Over the weekend, the last six remaining living hostages were released from Gaza, along with the confirmed remains of Shiri Bibas (after Hamas had sent an unidentified Gazan woman’s body in her place on Thursday!).
The mother of Omer Shem Tov, whose desperate pleas I remember from the days after October 7th, as she experienced the horror of knowing her son was a captive in Gaza, took time to honor one of the true heroes of the survivors of that Black Shabbat—Ori Danino.
Shelly Shem Tov, a face every Israeli knows, told how Danino “went back into the unfolding massacre at the Nova music festival, from which he had escaped, to pull out Omer, along with siblings Maya and Itay Regev. All four were then taken hostage, and the Regev siblings were released in November 2023.”
Danino survived until August 2024, when panicked Hamas terrorists murdered six Israeli young adults as the IDF was closing in. One of them was Hersh Goldberg-Polin, whose parents campaigned tirelessly all over the world for his release, wearing the number every day of each day of his captivity.
They continue to advocate for the release of the others and continue to number the days of captivity on their shirt with a piece of tape.
One of the others that was murdered that day was a face that everyone in Ashkelon knew. A giant picture of Alex Lobanov greeted everyone who entered Ashkelon.
Referring to the heroic nature of Danino’s actions, Omer’s mother said, “He didn’t think about himself or his family, just that you don’t leave anyone behind. He is the hero and the angel who saved them.”
Omer wrote on the now-famous whiteboard that each hostage is using to share a unique message to the people of Israel as they’re coming out of captivity, “Now, everything is okay. Thank you to my dear people of Israel and to all the soldiers, men and women.” Next to the heart, he wrote, “I want a hamburger!”
For the next several weeks on Mondays, we are going to be sharing with you an excerpt from Jerusalem Secret. This book is the sequel to Identity Theft and is the continuation of our hero, David’s, quest to learn the truth about Yeshua’s true identity AND the identity of his first followers.
If you find that you just can’t wait a week to read what happens next or if you haven’t read the first book in the series, you can download both books for free here.
CHAPTER 1 - Jerusalem Secret
“I hate hospitals. The smell of death just hangs in the air.
I touched my father’s hand—the one without IVs plugged into it—and pictures flashed before me. The day he took the training wheels off my bicycle; his strong arms wrapped around me as he taught me to swing a bat; the manly slap on my shoulder after my bar mitzvah.
“Dad?”
Instinctively, I checked the screen again, my only assurance that life remained. It was already day five and hope was fading—I was fading.
A few days earlier, on what had been the most amazing day of my life, I came home to find out that my father had just had a terrible car accident. In a bizarre turn of events, hospital tests later proved that he had actually suffered a massive stroke while he was driving. He survived the crash, but now his brain function was affected by the stroke.
I rehearsed the doctor’s words again in my mind, and tried to force the information into my frontal lobe. “Simply put, a stroke is the loss of blood supply to the brain resulting in a lack of brain function. The longer the loss of blood supply, the more damage there is. Without flowing blood, the brain will cease to function.”
My skin crawled. I sat beside the man I loved most in the world in a sterilized house of death. Come to think of it, that wasn’t a bad title for an editorial piece—”Sterilized House of Death.” On a better day, I’d have tapped that title into my cell phone to use later on. But really, how could a place so clean feel so dirty? Maybe I felt so strongly because this wasn’t my first scary experience at St. Luke’s Hospital.
St. Luke’s…now that is funny. I wonder how they would react if I told them that on Sunday, just five days ago, I actually had an extensive conversation with the hospital’s namesake—Luke! I am sure they would lock me up on that special floor for people who see angels, demons, and dead prophets.
At least they’d renovated the place. It was a far cry from the place where Bubbie Gershom, my mother’s grandmother, had breathed her last breath twenty-five years ago. That place was cold and gray and felt like medicine to a four-year-old. The rooms were far more inviting now. Bright colors and murals graced the walls along with black-and-white framed pictures of very happy people from every background. But as they say, you can put lipstick on a pig, but it is still a pig! No matter how friendly they were, no matter how much money they spent to make the place more comfortable—someone was still dying here, all the time. I could feel it in the air.
I prayed to God that the next victim would not be Harvey Lebowitz. And yet, outside of a miracle the doctors were not hopeful.
And to think, I was terrified to tell him the news…that his son was now a follower of Yeshua, the Jewish Messiah. Looking at the comatose, eerily still man beneath the white sheets, the man I respected most in this world, I realized that fearing his reaction to my new faith was the least of my concerns now. In all likelihood, I had lost my father, my mentor, and my best friend. I would never be able to share my story with him—or anything else for that matter.
I smelled the coffee across the hall. Time to stretch my legs.
I held the foam cup under the dispenser, suddenly agitated. “The whole world is going through a coffee revolution and the best this hospital can provide is that stupid machine spitting out colored water,” I barked to no one in particular.
“Well, it’s a good thing I am here then,” said my wife Lisa. She breezed through the doorway, bringing her customary warmth into this cold establishment. Relief washed over me. What would I do without her? I kissed her lightly on the lips and led her back across the hall to my father’s room, the coffee forgotten.
I couldn’t have endured this without her. There was no doubt that this was as hard on her as it was on all of us. Her own father and mother split up when she was just fourteen. Her father moved to Colorado a few years later, and while they have stayed in touch, it is hardly a warm and fuzzy father/daughter relationship. From the time we were engaged, she adopted my father as her own. He really had no say in the matter. By the time we said our nuptials at Temple Beth Israel he wasn’t sure on which side of the chupah he should stand—the father of the groom or the father of the bride. She had a way of bringing out a side of him that neither I nor my sister was able to, or had ever even thought about. We would often joke at family dinners that he loved her more than his actual children.
Despite their close relationship, Lisa instinctively knew the role she should play in this present situation. There would be time later for processing all this. Her job now was cheerleader, coffee girl, carpooler, and listener. She was really good at the listening part. She did whatever was needed so that we wouldn’t have to think about it.
She put her large purse on the windowsill and held up a paper bag. “I brought you a latte from Starbucks,” she announced. “Three shots for my man.”
“How do you do that?”
She looked at me quizzically.
“You know, read my mind?”
She smiled and pulled the coffee from the bag. Normally I prefer straight espresso. But stuck in that hospital room, I needed something that would last longer.
“Here,” she said, and offered the latte. I reached for the coffee but found myself embracing her instead.
“I’m not ready to lose him,” I whispered into her hair. I choked back a sob and, once again, burst into tears. I couldn’t lose my father. Not now—not after everything I had just been through. I so badly needed at least one more face-to-face communication. How could it be God’s plan to reveal the truth to me, only to take my father the very same day? In some ways that gave me hope. God must have a plan—the timing couldn’t be coincidental.”
My display of emotion appeared to everyone as the emotional reaction of a loving son grieving over the potential loss of his father. But it was more than that. I had found the truth. I had met God and I wanted my dad to know it!
“Are you okay?” Lisa asked. “I know this is difficult—you and your dad are so close. But it just seems like there is more going on. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Is there something I want to tell you!? Sure, last week, I was transported, translated, teleported, or something akin to “Scotty, beam me up” or “back” to the first century where a guy—no, an angel—introduced me to Peter, Paul, and Mary—no, not the band—along with John the Baptist, all of whom, it turns out, are Jews named Simon, Jacob, Miriam, and Yochanan. The latter is apparently a Jewish prophet, and not a member of First Baptist. Oh, and then I actually witnessed the death of Jesus, whose real name is Yeshua, before becoming a participant in a cosmic battle between angels and demons over my soul. How’s that for having more going on? Then, I found myself being sucked back and forth between heaven and earth until I awoke from what seemed to have been one crazy dream—that is, until the angel sent me an email confirming everything that had happened. Yep, that’s right, the angel sent me an email.
Then, when I pulled up to the house—a totally different person, a “new” man filled with peace and destiny—you come screaming out of the house telling me that my father is being rushed to the hospital…”Ah, no, everything is okay—I mean, given the circumstances. This has just been really hard on me.
There was no way I was ready to confide in her or anyone else for that matter—at least not yet. We were already in a hospital. How long would it take before they locked me up in a padded room and fitted me with a straight jacket?
“Okay. I’m just worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. Just please take care of Mom and my sister. They need you right now. It is too much for me to process all this and provide the support they need as well. They need someone strong and optimistic and I’m feeling neither at the moment.”
“I am heading to your parents’ house now. I’m sure your mother’s up already and will want to come in to the hospital. I just wanted to check in on you first. It’s on the way.”
My mother was always the strong one in the family. It came naturally to the daughter of a successful lawyer and one who was active in the Philadelphia Jewish community. She was the past president of the Jewish Federation in Philadelphia. Both of my mother’s parents were first-generation Americans. My dad’s father came over from Poland after the Holocaust where he met his wife. Her parents came over from Eastern Europe just before the turn of the century. Mom’s grandparents on her dad’s side worked tirelessly in the New York garment business, literally making and selling their own line of clothes, saving every penny so their sons could go to school. By the time my grandfather, her father, graduated, his father was the owner of a thriving factory with one hundred and fifty employees and no longer needed to save every penny.
His brother, her uncle, took over the business and turned it into a booming retail success called Goldberg’s, even though that wasn’t their last name. At the time, Jewish-owned department stores like Altmans, Gimbels, Kaufmann’s, Lazarus, and Strauss’ were doing exceptionally well. And “Smith,” the name my great-grandfather Poldansky had taken upon entering these United States, just didn’t sound very Jewish. Who needs to know we’re Jewish? he’d thought at the time. Years later, however, they realized that having a Jewish name in retail—not to mention law and medicine—was actually helpful and “Goldberg” was chosen.
With her uncle as CEO and her father handling the legal side of things, Goldberg’s kept the Smiths quite comfortable for many years. Eventually they sold the store for a ton of money and watched the new owners run it into the ground. My great uncle Morton retired young and wealthy, while my grandfather moved his family to Philadelphia to join with some friends in starting up Schwartz, Steinberg, and Smith Law Offices. When his daughter brought home Harvey Lebowitz, a first-year law student at NYU, he couldn’t have been more pleased. Twenty-something years later, Schwartz, Steinberg, Smith, Walberg, and Lebowitz was well known to anyone in Philadelphia—particularly to those who watch Jeopardy at 7:00 p.m. on WPVI.
As a teenager, I loved and hated it, depending on where I was and who was watching when people would walk up to my dad and say, “Hey, aren’t you that guy from those lawyer commercials?” And then they would always add, “Your case is only as good as your lawyer.” Dad was hard to miss, really. In his late fifties, he was still quite good-looking and he always carried himself as if he owned Wall Street. His short, curly hair had only grayed at the temples and he still had a full head of hair. After shooting another commercial the cameraman always told him, “The camera loves you, Harvey.” Of course, Dad always passed off those comments with a laugh and a joke about his growing midsection, blaming Mom’s good cooking.
Despite Mom’s inherent strength, Dad’s presence boosted her confidence even more. I don’t think even she understood how dependent upon on him she was—not until now anyway. From the outside she was loud, he was quiet. She was opinionated, he went with the flow. She was the life of the party, he preferred not to be at the party. But in truth, he was her strength and I could see in her demeanor that losing him would take its toll. Before, nothing would shake her—but that was because nothing shook him. Without him there, she was already shaken. Her short plump frame looked stooped and tired these days. The dark circles under her eyes were telltale signs of her personal anguish.
Despite his quiet exterior, Harvey Lebowitz had a keen sense of humor, which evidenced itself in three areas of his life. When he was making those embarrassing commercials, when he was trying a case—he had the ability to use humor and wit to make the opposing counsel or a clearly lying witness look foolish—and when he was in small gatherings like watching a football game or around a family dinner.
And every now and then, the introvert would surprise us all. Once while walking down the streets of Manhattan after dinner, an annoying Times Square street preacher kept yelling, “The King is alive! The King is alive!” Without batting an eye, my father ran up to him in front of several dozen onlookers yelling, “I knew it, I knew it, Elvis is alive!” The very recollection of it still brings a smile to my face, even though I now know that the King is indeed alive—and He’s not from Memphis.
Later that afternoon, I sat with Lisa at a restaurant that had clearly been built to cater to those who couldn’t stomach eating inside the hospital cafeteria. While picking through a grilled chicken salad, I asked, “How are you holding up?
“Reasonably well under the circumstances.” Then she looked up as if there was a “to do” list hovering above her. “Your mom and sister are inside. I will need to pick up your sister’s kids from school in about an hour and get them situated. And then I need to figure how everyone is going to get fed tonight.”
“Who’s watching the girls?”
“Mindy will take them home from school. They can stay with her girls until this evening.”
Mindy was Lisa’s best friend. She was the first to greet us when we moved into Stonycreek. From the beginning, the two of them hit it off. Fortunately, I also get along well with her husband, Michael. In most of our other friendships it has been rare that both of us have “connected” with both members of another couple. Usually one of us would have to tolerate the spouse while the other two hit it off. One couple, in particular, I now simply refuse to spend time with. Lisa and I went out with Jill and Frank only once. Lisa met Jill at the gym and the two of them just assumed their husbands would hit it off just as well as they did. Not so. By the end of that first evening, I swore I would never go out with them again. For three hours Frank talked on and on to me about his work and how interesting it was. At the end of the three hours, I still couldn’t have told you what in the world he did for a living!
Michael, however, is different. We both work in journalism—he’s a producer for Channel 12 News, while I am a columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer. We are also both avid Eagles fans and take turns regarding whose house we would watch the game at during football season. He is even someone I can talk to about personal problems—marriage, work, etc. After my father was rushed to the hospital they made it clear they were there for us. Anything we needed, they said, just call. Of course others said that as well, but with Mindy and Michael, I wouldn’t feel guilty taking them up on the offer. They meant it.
“When will you be back?” I asked Lisa.”
“Hmmm…’bout seven-thirty.”
“How are you doing with all this? Are you exhausted?”
“The truth is,” she admitted, “I would probably be a complete mess if not for staying busy, so this really is the best thing for me. I don’t know how I would react if I stopped running. Don’t worry about me. Let’s take care of your family. That’s what’s most important right now.”
“I should probably go back over there—check in on everyone.”
“Ask them to give you a doggy bag. You are going to want to finish that salad in about ninety minutes, if I know you.”
And she did. That’s how my metabolism works—fast. I tend to need regular sustenance.”
“Fine. You go on. I’ll get this wrapped up and then head back to the room.”
A short kiss, embrace, and two-second gaze into one another’s eyes, as if to say, “Let’s get through this together,” and she was off.
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