Annette gets on the bus at the Machane Yehuda market and
plonks herself on the seat next to me.
"There's room here for a shopping cart, too."
I don't know if she's asking me a question or simply making a
statement, But I see no cart.
Annette is wearing a black gold-edged snood. Her elbows are
hidden under the sleeves of an off-white shirt. The long gold
earrings in her pierced ears dangle at the sides of her
neck.
As more passengers get on the bus at this busy stop, a
shopping cart with dark fuschia and purple flowers on a cream
background is suddenly deposited between her thick legs,
jamming me into a corner.
"You have one of the prettiest carts I've ever seen," I
compliment.
"Thank you. Yes. It's my husband's yom hashana
[yarzheit for us Ashkenazim] in two days time. I need to
prepare for it. But however much I buy, it's never enough,"
she says in her gutteral, Oriental Hebrew. "I'll have to go
back to the shuk tomorrow and buy more."
"Whatever you buy, I'm sure will be fine," I assure her,
knowing how my own Shabbos food stretches, however many
unexpected guests turn up.
"It's the ninth anniversary of his passing, this Thursday. I
wanted to continue to make the azkara in our home, but
the rabbi said to hold it in the beit haknesset. He
said people are not getting younger and it's too hard for
them to climb the steps to my home. So after I cook it all, I
need to get all the food to the synagogue. Who'll help
me?"
I am impressed that she continues to honor her husband's
memory with a seuda for all the worshippers. Again, I
try to reassure her. "It'll work out. Get some strapping
young fellows to carry it."
I don't tell her how I've prayed on occasion for someone to
come and help me with my own loaded shopping cart, with no
one in sight late in the evening, and then, out of nowhere,
somebody appears in answer to my prayer.
"Ach, who will I find in my neighborhood? You know, I say
`Shalom' to everyone, but they don't answer me..."
I feel bad for her. Just because she's toothless and her face
is as crinkled as the cobblestones of the Old City alley
where I live is no reason for her neighbors to turn deaf to
her greeting. She may be old, but she is still very much
alive. Her thin black eyebrows still arch mischievously. She
still loves gold jewelry. Did her husband give it to her as a
wedding gift? Two wide gold bracelets adorn her right arm,
next to mine, and three thick gold bands, her left.
Although it occurs to me to ask in which neighborhood she
lives, thinking how much more civilized my own is, I decide
against asking her. Better I don't know the name of the
neighborhood where one's `Shalom' is not returned.
"B'ezrat Hashem, someone will come to help you," I
say.
"I cook for Aharon; I cook for Avraham... I cook for
everyone..."
I have no idea who Aaron or Avraham are, but I hope that they
will suddenly appear at her doorstep to carry all the food
she'll prepare to the synagogue. I am sure everything will be
mouthwatering, spiced just right, according to whatever
tradition she is used to -- Moroccan, Tunisian, Algerian or
whatever. And she's doing it as a seudat mitzva, in
her husband's memory. Don't we always get help when we truly
need it, when we are working to perform mitzvos?
Haven't we seen that Hashem leads us in the direction we want
to go?
"B'ezrat Hashem," she repeats, kisses her fingers and
raises them above her eyes, heavenwards. "He knows I keep
Shabbat, I keep a kosher kitchen, my dairy sink over here" --
she gesticulates with both hands to her right, "and my meat
sink over there," and again, she gesticulates with both hands
to her left. "I keep His laws."
"And you keep the mitzva of greeting everyone with a
pleasant countenance, and honoring His creatures," I add.
I've begun to like this woman and surely, the mitzvot
between man and fellow man reflect our relationship with our
Creator.
Even in her distress, and even though I don't see her slack
lips stretch into a smile, I see the smile in the steady
twinkle of her black eyes. Her losses and disappointments
have not embittered her.
"May Hashem grant you health and long life," I say, as I rise
from my corner to get off the bus. She moves the cart out to
the aisle, allowing me to pass.
"What's your name?" I ask before I move forward to the
door.
We exchange names. We have only traveled together for two bus
stops. I am amazed that our short encounter leaves such an
impression on me.
There is so much natural flavor in a ride on a Jerusalem
bus.
