I’m not sure you can call it a comfort to be reminded you’re not the only one to have suffered a double tragedy like we did.
That Shevat, my husband and I found ourselves in Jerusalem for our grandson’s shloshim. The afternoon before, we’d gone to the Kotel, shed copious tears, and prepared to head back to the apartment we’d rented. Traffic was terrible just outside the Kotel exit, so we decided to walk through the Mamilla Mall and attempt to catch a taxi on the other side.
We were just about to emerge from the mall when we ran into a couple we know from our Brooklyn shul.
“Hi! We didn’t know you’d be here!” we said. “What’s the occasion?”
The husband, Rabbi D., looked at the floor. “You didn’t hear?” he said.
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