Time travel

I arrived at the Tel-Aviv new, glass and chrome, train station around noon and the train was already on the platform. I stepped into the first car holding the railing with my left hand and walked along the train looking for a sitting place next to a window. When I found one I sat down stretched my legs and put my pocket book on my side. A quick look revealed a newer much modern looking version of the old train I remembered from my childhood. The air-condition was humming softly and the chair was yielding and comfortable. I leaned back and stretched my legs. Old or new a train ride is always exciting.

The high-pitched sound of the horn and the slight rocking movement got me out of my dreamlike mood. We were moving.  Soon the pace grew and the klick-klack of the wheels became a rhythmic background sound. I sighed with satisfaction. I love trains. Their slower pace and spacey sitting makes the journey enjoyable.

Tel-Aviv’s high risers and crowded neighborhoods were soon behind us. We went through few smaller towns, Ramla, Lod, Beth-Shemesh, and suddenly the train made a sharp turn and entered a narrow mountain ravine. At once I felt as if transported years back. The mountain’s ravine name Emek Refaim - valley of the Refaim, derived from a legendary race of giants who lived in this region in biblical times. As a child hearing it and going through the narrow mountain path with the small brook running alongside, was an added excitement. I kept watching with a mixture of fear and anticipation hoping I‘ll get to see one.  The touch of mystery was the highlight of the trip. I noticed it was still there, the brook, the mountains on two sides and being able to see both ends of the train when it was going around the curves, turning right and left like a long hissing snake.

When I heard the horn again we were getting closer to the town, it startled me. I must have been dozing off.  I could see the first white buildings spilling down the hills. “Jerusalem! Mountains are round about her” the words of the biblical phrase suddenly were going through my mind. Jerusalem stone, I recalled, the only material allowed by the municipal laws dating back to the British Mandate. This required all buildings to be faced with the local stone. The pale lime stone shined in the sun and gave the houses an almost unified white gleam.

The train came to a full stop. I sent my hand to collect my things and there it was a rolled parchment next to my pocket book.  It was tightly rolled, tied with a burgundy color ribbon and appears old and withered.  Leery but very intrigued I opened it.

It was written in old looking script letters on one page.

“Do you realize that while you were asleep you had, successfully, completed a journey through time of a hundred and twenty years? If you want to go even further into the past contact us.”

I continued to read.

“This train you have taken is following the Jaffa–Jerusalem railway that was built in Ottoman Palestine by a French company and inaugurated in 1892. This line is considered to be the first Middle Eastern railway. The Jerusalem station was opened in 1892 as a terminus of the Jaffa–Jerusalem line, at the 86.6 kilometer mark, at an elevation of 747 meters. The rail line to Jerusalem was closed down in 1998 and the station has been decaying since. It was not included in the restoration of the Tel Aviv Jerusalem line. If you want to know why, you will have to follow the old route to the Turkish station via the long forgotten Templers settlement.

And here came an elaborate signature - Matthaus Frank   followed by detailed directions.  

Standing at the gate going through the security check the young man asked me if I received anything from a stranger “No,” I started to say  but  on a second thought I pulled out the rolled parchment  and showed it to him.”Maybe you can tell me where this is,” I pointed at the directions. “Oh, this,” he laughed.” This is in the old Kahn building, the falling apart old Turkish train station. There is nothing there. This old guy is convinced that he is the last descendant to the Jerusalem Templers and he does it all the time. “

It was late afternoon when I walked away from the station.  The sun already disappeared behind the mountains. The air was as I remembered it, cool and clear with this special subtle quality some will call holiness. I held the rolled parchment in my hand and for some reason decided to take the bus going by the old station. We passed through the German Colony, an upscale neighborhood bisected by Emek Refaim Street, an avenue lined with trendy shops, restaurants and cafes. It was hard to picture it the way it was in 1837 when the Templers, lived there. They built their homes in the style to which they were accustomed to in Germany but used local materials such as Jerusalem stone instead of wood and bricks. They waited and prepared for their part in the Messianic salvation until deported by the British Mandatory government in World War II for their affiliation with the Nazi party.

The bus passed by the old train station; neglect and deterioration were visible everywhere. I could see falling apart walls and torn, open windows. It looked so out of place in the midst of the wealthy neighborhood.  For a moment I was tempted to follow the directions and go in. But then being realistic and rational person I shook the thought away. I tightened my hand on the old parchment and wondered if I really saw a glint of a light from one of the windows on the second floor. It was there for a second and when I looked again it was gone. Now I remembered, the word “Refaim” in Modern Hebrew means also a “ghost," or "spirit,” and an uncontrolled shudder went through me.