I was comforted to know that our cousins, at least, were all okay.

My pillow was soaking wet, drenched with my tears, but I quieted my sobs when I heard Papa’s voice. He didn’t have to know how hard I was crying.

It just wasn’t fair. I really wanted to go to Yerushalayim. And after working so hard helping Mama this week, I deserved it. She had promised. How could she cancel like this — only a few hours before we were supposed to leave? I had told all my friends. Probably every girl in the entire Chevron knew that I was going to Yerushalayim and now Mama couldn’t even tell me if I’d ever get to go at all. What would I tell them?

Through my tears, I heard Dovid ask Papa what had happened, and so I stopped crying. Maybe no one was going to tell me because they always treat me like a baby, but if they told Dovid, I wanted to hear it.

“Papa?” I asked carefully, stepping into the kitchen when I heard the voices turn quiet. “What’s an earthquake? And why can’t we go to Yerushalayim?”

Papa looked at me and gently reached for my hand, stroking it. “Elka,” he said gently, “there’s no need to cry over a canceled trip. But you can cry about the earthquake. The ground in Yerushalayim shook hard enough to knock down buildings. People there are hurt. It will take time before we know how hurt, and how much damage was done.”

“And our cousins?” I asked, suddenly more nervous about what had happened than sad about my lost trip.

“We don’t know.” Papa sighed. “We need to wait until they send word.”

Papa dropped my hand and stood up to go to the yeshivah. There was no use sitting around at home when he was needed elsewhere. Dovid got up and hurried to join him, and even Mama, who looked much calmer than she had been before Papa came home, stood up too.

“Come, Elka,” she said, motioning me to sit down at the table, “it’s about time for you to eat supper and start getting ready for bed.”

I sat because Mama told me to, but really, I wanted to run outside and find Rivky and Tzipporah, two girls who lived nearby, and ask them what they had heard about the earthquake.

Without noticing the food too much, I ate, helped Mama clean up, and got ready for bed. But even though I could tell from Miriam’s deep breathing that she was asleep, my mind kept going through what had happened that day. I thought of my cousin, eight years old just like me. Was she okay? I pictured her trapped under a pile of rocks, hurt and crying for help, and I just couldn’t get the image out of my mind.

“Mama,” I whispered into my pillow. I could hear her talking to Papa in a low voice in the kitchen. Slipping out of bed, I shivered as my feet hit the cold floor tiles. Then I tiptoed out of the room. “Mama?” I whispered, this time close enough for her to hear.

Mama took one look at my face, pulled me onto her lap, and began stroking my hair. “Shhh,” she breathed into my ear, “it’s okay. We just received word. They’re all okay. Shhhh.”

I rested my back against her arms and melted into her embrace, allowing Mama to hug me and absorb some of my fears. And as Mama carried me back to my bed and I snuggled under my soft blanket, I was comforted to know that our cousins, at least, were all okay.

Summer 1929 —Two years later

“Dovid?” I turned to him and hoisted the bag of rice a little higher in my arms. “This bag is falling. Can you help me?”

Dovid turned to me and motioned with his head at the packages he was carrying. He was right. There was no way he could help me with the heavy bag of rice.

We were walking home from the market after shopping for Shabbos. Since baby Yisroel was born, ten months ago, Dovid and I took turns stopping off at the shops and stands in the marketplace to pick up anything Mama might need. Today, though, with Shabbos coming, we had both gone together. There was too much for just one of us to carry. We nodded at the passing people, most of whom we knew. After two and a half years of living here, Chevron was as familiar as Kovno ever was.

“Dovid, Elka, do you need help?” a voice called out from behind us, and we turned around. High above us, mounted on his donkey, sat our Arab landlord.

“Thanks,” Dovid said, relieved. He staggered over to the donkey and began loading some of our packages onto the donkey’s back. There wasn’t too much room, but after Dovid tied it all tightly to the donkey using some string, we were only left carrying a few things.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead, my hand suddenly, wonderfully, free, and watched as the donkey plodded its way down the road toward home.

“That was really nice of him,” I commented as we continued walking toward our apartment.

“Yeah,” Dovid agreed, “between the heat and the packages, I thought we’d never make it home. We should get our own donkey.”

“Ewww.” I grimaced. “Who would take care of it? You?”

“Nah.” Dovid turned toward me with a grin. “You would. Do you think I have time for animal care? No way — not with all the Mishanyos Papa is having me memorize.”

“So then skip the donkey idea unless you want to care for it.” I grinned back. Dovid would never be able to take care of a donkey, especially not now. As soon as he turned 11, Papa sat down with him and they made a schedule. His goal is to make a siyum on Mishanyos for his bar mitzvah, and Papa is hoping he’ll have memorized it all, as well.

Our house came into view just then, and Dovid ran ahead to bring in the packages our landlord had left just inside the front door. Carrying as much as he could, he schlepped the groceries upstairs, past the apartments of our Jewish neighbors, and into our home. I followed him with another load, but dropped it at the front door and continued inside, while Dovid went down for another load.

“Yisroel!” I scooped up the crawling baby and went to find Mama.

“I think we got everything,” I announced as soon as I discovered her in her room folding laundry. “Dovid’s bringing up the last few things.”

“That was quick,” Mama commented. “I didn’t think you’d be home so soon.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Haajib passed by on his donkey and offered to carry some packages for us. It really made the walk easier.”

I gave little Yisroel a big kiss on his cheek and put him down so I could help Mama fold the laundry. Yisroel. Named for this beautiful country — the first in our family to be born here. Little did I know that he would also be the last. Things were changing, and soon nothing would ever be the same again.

To be continued...

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 906)