I can still feel the heat of that first summer. It shimmers
along the pavement and parches my throat. As soon as I leave
the appartment, I am exhausted. I have never known the weight
of a Middle Eastern summer. I could not have imagined how
desperately I would search for a patch of shade, how
relentless the noonday sun could be.
We are new immigrants, in our second month of marriage,
living in Petach Tikva. Customs is on strike and our lift,
with all of our belongings, sits at the port in Haifa. We are
renting an apartment without furniture and without
appliances. Everything is on the lift. We don't know each
other well enough to gauge how to react. We sleep on the
floor. We eat a lot of falafel, and buy fans to blow the
stifling air around our empty apartment.
One day, I stop at a pet store at the bus station. I decide
to buy a tiny yellow chick. That night we watch the chick run
happily across our living room floor. As he runs back and
forth between us, I realize that the heat is getting to us.
We are losing it. It's been over a month since we arrived.
Hesitantly, I look up at my husband.
"I think it's time to buy a couch."
The next morning I meet my husband after minyon. We
walk along the unfamiliar streets, looking for a furniture
store. Finally we find one and we approach the salesman
sitting behind the tiny, wooden desk. "We would like to see
your couch selection," my husband begins. But the man isn't
listening to him. Instead, he is staring intently at the
tefillin bag in my husband's arms.
"Are those tefillin?" he asks. Dumbfounded, my husband
nods.
"My grandfather used to put on those," he says wistfully. He
looks away in embarrassment and then turns back to us.
"Can you show me how to put them on? I've always wanted to
try."
My husband nods. The salesman pulls a piece of fabric from
the table and places it on his head. My husband shows him how
to put on the tefillin. Then the man asks for a
siddur. We sit down in astonishment as customers come
and go. With the stray piece of fabric on his head, the man
davens, line by line. Afterwards, he hands the
tefillin back with tears in his eyes.
As we walk home, still couchless, the heat seems to
dissipate. And I know that this long, hot summer will end. I
know that eventually, we will have our furniture, build our
home. But I ponder this.
Is it possible that Hashem has brought us all the way across
the world into this steaming, hot summer, so that a furniture
salesman in Petach Tikva could put on tefillin?
We walk in silence, feeling the burden of the unasked
question lifting with each step along the way. What are we
doing here? And now we know. We are coming home, taking our
places among our people in our Land.
The unbearable heat becomes bearable. The empty apartment
seems suddenly full. It is an achingly beautiful summer.
