Bright Lion
BRIGHT LION
PETER BERGER
Copyright ©
Peter Berger 2020
All rights
reserved
TO C.A.Z.
With thanks
Contents:
PART
I: GETTING STARTED
1. Visit to Yentl’s
Grave
PART II: YOUTH IN ISRAEL
2. An Odd Jobs Boy
3. TA.1: Early Day.
4. The Independence
Struggle
5. Matriculation
6. En route
PART III: SETTLING DOWN
IN TEL AVIV
7. Employment and My
First Marriage
8. A Teacher in TA.1
PART IV: BASED IN NEW
YORK
10. I Change my Name to
Loeb Zohar
11. A Liberal Rabbi in
Brooklyn
12. My Heydays as Rabbi
13. The End of my
Brooklyn Days
PART V: RETIREMENT
14. Move to Safed
15. Our Homely Cottage
16. An Aged Retiree
PART VI: END OF JOURNEY
17. Ithaca
P R E F A C E
The
object of Bright Lion is to compare two approaches to Judaism. Whilst both are
imbued with tolerance and understanding they are nevertheless distinct. One
approach is that of the tolerant traditional observer who follows the commands
of his faith but is not perturbed by the transgressions and by the
non-conformity of fellow Jews. The other approach is that of a sceptic who
doubts many of the tenets of the faith as well as the Bible’s historicity and
does not observe commands he fails to understand. His adherence to Judaism is
based on his acceptance of the ethnic affiliation of members of the community.
He is tolerant of the view of orthodox believers, provided they do not attempt
to force him to adopt their orientation.
Loeb
Zohar (alias Chayim Rosenberg, then Rosenne), who is the hero of this book,
symbolizes the former group. He is a kind hearted person but is not portrayed
as infallible. Two of Loeb’s friends (Bushi and Uri) typify the second group.
Both are aware of Loeb’s belief and
would go out of their way so as not to offend his sensitivities. Loeb, in turn,
disregards their transgressions unless they set out to hurt him.
Loeb
Zohar is a fictitious person. In molding him I drew on the lives of people I
knew. I only hope that I have not created an unbelievable person. Bushi and Uri
express my own views. None of us is a
fanatic. We are doubters (or skeptics) but have remained in the fold.
Loeb
marries twice. In his first marriage he is the effective caregiver who helps
his wife, Galya, to find a niche in the Israeli theatre world. His second wife,
the American Jewess Yentl, assumes the role of Pygmalion. Her purpose in life
is to encourage her husband to arrive at the destination she sets for him.
Without her guiding hand he might not have arrived.
Another central figure is Ronnie Eyal, Galya’s second
husband and Loeb’s devoted friend. Ronnie is a holocaust victim who tries hard
to ignore the past. Regrettably, it has left its mark and occasionally catches
up with him.
A
recurring topic in the book is the clash of traditional Judaism and the secular
world surrounding it. Tacitly, it is conceded that the modern image of the
universe – as elaborated in scientific tracts – is irreconcilable with blind
acceptance of religious dogma. A midway may exist but dogmatisms block the corridor
leading to it. Loeb is aware of its existence but, being a loyal
traditionalist, does not change his route. Bushi and Uri draw Chinese Walls
between Judaism and science. Whilst in the synagogue they adhere to dogma;
outside it they go their own ways.
Loeb
experiences the Suez Crisis, the Six-Day War and the Yom Kippur War. He
narrates his personal experiences in each but does not deal with the political
issues involved. In the last of these wars, he is a morale booster.
The
book also touches on the Kabbala, the mystic element of Judaism, and on the
compilation of its existing norms. Safed (Zfat צפת)
– one of the centres of Judaism – is given its appropriate place and
significance.
Quotations
from the Old Testament are taken from the translation appearing in The Holy
Scriptures (Koren Publishers Jerusalem Ltd., 2008).
PART I: GETTING STARTED
1. Visit to Yentl’s Grave
Earlier today I resolved to write my
autobiography. I was mulling the idea over since the day Yentl came up with it.
She had just finished reading the memoirs of an American politician. She
thought his style was good and had appreciated his anecdotes. But, she asked, why
did he presume others had an interest in his mundane manoeuvrings and dull
existence on the fringes of
“Some
people just like to write; and they hope others are fond of reading,” I told
her. “If you don’t like the book, put it away.”
“So
I shall. But you, Loeb, why don’t you write your autobiography?” It was typical
of our relationship that, even after years of a satisfying marriage, Yentl
continued to call me Loeb. “Darling” appeared too common and using my nickname
– Pilkin – struck her as sacrilege. I,
in turn, suppressed the urge to call her “honey” or “my pet”.
“Don’t
be silly, Yentl,” I chastised her. “What’s special about my life story?”
“Everything
about it.”
“Thus
spoke the man’s devoted wife.”
“Do
you know anyone else who started life as an odd jobs boy; managed to get into a
first class secondary school; finished it with flying colours; then went for a career
on the stage in Tel-Aviv and ended up as a Rabbi in
“People
change their careers. Many do.”
“But
you, Loeb, never intended to give up acting. You moved to
“Perhaps.
But how about your hero’s estranged brother, our son who married out and our
daughter, who never writes to her parents, except, of course, on
Rosh-Hashanah?”
“All
the more interesting, Loeb; and you are a good writer and have an excellent
style: in Hebrew, in English and, yes, in Arabic.”
“Stop
flattering me; I ain’t dumb.”
“Perhaps
not; but you are stubborn and unreasonable!”
“And
you want me to write an autobiography? What shall I call it: ‘Life of a Mule’?”
“You’ll
find a suitable title when you’ve made up your mind,” she brought the argument
to an end.
The subject cropped up from time to
time until Yentl’s demise from a heart attack in Safed, where we retired. On each occasion, I declined. Yentl, though,
was not deceived: she was too shrewd. Knowing me well, she kept nagging. Did
she know I would eventually cave in?
During her life, I kept aloof. My existence
was too comfortable to take on a new commitment. But the scene changed when I lost her. After many
years beside an active, intelligent and interesting wife, I was – at the wrong
time of life – on my own. For a while the long strolls, aided by my walking
stick, and the reading sessions by the hearth during the long chilly evenings
of Safed, kept me going. But they could not suppress the emptiness engulfing
me. All my life, I had been a dynamic operator, a Ganzemacher. The
mundane existence that had become my lot since Yentl’s death spelt out
stagnation. I had to find something to keep me occupied: to silence the voice whispering
that I had become a useless old loafer.
As against this background, Yentl’s
idea assumed a new dimension. On the one hand, I retained my doubts about the
value of an autobiography and felt trepidation when I reflected on the exposure
of my life – my inner self – to the eyes of strangers. On the other hand, here
was a new challenge: I had the chance of sharing (with those prepared to
listen) the ups and downs of my odyssey. My boyhood friend, Bushi – now
Professor Emeritus Dr. Peter Berger – encouraged me to go ahead. To use his
words: “You need not be Genghis Khan to have a worthwhile life story.”
My decision firmed this morning, as
I took my customary Shabbat morning walk to the cemetery. On the way to the
grave I kept dreaming of Yentl’s Shabbat treat – the Cholent. The stripes of smoked beef and the
beans tenderised in the slow oven melted in your mouth. Washed down with a
glass of Carmel Hock, it was a meal fit for Kings and Princes. Notwithstanding
my own skills as a chef, I could not match her master dish. Somehow, I never
set the oven right or – worse still – added too much (or too little) Schmaltz.
Conceding defeat, I got myself invited to the far inferior Shabbat dinners in
my neighbours’ houses. This very evening I had been booked by friends whom Yentl
and I had known since our arrival in Safed.
Having experienced meals in my host’s
home on previous occasions, I was in a foul mood. A bout of food poisoning was
on the cards. On top of it, I should have to listen to Miriam’s book of
lamentations; and her darling of a husband – her Tachshit – would keep
grinning surreptitiously as she addressed her discourse to poor me.
The weather did little to cheer me up. The
skies were cloudy and shortly after I left home it started to drizzle. My broad
hat could not shield me from a downpour. Still, it was my only cover. Holding
the walking stick (on which I had come to depend) in one hand and balancing an
umbrella in the other would have been preposterous: an act befitting a clown or
Schlemiel. In any event, calling on Yentl empty-handed was unthinkable;
and so I was carrying a bunch of Forget-Me-Nots (pansies) in my free hand.
I was aware that orthodox friends
frowned on my weekly Shabbat walk. To start with, it was a sin to walk beyond
the “Thechum” (the area adjacent to your dwelling) although some smart
fictive steps could have cured this defect. In addition, a walk to the
graveyard on the day of rest was inappropriate for a Rabbi. I should have been
in the Schul or at home engrossed in the Holy Book. Worse still, the carrying
of any secular objects – such as flowers or even books other than the
scriptures – is in itself a breach of the commandments. Punctilious critics
might, further, mumble that bringing flowers to the dead is contrary to Jewish traditions.
“What has Reb Zohar come to?” they would
sigh.
Ignoring their subtle voices, I
persisted. We are told that “a man looks on the outward appearance but God
looks on the heart” (Sam. I, 16:7). Can my twenty-minute walk to the remains of
my late Yentl – a good observant Jewish wife of the old stock – defy His will?
Does it derogate from the awe, love and respect I feel for Him? Can He be petty
enough to take a jaundiced view of my weekly walk down memory lane?
I feel even less sympathy for the jibes about
my breach of tradition. Yentl loved flowers. She admired roses because they
were majestic; carnations because they were cute; dahlias because of their rich
petals and gladiolas for the variety and the depth of their colours. So now I
bring flowers to her place of rest; and, quite regardless of tradition, I have
the right to do so.
Whenever
possible, the flowers I bring her are Forget-Me-Nots. Yentl adored their expressive leaves – reminiscent of
human faces – and was fascinated by the
variety of the names given to them in different languages, for instance, Stiffmutterchen
in German (meaning ‘Dear Mother-in-Law’) and Amnon ve’Tamar in Hebrew (based on the sad tale
of the offspring of King David). She also believed that any husband, who
brought Forget-Me-Nots to his chosen one, was a faithful lover.
The bunch I carried with me this
morning was splendid. The leaves were fresh and the branches had been nicely
trimmed. Yentl would be cheered up by my gift; and an insipid drizzle was not
going to stop me from delivering it. To protect the flowers from the thickening
drops, I pressed the bunch close to my chest just under the brim of my hat.
By the time I arrived in the
cemetery, it was raining hard. My clothes were wet; but the Forget-Me-Nots were
still looking fresh and inviting. Placing them at the foot of the tombstone, I
sat down to regain my breath.
“Loeb,”
I heard her voice, “Loeb: how silly of you to come over on such a day. You’re
as wet as a poodle!”
“Poodles
aren’t wet; and if I hadn’t come you would have scolded me because I didn’t. So
how can a poor Schlemiel like me do the right thing – eh?”
“You
are ridiculous!”
“Sure,”
I conceded.
“But
why didn’t you take an umbrella?”
“And
do a balancing act with one hand holding my cane and the other an umbrella – eh?
I’m not
“And
my flowers will now get wet.”
“But
if I hadn’t come you wouldn’t have them!”
“You’ve
got a point there; and they are lovely. So thanks. But you better get home real
fast, Loeb; or you’ll catch your death.”
“I
never catch colds,” I soothed her; “so don’t you worry. And I’ll take a hot
shower as soon as I’m back. But I want to stay just for a short while; so don’t
you nag.”
“All
right then; and also – Loeb – we need to have talk.”
“Oh?”
“Stop
this ‘Eh’ and ‘Oh’ nonsense!”
“Alright;
alright!”
For a while I kept staring at
Yentl’s grave. On all scores, she had been a good and devoted wife. I missed
her and, of course, her splendid meals. Odd to say, I even missed the lashes of
her tongue. In reality, her bark had been but a poor camouflage of the warm
heart that guided her through life. Over the years, I had got used to her
company and had come to depend on her. Without her, life was dull and void of
meaning: tranquillity without an aim.
“Loeb,”
I heard her again; “you are slowly but surely becoming an impossible old man.”
“Now
what makes you say that?”
“You,
Loeb! Look at you! Tonight you are going to Miriam’s place; but you are looking
around you with a crying face like a man sent to
“But
Miriam’s a lousy cook; and I’m sure Ami only writes to ask for money; that’s
all he is after – that rotten son of yours. And Ruth is a pain. Why did she
have to marry that Reform Jew? I suppose one of the boys in her own father’s
Schul wasn’t good enough for her?”
“Stop
acting your role of Tevyeh,
Loeb. Fiddler on the Roof is old
hat. Let me tell you: we are in the twenty-first century: not in 1887. So grow
up. Miriam may not be a brilliant cook but she has a heart of gold. So be glad
somebody still cares enough to ask you for dinner. And why do you think our son
is only after money? Can’t you – in the very least – read his letter? Perhaps
he only wants to say ‘hello’; and stop disowning Ruth. You love her; so stop
pretending.”
“Maybe
you are right,” I caved in.
“So
go home and be a Mensch. And, Loeb, you must find something to do; and I still
think you better write that autobiography.
It’ll give you a focus: and you need one.”
“I’ll
give it a thought!”
On my way back, the rain turned into
a deluge. When I got home I was drenched; even my shirt was soaking wet. Having
discarded my clothes, I immersed myself in a hot bath. After some ten minutes,
I was once again myself: grumpy, disenchanted but fit. By the time I climbed
out of the tub, my face was no longer pale and drawn.
Attired in a comfortable track suit
and stretching my legs under our old eiderdown – on the bed I used to share
with Yentl – I let our recent conversation run through my mind. I was, of
course, aware that I had been talking to myself: my own conscience was
admonishing my oversized ego. There had been no Witch of Ein-Dor to raise Yentl
from the dead; and spirits are unable to communicate. Yet the inner voice that
had addressed me so peremptorily displayed Yentl’s robust common sense that had
helped her diagnose problems and come up with solutions. The dialogue by her
grave had had the same effect.
So the resolve to write had been
made. But what literary form ought I to chose? Although many authors call their
autobiography “memoirs” – and vice versa – the two are distinct types of
compositions. An autobiography is centrifugal. The author, who is also the
hero, narrates his odyssey. The landmarks are facets of his life. Political or
global events are relevant only to the extent that they had a bearing on him.
In contrast, memoirs are centripetal. The author covers significant events of
his era. Undoubtedly, his orientation and outlook – his life philosophy or
plain bias – colour his analysis. Yet the author’s personal role and his
influence on the episodes related by him are of secondary importance. In
theory, his identity may remain undisclosed.
For a self-centred individual like
me, an autobiography constituted the natural vehicle. My preference was further
dictated by my having lived most of my life in a niche of my own, away from the
public arena. I observed episodes from outside – not together with those that
triggered them off.
Another
choice, too, was readily made. I had to write my tome in English. The circle of
readers of Hebrew was too narrow. Rather than use my mother-tongue as a medium
and leave the task of translation to others, it made sense to proceed directly
in my acquired second language. After all, most of my sermons (Drashas)
were delivered in English even if – out of necessity – they were laced with
Yiddish and Hebrew words.
The narration of my story presented
no problems: there are no blanks. My recollections commence in a period of
deprivation, occasioned by Father’s sudden death. His demise overcast my childhood
and my years in primary school. By the time I turned eleven, I had become the
family’s principal breadwinner, hiring out my services as an ‘odd jobs boy’. In
the process, I matured prematurely. In my last years in primary, I started to
dream of becoming a great actor.
My
early boyhood culminated by my admission to the model
The days of awakening (of sobering
up) started after my graduation with a B.A. When the doors to the leading
stages in
One of my appearances as Tevyeh led to a major change in my life. An American Rabbi, Moshe
Margalioth, who was impressed by my performance, invited me to come to his hometown.
During my first few years in
Eventually Rabbi Margalioth persuaded me to
enrol in a Yeshiva – a Jewish seminary. It was a crucial turn but I have had no
reason to regret it. Upon my graduation, I was ordained and took up a post in
my mentor’s own Schul in
Moshe Margalioth had my future at heart. He
secured it by introducing me to Yentl Jacobs. My marriage to her led me from
strength to strength. The disorientated drifter, Chayim Rosenberg (who had
changed his surname to Rosenne in the army) became a member of the Jewish
establishment. As Loeb Zohar – Bright Lion – I developed into a leading
American Rabbi, an acclaimed healer and a man of substance. During my years
with the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation (originally referred to as the Moshe
Margalioth Foundation) I was able to
support deserving causes. It was one of the truly blissful periods in my long
life.
Retirement in Safed was meant to be
the happy ending of a satisfying journey. Yentl’s sudden demise upset the
scales: the downhill trip had started. Ten months on my own transformed me into
a misanthropic old man. Nothing seemed to please me any longer.
It is my hope that the writing of my
autobiography will reverse the trend by giving me a new objective. When I am
back on track I shall – once again – have a focus. Even if my effort is not crowned with
literary or scholastic success it ought to serve its purpose. In any event, an
expedition is frequently more rewarding than the arrival at the destination. So
tomorrow I start; that is, if I do not succumb to food poisoning tonight.
PART II: YOUTH IN ISRAEL
2. An Odd Jobs Boy
Father passed away a few weeks before my eighth
birthday. My brother David was just three years old. I stood by the still
uncovered grave, beside Mother who was crying. My eyes, in contrast, remained
dry. What I recall most vividly is my impatience to go home because I thought
that David, who had remained in the care of a neighbour, might need me.
As
yet, the meaning of our loss had not dawned on me. I knew, of course, that I
was not going to see my smiling, active and supportive Father ever again. He
would no longer pat my shoulder and grin proudly when I showed him my school
grades. He had gone – so Mother said – to a better world where he would know no
sorrow or pain. The effect that his
death was bound to have on us – the constraints of a family without a
breadwinner and the ensuing financial problems – were beyond my grasp.
I got
a clearer appreciation of what was in store in the ensuing weeks. Gone were the
rich soups and splendid dishes Mother loved to prepare for us. We now had to
make do with watery broth and endless arrays of tripe and other cheap cuts.
Worse still, on Shabbat Eve there was no stuffed chicken; and the smoked meat
in our Cholent was scarce. To ensure David had no cause to complain, I heaped
on his plate the scraps I managed to find.
Initially
Mother told us we were not going to remain poverty stricken for long. A fine
company, the Rotem Assurance Company, would pay us some money. Dad had insured
his life with them and so now they had to pay up. Her face, I noticed, assumed
an expectant expression when a bespectacled middle-aged man, in a worn out suit
and well trodden shoes, knocked on our door and, eventually, took some forms
out of his briefcase. After a few of his visits, though, Mother’s face started
to look grim. Then one day she burst into tears after she had slit open an
envelope containing a typed letter.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” I asked.
“The insurance company refuses to pay up; they say Dad
committed a ‘breach of the terms of the policy’ and so they are cancelling it
‘with retrospective effect to the assured’s date of death’. I’m not sure what
this means; but they go on to say that ‘out of concern’ they are prepared to
pay us ‘10% above the surrender value of the policy’.”
“What does this mean, Mom?”
“I’m not so sure; but I think they’ll pay us very
little.”
“Why don’t you talk to Uncle Jacob?”
“Last year he and Dad had quarreled. I don’t trust
him. No, Chayim; I’ll ring that Mr. Levi from Rotem. I think he is nice; and
I’m sure he would not want to cheat a poor widow.”
“You know best, Mom.”
The middle-aged man was dressed as
shabbily as before. After her conversation with him Mother looked worn out and
bewildered. Still, the outcome was not altogether negative. Rotem paid us 25%
above the surrender value of the policy, which meant we got about one quarter
of the sum insured. It was not much; but it helped Mother to see us through.
Being a
determined woman, Mother made every effort to improve our lot. Before long, we
moved to a cheap flat on the top floor of a dilapidated building in the poor,
south end, of
My own plunge into the employment market took place
shortly after my ninth birthday. Worn out by toil and long working hours, Mother
had to be confined to bed with a bout of pneumonia. After four weeks our small
account was overdrawn beyond the ceiling approved by the bank. Fortunately
Uncle Jacob rose to the occasion. With his help, we managed to keep going until
Mother recovered. But, even so, we were impecunious or – in plain language –
broke.
I was raking my young brain, hoping to find a way to
ease Mother’s burden. Having just read my first detective story, I even
contemplated a hold up, armed with a toy gun Uncle Jacob had given me on Purim – the Jewish carnival – and my
face shielded with a
Fortunately, I was spared the need to resort to such desperate
action. Help came from our next door neighbour, a Mrs. Kornmehl, who was famed
for her mean-looking, though utterly harmless, bulldog. One afternoon, when I
was loafing about in front of the building, she asked me to look after her dog
while she climbed back to her flat to get a bag she had left behind. She must have galloped upstairs because she
returned flushed and breathing hard. Out of concern, I escorted her to the
grocer and butcher and helped her to carry her heavy shopping bags upstairs.
She thanked me profusely and, to my surprise, rewarded me with a 5 Piasters
coin.
Mother eyed me with suspicion when I handed her the
money. For a while, both of us remained silent.
“Chayim,” she asked at long last, “did you beg for
it?”
“No, Mom; I did not. Mrs. Kornmehl gave it to me
because I looked after her dog and helped her to carry bags. I did not expect it.”
“Then it’s a reward for an honest job; a job well
done; that’s fine. Good boy. But don’t you ever beg for money, Chayim. We have
our pride: we must not lose it.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Good.”
In the ensuing months I did a variety of jobs. I
continued to carry bags and parcels, occasionally went shopping for housewives,
equipped with their lists and money, and some of the shopkeepers, especially
the florist, engaged me as a delivery boy. Later on, I carried ice blocks from
the delivery carts to the kitchens of houses in our neighbourhood and, during
the summer vacation, sold ice cream cones on the beach. Another seasonal trade
was the sale of sweet corn, cooked in a huge pot heated on a kerosene stove.
Initially, I was engaged as a ‘support staff’; but when my boss was arrested
after a brawl with a customer, I purchased his equipment for a song and took
his business over. It turned out to be a
lucrative trade: I made a handsome profit.
During my last years in primary school I acquired
considerable skills as electrician and plumber. On one occasion, I even
replaced faulty water pipes in an old apartment. David, who was growing up
fast, became a useful assistant.
To reward him, I constituted him a full partner in my first regular enterprise,
which was the delivery of a daily newspaper in our neighbourhood. Although the
franchise had to be acquired in Mother’s name, its running was left in its
entirety in the hands of the two of us. Before long, our profits rose above Mother’s
meagre earnings. I recall with pride how
Uncle Jacob said to her “Chayim and David are good boys; they’ll go far, I tell
you.”
Other boys in our neighbourhood were also working. In
our run-down part of town – so different from fashionable
The boy with who I shared a bench in school, for
instance, assisted in his father’s greengrocery. Every now and then, the boy
had to miss a class in order to look after the business while his father went
to the wholesale market. Another boy was, for all practical purposes,
apprenticed to his father, who was a carpenter. He developed considerable skill
in the use of the saw and the chisel. Still, on one occasion he appeared in
class with his left hand bandaged. The sons of an electrician and of a
decorator were both toiling in their respective family’s business. So was the
plumber’s son, whom David and I called upon when occasionally a job was beyond
us.
My best friend in those days was Amram, who
enjoyed working in his uncle’s dental
laboratory. A born draftsman, he had hands of gold and a sharp eye. Every now
and then he amused us with his caricatures of our school’s teachers and of
classmates. His ambition, though, was to become a lapidary. He felt convinced
that his experience in his uncle’s enterprise constituted a good springboard
for his career.
“But Amram,” I asked him once, “don’t you want to be a
caricaturist? What’s so great about a jeweller’s life?”
“You can use your imagination without constraints. A
caricaturist depends on his subjects.”
“But your jewellery must be popular; if your pieces
aren’t, people won’t buy them.”
“That’s where your art and good taste come in!”
“I see,” I conceded, “and I’m sure you’ll make lovely
pieces for your wife.”
“But I’m not going to get married, Chayim.”
“Why?”
“Because I see how Dad and Mom fight. It’s more
peaceful to live on your own.”
“I don’t remember my late Father ever fighting with Mom,”
I protested.
“Perhaps you don’t remember; but my mind is made up.
I’ll have the best shop in Tel Aviv. And I’ll have many friends and a good
life, Chayim.”
“Well, I’ll come to your shop with my wife to buy nice
pieces.”
“If she’s good looking, I’ll give you a 10% discount.”
Odd
to say, Amram kept his promise. Years
later, I went to his shop, by then renowned in the trade, to buy a bracelet for Yentl. Initially Amram did
not recognise me but, when he did, he bestowed on her a searching look and,
winking slyly, granted me the promised reduction. His manifesto on life and
marriage, though, must have undergone a change. As Yentl and I were about to
take our leave, an attractive girl burst in and apologised profusely for
keeping Grandpa waiting. Amram conferred on her an indulgent and affectionate
smile.
Turning back to my schooldays, it is clear that quite
a number of my classmates knew the taste of hard work. But they toiled like
regular employees. I alone was an odd jobs boy and the owner of an enterprise
of my own. In effect, I was my own boss. I was also the only family-head
amongst them.
Having become an entrepreneur at so young an age had a
profound effect on my life. I learned – perhaps prematurely – the importance of
efficient planning. Waste of time involved loss of money or, rather, the
missing of an opportunity to make some. Such frivolity was unforgivable. So
were unreliability, unpunctuality and poor workmanship. Life had to be taken
seriously as, indeed, had any commitment.
My early exposure to the real world also influenced my
general outlook and orientation. The need of assessing the people I was dealing
with in my odd jobs made me observant and gave me insight into human nature.
For instance, I soon realised that the people who smiled at me warmly when they
asked me to do a job were usually not as generous with their tips as those who
appeared less friendly or outgoing.
The little stupidities of life, too, became known to
me. One instance was a housewife’s wish to hide certain things – often innocent
in themselves – from her husband. I remember how Mrs. Kornmehl and I once racked
our brains to find a plausible explanation for the disappearance of her
husband’s beloved coffee mug. She was willing to tell him any lie as long as
her secret – that she had broken it in the sink – remained unveiled. In the
event, we blamed the poor bulldog, who was supposed to have smashed it when he
jumped on the table. Another absurdity I
became acquainted with was the in-family wrangling about money often carried on
in an uninhibited manner in front of a stranger like an odd jobs boy.
In general, my hard and hyperactive life prepared me
for my odyssey. But it also took its toll. More often than not, I was fatigued
when I arrived at school. Starting my day with the delivery of the morning
newspapers I was also frequently late. Fortunately, punctuality was not
strictly observed in our school. Indeed, some boys regarded our old fashioned
institution a joke and flaunted discipline at will. They, too, arrived late
from time-to-time and usually got off lightly. But when my own dereliction persisted,
I was summoned by our Principal.
“Chayim Rosenberg,” he came straight to the point,
“this week you were late three times and last week four. Why can’t you get up
in time? You are not a loafer. Your grades are fine and you do your home work
regularly. So what’s your excuse for being late?”
“I have to finish delivering newspapers before I go to
school,” I told him unflinchingly.
“You what?”
“I deliver newspapers in the morning, Sir; to make
money; if I don’t get them on time, I’m late.”
“I know your family is not rich. But… Oh, I see,” he
added after flipping through my file; “your father passed away a few years ago.
Still, you are too young to have such a job.”
“We need the money, Sir; Mom doesn’t make enough.”
“Perhaps I better have a word with her.”
I am not sure what transpired in their conversation.
But it got me off the hook. After it, teachers closed their eye when I slipped
in, often panting, some ten or fifteen minutes after the school bell had
chimed. My conscientious preparation for classes, my active participation and
my impressive grades established that my lapses were due to the force of
circumstances.
All in all, my precocious existence was a source of
pride. Yet it had some undesirable side effects. As was to be expected, I had
little time for play. I used to envy other boys when, at the end of an
exhausting day, I watched them playing soccer or ‘catch the thief’. Even those
who worked in their family’s business were allowed enough time to enjoy
themselves. I alone carried the responsibilities of an adult on my shoulders.
To overcome my chagrin, I used to tell myself that
mine was a more responsible and ‘manly’ existence than theirs. Generally, this
was an adequate placebo. A boy, though, is a boy. In reality, I should have
welcomed the opportunity to taste the carefree way of life enjoyed by other
boys.
Had it not been for David, I might have turned into a
morose, perhaps even insufferable, little man. Fortunately, David doted on me.
His affection and patent regard, his attempts to copy me and to emulate my
mannerism, had a positive effect on my disposition. So did his persistent
efforts to keep me happy and contented. Even when I saw through his flattery, I
chose to close my eyes.
David was gregarious and many of his young friends
kept calling on us. If I was free, I joined their amusements and, from time to
time, guided them through their homework. Generally, I enjoyed helping others:
an inclination that stood me in good stead throughout life. It was, actually,
of major importance in my school days. Other boys tended to turn to me when
they were unable to cope on their own and, when I could, I stepped in. I was,
for instance, proud when they copied my exercises and homework assignments or
cribbed my answers in school tests.
So despite the hardship our family was facing and my
deprivations, I developed a positive approach to life. I was popular both in
school and in the neighbourhood. I was also a confident and self assured boy.
In this regard, my size and vigour were contributing factors. Few boys dared to
challenge me.
All in all, I
have predominantly pleasant memories of my primary school days. Many of them
are associated with Mrs. Kornmehl. Having no children of her own, she developed
a motherly interest in David and me. From time to time she went with us to a
nearby swimming pool or to the beach and, on occasions, took us for an ice
cream or a pita-falafel. Once she took us to a performance of the municipal
fire brigade. I was fascinated by the antics – the sham rescues – and by the
courage displayed by the members of the squad. Only one fireman lacked the
courage to jump from the top of the tower onto the tarpaulin, gaining the
hisses of the audience. A few months later, Mrs. Kornmehl took us to an East European
circus, which spent a week in Tel Aviv. The performance of the animal trainer,
who paraded his tigers, remains fresh in my mind. I also admired the beautiful
girls, whose acrobatic feats appeared miraculous to my young eyes.
The most exciting treat Mrs. Kornmehl gave us was a
reward for our initiative when a pipe burst in her bathroom. Her regular
plumber having come down with a bout of bronchitis, David and I carried out a
provisional repair. We also cleaned up the mess left by the gushing water. As
we refused to accept payment, she showed her appreciation by taking us to a
matinee in O’hel, at that time one of the two major local theatres.
Like all Israeli boys, David and I had been to the
cinema. The theatre, in contrast, was a new experience. I was captivated by the
hilarious misdeeds of The Good Soldier
Schweik, especially by a prank played by him and his bosom pal, Sapper
Vodichka, on a hapless Hungarian tradesman married to a German lady.
After the show, Mrs. Kornmehl led us behind the stage.
As ‘Schweik’ was encircled by his admirers, she presented us to the actor who
had played Sapper.
“But you don’t look so funny now,” I told him in the
course of our conversation.
“I should hope not. I’m off stage now, Chayim.”
“But aren’t you still the same person?”
“Well, what do you think?” he asked in reply.
“I suppose now you are Ori Joseph; not Sapper Vodichka. But if you are a
different person now, how can you play
Sapper?”
“But
don’t you, Chayim, sometimes play a role – like when you try to scare off
another boy or when you want your teacher to think you are a good and obedient
boy?”
“I suppose I do; but I’m still Chayim.”
“But not exactly the same Chayim. Now you are a curious Chayim, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so; but Sapper and you are different
persons altogether.”
“But suppose you, Chayim, played Sapper. Would your Sapper be the same as mine?”
“Perhaps
not,” I admitted. “I can’t make the same grimaces or speak like you.”
“So Sapper
Vodichka isn’t always the same chap; depends who plays him. Also you
Chayim are not always the same Chayim; depends on your mood.”
“So where is the difference between a role like Sapper and me?”
“When you play a role in a drama – like Sapper – you try to be Sapper; you have to follow the lines
and you must remain true to the script. When you are Chayim, you play your own
roles on the spur of the moment. You are both author and actor. You see?”
“I think so,” I said lamely; “I’ll have to think this
over.”
“Do; but I’ll let you in on another secret. A great
actor’s performance is realistic; the audience is convinced by his act. But he
still remains himself. Think about this, young man.”
“I
sure will,” I promised; “but it sounds so difficult to be yourself and also
someone else. So why do people want to be actors? Do they want to be famous?”
“That,
too, Chayim; every actor wants to be successful and so he wants to be celebrated.
But there is another reason. A good actor craves to give people pleasure; and
he is delighted when they respond. Their applause is music to his ears. Nowadays many actors have a dull desk job in
town so as to make a living; but they come to life on stage. That’s why many of
us are here.”
I
kept pondering on these words for weeks. The idea of an ovation appealed to me.
So did the prospect of making people happy by acting a role. My dream of a life on the stage had its
origin in that matinee show. It was, I believe, a product of both the
excitement of the lively performance and of the impact left by the
conversation.
Mrs.
Kornmehl, who took David and me to the show, had, even if unintentionally, sewn
the seed of my career. She also affected my views of culture and literature.
Being the well-read daughter of a professional middle-class family of
Knowing
David and I were monolingual, she kept bringing us Hebrew translations of good
books. Occasionally, she even read us out short stories, translating them ex tempore from the German or French original
in front of her into fluent even if accentuated Hebrew. Once – I believe it was
to celebrate David’s eighth birthday – she went to the trouble of compressing
for our benefit Chekhov’s The Steppe,
which she had mastered by comparing its German translation with an English one.
To this very day, I recall the impact left on us by Yegorushka’s trip across
the Russian prairie and by the description of the thunderstorm he braved on the
way.
Later
on, when Mrs. Kornmehl spotted my awakening interest in drama, she directed my
attention to excellent Hebrew translations of Wilhelm Tell and of some Greek plays, such as Prometheus. Sometimes the three of us read out the different roles
in a drama. Then, one bright day, she brought me Shalom Aleichem’s Tevyeh the Milkman.
The
story, which is well known, describes the life of a Jew living in a small
village in Czarist Russia. Usually, Tevyeh is able to cope with the setbacks he
encounters. For instance, when his horse gets lame he pushes his milk-cart on
his own. He also remains basically tolerant. Thus, he supports his oldest
daughter’s decision to marry the man she loves although the matchmaker has
other plans for her. Similarly, he backs his second daughter when she decides
to accompany the man she loves to his exile in
“Tevyeh,”
I told her without hesitation.
“But
why? Isn’t Schweik smart and funny?”
“He
is; but all he does is play pranks; and he looks only after himself; and he
bends with the wind.”
“And
Tevyeh?” she asked.
“Tevyeh
is also funny. But he has gumption; and he is doer. When he can, he stands up
to the Russians. He is no coward! Schweik gives way or plays a trick to get out
of a spot; but he’s got no guts.”
“How
about Tevyeh’s rejection of his daughter who runs away with the
Cossack?”
“To
him this was just too much; I can understand him. She turned her back on
everything holy to him; she hurt him; and he couldn’t take it.”
“What
would Schweik do in such a situation?”
“Poke
fun and not care; so I prefer Tevyeh. He’s a real man. Schweik is a yokel.”
“Well,
Chayim, perhaps one day you will play Tevyeh; you’ll be real good.” she said,
bestowing on me an encouraging smile.
The
conversations with Mrs. Kornmehl and our reading sessions remain fresh in my
mind to this very day. I recall vividly the contrast between the dramatic tone
of her booming voice and her plain appearance: her conservative thick glasses,
her round face with its double chin, her lacklustre eyes and her sagging,
shapeless, figure. Her fervour as a reader, though, made us forget her
unadorned looks. She left a lasting impression on both David and me. So I
regret to have to admit that I do not know what became of her. Shortly before I
finished primary school, her husband was transferred to his company’s office in
Nahariya. For a while we corresponded but, with the passage of time, our
exchange of letters became sporadic and, eventually, ceased.
Not all my pastimes were as dramatic
or as culturally orientated as our intercourse with Mrs. Kornmehl. Some were
mundane. Like most Israeli boys, David and I were football fans. Whenever
possible, we went to watch a match, with David clamouring his support for Betar
and I cheering Maccabi. In spring and autumn – when the weather was cool but
dry – we hired a boat and rowed up the Yarkon.
In
effect, despite the hardships occasioned by Father’s demise, I had a pleasant
enough boyhood. The cause of his death, though, remained a mystery. Mother kept telling us conflicting stories.
Once she volunteered that Father had died from a severe illness. On another occasion she said he had
done something silly. When I asked why the insurance company had paid us such a
pittance, she became flustered and told me to leave her alone. Uncle Jacob too
remained uncommunicative on this subject. As he was ordinarily garrulous, his
reticence was out of character. My
curiosity was fed by some veiled exchanges on the subject between Mother and
Mrs. Kornmehl and by their knowing glances and a hush-up attitude when I
entered the room.
Despite
my efforts, I failed to get to the bottom of the matter during my school days
and army service. But I was annoyed when Mother maintained her silence even
when, for all practical purposes, I had grown into a young man. To get an
answer, I turned to Eli Berger, who worked in a law firm and had just been
called to the Israeli Bar. I knew he had had some experience with insurance law
and so, suppressing my trepidation, I called on him.
Eli’s
small office reeked of kerosene. Although it was a warm spring days – with the
skies blue and unclouded – the heater was on. Feeling suffocated, I asked him
to open the window.
“Of
course,” he agreed and opened the window just enough to let some fresh air in.
“I’ve just recovered from a flu and bad asthma attacks. I’ve got to be
careful.” Sliding back into his chair, he waited for me to continue. He had
grasped that this was not a social call.
“Stale
air won’t help you, Bushi,” I persevered, addressing him by his nickname.
“Fresh air is better than any medicine.”
“May
be,” he muttered and, accepting my lead into informalities, went on: “But, Pilkin, that’s not what you’ve on your
mind.”
“True.
I’ve come to ask you to look into the circumstances of my Father’s death.”
“What?”
he let his surprise show.
“I
want to know Father’s cause of death and also why the insurance company paid a
lousy amount. We got just a quarter of the ‘sum insured’. Mother refuses to
talk about it; but I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“But,
Pilkin, it happened such a long time ago. Why does it still bother you? Are you
thinking of recompense?”
“No!
I am not. But I’ve got to know, Bushi; I’ve got to know. Will you give it a
try?”
“Of
course; but I’m not sure I can be of much use. There may be no records. Well,
tell me what you know.”
Eli listened attentively to the
fragile details I was able to supply. He looked gloomy until I mentioned the
name of the insurance company. Rotem was a client of his firm. He could not
accept instructions to act against it but the connection ought to assist him in
the pursuit of a mere enquiry. He promised to contact me as soon as he had some
news, probably within two or three weeks.
Eli Berger was a reliable and
efficient individual. So I was perturbed when a whole month passed without news
from him. When, on top of it, he was unavailable whenever I rang, I thought it
was time to pay him a surprise visit.
“So
you are not too pleased to see me,” I complained, adding as he beckoned me to
the client’s chair: “Don’t tell me you have no news for me.”
“It’s
not so easy to unearth old records, Pilkin,” he said; but his eyes avoided
mine.
“I
find it hard to believe you’ve come up with nothing. You are too smart; and you
would have rung to tell me. I know you, Bushi. So let’s hear what you’ve dug up.”
“Are
you sure you want to know? Won’t it be enough to know that, all in all, no
injustice was done to your family; I can assure you of that.”
“That’s
not my main concern; I want to know what had actually happened. I’ve suspected
for years that Dad had killed himself. But I want to know the background – all
there is to it. Knowing the truth can’t be worse than being kept in the dark.”
“Oh,
very well,” he caved in.
Eli’s
story threw light on Mother’s awkwardness, on Uncle Jacob’s dark hints and on
Mrs. Kornmehl’s ill-disguised sympathy. Although some of the facts were known
to me, Eli’s narration put the untidy facets of the puzzle in place. As was to
be expected, his summary was clear and detached.
My Father,
Moshe Rosenberg, had been employed for over ten years by a trading firm. A
dependable and able staff member, he had risen rapidly through the ranks. The
future appeared rosy. The position changed when, during the turmoil that
reigned in
By then his optimism had given way
to gloom. When he received his annual premium notice, he came up with a
desperate scheme. He called on Rotem’s office and asked for a sum well above
the ordinary surrender value of his life policy. If the company declined to
pay, he would – so he said – have no option but ‘to do himself in’. Rotem
refused but its conscientious staff member made a file note of the interview.
During the following three weeks,
Dad had another two unsuccessful job interviews. A few hours after he received
the second negative reply, he jumped down from the roof of a high building,
leaving a note saying he could not face life and despair any longer. A ‘suicide
in a moment of madness’ verdict was returned by the coroner.
Normally, Rotem would have ignored
the Draconian rights conferred on it by a suicide clause in the policy. The
case, though, had a twist. In the course of a routine investigation entrusted
to him, Mr. Levi stumbled on the file note concerning the unfortunate
interview. Although he sought to understate its importance, Rotem’s claims
office felt unable to overlook it. They assumed that Moshe Rosenberg had
committed suicide in order to ensure that his heirs got the full sum insured.
In their eyes, this was fraud. So they offered to pay the surrender value of
the policy plus 10%. It was only when Levi interceded, that they raised their
offer.
“Why
did Levi want to help us?” I asked Eli.
“He
was a decent chap: didn’t want to have your deprivation on his conscience. In a
memorandum, which is still on file, he pointed out that the three weeks lapse
between the interview and the time of death were significant. Your Dad may have
killed himself as a result of some ‘fresh event’, like his latest failure to
secure employment.”
“What
do you think about this?”
“A
tenacious lawyer might have got you something like 50% on this argument.”
“Why
didn’t Levi try for it?”
“Feared
to risk his livelihood. Even so, he did more than most investigators would do.”
“Can
you do anything now?” I asked Eli after a pause.
“I
am afraid not. Your Mother signed a Deed of Settlement and also – after 14
years – the action is time barred. You might get something out of them by
making a stink; but I don’t think it’s worth the trouble.”
“I
agree; it’s just that I wanted to know,” I assured him. “So forget about it.”
“What
shall I do with the documents I unearthed?”
“Shred
them,” I told him.
Ordinarily I am not an ‘if only’ or ‘what
if’ person. Thinking on these lines is a waste of time. You live life ‘as is’; and that is chapter
and verse. All the same, I have occasionally asked myself whether David and I
would have had a better start if Father had withstood the pressure of events
and carried on the sad life of a man without job satisfaction. In such a
scenario, Father would have become a drifter, moving discontentedly from one
unsuitable post to another. The pressure on us would have been unbearable and,
of course, with him around I would not have risen prematurely to the status of the
head of our family.
As
things turned out, I developed into a precocious go-getter, an odd jobs boy
capable of discharging the responsibilities of a grown up. Right from early
childhood I grasped that life was a serious business. The only valid motto is:
do your best.
This
philosophy enabled me to go from strength to strength throughout my life. In
particular, it stood me in good stead when, at the beginning of my last year in
primary school, Dr. M. Cohen, a member of the Municipal Board of Education,
paid our school an official visit and, at our Principal’s request, addressed
our Form. The message he delivered to us concerned a model secondary school –
Tichon Ironi A (‘TA.1’ or ‘Tichon’) – which had been in operation for just two
years.
Dr
Cohen gave us a brief account of the courses offered by this school, referring
to both the sciences and the humanities and expounded the general value of a
sound liberal education to be obtained in such an institution. He added that the original policy of TA.1 had
been to accept only the best leavers of primary schools in Tel Aviv. The result
was that all pupils came from the leading primary schools in the wealthy
suburbs of the town – the haven of the professional classes and their
privileged offspring.
Smiling with satisfaction, Dr. Cohen went on
to relate that the admission policy had been revised. In the future, some
places would be reserved for leavers of other schools. Each and every one of us
should work hard so as to be amongst those worthy of admission. He summed up by
saying that, in his youth, he would have laboured to secure entry on merit
alone. Hopefully, some of us were made of the same flesh.
“But,
Sir” asked Amram who was always ready to get the ball rolling, “are four years
in secondary school going to be of any use if you want to become a jeweller?”
“Perhaps
not directly. But think of the benefit a jeweller would derive from
understanding the spirit of
“But
how about a boy who wants to be a carpenter or a plumber?” asked someone else.
“A
good secondary education is of general benefit,” said Dr. Cohen with
conviction. “It gives you a comprehension of the world in which you live and
paves the way for an understanding of other cultures and nations. In our time
everybody deserves the chance of broadening his horizons. Parochialism was the
cause of many disasters in our past. It is the stronghold of hatred,
persecution and cruelty.”
Many of my classmates remained
unmoved. They had no wish to face further studies and examinations. Some of
them had already enrolled in professional schools or craved to become members
of the working force. Secondary schools were for sissies – not for men.
Yet Dr Cohen’s words were not
uttered in vain. Some ears – mine included – had listened eagerly to his
address. To me, he reinforced the message conveyed by Mrs. Kornmehl: his credo
was identical with hers. You had to map your own route to the top; and a sound
liberal education was a prerequisite.
For the rest of my final year in
primary school, I pursued my studies as hard as time permitted. The Yarkon, the
beach, the swimming pool, the football grounds and the cinema became out of
bounds. My expenditure on such
frivolities went down. In contrast, our electricity bills went up: I was
studying until late at night. In the event, my efforts bore fruit. My results
were amongst the best in Tel Aviv. The gates of TA.1 fell wide open.
3. TA.1: Early Day.
I
arrived in the renovated building in
When I arrived at our sparsely furnished but spacious
classroom, I discovered I was to share a bench with a heavy set, friendly and
intelligent looking girl called Shosh Levi. As soon as the bell chimed, the
History and Geography Master, Mr. Ben Zvi, who was to be in charge of our Form,
made his entrance. Though still young, his hair was already thinning and his
old fashioned glasses and severe expression gave him an aura of solemnity. But
the warm smile he bestowed on us as he took his seat transformed his face. I
concluded he was a friendly and approachable man.
“Our school’s Principal, Dr. Joseph Katz, will come
shortly to address you,” he told us. “If you have any questions, please raise
them after you have listened to him. But first I want to tell you about my
subjects. In History we’ll discuss this year the Ancient World, touching on
“Nobody,” he muttered when there was no response;
“very well, has anyone read about
“I have, Sir,” said a thin boy, wearing a heavy
pullover and thick glasses set in a frame too large for his pallid face.
“Please introduce yourselves; so what have you read?”
“I’m Eli Berger, Sir,” the boy spoke with patent
unease, “and I have read Herodotus, Sir. And I’m trying to read Thucydides; but
it is heavy going.”
“I am sure it is…” started Ben Zvi but cut himself
short when the door flew open and a broad shouldered man, dressed in a grey
suit complemented with a matching old fashioned tie, burst in.
“And this is our school’s Principal, Dr. Joseph Katz,”
said Ben Zvi. He did not add that, on account of his pie-bald head, our visitor
was generally known as ‘Sheen’.
Joseph
Katz looked all of us over. His searching glance made many of us fidget. I
knew, instinctively, that our Principal was not a man to be trifled with. Here
was a captain determined to be in command of his ship. Any disregard of his
orders, or of the school’s discipline, would be treated as mutiny. He would
make every effort to nip such opposition in the bud.
“I have come over in order to acquaint you with the
policy of our school,” Sheen went straight to the point. “You are here to get
your education for a career in a profession or in the business world. When you
have completed your four years with us, you’ll have the necessary background
and orientation. On many occasions, you’ll wonder why we work you so hard and
why we have made certain core subjects compulsory. In due course, you will
appreciate what is behind the drill we are going to put you through. You may
grumble while you are with us; later in life you’ll thank us. Well, I hope I’ve made myself clear?”
Everybody
nodded, albeit with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Only one boy raised a
question:
“I’m Reuben Klein, Sir,” he said respectfully. “There
is something I don’t understand. If the object is to train us for a future
career, why is Biblical Studies a compulsory subject in all four years; and why
is Talmudic Studies in the curriculum?"
“The Old Testament is our national heritage. The
school authorities take the view that you must study it. The Talmud is,
likewise, a great work. Still – out of tolerance – its study has not been made
compulsory.”
“But what is the object of introducing religious
subjects, Sir?” Reuben wanted to know.
“To help turn you into devoted citizens of the Jewish
Nation. We hope
None
of us had any comment to make. After a pause, Joseph Katz (alias Sheen) turned
to the curriculum. He started by outlining the contents of each compulsory
course and then turned to the optionals. A show of hands confirmed that most
boys and girls proposed to enrol in the scientific stream. Just ten had set
their hearts on the humanities.
“But why are there only two courses on Music and on
Fine Arts?” asked my neighbour, Shosh Levi.
“Not many of you will choose a career in one of these
fields. We leave it to you to get
specialised training if you want to be better acquainted with them,” countered
Sheen.
“And why is there no course on drama?” I wanted to
know.
“Same reason,” affirmed the Principal dryly, then – as
an after thought – he added: “but the school puts on shows from time-to-time.
We invite amateur directors to guide the participants. So we don’t ignore drama
altogether.”
This
brief exchange encouraged some of our scientifically-minded classmates to
express their desire to attend courses on topics such as Astronomy. When they
were done, Joseph Katz explained that, in addition to our compulsory courses in
English, everyone had to study an additional foreign language. Experience, he
noted, suggested that Arabic and French were most popular but another language
would be offered if at least ten pupils opted for it. In the previous year, for
instance, the school had conducted one class in Italian.
“How about Russian?” asked Shosh.
“No problem,” confirmed the principal.
“And how about Polish and German?” asked Reuben.
“Polish is no problem; but German is not taught,”
Sheen’s expression became immobile.
“It’s the language of Goethe, Schiller and Heine, Sir,”
protested Reuben.
“It is also the language of Adolf Hitler!” countered
Joseph Katz.
“How about Greek or Latin, Sir?” asked Eli.
“I am afraid not,” Joseph Katz’ tone implied regrets.
“The school’s authorities have decided against them.”
“But, Sir,” intervened Shosh, “shouldn’t we have the
chance to get to know the great literatures of the world? Must we be confined
to Hebrew, English and French or Arabic literature?”
“Of course not,” for the first time since he had made
his appearance, Joseph Katz let his feelings show. “We have an excellent –
really excellent – lending library at school: it holds translations of literary
works from all languages, including Russian, Polish, French, German, Spanish,
Greek and Latin. I and many staff borrow books regularly. Last week, for
instance, I re-read Peer Gynt. Let me
tell you how lucky you are. When I went to school in Vilna, I had to learn
German to have access to their great classics: now many are available to you in
Hebrew translation.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Shosh, deeply moved by his
response.
For a
short while, Joseph Katz continued to discuss our school and the courses to be
offered to us. He then highlighted the importance of our learning to write
clearly and concisely. Composition, he asserted, was both an art and a science.
Every graduate of TA.1 had to master it to perfection. When we had nodded our
consent, the Principal turned to what he described a sensitive but important
issue. Although our school had no official religious orientation, he expected
all boys to put on yarmulkes in Biblical and Talmudic Studies classes. Some
pupils, he explained, come from orthodox homes and – as matter of tolerance –
even those with other backgrounds and outlooks ought to accommodate them.
“You look ill at ease, Eli Berger,” he said when he
concluded his remarks, “is something on your mind?”
“Sir,” said Eli in a thin, strained voice, “I don’t
mind wearing the yarmulke. I sure will. But, Sir, I don’t see why this is a
matter of tolerance.”
“Why then are you prepared to wear it – I assume you
are not observant?” asked Joseph Katz.
“No, I’m not, Sir,” Eli answered with all hesitation
gone; “but I think it is only right to be mindful of the feelings of others. So
I don’t mind wearing the yarmulke: I don’t want to offend classmates to whom
this sort of thing matters.”
“But isn’t this tolerance?” asked Joseph Katz,
intrigued but not angry. “Aren’t you splitting hairs?”
“I don’t think so, Sir,” Eli had regained his
composure. “A majority often seeks to impose its will on a minority in reliance
on dogma, such as political views, race or religion. I think it is important to
keep the record straight.”
“I see,” nodded Sheen. “Well, as long as you put on
the yarmulke, the point remains academic.”
“But, as a matter of principle, I do not wish to wear
a yarmulke,” interceded Reuben.
“There is no coercion; we shall demonstrate our
tolerance by respecting your views,” put in
Ben Zvi, who – like the rest of us – was alarmed by the change in Joseph
Katz’s expression.
“Very well,” agreed our Principal in poor grace. Then,
without further ado, he left us.
When
he was gone, Ben Zvi took back the lead. To start with, he mentioned that, side
by side with our course on
During
the interval, a number of boys and girls formed a circle around Reuben. Some
came to express their approval of his firm stand over the wearing of yarmulkes.
Others wanted his advice on the choice of science subjects. Eli, I noticed,
stood on his own not far from the staircase. He looked deflated and ill at ease
but his expression brightened when my neighbour, Shosh, walked over to his
corner.
“So you like to read the Greeks, Eli,” she said.
“I do; and you?”
“I prefer more modern literature – like Gogol and Balzac.
But I’ve read some Greek dramas.”
“Who is your favourite Greek playwright?” he asked
eagerly.
“Aeschylus; I like Prometheus. And yours?”
“Euripides: he was the greatest ever!”
“Don’t tell me you like Medea?”
“I love it,” he conceded apprehensively.
“But isn’t it a horrible plot? The daughter of the
King of Colchis, Medea, helps Jason, the Theban adventurer, to steal her
people’s national treasure – the Golden Fleece – and elopes with him. Then, as
he prepares to jilt her and marry a younger and prettier woman, she sends the
bride a beautiful gown, which sets the poor girl on fire when she puts it on.
Medea then murders her own children by Jason to break his heart. What’s so
wonderful about that?”
“Medea’s speeches,” said Eli, “are unsurpassed.
Euripides made me believe that such a story was feasible; that it could have
really happened this way. Medea is the woman scorned in her supreme
manifestation. I wish I could read it in Greek!”
Eli
spoke with such zest – gesticulating widely with his hands – that Shosh
bestowed on him a warm sisterly smile. Finding the subject interesting, I
stepped over:
“May I join you?”
“Of course,” Shosh took the lead, “Eli and I are
talking about Medea.”
“I heard; and I don’t like the play.”
“Why?” asked Eli, letting his disappointment show.
“The only good role is Medea. Jason is an insipid
character. I don’t want to play him.”
“So you want to be an actor?” asked Shosh.
“I do!”
“And what is your favourite role,” asked Eli eagerly.
“Tevyeh the
Milkman.”
Eli’s keen reaction indicated that he was familiar
with the drama. Shosh, too, knew it. I believe she realised that Tevyeh was not
an easy role to play. The actor had be able to manifest the humorous aspect of
this complex character, such as his soliloquy of what he would do if he were a
rich man, as well a Tevyeh’s ability to
stand his ground when he felt the need.
“A fine choice,” she said, “and you have the required
physique.”
“Quite,” agreed Eli, “but, Chayim: how about the scene
where Tevyeh repudiates his daughter when she comes to placate him after her
elopement with the Cossack? Will you be able to handle it?”
“It is a challenging episode,” I nodded, “but I’m sure
I can pull it off. And where have you seen the play?”
“I haven’t,” conceded Eli, “I read a German
translation last year. Mother got it from a German lending library. Later on I
found the Hebrew translation. The Yiddish original, which comprises a number of
stories, is too difficult.”
“I’ve read it,” volunteered Shosh, “it’s great. And
Tevyeh is a more interesting role than Jason.”
“Jason is a very different type.” observed Eli.
“What sort of
‘type’?” I asked him.
“A pipsqueak. Somebody like Reuben,” grinned Eli,
“full of himself when the pickings are good and down – all the way down – when
the cards are stacked against him.”
“Why this contempt?” Shosh was taken aback.
“Because that fellow will wear a yarmulke if it serves
his purpose; and I only wish I had kept my big mouth shut when Sheen raised
that subject. I made a mess.”
“You had every reason to put our Sheen right,” I
volunteered. “He is a bully.”
“I agree,” said Shosh.
The
bell summoned us back to class. All of us found Mr. Klein, the Mathematics
Master, amusing. He drew triangles, circles and quadrangles on the blackboard
and turned our attention to parabolas and hyperbolas. He then observed that his
favourite actress, Ingrid Bergman, was a cross of both. The English Master, Dr.
Simon, talked to us about Shakespeare and Milton. He then taught us a song. The
resonance of his fine tenor made me recall an anecdote I had been told by an
older boy. Once upon a time, Simon taught his pupils the song about Simple
Simon and the Pie-man. As was to be expected, the name stuck. Rumour had it
that good old Simon (whose proper name had remained a mystery) was proud of his
nickname.
The
next to address us was Mr. Vered, the Arabic Master. He made it clear he had
come to sell his product and, to leave an impression, highlighted the elegance
of Classic Arabic and the beauty of the poetry and prose to be covered.
“But, Sir,” interjected Reuben, “isn’t Arabic a
primitive language: uncultured and monotonous?”
“Now, who told you that?”
“Nobody; but it sounds awful.”
“Where have you heard it?”
“In the markets and shops in
“But it is silly to judge something you know nothing
about,’” countered Vered. “And as regards the sound: which market slang sounds
good?”
Reuben
did not reply. The exchange of words firmed my decision to enrol in Arabic
rather than French: I was impressed with Vered’s handling of his childish
heckler.
The
last class before the lunch break was conducted by the Biology teacher: an
attractive woman in her mid-thirties. The male population of the class stared
at her with undisguised admiration. The girls – some of whom were still
flat-chested – bestowed on her hostile glances. Ms Garten’s manner, though, was
so pleasant and unassuming that, after a while, the girls were converted from
an antagonistic to an appreciative audience.
Usually,
most pupils would have gone home for lunch at 1.00 p.m. As a rule, homework was
supposed to keep us well-occupied during the afternoon. You returned to school in
the afternoon only if you were enrolled in certain optional subjects.
This first day, though, was exceptional: Ben Zvi asked
us to stay behind. The Form would proceed to elect a committee, whose tasks
were to represent us in dealings with the school authorities and to take charge
of our entertainment programme.
Several names, including Reuben’s, were put forward at
the outset. Before we went ahead, my neighbour, Shosh, voiced her concern:
“But we’ve just met, Sir. How then can we make a
meaningful selection of candidates?”
“Some of us make our minds up forthwith and trust our
instincts,” observed Reuben.
“Only to be proved wrong in due course,” I thought it
right to interject.
In
the heated debate that followed Ben Zvi remained aloof. It was brought to an
end when Eli suggested that, just this
time, we elect a provisional committee, to serve for only one term.
Reluctantly, Reuben and his supporters agreed.
As
was to be expected, Reuben was elected chairman. Both Shosh and I were elected
members. Eli appeared gratified to remain on the fringes. At Ben Zvi’s
suggestion, our committee undertook to have its inaugural meeting before the
end of the week. One of our responsibilities was to organise the first Kumsitz
– an Israeli picnic – which, Ben Zvi insisted, everyone ought to attend.
As we
walked back, Eli turned into
Shosh
and I walked in the opposite direction. Before she caught the bus to her home,
she suggested I entertain our classmates by reciting in our forthcoming Kumsitz
one of Tevyeh’s soliloquies and by reading out modern Hebrew
poems. I was happy to agree.
Kumsitz – literally ‘come and sit
down’ – is an inapt description of the famed Israeli picnic. To start with,
strangers are not expected to partake and would never dream of dropping in and
joining the party. In our era, the Kumsitz was a gathering of a socially closed
circle. In addition, ‘sitting down’ to philosophize was not on the agenda. The
atmosphere was too light-hearted for such serious interaction. Usually simple
dishes were cooked on an open fire or in holes dug into the ground and people
passed trays of food and cans of soft drinks around, told jokes and short
stories and, eventually, all danced the Horah to the tune of folksongs. Anybody who played the accordion or the
guitar was expected to bring his music with him: even if his (or her)
performance was painful to the ears.
Our Form’s first Kumsitz was held some ten days after
the commencement of term. Hoping to pass the buck, the members of our Committee,
spurred by the redoubtable Reuben, elected me Master of the Ceremony. So I had
to get a few loaves of bread, potatoes, three bags of coffee and refreshments
befitting the occasion. Having picked a suitable spot on the bank of the
“A shy lad,” I
concluded.
By
the time most of our classmates had arrived, the preparations for the
festivities were in an advanced state. Reuben, who was one of the last to turn
up, drew attention to himself by reciting a well-known recent poem. An
attractive girl, called Orna, followed in his step, entertaining us with a solo
ballet. Although the performer’s choreography left much to be desired, her dexterous
movements displayed her figure to its best. The boys – including both the
boisterous Reuben and the shy Eli – applauded enthusiastically while the female
members of audience watched her with envy. When Orna finished, another girl,
Nurit, entertained us by playing folksongs on her harmonica. Before long, our
untrained voices provided a befitting chorus for her performance.
After
Nurit curtsied in royal fashion to acknowledge our applause, Shosh nudged me to
take the lead. My recital of two well-known poems met a civil reception. The
atmosphere changed when I recited Tevyeh’s
famed soliloquy: ‘if I were a rich man’. My classmates were galvanised by the
sentiments and demonstrated their appreciation with enthusiastic clapping. To
reward them I proceeded with Tevyeh’s
narration of his ‘dream’. When I finished, everybody was roaring with
sympathetic laughter. Obviously, Shalom Aleichem’s work had not lost its impact
during the 70 years that had elapsed since it had been written.
When
I finished, Ben Zvi induced us to revert to folksongs. When the atmosphere warmed up, we danced the
Horah and other Eastern European dances. It was a tiring exercise and, after a
while, some boys and girls dropped out. When, at long last, the circle broke
up, Eli stepped over and shook my hand
shyly.
“What a splendid performance of Tevyeh, Chayim. I’d love to see you
doing the Mayor in The Country Inspector.”
“I’ll give it a try,” I promised. “Still, at the
moment, I’m having a go at Peer Gynt.”
“John
Falstaff may be more in line,”
he observed.
“I agree,” said Shosh, who had joined us; “and perhaps
try The Malade Imaginaire. But you
better watch your deportment.”
“I’ll do my best,” I grinned, elated by the success of
the party.
It
was close to midnight when we called it a day. To ensure the fire was out, we
heaped sand over it and two boys went to carry water from the Yarkon. Then Eli had
a bright idea:
“How about an Operation Gulliver?” he asked.
“A what?” asked Orna.
“The girls would have to close their eyes,” guffawed
Reuben, who grasped the point.
“Oh,” said Shosh, when the penny dropped.
The
arrival of two pails of water saved us the need to put the radical proposal up
for a vote. Ben Zvi, I noticed, looked much relieved. When the picnic site had
been tidied up, we made our departure. Reuben and Orna were amongst the first
to leave. Shortly after they were gone, Shosh asked Eli to chaperon her back. I
was moved by the happiness that descended on his face. Ben Zvi and I were the
last to start on the way back.
“This was a good function, Chayim,” he observed.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Sir. And I think so did
everybody.”
“They did indeed,” he agreed.
Our
first Kumsitz broke the barriers of the reserve typical of adolescents of our
era. When Ben Zvi fostered it on us, he had hit the nail on its head. Soon our Form
got renowned for our Kumsitzes and parties. Unlike our rival Forms, we became a
social conclave. True, the change was not of a formal nature. The membership of
our Committee remained static and Reuben was regularly re-elected Chairman. In
our dealings with the school authorities, with our teachers and even with Ben
Zvi himself, he remained the spokesman. Yet the influence centre in the Form
itself shifted in my direction, with Shosh and shy Eli often stepping in when
support was needed. Slowly but surely, the three of us became the nerve centre
of the group; and I was the effective leader.
I was
proud of the social recognition conferred on me in this manner but needed some
skill to handle the demands it made on my time. Although my brother, David, was
growing up fast I had remained the family’s main breadwinner. Fortunately, the
newspaper franchise was becoming lucrative so that I was able to slow down on
my odd jobbing and, in due course, left much of it to David. Another stroke of good luck was that the
newspapers came off the printing press one hour earlier than during my primary
school days. As a result, I was able to pick up the papers and distribute them
to my subscribers in the early hours of the morning, arriving in TA.1 some 15
minutes before classes started. Frequently, I walked along
Another
favourable development enabled me to curtail my odd jobbing even further. Two
of my former teachers at primary started to send me boys who required tuition
in Basic Mathematics, Biblical Studies and Hebrew Grammar. Teaching these
dunces was dull; but the money was good. Before long, my takings sufficed to
keep our household going and, in addition, provided ample pocket money for
David and myself. I was even able to stand my Mother – whose health was failing
– a holiday in Tiberias. Regrettably, the famed waters of the once volcanic
resort did her no good.
Most
of my time in those days was taken up with my schooling. The drill at TA.1 was
harsh. My pet subjects – Arabic, Biblical Studies and Talmudic Studies –
required concentration and extra reading: they were time consuming. So was the
endless array of essays and reports we had to submit to our teacher in
Composition, who was none other than the Principal himself. All of us – including
the resilient Reuben – feared the lashes of Sheen’s sharp tongue and his
merciless dissection of our written work. Eli alone did on occasion stand up to
him. But Eli, too, flinched when Sheen went berserk over a clumsy sentence or
ungrammatical phrase in one of Eli’s compositions. The clash in philosophies
became apparent during one brief exchange:
“But surely, Sir,” Eli protested; “any reader would
understand what I was driving at even if I used a plain instead of an inverted
subjunctive?”
“But he would have to reflect for a moment.”
“Isn’t that desirable? Shouldn’t ‘the reader’ be made
to think?”
“Not a bad after-thought, Eli Berger. Still, you want
the reader to reflect on the substance; not on your mode of expression.”
“What a pity Adam didn’t when Eve tempted him with that
apple. If he had, we might still be in
“And I would be spared the need to comment on your
grammar,” guffawed Joseph Katz as he often did when a favoured pupil sought to
beat off his onslaught. To my relief, Eli joined in our laughter: he had not
taken offence.
Any time left when I finished my chores was
devoted to training for my future career on the stage. I had by then set my
heart on it and, mercilessly, used my classmates as a captive audience.
Luckily, they appreciated my performances in our Kumsitzes and parties. Even
Reuben and Orna – who had become close – clapped enthusiastically when I
performed passages from Peer Gynt, Tevyeh the Milkman or the Malade Imaginaire. The only negative
development was my acquisition of a ridiculous nickname: ‘Pilkin’, which means
“the Little Elephant”. Still, Eli, who initiated this offensive move, had to
pay dearly for his lack of reverence. In our very next Kumsitz, I dubbed him
Bushi – ‘the shy lad’. The public reaction was predictable: each of us had to wear his laurel for life.
Despite
the constant pressure I was subjected to, I found life in TA.1 satisfying. Our
teachers were devoted to their jobs and most of them conducted interesting and
stimulating classes. My classmates turned out to be a congenial lot. Even
Reuben became bearable once you realised
that his bark was worse than his bite. As long as you played up to his vanity,
he was ready and willing to do you a good turn. When needed, he stepped in to
assist Eli, Shosh or me when one of the Science Teachers found our performance
unsatisfactory. We, in turn, got him out of trouble when he goofed in one of
the Humanist subjects, such as Arabic or History.
The ‘Interest Streams’ – the Humanities
and the Sciences – provided the main yardstick for the division of our Form
into groupings. It was only natural that when the ‘scientists’ had a class in
one of their mysterious subjects, the ‘humanists’ – including Eli, Shosh and me
– had to find something else to do. Usually we spent the time in the library but,
occasionally, wandered off to a pita-falafel stall or to a soft drinks kiosk,
discussing on our way politics or recent popular books or plays.
On these occasions, Shosh – heavy set, dark eyed and
effervescent – took the lead. Like many high-spirited and self-assured girls,
she had firm opinions on most current topics and on life itself and believed in
converting others to her views. Eli and I tended to nod when she preached and
smiled tolerantly when – in the course of her address – she caught her breath
and quickly took a bite from my large portion or from Eli’s half portion of
pita-falafel. The two of us – Shosh’s
ardent friends and admirers – had long come to terms with the vagaries of her
gluttony.
Sex,
too, divided our Form into groups. During breaks between classes, girls
congregated to discuss boys while the boys – converging somewhere nearby –
talked about the girls. The fantasies some chaps told (in loud undertone) to
their cronies make me blush to this very day. Suffice it to say that – in
reality – all of us, without exception, were still innocent. I suspect that so
were the young ladies; but I hasten to admit that here I rely on my impressions
which – according to Professor Emeritus
Dr. Peter Berger (formerly Eli Berger, alias Bushi) – constitute hearsay
evidence and hence are inadmissible in a court of justice (whatever this may
mean).
Although some of the boys were handsome and many of
the girls cute, only Reuben and Orna had a steady relationship. Other boys and
girls went out together on occasions – to the theatre, to a cinema or to a
concert – but did not form romantic associations. In years to come, most girls
attached themselves to men older than us. Those who are still alive have turned into respectable grandmothers. Shosh,
for instance, has four ainiklach (grandchildren); and she boasts a
triple chin.
Yet another – less evident – grouping was dictated by
backgrounds. Those who came from orthodox homes were drawn together and,
from-time-to-time, conversed in Yiddish. Two Sephardic boys and one girl from
I recall many
interesting incidents that took place during my first two years in TA.1 but am
going to mention only three of them. The first occurred when Simple Simon covered
Macbeth. Seeking to highlight
Shakespeare’s masterly command of words and imagery, he chanted “knock, knock,
knock…”, banged his desk enthusiastically and asked us to close our eyes and
visualise somebody standing at our ‘gate’ ready to enter. We did and,
instantly, gasped when the door flew open and our venerated Principal, Dr.
Joseph Katz (alias Sheen), burst in. He had been on one of his inspection tours
when Simple Simon’s intemperate banging disturbed his meditations.
“What’s going on?” he bellowed.
“Mr Simon, Sir, is explaining to us the knocking on
the gate in Macbeth,” volunteered
Orna.
“And so you thought I was the odd man out seeking to
get in. Lucky Mr. Simon wasn’t
discussing Hamlet’s ghost.” Simple
Simon blushed scarlet while we roared our heads off.
The
second incident, too, related to Sheen; but it was no laughing matter. It took
place at the start of our second year in the school during a Biblical Studies
Class. The teacher, Dr. Frank, fondly nicknamed ‘Old Frank’, was the martyr;
Sheen was the villain.
Old
Frank was an odd figure. I know nothing about his life in
In our era, his teaching was unconventional. Old Frank
treated the Bible as a great literary work and analysed it as such. His modern
exegesis – based on a minute dissection of the text – attracted radicals like Reuben
and rationalists like Bushi. But from time-to-time, Old Frank upset orthodox
pupils like me. We were threatened by
the doubts he cast on the authenticity and historicity of the Holy Book and by
his demonstration that our text was a corrupted version. Still, the man’s
sincerity and intellectual honesty disarmed us.
We also dismissed with a grin his incessant struggle
with his yarmulke. In conformity with the school’s code, Old Frank covered his
head at the start of each class; but, as it progressed, the worn-out piece of
black cloth came unstuck, usually sliding down as he gesticulated wildly.
Patiently, Old Frank would put it back on top of his thin white hair only to
have it come off again within the next few minutes. In the end, Old Frank would
fold his headwear and place it, symbolically, next to the Bible in front of
him.
The
incident I have in mind occurred when Sheen stepped into our Form while Old Frank was countering an argument
raised by Bushi about an obscure verse in the Book of Job. Bushi, who had not shown an interest in the classes of
the pedantic teacher we had in our first year, admired our new Biblical Studies
Teacher. Sometimes he even accompanied him on the way back from school,
although this way he had to take a longer route back to his own home. In class,
the two often engaged in lively exchanges.
Like
all orthodox Jews, Sheen was perturbed by this modern stream of Bible Critique.
Still, TA.1’s pedagogical orientation was liberal. True, every teacher had to
exercise the discretion conferred on him within reasonable limits. Old Frank’s
analysis did not overstep the mark. In consequence, Sheen – whose eyes kept
straying to the folded yarmulke – had no sound basis for any objection.
Moreover, the class was lively, well planned and instructive. All the same, our
Principal kept fidgeting. Then, without warning, he let his chagrin show:
“Our School’s Regulations, Dr. Frank, require teachers
to wear their yarmulkes throughout Biblical Study Classes,” he said sternly.
“I am sorry, Dr Katz… it kept… falling off,” Old Frank
stammered apologetically and hastily replaced the discarded yarmulke on his
balding head.
“Please be more mindful in the future,” rebuked Sheen
and departed.
All
of us were uncomfortable. Bushi turned pale. The situation was saved by Orna,
whose outlook on life was sedate and mature.
“Please, Sir,” she implored, “do tell us what you think
about the authorship and the object of the Book
of Job. We have concentrated on the passages you’ve prescribed. But we are
keen to have your own construction of the work as a whole.”
Willingly,
Old Frank embarked on a lengthy, lucid even if unorthodox, analysis. Recovering
from his shock, he soon became his old sparkling self and once again his yarmulke
slipped off.
As
soon as the class was over, Bushi asked
Reuben to convene an emergency meeting
of our Committee. He wanted us to convey
the protest of the Form directly to Sheen, insisting that even those who
disapproved of Old Frank’s approach to Biblical Studies were bound to realise
that a rebuke of a well established teacher in front of the entire class was
improper. Although not a member of the Committee, Bushi was prepared to act as
spokesman. Reuben and Shosh agreed and suggested we accept his offer. For once, I felt it necessary to apply the
brakes.
“This morning Orna saved the situation,” I pointed
out. “Confronting Sheen is putting the fat into the fire. The Regulations do
require our teachers to observe certain rules. We may turn a mere incident into
an altercation.”
“But we ought not to countenance Sheen’s bullying! He
acted disgracefully,” interceded Reuben.
“I agree,” said Shosh, “silence in such a situation is
acquiescence.”
“True,” nodded Orna; “but what will we achieve by
confronting Sheen? He is good on the uptake and has authority on his side. Why
don’t we first talk to Ben Zvi: he is in charge of our Form.”
“Good idea,” said Bushi who, so I had noticed, was
often looking at Orna surreptitiously.
Ben
Zvi had been anticipating our visit. He was out of countenance and appeared on
the defensive.
“You’ve come to see me about Dr. Katz’s reprimand of
Dr Frank,” he went to the point.
“We have,” said Reuben, “it was a disgraceful attack.”
“The School’s Regulations are clear,” replied Ben Zvi,
“teachers are obliged to cover their heads in Biblical Studies Classes.”
“Dr. Katz could have told Frank off in private; not in
front of the class,” said Shosh. “How can the Principal expect us to respect
our teachers if he disgraces them in public.”
“Now, now,” Ben Zvi sought to place things in context,
“let’s not get melodramatic.”
“But this is exactly what had happened,” I stepped in.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked our teacher.
“Ask Dr. Katz to apologise,” demanded Reuben.
“Surely, a public apology will only exacerbate the
situation. I am, actually, sure Dr. Katz regrets his outburst. Dr. Frank has already
talked to me and I have made an appointment to see Dr. Katz. Mr Simon has
volunteered to come with me. We’ll ask Dr. Katz to express his regrets to Dr.
Frank. This way, we should all be in a position to put the event behind us and
return to business as normal.”
“I think that’s good enough,” stepped in Orna. “Dr.
Frank is a controversial figure. His views are unpopular with some members of
the Form. So the less said the better. If Dr. Frank is satisfied with a personal
retraction we ought to dismiss the incident from our minds. We don’t want to
create a stink.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said in support. “Dr. Frank
is a great scholar and he loves his subject. But he is unorthodox. Publicity is
not wanted in such a case.”
Shosh
and Reuben nodded their consent. All eyes were now turned to Bushi. After a
short reflection he, too, signified his consent.
The
third event took place in one of Ms. Garten’s biology classes. Having pointed
out to us the unique nature and the advantages of the human arm and hands, she
added that their perfection was part of an evolutionary process, separating Man
from Apes. Instantly one of our orthodox classmates, Arieh, insisted that
evolution was a questionable and outdated doctrine. In his eyes, our teacher
had demonstrated the perfection of the Good Lord’s creation.
After
a quick exchange of glances, Reuben stepped in and spoke strongly in support of
the doctrine of evolution. In his eyes, evolution was more convincing than a
doctrine postulating the creation of something from nothing.
A
heated discussion followed. Before long, Bushi and Orna stepped into the arena
in support of Reuben’s arguments. Quite a few others expressed their firm
support for Arieh’s view. In the end, I felt the need to step in.
“But
surely, ‘evolution’ and ‘creation’ are complementary. Someone – we say ‘God’ –
instigated evolution.”
“Chayim
Rosenberg is right,” conceded our teacher. She then pointed out that our
subject was biology and so we had better stick to it and leave doctrinal issues
to philosophers and theologians. Shortly thereafter, the chime of the bell
terminated our class.
Whilst
the doctrinal issues involved were not brought up again, Ms. Garten, who was an
ardent believer in evolution, offered extra tuition to interested
students. Shosh and I did not attend
these.
4. The Independence
During my first
two years in TA.1, the Jewish community – the Yishuv – was governed from
Some towns, such as
Historically, the Yishuv craved independence or, in other words, for home
rule. The Arab League, which comprised most Islamic States, claimed that
Notably,
World War II had left no direct impact on most of us, including Bushi (Eli) and Reuben. We had been
too young to have personal recollections of the Holocaust. Naturally, we sensed
the trepidation that engulfed the Yishuv whenever Rommel threatened
Tobruk. Life, though, had to go on as
normal: shops were open and schools remained in session.
The battle for the foundation of an independent Jewish
state, which commenced soon after the defeat of
One
amusing event took place on a dark night when Shosh and I were sent to the
beach in Tel Aviv, near
“Quick; hug me,” hissed Shosh and threw herself into
my arms.
As expected, the well-bred British servicemen were too
discreet to disturb a necking couple. As soon as they were gone, Shosh released
herself, twitching with the pain inflicted by the electric torch that had been
sandwiched between us. When she recovered, we faced a practical problem: we had
to keep signalling but without being detected. In the end, I suggested that
Shosh use the electric torch from under the entrance of the deserted public
shower.
“But don’t you dare step in with me,” commanded Shosh;
“I’m not stepping into a shower with a man!”
“I’ll stay outside and tell you when it’s safe to
signal. And you better ask them to wait until we confirm it’s secure to land!”
As the lights of the jeep kept sweeping the beach, the
human cargo had to wait for almost two hours. Shivering with the cold and
soaked to the bone after a rough landing, the refugees were relieved to be
escorted to their temporary hideout near the beach.
Shosh looked thoughtful as I escorted her back. To my
surprise, she turned down a pita-falafel and appeared uninterested even in a
glass of Gazoz, the Israeli national soft drink. I realised that the plight of
the refugees had perturbed her.
“Chayim,” she said after a while, addressing me by my
proper name and not by my nickname, “I hope these poor people will fit in. They
won’t find it easy; I bet they don’t speak Hebrew!”
“They’ll have to learn it! And, Shosh, they are lucky
not to have perished in the Holocaust! I’m sure they’ve taught themselves to
adapt!”
“We are the lucky ones, Chayim,” protested Shosh. “We
may not have had it all that easy. I’ve not forgotten what you’ve told me about
yourself; and I’ve been cooking and helping Mom to look after the house and my
three young brothers since I was six years old; and Dad’s a bully! But at least
we’ve not known the hardship these poor devils have been through!”
“True; but – you know – they are at home now!”
“Let’s hope they find it welcoming!”
After this brief exchange of words,
both of us remained silent. When I reached my own home, I was dead tired. All
the same, I got up in time next morning and delivered the newspapers to my
clients: I was young, energetic and strong.
Another hazardous task entrusted to us was the
carrying of arms. Although we were too young to be enlisted in the Haganah, we
were occasionally called in when a cache came under surveillance. Our
appearance in the vicinity was less noticeable than that of adults. Usually we
were sent to the spot in the late afternoon and emerged with our loads after
dusk. Getting caught was a serious matter.
A particularly unpleasant engagement of this sort took
place one afternoon, when a team of chess players of TA.1 faced opponents from
our rival school, TA.2. The tournament was drawing to its close, when our Games
and Fitness Trainer, Amnon, who was also the contact man of the Haganah,
entered the room unobtrusively and told us help was urgently needed. The cache
in
Reuben
had to be counted out. His possessive and excitable mother was bound to make a
fuss if he came home late. Two of the boys from TA.2 had to attend evening
classes: their absence could be noticed by a ‘wrong person’. In consequence, we
were one man short. To my surprise, Bushi, who was playing our Third Chess Board,
volunteered.
“But won’t your mother get worried?” asked Amnon.
“I told her I might go out for a pita-falafel and to
the cinema; so she’d be alright,” said Bushi.
“But are you fit enough?” I asked him. “It’s only
three weeks since you recovered from that bout of bronchitis. An asthma attack
could cause a problem in this sort of thing!”
“I’ll be alright,” he assured me. “Please let me come;
I don’t want to be kept out of everything. I won’t let you down!”
“Very well, then” I said, lacking the heart to refuse
and ignoring Amnon’s anxious glance.
Bushi
and I were driven to target and alighted some 200 metres from the house. Amnon
warned us that two soldiers were on the lookout a few doors away from our
destination. If they stopped us we were to act naturally and should tell them
we came to visit a boy called Shim’on in Flat 4. At 7.30 p.m. we were to leave
from the back entrance and carry the arms entrusted to us to a pick-up point
along the road. There we would deliver them to a van driven by Amnon. He was to
dim the lights three times just before he reached the rendezvous.
Fortunately,
I saw the soldiers before they spotted us.
“Bushi,” I told him as I pulled him roughly into a
doorway, “that big trooper over there saw me on a previous engagement. He may
remember me and get suspicious!”
“So what shall we do?” asked Bushi anxiously.
“You must go to Flat 4 on your own. I’ll wait for you
behind the block at 7.35 p.m. Tell them to guide you to where they took me last
time. From there we’ll trudge to the pick up point together.”
“But, Pilkin,” he pointed out, “I can’t carry two
loads of the stuff; shall I go twice?”
“Too dangerous! Our chaps in the flat will send
somebody with you. He’ll carry my load! And look: I’ll watch out from here
while you walk onward. If there’s any trouble I’ll create a diversion.”
“There’ll be no need for it, Pilkin!” he assured me.
Amnon
kept the engine running as the precious arms were placed in his van. As soon as
the cargo was on board, he drove off.
Feeling satisfied with the success of the mission, I led the long way
back to Tel Aviv. We walked briskly until, some ten minutes after we started, I
heard Bushi’s wheeze. Looking him over anxiously, I saw his brow was wet and
his face flushed.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“I’ll manage; just keep walking!”
“Shall we try to bum a ride?”
“Good idea,” he agreed in a croaking voice.
A
British army jeep stopped readily as I lifted my arm. Initially, the soldiers
looked at us suspiciously but, after a glance at Bushi’s face, one of them told
us to get in.
“Please drop us at the corner of
“Sure,” said the trooper and, when he saw Bushi was
shivering in the breeze of the open jeep, dropped a blanket over his shoulders.
“When did you get it?”
“When I was 5. I hope it’ll get better when I grow
up.”
“My brother got over it,” volunteered the trooper.
“Let’s hope you’ll be all right.”
When
we arrived at the corner of
As we walked out of the hospital Bushi observed: “those
soldiers were decent to us.”
“Weren’t they ever!”
“But they’re supposed to be ‘the enemy’; except that
only two years ago these very soldiers were our buffer against Rommel. Isn't it
all crazy?"
“I suppose it is; but why do you bring this up; what’s
the matter, Bushi? You don’t regret having carried arms?”
“Of course not, Pilkin. I had to prove – to myself if
not to others – that I had the guts. No I don’t ‘regret’ our operation. That’s
not the point, Pilkin.”
“So what is it?”
“I don’t feel any hatred for these so called enemies.”
“But you believe in the cause?”
“I’m in support,” he mumbled.
Bushi remained quiet as we walked on. I sensed he
wanted to get something off his chest but was deterred by his desire to avoid
controversy. When, at long last, he broke his silence, his words were
revealing.
“You are a believer, Pilkin,” he said. “I don’t want
to hurt your feelings. So perhaps I better keep my big moth shut.”
“Don’t be silly,” I chided him. “I am not a fanatic!”
“All right then,” he proceeded. “Our religion, just
like Christianity, postulates an almighty and perfect God, who created the
universe and made Man in His own image. But are we perfect? Wars, cruelty and
wanton destruction are common. Your friend of today may be a bitter enemy tomorrow.
And think about the universe, is it perfect? How many natural disasters do we –
on this earth alone – encounter every year?”
“So?” I asked, thinking it best to hold my gun.
“So how could a perfect and loving God produce
something as imperfect as the universe and – on top of it – create ‘in his own
image’ a race as crude as mankind? Does
the occasional kindness we meet redeem the imperfection of his product?”
“We have read a great deal about this, Bushi. You know
there is no rational answer. Even the existence of God cannot be established by
deduction. Philosophers who tried failed
miserably. Most ‘systems’ are based on an axiom, accepting his existence.”
“What then enables you to believe?” he asked.
“An act of faith; an emotive conviction that He is –
must be – there. And, Bushi, without my faith I should be in a wilderness, in
which dog eats dog. If you don’t have faith, why don’t you postulate that
‘might is right’?”
“Because we are herd animals. We exist as a pack: so
we have a social appetite which enables the group to survive. You know all
about this theory.”
“I do. But how do you answer all the questions that
bog us down?”
“By saying openly: ‘I don’t know’. Your answer is:
‘only God knows and He is so great that I can’t question Him’.”
“This belief makes certain things bearable,” I
reminded him.
“I know: but I can’t reach out; I can’t find faith.
You are fortunate: I envy you.”
“One day you might find it!”
“Maybe,” he retorted, unconvinced.
We had by then reached the three-story apartment block
in which he lived. I waited in front of it until I saw the light being switched
on in his room. Firm in my decision to keep the events of the evening to
myself, I started the long walk home.
The
smuggling of refugees (we called them ‘Ma’Apilim’) into
Our
struggle intensified from year-to-year. In due course, even boys and girls
younger than us were enlisted. On several assignments I took David with me. He
proved both resilient and reliable.
The top priority in all these cases was the
maintenance of secrecy. We had to beware of informers who might betray us. I
recall, in particular, one episode in the
Such
double-crossers would be able to read messages written in Hebrew. Initially, we
were asked to use a cipher – based on the famed Caesar’s Code – in which a word
would be spelt by using for each letter the one preceding it in the alphabet.
The defect of such a code was that it could be readily broken – or ‘deciphered’
– by any reasonably intelligent person.
There
was a need for a better system. The problem, though, was to choose a cryptogram
that should not be too difficult to use. Messages had to be delivered promptly
and the time for decoding was limited. I gather that different systems were
used throughout the Yishuv. In the event, the task of determining a suitable
code for our region was entrusted to me. Initially, I was surprised. Tel Aviv
boasted many linguistic and history scholars who might have been more suitable
candidates. I then recalled that ours was an elitist school, which accepted
only the best primary school leavers. Our superiors concluded that we were more
likely to come up with a solution than members of the older generation.
Knowing
that I was out of my depth, I enlisted Reuben’s aid. I knew he was trustworthy
but feared that his product might be on the complex side. To my dismay, my
misgivings were justified. Reuben’s idea was to induce all transmitters to
memorise a chapter of our Bible and use the first twenty two letters of it as
our alphabet. Reuben, who was renowned for his excellent memory, was surprised
when our superiors concluded that his code was too complex and, in addition,
would be broken if anybody observed the deciphering of a message.
An
unexpected suggestion was made by Bushi, who had a keen interest in the old
cultures of the
To my
satisfaction, Reuben embraced the idea enthusiastically. With his assistance we
settled on a script of syllables based on an ancient Semitic language. In the event, we made do with just 44
symbols. It pleased me to observe how Bushi and Reuben, who were not close,
collaborated so as to present to us a well-defined and workable system. When it
was put to use, we managed to reduce the number of symbols to 30.
A
different problem surfaced when the Ma’Apilim sought to integrate. To
secure a good position you had to be able to communicate in Hebrew. Very few
refugees were conversant. Initially, the issue was sorted out by finding them
jobs that could be carried out without knowledge of the language of the Yishuv.
In later years – after the foundation of
Difficulties
in communications often arose when new migrants were met upon their
disembarkation on our shores. Usually, we had to enlist a trustworthy person
conversant in one of the native languages of the Ma’Apilim. I soon discovered that quite a few of my
classmates had a knowledge of Polish or Russian and that others were conversant
in German. Occasionally, we had to find a Yiddish speaker, a difficult task
because this Jargon was frowned upon by members of the Yishuv and only a
handful would concede that they spoke or read it.
I
recall one particularly moving event, which took place when we escorted a group
of Eastern European migrants. When we gathered that some of them came,
originally, from
The
problem respecting languages was discussed in our Form’s gathering after school
hours. All of us knew that Hebrew was revived as a spoken tongue around 1922.
Many of our classmates were, actually, monolingual. Although they had a
smattering command of English and, in some cases, of their parents’ original
language, their internal monologue and their daily communications were
conducted in Hebrew.
Some
of us, including Shosh and me, assumed that new arrivals would pick up Hebrew
by osmosis. Disputing our theory, Reuben pointed out that by the time an
individual was about six or seven years old, he (or she) lost the ability to
learn a language by mingling with natives. He (or she) had to learn it as an
extra language, just as we were taught English in school. Unexpectedly, Bushi
sided with him, pointing out that although his own father was an accomplished
linguist, he was unable to acquire an adequate command of Hebrew from clients
and friends.
Although
the struggle for an independent
Our Form became increasingly cohesive. All of us had
by then realised that nobody shone in all subjects. Thus, two of my classmates,
including Reuben, were born scientists. Bushi, Shosh and I were good in the
humanist subjects. Often the scientists stepped in when one us, the humanists,
was unable to deal with a point raised by the teacher. The humanists, in turn,
stepped in when one of our scientific colleagues was unable to deal with a
point arising in Biblical Studies or in English Grammar.
The
technique adopted by us was to create a diversion, which enabled a bewildered
classmate to reflect or, worse still, glean the answer from a slip passed to
him by one in the know. I recall how on one occasion Reuben was baffled when
asked to explain a difficult verse in the Book of Hoshea. Quickly, Shosh
created a diversion by stating that, in her opinion, the prophet Hoshea was
vulgar. During the heated debate that followed, a chap called Ami sent a slip
to Reuben, setting out an answer. The teacher nodded sagely as Reuben recited
it but then turned to Ami and said: “Well done”.
Although
studies continued to progress on an even keel, our Form’s Committee recommended
that we make a conscious effort to help newcomers to integrate. One of the new
members of the Committee, Miriam, proposed that we invite migrants of our own
age to our Kumsitzes. Her idea was adopted enthusiastically.
Before
long, members of our Form – particularly Shosh – invited youngsters to join us
and celebrate with us. We overcame the linguistic barrier by using Yiddish and,
occasionally, by reverting to foreign languages so as to make our newcomers
feel at home.
The
influence was, actually, mutual. Many of our guests had much to offer. I recall
that two girls were excellent dancers and taught us Mazurkas and other Eastern
European folk dances. Another newcomer introduced us to Polish literature and
yet another to some modern French authors.
This
integration gained momentum when a club known as Ha’Boneh (the ‘builders’),
most of whose members spoke German, opened its doors widely to us – the young
generation. Quite a few members of our Form joined. In due course the younger
members of the club arranged to change its name, first, to Ha’Magshim (‘the
performer’) and later on to Yahad (togetherness). The club lasted. Although
most members of the then-younger generation have aged, and others have
emigrated or passed away, the ones still around continue to gather from
time-to-time. The language used in its functions changed to Hebrew.
Despite
Bushi’s entreaties, I refused to join the club. Most of my time was taken up
with my business activities and the national struggle. TA.1’s demanding
curriculum, too, took up much of my time. The hours left to me were spent on my
personal ambition (or dream) of laying the foundation for my future career on
the stage.
Shosh
and another girl, Miriam, helped me to improve my technique in acting. Both of
them thought I was good at certain roles, such as Tevyeh and Falstaff, but
performed poorly in other roles, such as Lennie in Mice and Men. Although I had the physique, I lacked the
imagination and the required subtlety.
The
two girls enlisted the aid of a fellow from another school, a chap called
Gideon. The three of them made a concentrated effort but even after the lapse
of three months my performance remained static. To my surprise, though, Gideon
concluded that I had the skills of a performances-director and, in addition,
thought I had the required administrative talent.
His
words encouraged me to stage shows to be attended by pupils of TA.1. The first
piece I chose was Chekhov’s Uncle Vania. It was performed just before
the break following our first semester of my second year in TA.1. The audience
enjoyed the performance but Shosh was not pleased with the way I acted the
title role. She thought that I was unable to manifest the gloomy outlook on
life displayed by Vania. Miriam and Gideon took a similar view but assured me
that, all in all, it had been a success.
Far
from reading the writing on the wall, I staged Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.
Reuben played the role of Mark Antony. He was applauded but I knew that his heart
was not in the show. Gideon played Cassius and Orna agreed to appear as Calpurnia.
A fellow called Bertie, from the boys-only Form, appeared as Caesar and
did well. I tried my hand at the role of Brutus. Once again, the show was well
received but I knew that my performance was clumsy. Somehow, I was unable to
assume the thought pattern of a reluctant assassin.
To my
surprise this show led to a rebuke from our English Language Master, our dear
Simple Simon. One day he confronted me in the corridor and expressed his
chagrin at my having preferred Julius Caesar to Macbeth.
“Chayim
Rosenberg.” he bellowed. “Don’t tell me that you think Julius Caesar is
the greater play? Your essays demonstrate you’re interested in Macbeth.
You appreciated the drama when we covered it in class. So why the switch to
that other play?”
“But,
Sir,” I replied uneasily, “can any one of our girls play Lady Macbeth? Don’t
you think it is a difficult role, even for a professional actress?”
“You
have a point there,” he conceded.
“Also,
Sir, the staging presents a problem. Julius Caesar is easier to put on.
And, Sir, what did you think of my Brutus?”
“I
can’t recall details,” Simple Simon prevaricated.
“I
saw how you watched me, Sir. Please let me have your assessment.”
Simon’s
face darkened. I sensed he was uneasy. Still, his critique mattered to me: I
was determined to have it.
“But
look here, Chayim. We cannot expect a school’s performance to be on the same
level as a play in an established theatre. You agree, don’t you?”
“I do,
Sir. But how well did I play Brutus? I worked hard on it. I really tried my
best.”
“But Brutus
isn’t really your type of role. He is driven by dogma into the performance of
an act atypical of him. He isn’t really an assassin and regrets the murderous
act even as he performs it. He is a complex character. You, Chayim, are a
straight thinker; and – I suspect – somewhat inflexible.”
“What
did you think of my role as Vania? You came to see our play.”
“Same
impression,” he told me after some lapse. “Vania is a pessimist. He is tired of
life. You should avoid roles of that type. They aren’t for you.”
“What
sort of role would suit me?”
“Falstaff,”
he replied readily. “And you may immerse yourself in the personality of King
Lear or Othello. Both of them are determined personalities. So are you. And
look here, Chayim: very few actors can play virtually any type of role. Laurence
Olivier and Vivien Leigh are the exception. So, please, don’t feel discouraged.
There are many roles at which you would be very good. But, please tell me: do
you contemplate a career on the stage?”
“I
do, Sir.”
“Well,
I wish you success. But please bear in mind that you have the makings of a
teacher. Keep this as a second string to your bow.”
I was impressed by Simon’s assessment. Years later I
discovered that he was, actually, a well-known critic. Using a pseudonym, he
regularly reviewed films and shows in a columns of a leading daily. Generally,
he was caustic. I am told that, on one occasion, he made sarcastic remarks
about a speech in an Italian film – La Strada – in which a clown opines
that everything, including a pebble, has a function. Simon wrote that this
point of view befitted a comedian. In a pungent reply, a reader opined that, as
the learned reviewer was nothing but a mere grain of sand, his best course (if
he had any) was to keep his views to himself. Simple Simon, so the rumour went
on, was singularly irritable after this exchange of volleys.
A
distinct function I had to carry out regularly was a peacemaker’s. It stemmed
from the fact that I was one of the tallest and strongest boys in our Form.
When I was around, classmates preferred to settle differences by argument
rather than by resorting to brute force. It was well known that I did not adopt
the wisdom preached in the Bible (Prov. 26:17), which tells you that “[h]e who
passes by, and meddles with a strife not his own, is like one who grabs a dog
by his ears”. Preferring the approach of
Job, who searched out the cause of quarrels coming to his attention (Job 29:17),
I often stepped in when tempers were getting out of hand.
I
recall a particular instance in which a fellow we nicknamed Cactus drew a
caricature of another fellow known as Bugi. Many of us enjoyed Cactus’
caricatures, especially when the subject was Sheen or Simple Simon. Bugi, alas,
was inclined to laugh only at his own jokes. Enraged by Cactus’ rather explicit
drawing, Bugi started to role up his sleeves. Unwilling to give way, Cactus
rolled up his.
Most
of our classmates (regardless of sex) formed a circle of interested though
impartial spectators of the anticipated punch-up. As Cactus and Bugi were generally
friendly with one another, I decided to intervene. Separating the two would-be
combatants, I demanded that each of them outline his grievance.
“Cactus
insulted me,” bellowed Bugi. “He drew me as a pompous ass.”
Suppressing
a sharp retort, Cactus mumbled that he had had no intention to offend. He
pointed out that Bugi had laughed his head off when Cactus had displayed
caricatures of our teachers.
“An
artist is entitled to some poetic licence,” interspersed Shosh, who had watched
the proceedings keenly.
“But
am I that ridiculous?” growled Bugi, mollified but not fully appeased.
“Of
course not,” soothed Shosh. “But, then, is Sheen as fierce as Cactus draws him?
We all laugh because Cactus picks up and overstates one of Sheen’s features.”
“I
think this settles it,” I saw fit to step in.
“Come,
let us go for a pita-falafel,” added Bushi. “I have some extra money this week.
I’ll stand the four of you a treat.”
All
faces brightened. We proceeded to the stall in the harmony prevailing amongst
comrades. In tandem with Shosh’s renowned gluttony, Bushi treated her to an
extra half portion of the beloved delicacy.
5. Matriculation
The State of Israel declared its
independence on 15 May 1948. The ensuing months were marred by the war with our
Arab neighbours. Fortunately, they were not united. The Syrian army, the
Jordanian Arab Legion and the Egyptian troops fought us without any coordination
or plan. We, in Tel Aviv, did not experience hardships. The places in which the
war raged were the Galilee and
The fighters of the Yishuv did not
need my support. I was too young to enlist in the Haganah. True, during the
final years of the British mandate teenagers had a role to play. Our presence
and aid in the smuggling of migrants was vital. Once
The
Independence War took about one year. The real struggle of the new State
started when the fighting was over. Two lucrative outlets had been lost: the
Arab market, which was also a major source of food supplies, and the British
army. In consequence, many families lost their livelihood. Bushi’s father’s,
for instance, had to shift his business to
To
exacerbate the situation, the emerging State had to accommodate mass
immigration. Migrants came from the devastated countries of Western Europe,
from the hostile marshes of Eastern Europe, from North Africa and from
Our Form
had its own casualty. Some two weeks after the outbreak of the Independence
War, Ben Zvi announced that Reuben Klein had withdrawn from TA.1. His family
‘went down’ to
“Shameful – so now we know Reuben’s true colours.”
said his erstwhile pal, a boy called Abe.
“And he didn’t even tell us – the coward,” said
another member of the entourage.
“So he was just all talk,” added a third.
I was
about to intervene, but Shosh stepped in first. Keen to support the underdog,
she insisted we ought not to judge Reuben unless we were certain of the facts.
At this stage, we did not know why he left or, indeed, why he kept mum about
it. Insofar as she was concerned, Rueben remained unblemished unless she had
sound grounds to condemn him. Hoping to stop the avalanche, I voiced my
agreement. Reuben had discharged his duties as chairman of our Committee
effectively and responsibly. We owed it to him – as well as to ourselves – not
to pass sentence on him hastily and, in consequence, harshly.
“But why did he not tell us?” asked Abe. “He had no
reason to think his friends would turn a deaf ear; and he did have some very
good and close friends here.”
A
quick glance, from the corner of my eye, revealed that Orna – Reuben’s
girlfriend – kept her composure. Her calm and attractive face displayed no
emotion. As often before, I felt a sense of admiration for her. Here was a girl
who knew her mind and was capable of handling herself in any situation. She was
not going to react. The ensuing silence was broken by Bushi.
“Sir,” he addressed Ben Zvi, “Reuben did not talk to
his friends because he was embarrassed. He felt too awkward. But he told me why
he had to leave; and he had no choice. Any one of us would have done the same
in the circumstances.”
“But why did he talk to you and not to us?” Abe wanted
to know.
“Because we come from similar backgrounds; and he knew
I’d understand. Also sometimes it’s easier to talk to somebody who’s not too
close. You must know this.”
Abe
did not reply. Seeing my opportunity, I suggested we leave the subject and turn
to the topic Ben Zvi had set for us. It was the Renaissance and – for the rest
of the session – Ben Zvi, Bushi, Shosh and I had an interesting time. Still, Bushi’s attempt to canonise
Machiavelli was not crowned with success.
The
Foundation of Israel had an impact on my and David’s business enterprises. To
start with, unemployment became widespread. Very few people could afford to pay
for odd jobs. They had to learn how to use their own hands and brains. However,
David’s income did not decrease substantially.
The rampant inflation that took place during
Taxes,
too, created a problem. During the days of the British Mandate, income tax was
low and its collectors tended to be tardy. Rates rose sharply following
Another problem resulted from the shortage of
supplies. Officially you could get what
you needed only against the tender of a prescribed price plus coupons. Many
people, though, wanted to get extras. The ensuing black market thrived. If you
wanted to get something for the official price, storekeepers often asserted the
item was out of stock. They could arrange to supply it through black market
channels. Double bookkeeping became common. David and I managed to get what we
wanted on the ‘white market’ by arriving at the stores during the early hours
of the morning and by stating, impudently, that supplies ought ‘now’ to be
available.
The
co-existence of the black market and rationing (‘Zena’ in the vernacular)
became a common joke. I recall that at the Purim Party (the Israeli masquerade
evening gathering) Bushi and I portrayed the economic reality. Being a tall and
heavyset adolescent, I assumed the role of the black market. Two toilet paper
rolls decorated my arms, vacant cans of rare delicacies (such as lobster) hung
from my chest and back and two empty bottles of
I am
proud to tell that, despite the turmoil prevailing in
Another
event I recall occurred in one of Old Frank’s classes of Biblical Studies. One
of our orthodox classmates, Arieh, insisted that some of the events told by
Daniel materialised in our own period.
“My
object is to study the text,” replied Frank. “Speculations on the
materialisation of prophecies are out of bounds.”
When
I reflect on these incidents and on the policy adopted by our teachers, I find
myself in support. Perhaps our biology teacher, Ms Garten, put it most neatly.
One of our girls argued that, as a matter of evolution, the erection of a Third
Holy Temple was on the cards.
“Evolution
deals with the development of the species and of organs, such as the eye or the
brain. The Erection of a Third Temple is
a policy issue, best discussed in the Political Science courses of a
university.”
All
in all, the creation of
The
main obstacle I faced was the spotting of suitable plays. Obviously, they had
to be short and have a limited ensemble. Plays which involved too many roles or
which required the participation of a ballet group or of a substantial choir
were too hard for us. Further, the
staging had to be simple. Fancy castles or roomy houses had to be avoided. So
did plays which required a sea or river scene. One additional point of
substance was the nature of the ‘roles’. Any play had to be ruled out if it
included a role (or character) which nobody would be able to perform. For
instance, Medea had to be excluded for that very reason.
Another
issue related to finances. Putting up a play involved expenses and, in
addition, the ensemble had to find a venue for rehearsals. Sheen alone could sanction these. Some financial assistance was obtainable from
the newly established Council of the Arts. The application, though, had to be
signed by Sheen. He was also in charge of the allocation of premises for
rehearsals.
To my
delight, Sheen was supportive. However, he wanted to have a say in the choice
of pieces to be performed by us. He vetoed my initial selection, namely of
Eugene O’Neal’s Mourning Becomes Electra. His main ground was that the
play was difficult to stage and that it was too long. He then asked, pointedly,
why I did not prefer the Greek drama, Aeschylus’ The Orestea,
which the American playwright had utilised. Finally, he added that a play based
on fate or on pseudo-psychoanalysis was not suitable for a school performance.
“In
any event,” he added, “I agree with Charlie Chaplin: O’Neil was hollow.”
We
went through a list of modern Russian plays based on bravery. Sheen sneered. He
thought that militarism was injected into our classes at school. It need not
dominate our artistic assessment of a work.
“Mr.
Simon wants to stage one of Shakespeare’s plays.”
“I
understand,” muttered Sheen, “but, then, you have already performed Julius
Caesar. There are many other famous playwrights.”
In
the end, we settled on Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, which dealt with the 14th
century rebellion of the Swiss people against the Habsburg Empire. Staging was
easy and there were only three principal characters: the leader of the revolt – the marksman Tell (who was able to hit a
target with his crossbow from a distance of 100 yards); the tyrannical governor
– Gessler; and the latter’s ward, a girl
named Bertha, who was sympathetic to the rebels’ cause. The drama ended with
the oppressors’ defeat.
“So
you see, Chayim, although the play was written in 1804 it has remained
topical,” grinned Sheen. “Also, it was translated to Hebrew by Bialik, one of
our national poets. This fact will carry weight with the authorities when I
apply for a grant.”
“Would
that really be the play of your choice,” I asked because I noted that Sheen’s
response did not display enthusiasm.
“Not
really, Chayim. My choice would be Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis, in
which the father, Agamemnon, sacrifices his daughter so as to appease the Pagan Gods. But
I don’t think we have a Hebrew translation and, in any event, it may be too
difficult for a school’s performance.”
In
due course, we staged Wilhelm Tell. Sheen invited an acquaintance, who
contributed a column on ‘Culture in
Life
in TA.1 continued harmoniously. Our Kumsitzes were well-attended and cemented
the closeness that prevailed in our Form. Some two weeks before the end of
term, we started our cramming sessions. Bushi’s house became a meeting place
for many of us. I recall how, on one occasion, Bushi maintained that Advanced
Mathematics and Hebrew Grammar had one point in common: both were void of any
sense. Abe – who used to be close to Reuben – countered that Advanced
Mathematics was geared in pure reason.
“Oh
well,” Bushi gave way. “If that is so, the common ground of the two subjects is
that they have been invented for the sole purpose of torturing the innocent.”
“You
mean: the uninterested onlookers,” retorted Abe, who relished all science
courses but abhorred the humanities. Still, such broadsides did not affect our
cooperation. Bushi continued to teach Grammar whilst Abe gave him extra tuition
in Calculus. I, too, played an important role, mainly when it came to cramming
Arabic.
During
that very period, I (or rather Mother) became the owner of a business. I have
to mention that in those remote days there were no supermarkets and, as far as
I can recall, no department stores. Most streets in Tel Aviv housed grocers,
greengrocers, butchers and fishmongers.
There were also some specialised delicatessen stores. Naturally, most
people went to shops in their neighbourhood. By and large, shop owners had an
excellent business.
When
I discovered that the grocer in our street, Mr. Asher, wanted to withdraw from
his business, I offered to purchase it. After some hard bargaining we agreed on
a price and payment terms. As David and I were still minors, the contract had
to be executed by Mother. Further, we anticipated that Mother would run the
business and, in this way, find a suitable occupation.
Feeling
at ease after the execution of the transaction, I remarked jokingly that Mr.
Asher ought to be able to retire comfortably on the fortune he made.
“That’s
not my reason for giving up such a fine shop.” He then rolled up his trousers
and asked me to have a look at his legs. I was dismayed to see that his veins were
protruding and sore.
“I am
sorry, Mr. Asher. How did you get these?”
“In
this business you have to be on your feet all the time. This is tough if you
have symptoms of varicose veins.”
“I
only hope Mother will not succumb,” I muttered.
“If
she develops any symptoms she simply must resell the business. I made the
mistake of waiting too long.”
“Is
there a cure?” I wanted to know.
“At
this time, the only treatment is an operation. The best surgeons are in
Mother
ran the shop effectively and, I am glad to say, did not develop varicose veins.
The business was, however, affected when supermarkets arrived in Tel Aviv. Mother
sold the shop at a modest profit and retired on her meagre savings. David and I
helped her to maintain a comfortable standard of living.
In a
sense, though, I am jumping the gun. At about the time we bought the grocery,
David was in his last year of primary school. His grades would not have enabled
him to apply successfully for a place in TA.1 but quite a number of less
prestigious secondary schools would have been ready to take him in. David,
though, was not interested.
“You
know, Chayim,” he explained himself, “I am not attracted to further studies. I
want to go to a business or professional school and, when I am ready, to launch
my own enterprise. You know that I am good at odd jobbing. If I had a business
of my own, I should know how to run it.”
His
words made sense. In the event, I saw him through a fine professional school
and was pleased when, during a vacation in his second year of studies, he
joined the local office of a foreign bank as a cadet. Later in life, David was
employed by the same bank and, in due course, rose high in the business world.
I am satisfied that he had made the correct decision. Although we had our
differences later in life, I believe that in these early days his heart was in
the right place.
I was
now close to graduating from TA.1. Military service had by then been introduced
and I knew I would have to spend about two years in the army. A basic training
course was compulsory but I was keen to be moved, after completing it, to the
Entertainment Corps. This encouraged me to stage more dramas during my
remaining years in our school.
Regrettably,
I was unable to put up Tevye the Milkman. None of our fair colleagues
was keen to act the role of his wife. It would also have been difficult to
persuade one of them to play the matchmaker.
In the event, Bushi induced me to put up the show in Yahad. Naturally, I
played Tevyeh and we had no difficulty in finding takers for the feminine
roles. The staging presented some problems but two members of Yahad helped me
overcome them. The play involves a pogrom and, instead of actually staging it,
we displayed the fear and revulsion of the persecuted when they heard the
approaching Cossacks. Another trick concerned the scene in which Tevyeh
accompanied his daughter, who was leaving home in order to join her fiancé who had been exiled to
The
show was attended not only by the young members of the Club but also by the
older generation. The applause confirmed that the event had been a success. I
recalled, affectionately, my discussion of the play with Mrs. Kornmehl. I also
knew – with certainty – that Tavyeh was a role that suited me and my temperament.
A few
months later, I staged a drama in TA.1. Once again we found it difficult to
select an appropriate play. Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard had to be ruled
out because we had already performed his Uncle Vania. Ibsen’s Peer
Gynt was considered too ambitious and his The Enemy of the People
was being performed by a well known theatre.
In
the end we settled on Bertolt Brecht’s The Good Soul [Woman] of
“Brecht
was, of course, a German. But he hated the Nazis and was prominent on their hit
list. He was a great playwright and The Good Soul is outstanding.”
I was of the same opinion. Brecht’s masterpiece deals
with the paradox of goodness in an evil world. The principal character of the
play is the prostitute, Shen Teh, who is the only person in the town to give
shelter to three gods masquerading as travellers. They are disappointed with
the greed, dishonesty and selfishness they have discerned in modern society.
Moved by Shen Teh’s goodness they enable her to buy a tobacco shop. However,
Shen Teh’s inability to decline the demands made on her modest business and her
impulse to ‘do good’ soon led to her shop becoming an unruly poor- house, which
attracts crime and requires police supervision. Her ‘goodness’ leads to ‘evil’.
The chorus opines that hers is not the way to solve the ills of this world.
To
solve her problem Shen Teh dons male clothes and a mask, and assumes the role
of a fictitious male cousin, Shui Ta, who is put in charge of the shop. Shui Ta
is an unfeeling entrepreneur, who soon turns the small shop into a successful
enterprise. Where Shen Teh would be driven by her emotion to do good, her alter
ego is a ruthless, worldly businessmen.
Matters
come to a head when the real Shen Teh falls in love with a scoundrel who sets
out to exploit her. When she breaks down and cries bitterly, an employee enters
the room. As he finds only Shui Ta (the alter ego) he suspects that Shen Teh
was murdered by her cousin. The case is prosecuted before the ‘gods’, now
turned judges. Contextually, it is clear that Shen Teh is not tried on the
murder charge. The issue before the ‘judges’ is whether, all in all, Shen Teh
has established that she is good. In the
event, the narrator throws the task of coming up with a verdict on the
audience. The real issue raised by
Brecht is whether a good (or decent) person can retain his (or her) outlook in
a flawed world.
The
play had been translated into Hebrew by a well-known man of letters, who
departed from
My
own role in the performance was confined to directing and to a minor role: the
scoundrel who breaks Shen Teh’s heart. Sheen, who attended our dress rehearsal,
was so impressed that he gave all Forms a morning off so that everybody could
attend the show. He also suggested that a chorus ought to replace the role of
the narrator. We adopted the course proposed by him.
The
show was a success. Each member of the cast and all advisers and assistants
were given the privilege of inviting two friends. Most of them invited their
parents. Shosh, though, invited but one guest: a young businessman, Uzi Shamir,
with whom she was going steady. It dawned on me that my relationship with Shosh
was bound to remain platonic. Bushi, whose parents had never mastered Hebrew,
invited two of his friends in Yahad. To my delight, the Club’s Committee was so
impressed by the praise heaped by Bushi’s guests that they invited us to
perform the show on their own premises. I was glad to oblige and to have yet a
further success.
Ben
Zvi, too, was pleased, especially because the initiative for the performance
came from his Form. In his own way, he regarded our success as evidence of the
efficacy of his pedagogical approach. Obviously, he reflected a great deal on
Brecht’s drama. A few days after the school performance, he cornered me in the
corridor.
“Chayim,”
he asked, “why do you think Brecht placed the action in
“I am
not sure, Sir.”
“Well,
whom does Brecht attack in his play? As you ought to know, Brecht was a
socialist. After the end of WWII he settled in
“Is
it possible that he wanted to distance
his parody from
“That
too. But is it also possible that he wanted to tell us that the evil of
capitalism applied right across the board?”
“That
point was raised by Shosh. Bushi raised another point. He asked why Brecht made
his heroine a prostitute. After all, any naïve woman could do.”
“Did
he answer his own question?”
“He
thought that Brecht wanted to tell us that in a bourgeois society, the only
honest person is a prostitute.”
“A
perceptive observation. I, too, came to this conclusion.”
Many years have passed since this seminal performance.
I have watched the drama in
My
remaining years in TA.1 were an anti-climax. All of us had to cram hard and, in
addition, had to take Sheen’s tongue lashes when he dissected our essays. Ben Zvi, who conducted the classes in History
and in Geography, was another hard taskmaster. Ms Garten, too, did not suffer
fools lightly. Simple Simon and Klein (the Mathematics Master) were somewhat
less demanding but, on occasions, let their irritation show when one of us was
unable to handle an issue referred to him (or her). Actually, I am satisfied
that the standard of teaching in TA.1 was unique. It far exceeded the yardsticks
prevailing in universities and seminars I have since attended. I believe that
graduating from TA.1 with high grades was a benchmark.
David,
too, enjoyed his courses. I am satisfied that his studies in the school he
attended prepared him for his future career as a model banker. I doubt if
university training would have been of any benefit to him. As we progressed in
our respective studies, I became convinced that David would grow into a
handsome and reliable young man. I was proud of him.
During
our last year in TA.1, every boy had to undergo a medical test. Bushi alone was
declared ‘permanently excluded (from army service) for reasons of health’. The
rest of us passed and then had an interview with the Mustering Committee
appointed by the military’s authorities. We were given the chance to express
our desires respecting the type of army body in which we wanted to be enlisted
once we passed a basic course. Naturally, I indicated a strong preference for
service in the Entertainment Corps. The committee took notes and one of its
members cross examined me about my contributions to artistic pursuits during my
school days. I felt I had left a positive impression.
The
last event I wish to relate is our farewell party. All of us were accompanied
by parents and siblings. Sheen gave a moving speech expressing his satisfaction
with our batch. He added that he expected many of us to leave our mark in the
subjects we chose.
I was
invited to read out a poem about ‘School Day Friendship’ written by one of
6. En route
A few
weeks after graduating from TA.1 I enlisted in the army. Like all recruits I
had to spend some two months in the basic training corps. My recollections of
this period are mixed. On the positive side, the trainers (Madrichim)
subjected all of us to a rigorous regime. We had to march, climb fences and jump
from high surfaces wearing all our equipment. We were taught how to tackle the
enemy if we had to resort to hand-to-hand combat. Further, the system sought to
instil in us the impulse of obeying orders unquestionably. Regrettably, the
trainers were brutish. Some recruits were beaten up for no reason at all. I
could see the importance of the training but had my doubts about the methods.
In my eyes this negative aspect of the course outweighed its usefulness.
I
recall one typical event. We were instructed that if a person had an abdominal
injury, you should refuse to give him any liquid. One of us – a future
physician with a high grade in biology – asked innocently why that was so. For a
few moments the trainer reflected. Then he came up with a strange pearl of
wisdom:
“Well,
if you give him water it would run out of the hole.” He then added fiercely:
“The instruction is clear. So you must do so. In the army, you have to obey
your superiors and their orders. You are not in a dandy high school, you ass!”
I
found this approach objectionable and counter productive. It militated against
the Socratic teaching method I was used to. It dawned on me that in the army a
soldier’s rank outweighed his wisdom and integrity. I was – still am – aware
that an individual’s thoughts had to give way to the orders given to him. I
was, at the same time, conscious of the fact that very often a soldier paid
with his life for his superiors’ blunders. Vividly, I recalled Ben Zvi’s
discussion of the Napoleonic wars and of their cost to life, especially the
horrors of the Battle of Borodino. All in all, I regarded the training course
and the doctrines imparted to us unavoidable evils.
When
the course was over, I was invited to join the Entertainment Corps. My work
there was, I regret to say, a questionable experience. All shows and programmes
we performed sought to idealise a soldier’s courage and his ‘duty to obey’. I
recall in particular one drama which was based on a book published by a
middling author. It told the story of the heroism of the red army and the
merciless punishment meted out to dissenters. Technically, our theatrical
output was acceptable. But was it entertaining?
In
addition, we had programmes concerning the Holocaust. The one dealing with the
bravery of the resistance in Ghetto Warsaw was melodramatic and, I fear,
unconvincing. The few survivors were those who had the resolution and cunning
needed for an escape. Many of our viewers sympathized with them rather than
with the perished heroes.
One
play that irked me in particular was based on a Russian book in which the hero
saves his troupe but, in doing so, disregards his superior’s instructions. He
is awarded a medal for heroism but is executed for insurrection. The book and
the play, which I thought unimaginative, were based on a well-known French
book. The latter made its point. Our author failed to do so. I suspect the
audience cheered the hero and condemned his stupid superior. Still, memoranda
from above demanded that we stage this indifferent – and to my mind misguided –
play. To the best of my knowledge, it has never been performed since.
Another
stupid play concerned a pilot, whose legs had to be amputated after an
accident. Persistent drive and effort enabled him to regain his pilot’s post
despite this mutilation. The object of the play was to praise courage and
determination. Personally, I concluded that, quite regardless of an invalid’s
valour, I should avoid taking a flight in charge of a handicapped pilot. I suspect
the audience was of the same view.
After
some three months in the Corps, I approached our Head, Bennie Ornan, who was a
career soldier, with a suggestion that we perform Wilhelm Tell. I told
him about our success with the play in TA.1 and assured him it was easy to
stage. Bennie rejected my idea outright. In his opinion, a 14th
century rebellion was not in point.
“My
daughter attended your show. I know it was a success. And I know that you are
good at directing and staging. She told me all about the props. But look here:
our object is not just to entertain but also to indoctrinate.”
“Propaganda?”
I asked.
“You
can call it that. I know that Wilhelm Tell was written by Schiller and
that it is a good – although perhaps not an outstanding – play. But the message
it conveys differs from the objectives prescribed to us.”
I
watched Bennie thoughtfully. He was a middle-aged man who had started life as a
journalist. He then devoted himself to the Haganah and after
Noting
my crestfallen ambience and patent disappointment, Bennie explained: “Look
here, Chayim. Our aim is not confined to entertainment. In this regard, we
differ from a regular theatre. We have to convey a topical message. Your main
point of reference is art; ours is propaganda.”
“I’ll
have to adjust to this,” I conceded with a sigh.
“I
have a better idea. I have noted how you take instant decisions when you deal
with the props or stage a show. Also, I believe you are by nature a leader. You
usually find the best way out of a dilemma. I suggest you transfer to the
Officers Training Course and return to us when you complete it. It is the best
I can do for you.”
I am
glad that I followed Bennie’s advice. The Course was excellent. It emphasised
three points. First, we were taught how to make instant decisions. In a sense,
this aspect of the programme reinforced my natural inclination to make my mind
up promptly. My past as an odd jobs boy stood me in good stead. I recalled how
my brother, David, and I had to act swiftly when pipes burst or were blocked.
The
second point of emphasis was to teach us how to act as a leader. Here I learnt
a great deal. In a sense, though, the training brought to the surface qualities
which I had had all my life but which remained dormant. The high intelligent
quotients of my classmates in TA.1 made it easy to direct them. The Officers Training
Course showed me how to lead a group of dunces. You had to stand on your
authority both in peaceful and in turbulent times. You could be benevolent to
your subordinates but, at the same time, had to keep your distance. Some of my
work for the Haganah as a teenager formed a basis. But I had much to learn and,
I am glad to say, did so.
The
third principle, which was novel, was the importance of sparing your men. In seeking to achieve your object it was
necessary to abstain from any action that shed their blood wantonly. In a
sense, you had to draw a balance. In some situations you had to hold on to the
very end. In others, you had to surrender or withdraw in time.
We
covered in detail some famous battles. I was appalled by the Napoleonic
tactics, which prescribed a victory regardless of the loss of life amongst
Bonaparte’s own troops. The battle of
“Sir,”
I asked the trainer so as to get a clear answer, “sometimes a General has to
send an entire detachment on a hopeless mission. In reality, he sacrifices
them. How does he justify this to himself? Or is he trained not to care?”
“A
good General makes such a sacrifice only when it is dictated by necessity. If
he does not care about his men, he is a poor soldier. This is particularly so
in the case of our army. A fallen trooper is not always replaceable. Our
resources are limited. Adolf Hitler’s refusal to endorse the surrender of his
Sixth Army in
“So
on occasion a good officer must disobey his superior’s order?”
“Only
in rare cases. If he does, he must be able to justify his act to a court
martial.
There was such an instance in WWI when, enraged by his
troops’ refusal to storm out of trenches that were under fire, a French General
ordered his own canons to target them. The officer-in-charge demanded a written
instruction. To my mind, he should have refused outright: the order was
outrageous.”
“But
on some occasions you cannot reach a conclusion until the event is over. What
do you in such a case?”
“Rely
on your instincts. If in doubt, obey the order.” For a few moments the trainer
reflected. The issue was a difficult one. He then added: “This Course’s object is to teach you how to keep a
cool and detached head. If you are a good officer, you come up with an
appropriate decision before the skirmish is over. In a sense, the difference
between a good officer and a poor one relates to this very point. A good
officer makes his decisions whilst the battle is on and sticks to them.”
“Isn’t
this really a question of temperament and character?”
“It
is. And so some trainees will fail this Course. Our object is to identify the
ones suitable for the job.”
“Occasionally,
though, you have to hold on even if the odds are against you. I am thinking
about the last stand of the defenders of
“Those
were exceptional circumstances. Occasionally, a defeated army has to surrender.
Do you agree?”
“Actually,
I do. I should hate to see my men butchered once we are defeated.”
“And
who is to decide that all hope is gone?”
“The
officer-in-charge,” I replied after a momentary hesitation.
“Good
answer,” he confirmed.
We
had two useful sessions about the importance of surprise tactics. In the course
of them we also appreciated the role of intelligence services. The trainer started the first session by
asking us to mention surprise attacks narrated in the Old Testament. One of us
referred to the battle launched by Chieftain Gideon (Judges 7:15-22). He
attacked the invaders’ camp at midnight with but three hundred men, who tooted
horns and uttered alarming noises. In the ensuing confusion the invaders fled
in ignominy.
I
then referred to the battle of the Ai (Joshua 8:3-20), in which Joshua’s army
stationed an ambush behind the town, whilst a decoy lured the enemy’s forces
away. Nodding his head, the trainer observed that such tactics, of luring the
enemy into an ambush, were used by the Mongols. He then pointed out that the
ambush was, in itself, a surprise. So was the planting of a decoy, such as
“But,
Sir, what would happen if the enemy got wind of the trap?” asked one of us.
“Then
the army that set it would be caught off guard. And this leads us to the next
point: an efficient intelligence system – a functional spy ring – can often
determine the outcome of a battle. Some Russian campaigns of WWII were affected
by the breaking of codified German messages.”
Another
session dealt with the importance of communiqués. In some cases their object
was to mislead the enemy. The trainer discussed in details the misleading press
and other tactics used in order to convince the Axis (Nazis) that the Allies
would land in
“Sir,”
one of us queried, “is a battle just an upmarket version of the chess game?”
“In
many ways it is. However, a pawn in a chess game has no soul or life of its
own. In contrast, the troopers, the ‘pawns’ in a battle, are human beings whose
lives are dear and whose self-confidence may affect a battle. A good officer
knows that every man under his command has a survival instinct. Once a
soldier’s confidence and trust are gone, his main object is to save himself.”
“I
thought that commanding officers played war games,” I pointed out.
“They
do. Further, they assume that soldiers are of a uniform ability and standard.
Actually, this is dangerous: generals occasionally overlook the difference
between the pieces in a war game and the activities that take place in the
front. A good commander knows which of his troops are reliable and fit.”
We
had some interesting sessions concerning the formation of battle lines,
respecting cover and camouflage and another session teaching us how to lead
soldiers in frontal attacks. The remaining sessions dealt with issues of deportment
and with the need to gain both the respect and the devotion of subalterns.
Generally, the Israeli army is known for its cohesion and esprit de corps.
Officers had to be taught how to retain their aura of command without being
guilty of vanity and pomp.
All
in all, I believe the Officers Training Course had a positive effect on all
trainees. I was pleased when, after its completion, our superior told me that I
passed. He did, at the same time, indicate that my chances of rising through
the ranks were dubious. I had not demonstrated capacity as a tactician.
Further, he doubted my ability to sacrifice troopers caught in a trap.
“You
are more concerned with your men’s safety than with the outcome of a battle. In
a sense, you are too scrupulous.”
“I
believe I am. You see, Sir, I hate the idea of loss of life. Perhaps I am too
squeamish. I simply do not wish to be responsible for the letter of condolence
received by the dead soldier’s next of kin.”
After
the course was completed, we had a sumptuous party. My two guests were Shosh
and Bushi (Eli). I believe all present enjoyed themselves. Bushi alone appeared
thoughtful and, in a sense, dejected.
“So
we are becoming a war faring nation,” he muttered.
“We
were so since the very beginning of our history. The feats of Joshua are
discussed at length in the book named after him.”
“I
know,” mused Bushi, “but for generations we were known as Am Ha’Sefer
(the Nation of the Book).”
“Surely,
we can be successful on both fronts,” asserted Shosh. “Think about the
rebuilding of the destroyed fortifications of
“Let
us hope that our generation recalls that our main ‘labour’ relates to the
widening of our intellectual horizons,” replied Bushi.
Following
my completion of the Officers Training Course, I returned to the Entertainment
Corps. Bennie Ornan welcomed me back. To my delight he told me that his
superiors had approved the staging of Tevyeh the Milkman.
“I
convinced them that Tevyeh’s heroism and firm stand are topical,” he advised
me. “They realised that the strength of character of a Diaspora Jew and his
willingness to stand his ground in adversity provided a model of good conduct.
So was his leniency when his first two daughters refused to comply with the old
fashioned system of marriage with the aid of a matchmaker and followed the
commands of their respective hearts. His rejection of his third daughter, who
married out, was also in character. She had overstepped the thin line defining
his liberalism. Here, too, he stood his ground.”
“I’ll
make sure the performance is in harmony with the commands of our propaganda
directive.”
“Good
man, my fellow officer.”
The show was a hit. We performed it in many camps as
well under the auspices of a number of minor theatres. My own achievement, in playing
Tevyeh, attracted a number of positive press reviews. I followed this success
by staging a number of propaganda shows. Bennie Ornan was pleased.
My
service was drawing to its end. Bennie assured me that he would support my
application for a job in the regular army. A sound income and pension would be
secured. Further, he was convinced that I was in a position to contribute and
even raise the Corps’ standards. At the same time, he pointed out that, if I
opted for this route, a rise to stardom in a major theatre would necessarily be
ruled out.
I was
of two minds. I could contribute to the development of the Entertainment Corps
even if I chose to leave the army after my compulsory two years of service. A
soldier who returned to civil life remained in the army with one foot: he
became a member of the militia (‘reservists’). Until a specified age, he would
have to spend about one month per year in ‘militia service’ and would be
obliged to return to his unit if the authorities proclaimed a general
mobilisation, for instance, when a war broke out. Bennie had indicated that he
would support my application to carry out my ordinary militia service in his
Corps.
For a while, I remained undetermined. Then, by sheer
chance, I ran into Sheen. He was walking home after school hours and appeared
carefree. His advice was clear:
“Look
here, Mr. Rosenberg …
“Rosenne…
Dr. Katz,” I corrected him. “I changed my surname after joining the army.”
“Well,
Chayim Rosenne,” he grinned, “you have not finished your course of studies. A
university degree would stand you in good stead later in life. If you are
entitled to a scholarship, enrol in the
I took Sheen’s advice and started reading for a B.A.
During my first two years in
By
and large, my years in the
Then
thunder struck. One morning my chest was excruciating. When the symptom
persisted, I dragged myself to the nearest public hospital. To my dismay, the
physician in charge of emergency diagnosed a heart attack, involving the
blockage of an artery, and rushed me to the Cardiac Division. The medical
treatment available in those days was conservative. All in all, I was
instructed to rest and remained bed ridden for two weeks. The first week was
revolting. I was not allowed to go the bathroom, was washed (or rather
‘dubbed’) by nurses and had to submit to their brushing my teeth. Further,
during this depressing week I was not expected to turn in bed and, to avoid any
bruising, had to lie on a rubber tyre placed on my mattress.
Shosh
rushed up on the very day I was hospitalised. Bushi came the next day. I recall
how I muttered that I hated to see my motion carried. His reply was succinct:
“So,
in the very least, you do not lose out in the debates. And look here, Pilkin, I
am sure you’ll be back to normal in no time. Let’s make some plans for the
period following your graduation.”
“I
want to see the world, Bushi. How about a trip to
“As
soon as you are up to it. And look, Pilkin, such a trip costs money. We’ll have
to save hard.”
“Hear,
hear,” I replied. “Let us plan it when I’m again mobile.”
Bushi had to return to his post in the law firm in Tel
Aviv but David came over on the very same day. He had been granted two weeks of
compassionate leave by the army and stationed himself in my room in
This
admonition presented a problem. Our residence in Tel Aviv was a walk-up
apartment, located on the top floor. I had to be carried upstairs and then
started to take a few stairs each day. It took me some two months to recover in
full. Fortunately, I had worked hard on my courses prior to my illness and, in
addition, got the lecture notes of a colleague. At the end of the semester I
was in a position to sit for my B.A. examinations. As anticipated, I secured
sound grades.
I
felt I was ready for a trip to
It
was a magnificent tour. We visited quite a number of European countries. I
noted that Bushi, who was an odd man out by nature, found it easier than me to
find his way abroad. He was also in a better frame of mind than back in
One
day I might write a short story or a play about our tour. In the context of
this autobiography I confine myself to a number of interesting events. The
first took place in
The next experience took place in
Towards
the end of our stay in the erstwhile Byzantine metropolis, Bushi suggested that
we visit the red-light district, where prostitutes displayed themselves in a
window of their premises. Our plan was to take separate routes once we arrived
at the gateway to our destination. However, knowing that Bushi was naïve and
likely to be taken advantage of, I followed him until he entered the premises
of a motherly-looking middle-aged woman. I then went to the nearby premises of
a youngish looking tart.
When
we met after our respective escapades, Bushi muttered in disgust that sex
without emotion was nothing but a physical act requiring detached
concentration. To help him quench his
sorrows respecting the waste of money, I treated him to a donner kebab: the Turkish
version of our pita-falafel. Devouring it enthusiastically, Bushi looked at me
gratefully.
“First
you have to fill your stomach and only thereafter enjoy moral escapades,” he told
me, misquoting Bertolt Brecht.
Another
amusing incident took place when we made a stopover in
For a
while I watched them. As anticipated, Bushi dismounted the donkey which (Bushi
later told me) found the steep climb tiring. I was amused to note how Bushi
followed – looking exhausted – and (I suspected) panting. It occurred to me
that here there was a charming entrepreneur followed by two donkeys.
A few
hours later, Bushi stumbled back into my cafeteria. He looked worn out and
disappointed. Lugubriously, he muttered:
“Munthe
tells us that his method of building was to erect, destroy and then rebuild so
as to fit his latest caprice. What a pity he rebuilt; the ruins would have been
more appropriate than the vainglorious dwelling he dreamt up.”
The
last episode took place in the mountain resort of Zermatt in
“I
like people but, usually, keep my distance. You are one of the few with whom I
am open. In
“I
suspect it is shyness,” I told him, “but, you know, I fear you may spend your
life out of
“It’s
possible,” he conceded.
“Let
us then meet here, in
“Why
not in yours?”
“I may change my name again; who knows. You won’t: you
are a real stick-in-the-mud. You feel that if the name was good enough for your
grandfather, you might as well keep it.”
“And suppose the Zemattschein has closed down by
then?”
“I’ll find a way to contact you.”
Next morning, Bushi took a train to
Before we parted, I asked my friend to give my regards
to his father and to Adele.
“I’ll mention you to him. I’ll convey your regards to
Adele if I chance upon her,” he spoke defensively.
“I’m sure you will. But be careful: she is world-wise.”
“You may be your brother’s keeper; but my name is
Bushi; not David”
I
took a train to
David
and I had a wonderful time in
From
We
were flat broke when we embarked on our flight back to
Bushi, too, returned to Tel Aviv after visiting his
father in
The
man who dominated the Arab world at that time was the leader of
To
protect their interests,
The
crisis had been the subject of numerous political analyses and I do not think I
have much to add.
It is well-known that
By and large,
“We do all we can to unite the Muslim World,” he said
sarcastically. “Indirectly, Nasser has attained his object: he has established
that
“Well spoken for a declared Canaanite, who believes we
ought to integrate with other people in the land,” I grinned. “But, Bushi,
don’t you think we have to improvise before we lose the ability to manoeuvre?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But are we manoeuvring in the
right direction?”
“As an officer and army man, I simply obey orders. I
attempt to carry out the tasks set to me. I believe I have.”
“Tell
me a bit about your exploits, please.”
Bushi listened attentively. He was impressed with our
campaigns and with the fighting spirit that had motivated me and my men.
Although he was a self-declared pacifist, he was moved when I told him how we
had stormed enemy positions. When I told him how I had led my men, he
congratulated me.
“You
are a man of courage, Pilkin,” he told me warmly. “You have guts.”
“In
Sharm El Sheik a complete division surrendered to us,” I told him proudly. “The
survivors were released when the crisis was over.”
“The
survivors?” he asked perplexed.
“Well
two prisoners were German volunteers. I shot them!”
Bushi drove on without saying another word. When we
arrived at our destination, I ordered a chicken dish. To my surprise, Bushi
ordered stewed rabbit: food prohibited under our dietary laws in the same
manner as pork. Usually, when we went out together, Bushi, who was familiar
with my traditional outlook, ordered chicken or fish so as not to offend my
sensibilities. He was acting out of character.
“What’s
the matter, Bushi?”
“What
made you shoot these two fellows?”
“I
already told you: they were Germans. Half my family perished in Nazi
concentration camps.”
“But
how old were the chaps you killed?”
“In
their twenties, I think.”
“They
could not have been involved in WWII. You visited the sins of the fathers on
their offspring.”
“And
if I did? Suppose you came across a Gestapo man, wouldn’t you kill him?”
“I am
not sure, Pilkin. Socrates tells us that revenge is unending. And I believe in
Gandhi’s words to the effect that if everybody asked an eye for an eye, the
whole world would be blind. I prefer to forget the past and start afresh. And,
in any event, I do not hate Germans of the younger generation.”
We finished our meal in silence. Bushi was lost in
thoughts. I knew him well: he was and would remain one of my few friends. I also
appreciated that his main aim was to avoid controversy. This, however, did not
stop him from expressing his view when he felt the need. I recalled with warmth
how he used to snap back when cornered.
He
gave vent to his feelings when we drove
back to Tel Aviv: “Pilkin, when one of our people cheats a person in the
Seeing I kept my silence, he asked: “Do you intend to
tell this to anyone else?”
“I already told it to Shosh. Her reaction was similar
to yours.”
“It might be best if you refrained from mentioning
this episode to others.”
Today, when I am composing my
autobiography, I am inclined towards Bushi’s view. A prisoner of war should not
be treated as a criminal unless he is convicted by a court with the requisite
jurisdiction. All the same, I have forgiven myself. When I discharged my gun, I
had acted on the spur of the moment and in the wake of a raging battle.
Undoubtedly, my present calling, which is anchored in Orthodox Judaism,
postulates that vengeance is the domain of God Almighty (Deut. 32:35). Nowadays
I would be able to control my temper even in critical situations and quench the
urge to punish. At the very same time, I have learned to forgive and forget the
misdoings of other people. Should I really use a different criterion when I
recall my own past?
As already related,
PART III: SETTLING DOWN IN TEL AVIV
7. Employment and My First
Marriage
After
the trip with Bushi and the culmination of the Suez Crisis I looked for a job. Financially, I could have stuck to my existing
enterprises; they were sound. My ambition though was for a future on the stage.
Bennie Ornan kept encouraging me to apply for a position in the army’s
Entertainment Corps. He was convinced that my medical misadventure did not
present an obstacle. I was, however, perturbed by the realisation that the Corps’
main object was indoctrination. I wanted to devote myself to art. For that
reason I did not send feelers to TA.1. I knew that a teacher’s career was well
paid and satisfactory. I knew also that, if I joined TA.1, Sheen would
encourage me to perform shows. My ambition, though, remained the theatre.
Regrettably,
the major theatres in Tel Aviv were not recruiting. In any event, most of their
employees were engaged on a freelance basis. I did not feel confident enough to
start on such a basis: my name was unknown to the public. In the end, I
accepted a contract for one year with the Signon theatre. It was not one of the
major outlets but, then, I was hoping to use my first job as a springboard. In
any event, the manageress, Nina Lasker, promised that they would consider me
for any role that was not taken up by the regulars. She added that my main task
would be to design props.
“You
are going to be the chief designer,” she said.
When I asked Nina to show me to my room, I was
surprised to hear that all they could offer was a labourer’s contract and I
would have to be satisfied with a desk in the workman’s room.
“But
I may have to keep drafts of designs drawn by me for forthcoming shows.”
“You’ll
have to place them in your desk or in a locker. I can allocate you one.”
“Oh well, I suppose this will have to
do.”
On
the very day I took up my appointment, Ronnie Eyal came to see me. He was a
middle-aged man, tall and broad shouldered with thinning hair and piercing
eyes. After telling me he was in charge of lighting and colour effects, he
asked me to join the employees’ trade union. I executed the documents then and
there.
“You
may need our assistance from time to time,” he smiled at me. “Nina is not particularly nice to employees,
except to her pets. I suggest you be on your guard. Actually, what type of
contract did she proffer you?”
“A
labourer’s contract. She said it was the only opening.”
“It’s
an old trick. I fell for it when she first engaged me.”
“What
do you have now?”
“A
dovetailed contract, which sets out my duties and privileges. I drew it up with
the assistance of a friend, who is a lawyer.
She tried to budge but had to give way: they need me.”
“Do
you think she has taken advantage of me?” I asked with trepidation.
“You
are a graduate of the
“I
am. And I had experience in staging when I was attached to the army’s
Entertainment Corps.”
“She
should have taken these qualifications into account when she offered to employ
you.”
“Well,
she didn’t. It’s a beginner’s contract.”
“Oh
well,” he sighed. “Get in touch with me if you need any help. I am in my room
from 9.00 in the morning till after the last show.”
“Don’t
you go home for the lunch break?”
“I
have a quick meal somewhere here. You are welcome to join me if you have
nothing better to do.”
My
duties were not cumbersome. By and large, I had a free hand. Difficulties arose
only when some actors wanted me to adjust the props to their needs. I made a
conscious attempt to meet their demands but, generally, adhered to the author’s
direction. One particularly annoying case arose when we staged The Good Soul
[Woman] of
“Leo
is one of Nina’s pets. Be careful when you deal with him. He tends to take
advantage and gets Nina to side with him,” said Ronnie as we left the scene.
“Has
he taken advantage of you?”
“He
tried; but in vain.”
Regrettably, the installation culminated in an
accident. As Leo mounted the provisional staircase, it gave way. Leo made a
quick recovery but, as soon as the act was over, scolded me. Nina, who stepped
in, became abusive:
“So
your staging cannot be trusted, Chayim,” she yelled at me.
“You
yourself, Nina …”
“. .
.Mrs. Lasker,” she interceded angrily.
“Then
you better address him as ‘Mr. Rosenne’, Frau von Lasker,” Ronnie Eyal, who
joined us as Nina raised her voice, broke in. “And you have no right to abuse
him. I was witness to the conversation.”
For a few minutes they kept glaring at each other. In
the event, Ronnie Eyal stared her down. At this stage, I felt the need to react
to her initial admonition: “As Ronnie points out, you, Mrs. Lasker, ordered me
to comply with Mr. Leo Shalev’s request. I deny any responsibility: the fault
is yours!”
“Sorry,”
she said after a pause. “I was too hasty. And please call me ‘Nina’. I regret
my attempt to stick to formalities.”
“I
prefer to adhere to them from now on,” I retorted. “And when you engaged me you
promised to find me roles to play. I have not been offered any during the three
months I have worked here.”
“You
won’t see any,” Ronnie observed as we left the scene.
Ronnie
and I became friends and before long were lunching together. Ronnie used to
grab a sandwich in a nearby eatery. I led him to the nearest pita-falafel
stall. In due course he became fond of the Israeli delicacy.
During
such sessions we tended to talk about modern literature and plays. Ronnie was
knowledgeable and, in many ways, a harsh though fair critic. I started to tell
him a great deal about my background, enterprises and years in TA.1. Ronnie was
a good listener. However, he kept mum about his own past and attainments. The
only information he volunteered was that he migrated to
Life
in the Signon theatre proceeded smoothly though rather monotonously. My only
problem was Leo Shalev. For a reason best known to him, he regarded himself an
authority on staging. Frequently, he tried to interfere in designs commissioned
by the directors of given shows. Usually I managed to fend him off politely.
Matters came to a head, though, when a director invited from overseas sought to
revive in
“Leo
Shalev tells me you were rude to him, Cha…”
“…
Mr. Rosenne to you, Mrs Lasker …” I interceded.
“But
I asked you to call me Nina, didn’t I?”
“And
I told you that I wished to stick to formalities,” I retorted angrily, raising
my voice.
Instantly Ronnie entered the office, ignoring Miri’s
attempt to block his way. Having listened to what had transpired, he insisted
that Nina explain why my refusal to obey Leo Shalev was rude. Further, he
insisted that if Nina demanded that I ignore the orders of the overseas
director, she should issue her instructions in writing.
“Many
of us look forward to the revival of the Greek theatre in
“I
only asked Ch…”
“You
meant Mr. Rosenne, didn’t you?” stormed Ronnie. “He is every inch as good as
you.”
“I
only wanted to ask him to be diplomatic when he handles Leo Shalev,” she was
now on the defensive.
“What
really did happen, Chayim?” asked Ronnie.
“Shalev
tried to give me instructions about the staging of a play in which he had no
role. I told him: ‘No way!’ And I’d do so again.”
“And
you were strictly within your rights,” concluded Ronnie.
“You
could have told Leo to raise the matter with me,” said Nina as we departed.
Culturally, the Greek play was a success. The critique
was complimentary and, to my delight, one reviewer praised the skilful staging.
Attendance, though, was poor: the play was a box office failure. When Ronnie
and I discussed the matter we concluded that the Israeli public was not yet ready
for a revival of Greek dramas. Classics were not taught in our schools. As
already indicated, we concentrated on the Orient and on the Biblical Studies.
I felt sympathetic when one afternoon Nina, who
attended a rehearsal of another play, told me that her concern was not only in
the artistic merits of our performances but also in their profitability.
“Don’t you have the backing of a wealthy donor?”
“I am afraid we haven’t. Our chief sponsor had to pay
heavy fines to the American Inland Revenue Authorities and then went bust.
Currently, we largely depend on our profits.”
“I understand,” I told her.
This encounter with Nina made me realise the
difficulties of her engagement. Still, I sensed that my future did not lie with
the Signon theatre. I had no intention of spending the rest of my life as an
underpaid employee of a second-tier establishment.
All the same, my remaining months with Signon were
pleasant. I was thinking of sending a letter of resignation but then decided to
discuss my contract with Bushi who was at that time finishing his pupilage in a
well-known law firm. Bushi studied the contract carefully. He then pointed out
that it was a one year contract. Signon had the option of offering me a new contract
not later than after nine months following execution.
“Well,” he asked, “have you worked there for nine
months?”
“Eight only.”
“Then your best option is to wait for another month.
If they don’t offer you another contract, your employment comes to an end
automatically after one year with them. You need not resign. Still, under
Israeli Labour Law you are entitled to two weeks of leave. See that you get
it.”
Bushi’s words enlightened me. I concluded that it
would be best to serve out ten or eleven months and then demand my two weeks of
leave. I felt certain that that Nina Lasker would not offer to renew my
contract.
A few weeks later, when I was in the corridor, I was
startled to hear a feminine voice screaming: “I wish I were dead!” Feeling
alarmed, I entered the room and found Galya Hadar, one of our starlets,
dishevelled and in tears.
“I was only rehearsing my role,” she said evasively.
“You did startle me,” I told her. “I thought this was
real. And your tears – are they part of the role?”
I was about to turn on my heels and leave the room
when she beckoned me back. “No, Chayim, I was not rehearsing a role. I just
can’t take it any longer.”
“What is this all about?” I asked after a pause.
“They always use me as a standby for major roles and
then give me some minor part. And I know I can be more convincing than some of
their famous actors. They are unfair to me. That woman, Nina, has her pets. If
you are not one of them, she gives you a rough deal. I am really fed up.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“I want to remain an actress. If I leave, they’ll
blacklist me. They have the upper hand; and they make no bones about it.”
“Have you tried to move to another theatre?”
“I don’t dare; and I really don’t know what to do.”
For a few minutes both of us were silent. Then, in an
attempt to comfort her, I asked her to have a drink in a nearby bar. To my
delight, she agreed to go out but suggested that a pita-falafel might be better
than a drink. She knew an excellent stall, opened by a chap who called himself
‘The Desperado’. I agreed readily and, before long, we were on our way.
Galya
and I started to go out regularly. She took me to a number of first-rate and
moderately priced oriental restaurants. After a while, I told her my story and
listened to hers. She had finished two years in a well-known secondary school
and then dropped out with the hope of making her career on the stage.
Regrettably, she had limited success. Despite her confidence in having the
required talent, theatre companies engaged her only in supporting roles. She
had hoped that her position would improve when she accepted Nina’s offer to
study major roles as a standby or locum. Regrettably, her performances when
called upon to appear on the stage did not lead to stardom. She had remained a
standby for the leading roles and her own performances remained confined to
supporting parts. She was getting ready to throw in the towel but realised that
she had nowhere to go. Rising in
“What
do you intend to do?” I wanted to know.
“I
suppose I’ll have to toe the line until I am ready to retire. My Mother left me
a property and an income. But you, Chayim, what are your plans? I gather that
Nina gave you an ordinary labourer’s contract.”
“True.
She said that was all they could afford…”
“ …
and, I am sure, promised to find you roles to play …,” Galya broke in.
“She
did, rather,” I conceded.
“It’s
an old trick: dangling a carrot in front of your face. It is her usual
stratagem for getting cheap labour. Well, did she get you any role?”
“She
did not.”
“And
she won’t. You ain’t one of her pets.”
“I am
leaving after I have completed this one year contract.”
“She’ll
pressure you to stay. She might even find you a petty part before your year of
service is over. But, in any event, where will you go?”
“I have some
business enterprises of my own. Also, I may accept a teaching job.”
“The best way
out, I think. You see, Chayim, your strength is in staging and in directing.
The field, though, is overcrowded. Also, you may be excellent for certain
roles. But I don’t see you becoming a celebrity. You are not an all rounder.”
“How did Leo Shalev rise so high? He normally gets a
lukewarm reception from the audiences and the critics are not impressed.”
“He is Nina’s uncle. Originally, his name was Schulz.
Nina is his older brother’s daughter. She married a fellow called Lasker – from
the family of the famous Grandmaster of Chess. The marriage did not last but
she kept her new surname. In her eyes, Leo can do no wrong, even when he
borrows money left and right and never repays.”
“Actually, Ronnie Eyal warned me. Did Leo get the
better of Ronnie?”
“He borrowed a small amount from him and ‘forgot’ to
repay. Nina tried to bring pressure on Ronnie, arguing the money had been a
gift. Well, Ronnie let her have it. His parting shot was: ‘mind your own
business’. Nina blushed and did not reply.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’m friendly with Nina’s secretary, Miri. She told
me. I suspect Nina has been very careful with Ronnie from that day on. And I am
pretty sure that Ronnie dislikes her.”
After a while Galya and I asked Ronnie to have lunch
with us. He was happy to join and in due course the three of became known as
‘that lunch club’. On one occasion Nina, who saw us, muttered that “the more
you are together, the happier you shall be.”
“True,” replied Ronnie, “especially if others don’t
try to force their way into the circle.”
“Why do you always tease her?” asked Miri
unexpectedly.
“Why ever not?” retorted Ronnie blatantly.
The episode surprised me, especially Miri’s attempt to
shield Nina. Ronnie and Galya, in contrast, took the episode in their stride.
The fact that a secretary sought to defend her boss did not strike them as odd.
When the waitress placed the dishes in front of us, I voiced my astonishment.
“Chayim, don’t be so naïve. Don’t you know that Miri
and Nina live together? Nina shacked up with Miri shortly after Nina left her
husband. Miri joined Signon mainly because she wanted to be with Nina all the
time. Miri is a highly-qualified secretary. She could earn much more if she
took up a job with a commercial company.”
“I had no idea,” I conceded shamefacedly.
“You, Chayim, are not particularly observant,” summed
up Ronnie. “You know how to drive a hard bargain in business transactions but,
all the same, fell for Nina’s rouse when she hired you.”
“You may be right,” I replied, “but tell me: why is
Nina so devoted to Leo? Occasionally, she harms him by allocating him
unsuitable lead roles. There is something odd about this. On the one hand, she
is calculating and looks well after the general business of Signon. On the
other hand, she tries hard to do what she thinks is best for Leo. Something
doesn’t add up.”
“Actually it does,” stepped in Galya. “Nina’s father
died young. He looked after Leo all his life. On his deathbed, he made Nina
promise to carry on. Miri tells me that Nina took this undertaking very
seriously. She is a loyal person by nature.”
“I see. So this is Nina’s bright side.”
“It must be,” added Ronnie. “I’m glad she has some
good points.”
Galya and I continued to go steady. When I told her
that I was still living in my Mother’s apartment, Galya asked me to come and
stay in her place. Her apartment was near Signon and she had one room too many.
I was glad to accept and moved in forthwith. After a short while, we became
intimate and decided to get married.
I stepped under the canopy with trepidation.
Traditionally, a Jewish marriage was meant to last. For most individuals of my generation it was
a final step in their personal lives. Divorce was uncommon.
As was the custom, four Jewish male adults had to hold
the poles of the canopy. A standard joke was the expression of hope that the
holders of the poles would not become the pallbearers of the coffin of the
spouse who was the first to succumb. I called on Ronnie, Bushi and two
acquaintances from my Officers Training Corps. Galya wore a fine wedding dress,
which we borrowed from Signon’s costumes coffer. It was actually selected by
Nina, who was supportive on this occasion. I wore a tuxedo: the only time in my
life I donned one. Leo Shalev assumed the orator’s role. He delivered a fine
speech about the bliss of marriage and cracked a few jokes which he found
amusing.
A Jewish marriage was sealed when the bridegroom
stepped upon and broke a glass placed just outside the canopy’s brink. I feared
that one of the attendants might play on me the usual ruse of substituting a
plastic glass. If the bridegroom failed to split it, he became the subject of
ridicule. However, none of my friends played such a dirty trick on me. I recall
that after the ceremony and the ensuing dinner – which was quite tedious – Galya and I were exhausted and fell fast asleep as soon as we
were able to leave the crowd and retire to our bedroom.
When I think about those remote days, I am satisfied
that ours was not a passionate love affair culminating in a chemical marriage.
We simply felt comfortable with one another and were glad to pool resources.
From the start, Galya made it clear she did not want to bear children. They
would stand in the way of her rising to a distinguished career on the stage. I
found myself in agreement with her orientation. Both of us were young and so
there was no need to hurry. With hindsight, I wonder if the agreement to remain
childless for the time being was an indication that neither of us regarded our
union as a final step.
My year with Signon was drawing to its close. Nina did
not offer to extend my contract and, in any event, I had no wish to continue
with them. Bushi advised me that I did not have to serve notice. However, he
told me it would be appropriate to advise Signon that I proposed to take the
last two week of service as my annual leave. Although this right had not been
spelt out in the contract, it was a conferred on every employee under Israeli
Labour Law.
To my surprise, Nina tried to resist. Initially, she
told me that her intention was to employ me on a regular basis and that I was
needed for the staging of a forthcoming play.
“I am sure a Judge, dealing with this contract, would
pay attention to my objectives. After all, I drafted the contract,” Nina told
me.
“My legal advisor tells me that a contract means what
it says. A party’s hidden intention is irrelevant,” I replied.
“But we really need you at this point of time. And you
did not serve notice of resignation,” she averred.
“The contract was for a one-year period. I am told
that a notice of resignation is not required in such a case. And you did not
offer to renew my contract by the time set out for this purpose in the
contract.”
“I had other things on my mind. I offer it now.”
“I decline,” I told her.
“So what do you really want?”
“What I told you in my letter. I am entitled to have
two weeks of leave.”
“The contract makes no provision for leave,” she
retorted angrily.
“Our law does. I suggest you consult Signon’s
lawyers.”
In the end, we compromised. I agreed to remain in
service until the end of the contract and to accept two weeks salary in lieu of
leave. Both Galya and Ronnie thought I had let Nina off too lightly. Still, my
motto was: live and let live.
Following
this unpleasant encounter, I paid a visit to Sheen. He was delighted to see me
and offered to employ me as a teacher. Initially, the contract was for one-year
probation but, Sheen explained, this stipulation was a mere formality.
“We
can always do with a teacher devoted to the humanities. We actually need an
extra hand for our Hebrew Literature and Biblical Studies classes.”
“How
about Talmud and Arabic?”
“All
in due course. And, Mr. Rosenne, Tichon
is keen to expand its activities in the staging of plays. You were active in
the field during your years with us. I trust that you have remained interested
in the subject.”
“Staging
and acting have remained my main interests!”
Returning
to TA.1 was an exciting yet strange experience. People I used to address as
‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’ were now colleagues. Whilst Sheen insisted that we keep up
with formalities, the relationship was that of equals. For instance, one of the
outgoing Bible teachers talked to me without restraint about his retirement
plans. When I was his student, such a topic would not have been raised, except
possibly by an indication that his years of service were coming to their end. I
also noted that some of the teachers I admired, even although I did not accept
their views or orientations, had left or simply passed away. I was sad to hear
that “Old Frank” had died in a car accident and that Mr. Klein, the Mathematics
Master, opted for early retirement. In his view, parabolas and hyperbolas were
more interesting than secondary school pupils.
Those
who left were replaced by newcomers, many of whom were graduates of our school.
It pleased me to think that Tichon’s aura and ambience lured many back into the
fold. By and large, there was little bickering and no in-fighting. It dawned on
me that although Sheen was a hard task master, he was actually an accomplished
and fair captain. TA.1 continued to go from strength to strength. It had
attained top rank amongst secondary schools and its graduates were able to
count on a secure future.
One of my first tasks was a revision of the Hebrew
Literature syllabus. The old curriculum concentrated on the Hebrew writings of
Diaspora Jews. Undoubtedly, their work paved the way for Israeli authors. My
generation, alas, had to read these in private. I recall affectionately our
reading sessions in Bushi’s home.
When I joined TA.1’s teaching staff, I was effectively
in charge of the syllabus. Without hesitation, I excluded much of the outdated
literature and erudite essays, which dealt with the problems faced mainly by
Jews in Eastern European countries. In their place, I covered the writings of
some innovative Israeli authors. These included Medad Shif’s, Shim’on
Tsahamra, discussing the issues faced by the offspring of a marriage of an
Israeli girl to an Arab. Another was S. Yizhar’s Khirbet Khizeh, which
exposed the expulsion of Palestinians from their land in the wake of the War of
Independence of 1948. I also covered the writings of modern Israeli poets,
including Avraham Shlonsky, Lea Goldberg and Nathan Alterman. Further, although
I disagreed with J. Ratosh’s Canaanite orientation, I appreciated his polished
style; and so I referred my pupils to his works. Notably, Sheen, who was even
more traditional than I, supported my reforms. He thought that TA.1 ought to
cover contemporary literature and social issues.
In my other main field, that of Bible Studies, I
thought it prudent to adhere to the traditional exegesis. I was aware of Bible
Critique, commencing with research undertaken mainly during the 19th
century. Still, I found myself in disagreement and thought that interested
people ought to be left to traverse this road independently. I felt – still
feel – attached to the traditional approach to the Bible and did not wish to
depart from the trodden path.
Galya, with who I often discussed my work, took a
different view. Whilst she supported the reform I introduced in Hebrew
Literature studies, she thought my approach to Bible Critique was too rigid.
“I know you reject Bible Critique; and your
conclusions may be valid. Still, I think you should give your pupils a chance
to proceed on their own. Why don’t you simply refer them to ‘further reading’?
You may of course tell them that you disagree with the treatments mentioned.
But why not give them the opportunity to investigate and make up their own
minds?”
On further reflection, I adopted the approach
recommended by her. Today, as an old man writing his autobiography, I am
pleased with the outcome. Quite a number of TA.1 graduates left their mark in
the field. It pleases me to think that my guidance might have been of some help.
During
my years as a teacher, Galya was a genuine support and comfort. Frequently, she
gave me sound advice when I hesitated about grading a script. Further, whenever
I was engrossed in marking compositions or exercises, she brought me cups of
coffee and tea and generally did her best to lend me support.
In point of fact, I recall the entire period with
affection. Intuitively, we apportioned our household chores. Being an
accomplished chef, I did the cooking. Galya looked after the house. By the end
of the year we found ourselves in a position to engage a part time helper who
took a load off our shoulders.
By the middle of my first year of service, Sheen
raised the issue of staging a play to figure in our end of year celebrations.
Initially, we had some difficulty in spotting a drama which would fit into the
scholastic calibre of our school and, at the same time, be acceptable to the
Department of Education. To my surprise, Sheen considered staging Euripides’ Iphigenia
in Aulis, in which Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter to the Pagan Gods so
as to secure a favourable wind for his fleet.
I was deterred by the challenge of finding a girl who would do justice
to the heroine’s role, which involved the manifestation of Iphigenia’s internal
struggle culminating with her courageous willingness to be the sacrificial
lamb. I had further misgivings as I was not familiar with any translation of
the drama into Hebrew. To my surprise, Sheen assured me that such a version was
obtainable. I drew my own conclusion about the translator’s identity when
Sheen’s eyes lost contact with mine. I further recalled his downcast expression
when he had told us, years earlier, that TA.1 did not offer a course in Latin
or Greek.
Another play we considered was Ibsen’s Peer Gynt.
Both of us, though, were sad to conclude that staging would be too difficult.
Further, we could not come up with the name of a boy who could play the role of
Peer, the Norwegian man of fortune who returns home broken and destitute only
to discover that his loyal wife has waited for him all those years.
In the event, we settled on a comedy written by an
Israeli author of German descent (a Yeke), entitled King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler. It compared
the lot of the wise king with that of a worldly commoner, with whom he swapped
places for a while. Although the original was in German, the drama was
translated into Hebrew by a leading poet.
It was witty and easy to stage. Notably, the play has remained popular
and continues to be performed frequently to the present day.
We had no difficulty in finding actors from amongst
our pupils. The only obstacle confronting us was the lighting, which was
tricky. I solved our problem by asking Ronnie Eyal, of Signon, to train one of
our pupils. I am glad to recall the audience’s enthusiastic applause. Nina
Lasker and Leo Shalev, whom I invited, were appreciative. I sensed that,
despite my refusal to remain a member of Signon, I was remembered positively.
My next two years in TA.1 proceeded peacefully. I was
a well-liked teacher and my classes both in Hebrew Literature and in Bible Studies
were lively and, I believe, rewarding. In due course, Sheen asked me to take
over the course on the Talmud. In addition, I persuaded him to introduce a
course on Drama and Acting. Despite the initial resistance from some quarters I
managed to have the course approved as an optional subject. As we already
boasted courses on Art and on Music, our new option was in effect complementary.
It became popular and, as anticipated, provided the ground for staging plays
and dramas. A performance of Tevyeh the Milkman was one of our many
successes.
Likewise, my home life was comforting. Galya was
supportive of my career and I helped her as much as I could. I recall spending
hours rehearsing her. I do believe that my assistance triggered off her slow
but continuous rise in Signon.
My brother, David, too, was doing well. Having
completed his army service, he took up a job in the office of one of the
international banks active in
Initially, I was disappointed. I knew that, unlike me,
David was an agnostic and remained within the fold ethnically rather than
religiously. Still, I had always expected him to marry an Israeli girl or an
English Jewess. On further thought, I concluded that once again nature had taken
her course. The sexual impulse is dominant in all humans following their
puberty. From the wedding photographs David sent me I gleaned that Clare was a
good-looking girl. It was only natural that David was attracted to her. I hoped
that their marriage would be happy and satisfying.
A few years later, David wrote to advise me of the
birth of their second son. They decided to call him William (Bill). I sent
David a letter of congratulations but my heart was not in it. I feared that, in
due course, David himself might leave our ever diminishing fold. Thereafter, my
correspondence with him became sporadic.
8. A Teacher in TA.1
There
is not much to tell about my remaining years in Tichon. Naturally, I disliked
the marking of essays, exercises and examination scripts. The compensation was
the enthusiastic participation of my students in courses on drama and staging.
We produced at least one play per year and I am proud to relate that some of
our pupils proceeded to a career in theatre or joined literary circles. Some
others became respected journalists and authors. Teaching them was a pleasure;
and I do believe that in my own way I contributed to the development of
A
memorable event took place in my third year as teacher in TA.1. One of my
pupils, Uri Barsel, asked me to stage ‘An Inspector Calls’. In this milestone
drama, J.B. Priestly describes how the members of a wealthy middle-class family
in
I was
moved by Uri’s constructive suggestion and recall our conversation vividly.
“It
is an excellent play, Uri, but I have two problems. First, I am unaware of a
Hebrew translation. This has stopped Israeli theatres from staging it.”
“My
friend David, whose family migrated to
“That’s
a fine initiative. I am pleased; but how about the second problem? I fear that
the play, set by Priestly in 1912 (that is, before the outbreak of WWI), may
not impact Israeli society. We have a Socialist government. So what are we to
learn from an English drama, reflecting British society at the turn of the previous
century with its inflexible class structure?”
“But,
Sir, was the English society really so inflexible? How about people like
Horatio Nelson, Benjamin Disraeli and C.P. Snow? They moved upward despite
their humble origins. And coming to think of it, Mr. Berling, the head of the drama’s
clan, was doing all he could to climb further up.”
“I
take your point, Uri, but what has all of this got to do with us in
“But, Sir, is our society really egalitarian? How
about the large Arab minority and the Jewish émigrés from
“True,”
I conceded; “but in
Even as I spoke, I kept thinking about my own career.
I had managed to overcome obstacles and entered into the professional society
emerging in
Uri,
who was watching me keenly, added: “We could make the play topical in
“I
like the idea,” I told him after a short reflection. “It is ambitious but we
can do it. Still, it might be an idea to discuss the issue with our Principal.”
“But
… Dr. Joseph Katz …”
“ …
we called him Sheen when I was a pupil in this school …”
“We
still do; isn’t he strict and narrow-minded?”
“We
need his support, Uri; and actually behind the rigid image he portrays, Dr.
Katz is an open minded man. And he is well read.”
Sheen
was supportive. He obtained an adequate grant for the staging of the drama.
Further, he perused Uri’s translation meticulously and suggested a number of
constructive amendments, with the aim of enhancing comprehension and
eliminating obscurities.
I
recall with pleasure the success of our performance. One of our guests was Bennie Ornan, with whom I remained in touch even after I had left the
army. He praised our show and asked a number of pertinent questions about the
participants. Later on, Uri was invited to join the army’s Entertainment Corps.
In due course, though, Uri opted for a business career.
Nowadays,
in my old age, when I reflect on the staging of the drama, I cannot help
feeling that Priestley’s utopian society has remained a dream. It is true that
a welfare state replaced the structured society criticised by the author. This
refurbished state, though, is constantly exploited by the very people whom
Priestley sought to shelter. The working force is heavily taxed so as to meet
the dole payouts and the costs of other social expenses the state now bears. In
reality, the strict division between the wealthy and the poor remains a cause
for concern: a plutocracy has superseded the society that preceded it. Before
long, artificial intelligence and robots may lead to rampant unemployment. What
will come thereafter? I am unable to predict.
These depressing thoughts emerged as I aged. During my
years as teacher, work and home life were enjoyable and so I contemplated
staying in my then post. The hope of a career in an Israeli theatre was waning.
All in all, I felt no need for a change. The Almighty or (if we accept my
friend Bushi’s philosophy) Fortuna had different plans for me.
However, I must not jump the gun and so I turn back to
my youth. As already indicated, my last years in TA.1 were even
more enjoyable than my first period. The students were aware that my main
interest was in the theatre and in Hebrew literature. I recall with glee how
Uri called on me after a Hebrew Literature class and asked me to peruse a
‘scribble’ which he attributed to one of his friends. In reality it was an
excellent short story, dealing with the life of a Sephardic Jew whose girl
friend was a European (Ashkenazi) and whose family objected to the union. I
came up with a number of suggestions respecting style and grammar. The
narrative, though, was impressive and reflected hidden prejudices that remained
in existence in our emerging, allegedly open ended, society.
“Tell your friend I approve. He is talented,” I told
Uri.
“I am convinced he will be delighted to have your
endorsement.”
Another delightful event took place about a year later.
One of my pupils, a highly spirited girl, suggested that we stage Medea.
She told me she was able to play the heroine.
“But do you really want to take on this role? How would you feel about Medea’s murder
of her children by Jason, just so as to spite him for having scorned her?
I can think about quite a few ‘old hands’ who would shy away.”
“I know,” she told me. “But then, Sir, that horrid act
is not shown to the audience. I can live with the innuendo.”
Initially, Sheen was lukewarm. He feared we were
over-extending ourselves. Further, he doubted if the powers above him would
give the green light. In the event, he overcame his doubts and gave us his
support.
Another problem surfaced at this point. None of our
students wanted to play Jason. Those I approached told me that, in their eyes,
Jason was a despicable character. In
In sheer desperation I asked Uri to take the role. He
thought the matter over and finally agreed – provided we added to the script
one line, in which Jason expresses his hope that his rise in
“You are seeking to adapt the play for performance in
our modern society,” I told him.
“This, indeed, is the object. Also, it makes Jason a
more realistic character. We turn him from a villain to a man who seeks to
secure his offsprings’ future. And, Sir, this is not the first time fresh blood
is injected into an ancient masterpiece.”
The performance was a success. TA.1’s reputation as a
secondary theatre was slowly but surely establishing itself. I was proud and
pleased.
As the years passed by, I became well-entrenched in my
position. I was no longer the new appointee, who had to feel the ground. After
four years of service, Sheen asked me to become Deputy Principal. By then, most of my old teachers had retired
or simply moved on.
My students, too, kept changing. I recall the farewell
party given by Uri’s Form. I was invited as guest of honour and thoroughly
enjoyed myself. I sensed that the young boys and girls I had been teaching grew
into young men and women. Their generation would, in due course, have a say in
the selection of
My home life, too, remained satisfying. Galya was
moving upward in Signon. Nina allocated her some fine supporting as well as
lead roles. Naturally, Galya’s rise entailed extra work on my part. To start
with, I had to help her rehearse. Galya was not blessed with a good memory,
which meant that my role in aiding her to remember lines became cumbersome.
Still, it was a work of love and so I did not complain. Another, less
satisfactory feature of Galya’s rise, was that I had to carry on more chores at
home. Our helper (Ozeret in Hebrew) became indispensable.
All these years I maintained my close friendships with
Ronnie Eyal and with Bushi. The latter proceeded with further studies at
In contrast to both of them, Ronnie Eyal remained
stationary. He took the view that any Holocaust victim who managed to migrate
to
A highlight of that entire period was Uri’s wedding. Initially, he and his
fiancée contemplated a civil marriage. They knew that such a wedding could not
be celebrated in
“Uri,” I told him, “isn’t your bride Jewish?”
“She is, Mr. Rosenne. However, both of us are members
of the Canaanite movement. We don’t want to celebrate our union before a
Rabbi.”
“I didn’t know you have become a Canaanite.”
“Actually, you, Mr. Rosenne, provided the lead.”
“Eh?”
“I know you are traditional. But you directed us to
Ratosh’s poetry. I read and admired it. I then went to his political
gatherings. Before long, I joined the movement. Actually, that is where I met
Rina. I also met your friend, Eli Berger.”
“What a small world,” I expostulated. “But – as you
may know – Bushi went for further studies overseas. And, Uri, I am not a
follower of Ratosh, although I admire his poetry.”
“But that is irrelevant. We may disagree in our
political orientations. Your Hebrew Literature classes, though, enlightened me.
But, look here: you seem to be uneasy about our plan. Is there any practical
reason for this?”
“Actually, there is. As you undoubtedly know,
marriages are no longer as stable as
they used to be. Regrettably, many end in divorce even if the relationship was
excellent at the beginning. If you married overseas, an Israeli court would
hold your marriage valid. I have no doubt. But dissolution would be
problematic. I really hope your marriage will be successful and everlasting.
But we do not know what the future holds for us. And bear in mind that the
Rabbinate has the power to dissolve any Jewish marriage but not a civil
marriage celebrated overseas.”
“Is this your only concern?”
“Actually, it isn’t. You see, Uri, Judaism is not
merely a religion. It also involves an ethnic affiliation. Adolf Hitler, may
his name be cursed, emphasised this point.
If you fly overseas because you don’t want to celebrate your day here
before a Rabbi, you take a step in the direction of relinquishing your source.
As you know, I have read Ratosh carefully and am satisfied that, if you embrace
his political views, you cannot be a Zionist. All the same, and like Ratosh,
you remain – and always will be – Jewish. Don’t try to sever the link.”
“We’ll have to think about all this,” he conceded.
In the event, Uri and Rina had a traditional Jewish
wedding. I carried one of the posts of the canopy under which they stepped.
Now, after the lapse of so many years, it pleases me to relate that Uri’s
marriage flourished. I attended the circumcision of his son and visited Rina
after she delivered a girl. Both children settled well; they have good careers.
Uri attended the weddings of both of them. They married young and so he had the
fortune of seeing his grandchildren. Regrettably, he had a stroke in his sixties.
I was, at that time, in the
A
major political event that took place whilst I was teaching in Tichon was the
Six-Day War of July 1967. It was initiated by Nasser, who ordered the United
Nations observers to leave the
Nowadays it is accepted that the preemptory strike of
My unit was involved in the fierce battle of Latrun,
which the Jordanian army sought to retain. We won, had very few casualties and
remained in that neighborhood until the ceasefire. After the culmination of
hostilities, the entire West Bank as well as the
I recall with
glee the day I visited our holy places. During my student days,
When I look back at this fateful war, I conclude that,
in its own way, it created new problems. The Muslim world was humiliated and
was bound to seek revenge. Nasser admitted that it had been an error to start a
war for which
The main problem caused by the war was migration.
About three hundred thousand Palestinian Arabs fled to neighbouring countries
where they were treated as refugees. I am, further, convinced that many of them
were chased away by our army and that atrocities were performed by some of our
men. I am proud to confirm that my own men did not commit any.
The new wave of
Palestinian refugees (and their sufferings) has remained a thorn in
Another wave of migration resulted from the surge of
anti-Semitism in the Arab world. Since the War of Independence of 1948, the
existence of Jews in the Arab countries had become precarious. Many left at
that time. The Iraqi Operation Magic Carpet, which enabled Jews to fly from
An additional catalyst for the migration of Jews from
Arab countries was the shameful Lavon Affair
of 1954. Jewish-Egyptian sympathizers were induced by Israeli intelligence to
plant time-bombs in American and British owned premises in
Up to this point, I had dealt with the unwholesome
side effects of the Six-Day War. It would, however, be unrealistic to overlook
the advantages incurred by
Yet another, far less obvious outcome of the Six-Day
War, was that
I am aware of the fact that the Scrolls have led to
controversy. My personal assessment differs from the enthusiasm displayed by people
like Uri and my life long friend Bushi. Where the text of a Scroll differs from
the Jewish Masoretic Text, I adhere to the latter. All the same, whenever I
visit
Back in Tichon, life continued in its usual,
satisfactory, flow. Then, unexpectedly, a new venture surfaced. Two girls of
one of my classes asked me to conduct an extra course on Modern Israeli
Literature. They pointed out that the materials prescribed in our syllabus did
not do justice to the ongoing development of Israeli literature. I had
prescribed some texts but many books had to be read outside school hours.
“I have given you references to leading new works,” I
pointed out.
“But this is not the same thing as going through them
together systematically.”
“I am not sure that an extra course would be
sanctioned,” I observed sadly.
“Both of us are
members of a club, which allows us to use its premises. Let people come on a
voluntary basis. We are certain that pupils from other secondary schools will
grab the opportunity.”
Sheen pointed out that such a course would be extra
curricular. At the same time, he encouraged me to go ahead. He, too, took the
view that a new literary culture was emerging in
The
meetings were timely and successful. To start with I emphasised that in these
gatherings all participants were of equal standing. It was therefore
appropriate to drop formalities. Initially, some youngsters found it difficult
to address me as ‘Chayim’ rather as ‘Mr. Rosenne’. However, it did not take
them long to adjust.
The
first book we discussed was Moshe Shamir’s He Went Through the Fields.
It deals with the love affair of two members of a Kibbutz: an Israeli-born
youth (a Sabre) and a girl who migrated from
Our
gatherings became regular and we covered quite a number of modern novels and
poems. I recall our analysis of Aharon Megged’s The Living on the Dead,
in which a Young Man – of Uri’s generation – is commissioned to write the
biography of one of
We
enjoyed a lively discussion of the book and of the gap between the young
author’s generation – the Young Generation – and the idols of the Yishuv’s early days. Uri and Rina, who attended, postulated that
the apparent difference between the generations was nothing but the demarcation
between the pragmatic approach of a politician cum pioneer and that of aloof younger
students, a sort of Israeli Bloomsbury Intellectuals.
To my
delight Bennie Ornan, who was by then close to retirement,
started to attend our meetings. At his suggestion, we turned to the discussion
of Hebrew translations of modern novels and plays. On of them was George
Orwell’s 1984. As was to be expected, some of our participants came with
the English original. In our discussion, we concentrated on the differences
between the author’s own tome and the Hebrew version. We concluded that, in
many instances, the translator departed from the original so as to adjust the
text for the needs of the Israeli reader. We also dealt with Orwell’s
predictions. We concluded that in 1968 – when our analytical debate took place
– none of Orwell’s prophecies had materialized. Today, in 2019, when I am
writing as an old retiree, I am satisfied that most of Orwell’s predictions
were off the mark. I do, however, admire the clarity and straightforwardness of
his style.
We
covered many books in our meetings. One of them was Kafka’s The Castle,
which was translated to Hebrew from the German original saved by Max Brod (the
late Kafka’s literary executor). On this occasion Leo Shalev, who learned about
our circle from Galya, attended our debate.
Leo, who had a perfect command of German, brought with him the original
version. Another work of Kafka we discussed was The Metamorphosis (Die
Verwandlung), which tells the story of the breadwinner of a working class
family who is transformed into a beetle and the effect thereof on himself and
his folks.
The
highlight of our meetings was an analysis of Emile Zola’s Germinal,
which had been translated into Hebrew. We also got a copy of the original.
However, as there was no French
speaker in our circle, we invited a teacher from the
Today,
when I compose my autobiography, I have come to the conclusion that our
meetings, which led in due course to the establishment of a Book Club,
constituted a milestone in the development of
9. The Israeli Educational
Television
Even so, the government was opposed to the
introduction of a local channel. Ben Gurion and Sharett thought our population
could do without it. The question was re-examined when Levi Eshkol became Prime
Minster in 1963. On the advice of a United Nations Committee, the Israeli
government concluded that it was desirable to launch an educational channel.
Feelers were sent out to various foundations, one of which provided the
required grant.
The
Israeli Educational Television (“ITV”) was established in 1965, well before the
Six-Day War. Its first broadcast took place in March 1966. The programmes were
pedagogical, covering topics in Mathematics, Biology and English. In 1968, well
after the conclusion of the War, the ITV began to share a Channel with the new
General Public Television, which broadcasted programmes of a broader nature.
At
the initial stages, I was not involved. My work at Tichon and at the Book Club
kept me well occupied. Bennie Ornan, though, was one of the programmers of the
ITV. Pointing out my interest in the theatre and my contributions through
teaching and the Club, he recommended that I be asked to join this new venture.
Initially, I was not keen to change employment. My career and attainments at
TA.1 filled me with pride and satisfaction. Galya took a different view. She
feared that my commitments in Tichon would quench my desire to leave a mark on
the theatre world. She thought that the opportunity to regenerate my interest
should not be missed. Her advice and Bennie’s persuasions convinced me to go
ahead. Further, Sheen made things easy for me by suggesting that I take two
years of leave without pay. If I decided to return to Tichon, the way back
would be straightforward.
My
new work was enjoyable. In a sense, I was well-placed to write and direct the
programmes. My teaching courses on Israeli Literature and on Biblical Studies
were an important asset. It pleased me to find out that quite a few members of
our Book Club started to watch my television programmes. I was also asked to
travel to the
Two
unexpected developments pushed me further in the direction of a revival of my
dream to play a role on the stage. The first was that Tevyeh the Milkman
was popularised as a musical entitled Fiddler on the Roof. In turn, this
led to a revival of the original play. It was now performed in leading and
secondary theatres. Before long, I became one of the regular Tevyeh actors.
The second event – which turned out to have a major impact on my life – was a
telephone call from Nina Lasker. Signon
had decided to stage Fiddler on the Roof. Leo Shalev was going to play Tevyeh
but, at the very last minute, pulled out, claiming that he was unable to sing. He
thought it best to withdraw before the critics had a chance to massacre
him.
I
wanted to comply but, like Leo, had doubts about the adequacy of my voice for
singing some of Tevyeh’s solos. Nina, though, pointed out that the audiences
would clap as long as they were able to follow my soliloquies. The spectators
did not expect an actor to be a fine tenor or baritone. Musically inclined
patrons would go to the recently established Israeli opera.
Had it not been for Galya’s prompting, I might have
declined the offer. Today, when I am telling my life story, I am glad I decided
to give the role a try. The applause I earned pleased me. I sensed that the
risk had paid off.
We had an eight-week run. One of our last performances
was attended by Rabbi Moshe Margalioth, who had come to
To my delight, Margalioth followed the matter up after
he returned to the
I spent most of my time in Margalioth’s Yeshiva in
Margalioth was keen that I stage Fiddler on the
Roof. Initially, I tried to persuade him to stage the original, non musical
version, of Tevyeh the Milkman. The Rabbi objected. He thought that,
whenever possible, we should keep up with social changes. Whilst traditional
Judaic laws could not be altered, we had to keep up with secular developments.
We had to find an actress prepared to play the role of
Tevyeh’s wife, Miriam: an obedient yet firm and commanding wife. In many
situations, she had the last word. Somehow, her mantle did not suit the
temperament and outlook of modern young women.
We had to search hard but, eventually, found a
volunteer. Yentl Jacobs, the daughter of a traditional and wealthy Jewish
merchant, thought she could come to terms with the role, especially as she
could identify with Miriam’s values. Yentl explained that her dream was to find
a reliable and self-made man, who would make his own decisions but listen to
his wife’s counsel.
Yentl excelled in her role. I believe that the
enthusiastic applause we enjoyed was triggered by her performance. I am further
satisfied that all the supporting roles were played well. In particular, I was
impressed by a young fellow, who played Perchic – the young Jewish
revolutionary who is engaged by Tevyeh as a teacher. When Perchic is exiled to
For me,
the most difficult scene was Tevyeh’s dream, which he makes up in order to
convince his wife that their oldest daughter ought to be married to Motel the
poor tailor rather than to the aging wealthy butcher. The difficulty arose
because Tevyeh fakes his dream whilst Miriam and he are sleeping in the
matrimonial bed. As the musical was staged in an orthodox community, I was
apprehensive of the audience’s reaction to seeing an actor and actress in a
bedroom scene.
My
forebodings, though, were unrealistic. The audience roared with laughter as I
narrated Tevyeh’s mirage. Furthermore, Yentl played Miriam’s role forcefully.
Having noted my patent relief, she brought the matter up for discussion.
“Chayim,”
she asked, “why were you so nervous about this scene?”
“I
feared our people would be perturbed by the display.”
“But
they knew that this was a narrative. We must move with the times, Chayim.
Surely, you don’t expect us to live up to the ideals of a period in our remote
past. You know full well that I do not wear a Scheitel (wig) or wait for
the matchmaker to find me a husband.”
“I
understand. But where do you draw the line? You do observe Kashrut (Jewish
dietary laws) and dress conservatively. Some ideals and norms have to be
retained.”
“Of
course,” she agreed, “the essence has remained intact; but the periphery
metamorphoses. Surely, many of our people wear modern clothes rather than
outdated Turkic attire. Their core, though, is not adulterated.”
I looked at her with growing respect. Here was a young
woman who would observe the spirit of our commandments though, in her own way,
she was world-wise and open-minded. At the same time, I sensed that she would
take her duties and commitments seriously and would live up to her admirers’
expectations. I was not surprised when Rabbi Margalioth told me that Yentl
served, pro bono, as nurse in the cancer ward of a well-known Jewish hospital.
I felt confident that she did all she could for her patients.
When
we completed our performances, Rabbi Margalioth asked whether I would like to
come over again. He felt confident that my talent would be appreciated in
“Why
don’t you ask your wife to come over with you? I am certain we could find her
good roles to play.”
“She
has set her heart on a career on the Israeli stage. She would not give up her
aspirations,” I told him somewhat lamely.
For a while Rabbi Margalioth was lost in thought. At
long last, he quoted Proverbs 12:4: “A virtuous woman is a crown to her
husband; but she that acts shamefully is as rottenness in his bones.”
“Surely, Rabbi, the second verse is inapplicable in
our case. Is it shameful for a wife to further her own career?”
“If she does so to her husband’s disadvantage, her
attitude becomes questionable. Genesis 2:20 suggests that God created the woman
to be ‘a help to match him [Adam]’. From what you tell me, your wife sees
things differently. You do all you can to further her career; but what is she
doing for you?”
A few days later I flew back to Tel Aviv. My superiors
at the ITV encouraged me to have another
spell in
The refurbished offer made to me a short while later
was irresistible. Rabbi Margalioth invited me to come over for just two months
and suggested that, on this occasion, it would be nice if I staged King
Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler. There was a substantial Israeli community
in
I pleaded with Galya. It seemed to me that like other
actors and actresses she had the right to take a period of leave and accompany
me. To my regret, she refused to budge. I was facing Hobson’s choice. I could
either proceed to
Galya looked thoughtful when we parted in the airport.
Looking her over, I realised that she was no longer the young girl I had taken
out when I heard her scream for help. She was now in her thirties and the
stress of playing one role after the other had left its mark. She was looking
haggard but, notwithstanding this change, I sensed that she had remained
committed to her place on the stage.
“Chayim,” she said after a pause, “are we falling
apart?”
“I don’t think so, Darling. I am simply paving my own
route.”
“You used to rehearse me and enhance my memory. How
shall I manage without your prompting?”
“Where there is a will, there is a way. And by now I
have taught you all the memorising tricks I know.”
“Once again, I am on my own. I thought you would
continue to coach me. Still, you must pursue your own interests. I know this.”
“If you really feel the pinch, try to get help from
Ronnie Eyal. He is a good and kind sort of a chap.”
Rabbi Margalioth looked at me thoughtfully when I
arrived in
“So your wife decided to pursue her own career?!”
“She did, rather. But Rabbi, she acted true to
character. Originally, she surmised that I would continue to coach and assist her year after year. I can – I do –
understand her. In her own way, she feels let down.”
Rabbi Margalioth nodded sagely. He appreciated that I
was disappointed but sensed that he ought to keep his peace. Negative comments
were uncalled for. In his eyes, the eyes of a traditional and observant Jew,
the bond of marriage was sacrosanct. Husband and wife became one flesh. If
their relationship became problematic, an outsider’s task was to smooth the
rough edges over.
The staging of King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler
went smoothly. Most members of the audience were, of course, aware that the
play was inspired by Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper.
Nevertheless, they clapped enthusiastically at each of the songs and generally
showed their appreciation. They came to
be entertained and left enriched and satisfied. Once again, I realised that I
was contributing to the standing of Israeli art. My sole regret was that Galya
was not there to see.
A few weeks later, I attended the Seder (the
Passover feast) in Rabbi Margalioth’s welcoming home. To my surprise he raised a point concerning
my being on my own.
“Chayim, I was hoping that Galya would be with us and
that your son would ask the Kushiot (the ritual questions, dealing with the characteristics of the Seder).
My only son is a grown-up man and, I am afraid, married out and is secular.”
“I don’t have children, Rabbi,” I replied lamely.
“How come?”
“Galya does not want to have any. She says she cannot
spare the time needed to bear them and to look after them. She claims she would
be a poor Mother.”
“But God commanded Adam and Eve (Gen. 1:28) and, after
the Flood, Noah and his sons to ‘be fruitful and multiply’(Gen. 9:1). A
childless marriage is barren. Don’t you
yourself want offspring?”
“I do. But many of my students treat me as a father
figure. This is some compensation. And I feel proud of them. Their success is
mine!”
“I understand,” muttered my host uneasily. Obviously,
he was not convinced.
“And look here Rabbi:
am I the youngest male at our Seder? If so, why not let me ask
the Kushiot. Am I much older than your son?”
“About the same age. And he declined my invitation
last year. I have not repeated it. Please go ahead.”
We finished the Seder well after midnight. All
of us were tired but felt elated, especially as each of us drank the compulsory
four glasses of wine. I knew full well that the authenticity of the Exodus from
A few weeks after Passover I got ready for my return
trip to
Galya met me in Lydda airport. On the way to a nearby
restaurant, I told her that Margalioth invited me to come over in about a year.
Galya looked perturbed. She said little during our pleasant oriental lunch but
broke her silence on the way home.
“Chayim, we are slowly but surely falling apart. From
now on you will spend a few months every year in
“What do you mean?” I asked with trepidation.
“Wouldn’t it better for us to call it a day?”
“You mean a ‘divorce’, don’t you?”
“I do, rather.”
“Very well,” I told her when we arrived.
A few
days later we went to the Rabbinate. There being no issues of property or of
the custody of children, the proceedings were straightforward: I handed Galya a
deed of divorce (a Get) and the Rabbi-in-Charge made an
entry in his book. As we left the
building we were no longer husband and wife.
Galya looked at me attentively. She realised that my
stern silence hid the feeling of disappointment and emptiness that filled
me. I concluded that I had wasted some
of the best years of my life. When I first met her, I had been a pariah in Signon.
I was on my own though not carefree.
When I started to go out with Galya, I did have a warm affection for her
even if passionate love had never engulfed me. I now reverted to my lonely
existence.
“A
penny for your thoughts,” said Galya.
“I
feel I have missed out,” I conceded. “Also you, Galya, are not a self-sufficient
person. You need a caregiver. It is your nature!”
“I
know,” she agreed. “But look, Chayim, I have already found somebody and I am
certain you will not remain on a limb for too long. I suspect your Rabbi has
plans for you.”
We
were about to part as we reached the
The
cozy oriental restaurant was as welcoming as ever. A dish of Humus followed up
with tangent Kebabs cheered me up. Then, as we were ready to order dessert,
Ronnie Eyal arrived.
“You
are late, Ronnie,” said Galya. “That’s not like you. I asked Chayim to join us.
We’ll wait with our dessert until you have finished your main course.”
“I am
not very hungry,” he told us. “I’ll just have a dessert.”
As
the sweets arrived, my mind kept racing. It dawned on me that Galya had found
her next husband. Far from feeling resentment or bitterness, I was overcome by
relief. Galya would have a shoulder to lean on, and Ronnie – a born caregiver –
would be happy to lend it. My former responsibilities would be borne by him.
“The
two of you have good rapport,” I observed.
“We
do,” affirmed Galya.
“Do
you plan to get married pretty soon?” I wanted to know.
“There
is an obstacle,” Galya told me.
“I
thought that was sorted out this morning. You may want to wait for a short
while so as to let things settle down. But this, surely, is no problem.”
“There
is a different hurdle,” Ronnie chimed in. “You see, Chayim, my original name
was Ronald Hirsh; and I was married to a German woman: Hilda. She was Aryan.
And I was in love with her.”
“Did
you divorce her when Hitler came to power?” I asked with concern. I was
overcome by fear: what might emerge now
that Pandora’s Box has been opened?
“The
Nazis had the marriage declared null and void. I managed to escape and became
Ronnie (Yaron) Eyal.”
“But
where is the problem? You are no longer married to Hilda?”
“Would
the annulment be recognized in
“Has she ever contacted you after the end of WWII?”
“She
hasn’t. Actually, I would have rebuffed any feelers! I felt – still feel –
betrayed. If I was good enough to be chosen as mate, why didn’t she stand by me
in an hour of need?”
I looked at my friend with concern. It was easy for me
to understand his feelings and the ensuing bitterness. I also wondered why he
had never mentioned the subject previously. It then dawned on me that like many
Holocaust victims he felt the need to maintain his silence. He had buried the past except that, at the present
moment, it ruled him from the grave.
As I
looked up, I took in the expectant expression that descended on the faces of
Galya and Ronnie. I sensed that each of them was keen to have my view.
“As
far as I can see, you are an unattached man, Ronnie. Hilda has not contacted
you; presumably she…”
“… passed
away,” interjected Ronnie. “Our last abode was in
“More
than seven years passed since the end of WWII. So she is presumed dead. So
where is the obstacle?”
“We
had a son. He lives in
“Are
you in touch with him?”
“I am
not. He wrote to me a few years ago, inviting me to his own wedding. I did not
reply.”
“How
did he survive the onslaught? According to Nazi doctrine he would be considered
a Jew!”
“Hilda
managed to smuggle him out. He came to
“How
on earth could you reject him, Ronnie?” I expostulated. “In
“That
is what Galya keeps telling me. Did the two of you, per chance, have a discreet
discussion before I arrived?”
“Of
course we haven’t,” protested Galya. “We just happen to be of the same view!”
“Oh
well,” yielded Ronnie. “What course would you recommend?”
“You
better set a date for your wedding, Ronnie,” I told him. “And you may consider
inviting your son. Whether you like it or not, he is your flesh and blood!”
“I’ll
think it over,” responded Ronnie after a while.
In
due course, I rented a small flat next to my working place. Occasionally I had
lunch with Ronnie and Galya. I was pleased when he told me that his son,
Joseph, had accepted his invitation to attend the wedding.
Actually, when I am recalling these events nowadays,
when I am an old man writing his autobiography, I believe that sorting out
Ronnie Eyal’s problem was my first
experience as a faith healer. By inducing him to look deep into his own soul, I
freed him from the constraints imposed by an unpalatable past.
Before
I flew to the
“Look here, Chayim,” he told me,
“presently you have a post which requires you to be off-station on a regular
basis. However, in the long run we need you at base. If you decide, at any
time, to move to the
“That
is fair,” I confirmed. “Up to now my two engagements were complementary. Sooner
or later, though, I may have to make my choice.”
“I do
hope you will stay with us. Your home is here – in Tel Aviv. And you are a real
Israeli. But all in all, we live in a free world.”
Rabbi
Margalioth welcomed me when I arrived in
When
I finished my first performance in
“Why
don’t you join us here, Chayim. I have been watching you and I think you have
the attributes.”
“I
have not graduated from a Yeshiva,” I told him. “You need a locum who can
officiate as a Rabbi.”
“If
you want to settle here, you will have to join our Yeshiva. We’ll see to it
that you earn a living during this period.”
“I
believe it is a five-year course. Enrolling at this stage of my life for such a
long period of ‘further studies’, is a bit out of place.”
“But
we would not expect you to enroll for such a long period of time. We would take
your earlier studies and contributions into account and give you cross credits.
I cannot commit myself now but, judging from previous cases, it is not going to
be anything like five years.”
The
proposition was attractive. In
Rabbi
Margalioth took the initiative to enable me to further my interest in staging
plays. Our choice fell on the plot of the second volume of the last novel of
Shalom Aleichem: the very author whose earlier novel formed the basis of the
play Tevyeh the Milkman and the ensuing musical Fiddler on the Roof.
Motl, Peysie the Cantor’s Son was written in 1916. It dealt with the resettlement of Motl’s Russian
Jewish family in the
Initially,
when Margalioth referred to the work, I raised three problems. First, the work
was a novel. It could easily be adapted into a play but we needed the
cooperation of a playwright. I was relieved when Margalioth assured me that one
of his constituents had already made progress with the work.
The
second problem arose because the novel had been composed in Yiddish. I was
pleased when Margalioth told me that the work had been translated into English
in 1953. He thought that, as many of our viewers were not conversant in
Yiddish, we had to stage the play in English.
The
main and last problem related to the topicality of the tome. It dealt with the
resettlement in the United States of Jews driven out of Czarist Russia by the
anti-Semitic policy of the government and by the incessant pogroms. Would our
young generation be interested?
“But
is the position so different today? Holocaust victims, who migrated to the
“Do
we have suitable players?” I wanted to know.
“Yentl
Jacobs is keen to play Motl’s Mother, who is of one of the main characters in
the work.”
“But
how about Motl? He is a youngster!”
“You
can take your pick from amongst our students. I suggest you take up the role
of Motl’s older brother. He, too, is
central to the story.”
Margalioth’s
words convinced me. I had to edit the text and actually directed the drama. It
was a success. The performance went on for a number of weeks and was well
attended. It pleased me to see that the audience included many university
students, who were keen to watch a play dealing with the life of Jewish
migrants.
After
our last show I asked Rabbi Margalioth why, in his opinion, Joseph Stein and
his team opted for Tevyeh the Milkman rather than for Motl, Paysee
the Cantor’s Son when they decided to produce a musical. He answered that
to the public at large Tevyeh was more acceptable than Motl. In
the former, Shalom Aleichem described the plight of the Jews in Czarist Russia.
The audience sympathised. In the latter, the author showed how Jewish migrants stuck
to their own values when moving from one host country to another. Stein might
have thought that Motl would feed anti-Semitism whilst Tevye was
bound to invoke compassion.
“It
is, of course, also possible that Stein’s team found Tevyeh easier to transform
into a musical than Motl,” he added. On reflection, I believe this to be
the real ground.
As I
was getting ready for the return trip to Tel Aviv, Rabbi Margalioth had a
further frank chat with me.
“So
you have decided to settle in
“I
have. I like the prospect of a change of career.”
“Will
you resign your post in the ITV?”
“I
shall do so. Initially, I toyed with the idea of applying for two years of
leave without pay. But I have decided against such a course. I want to take a
final step and start afresh.”
“Good
decision, I believe. But don’t you want to discuss the matter with your wife?
What will you do if she refuses to relocate?”
“We
were divorced last year, Rabbi. So I am again on my own: a middle-aged man with
no strings attached.”
“Aren’t
you going to remarry?”
“I
might: if a really nice girl thinks I’m ‘Mr. Right’!”
My
superiors in the ITV had actually anticipated my resignation. My only problem
was the need to sever my relations with the Book Club. To my delight, Uri
agreed to take over. He added that I would be welcome to attend whenever I came
to Tel Aviv. He also encouraged me to make recommendations respecting the pick
of American novels. He thought that Williams Faulkner’s books deserved attention.
Light in August, he opined, provided a window into the milieu of the
Southern States. I agreed that the work deserved attention.
Before
I proceeded to
For a number of sessions I continued to travel to
It is
common ground that
I did
not take part in the battles. During the first day of the War, Bennie Ornan
summoned me to help sustain our soldiers’ morale. After the magnificent victory
in the Six-Day War, both
The
first two days of the 1973 War restored Arab morale. To us, these days came as a
shock. Quite a number of well-known Israeli actors joined our Corps’ efforts to
restore the self-esteem of our soldiers and population. We traveled from
brigade to brigade and performed programmes asserting that nothing of
significance had been lost. The news media joined force. I do believe that our
efforts bore fruit and helped to restore our population’s confidence and pride.
To the very present day, I maintain that, if we had failed to re-establish
Israeli self-esteem, it would have been difficult (perhaps even impossible) to
regain the upper hand.
A few
days after the end of the conflict, I was due in
Before
long Rabbi Margalioth suggested that I meet Harris Jacobs, Yentl’s father. He
told me that Harris, a successful businessman, was keen to make sure that
Yentl, his only daughter, would find a good partner for life.
“But
Rabbi, surely Yentl can find a better catch. I am at least fifteen years older
than her and, in terms of worldly accomplishment, my attainments are limited.
Further, I do have aspirations but the route may be long and winding.”
“Perhaps
Yentl aspires to stand by you and be of support as you proceed?”
“Do
you think she might really be interested?”
“I am
sure Harris would have discussed things with her before he asked us to meet
him.”
The
meeting with Harris Jacobs went smoothly. He was aware that in our modern
Jewish communal life, there was no room for the old type of matchmaker,
discussed in Tevyeh the Milkman. Harris had already talked to Yentl and
the main object of our discussion concerned details. I was pleasantly surprised
when Harris told me that instead of the customary dowry, he proposed to buy
Yentl a house. He wanted to know whether I would prefer accommodation in
Brooklyn or in
It
was a lavish wedding. Food was abundant and Israeli wines were flowing.
Traditional Jewish music was performed by a local band. Rabbi Margalioth gave
us his blessing and, in a brief address, expressed his hope that the newlyweds
would be happy and be blessed with children.
When
I am thinking about these events at present – when I write my autobiography –
one fact stares in my face. In the ultimate every one of us is guided either by
a Hidden Hand or by sheer chance. I started life as an odd jobs boy in Tel
Aviv; got admitted to a brilliant secondary school; made an unsuccessful
attempt to break into the Israeli theatre world; and later settled on a
teaching career followed by a posting in the ITV. Who could foresee that,
thereafter, I would end up as a student in a Yeshiva in
Doubters
maintain that chance alone is the decisive factor. A traditional thinker – like
me – is inclined to see the Hidden Hand of a Superior Being. I am unable to
prove my point. All the same, I do believe in it. After all, ours is a free
world. Every one of us has the right to assess
imponderables in his (or her) own way. On this right of free choice I am
actually in tandem with an inherent skeptic like my friend Bushi.
PART IV: BASED IN NEW YORK
10. I Change my Name to Loeb Zohar
When I think today, as an aged retiree, about my returning to the status
of a student, I feel I took a leap into the dark. In reality, my positions, at
the ITV and before it at Tichon, were good. To change course at such a late
stage involved courage and an optimistic outlook. I am glad I had them and have
no regrets.
My
course of studies in the Yeshiva was demanding; but I was able to take it in my
stride. A great deal of time was devoted to studying the Talmud. The approach
differed from the one I knew. The object was not so much to place the
argumentation in the context of historical events but rather to come to grips
with the highly skilled method of debating used throughout. The study of the
Talmud itself did not, however, throw light on the prevailing principles to be
used in daily life: the Halacha. These as well as Judaic philosophy were illuminated in medieval writings.
Foremost
were Maimonides’ monumental books: the Mishneh Torah (colloquially
called The Strong Hand) and the Guide for the Perplexed. The former sets out detailed principles
respecting modes of daily conduct and all rituals respecting Jewish festivals.
As Maimonides did not include in his tome references to sources, his work was
subjected to criticism. A particular reason for this was that Maimonides was a
Sephardic Jew, who lived most of his life in
Maimonides’ other great work, the Guide for the Perplexed, was a
philosophical tract seeking to reconcile Judaism with Aristotelian philosophy,
showing that our religious tenets did not conflict with the philosophical
teaching of the time. As might have been expected, the work became the subject
of controversy. One school of thought asserted that in the course of writing
Maimonides departed from the straight dogmas of Judaism. The book was, however,
popular in Christianity and influenced many philosophers, such as Thomas
Aquinas, who (about a century after Maimonides’ lifetime) sought to harmonize
Aristotelian philosophy with the doctrines of the church.
The Guide for the Perplexed was not
included in our syllabus. You could cover it on an autodidactic basis or as
part of a course devoted to the sage’s writings. I tackled the work on my own,
using the original, written in 1190 in Judeo-Arabic. In this instance, my
command of Arabic stood me in good stead.
I also made use of Hebrew translations.
I was
immersed in this tract, when Uri came over on a business trip. As we dined in a
Kosher restaurant in
“Chayim, why did Maimonides write this book? The interests of his
community were well served by his Mishneh Torah. It clarified the
applicable principles.”
“I
suspect he wanted to reconcile our religious tenets with Greek philosophy.”
“Doubtless,”
agreed Uri, “but why was it not adequate for him to clarify the norms and
rituals?”
“Well,
what do you think, Uri?”
“Perhaps
he wanted to show his disciples that our religion was compatible with Greek
philosophy, which ruled supreme in his era. Actually, we face the very same
problem today. Science has established that our planet is just a dot in a vast
universe. Further,
“Actually,
we haven’t done a thing,” I conceded. “We have taught observant Jews to stick
to our rituals. Very few find the way to the core. And the vast majority of
Jews are secular, except when they attend a service in the synagogue.”
“Don’t
you think this is an undesirable state of affairs? I know that reformists have
done away with some antiquated laws. For instance, in a reform service men and
women sit together. But some principles – like our dietary laws – are adhered
to rigorously.”
“Well,
what do you suggest?”
“The
best way would be to reform our antiquated laws so as to harmonize them with
the milieu of our modern world,” Uri spoke firmly.
“The
danger is that, if you go down this road, you assail not only the ritual but
also the core.”
“I am
prepared to take the risk; but I know that the mainstream of Judaic learning
won’t. As time passes, observant Jews are becoming a minority.”
Uri’s observation gave me food for thought. Were our
Rabbis too rigorous? For instance, if you followed the prescribed rules,
pressing the button summoning a lift was considered ‘work’. Accordingly, doing
so on the Shabbat was proscribed. The
only option was to walk up the stairs, unless you programmed the lift before
Shabbat Eve to proceed on the basis of regular intervals. I suspected that elderly
people found climbing the stairs more
tiring (and hence harder ‘work’) than pressing a button. Still, the principle
had not been amended.
To my
surprise, Uri also brought me news respecting my brother, David. Uri had met
him in
Later
in the year I studied Joseph Karo’s Shulchan Aruch, a book published in
1565. It had been referred to during my secondary school studies, but was a
pivot of the studies in the Yeshiva. The book, which sets force all the
ritualistic prescriptions of our faith, is regarded one of the most
comprehensive codification of all relevant norms of Judaism. Like Maimonides,
Karo was a Sephardic Jew. He wrote the book in Safed (Zfat) some two years
prior to its publication. Unsurprisingly, sages in the European Diaspora, the
Ashkenazim, took issue with some of the principles set out in it. However, one
of the major Jewish schools of thought, namely Chabad (also known as
Chabad-Lubavitch) came up with its own edited version of the book, which has
thus remained one of the foremost guides to Judaism.
Karo
was not the only sage who resided in Safed. The eerie town in the
I was
deeply impressed by the Zohar and spent much time on it. In the course
of doing so, it dawned on me that the role of an enlightened Rabbi was to
maintain the ethnic unity of his flock, whilst adapting some peripheral norms
to the needs of the day. I noticed with satisfaction that Rabbi Margalioth, who
was well-versed in the vast volume of medieval Jewish writings, would allow
frail members of his community to say their prayers whilst sitting although the
norm was to recite some of them in a standing position.
When
I completed my reading of the great works, I decided to have a frank chat with
my mentor. I knew that, in general, he had the reputation of strictly adhering
to our principles and that he expected all his disciples to do likewise. At the
same time, and as already mentioned, he often made allowance for members of the
congregation. For instance, as some members lived far away from his Schul, he
approved their driving to the synagogue. It was unrealistic to expect them to
rent a room for the weekend in an adjacent hotel.
“I
know it appears inconsistent,” he told me when I raised these points with him,
“but don’t forget that one of our cardinal principles is that ‘risk of soul
overrides Shabbat’. I consider it
important to see our members in our weekly services. It’s a matter of the
‘soul’. So I sanction their driving to the synagogue.”
“In
that case, why don’t we reform our religion altogether? What is the point of
sticking to dietary laws, which most members do not observe outside the Schul?”
“Some
core values may not be altered, Chayim. Sha’ul of Tarsos, known to the world as
Moshe Margalioth’s words left their impact. When I
discussed this conversation with Yentl and added that many major tracts had
been written in Safed she suggested that we spend a week there during our next
visit to
We
were, in any event, bound to travel before long. Although I was living in
Yentl
and I flew to Tel Aviv in early July. It was warm and pleasant. Yentl arranged
to stay with relatives during the time I spent in the army. I was free during
weekends and so we were able to spend three days in
Nowadays,
when I am writing my autobiography as an aged retiree, Safed has become a
tourist attraction. When Yentl and I arrived there in the seventies, Safed was a dreamy and aloof town, hiding behind its
special mystic and long history. Still, even then it was the centre of the Kabbala;
and many other sects had synagogues in the Old Jewish Quarter. It was also the
abode of some Israeli artists and writers.
By
the end of our week in town Yentl came up with an unexpected proposition. I was
aware that before I met her, she had worked as a secretary in a charitable
foundation. Telling me she had saved a fair amount of money during that time,
she suggested that we buy a house in Safed.
“But
Yentl, you could invest that sum in profitable stocks or bonds. Do you really
want to tie it down in a property?’
“I
do. You see, Chayim, bonds and shares have a speculative element. I am not a
gambler; and – you know – our income is adequate for our needs. A holiday home
in this lovely town is an extra asset and both of us love the place.”
“So
you don’t contemplate letting it out?”
“I
don’t! I want to spend our breaks here. And one day it may be our retirement
residence.”
My
initial idea was to find a house in the Old Jewish Quarter. Yentl thought that
this part of Safed might, in due course, become the main tourists’ attraction.
A house on the outskirts would be preferable and, in addition, less expensive.
Today, when I live in this very cottage as an old retiree, I realise that
Yentl’s prediction was realistic. Our house is close to amenities but far from
the hustle and bustle of the centre.
The
visit to Safed cleared yet a further question that arose in my mind. It struck
me as odd that some traditional orthodox Jewish writers as well as those who
embraced the Kabbala found in Safed a haven that spurred on their creative
work. In effect, the two types of writing were worlds apart. Writers like Karo
sought to elucidate and standardize the ritual principles of our faith. Their
strength lay in the hard work involved in compiling and in arranging matters
methodically and clearly. The Cabbalists, in contrast, were driven by the
mystical wish to clarify the abstract core of our faith. Notably, one of their
beliefs was that the deity had both a masculine and a feminine side: Ha’Shem
and Ha’Schechina.
During our visit to this charming town it dawned on me
that the reclusive ambience and the mild climate enabled scholars to
concentrate on their work without taking note of what transpired elsewhere. I,
too, felt the pull. In the course of just four weeks I managed to re-read the
leading work of the Kabbala, the Zohar, from cover to cover. I was
affected by the poetic beauty and by the eerie nature of its thought pattern.
Still, all in all, I continued to adhere to the traditional orthodoxy familiar
to me.
Back in
“Is it going to be a boy or a girl?” I asked Yentl.
“They will tell me later on. And, you know, I have the
feeling that I’ll bring a boy into the world. But does it really matter?”
“Not in the slightest,” I assured her. “But Yentl, we
must think about the name to be given to the baby.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
“If we have a baby-boy, I’d like to call him Ami (‘My
Nation’ in Hebrew). If you bear a baby-girl let us call her Ruth!”
“Why Ruth?”
“I hope she will be as devoted to you as the Biblical
Ruth was to her stepmother Naomi. Also ‘Ruth’ is cute: I like the sound of it.
But Yentl: you couldn’t have given me a nicer gift. So I shall be a parent!
Wonderful!”
“You mean: we shall be parents. So our marriage is
fruitful!”
When I reflect about that episode, I am satisfied that
it was the happiest moment in my long life. It also clarified Yentl’s role. She
felt that her task was to build up a happy and harmonious Jewish family. Unlike
my first wife, Galya, Yentl put my well being above her own desires. She realised that by keeping me happy and
satisfied she would achieve her goal in life.
A few
weeks later, it was confirmed that Yentl was carrying a boy. In due course, she
gave birth. Labour and childbirth could be traumatic. Fortunately, Yentl remained
positive. I suspect that my nervous tension, as I was pacing the corridor of
the hospital after her admission, contrasted with her calm demeanour.
A
week after his birth, our son, Ami, was circumcised. The traditional ceremony
was protracted. Usually, a new born was handed by the father to the medically
trained Rabbi, who peeled off the newborn’s foreskin. Noting my nervousness,
Rabbi Margalioth took over from me and showed the newborn around. He then
handed him to the surgeon. Ami cried but calmed down when a towel soaked in
wine was placed on his mouth.
After
that we followed the custom of drinking a glass of wine. Yentl looked at me
with concern as my face darkened when all gathered yelled LeChayim
(‘bottoms up’ in Hebrew) as they emptied their glasses.
“Why
were you displeased when people chanted ‘LeChayim’?” Yentl asked after
the guests had left.
“I
don’t like the idea of being ‘Mr. Bottoms Up’!”
“Aren’t
you being too sensitive?”
“Probably,”
I agreed. “Still, I find such an occasion irritating.”
“Then
why not change your name?”
“I’ve
lived with it since my childhood. Still, what do you suggest?”
“How
about ‘Loeb’?”
“Why
Loeb? What do you like about it?”
“If
you change the pronunciation it means ‘heart’ (‘Lev’); it can also be
construed as ‘lion’ (‘Lavie’). It suits you!”
“I’ll
think about it.”
“And
how about your surname? ‘Rosenne’ is becoming a common surname in
After a few weeks I changed my name to ‘Loeb Zohar’ by
deed poll, signed before an attorney in
Shortly
after Ami’s first birthday, I was due to serve a few weeks in the Entertainment
Corps. To my delight, Bennie Ornan advised that my services were not required.
In consequence, we remained in
Yentl
turned out to be a typical Jewish Mother. Whenever Ami cried, she rushed over
to make sure all was well. She also spent hours by his cot and showed him
proudly to every person who came to visit.
Occasionally, I felt neglected.
Most
of my time was spent on Talmudic tracts and Medieval Rabbinical writings. By
the end of the year, I completed my further studies and was ordained. To my
delight, Rabbi Margalioth invited me to become his deputy. Apart from my duties
as Junior Rabbi, I was also expected to take care of the day-to-day running of
the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation. Yentl’s skill as secretary was of major help.
Another
talent I developed during this period was faith healing. I was, of course,
unable to remedy physical defects like deafness or blindness. Where I was able
to lend a hand was when a patient’s sufferings were exacerbated by fear or
hallucinations. For instance, when Yentl’s father developed high blood pressure
due to the stress experienced in the course of business, I was able to calm him
down. His blood pressure thereupon corrected itself. Similarly, when colleagues
suffered headaches as a result of being overworked, I was occasionally able to
talk them out of it. Stresses incurred
due to turmoil of home life were equally treatable. I managed to be of
assistance by restoring things to normal.
Ami was an active little boy. When he was about two
years old, he walked and ran. Occasionally he tipped over but, once he regained
his composure, he would go for another bout of activity. He also started to say
a few words. Yentl insisted on breast feeding him. She felt confident that a mother’s
milk was a baby’s best nourishment.
Shortly
after Ami’s second birthday we flew to
I
spent one weekend in a hotel in Tel Aviv. My object was to look up Ronnie Eyal
and Galya. Initially, I had lunch with Ronnie. To my disappointment, he looked
haggard and worn out.
“What’s
the matter, Ronnie? Why are you so glum?”
“Between
us, Galya is becoming a handful.”
“How?”
I asked with concern.
“She wants to play roles that are no longer suitable
for her. Recently, she had a shouting match with Nina. Galya wanted the role of
Juliet!”
“Juliet – in Romeo and Juliet – is suitable for
a rising star in her twenties. Galya is past this age. Haven’t you explained
this to her?” I asked
“I tried … and got it between my eyes. In the end we
had an argument. I hate scenes, Chayim!”
“I have changed my name to Loeb, Ronnie,” I tried to
buy time.
“To me you will always remain Chayim!”
“Look here, Ronnie,” I told him after a few minutes.
“Let me talk to her. I may be able to induce her to see sense.”
“It’s worth a try.”
We fixed a second lunch, to be attended by the three
of us. Ronnie undertook to be late so that I would have ample time for a chat
with Galya. When I arrived, Galya was already there. While waiting for Ronnie,
I told her that when I had met him a few days earlier, he looked tired and
depressed.
“Is
it my fault?” she asked.
“Only
you know. He told me that there are some disputes about roles in forthcoming
plays. That’s all he told me.”
“Well,
I want the role of Juliet; but your Nina is being difficult! She wants to give
it to a newcomer!”
“What
attracts you to this role? Juliet is insipid! She is a young girl who cannot
think clearly!”
“She
is the heroine of Shakespeare’s drama; and so I want it.”
“Is
Signon putting up another play?”
“We
are putting up Macbeth. Nina asked whether I should like to play Lady
Macbeth.”
“It
is an exciting role. Lady Macbeth is quite a character. Don’t you prefer coming
to grips with this challenge rather than playing Juliet?”
“I
want both!”
“Don’t
try to bite off more than you can chew. Rehearsing Lady Macbeth is not easy.
Also, Lady Macbeth is a mature and sedate woman. Give this role a go; and don’t
assume Nina is out to get you. She has many mouths to feed!”
“I’ll
think it over,” she replied. “But don’t you agree that Nina is just a conniving
bitch? Why is she being so difficult?”
Ronnie’s arrival saved me the need to reply. A few
days later, he rang to tell me that Galya decided to give a miss to Juliet and
was, actually, graceful about it. She had overcome the feeling of persecution –
akin to Paranoia – that had engulfed her. I realised that, once again, I had
acted as healer, although in reality I helped Galya save face rather than
faith.
Yentl,
Ami and I enjoyed Safed. Yentl had decorated our cottage gracefully. It became
a second home. In many ways I preferred it to our comfortable yet mundane
dwelling in
I was sad when a few weeks later we returned to Tel
Aviv and took a flight to
Back
in the Yeshiva, I had a long chat with Rabbi Moshe Margalioth. Yentl had told
him of my immersion in the Zohar. He wanted to know whether my studies
shook my faith in the straight and narrow line of orthodoxy practised by us.
Although I was by then his deputy and a Rabbi, I preferred to continue
addressing him formally.
“No,
Rabbi Margalioth: my faith remains intact. But I wonder what unifies all the
sects that have emerged in our religion. Do you know the answer?”
“You too know it. Start by asking
yourself: what is the core?”
“Our
belief in a single all-mighty creator, who has chosen us from amongst all other
nations.”
“Correct
answer. This belief unites us. One further norm is common ground: we maintain
that the Messiah (the savior) is yet to come. In this regard we differ from the
Christians, who believe that Jesus Christ was the Messiah.”
“So
festivals and norms – the ritual – are paraphernalia?”
“They
are indeed. But they hold us together.”
“In
other words, regardless of whether you embrace the Kabbala, Chabad or
Traditional Orthodoxy you remain within the fold. Once you accept that Jesus
was the Messiah, you have crossed the border.”
“Well
spoken,” he agreed.
“But
don’t we have to analyze the nature of God? What does the word mean?”
“He
is the God of our Torah! As long as you remain in the fold, you need not
discuss the matter further.”
“I
agree,” I smiled at him. “When Elijah the prophet is privileged to encounter
God, we are told: ‘And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind
rent the mountains, and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord; but the Lord
was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in
the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the
fire; and after the fire a still small voice.’ (Kings I, 19:11-12): the gentle
word of persuasion.”
“The
essence of our religion,” agreed Moshe Margalioth.
My
next three years as Margalioth’s deputy were smooth and uneventful. My family
traveled to
During
that very period I had further experiences in faith healing. Both in
During
the entire period, in which I assumed the role of the Junior Rabbi in Moshe
Margalioth’s synagogue, only three events left an impact. The first was the
birth of our daughter, Ruth. The second was a lengthy and seminal conversation
with my friend Uri. The last occurred during my trip to the
Ruth
was born in 1979, just two years after Ami’s arrival. Yentl conceived during one of our sojourns in
Safed. She injured herself in the course of our bumpy flight to
I
recall my panic when Dr. Levi emerged from the hospital theatre in which Yentl
went through her labors.
“Rabbi
Zohar,” he told me, “we need to perform a caesarian section. We shall do our
best to save mother and child. But what do you want us to do if we have an
emergency: I mean if we cannot save both?”
“Yentl
is … dear to me,” I stammered. “I cannot face losing her. Yentl’s life is the
foremost priority.”
For
some two hours I tried to immerse myself in the psalms. However, my effort to
remain calm was futile. The sun to me was dark; and my blood pressure continued
to rise. Before long, I felt palpitations: Yentl had become the centre of my
life. The thought of losing her tormented me.
I
felt genuine relief when Dr. Levi re-emerged with a smile on his face.
“You
have a daughter and your wife is fine, Rabbi. But a further pregnancy is
inadvisable for the next four years. We may not be so lucky if she conceives
earlier than that.”
“But
Yentl is already 36 years old. In four years her child-bearing age will be
over,” I told the gynecologist.
“True,”
he agreed. “You will have to explain the position to her.”
“I
suppose that we shall have to do with just one son and one daughter.”
Initially, Yentl rebelled. Her dream was to have four
children. I had to ask Dr. Levi to explain the position to her. I think that
his persuasions were effective. I, too, played a role. I told her bluntly that
we have to accept the rough with the smooth. Some couples remained childless;
we were lucky to have a son and a daughter. We would discharge our duty by
bringing them up properly, by giving each a fine education and by directing
them on the road leading to a happy existence. In the long run it would be
better to concentrate on what God had granted us than ignoring a plain warning
and throwing caution aside.
After
a few days, Yentl gave way. I believe that a lengthy conversation with Rabbi
Margalioth helped her to make up her mind.
Uri
visited me shortly after Ruth was born. We went for dinner to the very same
restaurant in
Shortly
after we ordered our dishes, Uri produced a photograph of his family. It displayed Uri with his arm around his
attractive wife. Their kids were standing in front of them and smiled into the
camera.
“Are
you going to have another?”
“I
don’t think so. We want to give each of them a good education. Another child
has to be ruled out on financial grounds.”
“Aren’t
you doing well enough? I thought you became a successful businessman.”
“I’ve
done well and my new enterprise is good. But do you know how much it costs to
enroll a child in a secondary school and in a university?’
“I
thought education was free,” I told him.
“Not
if you have my sort of income. If we have another child and want to do the
right thing by him or her, Rina will have to start working again. Finding a new
job should not be difficult: she is highly qualified. But I really think that,
if it is financially possible, a mother’s place is with her children.”
“I
agree,” I told him. “Actually, which good wind blew you over to us?”
“I am trying to get some interested parties to take up
a stake in my business. They live in
“Go ahead, my curious friend!”
“Well, I wanted to discuss a philosophical issue. I
keep wondering: what is the core of our faith?”
“Surely, the worship of one God, who has chosen us,
and the belief that the Messiah will come at the end of time (the ‘final days’).
Isaiah puts it neatly. He tells us to comprehend that ‘I [God] am he: before
me there was no God formed, neither shall be after me’ (Isa. 43:10) adding that
we are his chosen people.”
“A correct textbook answer. Well, if this is so, why
can’t we do away with outdated ritual and with norms such as our dietary laws?
Few of us observe them when we are outside the synagogue.”
“They reinforce the core, Uri.”
“You mean that, without them, the ‘core’ cannot
stand?”
“Well, let me have your view. It is obvious that you
have given much thought to this subject.”
“When Jews attend a service it comprises prayers held
in a language which most of them do not comprehend. If they seek to understand
what they articulate, they have to consult a translation. Further, they follow
norms and ritual blindly. I suspect that these norms and ritual have actually
become the core of their faith.”
“But these norms and the ritual keep us united,” I
pointed out. “And they reinforce our belief in One God.”
“They do; but don’t forget that monotheism is not
unique to us. Christianity and Islam assert the existence of a single God. And
long before Judaism proclaimed the faith in one God, Pharaoh Akhenaton did so.
In reality, what separates us from other people is the adherence to our norms
and ritual. These set us apart as an ethnic group.”
“I don’t agree.
I think the norms and ritual complement the core. But even if you are right,
the norms and ritual cannot be discarded. In that case, they constitute the
essence and we have to embrace them.”
“But, then, if you don’t, you cease to be Jewish!”
“Not as long as long as you adhere to our monotheistic
core and accept that we are the chosen ones.”
“And this segregation breeds anti-Semitism, doesn’t
it?”
“The rest of the world is inclined to visit the ‘sins’
of the individual on the entire congregation,” I muttered defensively.
For a while both of us were immersed in our thoughts.
I realised that Uri’s views were shared by many members of the faith, who had
discarded the core and became agnostics. Still, most of them – including Uri –
remained in the fold. It was a system even if it was void of reason.
The arrival of the desserts saved the need to discuss
the issue any further. Over aromatic
black coffees, Uri told me that on his way to
“David wrote a short note a while ago to tell me that
he was moving to
“I know. He is
being appointed a branch manager. He told me that he fears you are distancing yourself from him. Is that
so?”
“I am afraid so. My job and personal life keep me very
busy.”
“Is this estrangement due also to his having married
out?”
“To a certain extent,” I confirmed.
“Well let me tell you that Clare is charming. David is
a lucky man; and he is proud of her. David was never as traditional as you.
When he met a woman as splendid as Clare, he fell for her. I am sure he would
be glad if you visited them.”
My visit to David took place a few weeks later. Moshe
Margalioth asked me to visit our supporters, practically the donors, in
“But look here, Loeb,” he told me. “You had no
objection to growing a beard. So why are you uneasy about the clothes?”
“Aren’t they anachronistic? Surely, our forefathers in
“Very likely,” he agreed readily. “But by now they
have become a sort of a uniform. So what do you have against them?”
“Very well,” I muttered, feeling that all in all his
words made sense.
The flight to
Clare struck me as a pleasant and homely woman. The
meal she cooked was excellent and our dietary laws sanctioned my partaking.
David’s children were cute and his house, though modest, was neat and well
decorated. After lunch, we had coffee and then I returned to my hotel. Before I
left, David suggested that I dine with him in his club.
It was agreed that I should take a taxi from the hotel
and pick David up on the way to the club. To my surprise, David had left before
my arrival. Clare asked me to come in. I recall our conversation vividly.
“David forgot to refer to the dress code of his club.
I tried to contact you but you had already left the hotel. Would you like to
use one of David’s suits?”
“What’s wrong
with my clothes?”
“You put on
orthodox attire,” she explained uneasily. “You may not feel comfortable if you
wear it in the club.”
“I see,” I replied when I recovered from my shock.
“But, Clare, David and I are of a different build. And in any event, I am what
I am.”
“Of course you are. And we are not seeking to
influence your orientation. It is only for this occasion. I have taken out
David’s best suit; it will fit you. Please try it on.”
“No, thank you. I’ll have my evening meal in a
restaurant in Golders Green. And now I have to go. The taxi is waiting for me.”
“You mean you won’t dine with David.”
“Some other time perhaps. And now I must really go.”
“David … will be … very disappointed,” she stammered.
“Give him my regards,” I brought the conversation to
its close.
During the first course I still felt hurt and
disappointed. I calmed down over an excellent dish of goose. I told myself that
David was ascending the social ladder in an alien country. Naturally, we could
have arranged to have dinner in the very restaurant in which I had my meal.
David’s invitation for dinner in his club had been misguided. Still, it was
made in good faith. The dress code, though, should have been mentioned when he
invited me.
When I came back to my hotel after watching a play in
the
“Please ring back and tell them I checked out before
the message was delivered,” I asked the receptionist and gave her a handsome
tip.
A few days later David sent me an apologetic letter. I
sent him a formal reply. Somehow, the incident undermined our family
relationship. During my next trips to the
David kept writing to me sporadically. The only time I
met him again was at Mother’s funeral. Years later, Clare wrote to inform me of
David’s demise. Pressure of work and chain smoking resulted in a massive
stroke, which he did not survive. She asked me whether I would attend the
funeral, which was to be held in their church. “David saw light late in his
life and joined our congregation,” she explained.
Clare had sent the communication to my address in
I have not been in contact with David’s family ever
since. It continued to grieve me that my late brother had left the fold. Nowadays,
I have second thoughts. Was I was too rigid? After all, faith is a personal
matter. I have never scolded close friends who became free thinkers. Why then
could I not tolerate my brother’s act?
11. A Liberal Rabbi in Brooklyn
My
next few years as Moshe Margalioth’s deputy were quiet. A number of events,
though, left their impact on me.
One
took place shortly after Yentl and I returned to Brooklyn following some six
weeks in
Delivering a sermon (Drasha) was a new task. Initially,
I offered to read out a sermon composed by Moshe Margalioth. My mentor would
not hear of it.
“You
are a Rabbi, Loeb. It is high time that you master the art of preparing the
weekly sermon.”
“I
did not anticipate this,” I mumbled. “You are the leader of our congregation.”
“But
you are my deputy. You must be able to take over whenever I am unavailable.
And, you know, I too had to compose sermons when my predecessor was sick.”
The composition of a Drasha is a fine art. It
must relate, directly or indirectly, to the Pentateuch passage read out that
day. In this regard I was fortunate. That week’s Parasha was Balak
(Num. 22-24), which relates how the King of Moab, Balak, asked Balaam the
Aramite to travel to
Balaam’s
blessings are amongst the finest pieces of poetry in the Old Testament.
Further, they were topical in our own time because they underscored the need of
keeping ourselves segregated. It was, therefore, easy to relate the passage
from Numbers to the problems of our own modern era. By doing so, a Rabbi like
me is able to argue forcefully that the words, written down in the remote past,
have not lost their relevance.
When
working on my sermon, I realised that one further aspect was essential. During
my years with Margalioth, I noted that frequently the members of the congregation
did not absorb the Drashas. The main reason for this was that the sermon
came as an anti-climax: The Rabbi delivered it after the conclusion of the
morning prayers and the reading of the Parasha. Further, usually the
sermon was heavy. The listeners got tired during its delivery. I concluded that
the best remedy was to liven up the address. In the case of Balak this
was easy. The text tells us how Balaam saddled his ass and rode to his mission.
On his way a sword-brandishing Angel confronted him. The ass saw the angel and
sought to avoid it, whereupon Balaam, who did not see the Angel, smote the ass;
and then “the Lord opened the mouth of the ass” (Num. 22:28), and it apprised
Balaam of the situation.
During my years in Tichon, we often used the
paraphrased words when a classmate gave a foolish answer to a question put to
him by the teacher. When, years later, I prepared my sermon in
Nowadays,
when I compose my autobiography, I can say with confidence that there is a
similarity between the role of an actor and a Rabbi’s. Both endeavor to hold
the attention of their audience. An actor seeks to ensure that his spectators
follow the plot and appreciate the message. A Rabbi’s object is to draw his
congregation’s attention to the manifestation of our Bible’s significance to
issues arising in the present era. Yet a further similarity between an actor
and a Rabbi is that both need to project themselves. For instance, when an
actor bangs the table his purpose is not only to underscore his words but also to
impress the viewers with his zeal. Similarly, a Rabbi often draws the
congregation’s attention to himself by raising his voice. Adding a lighthearted joke to a serious
message had a similar object.
Rabbi
Margalioth was puzzled by my approach. He wanted to know whether, in my
opinion, the cracking of jokes was appropriate on a serious occasion like the
delivery of a sermon. He was mollified when I assured him that my sole object
was to keep the congregation interested in the topic covered.
He
must have considered the matter because, a few days later, he asked me to take
over the short address to be delivered after the evening service. On this
occasion I did not crack any jokes and, actually, drew on the works of
Maimonides to analyze the meaning of some of our prayers. Margalioth wanted to
know why I had been light hearted when delivering the Saturday sermon but
remained serious when addressing the believers who attended our daily evening
prayer.
“They
are different audiences, Rabbi Margalioth,” I replied. “Many of the people who
attend our Shabbat services do so in order to affirm their ethnic affiliation
with our people. To them an entirely serious oration is overbearing. So I try
to enliven the address in order to preserve their interest. The people who come
to our evening services are, usually, staunch believers. A lighthearted talk
may put them off.”
“I
get your point,” he agreed. Thereafter he frequently asked me to deliver the
address in our daily prayers and also the Saturday morning sermon. Our ultra-orthodox
colleagues took objection to my approach to the Drasha. People, though,
started to attend our sessions rather than their synagogue’s. Before long, my
addresses became popular. My orthodox colleagues shook their heads sadly and
berated me. In their eyes, I attained notoriety rather than fame. My view
differed.
Occasionally,
it was difficult to lace a sermon with lighthearted reflections. For instance,
Rabbi Margalioth asked me to deliver the sermon following the reading of the
dull Parashat Shemini (Lev. 9-11), which spells out (Lev. 11-1:31) the
dietary laws. We are told that “these you shall not eat of them that chew the
cud [regurgitate], or, of them that divide the hoof: the camel, because he
chews the cud, but does not part the hoof” (Lev. 11:4). After explaining the
nature of this proscription, I added that although the camel invoked my
admiration for being able to cross marshes in which a horse driven cart would
get stuck, the camel never struck me as a palatable morsel. The audience laughed
and, I felt certain, would recall the edict as well as the general principle.
An
orthodox visitor from
Regrettably,
the matter was raised after a dinner which Margalioth hosted in our visitor’s
honour. As we were served our main courses Rabbi Schulman told me emphatically:
“Our
Shabbat service is a solemn occasion. It should not be trivialized by jokes
incorporated in the Drasha.”
“I do
not detract from the solemnity of the service. I incorporate the jokes so as to
hold my audience’s attention; they react favourably to them. In point of fact,
our service is becoming popular.”
“I
know that,” Schulman replied angrily. “Some of the members of our own Schul in
“Surely,
Mendel’e, that is up to them,” interjected Rabbi Margalioth. “We welcome all
members of our faith.”
For a
few minutes our guest continued to fume. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Did he
understand that an argument was futile? When our visitor left, Rabbi Margalioth
asked me not to judge Rabbi Schulman harshly.
“He
had a sad experience, Loeb,” he told me. “His son went to
“I
understand. I too am experiencing this type of chagrin. My own brother, David,
married out. In due course he may convert to his wife’s faith.”
“How
do you take it?” he asked me.
“I am
trying to tell myself that this type of attrition is unavoidable. Some
statistics establish that if all our offspring had remained with us, there
would be far more Jews in the world. And I fear that many of our brethren
adhere to our traditions only within the precinct of the synagogue.”
“Does
this concern you?” he wanted to know.
“We
have to live with it. As I have already told you, I try to breathe some light
air into our gatherings. Still, our numbers are bound to dwindle. It is sad;
but unavoidable. Our reluctance to accept converts is also a factor. Unlike
Christianity and Islam we do not proselytize.”
“I
fear you are right,” Margalioth groaned. For a few minutes he remained silent.
Then he added: “My own son – his name is Isaac – has ceased to follow our
traditions. He says that he is a ‘free thinker’ or an ‘agnostic’ and that he
‘cannot be bothered with nonsense’. For years, I had anticipated that one fine
day he would be able to take over from me. He has dashed my hopes.”
“I am
sorry to hear this,” I told my mentor. “What does he do for a living?”
“He
is a successful businessman. I meet him from time to time. Unlike Rabbi
Schulman, I am not prepared to break contact with my son.”
“Does
Isaac come to any services?”
“He
attends Schul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He comes so as to please me. I
suspect that, when I am gone, he will cease to attend altogether.”
When
I think about these events nowadays, as an aging retiree, I have come to
realise that Judaism is on the decline. We have too many factions and
frequently are not clear about the issues in dispute. What keeps us going is
segregation which, in turn, breeds anti-Semitism, which – in its own way –
encourages isolation. It is a cul-de-sac. Here in Safed I am no longer a party
to the ongoing debate: I have become my own man.
The
years kept passing. Both Ami and Ruth were growing. Ami had attended a Jewish
kindergarten but, shortly after his sixth birthday, was ready to start his
primary school education. I was inclined to enroll him in a traditional school,
which emphasises courses on Judaism. Yentl took a different view. She thought
that our regular trips to
Initially,
I objected, arguing that Jewish schools had a sufficiently broad curriculum. In
my opinion his future would best be served by a traditional upbringing
augmented by his being given the opportunity to study French or Spanish. I was
– and have remained satisfied – that English literature and a command of Hebrew
culture were narrow.
In
the end, we compromised. Ami was to attend a fine general school but, in
addition, was to study Hebrew and our literature. We also enrolled him in
French language classes.
Some
two years later, Ruth was enrolled in a traditional Jewish school in
Today,
when I am thinking about the discussions that took place, I regret that neither
Yentl nor I appreciated the importance of encouraging the children to study
Chinese. In our era, the importance of
Another
dent in our approach has to be conceded. Yentl and I assumed that children
would follow in the steps of their parents. Nowadays I have come to accept that
each generation deviates from the path trodden by its predecessor.
This generation gap is universal. For instance, today
everybody with a basic education appreciates that the earth is not flat and
that the heavens – the cosmos – is vast. We know that our own planet (the
earth) is just a tiny dot in a universe that keeps expanding. People with an
orthodox orientation like mine believe that, regardless of its size, the
universe was created by God. People like my friends Uri and Bushi regard our Bible
as passé. They appreciate that it is a literary masterpiece but do not accept
it as a reliable historical source. Still, although they boast of having become
agnostics, ethnic affiliation induces them to remain within the fold.
Yentl
and I aged whilst our children were growing. I was by now in my fifties and Mother,
too, had aged. For decades she stayed quite comfortably in the very flat in
which I grew up in the south of Tel Aviv. Occasionally, David and I sent her
extras so as to ensure that she did not want. Her needs were often the subject
discussed in the sporadic correspondence I maintained with him.
Then,
in 1984, Mother had a stroke. One of her neighbours, a Good Samaritan, rang to
advise me. As I was in any event due for a stretch of militia service, I flew
over within two days. Yentl and the children accompanied me. We arrived just
after David had left. Before his departure, he found a good nursing home. We
transferred Mother to it after she was discharged from the hospital.
The in-house
physician advised me that Mother’s stroke did not endanger her life.
Regrettably, she lost the command of her limbs and became incontinent. He thought
that the prognosis for full recovery was
negative. Mother was bound to remain an invalid for the rest of her life. However, her cognitive functions remained
intact. Provided she was given good care, she would remain around for a few more years. He also assured
me that a second stroke was unlikely.
“But
look here Rabbi Zohar. Your Mother needs a focus so as to support her will to
live. This must not be impaired.”
“We
can install a television set in her room,” I assured him.
“In
my opinion, you should also be in touch with her regularly and, if possible,
encourage your children to write to her. Letters and telephone calls will make
her feel wanted and relevant.”
“I’ll
bear this in mind,” I agreed.
In the next exchange of letters I communicated this
advice to David. Thereafter, we took turns in ringing her up and in writing. I
am satisfied that we did all we could to keep her mind occupied. She remained
with us for another four years. She then caught an attack of pneumonia and
passed away. I was is
I
recall the dire funeral. Only six acquaintances attended. A few students of a
nearby seminary came over so as to make up a Minyan, that is, the compulsory
ten Jewish males to be present when prayers are recited. The service was led by
the Rabbi of the community. My role, as her oldest son, was confined to saying
the Kaddish (the blessing).
A
brief address followed. The Rabbi chose a well-known passage from the Bible
about a ‘woman of worth’ (Prov. 31:11-end), praising my Mother’s thrift and
ability to manage her family’s affairs after she had lost her husband. My own
thoughts drifted in another direction.
All in all, my Mother was born, got married early in her life and looked
after her offspring till they matured. But would she be remembered after David
and I met our appointed days? The vainglory involved pained me. Was this the
lot of all human beings? Few of us would be as much as mentioned after we
perished, except if we achieved fame or notoriety. I felt sad and disheartened.
Was this then the fate of all human beings?
Yentl,
who was standing beside me, watched my face intently: “A penny for your
thoughts, Loeb.”
“I
disagree,” she said firmly after she had listened to my reflections. “Your late
Mother achieved a great deal. She was proud of you, the Rabbi, and of David,
who became a Branch Manager in
“You
may very well be right,” I conceded after a few minutes.
David,
who stood beside us, expressed his agreement with Yentl. I sensed that he
wanted to have a heart to heart chat with me. Regrettably, I was not in a
talkative mood. Nowadays, when I am living as a retiree in Safed and have
outlived David, I believe I missed an opportunity for a full reconciliation
with my brother.
Our visits to my Mother had usually taken place just before I went for
my militia service. Before she succumbed to the stroke, we used to stay with
her in the old apartment. She had turned one of the bedrooms in the apartment into
a guest room. David and his family stayed there when he visited her; our family
took over when we came to
These
sojourns led to an involvement with the synagogue in the south of Tel Aviv,
which David and I had frequented years earlier. To my disappointment I found
that the synagogue had not been looked after properly; it was dilapidated and
the ark boasted few Torah scrolls. The Rabbi-in-Charge told me that many
members of the community had left. Occasionally, the congregation had to wait
for the arrival of the last person needed to form a Minyan. He was glad
to hear that, whenever I was in Tel Aviv, I would attend the daily morning and
evening services.
Our
prayer meetings, though, were lackluster. The Ashkenazi intonation of the
prayers, a sing song which led to the muffling of the words spoken, meant that
some of the attendants were unable to follow, and waited eagerly for the body
language which indicated that it was time for each worshipper to recite the Amidah
(also known as ‘18’) that is, the dedication prayer said by individuals in
undertone whilst standing and then repeated vocally by the cantor.
Yentl
and I attended the communal luncheons held after the Shabbat morning service.
At the Rabbi-in-Charge’s suggestion I delivered the address given following the
second course. As I laced my speech with jokes; all in attendance applauded.
Before long, I became a popular speaker.
A
year later, the Rabbi invited me to convey the Shabbat morning sermon which
followed the reading of the Parasha. Here, too, people liked my lightheartedness.
I do believe they listened eagerly to my words. The main topical message of my
sermons was the praise of tolerance and moderation. It left its mark.
A
discussion with the Rabbi-in-Charge revealed that lack of funds was a major
problem faced by his synagogue. When I related this to Rabbi Margalioth in
Problems emerged when Mother had to be moved to the
sanatorium in the north of Tel Aviv. Yentl and I rented a small flat close to
it, which gave me the luxury of being near a beach. Frequently I went for a
swim before breakfast. The flat, though, was far from the synagogue in the south
of Tel Aviv. On religious grounds, the taking of a cab was out of question. Walking so far away from the centre
(Te’chum) was equally proscribed. We solved our problem by residing in
the old flat in the south end of
Quite a separate issue related to our cottage in
Safed. Frequently, we could spend only
two or three weeks in it. A reprieve came when I was notified that my militia
service in the Entertainment Corps was no longer required. I might still be
summoned once in three years but, in point of fact, I ceased to be called up.
In a sense, this was a relief. As Bennie Ornan had retired and settled in
Tiberias, I no longer felt the need to volunteer. Thereafter, we usually
managed to spend about four weeks in our second home. All four of us – that is, Yentl, Ami, Ruth and I – loved it. We often felt pangs when we flew
back to the
During the time I spent in Tel Aviv, I frequently
called on Ronnie Eyal. He told me that Nina had opted for early retirement. She
and her companion, Miri, settled in Nahariya, in the north of
“I am glad they were able to afford a house in
Nahariya,” I told Ronnie.
“Well, their flat in Tel Aviv fetched a good price.
Property prices outside Tel Aviv and
“Did they have a pension?”
“They did; and both of them are thrifty. They live on
the pensions and on their savings. Further, I believe Miri, who has a good
head, spotted excellent investments.”
“Is Leo Shalev still with Signon?”
“No, Loeb, he became a heavy drinker. A few years ago
he died from liver cancer”.
“Aren’t you going to retire?” I asked my friend.
“They have extended me for the second time. And they
won’t find a light expert as good as I,” he grinned, adding after a moment:
“Galya needs me there. I have become a real caregiver: she consults me on every
move.”
“What are they putting on next season?”
“They have decided on An Inspector Calls. It is
bound to be a box office success.”
“I’m surprised they are not staging an Israeli drama.”
“A play by Amos Oz is going to be shown later in the
year.”
“Is Galya
playing a role?”
“She is playing Mrs. Berling in Priestley’s
play. She no longer tries to play roles appropriate for younger actresses. Mrs.
Berling is just suitable.”
“I am glad that I managed to help you smooth out that
issue,” I grinned.
For a few minutes Ronnie kept his silence. I sensed
that he wanted to tell me something but was hesitant. It seemed best to wait. I
knew that Ronnie trusted me but that, usually, he was tightlipped. Many Holocaust
survivors had this trait: a craving for privacy that overcame their inclination
to relate their personal experiences.
When
at long last he decided to talk, he reminded me that Galya was his second wife.
“I
recall that your first wife’s name was Hilda. The Nazis annulled marriages of
Aryans to Jews. You managed to escape and ended up in Tel Aviv.”
“So I
did; and I changed my name and started afresh.”
“I
remember, Ronnie. And you re-married after Hilda was presumed dead. You had not
heard from her for seven years following the end of WWII.”
“Well, Chayim: two years ago she
reappeared.”
“What???
… What took her so long?” I exclaimed, without reminding Ronnie that I had
changed my name to Loeb.
“It
is a complex story. I think I told you that Hilda joined the Red Cross. Her
entire team was hit by one of the bombs dropped on
“Amnesia
of this type is rare. Is it possible that, for a while, she focused on someone
else? And as to looking for you: wasn’t this easy? Neither of you hid his
tracks.”
“I
can only relate what she told me. And looking for us was not easy. You see,
both of us had changed our surnames. Also, she didn’t know I had migrated to
“Actually,
how did she?”
“She
searched for Ronald Hirsh. Fortunately, there was a record of Ronald Hirsh’s
sea voyage to
“How
did she contact you?”
“One
bright morning I received a letter, in which she announced her intention to
come over.”
“And
you replied? I thought she jilted you when Adolf Hitler seized power?”
“She
did rather; but Chayim I had been deeply in love with her. I adored her.
Emotions of this sort leave their mark. I had re-married but, nevertheless,
wanted to see her again. You see, Chayim, my first union was one of mutual
love.”
“I
understand; but how about your marriage to Galya?”
“My
marriage to her was based on understanding. It was not a romance. Galya needed
a caregiver; and I was available. You could say that she married me.”
For a while Ronnie remained silent. Then he told me
about his escape from
From
“What became of these decent German?”
“I don’t really know. But bear in mind that Adolf, may
his name be cursed, did not tolerate dissenters. I suspect that my saviours
ended up in concentration camps.”
“I still fail to understand why you agreed to meet
Hilda,” I told him. “She should have remained with you when the Nazis seized
power.”
“From her letter, I gleaned that she played a part in
saving me. And, Chayim, one of those German fellows had mentioned her name and
told me she had been working with them.”
Usually, Ronnie’s face was composed; it became distorted.
He was breathing hard and I knew he was fighting for self-control. When he
calmed down, he told me that when he met Hilda his old emotions were rekindled.
I suspected that, in reality, he had never freed himself from them. His first
marriage was romantic. His second marriage was down to earth.
“Chayim,
Chayim, what did Hitler and his followers want from me? I was a good German
citizen of the Jewish faith. I adored Goethe, Schiller and artists like Dürer. I loved to listen to Beethoven, Brahms and, yes, Wagner. And where
was He? Why didn’t He step in; or couldn’t He care less?”
“You
know more than I about the rise and collapse of the Third Reich, Ronnie. And,
please, leave God out of it. He has left our affairs to ourselves. The mess is
ours; not His!”
Once again both of us remained silent. I knew how much
my friend had suffered. I sympathized but was unable to comfort him. After a
while I asked how he had felt when they met. Ronnie’s reply was muffled and
incoherent. I noticed that he did not blame Hilda. In his eyes she, too, was a
victim. She had done her utmost to save Ronnie and her son and throughout the
war was employed by the Red Cross. She got their son’s details from Ronnie and
intended to look him up.
“Have
your remained in contact with her?” I wanted to know.
“Hilda
decided against it,” Ronnie sobbed.
“How
did Galya react?”
“She
refused to meet Hilda; and I could understand her. She was aware that our
marriage was a companionship. My marriage to Hilda was a romance. I knew that,
like me, Hilda had aged. She was no longer the pretty young girl I had met in
my university days; but she had retained her effervescent and caring
personality.”
“I
wish I could be of help but, candidly, I am nonplussed.”
“You could have a word with Galya. I fear she
is going through a personality crisis. We go together to Signon every morning.
Why don’t your call on her? I’ll pick you up for lunch.”
“Tell
her that I shall come tomorrow.”
Galya looked calm. Behind this façade she was nervous
and bewildered. She knew that Ronnie, her husband, kept thinking of Hilda. What
was she to do? Before long she told me that she no longer required Ronnie’s
assistance in rehearsing roles. In any event, she wanted to opt for early
retirement as soon as Ronnie’s current contract expired.
“I
want to help him; but I don’t know how,” she told me. “He is an expert in his
field and needs no assistance.”
“I
know, Galya. Ronnie is a born caregiver. He is not a caretaker and he might
confuse assistance with condescension. Don’t you have any interest apart from
acting?”
“I
would like to learn cooking. My skills are poor. Don’t you remember?”
“I
do. But look here: why don’t you learn cooking and ask Ronnie to help you to
perfect the recipes. He would love that!”
“It’s
worth a try. It might induce him to think less about Hilda.”
A few
days later our family proceeded to Safed. When I told Yentl about Ronnie’s
experience, she pointed out that episodes of this type were quite common. The
Nazis had broken families and had separated children from their parents. In many cases it was difficult to find out
whether a given individual had survived or perished.
“We
Jews resemble the
“I
take your point, Yentl. I only hope that our luck will not run out.”
“He
Himself makes sure our candle will burn forever!”
“I
agree,” I replied. “Still, many of us wonder why He hasn’t chosen some other
people.”
After
some four weeks we returned to
Initially,
his moves puzzled me. Spiritually, he remained the leader and main organiser.
It then dawned on me that for him too time did not stand still. He was now in
his seventies and acting as cantor every day tired him out. I, too, was getting
on. I was no longer the eager young man who had aspired for a role on the
stage.
In due course, and at Rabbi Margalioth’s
encouragement, I applied for and was granted American citizenship. The
motivation was realistic. Travelling with an American passport was easier than
with an Israeli one. In my heart of hearts, though, I remained an Israeli
living in
Both
Ami and Ruth were growing. Shortly before we celebrated Ami’s sixteenth
birthday, we had a lengthy chat about his future. My hope was that Ami, my only
son, would join a Yeshiva. To my disappointment he wanted to go to college. He
took the view that the curriculum in a Yeshiva was too narrow.
“You’ll
see me through Dad, won’t you?”
“Of
course, Ami. But don’t you want to dedicate your life to our religion?”
“I
don’t think so, Dad. My real interest is in computer technology. This sector is
embryonic at this stage; but it is bound to prosper. I want to be with it.”
“What
are the achievements of this technology to date?”
“A
personal computer is already on the market; and two companies have developed a
dedicated word processor. At present an instrument is costly. But, in due
course, the personal computer will take over.”
“Many
innovators, Ami, go bust although their systems are good. An element of luck
and of speculation is invariably involved.”
“I
hope to back the right horses, Dad. I really do; and I hope that Fortuna will
smile.”
“You
do not refer to a ‘Guiding Hand’, son. Have you lost your faith?”
“I
haven’t. But religion and matters spiritual are not my vocation. I adhere to
our tenets; and I do not think that any religion is superior to ours. Still, I
am not mesmerized by it. My future lies in another, secular, domain. I have
told you what it is.”
“Every
person has to chart his own course,” I told him, camouflaging my disappointment
and speaking supportively. “You have made your decision and it goes without
saying that you can rely on me. But tell me, Ami: are you an American Jew or an
Israeli living in
“I am
an American, Dad. I grew up in this country. I enjoyed some splendid breaks in
Safed and I am conversant in Hebrew. However, my real home is here.”
Some
two years later I had a similar conversation with my precocious daughter, Ruth.
She told me that after finishing her secondary education she intended to spend
a year or two in an Orthodox Kibbutz. One of her objects was to develop her
Hebrew vocabulary.
“After
the spell in the Kibbutz, I want to enroll in a teachers’ training course,
return to
“Don’t
you want to go to college?”
“No,
Dad, I am not the studious type. College is for youngsters who have set their
heart on a professional career like law or medicine. I don’t have such
aspirations. A teaching job is what I
want.”
I realised that she had made up her mind. Further, I
sympathised and felt confident that, in due course, she would find a suitable
spouse. The issue of building up a happy family was best discussed between mother and daughter.
In
the years that followed, both Ami and Ruth spent their breaks with friends from
their own respective age group. Yentl and I flew to Tel Aviv and proceeded to
Safed on our own. On the first occasion our cottage appeared empty and lacking
in life. Thereafter, we started to appreciate the ensuing privacy and, like
many parents before us, realised that our children had grown up and were ready
to embark on their own odysseys.
Two
events that took place in those days remain fresh in my mind. The first
occurred when we stopped for about a week in Tel Aviv. To my delight Ronnie
Eyal and Galya invited us for dinner in their home. It was the first time Yentl
met Galya and, I think, they liked one another. Galya prepared an excellent
meal and Ronnie kept fussing over the dishes and took a lively interest in the
cooking. It pleased me that both were happy and that harmony had been restored
to their married life.
The
second episode took place after we had proceeded to Safed. A middle-aged man I
did not recognise approached me just as I was about to enter a synagogue.
“Sir,
you look like Chayim Rosenne: the officer in charge of my army unit.”
“I’ve
changed my name to Loeb Zohar and, yes, I am that very person. But I cannot
really remember you.”
“All
of us have aged since then. I am Joseph Barad (nicknamed Yossi). A year ago I
retired from practice. I was a psychiatrist.”
We
proceeded to a nearby coffee house. It turned out that Yossi was familiar with
my work as a faith healer. Smilingly, he confided that, in reality, he too had
to resort to faith healing when a patient’s disorder was due to stress or edgy
nerves.
He
listened eagerly to some of the cases I had handled in
“That
shell shock and loss of memory business sounds odd,” he said after reflecting
for a few minutes.
“Why?”
“It
was a fashionable diagnosis after WWI. After WWII and the Vietnam War medicine
postulated ‘temporary amnesia’. Today we know that a shock or an injury can
lead to a partial loss of memory. Recovery from absolute amnesia, which can be
occasioned by a stroke, is hard to cure; and I am unaware of successful cases.”
“What
do you think might have happened in this case?”
“It
is possible that Hilda met a ‘Mr. Right’ and then split.”
“What,
then, would induce her to reappear – to ‘rise from the grave’?”
“I
cannot come up with a definite answer. One possibility is that she wanted to
meet her ex once again and see that he had not forgotten her. Another is a
simple wish to re-visit the past with a view to regaining strength for her
current existence.”
“Both
would also explain what made her decide to withdraw and veto further
communications,” I agreed.
Yossi
and I remained in touch ever since. Nowadays we often spend an evening together and
reminiscence about our respective pasts.
12. My Heydays as Rabbi
My
remaining years as Rabbi Margalioth’s second-in-command were pleasant. Our
relationship was harmonious and usually we saw eye to eye. When we did not, I
tended to bow to his authority unless I managed to convert him to my view. As
time passed he became increasingly inclined to concede. It was also apparent
that he was tiring easily. In due course, I became the main cantor, coordinator
and, effectively, the lead person. Margalioth continued to attend all our
functions but assumed the role of a supervisor, who governs from far afield.
In
due course he told me that he felt the need to retire and asked me to become
the new head of the congregation. I had my doubts. I knew that he was in his seventies but, even
so, felt that that he could remain in office for a few more years.
“I am
happy the way things are,” I told him.
“Many
leaders make the mistake of outliving their utility. You are ready and have the
ability. At this stage a changeover will be smooth. If we wait too long, you
may see in-fighting and contention. I abhor these. I have made my choice a few
years ago. I do not want to see it frustrated.”
“Your
advice is still needed, Rabbi. As you know, I often turn to you. It’s a
privilege.”
“You
could still consult me if you felt the need. I intend to retire here: in
“Don’t you want to settle in a place with a better
climate?”
“I prefer to remain in a town I know. We thought about
Motza near
I agreed to
take over. For about one year Moshe Margalioth continued as chairman of the
Jewish Wellbeing Foundation. He then told me that Yentl was running it
efficiently and that I was a suitable emissary. I had established sound
contacts with our sponsors. On this basis, he concluded that it would be
reasonable for him to step down. Reluctantly, I agreed. Before long the
Foundation became known as the Loeb Zohar Foundation. However, Yentl and I
adhered to the policies laid down by Moshe Margalioth. The Foundation remained
a tolerant and, I believe, well managed organization.
Shortly after I took the Congregation over, the
members of the Jewish and Israeli Culture Club invited me to become the
chairman. They were familiar with the attainments of Uri’s club in Tel Aviv and
with my contributions to it. I sensed that I ought to concentrate on the responsibilities
involved in the Congregation. These did not leave me the time needed to guide
and supervise the activities of any other body. However, I agreed to join the
Club as a member and advisor.
One of the issues that arose related to the choice of
a play to be performed under the Club’s auspices. King Solomon and Shalmai
the Cobbler, Tevyeh the Milkman and some dramas by Israeli playwrights were
considered. Then one member referred to an English piece entitled A Pack of Lies. I had actually seen it
in the Lyric in
“Why is this play topical?” asked another member.
“It is actually reminiscent of the 1951 episode
involving Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who disclosed American privileged
information to the
“But the
“True. But suppose they had to choose between loyalty
to family members who had remained in the Soviet Union and the welfare of their
new home: the
“This is not a new issue,” interceded a third member.
“During WWI German Jews were directed to enlist and fight French armies
comprising Jews …”
“ … and vice versa,” pointed out another. “And during
WWII Japanese migrants had to decide whether they owed loyalty to their new
abode or side with their original homeland.”
“And let us not forget the despicable Lavon Affair of
1954 in which Egyptian Jews were induced to support an Israeli scheme that was
counter to Egypt’s interests,” added yet another member. “The problem of split
loyalties is always current. In WWII ethnic Australians of Italian origin
fought against Italian troops in
“I agree. But A Pack of Lies would have to be
adapted. We need a modified version. In reality, we have to write a new play
with a different emphasis,” I averred.
Two members of the Club volunteered to give the
project a try. After some four months, they produced a drama set in the
The play was well attended but the critique was
lukewarm. The reviewers were disappointed with the performance. It has to be
conceded that the staging and acting were mediocre. A good director had been
required but, regrettably, was not found.
In contrast, most critics saw the relevance of the
issue elaborated, namely the well-known problems faced by migrants. The drama did not purport to provide an
answer. The audience had to decide how people ought to conduct themselves when
facing such a predicament.
Only one critic
took the view that this question should not be raised in a play. I disagreed.
The mass immigration to Europe and North America from
A few days after the last performance,
Uri took me out for lunch. It saddened me to see that the young lad, who had looked
so fresh and full of life in Tichon, appeared haggard and lacklustre and, to my
dismay, was bloated and overweight.
Initially
we spoke about the play. Uri told me he sensed that the performance was not up
to my standard. The topic, though, was relevant. He took the view that the
drama should be translated to Hebrew and performed in Tel Aviv. I voiced my
consent.
When
we were served the main courses, I asked why he looked so glum. He told me that
his medical tests suggested that he was a latent diabetic. He could prevent the
onset of the disease by watching his diet. Regrettably, his occupation rendered
this impossible.
“You
see, Loeb,” he explained, “when I attend a business lunch or dinner I have to
partake. I eat and drink too much in the course of business. Sooner or later
I’ll have to start taking tablets. The very idea is hateful!”
“In
the very least you could exercise.”
“That’s
more easily said than done. I simply don’t have the time.”
I looked at him with dismay. He was paying dearly for
his successful career. I knew it was futile to suggest early retirement. His
offspring were in their late teens and so he still had to cope with the
expenditure of their education. If he had been a believer, he might have found
solace in faith. His agnosticism denied him such comfort.
“But
look here, Uri,” I ventured, “couldn’t Rina, your wife, work for a few years so
that you build up a handsome package for early retirement?”
“She
got used to her role as housewife. I do not want to bring pressure on her.”
“Is
she aware of your quandary?”
“I
haven’t told her about it. You see, Loeb, her happiness and comfort are my
first priority. I’ll have to continue to try to control my eating and drinking.
It is the only sensible solution.”
“So
here is your own issue of split loyalty or, rather, interests. Her happiness
overrides your health issue.”
“I
know,” he sighed.
“All
I can do is to wish you good luck and say a blessing.”
When
I met Uri again after some two years he had lost weight and regained his vigor. He appeared positive
notwithstanding his having to take a tablet before the dishes arrived.
“You
see, Loeb, when I told Rina about my sticky situation, she decided to join the
working force. She also encouraged me to take pills and be open about my
condition. Nowadays I take less starch and drink very little. I do feel better.
Further, we are now a two-income family and so I shall be able to opt for early
retirement.”
“Oh
well,” I told him, “it appears that Rina too has her priorities. Your well-being
is more important to her than her own comforts. She is a good wife; and you are
a lucky man.”
“I
know,” he consented.
Once
again, I have jumped the gun and so turn back to our play in
To my
surprise Rabbi Mendel Schulman was also a guest. When we finished saying our
prayers, our conversation turned to the drama. Schulman was critical of the
staging and the acting but, to my surprise, praised our choice of subject. He
thought that the ad-hoc playwrights had done well and induced the audience to
think about the question of split loyalties.
“But
you know this type of problem crops up in our personal lives more often than we
expect.”
“What
to do you mean, Mendel’e?” asked Rabbi Margalioth.
“I
had to face this type of problem a few years ago, Moyshe. As you know, my only
son left the fold and became a Roman Catholic!”
“I
know, Mendel’e,” replied my mentor. “But how does this involve the split
loyalty issue?”
“That
rascal had to decide whether to respect his father’s orientation or follow the
commands of his own religious conviction. And I, Mendel Schulman, had to decide
whether to adhere to strict dogma and sever relations with him or close my
eyes. My strict adherence to our tenets prevailed over my paternal commitment
to my son.”
“I
wouldn’t have disowned him,” observed Margalioth.
“Neither
would I,” I voiced my agreement. “My own brother married out; but I have
remained in touch with him notwithstanding my mortification.”
“I am
not surprised, Loeb,” countered Schulman. “Your motto is tolerance; mine is
strict observance. When all is said and done, I had no choice.”
“What
is the correct course if the split loyalty arises with respect of political or
secular ideological matters, for instance, if you have to decide whether or not
to enlist in an army that may fight another one, which also comprises brothers
in faith?”
“Actually,
our tradition provides an answer: ‘the law of the Kingdom is binding’. Usually
this principle furnishes a clear answer.”
“Is
this principle easy to apply?” asked Margalioth. I, in turn, thought it best to
keep silent.
“It
is not,” conceded Schulman. “Still, it speaks for itself.”
For the remaining half hour or so, we sang the
appropriate Shabbat songs. After the occasion came to its close, I offered to
give Rabbi Schulman a lift to his hotel. Initially, he looked perturbed and so
I explained that the taxi ride had been prepaid before Shabbat Eve and that the
driver was a gentile.
“A Shabbat Goy,” smiled Mendel Schulman and accepted.
“Indeed,”
I assured him. “Neither Rabbi Margalioth nor I would call a taxi and pay the
fare on a Shabbat; nor would we accept a ride from a fellow Jew, who is not allowed
to carry out any work on Shabbat.”
When
we arrived at home, after dropping Rabbi Schulman in front of his hotel, Yentl
expressed support for his unease. As Schulman was familiar with my tolerant
approach, his foreboding was understandable.
“You,
Loeb, are closer to tolerant agnostics than to narrow-minded disciplinarians
like Mendel Schulman.”
“You
may be right, Yentl,” I replied after thinking her words over, “but in certain
situations every person has to take a stand. For instance, if I saw a person
attacking a hapless child, I would step in and save the victim. In certain
cases, there is no room for tolerance: it becomes callousness. You say to
yourself: ‘I couldn’t care less’ but, at the very same time, you know that you
ought to mind. The difference between Mendel Schulman’s orientation and mine is
in that he is rigid even in instances in which I would shrug my shoulders. The
difference relates to the borderline; not to the essence.”
Another
difficult issue came to my attention on one of my visits to Tel Aviv. After
looking up Ronnie and Galya, who were by then semi-retired, I called on Shosh.
I knew that her marriage was problematic but that neither she nor Uzi sought a
divorce. Shosh was aware that Uzi had been unfaithful and opted for sweet
revenge, except that, in her case, this did not involve affairs. She simply ate
to her heart’s delight. In the process, she became obese and developed a triple
chin. From a heavy-set yet attractive young girl, she metamorphosed into a
middle-aged matron void of any physical charm. Odd to say, she took Uzi’s
escapade in her stride and did not speak ill of him.
Shosh
had made a habit of taking ‘a small bite’ of the dishes ordered by her hosts.
I, in turn, came early when we had a lunch or dinner appointment and took the
precaution of ordering a dish before her arrival. On the occasion I am going to
relate, Shosh was in poor spirit and hardly touched her own food.
“Why
are you so glum today, Shosh?”
“I
don’t feel like eating. I have bad news; and I don’t know what to do. I need
your advice, Pilkin,” she wailed, using my old nickname instead of ‘Loeb’.
“Well,
what is the matter? I’ll do my best to help you sort things out.”
“I am
not sure you can this time!”
She then told me that her first born, Avner, was going
steady with Dina, Uzi’s daughter by the
other woman. The affair had been going on for a while and Shosh was at a loss.
She simply did not know what to do.
“Do
they know that they are half-brother and sister?” I asked when the enormity of
the situation dawned on me.
“I am
not sure,” she conceded. “You see, my Avner knows that his father sees another
woman but I suspect no further facts.”
“Is
it certain that Avner’s girl-friend, Dina, is Uzi daughter?”
“It
is. You see, Uzi met Dina’s mother some two years after her divorce.”
“Does
Uzi know about the relationship of Avner and Dina? Have you discussed the
situation with him?”
“It
is not easy for me. Uzi is aware of my knowledge of his second family; but we
have never discussed this openly. He has gleaned that I do not care!”
“But
this is a serious matter. In our religion, a union of Avner and Dina is proscribed.
The principle is clear (Lev. 18:9; 20:17) and, of course, a Rabbi cannot
celebrate a marriage which is incestuous. You have to apprise Avner of the
facts.”
“I
don’t know how to tackle the subject,” said Shosh and, out of habit, gobbled a
‘small bite’ of my goose.
For a
while both of us were immersed in thoughts. Shosh deliberated on the possible
approaches to the crisis. The full details would come to Avner as a shock.
“It
is a thorny problem,” explained Shosh. “You see, Uzi’s girl friend – or ‘second
wife’ – is, as I told you, a divorcee. Her ex-husband pays her alimony.
However, under the terms of their separation agreement, his obligation
terminates if she re-marries or enters into a ‘permanent union’. This motivated Uzi and me not to talk about
it openly. We did not even mention it to offspring. You do understand?”
“I
do. It explains your silence. If the ‘ex’ ceases to pay alimony, the burden
falls on Uzi.”
The
situation was now clear. My real problem, though, related to a different
question, which centred on the treatment of a child born from a consanguineous
union. The hapless newborn would be deemed a ‘mamzer’. Whilst the
parents’ penalty was ‘expiration at the hands of heaven’ the child was
precluded from celebrating a Jewish marriage. In a sense, the sin of the
parents was visited on their offspring. Observing me intently and having read
my thoughts, Shosh asked:
“Surely,
the child is blameless. Why should he or she be penalized?”
“Under
our tradition the child is a mamzer!”
“I
thought the word refers to an illegitimate child?”
“In
modern Hebrew it does. In Hebrew slang it may also refer to a tricky or
unscrupulous individual. I recall how a chap in Tichon, who invariably reneged
on promises, was called ‘that mamzer’.”
“And
isn’t such a person a pariah?”
“In
Jewish law a mamzer is an outcast. He (or she) ‘shall not enter the congregation
of the Lord’ (Deut. 23:3). His parents, in contrast, are not excommunicated,
although they are the transgressors. And, as you know, in our modern world an
illegitimate child, whom we often call a ‘bastard’, is not an outsider. I can
think about a number of celebrities who were highly regarded for their
achievements notwithstanding their illegitimacy.”
“So
why this harsh treatment of a mamzer in our law?”
“I am
not sure; but look, Shosh, incest is proscribed in many societies and religions
(including Christianity). I suspect that the danger of consanguineous unions
was noted in antiquity and confirmed by instances that occurred in later
periods. Just think about Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, whose parents were first
cousins: his legs did not mend after he broke them as a child. And think what
intermarriage did to the royal families: the defective Habsburg chin and the
horrors of hereditary hemophilia. Perhaps a mamzer was made an outcast
in order to prevent his defective heredity-features, known as genes today, from
spreading. It is also possible that the main object was to deter people from
engaging in incest.”
“I
know,” Shosh retorted. While she remained immersed in her thoughts, I managed
to finish my meal without her gulping the tastiest morsels. As I wiped my
mouth, she finally addressed me again:
“You
are right: I know. But what on earth should I do?”
“You
or your Uzi – that ‘worthy’ – must apprise Avner or Dina. There is no other way
out!”
When
I lunched with Shosh during my next visit to
“They
were deeply in love,” observed Shosh. “Initially, Dina suggested that they live
together, practice birth control and consider adopting a child. Later on Dina
concluded that it would be best if they split but remained good platonic
friends. She wanted to have children.”
“Where
had they met originally?”
“Both
are keen on classical music; they inherited this passion from Uzi. They
attended a conservatory and actually played chamber music together. I believe
they still do. Surely, this is not proscribed by our sages?!”
A few
years later I discussed this issue with Bushi, my agnostic boyhood friend, when
we reunited in
“Look
here, Bushi, you use information selectively. You cast doubts on the historicity
of the Pentateuch (the Torah) and then use select texts of the very same source
– the Masoretic Text of the Old Testament – to cast doubts on a law prescribed
in it. Surely, this is inconsistent!”
“I am
simply trying to read between the lines,” he retorted defensively.
“I
understand; but, then, don’t you realise that your glasses are tainted?”
Bushi was not the only person with whom I discussed
this thorny issue. During my life as a retiree in Safed I talked about it with
Yossi (Joseph Barad) who had spent most of his life as a psychiatrist. His
analysis of the laws in point related to the psychological and sociological
issues involved. He took the view that
once society learnt from experience the hazards of in-breeding, it developed
the prohibition of incestuous unions. He further opined that our draconian laws
in point were triggered by the customary taboos of the day. He may, of course,
be right. From my perspective, though, the existence of the law in point was an
adequate basis for its binding effect. A view similar to mine was taken by
Rabbi Moshe Margalioth, with whom I discussed the issue in
Margalioth
guided me also in respect of an issue that arose in our congregation in
Then,
to my disappointment, the very fellow I had been grooming, Gideon Harris,
advised me that he decided to leave us and accepted a post offered to him by a
bank in Manhattan.
“Is
it tenure?” I wanted to know.
“Not
really. It is a probationary contract. If they are pleased with my services it
will be followed by a permanent posting. I have decided to take the risk.”
“You
have a bright future with us! Don’t you know this?”
“I
do. But think about the salary offered by Wall Street banks. What I get here is
less than one half of it.”
“I
can imagine this. But how about job satisfaction? Aren’t you proud to be a
guide to members of our congregation?”
“It
is a question of priorities.”
“So
you prefer the sixpence to the moon,” I muttered. “Still the matter is up to you. All I can do
is to wish you success and happiness.”
“One
day I may become a sponsor. Surely you won’t turn me down.”
When I told Margalioth about this unfortunate
development, he took a relaxed attitude. He thought that, all in all, it was
better if a student left before his ordination and the assumption of a
religious career.
“He did not leave us in a lurch. All you have to do is
to find a substitute. Many of our students would be happy to take his place.
Ours is a moderate and tolerant organisation; and it is a renowned Yeshiva.
Every year the number of applicants goes up. So does the number of our
sponsors.
“But what shall I do if I have to retire before a
suitable candidate emerges?”
“How old are you, Loeb?”
“I’ll soon be 63 years of age.”
“Quite young. You ought to carry on until you find a
replacement. Actually, you don’t have to pick just one chap. Keep an open
mind.”
Gideon’s departure was followed by another
disappointment. Ami, who had finished college and was looking for a suitable
niche, rang to tell me that he was coming over for a visit. I raised my
eyebrows. Usually, Ami turned up unannounced. Placing a call to ensure I would be available suggested that
something was on his mind. Yentl, too, was surprised. She wondered whether Ami
needed money.
It turned out that Ami came over to talk about a very
different matter: he had decided to marry Mary, a girl he knew from college. He
told us that she was not of our creed. Initially,
I felt chagrin. Then I managed to overcome this reaction. Ami was a grown up
man and had the right to plan his future.
Ami added that they had decided to have their wedding
in
“I am flying to
“Do you really have to fly to Tel Aviv every year?”
“Even if I stayed here, I would spend the days
preceding the high holidays in the synagogue. Can’t you postpone you wedding
ceremony until they are over?”
“I am afraid I cannot. You see, Mary is pregnant and
so we want to get married as early as possible.”
“Why don’t you get married before we leave
“Mary’s father is away on a business trip. The
ceremony it to take place one day after he returns to the States. Please
understand me.”
“We do,” I told him and, ignoring Yentl’s anxious
expression, added: “To us the high holidays, especially Yom Kippur, matter. You
know this, Ami!”
“I know,” he conceded. “But, then, what can I do?”
“Ask Mary’s father to change his travelling schedule!”
“I’ll
ask Mary to talk to him.”
Mary’s father was amenable and so the wedding date was
brought forward. Mary and Ami opted for a civil marriage to be followed by a
festive gathering. Her parents and we undertook to share the expense involved.
To avoid embarrassment, I wore an ordinary suit and, at Yentl’s prompting, a
colourful skullcap instead of a hat.
It was a pleasant function. Yentl and Mary had a
lengthy chat during the party and I sensed that they would get on. I shook the
newlyweds’ hands but had little to say. Unlike Yentl, I was unable to hide my
disappointment. Ami sensed it.
“Have I hurt you by marrying out, Dad?”
“No, Ami, you are of age; and so you are entitled to
plan your own future.”
“So you do not propose to disown me?”
“Of course not. You are my only son.”
“Mary and I have paid a deposit on a house in
“Whenever
work permits. And, as you know, we hope to retire in Safed. By then the newborn
will be able to take a long flight. We should be pleased if you came to visit
us there.”
During our trip back to
“I do intend to visit them frequently. Their baby will
be our first grandchild. His birth means a lot to me. And how about you? Aren’t
you pleased?”
“I would have been happier if my grandchild was
Jewish.”
“Tevyeh’s world is no longer authentic.
Stop playing his role in real life. Ami is bringing our grandchildren into the
world. We should feel privileged and elated.”
“You may be right, but it makes me sad to think that
the number of American Jews is dwindling. I hope Ami and Mary will have two or
perhaps even four children. Still, none of them will speak Hebrew or attend a
synagogue!”
“Doesn’t this apply to many secular Jews?”
“Perhaps it does; but, then, ethnically they remain
within the fold. My grandchildren will be brought up in a milieu alien to me,”
I grumbled.
“True! All the same, they will be your descendants!”
When we returned to
As usual, we had a number of applications from traditional
Israeli boys. But in their case, too, experience dictated caution. Some were
likely to use their entrance to the Yeshiva as a stepping stone to Wall Street.
My object was to spot a candidate who would remain with us and eventually might
take over.
As was my practice, I examined each application
carefully. In the course of this perusal I saw that one hopeful’s name was
Avner Shamir, Shosh’s son. Having short listed him, I arranged an interview during my next trip to
All in all, our shortlist comprised three applicants.
The first turned out to have an interest in computers. It soon dawned on me
that after spending some time in our Yeshiva he would in all probability join a
commercial firm. I had to rule him out. The second was not just observant but
also a fanatic. I concluded that a Yeshiva associated with Rabbi Schulman would
be more suitable and directed him to it.
I then interviewed Avner. He was a tall, well-built,
broad-shouldered and intelligent-looking youth. His bright and keen looking
eyes spoke for themselves. From the very start I liked him. His replies too
were to the point:
“I can, of course, continue to study law. I am about
to complete my third year in the
“What then do we have to offer you? Why are you
interested in a religious career?”
“A platform for forming my ideas about religion.”
“With a view to reform?”
“Not necessarily. I’ll have to start studying the
background and the philosophical
writings of Judaism.”
“How good is your knowledge of the Tanakh (the
‘Old Testament’) and the Talmud?”
“Not too bad. We studied the Old Testament in my
secondary school – TA.1 – and I covered
Talmud and Family Law in the University.”
“Why didn’t you enroll in a Yeshiva straight after
TA.1? Incidentally, I too went to this school. I attended the same Form as your
mother.”
“I know. My personal experience awakened my interest
in our religion; this is latent.”
“Your mother told me all about your dilemma. But,
look: our course takes five years. And why did you opt for our Yeshiva?”
“Yours has the reputation of being liberal. And I hope
I’ll be given some cross credits for the relevant courses.”
“I’ll do my best; you’ll hear from me.”
Back in
“Rabbi, don’t you think all this could be a chain of
coincidences?”
“This is one possible explanation. Many agnostics
resort to it when they face what we consider a miracle. There is, of course, no
clear-cut answer: you have to pick a choice. As you know, I have done so years
ago. And you?”
“I am not as confident as you.”
“So you have your doubts!”
To my consternation, Margalioth broke into a fit of
coughing. Looking him over carefully, I noted that he had lost weight and
appeared tired and frail. In response to my enquiry, he assured me that he was
well and fit.
“I am
just not as young and as active as I used to be. Time does not stand still for
anybody. The main thing is: I have found a successor!”
“I
only hope he is of the right calibre,” I replied.
“Time
will tell,” he concluded.
Avner
was a real asset. Initially, he was asked to study for four years. His
impressive results and amicable orientation enabled us to ‘jump’ him one year.
Then, after three years with us, he was ready to be ordained. Shortly
thereafter I asked him to become my deputy.
In
reality, I was aging and getting ready to retire. The lengthy prayer sessions
and the endless meetings with our sponsors took their toll. I was beginning to
find my routine cumbersome and dull. Still, it was important for me to leave
our Yeshiva in good hands. Accordingly, I started to delegate to Avner some of
my functions. Yentl cooperated by getting him involved with the daily running
of the Foundation. I believe that she, too, was looking forward to moving to
our cottage in Safed.
Nowadays,
when I live in Safed on my own, I dare to believe that He sent Avner to us. I
knew that Avner’s new career gave him satisfaction. To me, his arrival provided the opportunity to leave the scene
before I outstayed my welcome.
Shortly
before his ordination, I asked Avner to accompany me to a meeting of the Jewish
and Israeli Culture Club, which proposed to organise the performance of a
further play.
Different
dramas were considered but dismissed either as too difficult or as not being
topical. Then one of the girls suggested we stage Saint-Saën’s Samson and
Delilah. The opera, based on the biblical narrative (Judges, 16:4-30),
tells how Samson, the Danite Chieftain, was betrayed by the enticing Delilah.
At the request of the Rulers of the Philistines she nagged him to disclose to
her the secret of his prowess and revealed this secret information for a
reward. Samson was defeated, captured and blinded; but, when he regained his
strength, he took hold of the two central pillars of the palace in which he was
displayed for the mockery of those in attendance. He pressed these apart with
all his strength and so the building collapsed on him and on his tormentors.
The Bible tells us that, in this manner, Samson killed more of his enemies when
he died than during his lifetime.
The
opera was topical because Delilah has to make a choice between her love for
Samson and her loyalty to her people. Further, although Saint-Saën’s libretto
depicts her as a beguiling woman, she declines the reward.
I sensed that,
notwithstanding the relevance of the play, many of those in attendance felt
uncertain. Before long, all eyes focused on me.
“Can
we really manage to put it on?” I wanted to know.
“Why
ever not?” asked the Chairman, a middle-aged and portly banker.
“Staging
it is ambitious! Do we have good singers?” I asked.
“And
the performance requires the participation of a substantial choir!” added
Avner.
“Can’t
we replace it by a single singer?” asked the Chairman.
“Not
in the case of this opera,” opined another girl. “And we must avoid getting
negative reviews.”
“True,”
agreed the Chairman. “May some other play be more suitable?”
“Why
don’t we revive Lessing’s Nathan the Wise? It is easier to stage and I
find it topical,” I told them. Noting that many looked bewildered, I queried:
“Is anybody familiar with it?”
“I’ve
skimmed through it some time ago,”
volunteered Marit, a widely read and intellectually curious journalist.
“Why
don’t you enlighten people like me, who have never heard of it?” asked the
Chairman.
“Lessing
wrote the play at the end of 18th century. It relates how, after
having defeated the Crusaders, Saladin sets one knight free. He, in turn, saves
Rachel – Nathan’s daughter – when the family’s house burns down. When Nathan
returns from his business trip, he wants to reward the hero. The latter falls
in love with Rachel … and so on.”
“Why
is this drama relevant in our era?” asked one of the members.
“The
climax of the drama is the allegory of the rings, which Nathan relates to Saladin when asked which of the three
monotheistic religions is the true one.
The parable tells the story of a father, who has in his possession a
ring which is the family’s heirloom and which he ought to leave to the son he
loves most. As he loves his three sons equally, he asks a goldsmith to make two
replicas of the original. Each heir believes he has the original. In reality,
the rings have an equal value.”
“But
why is this tale relevant nowadays?” queried the Chairman.
“Lessing’s
object was to suggest that each of the three religions is valid.”
“I am
still in the dark,” insisted the Chairman.
“It
is topical,” I insisted. “While we are not concerned with the validity of other
religions, our faith – Judaism – has many sects. Nathan tells us that the
genuine motto is tolerance. We have to agree to disagree in a peaceful – and
hence non-fanatical – manner.”
“We
may have to update the text so as to clarify this maxim. And we have to do so
without treading on any toes. I think we should go ahead,” concluded the
Chairman. All present nodded their approval.
The
Chairman volunteered to take on the role of Nathan. One of our girls was
persuaded to play the daughter and a young lad took on the mantle of the good
Samaritan. As nobody was keen to play Saladin, I suggested to the Chairman that
we invite Avner.
As we
departed, Avner told me that he and Dina had contemplated composing an opera based on Nathan the
Wise. The project was abandoned when they had to part.
“You
must put the past behind you, Avner.”
“It
will be difficult for me to find another girl. Dina and I were just right for
one another.
“I
understand. The two of you came from strikingly similar backgrounds. And both
of you inherited a passion for classical music. But the time has come to look
elsewhere!”
“I
hear you, Rabbi Zohar; and thanks for your concern.”
Our
performance of Nathan the Wise was praised by everybody. It had a
favourable review in Jewish periodicals and, actually, our team was invited to
stage it in
13. The End of my Brooklyn Days
My
remaining years as a Rabbi in
I should have
been proud of my success. In reality, though, I was getting fed up. The need of
regularly leading a congregation and tending to the needy or unhealthy members
of the community became a strain. I was aging. My immune system, which was good
during my heydays, became impaired. Occasionally, I picked up an infection when
I visited sick parishioners. Often I became impatient when they listed their
symptoms or wailed.
From a mere place of rest, our cottage in Safed
metamorphosed into a haven. I craved to live there in peace – far away from the
issues that were troubling others. Yentl, who kept observing me, encouraged me
to prolong the time we spent in
On one such visit I looked up Shosh. To my surprise,
she looked – once again – gloomy and downcast. Worse still, her appetite had
vanished and she had lost weight. I realised that something was troubling her.
By the time our main courses were served, I asked what was wrong. Initially,
she claimed that all was well. Still, her deflated expression gave the lie to
her words. I realised that she wanted to clam up. Nevertheless, I decided to
prod.
*“Shosh, you are not yourself today. What is wrong? As
you know, Avner is now in
“Tell him I am my usual happy self!”
“That would be a lie! I know something is on your
mind.”
“Well, it’s about Uzi …”
“… don’t tell me he has started a third household,” I
stepped in.
“I wish he could. That won’t bother me!”
“So what is it?”
“Uzi is a very sick man, Pilkin. He has leukemia. I
wanted to look after him. It is the least I could do. But he is being nursed by
Penina.”
“Penina?”
“The other woman. He is coming over to our place from
time to time; but she is the principal caregiver.”
I understood her anxiety. In more than one way, this
was a final act of rejection. Shosh had accepted Uzi’s infidelity. She managed
to close her eyes and even claimed that his philandering saved her back
breaking work. She continued to believe that, all in all, he had remained her
man. When he fell ill and sought help elsewhere, she realised that she had lost
him once and for all.
“Did
you inform Avner? He has the right to know!”
“I
couldn’t make myself. You see, Pilkin, Avner always loved Uzi more than me. I
had the burden of bringing Avner up. Uzi took him to watch soccer matches and
played table tennis with him. I was the one to fret if Avner’s grades in school
were lower than we had expected. I spoke to the teachers and, when Avner was
unwell, I took him to the doctor. I really think that this last burden – the
task of telling Avner that his father is beyond hope – is to be borne by Uzi
himself.”
“Are
you certain that Uzi’s caretaker is Penina?”
“Yes,
I am sure. You see: when I realized that Uzi was ailing, I swallowed my pride
and went to his ‘other’ home. Uzi was
embarrassed and left the room. I had a
long chat with Penina. I think she is, actually, a very nice person. Until Avner met Dina, Penina didn’t realise
that Uzi already had a family. The revelation came to her as a shock.”
“Good
grief: your Uzi is a real scoundrel! Isn’t he?”
“He
is, rather. But, then, what should I do now? What is the proper thing to do?”
“Avner
must be told. I am surprised that Dina didn’t tell him. Surely, she knows.”
“She
is aware of Uzi’s condition; but she is not in touch with Avner.”
For a while, I was just as lost as Shosh. The position
was awkward and Avner’s erstwhile romance with Dina exacerbated the situation.
My training and life experience as a religious leader did not provide an
answer. Then I recalled the motto that often stood me in good stead in the
remote past, when I had hired out my services as an odd jobs boy: if a
situation became unacceptable, you had to change the fundamentals. Thus, if you
could not stop the leak from a defective pipe, you had to divert the water until
you found a spare part and had the time to install it.
“Look
here, Shosh: do you think that Penina is able to carry on until the end?”
“I
doubt it. When I called on her, she struck me as exhausted.”
“Well, in that case you better convince
her that Uzi ought to be moved to a care facility. You can then advise Avner
without reopening a wound.”
“It
may be the answer. I’ll try.”
A few weeks later Uzi moved to a nursing home. After
another six months he passed away. Avner flew to
Shortly
after Avner’s return to Brooklyn following Uzi’s funeral, I decided to fly to
On my
flight to Zürich I kept meandering on the vagaries of fate. Bushi
would have expected me to be an aging actor residing in Tel Aviv. He knew that
I had been engaged by the ITV which was bound to send me on missions. In
consequence, the scribbled postcards I sent him as I was travelling on behalf
of the Congregation would not have come to him as a surprise or as an eye
opener. The absence of an address for return mail might have irked him. Still,
I knew my Bushi well and so was certain that he was going to keep our appointment. As a matter of extra caution, I sent him a
reminder, emphasizing that, as agreed, I would book a table in his name.
Bushi’s
odyssey was remarkable. Despite our seminal conversation during our first trip
to
I
suspected that Bushi had retained his worldly outlook. He was – and had
remained – an agnostic. In contrast, I was a moderate and tolerant believer.
Whilst he would regard our respective odysseys as vagaries of fate, I continued
to sense a Hidden Hand guiding and prompting us. It had driven us apart but
made room for a reunion.
During
previous trips to Europe, which took place when I traveled on behalf of the
Foundation, I came to know
I
witnessed Bushi’s arrival. Next morning I spotted him sitting by the window of
his room and watching all new arrivals to my hotel. I sensed that Bushi had not
lost his touch. He had rightly guessed that I would book a room in the
Zermattschein. To put Bushi to the test, I walked out of the hotel, dressed in
full regalia. Bushi studied me and appeared bemused: he did not recognise me.
For
the rest of the day, I shadowed Bushi. I knew he would not travel to lofty
plateaus: he used to fear high elevations. On the day agreed by us, I left a
message in his pension advising that a table had been booked in his name.
Bushi
looked stunned when he came face to face with me in the private room I had
managed to secure.
“Which
role are you playing today?” he asked after settling down.
“No
role: you see me ‘as I am’.”
“So
you have become a ‘frummer’ (highly-orthodox Jew). In Tichon you were just moderately orthodox.”
“I
haven’t changed my orientation; only my attire!”
“Next
you’ll be wearing the emperor’s clothes!”
It dawned on me that, if I had not seen Bushi’s
picture, I might have failed to recognize him. His face had changed, his
shoulders were sagging and he had put on weight. His expression, though, had
remained unaltered. He still looked confused and, to a point, out of
place.
“Calm
down, Bushi. I won’t bite you!” I assured him.
“I’m
sure you won’t: I am not Kosher,” he muttered and started to study the menu.
“Have
a glance at the Kosher items. The goose is excellent and I brought with me a
bottle of Carmel Hock. We used to drink it when we had enough money. It goes
well with the goose.”
Over the starters, we gossiped about old classmates.
To my relief, Bushi relaxed, came to life and grinned happily when I reminded
him of the practical jokes we used to play in our far-gone formative years. He
roared when I reminded him how we had ambushed Tichon’s Principal and pelted
him with water bombs.
He became sedate when I told him the depressing
developments in Shosh’s life, but was impressed when I confided that Avner,
Shosh’s son, would take over my functions in
“So in the very least she ceased to be a glutton,” he
mumbled. “And all-in-all her prospects
are good. You are bound to ensure that Avner is a success. Shosh would be
thrilled. And, Pilkin, perhaps Uzi’s demise was timely.”
A solemn mood descended when our main courses were
served. As agreed, each of us narrated his odyssey. When we were done, Bushi
fell into a reverie. As he returned from this far away journey, he observed
that both of us had developed trends that had manifested themselves in our
youth. I had remained an observant yet tolerant Jew and chose to play a Rabbi’s
role. In a sense, Bushi averred, I had remained an actor. His dream of becoming
a successful courtroom advocate had failed to materialise. All the same, he
pursued an academic career in his chosen area.
“But surely, Bushi, my calling is more than a mere
role. I lead a congregation! And you, my old friend, try to teach youngsters
how to become great lawyers. It seems to me that both of us have retained the
urge to influence others; and both of us brought our respective ships home!”
“Well put,” he conceded, “but our great dreams have
not materialised. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, actually. Still, both of us opted for the bird
in the hand and not for seven on a tree!”
“You mean: we became realists; don’t you, Pilkin?”
“I do, rather.”
“So both of us followed the path mapped out by Fortuna!”
“I prefer to put it in a different way. We followed
the lead prescribed by a Hidden Hand: an imperceptible hand which some of us
refuse to acknowledge.”
“You and your personal God, Rabbi Zohar! Where was He
during the Holocaust? Fast asleep: wasn’t he?”
“Stop scoffing, Bushi. All in all, you have done well.
And please recall that, to you, I shall always remain Pilkin. As to the
Holocaust, don’t forget that, in the end, it triggered off the Foundation of
Israel.”
“I am aware of the fact, Pilkin. Hitler’s regime also
led to mass migration of Jews to the
“Is that an unfavourable development?” I asked
genuinely puzzled.
“I am afraid it is. You see, Pilkin, the Jews are a
small minority of the American population; but look how vocal they are. And
they control the economy: they run Wall Street as well as the Federal Reserve.
Surely, you heard some nasty sayings about us?”
“Eh?’
“They say, inter alia, that
“Pfui, Bushi,” I let my chagrin show. “Surely, such
pronouncements are false and incorrect.”
“I am not the originator of such filthy remarks. But
the very fact that people say them is, in itself, a bad omen!”
“What do you mean?”
“I fear that the
“It’s easy for you to foretell quite calmly a calamity
in the
“I am not a prophet, Pilkin. And in any event, we
cannot control the future. So don’t fret,” he consoled.
“I don’t,” I replied. “Also, you know, our people have
survived many tragedies. I believe we are indestructible.”
“We may be: I agree. Still, many individuals will
perish, especially if the next madman says that a person is a Jew if one of his
ancestors in five generations was of our creed.”
I sensed that it was best to change the subject. Bushi
listened carefully as I recounted my very last lunch with Shosh. He did not
look surprised when I narrated that, after losing Uzi, Shosh had regained her
wolfish appetite.
“Don’t
you worry: I won’t gobble up half of your meal, although the goose is
exceptionally good,” he grinned. “As you know, some people say that Judaism is
a gastronomic religion. But I am not an observant Jew.”
“I
know. But look here, Bushi: Shosh is unique.”
“Eh?”
“After
she finished her and most of my meal, she ordered a sort of an Irish coffee.”
“Did
she really?” he asked with awe.
“She
did indeed. Instead of whiskey she asked the waiter to use sweet liquor covered
with black coffee and topped with whipped cream.”
“That’s
a Viennese Einspänner; I used to have one when father and I went for afternoon
coffee. Pilkin, such a delicacy is a meal by itself.”
“So
it is! And when Shosh finished it, she said it was so good that she had to have
another! And she ordered it!”
“You
don’t say,” countered Bushi. It amused me to see that his eyes bulged out of
his head and that an expectant expression descended on his face. I was, of
course, aware that Bushi retained his sweet tooth.
“Why
don’t you have one? You won’t offend me by taking milk immediately after meat.
As you know, my maxim is: ‘live and let live’. What do you say?”
“Not
the best concoction for an old diabetic,” he sighed. Then with gusto, he
reached his decision: “The hell with the doctor. I’ll have one.”
Instantly
I felt protective. On the waiter’s advice, I insisted that he use Kirsch and an
artificial sweetener rather than a sweet liqueur. Bushi gleamed. Then he looked
at me thoughtfully, smacked his lips and uttered the highest Yiddish praise for
a dish: á mechayedik. At this juncture my own eyes burst with envy. I
knew full well that he was tempting me but wanted to partake. Looking at me
aghast, the waiter, who was familiar with our dietary laws, recommended that I
substitute a sweet Pflümli for the Kirsch and add a spoon
of raw sugar. Grinning with delight, the two of us touched glasses. “To good
old Shosh,” yelled Bushi. “Amen,” I retorted.
We
spent the rest of the evening singing songs of the old days. We then chatted
about our exploits during our years in Tichon and in the University. Before we
parted, Bushi suggested that we make another rendezvous, this time within a
year or two.
“No
Bushi: we don’t want to tempt fate. Here is my personal card. Let us keep in
touch from now on.”
Early next morning I took a train to
“No, Loeb, I disagree with Bushi, unless he maintains
that life in itself is nothing but an act.”
“Perhaps he does, with Bushi you never know.”
“Then don’t take his words too seriously.”
Yentl was right. Bushi had not elaborated. It was best
for me to regard his words as a tactless comment. All the same, I had a nagging
doubt. Bushi had prepared himself for our reunion. I sensed that he was
unlikely to make an observation, unless he meant what he said.
To discuss the matter further I called on my friend Yossi.
Having listened to my account intently, Yossi took a view different from
Yentl’s.
“Look here, Chayim, from what you tell me about Bushi,
he is unlikely to blurt something out without thinking. Further, he had
prepared himself for your meeting. It might have surprised him that you have
become a religious leader. But, then, he probably wanted to meet his ‘Pilkin’
of old. He knew your main interest was drama and acting. When addressed to
Rabbi Zohar, his remark sounds tactless. When he made it to ‘Pilkin’, it might
have been a natural observation. It might even have been a compliment.”
“Do you share his pessimistic outlook?”
“Time will tell. I should like to meet him. I suspect
I know what the get-together meant to him. He hoped to revive the past. This
also explains why he made no reference to his marriage which, as you tell me,
has remained unhappy.”
“In the old days, we were very close. I shared more of my life and dreams with him
than with my brother, David.”
“It clarifies the position. I am sure he relaxed as
the dinner proceeded.”
“He did rather. And you are right, Bushi wanted to
travel back to the past.”
“So did you,” he summed up.
After our spell in Safed, Yentl and I spent a few days
in Tel Aviv. We then flew back to
Shortly after we were back in
A day after Ruth’s arrival, Yentl told me that Ruth
was contemplating marriage. I knew Ruth was very friendly with Meyer, one of
her colleagues, who was a staunch reform orientated New York Jew. What I could
not understand was what had induced Ruth to talk to Yentl before keeping me
officially in the picture.
“Ruth thinks you want her to marry one of your own
disciples,” explained Yentl.
“She is a grown-up woman. She has every right to plan
her own life.”
“She does not want to hurt your sensitivities.”
“She needn’t worry,” I assured my wife. “I am glad she
is not marrying out. But, Yentl, have you explained to her how important it is
to make sure that Meyer is ‘Mr. Right’?”
“I have; and, in any event, Ruth is sensible. She is
aware of the issues involved.”
“Well, that settles it. Will Meyer come to talk to
me?”
“I invited him for dinner this evening.”
Meyer appeared ill at ease. It seemed best to nudge
him. He broke into a smile when I told him that I hoped he would make Ruth
happy.
“Her
happiness will be my first priority, Rabbi Zohar.”
“Is
there any chance of your settling in
“The
answer is complex and I don’t want to make promises I may be unable to keep.
Ruth and I are American Jews. Later in life, when we retire,
“I
understand,” I told him. “But will your children have some nexus with
“Most
American Jews have it, don’t you know?”
“I
do. But will they learn Hebrew?”
“Nowadays
it may be to their advantage to study Mandarin.”
“I
take your point. However, I hope that my grandchildren will also be conversant
in Hebrew and be familiar with our rich literature.”
“I’ll
do my best; but I cannot promise that they will. Nowadays few Jews are
conversant in Hebrew. I suspect that outside
“How
about Yiddish?”
“I
fear it is dying out. It was the jargon of Ashkenazi Jews in
“Many
American Jews are conversant in it and in some congregations it is still
spoken. Further, there are American authors who use it,” I protested.
“Not
many of the younger generation, I fear.”
“I
thought that both in
“They
remind me of medical men, who try to save the life of a critically ill patient.
In reality, the best they can do is to prolong the sufferings and postpone the
inevitable end. I bet you have read Yiddish authors in Hebrew or English translation.”
“You
are right. I read Shalom Aleichem in translation.”
“The
same is true about most of us. There are a few localities in
“True: Hebrew
has become the Israeli tongue. I do not expect to hear Yiddish in Safed, where
I hope we shall retire. Actually, would you come to visit us there from time to
time?”
“Of
course! This I can promise; and it will be a pleasure.”
Ruth’s wedding was grand. To ensure that it would be
universally recognised, they had a civil marriage followed by a traditional
Jewish ceremony. Being the bride’s father, I thought it was best not to officiate.
Another Rabbi assumed the role and performed well. I enjoyed the celebration and drank the
health of the newlyweds. My feelings, though, were mixed. I sensed that my
grandchildren would be brought up as American Jews. My family’s Israeli link
would culminate on my appointed day.
Still, Ruth’s children would be Jewish. They would – I hoped – remain in the
fold.
On
our way from
“You
don’t look too happy, Loeb. What’s the matter?”
“It concerns me to think that, involuntarily,
I have fathered a new family of American Jews. As you know, I am a Tel Avivi.
“But
you became a Rabbi in
“I
know this. And I have only myself to blame. I was hoping that Ami and Ruth
would regard the cottage in Safed as their home.”
“It
has always been a holiday home. Ami and Ruth are conversant in Hebrew and
understand Israeli mores. Their lingua franca, though, is English and
“I
understand. Still, it would have been nice to keep the link with
“Meyer
will try,” she summed up. “But I shouldn’t bank on his success. He is an American Diaspora Jew; not an
Israeli.”
“Somehow
I managed to retain my Israeli identity, notwithstanding my having accepted a
post in
“How
very true, Loeb. But don’t you see? You compromised your stand when you married
a non-Israeli Jewess.”
A
sense of being out of touch plagued me. It manifested itself when I attended
the next meeting of our Club. Once again our members wanted to stage a play.
Their difficulty was to identify a suitable piece. One member suggested Sholem
Asch’s God of Vengeance. The play deals with the life of a Jewish
brothel keeper, who tries to become respectable by marrying his daughter to a
student of a Yeshiva. The play attained fame, or rather notoriety, when
performed in
Throughout
the discussion, I felt uninterested. I knew that, in the end, the Club would
opt for a modern play. I sensed that early works, which suited audiences prior
to the end of WWII, had lost their topicality. Ours was a brave new world and
the Club had to move with the times.
On
the way back to our Yeshiva, Avner pointed out that I had not taken part in the
discussion. This puzzled him.
“You
were rather aloof today, Rabbi Zohar. Why?”
“In
truth, Avner, I am getting tired. Somehow I yearn for retirement. The hustle and
bustle of the present era irritates me. Don’t you think it is time for me to
hand the reins over?”
“You
have left your mark here. And you launched my career. I learnt a great deal
from you.”
“You
are too kind. But, really, all sagas have to come to their end.”
A few
weeks later Yentl and I flew to Tel Aviv. Prior to our trip to Safed, I called
on Ronnie and Galya. They were still in Tel Aviv, happily married and semi-retired.
Occasionally Galya took supporting roles in Signon and other ensembles. Ronnie
was intermittently consulted on lighting issues arising in plays performed by
theatres. He listened with interest to my meeting with Bushi in
“What
do you make of Bushi’s comment, implying that I was playing the role of a
Rabbi?” I asked.
“Did
his remark upset you?”
“Not
really. But is he right? Am I an actor playing a Rabbi?”
“Surely,
Chayim, all of us play roles! In
“I
suspect you just changed your role, Ronnie.”
“Quite
so. And the same applies to you. In the army, you were a capable officer. In
Signon, you remained an unsatisfied man hoping to acquire a career on the
stage. In
“Wouldn’t
that apply to everybody?”
“I
suspect it does!”
Galya, who was listening to us, nodded. It dawned on
me that this comfortable, middle- aged woman, was no longer the hungry and
aspiring debutante of old.
Later in the same week, I had lunch
with Shosh. To my delight she looked invigorated. It was clear that she had
recovered from the melancholy that engulfed her after Uzi’s death.
“Anything
new, Shosh?”
“Actually,
there is. Pilkin: I am remarrying!”
“Who
is the lucky man, Shosh?”
“You
don’t know him, Pilkin. We met in a Book Club. He is a widower and, I think, is
an outstandingly nice person. Well, what do you say?”
“Warmest
congratulations, Shosh. I hope you will be happy. My only question is: why do
you want to remarry? Don’t you think it is best to stick to the status quo?
“I
don’t like being on my own. I am not the self-sufficient type. That’s why I
decided to remain married to Uzi.”
“Did you inform Avner?”
“I’m
going to write to him within the next few days. How is he doing?”
“He
is ready to be ordained and to take over. You see, I want to retire. Time does
not stand still!”
Shosh listened with interest to my account of the
reunion with Bushi. She was pleased to know that he was doing well. His taking
up permanent residence overseas did not surprise her. In
Early
next week, I proceeded to Safed. Yentl was already there. On my way, I
reflected on the kindness shown to me by the Hidden Hand. Proverbs (30:10-end) –
the passage recited at Mother’s funeral
– elucidates the virtues of a ‘worthy woman’ and the lavish praise bestowed on
her by an admiring husband and their offspring. Proverbs tell us how she caters
for the entire family. I was satisfied that this description befitted Yentl.
Throughout her life, my happiness and that of Ami and Ruth was her priority. We
were fortunate to have her.
The
cottage in Safed was warm and welcoming. Yentl had tidied it up and turned one
of the rooms into a study. It was bound to be an ideal retirement abode.
Obviously, Yentl was cognizant of my wish to stop working in
To
clear my mind about my reunion in
“Chayim,
am I right in concluding that you have ‘done your share’?”
“You
are, indeed. In plain language: I am fed up!”
“How
about your interest in acting and in drama in general?”
“I
propose to continue reading works I have missed out on. I do not intend to
become idle.”
“You
no longer feel the need to influence events?”
“I
don’t. And, you know, my orientation as Rabbi is becoming old-fashioned. The
future must be planned by the younger generation!”
“You
feel you are passé?”
“I
do; and I am!”
“I
wonder if your friend’s – Bushi’s – remark has something to do with it?”
“What
do you mean?”
“Bushi
suggested you were playing a role. I suspect he hit – unintentionally – a sore
point. He implied that you weren’t the
real thing.”
“So…?”
“He
suggested that Loeb Zohar suppressed ‘Pilkin’ – the old boyhood friend he
craved to catch up with. He felt no affinity for the Rabbi confronting him. The
effect on you was profound. He brought home to you that, in his eyes, Pilkin of
old was a better individual than Rabbi Zohar and, tacitly, you conceded the
point.”
“How
did this influence me?”
“You
decided to take the route back.”
I
pondered over Yossi’s words for a long time. Eventually I conceded: “You hit the nail on its head, Yossi. From
now on, please address me as Pilkin.”
“It
will be a pleasure, Pilkin!”
During our period in Safed, I downloaded onto the
computer the bulk of my materials. Yentl smiled with satisfaction. She new I had
made up my mind and that the reclusive ambience of Safed would suit my new
outlook.
PART V: RETIREMENT
14. Move to Safed
I returned to
I
conveyed my decision to Avner a few days after I made my final resolution to
leave. For all practical purposes he was ready to take my place. He had
completed his studies with flying colours, had proved himself as cantor and had
delivered a number of sermons after
prayer sessions. His style, though, differed from mine. He tended to
concentrate on the topics covered by him without adding jokes or plays on
words. In reality, his approach was more serious and traditional than mine.
To my
surprise Avner insisted on a formal ordination procedure: a Semicha. I
agreed with him that this formal step was of relevance. Originally, it had been
a ceremony in which a panel headed by a properly ordained Rabbi declared the
newcomer as fit to resolve disputes brought before him. In this way, the panel
confirmed the Rabbi’s ability to adjudicate or make a determination in any
matters to be decided on the basis of Jewish law and tradition. In addition,
the panel had the power to confirm the graduate’s capacity as a cantor.
In
our modern era this formal ordination became superfluous. Once a Yeshiva’s
student graduated, the course of studies ensured that he had the required
skills. Avner, though, took the strict view, under which the studies had to be
supplemented by the formality.
Having
been ordained by a panel headed by Rabbi Margalioth, I could have chaired such
a panel; but in view of my close friendship with Shosh (Avner’s mother) I felt
the need to engage another chairman. Rabbi Margalioth had become too frail to
carry out any procedures. He recommended that I approach Rabbi Mendel Schulman
who was at that time in
Schulman was satisfied that Avner met the required
standard. He added that, in his opinion, Avner would reverse my highly liberal
and often debatable determinations. On his recommendation, our panel ordained
Avner as capable of functioning as both a cantor and adjudicator.
When the session was over, Mendel Schulman observed
that the Hidden Hand that found an acceptable successor to my duties as Rabbi,
had not endowed Avner with the gift of faith healing. He thought it advisable
that we search for a replacement. Both of us had difficulties in finding such a
person. When our search remained unsuccessful, Schulman observed that a Rabbi
did not have to be a healer.
An additional issue was raised by Yentl. She pointed
out that Avner was not in a position to oversee the Foundation. She suggested
that the new administrator should be her deputy, a pleasant woman who had
worked with her for years. Rabbi Schulman, Avner (now Rabbi Shamir) and I
agreed.
After completing all the formalities, Rabbi Schulman
asked Avner whether he intended to get married. Whilst there was no law
requiring that a Rabbi be a family man, traditionally he had a wife and
children. Unlike the celibacy required of Roman Catholic clergymen, Rabbis were
not exempt from the duty to multiply. Further, many issues brought for
determination to a Rabbi related to domestic affairs. A married man was in a
better position to advise or adjudicate than a confirmed bachelor.
Avner listened to Rabbi Schulman’s words and, I
believe, accepted the rationale. A frozen expression alone indicated that he
was uneasy. Then he turned to me:
“Rabbi Loeb, did you tell Rabbi Schulman anything
about my experience.”
“No Avner. I always keep personal details respecting
others in strict confidence. You better tell him yourself all about Dina.”
Rabbi Schulman listened attentively to Avner. A sad
expression descended on his face when the full impact of the episode dawned on
him. For a while he was lost in his thoughts. When his mind was clear, he told
Avner that it was fortunate that they had become aware of the facts before it
was too late.
“Look here, Rabbi Shamir,” he concluded. “You are
still a young and currently unattached man. You must put this dismal experience
behind you. Dina did the right thing when she ceased to contact you. There are
many attractive and traditionally raised girls in
“It may be difficult for me to fall in love with
another woman. I cannot imagine that any would be superior, or in the very
least equal, to Dina.”
“Please, keep the door open until you find a good
wife. You know, in many ways things were easier when I was your age. My late
father and my wife’s guardian consulted a matchmaker, who thought we were right
for one another. I fell in love with her after our nuptials: like Isaac with
Rivka (Rebecca).”
“The days of the matchmaker are long over,” I
interceded. “Nowadays we believe in marriages based on love or a sense of
compatibility between bride and groom.”
“I am not sure this is a better approach,” observed
Schulman. “Still, I hope that even this new approach will lead to a suitable
match when Rabbi Shamir comes across an appropriate girl.”
“I agree,” I said supportively.
For a while Rabbi Schulman looked preoccupied. He then
asked Avner:
“Has Rabbi Zohar told you anything about the crisis I
faced a few years ago?”
“I haven’t,” I explained. Avner looked puzzled.
“My own son,” Schulman told Avner, “left our faith and
became a Roman Catholic. I loved him
dearly before then; saw him through college and university. His desertion was a
shock. I wanted to remain in touch with him but, in the ultimate, took the step
prescribed by our tradition. I have disowned him! I tell you this so as to
impress on you the importance of strictly adhering to our laws and tradition.”
“But he is still your son, Rabbi Schulman. Why did you
feel obliged to oust him?”
“He broke the fifth commandment (Ex. 20:13). He did
not respect his father.”
“How so?” asked Avner.
“By deserting: by disowning our faith.”
“I wonder,” countered Avner. “The fifth commandment
forbids him to show any personal sort of disrespect. You do not suggest that he
did so. The fifth commandment does not apply where his convictions lead him to
a path different from yours.”
“His desertion was as disrespectful as a slap to my
face. You, Rabbi Shamir, are still under the influence of Rabbi Zohar’s motto
of tolerance!”
“I respect him as if he were my father,” summed up
Avner, “and very often we see eye to eye. I would take a different path if I
disagreed with him on any doctrinal point.”
“Thank you, Avner,” I summed up.
Avner was now in a position to take over my duties as
leader of the congregation. To my surprise, he asked me to remain in office for
another two years. Notwithstanding his ordination, he felt the need for
guidance. Reluctantly, I agreed. At the same time, I took longer periods of
leave. My object was two-fold. To start with, I was keen to spend as much time
as possible in Safed, which became our main residence. In addition, I felt that
Avner should get used to the idea of being in charge.
During my last year in
My having taken a back seat in the congregation meant
that in some cases I could act without regard to the dignity of my post. One
such instance arose when the Jewish and Israeli Culture Club decided that the
time was ripe for the staging of a drama. Once again, we tried to spot a
suitable piece. After some deliberations, one member of the Committee suggested
that we revive Nathan the Wise. Its initial performance had been a
success and all of us felt confident that it would again be well attended. On
this occasion Avner, who had been elected a member of the Committee, agreed to
play the role of the Good Samaritan. Another member offered to take on the role
of Saladin. To our disappointment the Chairman advised us that due to other
commitments he was unable to perform Nathan. To my own surprise, and
acting on the spur of the moment, I volunteered.
“Are you sure, Rabbi Zohar?” asked the Chairman.
“I am,” I responded. “Nathan was a wise and tolerant
man.”
On the way back, Avner expressed his own feeling of
unease. He wondered whether the playing of a role on stage was compatible with
the dignity and status of an established Rabbi.
“Normally I, too, would have reservations. The present
case is an exception. You see, Avner, for all practical purposes you have
become the Chief Rabbi of our congregation.
It is no longer my post. Even so, I would turn down roles such as the Malade
Imaginaire or Tevyeh. These are comic parts and hence not befitting. Nathan,
in contrast, is a sage. His motto is tolerance. This, as you know, is also
mine. And bear in mind that Nathan is a dignified figure: a role
befitting a tolerant Rabbi.”
“You did not volunteer on the previous occasion,”
pointed out Avner.
“Abundance of caution! But today the position differs:
I am semi-retired. Also you know well that drama and staging are dear to me.
Nowadays I can afford to obey the commands of my heart.”
Yentl, with whom I discussed the episode shortly after
arriving at home, was supportive. In her opinion, it was proper for me to act
in any manner befitting a member of the congregation. She pointed out that this
was a charitable act as the net amount left after the deduction of expenses was
to be paid into the Foundation’s trust account. She also reminded me that we
got acquainted in the course of the staging of Tevyeh the Milkman. She
added that the performance of carefully chosen plays contributed to the cause
of Jewish welfare in
Once again Nathan the Wise was a success. All seats were booked in each of our ten
performances and the audience applauded enthusiastically. The critique, too, was warm. We had
favourable reviews in a number of Jewish periodicals. To my delight my own act
was lauded. One reviewer observed that it had pleased him to see the role of a
sage of bygone days played by a judicious and tolerant Rabbi. I felt that
Avner’s misgivings were put to rest.
During my last year in
One problem
cropped up in consequence of Ami’s marriage to a non-Jewess. Ami and Mary, who
came over for a visit, wanted to know whether the baby-boy she was carrying
ought to be circumcised. My initial reaction was to advise against it. Under
Jewish law, the children of a non-Jewish mother were not considered Jewish.
They would have to convert in order to qualify as members of the congregation.
I took the view that in the case of the offspring of mixed marriages, Jewish
rites were out of place. The best approach was to let young people grow up
before they made a conscious decision respecting faith. It then dawned on me that the issue was even
more complex. Under the strictures of ultra-conservative communities, such
children would be deemed ‘mamserim’ and hence could not be admitted into
the community.
To my relief, Yentl took over. Addressing Mary, whom
both of us liked, she asked whether Mary had been brought up as a Christian and
whether she would want her children to be brought up as such or simply as
secular free thinkers.
“My parents were evangelical but I became an agnostic
during my university days. I believe Ami shares my orientation,” Mary advised.
“I do,” affirmed Ami. “I only hope you are not
offended, Dad.”
“I am not. Both the
“And you, Mom?”
“I am comfortable with my traditional outlook,” Yentl
explained. “But I would not force my view on others.”
“I am relieved,” Ami summed up. “Still, what do you
advise as regards our forthcoming problem?”
“Are you sure it will be a baby-boy?”
“The gynecologist advised us.”
“In that case, I advise circumcision. To start with it
is hygienic. In addition, if your son decided to convert to Judaism, the issue
would not arise: he would already be circumcised. In the case of a baby,
circumcision is a small matter. In the case of an adult, it involves a rather
unpleasant operation.”
“I wonder if, as a matter of convenience, I ought to
convert,” observed Mary. “Surely, this would sort out the problem.”
“Conversion to Judaism takes some time. By then, the
baby would have been born. It would still be the son of a gentile mother,” I
explained.
“How restrictive,” Mary pointed out. “Is your religion
that select? Don’t your Rabbis welcome converts?”
“Judaism is non-proselytizing. It may be described as
clannish,” I conceded. “Follow Yentl’s advice. Have the baby circumcised but
bring him up as a free thinker. He is entitled to make his own decision when he
is of age.”
“Would other Rabbis agree with you?” Mary wanted to
know.
“I believe that on this specific point they would see
eye to eye with me,” I replied after trying to analyze the problem from Rabbi
Schulman’s perspective. “They may even take the stand that, by marrying a non-Jewish
woman, a chap like Ami has tacitly consented to his children being brought up
in her faith.”
Six months later, the baby-boy was born. They decided
to name him Jacob, to be abbreviated to ‘Jack’. Mary had him circumcised by a
surgeon. A Jewish ceremony would have been inappropriate. Little Jack was cute, smiling happily when callers came to
see him. My own feelings remained mixed. He was my grandchild but, of course,
there was the danger of our becoming estranged, especially if I decided not to
travel to
When I submitted my official resignation, the
congregation arranged a farewell party. Food was plentiful and the wine flowed.
Avner delivered a moving speech lauding my contributions to the congregation
and to the development of Jewish cultural life in
My days in
The flat in
It pained me to dispose of our comfortable sofa, armchairs and our
dining-room set. The second-hand dealers paid us a pittance. We had to
accept the price they offered because these items would not fit our newly
acquired studio-flat in
The items we decided to keep were packed by
professional movers and sent over to the
Most of the books I had acquired over the years had to
be given away. The remaining ones, which I treasured, were packed neatly in
four huge boxes. They comprised mainly medieval writings of Jewish sages I had
collected during my travels. Prominent amongst them was a collection of early
editions of Maimonides’ books and a fine copy of the Vilna Talmud. Today, these
treasures grace my study in Safed.
Another item I insisted that we ship over was Yentl’s
electric organ. I was aware that we would have to use an adaptor so as to
attach it to the electric current of
I knew that Yentl was attached to it and enjoyed
playing traditional Jewish music. Indeed, many of our guests listened with
pleasure to her performance of Der Rebbe Elimelech and to some Hebrew songs like Zeena
Habanot. Leaving the organ behind and purchasing a new one in
Another item we took with us was a magnificent
rosewood desk given to me by a member of the community I had helped to overcome
the depression that had set in when his wife eloped. The top of the desk, which
was made in
Our collection of bronzes – mainly of Israeli origin –
was packed into a teakwood chest, which had been presented to me by the
congregation in
These items, and two boxes of clothes and religious
apparel, filled a small container. In a sense, we managed to transfer the
ambience of our residence in
To my relief, Yentl was looking forward to our change
of venue. Although she had been brought up in
To show my appreciation I gave her a treat. I knew
that during her days in college she took tours to
Our first stop was in
On another day, we took a trip to
We then went up to the Lake District and on to
We took the
To my relief, eating out was not a problem. Just like
We proceeded via
A trip by rented car took us to
From
On one particularly pleasant day, we went to the famed
Belvedere. As both of us were fit, we started viewing the 20th
century art displayed in the upper section and walked down, through the
grounds, to the Baroque and Medieval collections. It was a most enjoyable
experience.
Eating did not present a problem. There were quite a
few vegetarian restaurants and we were, of course, welcomed by the Jewish Welfare Board. We also went to
the synagogue which had a restaurant. We spent our weekends near the Schul and
attended the Shabbat evening celebrations.
After some two weeks in
We agreed to travel to
Having made up our minds, we booked a flight to Tel
Aviv. On arrival, I contacted the forwarding agents only to find out that there
had been a delay of some two weeks in the shipment of our effects. This enabled
us to prolong our sojourn in Tel Aviv. My first task was to advise the Schul
that I had opted for full retirement in Safed. Accordingly, I had to withdraw
from my membership. Here, too, the congregation gave me a farewell party, which
was well attended. The evening was enlivened by a small band, which played
local music.
A few days later, Yentl and I had dinner with Shosh
and her second husband. I was favourably impressed by him. I was satisfied that
the two of them had a good understanding and were a harmonious couple.
Shosh asked a great deal about Avner. For reasons of
health, she had been unable to attend his graduation ceremony and his
ordination. She was delighted to hear my praiseworthy account of his life in
A few days later, Yentl and I spent an evening with
Ronnie and Galya. I was surprised when Galya often made comments which were out
of context. She appeared unfocused and disorganized.
Whilst Yentl went with her to the kitchen, I asked
Ronnie what was the matter. He appeared relieved to unburden himself. In the
opinion of their family physician, Galya was demonstrating early symptoms of
dementia. I looked at my friend with concern. He looked tired and worn out.
With some hesitation, I asked whether he might possibly consider placing Galya
in a suitable facility. He replied that, at this stage, he was able to cope. If
her condition deteriorated, he might have no other option. I knew that there
was no treatment for mental deterioration. All I could do was to sympathize.
Following this sad occasion, Yentl suggested that we
proceed to Safed. Our first task was to make room for the effects shipped from
When our things were delivered, they fitted neatly
into the cottage. Yentl’s organ became the centre piece. When our dwelling was
spot and span, we gave a party to our neighbours. Yossi too accepted our
invitation.
To my delight, the gathering became a housewarming and
we were showered welcome gifts. We received some kitchen ware, interesting
DVDs, including one on
When the festivity was over and our guests left one by
one, both of us felt that we really had moved from one home to another.
15. Our Homely Cottage
Yentl and I started life in Safed by making our cottage, which used to
be a holiday resort, our headquarters. All in all, we had a reasonably spacious
hall cum dining room and another three rooms. One, which had an attached
bathroom, was our master bedroom. The second, which used to be a spare room,
was turned into Yentl’s room. She kept in it an easel, a cabinet in which she
placed her painting materials and her volumes of notes and books on classical
composers. The third room had always
been my study. It suited me. Yentl kept
decorating and renovating it.
To my
delight she took our departure from
In
many ways our life in Safed was more harmonious and peaceful than in
Yentl
too had more time for her hobbies. She was no longer involved with the running
of a foundation. Like me, she had become an independent retiree.
A few weeks after our arrival in Safed I discarded my
Rabbi’s attire. It seemed more natural
to wear ordinary clothes than to retain the black silk garments I donned during
my years as the leader of a congregation in
Some four months after our settlement in Safed, Ami
and Mary paid us a visit with little Jacob. We had a sumptuous welcome dinner
and, acting on a whim, I decided to invite Yossi who had become a close friend.
When we were taking the dessert – a dish of Zimmes
(which could be taken after a meal regardless
of whether it was ‘dairy’ or ‘meat-based’), Mary addressed me:
“Tâte,” she started, “I wanted to tell you and
Mom that I have converted to Judaism.”
I gasped. Mary’s use of the Yiddish word ‘Tâte’,
which had the same meaning as ‘Dad’, startled me. As she had not been brought
up in our faith and ambience, her use of a Yiddish expression was unexpected.
Her having converted was yet another surprise. Ami was secular and, I felt
certain, would not have asked his wife to take such a step.
“What induced you?” I wanted to know. “Surely, Ami
never suggested this.”
“I didn’t,” interceded Ami.
“Did you want your entire family to identify with one
faith?” asked Yossi.
“The very question I wanted to ask,” observed Yentl.
“This was one of the considerations,” explained Mary,
“but there was a further and more important reason: I have come to believe in
our religion. You see, I was brought up in an Evangelical house and went to a
school that was so orientated. I knew how much Christianity owed to Judaism.”
“Historically, Christianity developed from one of the
sects of Judaism. Probably early Christians broke away from the Essenes. Some
scholars maintain that the roots of Christianity are in the sect of
“For a hardened agnostic, you are uncommonly well
versed in the development of religions,” I sneered at my friend.
“The understanding of the background of doctrines you deny
enables you to stand your ground,” he replied.
“Yossi is right,” averred Yentl. “But, Mary, don’t you
think that Jesus Christ was an innovator?”
“In a way, he was. He told us that God loves all
humans, and that one ought to love one’s enemy,” agreed Mary.
“In that case, why do you prefer Judaism?” Yossi
wanted to know.
“Because it is the cornerstone. Further, the tenets of
Jesus are not pursued by his followers.”
“I agree with Mary. Jews stick to their tenets and
their traditions. Their clannishness is also their strength.”
“How were you converted?” I wanted to know.
“A Reform Rabbi tutored me and his congregation
accepted me.”
“Do you realise that your conversion may not be
recognised by orthodox congregations?”
“I do; but this does not matter to me. Ami and I
attend the sessions of a Reform congregation. In many ways, we adhere to the
core far more than the orthodox sects. And please call me ‘Miriam’; I prefer it
to ‘Mary’.”
Her
spirited reply brought our conversation to a close. It seemed to me strange
that this young and forthright woman had
taken a step which might have estranged her from her parents. Was this – I kept
reflecting – yet another manifestation of the Hidden Hand that controlled our
lives? Yossi, I knew, would regard the episode as a manifestation of sheer
coincidence. Was it possible that his was the more plausible explanation?
Ami
and Mary (now to be addressed as ‘Miriam’) spent three weeks in Safed,
occupying Yentl’s room. Before their return to the
“I
don’t think so, Ami. All ventures carry a risk and I have learnt not to take
any. Your Mother and I are in full agreement on this point.”
“I
expect it to be a success, Dad.”
“I
hope it will be.”
“But,
Dad, at this stage we need an input of capital.”
“How
much do you need?”
“About
$20,000.00. Can you perhaps lend me the money?’
“I
can’t raise so much. But I can give you $5,000.00. You’ll have to find another
person who is prepared to take a risk.”
Shortly after our guests departed, Yentl told
me that she wanted to sleep on her own. I was stunned but managed to keep my
composure.
“Why,
Yentl?”
“Loeb,
as you know I am a light sleeper. Normally I go to bed an hour or an hour and a
half after you. You snore so that quite often I cannot fall asleep and remain
awake for a long time.”
“Why
don’t you come to our bedroom when you retire early and use your room when you
continue to work after I switch off?”
“That’s
a good idea,” she agreed.
Initially,
I found this new arrangement disturbing.
I was used to waking up beside Yentl. It gave me a feeling of confidence
and a sense of proximity. Still, during my years in office I had often traveled
on my own. My existence on such trips had prepared me for having a bedroom of
my own. In a sense, I now reverted to my existence during my youth.
One
consequence of my retiring before Yentl was that, invariably, I woke up before
her. When we shared the same bedroom, I used to wait until Yentl woke up. Our
new arrangement enabled me to get up, walk over to the kitchen and prepare
breakfast. At the beginning, Yentl resented my intruding into the kitchen. She
regarded it as her domain. However, Yentl like poached eggs but often
overcooked them. My preparation of the dish was superior to hers. After a
while, she accepted that, during the morning, I was in charge.
As
she was an excellent chef, I did not venture into her province later in the
day. I always looked forward to the
lunch and the dinner she prepared. In this regard I could not compete with her.
Some of her chicken dishes have remained fresh in my mind. So have the Goulash,
the dumplings and the stuffed cabbage.
Our
first two years in Safed were commonplace. From time to time we drove over to
Our
existence in Safed was lively. On one occasion Ronnie came over after having
placed Galya in an institution. I sensed that looking after her had become too
heavy a burden. On another occasion Shosh and her husband called on us. We took them to see the Luria
Centre and spent some time in the Schul. I was glad to hear from Shosh that
Avner had met a nice girl from a good Jewish home. They were going steady and
intended to get married before long. Ruth, too, flew over and stayed in Safed
for some five weeks. She brought her children with her. Her husband was unable
to accompany her but Ruth brought with her a set of photographs. I was pleased
to glean that the whole family was happy and that although their business had
not flourished it was doing reasonably well.
I
thought that I had brought my ship home when I received a sad letter from Ami.
His business enterprise had failed and he was facing financial difficulties. He
had found another opening – a fresh venture – and asked me to participate. After a lengthy discussion, Yentl and I
decided to sell our flat in
Shortly
after Shosh’s departure we received an invitation to Avner’s wedding. I was
keen to fly over and rent a serviced apartment for some two weeks. Yentl’s view
differed.
“Look
here, Loeb, Avner regards you as a father figure. He is used to seeing you
dressed like a Rabbi and leader. He may be nonplussed by your new demeanour.
Send him a nice letter and a handsome wedding gift. This may be more
appropriate than attending the occasion as a layman.”
“But
Avner knows I have retired and am leading a quiet and secluded life, doesn’t
he?”
“He
does. But knowing is different from seeing. He may feel that his idol has feet
of clay.”
After
some reflection, I took Yentl’s advice. We sent Avner a befitting gift and a
pleasant letter, in which I invited him and his wife to visit us in Safed.
Life
continued to flow smoothly. I spent a great deal of time studying the Kabbala
and reading the Zohar. To my disappointment I had to concede that even this
monumental work did not throw much light on the nature of God. Like other
milestones of Judaism it accepted the existence of God and his vigilance of
mankind as an a priori premise.
My
lively discussions with Yossi did not clarify the issue; his was an agnostic
approach, which tended to explain our existence and nature without reference to
a superior being. After a while I saw the logic in the system preached by him.
Basically, he opined that we existed because we did. He did not explain our
lineage. He thought that it was adequate to accept the obvious.
Yentl
did not participate in our discussions. She adhered to her traditional
approach, which she had adopted during her childhood. She felt comfortable with
it and saw no need to embark on further
investigations. I concluded that her upbringing ruled her throughout life.
I
would have been happy to continue our harmonious and carefree existence. Then,
unexpectedly, I had a rude wake up call. One bright morning I carried the
breakfast tray to Yentl’s room. I was sure she would like the Musli (to which I
had added an extra helping of raisins, which she favoured) and the poached eggs
accompanied by smoked salmon and pickled cucumbers. Seeing that she was still
asleep I thought it best to leave the tray beside her bed and come back after
some fifteen minutes. She was bound to wake up by then. Poached eggs, though, need
to be consumed right after they are cooked. The thought of their getting soggy
disturbed me.
With
some hesitation I approached Yentl’s bed hoping she would open her eyes as I
approached. Then, to my surprise, she remained still. As I came nearer I
realised she was not breathing. She remained immovable even after I called her
name, touched her and then shook her lightly. It was only then that it dawned
on me that she was gone. Dropping
the tray on her bedside table, I rushed to the telephone and called our GP.
When he arrived out of breath after some twenty minutes, he confirmed she had
passed away. Her heart had stopped beating.
“How
on earth did this happen?” I asked him. “I never expected to outlive her.”
“Your
wife, Rabbi Zohar, suffered from arteriosclerosis. Last year I wanted to send
her to a cardiologist in Tel Aviv, who might have recommended stents. She
declined and asked me to give her tablets.”
“She
didn’t tell me about it.”
“Didn’t
you know she came over for consultations?”
“I
thought she had some woman’s ailment. I asked her if everything was well. She
assured me it was nothing serious, just a trifle.”
“Actually,
she asked me not to tell you. As you know, the relationship of patient and
physician is confidential. I was obliged to respect her wishes.”
It
added up. Yentl knew she was ill but decided to hide her condition. She feared
making a fuss. Still, by moving out of our bedroom, she prepared me for the
lonely existence I was bound to experience following her demise.
Both
Ami and Ruth flew over for the funeral, which took place two days later. Shosh
and her husband drove up and so did Ronnie Eyal. Quite a few of our friends in
Safed attended. Avner, who must have been informed by Shosh, sent me a lengthy
consolation email. Representatives of the Foundation and two members of my
Schul in Tel Aviv were able to arrive in time. All in all, many familiar faces
were to be seen.
The ceremony was conducted by a Rabbi of my
acquaintance. Being the only son, Ami was asked to say the blessing, which was
recited after the brief prayer. To my surprise and dismay he broke down as he
recited it. I had seen Ami crying when he was a child but knew that in his
adult life he was invariably in command of his emotions. Ruth cried quietly
whilst I managed not to shed tears.
Throughout
the ceremony my thoughts traveled to the past. I remembered our wedding, our
happy times together, our breaks and trips and, generally, the support she had
given me during our many years as a couple. The Bible tells us that husband and
wife become one flesh. My happy and lasting marriage to Yentl was in accord
with this maxim. She did all she could to make me happy. Life without her
seemed bleak and dismal.
After
the funeral, family and close friends attended the traditional meal given to calm
the bereaved relatives. As we stood around waiting for the first dish, Ami
approached me:
“I am
ashamed to have made an exhibition of myself,” he told me.
“You
didn’t, son. I have attended quite a number of funerals in
“But
you know, Dad, mine were not tears of pain but of deep shame. I had done little
to please her.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Mom
was not pleased when I became secular and then married out.”
“You
needn’t feel any guilt on that score. Yentl was worldly and understanding.”
“She
wanted me to study medicine; that was her dream!”
“Yentl
knew full well that you had to plan your own future. So don’t blame yourself
for a misdeed you never committed.”
“And
what will you do, Dad? Miriam asked me to invite you to live with us.”
“I’d
rather stay put, son: in Safed where Yentl planned our home for my existence as
a widower.”
“I
understand, Dad. But the invitation is there whenever you want to come over and
join us.”
“Thank
you,” I told him.
The
meal was an anti-climax. We talked about Yentl’s achievements: her role in the
Foundation and her hobbies. Yossi, who had joined us, talked about the splendid
meal she had prepared whenever he came over. We then, as if by consent, talked
about the ambience of Safed and about Israeli politics.
After
the meal, Ruth came over and extended to me an invitation similar to Ami’s.
Yet she was not surprised when I told her I had
decided to remain in Safed.
“I
thought that was going to be your plan. Mom and you were very close.”
“Quite
so, Ruth. I prefer to remain in Safed. I propose to visit her grave frequently.
I was happy with her and cannot bear the idea of leaving her grave unattended.”
“I
can understand you,” she told me. “But you can come over and visit us from time
to time. I hope you will.”
“I’ll
think about it,” I promised her, suppressing words indicating that my
travelling days were over.
It
took me a while to get used to my existence as widower. I continued to sleep on
one side of the double bed although I was, of course, aware that she would no
longer slip in from time to time. Out of habit I used only the right bedside
table. Yentl had used the other and it seemed inappropriate to utilize it for
myself. Another oddity was the preparation of breakfast for two. However,
before long I discarded this wasteful process and started to take mine in the
kitchen.
Yossi
visited me regularly. On many occasions we played chess. Both of us were
average players so I lost some games and won others. On many such evenings we
discussed philosophical and sociological issues of the day. I recall how we
discussed the SARS outbreak in 2003. Both of us took an urbane attitude based
on the assumption that the pandemic was unlikely to spread to Safed.
One
evening, after I had won a match, I asked Yossi to tell me a bit about himself.
Whilst I knew him from his days in the army and was aware he had been a
psychiatrist, he had never discussed his personal life with me.
“Well,”
he said, “there is not a great deal to tell. After serving my time as a
houseman in Hadassah in Tel Aviv, I practised for a while as GP.”
“What
made you turn to psychiatry?”
“It
dawned on me, during my years in practice, that many patients’ complaints were
mental rather than physical. After a while, I started to specialize. In due
course fellow practitioners started to refer patients to me when they sensed
that the problem was of a mental type. When my reputation grew, I decided to
devote myself to the discipline.”
“I
became renowned as a faith healer,” I grinned.
“Tell
me about it,” he asked.
Yossi
listened attentively to my account. He grinned when I mentioned how members of
the congregation asked me to pray for them or bless them, and how I used my
influence to induce them to change their orientation – for instance, to switch
from resentment of others to understanding.
“You
talked your ‘patients’ out of their irrational or untoward demeanour. I used to
prescribe placebos instead of medications they were hoping to get. Still, there
were extreme cases, such as anxiety or mortification, where I had to prescribe
medicines such as valium or anti-depressants.”
“I
had to refer some of my ‘patients’ to psychiatrists I trusted.”
“Just
as I referred some to their Priests or Rabbis,” he grinned. “In reality there
are many occasions in which faith healers like you and medical men like me have
to complement each other. Oh well.”
“Tell
me a bit about your personal life,” I prompted him. “Occasionally you must have
been tempted by some female patients.”
“Not
really,” He told me. “You see, I have burned my fingers. I adhered to an
ancient maxim: once bitten, twice shy. And I was scorched twice.”
“How
comes?”
“My
first wife, Miri, did not feel as passionate about me as I for her. Somehow,
the chemistry was not right on her part. I suspect that if I had let her boss
me, she would have remained with me. When she found out that this did not work
and lost interest in me, she left and shacked with another girl. Her elopement
made me feel inadequate. I remained on my own for some three years.”
“And
your second wife? How did you find her?”
“She
was a psychiatrist – like me. I met her through contacts. You see, I was her
second husband. Both of us wore battle scars and so became tolerant. We were
happy together.”
“So
what went wrong?”
“She
died of a neglected flu. She told me, on her deathbed, that I was not easy to
handle. She asked me to marry again only if I found a wife who would put up
with ‘my nonsense’. I heeded her
warning. In the event, I remained on my own. And I am content.”
“Do
you know what happened to your first wife?”
“We
are not in touch but I was told that she and her partner retired in Nahariya.”
“In
Nahariya?”
“So I
am told. Why do you ask?”
“Do
you know her partner’s name?”
“I’m
not sure. She was the business manager of a theatre ensemble.”
“Signon?”
“Quite
so.”
“So I
know your first wife’s partner well. She was my boss in Signon. She lived with
her secretary, Miri. Was this Miri your first wife?”
“Quite
possible,” he muttered.
“Strange:
my boss, Nina, could be fierce and unbending but occasionally Miri had to step
in and extricate her. I was told that in their personal lives, Miri was
dominant.”
“It
sounds like my first wife. She liked to be in control.”
“How
strange that so many years later we find a remote connection. I met Miri when I
came to see Nina. And yes, I know for certain that Nina and Miri retired in
Nahariya.”
“Oh
well,” Yossi summed up.
“What
a strange coincidence,” I observed after a pause.
“I am
glad you do not seek to see here the intervention of ‘a Hidden Hand’.”
“I am
an observant Jew but not a fanatic,” I protested.
“Quite
so. Fanatics may assert some divine involvement. You see, both of us were married
twice and experienced the loss of a good wife. We now keep company or, in other
words, each of us helps the other to cope with the feeling of a void. So, in
the eyes of fervent believers, the Good Lord showed His kind hand.”
“In
that case, why didn’t He save us the grief?”
“The
ways of the Good Lord are not comprehensible to us, mere humans! But He is
aware of everything that takes place, don’t you know this?” Yossi mimicked a
pedantic preacher explaining the ‘basics’ to his congregation.
“I
never assumed this sort of doctrinal and authoritative demeanour when I
addressed my parishioners.”
“That’s
what I thought. But, then, you must concede that your approach was not a
typical one. Occasionally, I suspect that you had your doubts about dogma.”
It
seemed best not to proceed. I went to the kitchen to prepare a snack and asked
Yossi to put the pieces back on the chessboard. Both of us concentrated on the
game and, as if by agreement, did not revert to the subject we had covered.
Deep in my heart, though, Yossi’s final words kept reverberating. He had struck
an echo. Did I have doubts throughout my
entire odyssey?
During
the following few days I kept reflecting on Yossi’s words. At the same time, I
had to tackle the reality facing me. I had a fine cottage with three rooms.
Initially, I thought it best to leave Yentl’s room unchanged. I then recalled
Dickens’ Miss Havisham, who kept her house as it was on the very day her groom
deserted. I felt certain that Yentl would not have expected me to follow suit.
Her approach to life was pragmatic. She accepted events the way they came. She
would not have wanted me to keep a room consecrated to her memory and hence out
of bounds.
As my
needs were met by my keeping the master bedroom and my study, I turned Yentl’s
erstwhile room into a guest room. Yentl’s organ had to be given away. As Miriam
Porat dreamt of having one but could not
afford to buy it, I gave her Yentl’s. She was pleased and promised to play the
music which had been cherished by my late wife. I then bought a double bed and
two side tables and used them to refurnish the room. I could now accommodate a
couple and, if needed, I could convert the bed-sofa in the sitting room to yet
a further bed. I now was able to put up an entire family, such as Ami’s or
Ruth’s. I felt confident that Yentl would have approved.
Some
two months after I completed the last renovation, Shosh wrote to advise that
she and her husband had decided to spend a few days in Tiberias and were
thinking of visiting me in Safed. In my reply, I encouraged them to come over
and offered to put them up. Shosh accepted.
We
spent some three days together. I took them to the Kabbala synagogue. Both were
impressed. They liked the ambience of our town and the mild summer climate.
Before their departure, Shosh observed that she was perplexed to gather that I
had been frequenting the Kabbala Schul.
She had expected me to adhere to my moderately orthodox orientation.
“The
Kabbala tries to explore issues not covered by my stream. I have remained open
minded and am prepared to listen to any views which do not require me to depart
from the essence,” I explained.
“I
have wondered all along what you considered ‘the essence’. Don’t you ever doubt
some of the strictures?”
“I’m
rather set in my views,” I replied defensively.
“But,
in that case, why do you flirt with marginal concepts?”
It
seemed best not to reply. Shosh had come close to exposing a dent in my
spiritual armor. She did not press the point and so we stuck to small talk
during the ensuing dinner. Next morning they continued to Metula. Before their
departure, Shosh observed that I frequently scratched my beard. I told her it
had become very itchy, especially as I had not trimmed it since Yentl’s demise.
A few
weeks after Shosh’s departure, I invited Ronnie Eyal. He came over for a week.
He recovered from the strain he had manifested before Galya was moved to an
institution. By and large, he became – once again – his old self. After
visiting the sights, I raised one evening, over dinner, the issues raised by
Shosh as regards my spiritual outlook.
“Look
here, Chayim…
“Loeb,
as I told you before, but my close friends use my nickname: Pilkin…” I
interceded.
“Very
well, Pilkin, but don’t take offence at what I am going to say.”
“I
won’t,” I assured him.
“When
you worked in Signon we saw a great deal of one another, didn’t we?”
“We
did.”
“And
you knew I was an agnostic or, in plain words, a disbeliever. You also knew I
was Jewish. All the same, you never tried to influence me. Correct?”
“Indeed.
I accepted you as you were. Many of my close friends fall into this category. I
like them for what they are and, of course, each of them is a decent person.
None of them impinged on my faith.”
“And
you have always been closer to people like us than to ultra-orthodox
believers.”
“True!
Fanatics appall me; and most ultra-orthodox Jews are intolerant.”
“And
you find this offensive, don’t you?”
“I
do, rather.”
“I
suspect, Pilkin, that you are getting the drift. The fact is that when we
became close, I started to wonder whether you were simply born into a
traditional home or adopted your moderately observant outlook after searching
for the truth.”
“The
former, Ronnie. But this ambience suited me.”
“I
know. Still, if you were born into an evangelical home you would not have
become an observant Jewish believer.”
“This
may be so,” I admitted.
“Similarly,
if you had grown up as a free thinker, a Christian preacher might have
converted you to his faith.”
“True,
or I may have rejected his indoctrination,” I replied.
“You
might have doubted the truth he asserted,” Ronnie appeared agitated.
“Quite
so,” I assured him.
“All
this leads me to wonder whether you might have rejected Jewish thinking if you
ever came to doubt it. Well, Pilkin, perhaps it was fortunate that you never
doubted it.”
Ronnie’s
words rattled me. During my long odyssey I felt comfortable with my tolerant
and non-dogmatic stance. I had no reason to doubt it. At the same time, I felt
no affinity for the firmer, often intolerant, faith of other Rabbis. Mendel
Schulman and I were miles apart. Unlike him, I could accept the orientation of
a son, who did not follow in my steps. Was my lenient approach incompatible
with the tenets of our faith? Was my broadmindedness akin to apostasy?
Ronnie
left after two days. My orientation and outlook were not discussed any further.
Still, his observations gave me food for thought.
16. An Aged Retiree
During
the next few months I re-read Zohar,
the opus magnum of the Kabbala. I knew that the sect attributed the work to Rabban
Shimon Bar Yochai, who founded the Yavneh school during the decades following
the destruction of the
I realised that the Zohar was profound and
detailed. All the same, it failed to open new doors to my searching eyes. Our
religion’s essence remained enshrined in some difficult passages in the Tanakh
(Old Testament). I had accepted our norms unquestionably in my youth and never
sought to find a rational explanation for the tradition I followed. My
intellectual curiosity arose when I retired from my active and often stressful
existence. The Zohar did not clarify the issues.
My interest in finding the rationale of our faith kept
me so occupied that my interest in staging plays and in acting suitable roles
waned. In a sense, this was natural. I had become a retiree.
Yossi
visited me regularly. We played chess and philosophized. It was clear to me
that he had formed his conclusions about my outlook and belief but had decided
not to raise the subject again. However, he observed that I kept scratching my
face.
“When
Yentl was around,” I explained, “she insisted that I trim my beard at least
once a month. The itch wasn’t so bad; at least not for a week or two.”
“Then
why don’t you trim it nowadays?” Yossi wanted to know.
“Oh,
I simply can’t be bothered.”
“If
the beard keeps troubling you, why don’t you simply shave it off?”
“What
would people say? Won’t they be shocked?”
“I
don’t see why. Is there any Biblical command respecting the growing of a
beard?”
“Not
really. It is simply a matter of tradition. A Rabbi is expected to have one.”
“But
you are in retirement, aren’t you?”
“Quite
so! Still I am a Rabbi.”
Yossi did not persevere. A few days later the itch
became unbearable. Having reflected on his words and bearing in mind the old
maxim that risk to body and soul overrides Shabbat, I decided to have the beard
removed.
The
barber’s apprentice, who had come to know me well, looked at me incredulously.
He then went to consult his boss. The latter came over and asked me whether I
had really requested a shave off.
“Quite
so,” I told him
“You
didn’t mean ‘to trim’, did you?”
“No.
I want a clean shave.”
“Very
well. But it will take a while. You have a long beard. It must have taken you
years to grow it.”
I saw no need to reply. After some twenty minutes I
had a good look in the mirror. The neatly shaved face looked unfamiliar. Was it
really mine?
In
the evening Yossi came over for a chess match. As we sat down, he scrutinized
me thoroughly.
“That’s
the countenance I recall from my days in the army. But you had a younger face
in those days.”
“The
clock keeps ticking, Yossi. You too have aged.”
“Of
course; but I had never grown a beard and so did not hide myself behind it.”
On
the following weekend I took a bus to Tel Aviv. Ronnie had no difficulty in
recognizing me. His only comment was that I looked younger and less formidable
without a ‘camouflage’. He then took me for a visit to Galya. She seemed to
have come to terms with the institution which housed her. To my surprise, she
did not recognise me. She assumed that I was one of Ronnie’s new friends. It
pained me to think that my ex- wife forgot that I had played a role in her
life.
Ronnie
looked somber and deflated as we left the place. I thought it best to try to
console him.
“In the very least you don’t have children,” I
told him.
“Why
is this good?”
“It
might have been difficult to induce them to come to terms with the situation.”
“True;
but as matters stand I am on my own; I have nobody to turn to.”
“I
know; but, then, nobody cries on your shoulder.”
“Well
spoken; but, to tell the truth, sometimes it is tough to be bonded to a wife
who is no longer the woman you married. Your lot – as an aging widower – is
easier to bear. I am certain you have only good memories of your years with
Yentl.”
“True,”
I replied; “but I miss her badly.”
“Why
don’t you talk to her spirit? She may respond.”
Ronnie’s
words made sense. I was, of course, aware that death was terminal. Nobody came
back from that last trip of his or her life. Occasionally, though, the spirit
of a departed echoes in your mind.
One
evening, a few days after I had settled back in the cottage, my mind heard her
voice.
“Loeb,
why are you so glum?” she wanted to know.
“Is
it really you, Yentl?”
“Who
else, Loeb? Surely, there is no other woman in your life or mind?”
“Of
course not! But, you are no longer here. How, then, are you able to talk to
me?”
“But
I am here, Loeb. I exist in your mind. My body is gone; but my spirit is part
of yours.”
“I
think I understand,” I conceded.
“Well
then; so why are you morose?”
“I
was used to sharing my ideas with you, Yentl. And we enjoyed having our meals
together.”
“You’ll
have to partake these on your own. But you can still share your thoughts with
me.”
“Just
now I ponder whether I should ask Ami or Ruth to come over for a visit.”
“Why
not ask them both in turn?”
“But
which one should I invite first? I’ve tried hard not to have a preference
between them. A good father loves Esau as much as Jacob. Still, Ruth was always
closer to me than Ami.”
“In
that case invite Ruth and her family to come over for a spell.”
Ruth
arrived on her own. I should have liked to see my grandchildren but they had to
attend school. I tried hard to hide my disappointment but I believe she noted
it.
Ami
came for a visit a few months later. Mary (now Miriam) came with him and
brought little Jack along. We had a wonderful time. I showed them the sights
and we drove over to Metula. We did not proceed to the Golan Heights but
returned to Safed via
Little
Jack was a self-assured boy. He knew what he wanted but, fortunately, his
demands were reasonable. One of his acquisitions was a toy elephant on which he
could ride and which trumpeted when one pulled a cord attached to its head.
Sighing, Miriam said they would take it with them as unaccompanied baggage. The
shipment was bound to cost more than the toy but, then, Jack had set his heart
on it. Ami took a photograph of Jack astride his elephant and me standing
beside him and smiling happily.
“I
wonder who is more content,” he observed when he showed me the snap.
“The
onlookers?” queried Miriam. “Surely, you and I, Ami, were as happy as
grandfather and grandson.”
A few
days later Miriam guided me on another matter. We went for a walk during a hot
summer morning. After half an hour all of us were uncomfortable. Noting that I
perspired more than the rest, she asked whether I was unwell.
“Not
really, Miriam: I’m just feeling very hot.”
Looking
me over carefully, she asked: “Why are you wearing a vest on a day like this, Tate?”
“It’s
not a vest, Miriam. It’s my prayer shawl.”
“A
prayer shawl under your shirt? The Rabbi who instructed me on Judaism told me
that a large prayer shawl – a talith gedola – need be worn only during Shacharit:
our Morning Prayer.”
“True,”
I explained, “but just in case you forget or lose it, you have the alternative
of wearing a small shawl under your shirt. I have done so for years.”
“But
on such a hot day? Why don’t you discard it and use the large shawl over your
clothes when you say Shacharit?”
“Actually,
you are right,” I conceded.
Thereafter I stopped using the small prayer shawl.
When I went in the morning to the synagogue to say the Morning Prayer, I used a
large shawl worn over my clothes.
To my
delight, Yentl approved. A few nights later, when I woke up shortly after
midnight, her voice told me:
“You,
Loeb, are strict on yourself but liberal when others seek your guidance or
advice.”
“I
know; but, then, I am a Rabbi.”
“Wrong
tense, Loeb: you were a Rabbi. Nowadays you are a retiree. So be a Mensch even
where you yourself are concerned.”
Yentl’s words convinced me. I was doing the right
thing though, possibly, on the wrong basis. As Rabbi I had to set a good
example. I wore the small talith next to my skin. As a retiree, who led the
life of a hermit, I could follow customs in a broadminded manner. By using the
large prayer shawl when I recited Shacharit, I observed the liberal
tradition I had advocated to members of my congregation. In my present life, it
suited me and was proper.
Another
problem arose from my laying tefillin (phylacteries) every morning
before reciting the Shacharit.
The relevant verses in the Bible (Ex. 13:9,16; Deut. 6:8 and 11:8) command the
People of Israel to put a sign on their hands and between ‘your eyes’ to
commemorate the Exodus miracle and the laws given by God. This led to the
tradition involving the ‘laying’ (or wearing) of two small rawhide boxes
(8x8x8cm.) during the Morning Prayer on all days of the week except the
Shabbat. Inserted in these boxes are the above
passages written on parchment by a qualified scribe. Both boxes are
fixed to the body with leather. The box for the hands is placed on the left
upper arm and the strap is wrapped around the upper limb and down to the left-hand
fingers. Our tradition requires that it be fastened tightly.
My tefillin
were one of my Bar-Mitzvah gifts. I have put them on regularly each and every
weekday morning, except the days of hospitalization following my heart attack.
I managed to lay them even just before our battle of Latrun and even when I was
travelling. I recall one amusing incident that occurred when I took a flight
from
I
used my Bar Mitzvah tefillin during my years in
The
position changed after my retirement. Shortly after Yentl and I settled in
Safed, I caught a severe chill and felt the need of seeing a physician. When I
rolled up my sleeve to facilitate the taking of my blood pressure, Dr. Cohen
viewed with concern the bruising left by the phylactery on my arm.
“Do
you have to fasten the strap so tightly?” he wanted to know.
“If
you don’t, the box may slip down your arm.”
“I
understand. But, then, you told me you had a heart attack – caused by a
thrombosis – in your youth.”
“True.
But what should I do? I am used to laying my tefillin.”
“Try
to fasten the strap less tightly or get one made of softer leather. You are on
blood thinners! They exacerbate
bruising.”
“I
have a set of deluxe tefillin. I’ll use it in the future.”
Yentl approved and so I started using my deluxe tefillin
regularly. For a while the bruising ceased but eventually it started afresh.
When I went to Dr. Cohen for my annual checkup he looked at my arm with unease.
“I
cannot reduce your blood thinners. You need them. At this stage, the laying of
the tefillin is becoming dangerous. As your medical adviser, I have to
draw your attention to the problem. You see, at your age you are bound to have
some narrowing of the arteries. Your cardiogram indicates that you have
moderate arteriosclerosis. You are taking a risk.”
“But
I am used to laying them,” I muttered.
“You
must make your own decision, Rabbi Zohar.”
It was a difficult issue. Laying tefillin had
become part of my life. Was I to change my pattern at this late stage? When I
was a Rabbi in
As I
sat pondering the issue, I suddenly heard Yentl’s spirit talking to me.
“Loeb,
what sort of advice would you have given to one of you congregants if he had
raised the problem with you during your long years of service?”
“I
would have told him that danger to the soul and body overrides even a Shabbat.
The final decision would be his.”
“But
if he persevered, what sort of advice would you give him?”
“I
should have exempted him or, in other words, I should have told him that he was
no longer obligated to lay tefillin.”
“Why,
then, don’t you give the same advice to yourself?”
“But
I am no longer in office. I cannot exonerate myself.”
“Then
why not discuss the matter with someone whose opinion you trust?”
My first choice would have been Rabbi Moshe
Margalioth. I then thought about Avner,
who had succeeded me in
Mendel
Schulman was glad to see me. For a while, we engaged in small talk. Then he
asked me, smilingly:
“What
good spirit directed you to me?”
“I
wanted to see you and ask your advice on a delicate matter.”
“Let’s
see if I can help you.”
Mendel Schulman listened attentively to my query. His
eyes opened wide when I showed him my bruised arm. His first query was whether
I had considered buying deluxe tefillin. When I assured him my set was
of this kind and that it was Moshe Margalioth’s gift, he looked at me with
concern.
“So
the tefillin remind you of him and the years you spent as his right hand
man?”
“This
too, of course. Originally – I mean as from my Bar Mitzvah – I used my first
plain set. I switched to my new ones only when the old set was cutting into my
arm. And now even the softer leather is bothersome.”
“Actually,
Loeb, why do we lay tefillin? What do they convey?”
“Laying
them is part of my life. The meaning is clear. They remind us of the miracles HaShem
made when he delivered us from slavery in
“Precisely,”
he confirmed, “and we bless him in our morning prayer. I am sure you recite it every
morning, don’t you?”
“Of
course. Occasionally I even repeat the Amidah, which praises Him 18
times.”
“We
have the old, venerated, principle which tells us that risk to soul and body
overrides even a Shabbat: which is holy to us. On this basis, you are no longer
obliged to put on tefillin.”
“But
this would leave a void in my life. The ritual has become part of my daily
life.”
“You
could still put on the head phylactery.”
“That
would be strange and, in any event, it would take only a few seconds.”
“And
so the emptiness would still be there,” he summed up. “But look, I have an
idea. Why don’t you read appropriate passages of our Bible as soon as you wake
up? How about Psalm 119. It blesses HaShem and recites his greatness.”
“I
don’t like this Psalm, Rabbi Mendel.”
“Because
it is the longest chapter in the Tanakh: a work of 176 lines?”
“That’s
not the reason. Its structure is alien; it is an acrostic. Its verses follow the order of our alphabet
and each letter has eight lines.”
“Which
of our Psalms do you like best? Let me guess. Is it by any chance Psalm 104?”
“Spot
on. Poetically it is superb and it venerates HaShem.”
“Are
you particularly fond of any other passage in our Tanakh?”
“I
love Ha’azinu (Deut. 32 1:43),” I told him.
“Splendid,
I too love these gems. I suggest you give the tefillin a miss and start
your day by reading or, when you have memorized them, by reciting these two
monumental passages. Both tell us that HaShem is great and just.”
Mendel
Schulman’s advice was sound. In point of fact, I already knew the two poetic
works by heart and so decided to recite them each morning in lieu of the laying
of the tefillin. I thanked him.
It then seemed appropriate to remind him of his
rigidity in previous years. With some hesitation, I asked whether he had
remained estranged from his son.
“I no
longer regard him a rascal. A few years ago I succumbed to an attack of
pneumonia and had to be hospitalized. Baruch – now known as Father Benedict –
flew over out of concern. We had a heart to heart talk after I recovered. Ever
since, I have treated him as a son. I believe he is errant but I have accepted
the situation.”
“How
did he know you were so sick?”
“Dahlia,
my daughter, has been in touch with him all these years. She cabled him.”
“I am
glad you are reconciled,” I told him.
“Notwithstanding your different views about religion he has continued to
treat you as his father. I sense that he loves and respects you. Our religion
would regard him a renegade. Love, though, overrides all sins.”
“It
does,” he conceded.
Yentl’s spirit was supportive. She concluded that
Mendel Schulman had sorted out my
problem. It also pleased her that father and son had reunited.
“Occasionally,
we agree to disagree,” her voice told me. “Family unity should not be disturbed
or interrupted because of divergent views on religion or politics.”
A few
days later I had a chat with Yossi. He was relieved to know that I had decided
to stop laying tefillin. He had
noticed the bruises on my arm one morning when we went for a walk. He
had meant to talk to me about them but decided to keep quiet. Basically, he
felt that this was not his business. An additional reason related to his
reflections on my odyssey.
“What
is so special about it?”
“You
rose from obscurity to fame and then took a back seat.”
“Is
that so unusual?”
“Perhaps
not in itself. Many success stories follow this pattern. However, your journey
is special in one regard.”
“In
what way?” I wanted to know.
“In
the variety of the roles you assumed.”
“Eh?”
“Early
in life you became your family’s bread winner. In Tichon you became a central
figure …
“…
with the aid of two friends: Bushi and Shosh,” I interspersed.
“Undoubtedly,
but without your lead they would have simply remained part of the crowd: pupils
in your Form in secondary school. They needed you to lead them. You in turn
benefited from their support and friendship. In the army you became both an
entertainer and a fine officer. In Signon you failed to gain an acting role but
you became Galya’s supporting angel. You were her caregiver and helped her to
find her way to stardom. You then became in quick succession a highly respected
and liked teacher, the founder of a club interested in books and dramas, a cornerstone
of the ITV and then reverted to your
studies in the Yeshiva. When you graduated you became Moshe Margalioth’s right
hand man and thereafter a famed Rabbi in your own right. You then retired and
melted into the background.”
“What
is so extraordinary about all this? And aren’t you forgetting Yentl’s role?”
“I am
certainly not overlooking it. She helped you along the way. But your journey is
special. Most people stay in a given discipline, like painting, writing,
composing music or business. You changed your role several times.”
“What
does this indicate to you?” I asked genuinely perplexed.
“Your
real passion in life was acting, wasn’t it?”
“It
was,” I conceded. “I always sought to have my foot in the door of the theatre.”
“This
leads me to the conclusion that throughout your life, regardless of the twists
and turns of your odyssey, you have remained an actor. Your stage was the
world: not a mere space on the front of a theatre hall.”
Yossi’s words rang a bell. He made me think of my
first day in the theatre – when Mrs. Kornmehl introduced me to the actor who
played Sapper Vodichka in The Good Soldier Schweik. I gleaned from him
that every actor refurbishes the roles he plays and, in a sense, interprets the
text. Did my general outlook on life remain unchanged throughout my lengthy
trip?
“Yossi,”
I asked my friend, “did I then assume roles bestowed on me? Was I an actor who,
when needed, played a role such as an officer or Rabbi?”
“I
think so,” he told me unflinchingly.
“Okay;
but was there a common thread – a system to my play acting?”
“There
were two. In the first place, you liked – still like – to help people who need
aid or guidance or who rely on you …”
“And
the second?” I asked as he stopped himself.
“You
remained ingrained in tradition. Ritual became part of your life.”
I looked at Yossi with amazement. It was true that
throughout life I strove to assist others – my neighbours. But was my
traditional outlook merely a mantle? Was I bonded to ritual or was I simply a
moderate believer? I had prayed daily since youth, had worn a prayer shawl and
laid tefillin. Were these just a camouflage?
“I
can’t be sure,” replied Yossi when I raised the point. “Speaking as a
psychiatrist, I would conclude that your adherence to ritual was anchored in
your survival instinct. You needed to feel safe and the traditions you adhered
to enhanced your sense of security.”
“So
you don’t think it was a genuine belief in the fundamentals?”
“I
can’t be sure. Reflecting on my spell as a trooper in your unit in the army, I
believe your urge to protect and confer a sense of security on others was more
basic to you than dogma.”
“What
view do you take of my conversations with Yentl’s spirit?”
“Objectively
seen, they are hallucinations. You know that a person’s voice dies upon his or
her demise. To me, your need to air points with your late wife’s spirit
suggests that you have a limited trust in your own outlook and analysis.”
Yossi’s words struck a chord. My traditional outlook
was not the fruit of reflection or of a search for truth. I followed the
precepts because of the manner in which I had been brought up. I inherited my
late Father’s orientation, which, in turn, was an acceptance of the norms
followed by his predecessors. My preoccupation with the Zohar and my reading of many philosophic works
indicated that right from my childhood I kept pondering. Unflinchingly, I
recalled my final disappointment with the Zohar because it was
entrenched in myth and failed to provide a rational exposition of the
fundamentals.
Shortly
after Yossi departed I heard Yentl’s voice. It was loud and clear and appeared
to come from an external source.
“Loeb,”
she asked me, “Loeb, do you agree with Yossi’s conclusion?”
“I
can’t be certain, Yentl. Many of my friends are agnostics or non-conformists.”
“Weren’t
Moshe Margalioth and other believers close to you?”
“They
were. And religion bound Avner to me. Still, I did not disown my son when I
thought he might leave the fold after marrying out.”
“In
other words, you were a liberal Rabbi and you remained observant throughout
life. Tolerance, though, was your motto. When others took a different view of
life, you concluded that they were entitled to their opinions. But you retained
yours!”
“I
did. Still do, I think.”
“You
alone know the answer,” she told me.
“Am I
hallucinating?”
“Of
course not. My spirit dwells in you. You are conducting an internal dialogue.”
“You
were always a good wife to me!”
“So I
was Loeb. The plain truth is that I set my heart on you. I made the choice and
throughout your life guided and spurred you on.”
“Please
explain,” I pleaded.
“I
made sure you would become the Chief Rabbi of our congregation. I realized that
handling the Foundation’s affairs would have been an extra and too heavy a
burden. So I took over and remained in charge of it until your retirement.”
“You
did me proud,” I assured her.
“I
hope I did. So don’t waste your time now on dissecting your personality. The
real question is: did you achieve your goal?”
“With
your help, I think I did.”
“And
the rest – I say – is irrelevant.”
“And
how about my loss of interest in drama and staging?”
“But
it is not a plain loss. You continue to read the works of great playwrights.
The other day you read Major Barbara.”
“I
did not dream of staging it.”
“You
didn’t: I know this. But your present interest in plays and literature
befits a retiree.”
Yentl’s words explained my change of attitude. She
soothed me. The main issue, though, remained unanswered. Did I simply play the
roles conferred on me, or was I motivated by religious convictions and by the
need to carry out the obligations faith imposed on me? Was I a genuine believer
or a free thinker wearing the cloak of religion?
A few
weeks later, Shosh and her husband came over for a short visit. After a
pleasant dinner in a Kosher oriental restaurant I mentioned the issue that kept
troubling me. Shosh was taken aback. She took the view that I had struck a
clear course of tolerance and liberalism throughout my life. Whether I was a
genuine believer or a free thinker was – she observed – irrelevant.
“Did
you regard me an observant Jew or a free thinker?”
“You
wore a Yarmolka and observed our dietary laws. As far as I was concerned that
was a clear indication of your being an observant Jew; and I sensed that you
were a traditionalist. At the same time, I noted that you never tried to
influence the orientation of Bushi and of myself. And you knew we were free
thinkers.”
“But,
surely, ours is a non-proselytizing religion?”
“It
is true that we do not seek to convert gentiles. Our religion is exclusive.
Still, most orthodox believers try to
influence ‘errant’ Jews. You didn’t. I always sensed that moderation and the
willingness to accept others as they were constituted your basic creed.”
At this stage, Shosh’s husband, who was known by his
nickname of ‘Jonas’, stepped into the argumentative arena. Initially, I was
surprised. Jonas was one of those tight-lipped individuals, who prefer to leave
the floor to their wives. It then dawned on me that Shosh had touched a sore
point.
“Shosh
is right, Rabbi Zohar,” he told me. “When I served in the army I befriended two
observant troopers. They looked askance when I told them I had never laid tefillin
or prayed. They tried hard to convert me; but to no effect. During our years as
recruits they remained friendly with me.”
“Well?”
I asked
“When
I contacted them after we finished our years of service, they were invariably
too busy to see me. After three or four attempts, I gave up.”
“I am
not sure why this disappointing experience is relevant,” I told him.
“Because
they tried hard to make me ‘see the light’. They tried to indoctrinate me. An
observant Jew accepts a gentile as he is; but he seeks to influence other
ethnic Jews. So the non-proselytizing nature of our faith applies only in
respect of non-Jewish persons.”
“I
agree with Jonas,” added Shosh. “And you, Pilkin, never preached to Bushi or to
me. In your case, liberalism and moderation applied across the board.”
Shosh
and Jonas departed after a few days. Before they left, Jonas gave me a bulky
volume encompassing Ibsen’s plays.
“Shosh
tells me you love dramas. So do I. A volume of George Bernard Shaw’s plays is
one of my cherished possessions. I devoted a great deal of time to his writings
during my school days. I passed my examinations but without any distinction. As
you know I went to the Max Fein technical school. During my years as locksmith,
I continued reading and watching plays. I gather from Shosh that you love Ibsen
but that you are no longer interested in staging plays.”
“True,”
I told him, “and many thanks for the gift.”
“Enjoy
reading or re-reading them. I can understand that, as a retiree, you no longer
have the wish to stage these plays.”
Life
flowed smoothly for the next few years. Ruth came over again. Ami rang me from
time to time. Occasionally, I went to Tel Aviv, mainly in order to see friends
and so as to visit my old Schul.
About
a year after Shosh’s visit I rang Bushi Berger. I had corresponded with him
sporadically ever since our reunion in
“Look
here, Pilkin, does all this really matter?”
“It
matters to me! Was I a fraud?”
“Of
course not! Religion is a complex issue. It will surprise you to hear that even
I – old heretic as I am – attend our local synagogue from time to time. In some
two weeks, I’ll attend the Seder – the Passover Feast – in the house of a good
friend.”
“But
Passover was initiated so as to remind us of the Exodus. I thought you didn’t
believe it had taken place.”
“In
everyday life, I don’t. As you know, I think the Israelites were indigenous
Canaanites. Still, I recall how our teacher in Tichon made us read an article entitled
Moses by Ahad Ha’am. Perturbed by archeological evidence, this renowned
essayist postulated the distinction between an archeological truth, based on
modern findings, and a historical truth, based on the tradition or folklore we
embrace. During the Seder and when I attend a service in the synagogue, I
accept the historical truth. Back at home, I revert to the archeological
findings.”
“The
issue of whether I am genuinely observant or just wear a mantle does not
disturb you. Does it?”
“Of
course not. It is a red herring! You were a good and helpful fellow. That is
why quite a few of us befriended you. Your religious make up did not – does not
– concern me.”
“Let
us give further consideration to the issue when we next meet.”
“But,
Pilkin, both of us are aged men. In all probability, my travelling days are
over and, in any event, I have no wish to visit
“I
doubt it,” I told him. “I may spend a few days in
“Very
well. All the best to you, Pilkin. I look forward to talking to you again
soon.”
Bushi’s
words soothed me. I accepted his analysis.
PART VI: END OF JOURNEY
17. Ithaca
It was a dismal day. The skies were cloudy and it started to drizzle.
All the same, I was set to walk over to the cemetery to visit Yentl’s grave.
Apart from the flowers – a lovely bunch of Dahlias – I was going to take with
me a copy of the manuscript. She had prompted me to write my autobiography. It
was, accordingly, only right to bring her a copy.
I was
about to leave the cottage when I heard Yentl’s voice. Speaking loud and clear,
she told me:
“Where
are you going, Loeb?”
“To
visit you, don’t you know?”
“I
thought as much. Not on such a day, Loeb!”
“But
I go every week.”
“I
know. But do you really think I am there? Surely, you know that all that is
left there is a skeleton. I – my spirit – dwells here, with you, Loeb.”
I looked around me with uncertainty. For all practical
purposes she was right. Yentl’s spirit – the force that drove me on since the
day we married – had become part of me. At the same time, I realised that I was
alone in the sitting room. Was I having a hallucination, a mirage? Was I losing
my sanity?
“Of
course not,” she assured me. “You are rational and composed. But remember: we
had a lengthy and happy marriage. In the course of it my soul merged with
yours.”
“But
I am used to my morning walk on Shabbat; and what shall I do with these flowers
and with the manuscript?”
“Bringing
them to the cemetery would be stupid. The flowers would crumble and your
manuscript would be soaked; and you, Loeb, might catch a chill.”
“I
seldom catch a cold,” I reminded her, “but you are right about the flowers and
the tome. Well, what shall I do with them?”
“Put
the flowers in the vase we bought in
Yentl’s words made sense. After the flowers were in
the vase and the copy of the manuscript in a drawer of my desk, I looked out
the window. It was now pouring heavily.
“You
see?” Yentl told me. “Lucky you didn’t go to the cemetery.”
“I
have to agree.”
“And
you, Loeb, enjoyed traversing your life story, didn’t you?”
“I
did. It wasn’t easy. I do have skeletons in my cupboard. I had to lay myself
bare.”
“You
did; but, then, who doesn’t have to reproach himself or herself from time to
time? I can’t think of any man or woman who may consider himself or herself
pure and free of error.”
“I
agree. Still, people usually prefer to remain anonymous. A person writes an
autobiography only if he or she wants to brag or to concede and apologise for
errors.”
“There
can be another reason, I think.”
“Tell
me, please.”
“A
person may want to get it all off his or her chest.”
“I
suspect this applies in my case.”
“It
does, rather. You see, I prompted you to write it because you were becoming so
irritable and felt empty.”
“I
don’t feel this way any longer,” I assured her.
“In
that case, the process of writing was therapeutic. I had hoped all along that
it would be.”
Yentl’s
last words struck a chord. Before I had
embarked on the project – on writing an account of my life – I was becoming a
disgruntled old man. Notwithstanding my love for Ruth, I was curt when she
called me. I suspect that I was annoyed by her invariably turning up on her
own. By now, I have come to understand that my very behaviour might have
dissuaded her from bringing my grandchildren and her husband with her. In
addition, it dawned on me that the latter might have decided to stay put so as
to minimize expenditure.
I
also recalled how I failed to open Ami’s letter. I thought he was begging for
money. I was pleasantly surprised when I realised that his business was
thriving. I was happy that he made a point of repaying the money I had lent him.
Gladly I gave some of it to Ruth. I knew that her husband’s business was
struggling.
“So
you see, Loeb,” Yentl’s spirit told me, “the writing process enabled you to
revert to yourself. Once again you became a tolerant and generous friend and
father. Gone were the wrinkles of your soul.”
For a
few moments I closed my eyes and reflected silently. When I opened them I saw
Yentl sitting beside me. She looked as she did when I first met her. She
became, once again, the girl who played Miriam – Tevyeh the Milkman’s wife.
Startled, I rubbed my eyes and blinked. When I look around me again, she – or
her image – was gone. I was alone in the comfortable sitting room.
“You
see, Loeb, you are so attached to me that, occasionally, you see things. But
let me assure you: I am with you all the time, especially now.”
“What
is so special about my current existence?”
“You
have traversed your odyssey and notwithstanding the turbulent voyage you arrived home – in
“Have
I, then, completed my journey?”
“You
alone know the answer. Some travelers enjoy their journey to such an extent
that they wish to continue. They remain restless and in search of adventures.
Others are happy when they reach their target, for instance, the top of
“I
think I belong to this second group. My Indian Summer pleases me.”
“But
you do ponder a great deal about your values?!”
“In reality
this is part and parcel of my comfortable existence.”
“In
that case you have arrived at home.”
[1] Literally the verse reads: ‘With one he toiled and the other was
holding the sword.’ The translation quoted in the text seeks to convey the
idea.
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