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My body clock was totally messed up. I woke up the next morning before sunrise and, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep. So instead I began to unpack my suitcase and scatter some of my personal stuff around the room. My diary, my yearbook, and my yellow stuffed Frou-frou bear — a favourite toy left over from childhood — all found a home on the little shelf next to the bed.

Ah, Frou-frou! When I was little, he had literally been my best friend. For years I’d slept with him, confided in him, and taken him everywhere I went. Now, with his fur worn and tattered and one of his ears missing, he had made the journey to Jerusalem with me. Even though I was almost fifteen now, I really couldn’t imagine any house ever being a home without my Frou-frou.

The next thing I unpacked was Mom’s old cashmere sweater. I hugged it close, letting the memory of her soft touch take over. I missed her so much. For the millionth time, I found myself wishing that our lives didn’t have to be this way — that everything could go back to normal.

The last thing to come out of my suitcase was a framed picture of Mom taken the summer I turned thirteen. Even though her eyes were squinting slightly in the sunlight, it was a great photo. She was laughing at a joke I’d made right before I clicked the shutter. Although I couldn’t remember what the joke was now, the rest of the moment was still so vivid in my mind. The two of us had been eating Popsicles and relaxing in the backyard on a hot weekend afternoon in August. I had been playing around with the new digital camera I’d gotten for my birthday and Mom had volunteered to be my model. Of all the photos I’d taken that day, I remember thinking that this one captured Mom’s personality the best. Her eyes were lit up with joy, her mouth was slightly red from the cherry-flavoured Popsicle, the sun was shining through her brown hair like a halo, and the smile on her face was easy and natural and so happy.

Back home in Toronto, I’d kept the picture in my nightstand drawer, tucked under a book where I didn’t have to face the pain of looking at it every day. Now, I held it tenderly in my hands while I contemplated where to put it in my new room.

Mom’s eyes stared up at me from beneath the glass.

Ouch.

I folded Mom’s sweater carefully around the picture, opened my new nightstand drawer, and slid them both inside. After that, I took some time to look around my new home. One by one, I examined all the books on the wicker shelf. I tried out all the appliances, making sure each one of them was in working order. I flipped on the television set, surfing the channels for something — anything — that looked familiar.

And then I walked down the hall and found the bomb shelter.

It was a small room at the end of the hall about the size of a powder room. There was one window, which was sealed and covered in a thick plastic curtain. In addition to a couple of cases of bottled water and a folding chair, the owners had left a trio of gas masks, more plastic sheeting, and a roll of duct tape. I quickly figured out these were to be used in the event of a poisonous gas attack. There was a sign on the door with instructions in both English and Hebrew:

In Case of Emergency

Bring radio into shelter.

Ensure there is one gas mask for

every person in shelter.

Seal door edges with thick strips of

tape once bomb shelter is closed.

Seal the bottom of door with

a wet towel.

Do not leave until you hear the

“all-clear” signal.

Holy crap! The whole idea of a bomb shelter was frigging creepy. The air was stale and claustrophobic and the gas masks looked like lifeless alien faces lying there on the floor.

Later on, when I showed the room to Dad, he did his best to downplay it.

“Don’t worry about it, Mack,” he said, waving off my concerns like a pesky fly. “Every house and apartment in Israel is required to have one of these things. It’s like, I don’t know … seat belts in a car … or emergency exits in a movie theatre … or fire extinguishers in school classrooms. Just something that’s required by law for safety reasons.”

I rolled my eyes in disgust and wondered for the millionth time why he’d brought us here.

Yeah, right, Dad. A bomb shelter is no different than an exit sign!

How could I have known that one day I’d actually have to use it?

The next morning, Dad and I were given an orientation tour of the university by one of his new colleagues in the Institute of Archaeology.

“Hi, I’m Professor Anderson,” she said, shaking our hands and grinning widely. “But please call me Sharon. I’m the resident pottery specialist here at Hebrew U — although I’m originally from the University of Minnesota. I guess that’s not too far from your neck of the woods — relatively speaking.”

I liked her instantly. With her girlish blond ponytail and freckled cheeks, she looked far too young and pretty to be a professor, let alone an archaeologist. In fact, she didn’t look much older than a student herself. It was a big contrast to Dad’s colleagues back home, who had all seemed as old and dry as a bunch of prehistoric fossils.

Sharon led us around the grounds, pointing out the requisite places of interest. But for me, the best part of the tour wasn’t the buildings or the library; it was her advice about living in Israel.

“I know you guys just got here, so here are some ‘survival tips,’” she said as we all sat down for a drink in the campus cafeteria. “First of all, you should know that this is a country of soldiers. Many Israeli adults have spent some time in the army. You may have noticed from the way they drive here that their attitude is all about ‘survival of the fittest.’”

I nodded, thinking back to the taxi ride in from the airport. The mere memory of it sent a wave of nausea through my belly. I took a long sip of my ginger ale. Thank God you could get Canada Dry here!

“You’ve also probably noticed by now that security is a way of life here,” Sharon continued. “Be prepared to get searched when you enter the mall or other public places. And don’t be shocked to see armed soldiers everywhere you go: restaurants, shops, buses.”

The gingery bubbles melted on my tongue as I ate up her words. I knew that this was the kind of stuff I needed to hear if I was going to make a life for myself in this city — even if it was for just three months.

“Be respectful around the Orthodox Jews,” Sharon continued. “You’ll know them by the way they’re dressed.”

My thoughts flashed back to the men I’d seen walking through the airport. Big black hats, long dark coats. My dad and his cape were going to fit right in.

“And it’s important to remember that these people don’t believe in any eye contact or physical contact — even handshaking — between members of the opposite sex. In fact, Mackenzie, if you ever take a seat on a bus next to an Orthodox man, don’t be surprised if he gets up and moves away. You should also know that much of this city shuts down from Friday afternoon until Saturday night at sunset. Whatever you do, don’t drive through a religious neighbour-hood during that time. You might have stones or even dirty diapers thrown at you.”

“Oh gross!” I grimaced and put down my drink. “Are you serious?”

“One hundred per cent,” Sharon replied with a laugh. “It’s just a fact of life here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

No I won’t, because I’m not going to be staying, I felt like replying.

When Dad got up to refill his coffee cup, Sharon leaned her head towards mine and lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Listen, I’m sure this whole thing hasn’t been easy for you … you know, moving to a strange country without your mother here to help. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to offer you some ‘woman-to-woman’ advice.”

I stared down at my drink and shrugged. As nice as Sharon seemed, I did not want to talk to her about Mom. Please don’t go there, I prayed silently.

“Mackenzie, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful when you’re out alone,” Sharon continued. “You’re in the Middle East, now — a long way from North America. There are people and places in this city that can be dangerous for young girls on their own. Do you understand?”

I looked up again and nodded, relieved that she hadn’t asked about Mom. And happy that she didn’t give me that speech in front of Dad. He was way too overprotective of me already without hearing stuff like that. Too bad he couldn’t be more like Sharon. I liked how she spoke to me like an adult, without sugar-coating the facts to make this place seem more like home.

Still, there was no way I could have known just how accurate her warning would turn out to be.