No Purim party is complete until Spider-Man shows up, and at the party in my building’s bomb shelter, there were two.
Outside, the rockets were intercepted, and at our shelter in Jerusalem, we could hear the occasional boom. But it was drowned out by children and parents singing holiday songs, both on Sunday afternoon and Monday.
The children weren’t about to miss their Purim fun, and since literally the only place you can have a party these days is in a bomb shelter, it was a brilliant idea. The tenants, who cleared all the bicycles and old exercise equipment out of the shelter during the war with Iran, set up a children’s corner many months ago during the war with Hamas, with a low table, mats, a carpet, wall hangings, and art supplies.
On Sunday afternoon, the kids put on their costumes and headed into the bomb shelter for an afternoon of games, treats, and songs with their parents. Everyone in the building was invited to join in, and of course, it was clear that if there were a missile alert during the party, all the tenants would come.
But the skies were quiet as the children celebrated, and the two little guys dressed as Spider-Man happily went on a treasure hunt with a fairy, a police woman, a pirate, a clown, an Indian, Beetlejuice, and a couple of kids who hadn’t figured out their costumes yet. It could have been any Purim party.
More alerts, more fatigue
But Sunday night at 9:30 p.m., when the next alert came in, it was a different story. Some of the kids wore pieces of their costumes, but most had been in bed when the sirens sounded, and looked a little drowsy. A couple of the older girls brought tablets, and a boy wearing Stitch pajamas and Spider-Man boots sat down to finish a drawing of a dog.
An hour later, there was another alert, and many kids had to be carried in, fast asleep. The adults kept their voices down, and even the two building dogs who don’t much like each other kept their growling unusually quiet.
A father reached behind some books on a shelf, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and some cups, and handed them out to a few winded parents. One mother, suffering from a sore throat, said that she had always heard stories of how whiskey was soothing but never realized it was true before. One weary dad with three kids turned down the drink, saying he was already so tired, he didn’t think he could make it up the stairs even without the whiskey.
Those who don’t have kids, or whose children are already grown, will be forgiven for not knowing or remembering what a drawn-out process it often is to get little ones to sleep, but I remember, and my heart went out to the parents in the shelter.
Imagine your children being awakened not just once, but twice after the bath-story-bedtime routine, and not by an unavoidable street noise like a passing ambulance, but by sirens announcing that missiles were hurtling towards you. Imagine saying words guaranteed not to alarm them, scooping them up, heading into a drafty, brightly lit room, knowing this could go on all night.
But we were out of the safe room at about 11 p.m. and didn’t have to go back until a little after 7 a.m. on Monday, which, under the circumstances, made me feel like I had just had a week’s vacation at a spa.
We were in and out twice before 9 a.m. and then in again at midday, when one of our neighbors put on a giant Minnie Mouse head and handed out mishloach manot, bags of Purim goodies, to the children, a few of whom were all dressed up again. We sang songs together, and the children took turns putting on the Minnie head.
The all-clear came, and we headed back to our apartments. The boy's mother said they were going to take a walk around the block. He looked scared, and she reminded him that every building on our block has a shelter. He fingered the bag of Purim candy nervously.
“It will be fine,” she said. “Then you can have your candy.”
He took her hand, and they left the shelter.