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Plfi 12 THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE, October 26, 1979
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Bomb in the mall
‘We heard an explosion’
by Pauline Gallagher
Jerusalem Post
The view is peaceful this
Sabbath morning as I look out
over the Jerusalem Forest from
our living room window. Our
apartment is on the fourth floor of
a building overlooking the village
of Ein Karem and Hadassah
Hospital where many of the
wounded from the Sept. 19 bomb
explosion in the Ben Yehuda Mall
lie.
That afternoon my husband Bill
returned home from a day of
testing students at the Hebrew
University and asked me to
accompany him that evening to a
private school where he is doing
research in language learning. I
could see that he was tired and that
he needed my company, so I called
a baby sitter for our children, Sara
and Moshe. I put the youngest —
the baby—in an infant seat, and we
drove downtown.
We walked past a conditory on
Ben Yehuda and 1 looked
longingly at the yummy cakes in
the window. It’s not on my diet, I
thought. So I didn't suggest that
we sit down at one of the small
tables on the mall in front of the
shop and enjoy some cake with
those sitting there. But I wanted to.
Just two weeks ago we had been
sitting at that very table with a
friend from Hawaii—talking
about the opportunity of going to
the States, and our mixed feelings
about leaving Israel even for a
short while. Less than half-an-
hour later, the peaceful scene in
front of that shop became a
hideous battlefield.
Also at Ben Yehuda, we stopped
in a record store to buy some
Hebrew childrens’ records for our
children. After two years in Israeli
kindergartens and schools, their
Hebrew is almost better than their
English. We picked out half a
dozen records. Bill had the baby
strapped in a front pack to him. As
we left the shop, I took the baby
from him, and we continued up
Ben Yehuda to King George,
where there is a millinery shop I
wanted to visit.
,The shop was crowded, and I
waited 10 minutes for service. My
husband said, “Let’s go." I said,
“No, I’m going to wait.” Finally,
the shopkeeper waited on me, and
as I headed for a fitting room, my
husband said, “I’m going back to
the record shop to exchange one of
these records. I'll be right back.”
“OK,” I said, “I’ll be here
waiting for you.”
While the saleslady was fitting
me we heard an explosion—loud,
but obviously blocks away. I
turned to her in alarm, but all she
did was shrug her shoulders. You
get used to hearing blasts in
Jerusalem, I thought.
Frequently there are only
dynamite blasts for construction.
The city is built on rock and they
have to dynamite the rock to lay
foundations.
People were beginning to leave
the crowded shop, I heard
someone come back and report in
Hebrew what had happened. I
didn’t understand much of it. I
wondered where the saleswoman
had gone and what was taking her
so long. I thought she might be
coming back to refit me, so I didn't
get dressed. I kept looking out of
the fitting room for her. The shop
was now empty and the
shopkeeper had closed the door.
Finally, thinking it was ridiculous
to wait any longer (it had been at
least 20 minutes), I got dressed.
Just then Bill came back into the
shop.
He was completely covered with
blood. I then realized that indeed
he had been near the blast and I
thought he was injured. “Sit
down,” I said. “Where are you
hurt?”
“It’s not my blood,” he said. He
lay down on the bench in the shop
exhausted and I asked the
shopkeeper for some water. I
couldn’t see any wounds and
assumed that the blood came from
what could have been small cuts on
his hands and feet. 1 knew from
experience that small face-cuts
bleed profusely. Holding my baby,
I went next door to the pharmacy
to get some water.
Two people were sitting in
chairs, looking ashen and shocked,
and the pharmacists were talking
to them. Outside the street was a
mass of confusion. People running
in all directions and screaming.
Soldiers were stopping pedestrians
from walking down Ben Yehuda,
and ambulances and police cars
were rushing from the scene of the
explosion.
I returned to the millinery shop
and found Bill sitting up. The
shopkeeper was on his knees
wiping the blood off Bill’s arms. I
could see he was ok. "Where did all
the blood come from?” I asked. “I
was carrying wounded people,” he
replied. I could see that he was
weak. “Let’s go home,” he said.
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