was a small room at the end of the hall about the size of a powder room. There was one window, which was sealed and covered in a thick plastic curtain. In addition to a couple of cases of bottled water and a folding chair, the owners had left a trio of gas masks, more plastic sheeting, and a roll of duct tape. I quickly figured out these were to be used in the event of a poisonous gas attack. There was a sign on the door with instructions in both English and Hebrew:
In Case of Emergency
Bring radio into shelter.
Ensure there is one gas mask for
every person in shelter.
Seal door edges with thick strips of
tape once bomb shelter is closed.
Seal the bottom of door with
a wet towel.
Do not leave until you hear the
"all-clear" signal.
Holy crap! The whole idea of a bomb shelter was frigging creepy. The air was stale and claustrophobic and the gas masks looked like lifeless alien faces lying there on the floor.
Later on, when I showed the room to Dad, he did his best to downplay it.
"Don't worry about it, Mack," he said, waving off my concerns like a pesky fly. "Every house and apartment in Israel is required to have one of these things. It's like, I don't know … seat belts in a car … or emergency exits in a movie theatre … or fire extinguishers in school classrooms. Just something that's required by law for safety reasons."
I rolled my eyes in disgust and wondered for the millionth time why he'd brought us here.
Yeah, right, Dad. A bomb shelter is no different than an exit sign!
How could I have known that one day I'd actually have to use it?
The next morning, Dad and I were given an orientation tour of the university by one of his new colleagues in the Institute of Archaeology.
"Hi, I'm Professor Anderson," she said, shaking our hands and grinning widely. "But please call me Sharon. I'm the resident pottery specialist here at Hebrew U — although I'm originally from the University of Minnesota. I guess that's not too far from your neck of the woods — relatively speaking."
I liked her instantly. With her girlish blond ponytail and freckled cheeks, she looked far too young and pretty to be a professor, let alone an archaeologist. In fact, she didn't look much older than a student herself. It was a big contrast to Dad's colleagues back home, who had all seemed as old and dry as a bunch of prehistoric fossils.
Sharon led us around the grounds, pointing out the requisite places of interest. But for me, the best part of the tour wasn't the buildings or the library; it was her advice about living in Israel.
"I know you guys just got here, so here are some ‘survival tips,'" she said as we all sat down for a drink in the campus cafeteria. "First of all, you should know that this is a country of soldiers. Many Israeli adults have spent some time in the army. You may have noticed from the way they drive here that their attitude is all about ‘survival of the fittest.'"
I nodded, thinking back to the taxi ride in from the airport. The mere memory of it sent a wave of nausea through my belly. I took a long sip of my ginger ale. Thank God you could get Canada Dry here!
"You've also probably noticed by now that security is a way of life here," Sharon continued. "Be prepared to get searched when you enter the mall or other public places. And don't be shocked to see armed soldiers everywhere you go: restaurants, shops, buses."
The gingery bubbles melted on my tongue as I ate up her words. I knew that this was the kind of stuff I needed to hear if I was going to make a life for myself in this city — even if it was for just three months.
"Be respectful around the Orthodox Jews," Sharon continued. "You'll know them by the way they're dressed."
My thoughts flashed back to the men I'd seen walking through the airport. Big black hats, long dark coats. My dad and his cape were going to fit right in.
"And it's important to remember that these people don't believe in any eye contact or physical contact — even handshaking — between members of the opposite sex. In fact, Mackenzie, if you ever take a seat on a bus next to an Orthodox man, don't be surprised if he gets up and moves away. You should also know that much of this city shuts down from Friday afternoon until Saturday night at sunset. Whatever you do, don't drive through a religious neighbour-hood during that time. You might have stones or even dirty diapers thrown at you."
"Oh gross!" I grimaced and put down my drink. "Are you serious?"
"One hundred per cent," Sharon replied with a laugh. "It's just a fact of life here. Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough."
No I won't, because I'm not going to be staying, I felt like replying.
When Dad got up to refill his coffee cup, Sharon leaned her head towards mine and lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Listen, I'm sure this whole thing hasn't been easy for you … you know, moving to a strange country without your mother here to help. So if you don't mind, I'd like to offer you some ‘woman-to-woman' advice."
I stared down at my drink and shrugged. As nice as Sharon seemed, I did not want to talk to her about Mom. Please don't go there, I prayed silently.
"Mackenzie, I want you to promise me that you'll be careful when you're out alone," Sharon continued. "You're in the Middle East, now — a long way from North America. There are people and places in this city that can be dangerous for young girls on their own. Do you understand?"
I looked up again and nodded, relieved that she hadn't asked about Mom. And happy that she didn't give me that speech in front of Dad. He was way too overprotective of me already without hearing stuff like that. Too bad he couldn't be more like Sharon. I liked how she spoke to me like an adult, without sugar-coating the facts to make this place seem more like home.
Still, there was no way I could have known just how accurate her warning would turn out to be.
Chapter 3
On our fourth day in Jerusalem, Dad took me sightseeing.
"Wake up and put on your walking shoes!" he said, opening my curtains to let in the bright morning light. "We're going to the Old City today!"
I opened my eyes and groaned. He was standing over my bed and smiling down at me in full tourist gear: Birkenstocks, safari hat, and Bermuda shorts. Ugh! At least he wasn't wearing his cape. Dad had been known around York University as a bit of an oddball — a reputation I know secretly pleased him. Every time I ever visited him at work, I'd find him riding an old-fashioned bicycle around campus, his black cape billowing behind him in the wind. He told me that his students had long ago nicknamed him Einstein because of his wild mop of bushy, blond hair. I sometimes called him that, too, but never to his face. Can't you just picture him? If he wasn't my father, I'd laugh. But most of the time I don't find him very funny.
Still, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, Dad and I are eerily similar in a lot
