The line for the self-service registers stretches all the way back to the supermarket's last refrigerated case. A half-dozen loose, broken eggs are scattered across the case's empty shelves.

Some of the chains have announced limits on purchases, in line with the government recommendation that we keep three days of supplies in the shelters. Our shelter, not much larger than a shower stall, would be too small to hold supplies as well as my landlord, landlady and me. I'm heavy enough, and they're so thin, that I might take up as much space as both of them combined. I will have to gamble on keeping my supplies in my kitchen. Only a curtain separates it from the shelter space.

At the chains with limits, shoppers can only buy two six-packs of 1.5 liter bottles of water, two dozen eggs, two loaves of the government-regulated bread, and a few other things that I don't recall. I don't see any sign of the restrictions here.

Only two of the regular cashier lines are open. They, too, are mobbed, with people getting overflowing cartfuls of stuff.

People waiting outside, near where empty carts would be, are pleading with people exiting to give them their carts. Some are waving ten-shekel coins in the air. Like quarters in the US, they unlock the carts from their corral. I had stood outside with the crowd for a while before I realized that it was just for people who needed carts, and that I could just walk in. I had experienced general queues out there before, during the Covid lockdowns, and thought that they might be doing it again.

Inside, some shelves are full, some bare. I don't see the cold cans of Coke Zero that I usually get for lunch. I get apple juice instead. They are out of the hummus that I like, but I see some good herring salad. They are out of bread, but I have pita in the office fridge, left over from a couple of days ago. The store still has plenty of vegetables and fruit.

In the line in front of me, two men with overflowing bags are talking. "I can't watch the news at work," one says, "but I have it on all the time while I'm at home." The other one nods. "I can only watch at work. I can't watch at home because of what the kids would see."

The line doesn't feel like it's moving at all. I do occasionally notice that I've somehow gotten farther ahead than I had been.

Halfway along, I feel a small hand pulling on mine. I look down. A child has gotten stuck between the long line of grownups and a couple of carts in the way. I step aside and let him through.

After a few steps more, I see that a sign has fallen into the aisle on my left, making the walkway treacherous. I gingerly shift all my groceries (the usual two cucumbers, a pepper, a persimmon, and the herring and juice) into my right hand, bend down, and try to pick up the sign. It falls apart. I pick up each of the pieces and put them on the display's empty lower shelf, out of the way.

Looking ahead, I see colored lights above each of the four registers. I don't think I'd noticed them before. Sometimes they are flashing red, sometimes solid green, and sometimes are off entirely. The colors don't seem to match any pattern of what's happening beneath them.

As with most self-service registers, about half of the customers have problems trying to check out. A single worker shuttles among them, trying to help. Customers whom he hasn't reached yet shout at him. Some block his way as he tries to get to other customers, insisting that he help them first. Others yell or mutter, "Patience. We're in a war."

Once I get to a register, I ring myself up efficiently. I'm used to it. Another customer helped me last week when I tried to find persimmons on the displayed gallery of fruit. The order looked random to me. He pointed out that they were arranged alphabetically, by their Hebrew names. Of course. Checking out is easier now.

Ringing out, I see that my lunch is significantly more expensive than normal, 41 shekels rather than the usual 25. I wonder if prices have jumped. I check the register tape. The apple juice and herring salad are more expensive than what I usually get. So be it.

At the exit, a worker starts to tell me how to scan the barcode on the tape to trigger the gate. I do it myself and pass through. He turns to the next customer, who has stuck her tape deep into a shopping bag, not realizing that she would need it to get out.

When I reach the front of the store, I see that they have opened the register at the customer service desk and are swiftly ringing up people who are buying as little as I had been.

I check my phone. I have been in line for 45 minutes. I have about fifteen minutes left to eat my lunch before the afternoon prayers.