The impact of the blast threw me face down on the rough pavement. In slow motion, I watched as my arms stretched out to cushion the fall. They failed miserably as my body went sliding along the sidewalk like a sleigh on ice. It all happened too quickly to register pain until I stood up. Then my cheeks, my hands, my shins throbbed as blood oozed from my broken flesh. It created a cooling effect, similar to sweat, and I shivered despite the warm summer sun. For the moment I forgot where I was. My vision blurred and it took me a moment to focus. Then I screamed. I kept screaming. I couldn’t stop. I thought I could feel my stomach rise up to my throat in an attempt to spit my guts out. And I kept screaming.
There, on the pavement, lying face down, was my beautiful daughter - bloody and still.
I had become paralyzed. I didn’t think to bend down and touch her. I didn’t think at all. I just kept screaming.
That was followed by a sudden silence when all the screams had been used up. I fell on top of Samantha and I sobbed convulsively. It seemed my life with her passed before my eyes in only a few seconds. It’s incredible how much we can see in just one moment - a moment when time seems to stop. I remembered her first cry; the nervous look in her eyes as she walked onto a Ferris wheel then turned and waved before she was lifted off the ground into a cloud. I felt her small hand in mine as she showed me the front tooth that had fallen out as she handed it to me. And it had only been last week that my beautiful Samantha stood at the bema singing her Haftorah portion as friends and family celebrated her Bat Mitzvah. The melody rang in my ears as if the angels, themselves, had landed on earth. She sang in a language I didn’t understand and yet was so familiar - a part of who I had always been.
As my body quaked, I remembered all the joy and could not conceive how it could possibly end. “No, dear G-d, don’t let this be,” my spirit pleaded to some unseen and unseeing power, my body rocking back and forth over my fallen child as if I were praying.
My mother told me not to take this trip.
“Momma, this is going to be wonderful. Just Samantha and me in Israel - by the Wailing Wall, at Rachael’s tomb. It will be awesome.”
“As long as . . . I won’t say what as long as might be.” Momma took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap and almost begged, “Why don’t you wait?”
“For what? Peace in Israel? I might as well wait for the Messiah.” I took her hand and noticed how old it had become. Holding tight, I said, “We’ll be fine. There are millions of people in Israel. The percentage killed by terrorists is probably lower than people who die in car accidents or get hit by lightning.”
Shaking her head, I heard her sigh. She believed she was talking to the deaf but had to keep on speaking. “I’m not interested in statistics. Besides, would you have your children play in a thunderstorm?”
“We’ll be careful. I promise.” I stood and approached her, offering a kiss. The feel of Momma’s cheek against my cool lips was warm. I was transported back there as my body lay in the present as a crowd gathered around us. I didn’t hear the sirens. I didn’t see the people. I was back home, kissing my mother’s cheek, assuring her that all would go well.
When Samantha and I walked on the bus, I believed in my immortality. Not consciously, of course. Just the way people trust that when they go to sleep at night they will wake up in the morning. There was no premonition, no voice from G-d telling us to beware. A young Hassid walked on the bus before us. I remember Samantha twirling her fingers at the side of her head. She turned to me, smiling. She thought they were funny. I was embarrassed by her. This was Israel. Here the dark garb with the high hats and curly side locks looked right at home. And I didn’t want Samantha drawing attention to us by acting childish. Maybe she was a Bat Mitzvah but she was obviously not all grown-up.
“He’s funny,” she whispered.
“Shush!”
She giggled and continued talking about him. He looked awkward and she believed he was carrying something under his black coat. “Those coats are huge,” she said. “I suppose they have pockets to carry everything since they don’t use backpacks.” She tried to image what he could have under the coat. “You think his siddur is in one of those pockets? Actually, it looks like he’s carrying all five books of Moses on him.”
I noticed that he moved his hands in and out of his pockets. He fidgeted, seeming unusually nervous. Sweat glistened on his face as it dripped down his neck below his collar.
“Samantha, that looks like a very heavy coat for this time of year. I think I want to get off at the next stop.”
We edged up to the front of the bus where I warned the driver about my suspicions. His hand reached for a button by the steering wheel to alert an undercover patrol person stationed somewhere in the rear. When it came to a stop Samantha walked off first, in front of me.
If I had been in front maybe she would be the one lying over me. “It should have been me. It should have been me.” I kept saying that as someone dragged me off her body. They lifted her onto a stretcher and pulled me away.
That’s when I heard her call, “Mommy, don’t leave me.”
She reached out her hand to me as I cried some more, this time feeling incredible joy. The joy filled my chest until it ached. It was then, as I took her outstretched hand, that I noticed her little pinky finger was gone. And I was so glad.
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