Within the Pages

Jerusalem, Israel

Four American kids scurried across the wet stones of the Jerusalem streets as the November rains began to fall in earnest. That bookstore on the left looked to be our best bet for shelter so we hustled ourselves through the door to escape the pouring rain.

The modest little shop was overflowing with books of every kind covering every subject imaginable; many shelves were double and triple stacked with titles in both Hebrew and English. Piles of books standing waist-height and higher lay on the floor and in the aisles, making navigation between the bookcases a task and an adventure in itself. Aside from the shopkeeper, an old man hidden behind a sagging desk piled high with more books, we were alone in the shop.

As the storm continued, the four of us each settled into his own spot somewhere within the intimate confines of the shop and began to explore the magical realm of words on pages as we waited for the rain to pass. For the next hour or so, the sleepy bookstore fell into silence once again, except for the soft swooshing of pages being turned and the occasional gentle thud of a book being re-shelved. Outside, the streets continued to flow with water as we swirled around in the pages of forgotten books.

The downpour began to let up and we were eager to return to what further adventures awaited us in the City, but some of us had found books that we just couldn't put back on the shelf.

"Do you give student discounts?" I had to peer over the stacks of books on the desk to find the old man behind it.

"Everybody is student these days," he muttered. We laughed.

"I sell for almost the same price I buy so no discount," he said, "but it is good price." Fair enough.

Jared got a Hebrew bible and Jenny bought a siddur, a Jewish prayer book, all purchased with New Israeli Shekels.

"Jewish humor, eh?" the old man peered over his glasses at Luke's book of choice. "I thought you were student."

"Yeah," Luke said. "It's for my dad."

"My father had bookcases full of Jewish humor books. He loved Jewish humor."

We smiled and chuckled politely.

"Humor," he went on, almost to himself. "That is how my father survived the Holocaust. The guards wanted to kill him but he always told them jokes so they let him live."

He slid the humor book back across the desk to Luke. The store was quiet again except for the inaudible swooshing of black and white photos racing through my mind.

We thanked the man and quietly filed back into the unprotected street. The downpour had given way to a light drizzle but there was something else in the air as we continued down the soggy streets of Jerusalem, clutching newfound treasures both in hand and heart.