No Escape
When even stories and sleep are permeated by fear
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
The days before October 7 were beautiful. For the past decade, I have traveled to Israel every year for the High Holidays. I love how the bus marquees alternate between announcing their destination and “Shana Tova” or “Chag Sameach.” Sweet delicacies and honeys line the shelves at the grocery store, and everyone is buying decorations for their sukkahs and stocking up for the family holiday meals. It feels just like Christmas week in America.
When the sirens went off early in the morning on October 7, I didn’t know what to expect. I was staying in my daughter’s house near Tel Aviv, where English is spoken just as much as Hebrew. By the time we reached the synagogue, news of the attacks in the south had reached us. Young men were jumping into cars to join their units while their mothers stood by, crying. Rumors of a terrorist invasion dampened the joy of dancing with the Torah. The leaders of the shul asked anyone with a gun to go stand guard, and told the rest of us to retrieve our children from the yard outside.
We spent most of the next few days on lockdown. Holed up in the shelter, with the house shaking every time the Iron Dome intercepted a rocket, I felt a fear I’ve never experienced in my entire life. Like I was surrounded by enemies on all sides, with no means of escape. Knowing that if the enemy succeeded, the slaughter and atrocities of the pogroms from our history could happen to me and my family, now.
My mind leapt between practical considerations—“What if all flights out are canceled?”— and panic: ''What if the stores run out of food?” Even when the city was quiet, I constantly anticipated the next siren. I couldn't sleep; my body was too keyed up. I tried to read but the only book I had was a collection of Noir short stories—not exactly relaxing. My daughter attended two funerals within a week: one friend's son murdered at the Nova festival; a young man from her shul killed defending the kibbutzim. Another friend's son-in-law called from the south, with terrifying reports of the atrocities at the kibbutzim. Acts of hatred and barbarity that I never thought possible in a modern, tolerant world.
I left Israel on October 13, but the fear is still with me, even in New York. I am afraid when I see my Upper West Side neighbors tearing down hostage posters. When I hear chants of “Kill the Hostages” rather than cries for their release. When I see videos of activists trying to break down the doors of Columbia Hillel, of Jewish students and professors being blocked from entering buildings. Even here, it feels like we Jews are surrounded by enemies.
I write historical mystery novels. As an author, I escape the horrors of reality by creating my own world in fiction. My stories usually end with evil unmasked and justice served. But in the weeks after October 7, I was too depressed to write. The images of kidnapped girls, terror tunnels, and burned-out cars blocked my ability to conjure fictional scenes of Venetian palazzos or pirate ships. But I was bolstered by supportive messages from my fellow mystery writers. And when I finally summoned the energy to return to my latest novel, I was inspired to write a new scene: the pirates refuse to sail after discovering that the captain is a Jew.
Art imitates life.
Nina Wachsman is an author of three novels of historical suspense, the Venice Beauties Mysteries, set in 17th Century Venice and featuring: an elite courtesan and a rabbi’s scholarly daughter who solve mysteries. She has mystery stories recently published in an anthology from the Women’s Fiction Writers Society, Feisty Deeds: Historical Fictions of Daring Women and in the anthology of TriState New York Sisters in Crime, Murder New York Style 6.
Instagram: @thegalleryofbeauties
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This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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Heartbreaking. Sending you love.
Nina, what you describe is horrifying. I'm so sad you and your loved ones had to experience this. When you feel discouraged and frightened, try to remember that there are people who will have your back if and when the need arises.