Surviving a bombing, day by day

Talia Sapir had always thought terror wouldn't happen to her.

But one night last March, a Palestinian suicide bomber walked into a café in Jeru– salem where she was sitting. He killed 11 Israelis and himself.

Ms. Sapir was covered in blood, but not her own. She emerged physically unhurt.

With a new baby and a full-time job, Sapir now says she cannot afford the time to seek professional help for the experience. Soft-voiced and round-featured, she plows on, dazed but undeterred: "I can't let it break me."

Her experience is an extreme one. But her shell-shocked determination mirrors the mindset of Israel as a whole – one that seems increasingly unresolved about what to do. Opinion polling routinely yields strong support for contradictory strategies for addressing the conflict with the Palestinians.

Like a lot of Israelis, 20 months of strife has altered her political perceptions and convinced her that peace will have to wait several generations. Like a lot of Israelis, she has flirted with the idea of moving elsewhere.

With no alternatives in sight, Sapir has had to devise a way to survive the brutality of the times.

* * *

At around 8:30 on the night of March 9, Sapir decides to leave her five-and-a-half-month-old baby, Maayan, with her parents and go to a cafe with her husband. They haven't been out for ages.

Sapir's parents come over for their babysitting duty just as she puts Maayan to bed. Sapir sees on television that a pair of Palestinian gunmen have attacked a hotel in the coastal town of Netanya, killing two Israelis. "Don't go out," says her mother.

But Sapir is strangely comforted by the news. "They did their [terror] for the day," she thinks. "There won't be another one."

She puts a favorite pale green jacket over her sweater and black pants and she and her husband drive to a cafe called Moment. Situated 100 yards or so from the prime minister's residence, Moment is a hang-out for secular Israelis, an informal club for Jerusalem yuppies.

Sapir, a project coordinator for a fundraising organization called the United Israel Appeal, and her husband, a computer systems administrator, have been going to the Moment for years. As is usual for a Saturday night, the place is packed.

Sapir wants to try to get a seat inside. Her husband prefers to sit outside in the courtyard because he wants to smoke. It is a small thing. She agrees.

Their table is near the entrance to the bar, next to a floor-to-ceiling window that divides the interior from the courtyard. A few feet away from them, a security guard is checking people as they enter the bar area. For about a half-hour, the couple drink their beers in the chilly evening air.

About 10:30 p.m., the bomber somehow slips around the guard and into the bar.

Sapir feels and hears the blast in the same instant. Then there is the stillness that follows a deafening noise. Then the first sirens. Sapir picks herself off the ground begins to register the scene.

The window is gone. The inside of the cafe is a shattered mess. People have already fled the courtyard area, leaving it suddenly empty. She sees some body parts. "These images – you don't forget them."

She knows she is bloodied, but she can also tell she is not seriously injured. Her husband looks fine. Emergency vehicles are arriving, but she doesn't wait for help. She wants to get home, to see her baby, "to get everything off me as soon as possible."

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