And then I remembered the driver—but I also remembered our deal
As told to C.S.Teitelbaum by Chaim Somner
I
n the early 90s, at the height of the First Intifada, East Jerusalem was a dangerous area. This was especially true on Fridays, when young extremists on their way to the mosque would unleash violence on any Israelis they encountered.
That year, my mother’s yahrzeit fell on a Friday. Visiting her kever on Har Hazeisim would be risky and dangerous, but I am an only child, and I was determined to go. I flagged down a taxi in Tel Aviv, where I lived, and directed him to Jerusalem. As we got closer, he asked me for the exact address.
“Har Hazeisim, the cemetery,” I told him.
The bare-headed driver paled. “The beit hakvarot in East Jerusalem?” he asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror. His face registered shock.
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