1. Leah
Early next morning, as the Matterhorn emerged in its splendour at the first rays of light, I resumed my vigil. Soon the electric cars started to arrive from the station but the patrons alighting from them bore no resemble to my Pilkin of old. By 9.00 a.m. I threw in the towel. For all I knew, Pilkin might be snoring in a comfortable room in some other hotel in Zermatt. Despite his formidable size, he constituted a needle not easily pinpointed in the haystack of the buoyant flow of tourists in the popular resort.
After a lavish breakfast buffet, I proceeded along the short bridge and the small church abutting on it to a mountain train climbing to an area distinct from Furi’s. As often before, I found the ride to a resort known as the Riffelalp exhilarating. For a while, I wandered along the tracks I had come to know so well. Eventually, as I caught my breath on a bench that had been there for years, my eyes strayed back to a trip Pilkin and I had enjoyed so may years earlier.
On the advice of a local physician – a solemn Swiss gentleman in his late forties – we had refrained from taking any of the rides to the imposing glaciers surrounding us. Furi and the Riffelalp alone were within our reach. After three days of comfortable strolls, Pilkin’s face had regained its colour and his voice its vigour and resonance.
Our only adventure took place as we were sitting side by side on the very bench I had kept coming back to in later years. We were deeply engrossed in a debate of a banal question. In Switzerland four distinct races had coexisted in relative harmony during a period in which the rest of Europe practised communal slaughter and savagery. Obviously, the Swiss were a civilised people. Why then had they contributed so very little to literature, music and the arts?
“Is it possible that culture needs the stimulus of discord?” asked Pilkin.
Before I had the chance to reply, a mellow voice broke in: “Two Israelis opining on civilisation?” She used the plain Hebrew of our era, but a touch of sarcasm was readily discernable.
Turning around in unison, we faced an attractive girl a few years older than us. Her smart clothes, confident manner and relaxed posture left their impact. Pleased with our reaction, she rewarded us with a warm smile.
“I’m Leàh Cohen! I’m from Herzliya.” Her voice had now lost its amused overtone.
“I’m Chayim Rosenne,” replied Pilkin, making his recovery, “but my friends call me Pilkin. And this is Eli Berger – or, rather, Bushi. We come from Tel Aviv!”
“Nice to meet both of you,” she observed complacently. “And what brings you here?”
“Just a break,” I found my voice at long last. “And you?”
“Same thing!”
“Care to join us?” asked Pilkin.
“Sure,” she said.
For the rest of the morning the three of us kept treading along the pleasant Alpine paths. Leàh was at home in the idyllic surroundings. Obviously, she had visited them before. We had lunch together in a small café and then wound our way back to the mountain-train station.
“Shall we take a ride further up the slope?” Leàh asked eagerly. “You get a magnificent view up there?”
“Perhaps better not,” counselled Pilkin, his eyes avoiding mine. “Eli has Asthma and the thin air may not be too good for him!”
“Also it’s no good for Pilkin,” I retorted, stung to the quick. “He had a heart attack some time ago and the doctor told him to avoid extreme heights!”
For just a moment, plain delight animated Leàh’s attractive face and her eyes danced with merriment. Then, as she took in the furious stares Pilkin and I directed at one another, her expression sobered.
“Well, to be perfectly honest, boys, I, too, am not much of a mountaineer. I get dizzy. But occasionally I ignore it and let myself go. Still, if all three of us may be uncomfortable higher up, we better stick to the lower terrain. Have you two been to Furi?”
“We have,” replied Pilkin, back to his normal state of composure.
“Shall we then go there? It’s about the same height as the Riffelalp and just as lovely. Well, how about it?”
“We’d love to come with you,” I assured her while Pilkin expressed his agreement with a benign, grateful, smile.
Leàh’s intervention calmed the waters. Despite my initial irritation, I had to admire her presence of mind and her smooth handling of an explosive situation. Obviously, there was more to her than good looks.
We spent the afternoon walking together along a mountain track. Leàh, who was familiar with the area, amused us with tales about skirmishes that had taken place in this lovely corner of the Alps during the 17th and 18th centuries. Both of us agreed enthusiastically to spend the following day together with her.
Having seen Leàh back to her hotel, Pilkin and I walked in a sombre mood to our considerably less elegant lodgings. Although Leàh’s smart handling had averted a storm, the exchange of words and of angry stares weighed heavily on both of us. In the event, I took the initiative.
“Pilkin, I don’t know what came over me!” I told him contritely.
“Same here,” muttered Pilkin. “For once, both of us behaved like …”
“… savages?”
“No, Bushi, not savages. Like brainless louses, rather!”
“But what made us do it, Pilkin? We never try to score off one another? Why this time?”
“Because Leàh’s sexy and we are young unattached males. And because both of us fancied her!”
“Pfui to both us, then! For all we know, she was just bored and wanted some company. So what made us act like stupid assholes?”
“Stop being melodramatic, Bushi. Leàh’s an eligible girl – from our own milieu – and both of us responded to normal impulses. So let’s not turn a mole into an anthill!”
“And she bloody well enjoyed it!”
“Only for a second, Bushi; any woman would! But she smoothed things out very nicely! All in all, she behaved beautifully. And you have to admit: she is a cool one!”
“True. But how about the way we acted, Pilkin?”
“Let’s just forget about it. Let’s enjoy our outing with her tomorrow. And, Bushi, I think she’s … committed. Something tells me she’s waiting for her steady.”
“So why didn’t they fly down together? You think he’s married?”
“Maybe; or maybe he’s a Swiss Jew from Zürich or Basle coming up for the weekend?”
“Oh, very well: we’ll find out tomorrow!”
We had a pleasant morning with Leàh, strolling happily along the pleasant paths. When we got tired, Leàh unpacked a picnic basket and watched gleefully the healthy appetites displayed – shamelessly – by Pilkin and myself. Because Pilkin skipped the fine raw ham and pork sausages, I had the lion’s share of the generous meal.
Leàh’s relaxed airs encouraged Pilkin and me to talk about our backgrounds and to reveal our aspirations for the future. She, in turn, told us what had brought her to Zermatt. About two years earlier, when she was employed as a travel guide in Tel Aviv, Leàh had met Rolf – the scion of a prosperous Swiss Jewish family. He fell for her, took her out for a lavish dinner in the fashionable Dan Hotel by the beach of Tel Aviv and, before long, returned to Israel to pursue his interest.
A year later she flew down to Zürich to meet his parents. She had reservations about their closely knit, rather bigoted community. But she became increasingly fond of Rolf and sensed they could enjoy a good and stable marriage. The difficulty was the need of giving up her home. Despite the wealth and comforts Rolf was able to provide, Leàh was loath to make the move. Rolf, who was a patient man, bided his time, hoping to win her over. His mother, though, was getting restive: she was yearning for a grandson.
Placing the utensils back into the picnic basket as we were getting ready to make our way back to the train station, Leàh confided she had to make her decision next day.
“You see,” she explained, “Rolf is coming up from Zürich tomorrow. We’re spending the weekend together. And I’ve promised to tell him ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ by Monday.”
“But why don’t you suggest you settle together in Israel?” I asked in the direct manner common amongst young Israelis in those remote, golden, days.
“Rolf is with a well known Swiss bank,” she explained. “His place is in Zürich; or perhaps later on in New York. He’s got no future in Israel! And I can’t see myself leaving my home … even if the move is to an affluent town like Zürich. I’m an Israeli born and bred.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “But why can’t you marry him, settle in Zürich and fly back to Israel once or twice a year? This way you won’t uproot yourself!”
“That’s what my father says,” she replied. “But I don’t want to become a tourist at home. I want to spend my life in Israel. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Pilkin.
“And you, Bushi?”
“It’s your decision, Leàh,” I said after a pause. “You must do what’s right for yourself!”
“Wouldn’t you stay in Tel Aviv even if you could build up a better life abroad?” she wanted to know.
“I’m not sure,” I confessed.
“And you, Pilkin?”
“It’s difficult to look into the crystal ball. But the way I feel now: Israel is my home.”
“But you want to be an actor, Pilkin,” she persevered. “Suppose you’re offered a good opening on a foreign stage?”
“I might go; but with the hope of coming back! Still, as Bushi says, this type of decision is strictly personal. You’ve got to make your own choice. And, Leàh, money is important; but it’s not everything.”
“You are, of course, right: I mean both of you. And I’ve already made up my mind. But it won’t be easy to tell Rolf. He’s a dear and he’s in love with me.”
For the rest of the day, Pilkin and I made genuine efforts to cheer Leàh up. In due course, her face brightened. When she excused herself for a while, Pilkin suggested we take her out for a farewell dinner at the elegant restaurant of the Zermattschein. After weeks of frugal living, we could afford the gesture. It would also be a celebration marking the end of our trip.
Initially Leàh would not hear of it. In the end, though, she agreed. When the splendid meal in Zermatt’s best restaurant was over, she insisted on going Dutch. As she was better off than ourselves, Pilkin – exercising his role as treasurer – accepted. Smiling with satisfaction, she further insisted on treating us to a liqueur. It was my first taste of Pfümlei.
A gust of fresh wind, blowing down from the peaks, conveyed to me that, once again, I had become immersed in the past. I was now an aging man. Neither Leàh nor Pilkin were with me on the Riffelalp.
Smiling sadly, I realised that the splendid excursion with Leàh had taken place some forty years earlier. Indeed, like Pilkin and myself, Leàh Cohen – if, indeed, she was still known by this name – had turned into a member of the older generation. Who was the lucky guy who had stepped with her under the canopy? What had become of her? How many children and grandchildren could she boast of after all these years?
Tightening my leather jacket around me, I took the track leading to the small local restaurant. I had patronised it many times in the course of the last forty years and, on each occasion, had reflected on our encounter with Leàh. After years in Anglo-Saxon societies, her lack of reserve when she had talked to casual acquaintances like us, appeared alien. At the time, though, it had seemed natural. Whilst, in many regards, Israeli society constituted a closed shop, communications between those counted “in” – or, in other words, members of the community – were open and frank to the extreme. That explained also the last conversation of Pilkin and myself on the final day of our trip.
2. We Plan a Reunion
It had been a warm and pleasant day but, toward dusk, it started to drizzle. After a simple meal in an Italian eatery, we made ourselves comfortable in the small sitting room of our hostel. For a while, both of were immersed in the daily newspapers. Eventually, Pilkin, who had read the Herald Tribune, pushed the paper away and said it would be refreshing to regain access to the Israeli press. Countering my sullen retort about the parochial orientation of our newspapers, he observed that the Herald Tribune had New York written all over its pages and that The Times was as broad minded as Gunga Din! He let his irritation show when I opined that, even so, the international press “was still twice the ‘man’ than” ours.
To avoid an altercation, Pilkin turned back to the Herald Tribune. When he raised his eyes from it, he looked at me reflectively. For a moment, I thought he intended to revert to our argument. His expression, though, indicated that his thoughts had strayed in a different direction.
“We’ll have to disagree about the Press, Bushi. But I want to bring up another point – about yourself, actually!”
“Oh?”
“It has been bothering me since our chat with Leàh; I mean, about Rolf. I’ve been asking myself, Bushi, whether you would be as keen as her to spend the rest of life in Israel?”
“My training is for a legal career at the Israeli Bar.”
“True. But – socially – aren’t you more at home abroad than in Israel? I watched you throughout the trip, Bushi. You were more self assured in Istanbul, Athens, Rome and here than back in Tel Aviv. You fitted into all foreign environments without effort: more readily than on social occasions at home. I remembered how awkward you were at my officers corps party. And you were always relieved when a Kumsitz was over. Am I right?”
“You may be right,” I conceded.
“But why, Bushi?”
“Outside Israel nobody expect me to conform. I can do as I like – that is, within reason and as long as I don’t break the law. At home, you have to fit in; and I’m not really ‘with it’, Pilkin!”
“And you are a non-conformist at heart – you demonstrated it in the Josephus trial!”
“I am. And I don’t think I’ll change my outlook!”
“Which means that if you find a good opening away from home you might go ahead.”
“I might. I said so to Leàh. Well do you condemn me as a Yored – a deserter or renegade?”
For once, Pilkin hesitated. Acting out of character, he chose his words with extreme care, as people do when they tread on thin ice. I realised he feared that any blunt words, be they as innocent as may be, might hurt my sensitivities. Like myself, he was aware that, despite the closeness that had grown between us, a certain gap – an unseen barrier – had remained in place.
“No, Bushi,” he said at long last. “I don’t sit in judgment. You have the right to make your own choice. But you are my friend. And so I want to make sure we won’t lose track of one another even if – in years to come – we take diverse routes!”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let’s have a rendezvous! In precisely 40 years from today we meet again here in Zermatt for a reunion dinner! We’ll tell one another our life stories without camouflage. And we’ll follow these up with a post mortem. If both of us are still in Israel, we can travel together. But if you live abroad, each of us makes his separate way to this place.”
“But, Pilkin, we’ll be in our sixties – two aging men! Will we recognise one another?”
“Perhaps not. But this can be taken care of. We’ll have our dinner in the Zermattschein! And I’ll book our table in you name!”
“Why not in yours?”
“Because I might change it!”
“Again? You’ve already dropped ‘Rosenberg’ and picked up “Rosenne’?”
“But every ‘Rosenberg’, ‘Rosenzweig’, ‘Rosenbaum’, ‘Rosneblum’ and ‘Rosen-I-know-not- what’ goes for ‘Rosenne’. It’ll soon be an Israeli ‘Schmidt’ or ‘Brown’!”
“Well, there are plenty of ‘Bergers’. But I’m going to stick to it. If it was good enough for my grandfather, it’s good enough for me! A name’s not a label!”
“To my mind, it’s nothing but a label, bestowed on many of our ancestors by capricious European rulers. Still, in many ways you, Bushi, are a Tory! So it’ll be safer to book the table under ‘Eli’, or – better still – under ‘Peter Berger’.”
“But suppose the Zermattschein is no longer there?”
“Then I’ll look around for a good restaurant and I’ll leave a message for you at the Tourist Information Centre. Well, how about it then?”
“It’s a deal! And it’ll be a fascinating evening. But, Pilkin,” I wished to get things straight, “this rendezvous does not mean we have to avoid one another when we are in Israel?”
“Of course not. But regardless of what the future has in store for us: in forty years precisely we meet in Zermatt.”
“I’ll look forward to the occasion,” I assured him.
The object of my trip to Zermatt, forty years thereafter, was to keep our rendezvous. As I entered the restaurant on the Riffelalp, as a grey faced man in his sixties, I recalled vividly the unforgettable conversation we had in our youth.
I also recalled our parting in the railway station on the last morning of our anabasis. I was about to board a train to Zürich and onward to Vienna, where I planned to spend a few days with my father. Pilkin had decided to proceed to Paris: he wanted to familiarise himself with the French stage! Thereafter, he planned to proceed to London. Each of us had been ready to embark on our respective journeys.