Posted on 10/22/24
“How do you think they feel, having 10 sweaty, smelly soldiers living in their house?” she asked.
* * *
I’m no historian, but I remembered learning something about soldiers taking over private homes for their own use. The details, however, were elusive. I guess I should have paid more attention in American History class, but thankfully Professor Google quickly refreshed me on the particulars.
With apologies to my British daughter-in-law, it seems that 11 years before the American Revolution, the British passed the Quartering Act, which required the Colonists to provide housing and provisions to the British soldiers in their towns, at their own expense.
While it’s popularly believed that this allowed soldiers to take over citizens’ homes, the Professor tells me that that’s not actually correct. However, the public did need to come up with the funds to provide for the British troops’ needs. In any case, the Third Amendment to the US Constitution severely curtailed the practice of “quartering” soldiers, requiring the consent of the owners.
Enough of the history lesson. If I didn’t pay sufficient attention the first time, there’s no reason why you should have to suffer through it now.
* * *
When the rocket fire from Lebanon escalated into a new full-blown front in the war, many troops were relocated from the southern border to the north. My son’s group was among them. Was it a unit? A platoon? A brigade? As a member of the sandwich generation that didn’t get sent to war, I honestly can’t keep the differences straight. All I know is that there were thousands of soldiers.
Thousands of soldiers whose training over the years was for battle in Lebanon.
Thousands of soldiers who now needed somewhere to stay on the Israeli side of the northern border.
I don’t envy the logistics people in the IDF who have to magically conjure up transportation, housing, food, etc., for large numbers of people, sometimes at a moment’s notice. But they found lodging for my son’s immediate group of 10 or so in a gan (a children’s nursery). Perhaps not very comfortable, but at least it was an indoor space, with a solid roof over their heads.
Evidence of the abrupt evacuation of the local residents following Hezbollah’s shelling was everywhere. The local shul was still decorated for Sukkot and Simchat Torah. The gan walls were adorned with pictures of the holidays. And while all of these ornaments could easily have been from this year, they were not. They were from last year. The orphaned cottage cheese in the nursery’s refrigerator told the story. Its date: October 6, 2023 – the day before our whole world changed.
Reminders of this northern community’s regular life were the soldiers’ shadows. There was no escaping them.
A week or so after they arrived, a friend of a friend (or maybe it was a cousin of an aunt, or a neighbor of a co-worker – in Israel it’s pretty much all the same), found them a house they could stay in. There were no issues of the Quartering Act at play here, with the soldiers forcing themselves upon a residence. Just the opposite. The family – from their sanctuary far away from the border – gladly agreed to have the soldiers stay in their house.
Even in the comfort of a real home with real beds, the reminders were omnipresent. Enter the front door, and there was a lulav, blackened with mold, suspended on the coat hook where it was hung a year prior.
* * *
It’s an odd thing living in someone else’s home, even with their assent. There’s wear and tear (and soldiers probably excel at inadvertently wearing and tearing!), there are gas and lights and electricity being used. So this minyan of home guests, of their own initiative, and from their own pockets, started a Paybox account to help reimburse their hosts for the costs of their stay.
As Rosh Hashanah approached, the army delivered provisions for the holiday. There was chicken. There were side dishes to appeal to both Sefardi and Ashkenazi palates. There was dessert.
There was no challah.
Was it those unenviable logistics people who slipped up? Or maybe it was the kitchen people. Or the people who boxed everything up. Or the guy in the jeep who made the deliveries. Whoever it was, somehow there was no challah.
But there were 10 resourceful soldiers. And some of them – including my son – knew how to bake a challah. But what of the ingredients?
A quick call to the friend-of-a-friend (or whoever it was whose house they were quartering in) yielded an enthusiastic woman whose kitchen was being commandeered for their baking session. Her side of the conversation went something like this:
“With pleasure!
“Here’s where I keep my flour!
“And here’s where you’ll find the yeast!
“The salt and sugar are in the cupboard!
“Help yourselves to everything, and Shana Tova!”
They were able to procure some fresh eggs, and before they knew it, for the first time in a year, the sweet fragrance of fresh challah permeated this formerly-aromatically-bereft home in the north. Our soldiers were able to enjoy a delicious piece of their own homes, in the loving hospitality of someone else’s.
* * *
“How do you think they feel, having 10 sweaty, smelly soldiers living in their house?” she asked.
I replied: “I think they are feeling honored to have the soldiers there, prepared to sacrifice their lives so that the family who belongs there can return home. I think they are feeling hope, that one day soon their kids might go back to their gan (with fresh containers of cottage cheese), and that the sound of laughter may once again fill the air, as they swing on the ropes in the park nearby. I think they are feeling love and pride.
“I think that there’s nothing in the world that makes them as happy right now, as having 10 sweaty, smelly soldiers living in their home, muddying the floors, and using their electricity.”
And baking fresh, hot challahs in their oven.