We continue our tour to see the Tomb of David. It’s almost empty now, illuminated by candles here and there. I explore every recess; I don’t want to cross the road and visit the Shoah Museum at the other side of the street. That’s where my mates are now.
I was dragged once into that Museum, and I don’t want to come in again; I have no need of reminders, and that last time I was there I cried till I had no tears left.
There’s a yeshiva just on top of David’s Tomb, with a sign that indicates it’s also a music school. Wonderful. I wait outside, sitting on a steep, daydreaming, expecting to hear some ethereal, heavenly music. Orthodox boys were pouring into the yeshiva, carrying with them their musical instruments.
I jumped from my comfortable step when I heard the first chords of Smoke on the water booming against the walls.
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