I saw the lights of the tent and saw cars lined up all around the house, with people of all ages loitering, standing, sitting, leaning against the Weiss home. No one wanted to make that final break and go home for the evening.
The first people I saw were the three older Weiss children. They had come outside for a moment, accompanying their grandparents who had been there for the chagim and were now leaving to the airport. They kissed their grandparents goodbye and then turned to me and, one by one by one, fell upon my shoulder crying out and thanking me for being there. I cried together with them — first Tali, then Penina, and then Elie.
We entered the house that was a blur of people, a crowd of faces, a barrage of hugs and tears from many beloved Raanana friends who all whispered in my ear, telling me how important it was that we arrived; how they waited for us and asked for us regularly during the day, knowing we were on our way; how much they loved and missed us. How could we answer? We couldn’t, responding only with our eyes, which were already too swollen to see clearly.
We first went to Stuart, who stood up and, weeping, fell into Avshalom’s arms. He whispered how much it meant for us to be there, and how much Ari had loved us.
Avshalom sat next to Stuart and I searched for Susie, who wasn’t there when I arrived. Someone (I think one of her children) went to whatever room she had escaped to for a moment or two, and told her we’d arrived. Susie slowly walked a ghost’s walk into the room, her eyes swollen, her shaitel in disarray. We embraced and cried.
I sat with her as she told me how much Ari loved our family and what wonderful memories she and Ari had as our next-door neighbors when we were constantly inside each others homes on a regular basis. I reminisced about Ari’s bar mitzvah, recalling that Susie had to be wheeled into shul since she had just given birth to Ayelet that same week.
Over the course of the following week we looked at pictures of Ari — pictures at home, at the army base, at a party, and we laughed and cried over the way Ari said ”Awi” instead of Ari because he couldn’t pronounce his ”r”s.
We laughed at how Susie and Stuart, who arrived in Israel two years after us, came to our apartment and videotaped our son’s bedroom, with its photos of basketball players on the walls, because it would be comforting for Ari to see that ”normal” American basketball-loving boys were living right next door. If only we could turn back the hands of time. If only.
Over the course of the week my eyes saw what I still can’t fathom and comprehend. I witnessed hundreds — no, I think thousands — enter and exit that home on a constant basis. I saw Susie cry through the hours, leaning her tired head softly upon whatever shoulder was nearby — just to close her eyes for a few seconds until she got back her precious special smile and found
beautiful words for yet another well-wisher.
I saw Stuart go from crying to strength, to anger and more crying, yet always with emunah in HaKadosh Baruch Hu and belief in Tzionut.
The people who came through represented all walks of life. There were the members of Ari’s army unit who stayed at the house as if they were the Weiss’s own children, needing to be near Ari’s essence. We also saw the friends who grew up with Ari, played with him, learned with him, matured with him, only to see something in their own beings snuffed out.
