This was written some 17 years ago...

Just Three Days

 

This is a true story. Yes, of course we know that Hashem runs the world. But some times it appears more obvious.

 

Sunday morning, three o’clock, Yerushalayim

 

I quietly tiptoe to the kitchen and try to remain calm while dialing the San Francisco number. I wait impatiently until a stranger answers the phone in the hospice and gently informs me that my father’s bed has been vacated. Although the house is silent, I am screaming inside.

 

On Friday afternoon, just a few moments before ushering in the Shabbos queen, I had been told it was only a matter of minutes. The rav had instructed me to begin sitting shivah the moment I would hear of my father’s death. Now, in the pre-morning stillness, I quietly tear my blouse to fulfill the requirement of kriah and begin sitting.

 

9:00 a.m.

 

Life, death, weddings … so much has happened in the last year.  Soon we will be marrying off a child, our third within seven months. Three weeks ago, I spent Shabbos in the hospital, helping my daughter give birth to my new granddaughter. Two weeks ago, we hosted a kiddush in shul. This past Shabbos was spent with the knowledge that my father was probably not alive. Next Shabbos I’ll be in the midst of shivah, and the following Shabbos we’ll be celebrating my son’s ufruf, and then Shabbos sheva brachos.

 

Isn’t it strange how we measure time with Shabbos?

 

My husband returns from shul and informs me that after hearing more details, the rav decided that I should begin sitting shivah from the time of the funeral. That would be Tuesday night Israeli time, late Monday morning Pacific time. I phone a travel agent to ask if it’s possible to make it to San Francisco in time for the funeral.

 

10:05 a.m. 

 

The travel agent returns my call. There is a flight leaving Ben Gurion for Newark, New Jersey, at 11:30 a.m. The ticket will be waiting for me at the airport. My connecting flight from Newark leaves at 6 p.m.; the travel agent, however, cannot issue a ticket for that flight as there is less than two hours leeway.  Once I land, I will have one hour to buy a ticket and catch the connecting flight to San Francisco.

 

My husband orders a taxi while I locate my American and Israeli passports. I notice that my American passport expires in another ten days.

 

Since I cannot use my Israeli checks or credit card in the United States, I need cash to purchase the ticket in Newark. I have $950 in cash. I had planned to use it to pay for my son’s wedding hall. I stuff the $950 into my wallet before grabbing an overnight case and throwing my pajamas and my husbands slippers (which looked as though someone had already torn kriah on them) inside.

 

As I run to the taxi, my neighbor comes out with a bag of food for the way. But I can’t think of eating.

 

10:40 a.m.

 

We’re stuck behind a truck, and I feel as though I’m about to explode. Doesn’t that driver realize that he’s slowing us down? I must catch that plane. 

 

I understand why an onen ‑- a close relative of the deceased -- is not allowed to fulfill positive mitzvos such as davening or reciting a bracha. I cannot think of anything, except the mitzvah of burying my father.

 

11:00 a.m.

 

We arrive at Ben Gurion Airport. I race to the check-in counter. They send me to the ticket counter. Pushing myself to the front of the long line of people waiting to purchase tickets(and hoping the people there will judge me favorably) I quickly tell Rivka, the woman manning the counter, that the travel agent had told me that my ticket would be waiting for me.

 

But there is no ticket. For Rivka to issue a ticket at such a late hour, I would need Yitzchak’s approval.

 

I sprint over to Yitzchak, only to find him deeply engrossed in a phone conversation. I try to catch his attention.

 

Yitzchak finally finishes his conversation -- and lets me know that he cannot give the approval. “That’s Rivka’s job” he explains in between phone calls.

 

11:07 a.m.

 

Back to Rivka. She reiterates that she needs Yitzchak’s approval. My husband has joined me, and together we jog to Yitzchak while I quickly explain the problem. Yitzchak finally finishes another phone call and tells me that it’s not in his hands. Only Rivka can issue a ticket. We return to Rivka.

 

Just before we reach the ticket counter, Rivka yells, “I have your ticket!”

 

I take out my checkbook. “You’ll pay the travel agent when you return,” shouts Rivka. “Hurry! Just go!”

 

11:15 a.m.

 

I race to the check-in counter, but they send me for a security check. There’s a long line of passengers waiting to be checked.

 

“Who’s your boss?” I scream. My fellow passengers are angry with me for disrupting their check-in. I hear people whisper, “She could have come a little earlier.”

 

Someone sends me across the room to a senior security guard, but he refuses to check my one carry-on bag at such a late hour without Yitzchok’s authorization.

 

Back to Yitzchak! I  am on an emotional roller coaster.

 

11:24 a.m

 

Yitzchak is talking on the phone again. I don’t know if I should scream in frustration or just forget about the trip. He closes the phone and nonchalantly informs me that it’s too late for me to make the flight. 

 

“Security and passport control takes at least half an hour, and the flight is leaving in less than ten minutes,” he explains.

 

“But if you took me through, I could still make it,” I plead.

 

He shrugs his shoulders.

 

My husband and I slowly return to Rivka. “Perhaps you can travel through Europe,” my husband tries to encourage me.

 

The moment Rivka sees us, she jumps up with eyes ablaze. “What a chutzpah! I’m going to get you on that plane!”

 

 My emotions are careening.

 

11:28 a.m.

 

Rivka and I race through the airport. Security? I get pushed to the head of the line (let those people fume). It’s the end of December, and the airport is packed with tourists returning home after their holiday. We push our way through crowds, jumping over suitcases.

 

Both Rivka and I are panting as we finally reach the loading gate. Rivka grabs the personnel phone and orders a car to take me directly to the plane.

 

I do not know how to express my gratitude to this wonderful woman. Tears spring to my eyes. Finally, I manage to catch my breath enough to thank her, but she just says that she hopes I will make the flight. As I get into the car, she says the traditional words of consolation:  “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

 

Her words are like a balm to my soul.

 

11:35 a.m.

 

The car races across the tarmac. In the distance, I see the stairs being removed from the plane.  The car stops next to the plane and I run out, leaving my overnight bag inside, screaming “rega, reeegaaah!” (one moment, one moment) at the top of my lungs.

 

The army officer standing in front of the plane waves his arms and shakes his head to let me know that I cannot board the plane.

 

“That’s my plane! Let me on,” I yell.

 

“Forget it, it’s gone!”

 

“It’s not gone, it’s right here,” I argue.

 

“Forget it, lady. It’s gone. ”

 

“It’s not gone. It’s right here,” I repeat.

 

“It’s gone. We’ve taken away the stairs. The door’s sealed. You cannot get on that plane. It's against the law.”

 

“I have to get to my father’s funeral. If I miss this flight, I’ll miss the funeral.”

 

“Lady, catch another plane.”

 

 I am desperate. I look the officer straight in the eye and say, “You have an opportunity to perform an incredible mitzvah -– chessed shel emes –- by enabling a Jewish daughter to go to her father’s funeral. How can you pass up such an opportunity? Just think of the reward you are letting slip through your fingers!”

 

“Lady, you have more chutzpah than brains. Go, and may the Almighty-d comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

 

He radios for the stairs to be returned and I am allowed to board the plane.

 

 

11:42 a.m.

 

The plane takes off. I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

My mind goes back to the conversation I had earlier that morning. My sister told me how the entire family had converged in my father’s room just minutes before he passed away. My niece had arrived directly from the airport.  My father’s wife had been home sleeping when a “wrong number” woke her up. The rabbi just “happened” to walk in and say Shema with my father. And then, a few moments later, he returned his soul to his Maker, in the presence of most of his family. The hand of God was so very obvious.

 

11:46 a.m.

 

A strike closes Ben Gurion Airport, leaving a large number of holiday tourists stranded. The airport reopens twelve hours later. My plane was the last flight to leave before the airport.

 

The steward serves lunch, and I request a glatt kosher meal. A few minutes later the steward returns and apologizes, “We only have one extra glatt meal. It’s fish. We're out of meat meals.”

 

Later, I learn that an onen is prohibited from eating meat.

 

5:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time (midnight Monday in Yerushalayim)

 

The plane lands in Newark, New Jersey. I have one hour to catch my connecting flight. I arrive in a cavernous room mobbed with people waiting on a snake-like line for passport control. It will take at least two hours to get to the head of the line.

 

I run to the woman directing people to the end of the line and try to explain that I have to catch a plane to attend my father’s funeral. She bellows, “EVERYONE’S gotta wait at the end of the line.”

 

I obediently take my place in the line. The snakelike line weaved back and forth with ropes to keep the lines separate. Turning to the person standing on the other side of the rope, I plead, “Please, could I go ahead of you. I have to catch a flight to my father’s funeral.”

 

I find myself being pushed through the lines as I crawl beneath the ropes. From above, I can hear people telling each other that I am traveling to my father’s funeral, and to let me through. At one point, I lift my head and the rope above me snaps. The room fills with flashing strobe lights. But I am almost out the door.

 

5:15 p.m.Eastern Standard Time

 

It’s the holiday season and the airport is mobbed. I have no idea where I am supposed to go, nor can I remember the name of the airline that I am supposed to fly.

 

I look at the posted listing of flights, but there are no flights headed to San Francisco, nor do I see any information booths. I frantically run through the airport looking for someone to help me. I see a uniformed man standing near the entrance to the train station that connects the terminals.

 

 “S’cuse me,” I begin, barely able to breathe. “I have to catch a six o’clock flight -- at least I think it’s at six o’clock -- to San Francisco. But I can’t remember the name of the airline I am supposed to fly.”

 

He asks to see my ticket.

 

“I haven’t purchased it yet. But I can’t remember the name of the airline,” I try to explain.

 

The man is incredulous. “You don’t have a ticket and you can’t remember the name of the airline. Are you sure you want to fly to San Francisco?” he drawls.

 

But the moment I explain the circumstances, his expression softens. “I’ll make a few phone calls,” he says, walking to the nearest phone booth.

 

A few minutes later he informs me that there is a six o’clock flight to San Francisco, but it is overbooked and reserved passengers are being bumped. I decide to try to get on that flight.

 

5:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

 

I take the train to the proper terminal and dash to the ticket counter. I decide that if I don’t succeed in getting to San Francisco, I will remain in Newark and return on the next plane to Israel. But please, Hashem, I pray, let me make it.

 

Someone makes room for me at the head of the first-class line. I explain to the ticket agent that I need a flight to San Francisco, preferably the flight that is scheduled to leave in less than twenty minutes.

 

The woman at the ticket counter informs me that the cost of a roundtrip ticket to San Francisco is $1,600. I am flabbergasted. “But I don’t have the money, and I must get to my father’s funeral.”

 

“A funeral?” the woman asks. “I’ll speak to my superior and see if you’re eligible for a bereavement ticket.”

 

The bereavement ticket costs $945. I left Israel with $950. I pay for the ticket and am left with five dollars cash. The flight is overbooked, so I am traveling standby.

 

6:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

 

Huffing and puffing, I arrive at the boarding gate. The flight is full.  I explain to woman there why I must get on this particular flight. Although the computer shows no extra seats, she boards the plane for a head count. Several minutes later, she returns to inform me that there is one extra seat.

 

The young Chinese woman sitting next to me starts a conversation. I tell her about the incredible Divine Providence that I am experiencing as I travel to my father’s funeral. She begins to cry as she tells me that her family lives in mainland China. She fears that if something were to happen to them, she would not make it home on time. My heart goes out to her.

 

I remember coming to Israel, just short of my eighteenth birthday. I wanted to build, to live in the palace, to be close to the King. At the time I was unaware of the difficulties of being so far away from my family -- of raising my children without aunts, uncles, cousins, and of course grandparents; of feeling alone and vulnerable in the face of sickness and old age. Had I known of the difficulties, I am certain I would have still made the same decision. Yet I feel the pain of being so far away and helpless, and appreciate this young woman’s empathy.

 

 

10:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time (Monday 8 a.m. Israeli Time)

 

My flight is scheduled to arrive in another hour. It is almost twenty-one hours since I left Tel Aviv and more than twenty-eight hours since I found out that my father was gone.

 

What will I do when I arrive at the airport? The funeral is in the morning. It’s a two hour drive to my father’s home. I feel uncomfortable calling at such a late hour. I am sure my family is exhausted from their ordeal, just as I am exhausted from mine.

 

11:20 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, San Francisco International Airport.

 

I start looking for a quiet bench to spend the night when a young man dressed in black approaches me. “Nice guys wear black, Mrs. Shapiro. I am your escort and will take you wherever you need to go.” I am overwhelmed.

 

“A malach, a living angel,” I exclaim. “How can I ever thank you?”

 

Yerachmiel, a recent baal teshuva, is floored by my reaction.

 

On the way to a the Chabad rabbi’s home, not far from the airport, Yerechmiel  explains how he had come to pick me up at the airport that evening. My husband had informed the Rabbi that I would be on that plane (golly, I didn’t even know I would be on that  plane!), and asked if someone in the community could meet me at the airport..

 

Monday

 

Everything is a blur of exhaustion and emotions … Kisses, hugs, tears.  I bury my father and remove my shoes to begin the shivah.

 

Tuesday, 4:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

 

I had spent the night at a luxurious hotel not far from my father's home, together with my two nieces. Trying not to wake them, I quietly get dressed to meet my airport shuttle. I am embarrassed to walk through the airport in my husbands torn slippers, so I don my leather shoes. Just as I am about to tie the laces, it tears in half. The woman at the reception desk informs me that the hotel is out of shoelaces. I have no choice but to wear my shivah shoes.

 

7:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

 

The flight is scheduled to leave in one hour. I am seated on a chair, reciting Tehillim. When I look up, I notice a large group of middle-age tourists making themselves comfortable on the plush carpet. I realize that if they can sit on the floor without embarrassment, so can I. I lower myself (or perhaps I should say raise myself) to the floor.

 

9:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Newark Airport

 

I cannot wait to return to the warmth of my family. Shivah is not a time to be alone. Although I am surrounded by people, there is no one to share my pain, no one to console me.

 

I board the plane. As I begin to settle into my seat, the woman in the row ahead of me turns around to ask a question. She notices that my blouse is torn and realizes that I am a mourner.

 

“If you want to talk, I am here, and if you wish to be alone, that’s fine with me,” she says.

 

I am overwhelmed by her empathy. She concludes with the traditional words of consolation -- May the Almighty console you amongst the mourners of Zion Jerusalem.

 

Shiru Lashem Shir Chadash as appeared in Binah Magazine

Certain events are etched into our collective memories. Anyone who lived in Yerushalayim ten-and-a-half years ago remembers exactly where they were when they first heard about the horrific bombing of the number two bus line. For most of us, there was fear as we waited to hear the names of the dead and wounded, and then a sense of relief at learning that all our loved ones were accounted for. The following day, when we heard the cars circling the neighborhoods announcing the funeral times of the victims, we shuddered and shed a few tears. By the next day we had returned to our routine lives. But some didn't have that privilege.

As heard from Orah Cohen:

My story begins on the twenty-first of Av, 2003. It was boiling hot, and my five children were cranky from being cooped up in the house all day. My youngest was just one month old, and like every new mother, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. I was also feeling extremely lonely. It was summer vacation. All my friends were busy going on trips with their extended family, but as I had immigrated to Israel just nine-and-a-half years before, I had no extended family in the country.

I decided to take the children to the Kosel. I knew that they would enjoy watching all the people at the Kosel plaza. I was looking forward to the opportunity to thank Hashem for giving me such wonderful children. Despite my sense of loneliness and difficult circumstances, five beautiful, healthy children is a true present from Above.

I quickly got dressed and (not so quickly!) got my children ready to go out. Within an hour, I was the happiest mother in the world. I remember sitting near the Kosel, watching the three older children (my oldest was almost eight) davening. They were so sweet and sincere. Afterwards, they watched the baby while I went to daven. As I stood facing the ancient stones of the Kosel, my davening took on a strange sense of sense of urgency. At the time, I assumed it was nothing more ominous than the result of my being a new mother. My children were so beautiful, and healthy — so why did I have this strange sense of fear? I found myself davening for my children's health. "Hashem," I pleaded. "Keep my children, and all Jewish children, healthy and whole."

Tears sprung to my eyes. I recalled a Holocaust story  I had heard, about a mother pleading with a Nazi soldier not take her children from her. The Nazi laughed and said, "You can choose only one. The others must die." My prayers took on a new intensity. I begged Hashem to never put any Jewish mother in such a horrible situation, ever again.

Afterwards, when I walked to the back of the Kosel plaza and saw my children playing together – they were so happy to have escaped the four walls of our tiny apartment – I had to force back my tears.

It was getting late. I was anxious to return home; I still had to make supper and put the children to bed. We arrived at the bus stop and found it packed with families; lots of strollers, toddlers, and babies in their mothers' arms. There was a bus standing there, almost ready to leave. I tried to get on, but it was impossible. There was no choice but to wait for the next bus. 

We were among the first to board the bus and found seats near the middle door.  More and more people pushed their way onto the bus, so by the time we left, the bus was so jam packed I didn't think another person could have fit in. At the first stop on Shmuel Hanavi Street, some people got off the bus. As the bus started to pull away from the curb, people yelled at the driver to stop. Two elderly men were pushing their way through the crowd, trying to get off the bus. The bus let them off and then, just as it began to move, I saw a Chassidishe man run up to the bus, forcefully pull the closing doors open, and jump inside. With his long peyos and Chassidishe dress, he looked like everyone else, except that he had an unusually large stomach (I later learned that he was the terrorist, and that I was the only survivor to have seen him). As the bus left the bus stop, a father with four young boys tried to get it to stop and let them on. I noticed their looks of disappointment as the bus left without them. A strange thought rushed into my head, the thought that "you're disappointed? Maybe that disappointment saved your life!"

MY WORLD WENT BLACK

Suddenly, my world went black. A strong force pushed me to the floor. Everything started spinning, and all I could see was fire raging underneath me. My baby fell from my arms into the abyss, and the roof of the bus collapsed on top of me.

It took me a few seconds to realize that this was a terrorist attack. I couldn't think of anything but my children. Where were they? Were they alive? Were they all alright? In my mind, I heard a voice telling me to choose one. I had just stood at the Kosel, davening to Hashem that He never put any Jewish woman in that situation. "Please. Hashem," I cried. "Don't force me to choose! Return all my children to me."

I have no idea how much time I remained there, but soon I felt someone lift me out of the roofless bus and place me on the pavement. I didn't want to be there.  I tried to get up and race back to the bus to save my children, but I couldn't move. So I just screamed that my baby had fallen into the fire, that I had five children on the bus, and pleaded with the people around me to save them. I noticed someone place a man on the pavement next to me. He had no arms. I begged Hashem that He return my children whole.

Eventually someone lifted me into an ambulance. I begged the paramedics to let me stay – I wanted to be there when they found my children. I was in pain – I had numerous broken bones and damage to my ear – and of course I was in shock, but all I could think about was my precious children. At the hospital, a reporter from one of the newspapers asked me how many children I had. I responded, "An hour ago, I had five children. Now, I don't even know if I am still a mother."

In the emergency room, one of the social workers informed me that they were searching all the hospitals in Yerushalayim for my children. After a few hours, they returned with good news: I was still a mother. My three older children were together with me at the same hospital. Although they were injured and had to go through many painful medical treatments (and ten years later, we still have more to go through), they were alive, and all their body parts were intact.

Three hours after the explosion, my one-month-old baby was discovered under the dead body of the terrorist! He was barely breathing, had a broken hip, an infection in his eyes and ears, and his lungs were full of smoke, but he was alive. For hours, announcements had been made on all the radio stations in the country asking if anyone could identify him, until someone finally put two and two together and asked me to describe what he was wearing.

One of the reporters asked me the baby's name. Suddenly, it dawned on me - why, one month before, I had chosen to call him Elchanan – which means Hashem will show mercy. Yes, Hodu l'Hashem ki tov, Hashem had shown mercy on my child, and he was miraculously saved from death.

Now four of my children were accounted for, but I still had no idea what happened to my one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Shira. Later that night, a social worker entered my room and asked me what Shira was wearing. I told her she was wearing light blue overalls and black shoes. She took Shira's shoes out of a black plastic bag and showed them to me. I became hysterical. I was afraid that the social worker was about to tell me that my child was no longer among the living.  Instead, she informed me that Shira was alive, and that she was located at a different hospital. She didn't tell me that my sweet, beautiful Shira was severely injured. I later found out that she couldn't show me Shira's clothes because they were badly soiled by her blood. The shoes had been well scrubbed before she showed them to me.

The following morning I was flooded with love and caring. Everyone wanted to visit me, to give me words of chizuk, to ask what they could do for me. Jews from all over the world, from Japan, Taiwan, Paris, South Africa, the United States, England, South America, and elsewhere, came to express their pain at what I had gone through, and offer me words of encouragement and support.  I felt so connected and cared for. Their love was a balm for my soul. Until then, I had no family to support me. I felt completely alone. Suddenly, Am Yisrael became my family, and today, ten years later, many of the people I met during those difficult days are still like family to me. They were with me to give me the strength to continue, and today, they are still there for me.

Sometime during that first day, my three older children were brought to my room and allowed to remain. Although I continuously requested that Shira be brought to my hospital, I was refused with flimsy excuses about hospital policy. I probably would have gone crazy with worry, except that my room was constantly filled with visitors, so I didn’t have an opportunity to think. I felt that all of Am Yisrael was with me, supporting me through this very challenging time, k'ish echad b'lev echad.

On Friday morning, two-and-a-half days after the bombing, the social worker entered my room and requested that all the visitors leave. My children were also taken out. "Your daughter keeps on crying for you," she began, "so we decided to transfer her to this hospital. We know that you are a very strong mother. Now, when you see her, you must continue to be strong. You must accept her the way she looks, now. Eventually, with treatment and surgery, she'll return to what she once was. But now, just remain strong and show her your love."

A short while later, a doctor entered the still empty room holding what appeared to be a piece of raw flesh. Before I had a chance to say that they had made a mistake, that this shapeless form could not be my exquisitely beautiful Shira, the form screamed, "Ima!" and fainted.  

Shira's body was full of shrapnel. In addition, three shards had penetrated her left eye. Her eye was infected, and the infection was spreading throughout her body. The doctors were positive that they would have to remove the eye to stop the infection and save my daughter's life.

I remained hospitalized for ten days. Shira was there for twenty days.

When I returned home, Klal Yisrael was there for me, at my side, holding my hand. My children were recovering from serious injuries while trying to get over their emotional trauma. Because of the injury to my inner ear, I was constantly dizzy and barely able to stand up, let alone run a household. And I looked as though I had been in a terrorist attack: my nose and jaw were broken, and I was what you could call a very colorful sight. 

Volunteers constantly appeared at my doorstep to read the children stories, to help them get them dressed, to give them their baths, and cook them their meals. I felt wrapped in a cocoon of their love and concern, and it was very empowering. They were there for me, and because of that, I was positive that together with my children, we would rebuild our lives and get through this very difficult time.

SURGERY TO SAVE SHIRA'S EYE

The surgery to remove the shrapnel and clean the infection from Shira's eye was scheduled for the week after I returned home. A world-renowned specialist at Hadassah Hospital agreed to perform the operation. Our prayers were answered, and he succeeded in saving Shira's eye. For the rest of my life, I will view him as a malach from Hashem.

The night before the surgery, I contacted my children's schools and my friends and asked them to daven for Shira bas Orah. Within a few hours, I received a phone call that people throughout the world were reciting Tehillim for my daughter. On the morning of the surgery, while driving with a friend through the side streets of Yerushalayim to reach the main highway, we saw taxis with loudspeakers on their roofs announcing that Shira bas Orah, a child injured in the bombing, was undergoing surgery and requesting that people daven for her refuah. Even after the surgery, I constantly received phone calls from schools, seminaries, and yeshivos letting me know that they were davening for my daughter's recovery. Mi k'amcha Yisrael!  

Four months after the first surgery, my daughter underwent another major operation. This time I decided to divide the entire sefer Tehillim among a group of thirty ladies. Instead, it was divided five times, among hundreds of women! Total strangers volunteered to recite Perek Shirah and Shir Hashirim, and to refrain from speaking lashon hora, all as a zechus for my daughter. I have no idea who these people were, but I felt their love. I am positive that it was due to their tefillos, as well as the the doctor's compassion and expertise, that the surgery was a huge success.

Today, as well, there are people around the world davening for Shira's refuah.  I recently spoke before a group of American women about my daughter. Afterwards, one of the women came over to me and said, "Even though I never met you before, for the last ten years I have been davening for Shira bas Orah." We hugged, and I felt as though I had found a long-lost relative.

TEN YEARS LATER

Ten years after the bombing, our family is still coping with the aftermath. The children have undergone multiple surgeries, and, as they grow older, there will be more. But basically, my children are fine. They have all their body parts, their scars have healed, and they are doing well in school. It's an absolute miracle.

And what about Shira? She recently turned twelve, and celebrated her bas mitzvah together all the girls in her class. It was incredible act of hashgachah pratis that the school party for four parallel sixth grade classes took place on the actual day of her bas mitzvah, which was one of the reasons (but I'm sure not the only reason!) that they asked be represent the girls and deliver a speech to all the guests.

The large hall was packed with hundreds of proud mothers and some older sisters, yet, as Shira spoke, there was total silence. "When I was just one- and-a-half years old," she began, "as a result of the bombing of the number two bus, dozens of shrapnel shards penetrated my body. There were three pieces in my left eye. The retina in my left eye was torn, and seven out of my nine teeth were broken.  On the way to the hospital, my heart stopped, and the paramedics performed CPR on me. I arrived at the hospital unconscious, and not breathing. There was little hope for my survival…since then, I have had many surgeries, and need to undergo more surgeries in the future. I survived, and as a result, my life is different. The bombing built my family in a way that we could have never imagined. Our life revolves around emunah – emunah in the power of tefillah, emunah in the power of Am Yisrael's chessed…"

Shira continued. "One-and-a-half years ago, on the ninth anniversary of the bombing, my family went to the Kosel, like we do every year, to remember what happened, and to thank Hashem for having returned our life to us. As we passed Shaar Shechem, Arabs pelted the bus with huge stones, and continued do so for some fifteen minutes. The bus windows shattered, and everyone was left shocked and frightened. Although physically we were not injured, emotionally, we were traumatized. Ten-and-a-half years have passed since the first attack, one-and-a-half years since the second. Despite all the physical and emotional scars, I have merited to reach the age of bas mitzvah. I must thank Hashem for the miracles and wonders that He performed for me. I survived to be able to sanctify His name, on this very special day."

After Shira completed her speech, mothers and teachers came over to me to hug me and congratulate me on having raised such a special daughter. Many of them had tears in their eyes.

Shira really is a very amazing young lady. Although her face is still damaged (she will be having more plastic surgery in the future, iy"H), she is beautiful inside. It used to bother her when strangers stared at her, but she is used to it and takes it in stride (although at times it has been really challenging, such as the time when the two little girls in the supermarket started commenting on how ugly she looks, or when an older woman started berating her for playing with matches and burning herself).

Shira's personality literally shines. The girls in school love her, and everyone wants to be her friend. She's an excellent student. Her classmates want to study with her; before a test, the phone is constantly ringing with girls asking her to study with them. She's the first to volunteer to do chessed, she often babysits without financial remuneration for mothers after birth, and regularly delivers food that I prepare to elderly women in the neighborhood. She speaks openly about what she's gone through, how it's changed our family's life, and how we've become much stronger as a result. She loves to sing and play the violin. Baruch Hashem, she is a happy, healthy young girl with a pure, healthy neshamah.

I have so much to be thankful for. Hashem returned my children to me, and he gave me a new, very large family, the Am Hanivchar shel Hakadosh Baruch Hu.

Shiru l’Hashem shir chadash! Sing a new song to Hashem!

Debbie Shapiro lives in Jerusalem with her husband, children, and grandchildren. She works in market development and teaches writing at Levavi Seminary.

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