‘Home, heart, and hope,” Reuven Hammer once wrote, to describe Jerusalem.
“On the 3,000th anniversary of Jerusalem,” Rita, my wife, emphasized, “I feel so deeply about my physical abode, the place in which I was privileged to reside.
“My heart’s spiritual yearnings and myriad emotions turn to this golden city. My hopes and prayers for a better future invariably are directed to the Holy City. Home, heart, and hope are finely attuned one to the other and find their fulfillment in Jerusalem.”
Sadly, my wife has died, but I am still here, hopefully for a long time.
What is my Jerusalem today?
My Jerusalem is the bus driver who sees me and pauses to hold the bus, three times in a row this very week, so I can board. I always say “Toda,” and I love to see his smile. Sometimes it is a woman driver, and her smile is infectious.
My Jerusalem is a haredi couple at my health fund who stand up and give me a seat, knowing I am anxiously waiting for stitches.
My Jerusalem is the children who play and shout in the municipal park near the senior residence in which I live.
My Jerusalem is young couples I see spooning as their love for each other is developing. Haredim sitting in a hotel, too, meeting each other.
My Jerusalem is a mother, not that strong, pushing her twins up a steep hill in their carriage, using all her energy.
My Jerusalem is now the new National Library, only four bus stops away from where I live. I used the National Library for 18 years when it was at the Hebrew University, Givat Ram. Now it is breathtaking every time I wander through the open reading room. Sometimes finding a seat is difficult.
Fortunately, I volunteered to write about all types of treasures held in the National Library. I have nine stories published already – hopefully, there will be more.
My Jerusalem is viewing from my building the Knesset on a hill above the non-Ben-Zvi side of Sacher Park.
My hope for the future of Israel is that the members of Knesset will ensure the viability of our nation.
SIXTY-TWO YEARS ago, when Rita and I were living in Atlanta, Georgia, we left to spend a year in Israel as students. One Shabbat, we were hosted by friends in a youth village where they worked, near Acre.
Waking up early on Sunday morning, we took leave of our friends and, tightly tied symbolically on our transportation for the year, a motor scooter, drove to Rosh Hanikra.
After we took a look to say we were there, we turned the scooter around, had a drink, and then rain began to fall as we started to drive south, covered by our ponchos, only recently brought to Israel for us. We eagerly wanted to return to Jerusalem, as it was December 29, 1963, our first wedding anniversary.
Looking at a map, we got the lay of the land, what our ride would be that day. We continued south, not anxious to reach the main highway along the Mediterranean but shooting for Highway 4, which ran next to railroad tracks near the Jordan border.
We passed over the top of the Kinneret, moving south with the Golan Heights above us, hoping the Syrians would not shoot at us. That possible crisis passed, and finally we reached Highway 4. The rain stopped and the sun came out, heating up the atmosphere. Two hours had passed; reaching Jerusalem seemed doable.
We whisked along the very narrow Highway 4, with very little traffic. Infrequently, a car or a truck passed by. Wagons pulled by horses used the road as well. We reached Kfar Saba, where our relatives lived, and where we had traveled by scooter several times. Outskirts of Kfar Saba passed; onward to the airport in Lod.
Since the Jordanian border was nearby, the highway from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem needed a roundabout to get back to the two-lane Highway 1 at Sha’ar Hagai. We crossed over to Ramle and, driving south quickly, we hit the T-junction – Beit Shemesh to the right, Highway 1 to Jerusalem to the left.
The darkness surrounded us when we reached Sha’ar Hagai and turned onto Highway 1. You always knew this was a dangerous ride to Jerusalem – trucks puffing, fast drivers getting into the lane going the other way and racing past slow cars.
Jerusalem – that was our goal. Rita held me tightly as we sped around the curves. At times we slowed down, as exhaust was blown in our faces from the large trucks.
That last part of the trip became more than a dream when we saw the lights of Jerusalem. One of the three traffic lights in the entire city was a welcome sight after five hours of driving to reach our Jerusalem.
I dropped Rita off at our building and raced into town to buy tickets for the film Irma la Douce, starring Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon. Our anniversary celebration in Yerushalayim shel mata, “the earthly Jerusalem,” was sealed.
In her diary, Rita wrote: “An exhausting day – a very special day. Who would have ever believed we would celebrate our first anniversary in Jerusalem? A day to remember always.”
Fourteen years later, in 1977, we made aliyah!
And here I am, almost 48 years later, in our Jerusalem.