Four Generations in a Bomb Shelter

The portrait of my grandfather’s great-great-grandfather collects dust on the shelf. In peace, a storage unit. In war, a midnight gathering place for our family. He sits wrapped in his tallit. His spiritual protection. He stares at us. We stare back.

It’s 2 am. My sister breastfeeds her baby, so she doesn’t notice that she has been rushed from her bed. My uncle comforts his youngest son, who was the first one to get here, in a scramble from the top floor. My dad checks his watch, antsy to get out, a whole three minutes too long. 

The “event” ends. We exit. My grandpa puts on the news. It’s a routine. Perfected over 80 years of living through every single war this country has ever seen. The last three years being the most tragic. My dad, too, remembers as a child being comforted by his mother in the bomb shelter. There were no missile alert applications then, no strike predictors, only the radio. 

My niece, at 3 months old, has experienced war twice, once now and once in the belly. I’m the newbie at this. The sabra skin develops. 

My youngest cousin sets up his makeshift bed at the foot of my grandfather’s bed. Our midnight meeting disperses. But our chairs are left in place for our inevitable return. 

The norm has been to keep going, to keep working. To crack jokes. To make homemade soup. To go on a 5-minute radius walk around the house. To sing to the baby. To eat gummy worms. 

Only to flinch when your phone makes that piercing scream.

The booms are a good sound. Our protection is working. The rumble of the jets overhead is a reassuring sound. The people sitting in the cockpits are fierce women and fierce men. Fierce Jews. Israelis. Our shields. 

I don’t usually live at my uncle’s house. My sister and her husband don’t usually stay in my dad’s apartment. By now, there is no usual. In peace, we are scattered across different zip codes. In war, we are four generations in a bomb shelter.