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11 Nissan 5761 - April 4, 2001 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family
NOSTALGIA
Going to the Kosel
Life in Jerusalem Over Fifty Years Ago

by Yisca Shimony

In the Shimony family, pre-yomtov seasons were extremely busy times. Without proper refrigeration and with a shortage of running water, the amount of work was doubly increased. Purchasing perishables was always postponed to the last minute, and even the icebox, with the huge block of ice at the top, didn't prevent the spoiling of food. The shopping and cooking was left for the last moment, and the additional need to clean the house and wash and iron clothes, crowded the pre-holiday season greatly.

The three girls of the family had to pitch in and work, and with our united efforts, we managed to reach the yom tov in time and even to plan ahead for the chol hamoed outings. The work, even on chol hamoed, continued, since, due to the lack of refrigeration, shopping and cooking had to be done on a daily basis, which allowed very little free time. Still, we made sure to have some time for outings and visits.

With friends our age, we were able to go hiking. We would gather together, travel by train out of Yerusholayim and have picnics somewhere in the mountains. Before allowing us to go out on such an outing, we had to go with our parents to the Kosel, and visit our great-grandfather, who lived in the old Shaarei Chessed neighborhood. Both places required very special attire. We could not wear our gay and colorful dresses, which were sewn by a seamstress especially for yom tov. We traditionally had to wear dull colors, long and shapeless dresses. It was considered more modest and proper for these occasions.

To reach our great-grandfather's residence, we had to go on foot for a great distance. Most of the roads were unpaved, and, at times, covered with slippery mud. The way to the Kosel was even longer, and though buses went there, they were much too crowded, and so we went on foot. The way to the Kosel was partially paved, which made walking easier, but other obstacles, such as British soldiers mounted on horses, crowds of Arab peddlers in the batrak marketplace, and even herds of sheep led by young Arab lads carrying big sticks always hindered us.

"What a strange dress!" I exclaimed, as my mother pulled out a shapeless, baggy dress for me from the recess of a closet.

"We're going to the Kosel," explained my sister, Tzila.

I looked at my mother. Somehow, she managed to appear regal even in a dark and shapeless attire. Her gay colorful head kerchief was now replaced by a white turban which enhanced her broad forehead, her light skin, dark eyes and brows. Together with the black dress, they both contrasted and blended into an aristocratic appearance.

We, too, were transformed from a noisy bunch into a more subdued, sedate group. After all, we were heading for the Holy of Holies!

"You look so different," I said, eyeing my mother.

"Different? In what way?" she asked as she finished adjusting her white turban, straightened her glasses and gave a final satisfied look into the mirror.

"Not really," Chedva explained to us younger ones. "It's just that we are not used to seeing Ima in white and black."

"We all look like sacks of Pesach potatoes," I murmured.

"Not you, Chedva."

"I know! I look more like a kilo of spaghetti wrapped in a brown paper bag!" laughed tall Chedva, stretching her arms up above her head. The very mention of noodles on Pesach made us laugh somewhat uneasily.

"Are we going by bus?" Tzila asked.

"No. It is chol hamoed and we will want to make our aliya lereggel by foot." My mother took my hand firmly. "Let's go, already. Abba is waiting for us on Rechov Yaffo."

We met him some ten minutes later and started walking to the Kosel, a long and tedious walk. We soon met the horses and their riders, the British police, right by the police station. Perched so high, they looked threatening and hostile. We passed them as quickly and carefully as possible, but soon tired from walking so fast. Abba would not let us stop to rest, so we kept on walking, dragging our feet.

We finally spied Jaffa Gate in the distance and felt relieved, that is, until we came to the batrak open market and the many noisy peddlers and shoppers. All were Arabs, and each peddler advertised his wares with deafening cries. "Don't let go of my hand," Ima warned me. "You might get lost..." Getting lost in this place meant being kidnapped by some hostile Arabs. I held on tightly.

Past Jaffa Gate, we saw the massive building of the Kishle. "This is the jail where robbers, murderers and sometimes even innocent people are imprisoned," Abba explained. We walked on and reached the Jewish quarter, near Botei Machse, where we were finally allowed to sit and rest upon the steps of the wall surrounding the Old City. We soon spied two young Arab herdsmen coming down the road with a multitude of sheep. They held big sticks in their hands which they waved about their heads, calling loudly, "Ay-da," as they passed. Soon the road became clear again and we continued on towards the Kosel.

We arrived and stood there in awe. Quiet voices of prayers mingled in the air from so many worshippers. A sweet childish voice chanting the Hallel reached our ears. Tzila let go of my hand and moved towards the Wall. Swift as lightning, my mother grabbed her and held her firmly. "You stay right here and don't get lost!"

A British soldier eyed us from his post at the entrance. As she recited the Hallel, "Lo lonu, Hashem, lo lonu..." my mother's voice carried a deep meaning.

Abba let us return home by bus; we felt ecstatic. This was one perfect way to spend chol hamoed and feel some of the flavor of ancient times, here in Yerusholayim. Sadly, this was only a remnant of those times of glory and the splendor of the Beis Hamikdosh...

The following day we walked to Shaarei Chessed to visit our great-grandfather. We had to walk on stony, unpaved roads and through narrow alleys. In this season, some wild flowers had forced their heads through the stones and packed earth. Part of the way was slippery mud which we couldn't avoid. It was a good thing we wore our dark clothing, I couldn't help thinking...

Great-grandfather, a renowned tzaddik, was sick and confined mainly to bed due to his advanced age. We stood by his side and he eyed us, his eyes smiling, and offered us some Pesach treats. We had to say the brocho in a Yiddish accent and not, G-d forbid, in the modern pronunciation, which is what we were taught in school.

The rest of the festival was crowded with visits of all kinds, received and made, interesting and pleasant. But these two would always stand out in our memories, even now, over fifty years later.

 

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