Encountering Two Groups of Women -- on the same day

This morning, Elana and I went to the David Citadel Hotel to meet with a group of women from the Boston area who are here on a CJP women’s philanthropy mission, organized by Debbie Seresky.  There were lots of Needham women in the group, with eight present (and several former) members of our congregation.  Here’s a picture:

I love seeing members of our congregation in Israel.  I cannot overemphasize how important I believe it is for Jews to travel here.  Yes, we can live a full Jewish life anywhere in the world.  But let’s face it: we are blessed to live in an era with a sovereign Jewish state.  Israel is a place where we Jews have the opportunity to express our Jewishness in virtually all spheres of life, including the personal, the professional, and the political.  It is extraordinarily enriching to come to Israel and experience that. 

One of the points I emphasized to the group was how special these next two days will be.  At 8:00 tonight, a siren will sound to mark the beginning of Yom HaZikkaron (“Memorial Day”), the day on which Israelis remember the 23,085 Israeli soldiers and 2,493 victims of terror who have been killed since the establishment of the state.  Ceremonies will be held all over the land, in every neighborhood and community.  We will probably go to the local commemorative ceremony, at a school just down the block. (Coincidentally, it is on the same street as the school that Elana attended when she was an eighth grader here.)   Cafes will be closed, and the radio stations will play only quiet, sad songs.  Tomorrow morning at 11:00 am, another siren will sound, and at that moment virtually every Israeli will stand at attention for two minutes.  It’s similar to but different from the experience of standing for the two-minute siren on Yom HaShoah (which took place one week ago).  After all, in the past year alone, 92 Israeli soldiers who had been wounded in the line of duty died, and 10 Israelis were killed by acts of terror.  This is a weighty, ongoing and deeply-felt sacrifice of which every Israeli family is conscious.  At the end of the day, at the setting of the sun, Israelis will transition from deep grief to exultant joy.  Different people mark this in different ways.  Eight years ago, the last time Elana and I were in Israel for Yom HaAtzmaut, we were in a synagogue in which the congregation solemnly sang “Shir HaMaalot” (Psalm 126) to the tune of Hatikvah.  It was very, very moving.

Outdoor concerts, parties, and fireworks are planned.  Lots of people go out into the streets, and many of them stay up very, very late.  During the day on Tuesday, millions of Israelis will engage in the national pastime of barbecuing “manga” (an assortment of meat on the grill).   I’m delighted that the “Aliyahnikot” whom I saw this morning and their travel companions will have the privilege of experiencing this 48-hour national whirlwind.  It’s a wonderful lens through which to better understand and appreciate the reality that Israelis inhabit. 

After bidding goodbye to the group, I headed to the Conservative Yeshiva for my daily Talmud class.  When it was over, I headed home on foot.  I thought I’d get home in about twenty minutes, but I was delayed.

Along the way—and I know that this sounds a little like an Agnon story, but it’s absolutely true—I came upon a group of three nuns who looked lost.  They looked lost because they were lost.  As I approached them, one of them spoke up.

“Escusa,” she said, “Can you help us?”

“Of course,” I said.  “How can I help you?”  The woman who had spoken up, who was clearly a spokesperson for the group, explained that they were looking for “the monastery.” 

“The monastery,” I said.  “Which monastery?  Which denomination?”

Our conversation was hampered by the language barrier.  Their knowledge of conversational Hebrew was limited, as was my knowledge of Italian.  One of them (the spokesperson) spoke a bit of English, and so that’s what we used.  Our conversation was taking place in front of Terra Sancta, a prominent white stone building in the heart of Jerusalem.

I vaguely recalled that this beautiful property—whose exterior was recently sandblasted, and which is lit up at night—was owned by the Vatican.  (I also realized, as I looked up at the building, that although I had passed it hundreds of times, I’d never been inside.  I made a mental note to myself to go inside one day. )

“What denomination are you?” I asked the nuns. 

“Catholic,” they said.

“Are you looking for Terra Sancta?” 

“No, no!” they all said together.  “The monastery! The monastery!” 

We talked a bit: I asked what denomination monastery they were looking for.

“Orthodox,” they kept saying—which confused me at first. (I was distracted by a group of Orthodox Jews who were passing us.)

“Russian Orthodox? Greek Orthodox?” 

“Greek!” they said.

As we continued to talk, it dawned on me that they might be looking for the Monastery of the Cross.  The Monastery of the Cross sits all by itself in a lovely valley at the foot of the Israel Museum.  At first it hadn’t occurred to me that they were headed there because it is in a whole different neighborhood, but the more I thought about it the more sense it made to me.  After all, how many other monasteries are in the western, Jewish part of the city?  And so I took out my iPhone and pulled up a picture of the monastery, and showed it to them:

“Yes, yes!” they excitedly said. “That’s it!”  

“And how do you want to get there?” I asked.  “By bus? By cab?”

“On foot,” they said.

“It’s not far,” I said, “and it’s almost entirely downhill.”  But I was wondering whether they’d be able to get there on their own.  There were a few twists and turns along the way.  

“Let’s go,” I said.  “I’ll take you part way.”

“But you don’t have to come with us.  We’re fine,” they said.

“Oh, but I would be happy to accompany you, at least a little bit, on your journey.” (This is a mitzvah known as "l'viyah," or "accompanying.")

And so we travelled together along Derekh Azza and I got to know a lovely group of nuns.  By this time, I had ascertained that they were from Italy. One was from Rome, one from Venice and one from Turin.  The nun from Turin spoke the most English.  I learned that they live in a convent in the Old City of Jerusalem, and that this was their first trip out of the Old City. 

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

Pointing to the sister from Venice, the spokesperson said, “She has been here for three years.  The two of us have been here for several months.”

Wow, I thought to myself.  They’ve been here for months and they had never been outside of the Old City!

“How do you know English so well?” I asked the spokesperson. 

“I lived in America for a little while,” she said. 

“Oh,” I said, "where?”

“In Boston,” she said.

“This cannot be!” I said. “I too am from Boston!”

She turned to me, looked up at the sky, and said, “Adonai! Todah!  Todah, Adonai!”  She then looked at me, and said, “God has sent you to us!”

I must admit, it sent shivers down my spine: the gratitude they expressed felt so genuine.   We talked about people we knew in common, such as Father David Michael in Needham. 

As we walked down the street, I asked them whether they knew what was going to happen tonight, tomorrow and the next day.  No, they didn’t.  And so, as we walked, I found myself talking about Yom HaZikkaron and Yom HaAtzmaut, about how important these days are and how important it is to experience them in order to understand what it means to be an Israeli. 

We parted at the corner of Derekh Azza and Rehov Mitudela (named after Benjamin of Tudela, the intrepid medieval Jewish traveler whose chronicles provide very interesting information about medieval European life.)  By this time, we felt like old friends.  We didn’t hug, but we felt a real warmth for each other.

I didn’t take a picture of them.  On the one hand, I regret this, for I love to document these experiences.  On the other hand, there was something nice about just experiencing our encounter for its own sake. 

I got their address.  They live on the Via Dolorosa.  We look forward to seeing each other again some time soon.