Part 3: Settling Down in Tel Aviv

7. Employment and My First Marriage

After the trip with Bushi and the culmination of the Suez Crisis I looked for a job. Financially, I could have stuck to my existing enterprises; they were sound. My ambition though was for a future on the stage. Bennie Ornan kept encouraging me to apply for a position in the army’s Entertainment Corps. He was convinced that my medical misadventure did not present an obstacle. I was, however, perturbed by the realisation that the Corps’ main object was indoctrination. I wanted to devote myself to art. For that reason I did not send feelers to TA.1. I knew that a teacher’s career was well paid and satisfactory. I knew also that, if I joined TA.1, Sheen would encourage me to perform shows. My ambition, though, remained the theatre.

Regrettably, the major theatres in Tel Aviv were not recruiting. In any event, most of their employees were engaged on a freelance basis. I did not feel confident enough to start on such a basis: my name was unknown to the public. In the end, I accepted a contract for one year with the Signon theatre. It was not one of the major outlets but, then, I was hoping to use my first job as a springboard. In any event, the manageress, Nina Lasker, promised that they would consider me for any role that was not taken up by the regulars. She added that my main task would be to design props.

“You are going to be the chief designer,” she said.

When I asked Nina to show me to my room, I was surprised to hear that all they could offer was a labourer’s contract and I would have to be satisfied with a desk in the workman’s room.

“But I may have to keep drafts of designs drawn by me for forthcoming shows.”

“You’ll have to place them in your desk or in a locker. I can allocate you one.”

“Oh well, I suppose this will have to do.”

On the very day I took up my appointment, Ronnie Eyal came to see me. He was a middle-aged man, tall and broad shouldered with thinning hair and piercing eyes. After telling me he was in charge of lighting and colour effects, he asked me to join the employees’ trade union. I executed the documents then and there.

“You may need our assistance from time to time,” he smiled at me. “Nina is not particularly nice to employees, except to her pets. I suggest you be on your guard. Actually, what type of contract did she proffer you?”

“A labourer’s contract. She said it was the only opening.”

“It’s an old trick. I fell for it when she first engaged me.”

“What do you have now?”

“A dovetailed contract, which sets out my duties and privileges. I drew it up with the assistance of a friend, who is a lawyer. She tried to budge but had to give way: they need me.”

“Do you think she has taken advantage of me?” I asked with trepidation.

“You are a graduate of the Hebrew University, aren’t you?”

“I am. And I had experience in staging when I was attached to the army’s Entertainment Corps.”

“She should have taken these qualifications into account when she offered to employ you.”

“Well, she didn’t. It’s a beginner’s contract.”

“Oh well,” he sighed. “Get in touch with me if you need any help. I am in my room from 9.00 in the morning till after the last show.”

“Don’t you go home for the lunch break?”

“I have a quick meal somewhere here. You are welcome to join me if you have nothing better to do.”

My duties were not cumbersome. By and large, I had a free hand. Difficulties arose only when some actors wanted me to adjust the props to their needs. I made a conscious attempt to meet their demands but, generally, adhered to the author’s direction. One particularly annoying case arose when we staged The Good Soul [Woman] of Szechwan. Leo Shalev, one of the ‘regulars’, played the role of Shen Teh and Shui Ta. He asked me to install a staircase leading to the required podium. My explanation, that such a contraption would be too flimsy and unsafe, led to an altercation. Nina, who was summoned by Leo, asked me to comply with his wishes. Unexpectedly, Ronnie surfaced and, to my delight, stepped to my aid. Watching keenly his argument with Leo and Nina, I realised that they did not get on. To end the ensuing debate, I offered to incorporate a removable staircase but insisted that I would not be responsible for any mishap.

“Leo is one of Nina’s pets. Be careful when you deal with him. He tends to take advantage and gets Nina to side with him,” said Ronnie as we left the scene.

“Has he taken advantage of you?”

“He tried; but in vain.”

Regrettably, the installation culminated in an accident. As Leo mounted the provisional staircase, it gave way. Leo made a quick recovery but, as soon as the act was over, scolded me. Nina, who stepped in, became abusive:

“So your staging cannot be trusted, Chayim,” she yelled at me.

“You yourself, Nina …”

“. . .Mrs. Lasker,” she interceded angrily.

“Then you better address him as ‘Mr. Rosenne’, Frau von Lasker,” Ronnie Eyal, who joined us as Nina raised her voice, broke in. “And you have no right to abuse him. I was witness to the conversation.”

For a few minutes they kept glaring at each other. In the event, Ronnie Eyal stared her down. At this stage, I felt the need to react to her initial admonition: “As Ronnie points out, you, Mrs. Lasker, ordered me to comply with Mr. Leo Shalev’s request. I deny any responsibility: the fault is yours!”

“Sorry,” she said after a pause. “I was too hasty. And please call me ‘Nina’. I regret my attempt to stick to formalities.”

“I prefer to adhere to them from now on,” I retorted. “And when you engaged me you promised to find me roles to play. I have not been offered any during the three months I have worked here.”

“You won’t see any,” Ronnie observed as we left the scene.

Ronnie and I became friends and before long were lunching together. Ronnie used to grab a sandwich in a nearby eatery. I led him to the nearest pita-falafel stall. In due course he became fond of the Israeli delicacy.

During such sessions we tended to talk about modern literature and plays. Ronnie was knowledgeable and, in many ways, a harsh though fair critic. I started to tell him a great deal about my background, enterprises and years in TA.1. Ronnie was a good listener. However, he kept mum about his own past and attainments. The only information he volunteered was that he migrated to Israel in 1937 from Germany. All my attempts to probe were discreetly but firmly resisted.

Life in the Signon theatre proceeded smoothly though rather monotonously. My only problem was Leo Shalev. For a reason best known to him, he regarded himself an authority on staging. Frequently, he tried to interfere in designs commissioned by the directors of given shows. Usually I managed to fend him off politely. Matters came to a head, though, when a director invited from overseas sought to revive in Israel the techniques used in Athens. Leo Shalev was incensed by the use of masks and of the Deus ex Machina device employed in the Greek theatre. He insisted that I discard them. On this occasion I refused his orders curtly. He left in a huff and to my surprise proceeded to Nina Lasker’s elegant office. Next day Nina’s secretary, Miri, rang to tell me that her boss wanted to see me. When I told Ronnie about it, he offered to wait near her office. He would step in if needed. He suspected I might be in for a stormy session.

“Leo Shalev tells me you were rude to him, Cha…”

“… Mr. Rosenne to you, Mrs Lasker …” I interceded.

“But I asked you to call me Nina, didn’t I?”

“And I told you that I wished to stick to formalities,” I retorted angrily, raising my voice.

Instantly Ronnie entered the office, ignoring Miri’s attempt to block his way. Having listened to what had transpired, he insisted that Nina explain why my refusal to obey Leo Shalev was rude. Further, he insisted that if Nina demanded that I ignore the orders of the overseas director, she should issue her instructions in writing.

“Many of us look forward to the revival of the Greek theatre in Israel. I know that Leo Shalev is your uncle and gets favoured treatment. But he has no expertise in directing and has not demonstrated any understanding of the Greek theatre.”

“I only asked Ch…”

“You meant Mr. Rosenne, didn’t you?” stormed Ronnie. “He is every inch as good as you.”

“I only wanted to ask him to be diplomatic when he handles Leo Shalev,” she was now on the defensive.

“What really did happen, Chayim?” asked Ronnie.

“Shalev tried to give me instructions about the staging of a play in which he had no role. I told him: ‘No way!’ And I’d do so again.”

“And you were strictly within your rights,” concluded Ronnie.

“You could have told Leo to raise the matter with me,” said Nina as we departed.

Culturally, the Greek play was a success. The critique was complimentary and, to my delight, one reviewer praised the skilful staging. Attendance, though, was poor: the play was a box office failure. When Ronnie and I discussed the matter we concluded that the Israeli public was not yet ready for a revival of Greek dramas. Classics were not taught in our schools. As already indicated, we concentrated on the Orient and on the Biblical Studies.

I felt sympathetic when one afternoon Nina, who attended a rehearsal of another play, told me that her concern was not only in the artistic merits of our performances but also in their profitability.

“Don’t you have the backing of a wealthy donor?”

“I am afraid we haven’t. Our chief sponsor had to pay heavy fines to the American Inland Revenue Authorities and then went bust. Currently, we largely depend on our profits.”

“I understand,” I told her.

This encounter with Nina made me realise the difficulties of her engagement. Still, I sensed that my future did not lie with the Signon theatre. I had no intention of spending the rest of my life as an underpaid employee of a second-tier establishment.

All the same, my remaining months with Signon were pleasant. I was thinking of sending a letter of resignation but then decided to discuss my contract with Bushi who was at that time finishing his pupilage in a well-known law firm. Bushi studied the contract carefully. He then pointed out that it was a one year contract. Signon had the option of offering me a new contract not later than after nine months following execution.

“Well,” he asked, “have you worked there for nine months?”

“Eight only.”

“Then your best option is to wait for another month. If they don’t offer you another contract, your employment comes to an end automatically after one year with them. You need not resign. Still, under Israeli Labour Law you are entitled to two weeks of leave. See that you get it.”

Bushi’s words enlightened me. I concluded that it would be best to serve out ten or eleven months and then demand my two weeks of leave. I felt certain that that Nina Lasker would not offer to renew my contract.

A few weeks later, when I was in the corridor, I was startled to hear a feminine voice screaming: “I wish I were dead!” Feeling alarmed, I entered the room and found Galya Hadar, one of our starlets, dishevelled and in tears.

“I was only rehearsing my role,” she said evasively.

“You did startle me,” I told her. “I thought this was real. And your tears – are they part of the role?”

I was about to turn on my heels and leave the room when she beckoned me back. “No, Chayim, I was not rehearsing a role. I just can’t take it any longer.”

“What is this all about?” I asked after a pause.

“They always use me as a standby for major roles and then give me some minor part. And I know I can be more convincing than some of their famous actors. They are unfair to me. That woman, Nina, has her pets. If you are not one of them, she gives you a rough deal. I am really fed up.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“I want to remain an actress. If I leave, they’ll blacklist me. They have the upper hand; and they make no bones about it.”

“Have you tried to move to another theatre?”

“I don’t dare; and I really don’t know what to do.”

For a few minutes both of us were silent. Then, in an attempt to comfort her, I asked her to have a drink in a nearby bar. To my delight, she agreed to go out but suggested that a pita-falafel might be better than a drink. She knew an excellent stall, opened by a chap who called himself ‘The Desperado’. I agreed readily and, before long, we were on our way.

Galya and I started to go out regularly. She took me to a number of first-rate and moderately priced oriental restaurants. After a while, I told her my story and listened to hers. She had finished two years in a well-known secondary school and then dropped out with the hope of making her career on the stage. Regrettably, she had limited success. Despite her confidence in having the required talent, theatre companies engaged her only in supporting roles. She had hoped that her position would improve when she accepted Nina’s offer to study major roles as a standby or locum. Regrettably, her performances when called upon to appear on the stage did not lead to stardom. She had remained a standby for the leading roles and her own performances remained confined to supporting parts. She was getting ready to throw in the towel but realised that she had nowhere to go. Rising in Israel without having gained impressive qualifications was a difficult task. She lacked the drive and the stamina.

“What do you intend to do?” I wanted to know.

“I suppose I’ll have to toe the line until I am ready to retire. My Mother left me a property and an income. But you, Chayim, what are your plans? I gather that Nina gave you an ordinary labourer’s contract.”

“True. She said that was all they could afford…”

“ … and, I am sure, promised to find you roles to play …,” Galya broke in.

“She did, rather,” I conceded.

“It’s an old trick: dangling a carrot in front of your face. It is her usual stratagem for getting cheap labour. Well, did she get you any role?”

“She did not.”

“And she won’t. You ain’t one of her pets.”

“I am leaving after I have completed this one year contract.”

“She’ll pressure you to stay. She might even find you a petty part before your year of service is over. But, in any event, where will you go?”

“I have some business enterprises of my own. Also, I may accept a teaching job.”

“The best way out, I think. You see, Chayim, your strength is in staging and in directing. The field, though, is overcrowded. Also, you may be excellent for certain roles. But I don’t see you becoming a celebrity. You are not an all rounder.”

“How did Leo Shalev rise so high? He normally gets a lukewarm reception from the audiences and the critics are not impressed.”

“He is Nina’s uncle. Originally, his name was Schulz. Nina is his older brother’s daughter. She married a fellow called Lasker – from the family of the famous Grandmaster of Chess. The marriage did not last but she kept her new surname. In her eyes, Leo can do no wrong, even when he borrows money left and right and never repays.”

“Actually, Ronnie Eyal warned me. Did Leo get the better of Ronnie?”

“He borrowed a small amount from him and ‘forgot’ to repay. Nina tried to bring pressure on Ronnie, arguing the money had been a gift. Well, Ronnie let her have it. His parting shot was: ‘mind your own business’. Nina blushed and did not reply.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m friendly with Nina’s secretary, Miri. She told me. I suspect Nina has been very careful with Ronnie from that day on. And I am pretty sure that Ronnie dislikes her.”

After a while Galya and I asked Ronnie to have lunch with us. He was happy to join and in due course the three of became known as ‘that lunch club’. On one occasion Nina, who saw us, muttered that “the more you are together, the happier you shall be.”

“True,” replied Ronnie, “especially if others don’t try to force their way into the circle.”

“Why do you always tease her?” asked Miri unexpectedly.

“Why ever not?” retorted Ronnie blatantly.

The episode surprised me, especially Miri’s attempt to shield Nina. Ronnie and Galya, in contrast, took the episode in their stride. The fact that a secretary sought to defend her boss did not strike them as odd. When the waitress placed the dishes in front of us, I voiced my astonishment.

“Chayim, don’t be so naïve. Don’t you know that Miri and Nina live together? Nina shacked up with Miri shortly after Nina left her husband. Miri joined Signon mainly because she wanted to be with Nina all the time. Miri is a highly-qualified secretary. She could earn much more if she took up a job with a commercial company.”

“I had no idea,” I conceded shamefacedly.

“You, Chayim, are not particularly observant,” summed up Ronnie. “You know how to drive a hard bargain in business transactions but, all the same, fell for Nina’s rouse when she hired you.”

“You may be right,” I replied, “but tell me: why is Nina so devoted to Leo? Occasionally, she harms him by allocating him unsuitable lead roles. There is something odd about this. On the one hand, she is calculating and looks well after the general business of Signon. On the other hand, she tries hard to do what she thinks is best for Leo. Something doesn’t add up.”

“Actually it does,” stepped in Galya. “Nina’s father died young. He looked after Leo all his life. On his deathbed, he made Nina promise to carry on. Miri tells me that Nina took this undertaking very seriously. She is a loyal person by nature.”

“I see. So this is Nina’s bright side.”

“It must be,” added Ronnie. “I’m glad she has some good points.”

Galya and I continued to go steady. When I told her that I was still living in my Mother’s apartment, Galya asked me to come and stay in her place. Her apartment was near Signon and she had one room too many. I was glad to accept and moved in forthwith. After a short while, we became intimate and decided to get married.

I stepped under the canopy with trepidation. Traditionally, a Jewish marriage was meant to last. For most individuals of my generation it was a final step in their personal lives. Divorce was uncommon.

As was the custom, four Jewish male adults had to hold the poles of the canopy. A standard joke was the expression of hope that the holders of the poles would not become the pallbearers of the coffin of the spouse who was the first to succumb. I called on Ronnie, Bushi and two acquaintances from my Officers Training Corps. Galya wore a fine wedding dress, which we borrowed from Signon’s costumes coffer. It was actually selected by Nina, who was supportive on this occasion. I wore a tuxedo: the only time in my life I donned one. Leo Shalev assumed the orator’s role. He delivered a fine speech about the bliss of marriage and cracked a few jokes which he found amusing.

A Jewish marriage was sealed when the bridegroom stepped upon and broke a glass placed just outside the canopy’s brink. I feared that one of the attendants might play on me the usual ruse of substituting a plastic glass. If the bridegroom failed to split it, he became the subject of ridicule. However, none of my friends played such a dirty trick on me. I recall that after the ceremony and the ensuing dinner – which was quite tedious – Galya and I were exhausted and fell fast asleep as soon as we were able to leave the crowd and retire to our bedroom.

When I think about those remote days, I am satisfied that ours was not a passionate love affair culminating in a chemical marriage. We simply felt comfortable with one another and were glad to pool resources. From the start, Galya made it clear she did not want to bear children. They would stand in the way of her rising to a distinguished career on the stage. I found myself in agreement with her orientation. Both of us were young and so there was no need to hurry. With hindsight, I wonder if the agreement to remain childless for the time being was an indication that neither of us regarded our union as a final step.

My year with Signon was drawing to its close. Nina did not offer to extend my contract and, in any event, I had no wish to continue with them. Bushi advised me that I did not have to serve notice. However, he told me it would be appropriate to advise Signon that I proposed to take the last two week of service as my annual leave. Although this right had not been spelt out in the contract, it was a conferred on every employee under Israeli Labour Law.

To my surprise, Nina tried to resist. Initially, she told me that her intention was to employ me on a regular basis and that I was needed for the staging of a forthcoming play.

“I am sure a Judge, dealing with this contract, would pay attention to my objectives. After all, I drafted the contract,” Nina told me.

“My legal advisor tells me that a contract means what it says. A party’s hidden intention is irrelevant,” I replied.

“But we really need you at this point of time. And you did not serve notice of resignation,” she averred.

“The contract was for a one-year period. I am told that a notice of resignation is not required in such a case. And you did not offer to renew my contract by the time set out for this purpose in the contract.”

“I had other things on my mind. I offer it now.”

“I decline,” I told her.

“So what do you really want?”

“What I told you in my letter. I am entitled to have two weeks of leave.”

“The contract makes no provision for leave,” she retorted angrily.

“Our law does. I suggest you consult Signon’s lawyers.”

In the end, we compromised. I agreed to remain in service until the end of the contract and to accept two weeks salary in lieu of leave. Both Galya and Ronnie thought I had let Nina off too lightly. Still, my motto was: live and let live.

Following this unpleasant encounter, I paid a visit to Sheen. He was delighted to see me and offered to employ me as a teacher. Initially, the contract was for one-year probation but, Sheen explained, this stipulation was a mere formality.

“We can always do with a teacher devoted to the humanities. We actually need an extra hand for our Hebrew Literature and Biblical Studies classes.”

“How about Talmud and Arabic?”

“All in due course. And, Mr. Rosenne, Tichon is keen to expand its activities in the staging of plays. You were active in the field during your years with us. I trust that you have remained interested in the subject.”

“Staging and acting have remained my main interests!”

Returning to TA.1 was an exciting yet strange experience. People I used to address as ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’ were now colleagues. Whilst Sheen insisted that we keep up with formalities, the relationship was that of equals. For instance, one of the outgoing Bible teachers talked to me without restraint about his retirement plans. When I was his student, such a topic would not have been raised, except possibly by an indication that his years of service were coming to their end. I also noted that some of the teachers I admired, even although I did not accept their views or orientations, had left or simply passed away. I was sad to hear that “Old Frank” had died in a car accident and that Mr. Klein, the Mathematics Master, opted for early retirement. In his view, parabolas and hyperbolas were more interesting than secondary school pupils.

Those who left were replaced by newcomers, many of whom were graduates of our school. It pleased me to think that Tichon’s aura and ambience lured many back into the fold. By and large, there was little bickering and no in-fighting. It dawned on me that although Sheen was a hard task master, he was actually an accomplished and fair captain. TA.1 continued to go from strength to strength. It had attained top rank amongst secondary schools and its graduates were able to count on a secure future.

One of my first tasks was a revision of the Hebrew Literature syllabus. The old curriculum concentrated on the Hebrew writings of Diaspora Jews. Undoubtedly, their work paved the way for Israeli authors. My generation, alas, had to read these in private. I recall affectionately our reading sessions in Bushi’s home.

When I joined TA.1’s teaching staff, I was effectively in charge of the syllabus. Without hesitation, I excluded much of the outdated literature and erudite essays, which dealt with the problems faced mainly by Jews in Eastern European countries. In their place, I covered the writings of some innovative Israeli authors. These included Medad Shif’s, Shim’on Tsahamra, discussing the issues faced by the offspring of a marriage of an Israeli girl to an Arab. Another was S. Yizhar’s Khirbet Khizeh, which exposed the expulsion of Palestinians from their land in the wake of the War of Independence of 1948. I also covered the writings of modern Israeli poets, including Avraham Shlonsky, Lea Goldberg and Nathan Alterman. Further, although I disagreed with J. Ratosh’s Canaanite orientation, I appreciated his polished style; and so I referred my pupils to his works. Notably, Sheen, who was even more traditional than I, supported my reforms. He thought that TA.1 ought to cover contemporary literature and social issues.

In my other main field, that of Bible Studies, I thought it prudent to adhere to the traditional exegesis. I was aware of Bible Critique, commencing with research undertaken mainly during the 19th century. Still, I found myself in disagreement and thought that interested people ought to be left to traverse this road independently. I felt – still feel – attached to the traditional approach to the Bible and did not wish to depart from the trodden path.

Galya, with who I often discussed my work, took a different view. Whilst she supported the reform I introduced in Hebrew Literature studies, she thought my approach to Bible Critique was too rigid.

“I know you reject Bible Critique; and your conclusions may be valid. Still, I think you should give your pupils a chance to proceed on their own. Why don’t you simply refer them to ‘further reading’? You may of course tell them that you disagree with the treatments mentioned. But why not give them the opportunity to investigate and make up their own minds?”

On further reflection, I adopted the approach recommended by her. Today, as an old man writing his autobiography, I am pleased with the outcome. Quite a number of TA.1 graduates left their mark in the field. It pleases me to think that my guidance might have been of some help.

During my years as a teacher, Galya was a genuine support and comfort. Frequently, she gave me sound advice when I hesitated about grading a script. Further, whenever I was engrossed in marking compositions or exercises, she brought me cups of coffee and tea and generally did her best to lend me support.

In point of fact, I recall the entire period with affection. Intuitively, we apportioned our household chores. Being an accomplished chef, I did the cooking. Galya looked after the house. By the end of the year we found ourselves in a position to engage a part time helper who took a load off our shoulders.

By the middle of my first year of service, Sheen raised the issue of staging a play to figure in our end of year celebrations. Initially, we had some difficulty in spotting a drama which would fit into the scholastic calibre of our school and, at the same time, be acceptable to the Department of Education. To my surprise, Sheen considered staging Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis, in which Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter to the Pagan Gods so as to secure a favourable wind for his fleet. I was deterred by the challenge of finding a girl who would do justice to the heroine’s role, which involved the manifestation of Iphigenia’s internal struggle culminating with her courageous willingness to be the sacrificial lamb. I had further misgivings as I was not familiar with any translation of the drama into Hebrew. To my surprise, Sheen assured me that such a version was obtainable. I drew my own conclusion about the translator’s identity when Sheen’s eyes lost contact with mine. I further recalled his downcast expression when he had told us, years earlier, that TA.1 did not offer a course in Latin or Greek.

Another play we considered was Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. Both of us, though, were sad to conclude that staging would be too difficult. Further, we could not come up with the name of a boy who could play the role of Peer, the Norwegian man of fortune who returns home broken and destitute only to discover that his loyal wife has waited for him all those years.

In the event, we settled on a comedy written by an Israeli author of German descent (a Yeke), entitled King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler. It compared the lot of the wise king with that of a worldly commoner, with whom he swapped places for a while. Although the original was in German, the drama was translated into Hebrew by a leading poet. It was witty and easy to stage. Notably, the play has remained popular and continues to be performed frequently to the present day.

We had no difficulty in finding actors from amongst our pupils. The only obstacle confronting us was the lighting, which was tricky. I solved our problem by asking Ronnie Eyal, of Signon, to train one of our pupils. I am glad to recall the audience’s enthusiastic applause. Nina Lasker and Leo Shalev, whom I invited, were appreciative. I sensed that, despite my refusal to remain a member of Signon, I was remembered positively.

My next two years in TA.1 proceeded peacefully. I was a well-liked teacher and my classes both in Hebrew Literature and in Bible Studies were lively and, I believe, rewarding. In due course, Sheen asked me to take over the course on the Talmud. In addition, I persuaded him to introduce a course on Drama and Acting. Despite the initial resistance from some quarters I managed to have the course approved as an optional subject. As we already boasted courses on Art and on Music, our new option was in effect complementary. It became popular and, as anticipated, provided the ground for staging plays and dramas. A performance of Tevyeh the Milkman was one of our many successes.

Likewise, my home life was comforting. Galya was supportive of my career and I helped her as much as I could. I recall spending hours rehearsing her. I do believe that my assistance triggered off her slow but continuous rise in Signon.

My brother, David, too, was doing well. Having completed his army service, he took up a job in the office of one of the international banks active in Israel. After a short spell with it, his employers transferred him overseas. In his first letter to me, he told me that he had met Clare Brown, who worked in the same bank. I gathered they were going steady. A few months later he advised me he had married Clare, who was expecting a child. He added that theirs was a civil marriage. David did not have the new born circumcised and, further, told me that his son, Dan, was going to be brought up as an Englishman. In due course David gave up his Israeli citizenship and became a British subject. Although he did not change his religion, he told me that he often went with Clare to an Anglican service.

Initially, I was disappointed. I knew that, unlike me, David was an agnostic and remained within the fold ethnically rather than religiously. Still, I had always expected him to marry an Israeli girl or an English Jewess. On further thought, I concluded that once again nature had taken her course. The sexual impulse is dominant in all humans following their puberty. From the wedding photographs David sent me I gleaned that Clare was a good-looking girl. It was only natural that David was attracted to her. I hoped that their marriage would be happy and satisfying.

A few years later, David wrote to advise me of the birth of their second son. They decided to call him William (Bill). I sent David a letter of congratulations but my heart was not in it. I feared that, in due course, David himself might leave our ever diminishing fold. Thereafter, my correspondence with him became sporadic.

8. A Teacher in TA.1

There is not much to tell about my remaining years in Tichon. Naturally, I disliked the marking of essays, exercises and examination scripts. The compensation was the enthusiastic participation of my students in courses on drama and staging. We produced at least one play per year and I am proud to relate that some of our pupils proceeded to a career in theatre or joined literary circles. Some others became respected journalists and authors. Teaching them was a pleasure; and I do believe that in my own way I contributed to the development of Israel as a centre of the arts.

A memorable event took place in my third year as teacher in TA.1. One of my pupils, Uri Barsel, asked me to stage ‘An Inspector Calls’. In this milestone drama, J.B. Priestly describes how the members of a wealthy middle-class family in England, who celebrate the engagement of the daughter of the house to the heir of a competing business, have wronged a working class girl. The eerie inspector, who arrives unexpectedly and who actually sits in judgment of all in attendance, discloses how a series of events, involving the members of the family and the daughter’s fiancé, have contributed to the working class girl’s suicide. In the centre of the play are two irreconcilable life philosophies. The head of the clan postulates that in a modern capitalist society everybody should be out for himself and need not have sympathy for the underdog. The inspector believes that the callousness of the wealthy classes is bound to lead to the emergence of a new society, in which people care for one another.

I was moved by Uri’s constructive suggestion and recall our conversation vividly.

“It is an excellent play, Uri, but I have two problems. First, I am unaware of a Hebrew translation. This has stopped Israeli theatres from staging it.”

“My friend David, whose family migrated to Israel from New York, promised to help me translate it. And Mr. Simon, who is irked by David’s American English, will help us, Sir.”

“That’s a fine initiative. I am pleased; but how about the second problem? I fear that the play, set by Priestly in 1912 (that is, before the outbreak of WWI), may not impact Israeli society. We have a Socialist government. So what are we to learn from an English drama, reflecting British society at the turn of the previous century with its inflexible class structure?”

“But, Sir, was the English society really so inflexible? How about people like Horatio Nelson, Benjamin Disraeli and C.P. Snow? They moved upward despite their humble origins. And coming to think of it, Mr. Berling, the head of the drama’s clan, was doing all he could to climb further up.”

“I take your point, Uri, but what has all of this got to do with us in Israel?”

“But, Sir, is our society really egalitarian? How about the large Arab minority and the Jewish émigrés from Iraq and North Africa? Aren’t they being exploited? Many live on the poverty line in ramshackle old houses or in temporary shacks. And we, the established members of the Yishuv, treat them as second-rate.”

“True,” I conceded; “but in Israel people can rise by their own boot straps. They are not constrained by a class structure. Rising is much easier here than in England of that time.”

Even as I spoke, I kept thinking about my own career. I had managed to overcome obstacles and entered into the professional society emerging in Israel. In a sense, though, I was always able to face adversity. I knew I had to rely on myself. Unlike me, many pupils of TA.1 came from well-off houses. If they experienced difficulties with a subject taught in primary school, their parents were able to afford private tuition. Such luxury was not affordable by people of poorer means. I was a self-made man.

Uri, who was watching me keenly, added: “We could make the play topical in Israel by adding a sentence or two to the Inspector’s parting words. For instance, he could convey that the maintenance of a mobile or genuinely open-ended society is the task of the well off – the ‘fat cats’. What do you think, Sir.”

“I like the idea,” I told him after a short reflection. “It is ambitious but we can do it. Still, it might be an idea to discuss the issue with our Principal.”

“But … Dr. Joseph Katz …”

“ … we called him Sheen when I was a pupil in this school …”

“We still do; isn’t he strict and narrow-minded?”

“We need his support, Uri; and actually behind the rigid image he portrays, Dr. Katz is an open minded man. And he is well read.”

Sheen was supportive. He obtained an adequate grant for the staging of the drama. Further, he perused Uri’s translation meticulously and suggested a number of constructive amendments, with the aim of enhancing comprehension and eliminating obscurities.

I recall with pleasure the success of our performance. One of our guests was Bennie Ornan, with whom I remained in touch even after I had left the army. He praised our show and asked a number of pertinent questions about the participants. Later on, Uri was invited to join the army’s Entertainment Corps. In due course, though, Uri opted for a business career.

Nowadays, in my old age, when I reflect on the staging of the drama, I cannot help feeling that Priestley’s utopian society has remained a dream. It is true that a welfare state replaced the structured society criticised by the author. This refurbished state, though, is constantly exploited by the very people whom Priestley sought to shelter. The working force is heavily taxed so as to meet the dole payouts and the costs of other social expenses the state now bears. In reality, the strict division between the wealthy and the poor remains a cause for concern: a plutocracy has superseded the society that preceded it. Before long, artificial intelligence and robots may lead to rampant unemployment. What will come thereafter? I am unable to predict.

These depressing thoughts emerged as I aged. During my years as teacher, work and home life were enjoyable and so I contemplated staying in my then post. The hope of a career in an Israeli theatre was waning. All in all, I felt no need for a change. The Almighty or (if we accept my friend Bushi’s philosophy) Fortuna had different plans for me.

However, I must not jump the gun and so I turn back to my youth. As already indicated, my last years in TA.1 were even more enjoyable than my first period. The students were aware that my main interest was in the theatre and in Hebrew literature. I recall with glee how Uri called on me after a Hebrew Literature class and asked me to peruse a ‘scribble’ which he attributed to one of his friends. In reality it was an excellent short story, dealing with the life of a Sephardic Jew whose girl friend was a European (Ashkenazi) and whose family objected to the union. I came up with a number of suggestions respecting style and grammar. The narrative, though, was impressive and reflected hidden prejudices that remained in existence in our emerging, allegedly open ended, society.

“Tell your friend I approve. He is talented,” I told Uri.

“I am convinced he will be delighted to have your endorsement.”

Another delightful event took place about a year later. One of my pupils, a highly spirited girl, suggested that we stage Medea. She told me she was able to play the heroine.

“But do you really want to take on this role? How would you feel about Medea’s murder of her children by Jason, just so as to spite him for having scorned her? I can think about quite a few ‘old hands’ who would shy away.”

“I know,” she told me. “But then, Sir, that horrid act is not shown to the audience. I can live with the innuendo.”

Initially, Sheen was lukewarm. He feared we were over-extending ourselves. Further, he doubted if the powers above him would give the green light. In the event, he overcame his doubts and gave us his support.

Another problem surfaced at this point. None of our students wanted to play Jason. Those I approached told me that, in their eyes, Jason was a despicable character. In Colchis, he seduced princess Medea who, acting out of love, aided him to steal the national treasure: the Golden Fleece. Back in Corinth he abandoned her in order to climb the ladder by marrying into the royal house.

In sheer desperation I asked Uri to take the role. He thought the matter over and finally agreed – provided we added to the script one line, in which Jason expresses his hope that his rise in Corinth may improve the future of his own children by Medea.

“You are seeking to adapt the play for performance in our modern society,” I told him.

“This, indeed, is the object. Also, it makes Jason a more realistic character. We turn him from a villain to a man who seeks to secure his offsprings’ future. And, Sir, this is not the first time fresh blood is injected into an ancient masterpiece.”

The performance was a success. TA.1’s reputation as a secondary theatre was slowly but surely establishing itself. I was proud and pleased.

As the years passed by, I became well-entrenched in my position. I was no longer the new appointee, who had to feel the ground. After four years of service, Sheen asked me to become Deputy Principal. By then, most of my old teachers had retired or simply moved on.

My students, too, kept changing. I recall the farewell party given by Uri’s Form. I was invited as guest of honour and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I sensed that the young boys and girls I had been teaching grew into young men and women. Their generation would, in due course, have a say in the selection of Israel’s leadership.

My home life, too, remained satisfying. Galya was moving upward in Signon. Nina allocated her some fine supporting as well as lead roles. Naturally, Galya’s rise entailed extra work on my part. To start with, I had to help her rehearse. Galya was not blessed with a good memory, which meant that my role in aiding her to remember lines became cumbersome. Still, it was a work of love and so I did not complain. Another, less satisfactory feature of Galya’s rise, was that I had to carry on more chores at home. Our helper (Ozeret in Hebrew) became indispensable.

All these years I maintained my close friendships with Ronnie Eyal and with Bushi. The latter proceeded with further studies at Oxford. I knew that he might not return to Israel. I recall our parting, in which I reminded him of our rendezvous in Zermatt. Another person who left Israel was my brother, David. Initially, he had assured me that he intended to return home but I had my doubts. I knew that David’s outlook was less patriotic than mine.

In contrast to both of them, Ronnie Eyal remained stationary. He took the view that any Holocaust victim who managed to migrate to Israel ought to remain faithful to his new homeland. He disapproved of any person who ventured overseas and remained there when he found the pastures in his new abode greener than back in Israel. He thought that such a person was a deserter.

A highlight of that entire period was Uri’s wedding. Initially, he and his fiancée contemplated a civil marriage. They knew that such a wedding could not be celebrated in Israel. Their idea was to travel to Cyprus, establish temporary residence there, be married by a Justice of the Peace and then return home and apply for recognition of their status to an Israeli court. I knew that, basically, their plan was feasible. Still, I had misgivings.

“Uri,” I told him, “isn’t your bride Jewish?”

“She is, Mr. Rosenne. However, both of us are members of the Canaanite movement. We don’t want to celebrate our union before a Rabbi.”

“I didn’t know you have become a Canaanite.”

“Actually, you, Mr. Rosenne, provided the lead.”

“Eh?”

“I know you are traditional. But you directed us to Ratosh’s poetry. I read and admired it. I then went to his political gatherings. Before long, I joined the movement. Actually, that is where I met Rina. I also met your friend, Eli Berger.”

“What a small world,” I expostulated. “But – as you may know – Bushi went for further studies overseas. And, Uri, I am not a follower of Ratosh, although I admire his poetry.”

“But that is irrelevant. We may disagree in our political orientations. Your Hebrew Literature classes, though, enlightened me. But, look here: you seem to be uneasy about our plan. Is there any practical reason for this?”

“Actually, there is. As you undoubtedly know, marriages are no longer as stable as they used to be. Regrettably, many end in divorce even if the relationship was excellent at the beginning. If you married overseas, an Israeli court would hold your marriage valid. I have no doubt. But dissolution would be problematic. I really hope your marriage will be successful and everlasting. But we do not know what the future holds for us. And bear in mind that the Rabbinate has the power to dissolve any Jewish marriage but not a civil marriage celebrated overseas.”

“Is this your only concern?”

“Actually, it isn’t. You see, Uri, Judaism is not merely a religion. It also involves an ethnic affiliation. Adolf Hitler, may his name be cursed, emphasised this point. If you fly overseas because you don’t want to celebrate your day here before a Rabbi, you take a step in the direction of relinquishing your source. As you know, I have read Ratosh carefully and am satisfied that, if you embrace his political views, you cannot be a Zionist. All the same, and like Ratosh, you remain – and always will be – Jewish. Don’t try to sever the link.”

“We’ll have to think about all this,” he conceded.

In the event, Uri and Rina had a traditional Jewish wedding. I carried one of the posts of the canopy under which they stepped. Now, after the lapse of so many years, it pleases me to relate that Uri’s marriage flourished. I attended the circumcision of his son and visited Rina after she delivered a girl. Both children settled well; they have good careers. Uri attended the weddings of both of them. They married young and so he had the fortune of seeing his grandchildren. Regrettably, he had a stroke in his sixties. I was, at that time, in the United States. All I could do was to send Rina a letter of condolence.

A major political event that took place whilst I was teaching in Tichon was the Six-Day War of July 1967. It was initiated by Nasser, who ordered the United Nations observers to leave the Sinai Peninsula and closed the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping. Our government treated this as an act of war.

Nowadays it is accepted that the preemptory strike of Israel’s air force led to our victory. Further, I am convinced that King Hussein of Transjordan made a grave error when he started warfare despite Israel’s attempt to avoid hostilities with him. In the event, he lost the entire West Bank, including East Jerusalem. Syria, which also stepped into the arena, lost the Golan Heights, from which its army used to fire shots at Israeli Kibbutzim in the Galilee.

My unit was involved in the fierce battle of Latrun, which the Jordanian army sought to retain. We won, had very few casualties and remained in that neighborhood until the ceasefire. After the culmination of hostilities, the entire West Bank as well as the Sinai Peninsula was in Israeli hands. When I returned to my post in Tichon, my colleagues and students gave me a hero’s welcome home.

I recall with glee the day I visited our holy places. During my student days, West Jerusalem was Israeli domain. The Old City, including all Christian, Jewish and Muslim shrines, was governed from Amman. Before 1967, Israelis were barred from our places of worship. Having free access to them after the War filled me with joy.

When I look back at this fateful war, I conclude that, in its own way, it created new problems. The Muslim world was humiliated and was bound to seek revenge. Nasser admitted that it had been an error to start a war for which Egypt was not prepared. Surprisingly, though, the Arab countries rallied behind him and induced him to withdraw his resignation. He remained in office till his demise.

The main problem caused by the war was migration. About three hundred thousand Palestinian Arabs fled to neighbouring countries where they were treated as refugees. I am, further, convinced that many of them were chased away by our army and that atrocities were performed by some of our men. I am proud to confirm that my own men did not commit any.

The new wave of Palestinian refugees (and their sufferings) has remained a thorn in Israel’s flesh to the very days of writing. It strikes me as ironic that our people, who had existed as a Diaspora for centuries, initiated a new wave of homeless people. In effect, we did to them what others had done to us.

Another wave of migration resulted from the surge of anti-Semitism in the Arab world. Since the War of Independence of 1948, the existence of Jews in the Arab countries had become precarious. Many left at that time. The Iraqi Operation Magic Carpet, which enabled Jews to fly from Iraq to Israel, enhanced the migration process. Israel had to absorb the wave of migrants.

An additional catalyst for the migration of Jews from Arab countries was the shameful Lavon Affair of 1954. Jewish-Egyptian sympathizers were induced by Israeli intelligence to plant time-bombs in American and British owned premises in Cairo. The object was to cast the blame for the explosions on the Muslim Brotherhood and other ‘unspecified malcontents’. The unveiling of this operation led to a wave of anti-Israeli and anti-Semitic feelings. In reality, the distinction between Israelis and Diaspora Jews became blurred. Many Egyptian Jews, who had stayed put until then, migrated to the United States or Israel. Our victory in the Six-Day War exacerbated the situation.

Up to this point, I had dealt with the unwholesome side effects of the Six-Day War. It would, however, be unrealistic to overlook the advantages incurred by Israel. First, Israel gained territory which had been inaccessible until 1967. In particular, Israel took control of the entire West Bank. Second, the War secured free navigation of Israeli vessels through the Straits of Tiran. Ships flying the Israeli flag could thereafter sail to the Indian subcontinent and to Australasia without circumnavigating Africa. Third, the conquest of the Golan Heights protected Israeli settlements from fire opened at will by the Syrians. In the fourth place, the victory boosted Israeli morale and endorsed the capacity of our soldiers. I do believe that both Israelis and Diaspora Jews were proud of our achievements.

Yet another, far less obvious outcome of the Six-Day War, was that Israel obtained dominion of sites housing the Dead Scrolls. Until 1967, Khirbet Qumran – the habitat of the sect that produced this treasure – was part of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Thereafter it fell within Israel’s effective domain. I recall vividly and with pleasure the day Uri invited me to join a visit to this meaningful site. The visit was exhilarating and eye-opening. In a sense, Israeli archaeologists were now free to investigate what used to be out of bounds.

I am aware of the fact that the Scrolls have led to controversy. My personal assessment differs from the enthusiasm displayed by people like Uri and my life long friend Bushi. Where the text of a Scroll differs from the Jewish Masoretic Text, I adhere to the latter. All the same, whenever I visit Jerusalem, I make a point of visiting the National Library and spend most of the time in the Shrine of the Book, which houses these precious documents. Due to their fragility, the Scrolls on display are rotated. Still, in the time available to me I am usually unable to read everything on display.

Back in Tichon, life continued in its usual, satisfactory, flow. Then, unexpectedly, a new venture surfaced. Two girls of one of my classes asked me to conduct an extra course on Modern Israeli Literature. They pointed out that the materials prescribed in our syllabus did not do justice to the ongoing development of Israeli literature. I had prescribed some texts but many books had to be read outside school hours.

“I have given you references to leading new works,” I pointed out.

“But this is not the same thing as going through them together systematically.”

“I am not sure that an extra course would be sanctioned,” I observed sadly.

“Both of us are members of a club, which allows us to use its premises. Let people come on a voluntary basis. We are certain that pupils from other secondary schools will grab the opportunity.”

Sheen pointed out that such a course would be extra curricular. At the same time, he encouraged me to go ahead. He, too, took the view that a new literary culture was emerging in Israel.

The meetings were timely and successful. To start with I emphasised that in these gatherings all participants were of equal standing. It was therefore appropriate to drop formalities. Initially, some youngsters found it difficult to address me as ‘Chayim’ rather as ‘Mr. Rosenne’. However, it did not take them long to adjust.

The first book we discussed was Moshe Shamir’s He Went Through the Fields. It deals with the love affair of two members of a Kibbutz: an Israeli-born youth (a Sabre) and a girl who migrated from Europe after the Holocaust. The author brought to the fore the clash between the values of the member of the Old Yishuv and of a girl brought up in a European milieu. The tome also dealt with the expectation of the ‘establishment’ that new ascendants (Olim) would discard ‘alien values’ and embrace the doctrinal approach of the Kibbutz. One of the attendants of the course was critical of the narrow mindedness and the contracted horizon of the Kibbutz’s society.

Our gatherings became regular and we covered quite a number of modern novels and poems. I recall our analysis of Aharon Megged’s The Living on the Dead, in which a Young Man – of Uri’s generation – is commissioned to write the biography of one of Israel’s pioneers. In the course of his research the author discovers the skeleton in his hero’s cupboard. In consequence, he refuses to complete the book. Many details of the fictive author’s personal life and of his divorce are covered in Megged’s book.

We enjoyed a lively discussion of the book and of the gap between the young author’s generation – the Young Generation – and the idols of the Yishuv’s early days. Uri and Rina, who attended, postulated that the apparent difference between the generations was nothing but the demarcation between the pragmatic approach of a politician cum pioneer and that of aloof younger students, a sort of Israeli Bloomsbury Intellectuals.

To my delight Bennie Ornan, who was by then close to retirement, started to attend our meetings. At his suggestion, we turned to the discussion of Hebrew translations of modern novels and plays. On of them was George Orwell’s 1984. As was to be expected, some of our participants came with the English original. In our discussion, we concentrated on the differences between the author’s own tome and the Hebrew version. We concluded that, in many instances, the translator departed from the original so as to adjust the text for the needs of the Israeli reader. We also dealt with Orwell’s predictions. We concluded that in 1968 – when our analytical debate took place – none of Orwell’s prophecies had materialized. Today, in 2019, when I am writing as an old retiree, I am satisfied that most of Orwell’s predictions were off the mark. I do, however, admire the clarity and straightforwardness of his style.

We covered many books in our meetings. One of them was Kafka’s The Castle, which was translated to Hebrew from the German original saved by Max Brod (the late Kafka’s literary executor). On this occasion Leo Shalev, who learned about our circle from Galya, attended our debate. Leo, who had a perfect command of German, brought with him the original version. Another work of Kafka we discussed was The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung), which tells the story of the breadwinner of a working class family who is transformed into a beetle and the effect thereof on himself and his folks.

The highlight of our meetings was an analysis of Emile Zola’s Germinal, which had been translated into Hebrew. We also got a copy of the original. However, as there was no French speaker in our circle, we invited a teacher from the Berlitz School. With her help we managed to absorb the sociological message conveyed by the author. I regret the fact that this seminal book, dealing with a miners’ strike in France in about 1860 and with an anarchist’s philosophy, had not been made compulsory reading.

Today, when I compose my autobiography, I have come to the conclusion that our meetings, which led in due course to the establishment of a Book Club, constituted a milestone in the development of Israel’s culture and outlook. I am proud of it. The Club remains active to the present day. Further, the initiative I took in the Club’s development paved the way to the next formative phase of my odyssey.

9. The Israeli Educational Television

Israel had no television during my youth. Our entertainment was confined to radio programmes and, of course, to the cinema and the theatre. When neighbouring countries launched television channels, some Israelis purchased sets which enabled them to watch. As the broadcasts were mainly in Arabic, the Israeli authorities became concerned about the impact that the propaganda may have on our Muslim citizens.

Even so, the government was opposed to the introduction of a local channel. Ben Gurion and Sharett thought our population could do without it. The question was re-examined when Levi Eshkol became Prime Minster in 1963. On the advice of a United Nations Committee, the Israeli government concluded that it was desirable to launch an educational channel. Feelers were sent out to various foundations, one of which provided the required grant.

The Israeli Educational Television (“ITV”) was established in 1965, well before the Six-Day War. Its first broadcast took place in March 1966. The programmes were pedagogical, covering topics in Mathematics, Biology and English. In 1968, well after the conclusion of the War, the ITV began to share a Channel with the new General Public Television, which broadcasted programmes of a broader nature.

At the initial stages, I was not involved. My work at Tichon and at the Book Club kept me well occupied. Bennie Ornan, though, was one of the programmers of the ITV. Pointing out my interest in the theatre and my contributions through teaching and the Club, he recommended that I be asked to join this new venture. Initially, I was not keen to change employment. My career and attainments at TA.1 filled me with pride and satisfaction. Galya took a different view. She feared that my commitments in Tichon would quench my desire to leave a mark on the theatre world. She thought that the opportunity to regenerate my interest should not be missed. Her advice and Bennie’s persuasions convinced me to go ahead. Further, Sheen made things easy for me by suggesting that I take two years of leave without pay. If I decided to return to Tichon, the way back would be straightforward.

My new work was enjoyable. In a sense, I was well-placed to write and direct the programmes. My teaching courses on Israeli Literature and on Biblical Studies were an important asset. It pleased me to find out that quite a few members of our Book Club started to watch my television programmes. I was also asked to travel to the United States and to some other countries so as to promote our enterprise. This was a novel and interesting experience. One memorable trip was to London. After getting in touch with the Jewish community and with potential donors, I managed to spend a few days in the West End. One of the plays I saw was Oscar Wilde’s An Ideal Husband. The acting was superb and the staging outstanding. I admired the playwright’s sense of humour and his ability to play on words. It dawned on me that I still had a great deal to learn. I also spent an evening in Covent Garden but cannot remember which opera was performed.

Two unexpected developments pushed me further in the direction of a revival of my dream to play a role on the stage. The first was that Tevyeh the Milkman was popularised as a musical entitled Fiddler on the Roof. In turn, this led to a revival of the original play. It was now performed in leading and secondary theatres. Before long, I became one of the regular Tevyeh actors. The second event – which turned out to have a major impact on my life – was a telephone call from Nina Lasker. Signon had decided to stage Fiddler on the Roof. Leo Shalev was going to play Tevyeh but, at the very last minute, pulled out, claiming that he was unable to sing. He thought it best to withdraw before the critics had a chance to massacre him.

I wanted to comply but, like Leo, had doubts about the adequacy of my voice for singing some of Tevyeh’s solos. Nina, though, pointed out that the audiences would clap as long as they were able to follow my soliloquies. The spectators did not expect an actor to be a fine tenor or baritone. Musically inclined patrons would go to the recently established Israeli opera.

Had it not been for Galya’s prompting, I might have declined the offer. Today, when I am telling my life story, I am glad I decided to give the role a try. The applause I earned pleased me. I sensed that the risk had paid off.

We had an eight-week run. One of our last performances was attended by Rabbi Moshe Margalioth, who had come to Israel to celebrate the Passover week in Jerusalem. By sheer chance, he visited Tel Aviv while the show was on. After the performance, he paid me a visit. He wanted to know whether I might be prepared to come to Brooklyn and play Tevyeh in their ‘modest’ theatre. I was intrigued but was not certain whether I ought to take the offer seriously.

To my delight, Margalioth followed the matter up after he returned to the United States. The Bursar of the Jewish Wellbeing Foundation (often referred to as the Moshe Margalioth Foundation) offered me a handsome honorarium and undertook to defray my travelling and upkeep expenses. Galya and Bennie encouraged me to accept. After some deliberations I applied for two months of leave without pay and flew to New York.

I spent most of my time in Margalioth’s Yeshiva in Brooklyn. I was impressed with the fervour of the disciples, the Bahurei Ha’Yeshiva. They appeared engrossed in their studies, which took five years. I noted that their curriculum covered mainly Talmud and medieval Judaic writings. Bible Critique was, of course, a prohibited field. I surmised that success in these studies would lead to an eventual appointment as a Rabbi. To start with, though, a graduate was required to spend a few years as a delegate (Shaliah) in an established community. I also noticed that most disciples were conversant in Yiddish but had an inadequate command of Hebrew and of the history of the Orient.

Margalioth was keen that I stage Fiddler on the Roof. Initially, I tried to persuade him to stage the original, non musical version, of Tevyeh the Milkman. The Rabbi objected. He thought that, whenever possible, we should keep up with social changes. Whilst traditional Judaic laws could not be altered, we had to keep up with secular developments.

We had to find an actress prepared to play the role of Tevyeh’s wife, Miriam: an obedient yet firm and commanding wife. In many situations, she had the last word. Somehow, her mantle did not suit the temperament and outlook of modern young women.

We had to search hard but, eventually, found a volunteer. Yentl Jacobs, the daughter of a traditional and wealthy Jewish merchant, thought she could come to terms with the role, especially as she could identify with Miriam’s values. Yentl explained that her dream was to find a reliable and self-made man, who would make his own decisions but listen to his wife’s counsel.

Yentl excelled in her role. I believe that the enthusiastic applause we enjoyed was triggered by her performance. I am further satisfied that all the supporting roles were played well. In particular, I was impressed by a young fellow, who played Perchic – the young Jewish revolutionary who is engaged by Tevyeh as a teacher. When Perchic is exiled to Siberia, one of Tevyeh’s daughters decides to join him because she is in love with him. The heart breaking parting scene, when Tevyeh accompanies her to the railway station, was convincing.

For me, the most difficult scene was Tevyeh’s dream, which he makes up in order to convince his wife that their oldest daughter ought to be married to Motel the poor tailor rather than to the aging wealthy butcher. The difficulty arose because Tevyeh fakes his dream whilst Miriam and he are sleeping in the matrimonial bed. As the musical was staged in an orthodox community, I was apprehensive of the audience’s reaction to seeing an actor and actress in a bedroom scene.

My forebodings, though, were unrealistic. The audience roared with laughter as I narrated Tevyeh’s mirage. Furthermore, Yentl played Miriam’s role forcefully. Having noted my patent relief, she brought the matter up for discussion.

“Chayim,” she asked, “why were you so nervous about this scene?”

“I feared our people would be perturbed by the display.”

“But they knew that this was a narrative. We must move with the times, Chayim. Surely, you don’t expect us to live up to the ideals of a period in our remote past. You know full well that I do not wear a Scheitel (wig) or wait for the matchmaker to find me a husband.”

“I understand. But where do you draw the line? You do observe Kashrut (Jewish dietary laws) and dress conservatively. Some ideals and norms have to be retained.”

“Of course,” she agreed, “the essence has remained intact; but the periphery metamorphoses. Surely, many of our people wear modern clothes rather than outdated Turkic attire. Their core, though, is not adulterated.”

I looked at her with growing respect. Here was a young woman who would observe the spirit of our commandments though, in her own way, she was world-wise and open-minded. At the same time, I sensed that she would take her duties and commitments seriously and would live up to her admirers’ expectations. I was not surprised when Rabbi Margalioth told me that Yentl served, pro bono, as nurse in the cancer ward of a well-known Jewish hospital. I felt confident that she did all she could for her patients.

When we completed our performances, Rabbi Margalioth asked whether I would like to come over again. He felt confident that my talent would be appreciated in New York.

“Why don’t you ask your wife to come over with you? I am certain we could find her good roles to play.”

“She has set her heart on a career on the Israeli stage. She would not give up her aspirations,” I told him somewhat lamely.

For a while Rabbi Margalioth was lost in thought. At long last, he quoted Proverbs 12:4: “A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband; but she that acts shamefully is as rottenness in his bones.”

“Surely, Rabbi, the second verse is inapplicable in our case. Is it shameful for a wife to further her own career?”

“If she does so to her husband’s disadvantage, her attitude becomes questionable. Genesis 2:20 suggests that God created the woman to be ‘a help to match him [Adam]’. From what you tell me, your wife sees things differently. You do all you can to further her career; but what is she doing for you?”

A few days later I flew back to Tel Aviv. My superiors at the ITV encouraged me to have another spell in New York. They would be pleased if I penetrated into the American theatre hub. All in all, they regarded me their man and felt confident that, whenever I could, I would further their cause. Galya, however, was less enthusiastic. I had helped her a great deal with her own career. She had arrived. Still, she feared that if she left the scene, even temporarily, she might be passed over. I was of two minds. On the one hand, I was not keen to let a good opportunity slip by. On the other hand, I was keen to assist Galya to the best of my ability. Ronnie Eyal – whom I consulted – was equally uncertain.

The refurbished offer made to me a short while later was irresistible. Rabbi Margalioth invited me to come over for just two months and suggested that, on this occasion, it would be nice if I staged King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler. There was a substantial Israeli community in New York and many of its members would be keen to see an Israeli play. Yentl Jacobs, who had a good command of Hebrew, had already volunteered to take on one of the leading roles. He suggested that I play the Solomon/Shalmai role. It would have been preferable to find an actor not as heavy set as I: the role was more suitable for a lightly built and athletic looking man. As no such person was available, I started to rehearse. Before long I concluded that I could manage. Ronnie Eyal volunteered to supervise my preparations and assisted me with the memory work involved.

I pleaded with Galya. It seemed to me that like other actors and actresses she had the right to take a period of leave and accompany me. To my regret, she refused to budge. I was facing Hobson’s choice. I could either proceed to Brooklyn on my own or turn down Rabbi Margalioth’s attractive offer. I surmised that, if I did so, the offer would not be repeated. In the end, self-interest prevailed.

Galya looked thoughtful when we parted in the airport. Looking her over, I realised that she was no longer the young girl I had taken out when I heard her scream for help. She was now in her thirties and the stress of playing one role after the other had left its mark. She was looking haggard but, notwithstanding this change, I sensed that she had remained committed to her place on the stage.

“Chayim,” she said after a pause, “are we falling apart?”

“I don’t think so, Darling. I am simply paving my own route.”

“You used to rehearse me and enhance my memory. How shall I manage without your prompting?”

“Where there is a will, there is a way. And by now I have taught you all the memorising tricks I know.”

“Once again, I am on my own. I thought you would continue to coach me. Still, you must pursue your own interests. I know this.”

“If you really feel the pinch, try to get help from Ronnie Eyal. He is a good and kind sort of a chap.”

Rabbi Margalioth looked at me thoughtfully when I arrived in New York on my own.

“So your wife decided to pursue her own career?!”

“She did, rather. But Rabbi, she acted true to character. Originally, she surmised that I would continue to coach and assist her year after year. I can – I do – understand her. In her own way, she feels let down.”

Rabbi Margalioth nodded sagely. He appreciated that I was disappointed but sensed that he ought to keep his peace. Negative comments were uncalled for. In his eyes, the eyes of a traditional and observant Jew, the bond of marriage was sacrosanct. Husband and wife became one flesh. If their relationship became problematic, an outsider’s task was to smooth the rough edges over.

The staging of King Solomon and Shalmai the Cobbler went smoothly. Most members of the audience were, of course, aware that the play was inspired by Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper. Nevertheless, they clapped enthusiastically at each of the songs and generally showed their appreciation. They came to be entertained and left enriched and satisfied. Once again, I realised that I was contributing to the standing of Israeli art. My sole regret was that Galya was not there to see.

A few weeks later, I attended the Seder (the Passover feast) in Rabbi Margalioth’s welcoming home. To my surprise he raised a point concerning my being on my own.

“Chayim, I was hoping that Galya would be with us and that your son would ask the Kushiot (the ritual questions, dealing with the characteristics of the Seder). My only son is a grown-up man and, I am afraid, married out and is secular.”

“I don’t have children, Rabbi,” I replied lamely.

“How come?”

“Galya does not want to have any. She says she cannot spare the time needed to bear them and to look after them. She claims she would be a poor Mother.”

“But God commanded Adam and Eve (Gen. 1:28) and, after the Flood, Noah and his sons to ‘be fruitful and multiply’(Gen. 9:1). A childless marriage is barren. Don’t you yourself want offspring?”

“I do. But many of my students treat me as a father figure. This is some compensation. And I feel proud of them. Their success is mine!”

“I understand,” muttered my host uneasily. Obviously, he was not convinced.

“And look here Rabbi: am I the youngest male at our Seder? If so, why not let me ask the Kushiot. Am I much older than your son?”

“About the same age. And he declined my invitation last year. I have not repeated it. Please go ahead.”

We finished the Seder well after midnight. All of us were tired but felt elated, especially as each of us drank the compulsory four glasses of wine. I knew full well that the authenticity of the Exodus from Egypt had been disputed by modern scholars. But Passover was a Jewish religious festival. It was part and parcel of our tradition. To me, Exodus was real and historically indisputable.

A few weeks after Passover I got ready for my return trip to Israel. To my delight Rabbi Margalioth told me that he was going to invite me over again.

Galya met me in Lydda airport. On the way to a nearby restaurant, I told her that Margalioth invited me to come over in about a year. Galya looked perturbed. She said little during our pleasant oriental lunch but broke her silence on the way home.

“Chayim, we are slowly but surely falling apart. From now on you will spend a few months every year in New York. I am not going to accompany you. I want to rise high in Tel Aviv. Is it possible that our marriage has run its course?”

“What do you mean?” I asked with trepidation.

“Wouldn’t it better for us to call it a day?”

“You mean a ‘divorce’, don’t you?”

“I do, rather.”

“Very well,” I told her when we arrived.

A few days later we went to the Rabbinate. There being no issues of property or of the custody of children, the proceedings were straightforward: I handed Galya a deed of divorce (a Get) and the Rabbi-in-Charge made an entry in his book. As we left the building we were no longer husband and wife.

Galya looked at me attentively. She realised that my stern silence hid the feeling of disappointment and emptiness that filled me. I concluded that I had wasted some of the best years of my life. When I first met her, I had been a pariah in Signon. I was on my own though not carefree. When I started to go out with Galya, I did have a warm affection for her even if passionate love had never engulfed me. I now reverted to my lonely existence.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Galya.

“I feel I have missed out,” I conceded. “Also you, Galya, are not a self-sufficient person. You need a caregiver. It is your nature!”

“I know,” she agreed. “But look, Chayim, I have already found somebody and I am certain you will not remain on a limb for too long. I suspect your Rabbi has plans for you.”

We were about to part as we reached the next street corner. To my surprise, Galya addressed me again: “Look here, Chayim: ours is not a bitter or acrimonious divorce. Both of us took it in our stride and remained civil about it. Surely, we are still friends. Come and have lunch; you’ll meet an old comrade.”

The cozy oriental restaurant was as welcoming as ever. A dish of Humus followed up with tangent Kebabs cheered me up. Then, as we were ready to order dessert, Ronnie Eyal arrived.

“You are late, Ronnie,” said Galya. “That’s not like you. I asked Chayim to join us. We’ll wait with our dessert until you have finished your main course.”

“I am not very hungry,” he told us. “I’ll just have a dessert.”

As the sweets arrived, my mind kept racing. It dawned on me that Galya had found her next husband. Far from feeling resentment or bitterness, I was overcome by relief. Galya would have a shoulder to lean on, and Ronnie – a born caregiver – would be happy to lend it. My former responsibilities would be borne by him.

“The two of you have good rapport,” I observed.

“We do,” affirmed Galya.

“Do you plan to get married pretty soon?” I wanted to know.

“There is an obstacle,” Galya told me.

“I thought that was sorted out this morning. You may want to wait for a short while so as to let things settle down. But this, surely, is no problem.”

“There is a different hurdle,” Ronnie chimed in. “You see, Chayim, my original name was Ronald Hirsh; and I was married to a German woman: Hilda. She was Aryan. And I was in love with her.”

“Did you divorce her when Hitler came to power?” I asked with concern. I was overcome by fear: what might emerge now that Pandora’s Box has been opened?

“The Nazis had the marriage declared null and void. I managed to escape and became Ronnie (Yaron) Eyal.”

“But where is the problem? You are no longer married to Hilda?”

“Would the annulment be recognized in Israel?”

“Has she ever contacted you after the end of WWII?”

“She hasn’t. Actually, I would have rebuffed any feelers! I felt – still feel – betrayed. If I was good enough to be chosen as mate, why didn’t she stand by me in an hour of need?”

I looked at my friend with concern. It was easy for me to understand his feelings and the ensuing bitterness. I also wondered why he had never mentioned the subject previously. It then dawned on me that like many Holocaust victims he felt the need to maintain his silence. He had buried the past except that, at the present moment, it ruled him from the grave.

As I looked up, I took in the expectant expression that descended on the faces of Galya and Ronnie. I sensed that each of them was keen to have my view.

“As far as I can see, you are an unattached man, Ronnie. Hilda has not contacted you; presumably she…”

“… passed away,” interjected Ronnie. “Our last abode was in Dresden and, as far as I know, Hilda had never moved. Chances are she perished in the bombings. I believe she joined the Red Cross, which suffered heavy casualties.”

“More than seven years passed since the end of WWII. So she is presumed dead. So where is the obstacle?”

“We had a son. He lives in England. I fear his reaction.”

“Are you in touch with him?”

“I am not. He wrote to me a few years ago, inviting me to his own wedding. I did not reply.”

“How did he survive the onslaught? According to Nazi doctrine he would be considered a Jew!”

“Hilda managed to smuggle him out. He came to England on a refugees’ train. He grew up as an Englishman.”

“How on earth could you reject him, Ronnie?” I expostulated. “In Germany he was unwanted because of his Jewish blood and you rejected him because his Mother deserted you? Poor unlucky chap!”

“That is what Galya keeps telling me. Did the two of you, per chance, have a discreet discussion before I arrived?”

“Of course we haven’t,” protested Galya. “We just happen to be of the same view!”

“Oh well,” yielded Ronnie. “What course would you recommend?”

“You better set a date for your wedding, Ronnie,” I told him. “And you may consider inviting your son. Whether you like it or not, he is your flesh and blood!”

“I’ll think it over,” responded Ronnie after a while.

In due course, I rented a small flat next to my working place. Occasionally I had lunch with Ronnie and Galya. I was pleased when he told me that his son, Joseph, had accepted his invitation to attend the wedding.

Actually, when I am recalling these events nowadays, when I am an old man writing his autobiography, I believe that sorting out Ronnie Eyal’s problem was my first experience as a faith healer. By inducing him to look deep into his own soul, I freed him from the constraints imposed by an unpalatable past.

Before I flew to the United States, my Israeli boss called me up for a frank discussion. He told me that he was prepared to grant me the required leave for another two years. Thereafter he was going to assign me a new task, which would require my being regularly in Tel Aviv.

“Look here, Chayim,” he told me, “presently you have a post which requires you to be off-station on a regular basis. However, in the long run we need you at base. If you decide, at any time, to move to the United States, you better settle there for good or use it as your main quarters.”

“That is fair,” I confirmed. “Up to now my two engagements were complementary. Sooner or later, though, I may have to make my choice.”

“I do hope you will stay with us. Your home is here – in Tel Aviv. And you are a real Israeli. But all in all, we live in a free world.”

Rabbi Margalioth welcomed me when I arrived in New York. Initially, I staged Fiddler on the Roof and a number of topical plays. I realised that major theatres, on Broadway, would not open their doors to let me in. But I was acquiring a solid reputation as an ambassador of Israeli art and culture in New York. It was a pleasant existence and I was perturbed by the thought of giving it up when my assignment in Israel was altered.

When I finished my first performance in Brooklyn, Rabbi Margalioth had a long chat with me. He pointed out that I thrived in my position in New York and, he suspected, had come to like it as much as my role in Tel Aviv. He felt that the community needed me and added that he, too, had an interest in the matter. He was nearing retirement and keenly felt the need of a successor. For years he handled the affairs of the Yeshiva and, in addition, had to look after the affairs of the Foundation. He would have liked his son to take over but, as he had told me before, his lad was secular and had no inclination to look after the Foundation’s affairs.

“Why don’t you join us here, Chayim. I have been watching you and I think you have the attributes.”

“I have not graduated from a Yeshiva,” I told him. “You need a locum who can officiate as a Rabbi.”

“If you want to settle here, you will have to join our Yeshiva. We’ll see to it that you earn a living during this period.”

“I believe it is a five-year course. Enrolling at this stage of my life for such a long period of ‘further studies’, is a bit out of place.”

“But we would not expect you to enroll for such a long period of time. We would take your earlier studies and contributions into account and give you cross credits. I cannot commit myself now but, judging from previous cases, it is not going to be anything like five years.”

The proposition was attractive. In Israel I had reached my career level. Youth was behind me. A new start in Israel as I approached middle-age was out of the question. Rabbi Margalioth’s proposition made room for this. Hoping that I remained up to the challenge, I decided to enroll in his Yeshiva, asking that my earlier studies and career be taken into account. Initially, the Board wanted me to enroll for three years. After some haggling, we settled on two years. In point of fact, Rabbi Margalioth took the view that such a period of further studies would enable me to acquire a profound knowledge of Judaic medieval literature. I had touched upon the subject sporadically when I read for my B.A. in the Hebrew University but had only a generic knowledge of it. A perusal of the Yeshiva’s curriculum whetted my appetite to know more.

Rabbi Margalioth took the initiative to enable me to further my interest in staging plays. Our choice fell on the plot of the second volume of the last novel of Shalom Aleichem: the very author whose earlier novel formed the basis of the play Tevyeh the Milkman and the ensuing musical Fiddler on the Roof.

Motl, Peysie the Cantor’s Son was written in 1916. It dealt with the resettlement of Motl’s Russian Jewish family in the United States and the problems faced by them in their new environment. Of particular interest was their need to come to terms with labour riots that broke out in New York as workers took to the streets to protest their working conditions. In the last chapter of the novel, the author described how the family started to prosper in the new abode.

Initially, when Margalioth referred to the work, I raised three problems. First, the work was a novel. It could easily be adapted into a play but we needed the cooperation of a playwright. I was relieved when Margalioth assured me that one of his constituents had already made progress with the work.

The second problem arose because the novel had been composed in Yiddish. I was pleased when Margalioth told me that the work had been translated into English in 1953. He thought that, as many of our viewers were not conversant in Yiddish, we had to stage the play in English.

The main and last problem related to the topicality of the tome. It dealt with the resettlement in the United States of Jews driven out of Czarist Russia by the anti-Semitic policy of the government and by the incessant pogroms. Would our young generation be interested?

“But is the position so different today? Holocaust victims, who migrated to the United States during and after WWII, often faced comparable problems, including the need to become conversant in an alien language and to develop a new outlook. I do believe that many of Motl’s experiences and antics would strike a chord.”

“Do we have suitable players?” I wanted to know.

“Yentl Jacobs is keen to play Motl’s Mother, who is of one of the main characters in the work.”

“But how about Motl? He is a youngster!”

“You can take your pick from amongst our students. I suggest you take up the role of Motl’s older brother. He, too, is central to the story.”

Margalioth’s words convinced me. I had to edit the text and actually directed the drama. It was a success. The performance went on for a number of weeks and was well attended. It pleased me to see that the audience included many university students, who were keen to watch a play dealing with the life of Jewish migrants.

After our last show I asked Rabbi Margalioth why, in his opinion, Joseph Stein and his team opted for Tevyeh the Milkman rather than for Motl, Paysee the Cantor’s Son when they decided to produce a musical. He answered that to the public at large Tevyeh was more acceptable than Motl. In the former, Shalom Aleichem described the plight of the Jews in Czarist Russia. The audience sympathised. In the latter, the author showed how Jewish migrants stuck to their own values when moving from one host country to another. Stein might have thought that Motl would feed anti-Semitism whilst Tevye was bound to invoke compassion.

“It is, of course, also possible that Stein’s team found Tevyeh easier to transform into a musical than Motl,” he added. On reflection, I believe this to be the real ground.

As I was getting ready for the return trip to Tel Aviv, Rabbi Margalioth had a further frank chat with me.

“So you have decided to settle in Brooklyn, Chayim?”

“I have. I like the prospect of a change of career.”

“Will you resign your post in the ITV?”

“I shall do so. Initially, I toyed with the idea of applying for two years of leave without pay. But I have decided against such a course. I want to take a final step and start afresh.”

“Good decision, I believe. But don’t you want to discuss the matter with your wife? What will you do if she refuses to relocate?”

“We were divorced last year, Rabbi. So I am again on my own: a middle-aged man with no strings attached.”

“Aren’t you going to remarry?”

“I might: if a really nice girl thinks I’m ‘Mr. Right’!”

My superiors in the ITV had actually anticipated my resignation. My only problem was the need to sever my relations with the Book Club. To my delight, Uri agreed to take over. He added that I would be welcome to attend whenever I came to Tel Aviv. He also encouraged me to make recommendations respecting the pick of American novels. He thought that Williams Faulkner’s books deserved attention. Light in August, he opined, provided a window into the milieu of the Southern States. I agreed that the work deserved attention.

Before I proceeded to New York, I caught up with Galya and Ronnie. They struck me as happy and contented. It pleased me that, ever since their wedding, Ronnie remained in touch with his son, Joseph, who had actually converted to Judaism and was married to a British Jewess.

For a number of sessions I continued to travel to Israel mainly for my militia service. Then, in 1973, we experienced the Yom Kippur War. Much research has gone into the analysis of this episode and so I shall address mainly what I had experienced during those fateful days.

It is common ground that Israel’s neighbours had intentionally started the war on our holiest day. Israel’s intelligence had information about the build up of Arab armies but the politicians decided against a preemptive strike. During the first few days of the war, Egypt broke Israel’s defence line on the Western Bank of the Canal and advanced into the Sinai Peninsula. Syria, in turn, recaptured parts of the Golan Heights. In the ensuing bitter battles, Israel eventually had the upper hand. Ariel Sharon managed to encircle the 3rd Egyptian army and Syria was defeated in the North. I am satisfied that Israel’s victory was due mainly to the fine training of our soldiers and the capability of our commanders. I am further convinced that, had it not been for American arms supplies and assistance, the outcome might have been different.

I did not take part in the battles. During the first day of the War, Bennie Ornan summoned me to help sustain our soldiers’ morale. After the magnificent victory in the Six-Day War, both Israel and the Arab world considered our armed forces invincible. Israel boasted confidence whilst to the Arabs the 1967 defeat was humiliating and shameful.

The first two days of the 1973 War restored Arab morale. To us, these days came as a shock. Quite a number of well-known Israeli actors joined our Corps’ efforts to restore the self-esteem of our soldiers and population. We traveled from brigade to brigade and performed programmes asserting that nothing of significance had been lost. The news media joined force. I do believe that our efforts bore fruit and helped to restore our population’s confidence and pride. To the very present day, I maintain that, if we had failed to re-establish Israeli self-esteem, it would have been difficult (perhaps even impossible) to regain the upper hand.

A few days after the end of the conflict, I was due in New York. I felt that the flight to New York was a trip back to base. My view was shared by Rabbi Margalioth. When I attended his next Shabbat Eve Reception, on Friday evening, I felt at home.

Before long Rabbi Margalioth suggested that I meet Harris Jacobs, Yentl’s father. He told me that Harris, a successful businessman, was keen to make sure that Yentl, his only daughter, would find a good partner for life.

“But Rabbi, surely Yentl can find a better catch. I am at least fifteen years older than her and, in terms of worldly accomplishment, my attainments are limited. Further, I do have aspirations but the route may be long and winding.”

“Perhaps Yentl aspires to stand by you and be of support as you proceed?”

“Do you think she might really be interested?”

“I am sure Harris would have discussed things with her before he asked us to meet him.”

The meeting with Harris Jacobs went smoothly. He was aware that in our modern Jewish communal life, there was no room for the old type of matchmaker, discussed in Tevyeh the Milkman. Harris had already talked to Yentl and the main object of our discussion concerned details. I was pleasantly surprised when Harris told me that instead of the customary dowry, he proposed to buy Yentl a house. He wanted to know whether I would prefer accommodation in Brooklyn or in Manhattan. We settled on a roomy flat in the former and then proceeded to fix a suitable date and abode for the ceremony.

It was a lavish wedding. Food was abundant and Israeli wines were flowing. Traditional Jewish music was performed by a local band. Rabbi Margalioth gave us his blessing and, in a brief address, expressed his hope that the newlyweds would be happy and be blessed with children.

When I am thinking about these events at present – when I write my autobiography – one fact stares in my face. In the ultimate every one of us is guided either by a Hidden Hand or by sheer chance. I started life as an odd jobs boy in Tel Aviv; got admitted to a brilliant secondary school; made an unsuccessful attempt to break into the Israeli theatre world; and later settled on a teaching career followed by a posting in the ITV. Who could foresee that, thereafter, I would end up as a student in a Yeshiva in Brooklyn? Who could predict that I would marry twice? The very same fortuitous factors determined the lives of some of my friends. One ended as a law teacher in an Oriental country, another became an Ordinary Professor in an American University and a third became a highly regarded stockbroker.

Doubters maintain that chance alone is the decisive factor. A traditional thinker – like me – is inclined to see the Hidden Hand of a Superior Being. I am unable to prove my point. All the same, I do believe in it. After all, ours is a free world. Every one of us has the right to assess imponderables in his (or her) own way. On this right of free choice I am actually in tandem with an inherent skeptic like my friend Bushi.