Today (Wednesday) is the 20th anniversary of a miracle. And I commemorate this miracle by doing something that is explicitly against halacha (Jewish law). This is the true story behind my chosen sin.

Almost 21 years ago, I got married to Devora Gila. I was 39 years old and had already despaired of getting married and being blessed with children. But God showed more mercy than I deserved and I met an amazing woman who agreed to marry me and live in a ramshackle caravan in Gush Etzion. Fairly soon, we were pregnant, which shocked me. I naturally assumed that after all the trials and tribulations leading up to marriage, having children would be equally difficult. But it wasn’t.

Until one day, my wife had to travel to Jerusalem for an ultrasound. Below is an excerpt from my newly released novel, The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light, available for order from Root Source Publishing. The book is a semi-fictionalized account of my experiences living in Bat Ayin and watching the dearest Jewish souls being murdered simply because they were trying to come closer to God in Israel.

Skeptical readers can rest assured that this is an accurate accounting of the events that day. Her rabbi assured her that unlike most people alive today, she can rest assured that God absolutely wants her in the world. I agree.

Halacha mandates that my wife recite a blessing when she passes the site of the miracle. There are mixed opinions about whether my daughter who was unborn at the time should recite the blessing. There are no opinions that allow for me to say the blessing. Reciting a blessing without sufficient reason is a grievous sin. But when I pass through Gush Etzion Junction, I recite the blessing. Yes, God clearly saved my wife’s life through a revealed miracle. By doing so, he also saved my unborn daughter. But there were three lives saved that day. I know that there is no way I would have been able to continue my life had God not intervened.

Master of Return and the Eleventh Light
I looked at the caller ID and grimaced when I saw that it was Rina again. Our last conversation, not five minutes before, had used up all of my reserves. I was still ragged,but I figured that she needed some kind words before the ultrasound, so I answered.

“Are you Eli?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes,” I said, more than a bit confused. “Who the hell are you?”

“Your wife is okay.”

“Umm…,” feeling the blood drain from my face. “That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. What are you talking about?”

“Your wife was attacked by an Arab with a knife, but she is okay,” he said. “We’re waiting for the ambulance.”

“Where…”

“Gush Etzion Junction,” he said.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, hitting the button to disconnect. I reached into my pocket to get my car keys but fumbled them, kicking them into the street. Hanna got to them first, picking them up and holding them behind her back. 

“I don’t know what that was about, but you look like crap,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust you to drive.”

“It was some guy,” I said through numb lips. “He said that Rina got attacked.”

“I’ll drive,” she said. We jogged to her car, me lagging behind, reluctant to get into the car. I knew that arriving would force me to accept a reality I simply wasn’t equipped to handle.

She jumped into her car and started the engine, revving it a few times to get me to hurry. I finally got in, but before we pulled away, Hanna asked, “Is she okay?”

“He said she was, but I didn’t talk to her,” I answered, still fumbling with the seatbelt.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because if she isn’t okay, I don’t want to know about it yet. He said she was okay, and I want to keep believing that until I can’t deny it any longer.”

“Even if it is a lie?” Hanna said. “You’d rather not know?”

“Yes,” I said. “Even if it is a lie. For as long as it lasts.”

Army vehicles and police cars filled the road as we came over the rise a half mile before the traffic circle. It was a major intersection, the only way to get from Jerusalem to Hebron, so the police hadn’t shut down traffic. But a line of green Border Patrol jeeps with mesh over the windows blocked off the bus stop. 

Hanna stopped before the vehicles, and I got out, moving towards the bus stop on feet that couldn’t feel the ground. I went slowly, figuring in my head how much more time I had until my life was gone. For the time being, Rina was nowhere in sight.

I searched for the ambulance but that was also nowhere to be seen. I began praying that one was still needed. A cop saw me approach and held up his hand.

“My wife,” I said, angry that my voice shook making me sound like I was about to cry. “Where is she?”

Before he could answer, I saw a man kneeling on the sidewalk, his hands behind his back. He was small and dirty, middle-aged, wearing a bulky sweater despite the heat. I walked towards him, my knees refusing to bend as my field of vision shrank to contain just his head and torso.

‘Someone should hurt him,’ a voice in my head said. ‘He hurt Rina. It needs to be me. I need to hurt him.’

I felt hands grab at me, gripping my arms, preventing me from moving forward. A young man stepped in front of me, staring into my eyes.

“I am the guy who called you,” he said. “My name is Ori. Your wife is sitting up, but she needs to go to the hospital.”

I looked at him in disbelief. He looked like a kid telling me that he had just mowed my lawn.

“Is she okay?” I asked. “Where is the ambulance?”

“It’s not here yet,” he said. “They had to order a specially armored ambulance because Arabs are demonstrating on the road. We won’t know her condition until after the doctors check her out, but she seems okay.”

“Where is she?”

He took me by the arm. “I’ll take you to her, but you have to stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.”

We walked towards a car, stopping several yards short.

“I was walking towards the bus stop when he attacked her,” Ori said. “He had a knife, but something happened. When it hit her in the back, it broke.”

He pointed at the ground, and my eyes followed where he was looking. A big kitchen knife, the blade broken into three pieces, lay in the gravel next to the curb.

“Your wife fell and was trying to crawl away, but he jumped on her back,” Ori said. “He had another knife. He kept trying to stab her, but the knife didn’t go in.”

“What do you mean it didn’t go in?” I said. “You’re not making sense.”

“Just what I said,” the young man told me. “It took me a moment to react, and a few more to run over. But all the time I was watching, he got in about a dozen good stabs. He put all of his muscle behind it, leaning in. But the knife just wouldn’t go in.”

I stood there for a few seconds trying and failing to take in what he had just told me.

“I’m a combat medic in the paratroopers,” he said. “I just got out of the army two weeks ago and I’m getting married next week. I was on my way to Jerusalem to take care of some wedding stuff. I was waiting for the bus when I saw him attack your wife. I ran over and got him off her back and took away his knife. After the IDF showed up, I checked your wife out. I watched what happened, so I expected it to be pretty bad. But there weren’t any heavy bleeders. There weren’t any bleeders at all, just what looked like a bunch of deep scratches.”

“So she’s okay,” I said, needing to be reassured. “We can go home.”

“No,” he said. “It’s impossible to tell with stab wounds. They can look like nothing but be deep, into the vital organs. Or they can look huge and ugly but just need a bunch of stitches. She needs you right now. But she needs you to be calm.”

I looked at the young man, feeling a bit angry that he was on top of the situation while I felt like a youngster who wanted to crawl into a hole. We walked towards the car, and I finally got to see my wife, sitting sideways with her feet outside of the vehicle. She was bent over, her face in her hands. She was wearing her favorite shirt, a light purple button-up. The buttons were crooked, and the top two were missing.

I realized that someone had probably ripped off her shirt to check her wounds and that someone was probably Ori. Another man came over and handed me a white tee shirt.

“Her shirt is ripped,” he said. “She can wear this.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the shirt without ever seeing his face. I walked over, and Rina looked up.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I needed you.”

I hesitated, scared that she meant that she had needed me to fight off the Arab, and I had failed her again in the most time-honored husbandly way possible.

“I couldn’t get my shirt buttoned right, and I didn’t want any of these men to do it,” she finally said. “Could you put that tee shirt on me? I don’t think I can manage it. You can put it over my shirt.”

I nodded as she leaned forward. I stretched the shirt wide, trying to be as gentle as possible. I winced as glimpses of bright red moved beneath the dozen or so cuts in the back of her shirt. One cut on the side of her arm seemed to be the most painful as she slid it through the armhole of the borrowed shirt. The tee-shirt was big, more substantial than my own, but her belly stretched the fabric. I caught a whiff of sweat, thinking it was the shirt. But then I realized it was me. Sweat was pouring off me.

“I hope the baby is okay,” she said, tears suddenly filling her eyes. “I feel so stupid.” She reached up and grabbed my arm, desperation in her eyes. “We can’t let my mother know about this.”

The medics showed up, helping Rina to lie down in a complicated-looking stretcher. I followed feeling useless. One medic hooked Rina up to monitors while the other checked that the stretcher was locked in place. I was fumbling with my seatbelt when the ambulance lurched forward, sending me sprawling.

Rina looked up at me. “Could you say some Psalms?” she requested.

I struggled to remember a few verses, but nothing came. I had sat in yeshiva for so many years but my mind was a blank. Finally, the beginning of a verse began to form in my head.

“I am unworthy of all the kindness that You have so steadfastly shown Your servant: with my staff alone I crossed this Yarden, and now I have become two camps. Deliver me, I pray, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau; else, I fear, he may come and strike

me down, mothers and children alike.”

“Stop!” Rina yelled. “I need Psalms, not verses. Especially not that one!”

The medic reached into his vest and pulled out a small copy of Psalms, handing it to me.

“Which one?” I asked Rina.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Just read to yourself. I need to calm down and you aren’t helping.”

I opened the book and mumbled some words. The medic took the opportunity to cut the shirts off her back and inspect her wounds. He helped her into a flimsy hospital gown, leaving the ties in the back undone. As the ambulance slowed down, I looked up, twisting around to look over the medic’s shoulder and out through the windshield. My blood froze as I saw the road blocked by a crowd of angry Arabs. Thankfully, Rina was strapped in with her back towards the front of the ambulance and couldn’t see what was going on. The ambulance hopped up onto the center island and moved forward until it was behind an army jeep painted in the deeper olive green of the Border Patrol branch of the IDF. The doors of the vehicle opened on both sides, and four young soldiers exited calmly. I was shocked at how young they looked and at how undisturbed they were. They moved slowly, smoothly, and confidently as if crowd control was just another day at the office.

One soldier cracked open a stubby gun, loading it with a tear gas canister. Another placed a tiny black cylinder on the front of his M16, while a chubby officer pulled a pin from a small grenade and tossed it matter-of-factly into the crowd. The sound of the flashbang could not penetrate the thick armor of the ambulance, but I saw its immediate effect on the Arabs blocking our way. The soldier with the M16 took cover behind the armored door of the jeep, placing the muzzle of his gun in the V-shaped opening separating the door from the body of the jeep. Again, I couldn’t hear the report of the weapon, but the effect was unmistakable. The crowd parted; the jeep began to move forward slowly as the soldiers got inside, and the ambulance followed. A few minutes later, the riot was behind us, and the ambulance got up to speed. I watched as the jeep made a U-turn, heading back to the riot.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at Hadassah Ein Kerem. It was a huge medical complex but when we pulled up to the entrance to the emergency room, the drive was blocked by a crowd of photographers.

“Is there some kind of VIP in the hospital?” I asked the medic.

He looked at me in surprise before answering. “These are the photographers from the news services,” he said. “They are here to photograph your wife.”

“I can’t let my mother see me in the news,” Rina shrieked. She pulled the sheet up and over her head.

“The reporters will think you died,” I said.

“You’re not helping!” Rina screamed from under the sheet. “Stay away when they take me out. If my mom sees you in the photos, she’ll know it was me.”

The ambulance slowed to a stop, and the reporters crowded around the back doors, holding their cameras up to photograph the interior. The driver got out and ran around to open the rear doors, grabbing the stretcher and pulling it out as the wheels unfolded automatically. I began to stand up, but Rina screamed for me to stay put. I watched as they wheeled her away, waiting until they disappeared into the building before I stood up to follow. It was no problem figuring out where she was. A mass of green-clad doctors and nurses moved down the hall, loud voices yelling out instructions. They parked Rina’s gurney in the corner of an open room. Wrappers fell to the floor as sterile equipment was put into action. As I approached the group, searching for a space to access my wife, the activity suddenly ceased.

“Does anyone see anything other than a surface laceration?” One tall doctor yelled out. No one answered. “Okay, let’s pack it up.”

The staff moved away, leaving me alone with Rina.

“Is that it?” she asked me.

“I guess so,” I answered.

“But they didn’t do anything,” she pleaded.

“I’ll go talk to the doctor,” I assured her. I walked around, searching for a few minutes before finding the central nurses’ station. One nurse was pecking away at a computer.

“Excuse me,” I said, having to repeat myself before she finally looked up. “My wife was just brought in. She was stabbed by an Arab.”

She looked at me angrily making me wonder what I had said wrong.

“The patient was brought in after being attacked by a suspected terrorist,” she finally said. “She was not stabbed. There were no penetrations.”

“The doctors went away,” I said. “When are they coming back to treat her?”

“They aren’t,” she answered. “We are waiting to get an ultrasound done to check on the fetus.”

“You mean she is okay?” I asked.

“That’s what I said,” obviously wanting to be done with this conversation. “Depending on the ultrasound, she may be kept overnight.”

“Can someone at least put antiseptic or iodine on the cuts?” I pleaded.

She glared at me before standing up, turning to pull several items from the drawers lining the wall behind her. She placed a small bottle, sterile swabs, and latex gloves on the counter before returning to her computer. I picked it all up, stuffing some of it into my pockets before returning to Rina. She saw me approaching, and I saw her look of dismay, understanding it immediately.

“I asked the doctor to let me clean your wounds. I have a better bedside manner,” I said.

“That’s stupid,” she said. “I think a doctor should do it.”

“I know. But if the doctor said it was okay for me to do it, then it should be okay for me to do it,” I said with a hint of annoyance. Rina reluctantly twisted around and leaned forward. I dropped the latex gloves to the floor and began to swab the marks on her back. All I could see were about a dozen tiny red dots marking where the point of the knife had pricked her, none deeper than a millimeter. There was one cut on her upper arm where the blade had slipped, but nothing looked too alarming.

An orderly showed up just as I finished swabbing. We helped Rina into a wheelchair, and I pushed her to the elevators. The nurse operating the ultrasound began to fill out forms.

“Is this your first ultrasound for this pregnancy?” she asked.

Rina began to cry uncontrollably. “Take me out of here,” she sobbed. “I need a break.”

The nurse looked up at me with a stern look and nodded her approval. I pushed the wheelchair to the end of the hall where there was a lounge with a coffee machine. I positioned the wheelchair so I could sit and talk to Rina face-to-face and possibly grab a much-needed cup.

“What’s up, Sweety?”

She pointed to the clock. “It’s two-thirty,” she said. “My appointment for the ultrasound was scheduled for two-thirty. I left early so I could hitchhike. I thought it would save bus fare. I should have just caught the bus. Why did all this have to happen?”

“Honey, are you okay?” I said with a strange note of pleading in my voice.

“I don’t feel okay,” she said. “I feel like nothing will ever be okay again.” She took a deep breath. “Take me back. I want to see the baby.”

I wheeled her to the ultrasound, thinking that in the end, I was being the good husband by accompanying her. The nurse didn’t waste any time making more small talk and went right to work. Rina winced as the cold gel was smeared across her swollen belly but a smile broke across her face when the image appeared on the screen. It was far from high resolution, but there were unmistakable fingers and toes for us to count. Rina was so intent on looking at the screen that she didn’t catch the look of concern on the nurse’s face as she stepped away. She returned with a doctor who busied herself with a monitor attached to the ultrasound.

The doctor finally spoke up, introducing herself twice before Rina looked away from the image of the baby.

“I am Doctor Rosenberg,” she said. “We are going to keep you overnight for observation.”

“Is my baby okay?” Rina said. I reached over to hold her hand, but she pulled away.

“We want to make sure the baby is okay,” Dr. Rosenberg said. “The fetus is very quiet and not as active as it should be. It may be nothing, but we want to make sure.”

The doctor and nurse walked away, murmuring to each other. I watched as Rina sank into sadness, pushing me away when I tried to comfort her. The same attendant showed up to wheel Rina to her room.

I followed behind, not even sure that Rina knew I was there until I helped her into the bed.

“Please leave,” Rina said after getting settled. “I need time to be alone.”

I practically crumpled to the ground, hurt by her words. “Are you sure?” I asked. She nodded grimly, and I stepped into the hallway, sitting on the floor just outside of her room. I must have nodded off because a nurse shook me awake, telling me that I couldn’t sit there. She pointed to a lounge at the end of the hall. The lounge was empty, so I lay down, taking up one of the long seats, the metal strip dividers digging into my ribs.

Order the book at the Root Source website.