“Af davar lo ya’azor lecha achshav!” he bellowed. “Nothing can help you now!”

I arrived in Israel on a Monday in the beginning of April. I was not visiting family, nor was I sightseeing. In the exciting world of being a rav, I was there on “business.”

The year was 2002, and suicide bombings by Arab terrorists were occurring at an alarming rate. In fact, March 2002 received the infamous designation “Black March.” One hundred and thirty Jews lost their lives in terror attacks that month. The country was in a state of high alert and fear.

But I was in Israel to assist in the giving of a get. The husband had insisted that for him to give the get, I must be present, and therefore I arrived in Israel on April 8 with a return ticket for April 11.

The rabbinical court was located in Tel Aviv. I stayed in Bnei Brak, and for the two days that I was required to appear in the Tel Aviv beis din, I took a taxi back and forth.

On Wednesday, April 10 the get was successfully executed. As I left the beis din after two hectic days of shuttling back and forth, I was looking forward to enjoying my last 24 hours in Eretz Yisrael peacefully in Bnei Brak. I hailed a taxi and gave him the address of the apartment in Bnei Brak where I was staying.

Once I got in, I engaged the driver in light conversation, as I usually do, inquiring how long he has been driving and what hours he works — nothing too personal.

His responses were very terse, and he sounded a bit evasive.