KFAR SHMARYAHU, Israel -- By law, all new houses built in Israel must contain a "protected space" -- in simple language, a bomb shelter. But there is no requirement to add shelters to already-existing structures.

Our house falls into the second category. It had no shelter when our family bought it used in 1988, and we never added one until after 9/11. That cataclysm prompted us to have our storage room renovated to conform to official specifications.

The new steel door looks glaringly anomalous, leading as it does to our flowery pink guest bathroom.

The contractor also drilled an additional opening in preparation for installation of an air filter in case of chemical attack.

Most commonly the site of a family's washing machine and ironing board, shelters rarely lie fallow; they are improvised as play rooms and tool rooms, or even converted into studio apartments to be rented.

Our shelter is no different. It quickly reverted to being the repository of lawn chair cushions, extra-long serving platters, suitcases, an old grill -- in short, a household's assorted paraphernalia.

We never got around to calling the air filter company until the day after the U.S. Senate gave President Bush carte blanche to attack Iraq.

As the talk of hostilities escalates, so does anxiety in Israel. For if war erupts, people fear, the country may be in the frying pan, if not in the fire.

The Israeli government supplies gas masks to all residents, along with an injection of atropine to be self-administered in case a nonconventional warhead hits. But many are not relying on government-issue.

"War preparedness" equipment is in high demand: plastic suits to wear outdoors after chemical or biological attack, protective containers for beloved pets, plastic sheeting to cover exposed windows, chemical toilets for bomb shelters.

Electric air filters are no exception, for what good is a bomb shelter if the air inside is unbreathable? The filter system is built to work for weeks, as opposed to a few hours for a gas mask. The manufacturer certifies that it keeps out microbes as well as poison gas.

Though the factory is working overtime, it cannot keep up with demand. Our order will take 10 weeks to fill. With black humor we joke that if D-Day must come, let it come after our deliveryman. Those who waited until this week to order are being quoted a delivery date three months down the road.

Yet, in a sense, I'm just going through the motions, taking these steps more out of a sense of responsibility than out of any real conviction that they will be put to use. Shelters, filters, masks -- they still seem like a science fiction scenario. The days of the 1991 Persian Gulf war, when we sat fearfully in sealed rooms wearing gas masks, have receded to the remoteness of an old horror flick.

Now the atmosphere resembles nothing so much as a big fog of confusion. One day public officials say there is nothing to be worried about, that Iraq doesn't have the arsenal to hit us. The next minute we hear how medical personnel are being inoculated against smallpox. Faced with contradictory headlines, rumors and public officials speaking out of both sides of their mouths, there is growing cynicism that even if "they" knew what is in store, they wouldn't tell.

The authorities recommend stocking a shelter with water, first-aid supplies, a flashlight, a telephone, a radio, a television, dry food in airtight containers, inflatable mattresses and "leisure materials" to pass the time.

The only thing on the list we have prepared is the bottled water. I keep buying six-packs, which I say are earmarked for emergencies but which everybody keeps drinking anyway. In the meantime we keep pursuing our so-called normal lives.

Emergencies in Israel are so common that we wait to see if they actually happen before we take them seriously.

Helen Schary Motro, an American lawyer and free-lance writer who divides her time between New York and Israel, is a columnist for The Jerusalem Post.