October 27, 2018
Out of the Blue | Simone Kulinski | Painting
October 27, 2018 by Hannah Wilks
10 a.m.
It’s my little brother’s bar mitzvah today. My whole family is in synagogue this morning celebrating this great accomplishment for him. He is going to be a Jewish adult. The air is happy and relaxed, albeit a little cold. The synagogue always has the AC blasting, even if it’s freezing outside. My job for the service today is to read Torah.
My heart is pounding, and my knees feel like jelly. I walk, chin up and feigning confidence, to the bima. I step in front of the ancient text, my stomach turning.
“ברכו את ה המבורך”
The words, foreign as they may seem, calm me, and my voice comes out with much more confidence.
10 a.m.
In the basement of L'Simcha Congregation, a small service is gathered in prayer. The service hosts an older crowd today, and the air is happy with a distinct smell of mothballs.
“ברכו את ה המבורך”
The rabbi smiles as he looks out to his congregation, love making his heart soar.
10:15 a.m.
Of course, my brother stuck me with the longest portion possible. Twenty-five lines and it had to be read with perfect trope. No one wants to mess up in front of 300 people. I certainly don’t.
“וַיֹּ֣אמֶר יְהֹוָ֔ה אִם־אֶמְצָ֥א בִסְדֹ֛ם חֲמִשִּׁ֥ים"
My chest heaves, but my voice keeps reading. I can feel my mom’s beaming smile in front of me, pushing me on. The words begin to come out more clearly as my head clears.
"וַ֠יֹּ֠אמֶר אַל־נָ֞א יִ֤חַר לַֽאדֹנָי֙ וַֽאֲדַבֵּ֔רָה אוּלַ֛י"
10:15 a.m.
A man walks into L’Simcha Congregation. He has an AR-15 assault rifle and three semi-automatic pistols. He raises the gun and shoots. The first two shots kill the Rosenthal brothers, Cecil and David, at the main entrance.
“Don’t worry, everyone -- it must just be a falling coat rack,” the rabbi says from the basement sanctuary, assuring the congregation.
The shooter heads downstairs. Congregants, hearts pounding, disperse. Four run to the closet, others to the basement kitchen. The gunman opens fire, shooting Melvin Wax in the closet and Richard Gottfried and Daniel Stein in the kitchen.
Congregants, now barricaded in the synagogue, call the police.
“Police, please! We’re under fire.” Gunshots echo in the back of the frantic phone call.
Jerry Rabinowitz, a physician, is killed as he checks to see if anyone needs help.
10:30 a.m.
Just like that, I’m done reading my portion. My heart finally slows.
And just like that, it’s over. I hurry back to my seat and hug my mom.
“You did so well, sweetie,” my mom whispers, her smile opening impossibly wider.
10:30 a.m.
The gunman goes upstairs to the main chapel. Thirteen worshippers are gathered for minyan. Rabbi Myers, the upstairs rabbi, has helped four of them evacuate the chapel through a side door. Eight of the worshippers remain behind. The shooter killed seven of them and wounded one of them.
“All Jews must die!” the shooter yells.
Police finally arrive at the scene. Two officers find the gunman in the doorway. He opens fire on the police officers. Officer Mead is hit in the hand. Officer Smidga is grazed or hit by shrapnel and cut on his face. A congregant, Mr. Siriano, runs outside and gets on his knees, fearing to be mistaken for the shooter. Stephen Weiss, another congregant who had run from the building, recognizes him and calls out to police. Together they hurry away from the building. Ms. Glickman and Dr. Charny make it out, too.
Police call for reinforcements and paramedics and form a perimeter.
The shooter goes quiet. Police wait for SWAT.
10:45 a.m.
I’m much more relaxed now, happy that that nerve-racking experience is over. Now, I can just sit back and relax as my brother reads Torah. He seems much calmer than I was at my bat mitzvah, no shaking hands or worried eyes.
10:45 a.m.
SWAT enters the building in search of the active shooter. Rabbi Myers, now hidden in the bathroom, is on the phone with 911.
“Should I leave my spot?” he asks.
“No. Police are in a heightened state. Guns are drawn. They’re looking for an active shooter,” the 911 operator responds.
SWAT walk through the building, finding hostages and escorting them out to the street. Eventually, they find the shooter, who immediately opens fire on the officers. The shooter wounds an officer before he is apprehended, a sickening grin on his face.
11:00 a.m.
“I’m sorry to interrupt this service, and Asher, you are doing beautifully,” Rabbi Harris begins, a solemn look on his face. “I have an announcement. At the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, there was a shooting. They’ve caught the gunman, but we have two extra police officers at the front of the building. Please do not worry. You are safe.”
My heart freezes. They must have been doing exactly what I’d been doing. It’s unfathomable. I watch as a few people in the back leave.
“What do we do?” I ask my mom.
“We celebrate Asher,” she responds.
1:00 p.m.
Media coverage of the shooting has skyrocketed. The gunman has a ton of charges against him. He has 29 criminal counts. They include obstructing the free exercise of religious beliefs and using a firearm to commit murder. He also faces state charges.
I have a friend in Pittsburg who lost a grandparent. We are in full party preparation mode, though the vibe of the room feels off. I’m happy for my brother, of course, but sorrow floods the room.
7:00 p.m.
I choose to lean into the happiness of the night. It’s a big night for my family, and I want to celebrate my little brother. The shooting is in the back of everyone’s minds at the party, but we choose to focus on Asher and his accomplishments that night.
8:11 p.m.
We have a moment of silence for those who died in the shooting. It makes me cry.
