O n Thursday night, another victim succumbed to her injuries: Dahina Hammadi, a teacher in the Khalil al-Sakakini school at Herod’s Gate in the Old City. A quiet protest march set out from that location, but somewhere near Damascus Gate it turned violent and had to be suppressed by Border Police and IDF soldiers. On Friday morning, another victim of the attack, a young boy, died in Shaare Zedek. The news quickly reached the thousands of Arabs massed for prayer on Har Habayis, and hundreds of stones rained down on worshippers in the Kosel Plaza, who had to run for their lives.

“I just wish anybody who’s going to die from that horrific attack would get it over with already!” said Chanoch Rubin. He’d come for Shabbos from Beit Shemesh with his wife and children, and they’d been stuck in traffic for 50 minutes because of all the disturbances on the road, before finally making it to his parents’ apartment. “Every day someone else dies, and all the protests start all over again!”

Itzik sat in a corner of the kitchen, silent. His parents had invited him to stay for the whole Shabbos, and he’d accepted, even though he usually preferred to spend Shabbos at home on his own. There are times when even the most solitary soul craves the protection of loved ones around him.

“That’s right,” said Faigy, who’d finished up her Shabbos cooking early so she could pop in to see Chanoch and his family. “Anyway, they’re not going to survive.” As she spoke, she cut off half of an apple kugel and transferred it to a disposable pan, to take home with her.

“What kind of talk is that?” their mother cried.

“It’s the truth, Ima,” said Faigy with a slight tinge of apology in her voice. “I was there at the hospital; I spoke with the doctors and the families. All the patients on the critical list from that attack are probably going to die. The machines are keeping them alive, but any little thing that goes wrong now, like an infection, could easily kill them.”

Itzik bit into a caramel cookie that Dini Krinsky had made. There was nary a magazine or newspaper on the table in front of him, and his face was blank.

Faigy looked at him. “Have they been harassing you a lot?” she asked. It wasn’t the most intelligent question, but she couldn’t think of anything wiser to say.

He looked back at her with such a wounded expression that she was startled for a moment.

“I always knew people were malicious,” he said. “But I never knew just how malicious.”

“Itzik.” She tried to sound reassuring. “It will pass. After a while, it will all be forgotten.”

“Sure it will,” he said. “By the time I grow up and get married, right?” (Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 688)