyone is capable of understanding, it's Anat. Will she laugh at you? Certainly not! Anat doesn't laugh at people."

"Good. So talk to her. I'm waiting for an answer as soon as possible."

I knew that Chagit's future depended on her conversation with Anat, and I waited impatiently for the schoolday to end. But as if on purpose to aggravate me, it was Tuesday, the only day in the week when we learned until three, an hour longer than any other. The minute the last bell rang, I leaped out of my seat and ran home. Putting away my briefcase, I explained to my mother

hastily, in vague terms, that I was in a hurry to go somewhere important and would have to skip lunch just this once, and ran to the dorm to visit Anat.

She told me that she didn't feel well. Late yesterday afternoon she had gone to town to shop. It was a little cool, and she didn't think to take along a coat and umbrella.

"Halfway there I got caught in a drenching rain. I caught a little cold, that's all." Anat favored me with an "all stuffed up" smile. Her eyes and cheeks were red, and her hoarse voice sounded a little strange. "I would have come to school, but this morning I had a low fever and the dorm mother didn't allow me out. It's lucky she didn't make me go to the clinic. How are things in the class?"

"Anat," I told her, feeling my heart begin to pound faster than usual, "as soon as I realized this morning that you weren't going to come, I knew I would visit you. What I didn't know was that I was going to skip lunch and run to you. I have something very important to tell you - I must get your advice!"

Anat looked at me inquiringly. "When I asked you how things are in the class, I thought you were going to tell me that everything was the same as usual and there's no news. I only asked out of habit. But what is it? Something happened?"

"In the class? No. But I had a talk with one of the girls of our class. With Chagit."

I repeated to Anat my conversation with Chagit. Her red face lost its color and went pale. "Terrible!" she murmured. "Horrible!"

I looked at her with wide-open eyes. Anat, always so relaxed and calm, was shaken! She was even more shocked than I had been.

"What could have happened to Chagit? Has she gone out of her mind?" Anat got out of bed, went over to the closet, opened it, took out a heavy, warm sweater and began to get dressed.

"What are you doing, Anat?"

"Putting on a sweater. I already have enough of a cold. I don't want to get really sick."

You're feeling cold?" I still hadn't caught on.

"Now, in my room? No. It's too warm for me. But outside it's cold."

"You're going somewhere?"

"Yes." This time it was she who looked at me in amazement. "I'm going to Chagit. And you're coming with me, of course!"

"You're not going out of this building, Anat!" I objected. "You're sick, you have a fever!"

"I have to. If we don't do it today, tomorrow might be too late."

"We won't wait until tomorrow. Tell me what to do, what to say - and I'll take care of the matter. You can't go out!" I insisted.

"I can't do anything else!" Anat said stubbornly. "It's impossible for me to tell you what to say, everything depends on the reasons she'll come up with. And both of us have to go, so the pressure on her will be heavier and stronger."

"Where are you going to look for Chagit?" I demanded.

"At her house. You know her address, don't you?" She looked at me worriedly.

"I don't know it. And I don't have any idea who to ask... wait, But I do know where the store is where she works."

Anat's face lit up for a moment, but then immediately darkened. "Today's Tuesday, the stores are all closed in the afternoon."

"True, but Chagit works on Tuesday too. The owner of the store appreciates her and trusts her. On Tuesday, when there are no customers, she puts the store in order, takes inventory, sometimes also receives new stock. That's what she told me once."

"Excellent! We'll go to her at the store."

I gave up the idea of changing Anat's mind. "Now it's only three-thirty. It'll take fifteen minutes to walk there. I don't imagine she starts working before four."

We waited about a quarter of an hour before leaving. "There's no point wandering around the street at this hour, and in such cold weather!" Anat had begun to get back to her usual self and act in a reasonable manner, but her

state of mind was still stormy. For the whole quarter of an hour she didn't stop talking about Chagit. "It's only the result of light-headedness, of thoughtlessness!" she stated decisively. She didn't use her mind. What we have to do is explain to her in a logical manner why it's forbidden for Jews to intermarry among the other nations... so that she'll know, she'll understand how special is our people, the Jewish people, and that its specialness is maintained as long as we stand apart from the other nations, but not when we join with them... for then it becomes diluted and, G-d forbid, is lost."

"Do you think you can explain these things to her convincingly?"

"I hope the Holy One, Blessed is He, will put the right words into my mouth."

On the way, as we walked downtown, I said to Anat: "I don't understand how Chagit agreed... why wasn't she afraid to tell me her secret?"

"She's not the only one," Anat answered me seriously. I looked at her uncomprehendingly, and she explained: "I also am not afraid to tell you my secrets..."

I reddened in embarrassment. "That's... that's different."

"It's the same thing, Tammi." Anat was in a thoughtful state. "I already told you once that with you it's possible to be open. You're so understanding and sympathetic... it's hard to explain..."

"But Chagit!"

"You see? You're the only girl in the class who sensed that something was wrong with her. Who else, besides you, goes up to her every once in a while and takes an interest in her?"

"Chedvah's always with her."

"Chedvah? Nonsense. They undoubtedly just chat about completely unimportant things. Their friendship is purely superficial. When she wanted to speak out her thoughts about something serious, something that was really bothering her, with a serious friend, she chose you."

I didn't respond. I just lowered my head, and Anat continued:

"You were right when you told me, back then, that Chagit needed someone who would make friends and be close with her... you're not mad at me for asking the mechanechet to move her seat?"

"Anat!" I got mad at her. "It seems to me that I told you at the time that I would be very happy if you would do that. What do you think - I didn't realize that Chagit's company had a bad influence on me?"

"All the same, I made a mistake," Anat continued to blame herself. "I should have told you to keep on being friendly with Chagit. I should have done the same myself, and the two of us should have seen to it - indirectly, of course - that Chagit would get involved in the social life of the class. Then maybe she wouldn't have been influenced by the friendliness of that young man... that Arab... and wouldn't have paid any attention at all. Because she wouldn't have been in need of friendship!"

"I see someone moving the curtain behind the store window," I said. We waited for the light to turn green so we could cross the street. The shoe store was diagonally opposite us. "There's a hand putting up a shoe... it must be Chagit!" I guessed.

A car pulled in front of the store, blocking our view. The light turned green. We crossed the street, when we had taken a few steps, we heard a voice behind us: "Excuse me, excuse me..." We made room. A young man, his whole head and chest hidden by a tall stack of shoe boxes tightly tied with heavy string, went past us, walked up to the entrance we had been heading for, pushed down the handle with his elbow, and opened the door. We waited for him to take two steps into the store, and then we started to enter.

"Sorry, the store's closed today, it's Tuesday." The owner lifted his head from an account book, pushed his spectacles down to the end of his nose, and raised his eyes.

"We didn't come to buy," Anat explained.

"So what did you come for?" inquired a plump woman, also bespectacled. Apparently it was the owner's wife. The young man put down his tower of boxes, turned in our direction, and looked at us indifferently.

"We're friends of Chagit. We have to tell her something."

"Chagit's working now."

"It's extremely important!" we insisted.

"Alright. O.K." The owner softened. "Chagit is in the next room, on the left." He showed us where to go. Apparently Chagit was an efficient worker, so he was willing to let her talk with us even though she was working. The wife, however, didn't like the idea, she spoke a few words to the owner in a language that any child would have recognized as Hungarian, and he responded with a gesture of the hand indicating, "It's alright," and went back to his accounts. All the same, his wife continued looking at us with dissatisfaction.

For the first moment, Chagit was surprised, but an expression of understanding immediately came over her face - understanding, and embarrassment.

"Shalom," she said. "You got here so fast."

"You knew we were coming?" we both asked almost simultaneously.

"No," she answered. "That's why I'm so surprised." "We want to talk with you, Chagit," Anat said.

The head of the young man appeared in the doorway. "Ahalan, Chagit. What's new?"

"O.K., thank G-d." "Lot of work? Working late?"

"No. In another half hour I'll be finished straightening up here... if the boss doesn't give me something else to do, I'm going home."

He looked at us. "Friends from school?"

"Yes." A feeling of tension hung in the air. An embarrassing silence prevailed for a minute, and then: "See you later, Chagit." "See you later..."

"That's Rashid," Chagit explained to me, casting quick glances at Anat as if trying to determing whether she knew already.

"That's just what we came to talk with you about," Anat said with the utmost naturalness. But Chagit quickly hushed her:

"Shh... shh... not here. He might hear us."

"You finish in another half hour?"

"More or less."

"You're coming with us," Anat decided for her.

"Where to? What is this, the military police?"

"Of course not. But you don't want to talk here, and you're right. So I'm inviting you to my room at the dorm."

"Maybe it would be better for us to go to my house?" I suggested. "Probably your roommates will want to come in, Anat... in my room we can talk undisturbed."

Both of them nodded in agreement. Most of the time we were silent. Chagit worked energetically and quickly.

"I'm going," she informed the owner when she had finished.

At first he wanted her to stay and arrange a few other things, but Chagit excused herself, saying that those things were not urgent, and she could do them another time.

"We have to take care of something important," we helped her out, and the owner had no choice but to agree to let her go.

"Are you coming to work tomorrow?" he tried to make sure he was covered.

"G-d willing. Why not?" Chagit asked.

The owner's wife again broke out in Hungarian, and Chagit told us, after we had got some distance from the store: "I work like a donkey. The owner appreciates me, but his wife - she's never satisfied. She made up her mind that she's not going to work in the store anymore, and I do all the jobs she used to do, and more. She's always got some criticism. Fortunately for me, she's not always in the store - only on Tuesday afternoon. So that her husband and I shouldn't v iolate the prohibition against yichud, being secluded with someone you're not married to," Chagit explained.

It was hard to get our talk started. I waited for Anat to begin. She realized, of course, that this assignment was her responsibility.

"Tammi told me all about it," she said. Chagit didn't answer. "And I have to tell you that I was shocked." Chagit remained silent. Her muscles tensed, getting ready to jump up. She stayed silent. For a moment Anat lost her courage, but since she had begun, she had to continue.

"The truth is that I still don't believe you meant seriously what you said. I'm sure you're going to tell me now that what you told Tammi before was said in haste, in a moment of thoughtlessness, and that you never considered such a thing seriously."

Chagit was tense. "Why do you say that?" Her voice had a defensive tone. "Everything I said to Tammi is right. And I still think so. As a matter of fact, I'm not thinking of getting married tomorrow, but the time will come when I will have to do that, and I don't think Rashid is any worse than any other boy, just because he wasn't born a Jew!"

"No one says he's any worse. I wasn't trying to compare him with anyone else, and in any case that wouldn't be possible."

"You see! You admit it yourself!" Chagit snatched at Anat's words with great enthusiasm. "If there's no difference between him and a Jewish boy, why shouldn't I think of marrying him?"

"That I didn't say," Anat corrected her. "There is definitely a difference. What I said was that it's not possible to say that he's worse or better."

Chagit was confused. "You're getting me all tangled up," she said after a moment's thought. "Stop philosophizing. Just explain to me why it's not allowed to marry him!"

"Because you're Jewish, and he's not!" Anat declared with finality.

"Those are nothing but labels," Chagit dismissed her words. "In reality anyone can see that we're both human beings, with thoughts, feelings, wishes, aspirations - we're not in any way different from each other!"

I thought to myself, "How are you going to get out of that one, Anat?" I was certain that if it had been my responsibility to speak with Chagit, I wouldn't have known what to say to her, how or with what to change her mind.

"Your problem, and the problem of many others as well," Anat explained patiently, "is that you don't uderstand what it is to be Jewish. The explanation can be summed up in a few words, which when you first hear them will probably antagonize you. You are a daughter of the Jewish people, Am Yisrael - and Am Yisrael is the chosen people!"

She stopped there, fixed a sharp glance on Chagit, and waited for her reaction. It wasn't slow in coming, and it was a strong one - but I could see from Anat's expression that the nature of this reaction didn't surprise her, she had even expected it.

"How are you talking!" Chagit stormed. "Do you know who you sound like? Like the Germans... Yes! Like the Nazis. They claimed that the German people were a superior race - 'the chosen people,' as you put it. And look what they did to themselves, and to the whole world! All because of that racist outlook! My father was in Europe during the Holocaust. If you don't know what happened there, come with me and talk to him. He'll make sure to tell you what the Germans did to him, claiming - just like you! - that their people was 'the master race,' 'the chosen people,' who had to rule over the entire world!"

Chagit paused, breathing heavily from the exertion of her vehement oratory. She didn't notice a tiny smile that tugged at the corners of Anat's lips. I, who was carefully watching her reaction, noticed it. For a moment it seemed to me that she had deliberately provoked this outburst of Chagit's, in order to take the wind out of her sails before the journey even began...

"You mentioned in one breath three completely different concepts." Chagit, I noticed, was taken aback by the quiet, calm tone in which these words were spoken. She had been expecting a tone similar to her own, a vehement speech, a loud, agressive voice, a rebuttal, a counter-attack - anything but what her ears were hearing. Anat continued: "What connection is there between "master race," "chosen people," and "ruling over the entire world?"

"It's amazing that you don't understand the connection," Chagit mocked. "It's perfectly logical. When a particular people claim that they are chosen and superior to other peoples, that automatically produces a desire for power - and for suppression of the people they consider inferior to them!" This time Anat

smiled broadly, not only with her mouth, but with her eyes as well. Chagit was surprised.

"That's it exactly! That's what I said at the beginning, you don't know what it is to be a Jew, nor what it means to be a chosen people! You know, yes. You know how the Germans twisted that concept to give themselves an excuse for their criminal acts. They produced the race theory, and used it to claim that the German people was the most superior of all, and the Jews, the most inferior. The Jews, who constantly fulfilled their assigned task - in spite of the evil decrees and persecutions that had been their lot throughout the generations, and the trials that no other people had to undergo - continued to uphold their Judaism proudly, and that fact posed a threat to the German people's world domination. Therefore they placed them at the bottom of the list and worked to annihilate them. According to their theory, an enlightened world held no room for such an inferior race. An outlook like that repulses anyone with any human feelings, and that is obvious. But when the Jews assert: 'We are members of the chosen people,' we don't tie that fact to any concept of a 'master race,' nor to the natural consequence: a thirst for power and a desire to suppress the other nations of the world."

Anat stopped and studied Chagit as if trying to penetrate into her and discover whether she had absorbed these words, or whether they were too deep for her. Chagit looked thoughtful. She fixed her gaze on some undefined spot on the wall of my room and fell silent. Her stony glance, her rebellious expression, her earlier tension - all these softened a little. It seemed that Anat's words had found a path into her heart, and she was thinking them over privately.

"If you're so interested," she said suddenly, with feigned casualness, "I don't mind sidestepping into this philosophical debate, it could be interesting."

Anat smiled again. "I'm not debating, Chagit," she explained to her. "I'm talking, clarifying. I'm also listening to you, and am willing to accept your words and agree with them, to the extent that they are right. A debate is when each one holds onto his position stubbornly, without wanting to try and understand the person he's talking with. The only purpose of a debate is to make oneself heard and impose one's opinion on others. My goal is that you should understand what I think. For that purpose, I also hear and understand you. I call that a conversation. Philosophical? I don't object to calling it that..."

This detour from the main subject helped. Chagit smiled understandingly. It was a serious smile, and somewhat forced - but the first smile from her in the course of the conversation.

"You claim," she said, "that the Jews have another, different way to explain the concept of the 'chosen people.' Before you explain to me how you interpret that concept, I want to understand why there is any need at all for a chosen people."

The conversation had taken on a more relaxed atmosphere. To this point, I hadn't opened my mouth. I was more interested in listening than speaking.

"When you understand what 'chosen people' means, you'll also understand why the world needs one... but actually, why shouldn't there be a chosen people?"

"Isn't it preferable that all the people of the world should be equal? Why produce differences and classes?"

"Could such a situation exist? Is it really possible to arrive at equality?" Anat asked Chagit's opinion. She hesitated.

"Uh... I think so. Why not?"

"How can we arrive at complete equality among people, if from the moment of birth we are different from one another? I have light hair and blue eyes, while Tammi, for example, has brown hair and eyes. Is that equality? You are a bit short, and thin, Peninah is tall..."

"The external appearance doesn't say anything about equality!" Chagit said somewhat impatiently. "Being equal means... how can I explain it? It has to do with more important things, with opinions, actions, with the way we treat other people... to treat others the way we would want them to treat us...'

"We can never be equal in those 'more important things'!" Anat declared decisively. "O.K., let's forget about externals and move on to matters of opinion: In your opinion, red is the nicest color, while I prefer purple. Or matters of action: You like spicy foods, while I favor sweet... We'll never reach agreement on things that depend on personal taste. The last point you mentioned is correct. We must treat the other person with respect: be considerate of him, appreciate him, understand him. Every human being deserves this kind of treatment, whether

Jewish or non-Jewish. And that's where we find the difference between the race theory of the Germans and the Jewish declaration that we are a chosen people.'

For the Germans, that was a position which granted them rights of rulership and suppression. For the Jews, it is a quality which produces obligations. For them, it expressed itself in negative actions towards others, for us, it expresses itself in an obligatory relationship towards ourselves. We demand things of ourselves that we would never consider demanding of others. We must serve as a symbol and an example. At the same time, we don't disrespect those who act differently from us. We, as Jews, have a certain role in the world - the non- Jew has another role. Each one must fulfill his task. We, the Jews, have been chosen to make known the existence of the Creator of the world. Now do you understand, Chagit, the meaning of 'chosen people'?"

"I understand what you want to say, but it sounds very illogical to me. How can the concept of 'chosen' be connected with the idea of 'obligations?' The chosen people should have rights that the other peoples don't have!"

"You're right - if we accept the mistaken assumptions of the non-Jews. Do you know why? Because of the difference in the chooser. The Germans chose themselves as the 'master race;' therefore they defined the concept as it pleased them. But we did not choose ourselves. Our 'chosenness' was imposed on us by the Holy One, Blessed is He. Whether we want it or not, He chose us, and we can't get out of it! Therefore it was also He who defined for us what it means to be the chosen people - of the Holy One, Blessed is He. It means obligations - which for us are a great privilege, the privilege of fulfilling the commands of the Creator of the world. Who specially chose us as His emissaries! We also have privileges in the ordinary sense of the word, but only with regard to the Holy One, Blessed is He. We have no right to claim our privileges of our own accord, and those privileges certainty are not expressed as domination over others."

"This is the first time I ever heard that our being a chosen people means having obligations put on us," Chagit said skeptically.

"First understand and agree with me that our task in the world - the purpose for which Am Yisrael was chosen - is so that all the peoples should acknowledge the existence of G-d. Then you will understand why, at least superficially, all our privileges consist entirely of - obligations."

"And if I don't accept that? Let's say I decide that it's too hard for me, and I don't want to be Jewish?"

"The reality of your being a daughter of the Jewish people doesn't depend on you. You were born that way. No one asked your permission - and that's it! You're Jewish. Just as it won't do you any good to rebel and say, for example, 'Why am I not a bird? Why was I born a human being?' - just as you cannot choose your parents, you were born to your mother and father and not to mine, and it's not within your power to change that fact, in the same way you can't change the fact that you are a Jewish girl, and as a result, your children will also be Jews!"

"But, look, I can decide not to be Jewish. Let's say I stop acting Jewish... of course that doesn't mean I'm really thinking about doing so," Chagit hurried to explain herself, so that we shouldn't, G-d forbid, misunderstand her. "But that's an actual possibility, isn't it?"

"You can deny the fact that you're Jewish, but that won't mean that you're not Jewish; just as you have the option of telling everyone that Mr. and Mrs. Har-el, Tammi's parents, are your parents, but you'll always remain the daughter of your parents, who gave birth to you. Being Jewish is a reality that can never be changed!" Anat said with finality.

The three of us fell silent. For me, too, Anat's words, for the most part, were a tremendous revelation. I quickly went over what she had said, and suddenly an idea flashed into my mind. For the first time in the conversation, I spoke up.

"It seems to me also that if a Jew denies his Jewishness, that very act causes damage to himself, and also to the whole world!"

Both of them gave me questioning looks, and I took a long, deep breath. I felt excited. It was the first time in my life that I had stood in this position, "I" facing "myself," with my "I" asking the "myself' in me: Who am I? And what is "myself?" What do I want from myself, and what does "myself want from me? And the answer was: "You are Jewish - entirely, totally Jewish. And you want to be Jewish, in the way a Jew should be. It's just that sometimes you don't know it..." But now, Anat had clarified the matter for me clearly and unmistakably.

"It's like... like a person who was born with certain talents. Take, for example... let's take Einstein. If he were to say, 'It's not my fault that I was born with this kind of brain, with the mind of a genius. I don't want to use it! I don't want to be different from other people.' And if he would suppress that urge within him to think, ponder, establish theories, invent inventions, and would go and become a simple construction worker - would he be doing himself good in any way? No. He would only be doing himself psychological harm. He would be wasting himself. Would he be doing humanity any good? By forcing himself to act like an ordinary person, would he be contributing to the cause of equality? Of course not! Just the opposite! The world would have lost everything that he discovered and invented when he 'submitted' to the talents with which he was endowed, developed them, thought, probed - and arrived at results that the entire world uses and benefits from!" I took another deep breath, and looked to see what effect my words had had on my two friends. They were listening with interest.

"You, Chagit, can understand that very well. You have a tremendous talent for drawing. All day you sit and draw; you can't stop. It's an urge you can't repress. Undoubtedly you feel that your talent is being wasted, standing there selling shoes. I know, you'd certainly prefer to be occupied with drawing instead. Right or not?" I demanded.

"Right," she said with a smile.

"That's how it is when a person is born Jewish. He has a certain destiny, a task, a contribution that he is supposed to make to humanity. And if he doesn't do that, he's denying his purpose. He himself suffers from that, even if he forces himself not to feel the suffering. The Jewish soul within him suffers, is afflicted and tormented, and the whole world loses what he could have - and was obligated to - contribute to it, and which, instead, he held back from the world!"

"You're brilliant, Tammi!" Anat complimented me sincerely.

"I wouldn't have arrived at that on my own, Anat." I tried to play down my importance. "You're the one who turned my thoughts in that direction."

Anat turned to our friend. "In what direction did I turn your thoughts, Chagit?"

She hesitated a little, gave an embarrased smile, but immediately became serious. "I understand what you're trying to say, and... I must agree. You explained the matter to me in a way that is logical and acceptable. I understand what a Jew is, and why he has to be different from a non-Jew, and that this difference is not a form of discrimination. But you still haven't explained why it is forbidden for me, as a Jewish girl, to marry a non-Jew. After all, you yourself say that I'll always remain Jewish. My children will also be Jewish. I'll go on fulfilling the mitzvot of the Torah. So why isn't it allowed?"

Anat gave her a long, penetrating look. It was the first time I had ever heard her speak so strongly and emphatically: "Based on what we've discussed up to now, you should have understood on your own that a step like that is impossible. We know now that we and he are different from each other. With all due respect for this non-Jewish young man, who, by your account, is intelligent, refined, good-hearted, and has other fine qualities - he still remains non-Jewish. And you are Jewish. Just as oil will always rise to the surface of water..."

She hesitated a moment. "I could appeal to your emotional side. I could suggest that you speak with those hundreds and thousands of young women who, like you at first, didn't understand that significant difference between Jew and non-Jew, and unfortunately married young Arab men. They very quickly found out that they had made a terrible mistake. Their children, by Jewish law, are Jews. But fingers will always be pointed at them: Their father is an Arab! At the same time, the Moslem religion claims that they are Moslems. Yet for the Arabs, too, they will always remain 'the children of a Jewess.' So that their whole life long, they will feel cut off, children without a people, lacking identity. Would you want to cause your children such tremendous suffering?

"But that's not the point I want to dwell on. I'm telling you simply: You are Jewish. You are a daughter of the Jewish people, who were commanded by the One Who chose them to guard their specialness and not to intermarry among the other nations. By not obeying that command you yourself, with your own hands, are cutting one of the main cords that bind you, as a Jewish person, to the Creator of the world. Who chose you as a daughter of the Jewish people. In so doing, you are disconnecting yourself, and the generations who will come after you, from the roots that nourish them. By your one small step you are succeeding to do what the enemies of Am Yisrael, over thousands of years, have failed to do. In times of persecution, explusion, extermination - the Jews refused to betray

their people and their religion, and they even sacrificed their lives for these. Is it within your power to guarantee on behalf of your children that they will be able - or will agree - to continue acting like Jews, when they live in the midst of a foreign people? You are cutting them off, transferring them to a people that is not theirs, making them nameless and ownerless. Are you willing to take an act of that kind upon your conscience? Are you willing to accept the responsibility, when some time in the future your sons and daughters will come up to you and ask you: 'Mother, why did you do this to us?' "

The question echoed in the space of my room, and suddenly I became aware of the fact that we were only fifteen years old - even though Anat's presence among us blurred the framework of age. Perhaps it had simply caused us to grow up several years...

Chagit sat with her head buried between her shoulders, elbows on knees. I didn't see her face, and couldn't try to read from her expression what was going on inside her. When Chagit raised her head, her eyes were wet. She didn't try to hide it. Looking straight at us, with tear-filled eyes and a voice that trembled somewhat, she said: "No... I don't want it to be as you've described to me... but what can I do?"

"You can stop thinking the ill-considered and completely illogical thought that you can continue the chain of Jewish tradition while married to a gentile!"

"O.K. I've stopped thinking that. But how am I going to get out of this now?"

"How will you get out - of what?"

"I'm still working in the same store, and so is Rashid. I don't believe he'll just decide, one fine morning, to quit his job," she said in a weak voice.

We understood her fear. "Stop working there!" Anat suggested. "I'm sure you can find other work." A wonderful idea flashed into my mind. "I have a solution for your problem, Chagit," I said enthusiastically. "I've heard my parents saying a number of times that they need to get someone to help them with their work at the store. We have a fabric store, you know. Thank G-d, a lot of customers come in, but some people are impatient, and when they see a long line they leave and go to another store. My father thinks an extra worker would greatly improve the situation. I'm sure my parents will agree to employ you!"

Her eyes sparkled. Anat, too, seemed happy. But Chagit's face immediately became serious again. "I'll be very happy if you speak to your parents, and they agree... but I won't be able to begin working at your store immediately. I promised my present boss that I would give him two weeks notice before quitting."

"Very reasonable," Anat said. But it presented a problem. We all remained silent, thinking.

"Listen," Anat said suddenly. "Actually, it's better this way. Now you'll have two weeks during which you can make it clear to that young man that there's nothing between you. If you were to run away suddenly and disappear, he would look for you. And it's reasonable to assume that he would find you, and then you would be in an unpleasant position. The fact that you'll be staying a few more days at your present place of work gives you the opportunity to let him understand that you're not interested in him. Try not to insult him, of course..."

"If you're interested, I'm willing to come to the store with you every day, so that you'll feel more comfortable," I suggested. "I'm sure Anat will also agree..."

Chagit smiled at us gratefully. "I see I was right to turn to you." Her tears had already dried, but her eyes still sparkled. "I had a hard battle with myself. I felt there was something here I wasn't coping with... but I didn't know exactly what. I needed someone to explain it to me. Don't think I'm not proud to be Jewish, but until today I didn't know what was the source of my pride. I thought it was a misplaced pride, and felt uncomfortable with it..."

She was in an open and revelatory mood, and without weighing it very carefully I dared to ask her: "Of course, from now on the thought of marrying a non-Jew will be very far from your mind. But it interests me to know what made a Jewish girl, studying at a religious school - and apparently also from a religious family - consider a possibility like that?" She thought a little. "I'll tell you, so that you'll understand me, so that I won't seem completely strange to you. As I mentioned before, my father is a Holocaust survivor. At the moment I won't tell you about what he went through there, it's not relevant to the subject. But he has claimed ever since that the Jews themselves are to blame for what happened to them. In his opinion, the fact that they were different from their neighbors caused the

hatred towards them. If they had tried to blur the difference, they wouldn't have aroused the fury of the gentiles against them."

"But that's ridiculous," I said. "The Jews have been in exile among the gentiles for thousands of years. And history specifically shows that when they preserved their uniqueness as a people, the gentiles appreciated them. But when they tried to breach the barriers separating them from the other nations - the disasters began. The European Holocaust, too, was preceded by the period of the so-called Enlightenment movement, the Haskala.

Chagit thought for a moment before answering. "In any case, that's what my father claims. He arrived in Israel, the sole survivor of a large family, and here he married my mother, who is of Yemenite origin. From my mother I heard stories of the good relations that had prevailed between them and their Arab neighbors. They lived in peace, helped one another, and had practically no friction, certainly not on the scale of what happened in Europe. So I thought, if my grandfather and grandmother could live in peace with the Arabs and still remain good Jews, why couldn't I too? In that way I would also be contributing to better relations among the two peoples..."

"But now you realize," Anat said to her, "that the quiet that prevailed between the Jews and the Arabs in Yemen existed precisely because the Jews emphatically and stubbornly held to the principles of their religion, being careful of every commandment, minor or major. Would it ever have entered the mind of a Jew there to marry a non-Jew, or would a non-Jew ever have thought of marrying a Jew? That behavior was what produced a relationship of appreciation towards the Jews. But, as Tammi said before, the attempt to blur the boundary between Jew and non-Jew is what led to the Holocaust. The non-Jews had to prove to the Jews that they were indeed different, even if they were unwilling to admit it!"

Chagit looked at her in amazement. "That's so clear!" she said. "How could I ever have thought otherwise? Do you know what, Anat," she surprised us, "from now on I also am going to begin to say the blessing, '...Who did not make me a non-Jew' with full concentration!"

Anat blushed. "How did you find out..."

"I overheard when you were explaining to Tammi. I listened to your words with interest, and then I decided that only someone like you, who was proud of her

Jewishness, could help me in my struggles with that subject. I didn't have a close connection with you, so I turned to you through Tammi."

"One thing is still not clear to me, Anat," I said to my friend. "How did you become so expert in this subject, and many other subjects about which you've spoken to me? Girls of our age aren't so well-versed on topics like these, which require a lot of deep thought."

"Well," she answered, taking her time, "I do think deeply. And when something is not clear to me, I investigate, ask people, look into books, until I arrive at an answer that satisfies me. Batyah helped me a lot, especially at the beginning, when I was really an ignoramus. The knowledge that I was ignorant on such important subjects motivated me to study, to make up for all I had missed in my first years..."

"And the result," I said humorously, "is that you know a lot more than all those who didn't miss those first years."

She smiled. "It's still not too late," she said to me with great seriousness, despite her smile. "You can begin from today..."

CHAPTER 7 - SURPRISE PARTY

Everything was ready for Mother's birthday party. The table in the livingroom was decoratively set, a big bouquet of flowers stood on it next to Mother's place. The boys were dressed in holiday clothes, and so was I. Shuki and Natti had prepared a surprise for Mother. Shuki had written on a nice piece of paper all the letters of the alef-bet, which he had recently learned to write. And Natti had drawn her a picture. Both of them had put their gifts on the table, next to the bouquet of flowers. Boaz and I took up our positions beside the organ.

We had talked in secret with Aunt Shirley and let her in on our plan. At noon she had suddenly "decided" that she wanted to pray the afternoon prayer at the

Western Wall, and had asked Mother to join her. Mother had agreed, of course. What doesn't one do for an aunt who has come to visit from America? In the meanwhile, we had had time to get organized. Anat helped us, as did Father, who had decided not to go to work that day. Mother had taken a longer vacation, in honor of our important guest. A festive lunch was all prepared, waiting on a low flame so that it would stay warm.

A low knock was heard, the handle turned, the door opened. Arik stood beside Boaz, and Shuki at my side. Natti stood on a chair in the center, and all together we greeted Mother and Shirley with a melodious round of, "Welcome in the name of Hashem." The two of them surveyed us with obvious pleasure. Aunt Shirley happily, and Mother with emotion. She even passed her hand over her eyes - to wipe away, it seemed to me, a tear of excitement.

We finished singing, but remained standing in our places, positioned like a smalt choir. The little boys showed extraordinary maturity by staying in their places, too, rather than pouncing on Mother. It was not for nothing that we had spent so much time practicing with them. Not in vain had been our warnings - and even more, our promises that whoever behaved right would get a prize.

"Will the guests of honor please be seated!" I announced. I had taken upon myself the task of master-of-ceremonies. "Mother at the head of the table, opposite Father. Aunt Shirley, your place is beside Mom."

"On the right side or the left?" our Aunt asked with feigned innocence.

"If you prefer to stay hungry," Arik clowned, "sit at the place where there's no plate. But if you want to receive lunch like everyone else, choose the place where a plate is set."

Aunt Shirley waggled a finger at him in mock warning, and took her place.

"The members of the choir are requested to stay quiet!" I announced with great importance, staring at Arik. Now came the main part of the program. I stepped up to Mother and presented her with the sheet of paper containing the words of the song I had composed in her honor. Mother studied it, her whole face filled with wonder, astonishment - and deeply-felt pride. I strode importantly back to my place, and Boaz softly cleared his throat, which was the signal for all of us to break into song. We sang the "Song of Mother."

We sang energetically, enthusiastically, and with feeling. Shukt and Natti were so sweet! They sang with a truly holy awe, as if it were some exalted prayer. Mother couldn't restrain herself. Completely breaking all the rules, she jumped up from her place, ran to us, hugged and kissed us. "My children..." she said joyfully.

The performance concluded; the choir disbanded. Everyone sat down around the table, except for me. I started towards the kitchen to serve lunch, in accordance with the time-honored tradition of giving mothers a complete vacation on their birthdays. Anat joined me. When she walked toward me from the corner into which she had tucked herself until now. Aunt Shirley noticed her for the first time. She stared at her in astonishment, her lips and eyebrows puckered in an espression of bewilderment. She started to say something, then changed her mind, and we went into the kitchen.

"How was it?" I asked Anat.

"Wonderful!" she said with feeling. "Extremely successful! But... did you notice that your Aunt looked at me strangely?"

"Yes, I noticed. I wondered about it very much." "Why do you think she was so surprised?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps she didn't understand what you were doing at a family party. It's too bad I didn't introduce you to her a day or two before. Then it wouldn't have seemed so strange to her."

"Do you think that's the reason for her amazement?" Anat asked skeptically.

"Can you think of any other reason?"

She didn't answer, but immediately picked up the tray of salads and went out of the kitchen. When she returned, she was very upset. "Again she stared at me in amazement, studying every line of my face! What does she want from me!"

"Don't get excited, Anat," I tried to calm her. "Look, the plate is almost falling out of your hand. In just a minute I'll find out for you what it's all about, O.K.?"

"You go and serve," she said. "I'll set the things out on the plates."

I agreed willingly. When I put a plate down in front of Aunt Shirley, she still looked troubled.

We finished serving, and joined the family at the table. "Aunt Shirley," I said, "let me introduce Anat, a friend of mine from school - a very good friend. Our whole family is very attached to her. She helped me very much in getting ready for the party."

"Very nice to meet you," Aunt Shirley said politely. But she couldn't take her eyes off Anat.

"What's the matter. Aunt Shirley?" 1 asked, completely astonished. "Why are you looking at Anat that way?"

"Her face is familiar," Aunt Shirley explained. "You're friend very closely resembles someone I know, a neighbor of mine..."

Anat nearly jumped out of her chair. "A neighbor of yours there? In America? Who is this neighbor?" Anat demanded. I put a calming - but trembling - hand on her shoulder. I, too, felt tense.

"I'm sure the resemblance is only coincidental," my Aunt said in an apologetic tone, "but all the same, it's amazingly close!"

"Please, tell me her name!" begged Anat.

"Why are you interested in her? Just because she resembles you so much? She's a girl of about twenty, named Maggie Ford..." She hadn't imagined the outburst her words would provoke.

"Tell me! What else do you know about her?" Anat insisted.

All of us had put down our silverware and were listening to this strange dialogue.

"I told you, Anat, the resemblance between you is merely coincidental. What connection could there be between you and a non-Jewish girl?"

"What!" Anat leaped from her place, knocking her chair over backwards without even noticing it. "Maggie isn't Jewish? That's impossible! Maggie is... she's... my sister!"

Aunt Shirley looked at her in wonderment. "Undoubtedly there's some misunderstanding here. Apparently we're talking about two different people," she tried to reassure her.

"But Maggie Ford! That's exactly the name of my sister... and she's also twenty!"

Aunt Shirley was bewildered, but immediately recovered her composure. "Do you know how many girls named Maggie Ford there are in the United States? In a country of hundreds of millions of people, it's not rare to find a number of people with identical names, especially when the name is such a common one."

"And what about the resemblance between us?" Anat didn't give in. "Purely by coincidence there's a girl aged twenty, named Maggie Ford, who looks just tike me?"

Aunt Shirley bit her lip worriedly. Not knowing what to do, she looked from one to another of us, silently asking for assistance which we were unable to offer her.

"What a silly old fogie I am!" she scolded herself. "At my age I should have thought a little before opening my mouth! Why cause you girls needless worry?" She got up and stood by Anat. "Come, sit next to me on the couch." She pulled her along. "I'm sure you're worrying for nothing. Tell me again. Why do you think the girl I mentioned is your sister?"

"Because I have a sister in America," said Anat in a trembling voice, "who resembles me very much, and she is the same age and has the same name as the girl you mentioned!"

"It's a coincidence, nothing but coincidence!" Aunt Shirley insisted stubbornly. "You can't be her sister. It's impossible!"

Mother also stood by Anat, looking at her worriedly. "The girl is too pale," she murmured to herself. "Tammi, please bring Anat a glass of water."

Wordlessly, I did as she asked.

"Maybe you should go into a side room?" Father suggested. "That way you can talk undisturbed. It doesn't help to have all the children around you."

"Father's right," Mother and Aunt Shirley agreed unanimously, and they went towards my room, which was presently serving as Aunt Shirley's, too. Anat walked after them as if dreaming. I joined them. To my great relief, no one

ordered me to stay in the livingroom. Mother's birthday party, which had started out so successfully, was suddenly over.

"Do you hear!" Aunt Shirley practically shouted. "This Maggie Ford, who lives next door to me, isn't your sister! Just a minute. How is it that you have a sister in America?" she asked, apparently hoping this would make it easier for her to find a satisfactory solution to the mystery.

"She's my half-sister on my mother's side," Anat explained reluctantly. "Tammi already knows about it. My mother was married before. I'm her daughter from the second marriage, and Maggie from the first. We have different fathers, but the same mother."

"Impossible... impossible," Aunt Shirley muttered over and over. I sat next to Anat. "Calm down, calm down," I kept whispering, not knowing what else I could say to her.

"Maybe, after all, you're right, and she's actually your sister?" Aunt Shirley said as if to herself. "If so, it's a terrible thing!"

"Tell me everything now!" Anat begged. "Don't keep me in suspense. I can't stand the tension!"

"If it's true, you have to know about it," Aunt Shirley suddenly decided. "Perhaps you can do something."

"Tell me now!" There were tears in Anat's eyes. "Why do you think that Maggie isn't Jewish?"

"Because her parents are Christians. Her father - he's her real father, and he's Christian, a devout Catholic. His wife is only Maggie's step-mother. Maggie even calls her by her first name, Carolyn. She's also Christian."

"That Carolyn doesn't interest me at all!" Anat cried out impatiently. "Are... are you sure he's Maggie's real father?"

"Without the slightest doubt!" Aunt Shirley answered definitely. "She came to live with him when she was five. Until then she was with her mother. Afterwards, when her mother decided to remarry, she gave Maggie over to her father's care. The whole neighborhood knows the story. Maggie never tried to hide these facts.

She talks about it very freely. This Carolyn is a wonderful woman! She accepted her into her home with love and warmth, and treats her like a real daughter."

"Maggie's father isn't a Jew? And he was always a non-Jew?" Anat had not yet managed to absorb the new information. She still seemed to hope it was all just a nightmare from which she would wake up.

Aunt Shirley didn't say anything, just nodded her head affirmatively.

"How could my mother have agreed?" Anat stormed. "I don't understand... no! I don't understand what's going on here!"

Suddenly she leaned back against the couch cushion. Her hands drooped at her sides, her eyes opened wide, staring straight ahead without consciousness. They were two green circles against the background of her pale, almost white face.

"Water!" I heard my mother yell. "Tammi, water! Quickly... Anat has fainted!"

I ran to bring a glass of water. Aunt Shirley snatched it from my hand and began moistening Anat's forehead, her cheeks, her throat. Anat rolled her head from side to side. I stood in front of her in total panic. I felt the blood had left my face.

"Go out of the room, Tammi!" my mother told me. "I don't want you fainting on me too..." I didn't leave. My legs wouldn't obey me. Poor Anat... less than a week ago she had sat with me here, in this room, and lectured to me and Chagit about the unique quality of our people, Am Yisrael. With great fervor she had labored to convince Chagit that Am Yisrael is the chosen people, and that despite the resulting obligations - or perhaps because of them - it was a tremendous privilege to be a Jew. What a terrible shock it was for her now to find out that her sister, her own flesh and blood, lived in the home of non-Jews, as a complete non-Jew!

Anat didn't return home that day. My mother didn't allow her. "First you have to calm down," she told her, "and that's not something that's going to happen so fast. You've had a real shock."

"I planned to go home this evening," Anat protested in a weak voice. "All the girls in the dorm already left this morning."

"And you're staying here!" My mother repeated her former words, this time in a tone that didn't leave room for argument. "You can go with Tammi to the dorm to get your things. But to your house you're not traveling until tomorrow."

"I must go as soon as possible," Anat tried again. "I have to find out if this is true."

"No tragedy will happen if the situation that has continued for more than ten years continues another day," Mother stuck to her position and argued reasonably. "First you have to calm down. I can't allow you to travel in your present condition. You do look much better than before, but you're still not yourself yet."

Mother was right. I didn't recognize Anat. She was always so quiet, so calm, so relaxed. I once heard - or maybe I read it, I don't remember which - that people who are too calm by nature tend to have a much more severe reaction than the average person in time of crisis. The transition from one psychological extreme to another makes the shock greater.

Anat gave in to my mother's persuasion. That night she slept at our house. We went to sleep quite late. The four of us - Mother, Aunt Shirley, Anat and I - sat and talked. Aunt Shirley told us about the frightening extent of assimilation in the United States and in the world at large.

"Fifty percent, forty percent, eighty percent - the number doesn't matter. Am Yisrael needs Mashiach to come now!" Mother sighed. "Every day that passes without Mashiach, dozens of Jews are lost to Am Yisrael!"

"I won't be surprised, Anat, if it turns out that your mother married a non-Jew," Aunt Shirley said. "As much as it may shock us and give us cold chills - it's a common and accepted occurrence in America."

"But... to leave Maggie in the care of her non-Jewish father, who is married to a Christian. No doubt Maggie is convinced that she herself is Christian!"

"That's how it is!" Aunt Shirley raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "If your mother had realized and known, as you do, how important it is to guard the uniqueness of Am Yisrael, she wouldn't have married a non-Jew. Now that she did marry him, no doubt she believes that their daughter belongs just as much to her father as to her. In your mother's opinion, Maggie is just as much a

Christian as your mother is a Jew, and it makes no difference in what religion she is raised."

"But according to the Torah she is Jewish!"

"You don't have to convince me of that." Aunt Shirley was tired. Her eyes were drooping, and from time to time she tried to hide a yawn. "I know that. Unfortunately, there are Jews who don't know. They're the ones who need it explained to them, they're the ones who have to be convinced."

"You're referring to my parents... my mother! I'm not going to leave her alone until she agrees to bring Maggie to our house. Father, too, will have to agree. She's my sister, she's my mother's daughter - and she's Jewish! Jewish!"

The next morning, Anat left our house.

"Thank you for everything," she told me. "Give my thanks to your whole family. This evening, with G-d's help, I'll phone you and let you know what develops."

She didn't phone. That evening, just as we were all standing in readiness beside the Channukah menorah, and father, with the lit shamash-candle in his hand was about to begin reciting the blessings for lighting the Channukah lights, a hesitant knock was heard at the door. And there stood...

"Anat!" I shouted in surprise. "What are you doing here? Didn't you go home?"

She didn't answer. A large tear trembled on her eyelid, then another, and another...

"Tammi!" my mother reprimanded me, suddenly appearing at my side. "Come in, Anat. It's cold outside. You came at the right moment, just in time for lighting the Channukah lights..."

While the lights were being tit, Anat managed quietly to wipe away her tears. Her eyes were still red, but she seemed much more relaxed.

"Do you want something hot to drink?" my mother asked her in a soothing voice.

"No, thanks," Anat answered. With a trembling hand she stroked Natti's curly hair. He had come over to cling to her and stare at her with his large, childish

eyes. He didn't understand what was happening, but sensed that his big friend was in trouble, and he wanted very much to comfort and encourage her.

"I'd like to speak with Tammi," Anat said.

Mother felt uncomfortable. "Don't you think it's better if I also hear what you have to say?" she asked hesitantly.

"No. Please." Anat's voice was quiet, perturbed - but nonetheless decisive. "Don't worry," she added, "I'm not going to faint again..." She smiled apologetically. Her smile was sad.

Despite Anat's dark mood, I couldn't deny that I was filled with a sense of importance. Anat preferred me over adults! I was the only one with whom she was willing to share her private problems. But her next sentence brought me back down to earth. "I don't mind if Tammi tells you afterwards what I said. It's just hard for me."

My mother understood. She brought to my room a plate piled with sweet-smelling pancakes and dark brown, jelly-filled sufganiot. "In just a minute I'll bring you a cup of hot tea," she told Anat gently. "You too, Tammi?"

"Thanks, Mom, but I'm not thirsty." My mother left the room.

"Can you believe it?!" Anat burst out. Yes, an outburst from Anat! At this point I was no longer amazed to see such a thing. "It's the same Maggie - my sister, just as I thought." She was still in an emotional turmoil, but not to the extent that she had been last night. "I showed my mother the name and address that your Aunt Shirley had written down for me, and I asked her: 'Mother, is this Maggie's address?' My mother snatched the paper from my hand and asked: 'Why do you need her address?'

" 'I only want to know if this is the street and the house number where she lives,' I explained.

" 'Yes, that's the address. Where did you get that piece of paper?' For some reason, my mother was a little gruff with me.

" 'I ran into a neighbor of Maggie's...' I began.

" 'A neighbor of who? What are you talking about?'

" 'A neighbor of Maggie's,' I repeated, trying at least to keep my voice calm, even if I myself wasn't calm. 'Someone who's visiting relatives here in Israel. As soon as she saw me, she noticed the resemblance between me and Maggie. When she found out that we were sisters, she told me everything!'

" 'Told you... what? Tell me what she told you!' my mother cried out with terrible anxiety. At that moment there was no longer any doubt in my heart that it was all true...

" 'She told me that Maggie's father is not Jewish!' I was trying to be brave."My mother lowered her head, and for a few minutes didn't answer me. Afterwards she sat down in a chair, buried her face in her hands, and remained silent. Her silence frightened me.

" 'Mother!' I pleaded. She raised her eyes to me.

" 'Mother!' I begged again, 'Say something to me, please...'

" 'Well...' she began, weighing every word. 'It's true. Stewart - Maggie's father - is a Christian...'

" 'Mother!' You married a Christian?' It was hard to believe.

"'... Yes...'

" 'Mother, how could it be?'

"'...That's how it is!'

" 'Mother, I won't interfere in your personal life, but Maggie is Jewish! She's your daughter, and according to the Torah, the Jewishness of the child depends on the mother atone!'

"My mother looked at me with a sad, sad glance. 'Stewart is her father, just as much as I am her mother!' she said briefly, her tone a tittle dark.

" 'Mother, but she's Jewish!' I didn't know what else to say.

"My mother thought a little before answering me. 'At present, since her father is taking care of her, she has to be Christian.'

" 'But that's impossible!' I couldn't believe that my mother was capable of talking this way. 'There's no way to stop being Jewish. If she was born Jewish, she will always be Jewish!'

" 'You don't understand, Anat.' My mother became impatient. 'The moment I decided to remarry, and gave up my rights to Margaret, she went to the custody of her father, and he has the right to bring her up as he sees fit.'

" 'No, no! You're the one who doesn't understand that Maggie will always be Jewish!' At this point I burst into tears. 'You have to tell her everything, and invite her to come and live with us here! Father will also have to agree. It's impossible to leave her under the mistaken belief that she's not Jewish!'

" 'Don't talk nonsense!' my mother scolded me. 'Your idea is impossible. Maggie herself wouldn't agree!'

" 'She wants to visit us!' She said so in the letter she wrote you.'

" 'That letter... too bad you ever saw it. It's all because of it that this trouble began. Maggie does want to visit, but she'll never agree to be Jewish!'

" 'Because she doesn't know what it means to be Jewish!' I claimed heatedly. 'I'll persuade her. You'll see!'

" 'Perhaps you'll also influence her to repent and become a baalat teshuvah?' my mother mocked with dark cynicism.

"I realized that I had run into a dead-end. 'Maggie is Jewish!' I cried, "and if you don't tell her so, I will do it myself!'

" 'What will you do?' A note of worry had crept into her voice.

" 'I'll write her a letter!'

"My mother stood up, put her hand on my shoulder, and said: 'Calm down, Anat. You're too upset. You must calm down, and then you'll see for yourself that you're talking nonsense. Maggie will never agree, I'm telling you!'

" 'I'll persuade her!'

" 'You won't succeed. Nothing will help, I can promise you. It won't help! It's best for your own sake to forget the whole thing. Don't get mixed up in things that can only cause you pain and needless troubles.'

" 'What troubles?' I was a little taken aback.

"My mother hesitated slightly before answering. 'Maggie belongs to her father!'

" 'But she's already twenty! She has the right to choose her own way of life.'

" 'And she will choose to remain a Christian, Anat.' My mother sighed in frustration. 'And you will cause yourself suffering, for no purpose.'

"My father came home. I ran to him.

" 'Father, do you agree that Maggie can come and live in our house, so that she won't have to be a Christian?'

"My father was startled. 'What are you talking about, Anat?'

"My mother filled him in briefly.

" 'Forget the whole thing, Anat!' my father said angrily. 'Maggie will never agree to it. And even if she would agree, I don't permit her to live in my house!' With that he closed the conversation and went to take a shower...

"That was more than I could bear. I took my suitcase, which I hadn't even unpacked yet, and escaped from the house. At first I didn't know where to turn. I thought about going to Batyah, to talk with her mother, my aunt. Afterwards I changed my mind and decided that was too close to my parent's home. That would be the first place they would took for me. And what if they decided to call the police to force me to return home? I don't want to get my aunt's family mixed up in a scandal! It will never occur to my parents that I'm with you."

"Poor Anat! What do you plan to do now?"

"I love my parents," Anat wept. "But I have no choice. I'll tell my mother that if she doesn't need Maggie, she doesn't need me either! She'll have to choose - both of us, or neither one!"

When I told my mother Anat's story, she nodded her head and said compassionately: "I don't know how it can help, but if Anat feels more

comfortable with us, of course I don't object to her staying." However, my mother claimed that it was unreasonable not to let Anat's parents know where their daughter was.

"They must be very worried," Mother told Anat. "They are your parents, and they love you! True, it's hard for them to understand you in certain matters, but that doesn't mean that you're allowed to cause them worry."

Anat was concerned about the police. My mother calmed her fears and assured her that her parents undoubtedly would not resort to such a step. They certainly had no interest in seeing their names splashed on the front pages of all the newspapers. After a prolonged effort of persuasion, Anat agreed .that my mother could phone her parents and tell them where she was.

"But don't forget to emphasize to them that I'm not going back home unless they promise me explicitly that they agree that Maggie can come and live with us!" Anat "warned" my mother. My mother wrote down on a piece of paper the telephone number Anat gave her, and went into her bedroom. Within less than five minutes, she called to Anat.

"Your mother wants to speak with you," she said. "Come into my room. No one will listen to your conversation, so you can talk freely."

With a slightly shaky hand Anat took the telephone from my mother. We went out of the room.

"What was your conversation with Anat's mother?" I probed my mother curiously.

"She is a very wise woman, Anat's mother," she said admiringly. "Can you believe that it was not I who phoned her?"

"What do you mean?" I didn't understand.

"Just as I was about to lift the receiver to dial the number, the telephone rang. I let it ring just once, and then picked it up, so you probably didn't hear it. It was Mrs. Zahavi, Anat's mother..."

"She knows Anat is with us?" I cried incredulously. "How could she know?"

My mother smiled. "She phoned the principal of your school - this is what she told me - and said to him that she wanted to speak with the mechanechet of her daughter, Anat Zahavi, who was in Class 9-1. Of course, she was given the telephone number of the mechanechet. She told her that Anat had gone to stay for a few days with her best friend in the class, and that she - Anat's mother - had suddenly remembered something important she had forgotten to tell Anat... she had misplaced the piece of paper on which Anat had written the name and address of her friend, so she wondered if the mechanechet would mind telling her the name and address - and, if possible, the phone number, of Anat's 'best friend.' That's how she located us.

"Something else became clear to me. I was right when I said that Anat's parents are not interested in a scandal. They are being very careful not to arouse any suspicion that something is wrong. When she spoke with me, too, she said: 'I imagine that Anat is at your house now...' I replied: 'Why do you think so?'

She answered me very naturally, 'As far as I remember, Anat told me she was going to visit her good friend, Tammi Har-el...' She didn't mention anything at all about her daughter's running away from home. Only after we talked more, and she realized that I knew more than she had thought, did she put her cards on the table. She's an excellent actress! If I had told her that she was mistaken and Anat was not at our house, she no doubt would have said: 'Excuse me, I must have made a mistake. I probably got the name mixed up. Perhaps your daughter is home and can tell me where Anat is likely to be? It's very important...' "

I looked at my mother in wonder.

"Don't be so amazed," she explained. "It's not the most pleasant thing for strangers to know about a family quarrel."

"Now she realizes that we know everything!" I said with a certain amount of regret. It must certainly be a very unpleasant feeling. Without knowing Anat's mother, I felt sorry for her.

"Not everything... in any case, what's done can't be undone. At present she has no alternative. But if it's possible to keep the matter from becoming known, it would be better. No doubt Anat, too, is not exactly delighted with the situation, you have to understand her, Tammi, and treat her with patience and consideration."

"Don't worry. Mom!" I was a little insulted, and didn't try to hide it. "I'm not a baby!"

My mother probed me with a penetrating glance, as if trying to find out with her eyes what else I knew and was hiding from her. I suddenly thought of Chagit, and took advantage of the opportunity to ask my mother if she would agree, she and Father, to employ Chagit in our store. I didn't tell the whole story, but just made it clear that the help was very much needed. My mother thought for a moment.

"In principle, I don't see any reason why not," she said, and I was filled with a feeling of tremendous relief. "From what you say, Chagit is a good, intelligent, hard-working girl... of course I'll have to consult Father, but I think he'll O.K. it."

Anat came out of the room. Her face was shining with happiness.

"She agreed! They agreed!" She practically started dancing in the middle of the livingroom.

We asked to hear the details.

"My parents talked it over and decided that Maggie could come and live in our house! That's what my mother told me just now," Anat explained. "But..."

My little brothers had already gone to bed. Father had left the house for his nightly Gemarra session. The four of us - Anat and I, my mother and Aunt Shirley - sat in the livingroom, and Anat told the story excitedly. "The main thing is that they agree! Of course, my mother told me, it will take a little time until Maggie arrives. She certainly won't agree to come unless we talk her into it. She has it good there in America with her new father and mother. My mother doesn't think a letter will be enough to persuade her. My parents are going to make a special trip to the United States in order to bring Maggie back!" Her eyes sparkled. "Of course they can't just pick up and go tomorrow. My father will have to get vacation time from his work, and Mother from hers. All that will take some time. It may be that my father's office will take advantage of his trip to the States to give him some assignment there, in which case they'll have to prepare the necessary documents. That's also something that's not done overnight. They'll be leaving in about a month. The only condition my mother made is that during this time I won't make contact with Maggie on my own. 'Let us take care of the

matter as we see fit,' she told me. 'You're only likely to complicate things. It's a delicate matter, which must be approached carefully.' I agreed. My mother no doubt knows more about it than I do. I would have been willing to agree to any condition, just so they come back here with Maggie, my sister. The main thing is that she will be here in our home in Eretz Yisrael and know that she is Jewish!"

I was relieved, both for the happy ending to the story, and fof Anat's sake. It was hard for me to see her suffering so much.

"All's well that end's well!" my mother repeated the old saying. Aunt Shirtey nodded her head energetically and stroked Anat's hair.

None of us knew that we were very far from the end of the story, nor could we imagine how shocking that end would be.

Anat's mother requested that she return to her home the next day. Since her parents had agreed to her condition, she promised to fulfill their request and go home the next morning. Anat asked me to join her.

"That will solve all your problems. You won't have any trouble finding my house, you won't be bored - and you won't have to come with Peninah!" She winked mischievously. Her mood had changed from one extreme to the other.

My mother agreed to let me visit Anat. In any case, she wouldn't have objected in principle to the idea, but the recent events made her all the more quick to agree.

"There won't be any problem about eating," Anat assured me. "Did I tell you that, especially for my sake, my parents keep the highest standard of Kashrut?" I nodded my head, and Anat went on: "Yes, I have wonderful parents... they love me so much! They're willing to do anything for me, whatever will make things good for me!"

The next morning we both got on the bus to Rechovot. To our great joy, it was a very sunny winter day, the kind of day when it is a pleasure to set out on a trip. We sat near the back of the bus and gazed excitedly at the wonderful landscape of Erez Yisrael which sped past our eyes at sixty miles an hour. I opened the window next to my seat and gulped in Erez Yisrael's pure, clean air, freshly washed and brightened by the recent rains. Anat shared my marvellous feeling, for I suddenly heard her say in a voice of yearning: "What a wonderful land! Erez

Yisrael!" Her eyes longingly took in the view, her face shone with an exalted expression. It was apparent that no other feelings clouded her good mood, and I was happy that she had so quickly returned to her usual self.

During the trip - which was quite long - we didn't talk at all about the subject that had so occupied all of us the day before. As if by silent agreement, we did not mention Maggie or Anat's parents. As a matter of fact, we hardly conversed on any subject. We simply sat, enchanted by the view, most of the time in silence.

"Whenever I see the landscape of Erez Yisrael it takes my breath away," Anat told me. "It makes no difference that I'm seeing this view for the hundredth time... every time, I get excited all over again. But most of all I love Jerusalem."

I agreed with her whole-heartedly.

From Rechovot's central bus station we took another bus to Anat's house. We got off in a quiet neighborhood with a suburban atmosphere. Anat led me towards her house, and I followed along behind her, enchanted.

"Here we are," she said, stopping. I looked around me in amazement. "This is where you live?"

"Here," she repeated. "We're early. My parents aren't home yet, so you can feel more relaxed and free. You can get used to the place, and by the time my parents get home, it already won't be strange to you."

Anat opened the gate to the front yard. At the sound of the gate's metallic clink, a large dog jumped up and ran to us, barking. I'm not used to dogs, so I shrank back a little. Anat wasn't startled by the familiar beast.

"Come here, Karli, say Shalom to Anat!" The dog stood up on its back legs and stretched out its right front paw to Anat, who took hold of it jokingly and said to me: "Karli is well trained. Don't be frightened of him. He only looks scary. He's really gentler than a sheep. Karli's incapable of attacking anyone. But he's excellent for scaring away thieves, who don't know him and his gentle nature. Go back to your place, Karli!" She pushed away the dog, who had jumped on her, trying to lick her and get her attention. "You know I don't like to be licked, right? At the moment I have a friend here, and she's more important than you." To my surprise, the dog backed away, and with a disappointed whimper turned around and went towards the back of the house. Anat closed the gate and said

to me: "In a place like this we have to keep a dog. Most of the day no one is at home, and that's a situation that invites burglars."

I stopped and looked around me. The house we were heading towards was a real house. Not just an apartment in an apartment building, but a private home with a giant yard. A marble path led from the gate to the front porch. Carved marble pillars decorated the facade of the house, and big, stylish lamps were scattered throughout the garden. On the large expanses of green lawn, drops of moisture from last night's rainshowers sparkled like diamonds. Fragrant flowerbeds, lawn furniture - these were the things I noticed in my first quick survey.

"Come, let's go inside," Anat urged me. "After we've had something to drink and settled down from the trip, I'll take you for a tour of the house and yard. You've probably never seen a house like this from inside. In back, in the part you can't see from here, we have something like a little fruit orchard. There, under the trees, I like to sit or stretch out and read. We also have a swimming pool there. Afterwards you'll see everything."

"Even a swimming pool?" I was astounded. "It must be tremendous to live in a house like this!" I thought about my little house - wow, how small our apartment in Jerusalem suddenly seemed, with its three bedrooms and three balconies, of which I'd felt so proud until this moment! I thought of it, and felt how insignificant it was compared to Anat's home.

And Anat? She studied me for a long time with sad eyes, and as if reading my thoughts said to me: "It really would be a wonderful house - if anyone lived here!"

I understood what she meant. Most of the day, this house stood empty. Again I thought of my apartment, so clean, simple, and orderly, the apartment Mother had put so much effort into fixing up, and which was always full of the joy of life, the voices of children playing and rumpussing, and the people who lived in it in happiness and contentment. All the same, when we went into Anat's house, my eyes were blinded by the wealth that was revealed in front of me. The floor was completely covered with expensive carpets, and the walls with impressive paintings. The furniture, the bowls and vases, the works of art - I was spellbound!

But this time, too, Anat guessed my thoughts and dismissed them with a wave of the hand.

"Don't take all this seriously," she told me indifferently. "True, these are beautiful and nice things, which give a pleasant feeling, but that's just a framework, for decorative purposes only. If all this is filled with real content - all the better! But if the essence is missing, all these things are of no value!" From the kitchen, Anat took me to her room upstairs. In our apartment I also have a room to myself, since I'm the only girl. The boys all sleep in one room. We call it "the big room," or "the boy's room." My room is small, about a third the size of the boy's. I'm very proud of it, despite its tiny dimensions. I make sure that it is always clean and neat, and try to decorate it with pictures and attractive items - most of them things I myself made. My brothers envy me my room, but they understand - since they have no choice - that I'm already too big to sleep in the same room with them, and that since I don't have any sisters, I live in my room without roommates. The truth is, sometimes it's a little dull, there's no one to talk with at night before I fall asleep, no one to tell the day's events to. Sometimes I more enjoy sitting in the "boy's room" with my brothers, taking part in their fun-filled games, rather than sitting in my own pleasant, pretty, but so quiet room.

Now, when I entered Anat's room, which was giant in comparison to mine, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was perfect! The furniture, all of which matched, was splendid. A junior sofa, of very special and original design, stood against one wall. The other wall contained a fine bookcase, complete with writing desk and chair. Next to it snuggled an extremely comfortable-looking reading chair. On the floor was a beautiful carpet, which matched the curtains covering the large window. In a corner of the room stood a very special chest of drawers, this was topped with a mirror, flanked on both sides by shelves holding small decorative objects. Besides these, the whole room was decorated with drawings, pictures, mottos, and striking quotations. A side door, which stood open, led to an attached bath.

Anat waited patiently so that I could survey the room in detail. No doubt she was reading my thoughts, for she again told me with complete seriousness: "Believe me, Tammi, I feel much more comfortable sitting in your little room, so full of warmth, and listening to the laughing sounds of your brothers that waft in from the next room, than sitting in this big, beautiful, luxurious room listening to the annoying silence which is the most permanent resident of our house.

"My parents have money, even a lot of money," Anat continued, "and of course they have to do something with it. So they try to make life pleasant for themselves with luxury items. But I'm convinced that they don't feel all that good and pleasant, they're not as happy as your family, or as my relatives on my father's side, Batyah's family."

Batyah! Yes... I wanted very much to get to know her. Anat knew that, but now, since she had mentioned her name, I asked her again: "Anat, when can I meet Batyah?"

"I planned to take you to visit her today, after you rest a bit."

"But I'm not at all tired!" I protested. She gave a little laugh. It was impossible to recognize in her the Anat of the past two days.

"O.K., O.K. We'll leave our bags here." To my surprise, she pushed a recessed handle in one of the walls, and a hidden door opened, sliding into the wall.

"What a special house!" I said enthusiastically. "It's just like in books. Secret doors..."

"Cut it out, Tammi!" Anat blushed slightly. "There aren't any secret doors here. This is a closet door. Instead of having a standing closet, and all kinds of other objects that don't have a definite place in the room and give it a messy look - there's a built-in closet, which I call the 'confusion room.' Come in, and you'll see why."

I followed her into the closet-room, where complete disorder prevailed. I was shocked. "It's not like you, Anat!" I cried unbelievingly.

She winked mischievously. "You thought I was an angel that accidentally came down into this world, huh? I really should have brought you here a long time ago, so that you could sober up from your prejudices about me."

The clothes were in fact arranged nicely on shelves and special baskets, or hung on clothes hangers. Most of the books were also in order. But a few books were lying where they had been tossed onto the floor, along with some old notebooks, and odd shoes seeking in vain for a match. Various wrappings stuck out from under a small bed, and were piled on top of it as well. All kinds of games were

scattered around the floor. My brothers no doubt would have been delighted with them.

"What's that?" I pointed to something over to one side. It was a black case, like a guitar-case, but smaller.

"That's my mandolin."

"Do you play?" I was surprised. "You never told me!"

"There are other things I never told you..." I interrupted her. "What a faithful friend!" But she ignored my protest and continued: "True, I never told you that I like very much to play my mandolin... and in general I love music. That's why it was so hard for me to see you give up the present from your grandfather and grandmother in order to donate the money to Peninah and her family. At that moment, I came to a decision..." She stopped in mid-sentence.

"What decision?" I asked curiously. When she didn't reply I added: "Why don't you answer me?" To tell the truth, I had long ago forgotten the whole affair. Boaz allowed me to play the organ whenever I wanted, and in fact after a while I had got tired of the instrument. It wasn't as exciting as I had imagined before we had one in the house.

But Anat didn't continue. "Nevermind. Some other time," she said evasively. "Want me to play something for you?" she changed the subject.

From past experience, I knew there was no point in pushing her to tell me until she was ready. Anat was not one of those girls who let out half a sentence so that their friends will beg them to say the rest, and who thus feel themselves, for some reason, more important and honored. When she decided the time had come, she undoubtedly would tell me on her own.

I gladly accepted her offer. But first we went back down to the kitchen and drank some juice, and Anat served me cookies. I won't attempt to describe the luxurious kitchen. Try to picture it yourselves... maybe you'll succeed.

We sat on the sofa in Anat's room. She took the mandolin out of its case, tuned it here and there, tightened a string or two, tried some experimental sounds - and then began to strum. The very first notes captivated me completely. I sat as if in

a trance, not moving a muscle. I looked enthusiastically at Anat. What a marvellous melody!

Anat too, from the moment she touched her mandolin, forgot the whole world. She played with concentration and exaltation, and I was spellbound. I didn't want her to stop playing, and she didn't stop. She played continuously for about a quarter of an hour. She played with refinement, with feeling, and with such talent...

When she finished, I was at a loss for words to praise her.

"Do you like the mandolin?" she asked when she saw that I remained silent.

"Very much! It's - really tremendous! Such a delicate instrument... I've never heard such a wonderful melody."

She looked at me for a long time - one of those thoughtful looks I knew so well. "I thought you'd like this instrument," she said, taking her time. "I thought you'd like it better than the organ. The organ is a nice instrument, but extremely artificial. On the other hand, the mandolin is full of feeling - when you know how to play it, of course. Whenever I'm sad, I take out the mandolin and play it. Through it, I pour out my heart, until I feel better. My parents don't like it that I've become so attached to the mandolin. They would prefer that I play the piano - a much more artistic instrument, in their opinion. I play the piano, too, but I prefer my mandolin a thousand times more!"

I listened with interest to Anat's revelations. What other aspects of her personality would I discover as time went on? Every now and then she would surprise me with new discoveries, and each discovery was more fascinating than the one before.

"If you want, I'll teach you to play the mandolin," she said, as if as an afterthought.

If I wanted! I was delighted, and didn't conceal it from Anat. At last my dream would come true, and I would learn to play an instrument.

For the next half hour, Anat played the mandolin, producing sad and happy melodies, full of yearning and awakening - and I couldn't hear enough.

I sat there fascinated, my eyes fixed on her in admiration, totally enraptured. We had no sense of time passing, until we heard a light knock on the door. It opened, and there stood a very beautiful and well-groomed woman whose features resembled Anat's. Anat looked towards the door, and immediately put down the instrument and ran to her mother.

"Mother!" she cried out, hugging her. "I'm sorry for what happened... so sorry! But you understand me. Mother, don't you?"

Anat's mother hugged her in return, murmuring in English:

"My little girl..."

"I'm sorry I made you so angry," Anat said.

"From now on," her mother answered, "everything's going to be fine."

They made peace between them, completely ignoring my presence, and I felt a little uncomfortable. But Anat rescued me. "Mother," she said, turning to me, "This is Tammi, my good friend. You called her house yesterday and spoke with her mother."

Anat's mother came towards me, extended her hand in the most polite manner, and said to me in a quiet refined voice, speaking Hebrew with a noticeable foreign accent: "Very nice to meet you. I'm Jenny, Anat's mother. I'm happy that my daughter has such a good friend."

Embarrassed, I shook her hand, not knowing what to say. I tried to smile. Wasn't she angry with me about the fact that Anat had let me in on their family problems? She didn't show any signs of such a feeling. Probably she wasn't angry. Or if she was, she knew how to hide it very well.

We went downstairs to have lunch. Anat's father was already sitting in the dining room, reading the newspaper. When we came in he looked up, measured Anat with his glance and said: "So you decided to come back home, huh? Very nice of you..." The hardness in his voice did not succeed in disguising the real worry that could be seen in his eyes. He was acting like a typical born and bred Israeli - tough and prickly on the outside, but soft inside.

"Don't put on an act, Father!" Anat put her hand on his shoulder. "Admit that you're happy I'm home!"

"Of course I'm happy, what do you think? I have only one daughter, and she runs away on me..."

It seemed that this sentence made Anat want to react, but she stopped herself in time. Anat's father turned to me.

"And you're Tammi!" he said flatly, without any superfluous overtones of politeness. "If you don't know yet, my name is Elitzur. But everone calls me Eli, and you can do the same. Used to be that Anat called me Eli, and her mother. Jenny. Until she went nuts and did teshuvah. Then she decided that it wasn't in keeping with the mitzvah of honoring one's father and mother, so she started calling us officially Mother and Father. Nu, sit down, you two! What are you waiting for? Aren't you hungry? Everything's kosher here, Anat, as you well know. Didn't you tell your friend? Oh, sorry, I forgot - you're invited to wash hands for bread."

"It's a sign that my father's excited," Anat whispered to me, without any effort to conceal it from her father. "Usually he's the silent type. But when he's very excited, he talks and talks, so that no one will notice how he's feeling. But I've gotten to know him and recognize the signs."

"Stop playing psychologist!" her father scolded her, holding back a smile. Go and wash hands, Nu! That way you'll have to keep quiet, at least for a few minutes... and what about you, you're not excited?"

She threw him a smile. We washed hands, said the blessing, and sat down at the table.

The meal passed pleasantly and comfortably. At first I felt a little shy, but when I saw that everyone acted completely natural, and weren't keeping me under surveillance at all, my tension went away. We conversed a little, mainly about school, teachers, friends. The subject of Maggie was strictly avoided. Anat told her parents that in the afternoon, when they went back to work, we were going to visit Batyah. They didn't show any reaction, either positive or negative, from which I gathered that they hadn't completely accepted Anat's friendship with her relatives.

"We'll stay there for the lighting of the Channukah lights, Father." If Anat was trying to hint something to him, he showed no sign of taking a hint. "We'll

probably be back late in the evening. We may want to spend some time with Batyah's family. Don't worry if we're home late."

Batyah's family were warm and friendly, exactly as Anat had described them. Anat's Aunt, Hadassah, received us with her usual cheerfulness, serving us warm drinks and home-baked sufganiot as soon as we came in. The little children immediately swarmed over Anat, who had remembered to bring a little "surprise package" for each of them. To her Aunt's protests she replied, "Is it Channukah today, or not? On Channukah we give 'Channukah gelt' right? So these presents are instead of cash." Aunt Hadassah relented.

"I'm happy that Anat has a good friend," said Batyah, a young woman of about nineteen who sat next to me on the couch. "Anat's a wonderful girl!"

“You're telling me!" I answered.

She smiled and continued: "Anat has told me a lot about you. She likes and appreciates you very much."

I threw a glance at Anat, who was on all fours on the carpet, with a child aged one-and-a-half riding on her back, and a gang of yelling kids of various ages clapping hands around her. I replied to Batyah: "I'm happy to hear that." I was reminded how quickly Anat had become great friends with my little brothers. In the presence of small children she became a different person... she shed her precocious maturity and allowed herself to romp like a little girl...

I soon found out that Batyah was a very intelligent girl. "You taught Anat everything she knows?" I asked. "She knows so much!"

"I explained a few things to her," Batyah admitted, "but Anat is a very strong-willed person. When she wants something, she achieves it! And she wanted to know. So she investigated, asked, read, studied - and now she knows! True, at first I directed her, but she very quickly caught on and learned how to find answers for herself. With a mind like hers, that's really not so hard to do."

Anat hadn't told her relatives about her newly discovered sister. Before we left her house, she had warned me not to let slip a single word on the subject. She did mention her parent's forthcoming trip to the United States, but explained it as being purely for business reasons. This wasn't a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth. I understood her feelings, and guarded my words.

Late that evening, we took leave of this well-loved family. "We're happy to have met you, Tammi," Hadassah told me. "Please drop in on us whenever you're in the area, O.K?"

"I'll be happy to do that," I replied, though I couldn't imagine when I might be "in the area" again.

"If you ever have any problem," Batyah added to her mother's words, "if you need help, advice - or just for no reason at all, you can always get in touch with me. I'm your friend exactly like I'm Anat's friend."

"And what about me?" Anat said, pretending to be insulted. "It looks like you've fallen in love with Tammi and forgotten about me."

"G-d forbid! It's just that we've already told you thousands of times what we just told Tammi, so we thought it was self- understood."

"Ah," I said, trying to be clever, "So you say this to everyone who comes to your house - meaning I don't have to take it seriously!"

Hadassah wagged a finger at me in mock threat, and Batyah said: "We mean it seriously, Tammi. Come whenever you want, with Anat or not, we'll always be delighted to see you."

"Can you fathom my father?" Anat exclaimed to me on the way back to her house. "How could he give up a family like that?"

That night I slept at Anat's house. The next day I returned by myself to my home in Jerusalem. But it wasn't so bad. In a few days school would start again, Anat too would return to Jerusalem, and we would be together again.

CHAPTER 8 - ELITZUR'S LONG JOURNEY

On the first day of school after Channukah vacation, something unexpected lay in store for me. At the end of the day, as we were leaving school, Anat turned to me and said:

"Will you come to my room today, Tammi?" "What for?" I asked in surprise. "To learn."

"Is there a test tomorrow?" I asked, startled. "When did they announce it? How come I didn't know?"

Anat calmed me down. "I brought the mandolin from home, especially so that you could learn to play it."

I gave her a look full of gratitude. I had been hoping very much that she would remember her promise to teach me how to play the instrument. But I was too shy to remind her myself. "You're wonderful, Anat!" I whispered. I couldn't contain my tumultuous feelings. For years I'd been wanting to study music, but my parents, for budgetary reasons, hadn't been too delighted about the idea. It meant a steady monthly outlay of no small amount for lessons, besides the cost of the instrument itself -and I had never been able to decide exactly which instrument I wanted to learn. At first I wanted accordion, but then I heard violin music and decided there was no more beautiful instrument. I was in love with the sound of the violin until I heard a friend playing the organ, and I got enthusiastic about that. After the organ I changed my choice to piano-in short, I never made up my mind. If my parents had come to me and said: "Tammi, we've decided to let you take music lessons. Tell us what instrument you want, and we'll buy it"-I'm sure I would have been able to choose. But since I knew that for the time being the whole thing was only a dream, I allowed myself to expand on the fantasy, making it more and more pleasant as each time I played a different instrument-in my imagination, of course. And now, here was Anat with the mandolin!

That same afternoon we began the first lesson. At the beginning it was a bit difficult for me. I couldn't move my fingers quickly enough, and that aggravated me. Very soon my fingers began to hurt, and that also upset me. When I had first heard Anat playing, and had seen how nimbly her fingers moved, plucking the strings, I had been positive there was nothing easier in the world. Until I tried it myself. But Anat didn't let me despair. She encouraged me by telling me that for her, too, it had been very hard at the beginning.

"It takes a lot of will-power for the first week," she explained. "The second week, a little less. By the third week, you'll already forget how hard it was at the

beginning. And by the fourth week -you'll already enjoy very much playing the mandolin!"

"And what about the fifth week?" I asked, trying to be jolly, though in reality I was very depressed by what I considered my lack of success. That was my feeling, in spite of Anat's explaining to me over and over that this was how it was for everyone at the beginning, and that she didn't know of anyone who had been able to play effortlessly at the first lesson.

"By the fifth week..." Anat began, with a secretive smile. Her smile lit a warning light in my brain. She was keeping something from me! Since she didn't finish the sentence, I probed her, a little shakily: "What will be by the fifth week, Anat?" She still looked thoughtful, and I began to panic. Almost yelling, I asked: "Anat! Don't tell me that in another month you're going with your parents to America!"

Only now did she perceive my fear. "What's the matter with you, Tammi! Of course I'm not going. By the fifth week, I have a surprise for you. Do you remember, when you visited at my house, I told you that when I saw you give up your grandparents' present for Peninah's sake, I decided... I didn't tell you what I decided. Will you allow me to keep my secret for another month, more or less?"

"No, I don't allow!" I decided. "You've kept me in suspense long enough."

Anat gave in. "I decided to give you a present," she said with head down, avoiding my gaze. "You do me so many favors, and I want to give you something in return. I understood from you that you like music very much, so I've decided to give you an instrument I love-a mandolin."

For a moment I couldn't utter a word. Finally I managed to blurt out: "Have you gone crazy? Buy me a mandolin? That's impossible. It costs a fortune. As if you owed me anything!"

"Yes, I owe you a great deal," she said deliberately. "No more than I owe you," I insisted.

"Let's drop that old argument." Her tone was almost pleading. "I feel I should give you something. And I can afford to give you much more than that. You don't want to cause me pain. I was so happy when I got the idea of giving you a present like that. Will you accept it?" she begged.

I fought a short battle with myself. I tried to be honest with myself. Of course I would be delighted to have a mandolin... but to take it as a gift from Anat? The idea seemed so strange to me! And what would my parents say about it?

"My parents for sure won't agree," I tried to change her mind.

"They'll agree once I explain my feelings. They'll understand me."

"Let's stop the debate," I suggested. "In the meantime, we'll continue the lessons. We have a number of weeks ahead of us, and first I have to find out if I'm going to be able to master the mandolin at all."

Anat smiled and went on with the lesson. And I? From the moment I heard that Anat was planning to give me a mandolin, I learned with redoubled desire and motivation. Deep down, I very much hoped that my parents would agree to Anat's gift, which I was sure was given joyfully and whole-heartedly. Yes, I know the verse in the Book of Proverb, "He who hates gifts will live." My teachers had mentioned that verse more than once, and its meaning was firmly etched in my brain. And yet all the same... how could one refuse an offer like this? Especially since I was sure that my refusal would cause Anat much pain.

In the following days, during which we spent several hours together daily, in addition to our time in class, I became closer and closer to Anat. I also noticed that she felt closer and more open towards me. Our friendship deepened and became very firm. I was no longer afraid of Anat's making friends with Peninah or any other girl. I learned to understand her, and knew that I could depend on her without any doubt.

The days went by with agonizing slowness-and at the same time with dizzying speed. No, it's not a contradiction. What I mean is that before the time went by, it seemed to me that "a month from now"-the estimated date of Anat's parents' departure for America-was such a long time, but when those days were behind me, I was truly startled. "What, already? How quickly it passed!"

Our mechanechet announced that the class would celebrate Rosh Chodesh Shevat with a party, and asked the girls of the class to prepare a program. Anat suggested to me a musical performance, singing with mandolin accompaniment.

"Wonderful!" I enthused, but her words sounded strange to me. "You're going to play?" I was sure that was what she meant, and I was surprised. It wasn't like Anat to show off her talents.

"Not I, of course," Anat corrected me. "I meant that you should play and also accompany yourself. Why not? You have a very nice voice, and in the past three weeks you've made excellent progress in your music lessons. Of course, you still have much to learn, but without doubt you can make a very successful performance."

It was true that I already knew how to play no small number of songs, and could without much difficulty find the right chords for almost any new song I wanted to play. Anat was very impressed with my ear for music. I could play by ear much better than from written notes. All the same. No, I couldn't do it! I refused Anat's suggestion.

"I'm very sorry that I won't be able to demonstrate to everyone your tremendous talent as a music teacher," I told her. "But why don't you take your own suggestion? You don't need to be shy."

"As a matter of fact, I'm not shy. But I'm afraid I'll get too excited. Don't forget, my parents are going to America in another week and a half."

I had almost forgotten. But Anat hadn't. She was counting the days. On one hand she was sorry about the prolonged separation from her parents, but on the other hand she was happy that they would be returning with Maggie, her sister, who would live with them in their home. She was picturing to herself the expected meeting with Maggie, and making plans how to persuade her to begin observing the mitzvot of the Torah.

Anat was the last to arrive at the party for Rosh Chodesh Shevat, which was held on Saturday night, motzaei shabbat. At first I was a little worried about her, but our mutual friends from the dorm reassured me that there was no reason to worry. She had received an urgent phone call just when all the girls were leaving for the party, and that was why she was late.

When she arrived I saw right away that her expression was clouded. At the first opportunity I asked what had happened.

"Mother called. My parents are postponing their trip."

I saw that she was very upset, and tried to calm her down. "What's so terrible about that? When were they supposed to be going?"

"This Monday. Mother claims that unexpected problems came up with my father's work, so they have to put off the trip for two weeks."

"That's all? Just two weeks?" I breathed with relief. "You had me so scared!"

"You don't understand!" Anat countered. "I was waiting so much for that day to arrive! And now that it has arrived-it's been pushed away from me again. I can't wait anymore to see Maggie!" Her voice expressed tremendous yearning, and only at that moment did I realize how little I had shared in her feelings during the past three weeks, even though I had thought that I was closer to her now than ever before. I had not managed to perceive the great longing with which she had been looking forward to meeting her sister.

After a period of silence she said: "There's something else I'm worried about. I'm afraid that this first postponement may become the precedent for more postponements. I'm afraid their promise was only made to calm me down and get my mind off the subject, they might go on putting off their trip again and again, hoping that in the end I'll give up, and then they can announce that they've canceled their plans."

I understood Anat's fear, but in her present situation I considered it better not to build it up. I tried to convince her that she was mistaken. "Wait another two weeks," I suggested. "It's not so terrible. You'll see, those two weeks will also go by quickly. After that, if your parents still make excuses, you can begin to worry."

Sensing that she did not accept my suggestion, I added: "If you see that your parents don't intend to keep their promise, what's to stop you from running away again? You know you'll always be welcome at my house!" I was aware that my words might be interpreted as, G-d forbid, encouraging Anat to run away, but at that moment I didn't see any other way to calm her fears. "When your parents see that you're firm in your decision, they won't have any other possibility except to keep their promise."

She smiled sadly, and just then the lights went out. Two of the girls had prepared a slide show. From outside, the glow of the streetlights penetrated dimly into the room. Despite the closed shutters, the wind could be heard howling through the

branches. Rain began to fall. A slight shudder went through my body. What was Anat doing now? Was she crying? I wanted to show her somehow that I sympathized with her feelings-but didn't know how to let her know.

There was no second postponement. At the end of the two weeks-during which Anat was somewhat on edge-she went with her parents to see them off at the airport. When she returned, she was much more relaxed. It seemed that once they had gone she could breath with relief.

"Thank G-d!" she told me, "I was worrried for nothing. It wasn't just an excuse, as I had feared at first. There really was a problem, and my father's documents weren't ready on time. I told you that his office was taking advantage of his trip to give him a couple of assignments in America. That way he can receive salary for the month he's spending there. As if he needed it..."

I said to her: "Now, after everything has worked out fine, don't you think it was a mistake to load yourself with useless worry? You should have relaxed and waited calmly to see how things would develop."

"That's easy enough to say," she sighed, and then after a moment's silence: "-and much harder to do. Altogether, recently I've been so tense. I've never been so nervous as during these last two months. I know it doesn't seem sensible, but I can't be any different. It's not up to me. There's a turmoil inside me that doesn't give me any peace, and I don't know why. If it's possible to say that a person's heart feels what's going to happen to him, then my heart is foretelling something..."

"Nonsense," I brushed away her foreboding, though it had been expressed in such a tone that my own fears were aroused. Of course they weren't to be taken seriously-and yet...

"You've had too much excitement lately. You've had to deal with things which are very important to you, and which have not gone the way you wanted. And you still don't know what will be in the future. Is your sister Maggie going to agree to come to Israel? And if she does, is she going to accept your guidance and agree to live her life in accordance with the Torah? After all, she's already too grown-up. At her age it will be hard, without a strong reason, to give up the way of life she's grown accustomed to, and which has been good for her. All this leaves you in doubt. And doubt and uncertainty are the foremost enemies of

serenity. It's not for nothing that they say, 'There's no joy like the resolution of doubt.' What you have to do is convince yourself that it will all turn out fine-yet at the same time prepare yourself psychologically for the possibility that everything might not go precisely according to your wishes."

She nodded her head in agreement. I was happy that she didn't reject what I had said.

The same day that she came back from taking her parents to the airport, I received her gift-a wonderful mandolin, just like hers.

"My father bought it, at my request," she told me. Pure happiness shone from her blue eyes as she handed me the present. It had been a long time since I had seen her eyes so blue. I felt that I had to accept the gift, if only to give her pleasure and enjoyment -feelings she didn't have a surplus of, during this period when she was so tense and nervous. "It's the best mandolin there is!" she added. "It's exactly like mine."

Anat's parents said that they planned to return after Purim. That meant they would be away for more than a month. Of course, I invited Anat to be a permanent guest at our house. At first Anat and I had thought that she would just come to us every Shabbat. But my mother has penetrating eyes and a sensitive, understanding heart. She sensed with her special intuition that Anat needed a warm home, especially during these weeks. She spoke with the dorm mother, who granted permission for Anat to move into our house for the coming month. My joy knew no limits. At last I had a sister!

At first Anat felt a little uncomfortable, but she overcame that without much trouble. She had already been like one of the family, so it wasn't a big step for her to become a permanent resident. Of course I moved her into my room. I gladly gave up the privacy my room had afforded me, in order to share it with Anat. I'll never forget that marvellous stretch of time. We were exactly like two sisters. No, I take it back. We were like two good friends. Sisters sometimes get angry at each other and fight. With us such a thing did not exist. We got along fine with each other, each knowing how to adapt to the other's weaknesses. We became friends with all our heart and soul.

In the evenings we would sit in my little room, strumming our mandolins and singing. Our voices blended splendidly, and it gave us a wonderful feeling. Even

my mother would often come to our room, sit off to one side, and listen without disturbing us, gazing at us with obvious pleasure while she did her sewing. Her eyes held an expression of boundless love, which extended to both of us. I don't think my mother felt any differently towards Anat than she did towards me, her only daughter. I don't think she loved her any less than she loved me. She felt and acted towards her like a daughter, her own flesh and blood.

In our class, the studies went forward with no special incidents. Chedvah had become much quieter-and also much more full of real happiness-since her father's miraculous recovery. The sharp change that took place in her was truly amazing.

Chagit, too, stopped producing "brainstorms" for disrupting our learning. She still continued drawing during the lessons -so that her "hand wouldn't get rusty," as she explained to me-but while she drew she would listen to what was being said in class, and would even take part. In the afternoon she worked in my parents' store, and they valued her very highly. Within two weeks my mother told me that she didn't understand how she used to get along without Chagit's helping hand. As my mother put it, "She's hard-working, quick, understanding, and alert. And we can depend on her with confidence." Working in the afternoon didn't detract from Chagit's studies. On the contrary, just when she started working in our store she began to be more careful about doing her homework, and for tests she usually studied with me and Anat.

I imagine that a good portion of the improvement can be credited to my mother. She's an expert at persuasive conversations which begin as if by the way, with no special purpose, yet manage to reveal what's bothering the other person and to work on the troublesome point. I wouldn't be surprised if Chagit even confessed to my mother what had forced her to leave her previous job.

No doubt Anat's beneficial influence also brought about a change in Chagit. Anat, who so much regretted that she had overlooked Chagit's isolation, now worked to make up for her mistake. She made friends with her and treated her with great consideration. I was no longer jealous, I knew what motivated Anat to act this way, and was happy to have the chance to help her in her efforts-my main assistance being to keep out of the way.

In general, our class changed for the better. The girls matured, and this showed in their behavior, which was more thoughtful and balanced. I don't think any of us would have paid attention if someone had suddenly stood up one clear day -or rainy day, for that matter-and suggested an afternoon romp to the beach. And that's not because it's not usual to go to the beach in the winter, but because we had gained in moderation and good judgment, and were much more grown-up than we had been at the beginning of the year.

Every week Anat received a letter from her parents. Usually it was written by her mother, in English. To Anat's disappointment, her mother didn't tell much in detail. She wrote only that "matters are a bit difficult, and are progressing slowly." These words threw Anat into somewhat of a depression. But afterwards she wrote that "noticeable progress" had occurred, she had spoken with Maggie and suggested that she come to live in Israel, and Maggie had not expressed any objection to the idea. When she read this, Anat almost shook the walls of my room with her tremendous joy.

These letters were very brief, and nearly always included one or two sentences at the end in the handwriting of Anat's father, who usually signed off with something like: "Miss you. Cold here in America. Send us a little Israeli sunshine. Very busy, can't write more. Lot's of love-Eli."

The last letter Anat received while living at our house arrived when I wasn't home. My mother had sent me out on some errand. As she read it through for the second time, Anat wrote down a translation into Hebrew for me. To this very day I've kept that sheet of paper, filled with Anat's lovely, neat handwriting -even though years have passed since then.

My dear Annie,

(Anat's English name, which her mother frequently used, was Anna.)

I miss you very much, my girl. I hoped that our forced separation wouldn't last too long, and we would soon be together again, but I was mistaken. Unexpected difficulties are piling up in front of us. Matters are not progressing as we had hoped and expected. It is hard to persuade Maggie to leave her fine house and her new mother and father who love her very much, to come to a foreign country where she would have to begin everything all over again. Remember that she doesn't even know Hebrew. She wants to hug her little

sister, but for that purpose she is not willing to sacrifice her home, her country, her friends, and her future. That's what she insists again and again.

Your father will return home as planned. He has completed his assignments here very successfully and cannot extend his leave of absence. Yesterday he received a telegram from his office, in which they say they need him to return as soon as possible. He'll arrive in Israel next Tuesday.

It seems that I shall stay here in America for some time longer. I don't yet know how long. I'll try to persuade Maggie to come, despite the difficulty involved. If I don't succeed, how would you feel about coming here yourself, to try to speak with your sister? But we'll talk about that when I get back.

In connection with your father, I must prepare you for the fact that he has undergone a tremendous change of late. I don't want to explain in detail, you'll see and understand for yourself when he comes home. These past few days I've hardly seen him. He gets up in the morning, dresses, and leaves. I don't even know exactly where he goes. When he returns, late at night, he claims that he has gone "to be alone with himself," because he is presently going through a process of soul-searching. I don't understand what has happened to him. No doubt he will tell you everything when he returns. You, Anatty, will surely be happy with the way your father is changing.

I'll send you more exact information about my plans as soon as I myself know what I intend to do. In the meantime-"I'll be seeing you."

Take good care of Father!

Your mother, who loves you very much,

Jenny

P.S. Please convey my feelings of gratitude to the family in whose home you are staying, and also my greetings, especially to Tammi!

When I returned, Anat asked me to read the translation of the letter. I read it through quickly, and was left in uncomprehending wonder. We both tried to analyze the contents.

"I'm interested to know what could have happened to my father!" Anat wondered with emotion. "He never used to want to be alone with himself. Soul-searching? Since when does he indulge in soul-searching?"

"I think I understand!" I said excitedly. "Probably... apparently your father, for some reason, arrived at a situation in which he decided to do some soul-searching, and, from what your mother writes, he has also changed in accordance with the conclusions he reached. What do you think? Has he decided to change his way of life?" I was excited by the very thought that Anat's father might have decided to return to the way in which he had been brought up as a boy.

"I'm not so sure that's what she meant," Anat hesitated, "although that was the first thought that occurred to me. I can't picture my father's changing his opinions, his behavior, the way of life he's held to with such great zealousness. I can't imagine anything that could have happened to make him do teshuvah. No! It can't be," she decided.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," I suggested, "especially since we know that anything we say now is only a guess. Let's wait and see. You don't have much time to wait."

On the day her father returned to Israel, Anat got permission to miss school. The mechanechet allowed her to go to the airport to welcome her father. Without Anat, I felt a little alone that day -and the next day too, for Anat extended her own leave of absence and did not return until early Wednesday evening. The first place she went was my house, even before she took her things to her dorm room. She practically fell all over me, her face totally radiant with joy.

"You won't believe it, Tammi!" she cried excitedly. "You guessed right! It's still hard for me to believe that it's all true... that all this has really happened!"

I brought her a chair and asked her to take off her coat. In her great excitement Anat had forgotten these minor details.

"You were right, Tammi," she repeated. By this time she was sitting comfortably in the chair I had brought her. I sat opposite her and she told me the story: "I stood by the door where the passengers were supposed to come out. I waited impatiently to see my father. The plane had already landed fifteen minutes ago,

and my father had not yet appeared. I started worrying. Maybe I had got mixed up about the flight number? Or maybe something had gone wrong at the last minute and my father had not got on the plane? Dozens of men, women and children went by in front of me. Most of them were pushing carts containing suitcases and packages. I didn't search for my father among them. I knew that he would arrive with his attache case and one other small bag. With my eyes I searched through all the faces that were going past me, focussing on the heads. I was looking for a man with a light brown wave in his hair, and a business suit. There were a few like that, but none of them was my father. I almost decided to worry, thinking: What'll I do if the last passenger comes out, and my father's not there? I was just making plans to go and ask if he was on the passenger list, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned around quickly and saw facing me-my father's smile! Yes, only the smile. None of the rest belonged to Father, but the smile was unmistakably his. My mouth fell open in amazement, and before I could say a word he asked me: 'Nu, what's this-you didn't recognize me?"

"I hadn't recognized him when he had come out among the other passengers. I had been looking for a man with a light brown wave in his hair, and that wave didn't exist. It had disappeared. On his head, which I had always seen bare, was a black hat... and he had a little fledgling beard, just a few weeks old... how could I have recognized my father with a beard? In my whole life I'd never seen him that way! The suit and tie remained, but from under the suit, tzitzit were peeking out—can you picture to yourself how ecstatic I was?" Anat jumped up from her chair and danced around the room. I smiled in understanding. All the same, certain questions remained unanswered.

"How did all this happen?" I wanted to know. "In such a short time he changed so much?"

"The story is even more amazing. Really astounding!" Anat came over and stood facing me. "To me, the way he was persuaded to do teshuvah is much more amazing than the fact that he did it. The hand of Providence is so clear! It's really an open miracle... just for that reason, he had to go to America."

And she went on to tell me the story.

"As part of the assignment he had been given by his office, my father had to meet with a number of people who work in his field. One day, about a week

after he arrived in America, he was supposed to have lunch with a certain person in a luxury restaurant in Manhatten. It was what the Americans call a 'business lunch.' During the meal they discussed their work and clarified everything they had to clarify. By the time they finished lunch, their business was taken care of. They wrote up an agreement, signed it, shook hands, and ordered a bottle of wine in honor of the occassion. Suddenly my father's colleague asked him: Tell me, is it true you're Jewish?'

" 'Yes,' my father answered. He felt a little ill at ease. Why was the man suddenly interested in his Jewishness? Was that going to make him cancel this important agreement?

"His fear proved groundless. The colleague asked: 'So why don't you act like a Jew?'

"My father told me later that this question was like a heavy blow to him. To hear a question like that from a gentile! For a minute he didn't know what to answer.

" 'What... what do you mean? What are you referring to?'

" 'Look,' the other man explained, 'You're a Jew and I'm a gentile. But all the same we're no different from each other. You look like me, dress like me, act exactly as I do, and even eat together with me at the same table, the same foods I eat. If so, what is it that expresses your Jewishness?'

" 'I... I'm a Jew!' My father didn't know how to explain the matter successfully. 'There don't have to be special differences... it's enough that I live in Israel, which is a Jewish country... that I live among my people, the Jewish people.' He himself felt that his explanation was very shaky.

" 'It doesn't make sense,' the gentile said decisively. 'So if you come to live here in America, you'll no longer be a Jew? No! And if I go to live in Israel, will that turn me into a Jew? Also not. So obviously it's not where you live that makes you Jewish. My questions is, in what way are you, as a Jew, different from me, a gentile?'

"My father didn't answer, and his friend went on setting forth his puzzlement. 'Anyway, on what basis do you, or your fellow-Jews in Israel, claim that country belongs to the Jewish people?'

" 'Our ancestors were there first!' my father hurried to defend his rights of ownership to Eretz Israel.

" 'No,' his friend corrected him. 'Before your ancestors, Eretz Israel was inhabited by seven nations. Canaanite nations. Yes, I know. I became interested in the subject and read up on it. And before those seven nations, other peoples lived there, before the Jews even existed. Who gave you, the Jewish people, the right to steal the land of peoples who existed many years before you?'

"At this point, my father's boyhood studies came to his aid. 'G-d gave us that land,' he claimed. 'That's written explicitly in our Torah.'

"Apparently the gentile had been waiting for that answer, and now he jumped all over my father. 'Written in your Torah! Written in the Torah?' he repeated. 'Is that all that's written in the Torah-that the land of Israel belongs to the Jews-or are other things also written there? And those other things-do you fulfill them with the same fervor with which you fight for your right to live in the land of Israel? No! You choose the things that are convenient for you, and that's what you adhere to! The rest you toss over your shoulder...'

"My father gave him a surprised look. 'Maybe by chance you yourself are a Jew disguised as a gentile?' he tried guessing.

" 'No!' came the answer. 'I'm not a Jew. I was born a gentile and I'll stay one. That's how G-d created me, and apparently that's what I'm supposed to be. That's my function in the world, and I'm here to fulfill it. But you were created a Jew, and you should act accordingly. You should live like a Jew, as G-d wanted you to. What do you think, that G-d does things for nothing? He's smarter than all of us, and He knows what He's doing. He wants you to be a Jew, and He gave you a Torah, in which it's written how Jews are supposed to live...'

Here the the man lowered his voice and said to my father in a quiet, apologetic tone: 'Don't think that I'm speaking out of ignorance. I've taken an interest in the Jewish Torah and researched it, and I must tell you-there's not such a marvellous work in the entire world! Listen,' he appealed to my father, 'You're a nice man, and I don't want to hurt our friendship. Please don't be angry with me for what I've said. I want us to go on being friends. I don't want to tell you how to live your life, and yet-I don't understand! How can a person consciously and deliberately throw away such a precious treasure?'

"To hear a gentile talking about the Torah as a 'precious treasure'-that was beyond my father's comprehension. The matter gave him no rest. A gentile felt that way while he, a Jew, turned his back on his people's Torah!

"They remained friends in spite of the 'tongue-lashing' the man had given my father. Happy with the success of his business deal, my father left the restaurant, got into his car, and drove to a small street in Manhatten. My mother had requested that he stop at a certain electrical supply store to buy something. He got out of the car, locked the door, took a few steps-and suddenly was struck by a second heavy blow. Opposite him stood two young men. Perhaps my father had thought that one could see such types only in Eretz Israel. He certainly hadn't expected to see them in the heart of Manhatten. They wore suits and hats, and everything about them declared that they were yeshivah students.

" 'Pardon us,' they said in English. 'Are you Jewish?'

" 'Yes, I'm Jewish,' he stammered, not yet understanding what they wanted of him. Perhaps a contribution for their yeshivah?

" 'In that case, come and put on tefillinV

"They weren't asking if he wanted to, and they weren't requesting him to. They were telling him gently that he was about to put on tefillin'. My father didn't have the nerve, nor the desire, to refuse. It had been years since he had last put on tefillin-more than twenty years!-but he hadn't forgotten how to do it. The young men watched with satisfaction as he wound the tefillin-strap around his left arm, and they answered, 'Amen' when, unaided, he recited the appropriate blessing.

" 'You're no beginner at putting on tefillin,'' one of them commented with pleasure.

" 'Am I a Jew, or not?' my father smiled-and suddenly he was filled with a strange emotion. 'I'm a Jew!' he said, and connected it with the fact, 'I'm putting on tefillin! Wasn't this the answer to his gentile friend's question? The man had been right: My father was a Jew, and he should act like one! With emotion he thanked the two yeshivah students, and left.

"That was the beginning of the period of 'soul-searching,' as my mother called it in her letter. During the next two weeks, my father reviewed his entire life,

especially the years since he had turned eighteen, when he had left his parent's home in order to forge his own path in life. And now he had arrived where he had arrived. The roar and bustle of the city disturbed his ruminations, so he would go into the countryside. He would park his car by the side of the road and walk alone among hills and mountains, beside streams and ponds, in green fields and leafy forests. There he did his soul-searching.

"It was hard for him to decide that he would suddenly leave his accustomed ways and begin to live a life of Torah and mitzvot. For two weeks he struggled with the issue, until finally he decided that at least he had to try. He went back to the place in Manhattan where he had met the two yeshivah students. That was on a Friday. This time it was he who went up to them and asked to put on tefillin. The two young men welcomed him joyfully, like an old acquaintance. My father went with them to their yeshivah, and from there he phoned my mother and told her that he wouldn't be home until the next evening. He spent that Shabbat at the yeshivah, and apparently was very strongly influenced by it. The results show it. At present, my father is trying to remember everything that a Torah-observant Jew is supposed to do. He's making a very serious effort. And can you guess where we were this morning?" She didn't let me guess, but answered immediately: "This morning I went with Father to visit his parents, my grandfather and grandmother!"

"They made up with each other?" I cried out enthusiastically.

"Made up?" she laughed. "They didn't have time for that... my father simply knocked on the door, opened it-and went in -sorry, I'm getting ahead of my story. Before that, I had phoned to tell them that I was coming for a visit. Since I often drop in on them, my expected visit was nothing unusual. Of course, I didn't tell them about the important guest I was bringing with me. When my father walked in, my grandmother simply stared at him in astonishment. Suddenly, with the beard and hat he looked so much like my uncle, my father's brother Shaul... the next moment she was already falling all over him, laughing and crying at the same time, and murmuring over and over again: 'Eli... Elitzur...' Grandfather came in to see what all the commotion was about-and immediately joined the celebration. They left me on the sidelines, no one was interested in me," Anat said in mock indignation. She was very happy! Her tremendous joy about her father's teshuvah somewhat covered her

disappointment at having to acknowledge a reality which until now she had tried to ignore. Maggie would not be arriving in Israel all that quickly...

"At first I had planned to be a guest at your house during Pesach," she revealed, "except for the Seder-night. I hadn't decided whether to spend it at your house or at Aunt Hadassah's, where the whole family would be gathered. In the light of these recent events, it seems that my plans have changed. Grandfather and grandmother insist that we come to them," she said with a radiant smile. "After so many years, they wouldn't hear of anything else. During the week of Pesach, we'll sleep at home, and also eat breakfast and dinner there. For lunchtimes, we're all booked up. The uncles are actually fighting over us!"

I shared her joy whole-heartedly, despite the fact that the happy development had cost me the pleasure of Anat's company during Pesach. I wasn't so egotistic that her joy would make me sorry.

"One problem is still facing me," Anat said. "I have only three more weeks to clean the house for Pesach."

I thought of her enormous house, and was glad it wasn't mine. I didn't envy what lay ahead of her. But her next words reassured me. "I don't intend to clean the whole house. We'll close up a number of rooms. All the same, there's a lot of work to do, my parent's room, my room, the kitchen and livingroom -that by itself won't be easy, especially since I have to finish everything in the space of two weeks. Pesach vacation doesn't begin until the first of Nissan. My father promised that he'd hire someone to help me with the cleaning, but now, with Pesach so close, no one is available. Besides, how can you rely on paid help for Pesach cleaning?"

I thought for a minute. Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. "I'll come to help you!"

"You?" she asked incredulously. "You have more than enough to do in your own house. Your mother certainly will need your help!"

I debated briefly with myself. Of course, Anat was right. My parents were very busy in their store. Especially now, just before Pesach, there was a lot of work. The women and girls of Jerusalem were interested in new dresses in honor of the holiday. Besides, they wanted to refurbish their summer wardrobe now, because

right after the holiday week the period of semi-mourning would start, due to the Omer-count, when it's customary not to begin wearing new clothes. If they could wear their summer dresses at least once during the week of Pesach, these clothes would already not be considered "new" during the Omer-count. My mother already had her hands full of work. She came home at night later than usual, sometimes even taking urgent sewing jobs home with her, to finish them at night. It was hard for her to keep the home running as usual, and on top of all that to do the Pesach cleaning by herself. Hence, whether I liked it or not, I had more duties at home than usual.

On the other hand, I so much wanted to go to Anat! It would be a great experience, working together. That was something else, something different, much more enjoyable than cleaning my own house.

"I'll ask my mother," I said in a low voice.

"You don't need to," Anat hurried to say. "It would be hard for her to give up your help. Even if she did, it would make me feel very uncomfortable."

"Still, I want to!" I refused to give up. "Maybe all the same she'll agree?" I expressed my hope, even though I knew the chances were small...

Mother listened to my request, fixed a penetrating glance on me and said: "I'm surprised at you, Tammi. To ask something like that-to be away from the house for several days, right before Pesach!"

"Only for two or three days. Mom!" I pleaded. "We can get a lot done, the two of us together. Anat doesn't have any little brothers to get in her way. I promise that when I come back I'll do all the work you would have given me during those days."

My mother was not convinced. "It's impossible, Tammi. I can't give up your help at a time like this."

"And who will help Anat?" I said stubbornly. "There's a big mitzvah involved here!"

"Anat will succeed in finding help, Tammi, I promise you." My mother wasn't softening. "And it's no small mitzvah-maybe even bigger-to help your mother. Just between us, I'm very doubtful whether it's the mitzvah that's motivating you

to want so much to go to Anat's. It seems to me that it's more the charm of being able to spend time with her. Don't think, Tammi, that I don't understand your feelings. I know how hard it is for you to give up the idea. It's certainly much more enjoyable to visit a friend than to work at home, even though there would be plenty of work at your friend's house, too. I'm willing for you to visit Anat, but not during these last weeks before Pesach. During summer vacation perhaps I'll let you spend a few days at her house."

My mother's half-promise was intended to make it easier for me to accept her refusal. And even though it was hard for me, I gave in. I lowered my head, and tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't try to argue. I knew it wouldn't do any good. After all, my mother was right. I should never have asked in the first place-yet I had hoped that my mother would understand my feelings and, despite the difficulties, allow me to go to Anat. I turned and started for my room without another word. My mother saw my tears, but didn't react. She was already used to childish outbursts from her growing-up daughter. Such occurrences were becoming more rare, but still happened occassionally.

Anat wasn't surprised to hear that my mother had refused permission. She even seemed relieved.

"I never imagined your mother would agree," she said, "and I'm glad she didn't. If she had given permission, I wouldn't have been able to refuse you, knowing how much you wanted to come to me. Refusing would only have hurt your feelings. But at the same time it would have put me in a very uncomfortable position with regard to your mother. It would have seemed that I was 'stealing' you from her just when she most needed you..."

"And what will you do now?" I asked. "How will you manage by yourself?"

Anat thought a little. She fixed her gaze on me, hesitated for a long moment, and then said: "You'll be amazed to see how the Holy One, Blessed be He, takes care of each one of us. I've already found help!" I gave her a questioning glance, and she explained deliberately, weighing each word: "This morning, Peninah came over to me..."

"Peninah!"

"Yes, Peninah. Why not?-and asked me where we were going to stay, my father and I, during Pesach. Everyone knows that my mother hasn't yet returned from America, and that I don't have brothers and sisters. When I answered that it seemed we would be staying at our own house during Pesach, she went on to ask: 'And what about cleaning for Pesach?' I told her that it was a real problem, and I didn't yet know what I was going to do, but if worst came to worst I would hire a cleaning woman and work alongside her to make sure she cleaned well enough. And then Peninah offered that she herself would come to help me!"

"Doesn't she have work to do in her own house?" I tried not to make my dissatisfaction too obvious. It was hard for me to accept the thought that Peninah would be taking my place.

Anat ignored my annoyance. "They moved into their new apartment only a month and a half ago, and since it was so close to Pesach, they were careful not to take chametz into any room except the kitchen. So their apartment is clean for Pesach. They just have to clean the kitchen and, as you know, Peninah has four sisters who can help. And her mother, unlike yours, doesn't have a job."

"You accepted her offer, I gather," I said disappointedly. It wasn't Anat I was disappointed with, nor Peninah, nor my mother, and certainly not myself. I was disappointed with everyone-and with no one...

"Of course I accepted. Why not? I understand her very well. Peninah feels that she owes me a lot, and wants to do something for me in return. I know the feeling very well..." She smiled at me. I didn't smile back, though I knew what she meant. Anat added: "It was Peninah's mother who told her to make me the offer."

"O.K." I couldn't control a choking feeling in my throat. It was hard to hide the tears welling up in my eyes, so I tried to sound angry, as if I had simply lost my temper because of jealousy-though that wasn't really the emotion that filled me at that moment. "Have a good time with her, Anat. I'm glad you found someone to help you..." I tried to make my voice sound casual as I searched for my handkerchief, wiped my nose and blinked my eyes. Maybe Anat would think I just had a cold. Maybe she wouldn't see the tears of disappointment. "In any case," I went on, "I'm very relieved. There's no need to worry about you now, you'll manage very well." I turned to go to my seat. Anat followed after me.

"Tammi," she pleaded, "don't take it so seriously. Are you mad at Peninah?"

"No." My voice was choked. I didn't try anymore to hide my tears.

"At me?" she tried again.

This time I couldn't even answer. I just shook my head no.

"Think logically," she said, trying to ease my feelings.

"I'm thinking logically." My crying subsided a little. "I know that my mother is right, that you're right, that Peninah is right-that everyone is right, except me. The problem is that it's hard for me to accept what I know is logical."

"Right. Feeling and intellect are opposites," Anat said quietly. "Feelings are much stronger than intellect-and yet it's our intellect that has to control our feelings."

"It's so difficult..."

"Difficult-but not impossible. It takes work, but the results are well worth the effort. By the way, Chedvah is also coming to me, along with Peninah. She offered, with her mother's permission, and I couldn't refuse."

My eyebrows went up in surprise-and also somewhat in relief. For some reason, this last piece of information calmed me. Then suddenly I remembered: "My mother said she would allow me to visit you for a few days during summer vacation." I wanted to change the subject. Maybe getting my mind off it would help dry my tears.

"Wonderful!" Anat said enthusiastically. "You have a wonderful mother! So understanding..."

I was swept along with her enthusiasm. My "problem" began to look smaller, in the presence of a friend who was a spiritual giant like Anat. We began making plans where to go and what to do in the summer. It seemed to us as if vacation was almost here-though in fact there were still more than three months of school ahead of us.

We didn't know, the two of us, that our beautiful plans would never become reality.

Finally, after prolonged struggles, the sun gained the upper hand over the winter clouds and shone forth triumphantly in a brilliant light blue sky. Spring celebrated in the streets of Jerusalem, and I along with it. A spring day like that brings joy to my heart, on this kind of day I feel lighter, want to flutter like a bird, run like a little girl, jump and cavort without caring what anyone thinks about me. And that's how I felt today. I wasn't walking, wasn't stepping on the sidewalk, but fluttering. Anat, striding along thoughtfully beside me, was still enveloped in the drowsiness of winter. Five minutes ago she had knocked on my door, and since I was just then going out on an errand for Mother, Anat joined me. On lovely spring days like this, I enjoyed going on errands, to the grocery store, the vegetable stand-I didn't even mind taking Natti for an outing.

"Smile, Anat!" I said merrily. "It's a wonderful day! Look at the sky-what a marvellous blue!" I raised my eyes heavenwards and tried to hug the stratosphere with my arms.

Anat produced a forced smile. "You're right," she said, "it's really a wonderful day..."

"So why are you so sad?"

"I'm not sad," she answered. Exchanges like this weren't uncommon between us. We were very open with each other. "But something's bothering me."

Today we had returned to school after the long Pesach vacation. I immediately noticed a change in Peninah and Chedvah. They felt much closer to Anat than they had previously. That was obvious from the way they acted. The few days they had spent with her at her house, working together, had made them better friends with her. Anat, too, had gone through a similar change, and for a minute I was afraid... but Anat didn't let me down. As she had promised me a number of times, I remained her best friend. I had already noticed in the morning that something was bothering her, and had intended, after finishing my errand, to visit her at her dorm room and find out what the problem was. But she came to me before I had a chance to go to her.

" 'When a person has worry in his heart, he should speak it out,' " I quoted ceremoniously, trying to cheer her up. "Tell me what the problem is. Maybe together we'll find the solution."

"It's not a specific problem," Anat sighed. "I can't tell you: 'such and such has happened,' because nothing has happened. It's a strange feeling..."

"Still that feeling of tension and restlessness?" I asked gently. "Like you told me about the day you went with your parents to the airport?"

"It's something besides that."

That was all Anat needed-"Something besides!" What had happened to her? Why had she become so moody? I tried groping in the dark. "How was the 5erfer-night?"

"Wonderful!" She became enthusiastic for a moment, but her enthusiasm immediately died down. "It was very nice. The problem is not connected with that. You couldn't recognize my father. He's become a different person! And Grandfather and Grandmother were overwhelmed with joy that their Elitzur had come back home. All my uncles and cousins came to celebrate the Seder-night at Grandfather and Grandmother's house-specially in honor of my father! And Father was so moved..." She sighed again.

"In that case, what's the problem?" I asked. "It seems that you ought to be very happy!"

"True, but... how can I explain it to you? My father makes me wonder... something has happened to my father!"

"Of course something has happened! He's revolutionized his life, changed from one extreme to the other. Does that seem to you like a small thing? Did you expect that a sweeping change like that would happen without leaving any marks?"

"Besides that whole subject, lately he's become serious, thoughtful... you might even say sad and a little brooding. Yes, I know what you're going to say," she forestalled me. "I also thought at first that he was feeling regret about his past, that his heart was broken with sorrow for the things he had done. But I've noticed that his mood darkens mainly when he's around me. When I'm in the same room with him, even if he's busy with something else like reading a book, studying Torah, or eating, every so often he glances up at me with a look that gives me chills... yes, I'm not exaggerating. I have the feeling that he's about to burst into tears. I sense a tremendous sorrow that's breaking his heart. When he

talks with me, even about little things, he's very nervous and upset. Sometimes when he walks past me he stops suddenly, gives me a long look-and his eyes are so sad! Sometimes he murmurs my name-'my Anat!' he whispers, putting a hand on my shoulder or stroking my hair as if I were a baby. I ask him, 'What's the matter. Father?' and for a moment it seems as if he wants to tell me something. But immediately he changes his mind and stops himself. 'It's nothing, Anati,' he says hurriedly, but his eyes express the opposite. In his eyes I see that he has very much to say to me."

"Very strange," I mused. "If I didn't know you, I'd say you were imagining all this."

Anat smiled sadly. "I don't know if you remember," she said, "that evening at your house, when I told you the story of my life, how I met my cousin Batyah and through her influence did teshuvah. Remember I told you I had the feeling that my parents were hiding something from me?

I searched my memory a bit. "Yes," I said finally. "I remember something like that." Her disturbed mood was beginning to infect me.

"I'm always going around with the feeling that there's a secret in our house, that my parents are guarding something in their hearts that they aren't willing to tell me. I've never asked, never probed, never tried to find out what it is. My parents have the right to keep things from me that I shouldn't know about. But lately the feeling is growing stronger in my heart that the secret is connected with me. My father's strange looks are better evidence for me than a thousand witnesses."

I didn't know what to say to her. "Try asking your father," I suggested.

"I think that's what I'm going to do," she said. "I'll ask my father to speak openly. I can't bear the tension. My nerves are getting so weak!"

To tell the truth, Anat's behavior during the past few months had begun to worry me. But I'm not a psychologist, and have no special qualifications for dealing with the human soul, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do in a situation like this. I decided to agree with her.

"I think that's really the best thing. Try to ask your father to have a frank talk with you-and it would be a good idea to do so as soon as possible."

"No," she replied, "I'll wait until my mother comes back. I want to speak with both of them! And maybe... maybe it's possible that my father's tension is caused by the delicate situation that has come about between him and my mother..." She reddened a little. "My father, after all, has done teshuvah, but what about Mother? It doesn't seem to me that she's planning to follow in his footsteps. In any case, from her letters it seems that she's making fun of this turning point in his life, just as the two of them used to make fun of me at the beginning... could it be because of the probable confrontation with my mother that my father has become so tense and nervous?"

"That's also a likely possibility." I was glad to have something to pin the problem on, since I was totally confused by the tangle of changes and feelings into which Anat had thrown me. "When is your mother supposed to come back?"

"Yesterday she phoned and said she'd be coming back this Monday." She was silent for a moment, then added softly:

"Without Maggie."

I already knew that her mother's trip to America had not born fruit. Wanting to blur the disappointment a little, I counted on my fingers: "Today is Wednesday... so there's less than a week until her return. Five days, to be more exact. Maybe even less. Is your mother arriving in the morning?" She nodded. "Are you excited, Anat?"

"Very!" she smiled, but her smile froze immediately. "I would be more excited if she were returning with my sister."

For some reason I allowed myself to ignore this much- discussed sister of Anat. Perhaps it was because in my heart I believed she was the cause of all these troubles. Anat continued:

"It seems that during the summer vacation I'll be going to America myself to speak with Maggie and try to persuade her to come to Eretz Israel. Or at least to change her way of life there... that's what my father promised me."

"And what about our beautiful plans for the summer vacation?" I was a little afraid. A whole vacation, two full months, without Anat! How could I bear it?

"Don't worry," she reassured me. "We'll come back quickly, and then you'll come to me, and the three of us will carry out all the plans we've made. Maggie will join us! Or maybe the four of us-we can invite Batyah, who is Maggie's age!" Anat sailed off on the waves of imagination. I didn't try to stop her. That was better for her than sinking into the depths of depression.

She suddenly changed the subject. "Do you know what I have an urge to do right now? If you're willing, I'll come to your house and we'll play our mandolins together. I feel that music would improve my mood."

I gladly agreed. When I finished my errand we went back to my house. On the way, Anat went into her room at the dorm for a minute to get her mandolin. We sat on the little sofa in my room and played our instruments. We had no sense of time passing. I was already quite expert at playing, and quite a few times I received compliments from Anat-which made me very happy. Making music with Anat-that's an experience I'll never forget. It was as if the two of us soared into another, exalted, world where worries did not exist. A world of pure calm and serenity. Anat cast away all her problems and threw her whole self into the music with almost desperate devotion. For her sake, I was glad that there was something in the world that could make her forget her pain and worry.

Sometimes it seems that when a certain thing is not going right for a person, everything else is pulled along with it and also gets out of kilter. That is what happened with Anat. As if she didn't have enough to deal with in her downcast mood, her fears in connection with her father, her sister, her mother, and herself, on top of it all the history teacher adamantly refused to release her from the test on the history of modern Israel which had been scheduled-as if on purpose to annoy!-for the Monday when Anat's mother was to return.

Anat tried to explain to her, and so did I-but nothing helped. The teacher held firm to her position that every single girl had to take the history test, and anyone who missed it, no matter what the reason, even if she were sick with a high fever, would be considered to have failed the test.

"But her mother is returning from the United States after two months that she hasn't seen her!" I objected heatedly, trying to soften the teacher's stony heart.

"Two months is not so terrible," was her verdict. "If you told me she'd been gone a year, I'd understand," she went on, infuriating me with her unique logic. "Will it be so terrible if you meet your mother two hours later, when she gets to your house?"

"My mother will be more pleased if I come to meet her at the airport," Anat explained, trying to remain calm. No one except me knew how hard this was for her.

"I think your mother's knowing that you missed the history test would not give her happiness, but the opposite. It would spoil her happiness, even if you were to meet her at the airport."

Anat knew how much importance her parents attached to her success in school, and realized that to some extent the teacher was right. She answered: "My mother wouldn't be bothered by it if she knew I would be given an opportunity to make up the test."

It did no good. The teacher had closed her ears and her heart, she wanted neither to listen nor to understand. "You can miss the test," she said indifferently, "and fail it. Just so you know that this test will determine fifty percent of the semester grade on the report card. I don't want anyone claiming that I didn't warn her. Now you may do whatever you like."

Anat had no choice but to stay for the test, which took place, as expected-during the last hour of the schoolday!

"Will you be able to write the answers?" I asked her at the break. The whole class looked as if-exactly as if they were about to have a test! The girls stood in anxious, excited groups, going over historical events and names, drilling each other on important dates, suggesting possible test questions-based on previous years exams-and giving answers to the hypothetical questions.

Anat didn't even try to open her history notebook. "I studied enough yesterday," she had told me. "Any more studying now will only confuse me." To my question whether she would be able to write at all, she smiled weakly and replied: "I hope so. I'm not all that excited about my mother's arrival-unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" For a moment I didn't understand, but immediately I caught the signficance of her words. It still bothered her that her sister Maggie would not arrive in Israel with her mother.

"It's not nice of the history teacher!" I still hadn't gotten over my anger. "She has a heart of stone! How could it be that she didn't understand your feelings?"

"This is an important test," Anat justified her, in keeping with her habit of always giving people the benefit of the doubt. "It covers a large amount of material. She couldn't permit me to miss a test like this."

"But she could have let you make it up later!" I argued.

"True, but then she would also have had to give a make-up test to Yael, whose mother, as you know, just had a boy, and today is the brit milah. They rescheduled it for late in the afternoon, almost entirely because of Yael's test. And there's also Tirtzah, whose big sister is having an engagement party this evening. I'm sure there are other girls who asked to miss the test, each one for a good reason. In the end the teacher would have had to give make-up tests to half the class! And if she had listened to us and put off the test altogether till a later date, no doubt the other half of the class would have claimed that they had to be absent that day. So she did the smartest thing by announcing that no excuses would be accepted!"

"But she should at least have understood you, if no one else!" I insisted.

"More than Yael?" Anat smiled. "Look, Tammi. I certainly would have preferred to be excused from the test today. But I also understand the teacher's reasons for refusing." "You're too understanding of others-at your own expense!" I burst out. "When are you going to understand, Anat, that if you act like that you won't get far in life?"

"And who says I want to 'get far' in life?"

"Anat, Anat," I sighed. "Always justifying everyone. The history teacher is just nursing a grudge against you because of that time-remember?-at the beginning of the year, when Chedvah passed you a note, and you tore it up instead of handing it over to her. That's why she decided to get even with you by refusing your request!"

"Tammi!" This time Anat was really angry with me. "What kind of expression is that-'to get even with you'? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? I'm sure she forgot about the incident a long time ago, just as I did!"

I was embarrassed. I hadn't had any intention of drawing a connection between the two events, the words had slipped out thoughtlessly in my anger.

"Besides," Anat went on, "I know that everything that happens is decided in heaven, with individual divine providence for every person and every created thing. It wasn't the teacher who refused me, but G-D. He put the words in her mouth. Whenever things don't turn out exactly according to my plans-even if it's a heavy disappointment -I try to accept everything in a good spirit, and tell myself: 'Whatever the Holy One, Blessed is He does, is all for the good!' And if we don't perceive what is good about a particular happening? So then we have to pray and ask for our eyes to be opened so that we can see the good in everything, even the things that seem bad to us."

She had silenced me. What could I say to those words of truth?

As soon as Anat finished the test-I had finished a few minutes before her and waited for her-she hurried to the dorm to get her things. I went with her. We clattered down the stairs and nearly ran to the gate, where I said good-bye to her.

"I'm in a hurry, Tammi. See you later!" she said hastily.

"See you later," I answered. And then a voice was heard, calling out from the entrance of the dorm building: "Anat, telephone! Anat Zahavi... where is Anat? Telephone for Anat..."

We quickly covered the few meters to the dorm. Who could be calling Anat just at this moment?

We got there just in time to hear Ronit say into the telephone, "She's not here. They told me they saw her leaving two minutes ago. Oh, wow! She just walked in. Anat, telephone for you." She handed her the phone.

"Shalom," Anat said. There was a second of silence, and then she said in English: "Mother! Where are you calling from?" I stood next to her and listened, straining

every mental muscle. To my surprise, I managed to understand almost every word! That proves I had paid attention in the English class...

"What do you mean, you're calling from home and you want to know where Father is? He didn't come to the airport? That's impossible! You came home by taxi? Strange! I talked with Father last night, and he definitely told me he was going to the airport. I couldn't come because we had a history test and the teacher wouldn't excuse me from it. Exactly when you called I was on my way to the bus. No, it can't be!" Anat's voice sounded adamant. "I'm telling you. Mother! I spoke with him yesterday and he didn't mention anything of the kind! Father didn't sound at all angry or upset. As a matter of fact he sounded very happy that you were coming home. You know what? I'll call Grandfather and Grandmother to see if maybe they know something. I'll call you back. Talk to you soon, Mother."

She quickly hung up and began looking in her purse for telephone tokens. While she searched she told me: "Very strange! My father didn't go to the airport." Her eyes expressed deep worry. "I hope everything is alright..."

She looked around cautiously and then whispered to me quietly, taking care that her words could not be heard by the other girls, even though they were quite some distance from us. "Mother is afraid that Father deliberately didn't meet her, to show her that he's angry with her for not intending to join him in becoming observant..." Anat found three tokens and dropped all three into the slot of the public phone. She dialed the number and waited a short time, swaying back and forth with obvious nervousness. Then she burst out into the mouthpiece. The conversation was short: "Grandma? This is Anat. I wanted to find out, is Father with you? No, I don't have any special reason for asking. I thought he might have visited you. You haven't seen him for two days? Maybe they asked him to come into the office today? No? He said that explicitly? I understand... Thanks, Grandma. I'm in a hurry right now. I'll phone again later... Good-bye."

When she put the phone down, her face was very pale. Her lips were trembling, and she barely managed to tell me: "I hoped... maybe Grandfather and Grandmother knew something. I don't know what to think! They haven't seen my father for two days, but this morning at quarter to twelve he phoned and said he was on his way to the airport. Why didn't he get there?"

I felt sorry for Anat. She was so confused and afraid! "I'll call home," she thought out loud. "Maybe my father got home in the last few minutes?"

The telephone at Anat's house was busy. She dialed again and again, her impatience growing by the second. "What's the matter?" She wondered. "Who is my mother talking to for such a long time?"

"Maybe it's your father, and he's explaining why he didn't show up," I said hopefully while Anat dialed for the fourth time. This time her efforts met with success. Her mother had finished the conversation. But... what was wrong with Anat? She stood speechless, frighteningly pale, while her hand, which gripped the receiver tightly, trembled so much that I was afraid she would drop the phone. After a long silence, which seemed to me like an eternity, she managed to get a few words out of her mouth. Her voice sounded strange, not like Anat's. It was a voice on the edge of hysteria. "No, Mother. No, no, no, no!" She kept repeating the same word. Her outburst apparently calmed her a little, and when she continued she was still upset, but not hysterical. "I'm taking a taxi home!" That was the end of the conversation. Almost throwing the receiver onto the hook, she turned to face me, slumping against the wall. Her hands hung limply at her sides, and I was afraid she was going to faint. I recalled when she had looked the same way in my house not long ago, and it scared me. To my relief, this time Anat got control of herself, perhaps because she had given vent to her feelings.

"They phoned my mother from the hospital." Her voice was paler than her face. "That's why the phone was tied up for so long. On the way to the airport my father's car collided with a delivery truck. His car was crushed and my father... was... critically injured." With great difficulty she got out the last words-and then burst into tears.

I stood as if nailed to my place. I couldn't move, couldn't manage to utter a word. The first thought that came into my mind was that Anat's mother had not told her the whole truth. At that first moment I began to picture horrible visions and fantasies. I assumed the worst... but immediately I shook off those stupid thoughts.

"Could you call a taxi for me?" Anat asked. Her voice trembled with sobbing. " I can't... do it... myself." She turned and faced the corner between the telephone

and the wall, trying not to attract the notice of the girls who walked past us, each occupied with her own business.

I did as she asked. On the other end of the line they told me that the cab would arrive in ten minutes. We went out to wait in the courtyard, and I asked Anat if she wanted me to go with her. She hesitated for a moment, but declined. "There's no need, I'll be O.K." she promised me. I didn't press her. I trusted that if she had felt it was necessary, she would have asked me to accompany her. I wished her a complete recovery for her father, and that we should hear good news-and just then the taxi arrived.

She drove off. I didn't know the reason for my feeling, but as I waved to her and she only nodded in return, her eyes still red and swollen, I felt a great foreboding that was working its way deep into my heart.

CHAPTER 9 - THE SECRET ABOUT ANAT

When our mechanechet teaches a lesson, it's something special. No girl in the whole school would tell you any different. Her classes are extremely interesting and gripping, not because of the topic, but because she has the talent - which, unfortunately, not every teacher is blessed with - to transform any topic, no matter how boring in itself, into something full of meaning and fascination. She prepares a lot of varied material, quotes from the Midrash, weaves in stories connected to the subject at hand - sometimes including stories that happened to her. When she starts a sentence with the words, "This happened to me personally not long ago..." all of us, as if at a military command, turn our heads towards her and our ears perk up.

We know from experience that it won't be any ordinary story. With this method, the moral she wants to put across soaks into our consciousness as if by the way, unintentionally - but our young hearts and brains absorb the message very well, and it also remains more firmly engraved there. The intriguing story that carries the message stays clear in our memory... and with it, the message itself.

This particular lesson on the Ketuvim was, I thought, even more special than those we had heard from our mechanechet until now. It started out as usual, the whole class waiting in expectant silence. Even Chagit for some reason wasn't

occupied with her sketching. The seat next to me was empty. Anat had gone home to Rechovot the day before, and I still didn't know what her father's condition was. She hadn't phoned that day, and today she hadn't come to school at all. I was in suspense. I wanted to know that everything was alright, that the situation wasn't hopeless.

But that wasn't exactly the subject that occupied me now, in the Ketuvim lesson. I listened in fascination to the mechanechet, and suddenly I noticed that I was burning up. My face, my head, my hands and feet, all were boiling hot, and my body was being jolted by waves of chills that made me shudder. At first, I tried to ignore these disturbing feelings. But it didn't work. I was thirsty, I felt completely dehydrated. I tried moistening my lips with my tongue, but that helped for no more than seconds. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, a phenomenon which I found rather amazing, considering that I had already drunk three cups of water that day.

Why was I so thirsty? Then I felt a sharp jab in my back. Without thinking, I turned around to see who had decided to play the clown and poke me. Dalyah and Ednah were staring hypnotically at the teacher. Certainly neither of them was the culprit. Suddenly I felt another stab, stronger than the first and covering a much broader area. What was going on? What had happened to me? What was the meaning of these pains in my back? And this terrible thirst? I wanted to raise my hand and ask permission to go and drink, but I felt embarrassed. Everyone was listening with such concentration, how could I dare interrupt?

I went on suffering my pains. Raising my hand slightly served to show me that it was trembling. I put it to my cheek, and immediately it caught fire. Could I have a fever? Was I sick? The thought flashed through my mind. But why? How did I get sick so suddenly? All through the winter I had been well, not even catching cold once. And now that summer was almost here - to become so ill, so fast?

As if in a dream, I heard the voice of the mechanechet:

"Tammi, do you feel alright?"

I shook my head no. Suddenly it was hard for me to speak... the feeling was terrible. The mechanechet came over to my desk. "Your face is very flushed, Tammi," she said. "Maybe you have a fever?"

"Maybe," I managed to mutter. "I'm hot... and cold..." My teeth were chattering.

"Do you want to go home?" she asked with genuine concern. "Drink..." I whispered.

She sent Ednah to bring a cup of water. I gulped the whole cup down immediately, feeling that I had room inside for six more cups easily. But the terrible thirst stopped.

The mechanechet put her hand on my forehead, and her face became serious. "You have a high fever," she said. "You'd better go home. Do you live far away?"

"No. Five minutes, walking slow." I felt better enough to be able to get out a whole sentence.

"Can you go by yourself, or do you want someone to go with you?"

"Thanks. I'll manage by myself. I don't need anyone to go with me." I knew how much the girls loved the mechanechets lesson, and I didn't want to cause any of them the pain of missing it for my sake. Besides, I was sure I would be O.K. without help. I got up, put my notebook and writing things into my briefcase, and turned to leave. Behind me I heard a number of voices wishing me a speedy recovery, but at that moment I didn't register the words. Everything around me was so foggy...

When I got home, the first thing I did was to throw down my briefcase in the middle of the kitchen and head straight for the water faucet. I drank big gulps straight from the tap, not even bothering to grab a cup. Perhaps hot tea would have been better for me, but no one was home, and at that moment I was incapable of planning and executing such a complicated project as preparing a cup of tea.

When I had quenched my thirst, I stepped over my briefcase, which lay abandoned in the middle of the kitchen floor, and ran to my room. A moment's quick thought persuaded me that since I was trembling with cold, my one blanket wouldn't be adequate, even though it was a down quilt, since we hadn't yet changed to our summer blankets. Withought thinking, without trying to figure out how in my present condition I was capable of doing such a thing, I ran to the boys room, pulled Arik's and Boaz blankets off their beds and, dragging them along the floor, one in each hand, attempted to get to my room as fast as I

could. I spread the three blankets on my bed and got under them with my clothes and shoes still on. I closed my eyes, and the nightmare began. A terrible shaking gripped my whole body, so strong that I couldn't stop it. I felt that my body was jumping and jerking on the bed, and I had no control over my movements. My teeth knocked together loudly, my heart beat wildly. But worst of all were the terrible pains in my back. What horrible disease had attacked me?

Gradually I calmed down. The blankets warmed me, and the shaking almost completely ceased. All that remained was a shuddering, not especially strong, that came every few minutes. I fell asleep...

"Tammi, you're home?" I heard my mother's voice as if muffled. The door of my room opened, but I didn't have strength to stick even the tip of my nose out from under the blankets. I was afraid that the moment I did so I would again be gripped by those waves of chills and quaking, and the very thought horrified me. At present I felt warm. Very warm, too warm - but that was better than my previous suffering.

"What happened, Tammi?" my mother cried out. "You're here, in the bed?"

"Yes," I answered weakly, not even sure if my mother could hear me through the three layers of blanket. Apparently she did hear, for immediately I felt a cool hand - cool, at least, compared to mine - sliding gently under the covers and feeling my forehead. She quickly withdrew it and went out of the room. Before I could count to ten, she returned with a thermometer.

"I'm sorry, Tammi," she said softly, "You'll have to put your head out from under the blanket. I want to take your temperature. If I do it under the blanket it won't be accurate, because it will measure the temperature of the space between the blanket and the bed... besides, when you're completely covered the fever might go to your head, and that wouldn't be good at all..."

Slowly, bit by bit, I lowered the blanket, but only to my chin, and took the thermometer in my mouth. Mother stood by me silently and waited. After three minutes she took the thermometer out of my mouth and looked at it, and her face showed worry. "How do you feel?" she asked me.

“Better than before," I answered.

She didn't answer, and I couldn't understand her strange silence. "Do I have a fever?" I finally asked. I wasn't sure anymore. My mother's face was unexpressive.

At my question, a small, serious smile ruffled her lips. "Yes," she answered, "such a high temperature it's a wonder it didn't break the thermometer. Does anything hurt you?"

I began feeling the pains in my back once again, and said so. My head also felt heavy.

"The feeling of heavy-headedness is from the high fever," my mother explained. "As for the back pains - that's one of the symptoms of flu."

"What's my temperature?" I asked?

At first she tried to avoid giving me an answer. "What difference does it make?" she said, "It's really not important!" But in the end I managed to pry out of her that I had a temperature of 104! That was an all-time record-breaker in my life until now. No wonder I felt so bad.

The doctor was kind enough to come to the house to see me. "I see that you already have experience, Mrs. Har-el," she said with a heavy Russian accent. "Your diagnosis was correct. Tammi has the flu. She must stay in bed. No school for at least a week." All the same, she referred me to the clinic for a number of tests, "just to make sure everything is alright." She prescribed a couple of medicines for "our emergency case." I knew I wouldn't be touching them, since they were designed to bring down fever and relieve pain, things that it's best not to take medicine for. Then, wearing an expression of importance, she took leave of us.

When she had gone, I sighed with relief. My fever was still high, but it didn't disturb me as it had before. The turmoil in my body had subsided. I lay calmly on my back and stared at the ceiling. Light and dark spots danced gaily in front of me, leaping, swirling and hurting my eyes. I closed them, and suddenly my heart skipped a beat. Anat! What was happening with Anat? When would I be able to see her again? With my own ears I had heard the doctor say that I was contagious and my friends could not visit me until I was better. When would the fever go down? I wanted to see Anat! Had she come back to Jerusalem at all?

And when I would see her - what would she have to tell me? Wordlessly I prayed for her father.

The next four days will always be a blur in my memory. I slept a lot, but it was not a restful sleep, for I would wake up from it only to feel even more strongly those terrible pains in my back. I couldn't lie down, couldn't sit up, and certainly couldn't stand. I was stuck in bed. Every two and a half minutes - maybe more often - I had to change to a different position, which always turned out to be not much better than the one before. I blessed sleep when it came, though the pains didn't stop even in my sleep.

On Shabbat night I began to feel much better - actually, the improvement had already been noticeable on Friday, when my mother suggested that I take a shower in honor of Shabbat. At first the idea frightened me, and I hesitated. But then I heard a critical voice within me say: "Really, why not?" As soon as I showed willingness to listen to that voice, I suddenly felt a current of energy that steadily - but rapidly! - spread through my tormented, sick limbs. All at once I said to myself: "Stop thinking you're sick! I'm healthy, healthy, healthy! I have strength - a lot of strength! And now I'm getting up to take a shower!" I gathered all the strength I didn't know I had, and suddenly sat up in bed. At first my head was spinning a little, but it quickly found its place - on my shoulders - and settled down. The next step was already easier. I got out of bed and walked around a little, at first in my own room, but afterwards going to to visit the boys in their room. "Tammi got up! Tammi got out of bed!" my brothers greeted me with cries of excited happiness. It was worth having been sick, just to hear them and see their joy...

After the shower I was already three-fourths well. On Shabbat night I sat at the table with the rest of the family, I had even insisted on getting dressed in my Shabbat clothes.

"Mother," I said during the Shabbat meal, "Have you heard anything from Anat?"

My mother's forehead wrinkled. "It's really strange!" she said. "She didn't phone at all... I think every one of your friends called, except for Anat."

My friends, who had been forbidden to visit me in person, had phoned all during the afternoons. Since I couldn't get out of bed, my mother had answered the

phone. She had thanked each one for her wishes for a speedy recovery, and reassured them that my condition was not serious.

"And no one said anything about Anat?" "No one."

"That's good," I murmured. "It's a sign that the situation is not so terrible..." But maybe they were afraid to tell the truth? No one is happy to be a bearer of bad tidings... I shook off those thoughts and joined into the Shabbat songs.

The next day, Shabbat morning, Chagit came to visit me.

"I wanted to visit before," she apologized, "but your mother didn't allow me. She said you would probably feel better on Shabbat and I could visit you. I told the other girls, so it looks like you'll be having a lot of visitors." Chagit was still working in my parents store, and was very satisfied there. My parents, too, were very happy with her efficient help.

From Chagit I learned that Anat had not yet come back to school.

"Your desk looks strange without the two of you," she said. "Every teacher that came into the class threw a glance at your place and immediately asked: 'Where are Tammi and Anat?' They thought you were both absent for the same reason..."

I didn't tell anyone in the class about the accident. "Do you know why Anat went home?" I asked, trying to find out what, if anything, Chagit knew.

"Yes. Peninah phoned her house, and we found out that her father is sick. You knew about it, right?" She took it for granted that I was up-to-date on everything that happened with Anat.

Chagit, and the other girls, didn't know exactly what had happened. Anat hadn't given any details about her father's illness. I bit my lip and with a supreme effort held myself back from telling everything I knew. If Anat didn't want to give details, she must have her reasons.

Shabbat passed pleasantly. Only after having tasted the taste of sickness could I appreciate the blessing of health, I understand how much I had to thank the Holy One, Blessed is He, for every single minute that I was healthy.

Chagit told me the news of the class. Nothing special had happened, but it was pleasant to hear. All of a sudden, as we talked, I became aware that Chagit was very involved in the life of the class. That was something that could not have been said five months previously. Then she had sat off to the side, isolated from the other girls, trying to get attention through her antics. I smiled to myself.

"What made you smile suddenly?" Chagit wondered.

At first I felt uncomfortable, but in the end, after insistent requests on her part, I acquiesced and told her what had gone through my mind. She listened soberly to my words.

"You're right," she said in a quiet voice after I had finished. "I decided to turn over a new leaf... three people are responsible for the change: you, your mother, and Anat. I owe a debt of thanks to all three of you for the change that I've gone through... excuse me, to four, not three. The fourth is-my own splendiferous self!" She smiled mischievously. "After all, if it weren't for me and my will-power, I wouldn't have been able to change the former situation in the slightest."

I was glad to see that deep inside she was the same girl, gay and full of humor as always, but now these qualities had been turned in a positive direction.

"Anat was the one who put me on the right road," she went on thinking out loud. "Through your merit, because you were the only one who took a serious interest in me... who thought about me once in a while." She fell silent for a moment. "I'll never forget Anat's words, when she explained to me the importance of my being Jewish, a daughter of the Jewish people. Ever since that conversation, I'm filled with joy whenever I recall: 'I'm Jewish!' And that is not just a one-time event, it's a reality that continues every single minute. So there's no limit to the joy and satisfaction... and your mother - may she be well! - She helps and encourages me so much..."

"Anat is no ordinary girl," she said thoughtfully, changing the subject. "Just show me anyone else like her..."

I thought for a minute, and then declared: "There isn't anyone else!"

"It's very interesting. You must know everything about her," she said, studying me closely.

I couldn't lie to her. "Not everything, but a lot," I answered. I felt a little uncomfortable talking about my friend in her absence. What if Chagit should become curious and ask me what else I knew?

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask any more," she reassured me, and changed the subject.

During that Shabbat other friends came to visit me - all the girls from the dorm, as well as those who lived near my house. When we saw that a respectable quorum of our class were at my house we decided - with my mother's permission - to have the Se'udah Shiishit meal together. We borrowed a few extra loaves of challah from neighbors, and my friends mobilized to set the table and serve the meal. As for me, they sat me in a place of honor and didn't allow me to lift a finger. I sat and watched them silently. As they sliced, chopped, set out, and garnished, they chattered and laughed gaily. In those moments, when all my good friends were with me, it bothered me very much that my one friend was missing - Anat.

The sun slowly descended, hiding itself behind the mountains. A slight, pleasant breeze ruffled the curtains and approached me, blowing on my cheek as if, wanting to wake me up and return me to life. Even stronger than the breeze were the shadows of evening, as they began to penetrate the room, I felt my heart fill with fierce longing for Anat's presence.

Right after my father recited Havdalah over a cup of wine, I went to the telephone. I felt that I had to call and find out what was happening with Anat! Before I could lift the phone, it rang. "Whoever that's for, try and make it short!" I proclaimed, "I have an urgent call to make." Then I picked up the phone and said "Hello?"

"Hello, Tammi."

"Anat! How did you know I was just picking up the telephone to call you?"

"I didn't know. How are you, Tammi? I understand you're feeling better."

"You knew I was sick?" I was surprised.

"Of course I knew! Our friends told me. That's why I didn't try calling; I knew anyway you wouldn't be answering the phone... especially since I didn't have good news to tell..."

"And what is the situation now, Anat?" I waited tensely for the answer.

"Thank G-d, there's been some improvement." She sighed. "That's why I called - to let you know. I thought you would be worrying."

Anat told me that her father had lain unconscious for fiv e days in critical condition. The doctors said that his chances of regaining consciousness were slight. They were doubtful whether it was possible to save his life. Anat's mother was so hysterical that she, too, had to be hospitalized. Elitzur's family were constantly at his bedside. Anat, too, spent most of her time in the hospital-and I had thought I was suffering greatly when I was sick... Anat undoubtedly had suffered much more than I had, even though she herself was perfectly healthy.

"On Shabbat morning my father came to," Anat told me the good news. "He is very weak, but managed to talk a little. He remembers that he was driving to pick up my mother at the airport, and that he was very excited. He made a right turn, and that's where his memory ends. Apparently he didn't notice a delivery truck that was just coming around the corner, and it ran into him-we hope he'll recover quickly now that he has regained consciousness."

I wholeheartedly seconded the hope. "When will I see you, Anat?" I asked.

"It looks like I'll be coming to school tomorrow," she replied, "but as soon as school's over I'll go home. Until my father recovers, or at least improves significantly, I won't be living in the dorm. I'll be travelling back and forth every day."

"Too bad," I said. "I won't be able to see you tomorrow. I don't think the doctor will let me go back to school yet. There's no comparison between how I feel now and how I felt before, but I'm still not completely recovered. I've still got a little fever..."

We both were silent.

"It's not so terrible, Anat." I overcame my feelings and pretended to be cheerful, since I didn't want to make her feel bad. "I'll try to get better as fast as I can, and you - don't you worry about me... don't feel bad that you can't visit me. For sure you father is more important than me and takes precedence..." I abruptly finished talking, because I didn't know at what point my voice might betray me - even though I knew what I was saying was true, and meant it sincerely.

"Even if you hadn't said it, I have no other choice." Anat's tone was quiet and deliberate. "In any case, I'm glad you feel as I do."

At 9:30 Wednesday morning I heard a light knock on the door. My parents were at work and my brothers at school, so I was alone in the house. The doctor had not yet given me permission to go back to school.

There at the door stood Anat.

"I decided to miss class today and come to visit you," she informed me. "We haven't seen each other for a long time."

I was very happy about the unexpected visit, but at the same time a little surprised. It wasn't like Anat to act like that... there must be some hidden reason why she had come to me instead of to class. I consoled myself that the reason would probably become evident almost immediately.

"When did you arrive?" I wanted to know.

"Just now. I came straight to you."

"It's really nice of you..."

The conversation began to sound too artificial to me.

"How is your father?" I asked after we had sat down.

"Thank G-d, the same. There's been no change for the worse, and although the situation is not extremely encouraging, it's not worrisome either."

"What do the doctors say?"

"They don't promise anything."

"With G-d's help your father will get well!" I said confidently. Boaz had recovered, and so had Chedvah's father... why should Anat's father be any different from them?

"G-d willing." And again she fell silent. Her mood seemed dark, strange.

I looked into Anat's eyes and said in a low voice: "Anat, you want to tell me something. Why are you hesitating?"

"It's hard for me. You're right that I want to tell you... I would have been surprised if you hadn't sensed it..." She took a deep breath and began. "Yesterday evening I visited my father in the hospital. No one was with him except me. I told you not long ago that since he had done teshuvah my father had begun to act strangely, especially when he saw me. Since he came out of his coma, I've seen him a number of times, and to my surprise he started acting towards me as he used to - with affection, with friendliness. The shadow disappeared from his eyes, and I thought that you had been right in your guess that he had been upset because of worry about the reunion with my mother. When he saw that his fears were not so justified, he calmed down...

"Yesterday evening I sat by him and we talked. I tried to turn his thoughts to happy subjects.

" 'When you get better. Father, we'll have a special party to give thanks to Hashem.'

" 'When I get better,' he murmured, echoing me. I ignored the dark overtones of his expression, and continued:

" 'After that we'll all go on a trip, the three of us, you and mother and I...' " 'Where will we go?' He looked at me curiously.

" 'To America.' I talked in a rush, trying to sound natural. Perhaps because of the blow to his head, my father had forgotten many things - including our plans for the summer? 'At first,' I continued, 'the plan was that just Mother and I would go, since it wasn't possible for you to get any more leave from your work. But now I'm sure they'll let you have time off for your recovery... it will be much nicer to travel with you and Mother, the whole family together."

" 'Why do you want to go to America?' my father was interested to know. 'If I know my daughter, it seems to me that she's a lover of Eretz Israel!

" 'That's the truth,' I confirmed, 'But of course you remember...' I spoke cautiously. As I mentioned, we weren't sure yet whether he had completely regained his powers of recall, and I was afraid his self-confidence might be damaged if he discovered that his memory was betraying him. 'I'm sure you remember that I have something important to take care of there, in America...'

"He thought for a long moment, and suddenly his expression became disturbed, as if something was clouded for him... slowly the cloudiness cleared from his eyes and they gleamed strangely - as if a memory woke up that until now had been asleep within him. 'You're referring to Maggie...' he said very slowly, in a totally lifeless tone of voice.

" 'Yes, that's right, Father.' I tried to sound cheerful, not to show my fears at the worrisome signs. 'You don't object anymore to Maggie's coming to our house, right? You understand how important it is to save her and return her to the Jewish people...' I was confident that, now that my father had done teshuvah, he would feel the same as I did on this subject, and would be an enthusiastic partner in accomplishing the task I had taken upon myself.

"I was very astonished when I perceived that his reaction was completely different from what I had expected. He ignored my words, acting as if he hadn't heard, and it seemed to me that his thoughts were a-sail on distant seas, very far from mine... he answered my words in half sentences, with disconnected phrases... finally he asked me gently to leave the room, because he wanted to sleep... to show that he was sincere, he closed his eyes. Although I had no doubt that he didn't intend to sleep, I fulfilled his request and went out. Since his eyes were closed, he didn't see me go onto the enclosed balcony of his room. A heavy curtain separated the balcony from the room, and I stood concealed there. Evening had started to fall, against the darkening background my silhouette wasn't noticeable. I leaned against the railing and sank into thought. My heart beat wildly - I felt with undeniable certainty that my father was hiding something from me!

"My mother came into my father's room. I didn't see her, just heard her voice. My father answered her question, and that simply confirmed what I had already

known - that he had no intention of sleeping when he asked me to leave the room. It was my presence that disturbed him! I began to cry in a low voice which could not be heard in the room. I tried to stop my tears, to quiet my stormy emotions, but without success. I decided to stay on the balcony until I calmed down - to avoid the cross-examination my parents would subject me to if they saw that I had been crying.

"At first my parents talked in an undertone, but gradually their voices rose and I could clearly hear their words - which were very surprising to me, and extremely painful.

" 'We must tell Anat,' my father argued in a weak voice. 'It's impossible to let the situation continue like this! Who knows what the future holds? She has to know the truth!'

" 'Under no circumstances!' my mother insisted adamantly. 'Do you want to make your daughter miserable?'

" 'Yes, she's my daughter! And I love her so much, my only daughter... oh!' My father's sigh broke my heart. I almost burst into the room, but suddenly heard him crying softly, and was riveted to my place, stunned. My father was weeping! It was the first time in my life I had heard him do that. What was the great secret that my mother was hiding from me, and that caused my father such intense emotions?

"After a few minutes he calmed down, and I again heard his voice, which trembled somewhat.

" 'Jenny... if I'm forced to, I'll do it... I'll tell Anat myself... but you should know that it will harm me and hasten my end.'

"At that point my mother began to cry. 'I can't... no... how could I tell her? She'll be so miserable!'

"Silence again prevailed, and then it seemed that my father reached a decision. He said in a relatively calm and quiet voice:

" 'I feel. Jenny, that I don't have much more time to live. It's true the doctors say my condition has improved, but I sense that my days are numbered. No, don't cry. It's better for you that way. You know what I'm talking about. We wouldn't

be able to go on living together once I returned to the way in which I was brought up in my youth... and it's better for me, too. Maybe in this way I'll atone for my many sins. It's only Anat who gives me no peace... but I'll see to it that the matter is taken care of, and she will know everything!'

"My weeping burst out uncontrollably. How could my father talk that way, and just when we thought his condition was improving...

"Very quietly I opened the door that connected the balcony of his room to the balcony of the adjoining room. In this way I slipped from balcony to balcony, until I reached the first one in the row. My eyes were clouded with tears. I stared at the floor so as not to attract attention, but that made it hard for me to see the people who passed me in the corridor, and I kept bumping into them... I mumbled 'Pardon me,' apologizing in all directions. People looked at me pityingly. Who knows what they thought on seeing a weeping girl walking through the hospital corridor. Outside, I hailed a taxi, which took me straight home. There I closed myself in my room, in my bed, hid my face under the pillow and... you can picture to yourself what I went through..." Anat looked at me dry-eyed. Could it be that she had cried so much that the wellspring of her tears had dried up? I nodded my head sympathetically.

"When, late in the evening, my mother came up to my room and called my name, I didn't answer. I pretended to be asleep. She went out. Only towards dawn did I fall asleep. I'm so confused, and tired, and upset, and even... frightened! And the worst of it is that I can't ask anyone. I heard with my own ears those terrible words of my father - that by telling me, he would hasten his end. And I can't ask my mother, either. For one thing, she doesn't want me to know the secret, and she's so sad and worried, fearing for Father. What should I do, Tammi? I don't know where to turn! I can't concentrate on anything! I couldn't go to school today. There's a geography test, as I'm sure you know, but how can I take a test when my thoughts are wandering completely elsewhere? So I came to you."

I was in a very frustating position. I wanted to help Anat, but had no idea how. Her problem was too heavy for me, altogether beyond my control. More than that - it was way beyond my comprehension. We were confronted - Anat and I - with a mystery that we had to try to solve ourselves, with our own resources, without turning to those who had the ability to clear it up for us.

Anat released me from my predicament.

"Don't think, Tammi, that I expect you to solve my problem for me. I realize that you don't know any better than I where to turn. The meaning of all this will become clear only with time, when my parents decide to tell me. But in the meantime, it's so hard for me! It's good that I have a friend with whom I can share what I'm going through. If I were alone, I wouldn't be able to stand the psychological strain."

"Altogether, Anat" - the words slipped out of my mouth without preparation - "lately you're so different from the Anat I knew at the beginning of the year... when I met you, you were a calm, quiet girl, everything you did was deliberate, settled, balanced and well-considered... sometimes I even thought you were too cool and indifferent... and suddenly you've changed so much!"

Anat trembled a little. "I know, Tammi," she whispered in an agonized voice, "and that change worries me. I don't know what's happened to me... ever since that day when I found out that I have a sister - Maggie - whose existence my parents had hidden from me... I think that at that point I began to lose my trust in them. And that fact has shaken my psychological condition... I've become more suspicious, seeing everything as if through a magnifying glass. Something is storming inside me, inside, anything out of the ordinary that happens makes me tense and nervous. I'm always wound up tight and ready to spring, like someone before battle. All my mental and emotional powers are primed and on alert as if... as if something terrible is about to happen! I'm afraid..." Her voice became almost inaudible, as if she was unwilling for her own ears to hear such terrible words. "I'm afraid that unless the situation changes, I could have a nervous breakdown!"

I wanted to say, "Don't talk nonesense, Anat. Things like that don't happen to little girls." But I didn't say it. Without replying, I got up, went to the cupboard, and took the two mandolins from their places, mine and Anat's. She preferred to keep her mandolin at my house, since we always played together, and usually in my room.

A sad smile - but a smile! - somewhat lit up Anat's face.

"It will be hard for me to get into the mood," she said, "but when I begin to play, that will be the best medicine for me... thank you, Tammi."

She held the mandolin in both hands, tuning it with slow movements. With a distracted expression in her eyes she passed her fingers over the strings, which gave out hoarse, broken, fragmented sounds.

"I just wanted to tell you, Tammi," she said, looking into my eyes, "I've thought about this a lot... I'm sure you remember, when the history teacher refused to postpone my test... we were both very angry with her... I said to you then that it wasn't the teacher who refused me, it was the Holy One, Blessed is He, Who put the words into her mouth. I also said then, that it was difficult to perceive what was good about it..." She was in a very intense emotional state, taking short, rapid breaths. "Just imagine, Tammi, if I had received that longed-for permission to miss the test and had been driving with my father to the airport..."

The very idea made me shudder. Why hadn't I thought of that? It was the hand of Providence that had prevented Anat from going-probably it had saved her life.

"The heavens are watching over you, Anat." I hurried to take advantage of the moving revelation. "The Holy One, Blessed is He, is not going to let anything bad happen to you." I was referring to her earlier words about a nervous breakdown.

She smiled, apparently catching the allusion.

We played the mandolins together, singing quietly as well. I saw how Anat's countenance gradually became clear. Serenity and calm enveloped her. Her eyes became dreamy, her whole expression was like that of an infant with nothing to disturb its rest. Once again, as countless times before, I gave thanks to the Holy One, Blessed is He, for having created something that could calm Anat.

The days passed one after the other with no significant change. I recovered from my illness and returned to school. Anat's father remained bed-ridden. His condition did not show improvement, but neither did it get worse. He was released from the hospital and taken to his home, where he remained under constant medical supervision. We continued praying for his recovery and hoping for the best. Anat came to school every day. On some days, she went home

immediately after school, on others, she slept at the dorm. On rare occasions, she stayed overnight at my house. The teachers understood her situation and were not overly strict with her. To Anat's credit, it must be said that she did not try to take advantage of the teachers consideration to her. She studied more or less as usual, doing homework and taking tests. It was not for nothing that the teachers trusted her, relating to her differently from how they treated any other girl. They had come to know her, and realized that Anat would not make use of her special privileges except when there was no choice.

During these days, except for the infrequent times when Anat stayed at my house, I was hardly ever alone with her. During the breaks, at least half the class would crowd around her, asking how her father was, probing, inquiring, encouraging, reassuring - and so it went until the bell would ring for the next lesson.

Chedvah, Peninah, and Chagit in particular formed ties with her. They never stirred from our desk. Chedvah, who not long ago had undergone a similar experience, felt it her duty to strengthen Anat's confidence that her father would indeed make a rapid recovery. She unfolded the story of the many years during which her own father had been blind, told about the situation of her family - especially dwelling on the description of her own feelings - and then went on to relate the incident of her father's fateful fall. In vivid language she painted before our eyes the shock that had overcome her family, the worry and sorrow that had befallen them during the days when her father lay unconscious. Her story reached its climax when she described - and this was the part she loved best to tell, and repeated it again and again - how her father had opened his eyes and asked Chedvah's mother innocently: "Who are those two girls standing next to you?"

"Your father will also get better, Anat!" Chedvah would declare enthusiastically, while the rest of the girls murmured their agreement.

Anat's reaction was restrained. Sometimes she would nod and say, "Yes," or "Certainly," or "With G-d's help" - and that was all. She, who knew the full gravity of her father's condition, could only hope for a miracle to restore him to health. The doctors, too, didn't try to conceal the fact that there was no improvement in the patient's condition, and that medical science could do nothing for him.

Chagit and Peninah did not talk much, but they tried in every way possible to ease Anat's burden. Almost silently, without realizing it, they competed with each other to help Anat. They hardly ever left her side, constantly on the lookout for some opportunity to encourage her. Such opportunities were rare, but Chagit and Peninah both still felt obligated to Anat - each in her own way. They tried in whatever way they could to repay her, if only in some small degree, for her kindness to them.

As for me, I knew that all this commotion around her only disturbed Anat. If anyone had asked her, she certainly would have replied that the biggest help they could give her would be to leave her to herself. There was no doubt that during these difficult days she needed her friends' encouragement and their demonstrations of affection - but she would have preferred that these be expressed in a more restrained manner.

CHAPTER 10 - BREAKDOWN

Lag BaOmer fell on Sunday that year, so it was self-evident that the party would be on motzaei Shabbat. We prepared excitedly for an enjoyable evening around the bonfire for which we worked industriously to gather as much wood as possible. A number of girls volunteered to bring potatoes, others organized coffee, while a larger group undertook the project of pitot and felafel. We even arranged for background music, it seemed that everything should have gone beautifully. Even Anat promised to take part in the festivities. Recently it had been her custom to travel home every Friday and stay there until after Shabbat, but on this, the Shabbat before Lag BaOmer, she made a special exception and stayed at the dorm. Her decision was made easier by the fact that her father's condition was stable, no change being anticipated in the near future. Her mother encouraged her to stay at school. She too had sensed the change which had taken place in her daughter in recent months, and which had become more pronounced in the past weeks, and she understood that the more Anat could be with friends her own age, the more her mood would improve.

Right after Shabbat was over, I started making preparations for the party. No sooner had I begun, than Anat knocked on the door. I have a number of living memories of Anat which have stayed clear in my mind and which occasionally

appear before my eyes as if they were happening now. One of these is that of Anat standing at the door of my house, her face extremely pale, her long blond braids hanging over her shoulders, her eyes large and green and her lips trembling. On her shoulder she carried a not very large travel bag.

"I came to say good-bye," she said. "I'm going home." "Home!" At first I didn't understand. "But there's a party!"

"My father's not feeling well. His condition has worsened. My mother phoned five minutes ago."

When I looked at her face again, I knew I was going to give up the party tonight and go with Anat. Even if she refused. But she didn't object when I offered to accompany her. She didn't ask me to reconsider, didn't mention the party, it seemed to me that she had even been waiting for and expecting my offer, and felt glad and relieved to acccept it.

My mother gave her a quick glance and without wasting words confirmed my decision. She hurried us so that we would not miss the bus. Promising to phone home later that night. I quickly packed the things I would need, and we left. I forgot completely that this evening there was supposed to be a happy class party.

Anat's house was all lit up, and there was a feeling of alert movement inside. As we went up the steps, Anat gripped my shoulder tightly, almost crushing it. It was actually painful, but I didn't notice the pain. "I'm afraid," she whispered in a shaking voice. "Tammi, I'm afraid."

"Calm down," I tried with all my strength to reassure her, though I myself was trembling all over. "Everything's alright."

"Do you promise me?" she hung onto my words like a drowning man grasping at a straw. I knew that if I promised, she would feel calmer. And in spite of the fact that I wasn't at all sure, I said heatedly: "I promise! Yes, I promise... probably his condition is somewhat worse," I was cautious, "but not completely!" I knew what she feared.

I held her hand between my two palms and looked straight into her eyes. Only when I felt her hand lose its tenseness and become limp in mine did I release her, and we opened the door, which was not locked, and went in. Anat threw down

her travel bag immediately at the entrance and ran towards the stairs that led to her father's room. I ran after her.

I stood off at a little distance when we met her mother, who was sitting in the room next to that of Anat's father. Ignoring the many people in the room, Anat ran to her mother.

I managed to understand a little from the rush of words in English. Anat's mother said that they had passed a very difficult Shabbat, during which her father had again lost consciousness, just as I began to feel that the rest of the conversation was getting away from me, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around quickly to find myself facing Anat's Aunt Hadassah. Only then did I notice that Anat's grandfather and grandmother, as well as a number of aunts and uncles, were in the room. I recognized all of them from pictures Anat had shown me — except for Hadassah, whom I knew personally.

"What's the matter, why is everyone here?" the words slipped out of my mouth. I already was beginning to doubt the promise I had given to Anat just a moment before, at the entrance.

"It's good that you came with Anat," Hadassah replied, not answering my question. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. "She'll need you..."

I looked at her in wonder, as if not believing. My eyes opened wide in dread of the words I feared she was about to say next.

"What... what happened?" I repeated my question. I couldn't make my lips form the terrible question I really meant to ask. "Why is everyone here?"

"On Shabbat morning Eli's condition became worse..." Thank G-d, she had not said what I most feared. "My parents were here for a visit. Recently they've come often to visit my brother, who openly showed his joy at seeing them. Eli's fever was a little higher than usual, but other than that he felt excellent — considering his condition, of course. They conversed as usual. My father even read him from the Midrash on this week's Torah portion..." As she talked, Hadassah pulled me to one side, seating me almost forcibly at a distant end of the sofa, and continuing her story. "Suddenly Eli's face became very red, and he breathed heavily. My parents and Jenny panicked. My brother complained of terrible pain in his head... and after a short time lost consciousness. A doctor was immediately

rushed to the house, and is still with him. In the afternoon he regained consciousness, but he is still very weak..." She hesitated a moment, then said: "The doctor suspects a stroke."

My eyes widened in steadily growing dread. Despite my young age, I knew the significance of that last sentence.

"But how did all this begin?" I asked in a turmoil. "You said that he felt normal, that his mood was excellent!"

Hadassah looked at me for a moment in thoughtful silence. "It seems that his condition worsened because of an argument which began with an apparently harmless question that my mother asked... that's what seemed to come out when we went back over the events that led up to Elitzur's turn for the worse. Strange as it may seem..." She stopped herself in mid-sentence, and her face became pained and disturbed. Something clicked in my mind and made my heart pound harder and faster. I guessed what it was that seemed strange to Anat's aunt, and I felt an enormous pain that threatened to tear apart my heart. After a short pause, Hadassah continued, all the while watching my facial expression. "My mother asked: 'How is Anat? Lately she's been coming home every Shabbat...' Jenny hurried to answer: 'On motzaei Shabbat they have a party, so she stayed in Jerusalem.' Suddenly my brother Elitzur turned to my father and told him:

"Father, I want to talk to you about something... in connection with Anat." My father nodded and waited, but to his surprise Eli asked everyone present to leave the room so that he could speak with his father in private. At that point. Jenny objected. She asked him to postpone the conversation to another time, since it was forbidden for Eli to get excited. Eli refused, saying that he felt his days were numbered, and only when he had spoken about what was bothering him would he feel that he could... die... in peace."

Hadassah took her handkerchief and wiped the tears that flooded her eyes. "Forgive me," she asked, "I can't stop myself..." I didn't answer. A more important problem than Hadassah's tears was bothering me. Anat was right! There was some kind of secret connected with her, her father wanted to reveal it, but her mother was preventing him. Hadassah had dispelled any shadow of a doubt

that I might have had on that subject. And that secret was so important to her father that it had caused his condition to worsen...

"You understand," Hadassah concluded after recovering somewhat, "Anat's mother refused to go out and leave Eli alone with my father. Eli became very excited, insisting that he had to speak with his father that very moment! Suddenly his face became very red, as if flooded with blood. His eyes bulged, and they too became red — it's shocking to hear my mother's description. Eli shouted that his head felt heavy and hurt very much — and immediately lost consciousness..."

She fell silent, and so did I. True, I knew a little more than she did, but that little bit wasn't enough to help.

"What do you say?" she asked, giving me a searching, probing glance. "Certainly it hasn't escaped you what caused the change in Eli's condition."

"Yes," I said slowly, trying to impose order on my thoughts, which were racing madly in all directions.

"Anat," she said simply. "I'm not blaming her, G-d forbid, but it's a fact that as soon as her name was mentioned, everything else quickly began to happen."

"Yes," I repeated. My eyes were fixed, with stubborn concentration, on some undefined point on the floor. But Hadassah wasn't going to let me alone. She continued: "Do you know something, Tammi? After all, you're her best friend..."

"Yes," I mumbled again.

"What do you mean, 'yes!' " She put her hand under my chin and raised my head to face her. "Tell me, do you know something?"

I gently freed my face from her grasp and whispered a little hoarsely: "Something."

"What do you know? Say it! Maybe Eli can be saved!"

"What I know is not enough to help," I said decisively. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell. Anat trusted me and told only me, and I mustn't betray her faith in me. I'm sorry..." I mumbled apologetically. "If I knew that I could help in some way by

telling you everything I know, I would tell you, believe me, even if Anat would not forgive me for the rest of her life."

Hadassah wanted to say something, but was prevented by a scream from someone whose voice I didn't know. Everyone in the room turned towards the voice. It was Anat. I hadn't recognized her voice because she was screaming hysterically.

"Father! I want to see Father, I want to go in!" She sat on a sofa at the other end of the room, with the whole family clustered around her. Her mother had her arm around her shoulders, her grandmother held her hand, another relative stroked her hair... Anat was making desperate efforts to get away from them, trying to get up from the sofa where she was forcibly held.

"You're lying to me!" she burst out crying bitterly. "If you won't let me see Father, it's a sign that he's already not alive!"

No amount of explanation would help, Anat went on insisting, while I stood off at a distance, not knowing what to do.

"The girl has lost control of herself. She can't be allowed to see her father!" Anat's mother explained aloud in a voice full of despair. "He only regained consciousness a short while ago, and hasn't yet recovered his strength. When he sees her he's liable to become excited again, and then who knows what could happen..."

Anat was hysterical, with no control over her thoughts or actions. She refused to listen to reason. She twisted and struggled, trying to break free and run to her father...

The door to the next room opened. The doctor came out and walked towards the knot of people.

"Quiet," he commanded. "What's going on here? Mr. Zahavi needs rest!"

The good aunts somewhat relaxed their grasp on Anat. Her mother raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness, everyone's gaze turned towards the doctor — and Anat took advantage of the opportunity. With a swift pounce she crossed the room, slipped quickly past the doctor and reached the doorway of her father's room. She made one more leap — and was kneeling beside his bed. I think that her heart-rending cry could be heard up and down the whole block:

"Father! Thank G-d... Father!" I was the first one in the whole room to reach the doorway after her. I heard her next words, which were spoken more quietly, in a tear-drenched, trembling voice: "None of them would let me come to you. Father...! was so afraid!"

Her father gave her a long, long glance, very full of love and pain. "My Anat..." he murmured. "Anat... oh!" He sighed in a way that froze the blood in my veins. But to my surprise, it didn't seem that his condition was adversely affected to any significant extent. After a moment of silence he turned to his daughter and said: "Anat, is your grandfather here, nearby? I suppose he is. Please tell him that I want him to come in. I must speak with him!" Anat stood up from her kneeling position, ready immediately to obey her father's request. "Anat," his voice halted her. "After your grandfather goes out... and after... after I'm no longer among the living... and your grandfather explains to you everything I'm about to reveal to him..." Anat froze in her place. I could tell from her face that, had it not been for the fact that she was standing in front of her sick father, she would have burst into heartbreaking sobs, terrible shrieks. The only thing stopping her was fear of harming her father. "Please don't judge me harshly, my Anat... even if I deserve it." He went on in a weak voice: "And in case I don't talk with you again, I'm asking you now... please forgive me, Anat... forgive your father!"

I didn't know whether Anat would be able to contain herself. Apparently the doctor thought as I did, for he went up to Anat, took hold of her shoulder gently but firmly, and took her out of the room. I moved aside for him, as did all the relatives who had crowded around the door of the room.

"Mr. Gold," the doctor said to Anat's grandfather, "Your son wishes to speak with you. Try to make sure he doesn't get unduly excited."

Anat's mother made as if to object, opening her mouth to say something, but the doctor spoke before she could. "I know what you want to say, Mrs. Zahavi. You must realize that by preventing him from unburdening himself, you are causing him much more severe damage."

Anat's mother pressed her lips together and accepted the doctor's words. But her face still held an expression of unwillingness, of apprehension, and I would even say, of dread.

Anat's grandfather went into the sick man's room and closed the door after him. Even the doctor remained outside. We waited in great suspense for the conclusion of the mysterious conversation. It was Elitzur's request for this meeting that had set off all the troubles of the past few hours.

With cautious, almost imperceptible movements, I went closer to Anat. She had sat down in a chair, leaning on a table and burying her face in her arms. Her shoulders shook with stifled crying. The kind uncles and aunts, as well as her mother and grandmother, tried to approach her. Almost violently, she rejected everyone's attempts. I decided to try my luck. For a few seconds I stood beside her without moving, she didn't give any sign of being aware of my presence. I put my trembling hand on her shoulder and whispered near her ear.

"Anat..." She didn't answer, but also didn't push me away. I remained standing there for a short time, perhaps five minutes — the longest five minutes I had ever known. Anat didn't react to me at all. I would have thought that she had fallen asleep or, worst of all, fainted, had it not been for the unceasing shaking of her shoulders.

I took a chair and sat down. What should I say to her now?

"Anat," I whispered, "Now you'll find out, at last, what you've been wanting for so long to know..."

She raised her head a little and looked in my direction. "Yes." I was shocked by the deadness of her tone. "Now my father is telling my grandfather... the great secret. And afterwards... who knows what will happen after that?"

"It will be fine, Anat," I recited the rhetorical phrase. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, I'm frightened. A dreadful feeling of fear, like nothing I've ever known."

Anat's mother noticed that we were conversing, and apparently concluded that her daughter had somewhat recovered. She came over to us and stood on the other side of Anat. I looked at her. Her face was a little pale, her eyes damp, but she wore a determined expression. She spoke to Anat in English, and although I understood the words, I couldn't fathom what she meant.

"My Annie," she said, using Anat's other name, her voice trembling slightly. "There's just one thing I want to say to you. No matter what happens in the near or distant future, what certain people will say to you, what they will ask of you, remember one thing: I'm your mother, you are my daughter. My Annie... when all of them, all those you trusted so much and loved... yes, loved even more than you loved your mother, when all of them turn their backs on you, remember that I, your mother, am with you, always standing by your side, wanting only what is good for you..."

"What are you talking about. Mother?" Anat's desire to understand overcame even her fear.

The door of the sick man's room opened and Anat's grandfather emerged, stumbling shakily. His appearance was terrible, his face was grey — I wondered how it could have changed color in so short a time, he had been in the room a little over half an hour. He stared uncomprehendingly at the people in the room, as if he had never seen them before. It was clear to me that if he had not been holding onto the sides of the door, he would have collapsed where he stood. His hands, which gripped the doorway, looked as if they were in convulsions.

"Someone must go to him!" — that was the first thought that came into my mind when I saw how he looked. Once again the doctor saved the situation. He took the old man's arm, led him to a chair, and helped him sit down. Jenny's tongue, which momentarily had been as if paralyzed, broke free and she screamed.

"Eli! Has something happened to Eli? You're so pale, Grandfather!"

The old man, exerting himself, managed to produce a forced smile, which looked more like the spasmodic movement of someone in terrible pain. At first it was hard for him to speak; he opened his mouth several times without being able to produce a sound. When he regained his voice, he said:

"Forgive me... I just had a dizzy spell... Eli's perfectly fine at the moment... he didn't get more excited than is permitted... I haven't rested since this morning, you understand, I'm sure," he tried to apologize, "I'm not young anymore. I've been through some hard hours today... and it's already very late..." He looked at his watch, as if to prove what he was saying. All of us, following his example, looked at our watches. It was one o'clock in the morning.

My poor mother! I had promised I would phone her this evening, and she must have been worrying so much... no doubt she was sitting up waiting for my call.

The doctor, who had had time to go into the sick man's room and come out again, addressed everyone present in a firm voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest that you all go to sleep. Mr. Zahavi is now trying to fall asleep, and I'm sure that none of you wants to disturb his rest. There are two young girls here, I don't understand why they are up at this late hour." He looked at us sternly, then turned to Anat's mother. "Mrs. Zahavi, you can also go to sleep. Don't worry, I'm telephoning immediately for a nurse who will be here in a few minutes and will sit at the patient's bedside throughout the night. I will sleep in this room, on one of the sofas — I hope you have no objection — and I'll be ready to get up at once if the nurse calls me. In five minutes I want this room to be empty!" he concluded in an authoritative tone.

Submissively, everyone followed his instructions. Jenny directed her husband's family to a number of nearby rooms — there was no lack of them in this enormous house — where they could pass the night. At this hour, and under the present circumstances, none of them intended to go home. I, of course, prepared to sleep in Anat's room. Before we entered the room, Anat went to say good-night to her aunts and uncles. When she turned to her grandfather and told him, "Good night, Grandfather," — and he wished her the same — for some reason it seemed to me that his voice contained a special softness. Yet the look he gave his granddaughter seemed to me extremely strange!

I remembered that I had to phone my mother, and did so despite the late hour. As I had expected, she had been sitting up by the telephone. She couldn't conceal her relief at hearing my voice — and her fear of what she might hear. In short sentences I told her what had happened, reassuring her that she needn't worry, and that it seemed I would be coming home tomorrow, when I could tell her everything in more detail.

By quarter till two we were in bed, very tired, but still far from sleep.

"I don't believe that my grandfather had a dizzy spell," Anat whispered in a tired voice. "I'm sure he heard something terrible—about me. Oh! I can't stand it any longer. I try to strengthen myself, try to feel indifferent... tell myself I don't care what will happen or what has happened... and yet, all the same..." She was silent for a long time. When she continued, her tone had changed. "Am I ever going to find out the great secret? My father said — I'm afraid to repeat the words..." Her voice trembled. "...that my grandfather would tell me... when he would no longer be... you know what I mean, I can't utter those horrible words... so maybe I'll never know what it's all about?" she said hopefully. "Or maybe only after many years, because my father is going to get well, and live to a good old age!" For the sake of her father's health and well-being, she was willing to forgo ever knowing the great secret.

Encouraged by her own words, she became a little calmer. Our long hours of wakefulness forcefully demanded their due — and received it, in the form of sleep that overpowered us.

The great secret became known to Anat sooner than she had expected, for the next morning her father did not open his eyes. He had passed away in his sleep.

It wasn't Anat's grandfather who revealed the secret to her, her mother hastened to do so. Apparently she thought that this would somehow ease her daughter's suffering.

The days which followed were beyond my strength to describe. They were very difficult for Anat — and for me as well. The death of her father was a shock for everyone, but Anat suffered the heaviest blow of all. Just at this time, after a long-standing dream had been fulfilled, a dream that she never could have believed would actually come true, and her father had done teshuv ah — just at this time, he was taken from her.

Before they told her the terrible news, they had to give her an injection of tranquilizer. But even after the tranquilizer, it was impossible to be near her. She screamed and shrieked, threw herself around wildly, and left us all helpless, at a loss what to do for her. I thought of her gloomy prophecy, when she had expressed her fear of having a nervous breakdown... I understood that it had now come true. All I could do was hope that she would pull out of it quickly. Any more practical form of aid was beyond my capability. Anat didn't let anyone

approach her, not even me or her mother. If someone tried to come close to her, she broke into heart-rending shrieks. When the person moved away, she would calm down to some degree, but then her screams turned into fierce sobbing that awakened pity.

That was her condition when I left her house late in the morning of that same grim day. I was following the advice of her cousin Batyah, who had arrived at the house as soon as she heard the terrible news.

"When Anat's condition improves, I'll phone you and let you know you can come," she said in a sad voice. "I know you and your friends will want to do the mitzvah of comforting mourners."

I nodded assent. With an effort I managed to say Shalom to Batyah, took my bag, and left the house. I didn't say good-bye to Anat, that would have been impossible. That's how I went, head down and eyes streaming tears, not caring that the people on the street stopped and stared at me in wonder. Nor did I answer when a very nice older woman stopped and asked in a voice that inspired trust: "What's wrong, girl? Why are you crying?" I only wiped my tears, which just continued flowing all the harder, and quickened my pace. I felt very miserable, and knew that Anat was much more miserable than me. I have no idea how I found the central bus station without getting lost, for I simply walked, paying no attention to where my legs were taking me.

When my friends heard of the tragedy that had befallen Anat, their shock was total. Girls sobbed aloud unabashedly, others just stood there with a desolate expression, faces pale and hearts pounding... the mechanechet too was shocked, though she tried to maintain her calm and to strengthen us.

"As Jews, it is forbidden for us to let ourselves fall into despair," she said with measured words, trying to cover the trembling in her own voice. "Of course we all share in Anat's grief. She is our classmate and friend, and as I think I can say without the least fear of offending any of you, she is the most outstanding girl in our class... a noble girl, with traits and principles that can serve as an example even to those older than her... I'm sure I don't have to elaborate on her high character, all of you have come to know her well during this year that she has studied in our class. No doubt you have realized the many things she has accomplished for the class, and that her influence on your behavior has been

greater than words can describe. Perhaps just because of her greatness, she has been given this enormous trial..." Here she could no longer keep her voice from trembling. The silence in the class was tangible, all of us were riveted to our teacher's words.

"It's not in vain," she continued, "that our Sages tell us, 'A trial is only sent to one capable of withstanding it.' I understand that Anat's condition is very difficult" — in this brief sentence the mechanechet summarized for the rest of the class what I had told only her, I had described to her how Anat appeared when I had left her house that morning. I had also told her that Batyah had phoned in the evening to say that since Anat's condition had not yet improved, there was no point in visitors coming. I didn't want to tell the other girls. I didn't think it was right for me to let them invade Anat's privacy. Perhaps she was not interested in having them know about the serious crisis that had overtaken her? I knew that Anat admired and trusted the mechanechet. To her I could tell these things, she would understand, and would find the right way to explain to the girls that it was not a good idea to visit Anat at this time.

"I'm reminded of a story I heard when I went to visit one of my friends during her seven-day mourning period for her relative," the mechanechet continued. We all listened intently. "One of the women who had also come to comfort my friend said the following: 'It is said of the Holy One, Blessed is He, that He 'decrees and keeps.' What great praise is this for the Master of the universe? He is omnipotent, obviously, when He decrees something. He keeps His decree. Any decent person tries to keep his promises... all the more so, the Creator of the world!

'"A rabbi — I'm sorry I've forgotten his name — explained this by means of a story. A certain Chassid was visiting his Rebbe when he received a telegram stating that his father had quite suddenly passed away. In his great grief, the Chassid fainted. They tried all kinds of ways to revive him, but nothing helped. They poured water on him, called a physician — but he remained stretched out on the ground, unconscious. It appeared to everyone that he was no longer alive. Immediately, several Chassidim rushed into the Rebbe's room to tell him what had happened. Without hesitation, the rebbe left his room, went to the man who lay on the ground, looked at him for a short moment and then bent over and whispered in his ear: "The telegram isn't true. Your father didn't die, your father is alive!" That very moment, the Chassid opened his eyes and stood up. Within a few short minutes the postman returned with another telegram, which

stated that the first message had been a mistake, and the man's father was alive and well...

" 'What's this, Rebbe?' the Chassidim asked, 'a demonstration of prophetic powers?'

'Certainly not,' the Rebbe replied. 'It's very simple. It is said of the Holy One, Blessed is He, that 'He decrees and keeps.' The meaning is, that when Hashem, Blessed be He, passes a decree upon a person. He at the same time 'keeps' him — gives him strength to live with the decree and to keep going despite the blow, no matter how severe it may be. When I saw the Chassid stretched out in deep unconsciousness, on the verge of breathing his last at any moment, I understood that he was incapable of withstanding that decree, and therefore the news couldn't be true.' "

We had all been affected by the story. The mechanechet went on — and I felt that her words were especially directed towards me — "Even if it seems to us that it is hard for Anat to cope with the tragedy that has happened, even if at the moment the burden has crushed her — we know and trust that along with the decree, the Holy One, Blessed is He, has given her sufficient power to bear it. And with Hashem's help, she will overcome and emerge from the experience tempered by her suffering and much stronger than before."

The mechanechet's consoling words greatly strengthened us. Sensing this, she continued in a firmer voice: "As for going to see Anat, I imagine that all of you want to visit her, but as far as I understand, visits at this time would only make things harder for her. We will have to be patient and wait a few days, and in the meantime I will find out more about her situation. We can hope that she'll feel better soon, and that her circumstances will allow her to see friends..."

On the evening of the second day of Anat's shiva, seven- day mourning period, Batyah phoned me to say that there had been some improvement in Anat's condition. She was no longer hysterical, and also was not crying as she had been during the past two days. From that point of view she had calmed down, but it seemed that a strange indifference had overcome her. She didn't take an interest in anything, didn't speak with anyone — except her mother — and was capable of sitting from morning till evening in the same place, staring dully into space...

"She was so worried about having a nervous breakdown..." I murmured in dread, forgetting that Batyah wouldn't know what I was talking about, after all, she hadn't been in on Anat's secret. And in fact, Batyah didn't grasp my remark.

What do you mean, she was worried?" she asked quickly.

"It's a long story," I said, realizing I had made a slip of the tongue. "I'll tell you another time — if Anat agrees, of course."

"Alright," she conceded to me. She had too many other things on her mind to start arguing with me. "What I wanted to tell you is that we thought — my mother and I — that you might very well be able to pull her out of the stupor she's sunk into. After all, you're her best friend, as far as we know, she's very fond of you. It's likely that you could help her..."

"I'll do anything in my power for Anat's sake!" I declared with feeling. "Do you want me to come there now, right away?"

"It's not a good idea," she suggested, "it's already nighttime. Better wait until tomorrow — even tomorrow morning. Can you miss school?"

"I can! I'm sure the mechanechet will let me!" I had no doubt about that. "Tomorrow morning I'll be at Anat's!"

Early the next morning I left my house for the central bus station. All my thoughts were of Anat. I thought her name, pronounced it mentally, whispered it... I anticipated seeing her, looked forward to conversing with her, very much hoping that it would be in my power to help her, in return for all that she had done for me.

As soon as I entered the room where she sat without shoes, on a mattress on the floor, in accordance with the customs of mourning, I realized that all my hopes had been in vain. Anat greeted me with a dull, glassy stare. For a moment I even doubted whether she knew who I was. I sat down, every muscle contracted, feeling that the blood had left my face. On other mattresses in the same room sat Anat's mother, grandmother, and three of her father's sisters. Anat sat off to one side, at a distance from them, as if deliberately cut off from them.

I waited for some time. I knew that the custom was not to begin speaking until the mourner spoke first. But how long could one wait! No one in the room

volunteered to utter a word. Finally I understood that Batyah had not exaggerated. I could sit and wait until tomorrow morning, and Anat would not open her mouth. I took the initiative and said:

“Anat, all the girls of the class send you their regards."

Her silence continued, she didn't even glance at me, as if I had been speaking to someone else.

I tried another tack. "The literature teacher gave back the tests. You got a hundred." She showed no interest at all. Her gaze remained fixed on the wall above me.

I gathered all my remaining courage and tried to say in a normal tone of voice: "The math teacher had a baby boy."

Anat didn't react. I felt helpless. Anat was like a block of ice. The two of us sank into a disturbing silence. No one in the room made a sound. Each one was withdrawn into herself. Every once in a while someone moved, adjusting her place on the mattress, changing to a more comfortable position. Anat's grandmother, whose eyes streamed with tears, wiped her face with a handkerchief. But those were the only signs of life in the room. My mouth was dry, not from talking, but from tension as I confronted their deep, unbearable sorrow. Hadassah rescued me.

"You must be thirsty, Tammi," she said to me suddenly. Her eyes, like everyone else's, were red and swollen. "You've been here quite a long time, and haven't drunk anything yet, you came a long way, go into the kitchen and drink something." Anat's mother nodded her head in agreement.

I jumped at the suggestion, which had come just in time. When I came back to the room, I felt much better. This time I chose a chair closer to Anat's place. I waited two minutes, then cleared my throat and began speaking, letting my glance meet that of everyone present in turn, but deliberately skipping Anat, though noting her reaction out of the corner of my eye.

"The mechanechet told us something very beautiful..." And I repeated what she had said about "He decrees and keeps." In one of my side glances at Anat I noticed that she had turned her head slightly towards me. My heart filled with an indescribable satisfaction. I went on relating the idea with more enthusiasm,

and when I stole a glance at Anat it seemed to me that a spark kindled in her eyes — and was immediately extinguished. My gaiety turned to serenity, to real joy... I had succeeded in arousing Anat from her frozenness, if only for a fraction of a second. I tried my strength at other stories that came into my mind at the moment, but to my sorrow the spark didn't appear again, it had been momentary and had disappeared immediately. Anat's look remained numb, she refused to accept the flash that could ignite a spark of life.

In the following days the mechanechet permitted us to visit Anat, in groups of three or four girls. All who returned from visiting her were shocked and desolated by sorrow and pain. They did not recognize this other Anat, who did not react to their coming, and did not grant any of them even one small, friendly word... Anat had cut herself off from everything around her, living in her own private world.

Every day that week I went to visit her, despite the fact that there was no change in her behavior towards me. I would sit down, speaking or remaining silent, looking at her or ignoring her. My heart was breaking inside me, "Anat, Anat!" I cried to her soundlessly, wordlessly. "Anat, be strong! Anat..." But my silent cry went unanswered. On the last day of the shiva I didn't go to visit her. The next day, too, I did not make contact, thinking that it would be better to give Anat another day to recover. It took all my strength to restrain myself and not telephone or go to visit her.

Deep in my heart I was hoping that she would be the one to initiate contact. But I knew that this hope was futile.

After letting two days pass, I phoned her, dialing her number with trembling hands. Would Anat agree to come to the phone? Would she want to speak with me, or was she still holding onto her silence? The telephone rang at her end, but no one picked up the receiver. I let it ring ten times, then hung up. After five minutes I tried again, but again there was no answer. At first I became a little panicky, but then I reassured myself.

Perhaps Anat and her mother had gone out? It certainly was not impossible. And perhaps, possibly Anat's mother had gone to work — that too was possible! And Anat, who for obvious reasons didn't want to stay home alone, would have gone to visit her grandmother, or her aunt... Yes, that was definitely reasonable! I

decided to phone Batyah's house first. I knew that family, more or less. In any case, my acquaintance with them was stronger than with her grandmother.

Hadassah answered the phone, and I told her who I was.

"I tried to phone Anat's house," I explained, "but they didn't answer. I thought Anat might be at your house."

"No," Hadassah replied, speaking slowly and very hesitantly. "Anat is not at our house."

"Perhaps you know where she is, or when she'll be home?"

"Anat is not in the country."

"What!" Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning.

"Yes, exactly. Anat and her mother have left the country."

"When? Why?" My heart refused to believe it. I thought that my ears were deceiving me, that I was hallucinating.

"Yesterday morning. I also didn't know they were planning to leave. No one in the family knew. Jenny phoned from the airport to tell us that in fifteen minutes they were getting on a plane to the United States. She left a lawyer in charge of the house."

"But why did they do that?" I stamped my foot in anger and tears burst from my eyes. Would I really never see Anat again? "Why? And without telling anyone... I don't understand! Anat couldn't at least phone me?"

There was a long silence at the other end, and then: "I also didn't understand... until I heard what my father had to tell... the story that Elitzur, of blessed memory, told him on the last night of his life..."

So the great secret had finally been revealed! My heart froze within me. "What did he say?" I asked in a voice not my own.

Hadassah sighed. "I can't tell you over the phone... We're all still emotionally affected by the tragedy. But in any case there's no need to tell you. Yesterday morning I found a letter in my box. It had no stamp, and on one side was

written: "Please give to Tammi Har-El. Thank you." On the other side was one word, "Anat."

I imagine that Anat went to the trouble to put the letter in my box before she left... apparently she didn't have time to mail it. No doubt in her letter you'll find the answers to your questions."

I was silent. Anat had written me a letter! If only Hadassah could send it to me right now, through the telephone...

"As soon as I saw the letter," Hadassah continued, "I dropped everything I was doing and ran to the post office. I mailed it express, and registered. You should get it today."

"Thank you very much!" I said. They sounded like simple words, but they contained limitless gratitude. I was extremely excited. I almost hung up, but Hadassah stopped me. "Just a moment, Tammi. We must stay in touch with each other. There are a number of things we don't know, and we're interested to hear them from you. Batyah said that you know something..."

"Not right now, Hadassah," I requested. "Another time. We'll certainly keep in touch... thanks for everything... see you later." And without waiting for a reply, I hung up. I know it was impolite of me, but I was impatient. I hope that's sufficient excuse for my behavior.

CHAPTER 11 - OLD FRIENDS

This is Anat's letter, which I received early that same afternoon. I won't attempt to add my own commentary, nor to describe what I went through when I read it.

Dear Tammi,

I'm writing to you in the early hours of the morning, after a

sleepless night. This morning, at the end of our shiva, when we

returned from visiting my dear father's grave, my mother informed

me that she wanted to tell me the great secret herself, and not to

wait for my grandfather. After I heard her out and knew

everything, I went through a great turmoil of emotions. I wasn't

quick to recover from it. But now that I've reached my decision

about what I must do, my first act is to sit down and write to you.

First of all, please forgive me for my behavior towards you during

the past few days. I was horrible, I know. I felt it — but I

couldn't act any differently. No one could understand what I've

gone through — and am still going through — but among all those

who can't understand, you, perhaps, can understand a little more.

You don't know — may you never know — how it is to live with

the feeling that you are the one who killed your father... and that's

exactly how I feel! A secret pursued him, disturbed and

tormented him, and that is what snipped the thread of his life.

And I didn't yet know what the secret was. Only on the last

day of the shiva, after we had ended the restrictions of the seven

days, and everyone had gone back to their own homes, did my

mother call me to speak with her. Weeping, begging me to

understand her and my father and forgive them despite the pain

and suffering they had caused me — more in the future than in the

past — she began her story. She explained to me repeatedly that

they had not meant any harm, had done everything with good

intentions... but all that does not change the reality.

I can't write you one short sentence, I must tell everything from

the beginning. You'll understand. What amazes me is how I

took it all with self-control, relatively speaking, and managed

easily to overcome my feelings. The suffering of the last few days

has left me apathetic — but not in the ordinary sense of the word. I

feel that something inside me has been disconnected, maybe the

power that produces emotions... something is passing over me, like a

giant wave breaking and engulfing me... and I don't yet know

how to save myself and escape from it.

This is the whole story:

I've told you before that when my father first began working for

the Israel Defense Department, he was sent to the United

States, and there he met my mother. I didn't tell you any more

details, because I didn't know any. But today I know — sit

down, Tammi, I don't want you to faint in the middle of this

letter. I'm not standing next to you, and can't hold you up.

My father was a young man of twenty-five, friendly, lovable,

and attractive. Very soon after his arrival in America he met my

mother, a twenty-four-year-old divorcee with a daughter aged five.

My mother had married at a very young age, when she was

hardly more than a girl, and the marriage hadn't worked out.

She left her husband, taking with her their little girl — Maggie,

as you know, who was then about three — and was quite satisfied

with her quiet life, until she met my father. It wasn't long until

they decided to marry. But at that point they encountered an

unexpected problem. After they had already made up their minds

to share their future together, my father became aware that my

mother, in fact, was not Jewish. She was a Christian. He asked

her to convert. From his point of view, since he had long since

abandoned the ways of his fathers, this was purely a formality.

My mother, on the other hand, didn't look at it that way at all.

She was satisfied with her religion, and Judaism didn't interest

her. My father didn't push the matter, and they were married in

a civil ceremony. A year later I was born — their sweet little

Anna. Or, as my father liked to call me, by my Hebrew name,

"Anat." Do you understand what is going on here, Tammi? I

hope you haven't fainted, that you haven't gone into shock. And

if you have, please regain consciousness and return to me. I'm

continuing.

My father wanted very much to come back to Israel, but was

afraid to bring with him his Christian wife. Although he was

far from being an observant Jew, that step gave him pause. He

knew it would be hard for his wife to become an Israeli citizen, for

she wasn't Jewish. He again tried persuading her to convert, and

in the end my mother gave in. But before she took this fateful

step, she wanted to find out what Judaism is. Together with my

father she went to a rabbi, who explained to her that in order to

become a good Jewish woman she would have to accept upon

herself, sincerely and whole-heartedly, the yoke of Torah and

mitzvot. When my mother heard the series of duties she would be

obligated to undertake as a Jewish woman, she announced in no

uncertain terms that she was not willing to convert! My father

explained to her that she could simply give an outward show of

converting, and once she received the signed certificate that she was

really Jewish, she could forget the whole thing. But it didn't

help, my mother refused. She was a sincere, truthful woman, and

was not willing to perform such an act of deception. Lacking any

alternative, they continued living in the United States. My

mother's study of computer science gave them an excellent excuse,

and my father's office agreed to extend his assignment in America.

But deep in his heart my father missed Eretz Israel, which he

loved very much, and which was far from him and, under the

circumstances, altogether beyond reach. In this way five years

passed. I was four at the time, and of course remember nothing.

But my mother told me the following incident: One day my

father came home with face aglow. "Mazal tov, Jenny!" he cried

joyfully, "you're problem is solved!" "What problem?" my mother

wondered. "You can convert without any difficulty." "But I'm

not interested in converting!" my mother declared. "That's an old

argument, which we've discussed a great deal already. I thought

the subject had been dropped a long time ago."

"You don't understand. Jenny," my father explained. "At that

time, you refused to convert because you didn't want to accept upon

yourself the yoke of the mitzvot. But now there's a wonderful

opportunity for you to convert without obligating yourself to observe

the mitzvot of the old-fashioned kind of Judaism..."

My mother looked at him incredulously, but willing to listen.

This wasn't what she had understood from the rabbi they had

gone to before. My father explained:

"Until now, if you had wanted to convert, you would have been

forced to do so in only one way: through the Orthodox Rabbis,

who would have piled up immeasurable, endless difficulties in your

way. Otherwise, the State of Israel would not have officially

recognized your conversion. The criteria of the Interior Ministry

until now were — and note that I said 'were' — that a Jew is one

who 'was born to a Jewish mother or was converted in accordance

with halachah.' And of course there's only one halachah — that of

the Orthodox Rabbis. This morning I heard news that

surprised me and made me happy at the same time: The

Supreme Court of Israel nullified the criteria of the Interior

Ministry! The religious party rose up in protest, and came to a

firm decision that the guidelines must be anchored in legislation, so

that the Supreme court would not have the power to nullify

them. This demand of the religious party was accepted, but the

new law that was put before the Knesset contained an alteration

that was not acceptable to the religious party. The altered law

now reads: 'A Jew is one who was born to a Jewish mother or

who was converted' — and the law in its altered form was passed!"

My mother was confused. "I don't understand. The situation

remains unchanged. I would still have to undergo that strange,

primitive ritual of conversion..."

"Absolutely not!" my father laughed. "Take note. One phrase

was left out of the new law: The phrase 'in accordance with

halachah' doesn't appear. What that means is that you don't have

to go to an Orthodox Rabbi to convert. I just happen to know a

Rabbi, a very nice young man, friendly and open-minded, who

will be willing to help us. He serves as the Rabbi of a Reform

congregation, and I'm sure he'll be willing to convert you without

putting obstacles in the way, and without superfluous rigmarole.

You won't have to obligate yourself to observe Torah and mitzvot.

Of course, we'll have to pay some money, but that's not so terrible.

It only amounts to five hundred dollars, and it will open up for

our whole family the gates of Eretz Israel."

All this was hard for my mother to believe. "How can such a

thing be possible?" she asked. "One rabbi converts one way, and

another converts some other way — to become a member of the same

religion! Are you sure that if we go through the rabbi you

mentioned I'll also be Jewish?"

"Without any doubt!" my father declared confidently. "Do you

accept the fact that the government of Israel is the decisive

authority in matters relating to the Jewish people? Yes. So listen

to what the minister of justice said." My father took a folded

newspaper clipping from his pocket and read to my mother the

words of the minister of justice of the State of Israel. The year

was 5730 (1970). I may not be quoting the exact words, but the

content is the same.

"The amendment to the law is different from the criteria that have

been in effect until now. The old criteria contained the phrase, 'in

accordance with halachah,' and that phrase has now been removed.

The meaning is very clear and simple. There are many Jewish

congregations. The Reform and Conservative congregations also

perform conversions. The amendment to the law serves to make

clear that anyone who comes with a certificate of conversion from

any Jewish congegration, as long as he is not a member of some

other religion, will be accepted as a Jew..."

"And now," my father announced with the joy of victory, "you're

coming with me to Rabbi Michael Ulman, and he will

explain to us what you have to do to become Jewish."

My mother had no reason to refuse. My father's proof, though it

sounded strange, convinced her. As a non-Jew, she had no idea of

the permanent disagreement between Torah-observant Judaism

and the non-observant governing authorities of the State of Israel.

She didn't know that the existence of the Jewish people is based on

the foundation of Torah and halachah, from which the non-

observant government of the State of Israel had cut itself off. For

her, the government of the State of Israel was the only authority

in Jewish matters, just as, for example, in American matters the

only authority with the power to make binding decisions is the

American government... The rabbi was very friendly, and

agreed to convert my mother without difficulty. "Usually," he told

her, "I give every candidate for conversion a book which spells out

the basic principles of Judaism. He must read and study it, and

I verify the conversion only after the candidate has taken a short

test on the contents — a test which is not difficult to pass. In your

case, the process will be simpler," he smiled at my mother. "Your

husband is a born Jew, and the very fact that you married him

already makes you half Jewish. Hence we can skip the

requirement to study the book." He filled out the necessary details

on the "certificate of conversion," told my mother "Mazal tov," took

the money, and handed over the piece of paper... and then he

noticed me, the little girl, who at that moment had decided to climb

up onto my mother's lap. "A cute little girl," he said, pinching

my cheek. "Your daughter, I assume?" My parents confirmed

his assumption. "Well," he said, clearing his throat a little, "since

the little girl was born before you. Jenny, received your certificate of

conversion, she is not considered Jewish according to the laws of the

State of Israel."

This difficulty, too, was overcome with surprising rapidity. On

that very same occasion I too received a "certificate of conversion"

similar to my mother's — excuse me, not completely similar, for

mine the rabbi took only two hundred fifty dollars — and I

instantaneously became Jewish...

Now the way was open for my father to return to Eretz Israel.

His wife and daughter were completely Jewish, and he was

tranquil and at ease. However, just as an extra precaution he took

an additional step. With my mother and me — and of course, with

our "certificates of conversion" — he went to the Israeli consulate in

his area. He presented the certificates and requested to register his

wife and daughter, who had converted, as candidates for

immigration to Israel, since the family now intended to move

there. The paperwork was accomplished without undue delay,

and, based on our certificates, we were registered as Jewish. At this

point my father took the liberty of tearing up the "certificates of

conversion," which had successfully served their purpose and were

now unnecessary. Within a short time we all came to Eretz

Israel, full-fledged Jews to all intents and purposes.

After some time passed my mother became more or less involved in

the internal goings-on of the State of Israel. Only then did she

realize that there was a long-standing disagreement on the question

of "Who is a Jew." Suddenly it became clear to her that the

matter was not as easy and simple as it had been explained to her

at first. She understood that in Israel there was a faction of no

small size — in fact, even very large — which opposed accepting her

type of convert into the Jewish people. Not being stupid, she also

realized that their position — that of the opponents — was in the

right. But by then it was too late for her to back out.

My mother realized that we had no choice but to keep up the

pretence. We couldn't tell anyone the truth about ourselves. Even

from me, who had a vital stake in the matter, she concealed the

truth. My mother didn't want to create a situation that would

lead me into a crisis when I got older. She also didn't want to

cause my father pain. But even aside from these considerations, in

fact, now that it had already happened — and especially since it

was not her fault — the whole matter was not that important to

her. After all, she had never understood what the Jewish people

is, or why it is special and different from the other nations. From

her viewpoint, it was no great tragedy if two Christian women

had converted, and their conversion was not acceptable to certain

elements within the Jewish people. What did it matter if they

continued living in the country of the Jews, and continued the

outward appearance of being Jewish?

Now do you understand, Tammi, why at the beginning my

parents tried to prevent me from doing teshuvah? They knew

that "doing teshuvah" didn't exactly fit the kind of conversion I

had undergone. It seemed ridiculous to them that their daughter,

who in fact was not Jewish, should "do teshuvah" and live

according to the Torah. So many questions have been cleared up

for me now! My mother's mysterious statements, which she

repeated so often... 'You'll yet see, Anat,' she would say to me,

'that one of these days you'll give it all up. Understand that all

this is not relevant to you... it's a superfluous burden,

unnecessary...'

And why did they object so stubbornly to Maggie's coming?

Because Maggie, my mother's daughter, was never Jewish!

And I worried about her so much... I recall now the day I sat

in your room and explained to Chagit how proud she should be

that she was Jewish — can you believe it? I, who myself have

never belonged to the Jewish people...

My poor, miserable father! Who could imagine the suffering he

must have gone through after he did teshuvah and realized what

had taken place... Of course his heart was torn to shreds whenever

he looked at me... his non-Jewish daughter! Now I understand

the meaning of his strange glances, his heart-rending sighs... and

he loved me so much! My poor father!

In my imagination I can see you now, Tammi. You must feel

terrible... I'm already getting over it myself. My feelings have

become blunted during these past days, I don't know what's

happened to me... Today my mother and I are leaving Israel.

We'll live in my parents old apartment, in New York State.

(I'm purposely not giving you my address.) That's a house that

has no memories of us — I was so little when I left it! So it won't

be hard for me to live there... I'll finally be able to meet my big

sister.

At night, after my mother told me her story, I thought for a

long time about everything that has happened to me in my life,

and especially during the past year. I recalled how my father did

teshuvah, his non-Jewish friend said to him: "G-d made me non-

Jewish, and apparently that's what I'm supposed to be. That's

my function in life, and I have to fulfill it..."

I'm going to try to live according to that theory. The truth is, I

don't know anything about my mother's religion — and mine —

Christianity. And a thought occurred to me: Perhaps after all

Christianity, and not the Jewish religion, is the true religion?

It's impossible to know without trying it. And I intend to try.

Shalom to you, my dear Tammi. I don't know if we'll ever see

each other again. Give my regards to my friends in the class, and

tell them for me that I enjoyed the year with them very much.

Anat — P.S. And this is very important:

It would be a very good idea to read this letter to the girls of the

class, and even to publicize it. Who knows, perhaps it might save

others from a fate similar to mine?

Even if Anat hadn't suggested it, I would have had to share the contents of her letter with someone. The first to read it — after me, of course — was my mother. Her eyes filled with tears. She was stunned, shocked, pained.

"To do such things to an innocent girl — it's terrible! Its a shocking injustice..."

"Mother," I reminded her gently, "Anat's father is already not among the living."

"You're right, Tammi," my mother sighed. "Undoubtedly he atoned for his sin when, just before his death, he revealed the secret and thus prevented a great tragedy. Just picture to yourself what would have happened if Anat had gone on living under the assumption that she was Jewish! She would have married a Jew and would have had good, cute sons who would have been educated in yeshivot, and nice daughters who would have gone to your school, perhaps... and they too would have married, becoming mixed into the Jewish people and flooding it with non-Jews. Who knows how many non-Jews are living today as Jews, in Eretz Israel too, but mainly in the Diaspora — and all this because of perverse stubbornness, not to add one phrase to the Knesset's Law of Return: '...in accordance with halachah...'

My father reacted in a similar way, and so did everyone to whom — after first erasing the lines referring to Chagit — I showed the letter. The next day, I gave Anat's letter to the mechanechet. She looked first at the envelope, then at me, and said, "During the break I'll look at it."

At the lesson following the main break, the mechanechet entered the class with a serious expression on her face. She indicated to us to sit down, and then announced:

"Don't take out any books. We will not have the Ketuvim lesson today." In reply to the questioning looks — I was the only one who wasn't surprised, I knew what was about to take place — the mechanechet continued: "I want to read you a letter which in fact is a shocking document. It's a letter that our friend Anat wrote to Tammi. There's no need for explanations, the letter speaks for itself."

Slowly, clearly, expressively, she began to read. The tragic story unfolded in front of our eyes as if it were happening at that moment — in front of my eyes, too, even though I had read the letter dozens of times.

Afterwards, we discussed it. We talked about the grave problem that had arisen due to the law which had already been in effect for ten years in the State of Israel, which permitted non-Jews to enter, as it were, into the Jewish people. For most of us, the subject was completely unfamiliar. There were a few girls in the

class who had heard of the issue of "Who is a Jew," but even they had not understood exactly what the problem was, and it had never occured to them that they should take the trouble to study the matter in depth. The problem didn't seem to concern them personally. But now, due to this unfortunate law, one of our friends had become the "heroine" of a sad story, a story that sounded far-fetched and unlikely, and yet all of us could testify to the accuracy of every word. Now we felt that the topic of "Who is a Jew" was much closer to us.

"And to think that Anat persuaded me that I should be proud of being Jewish," Chagit whispered to me in trembling. (She had been sitting in the seat next to me ever since Anat had been absent from school. But I had no need to worry, her mind — thanks to Anat — was no longer occupied with cooking up nonsense.)

"And that Anat chose, from the whole prayer service, to concentrate especially on the blessing, '...Who did not make me a non-Jew,' " I added my part.

"I'm stunned. I'm shocked. I don't have... I have no words!" Chagit said with feeling.

The whole school heard the story of Anat. For the next few weeks, we were the most popular class in the school. At every break we were visited by friends from other classes who wanted to hear again and again about Anat. They begged to listen, for the umpteenth time, to her tragic story, or just to learn more about her through everyday anecdotes. Of course I, who had been her best friend, involuntarily became the most sought-after conversation partner.

"That was the tall, pretty girl with the long blond braids?" one of the twelfth-graders asked me. "Its really unbelievable!"

"She seemed so refined... poor thing!"

I looked forward to the time when the storm over Anat would die down, if only so that everyone would leave me alone a little. And it did in fact die down, as does every event in this world of ours. Everything is forgotten as time goes on, giving place to new events, whether greater and more important, or smaller and less significant.

But even after everyone had stopped talking about Anat, I didn't stop thinking about her. I had been too close with her to forget about her. I tried to find out

where she was living and get her new address — and succeeded, after no small amount of effort. I wrote to my Aunt Shirley in America and asked her to find out Anat's address for me. She fulfilled this assignment with success, managing to extract from Maggie the present location of her mother and sister.

I wrote many letters to Anat, but didn't merit to receive an answer to any of them. I only got a reply when I finally asked her what to do with her mandolin, which was still in my house. The reply wasn't in Anat's handwriting. Someone else wrote: "Keep the mandolin for yourself. And please do not write again to Anat." I honored the request and didn't write anymore to Anat. On the other hand I did write to my Aunt Shirley, asking her to act as my private detective, keep track of Anat, and report to me about her every move. My Aunt, giving in to my imploring, from time to time kept me posted on the latest news about my friend.

Anat enrolled in a public high school near where she lived, and apparently Aunt Shirley didn't discover any unusual news, for the stories she wrote me were quite humdrum — until one day she told me in her letter that Anat had suffered another nervous breakdown, apparently more severe than the first, and had to be hospitalized in a special institution. It hurt me so much to read that! I thought that if Anat had been near me I would have held out the mandolin to her, and we would play music together. At first, no doubt, it would have been hard for her, but once she got started she certainly would have calmed down...

The next report was that Anat had overcome the attack, recovered her health, and been released from the institution. But she didn't remain long in her home. After about two weeks she left the house, together with her mother. They appeared ready for a long trip. A week later, the mother returned alone. Rumor had it that Anat had gone to learn in a seminary for nuns, with the intention of becoming a nun...

That was the last report I received from my Aunt Shirley, for from that time on we lost track of Anat.

Three years passed. Anat's memory didn't leave my heart, but also did not burn as it had at first. I learned to live without her, to miss her now and then — and to accept the fact that she was lost to me.

The fragrance of autumn wafted on the air of Jerusalem. The days were still hot, but the nights had become cool, and it was no longer possible to walk around at

night without a sweater. Autumn was knocking at the door — and with it the start of a new schoolyear. I had graduated very successfully from high school and enrolled in the seminar for teachers. Quite a few girls from my class were going on to the seminar with me: Peninah, Chedvah, Edna, Batyah, Orly, Ruth. Chagit didn't continue. She decided to enroll in a short course in graphics, and then begin working. She hadn't given up her eternal hobby of drawing. I don't think that any of us had forgotten Anat. All the same, we didn't speak of her often. On rare occasions someone would mention her name, wondering where she was now and what she was doing. As for me, I kept everything I knew locked in my heart.

One day towards the end of Elul I went, together with Chedvah, to wish a good new year to the teachers who had taught in high school — especially our mechanechet from the ninth grade, with whom we had maintained a closer connection than with any other teacher. She, too, did not ask about Anat, but deep inside me I knew she had not forgotten her.

When we were leaving, the mechanechet said to me, as if by the way: "Tammi, do you know who is in my new class this year? Anat's cousin."

The mention of Anat's name struck me like a blow, and for a moment I stood frozen to my place. I don't think the mechanechet noticed, for within a fraction of a second I had recovered.

"There she is." She pointed to a tall girl. As well as I could tell from the distance, she had brown hair, cut short. I made a fast mental calculation. At that time she had been in fifth grade... yes, that was little Michal... she had grown so tall in the last three years! But maybe she wasn't even the cousin I was thinking of? Maybe she wasn't the daughter of Hadassah and sister of Batyah, but some other cousin?

"Is her name Michal?" I tried.

"Right," the teacher answered. "Do you know her? Want to speak with her?"

"No, thanks," I hurried to say. "It's not necessary. I'm sure she's forgotten me by now."

Only once after Anat left had I met with her Aunt Hadassah's family. I told them everything Anat had gone through during the prev ious months, and also let them read her letter. Even though they knew the basic facts — from the

grandfather — they still were interested to know the story from the viewpoint of the one most vitally affected, Anat.

We had parted on good terms — and had never met again. I didn't have any special reason to renew my relationship with them, and I preferred to keep the memory of Anat guarded within me, in the way that seemed best to me, without sharing my thoughts and feelings about her with anyone.

Rosh Hashanah passed, the Ten Days of Teshuvah also went quickly by. On the eve of Yom Kippur I suddenly felt a strange yearning to go and pray Kol Nidrei at the Western Wall. I had no reason not to give in to this yearning, and even though this time Anat was not with me, I decided to go.

The look of Jerusalem's streets, flooded with humanity, was similar in every way to their appearance four years earlier — the same array of personages, the same varied styles of dress, the same sanctity and splendor. The Jewish people streamed in their multitudes towards the Western Wall, remnant of our Holy Temple, to pray that it be rebuilt speedily.

As I stood at the Wall, festival prayerbook in hand, I recited the prayers, but almost without being aware of what I was saying. I couldn't concentrate on the words, and kept glancing to my side. I was looking for Anat, just as I had been doing then, when she had stood beside me on the eve of Yom Kippur four years ago. She had prayed with intense devotion, and I had felt how she soared far above me — but this time, I didn't find her at my side.

The prayer-service ended. I turned to go home, swept along with the crowd of women and girls. I strode with everyone else along the walk that led to the exit gate from the Western Wall area. And suddenly — I stopped in my tracks, struck with wonder. In front, of me walked a nun, thin and tall, in a long, black dress... just like that nun who had so shocked Anat four years ago! She wore exactly the same white headpiece, the same crucifix around her neck, had that same serene look in her eyes. I was riveted to the spot. Women pushed and shoved me, but I didn't move. I stared at the nun with wide eyes. I too, like Anat then, wondered what she was doing beside the Western Wall on this sacred night. I wondered, because it was impossible that I was mistaken. The nun in front of me was — Anat! It was the same face, though older and more serious. But above all, those were the same eyes. She wore the clothes of a nun — but she was Anat!

For a moment I didn't know what to do. Should I go up to her? Call her name, speak with her? Now, with so many people around? But my feelings overcame all logic. I shouted out in a loud voice: "Anat!" and suddenly I found myself running toward her...

I imagine the people around me looked at me in amazement. What connection could there be between this Jewish girl and a nun? And on Yom Kippur, no less! But if people were wondering and astonished, I didn't see them. I saw only Anat.

"Tammi," she said to me, "tonight is the eve of Yom Kippur!" Then she turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd. I couldn't understand how she had done that, how she had managed to slip away from me with such great speed. I tried to follow her figure with my eyes, but the great crowd, the darkness, and the mist clouding my eyes made it impossible to do so. I couldn't see where she had gone.

All the same, as I walked home my feet hovered in the air above the pavement. "Anat is in Jerusalem, Anat is in Jerusalem!" a voice within me kept singing. Despite my disappointment at her rapid disappearance, I was excited. No! I wouldn't tell anyone about my discovery. I would keep it to myself, and in the meantime I would search for Anat. I would keep a close watch on my surroundings, look carefully at every nun who passed me... I had to find Anat and speak with her... had to know everything that had happened to her during these past years.

I wasn't quick to find her. Apparently she made an effort to stay hidden from me, and perhaps also from other acquaintances from the past whom she might run into in Jerusalem.

Another half year went by. One sun-drenched day in the month of Adar, I was walking through the streets of Jerusalem. Now as then, I enjoyed absorbing the clean, clear air of winter, the pure, bright atmosphere of Jerusalem. My eye caught a temporary booth that had been set up right in a bend of the street, a place where pedestrian traffic was particularly brisk. A large sign beside the booth proclaimed: "Join the million who have already signed the petition for the amendment of the law of 'Who is a Jew!' "

I gazed with satisfaction at the long line of Jews of every religious and political persuasion, every social stratum and walk of life, standing and waiting patiently

for their turn to add their signature to the important demand. It would be presented to the prime minister, in the hope that the call of a million of his country's citizens would make him stop and think, and he would take action in favor of the important amendment. I also noticed a few Arabs among those waiting. Perhaps there were other non-Jews who recognized the importance of the issue. I didn't get in line, since I had long since signed the petition, at the beginning of the campaign. The bus I was waiting for didn't arrive, so I went on standing there, moved by the sight of so many Jews who desired to preserve the specialness of their people, a holy nation. "Maybe at long last the law will be amended," I hoped in my heart. "Perhaps the terrible decree will be annuled!" They went up one by one, took the pen and signed, then made way for the next in line. Suddenly, I leapt from my place. Among those waiting I noticed two nuns, and when one of them turned her face in my direction, I discovered that it was Anat.

"Anat!" I called in a voice that was not my own, "Anat, please... wait!"

With measured, deliberate steps, she left the line. "Tammi," she said to me before I could get a word out, "we live now in two different worlds, and they are very far from each other... please, don't force me to leave the Jerusalem I love so much!"

"But..." I tried. She silenced me. "I can't talk with you long. It's impossible for me to have a friendly conversation with you. As I wrote to you at the time, I'm trying it, examining, investigating. It will take time. Perhaps," she added, in a barely audible voice, "perhaps we'll yet meet, one of these days..." And once again she slipped away and vanished from me.

I didn't try to run after her. My disappointment was intense. I didn't think about her concluding words, which she had whispered. I didn't try to fathom their meaning. All I knew was that Anat was not interested in speaking with me. I tried to overcome my pain through forgetfulness, tried to make myself stop thinking about Anat, to forget her — but I didn't succeed.

The mandolin was a great help to me in times of distress. When I felt that my sorrow was getting stronger, or unbearable pain threatened to overwhelm me, I would take the mandolin, sit in my room, and play it. I would also take out Anat's mandolin, set it on the bed beside me, and look at it occasionally while I

played. Would the day ever arrive when Anat would sit beside me, as in those fine past days, and we would play our mandolins together?

Two more years passed, two years during which I didn't see Anat even once. One summer evening, just as the sky was reddening with the setting sun, I sat in my room and played the mandolin. I hovered in another world, pondering and envisioning without knowing what I pondered and envisioned. My fingers fluttered over the strings. They no longer hurt, it was no longer difficult for them to form the chords. Those days were long past, in which Anat had just begun to give me music lessons. A light knock on the door interrupted my reveries. I stopped playing and listened. Silence. My parents weren't home. My brother Arik already learned at a yeshivah for young men, where he boarded. Boaz learned at a yeshivah for highschool-aged boys where he, too, lived in a dorm. Shuki and Natti also weren't home. They had gotten older, and already learned until late in the evening at their Talmud-Torah. I was alone in the house. I had nearly decided that it was only my imagination, and was about to begin strumming again — when again I heard a knock, this time a little louder. I got up to go to the door.

Anat stood there in front of me, embarrassed, smiling shyly. It was the Anat I had once known. With two long, bright braids trailing behind her shoulders. With that serious- mischievous look in her eyes. She no longer wore the clothing of a nun. She stood before me in completely ordinary clothes and for a moment I thought everything that had happened until now had only been a bad dream that dissolved, and that we were two friends who still learned together in the ninth grade...

"Aren't you going to let me in?" Anat asked in a soft voice.

"Of course!" I hurriedly stepped aside, still completely confused. "Excuse me..."

"I heard the sound of the mandolin," she said in her quiet, refined voice, "and I guessed that it was you playing. I've been sitting for half an hour on the wall outside, listening. You play wonderfully!"

In the meantime we had reached my room. Anat stood at the door — and stopped, turning pale.

"What's that?" she whispered, pointing to the other mandolin, which was on a chair.

"That's your mandolin." I didn't understand the reason for her astonishment.

"Is that how..." she said slowly, "...I didn't know... Do you always take it out when you play?"

I turned red. "Always!" I declared, and in my heart I thought: "Strange girls! For five years they've hardly seen each other, and haven't talked at all, and neither one has any idea of what's been happening to the other — and what do they talk about when they finally meet!"

"Do you want to play some music together?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, picked up her instrument and took her regular place at my side. "It's been five years since I've touched the mandolin..." she whispered in a dreamy voice, "but I haven't forgotten how to play it. It's good that you saved my mandolin for me, Tammi."

"I was waiting for you," I whispered.

"I know," she replied.

"I knew you would come back," I continued.

"And here I've come back," she said in a restrained voice.

"Is it true you've come back, Anat. Have you really come back?..." There were tears in my eyes — and in hers, too.

"I've truly and completely come back — with everything that implies."

"How did it happen, Anat?" I dared to ask — after all, was she my best friend, or not? "Tell me what you've been through since you left!"

"I've been through very much," she said in a quiet voice, "...very much, and it's even been very interesting. But, thank G-d, I can say 'I've been through it,' in the past tense. Those things are done and gone. Everything that happened, didn't happen to me. It was another Anat, or Annie, or Anna, or call her what you will. But it wasn't I. The person sitting in front of you now is a new, different Anat... an Anat who tried it out, and investigated — and arrived at the truth." She

hesitated a little, biting her lower lip, and then said quickly, as if trying to escape from something — perhaps from the past, which all the same was still on her mind? "And this time my certificate of conversion is kosher and real, given in accordance with the halachah. Let's play the mandolins, Tammi."

I picked up my mandolin, trying to identify the song she was playing, so I could join in with her. After a moment we played and sang together, our voices blending into one voice:

"Atah echad, ve-shimcha echad, u-mi ke-amcha Yisrael, goi echad ba-aretz — You are One, and Your name is One, and who is like Your people Israel, one nation on the earth!"

" 'Who is like Your people Israel,' " Anat murmured in a dreamy voice, " 'one nation on the earth...' But nowadays — oh! When will the breach be closed that allows many nations to penetrate into our people?" she asked, and the question was almost a cry.

Her cry remained unanswered.

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