It was late morning, early July in Jerusalem. Market day. I set out on my usual path into town along the old train tracks and uphill past Liberty Bell Park. I started a grocery list in my head as I turned onto King David Street, glancing at Montefiore's Windmill looming surreal in the distance. I thought about Hebrew words and phrases, the market lingo, and kept to the shade of buildings. Past The Great Synagogue onto King George Street, then left on Yafo where the path narrowed, becoming dense with people. Steps from the market I stopped short, remembering I needed cash.
Inside the bank I heard two bursts like thunder. But this was summer in Israel and rain was a winter memory. Everyone rushed outside and stood hushed at the curb, waiting. A shrill cry of sirens broke the silence. An ambulance and fire engine roared by. Two army jeeps followed, soldiers' boots hammering the pavement, rifles slapping their backs. Traffic ground to a halt. Radios turned on. The airwaves were soon saturated. People huddled together, their faces taut with dread and memory.
I wandered away from downtown but not home. I thought about the Hebrew word I just learned: bomb. I walked until the sirens were muffled by breeze through the cypress trees. The noon sun had pushed out all shade. No living soul was in sight; the houses like white stuccoed graves. I took to walking in the middle of streets, scanning the landscape robotically. The faces of friends came to mind. Who else was going to the market today? I will just keep walking until things make sense.
Suddenly a taxi appeared, an oily mirage. I drifted to one side to let it pass but instead it pulled up beside me. The cab driver and I stared at each other: his eyes quick and worried; mine listless, abstract. He asked what I was doing way out here, but no answer came. More quietly he said come on, I'll take you home.
When we arrived the sun had melted into evening. I handed the cab driver one of the crisp bills forgotten since morning, but he refused emphatically, his eyes shining one last time in the rearview. Somehow I found my key, my door, my bed. I fell into a black sleep; awoke in pitch-dark night. I gasped, recalling the summer thunder. Clutching at my heart, I cried a winter rain.
Leah Sidell lives in Paris with her partner Irving, Willow the dog and wayfarer cat Ollie. Enjoying the writer's life in France, Leah recently worked as features editor for Paris Link, an online, bilingual news source. She had her first piece of fiction printed in Wilde Paris literary magazine in 2005, and maintains two blogs about expat life. Leah is currently working on her first novel.