The brutal Northridge Quake hit Los Angeles hardest where most of the city's Jews live. Now the huge community is tallying its multimillion-dollar losses and figuring out how it will marshal resources to rebuild. Dov Abramson was having a hard time sleeping, so he decided to get some work done. He'd re-cently been hired by Yeshiva University of Los Angeles to bind damaged books, and he figured he'd go in and repair some particularly tattered volumes.
At 3:30 in the morning Abramson, a 39-year-old Orthodox ex-New Yorker, arrived at the yeshivah, in heavily Jewish West Los Angeles, and got busy. The date was January 17.
Less than an hour later, the earth under Los Angeles also awoke and reared up, and roared, and shuddered, and rolled, as if trying to shake the city off.
When the earthquake ended, Abramson stood in the center of the vast study hall. Not a single volume of the thousands in the room remained on a shelf. After securing a flashlight from an upstairs office and inspecting the building to make sure there was no damage posing immediate danger, he set about returning all of the books to their place. These were, after all, sacred volumes. The job took three hours.
Just as he finished, two rabbis walked in for morning services. Upon entering the room, one declared excitedly to the other, "It's a miracle from heaven! Not a single book fell down."
Abramson decided not to disappoint them. He quietly left through another door and went home. Debate over miracles, divine anger and chance was keeping a good many rabbis and laymen busy, even as the ground beneath L.A. was still twitching with aftershocks from the January 17 quake. But for Greater Los Angeles's half a million Jews more than in any Diaspora community except for New York the major problem was not finding metaphysical reasons for their city being shattered that Monday morning; it was working out how to pick up the pieces, physical and psychological. For the organized community and many of its members, that task will take much longer than it did for Dov Abramson to put his books back on the shelf.
At least 12 out of the total of 60 dead in the quake were Jews a number that, at first glance, seems disproportionately high. But the seismic waves that shook California emanated from an epicenter under Northridge, in the San Fernando Valley where almost half the metropolis's Jews live, in sprawling middle-class and upper-middle-class suburbs such as North Hollywood, Encino, Sherman Oaks, Granada Hills and Northridge itself.
After the disaster, Pini Herman, a Jewish Federation demographer, took a map showing the worst-damaged areas and superimposed his own data on Jewish population patterns. The resulting picture: "The Northridge Quake was not only centered in the San Fernando Valley, but in areas of high Jewish density."
Many of the city's remaining Jews live in West Los Angeles, just across the Santa Monica Mountains from the Valley and also heavily hit by the quake. Major damage to homes, office buildings and institutions was reported in the heavily Jewish Beverlywood section, in Santa Monica and throughout the generally well-off West Side.
The city's Israeli emigrants estimated by the local Israeli consulate to number 160,000, but by Herman and others as 100,000 or less were particularly hard hit. As many as three-fourths of the Israelis are believed to live in the Valley's vast grid of apartment buildings, ranch houses and shopping malls. Being less established than other Jewish Angelenos, many of the Israelis live in apartments, which fared worse than single-family dwellings.
And except for a few, they could not seek refuge with a family. Avi Obligenarz, a student at California State University at Northridge, says he personally knows at least 20 Israelis left homeless; some moved into tent cities set up by the National Guard. Ilan and Anat Lugashi found that their Sherman Oaks building had moved off its foundations; they and their three children spent two days living in a park before their landlord found them a new apartment. Ruti Cohen not only had to move out of her apartment in the same neighborhood, but also lost her business, a stand for women's dresses at a local swap meet. "I'm starting over from scratch," she says. "But I'm not going back to Israel." The Lugashis, on the other hand, plan to do just that as soon as possible.
Among Jewish residents of the city in general, estimates Los Angeles Jewish Federation Council Executive Vice President John Fishel, as many as one in two suffered injury or property loss. The full extent of damage isn't known yet, since only about 3,000 people have filled out federation surveys, but it is believed that 5,000 Jews are unable to live in their homes.
"There's no doubt many business owners and professionals suffered losses," says demographer Herman," but we don't have any real numbers yet." Adds Fishel: "We're just seeing the tip of that iceberg in people now approaching the Jewish Vocational Service and the Jewish Free Loan Society. As more and more businesses that were damaged decide not to reopen, you'll see a second flow of applicants." Estimates of damage to Jewish communal and institutional property keep climbing, and now run at $ 20 million to $ 30 million. Among the hardest hit: The University of Judaism, the West Coast branch of the Conservative Movement's Jewish Theological Seminary. The campus, in the Santa Monica Mountains, suffered collapsed ceilings, burst pipes, and other damage; the repair bill could be over $ 1 million. Classrooms weren't destroyed, though, and regular classes reopened after a week. But continuing education courses will resume only at the end of February. The West Valley Jewish Community Center, which sustained major structural damage. A month before the disaster, the center had been closed after it was found not to meet earthquake standards. The preschool has relocated; and the Federation, which used the center as its West Valley headquarters, was forced to rent other office space. Now no one knows when or if the center will reopen. Synagogue Adat Ariel, in North Hollywood, whose sanctuary suffered six-figure damage, including the cave-in of a wall. The North Valley Jewish Community Center, in Granada Hills, where pipes burst, walls collapsed and daunting fissures appeared in the preschool playground. The Brandeis-Bardin Institute in Simi Valley, a retreat center and camp for youth and adults, which reported the collapse of its main office building, its adult dining hall, and a 1.5-million-gallon reservoir. "My former bedroom is now the executive office," says institute executive VP Alvin Mars. "The doctor's cottage is now the youth and family programming office, and we've put the accountant in a shed." All operations have been called off through mid-February.
And there's more: Temple B'nai Hayim in Van Nuys is closed for inspection; a roof collapsed at an Iranian synagogue in Reseda; at the synagogue in Newhall, north of the Valley, most of the sacred books were destroyed by sprinklers.
But the news isn't all bad. Jewish parochial schools suffered surprisingly little damage, says Gil Graff of the Federation's Bureau for Jewish Education. He explains that most of the schools were built recently and benefited from improved earthquake engineering. The 750 people living at the Jewish Home for the Aged in Reseda, only a short distance from the epicenter, went without electricity for three days and hot meals for five. But the buildings were largely undamaged. And when the residents learned that many of the home's Hispanic kitchen, laundry and custodial workers had been left homeless, they asked that the employees and their families be housed on the premises a suggestion that was carried out and initiated food and clothing drives for them.
To raise money for communal repairs, the Federation will be shifting direction in this year's fund-raising efforts. Fishel says the 94 drive won't ignore Israel, but there will be "tremendous emphasis" on the need to rebuild Jewish Los Angeles.
Last year, the Federation raised $ 40 million in L.A.; Fishel says there's no reason the community shouldn't match or surpass that figure this year. In fact, $ 12 million had already been raised before the quake.
"But I have serious questions about our ability to be all things to all people," he adds. "We will try to help in the rebuilding effort. We're now talking about setting up a task force to look at what we can do."
Not that the community will have to fend for itself. The National Council of Jewish Federations has already volunteered to lend a hand, and has appealed to all other federations and to private foundations for cash to rebuild. Fishel says he expects millions of dollars from that channel, and that a couple of million are already in the mail.
Another source of outside infusions may be the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) and other government agencies. The Jewish Federation is now exploring whether community centers and other community institutions can receive government help, which normally comes in the form of low-interest loans. FEMA was originally set up to help individuals, but has now indicated it may assist some non-profit organizations. Fishel says it won't help synagogues, and that how much it will give other institutions remains unclear.
In addition, the Reform, Conservative and Orthodox movements will be raising money, though they have not yet decided how to allocate it. The University of Judaism and the Brandeis-Bardin Institute have started seeking donations. But the feeling is pervasive that such efforts won't cover the losses. It's not just the institutions that are hurting though, but also L.A.'s Jews themselves. The organized Jewish community attempted to respond quickly to their needs. Fishel says that he began checking the ability of Federation and other community bodies to help within 24 hours of the initial cataclysm. But officials decided at the outset that primary relief for injuries and property damage would remain the purview of agencies such as the Red Cross and FEMA.
Already cash-strapped, the Federation could do little more, fiscally, than instruct the Jewish Free Loan Society to cut the red tape in granting loans to individuals in trouble. Within two weeks of the quake, 100 loans of up to $ 5,000 had been provided, and another 100 applications were in the pipeline.
What the Jewish community could do best, Federation officials decided, was to provide information and counseling. One method was a series of community-wide "Disaster Relief Forums." The first of the meetings, held barely a week after the quake at Temple Aliya in Woodland Hills, brought some 500 Valley residents to hear over a dozen officials representing government and local Jewish agencies.
Psychologically, the session seemed to offer little relief, with the officials warning of the bureaucratic chasms that could yet swallow them up as they began to navigate the maze of insurance agencies, government offices, contractors and landlords. "The waters are swimming with thieves and lowlifes disguised as legitimate contractors," said Manuel Duran, a Hispanic lawyer working for the Federation's Bet Tzedek legal aid project. "Don't sign anything, anything, without having a lawyer or our offices look at your contracts. There are a dozen ways these guys can nail you so that you eventually lose your houses, and I can show you hundreds of little old ladies from the Bay Area quake who did just that."
The emotional toll could grow exponentially in the coming months, warns Carol Koransky, director of planning and allocations at the Federation. "We're only beginning to come out of the first week of shivah ," she says. "People are getting a lot of attention now, and federal and state agencies are out there trying to help. We're feeling the adrenaline rush of banding together. Soon, though, we're going to see some of the anger and depression set in even as our needs become more apparent."
In an attempt to head off that depression, University of Judaism administrators staged a kumsitz for staff, students and faculty a week and half after the quake. The gathering, which attracted a Friday afternoon crowd of about 100, helped, said a university official, "to bring the family together for healing."
For many, the right response to shock was helping others. Lawyers volunteered for Bet Tzedek; insurance and contracting experts volunteered to take part in the relief forums. SOVA, the Jewish communal food distribution agency, normally gives out food at three sites; after the quake, agency trucks began going from synagogue to synagogue picking up donated food and distributing it directly to the needy.
At Young Israel of Beverly Hills, more than 40 Iranian Jewish immigrants displaced from their nearby apartments were invited to move into the synagogue. Sandra King, director of Jewish Family Services, says her agency got innumerable calls from people offering living quarters guesthouses, empty apartments, empty rooms in their homes often free of charge.
But communal efforts to help ran into an old problem: Three-quarters of L.A. Jews remain unaffiliated. The Sunday after the quake, the Federation ran a full-page ad in the Los Angeles Times for its Tikkun L.A. hot line. Fishel acknowledges that the initial response was hardly overwhelming only about 1,100 people called in for information and counseling. Apart from the lingering shock afflicting many, Jews may simply not be accustomed to turning to the organized Jewish community for relief. That's certainly true of the city's Israelis. Local Jewish organizations five years ago reversed their decades-old policy, instigated by Jerusalem, of refusing assistance to resident Israelis. But despite recent friendly gestures, the Jewish Federation headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard is still not seen as haimish by former Israelis. And while the emigres have social organizations, they lack any community welfare associations.
When the Northridge earthquake struck, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, who was meeting with U.S. representatives Dennis Ross and Martin Indyk in Israel, offered to dispatch the Israeli army Civil Guard rescue unit, which specializes in saving disaster victims trapped in collapsed buildings. The offer was declined by state and federal authorities.
Some resident Israelis feel they were treated with less dispatch by their government. Consul General Uri Oren dismisses suggestions of insensitivity, but says the consulate lacked both the budget and the manpower to provide material assistance to anyone but its own staff of 25. He says consular officials referred those in distress to agencies or individuals who might be of assistance, and lent an ear to those who felt a need to talk.
Some expatriates, though, have felt utterly lost since the moment the earth began to shake. At 4:31 a.m. on January 17, Yuval Rubinstein of Tarzana says, he spent 15 of the longest seconds of his life trying to scramble out of his wildly bouncing bed. Frantic to reach his four small children asleep in the adjoining room of his two-bedroom condo, he finally bounded out of the bedroom, took a wrong turn, and leaped into a collapsing closet. "My God," he shouted to his wife. "Their wall is down. I can't get to them."
The 36-year-old carpet cleaner, who arrived from Bat Yam eight years ago, eventually recognized his mistake, backed into the hallway, and found his children physically unscathed. Clad only in underwear, he carried them out of the building and into his car.
A week after that rude awakening, the Rubinsteins remained in a fog. Their possessions were gone; they had no insurance. With clean carpets suddenly not a priority for Angelenos, Rubinstein also found himself temporarily out of work. Bereft of water, gas and electricity, they watched helplessly as each day, more of their neighbors moved out for fear the entire building might collapse.
"We don't know where we are anymore," he told The Report. "I know we have to go on, to put this behind us, but we just can't seem to get started."
Such experiences may push some of the Israelis to leave. Five years of tough times in L.A. including a deeper and longer recession than in the rest of the U.S., as well as race riots, drought, floods and mudslides have already spurred some 5,000 Hebrew-speaking expatriates to return to Israel, says Oren. He expects that many more may pack up now if they have anything left to pack.
"A lot of people are going home," agrees Ronit Hayut, publisher of Shalom L.A., the city's leading Hebrew weekly who has decided to do just that herself. "Some call and ask us to cancel the ad for the house they had for sale, because the house isn't there anymore. Many are now announcing the sale of household goods. Others call to cancel their subscriptions because they say they are going back."
Or are they? Yehuda Sutker, an Israeli-born Granada Hills electronics engineer, says he'd had enough of California even before the quake. The social fabric here, he says, is unraveling at an alarming pace. But after 16 years in the U.S., he can't see himself returning to Israel.
The first weekend after the quake he accompanied his parents, who had arrived from Israel for a visit, to Las Vegas for some respite. There, Sutker visited Summerlyn, a northern Las Vegas community named for Howard Hughes's late grandmother. Sutker left the area impressed by a Jewish day school he found there, by the low housing prices, and by the peace and quiet available not terribly far from the bright lights and ringing bells.
"But I'll tell you what really surprised me," he says. "You wouldn't believe how many other Israelis from Los Angeles showed up that day to check out the housing situation." As many as one in two Jews suffered injury or property loss in the earthquake and about 5,000 are unable to live in their homes. (Clockwise from top) The quake: Early morning rituals on the University of Judaism basketball court as students sit out the evacuation. The aftermath: The Ben-David family sets up camp in Reseda. The clean-up: Replacing broken window panes on the UJ campus. The city's Israeli emigrants were particularly hard hit in the quake: Shalom L.A. publisher Ronit Hayut (left) has decided to pack up and head back to Israel. The destroyed building (below) was home to many Israeli residents: Some people call and ask us to cancel the ad for the house they had for sale, because the house isn't there anymore,' says Hayut.