Y. GOLDBERG, a yeshiva student from England studying in
Jerusalem, has this to offer as his debut to the writer's
market.
There is no denying the incredible dexterity of the human
mind. In just a matter of minutes, it can conjure up and
recall in detail, scenes observed over a period of many
hours, often doing so, at the most inappropriate of
times...
The venue had been chosen, the timer had been set, and the
wretch from the refugee camp had been willing. The bomb that
rocked Machane Yehuda market, in the heart of Jerusalem, that
day, had, like its predecessors, killed and mutilated scores
of people.
My visit to the market shortly after that attack came back to
haunt me. Shoppers had seemed somewhat wary, vendors,
considerably subdued. Workmen were patching up a broken wall.
A hole in the roof had been replaced by a semi- transparent
piece of corrugated plastic. Sunshine had poured in through
the makeshift shelter, bathing the scene of destruction in an
eerie and sardonic glow. Despite the enhanced security, I had
not felt comfortable.
It had suddenly dawned on me that precisely a week had gone
by since the explosion, almost to the minute. In Israel,
terror attacks often follow one another with maddening
consistency. Feeling scared, I left.
Now, a few months later, the market was back to its normal
self. Shoppers flood its nooks and crannies in search of
bargains. Some, perhaps foreigners like me, are simply
browsing, absorbing and savoring its many sounds and sights.
The main section of the shuk follows a basic pattern. A three
hundred meter or so artery forms the nucleus of the market.
On one side, shorter alleys lead off to connect to a main
street. Vendors stand behind their stalls, just outside their
small shops which serve chiefly as storage rooms.
They stand there on the lookout for their most sought- after
asset - the shoppers' attention. They are expert at
translating any interest, however tentative, into a sale.
Anyone staring at an item too long shouldn't be surprised to
find himself walking home with it a few minutes later.
The greengrocers' stalls are piled high with colorful
produce, sparkling with an occasional refresher shpritz of
water. Calls ring out touting goods and prices and sometimes
the vying for attention will have nothing to do with
competition - save that in volume. "TOMATOES - only two
shekel!" answered by "STRAWBERRIES at two and a half a kilo!"
Some vendors, though, are more reticent. In the further
reaches of the shuk sits an elderly, swarthy-looking man. A
large colorful kipa adorns his head and book of
Tehillim rests open on his lap. He serves with a stoic
dignity and seems to prefer not to be bothered. In front of
him rests an old fashioned pair of scales, the kind used to
depict the month of Tishrei, with metal weights resting on
the table, waiting to be used. His slight figure both
contrasts and blends in with the huge jute sacks of brown
nuts.
The people here are as varied as the produce on sale. Arabs,
some in traditional dress; Jews of all origins - dark, light,
even black Ethiopians. Tourists, some wearing backpacks, some
obviously Nordic and non-Jewish, lend a further air of
diversity.
I spy one obviously foreign, very disgruntled lady, launching
into a tirade against a vendor, managing to create quite a
scene. Her milquetoast husband, mindful lest he divert his
wife's wrath unto himself, is, nevertheless, making a careful
effort to persuade her to move on.
There's a lot of action at the fishmonger's stalls and I
cannot help being fascinated, in a macabre way, at the
heaving fish as they flounce and arch their bodies, writhing
every way, defiant in the face of death. Their rapidly
opening and closing mouths make them appear is if in a spat
over the best spot in the fish heap. A silent replay of the
hawking vendors, themselves, who, if I shut the sound off,
are also busy opening and closing their mouths all the while.
The fish seem to be stating something philosophic about life
in general. I'll have to think about it - later.
Evening settles in and workmen and housewives arrive in
hordes. The decibel level rises with increased wrangling. The
crowd around me twists and turns in a confusing pattern of
conflicting directions, seemingly indifferent by now, a mere
week later, to what a rich harvest they would make in a
terrorist booby trap. But life must go on, live fish or
otherwise.
Soon they will be selling pastries at rock bottom prices.
These wouldn't last the night. Then will follow the produce,
cut to half and then a third their price, to be finally given
away for free to poor scavengers. They'll be a fresh
delivery, anyway, early tomorrow. Tomorrow, after all, is
another day.
Suddenly the hairs on my neck prickle up. My head reels
around indignantly in an attempt to catch sight of the
assailant who administered those two sharp blows to my chest.
The wispy clouds that had flown me on my wandering, woolly-
headed journey, are slowly dissipating. I look around me.
Nobody is paying any attention to me. Whoever had struck me
on the chest has disappeared like a bad dream.
I find myself whispering for forgiveness as confusion
slowly gives way to realization, guilt and remorse.
I resume my recital of a now, heart-felt and conscious
plea for atonement as I suddenly become aware that I have
just whiled away my time in pointless daydreaming - through
precisely one third of the shemone esrai...
