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"He was saying how he'd just missed that bus to work," said Michael Barikashvili. "Dur- ing the week of my father's shi- va, Gabriel was hardly alive, he was in pain with all of us. "When we got up from the shi- va the next Sunday, we heard that another No. 18 bus had been bombed," Mr. Barikashvili con- tinued. "We called all our rela- tives who take the No. 18 to see if they were all right. When we called Gabriel's factory, they told us he hadn't arrived at work. We kept calling the hospitals but they told us he wasn't on the list of injured, and a few hours later we found out he was dead." Across town is a neighborhood called Old Katamon. It is one of the most elegant parts of the city, with graceful old Jerusalem stone houses and apartment buildings, and a population dominated by highly educated, professional Ashkenazis. During the week of the shiva, the home of Yonatan Barnea's fa- ther Nachum, star writer of Is- rael's leading daily newspaper, Yediot Aharonot, was filled to overflowing with the country's cultural and political elite. Eight days later, it wasn't a journalist's son who was killed but a journalist — Dani Tverski, 58, a veteran of Ha'aretz's night desk. The Dizengoff bombing took place about 4 in the after- noon; when Mr. Tverski didn't ar- rive at work that evening, his colleagues feared he was one of the victims. The newspaper's eu- logy explained why: "In all his years on the job he never missed a shift, and never showed up late at the desk." A workaday journalist, a fa- mous journalist's son. New im- migrants and the descendants of early immigrants. Soldiers. The Jerusalem underclass and Jerusalem elite. The murdered came from all sorts of subcul- tures. Others could not be grouped or contrasted so readily; they were just themselves: Inbar Attia, 22, a waitress at a Tel Aviv fish restaurant, killed at Dizengoff. Uzi Cohen, 54, a Jerusalem po- liceman, killed in the second No. 18 bus bombing. On a ridge overlooking the Katamonim, alongside a major thoroughfare, there is a mound of boulders that were painted pastel colors by local children some years ago. After the first No. 18 bus bombing, a group of Kata- monim youths called "Children of the Neighborhood" turned the mound into a memorial for the dead. They posted black flags be- tween the boulders. They come every night to light yahrzeit can- dles and to fill cans with kerosene and light them, too. The leader of the group, Shlo- mo Vazana, is a longtime Kata- monim activist and teacher at Jerusalem's High School of Art. One of his students was army Sgt. Sharon Chanuka, 19, who lived in Old Katamon and died on the first No. 18. Asked what sort of person Ms. Chanuka was, Mr. Vazana said she was "a very, very determined student." When innocents are murdered, their family, friends and ac- quaintances understandably speak of them in platitudes. Mr. Vazana opened a notebook he borrowed from Ms. Chanuka's parents, a notebook of her poet- ry. This is the ending of a poem she wrote in July 1993: Look up and you can see everything that was and is no more. Tears of regret for all that was taken. The sky has long been empty and the air is still heavy - but everything remains unforgiven. ❑ This Return To Roots Is Like Coming Home BOAZ DVIR SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS I sraeli singers and actors are getting high — but not on drugs. They are becoming re- ligiously observant — chozrim betesuvah, returning to their Jewish roots. In recent months, about 20 of the more hip figures in the en- tertainment scene have started becoming Orthodox. The men, like singer Tamir Albert, are wearing yarmulkes, putting on tefilin and praying every day, ac- cording to Maariv. The women are exchanging their sexy outfits for long, simple dresses that cover almost every patch of skin, Maariv reports. "I'm trying to do [as many mitzvot as] I can," Mr. Albert told Maariv. "I heard that there is a big wave of chazrah betesuvah