Part 2: 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 Allenby Street. To augment our income, Mother – who had had little education – took up household jobs, mainly the washing of clothes and window cleaning. Later on, she ran a luncheon service. The patrons were civil servants, businessmen and some professionals. Normally, she earned enough to keep us fed and clothed; but periods of shortages – even acute ones – took place from time to time.

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 Balaclava.

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 Frischman Street where we used to live during Father’s days – times were hard. Tradesmen and shopkeepers were keen to divert wages payable to apprentices or employees to members of the family. Child labour was common.

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 Hamburg, she had – like many Yekes – a robust contempt for the education meted out in our schools. In her opinion Biblical Studies were silly and the concentration on Jewish history ill-conceived. She also took exception to our being directed to the books of predominantly chauvinistic Jewish authors, many translated into Hebrew from Yiddish. She was keen to widen our horizons.

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 Siberia. However, he is unable to come to terms with his third daughter’s elopement with a Cossack. His entire Jewish tradition and background cannot cope with what appears to him a rejection of all his traditional values. A few weeks later Mrs. Kornmehl asked whom I should prefer to play: Schweik or Tevyeh.

“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 Europe on the eve of WWII, his firm lost two of its major markets. Rejecting a salary cut, Dad took his severance pay and looked for another job. Initially, he found some openings albeit at salaries lower than his latest pay package. He declined and pressed on. Regrettably, the general employment situation continued to deteriorate. By the end of six months following his retrenchment, he was still unemployed.

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 Greece and Italy. Wouldn’t such knowledge be invaluable when he sought to take a lead from their great works in gold and silver?”

“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 Mazor Street some fifteen minutes before the school bell chimed. A list posted on the notice board showed that our intake of one hundred and twenty primary school leavers was split into three classes: one of boys only; one of girls; and the third co-ed. I was glad my name was included in the last. Having had little contact with girls in the past, I was looking forward to this new experience.

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 Egypt and Mesopotamia but concentrating on Greece and Rome. Have any of you covered the period in primary school? Those who have, please raise your hand.”

“Nobody,” he muttered when there was no response; “very well, has anyone read about Greece?”

“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 Israel will be constituted an independent State before you graduate.”

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 Greece and Rome, we would cover the contemporaneous history of Judea. He then referred to the curriculum in Geography. Just before the bell chimed, he read out the duty roster. The students on duty had to wipe the blackboard clean and were to open the windows to let in fresh air. They were also responsible to ensure that nothing was removed from the desks while their mates were in the yard.

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 Jaffa and Ramleh; and I’ve never been told anything good about Arabic literature.”

“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 Melchett Street where, I gathered, his parents had their flat. He was breathing hard and his expression was strained. I sensed that he was having an attack of asthma.

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 Yarkon River, I arrived early in order to dig holes for the cooking of the potatoes. Ben Zvi, who arrived in the company of Eli shortly after I got the kettle to boil, gave me a helping hand. Eli, who was breathing hard after their brisk walk along Disengoff Street, watched us keenly with a sad expression. Once again, I sensed he was too proud to initiate the overtures for a friendship.

“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 Masor Street to the gate at the very time the Principal, Dr. Joseph Katz (alias Sheen), took his leisurely stroll to his office.

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 Paradise.”

“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 Athens forged another alliance. Quite a number of my own mates came from Russian and Polish homes and – after a while – Reuben, whose parents had fled from Warsaw and then from Munich, became friendly with Bushi, who spoke German with his Viennese parents. Integration in our emerging society – I concluded – was not as profound as we liked to believe: Tel Aviv was a cosmopolitan town but not a melting pot.

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 Marburg and very little about his teaching career in Tel Aviv prior to his appointment at TA.1. When we came across him, he was close to retirement, a bowed old man, with remnants of white hair on his head. Unlike other teachers, he wore a tie and a jacket, which, however, did not disguise the shabbiness of his clothes and his untidy appearance. His brilliant eyes were his redeeming feature. They sparkled when he taught his beloved subject: the Old Testament.

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 Struggle

During my first two years in TA.1, the Jewish community – the Yishuv – was governed from London. Palestine was ruled by Great Britain under a mandate granted to Her by the League of Nations after the culmination of World War I. The British had the difficult task of pacifying both the Yishuv and the Arab Community.

Some towns, such as Jerusalem and Haifa, were populated by both Jews and Arabs. Most places, though, were inhabited virtually in their entirety by one of the communities. For instance, Tel Aviv, Herzlia and Nahariya were Jewish towns; Jaffa, Ramallah and Nablus (Shechem) were populated by Arabs.

Historically, the Yishuv craved independence or, in other words, for home rule. The Arab League, which comprised most Islamic States, claimed that Palestine was part of the Muslim World.

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 Germany in 1945, had a direct bearing on our lives. The smuggling of immigrants into the country and the preparations for the forthcoming struggle with the Arab world made demands even on youngsters like us. Being the fittest and most mature boy in our Form, I became the liaison between my mates and the Haganah – the freedom fighters. Our tasks were menial in nature but played their role in our struggle.

One amusing event took place on a dark night when Shosh and I were sent to the beach in Tel Aviv, near Frischman Street, to communicate with a ship smuggling in illegal migrants from Europe. Shosh was signalling with her heavy, square, electric torch when we heard the sound of an approaching jeep and realised it had to be an army patrol.

“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 Ramat Gan had come under ‘observation’ so that the arms had to be moved to another place as soon as possible.

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 Maze Street. I’ll take him to emergency,” I explained.

“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 Maze Street, the trooper had a hushed word with the driver. To my relief, they dropped us in front of the emergency entrance of Hadassah Hospital. Fifteen minutes later, following an injection and a cup of hot tea, Bushi’s breathing steadied and the colour returned to his face. The duty physician asked me to take him home forthwith: he needed a hot bath and a rest.

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 Palestine gained momentum during the post WWII years. Basically, the idea was to land them in stretches of the Mediterranean beach which were not patrolled. In addition, the landing place had to be near a town or village populated by the Yishuv. I was often involved in operations that took place near Tel Aviv. My function in such cases was to act as guide for Ma’Apilim, who landed near the north shore of Tel Aviv. I recall one occasion, in which I guided a small group to a designated house in Tel Aviv. To my surprise the contact person who met us was our Ms Garten, the biology teacher. She was just as astounded as I when we met. Naturally, the episode was not mentioned when both of us arrived next morning in TA.1.

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 Galilee where such a sneak led the British security forces to a cachet of arms. Quislings existed in many of the Yishuv’s settlements.

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 Levant. Pointing out that all our proposals were based on the use of an alphabet, he suggested that we move to a syllabary. By memorising some 54 characters, such a code could be used effectively and without any difficulty or time delay in decoding. Further, it was not easy to break.

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 Israel – the government introduced the Ulpanim, which conducted crush courses in Hebrew.

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 Vilnius (in Poland) one of our girls asked if anybody had met her erstwhile Polish uncle. When it turned out that nobody had, our classmate sighed sadly, muttering that, in all probability, her uncle had been sent to the gas chambers.

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 Israel was in full swing, life in TA.1 continued as normal. By and large our teachers’ classes were non-political. All the same, the communal effort left its mark on our studies. Occasionally, some of us arrived late or were absent for a day or two. On many occasions our teachers, who appreciated what was going on, ignored the lapses.

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 Jerusalem. The latter was saved by an armistice, which enabled our engineering corps to build a new connecting road.

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 Israel was established such services were no longer required.

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 Italy where he had sound connections. Another classmate’s father had to close down his textile factory. He had been supplying Khaki cloth to the British forces (through the NAFI). The general public, too, faced hardships. Food and clothing had to be rationed. For a while, even toilet paper was in short supply.

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 Asia. Emigration, too, became common. Some of those who found it hard to cope migrated to the United States or returned to Europe.

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 St. Moritz (in Switzerland), where his uncle ran a successful hotel.

“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 Israel’s early years enabled him to raise his charges. Naturally, when he was engaged, people bargained hard when he demanded his fee. His reply, to the effect that prices kept rising, usually struck a chord.

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 Israel’s independence and the authorities became meticulous and strict. Even odd jobbers had to submit a yearly return. Unsurprisingly, this development had a domino effect. Still, the problem we faced was surmounted. Before long, charges depended on whether or not the employer demanded a receipt. As most jobs were carried out on the cash (non-receipt) market, our income tax was minimal. By and large, our income remained tax free.

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 Cognac protruded from my elegant hat. Bushi, who was a lean and sickly looking boy, had fake Zena coupons sewn to his shirt, old newspapers covered his arms and a bare yarmulke covered his head. Everybody – including Ben Zvi – roared with laughter. Shosh, who led the procession, pushed a pita-falafel stall on wheels. Our object was to tell our friends that some basic treats remained available without rationing.

I am proud to tell that, despite the turmoil prevailing in Israel, our studies continued in even keel. I recall that our teachers stuck to the syllabus and avoided any comparison with the daily developments in Israel. One of Ben Zvi’s remarks provides a prime example. When we covered the outbreak of the French Revolution and Napoleon’s rise to power, Abe (Reuben’s erstwhile friend) suggested we compare that historical process with Israel’s struggle for independence. Ben Zvi refused to hear of it. Pointing out that the French Revolution took place at the end of the 18th century, he emphasised the difference between the Feudal system of those days and the conditions prevailing in our own time. He suggested that any comparative analysis ought to be discussed in private.

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 Israel meant that the time I used to spend on the independence struggle was now available for other pursuits. Shosh, who had my interests at heart, encouraged me to get ready for a career on the stage. She maintained that one avenue was the staging of a drama at the conclusion of each of TA.1’s semesters. Bushi, too, encouraged me. Their words fell on listening ears.

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 Israel’ to a well-known daily. To my delight our show was mentioned, principally as a manifestation of the young generation’s ability to find parallels in European history to our national struggle. In addition, he praised my performance as Gessler, the tyrant. I felt that I was beginning to climb the ladder to a future on one of our theatres.

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 England; so my doctor contacted a friend in London. I am flying over next week. And you know, they have just introduced a healthcare system. If I establish temporary residence, the treatment is free.

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 Siberia. We showed the sad parting scene by placing father and daughter on a bench in front of the door to the imaginary platform.

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 Szechwan. Initially, I feared that Sheen would refuse to apply for funds to be used for the staging of a German play. My apprehension, though, was unwarranted. Sheen approved of our choice.

“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 Germany in 1933. As our language had developed over the years, our team made a few amendments to the text so as to bring the dialogues up to date. I then had to find somebody who could play the role of Shen Teh cum Shui Ta. I was too heavyset for it and none of our classmates wanted to take it on. In the event, a girl from another Form, who (like me) aspired for a career in the theatre, volunteered. She knew it was a difficult role but wanted to prove her ability.

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 China. He had never set a foot in China and knew little about Szechwan.”

“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 East Berlin. In all his writings, he is critical of the milieu of the social order of Europe – the very society in which he grew up.”

“Is it possible that he wanted to distance his parody from Europe?” I asked.

“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 Paris, in Munich and actually put it up in New York where I settled for a few years. Still, I am convinced that our show in TA.1 was the best. Somehow, every member of the cast put his (or her) heart into the performance. The final product was great.

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 Israel’s young poets. It struck a chord. When I think about this last function of our schooling days, I feel warmth and satisfaction. Somehow the words of the poet have materialized. I have remained close to Bushi and Shosh. Bushi, in turn, maintained life long friendships with many of our classmates. I gather that he, too, switched to English, and adopted it as his main language. However, he continued to correspond with his Israeli friends in Hebrew. I have also remained in touch with Reuben, whom I visited on some occasions during my years in New York. He settled in the United States, although in another place.

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 Israel was founded joined the ranks of the regular army. I knew he was interested in the arts and that he was well-read. His reaction seemed out of character and inconsistent with his sophisticated and cultured outlook.

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 Waterloo appeared an unsavoury apex, including Marshall Nay’s senseless cavalry attack which led to the slaughter of his own horsemen by Wellington’s well-trained infantry. Another battle we studied in detail was Stalingrad, where the Nazis tried to hold on to a defeated position. All in all, I concluded that a good officer sought to spare his men. He might on occasion be forced to sacrifice some of them. At the same time, he had to recall that life was precious.

“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 Stalingrad was stupid. Field Marshall Paulus acted in good faith when he disobeyed his Führer’s senseless command and capitulated.”

“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 Masada. They faced the Romans for three long years. When the last fortification fell, they committed communal suicide. They were not prepared to surrender,” I told the trainer.

“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 Montgomery’s trick of planting an armoured car on the muddy terrain with the object of misleading Rommel. The latter concluded – as hoped by Monty – that the terrain was manageable and was dismayed when his armoured vehicles progressed very slowly over the treacherous ground.

“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 Normandy whilst the operation was actually to take place in Sicily. He then turned to the other objectives of the media, which was to boost the soldiers’ morale. Monty’s first effort, after he assumed the command of the Eighth Army, was to destroy his men’s belief in Rommel’s invincibility. His object was to enable them to regain their buoyancy.

“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 Jerusalem. Nehemiah tells us that that those who built the wall “loaded themselves in such a way that with one of his hands each laboured in the work, and with the other hand he held a weapon” (Nehem. 4:11).¹

“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 Hebrew University.”

I took Sheen’s advice and started reading for a B.A. During my first two years in Jerusalem, I saw a great deal of Bushi, who was finishing his legal studies and was also engaged as a cadet in a well-known law firm. Shosh came over from time to time and I recall one occasion when the three of us met and talked with nostalgia about our years in TA.1. From an observation, I gathered that Shosh’s marriage was turbulent. I felt sympathy but sensed she had no wish to unburden herself.

By and large, my years in the Hebrew University were pleasing. The courses were satisfactory, though not brilliant. I distinguished myself in Hebrew Literature and Talmud but fear that I did not shine. Still, before long, we developed a social circle. In the parties thrown by us, I met a number of girls with a liberal outlook and had a good time.

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 Europe?”

“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 Jerusalem. He visited me daily, smuggled in pita-falafel portions (which I devoured in sheer disregard of the physicians’ orders) and he spent hours by my bedside. After three weeks the hospital discharged me. Still, I was warned not to overstrain myself and, in general, to take things easy. In particular, the Head of the Cardiac Division warned me against climbing stairs.

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 Europe. Bushi and I planned it carefully. Our funds were limited but we concluded that we could make ends meet. Shosh, who was pregnant, could not join us.

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 Israel.

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 Izmir, where our ship stopped on its way to Istanbul. Having joined two other youngish tourists, we managed to hire a taxi with the object of visiting the famed mountain peak. On the way back, the driver proceeded down the slope in a convoluted manner. Bushi, who conversed with the driver in German, looked dismayed when the latter explained that the brakes did not function. Bushi did not convey the message to us but my command of Yiddish enabled me to comprehend. I breathed with the relief when we dismounted by the pier.

The next experience took place in Istanbul, which turned out to be far more expensive than we had anticipated. When we ran out of funds, Bushi secured the post of a guide showing the sites of the magnificent city to German speaking tourists. I noted with glee that, in the process, he became very friendly with a Viennese tourist, a girl called Adele.

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 Capri. Bushi was keen to proceed to Anacapri – the plateau – and visit the villa St. Michele constructed by the Swede, Axel Munthe. I knew that the latter’s book, dealing with the years he had spent on building the villa, intrigued Bushi. There were some bus services from the beach to the upper part but Bushi wanted to follow the steps of the founder. Knowing that my earlier heart attack ruled such an effort out as far as I was concerned, Bushi suggested that I remain in one of the numerous outlets by the beach. He proceeded to climb the stairs. His guide, an attractive young girl, brought a donkey which, she said, Bushi could ride.

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 Switzerland, which was our final destination. Toward the end of our farewell dinner – in a posh restaurant – I asked Bushi, bluntly, whether he felt more at ease overseas than in Israel. After reflection, he conceded that, by nature, he had remained a Diaspora Jew.

“I like people but, usually, keep my distance. You are one of the few with whom I am open. In Israel people resent what they regard as aloofness.”

“I suspect it is shyness,” I told him, “but, you know, I fear you may spend your life out of Israel.”

“It’s possible,” he conceded.

“Let us then meet here, in Zermatt, in forty years. I’ll book a table in Restaurant Zemattschein in your name.”

“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 Zurich from where he intended to proceed to Vienna, to visit his father. I wanted to see Paris, London and Stratford-upon-Avon, so as to spend as much time as I could in theatres and in the study of staging.

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 Geneva from where I intended to proceed to France. Before leaving our rest house, I sent an express airmail letter to David, telling him he could contact me in the Montefiore Jewish Youth Residence in Paris. On arriving there I was delighted to receive a telegram in which David advised that he proposed to join me and that he had already booked a flight.

David and I had a wonderful time in Paris. Naturally, we went to see the sights, including Versailles and Malmaison. We also managed to dine in the Monmartre. My main object, though, was to spend as much time in theatres as I could afford. I recall with glee how we watched Molière’s Le Malade Imaginaire and a few day’s later Samuel Beckett’s En attendant Godot (Waiting for Godot). Although I do not speak French, I understood both plays: the acting was brilliant and the body language spoke for itself. It further dawned on me that both plays benefited from skilful staging. It constituted a good background and was marked by its simplicity.

From Paris we proceeded via Belgium to London. After the magnificence of Paris, Brussels struck me as dull and staid. Still, we spent a pleasant evening in the local philharmonic orchestra. In London we went on a regular basis to the West End. Here too we saw Waiting for Godot (this time in English). We also saw a number of Oscar Wilde’s witty plays. However, from my point of view, the highlight was Stratford-upon-Avon. I was impressed by the profound acting and comprehended that to a large extent the outcome was the fruit of meticulous directing and the art of simplistic staging. On our return to London we were delighted to see that Cosi Fan Tutte (a Mozart opera) was performed in the Coliseum. Notwithstanding the dwindling of our funds, we decided to see it. I am glad we did.

We were flat broke when we embarked on our flight back to Israel. The aesthetic experience, though, was worth every penny we spent. Oddly enough the appreciation of good acting – involving the need for rapport with the audience – helped me a great deal later in life, when I had to prepare sermons. Once again, I am jumping the gun. Still, today – as an aging man who writes his autobiography – I am convinced that good public speaking is in reality a modicum of good acting.

Bushi, too, returned to Tel Aviv after visiting his father in Vienna. I am satisfied that he met Adele although he did not mention her name. I myself was occupied with another upheaval, namely the mobilisation of the Israeli Defence Forces upon the outbreak of the Suez Crisis. The episode requires a detailed discussion.

The man who dominated the Arab world at that time was the leader of Egypt, Gamal Abdul [Abdel] Nasser. One of his belligerent acts was the nationalisation of the Suez Canal and the closure of the Straits of Tiran to ships carrying goods to the Israeli port of Eilat. In effect, the Straits had been closed to ships carrying the Israeli flag from 1951. However, a ship sailing under another flag, such as Liberia’s, was not searched and could proceed to Eilat without interference. Nasser’s measure changed the situation. In addition, the nationalization of the Canal was bound to deplete the revenues of British and French enterprises.

To protect their interests, Britain and France entered into a secret pact with Israel, which mobilised its militia and attacked the Egyptian garrisons in the Sinai Peninsula. As an officer in the infantry, I was called up. Shosh (with whom I kept in touch), took the view that, in view of my health issues in recent years, I should ask for a supplementary medical examination. She pointed out that if a fresh heart attack disabled me, my men would be in disarray. After some reflection, I rejected her advice. I sensed that I had made a full recovery and had no wish to malinger.

The crisis had been the subject of numerous political analyses and I do not think I have much to add. Israel’s main object was to secure access through the Straits of Tiran. To achieve this object, our military captured the sparsely populated Sinai Peninsula. My unit fought in two battles: the ‘Hedgehog’ (Abu Uwayadulah) and Sharm El Sheik: Nasser’s main station for controlling the Straits.

It is well-known that Israel won and that the United States administration stepped in and secured a ceasefire cum resolution of the Suez dispute. Under it, Sinai became controlled by observers of the United Nations, one of whose tasks was to secure free shipping through the Straits of Tiran. The Canal itself remained in Egypt’s hands. However, Nasser had sunk ships that had entered the Canal when the crisis broke out and so it remained impassable for some two years.

By and large, Israel was jubilant. One person to voice doubts was my friend Bushi, with whom I discussed my experiences when we went for lunch in a restaurant in Ramleh, an Arab town near Tel Aviv. Bushi, who drove us over, averred that Israel made a blunder when it entered into a pact with two colonial powers, one of which had been treated as an adversary before we became an independent State.

“We do all we can to unite the Muslim World,” he said sarcastically. “Indirectly, Nasser has attained his object: he has established that Israel is a European enclave amidst the predominantly Arab region of the Middle East.”

“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 Ukraine or in a Balkan country, the victim doesn’t say: ‘What a crook.’ He mutters: ‘That crooked Yid’. We then say that the victim is anti-Semitic. Isn’t your hatred of all Germans similar?”

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, Israel’s main achievement was the securing of free passage through the Straits of Tiran. Many young parents would have liked to opt for ‘Tiran’ when choosing the proper name of a newborn baby-boy. In Hebrew, though, ‘Tiran’ may be construed as ‘tyrant’. It was, therefore, better to avoid it. Nevertheless, I know a few fellows who were given this unorthodox name. Most of them dropped it later in life.