The news of the white snow about to hit the capital sparked great excitement in our homes, and for good reason: last year we missed the snow, we didn't create spectacular dolls, and we didn't frolic in the piles of the wonderful, shining, and pure material that the children of Jerusalem, who were shocked by the attacks, were blessed with.
The children rejoiced, but in my head a slightly different formulation of last year's events insisted on taking precedence: Thank God we weren't stuck in Jerusalem for three days without changing clothes, at a distant relative's house, as happened to my cousin Shuki.
Later, Shuki said that the distant relative, whom he had come to with his three small children, was happy to welcome them the first moments they appeared in his house, and even brought his wife's small heater closer to them, but the next day, when he realized that this was a longer stay than usual, his attitude changed slightly.
It was hard to tell, for someone who wasn't used to it, Shuki explained to me. On the surface, he was kind and friendly. He offered me the use of his personal whites – something I vehemently refused, and asked me repeatedly about Aunt Rachel, the distant relative who had actually created the connection between us. Yet, you could see that he was constantly interested in the weather, and every time it cleared up a little, a smile of joy would appear on his face.
After three days, Shabbat arrived, Shuki continues to describe the events of last year, and after I politely but firmly refused again the offer to share his bread with him, we arrived in our dirty clothes at the neighborhood synagogue, and discovered that we were not alone. It was easy to notice. Not only because of the wrinkled clothes, and the stench that wafted from the exiles stuck in Jerusalem, but also because of the miserable faces of the guests. "Only then did I understand for the first time the concept of the 'wandering Jew' from medieval folk tales," Shuki said.
On Sunday, four days after the initial snowfall, Shuki returned to his home in Modi'in Illit, and no force in the world could get him out of Jerusalem until the spring came and the buds appeared in the land, when he rode in an armored vehicle to the Western Wall with piles of underwear, tank tops, and socks in his backpack.
The events that happened to Shuki in those days became part of family folklore, and to this day, we customarily recount them on Seder night.
All of these scenes flashed through my mind last week, but I knew that almost deterministically, I would be forced to go to Jerusalem. Certainly when "Shulamit Cohen, Yaeli Ben Zachary, Giti Chernocha, Zehavi Hadash, and two girls of similar age from the girl's class are all traveling to the snow.".
I generously suggested that the girls travel with their friends, but then a certain difficulty arose in finding friends, and it became clear that not all of them necessarily go to the snow. In fact, none of them do. "But they would be happy to join us in our car, because they don't have a car.".
After long moments of anger, the undermining of the family unit and the peace of the house, we gathered all the rags from the closets, gloves, hats, coats, and drove to Ramot to visit brother-in-law Naftali, who assured us that his entire garden was loaded with snow.
All the way, the girls sang songs about the beauty of the snow, and told stories about the heroism of Naftali the brother-in-law, how he cleared the snow for his wife's knees, how he built snowmen as tall as a man with his son Gedaliah, and how he went to the synagogue to pray despite the heavy snow. I didn't enjoy this conversation, I'm a man too, and I have abilities too.
There was also hail in Modi'in Illit once, and I went to prayer, with all due respect to Naftali.
Anyway, we arrived at Naftali's house and he welcomed us warmly in the garden in question. But then three things became clear: A. There is indeed a garden next to Naftali's house, only it is not his. B. There was snow in the garden, but its color was black, and forty children were running around in the snowdrifts. C. Naftali had never built a snowman the height of a human, certainly not with his three-month-old son Gedaliah, whose mother insisted that he had not left the house for three days, nor with the giant blanket in which he was wrapped.
Anyway, we found ourselves a corner and started enjoying the snow. Overall, it was nice, if you ignore the fact that the cold snow penetrated my feet, making me realize that thick, ice-soaked sports socks are not necessarily an essential product for snow.
I said nothing and smiled with effort as I picked up a block of snow in my gloved hands. The cold hit me all at once, as did a series of existential questions: Why the hell am I doing this? Where does this masochistic pleasure come from in picking up a block of ice in my hand, turning the delicate skin of my palms red and stiff?
The girls actually enjoyed it. It's true that the snowballs thrown at them made them howl every so often, and blame the whole world, but I kept explaining to them that 'that's all the fun'. After all, what's more 'fun' than getting a block of snow thrown straight at your face? Is there a spiritual and physical experience superior to that? Why do people from the periphery travel to Jerusalem if not to get a snowball in their face?
Then the work of assembling the doll began. What's the point of that? Why would I spend long hours, as if I were an undeveloped child, assembling a doll out of snow? What does this doll give me? What mark do I leave on the world after I've managed to build the snowman? When I reach old age in the future, will I be able to tell my grandchildren with satisfaction that I assembled the ridiculous snowman in the picture? It's more likely that the picture will be destroyed long before then.
But I built like everyone else, and with artificial happiness I stuffed the carrot we brought from home into the center of the asymmetrical head of the white block that the girls insisted on calling Goshen. Why Goshen? Only God knows. I jumped around the doll like a fool, the soaked socks making a noise like car wipers, and I rubbed my blue palms at the happy faces of the girls who commented that even 'Dad claps his hands.'.
Of course, we also took the traditional photos, and after Naftali and I took pictures on both sides of the doll, the latter had to comment that, realizing that we had changed, he felt that he, Naftali, was unusual. Jerusalemite humor.
The way back was a breeze, and I finally understood what was so special about the snow in Jerusalem: getting away from it and returning to the warm, cozy, sane, and mature home, which is ironically located in the developed and modern city of Modi'in Illit.
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