Pushing in among the dozens of girls who crowded the schoolyard, I managed to blaze a trail through, without knowing exactly where I was trying to get to. The girls stood in bunches of three, five, ten, or even more, talking excitedly. I was excited too, but I didn't have anyone to share my feelings with.

It was the first day of high school - or, to be more exact, the first time that all of us, the girls of the freshman class, were together. I estimated that about a hundred girls were gathered here in the schoolyard. That meant there would probably be three ninth-grade classes.

I stood off to one side and tried to put my thoughts in order.

"Everything's going to be all right," I told myself, trying to calm down for the umpteenth time. "This nervousness will go away fast. We'll get sorted into classes. I'll get to know my new friends, and they'll get to know me. For sure I'll be able to regain the status I had in my class last year."

But here, in the middle of the noise and commotion, the cries of joy, outbursts of laughter, and hearty back-slapping, it was hard to convince myself that I would succeed all that quickly. I envied all these girls who had arrived here with groups of their friends from the same school. They had the privilege of being surrounded by familiar faces, they knew each other - and most important, they came with their friends from their previous school. Getting adjusted to a new school would be much easier for them than for me. I was a stranger. I didn't know a soul.

In the middle of summer vacation my family had moved from Tiberias to Jerusalem, and I hadn't yet had a chance to make new friends. At this moment, I had no one to talk to. And I wasn't brave enough to walk up to one of these bubbling groups of girls and announce: "Shalom! I'm Tammi Har-el. We moved here from Tiberias three weeks ago..." No doubt they would just stare at me wide-eyed and make up their minds that I was a weird girl. They would laugh at me. After all, first impressions are very important; its usually the decisive one. No, no, it wasn't worth taking a chance. "I'll just stand here quietly for the time being," I thought. "No doubt I'll soon have plenty of chances - more opportune and reasonable - to introduce myself."

All of a sudden I heard a voice near me. "Shalom..." I turned my head quickly, to find myself looking at a young woman, blonde and smiling. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Tammi," I managed to stammer, wondering who this person could be. "Tammi Har-el."

"Where are you from, Tammi? You seem to be new here. Are you a Jerusalem girl?"

"Yes, I live in Jerusalem... I mean, now I do...We moved three weeks ago from Tiberias." I stopped and took a deep breath. I was nervous. Who could this woman be?

"I understand, Tammi. It's hard for you today. You don't know any of these girls, so it's natural to feel isolated and that you don't belong yet. But that feeling will pass, too. I'm sure you'll quickly succeed in making new friends, and all the girls in your class will like you. Tammi Har-el, did you say?" She glanced at some papers in her hand. "Yes, Tammi. I see your name appears on my list...You'll be in my class."

I almost lost my breath. "You're a teacher here?"

"Yes." She gave me a friendly smile. I'm going to be the mechanechet for class 9-1; and here, in this list I'm holding, your name appears. So you're going to be my student. We'll get better acquainted later today, Tammi. Good luck!" She turned and went on her way. I saw her stop to talk to another girl.

So I'm going to be in class 9-1...I'm curious on what basis they assigned the girls to the classes. And that nice woman is going to be the mechanechet of my class. I wonder how she'll be. She was very friendly to me. Is that her natural personality? Will she be like that all year? What are the other names on that list she had in her hand? Which of all these dozens of girls swirling around me match up with those names?

I began to calm down a little from my previous state of nervousness. I could concentrate better on my surroundings and take in more details. I realized that I was not the only one who was standing off to one side, isolated from the general jubilation.

Over there, leaning against the building, was a short, thin girl with black hair. She stood by herself, but she didn't seem at all confused. She was interestedly observing everything going on around her, an amused expression on her face. She seemed to be enjoying the show.

Right opposite me, leaning on a tree trunk, stood a tall girl. I suddenly realized that all the girls who were standing by themselves were leaning on something. I, too, was leaning against a column. This probably came from an unconscious need to draw support from something, even an inanimate object.

I surveyed this tall girl with interest. She had blond hair that felt onto her shoulders in two long, thick braids.

Her eyes were clear and bright; I couldn't make out their exact color at this instant. Later, I was to learn that her eyes changed color in accordance with her emotions and feelings. Light blue, dark blue, green, grey. When she was tranquil, her eyes were light blue. When she was gay and happy, they turned dark blue. Her eyes turned green when she was deeply moved, and grey when she got angry.

However, I was to learn all this only later, after I got to know her. At the moment, and at this distance, I couldn't see the color of her eyes at all. I didn't even know her name. She looked like a mature, serious girl. She watched the girls around her with great concentration, as if trying to penetrate their outer appearance and discover their inner secrets.

Just then, her eyes turned and rested on me. For a moment we looked at each other, and then, involuntarily, I lowered my eyes. When I raised them again, I saw that she was still looking at me.

"Open the doors of the lecture hall! Everybody go in!" I heard voices announcing behind me. "Girls, everyone into the hall! The principal has arrived. There he is." A girl pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered man who strode rapidly past the girls.

I sat on one of the front benches in the lecture hall. I didn't know any of the girls sitting around me. For a moment, I thought the girl sitting next to me wanted to say something to me, but just then the principal walked onto the platform, and a hush fell over the hall. Suddenly the chattering and laughing ceased. All of us looked at our new principal.

He welcomed us to the start of the new year that we would all share together, and expressed the hope that we would all be satisfied, both the students and the teaching staff. He gave a general description of how the school was run, promising that we would hear the rest of the details from our new teachers. His speech was short, simple, and to the point.

The next speaker was the supervisor responsible for all the classes of the ninth and tenth grades - six classes in all, she explained. She told us to disperse to four different rooms, according to the initial of our last name. There we would hear which class we had been assigned to, and which room we should go to.

I, of course, already knew that I was going to be in class 9-1. But which room was that? I was on my way out of the lecture hall, swept along in the stream of girls. Outside, I could breathe more freely, after the stuffy atmosphere of the big hall. If I could figure out which room belonged to class 9-1, I could save myself the trouble of going to the room for those whose last names started with "H," avoiding that much more jostling and stuffy air.

As if reading my thoughts, the blond woman, my new mechanechet suddenly appeared opposite me.

"In which room is our class meeting?" I asked, before I even realized what I was saying. She gave me a surprised look, as if she didn't understand what I wanted of her. But immediately a spark of recognition flashed into her eyes.

"Oh, you're...Tammi, right? Our class meets in room twenty- three." And she turned and went on her way. I wasn't mad at her for not recognizing me at first. She must be very busy. ..the first day with a new class. It's not easy to be the teacher. No doubt during the last few hours she had gone up to other girls who were standing by themselves, had spoken with them and tried to cheer them up. It was hard to remember everyone's name. Of course, it would have been more pleasant for me if she had remembered right away who I was, but even as it was I was not especially disturbed. I followed after her, staying a certain distance behind. She walked energetically through the long corridor. I kept looking up to see the signs over the doors. I stopped in front of room fifteen. It was at the end of the corridor, the last room on that floor. The teacher went into a room marked "Office."

I heard someone speaking to me: "It looks like room twenty- three must be on the second floor." I turned my head to see who had spoken. "There were about ten girls near me in the corridor, but the one who had spoken to me was the tall girl with the braids, the one who had studied me while I was leaning against the column.

"How do you know I'm looking for room twenty-three?" I asked with a smile.

"I overheard when the teacher answered your question," she answered in a natural tone of voice, showing no sign of being caught off guard.

"Are you going there, too?" I asked, curious.

"Yes. Let's go together. My name is Anat." "I'm Tammi." And that's how I first got to know Anat.

We were the first ones to get to the classroom. We took chairs and sat down. Right after us, a laughing group of girls arrived, and within two minutes the classroom was full. The mechanechet arrived too, and everyone sat down, full of expectant suspense, to see what she would say.

I surveyed the class: thirty-two girls, tall and short, thin and chubby, dark and light. A few of the faces were already familiar to me from the schoolyard. Or perhaps from the assembly in the lecture hall. Where was the short, thin, dark- haired girl I had noticed before the assembly? I already knew that her name was Chagit. I had heard a friend of hers calling to her joyfully, "You're already here, Chagit? You beat us!" But she wasn't in this room. She must be in one of the other classes.

Suddenly I heard the teacher say my name. I gave a startled jump; but a moment later, when I heard her continue, "Vardi, Rinah," I relaxed, realizing that she was just calling the roll.

We sang a few songs; danced a little. The tension evaporated. I managed to exchange a few words with some of the girls in the class. I made an effort to memorize the names of the new girls I met. I wanted to surprise them tomorrow by calling them by name without getting mixed up or forgetting. Everyone likes it when people call him by his name, instead of "Hey, you...What's your name again? I've forgotten..." I noticed Anat on the other side of the classroom, with a girl I hadn't yet had a chance to talk to. I went over to them. Anat welcomed me with a smile.

"Tammi, this is Ronit. I don't think you've met yet." "But now we've met," Ronit said with a smile.

I found out that Anat did not live in Jerusalem. She came from Rechovot, and would be living in the dorm. Ronit also lived in the dorm. She came from Beer Sheva. The conversation among the three of us flowed very naturally and easily. We told each other about our previous schools, our teachers, our friends...until the teacher announced that the hour was late and it was time to leave.

"Don't forget," she said with a smile, "Tomorrow you have a day of learning ahead of you. Summer vacation is over."

"See you tomorrow. See you tomorrow" - that was the sounds that accompanied me on my way home. Our new house was near the school, and even nearer to the dorm building, which was only about five doors up the street from us. In one minute, walking quickly, I could cover the distance from my house to the gate of the dorm building. Running, no doubt I could do it in half a minute; maybe less. If Anat and I were going to be friends - yes, she did seem very nice - it wouldn't be hard for us to keep in touch with each other. We could see each other often.

That night I lay in bed, turning from side to side, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I was thinking about tomorrow. The first day of learning in high school, in a new city, with all new friends. New routines and rules, unfamiliar procedures. Surely I would easily adapt to the new situation and society. In the past, whatever surroundings I found myself in, I had always been the life of the group. There was no reason why things should be any different here. I wasn't dreaming of becoming the "queen of the class." I didn't even want that. But I was sure all the girls in the class would like me...

I don't remember at what stage in my thoughts I dozed off. When I woke up, my room was flooded with blinding sunlight, making it hard to open my eyes. All the same, I managed to look at my clock, only to discover, to my panic, that it was already twenty-five past seven. I jumped out of bed fast. This was no way to get started - late on the first day of learning!

I filled my lungs with a deep breath. The air was warm and dry, uncomfortable to breathe. I ran to the sink, washed hands, and splashed my face with cool water. I wasn't at all pleased to think that a heat-wave lay in store for us today. Fortunately, the humidity is low in Jerusalem, so one doesn't become too sweaty, even on a hot day. In Tiberias the hot, humid weather had been really awful. There, in the summertime, I used to spend most of my time in the shower.

I drank a cup of orange juice, deciding to forget about breakfast. Who could eat on a day like this, when already in the morning the air was heavy, suffocating, blazing and dry, even indoors? I hurriedly threw together my sandwich for the ten o'clock break, said "Shalom" to my mother, and went out.

I could hear my mother's voice behind me: "What about breakfast, Tammi? And did you drink a glass of milk?"

"When I get home. Mom, when I get home. Breakfast I'll eat some other time," I mumbled to myself. I felt a bit guilty that I hadn't done anything to help my mother with the housework. I should have dressed Natti, my little brother, or straightened up the bedrooms, as I was used to doing on those mornings when I was gracious enough to get up early. This morning I had barely managed to make my own bed. I decided that tomorrow I would try to get up earlier.

By the time I had reached this decision, I was at the gate of the school. There were still five minutes until the bell would ring, and I could relax for a moment and look around. A caravan of girls was streaming in the direction of the old three-storey school building, whose grayish-brown walls gave undeniable testimony of the long years they had already held themselves up.

I turned around and threw a quick glance at the street behind me, taking in the whole scene at once. The sidewalk leading to the school was flooded with a sea of hair-do's - a heart-lifting sight of girls hurrying to their classes on the first day of school. In that deluge of bobbing heads it was hard to single out any of the girls from my class. I turned and went through the gate, walked up to the second floor, and entered my classroom.

"Good morning, good morning," came from a few of the girls. I answered with a rather dry, "good morning" of my own and scanned the classroom, trying to spot a good place to sit. The class was arranged in rows of tables, with two chairs at each table. I wanted to find a good seat, because the place I chose now would be mine for the whole year. A few places were already taken, as I could tell from the briefcases that were dumped on the chairs. I didn't want to sit in the first row; I don't like being right under the eyes of the teacher. On the other hand, the back row is also not a good idea. The teachers have a habit of keeping a special look-out on it. A desk in the next-to- last row would be good, and that's what I found, in the fourth column of desks, which was the farthest to the left, next to the window. The table was vacant. I went over, put my briefcase on one of the chairs, and sat down on the other.

Now what? Suddenly I ran out of steam. I wanted to go up to them, to my new friends; to talk, exchange impressions. But something unexplainable held me back. The girls were standing in groups, chatting among themselves about things that I didn't know anything about. Those topics formed a bond among them, cementing friendships from the past that were continuing into the present. Even the dorm girls, who came from various other cities, had already formed definite groups. They had had time to get acquainted since yesterday. I wanted very much to take part in one of the conversations, but I had no idea how to go about it.

"Yesterday I met her!" I heard one of the girls - I remembered that her name was Tirtzah - saying with sparkling eyes to a group of girls. "She was so nice. She asked me how it felt to be in high school, and she even - you won't believe it - she even told me she wants to invite us to her house for a party some Shabbat..."

The girls drew in their breath. "Us? All of us?" they asked in amazement.

"A-L-L of us!" Tirzah repeated in a loud, emphatic voice. "That's exactly what she said to me!" It took me a while to realize that she was referring to the madrichah, the girl from an upper class who had organized and led these girls social activities last year. But how could I take part in a conversation like that?

"Is the seat next to you available?" I heard a familiar voice - refined and quiet - say to me. I looked up and saw Anat gazing at me with extremely light-blue eyes.

For a moment the words got stuck in my throat. Without making a sound, I stood up and moved over to the next chair, leaving room for Anat to sit down. I put my briefcase in the special shelf for that purpose, under the table.

"Please sit down, Anat," I said in the most natural-sounding voice I could produce at that moment. "I arrived a minute ago, and just now sat down." She put her briefcase down, and the bell rang.

Our mechanechet came into the room, a faint smile on her face, and we all stood up. With a motion of her hand, she indicated that we should be seated. Our day began with the morning prayers, which lasted until 8:30. After that, we started learning, according to the schedule we had received at yesterday's assembly.

One would have thought we were already in the middle of the academic year. Each lesson was conducted with exaggerated seriousness - began right on time, ended slightly late. All the teachers of the various subjects showed up, and they all stuck to business throughout the lesson. All at once, vacation was a thing of the past. We had begun the routine of study.

The quiet, serious Anat turned out to be the top student of the class. She was the best in every subject, but that fact made no impression on her. Most girls in her position would have become proud, but she didn't. In a short time the whole class got to like her. And I, who knew her better than anyone else did, simply adored her.

I, too, achieved quite a respectable position in the class. I wasn't number one, but it would be fair to say that I was among the top five. The truth is that I could have made far more impressive achievements, but I chose not to invest the extra effort, since I was satisfied with my already quite honored status. Apparently my friends were also satisfied with it.

In the social life of the class I was much more active than Anat. Looking back, I think that if I hadn't been her best friend, Anat wouldn't have been very involved in the affairs of the class; and that in spite of - or maybe because of - her special academic abilities.

Not long after the beginning of the year, I-all of us - discovered another side of Anat's nature.

It was a few days before Rosh HaShanah. Our religious studies, of course, were concentrated on the main topic of this season. We were learning, reviewing, discussing, and hearing talks about teshuvah, repentance: about how important it is - especially in Elul, the month of mercy and forgiveness - to regret the mistakes of the past and to improve our deeds for the present and future.

We - and I in particular - learned an original insight into this topic from Anat.

It happened during a history lesson. Our history teacher was a little comical. She was tall and very thin, very narrow-faced, with high cheek-bones. It had taken us some time to get used to her high, thin, squeaky voice. Even after we got used to her voice, and to her, the history lessons didn't go exactly as lessons should. Students naturally tend to take advantage of any weakness or helplessness on the part of the teachers. We, too, would sometimes act up in lessons where we knew that such behavior would pass more or less without any unpleasant consequences. That included the history lessons. And when I say, "act up," I don't think I have to go into detail. Everybody knows what I mean.

The only one who uncompromisingly opposed any kind of misbehavior in class was Anat. She argued that it wasn't nice; it was impertinent; it constituted insult and public embarrassment to the teacher; and that teachers, too, are human beings. Deep in our hearts we all knew that Anat was right. But we also knew that if we never disturbed the lessons, our life would become boring and uninteresting, and it was hard for us to accept that prospect. So there were some girls who criticized Anat for being excessively self-righteous. But Anat paid no attention to such criticism. During the lesson she sat quietly, listening and taking part - a model student.

I, who sat next to her, was influenced by her. That doesn't mean that I didn't occasionally turn around to exchange a few words with Ronit, who sat behind me. Or sometimes I would use the history lesson to do my homework for geometry, which was the next subject. However, under the influence of a friend like Anat, I couldn't permit myself to take part in the pranks and naughtiness of my friends.

In this particular history lesson, as it happened, I was listening attentively. From time to time one could hear rustlings, whispering, and humming from girls who were not especially interested, even though, in my opinion, the topic was a fascinating one. Anat sat next to me, fully concentrating on the teacher as usual. Chedvah, who sat at the table in front of us, twisted around towards us. She held something concealed in her closed hand.

"Anat, can you lend me an eraser?" she asked. But the gleam in her eye told me that the eraser was only an excuse and disguise for something else. Without looking at her, Anat handed her an eraser. The closed hand opened to take the eraser, and in the process a tightly folded note dropped onto our table. "Top secret," she whispered dramatically, and then turned around again.

I saw that Anat gave a swift glance at the note that lay crumpled on the table, but immediately resumed looking at the teacher. How strange she was! She had no intention at all of opening the "secret letter" which so awakened my curiosity. But Anat, I had long since learned, knew how to overcome such insignificant feelings as curiosity.

The note was folded many times, forming a square on which was written, in Chedvah's rounded, careless handwriting, "Exclusive to Anat. Top Secret." Under the words "Top Secret" were three thick, dark lines.

I felt extremely curious, and also somewhat offended. It wasn't nice at all of Chedvah to send Anat a note that she was forbidden to show to anyone else - and right in front of my eyes! At least she could have done it in an unobtrusive way, not in such an obvious manner. At the break I would pester Anat to show me the letter. But I already knew my friend - she would never agree. So maybe I would try to get Chedvah's permission. And if Chedvah would not agree, that would be a sign that the letter was about me. And if that was the case... and if...

The high, thin voice of the history teacher suddenly rang out. "Chedvah, what is that note that you passed to Anat? Anat, give me the note immediately!"

The class fell silent. The whispering stopped, and all eyes were riveted on Anat. Anat quickly picked up the still-folded note. Her face turned red and her lips trembled.

"Didn't you hear what I said, Anat? Put the note on my table immediately!"

Chedvah half turned towards us. Her face was white. "No, Anat! Don't you dare, please!" she begged in a shaking voice. I felt sorry for her and mad at her at the same time. Why did she have to put Anat in such a horrible position unnecessarily? Didn't she know that Anat never read notes that were thrown to her in the middle of a lesson?

The menacing voice of the teacher sliced the silence of the classroom.

"Anat..." And she moved towards our table.

Deliberately and without haste, with lowered head, Anat opened the note, but not completely. She left it folded in half, so that it could not be read. With decisive motions, she began tearing the paper - into two parts... then four... then again...

"Give me the note whole, not torn!" The thin voice rose excessively high, and then cracked. "I want it immediately!" Apparently the teacher sensed that something was going wrong. Perhaps she had heard the sound of paper being torn.

"Too late," came Anat's calm voice. "It's already torn."

"Stand up, Anat, and leave the class. You do not have permission to return to my lesson without written confirmation from your mechanechet."

Anat left the room, and the class exploded in an uproar. The teacher tried to quiet us down, but to no avail. She had no choice but to continue her lesson in the midst of the noise and commotion.

Soon after, the lesson ended. The history teacher hurried for the exit, but didn't get past the doorway. It was Anat who had stopped her. Later, she told me what had been said between them.

"I asked her to forgive me," Anat told me with downcast eyes, "and I really am ashamed. I'm not ashamed, G-d forbid, that I asked her to forgive me. That's exactly what I should have done. But I'm ashamed that she didn't understand me. She didn't agree to forgive me." Anat looked very miserable.

"You don't have to feel guilty," I tried to encourage her. "The teacher is the one who should be ashamed!"

"Don't judge her hastily," Anat said in her considerate, measured voice. "When I try to put myself in her place. I'm not sure I would have done any different."

"You, Anat, would certainly have understood and forgiven," I cried out heatedly. "You, you're an angel!"

Anat looked at me reproachfully. "Don't talk nonsense, Tammi." Her voice was frank. "You're flattering me in order to comfort me, and that's completely unnecessary. I know the truth. She thought that I had read the letter I got from Chedvah, and that since it was about her, I tore it up so that she wouldn't be able to read it."

"Is that what she told you?" I asked in wonder. "Exactly." "What inferiority feelings!" I hissed contemptuously.

Anat was angry with me. "Don't think, Tammi, that I didn't see the look on your face when Chedvah put the note on our table. You were very offended. But it's easy for you to be sympathetic towards your own feelings. To be sympathetic towards someone else's feelings is much harder. All the same, I hoped that she would forgive me herself, without involving our mechanechet in the affair. Not that I'm afraid of our mechanechet I feel sure of myself because I know that I did the right thing. But it would be better not to draw attention to the matter and puff it up."

"Do you think that the history teacher would have read the note?" I wondered out loud.

"I don't know. Maybe yes. Maybe no. And I didn't want to put Chedvah in an unpleasant position, or even the possibility of one, even though the whole incident was her fault to begin with - especially since she knows I don't like it when she turns around and talks to me in the middle of a lesson. But I think that as a friend I was obligated to do what I did."

"You're a real saint, Anat!" I cried out in admiration. "Who taught you to behave this way?"

I expected her to reply with some expression of humility, but she only looked at me in silence, with contemplative, dreaming eyes - and didn't answer. She didn't comment at all.

Our mechanechet treated the whole incident with a degree of understanding that I had not expected. She listened to Anat, and seemed to have to fight an inner battle in order not to say out loud what she was thinking. A small, forgiving smile flickered around the corners of her mouth as she listened to Anat's story. I stood off to one side at a distance, as if staying out of the conversation, but I managed to glance at the two of them from the corner of my eye. The mechanechet face didn't look at all angry. She understood who she was dealing with here.

Anat ran toward me joyfully. "She allows me back in class!" "What did she say to you?" I probed curiously.

"She told me: I understand you, but I hope there wilt be no further incidents of this sort.' "

I smiled. "Excellent! You see, you didn't need any favors from the history teacher!"

Anat pierced me with a serious glance. "You're wrong, Tammi. I'm still going to ask her forgiveness again."

"Are you crazy?" I yelled, "Have you gone out of your mind? Did you fall on your head and knock a screw loose? You don't have anything better to do in life?"

"It's the day before Rosh HaShanah," she reminded me. "Did you forget, Tammi? The truth is, even if today were an ordinary day in the middle of the month of Adar, I would do exactly the same thing. But I'm sure it will be easier for you to understand me if you remember what time of year this is."

I lowered my head in shame. I understood the reproach that her words implied. Of course, the day before Rosh HaShanah the custom is for all to ask forgiveness from each other. At this time of the year, the need for pardon is clear - so much so, that we forget that the things we ask forgiveness for on the day before Rosh HaShanah are just as wrong to do on an ordinary day. Once more my friend had proved more righteous than I.

I tried to change the subject. "Did Chedvah tell you what she had written in the note?"

"No. And I didn't ask, either. She thanked me and apologized to me for the incident, and I didn't cross-examine her."

"It's interesting that Chedvah apologized. I wouldn't have expected it from her. It's not like her at all."

Once again Anat's large, light-blue eyes seemed to penetrate through me. "Tammi, Tammi," she said gently, as if speaking to a little child. "Don't you think that what you're saying borders on Lashon Harah, slander?"

Once more I turned red. "Anat!" I exclaimed, trying to get out of my predicament by clowning, "At the rate we're going, I'll soon be as saintly as you!"

She didn't answer. The bell rang, indicating the beginning of the next lesson.

Bell followed bell, lesson followed lesson. In between were short breaks, mostly given over to conversations with Anat - for, after all, during the lessons she didn't converse!

I wondered about the note that Chedvah had written. I couldn't contain my curiosity, and at the next break I tried to probe her on the subject. Chedvah avoided giving me a straight answer, but from her evasive words I understood that in truth she probably had chosen the history teacher as the topic of her ill-fated letter. Thus I appreciated Anat all the more, and my own feelings of guilt and embarrassment grew stronger. Why didn't I know how to put a stop to my thoughts, to control and select them? That's an extremely hard thing to do. But at least I should be able to muzzle my mouth, and not blurt out everything that came into my head!

Anat became a topic of conversation for the next few days.

"She's not just a coward worrying about her own skin and her reputation," the girls told each other. "Look at the facts. She refused to hand over Chedvah's note, and even tore it up. A different girl would have been afraid to do a thing like that!"

"That's true. She's really something special. You can see she demands a lot of herself. She's a girl with principles!"

Little by little we accepted Anat as one of the group, including her strange ways - strange, at least, to us, mischievous girls who were not used to such ways of behaving. We accepted her as she was, and didn't try to make trouble for her. Her tremendous integrity, a courageous and stubborn integrity that never retreated from the principles she had set for herself, made us relate to her with awe and respect. We forgot that she was our own age, a girl like the rest of us.

Anat probably realized how we felt about her. But because she was who she was, with all her unique qualities, she didn't react as any other girl would have. She didn't take advantage of her special status by trying to "take over," to impose her opinions and desires on us. In her quiet, pleasant way, she served as a model for us of a girl whose whole ambition was to reach perfection in her personal traits, in her behavior, thoughts and feelings.

On the day before Rosh HaShanah, when we were about to part, wishing each other a good year, I saw that Anat was a little hesitant, as if there was something she wanted to tell me, but she was weighing how to say it or whether to speak at all.

"Will you be coming back right after Rosh HaShanah?" I asked, trying to get a conversation started.

"Of course. After all, we'll be having classes between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. And Rechovot isn't that far from Jerusalem."

"Rinah surely won't come back from Safed," I said. "She got permission from the mechanechet not to come back until after Sukkot." Then I added: "For that alone it would have been worthwhile for me to have gone on living in Tiberias!"

Anat didn't seem to be listening. "Tammi," she said, "I want to ask you a favor. There's still plenty of time, but I prefer to ask now, so that you'll have time to get your parents permission. I want to stay in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur. I want to pray at the Western Wall. If it's not especially hard for you, I would be very happy if I could be a guest at your house..."

I didn't let Anat finish her sentence. I was so happy I almost pounced on her.

"Anat, you're so funny! You hesitated such a long time, struggling with yourself until you finally got your question out. My parents certainly will agree, and I - I'm in seventh heaven! But..." I suddenly thought of something. "Are you sure your parents will agree to let you be away on Yom Kippur? They won't be mad at you?"

It seemed as if a shadow darkened her face for a moment. Her eyes lost their sparkle when she said, "No, they won't be angry." Then as if talking to herself she mused: "That will be wonderful. The eve of Yom Kippur, Kol Nidrei, by the Western Wall..." The cloud that had just shadowed her face and eyes was replaced by a concealed tremor of deep excitement.

From that moment, I waited impatiently for the time to go by, for Rosh HaShanah and all the days between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur to pass. A whole day with Anat - that would be marvellous! For sure I would learn a lot from her, from her behavior...

Finally, Yom Kippur arrived.

Dressed in our festival clothes, wearing cloth shoes, our prayerbooks in our hands, the two of us walked through the streets of Jerusalem in the direction of the Western Wall. A Jerusalem late-afternoon wind cooled our faces, fluttering through our hair. I filled my lungs with air. Jerusalem has a special wind, unlike that of any other city in Israel - or, I suppose, in the whole world. And now one could smell the fragrance of the eve of Yom Kippur. One could almost touch the special atmosphere, the holiness of the day. Around us flowed crowds of people, all in a hurry to be on time for Kol Nidrei. There was such a variety of Jews - Jerusalem's in gathering of exiles. Jews of every type and origin, from countless different lands, each with the special way of dressing that typified his group.

"The Jewish people are unique," I thought to myself. "We are so different from each other in our customs, our lifestyle, our dress, our language - in everything! And all the same, all of us run side by side to the Western Wall to pray Kol Nidrei on the eve of Yom Kippur. For the differences between us are only on the outside. The inner essence and way of life are the same for all of us. We are all Jews. What unites us is the Torah of Israel, which remains forever one, never changing from land to land or from era to era. And even if the customs differ in some details from one geographical area to another, or from one type of Chassidim to another, the source and the guiding force is always the Torah of Truth which was given to Moshe at Mt. Sinai."

Anat walked along beside me in silence. I had no way of knowing what thoughts filled her head. With eager eyes she drank in the picturesque human panorama that flowed all around us, near and far. Her eyes couldn't get their fill of looking; her lips were trembling with excitement. It seemed to me that she was controlling herself, forcibly holding back tears. I would never have imagined that Anat, always so quiet, moderate, and restrained, could be filled with such powerful emotions. I didn't want to disturb her, and so we strode along together, neither one of us uttering a sound. It was Anat who finally broke the silence.

"To think that a few thousand years ago, exactly where I'm walking, Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, and the other great men and women of our nation walked, and now I'm stepping on the exact place where, perhaps, Adam stepped. Just imagine it!" she cried in a storm of feeling.

Here was an exceptional way of thinking. Only one person would have thoughts like those - Anat.

We reached the Wall. For a moment, we lost our breath. Never in our lives had we seen such an ocean of people. And all of them had come in order to unite themselves with the remnant of our holy Temple, and with the whole Jewish people. Their faces were imbued with the holiness of the day. All at once they had left behind the everyday routines of life, the material concerns with which they were almost constantly occupied. For one day they would rise far above the ordinary world.

We prayed with feeling, drawing ourselves close to our Creator. Every now and then I darted a quick, hopefully unobserved glance in Anat's direction. But she apparently didn't notice my frequent looks at all. She was completely immersed in the uniquely exalted prayers of the day. Her eyes were veiled with a strange glaze that hid them and her - or perhaps not her, but me? - and separated us. It was as if she hovered in a different world, far above mine. No matter how much I wanted, it was beyond my ability to pull myself up and reach her. I sensed it. This sensation enwrapped me entirely, and for a moment I was filled with feelings of inferiority in comparison with her. But immediately I reminded myself that Anat - was Anat. She was always different, always special. In everything. I had to accept that reality, and be happy that she was willing to be my friend and allow me to observe and learn from her.

The prayers ended. Full of feelings, we turned to go home. Suddenly Anat stopped and stood still as if riveted to the spot. Her brows gathered, her lips compressed to a thin line. I was getting ready to intervene, for her eyes had turned grey. I knew they had, even in the dark. Anat was angry. Why? What had upset her so much on this holy night?

"What is SHE doing here?" The words were forced from between her teeth.

"She? Who?" I didn't know who she was talking about.

"She!" Anat still spoke to herself, as if unaware of my presence. "How dare she come here - and on this day!"

For a moment I panicked. I was worried about Anat. Had the fierce currents of emotion unsettled her mind? But I recovered immediately. When I looked in the direction Anat was staring, I understood the reason for her indignation. A young woman, straight and thin, was walking towards us from the distance. She wore a long black dress and a wide, dark-colored scarf, which came down over her forehead with a broad white stripe. A large cross swung on the front of her dress. She was a nun. She looked at us with quiet, tranquil eyes, a serene expression on her young face. No doubt she had no idea of the feelings her appearance had aroused in Anat. She passed us and continued on her way.

Anat had not yet calmed down. "How can it be?" she stormed. "A gentile, a nun, in the holy city of Jerusalem, the capital of the Holy Land... beside the Western Wall, the remnant of our Holy Temple... on the night of Yom Kippur!" For her, there could be no greater contradiction. Reality had suddenly pulled her out of the dream in which she had been immersed, had yanked her down from the heights of the spiritual world in which she had hovered - and apparently had also caused her to become immersed in unhappy thoughts.

"That's the way it is, Anat," I tried to console her. "But that very fact shows the greatness of Jerusalem, the Holy City. All the nations are drawn to it like a magnet. All of them claim ownership rights - and not just partial ownership, or partnership - over it. Does the world lack beautiful cities, ancient ones, steeped in historical grandeur and tales of heroism? And all the same, every nation, every religion, turns its eyes towards Jerusalem - Jerusalem, which we know is ours, and which they all wish were theirs."

A spark flashed in her eyes, which had returned to their usual light-blue color as she gazed at me. "Thank you, Tammi," was all she said. And I felt myself zooming into seventh heaven.

Ever since that Yom Kippur, whenever I strolled through Jerusalem and saw a nun, or a priest, or a church - and unfortunately they are very numerous in Jerusalem - I remembered Anat: her burning glance, her compressed lips, her eyes flashing anger - Anat who had become angry the first time she had seen gentiles, and not just any gentile, but those who represented the Christian religion, walking around Jerusalem and acting as if it was theirs. And not only the first time. Anat remained in Jerusalem for nearly a year all told; and whenever such a phenomenon appeared, she became wrapped in an inexplicable anger.

The night following Yom Kippur, after we had broken our fast and my little brothers had been put to bed - with Anat's help, of course - the two of us sat on the balcony of my house. The skies of Jerusalem, dark and sparkling with thousands of tiny points of starlight, spread over our heads, and a large bowl filled with cubes of red, sweet watermelon sat on the table in front of us. I stuck my fork into a cube of watermelon. A Jerusalem night is something I'm incapable of describing, even with the strongest words and the most vivid adjectives. The only way to understand it is to experience it.

"I owe you my thanks, Tammi," Anat said. "Thanks? What for, Anat?"

"Because you agreed to have me as a guest in your house. This Yom Kippur is the most tremendous I've ever had."

"Me too. On your merit. Maybe I'm the one who has to thank you."

"There's no contradiction." She gave a little smile. "You can thank me, and I can thank you."

"You're funny." I couldn't find any other words to define what I wanted to say.

Anat suddenly became serious. "No. You don't understand, Tammi. You don't know..."

"What don't I know?" I became a little curious. Her voice didn't sound exactly ordinary.

"Perhaps it's better if you don't know yet. Another time. Not this evening."

"All the same, Anat, if you've already started..."

She fell silent, closing her lips forcefully. I didn't urge her any more.

We continued talking about truly unimportant things, ordinary things that I don't even remember anymore. We finished eating the watermelon cubes and went to sleep.