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.
