Commentary Magazine

Street of the Prophets

It is cold in Jerusalem in the winter. Winter comes late in October and shoulders its way in stubbornly throughout the hilled city. The bell of the kerosene-seller clangs against the weary wave of winds and the wagons are pulled by skinny horses who shiver beneath their torn blankets, indifferent to the warmth-giving liquid they carry. The streets are filled with hurrying citizens, shivering under their mounds of jerseys, sweaters, and jackets, running a desperate race against the cold which pursues them up and down King George Avenue, in the doorways of Jaffa Road where they pause for a few minutes to assure a friend that life will begin again when the cold breaks, in the shops of Ben Yehudah where the storekeeper wears gloves and keeps a sharp eye on the door, admonishing entering customers to close it quickly before the cold scores a point. The children whip through the streets, early beginners in the war against Jerusalem winters. Only the beggars are stationary, having disregarded the race long ago. They bring their stoves to the windy corners and warm their outstretched hands over fires that glow orange and pink in the mid-afternoon, Sabbath-eve gloom.

The beggar who stands at the doorway of the Café Noma, on the Street of the Prophets, is a veteran spectator of the annual race. His toothless mouth yawns open and the thick-faced lips turn upward, prepared to swallow the whining wind. The patch which covers the gap a tired Eastern surgeon left long ago when he tore the diseased eye from its root, flutters in the winter wind. Tears stream steadily and indifferently from the other eye, screening the bloodshot pale blue orb, and coursing down the leathery scarred cheeks. The gray-brown hair is lifted from his shoulders by the wind and tossed back onto the glen-plaid quilt which is his working outfit during the winter months. Laceless sneakers, a pair of patched dungarees, and graying woolen socks with the marks of an Oxfordshire laundry, complete the doorman's outfit and the tinkle of the thin coins in his cup is the official welcome to the warmth of the café.

Matti Gross runs toward him, down the Street of the Prophets, her music books clutched under one arm and a grush1 clenched between the thick fingers of her gloves. Matti's race is just beginning and she has no trepidation about her ability to outwit the devastating cold which creeps through the thick tweed winter coat her grandmother sent from New York and bites at her ears through the golden wool of her kerchief. The café will be warm and Matti swings through the door, dropping the grush in the beggar's cup, ignoring the brief focus of his good eye, and dismissing the slight heave of her stomach which automatically accompanies the gesture. She is an early initiate into the rules of the adult world.

The café is buzzing and crowded, full of her parents' friends, huddled together in the emptiness of the pre-Sabbath hours, loudly gay in defiance of the winter weariness of the street. A thick screen of cigarette smoke shadows the fluorescent brightness of the electric fixtures and dims the gleam on the whistling copper espresso machine and the bright red and yellow formicatopped tables where five or six patrons cluster around a space designed for two. On long poles along the curtained windows that peer out on Rechov Haneviim, 2 copies of Life, Look, Paris Match, Sports Illustrated, and Elle are languidly draped, reminders of the world of Matti's American aunts and uncles, where kerosene heat is unknown and fur-draped women on the arms of gentlemen in evening clothes attend premieres and cocktail parties. The pages of the journals are blotched with coffee stains and greasy finger marks, and new stains are added by the hour as the magazines are hopefully lifted, slowly leafed through, and listlessly returned.

“Get that kerchief off. Do you want to catch pneumonia?” Chava, the head waitress does not pause as she passes the child, the admonition is clipped and ready, timed to the tempo of the afternoon. She is black-haired and gold-toothed, her long lean form arched within the starched royal blue cotton uniform, constantly anticipating a scene, always giving orders. She reminds Matti of a kindergarten teacher who shouted and shouted and left one day with tears running down her face and her sandals fluttering. But Chava wears sturdy oxfords and has no tears, only great stores of knowledge sealed behind the bright blackness of her eyes.


It is Chava who knows who has left and who is expected. Answering the insistent double rings of the telephone beside the expresso machine she calls out, “No, Shlomo will not be here today. He's in Tel Aviv. I don't know where,” and slams the receiver down, bellowing another order of fish and chips to the harassed Yemenite cook, then lifting the phone yet again to call out: “Moshe! Make it quick, please! We must keep the line clear for a Haifa call.” It is Chava who knows what group has departed and to whose flat they have gone, who is in love and who are living together, and she keeps the information locked within her as she does the knowledge of who owes and their capacity for paying. She is the teacher of the café kindergarten, the wicked stepmother of the strange unrelated family, and hatred and need of her combine to draw them even closer together in their search for warmth against the Jerusalem winter.

“Go sit over there with Gideon, Matti. Your mother will be here any minute.” Chava points with an empty espresso cup (teachers need rulers) to where Gideon is sitting, the eternal stick of charcoal between his fingers, the perpetual cigarette burning its long ash in the overflowing ash-tray.

“You know, Gideon, you don't really smoke. You only light cigarettes,” Matti once told him and Gideon gazed back at her, his gray eyes serious, carefully considering what she had said before acknowledging its truth.

“You're right, Matti,” he answered finally, and they grinned at each other, pleased with their shared knowledge.

“Hello, Gideon. Are we going to the movies?”

“Take your coat off. Do you want a hot chocolate? My God, you're really going to have buck teeth.”

Matti laughs, glad to take her coat off and allow the steamy heat of the café to banish the memory of the windswept streets and the icy chill of the front room where Gveret Horowitz made her race her fingers across the yellowing cold ivories of the grand piano while the metronome ticked away the precious Friday hours and the marble floor sent shafts of unremitting cold up her thin, stockinged legs. Gveret Horowitz wore gloves which she removed slowly to demonstrate the intricate scales and redonned swiftly as she surrendered the keyboard to Matti and hurried back to her electric fire. Gideon does not even wear gloves in the street and his bright green and white scarf sails after him in the wind when he and Matti rush through the streets on his scooter.

“Yes, I know. We have to go to the dentist. I'd rather have ices, thank you. Are we going to the movies or are you tired?”

There is no one in Jerusalem who does not know about Gideon's endless weariness. He is tired, always tired. Ten years ago he brought his tiredness to a London doctor who listened to his heart thoughtfully and told him that he would live only another four years. Gideon packed his art supplies and came to Jerusalem because if one had only four years to live it was best to grab them in the sun. No one had told him about Jerusalem's winters and once settled in the holy city he was too tired to move. He carries his fatigue into the café with him each Friday afternoon and seats it gently beside him, fearful of its fragility. His strange deformed heart continues beating and while he waits for it to stop he seizes pen, brush, and charcoal, capturing tractors for newspaper ads, the coil of Matti's shining braid, dejected magazine readers in smoky cafés, and the great barren landscape of Jerusalem's hills. The wait for death is tedious and he reads his way through it, filling his arms with books at Steinmatsky's bookstore, the American Embassy library, and the British Consulate, and piling them on the café table. There are sometimes books for Matti among them and she has spent winter afternoons sucking an ice cream cone and reading fairy tales at the café table while laughter, tears, and anger fluttered about her. Gideon does not find this strange. Those who wait for death are seldom surprised at the strangeness of those who are sure of life.

He orders ices for her now and waves across the room to Barbara Greenbaum who joins them, glowing with the sudden heat of the café, blond hair shining with the gleam of the Friday morning Prell shampoo.

“I only use it on Fridays,” she has explained. “L'havdil bayn kodesh va'chol. You know, to separate the profane from the holy.”

It is Barbara's final tribute to her bearded father who earns his living in Brooklyn mourning the dead for those too busy to mourn themselves and who does not understand the life his golden-haired daughter has chosen for herself, in the holy city toward which he prays.

“Hi, Matti. That's a cute dress. I just saw your mother at the dressmaker. She should be along soon. Going to buy me some coffee, Gideon?”

Gideon orders the coffee and pauses for a moment as the waitress hesitates, but shakes his head. He is too tired to think of someting new to drink and the taste of espresso and tobacco lines his tongue, thickening his thoughts and words.

“Matti wants to go to the movies. On the eve of the Sabbath in the holy city, this child wants to go to the movies. What do you say to that, Barbara?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Barbara passes long, ink-stained fingers through the bright, clipped hair. “Can you think of anything else to do in Jerusalem on a Friday afternoon?”

“Yes,” Gideon says shortly. “Go to Ashkelon.”

“There are two movie houses in Ashkelon,” Matti notes, “and everyone talks English funny.”

“They're South African. That's why. Mostly. And we've probably seen both the films. But thanks for the offer, Gideon.”

“No offer. I'm too tired anyway.” The forgotten weariness seizes him and he slides down in his chair, pillowing his graying head against the mound of the green and white scarf.


“Hello. You sleeping in the middle of the afternoon again?” Betty, Matti's mother, drops a kiss on Gideon's brow and sinks down beside him, straightening the collar on her daughter's dress, and flicking her pearls into place on the pink wool dress.

“What a time I had coming here. Everything happened to me.”

Barbara lights a cigarette and prepares to listen. She noticed long ago that no one simply comes to the Noma. They have adventures on the way there and they announce them in voices designed to gain the sympathy, the glee, the concern of their audience.

“Can you top this?” they ask as they enter, fresh from a battle with the municipality over taxes, tear-streaked over a scene on a straw mattress in a cold bedroom, hilarious after an English film at the Orna Cinema. Betty's adventure invariably involves shopkeepers who promised to hold a' blouse and sold it minutes before she arrived or swore to match a swatch of wool and out of carefully premeditated spite succeeded in securing a color that clashed. Today her war was with a dressmaker who had made a hem too long (or too short?) but had met her match in Betty.

“I told her to have it ready by Monday. But what difference does it make? There's no place to wear the damn thing in this lousy city anyway.” She pulls out her compact and stares at herself, watching the progress of the fine lines around her narrow green eyes, smoothing back the cowl of auburn hair, daring the too full, carefully painted lips to smile after the clawing cold of the street.

“Was the kibbutz more exciting?” Gideon is sketching again, his eyes rooted on a bearded man across the room who is reading the tattered menu for the tenth time and counting a tiny mountain of coins. Enough for a fish and chip platter? Probably not. The beard twitches toward Chava and a billowing pastry appears before him.

Matti had been conceived in Ithaca, New York and born in a Galilee kibbutz. In Ithaca, “kibbutz,” the very word, held a joyful romantic ring for the girl from Shaker Heights who had been bored by the careful, planned pattern of her existence as long as she could remember. David, the dark-haired boy with heavy brows, smelling always dimly of the earth and animals he was studying about at the School of Agriculture, was different. There was a purposeful tread to his life and a strength in his hands and eyes which intrigued the girl from Shaker Heights. He waited table at her sorority house, smiling at the laughter of the girls but removed from them and calm in his separateness. Betty helped him clear the tables and over polishing silverware he told her he was a Zionist, which she knew was different and better than just being simply Jewish. No, he had never been to Israel but he loved the land unseen and the dream unrealized. He lent the redheaded girl in the clinging pastel cashmere sweaters books on Zionism and Israel and explained them to her as leaders in his movement had explained them to him. She listened to his voice and lost his words. The romance sent her soaring; she had no need of the philosophy and later, curled comfortably in his arms, excited in the secret of it all, she planned a world of earth and sky and David, in the land whose place names tingled with a secret poetry. She was nineteen and drifted through classes and department stores, smiling at the foreign words she knew (emek, galil, Tel Hashomer), thrilling at the memory of her red hair streaming over the bright green lambs-wool bathrobe left hanging in David's bathroom.

David had been more prepared than she for the torrents of rage and surprise which poured forth from Brooklyn and Shaker Heights when the letters announcing their marriage (she was two months pregnant and they were both frightened and proud of their romantic entry into the adult world) sent their parents' worlds clashing. Her parents were annoyed, angry, and finally stoically accepting. But his tiny mother, weeping in anguished gasps, sobbing in Yiddish and imploring in broken English, would not be comforted.

They escaped from tears and anger to the kibbutz, starting the life they had dreamed of a bit early, prepared for starry nights and fulfilling work. But nothing prepared them for the stark-ness of the Northern hills, the groaning planed tables, and the meals and the conversation which vied with each other for boredom. Nor for the smallness of their room nor the vastness of the skies and the doubts of their co-workers and the unconvincing contribution of their work. Nor for the knot of homesickness which twisted in each of them separately and at both of them together. She thought of the shops, the aisles of department stores, the laughter of her sorority sisters, and he remembered the candy-stores on the streets of his childhood and the overcrowded living room and the libraries which had made it all seem so simple. They were hungry for the sound of English, lonely in the Hebrew language imperfectly learned, lonely even with each other, longing for the separate worlds they had escaped together.

Their failure at the kibbutz was so carefully anticipated that when it engulfed them they did not care and hurried to Jerusalem with their baby, grateful for the concrete of the city streets, and the glow of shop windows. Somehow David found a job at the Ministry of Agriculture and somehow they were able to call the tiny apartment on the outskirts of Jerusalem, where the hills begin to roll toward the city and the skeleton of Hadassah Hospital fights the skies, home. In the café Betty rediscovered a semblance of the laughter of her sorority sisters, and David found a shadowed kinship to the booth in the back of the candy-store where the dream had begun. In the winter the café is warm and in the summer its American air conditioners soothe the hot heavy air. Their friends are there, ever transitory, always talking about home (England, South Africa, America, a deserted kibbutz), as clinging as a family but without familial disapproval or obligations. The names of the friends change as the years pass and Matti knows that today's “aunts” and “uncles,” fondly teasing and loving her, may board a ship or plane tomorrow. The letters from America continue to demand reasons for staying in Israel and each year the answers grow more vague, the reasons less reasonable, the winters colder, and their arguments more aimless. Their marriage is suspended between their shared boredom and the child who is pet and promise, and cemented by an indecision which traps them both.


“Can we go to the movies, Mommy?” Matti is watching Gideon sketch, noting suddenly that the bearded man is tearing into his pastry with his gloves still on and that Gideon has placed the charcoal fork in the wrong hand. The incongruity of it is too much for her and she turns from the sketch to her mother.

“Oh God, Matti, I've got a headache. And there's nothing decent playing.”

“And besides you've seen all seven films.” Gideon snaps the sketch pad closed and sinks down again wondering if Ashkelon is such a rotten idea after all. Barbara is collecting her parcels, preparing for her vigil at the teletype machine of the Jerusalem Post, counting her weekend weapons. Her Sabbath will be shrouded in English detective stories and blue air letter forms, and soothed by the pronouncements of Time magazine. That new South African doctor might come around. He has asked Chava for her address. May-be. She is glad she is working this afternoon. Nothing to do. She tweaks Matti's braid, smiles at Betty, and winds her way into the grayness of the dying afternoon.

“I like Barbara.” Matti makes lists, an early initiate into the Jerusalem pastime. The loved and the hated. The tolerated and the despised. Those who will stay and those who will leave.

The café tingles with the news of who is on what list.

“Andrea has gone to America.”

“She'll never come back.”

“Oh yes, she will.”

“Want to bet?”

“What difference does it make?”

In the last shuddering days of winter nothing makes any difference except the promise of warmth on the way, or perhaps two bus tickets to Ashkelon.

“I like you too, Gideon. I hate Gveret Horowitz.” The list becomes a sing-song chant. No one is listening to it, not even Matti. Unlike her parents and their friends, she recognizes the lists as the background music of boredom, the refrain of “nothing-to-do,” to be composed and discarded according to the needs of the moment.

“What—they're still together?” Betty stares at a couple leaning earnestly toward each other over the tiniest of the yellow tables. She waves to them (their earnestness has nothing to do with her) and the boy glances up and motions to the girl who smiles across the room. Gideon notices the thinness of the smile and the crystal glow of tears behind the girl's black-rimmed glasses. She is an American, he remembers, doing graduate work at the University (in archaeology?—it must be archaeology). She wears bright plaid skirts and white tab-collared blouses underneath bright bulky mohair sweaters and carries quality paperback books to parties where she clutches them in one hand and her boyfriend's fingers in the other. The boy works on the Post, drifting amiably from department to department and with equal agreeableness from girl to girl. He grows a rich brown beard in the winter and shaves it swiftly in the spring when the waves of tourists from his native Boston swarm over the city. He is very large, drinks great quantities of beer, and is said to be writing a novel. (But when? Gideon wonders. After the café has closed in the evening and before it opens for breakfast?)

The girl has beautiful white skin, bruised by the Judean wind, and they have been holding hands for almost a year, but this afternoon they have not touched and, as if by instinct, no one has approached their table. Gideon realizes that they have been talking for hours and words are deserting them. The hints of crystal have become an uncontrolled rush of tears and the girl battles them with shredded kleenex, her elbows pillowed on the small perennial pile of paperbacks and the bright blue mohair shoulders shaking. She is struggling into her coat now and he sits helpless, his huge hands stretched before him, his eyes rooted to the coffee stains on the yellow table surface. She hurries out, forgetting to close the door. The breath of winter hurtles through the café and is abruptly banished by Chava's slam and muttered curse.

“She was crying,” Matti says indifferently.

The tears of grownups are not a rare phenomenon to her. She has watched her mother sob with boredom in their tiny flat and seen tears creep out of her father's eyes as he read a blue air letter from America. Once, when her parents had a party, she awakened to find a strange woman crying on her bed, the sobs interspersed with the sounds of the American musical comedy roaring off the phonograph. She hugged and patted the lady until the sobs drifted into silence and the child crept back into un-childlike sleep. She has even seen Gideon sitting in the café with his hands curled into fists which cup his eyes and his lips turned downward in misery. Not really crying but so heavily unhappy that she sat close to him and made drawings and sounds to coax his lips upward to laughter.

“So she was.” Gideon lights another cigarette.

“Well, I guess that's the end of that. And they were cute together, sort of. Where is David?” Betty glances at her watch and then at the door.

“When Daddy comes, can we go to the movies?”

“Matti,” Gideon says, laughing and serious, “We are living in the most exciting country in the world, still in the infancy of its statehood. (Or its adolescence?—I can't keep up with the propaganda.) Only five decades ago our magnificent Negev was burgeoning farm land and the Zionists came and turned it all into sand. Every year thousands of immigrants are encouraged to come here because misery loves company. This is the land of milk and honey because the streets of Jerusalem enjoy natural refrigeration. And in the midst of all this—in the capital of the last bastion of democracy in the Middle East on the eve of the holiest day of the week—what do you want to do? Go to the cinema!”

“Of course. You're silly, Gideon.” And then Gideon is forgotten as she tumbles to the door and into the not-quite-ready arms of her father who is balancing parcels and letters and trying to close the door.

She drags him over to the table where Betty is buried in the Jerusalem Post, her impatience now hardened into annoyance rapidly freezing into anger. Gideon has watched the tableau of her moods many times before and it always succeeds in making him feel uncomfortably English and firmly relieved to be done with the decisions of living.

He looks across the room and notices that the bearded young man is also immersed in the newspaper—a huge finger tracing its way down the lists of films being shown in Jerusalem. It settles on one advertisement and the young man consults his watch and hurries out of the café. Having completed his own scene in uncomfortable calm, he is unwilling to forego an inch of the cellophane reel. Somewhere in Rehavia a girl in a mohair sweater is sobbing into a mattress, but her lover has lived in Jerusalem long enough to know that in the winter the cinema is the eternal panacea, the giant tranquilizer, bringing escape and forgetfulness in black and white or technicolor.


“Betty.” David is uncertain of his crime but prepared to be apologetic. In his heart he is constantly apologetic to his red-haired wife—apologetic to her for the burden of his Jewishness, of his Zionism, for the naïveté of the Cornell dream; apologetic for the boredom of the life they drift through, for the cold of the Jerusalem winters and for the heat of the summers; apologetic for the incessant annoyance he feels with her, and ultimately apologetic for his own uncertainty about their lives, the remnant of their love, and the lingering loneliness that dogs them in the flat, the café, or the cinema.

“You're very late.” Betty barely looks up.

“I know. I picked up the mail at the Post Office. There's a letter from my mother. She's not feeling well.”

“She hasn't felt well in six years. When did we get a letter that said she was feeling well? Your mother!”

“Damn it! She's an old woman and old people get sick. Can't you understand that, or didn't they get sick in Shaker Heights? I'm worried.”

“You're worried. You worry about everything but me. And Matti. Worry about your mother, about the country, about the plumbing, but not about meeting me on time.”

“Oh that's really important. After all, I knew you were shivering on a street corner. And Matti was at her piano lesson. Weren't you, honey?”

But Matti is not listening. She never listens to the cascade of trembling words but swims in her own world above the sea of accusations and recriminations her parents create around her.

“I love Grandma,” she thinks rhythmically. “And Gideon. And Barbara. Barbara has pretty hair. I love Grandma.”

Then, quite suddenly, there is a hush in the café. The radio is turned up and the monotone voice of Radio Israel's English newscaster fills the room. The weather will continue cold. (Chava buttons her cardigan and the girl sitting at the window tucks a tattered Life magazine between the cracks.) There was a large fire in Tel Aviv, but it is under control. (“Frozen out,” smirks a UN soldier, but he is stared into silence.) A group of immigrants from Morocco is at the Knesset protesting unsatisfactory housing in the Northern Negev. (“Fine weather for a protest,” Chava mutters.) A noted African statesman spent the morning at the Hebrew University. Kibbutz X is celebrating its tenth birthday. The country notes with sadness the passing of a beloved member of the Knesset. Volunteers are needed to give blood for a sick child in Haifa. There have been no border incidents for forty-eight hours. The sea is calm, but fishermen are reminded that a storm is anticipated on the Mediterranean. The time is . . . .

Chava clicks off the radio, the phone rings, and the buzz of conversation resumes, hurrying along to make up for the minutes missed while the life of the country penetrated the café afternoon.

Betty and David have lost the thread of their argument and are isolated on a familiar island of undefined anger. David rereads his mother's letter, reinforcing his anger with guilt, removing himself from his wife's world and plunging into the miseries of his mother's life. Was New York ever this cold in the winter, he wonders and remembers that it was, but the houses were warm with steam heat bubbling cheerfully from iron-gray radiators. He relaxes into memories of the over-heated, over-furnished living rooms of his childhood, patting his own child's hand, spread-eagled on the table. Matti is practicing octaves, hating Gveret Horowitz enough to achieve perfection and rise above her criticism.

Betty finishes the Post and regards a coffee-stained Elle with distaste. She is bad at languages, uncomfortable with French (at Cornell she had been coached by her dates—“I'm just not very bright,” she would murmur, her green eyes just slightly but not disturbingly sad). After six years in Israel she is only contemptuously competent in Hebrew. She and David have few Israeli friends. On the few occasions when David invited Israeli co-workers, the evening lapsed into dismal silences—“The only bi-lingual silence in the world,” Gideon said dryly afterward.

Matti's school friends are Israeli and when she is with them her chirping voice cannot be separated from their screaming chatter, but Friday afternoons are family days and they disappear into their homes to help set the tables and visit with aunts and uncles and grandparents. Matti dimly pretends that Gideon and her parents' other friends who tweak her braid as they pass the table and keep her ice-cream plate filled are similar to her schoolmates' shadowy relations. She does not realize that she is the café pet, their reminder of the world where there are children, large-eyed and laughing, to be loved.

She watches her mother toss the Elle aside in disgust, unable to read the memoirs of a Folies Bergère chorus girl. The defeat solves Betty's problem about the remaining hours of the winter afternoon.

“I've got a headache and I'm going home to sleep. Are you coming, David? Matti?”

She summons her court and struggles into the smartly belted, powder-blue winter coat, sent in a dutiful CARE package from Shaker Heights. David is indifferent but he remembers that he turned on the hot water heater before leaving that morning and feels the soapy hot water coursing down his back and the frothy steaminess of the tiny bathroom. It fits neatly into his reverie of Brooklyn living rooms and he too rises, glad of the decision, any decision.

Matti's lip trembles over the protruding tooth and she stuffs the slick dark braids into her mouth to control it. There will be nothing to do at home. The neighborhood children will be visiting or helping their parents and her own mother and father will nurse their empty anger through the icy bus ride and all the way up the hill to the flat.

“Coming Matti?” Betty is ready, packages and books in her arms and a soft white chiffon scarf wrapped around the red hair. A Shaker Heights young matron—slightly misplaced.

Gideon stands too and puffs a spot of charcoal under each of Matti's eyes with his dusty fingers.

“Invite me for dinner, Betty, and I'll bring Matti home later. I want some company at the cinema. Want to go to the movies, Matti?”

It is arranged and Betty and David hurry out, the race against the cold toward the warmth of the double bed, the forgetfulness of sleep and the steaming shower is officially on for them.

Gideon pays Chava and winds his huge scarf around his neck. Matti is ready, carefully holding his books and waiting for his hand. They wave to their friends and wander out, crossing the Street of the Prophets. They walk slowly, the tall young man whose scarf whips and waves behind him in the wind, and the book-laden child, still sucking her dark braid. The peal of a bell from the Scotch mission ripples through the gray winter air and a thread of ice dangles from a dust-red wall. They are on their way to the movies on the eve of the Sabbath in the holy city.


1 Israeli coin.

2 The street of the prophets.

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