Lessons for life I learned on summer break
I’d just arrived back in London on the red-eye flight. I’d spent August 2005 in the US attending a family wedding in New York followed by four weeks of camp in the wilds of Illinois. I pushed my suitcases along the endless walkways from Heathrow Airport’s Terminal 2 to Terminal 1, greeted my parents happily but tiredly, and then waved them off in the direction of Departures to Ben Gurion. It was hello and goodbye, because my sister in Yerushalayim was making a bris the next day.
At home in Golders Green, I made some kind of effort to unpack my camp stuff before succumbing to the teenaged script of just-dump-everything-in-the-hamper. I took a much-needed nap and then made my way with an overnight bag to my second home, my Savta’s apartment just around the corner.
Later that night, after being spoiled again with homecooked food — Savta’s soup and black bread with butter, pasta, perfect letcho, and cheese — I went to get ready for bed in the homey little guestroom with its soft beds and huge white feather pillows in monogrammed cases embroidered by Savta for her trousseau. The phone rang, and I picked up the cordless phone to my uncle, who’d called to say goodnight to Savta. When he heard my voice, he tried to be gentle, but the words came out bluntly.
“There’s been an attack in Eretz Yisrael. It’s someone you know.”
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