I stared at baby Hendel in disbelief. How could this be accompanying her entry into the world?

I sat in the chair next to my hospital bed on Tuesday, cradling my newborn daughter Hendel in my arms, waiting for a nurse to bring us our discharge papers. My husband Chesky waited patiently next to me.

And then an air raid siren wailed through the corridors.

“Tzeva adom! Tzeva adom! Code red! Code red!” I heard people shouting.

It wasn’t a complete surprise; the night before, a security guard had come into my room to shutter the window “in case of rocket fire.” I’d heard some booms in the distance. But now we were in the line of fire.

We raced into the hallway, where the staff assured all those who had done the same that we could remain in our rooms — the entire maternity ward had been fortified against rockets.

I returned to my chair and held Hendel, staring into her eyes as explosions sounded overhead.

The quiet that followed only lasted for a few minutes. Then the intercom announced, “Azakah, Assuta Hospital, Ashdod! Azakah, Assuta Hospital, Ashdod,” telling us that the hospital itself was directly at the point of impact.

We didn’t move this time, and again we heard explosions.

I stared at baby Hendel in disbelief. How could this be accompanying her entry into the world?

And yet, at the same time, I was comforted by her presence. She’s named for my husband’s maternal grandmother, who’d passed away last year at 108 years of age. Her namesake was a true tzadeikes who went through the horrors of the Holocaust and remained a true ma’min baHashem, always immersed in tefillah until her dying day.