Jewish Post, Indianapolis, Marion County, 9 February 1994 — Page 13

February 9,1994 Pa^e National 9

paperbacks trying to find my eyeglasses in the solid darkness. We could both hear the neighbors calling to each other outside. I didn't know where our dogs were, though they had to be somewhere in the house, but I wasn't looking for them. My entire existence had centered around finding my glasses. I'd lived through a number of previous earthquakes in Southern California, including the 1971 Sylmar quake, and I knew this was worse than anything I'd ever experienced before. But I also knew that if I could find my glasses, then when the sun came up, I could see. Scrambling among the fallen books, the lamps, the dresser drawers, and the scattered stuffed animals, I was suddenly aware of a light going on beside my right hand. The disengaged receiver of Keith's phone was letting me know the phone line had reconnected. I grabbed it, held it almost to my nose so that I could see to dial, and immediately called our out-of-state contact — the monastery. The powers that be, who tell everyone in L.A. how to prepare for the inevitability of a coming quake, have advised us to have an out-of-state contact point, a central place friends and family can call to find out we are safe when they can't place calls into the quake area itself. We chose the monastery for three reasons. First, because we love the nuns, and they love us. Second, because there will always be someone there to answer the phone. And third, because these are women who pray constantly, and we knew after a quake we would all need prayers. As soon as Reverend Mother answered, I said, "It's Rhoda. We've had an earthquake. We're both alive. Please pray that the quake was right under us. Because if it wasn't, Los Angeles is gone." She promised that they'd pray, and I hung up and went on looking for my glasses. We wouldn't be able to get another call out of the area code for more than 24 hours. When the sun came up, we knew that we were among the lucky ones. Our house was standing and did not appear to be badly damaged, even though it turned out that the earthquake was right under us. I went from room to room stepping over fallen books and television sets and kissing the mezuzzahs on the doorways. Oh, the block walls around our back yard had been flattened; there were cracks in lots of places; the kitchen cabinets had separated from the walls and floor in spots; and the kitchen and service porch were a sea of broken glass. But our seder plate didn't break; neither did our new menorah.

In fact, sacred objects seemed to do better than some others. The cantor reported that they'd lost everything in their breakfront except their seder plate, which emerged lonely, but whole and unchipped. Another family told us they'd lost every glass in the house except for one tumbler and their crystal kiddush cup. Stories then proliferated about Judaica emerging from the ruins. When our minds began functioning again— coherent thought being a first casualty of repeated aftershocks — we found it almost hearteningly metaphorical. Sitting together as a congregation that Friday night, welcoming, with L'kha Dodi, the Sabbath Queen we might not have lived to greet, we sang with what I thought was a greater fervor than usual. When we all benched gomel together, it was with a unity of gratitude that came from all having shared the peril and all having emerged from it. I found myself feeling sorry for the unaffiliated Jews in Los Angeles (and they comprise 75 percent of us), because they did not have a loving community of coreligionists to stand among, thanking God for a deliverance as real to us as the Exodus was to those people who stood at Sinai. The full, original name of our city is "La Ciudad de Nuestra Senora La Reina de Los Angeles," which means "The City of Our Lady Queen of Angels." It's a name with its roots deep in Catholicism, and some Jews resent that. Keith and I don't. Buoyed as much by the prayers of Catholics as by those of Jews, we joined with our community in passionate gratitude on a Friday night when the Sabbath Queen and the Queen of Angels came together. I can't say with any certainty that Jews without a shul community — or Jews without God — or Jews with neither — felt any less blessed than I did. I can only say that I don't now how I'd have got through without my God and my people. Oh, and not a single one of our out-of-state friends or family remembered that they were supposed to call the monastery. I'll be sending out reminder cards ("Keep this by your phone") right after we get done moving the flashlights into the bedroom. (Editor's note: Readers will remember a previous center spread here by Rhoda Blecher, one of the best we've ever pubI lished. It told of the relationship she developed with a convent in Connecticut and its Mother Superior, and even a visit there. We played a small role in having it published lateral Christmas in The Washington Post, which incidentally did not give us credit for having published it first.)