Out of the frying pan into the fire?

Friday morning dawns and I realise we are heading for our second Shabbat under fire. I am beginning to miss synagogue services.

Just before 9am I hear a key rattling in the lock. My husband is home from work less than three hours after he left. Hardly anybody turned up, so he came home.

When I open the door I see he is laden with packages and there is an eight-pack of bottled water on the floor. My first reaction is of pleasure that he remembered to pick up the groceries my Dad had said he would buy for me but I am transfixed by the water. Why water? Was there nothing else left in the shop?

We don’'t drink bottled water and the only reason we had decided to buy drink was to give the children a treat of something more exciting than water.

After a second or so my husband realises I am still blocking the doorway and asks what is the matter? It turns out that the food in the packages and the water are actually a gift from work. How thoughtful!

Even so we still need some fizzies, also wine for Shabbat and, of course, beer.

I have no idea whether the shops in Shlomi are open but I have been stuck inside too long and need a trip, and I am curious as to what is happening in Naharia.

We take the children to my parents and then set off towards one of Hizbollah’'s main targets.

Once I am out and about I can'’t just go straight to the shop. First we pop over to visit my aunt.

The loud rock music blasting from behind the door tells me that my cousin is home alone (that'’s ok he is older than I am). My aunt has gone to family in Haifa.

As we get to the car the loud speakers squeak into life warning us to go down to the shelters. We see a teenage girl running home and I ask my husband if he wants to go to the nearby shelter.

Instead we drive off and after a couple of booms there is quiet again and we follow behind the neighbourhood bus.

We check on a member of our congregation whose house acted as a landing site for a katuysha.

The house is in a shocking state but she escape unscathed. We walked to the shelter where we know she is staying but she is out helping the municipality deliver food to other shelters.

Finally we get to the shop. There are only about a dozen shoppers but it seems we know most of them. Several are people who work with my husband but there is also one of his relatives and another one of my cousins. We stand around and chat. It is so nice to interact with other human beings face to face.

I stock up on fruit for snacks. There is no fresh meat and not much frozen. One of the congregation members told me that there is no fresh meat in Naharia.

On our way back we drive through the centre of town. Naharia is a vacation spot and the main boulevard is the place for pavement cafes. Normally on a Friday it is choca-block with shoppers and café-dwellers, taking advantage of the last hours of business before Shabbat. The traffic is a nightmare with jams in every direction and a cacophony of engines and horns.

But now the residential side-streets are empty. In the distance we see the occasional car. As we turn into the main boulevard we see some older residents wandering round and there are cars parked next to the pavement. But all the shops and cafes are shut up and less than a dozen vehicles share the road with us. It is strangely tranquil.

Back in Shlomi we notice the boom-boom of the artillery that was missing while we were in Naharia and I take a picture of the razed Hizbollah bunker on the ridge opposite my parents' house.

When Israel withdrew from Lebanon a bunker was built on the ridge. After a few days my parents and their neighbours noticed that the flag flapping in the breeze above the bunker was Hizbollah’'s. Complaints were made and reached the UN. The bunker was soon under a Lebanese flag.

However the suspicion still remained that it was a Hizbollah outpost full of terrorists eager to swarm down the hill and into my mother’'s sitting room at a moment's notice. Binoculars were kept on hand just in case. Yesterday with the utmost glee the neighbours'’ children showed my father that the bunker had been destroyed.

Later

Shabbat meal is over and the children are asleep. There was a short break in the artillery fire (Were the soldiers also eating their Shabbat meal?) but now it seems louder than ever, each boom buffeting the whole house like a stormy gust of wind.

It doesn'’t disturb our sleep, both my husband and I served in an artillery unit: I can remember being lifted off my bed by the blasts. But I will enjoy a respite from the noise while we are in Tel Aviv.

Due to our trip I doubt I will have time to post tomorrow but hopefully I'’ll be back Sunday with tales from 'The Big Orange'’.

Shabbat Shalom

ES