1. We Meet
My neatly tailored three piece grey suit, white shirt and fashionable tie did little to ease the pounding of my heart as I followed the concierge through the imposing dining room of the Zermattschein. Would I recognise Pilkin as soon as I spotted our table? Had his appearance changed as much as mine? For all I knew, he could by now have become the heart and soul of parties given in his honour by a group of jolly grandchildren!
For just a moment I was overcome by dismay when my guide steered a course in the direction of a table occupied by the American fund manager, whose arrival in the hotel I had witnessed on the previous day. Had Pilkin turned into yet another money minded financier? Then, to my relief, I was navigated in the direction of a private dining room, camouflaged by a curtain. Holding my hand out, I stepped into the alcove and, instantly, came to a halt. With the world spinning around me, and my mouth wide agape, I stared at the vast bulk of the Hassid, Rabbi Zohar. He was, again, decked in his black caftan but the wide outmoded hat – a 17th century relic – had made way to a fashionable Yarmolka. The walking stick, with its carved handle, rested against a spare chair.
“Pilkin?” I stammered when I had recovered sufficiently to venture to speak.
“Who else?” He replied in the resonant Hebrew of our youth. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Bushi. I won’t bite you!”
“And to think we had virtually run into one another yesterday,” I muttered as I sank into a chair facing his. “You didn’t recognise me – did you? But did you have an inkling?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” he conceded with a grin. “But Bushi, Bushi! Where did you leave your hair?”
“Where you, Pilkin, got your cane!” I retorted, rising to the bait.
“Touché!” he chuckled, his eyes regaining their lustre and his face assuming, despite his heavy beard, pronounced sideburns and severe appearance, the light hearted, even bantering, expression I remembered so well. “So come on, Bushi, let’s celebrate with a nip of Kümmel. I brought an excellent bottle – Rischon’s Special Bin! Well – what d’you say?”
The very thought of the piquant Schnapps, sweetened by the heavy crystal sugar coating on the bottle, made my mouth water. In the old days, Pilkin and I had consumed many bottles of the excellent East European liqueur. It pained me to tell him: “Sorry, Pilkin, I can’t take such sweet drinks any longer. How about a glass of Cognac?”
“Oh, I see. Very well then – will a nip of Rischon’s Deluxe Brandy do? I brought a bottle of that too.”
“That’ll be great,” I said but, at the same time, looked at him with apprehension. If Pilkin had turned as orthodox as suggested by his attire, he would have to discard the entire bottle if he shared a drop of it with a fellow Jew who did not tithe.
“Let me pour it out for you then,” he said with a twinkle as he produced the bottle. “We assume – incidentally – that our People tithe when given the chance!”
“A broad minded surmise. So you ain’t … if you’ll excuse my asking … an … extremist?”
“Of course not! Fanaticism marks inconfidence! I see no cause for that! And, Bushi, like all lawyers you must accept that the roads to Heaven and Justice are paved with fictions!”
“The Law thrives on fictions!” I assured him.
“So let’s accept mine and drink to our reunion!”
2. Pilkin’s Change of Name
The Israeli brandy I used to relish in my youth did not match the XO to which my palate had become accustomed over the years. All the same, the potent drink made me feel at home. Rabbi or secular sage, my friend had remained my Pilkin of old. The gulf created by years of separation receded.
“So now you are Rabbi Chayim Zohar. No wonder I was unable to get news about you through old contacts on the stage. But – you know – even mutual friends, like Kaktus and Plinius, kept mum about you!”
“I saw to it,” he sneered. “I wanted my … metamorphosis … to come as a surprise. So I told them to hold their tongues! And they did! But, Bushi, it ain’t ‘Chayim Zohar’. Here, have a look at my personal card!”
“ ‘Rabbi Loeb Zohar’ ” I read out. “But, Pilkin, why on earth did you drop Chayim? What is better than ‘Life’; and ‘Bright Life’ would have sounded good!”
“Quite,” nodded Pilkin. “But I got sick and tired of people leering at me when they drained their glasses and yelled Le’Chayim [Hebrew slag for ‘bottoms up].”
“I didn’t think you were that sensitive.”
“Come on, Bushi. How would you like to be known as Mr. ‘Bottoms Up’?”
“You have a point there,” I conceded reluctantly. “But why Loeb? Don’t you think ‘Bright Heart’ … gilds the lily?”
“But ‘Loeb’ has a second meaning. It’s an abbreviation of …”
“ … lion.” I broke in and – as the penny dropped – added with a grin: “Lion, the leader of the pack!”
“Indeed; and, Bushi, I liked the sound of it! And it’s a good label for a New York Rabbi! You see – don’t you?”
“I do. But – hold on – so you are the Rabbi Loeb Zohar?”
“It is my name now. Have you come across it before?”
“I read about you in Life. You were acclaimed a mystic, a spiritual leader and a healer!”
“They were too kind – or, rather, extravagant!”
“In what way?”
“I’m no mystic, Bushi. Mysticism and orthodox Judaism are miles apart!”
“Quite!” I conceded.
“And I ain’t a new Moses, Luther or William Penn! So that bit about religious leadership was bullshit!”
“How about your healing powers?”
“That’s more complex – occasionally, I can help!”
“Can you cure blindness or a broken back, Pilkin?”
“Not if the eyesight is really gone or if the spinal cord is severed. In plain language – I can’t ‘heal’ a physical impairment!”
“Where, then, can you step in?”
“If the patient suffers from a neurotic condition or if his disease is exacerbated by psychological complications. For instance, I can’t ‘cure’ a joint deformed by rheumatism. But I can alleviate the patient’s sufferings: I show him how to overcome the panic often associated with the onset of an attack!”
“You helped me in the old days: when an asthma attack was setting in.”
“It’s still the same power: I tranquillise the sufferer. That’s all I can do.”
“A form of hypnosis?”
“Probably.”
“So the sufferer’s creed is irrelevant?”
“But, Bushi, only Jews come to me. And if they don’t believe in my powers I can’t help even them. So it is a matter of faith – in me or in Him! That’s why we call it ‘faith healing’!”
“Do your … patients … reward you?”
“All donations go to the Loeb Zohar Foundation. It pays me an honorarium. The bulk is paid over to Jewish charities.”
“So you distribute some of the wealth amassed by our well-to-do brethren to our Schlemiels and Schliemasels!”
“Quite so! And I make no excuses for keeping it an in-house charity!”
“You needn’t. I understand your philosophy: you concern yourself with the problems of the ‘clan’!”
“Well spoken,” Pilkin beamed at me. “In the old days, we often viewed the world through glasses with different tints. But we also saw each other’s point!”
“The mark of civilised men,” I muttered. “And Pilkin – is your home in New York or in Tel Aviv? Quite a few of your postcards bore Israeli stamps!”
“I shuttle between the two cities, Bushi. I have a Schul in Manhattan and another not far from my mother’s old flat in Tel Aviv!”
“So you still live there when you’re in Tel Aviv?”
“No, Bushi. We have a flat in Nordau Boulevard, a short walk to the beach. I swim every morning: even in the winter!”
“So how do you get back from your Schul on the Sabbath? It’s an hour’s walk!”
“I took it in my stride as long as I was up to it. Then, when my hip started to give trouble, we made arrangements to stay for the weekend with a member of the congregation. But we’ll have to find some permanent solution!”
“Can’t you drive back home after the service? Remember: risk to body and health overrides the Sabbath!”
“Too easy, Bushi – far too easy! It’s a sin to play hard and fast with the rules. We’ll probably have to move to a flat nearer the Schul. And I don’t mind too much. Swimming is no longer such fun! And you, Bushi – you are all settled in that Eastern paradise of yours?”
“Quite. I’m too well entrenched and comfortable in Singapore to fancy another move. And it is my wife’s hometown. Also, I enjoy my work: a consultancy in a major law firm in town plus my teaching job in the University. I won’t be able to get such a deal anywhere else: not at my age!”
“I see.” For a short while both of us kept reflecting. Then we turned to the menus placed in front of us by the waiter.
2. A Liberal Rabbi
“I didn’t realise they had a Kosher menu here,” I let my surprise show.
“An orthodox Jewish family from Basle bought this establishment some ten years ago. But you take what you like. I’m told the non-Kosher menu is one of the best in Zermatt.”
“The Kosher one, too, looks very good. I’ll have a go at it. But I hope you don’t mind if I have a coffee with milk after the meal.”
“Not at all. I’ll have mine with coconut cream.”
“How come they have a beef stew on the Kosher menu? I thought Kosher butcheries are outlawed in tolerant Switzerland?” I wanted to know.
“They get the meat from a Kosher outlet in Israel. But I’d recommend the goose: it’s excellent!”
“Splendid!”
“And I’ve brought me with me two bottles of Karmel Hock. You relished it in the old days.”
“We don’t get it in Singapore. I’d love to taste it again. It was a great wine!”
“Still is. At least – I think so,” beamed Pilkin.
As soon as the waiter departed with our orders, I gave vent to an unease I had felt during the preceding few minutes. “I accept you are a Rabbi, Pilkin. You always had an orthodox streak in you. But how can you, willingly and apparently quite happily, stick to …”
“ … a set of rules and customs which the rest of the world considers ludicrous?” he finished the sentence for me.
“Precisely.”
“Well, let’s ask ourselves: what’s the object of these – h’m – ‘strange rules’ – not only the dietary laws but also others, such as not wearing clothes made of mixed fibres?”
“The teachers in TA.1 used to say these rules had ‘hygienic’ objects!” I reminded him.
“And you had a row with old Lipez when you asserted camel meat was O.K.!” grinned Pilkin.
“He summoned my mother and gave her a lecture on the bad influence of heretical parents!”
“Well, Bushi, so what is the purpose of all these ‘funny laws’ as you used to call them? You angered many of us when you said they were sheer nonsense and that a ‘smart guy’ like you could not be bothered with them! Surely, that was a perverse reaction.”
“It was, rather,” I conceded, failing to hide my embarrassment. “And, well, I think I have worked out what’s behind them. But – Pilkin – I don’t want to spoil our reunion. Perhaps I shouldn’t have raised the subject?”
“Rubbish! Out with it, Bushi. I, too, have mellowed. Nowadays I can take all this in my stride. So let’s have your thoughts.”
“If you obeyed all these rules to the letter, Pilkin, we could not dine together or, possibly, even socialise. For instance, we couldn’t have a drink together. And if I had a son, you would have to stop your daughter from seeing him, unless, of course, he became orthodox. And any mixing with gentiles would be a no-no!”
“So?”
“We are dealing with segregatory laws: meant to keep the community intact. And, I suspect, they can be used to excommunicate non-conformists. Historically, the rules probably originated as different tribal customs each with its own object. For instance, you don’t eat camel meat because the camel is too valuable a pack animal to be slaughtered for food. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with shellfish. A bad fish can give you just as bad a food poisoning as bad oyster. And God alone knows what’s wrong with mixed fibre clothes. But the aggregate effect of all these laws is clear: conserving the community as a group apart from the rest of the world!”
“I agree,” said Pilkin, whose expression had remained immobile throughout my harangue.
“So why do you accept them?”
“But that’s the point, Bushi! I’m all in favour of the policy they serve!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Bushi – what do you think of the survival of our nation – the Jews?”
“It is a historical fact, Pilkin!”
“But do you cherish it!”
“Not really – to be honest.”
“And why?”
“All other people of antiquity have disappeared from the face of the earth long ago. The Hittites had been forgotten for centuries. Babylon and Assyria have long perished. Old Egypt is no more. Even mighty Rome – which ruled the world with an iron fist – is today just a town in Italy. Only we, the Jews, keep going on: we stick to our old ways. We prosper in Diaspora and fail to mingle with the people who let us into their countries. We are living fossils, Pilkin! ‘The little men upon a stair; the little men, who weren’t there; we weren’t there again today; Oh God – please let us get away!’ I think this doggerel sums it all up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pilkin, bewildered.
“If we had gone they way of all flesh as a nation, the world would have had to look for another flogging post! I wish it had to!”
“But, Bushi, the ‘world’ – as you call it – has massacred at least as many gentiles as Jews. I don’t have to teach you history, do I?”
“No, you don’t. And it’s true that pogroms are carried out against many minority group. I know all this. But the Jews, Pilkin, stand out as the subject of systematic persecution over the centuries.”
“But then, Bushi, doesn’t it make you proud to belong to a group that has braved all these storms. Aren’t you proud to be a Jew?”
“Can’t say I am, Pilkin. Not anymore than I would have been of my ‘race’, had I been a Chinese, an Englishman, an American or a Singaporean. Our national or cultural affiliation is a heritage: not an achievement!”
“Well, I beg to differ! I am proud of my forefathers, who risked life and limb, and turned their backs on prosperity and safety, to preserve that cultural and national heritage.”
“With the aid of anti-Semitism and the Yellow Star of David,” I muttered.
“Perhaps, but conversion was open to them; and they desisted. And so have both of us!”
“True; and I’ll be damned if I see my reason for remaining Jewish. Plain stubbornness, I venture!”
“And pride – even if you deny it!”
“Perhaps; but it would be perverse pride – at least on my part!”
“But consistency is the tribute of an ox, Bushi,” grinned Pilkin, regaining his relaxed airs. “Still, now it’s clear why you hate our dietary rules whilst I put up with them: I treasure the survival of our nation; you don’t!”
“In the ultimate, then, both attitudes make sense: they are functional!” I summed up.
“So they are. But in reality neither of us takes an extreme stand. You are still a moderate radical with idiosyncratic notions: like when you clamoured to convince us that Josephus wasn’t such a bad guy. And I’m still on the liberal wing of orthodox Judaism!”
3. Tittle Tattle
The waiter placed a plate of Gefilte Fish in front of Pilkin, who pretended not to see the unfriendly look I bestowed on the renowned delicacy savoured by East European Jews. He, in turn, glanced with a connoisseur’s appreciation at my smoked salmon with the horse radish.
“Won’t you have a glass of Alicante with the Gefilte Fish?” I tried to make up for my unmannerly reaction.
“I’d better not. With my arthritis and a touch of the gout it’s best to be careful!”
“I’m sorry. Is that why you need the cane?”
“Yes,” he said without bitterness, adding as an afterthought: “we’re not getting younger, Bushi. We are now the older generation. So we have to reckon with some wear and tear.”
“I suppose it applies to all our old friends,” I said sadly.
“What do you think?”
“I know. But I recall all of them as young men and women, fresh out of TA.1. I find it hard to think they are now a group of oldies!”
“That’s because you’ve been out of touch for so long.”
“Well, tell me about them!”
It soon dawned on me that Pilkin had kept tabs on all our classmates. He talked about them as we enjoyed our starters and the excellent soups. It grieved me to learn that two of my old schoolmates had passed away after protracted wrangling with cancer, that another had suffered a stroke and that one of the girls – wooed by many boys – had committed suicide after her only son had met with a fatal car accident. To my relief there were, of course, also a number of success stories. One old friend had been constituted the Attorney General of Tel Aviv. The ‘Chief Justice’ of the Josephus Trial had been awarded a Nobel Prize in Science. Another boy had become the Head of an important Faculty in the Hebrew University and others still had made their careers in the business world.
Many of the girls, too, had done well for themselves. I was particularly intrigued to learn that one had become a famous, albeit left wing, journalist and another the author of a number of well regarded books on Oriental and European Cuisine. Pilkin’s account further revealed that, with but few exceptions, our former classmates enjoyed steady and lasting marriages. Most of them had, by now, become grandparents.
When Pilkin’s discourse came to its end, I observed with a benign sneer: “So our TA.1 graduates have carried the banner to the heights anticipated by our venerated teachers”
“We have” he agreed, with a kindly smile. “But now, Bushi, I have something special to tell you. Guess about whom!”
“Leàh?” I asked after a momentary hesitation.
“Precisely!”
“How is she? What has become of her?”
“She married a nice sort of a businessmen and they did well, really well. Then, suddenly, he died. It took her a while to get over his loss. For months, she was very lonely. Then she opened a modern art gallery in Dizengoff Street! It’s going well.”
“How d’you know all this?”
“We went out for lunch from time to time and she opened up. I thought it best not to see her in the evenings.”
“Eh?”
“Leàh can be rather basic, Bushi; and I’m a Rabbi – remember!”
“True. Well, so what happened?”
“Eventually, she met a nice chap – some fifteen years her junior – and they got married. Initially, her two sons by her first husband objected to the new union. So I had a word with them. And, Bushi, she made it again. Young Ronnie dotes on her! Eats out of her hand!”
“So all is well. She must still be attractive; or she couldn’t have landed such a young fellow!”
“Have a look,” volunteered Pilkin. “I’ve told her we were having a reunion and so she sends her regards. She asked me to show you this photo!”
Pushing the emptied soup plate aside, I placed the large photo in front of me. What I saw gave me a start. The sagging bust, wrinkled neck, double chin and protruding cheeks bore no resemblance to Leàh of Zermatt.
Sensing the extremity of my reaction, Pilkin chided: “Pull yourself together, Bushi. You’ve always been a hypersensitive guy. But really: do you think – per chance – that you have remained a good looking youngster: a dashing fellow with a cute mustachio – the dream of the girls?”
“I never was that,” I assured him when I regained my composure. “But, really, Pilkin: Leàh was such a beautiful girl!”
“Time doesn’t stand still for anybody, Bushi. Did you – my friend – expect to end up a pale faced baldie? Did I ever think I’d need a cane? And, Bushi, Leàh was not beautiful. Buxom: yes; sexy: most men thought so. But her real strength was personality. She could hold her own in any gathering! And she still can. Two years ago she stood for Parliament and – but for a silly outburst against the Mayor of Tel Aviv – would have made it! And think about it: how many women in her age group can captivate a young fellow like Ronnie?”
“I suppose you are right. But I wish you had prepared me. I hope you haven’t brought with you photos of our other old flames.”
“I haven’t. So cheer up!”
“Have I aged as much as her?” I asked uneasily.
“Well, yes; but you look distinguished. So let’s not worry about this. And, perhaps, Leàh’s photo doesn’t do her justice. She made a few conquests even before she came across Ronnie!”
The waiter wheeled a neatly arranged trolley into our private dining room. Lifting the elegant silver domes from the dishes, he placed a vegetarian cutlet in front of Pilkin and a trout in front of me. He then removed the bottle of Karmel Hock from the wine cooler, extracted the cork and waited politely as, at Pilkin’s suggestion, I tasted the tart wine. As soon as I nodded appreciatively, he filled our glasses, placed the bottle back in the container, and withdrew discreetly.
“Well, Bushi. So now it’s the time to tell our stories. Why don’t you start?”
His expression as my Odyssey unfolded confirmed that he had kept a close watch of my progress. He displayed no surprise when I recounted my life as a young, unattached, bachelor in Singapore in the early sixties and the saga of my long yet unhappy marriage. The story of my pleasant years in New Zealand, the enjoyable trips in the country’s two islands, and my tense yet industrious existence as a Professor at Monash University in Melbourne brought a wry smile to his face. His looked sombre when I told him how I had, to my own surprise and after agonising for months, turned down the Professorship in Banking Law at London University and, eventually, took up a less prestigious but better paid post in booming Singapore.
“So you gave a miss to the Moon and grabbed the Six Pence!”
Perturbed by his condemnatory tone, I related the tangled domestic and personal considerations behind my decision. To start with, my wife had never found herself at home in New Zealand and Australia and wished to return to Singapore. In addition, her failing eyesight would have posed obstacles to her mobility and freedom of action in an alien metropolis like London. For instance, she would be unable to use the underground system.
I too faced problems. I lacked the gumption to proceed without her and feared the emptiness of a lonely existence. And I dreaded the cold and wet English winters.
“I understand, Bushi. So, all in all, your career leaves little to be desired. You went up and up throughout and your decision to move to Singapore and give a miss to London is understandable in the circumstances. What is most impressive though is that even now, when many of our old classmates are happy to wash the dishes and play with their grandchildren, you try to climb new peaks in your professional life. What a pity you didn’t show the same determination in your personal life!”
“Pathetic?”
“No, Bushi – I’d rather say: true to character. You never sorted out your Achilles heel!”
“Which was?”
“Your penchant for glamour women: I’ll bet Pat was beautiful and self assured.”
“She was!”
“Like Rachel Zeitlin?”
“Not quite. But I didn’t expect to meet a second Rachel: for me she remained the only one!”
“Were you still in love with her when you met Pat?”
“Well, yes!”
“So you married Pat because you didn’t want to remain alone?”
“One of the reasons.”
“Don’t tell me you still think of Rachel?”
“Actually, I do. In the old days Racel was my entire world. So how could I ever forget her? I was miserable when she died a few years ago.”
“Actually, I saw quite a bit of Rachel during her last few years,” said Pilkin after a reflective pause.
“How come?”
“By sheer chance I put my mother up in the same ‘establishment’! I spotted Rachel in the dining room when I came for a visit. Did you know she had to be … interned?”
“Well, yes; she wrote to me from there: a few months after she … moved in.”
Breaking our eye contact, I reflected on Rachel Zeitlin’s story. A few years after she had broken off with me, she married an orthopaedic surgeon some five years older than her. As both were career persons, they had their separate daily existences and their home life remained secondary to their professional commitments. About twice a year, though, they left their work behind and travelled overseas, booking upmarket tours.
This loose type of union suited both of them: her letters suggested she was happy. Then disaster struck: Rachel experienced loss of memory and started to act in a strange and uninhibited manner. Documents drafted by her became unintelligible and clients complained about her appearance and attitude. A rum letter which she sent me some three months before her internment gave me a shock. Unlike her usual, ironic and pungent communications, it was confused.
In the event, it turned out she had succumbed to Alzheimer and could no longer manage her affairs. Fortunately, her husband did not abandon her. He came to visit her regularly in the Sanatorium and did all he could to alleviate her mental sufferings and make her feel at ease. Judging by the letters she kept writing me, she continued to have hours of lucidity. All the same, an underlying depressed tone was always discernible.
“Did you see Rachel often in the … home?” I asked Pilkin.
“I called on her whenever I visited my mother. Rachel was always glad to see me: that is, when she recognised me. In her bad spells, she was pitiful!”
“What did you talk about in her good spells?”
“Sometimes about politics; occasionally about her past; about her marriage and, Bushi, quite a bit about you.”
“What did she say about me? Please tell me!”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did she have any regrets?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t. All the same I want to know; I must know!”
“Very well then. Rachel, Bushi, did not live in a fantasy world. And she was not an ‘if only’ person. She had made her decision and that was that. And she never told me her reasons. But she had a great deal of affection for you. I believe you kept sending her your publications.”
“I did indeed!”
“She displayed them on a shelf in her room. And she told me you had done just as well as she had expected. I believe she was proud of you.”
“Did she know I was unhappily married?”
“Your so called ‘hints’ had been pretty clear. She was sorry for you but – I suspect – not surprised. She thought your personal unhappiness spurred you on in your career.”
“I can’t quarrel with that,” I sighed.