“Someone is going to come put you on the bus,” Elka continued. “I’m going to take care of Leiba and Yisroel. I left them with Miriam, but I need to make sure we’ll all stay together. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on.”

This time I didn’t nod, but Elka knew I had heard. I listened for the soft rustle that meant she had moved away. It wasn’t long before some of the bochurim from the yeshivah came to the area where we lay. I opened my eye a crack, just to see who it was, and then felt I myself being lifted off the floor and ever so gently carried through the building. The warm summer air let me know we were outside before they laid me down inside the bus.

“Mama!” I tried to call, hoping she would be there right next to me. But my voice, though strong inside my head, came out weak and strangled. No one could hear me. Forcing my eyes open through the pain, I noticed some women bringing Mama out to the buses, but they wouldn’t hear me even if I called out to them again. I was too far, my voice too weak. And so Mama ended up somewhere in the front of the bus, I’m not sure where. It took some time before the buses started up, but when they did, I finally relaxed. Even a bus is better than that British police station.

Elka

The bus ride was going to be long and bumpy, and with Yisroel on my lap, I was glad that Miriam was there to sit next to Leiba. Miriam was still so quiet, only talking to Leiba, and even then, only when she had to. I tried to squeeze her hand, but she didn’t squeeze back.

Quietly, we both looked around the bus at the people we had spent the last two and a half years sharing our small community with. It was only the women and children on this bus. Batya was here with her mother and younger brothers and sisters. The men and older boys were to be the last to load up onto the buses and leave. As the bus rocked and bumped down the roads that led away from Chevron, I turned to take one more look through the window. Would we ever return? I couldn’t imagine going back to live among the very same people who took my father’s life. I turned away.

“What are we going to do in Yerushalayim, Miriam?” I asked, turning to look at her. How I needed her now, more than ever. With Mama and Dovid somewhere else, together with the other wounded people, a sense of loneliness was welling up inside me. And I was scared. How would I look after all of us until Mama and Dovid came out of the hospital? Especially if I was alone?

“Miriam,” I said again, hoping for her reassurance. But she was silent. “Miriam?” I needed her, but she just stared ahead of her, stroking Leiba’s head, which was resting on her shoulder. Instead, I nuzzled my face into Yisroel’s soft hair, and hugged him tightly until my fear began to melt.

The next thing I knew, our bus had stopped and I noticed the people around me standing up and walking down the aisle toward the door. Gently, I shook Miriam and Leiba awake and we followed the others out of the bus and onto the streets of Yerushalayim.

Yerushalayim. How I had wanted to come visit here only a year ago. That visit had never happened, and now? I watched the bus full of the wounded make its way down the street toward Bikur Cholim Hospital and swallowed. Dovid. Mama. They were both on that bus, being carried away from us. How long would it take before they got out of there? And what would we do in the meantime?

I shouldn’t have worried. Or maybe I should have worried more. They took us all — all the children whose parents weren’t there to take care of them — to an orphanage. I had thought maybe Mama’s cousin would come get us, but how could I contact them if I didn’t even know their last name?

And so here I was, waiting in line with Miriam and Leiba for our hair to get shorn. Gently I fingered my hair, knowing that in a few minutes it would all be on the floor. My beautiful dark hair, gone. But there was no choice. If the orphanage wanted to keep lice out, all the children had to keep their hair short, and we were no exception. At least for us, this would be temporary. Not like little Chana, Leiba’s friend, who would be staying here from now on. I don’t know how she survived when her family was all killed. But now she was throwing a tantrum on the floor refusing to let them cut her hair. Watching her, my heart squeezed inside my chest. Compared to her, we were lucky. I slipped out of line and knelt on the floor beside her.

“Shhh, Chana’la,” I shushed her, stroking her back. Someone had to care for this poor little girl. “Shhh.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 912)