1. Pension Kegel
The electric car of Pension Kegel was waiting for me outside the railway station. Fastening my scarf to keep out the crisp air of a typical dawn in Zermatt, I walked briskly up the platform and got in. As often before, I breathed the clean air in deeply and with satisfaction. The absence of fuel driven motorcars was a blessing.
The electric car driver, who was also the sole concierge of the modest establishment, manoeuvred his ramshackle vehicle adroitly through the narrow and winding lanes of my favourite Swiss resort. I observed with a grim smile that for him, too, time had not stood still: his wrinkles had deepened and his hair had turned silver grey. Bestowing on me the smile reserved for old customers, he carried my suitcase up the stairs to the reception counter.
“Good morning, Herr Professor. You did reserve a room overlooking the Zermattschein Hotel?” the fair receptionist let her surprise show.
“For the first two days only,” I clarified. “After that I’d like to move to a room facing the Matterhorn”.
“Room 4, which you like so much, will be available,” she confirmed. “But the room for today and tomorrow faces the street.”
“It’s alright; as long as I can watch the entrance to the Zermattschein. I want to witness the arrival of an old friend!”
“Very well then; but it’ll be noisy: the delivery carts start to pass by from about six in the morning.”
“For these two days I’ll stand it,” I assured her.
2. Vigil by the Window
Up in the comfortable room, I shed the clothes I had worn for the train ride from Geneva and slipped into my comfortable dressing gown. Leaving the window slightly ajar, so as to let in some fresh air, I assumed my vigil. The elegant pergola of the Zermattschein spread right in front of me. Nobody could enter or leave the trendy hotel without passing through my line of vision. Was Pilkin, with whom I had made a rendezvous in Zermatt some forty years ago, going to come? When we last met both of us were young men in our early twenties. If he kept our appointment, would I recognise him?
The first electric car to arrive in front of the porch unloaded a group of well dressed Eastern tourists conversing in what I thought was Hokkien. Although one of them was a man in his sixties, with a huge bulk, a ruddy face and a loud voice, he could, obviously, not be my old class mate. Like myself, Pilkin would have lost his youthful appearance. But Occidental features remain discernible from Oriental.
My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of another quaint car. For a while, the two informally dressed women, who alighted from it, looked with admiration at the elegant façade of the Zermattschein. Then their glances switched to the Matterhorn, displayed to its best in the bright morning air.
“How adorable,” chimed the smaller of them – a dark skinned, thin, girl.
Focusing on her through my opera glasses I noted she was of Anglo-Indian stock and that she had poor taste in clothes. Her tight jeans, loose blouse and the lavish exposure of skin around her hips would have better suited a teenaged girl.
“Adorable?” retorted her tall, heavy set and severe looking companion, who appeared out of place in her tight fitting track suit. “I think ‘magnificent’ or ‘grand’ is more like it.”
“That too; but it’s also adorable, cute and exciting. Don’t you see, Lilly? It looks like a big cock!”
“Now, now, Joan,” chided Lilly in a protective tone laced with irony, “to you every amorphous mass with a protrusion looks like it!”
The rest of their conversation was blotted out by a noisy group of tourists, who alighted from another electric car. But, even so, the brief exchange I had overheard drove my thoughts back to the past. In his heyday, Pilkin – whose real name used to be Chayim Rosenberg – would have been glad to engage in a friendly conversation with Joan.
Indeed, Pilkin used to respond favourably to the many winks and tender smiles bestowed on him by the fair sex! Somehow, despite his enormous mass, unsightly appearance and uncouth mannerism, women adored him! They dismissed his wild gesticulations and his often doddering, unsteady, gait – for which he was nicknamed ‘the little elephant’ – as mild affectations. And many of the girls who withstood my friend’s eccentricities fell for his ruddy face, zest for life and optimistic outlook. Pilkin, I had concluded, titillated the maternal instincts of homely maids-in-waiting and was considered a good treat in bed by glamour women. I felt confident that not-so-young Joan would have been keen to share her problems with him.
The next guest of the Zermattschein arrived in one of the picturesque, electrically driven, taxis of the secluded resort. Obviously, he had been too impatient to await the arrival in the station of one the hotel’s own vehicles. As the driver unloaded three expensive suitcases, his passenger viewed the hotel with overt suspicion.
“Are you sure this is the Zermattschein?” he asked in a loud, metallic New York accent, which contrasted sadly with the neatly cut suit and conservative tie, worn by successful North American fund managers.
“Of course it is,” replied the driver urbanely.
“But I was told it’s the best hotel in town!”
“It is,” the driver assured him soothingly. “The Zermattschein is the only ‘five star plus’ hotel in Zermatt, Sir!”
“Don’t you have a Hilton or a Conrad here?” asked the fund manager querulously.
“We do not. But the Zermattschein is excellent, let me tell you.”
“Oh well, I suppose it’ll have to do,” answered the other and, without tipping the driver who had placed the suitcases in front of the concierge’s porch, proceeded to the entrance.
Having observed him conscientiously, I concluded he was as tall and as heavy set as Pilkin. His voice, too, was similar and Pilkin was a sufficiently good mimic to have acquired a New York accent and, perhaps, even the coarse mannerism. The fund manager, though, boasted a beaked, Jewish, nose. Pilkin, in contrast, was endowed with a flat snub nose. That, and my friend’s light hair and blue eyes, had provided a rich source of jokes about the sharp contrast between his Slavic features and his traditional Jewish Zionist outlook.
Pilkin’s deep resentment of such remarks surfaced one morning, during our third year in secondary school, when we studied a medieval text about the conversion to Judaism of the Kingdom of the Kesars. After the class, one of our self-appointed jesters observed gleefully that, far from being a descendant of King David, Pilkin’s lineage could be traced to the Caucasus . It took the joint efforts of two of our strongest classmates and of my soothing words to keep the enraged Pilkin from hauling himself on the offender, whose mouth had fallen wide open at my friend’s extreme reaction!
The guests who emerged in front of the Zermattschein from the next few cars were of no interest to me. They comprised young holidaymakers, middle aged Australians and New Zealanders and, to my surprise, one family from a Gulf country.
My reflections of the past were, however, rekindled by a group of stylish Japanese tourists, whose suave mannerism and elegant deportment contrasted with the mass produced movie cameras they carried. Their unaccustomed bearings made me recall Pilkin’s excitement when the two of us went to see Rashomon [a famous Japanese film], accompanied by attractive though heavy set Shosh Levi, with her lush black hair, sparkling black eyes and mellow yet not seductive voice. Pilkin, who was even then dreaming of a career on the stage, was fascinated by the alien projection of a single story as seen by three different characters. He conceded that the embryonic idea could be traced to Euripides’ late plays. He insisted, nevertheless, that the brilliant photography of the radical Japanese production and the surrealist effect of the ephemeral stage, had opened the door to a new era in the theatre. Shosh and I, the conservative sticklers to the Gutenberg culture, smiled tolerantly.
3. A Glimpse of Rabbi Zohar
A glance at my watch revealed it was getting close to noon. I sensed that, for the time being, I might as well give up my vigil. To economise on time, Pilkin had made a habit of arriving at his destination either well before noon or late in the evening. Unless he had arrived in Zermatt before me, he was unlikely to turn up till the end of the day or early next morning.
I was placing my opera glasses in their case, when my eye was caught by an apparition. A Hassid, in 18th century East European clothes, emerged from the fashionable hotel across the narrow lane. His black silk caftan, broad old fashioned matching hat and his long even if tidy white beard, complemented by curly side burns, reminded me of the ultra orthodox Neturei Karta sect. During my years in Jerusalem, that sect had been a source of derisive remarks made not only by an assimilated Viennese Jew like myself but even by the far more traditional and quite observant Chayim Rosenberg alias Pilkin. “When religion turns fanatic it becomes uncivilised,” he used to say, bestowing on any Hassid and Boibricks [extremely orthodox] we encountered dark glances exuding revulsion.
With just as strong an antipathy, I watched how the anachronistically clad Hassid proceeded slowly to the gate of the Zermattschein, his immense frame supported by a smart walking stick. He was about to turn into the lane, when a young porter came rushing after him.
“Rabbi Zohar,” he said respectfully, “we just got some really nice Salmon trout. The Chef asks: would you like one for dinner and do you want it steamed or can he use a new recipe he just got from Paris?”
“Please tell the Chef,” replied the Rabbi warmly, in a New York accent as pronounced as the American fund manager’s, “that I trust his masterly skills. He is a real virtuoso. I look forward to the treat he is preparing for me! You do pamper me up here!”
“It is a pleasure, Rabbi Zohar. We are honoured to have you here.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” replied the Rabbi benignly and, resuming his slow but steady stroll, walked through the gate. His grin and eager expression reminded me of Pilkin. A similar smile of anticipation used to descend on his boyish face when we made our way to a Pita Falafel stall in Disengoff Street or to one of our favourite eateries.
Gluttony, I reflected, occupied a special place amongst human vices. If you succumbed to one of the other seven mortal sins, such as pride or avarice, you could readily become a target of hatred or contempt. In contrast, the over indulgence of the dandified gourmand was met with raised eyebrows or, at worst, with patronising sniggers.
4. A Trip to Furi
“Any luck?” asked the receptionist when I placed the key on her desk on my way out.
“None” I told her, “my friend must have arrived before me or, perhaps, will come tomorrow.”
“Are you sure he’ll stay in the Zermattschein?”
“If he can afford it: he likes his comforts. But look, can you please find out later in the day if he has booked a table for tomorrow’s dinner?”
“Under what name?”
“Mine!”
“Yours??”
“Yes, that was the arrangement: made some forty years ago! He was to book the table in my name for 7.00 p.m. at the Zermattschein!”
“I’ll give them a ring later,” she said, trying hard to hide her amusement.
A number of chair lifts transported eager visitors to skiing resorts and hiking walks high above Zermatt. The furthest up the slope was known as Kleinmatterhorn. I had never ventured to go as high: the air was too thin so that any person suffering from blood circulation problems was at risk. Nowadays, with serious blood pressure problems, most spots were out of my reach. Still, the altitude of first spot, Furi, was just about 1870 metres above sea level. My GP assured me that the risk involved in such an ascent was negligible.
I had visited Furi often, both during the trip with Pilkin and in later years. It could be reached by a lengthy walk up-hill or by a 15 minutes ride in a chair lift. When I alighted, my heavy breathing firmed my resolve not to go to higher up. When, after a few minutes, my slight giddiness was over, I got up from my bench and took one of the tracks I had come to know over the years. After a while, I spotted the American fund manager and thought it best to proceed in a different direction. As I passed a bend, I saw Joan and Lilly, who were once again chatting away.
Hoping to eavesdrop on some juicy bits, I stole in their direction only to discover they were discussing mundane clauses in standard foreign exchange contracts of the type used in our own legal practice in Singapore.
“But, Lilly,” protested Joan, “this silly clause makes no sense at all; it’s rubbish!”
“I know,” sighed Lilly patiently, “but the clients like it; and it can do no harm. So why not simply leave it in? Be smart, Joan – don’t rock the boat!”
Joan gave in reluctantly: “Oh very well.”
So Joan and Lilly were London lawyers, taking a break in Zermatt. Yet they were finding it impossible to leave their office behind! Chuckling, I turned on my heels and nearly ran into the arms of the Hassid, Rabbi Zohar. Both of us muttered apologies, followed by a brief exchange on the splendours of the discreet mountain resort. The twinkle in Rabbi Zohar’s blue eyes did much to abate my antagonistic feelings. For a fanatic, he seemed strangely good humoured and relaxed.
After a lavish lunch in a new bistro, I walked slowly downhill back to Pension Kegel. A brief note, in the receptionist’s unformed handwriting, advised that no table in my name had been booked in the Zermattschein. Trying hard to hide my disappointment, I climbed up the stairs to my room. Has Pilkin reneged on our arrangement? Next evening I was bound to find out!
5. Reminiscing
The thought that Pilkin might have had a change of heart disrupted my afternoon siesta. For a number of years I had not heard from him. Then, just a few months ago, he sent me a Jewish New Year card. A scrawl at its foot read: “see you in Zermatt as planned”. It confirmed that Pilkin had not forgotten. But could some unforeseen event have induced him to back out?
Affectionately, I recalled the early days in our Secondary School in Masor Street in Central Tel Aviv, called ‘Tichon Ironi A’ (literally meaning “High School 1” and fondly nicknamed “TA.1”). The fetish of our fundamentally liberal, even if somewhat traditional, institution was scholastic achievement. Pupils were subjected to four years of rigorous studies. In their first two years, they had to cover basic courses in the arts and in the sciences. In their third year, pupils had to choose between the Humanist Stream and the Scientific Stream. The emphasis in the former was on History, Literature and Biblical Studies. Classics, alas, were not taught. The main subjects in the latter stream were Advanced Mathematics, Theoretical Physics and Organic Chemistry. All pupils were, however, required to study the art of writing and composition. Further, in addition to the subjects in the stream chosen, each of us had to take at least one subject from the other stream.
In line with its emphasis on excellence, TA.1 admitted only the best leavers of primary schools from all suburbs in Tel Aviv. Background, status and family connections were not given weight in the selection process. What mattered was the applicant’s studying technique and his potential for success in a professional or academic career.
I had come from a boys’ school in prosperous middle class Melchett Street whilst Chayim (Pilkin) was one of the few to be admitted from a school in the south of Tel Aviv, in the vicinity of ramshackle Schechunat Ha’Tikva.
This, in itself, would not have created a gulf between us. In those pioneering days Israel was egalitarian. The problem lay more in a cultural demarcator. Chayim’s grandparents had migrated to Palestine from Eastern Europe. They and their offspring were conversant in Polish, Yiddish and Hebrew. They were reasonably observant without, at the same time, being truly orthodox (“Froom” in the slang of those days). Chayim’s mother, for instance, lit candles on Friday evening. But she had no compunction about switching on electricity on Saturday – the Sabbath.
All in all, Chayim’s religious orientation was moderate. He did not grow sideburns and did not wear a Talith. Still, unlike most of our schoolmates, he covered his head with a scalp cap – a Yarmolka – in our biblical studies lessons, generally observed the dietary laws known as Kashruth and occasionally went to prayers on the eve of the Sabbath. I recalled vividly how, on one occasion, I saw him in Allenby street on the last day of the Feast of Tabernacle. He was walking back from his Synagogue in the company of his young brother, who was proudly carrying the customary cardboard flag, with its rich display of biblical themes and with the remnants of a colourful candle attached to its post.
My parents home had a different flavour. As a middle aged couple, they had to escape from Vienna on the eve of Austria’s annexation by Germany – the Anschluß. Still, my parents’ language, values and orientation remained those of Austria of the first decades of the 20th century. Ethnically, of course, they were Jewish but, like all their assimilated compatriots, they had shed all cultural ties with their origin. Traditional Jewish homes like Chayim’s were just as alien to them as Yiddish and Polish.
My own outlook was similar to theirs: jibes about religion came to me naturally! In the circumstances, during our first year in TA.1, communications between Chayim and myself remained confined to occasional polite nods and the usual exchanges in classes. Even in the regular picnics – ‘Kumsitzes’ in the slang of our era – the two of us did not mix. He was the heart and soul of every gathering and party. I was a shy boy, glad to stick to the fringes.
All the same, I did from time to time step over to congratulate Chayim when he entertained us with one of his sparkling performances, usually a comic scene from a popular drama or the recital of a modern Hebrew poem. It was at the end of one such performance, when Chayim was swaying drunk with success, that on my subtle promptings he was nicknamed ‘Pilkin’ (the little elephant). A few weeks later he took his revenge and had me dubbed ‘Bushi’ (a befitting tag for a shy lad). Needless to say, both names stuck!
None of this was conducive to the creation of meaningful links. Fortunately, the two of us had more fruitful communications in class. As both of us disliked science, we had enrolled in the humanist stream. Yet we were not in competition . My interests were mainly in history and in philosophy. Pilkin loved literature and excelled in Arabic and in Talmudic studies. Frequently, we stepped to one another’s aid when a teacher gave us a hard time.
When the prodding came from the English Language Master, both of us were usually saved by pretty Shosh, who was engrossed in Shelley, Keats and Browning. It was only natural that these occasional acts of help forged a bond between the three of us. Yet another drive to friendship was exercised by gluttony that bound both Pilkin and me to Shosh. When our scientifically orientated classmates amused themselves by solving problems of calculus or by memorising chemical formulas, the three of us stole away to a nearby Pita Falafel or ice cream store for pleasures accessible to common people.