Icount myself lucky to be part of a select group of women who trek weekly to the Kosel, the pulse of Jewish spiritual activity. No membership dues are exacted, other than our willingness and physical capacity to make this pilgrimage. Not that any of us can be singled out for athletic prowess, but we’re all grateful for the gift of health, which allows us to return each Shabbos to this fulcrum of the spirit.

My friend and I set out before sunrise. The day is just beginning to dawn as we emerge from the darkness and squalor of the Arab shuk into the bright Jerusalem sun. Soon enough, the Kosel is before us. My heart quickens. My soul warms. It never fails to fill me with awe that I, child of a survivor who sojourned in the bowels of hell, am here on Jewish land, coming to convene with G-d at the gates of our soon-to-be-completed Beis Hamikdash.

Come rain, come shine, we card-carrying clubbers are addicted to our weekly spiritual rush. We form an eclectic crew. Among us is a woman in a baseball cap, sneakers, leggings, and her requisite Tehillim. There’s the short Anglo who always sports a beige trench coat, neatly belted. On her head is a severe bandana. There are two bewigged, heavyset women wearing typical chareidi attire. They have such similar mannerisms that I once asked if they were sisters. “Mah pitom! I’m not Yemenite!” said one, who proudly told me of her Moroccan lineage. There’s Barbara, with her finger-free gloves and colorful scarf and a lovely twang to her English. Behind her sits Rochel, a former dancer, current mother of 14, although you’d never know it by her still-lithe figure.

Then there are the more colorful characters. One prominent one is the Mad Hatter, as I fondly refer to her in my mind. She resides in the Jewish Quarter and rises at 3 a.m. every Shabbos. At 4 a.m., dragging three huge, heavy thermoses of hot water, and laden with platters of cakes, she sets forth for the Kosel, 200 stairs away.

Her shift davens at daybreak, after which the Mad Hatter single-handedly hosts the Kosel Club for kiddush in true Avraham Avinu fashion. She has been pulling off this unsung, amazing feat for 15 years, presiding proudly over her guests. Women mill around, chatting contentedly, sipping coffee.

Once or twice I had the honor to assist Mrs. M. H. in lugging her load back up the 200 steps to the Jewish Quarter. A spring chicken she is not. As I entered her hallway, I was greeted by a life-size mural of a menorah, replete with gold-speckled paint and mystical pesukim printed in the arms of the menorah.

“Who painted this?” I asked. Stupid questions deserve stupid answers. “I did,” she replied with her characteristic glint in her eye. I guess that someone who can dream up a portable, catered kiddush, can paint creative Jewish themes in their entranceways.

But the star of the Kosel Kiddush Club is Chaya. Every Shabbos at 8 a.m. Chaya bursts forth, waving her arms overhead frenetically and intoning some well-meaning but inane advice to all assembled. “We pray from the bottom up,” she enthusiastically enjoins her captive audience and demonstrates, by showing each supplicant the correct way to hold a siddur and follow the davening. She wears a billowy scarf and a homemade skirt, sewn from glitzy material. Her mouth sports one prominent sharp tooth, many gaps, a few glints of gold.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 592)