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Shulamit S. Magnus
Jewish historian

Time and Space Travel in the Miklat

Being now a regular in the miklat, my building’s shelter, I have encountered my mostly elderly neighbors in entirely new ways.

We’ve been in close proximity many times over the last few days, side by side on our plastic chairs, in sleep attire, for anywhere from 10 or so minutes to an hour and a half, at times we would normally be in our respective beds, asleep. For most of the ten years I’ve lived in this building, a slight nod is the most that would pass between me and most of the other residents.

It was not a warm welcome when I moved into this building. I was one of a few renters among owners who, it became clear, did not like renters. The head of the building committee, the vaad, immediately threatened to sue me for damage he claimed my movers caused to the ancient elevator (they used a lift to bring my furniture in through the 6th floor windows). The elevator is regularly out of service even after its motor was replaced, but I did not know that then; I’ve certainly become familiar with it since. Given that start to things, when I saw the man, Mr. B., large, elderly, and ornery, I tried to avoid him. He then began hollering, “shalom!” at me whenever I was within sight, like a dare. “Shalom! I said to you!” I avoided him all the more. He told the other residents that I refuse to greet him and they began giving me dirty looks and saying to one another, while we shared the elevator (when it worked), “don’t say hi to her! She doesn’t say hi!|”

Then, a few years ago, a wonderful new couple moved in; owners. He immediately became active in the vaad and quickly figured out the less than friendly dynamics altogether and those directed to me, in particular. Given the frequency of the elevator issues, I interacted with him and was relieved at the rationality of the exchanges.

Eventually, unbeknownst to me, he set up Mr. B, a survivor of Theresienstadt, to encounter me rather differently. It was erev yom kippur afternoon and I was preparing the seuda mafseket, the meal before starting the fast. Knock at the door; through the peep hole, I see Mr. B. What have I done now? I wonder, and whether to ignore the knock. I open the door, steeling myself. Mr. B.– just starts talking. He does not ask forgiveness but I understand what he is doing. He says that I am about his daughter’s age. I ask if he wants a hug. He says, yes. We embrace. Wish one another g’mar tov.

Since then, it’s way better in the building but the repeat time in the miklat obviously, has added much familiarity to our encounters. Several of the residents are hearing impaired but don’t have their hearing aids in at night or yet, early in the morning, so miss the extremely helpful pre-siren alerts, possibly even the siren itself. Which is not at all advisable in this war, in particular, with ballistic missiles the size of buses raining down. I make suggestions– put the aids in a packet near the door to take to the miklat; ask another woman her apartment number, tell her I can ring her bell when I am dashing downstairs to the miklat. I have two bells, she says. One of them is louder, it has a note saying that. I smile and thumbs up.

This morning, just as I was headed out to an appointment not far from home, the second level alert came. When that happens, I don’t wait for the siren but head directly to the miklat, much less stressful to just be there and get it over with than run down seven flights with the siren, with 90 seconds in Jerusalem (quite adequate but still, stressed), before the booms. If the siren doesn’t come, nisht geferlakh, as my mother, z”l, would say, so what. This time, we were in there for about 40 minutes. Mr. B., sitting opposite a very elderly, wheelchair bound woman (she was friendly to me from the start and we are friends), speaks broken English to her, says he is used to bombing and something about Theresienstadt, who among his relatives did not make it out. I decide to ask his place of origin. Slovakia, he says. Where? I ask. Bratislava, he says. My mother was born in Slovakia, I say, Zborov. He comes over and sits next to me. Not familiar with Zborov, a little mountain town in the country’s north, near the Polish border, but I say the names of other towns nearby: Bardejov, Presov. He’s heard of those.

Eldery woman across from me perks up, my mother was born in Zborov, she says.

What? I say. What?

Which one? I ask. There were two, the other, in Ukraine. Surely she means that other one, as my mother used to say to anyone not from there who said they knew Zborov. Her Zborov was too small for anyone not from there or nearby to know it.

No, the one in Slovakia, she says.

I ask her family name, it’s not familiar. Her mother left Zborov and went to Budapest before the war. She herself was born in Budapest, they survived there, I did not ask how.

When the ok to leave the miklat comes, I go over to her and say, we’re landsfroyen.

Mr. B. is a landsman, too.

About the Author
Shulamit S. Magnus Professor Emerita of Jewish Studies and History at Oberlin College. She is the author of four published books and numerous articles on Jewish modernity and the history of Jewish women, and winner of a National Jewish Book award and other prizes. Her new book is the first history of agunot and iggun from medieval times to the present, across the Jewish map. It also assesses and critiques current policy on Jewish marital capitivity in the US and Israel and makes proposals to end this abuse. Entitled, "Jewish Marital Captivity: The Past, Present, and End of a Historic Abuse," it is in press with New York University Press. She is a founder of women's group prayer at the Kotel and first-named plaintiff on a case before the Supreme Court of Israel asking enforcement of Jewish women's already-recognized right to read Torah at the Kotel. Her opinions have been published in the Forward, Tablet, EJewish Philanthropy, Moment, the Times of Israel, and the Jerusalem Post.