REUNION IN ZERMATT

[This episode is also descried in Bright Lion

Where it is told as seen by Rabbi Zohar]

 

I.                Arrival and Vigil

1.Pension Kegel

 

            The  electric car of Pension Kegel was waiting for me outside  the railway  station.  Fastening my scarf to keep out the crisp air of  a  typical dawn in Zermatt, I walked briskly up the platform and got in. As often before, I breathed the clean air  in deeply and with satisfaction. The absence of fuel driven motorcars was a blessing.

The electric car driver,  who was  also  the  sole concierge of the  modest  establishment,  manoeuvred  his ramshackle vehicle adroitly through the narrow and winding lanes  of  my favourite Swiss  resort. I observed with a grim smile  that  for him, too, time had not stood still: his wrinkles had deepened and his hair had turned  silver grey. Bestowing on me the smile reserved for old customers,  he carried my suitcase up the stairs  to the reception counter.

“Good morning, Herr Professor. You did reserve a room overlooking  the  Zermattschein Hotel?”   the   fair receptionist let her surprise show.

“For  the first two days only,” I clarified. “After that I’d like to move to  a room facing the Matterhorn”.

“Room  4, which you like so much, will be available,” she confirmed.  “But  the room for today and tomorrow faces the street.”

“It’s alright; as long as I can watch the entrance to the  Zermattschein. I want to witness the arrival of an old friend!”

“Very well then; but it’ll be noisy: the delivery carts start to pass by from about six in the morning.”

“For these two days I’ll stand it,” I assured her.

 

2.Vigil by the window

 

            Up  in  the comfortable room, I shed the  clothes I had worn for the train ride from Geneva and slipped into  my  comfortable dressing gown. Leaving the window slightly ajar, so as to let in some fresh air, I assumed my  vigil. The elegant pergola of  the  Zermattschein spread right in front of me. Nobody could enter or leave the trendy hotel without passing through my line of vision. Was Pilkin, with whom I had made a rendezvous in Zermatt some forty years ago, going to come? When we last met both of us were young men in our early twenties. If he kept our appointment, would I recognise him?

            The first electric car to arrive in front of the porch unloaded a  group of well dressed  Eastern tourists conversing in what I thought was Hokkien.  Although one of them was  a man in his sixties, with a huge bulk,  a ruddy  face  and a loud voice,  he could, obviously, not be my old  class  mate. Like myself,  Pilkin  would have lost his youthful appearance. But Occidental features remain  discernible from Oriental.

            My  reflections were interrupted by the arrival of another  quaint  car. For  a while, the two informally dressed women, who alighted from  it,  looked with admiration at the elegant façade of the Zermattschein. Then their glances switched to the Matterhorn, displayed to its best in the bright morning air.

“How adorable,” chimed the smaller of them – a dark skinned, thin, girl.

Focusing  on her through my opera glasses I noted she was of  Anglo-Indian stock  and that she had poor taste in clothes. Her tight jeans,  loose  blouse and  the  lavish exposure of skin around her hips would have better  suited  a teenaged girl.

 “Adorable?”  retorted  her tall, heavy set and severe looking  companion,  who appeared out of place in her tight fitting track suit. “I think  ‘magnificent’ or ‘grand’ is more like it.”

“That too; but it’s also adorable, cute and exciting. Don’t you see, Lilly? It looks like a big cock!”

“Now,  now, Joan,” chided Lilly in a protective tone laced with irony, “to  you every amorphous mass with a protrusion looks like it!”

            The rest of their conversation was blotted out by a noisy group of tourists, who alighted from another electric car. But, even so,  the brief exchange I had overheard drove my thoughts back to the past. In his heyday, Pilkin – whose real name used to be Chayim Rosenberg – would have been glad to engage in a friendly conversation with Joan.

Indeed, Pilkin used to respond favourably to the many winks and tender smiles bestowed on him by  the fair  sex!  Somehow,  despite his enormous  mass,  unsightly   appearance  and uncouth  mannerism, women adored him! They dismissed his  wild  gesticulations and  his  often doddering, unsteady, gait – for which he was  nicknamed  ‘the little  elephant’ – as mild affectations. And many of the girls who  withstood my  friend’s  eccentricities  fell  for his ruddy  face,  zest  for  life  and optimistic  outlook.   Pilkin,  I  had  concluded,  titillated  the   maternal instincts of homely maids-in-waiting and was considered a good treat in bed  by glamour women. I felt confident that not-so-young Joan would have been keen to share her problems with him.

            The  next guest of the Zermattschein arrived in one of the  picturesque, electrically driven, taxis of the secluded resort. Obviously, he had been  too impatient  to  await  the arrival in the station of one the  hotel’s own vehicles. As the driver unloaded three expensive suitcases, his passenger  viewed the hotel with overt suspicion.

“Are  you  sure this is the Zermattschein?” he asked in a loud,  metallic  New York accent, which contrasted sadly with the neatly cut suit and  conservative tie, worn by successful North American fund managers.

“Of course it is,” replied the driver urbanely.

“But I was told it’s the best hotel in town!”

“It is,” the driver assured him soothingly. “The Zermattschein is the only ‘five star plus’ hotel in Zermatt, Sir!”

“Don’t  you  have  a  Hilton  or  a  Conrad  here?”  asked  the  fund  manager querulously.

“We do not. But the Zermattschein is excellent, let me tell you.”

“Oh well, I suppose it’ll have to do,” answered the other and, without  tipping the  driver  who had placed the suitcases in front of the  concierge’s  porch, proceeded to the entrance.

             Having observed him conscientiously, I concluded he was as tall and  as heavy  set as Pilkin. His voice, too, was similar and Pilkin was  a sufficiently good mimic to have acquired a New York accent and, perhaps,  even the  coarse  mannerism. The fund manager, though, boasted  a  beaked,  Jewish, nose.  Pilkin,  in contrast, was endowed with a flat snub nose. That,  and  my friend’s  light hair and blue eyes, had provided a rich source of jokes  about the sharp contrast between his Slavic features and his traditional Jewish Zionist  outlook. 

Pilkin’s   deep resentment of  such  remarks  surfaced  one morning, during our third year in secondary school, when we studied a medieval text  about the conversion to Judaism of the Kingdom of the Kesars. After  the class,  one  of our self-appointed jesters observed gleefully that,  far  from being  a  descendant of King David, Pilkin’s lineage could be  traced  to  the Caucasus . It took the joint efforts of two of our strongest classmates and of my  soothing  words  to keep the enraged Pilkin from hauling  himself  on  the offender,  whose  mouth  had fallen wide open  at  my  friend’s extreme reaction!

            The guests who emerged in front of the Zermattschein  from the next  few cars  were  of no interest to me. They comprised young  holidaymakers,  middle aged  Australians and New Zealanders  and, to my surprise, one family  from  a Gulf  country.

My reflections of the past were, however, rekindled by a  group of stylish Japanese tourists, whose  suave mannerism and elegant deportment contrasted with the mass produced movie cameras they carried. Their unaccustomed bearings made me recall Pilkin’s excitement when  the two  of us went  to see  Rashomon [a famous Japanese film], accompanied by attractive though heavy set  Shosh Levi, with her lush black hair, sparkling black eyes and mellow yet not seductive voice. Pilkin, who was even then dreaming of a career on the  stage, was  fascinated  by the alien projection of a single story as seen by  three  different  characters. He conceded that the embryonic idea could be traced to  Euripides’ late  plays. He insisted, nevertheless, that the brilliant photography of  the radical Japanese production and the surrealist effect of the ephemeral  stage, had opened the door to a new era in the theatre. Shosh and I, the conservative sticklers to the Gutenberg culture, smiled tolerantly.

 

3. A Glimpse of Rabbi Zohar

 

            A  glance  at my watch revealed it was getting close to noon.  I  sensed that,  for the time being, I might as well give up my vigil. To  economise  on time,  Pilkin  had  made a habit of arriving at his  destination  either  well before  noon or late in the evening. Unless he had arrived in  Zermatt  before me, he was unlikely to turn up till the end of the day or early next morning.

            I was placing my opera glasses in their case, when my eye was caught  by an  apparition.  A Hassid, in 18th century  East  European  clothes, emerged  from  the fashionable hotel across the narrow lane.  His  black  silk caftan,  broad  old fashioned  matching hat and his long even  if  tidy  white beard,  complemented by  curly side burns, reminded me of the  ultra  orthodox Neturei Karta sect. During my years in Jerusalem, that sect had been a source  of derisive remarks made not only by an assimilated Viennese Jew  like myself  but  even  by the far more traditional and  quite  observant  Chayim Rosenberg  alias Pilkin. “When religion turns fanatic it becomes  uncivilised,” he  used  to  say, bestowing on any Hassid and  Boibricks [extremely orthodox] we encountered dark glances exuding revulsion.

            With  just as strong an antipathy, I watched how the anachronistically clad  Hassid proceeded slowly to the gate of the Zermattschein, his immense frame supported by a smart  walking stick.  He was about to turn into the lane, when a young porter  came  rushing after him.

“Rabbi  Zohar,”  he said respectfully, “we just got  some really nice Salmon trout. The Chef asks: would you like one  for dinner  and do you want it steamed or can he use a new recipe he just got from Paris?”

“Please  tell the Chef,” replied the Rabbi warmly, in a  New  York accent as pronounced as the American fund manager’s, “that  I trust  his masterly skills. He  is  a real virtuoso. I look forward to the treat he is preparing for me! You do pamper me up here!”

“It is a pleasure, Rabbi Zohar. We are honoured  to have you here.”

“The  pleasure is all mine,” replied the Rabbi benignly and, resuming his  slow but  steady  stroll,  walked through the gate. His  grin  and  eager expression reminded me of Pilkin. A similar smile of anticipation used to descend on  his boyish  face when we made our way to a  Pita Falafel  stall in  Disengoff Street  or to one of our favourite eateries.

Gluttony,  I reflected, occupied a special place amongst human vices.  If  you succumbed to one of the other seven mortal sins, such as pride or avarice, you could  readily  become a target of hatred or  contempt. In  contrast,  the over indulgence of the dandified gourmand was met with raised  eyebrows or, at worst, with patronising sniggers.

 

4. A trip to Furi

 

“Any luck?” asked the receptionist when I placed the key on her desk on my way out.

“None”  I told her, “my friend must have arrived before me or,  perhaps,  will come tomorrow.”

“Are you sure he’ll stay in the Zermattschein?”

“If he can afford it: he likes his comforts. But look, can you please find out later in the day if he has booked a table for tomorrow’s dinner?”

“Under what name?”

“Mine!”

“Yours??”

“Yes,  that was the arrangement: made some forty years ago! He was to book the table in my name for  7.00 p.m. at the Zermattschein!”

“I’ll give them a ring later,” she said, trying hard to hide her amusement.

 

 

            A number of chair lifts  transported eager visitors  to skiing resorts and hiking walks  high above Zermatt. The furthest up the slope was known as Kleinmatterhorn. I had never ventured to go as high: the air was too thin so that any person suffering from blood circulation problems was at risk. Nowadays, with serious blood pressure problems, most spots were out of my reach. Still, the altitude of first spot,  Furi,  was just about 1870 metres above sea level. My GP assured me that the risk involved in such an ascent was negligible.

I had visited Furi often, both during the trip with Pilkin and in later years. It could be reached by a lengthy walk up-hill or by a 15 minutes ride in a chair lift.  When I alighted,  my heavy breathing firmed my resolve not to go to higher up.  When, after a few minutes,  my slight giddiness was over, I got up from my bench and took  one  of  the tracks I had come to know over the years. After a while, I spotted the American fund manager and thought it best to proceed in a different direction. As  I passed a bend, I saw Joan and Lilly, who were once again chatting  away.

Hoping  to  eavesdrop on some juicy bits, I stole in their direction  only  to discover  they were discussing  mundane clauses in standard  foreign  exchange contracts of the type used in our own legal practice in Singapore.

“But,  Lilly,” protested Joan, “this silly clause makes no sense at  all;  it’s rubbish!”

“I  know,” sighed Lilly patiently, “but the clients like it; and it can  do  no harm. So why not simply leave it in? Be smart, Joan – don’t rock the boat!”

Joan gave in reluctantly: “Oh very well.”  

 

            So Joan and Lilly were London lawyers, taking a break in Zermatt. Yet they were finding it impossible to leave their office behind! Chuckling,  I turned on my heels and nearly ran  into  the arms  of  the Hassid, Rabbi Zohar. Both of us muttered apologies,  followed  by  a brief exchange on the splendours of the discreet mountain resort. The  twinkle in Rabbi Zohar’s blue eyes did much to abate  my antagonistic feelings. For a fanatic, he seemed strangely good humoured and relaxed.

            After  a lavish lunch in a new bistro, I walked slowly downhill back  to Pension Kegel. A brief note, in the receptionist’s unformed handwriting,  advised that no table in my name had been booked in the Zermattschein. Trying hard  to hide  my disappointment, I climbed up the stairs to my room. Has  Pilkin reneged on our arrangement? Next evening I was bound to find out!

 

5.Reminiscesing

 

The  thought that Pilkin might have had a change of heart disrupted my  afternoon siesta. For a number of years I had not heard from him. Then, just a few months  ago, he sent me a Jewish New Year card. A scrawl  at its foot read: “see you in Zermatt as planned”. It confirmed that Pilkin had not forgotten. But could some unforeseen event have induced him to  back out?

Affectionately,  I  recalled the early days in our Secondary  School  in Masor Street in Central Tel Aviv, called ‘Tichon Ironi A’ (literally meaning “High School 1” and fondly nicknamed “TA.1”). The fetish of our fundamentally liberal, even if somewhat traditional, institution was scholastic achievement. Pupils were subjected to four years of rigorous studies. In their first two years, they had to cover basic courses in the arts and in the sciences.  In their third  year, pupils had to choose between the Humanist Stream and the Scientific Stream. The emphasis in the former was on History, Literature and Biblical Studies. Classics, alas, were not taught. The main subjects in the latter stream were Advanced Mathematics, Theoretical Physics and Organic Chemistry. All pupils were, however, required to study the art of writing and composition. Further, in addition to the subjects in the stream chosen, each of us  had to take at least  one subject from the other stream. 

In line with its emphasis on excellence,  TA.1 admitted only the best leavers of primary schools from all suburbs in Tel Aviv. Background, status and family connections were not given weight in the selection process. What mattered was the applicant’s studying technique and his potential for success in a professional or academic career.

I  had come  from  a boys’ school in prosperous middle class Melchett  Street  whilst Chayim (Pilkin)  was one of the few to be admitted from a school in the south  of  Tel Aviv,  in  the vicinity of ramshackle Schechunat Ha’Tikva. 

This,  in  itself, would not have created a gulf between us. In those pioneering days  Israel  was  egalitarian.  The problem lay more  in  a  cultural  demarcator. Chayim’s  grandparents  had migrated to Palestine from Eastern Europe.  They  and their offspring were conversant in Polish, Yiddish and Hebrew. They were reasonably observant without, at the same time, being truly orthodox (“Froom” in the slang of those days). Chayim’s mother, for instance, lit candles on Friday evening. But she had no compunction about switching on electricity on Saturday – the Sabbath.

All in all,  Chayim’s religious orientation was moderate. He did not grow sideburns and did not wear a Talith. Still, unlike most of our schoolmates, he covered his head with a scalp cap – a Yarmolka – in our biblical studies lessons, generally observed the dietary laws known as Kashruth and occasionally went to prayers on the eve of the Sabbath. I recalled vividly how, on one occasion, I saw him in Allenby street on the last day of the Feast of Tabernacle. He was walking back from his Synagogue in the company of his young brother, who was proudly carrying the customary cardboard flag, with its rich display of biblical themes and with the remnants of a colourful candle attached to its post.

My parents  home had a different flavour.  As a middle aged couple, they had to escape from Vienna on the eve of Austria’s annexation by Germany – the  Anschluß. Still, my parents’  language, values and orientation remained those of Austria of the first decades of the  20th century.  Ethnically,  of  course, they were Jewish but,  like all  their assimilated compatriots,  they had shed all cultural ties with their origin. Traditional Jewish homes like Chayim’s were just as alien to them as Yiddish and Polish.

            My  own  outlook was  similar to theirs: jibes about  religion came to me naturally! In the circumstances, during our first year in TA.1, communications between Chayim and myself remained confined to occasional polite nods and the usual exchanges in classes. Even in the regular picnics – ‘Kumsitzes’ in the slang of  our era – the two of us did not mix. He was the heart and soul  of every gathering and  party. I was a shy boy, glad to  stick  to the  fringes.

All the same, I did from  time  to time  step over to congratulate Chayim when he entertained us with one  of his sparkling performances, usually a comic scene from a popular drama or  the recital of a modern Hebrew poem. It was at the end of  one such  performance, when Chayim was swaying drunk with success, that on my subtle  promptings  he was nicknamed ‘Pilkin’ (the little elephant). A few weeks later he  took  his revenge and had me dubbed ‘Bushi’ (a befitting tag for a shy lad). Needless to say, both names stuck!

            None of this was conducive to the creation of meaningful links. Fortunately, the two of us had more fruitful communications in class. As both of us disliked science, we had enrolled in the humanist stream. Yet we were not in competition . My interests were mainly in  history and  in  philosophy.  Pilkin loved literature and excelled in  Arabic  and  in Talmudic studies. Frequently, we  stepped to one another’s aid  when a  teacher gave us a hard time.

When the prodding  came  from  the English Language Master, both of us were usually saved by pretty Shosh, who  was engrossed  in  Shelley, Keats and Browning. It was only natural that these occasional acts of help forged a bond between the three of us. Yet  another drive  to  friendship  was exercised  by gluttony that bound both Pilkin and me to Shosh. When  our scientifically orientated classmates amused themselves by solving problems  of calculus or by memorising chemical formulas, the three of us stole away to a nearby Pita Falafel or ice cream store for pleasures accessible to common people.

 

II.            PLANNING A HISTORICAL TRIAL

 

1.Josephus and the Great Jewish Revolt

 

  I  doubt if Pilkin and I would have become mates   had  it not been for the Josephus Flavius trial staged by TA.1 in 1950. Although the War of Independence was by then long over,  Israel had not fully recovered from its economic and social effects. Commodities were scarce, prices were high  and the black market was booming. One of the objectives of Israeli schools of that period  was to turn its pupils into good citizens. Nobody was held in  greater contempt than a traitor to the struggle for the survival of the two years old nation.

            A  pedagogical  tool used in this effort was the holding  of  historical trials of all those who had been untrue to the cause of the Jewish struggle for survival. Benedictus Spinoza, sad to tell, was one of the many victims. The prime target, though, was Josephus Flavius, held universally in contempt for his alleged betrayal of  the Jewish struggle against the yoke of the Roman empire in the first century A.D.

 

            Josephus  Flavius – Joseph ben Matityahu in Hebrew – was the heir of  a cosmopolitan  and hence assimilated family of priests. Little is known about his early years  except that  he  obtained a liberal education. In his mid-twenties, he  travelled  to Rome to plead the cause of some zealots who had been sent for trial by  Felix, the then procurator of Judea. Josephus secured an introduction to Nero Caesar’s wife, the promiscuous Popea, and persuaded her, by means of a bribe, to secure the dismissal of the charges.

 Josephus then spent a number  of  happy  years  in the metropolis of the world.  On  his  return  to Jerusalem,  he discovered  that the small protectorate was getting ready  to  raise the  banner of revolt. He was sent to the Galilee by the conservative  members of  the  Grand  Sanhedrin,  with instructions to nip the  movement  in  the  bud.

Josephus relates in his autobiography how he attempted to carry out his mission but  was overtaken by the tide. In the event, he found himself at the head  of the liberation movement in the hilly north. He was given the task of fortifying and defending the township of Jodefet (Jotapata in Latin), an important centre of the rebels.

            Was  Josephus  blinded  by the enthusiasm of the  hour?  Did  his  inner traditional  though suppressed Jewish self get the better of  his sophisticated and elegant  veneer? Views differ. His conversion, though, did little to save  the cause: the outcome was clear from the outset. True to tradition, a Roman  army marched  down  from Antioch  and, grinding slowly but steadily,  quenched  the rebellion mercilessly.  The  crucial chapter in the Galilee took place when the  walls  of Jodefet, manned by Josephus’ corps, came tumbling down. Scourging and crucifixion were amongst the punishments meted out to the freedom fighters caught alive.

            Those  who  managed to escape joined comrades  defending  lesser  towns. Josephus  and  some of his men were trapped in a cave. When  tribunes  of  the Roman  army  offered  them their lives, Josephus was  tempted.  His  comrades refused.  After  a  vehement argument, the  group  agreed  to  commit communal  suicide,  drawing  lots to determine the order  of  the  executions. Josephus was one of the last caught. Reverting to his original  design, he  persuaded  the other survivor to surrender together with  him. 

            Initially,  Josephus  was put in chains and was to be sent to  Rome  for punishment. Never at a loss, he insisted such a plan was wasteful  because the Roman  commander,  Flavius Vaspasian, was soon to succeed to the  throne  upon Nero’s death. Sceptical yet gratified, Vaspasian relented. When the prediction came true, he granted the fugitive a pardon and, eventually, adopted him  into his own family.

            After  the fall Jerusalem, which was razed to the ground by  Vaspasian’s son, Titus, Josephus proceeded to Rome. During the long reign of the Flavians, he composed two major historical works: ‘The Wars of the Jews and the  Romans’ and  ‘Antiquities  of the Jews’. In defence  of  his defection,   he pleaded a dream in which a divine voice prompted him  to record the  history of the Jewish revolt.

It has to be conceded that his book on  the subject remains the main source of that sad chapter in human sufferings. But this achievement did little to cleanse his tarnished image. European and Jewish historians alike have dubbed him  a coward and  traitor. Many of them overlooked the basic fact that historical treatises – except Josephus’ tomes – were laconic on the subject.

 

2.An Informal Planning Session over Pita Falafel

 

            TA.1’s   historical  trial  of  Josephus  was  meant  to  follow what had, by then, become a   well established   precedent amongst Israeli secondary schools.  Three  pupils  renowned  for  their  orthodoxy   and nationalism,  including fair Shosh who had written an epic essay on the heroism  of the  Great Revolt, were constituted judges. Pilkin, who was considered a  fine  orator and  a sound performer, was to lead the prosecution. Difficulties  arose  when the Principal sought to nominate an attorney for the defence: nobody wanted to plead  the cause of a Quisling. After some wranglings, I agreed to  assume  the role. Having studied Josephus’ extant writings, I concluded he had been misunderstood.

            A  few weeks before the trial, Pilkin and I held an informal  conference on a bench in Rothschild Boulevard over a Pita Falafel. Initially, Pilkin was too  engrossed  in  his  repast  to  concentrate  on  more  mundane   matters. Eventually,  he  smacked his lips, smiled with satisfaction and  came  to  the point.

“Look here, Bushi,  we don’t want to spend too much time on this trial? Last term I  bombed   out  in the algebra test  and  your  performance  in chemistry  ...”

“  ... the less said the better,” I muttered in disgust. “For  the life of me, I can’t see  why they force  ‘humanists’ to take at least one science subject! What use is a science subject going to be to one of us?”

“Ours not to question!” Pilkin replied but  nodded sympathetically. “I suppose these topics are meant to broaden our horizons; give us a balance!”

“I have enough trouble with Arabic without all this nonsense about chemistry. If you hadn’t  lent  me your notes when I was sick last month, I would’ve  bombed  the test in Arabic too!”

“You  lose  a  lot of time when you get these bouts of Asthma.  All  the  more reason to economise on the time spent on this trial. So why not agree to ... streamline?”

“We can try. What are your main accusations against Josephus?”

“We’ll ‘indict’ him for poor military leadership, cowardice, assimilation, unreliability as historian  and, of course, treason.”

“My  main concern is the last. The others involve a value judgment;  and  they are minor when compared with treason. For instance, Herodotus was not only the father of history but also the father of lies. And I don’t find our modern historians reliable. And why not drop this ‘assimilated’ Jew business. Most educated Jews of that period were assimilated.”

“A question of degree!” Pilkin tried to sound firm.

“True.  But we know little about Josephus’ ‘status’ and affiliations prior  to the Great Revolt. So if  you leave that bit out, you can reduce your team by one witness. It’ll save  a lot  of time on preparation.”

“All right then,” Pilkin nodded. “So I’ll call only four witnesses. And you?”

“I won’t call witnesses. I’ll make my points by cross-examining yours.”

 

3.Issues of procedure

 

Pilkin’s eyes popped wide open. For a few moments he gazed at me in disbelief. Based on his experiences in TA.1 and in debating clubs, he had formed the belief that all controversial issues had to be resolved by logical arguments based on written texts. He had no appreciation of the procedural devices  used in courts and by committees of enquiry.

“Is the method you have in mind  OK?” he asked at long last.

“Done all the times in real courts!”

“Shosh tells me you watch  trials from time to time! So do you want to become a lawyer?” Pilkin let his disapproval show.

“Maybe.  You see, I dropped into our District Court last year, when we had a break between these two silly maths and physics exams in Jaffa Street. The cases I heard were exciting!”

“Rape  trials?”  Like  all adolescents, Pilkin was  interested  in  everything smacking of sex.

“No! One was a running down case and the other an industrial accident. In both cases the  defendants called no witnesses. Their lawyers broke the chaps  who  sued: the ‘plaintiffs’ in legal jargon, by subjecting them to awkward questions!”

“Not very nice!”

“Perhaps. But it was very efficient!”

“But in our trial, shouldn’t we stick to the Talmudic procedure?”

“But,  honestly,  Pilkin,” I protested, “what do we really know  about  Talmudic procedure except a lot of clichés!”

“True,” agreed Pilkin sadly. “But, Bushi, I know nothing about modern courtroom procedure!”

“Can’t say I know much. Still, we can watch a few trials together and get  the basics. For the rest we can improvise.”

“But court trials must be boring! I’ve no wish to become a lawyer or liar!”

“But you want to become an actor!”

“Precisely!”

“Some  lawyers  are  real showmen, Pilkin. One moment  they  are  purring kittens only to turn into roaring lions when it suits them!”

“Sounds interesting,” Pilkin reflected. “OK – let’s do it!”

 

III.         LEARNING THE LAW: COURTS AND KEREN

 

1.We attend trials

 

            Our  teacher  granted  us leave to attend court  hearings during  three  mornings dominated  by  classes  on  science. As Pilkin’s home was  not  far  from  the District  Court  building,  I went to pick him up early in  the  morning.  His mother’s  unadorned  poorly furnished flat on the top floor of a  run  down apartment  block made me gape. Obviously, his late father had not  left  them well  off. Embarrassed, I remembered Shosh had told me that, when  opportunity presented  itself, Pilkin and his young brother, David, carried out odd  jobs, such  as  deliveries, doubling up for newspaper vendors  and  occasional  home repairs. To my relief, Pilkin appeared unaware of my consternation. He watched with satisfaction  as I sipped the cup of hot and aromatic lemon tea his mother brought  me  and then  showed  me, with relish, his small but neatly organised  and  catalogued collection of coins.

 

At  Pilkin’s  suggestion, we spent our first morning  watching  a  murder trial  and an armed robbery. Both cases were dull. In  neither  did the  accused have an alibi or coherent defence. We then watched a number of run of  the mill   road  and  industrial accident cases. Pilkin was taken  aback   by  the rigour and speed of the cross-examinations administered to the main  witnesses and  by  the  brevity of the lawyers’ arguments. And he was disappointed by the absence of drama.

            To stem the flow of his critical comments, I took him to watch the final stage  of one of the spectacular trials of the day. It involved an action  for compensation for personal injuries suffered by a civil servant. He had bought a bottle  of  locally  distilled   brandy supposedly  fortified with pure alcohol. He had consumed the same fiery  drink on  previous  occasions without ill effects.  But this time the brandy was  laced  with  methylated spirits.  The  source was a hardware and paints shop. Its owner had sold  the  methylated  spirits to a painting contractor,  who,  together  with another  middleman, had eliminated the dye and smelly substance from the  liquid. The  rogues then sold it to the unsuspecting liqueur outlet at the  prevailing black market price for illegally imported pure alcohol. The civil servant was one of the unfortunate purchasers of the final product.

            Pilkin  and I watched with fascination the pungent cross-examination  of the owner of the hardware and paints shop. Doggedly, Jacob Keren – a lawyer whose sparkling performance I had admired on previous occasions –  forced the witness to concede he had failed  to exercise proper care and prudence when he sold large quantities  of the ‘poison’ to a contractor who could not possibly need more than ‘one single bottle  at a time’ for his business as painter and renovator. Eventually,  the hapless  witness  even  admitted  that he knew the  ‘filthy  stuff’  could  be ‘doctored’.

“Yes - I understand,” said Keren, who despite his short and lean figure  loomed larger  than life.  “It was no villainy – just a lapse. Well, let me tell  you again what were the consequence: the plaintiff is now nearly blind,  partially deaf,  has a stammer and will walk unsteadily for the rest  of his life. Not a life to be envied!”

“This is not a proper question,” intervened the judge.

“I’ll  withdraw  it then, Your Honour. No further questions.”  Keren  nodded and sat down.

 

2.Meeting Jacob Keren

 

“What  an  act,”  said Pilkin when we made ourselves comfortable  at  a  nearby oriental restaurant, patronised by the legal fraternity of Tel Aviv.

“I agree. But, you know,  from what I have seen up to now, it’s clear  the screenplay has to follow some pretty tight rules,” I observed. “Even a showman like Keren must reckon with them when he improvises.”

“Can the other party’s lawyer step in?”

“Only  if the cross-examiner steps out of line, for instance, if  he  misleads the  witness or uses unfair tactics to bully or confuse him. Still,  when  the cross-examination is over, the other party’s lawyer can try to repair any damage.”

“With the few questions he asks when the cross-examination is finished?”

“Yes. They call it the ‘re-examination’. But a skilful cross-examiner like Keren guards his rear. He makes  sure that what he gets out of a witness will stick: just the way he did today.”

“I  see,” nodded Pilkin. “And is this how you want us to conduct our  trial  of Josephus? By examining, cross-examining and re-examining witnesses?”

“Well, yes: it’s more fun than just arguing!”

“I want to think this over,” said Pilkin. “Still, it appears alright. It’ll  put a bit of life into the case. But look here, Bushi ...”.

 

 

“Didn’t  I see you two in Court today?”  Jacob Keren’s protruding eyes were peering at us with unconcealed interest.

“We were there, Mr Keren,” I confirmed, rising  to my feet. Pilkin, in contrast, remained seated.

“And what drove you to our little show?” Keren wanted to know. “And haven’t  I seen you before, Mr. ...”.

“Eli  Berger,  Mr Keren,” I introduced myself, “and this is my  friend,  Chayim Rosenberg. And, yes, I come to watch court cases whenever I can.”

“You like the excitement?”

“I do indeed!”

“And you, Mr. Rosenberg?”

“Please, call me Chayim,” Pilkin replied. “I came because we are  going to  have  a trial at school. So Eli insisted I see what happens  in  the  real courts.”

“What sort of trial?” Keren was interested.

“A  historical trial of Josephus Flavius. Eli is the defence lawyer; I am  the prosecutor.”

“But how do you propose to go about it?” Keren asked with a smile. “The accused can’t give any evidence!”

“We’ll be using his writings, Mr. Keren,” I explained. “Do you know them?”

“I  do,  although  it’s been some time since I’ve read them. But  how  do  you propose to defend him? Who will be your witnesses?”

“I  don’t  intend  to  call any. I’ll make my points  by  cross-examining  my ‘Learned Colleagues’ witnesses. They’ll testify about Josephus’ writings.”

“So they’ll try to pierce holes and you’ll try to plug them?”

“My object is to establish his innocence!”

“But you needn’t prove him innocent. The prosecution must prove his guilt!”

“I know.  But  my poor client,” I said, startled as  both  Keren  and Pilkin grinned when I brandished the courtroom phrase, “has been maligned  for generations. To clear his name, I must show the accusations are unfounded!”

“And you’ll risk a ‘guilty’ verdict if your attempt fails?”

“He’ll be no worse off than before,” I observed.

“I see,” nodded Keren. “And what will be your strategy? But perhaps you don’t want to reveal your hand at this stage?”

            Initially, I sought to dodge his question. The plan I had formed involved surprises. Communicating  an inkling of it to Pilkin might take the wind out of my sails. At the same time, I had no wish to appear evasive. After a short pause, I replied: “I intend to show that passages in Josephus’ books,  traditionally  used to prove his guilt, proclaim his innocence. I may fail – but not for want of trying!”

“A  daring plan; and quite imaginative,” Keren smiled supportively. “And  shall we  see you again in Court when your trial is over? You have been dropping  in for months.”

“And  I’ll continue to do so. You see, I’ve decided to study law. I come over in order to learn and gain experience.”

“But don’t you find many of the cases boring – plain routine?”

“I  do. But ever so often there is a fascinating case, like your  trial of today!”

“But much of what we do, especially office work, is mundane. Still, you’ll know  whether or not you have a penchant for it after your second year in law school. If you remain interested, come and see me!”

“Thanks,” I said, moved. “I’m sure to take you up on this!”

“And  you, Mr. Rosenberg – you also plan to join our ranks?”

“No,” Pilkin was laconic. “I intend to become an actor!”

“A fine career,” approbated Keren. “I was toying with the idea before I  picked on the law!”

“What made you prefer law?” Pilkin was no respecter of rank.

“Prudence; opting for security rather than poetry: for the sixpence – not  for the moon!”

            For  a moment Jacob Keren remained lost in his thoughts. He then brought our conversation to an end,  observing   abruptly: “Interesting subjects, aren’t they? But I must really join my Learned Colleague. I think we can now  settle this wretched case sensibly. So, Chayim, let me wish you much success in  your career  on  the stage. I’ll look forward to your performances. And  you,  Eli, remember  to see me once you have decided for sure you want a career in the Law.”

Shaking hands with both of us, he made his  way rapidly to the stairway leading to the VIP section on the upper floor. Our eyes had followed him with respect. Even forty years after this chance meeting, as I was twisting  restlessly on the comfortable bed in Pension Kegel,  I recalled vividly the impact that the aging Jacob Keren  had left on young Pilkin and myself. True, on my friend the encounter had but a  transient effect. In contrast,  it exercised a profound influence over my subsequent, lengthy, career as a lawyer.

 

IV.          THE JOSEPHUS TRIAL

 

As I stretched myself comfortably on the bed in Pension Kegel in Zermatt, I kept  musing on my days with law firms and in universities. The foundation was laid  when, some three years after our initial encounter, Jacob Keren accepted me as a trainee. During the years I had spent with him, I learned much about  the law and  life in general.  By the time I left Israel, I had – under Keren’s guidance – developed a penchant for rescuing losing cases. That gift stood me in good stead during my years in Wellington, in Melbourne and in Singapore. All the same, my greatest success as a lawyer remained the trial  of Josephus Flavius in TA.1. Smilingly, I allowed myself to stray back to it.

 

            Shortly before the day set for the hearing, the ‘parties’ held a short pre-trial conference. Pilkin had by then finalised his indictment  and declared his willingness  to  abide  by the current rules of procedure  and  evidence – as understood  by us after numerous visits to the courts. Both the conference and the ensuing preparations went  well. But two weeks later, we suffered a blow.

On our way to a new Pita Falafel stall, Pilkin told me that he had bad news:  “We’ll have to finish our case by noon!”

“But why – we were told we had the afternoon for argument!”

“We  still have it.  But that football match between Tel Aviv and  Haifa,  the  one that had been deferred  because of the torrential rain, is now taking place on the day  of our trial!”

“So what?”

“So all the chaps will run away during the lunch break and when they  are gone the Girls’ll lose interest!”

“Shit!”  said I. “So what’s to be done? You have four witnesses! And  we  don’t start until 10.00!”

“So let’s start at 9.00 and try to cut ourselves short!”

“Oh,  all  right. But I still don’t see why  some  people prefer  the  sight  of  two unkempt teams chasing a  filthy  ball   to  the intellectual  delights  of  a  historical  trial?  Pfui.” 

In the end, though, the constraint of time had a beneficial effect on my cause. After some wranglings, Pilkin  agreed to call only three witnesses, one of whom would deal with  both the charges of cowardice and unreliability. I, in turn, declared my  intention to concentrate on the treason count. The others appeared trivial in comparison.

 

           

TA.1’s function room was  packed that  morning.  Some of the parents, who had come to  watch  the  performance, bestowed  supportive  glances  on  me. My solitary  figure –  pitted  against Pilkin’s full team – invoked their sympathy.

As soon as the “judges” took their seats at the elongated desk placed on an improvised stage, Pilkin opened the case. He  read out  the  indictment  and,  as agreed, confined his opening speech  to  a description of the basic facts and the nature of the proceedings. I, in  turn, confirmed  that the defence was not calling any witnesses and advised that the  main battle field was the treason issue.

            Pilkin’s  first  witness  dealt  with  the  charges  of  poor   military leadership  and  cowardice  levelled  against  Josephus.  In  response  to  my questions,  the witness conceded, that the other Jewish generals were  equally poor  soldiers.   He  then admitted that Josephus  had  not  been  guilty  of cowardice  in  action. Josephus had put up a sturdy defence in Jodefet. It  was  sad that his courage had failed him in the hideout after the battle was over.

“But weren’t some other leaders of the Revolt taken alive?” I asked.

“Some were!”

“So not everyone committed suicide when all was lost?”

“True!”

“And  is a soldier expected to kill himself when the battle is lost?  Is every prisoner of war a coward?”

“I  wouldn’t  say  that,” retorted the witness awkwardly.  “But  think  of  the heroism of our fighters in Masada!”

            Pilkin   nodded,   smirking  broadly.  Little  did  he   suspect   that, unwittingly, the witness had laid the first brick in a structure I intended to erect  for the defence. To clarify the issue I asked the witness  to narrate  the story of that last episode in the great revolt. Although the events were  well known, everybody listened eagerly as the dramatic story unfolded once again.

 

The barren plateau of Masada, visible on the horizon from as far as  Ein Gedi  on the Dead Sea, had been turned into an impregnable fortress by Herod the Great,  the last King of Judae. Under the vigilant eyes of  Greek architects,  his work force erected huge walls, encircling the rock formation  which was,  in  any event, separated by natural crevices and deep ravines  from  the parched valleys far below it. In addition, Herod’s engineers constructed  huge water reservoirs and vast granaries. 

            During the great revolt, the stronghold became the quarters of an extreme  sect led by Eleazar ben  Ya’ir. His group of Sicarii used the  prolonged hostilities  in  the  Galilee and the siege of Jerusalem  to  replenish  their supplies  and to reinforce the mighty walls even further. When the rest of the country had fallen, majestic Masada was still unscathed and unaffected.

            From  both  a  military and an economic point of view,  Masada  and  the rebels stationed on it were of no significance. The trade routes to Egypt were not endangered. Practically, it would have made good sense to leave  the hermits  to their own devices. Under Roman law, however, the commander of  the army was not entitled to celebrate his triumph until the enemy was vanquished. So Masada had to be taken.

            For  months the Roman army besieged the rebels.  Again  and again, the attackers were repelled.  In the end, the Romans filled one of  the deep  crevices  with  gravel  and  rocks,  constructed a ramp alongside the fortification,  placed a battering ram on it  and,  despite  the  courageous resistance of the Jewish fighters, managed to topple the wall. They then burnt down a new wall lined with wood, which the defenders had erected during the siege and which could have withstood the shattering blows of the ram.

            The  end  was now inevitable. To save his followers  from  captivity  in Rome, Eleazar persuaded them to commit mass suicide. With the exception of two matrons,  who hid themselves in a cave, all men, women and children perished at their  own hand. When the Romans arrived next morning for  the  final showdown, they were confronted by corpses!

“So that was the final act of heroism?” I asked the witness, who had moved  the hearts of all those present with his well balanced and lucid narrative.

“It was!”

“How about the two women who hid themselves in the cave?”

“I don’t approve of them. Still,  in such a desperate hour everyone has a right to make his own decision.”

“I agree,” I said with conviction. Then, emulating Jacob Keren, I concluded:  “no further questions.”

 

Pilkin's  second  witness  provided further ammunition for  my,  as  yet undisclosed,  line  of  defence. His main accusation was  that  the  long  dead historian  had used his great work as a vehicle for self  aggrandisement.   In his description of the campaign in the Galilee, Josephus  had made extravagant claims about his own courage and attainments and had taken each opportunity to settle scores with  Galilean leaders who had opposed him.

            The  assertions being true, I did not dispute them. Instead,  I  induced the witness to admit that Josephus’ War of the Jews and the Romans was not a  mere ego  trip.  Josephus loved  his people. His  admiration  for their courage and endurance were the main threads running through the work.

“Let  us  assume  that a stranger, with no prior  knowledge  of  the conflict, chanced on Josephus’ book. What would he think of the Jewish rebels?” I wanted to know.

“He’d consider them foolhardy and perhaps even fanatic!”

“Would he think they were cowards, doormats and people without principles?”

“Most  certainly not! He’d be convinced they were men of immense  courage  and devotion!”

“So Josephus did not ridicule or belittle our nation, did he?”

“We do not accuse him of that!”

“Suppose  Eleazar  had  lived to tell the tale. Would he have  given  a  more favourable account of our people as a whole?”

“I don’t think so. Still, Josephus set out to aggrandise himself.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

 

            Like  Pilkin  and  myself, the third witness came  from  the  humanist stream. His keen interest in history and philosophy rendered him a force to be reckoned  with.  I  listened attentively as he testified that Josephus’ surrender constituted treason.  The ‘accused’  had failed to honour his suicide pact with the other survivors in the cave and, in all probability, had cheated when they drew their lots.

“Did he act as a traitor in any other situation?” asked Pilkin.

“He did indeed!”

“Please tell us!”

“During the siege of Jerusalem, after the fall of Jodefet,  the Romans sent him, under a flag of truce,  to persuade the besieged to surrender.”

“No further questions,” said Pilkin.

            I  knew  I  had to tread carefully. Feeling my  ground,  I  induced  the witness to confirm that Josephus had not committed any act of treason during the siege of  Jodefet.  The witness then conceded that  Josephus’  attempt  to persuade the defenders of Jerusalem to capitulate might have been motivated by his realisation that defeat was inevitable.

“So,  all  in  all, your charge of treason is based on one  single  act – Josephus’ surrender after the fall of Jodefet?”

“Basically. But there is more to it than that. Josephus’ airs and  orientation must be taken into account!”

“They add fuel to the fire?”

“Precisely!”

“How important is that orientation,” I saw my chance.

“Very important. It throws light on the accused’s motivation.”

“But  suppose  someone  else,  say Eleazar, had been  taken  alive  due  to  a coincidence?”

“But,   surely,”  the  witness  sneered,  “somebody  like  Eleazar   is   above suspicion!”

“And why?”

“His  speech  speaks for itself. A man who could use his words – express  his sentiments in such a manner –  isn’t and cannot be a traitor.”

“You are satisfied of that,” I asked, hiding my jubilation.

“I am. To demonstrate what I mean,  let me read Eleazar’s speech out.”

“Is  that necessary?” asked the Chief Justice, a model student with a bent for mathematics, who kept glancing anxiously at his watch.

“I have no objection, Your Honour,” I assured him. “Actually,  it is  still early  in the day.  I’m confident everybody will be in time for  the  great football match.”

“Very well,” he agreed, sheepishly.

            Like  everyone else in the room, I was moved by the speech, in which Eleazar persuaded his followers that death was preferable to the humiliation of captivity and to life as slaves in Rome. In their situation, Eleazar asserted, suicide  was the only honourable course left.  

When the witness finished reading out the speech, I asked: “A man able to compose this speech cannot be a traitor – you agree!”

“I do, indeed.”

“You have read the speech  many times?”

“I have!”

Knowing I was at home, I heaved a sigh of relief. “Kindly close the book,” I told the witness.

“As you wish,” he retorted, bewildered.

“Now, please recite the speech!”

“What?”

“I don’t see the object,” intervened the Chief Justice, equally startled.

“I think I get the drift,” Shosh stepped in. “Let the witness proceed!”

The  Chief Justice shrugged. The witness, in turn,  squirmed but,  at long last, admitted: “I can’t! It’s far too complex and long.”

“I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “I too have read it many times; but I can’t repeat it. So, please tell me, how come we have this speech?”

“I don’t understand!”

“You read it out for our benefit –  what is the source?”

“It’s printed in our history book!”

“But how did it get there?”

 “How do I know?” protested the witness.

“Have a look at the footnote in your text! What does it say?”

“The War of the Jews and Romans, book VII chapter 8, s. 6.”

“So the source is Josephus’ great work?”

“Well, yes!”

“And who – would you say – composed this magnificent, patriotic, speech?”

“Eleazar – surely?”

“But Eleazar and all his men perished by their own hand!”

“But those two women who saved themselves! They told the tale!”

“But how could they recall and repeat this highly complex and elegant speech?”

“Perhaps they had  particularly good memories?”

“But you yourself are renowned for your excellent memory and you have read the speech  many  times.  Yet you can’t recite it. Do you really  think  that  two terrified women, anxious to save their own skins, were in a better position than us to memorise and repeat it?”

“Perhaps just the gist of it?”

“Who then composed the present version, which moves the hearts all  of us: the speech we consider an epitome of faith and courage?”

“How can I tell?”

“Think,” I raised my voice. “Josephus Flavius wrote in Greek and adhered to the Greek models of historical books. True?”

“True!”

“And who composed the speeches in most Greek histories? Thinks about Pericles’ speech in Thucydides’ work. Who composed the speech?”

“I suppose the author?”

“So who composed the great speech of Eleazar in the version that has come down to us –  the magnificent speech you just read out – please think and be fair!”

“In its present version,” the witness capitulated, “Josephus Flavius.”

“And you have said: ‘A man able to compose this speech cannot be a traitor’!”

“I meant the man who delivered  the speech. But yes: I said so.”

“Don’t  you  think  that  the fact that Josephus  was  able  to  compose  this wonderful speech is circumstantial evidence of his real orientation?”

“I have to agree with you.”

“So  doesn’t  he,  in  the  very least, deserve  the  benefit  of  the  doubt, especially  as  the  evidence  against him is  purely  circumstantial?”

For a while the witness stood there, looking irresolute. He was about to answer, when Pilkin rose to his feet. “Your Honours,” he addressed the Judges in the legal jargon we had picked up in the  courts,  “my Learned Friend has shown that the  evidence  concerning  the treason charge brought against the accused is not clear cut. It is  equivocal. The prosecution takes the view that a man should not be convicted of a serious crime,  like treason, unless his guilt can be proved beyond reasonable  doubt. The defence has proved that this is not so in the instant case. We have, therefore,  decided  to withdraw the charge.”

“Very well,” said the Chief Justice in a resigned tone, following a hushed consultation with the two other judges.

Both  Pilkin and I made short closing addresses. By 11.30 the trial  was over.  The  Court found Josephus guilty of the three  remaining  charges  and undertook to deliver its grounds in writing.

 

The school’s usher – attired in a  uniform befitting the occasion – announced the proceedings  were closed.  As soon as the spectators milled out of the hall, I stepped over to Pilkin’s corner and thanked him for his  fair  minded conduct.

“Splendid  performance, Bushi,” he countered. “Congratulations: one day  you’ll be  a great lawyer. But enough of that. Why don’t you come with us to  the match?”

“You too ...” I started.

“...  Brutus?  No, just a football fan! And it’s fun, Bushi. I’m  sure  you’ll enjoy it!”

“How are you going to get to the stadium?”

“Our greengrocer is giving us a lift. So how about it?”

“I’d  love  to  come,” I said.

 All in all, I have to concede that the great football match, attended by all the boys including the ‘Chief Justice’, was enjoyable and, in its own way, exciting. I was amused to see how the seriously minded members of TA.1’s ‘Bench’ and of the  ‘Prosecution’ cheered enthusiastically when either party went on attack or scored a goal. The goalkeeper, in particularly, was awarded ovations whenever he managed to stop a bombshell. I sensed that the opponents, too, had high regard for the opposition’s defence.

Most spectators were either young men and women or entire families from different stations in life. As I looked around, my eye caught Jacob Keren, who was sitting in the VIP zone beside his wife and daughter. He was in shirt sleeves, plain trousers and wore a pair of spectacles lighter than those he used in court. He, too, waved his arms vigorously and showed his plain delight at the players’ skill.

Another aficionado sitting in the VIP zone was the very judge before whom Keren had argued the case heard by Pilkin and myself. Two of the venerable teachers of TA.1 were also present. Yet another attendant was the President of a charitable organisation – a fine lady in her mid-fifties.

All were gesticulating widely as they followed the onslaught of the two teams  battling each other in the field. And – according to their respective affiliations – they cheered loudly and enthusiastically to support their respective protégés. To my own surprise, I, too, got carried away. It suddenly downed on me that I had become a member of the crowd.

 

 

 

V.             EARLY YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP.

PILKIN’S HEART ATTACK

 

1.A budding actor

 

 

In most regards, my success at the  trial  remained  a Pyhrric   victory. In the minds of the public, a worn cliché – “there is no smoke without fire” – defeated the logical argument. Josephus’ reputation remained as tarnished as ever. All the same, the historical trial of the long deceased historian constituted  a milestone in my career. Recalling it vividly during the dinner in Pension Kegel, some 45 years after the event, I concluded that the prelude  to the  great football match remained my  neatest achievement as a lawyer.  Single handed, I had won a battle that took place in an unsympathetic, even prejudiced, forum. Relaxing in Pension Kegel’s comfortable sitting room as I sipped a cup of aromatic coffee, I  mused on the episode and on the major effect it introduced  into  my erstwhile  lonesome existence: it cemented a bond between Pilkin and myself.

            For before  long,  Pilkin  became a regular guest in our  flat  in  Melchett Street.  Occasionally,  he spent the mid-day break at my place  and  quite often   came  over in the evening for a game of chess, of dominoes  or  for  a reading  session.  After  a while, he confided that  he  had  difficulties  in memorising  the  ‘lines’ for his parts, especially when they came  from  older plays imbued with archaisms. Keen to assist, I started  to  rehearse with  him. In the process, I noticed that  Pilkin’s deportment was imperfect. Fortunately, Shosh took the same view. Within a few months, we helped him to smooth his rough edges out. But our tutoring had  no  bearing  on Pilkin’s  day to day life! Off-stage,  he remained  ‘the  little elephant’.

 

            During the long vacation following our second year in TA.1, Pilkin became an active amateur actor. He played the mayor in Gogol’s  Country Inspector and  the  Malade Imaginaire and Volpone in Moliere’s plays. To the delight of his two most ardent admirers –  Shosh and myself – he also excelled as Sir John Falstaff. But his ace accomplishment was the title role in Tavyeh the Milkman.

The performance of Shalom Aleichem’s classic in the secondary schools of our era had become as mandatory as the staging of Shakespeare in English public schools. Years before the play proved a box-office success in its musical version of Fiddler on the Roof,  it had moved many hearts in Israel.  Tavyeh’s courage, tenacity and versatility left their impact on Israeli audiences despite the hero’s  absurd Yarmolka, his untidy Talith and his undignified attempts to fit into the hostile, uncouth, environment of  the crumbling Russian empire.

In the play, Tavyeh’s traditional outlook is put to the test by  his three daughters. He is scandalised but accepts his eldest daughter’s refusal to marry the wealthy widowed butcher to whom he had promised her hand. Grudgingly, Tavyeh gives his blessing to her betrothal to the poor Jewish tailor she loves. Tavyeh  is dejected – even forlorn – when he accompanies his second daughter to the railway station, where she is to board the train to Siberia in the hope of rejoining her radical, exiled, Jewish fiancé. But Tavyeh’s  philosophy fails him  when his youngest daughter elopes with a Cossack. All attempts to mollify  him fail until the entire Jewish community is expelled from the Stetl [village] in the course of  a government organised pogrom. When Tavyeh spots that his third daughter and her husband are also leaving, he gives them his blessing.

I have watched performances of both the play and the musical on  stages in Europe, in America and  in Asia. Some shows were excellent, others just good and the rest indifferent. Naturally, the settings of dedicated theatres were superior to the props put up by our school. But although many renowned ensembles boasted  excellent actors, none came up with  a  Tavyeh  equal to Pilkin. Once he entered the stage, Pilkin ceased to be ‘the little elephant’ and metamorphosed into Shalom Aleichem’s hero.

            During our last year in TA.1, Pilkin became a much sought after Tavyeh. He played the role in performances of other secondary schools, in shows put up by youth ensembles of  our city theatres and on the invitation of political clubs. His success stood him in goods stead when he embarked on his two and a half  years of military service. After the ordinary spell in the barracks, he was transferred to the pampered ‘entertainment corps’. He thrived and, in addition, incurred the envy of our lesser classmates, who had to slog their way through mundane and taxing army units. 

 

2.Becoming a lawyer

 

            I alone had no cause for resentment. Due to my poor health and weak constitution the medical board turned me down. In consequence, I enrolled in the Faculty of Law in Jerusalem straight after my last year in TA.1. By the time Pilkin asked for a transfer to the Officers Training Corps, which opened the way to a career in the army, I had completed my second year of studies and, with my heart in my mouth, called on Jacob Keren.

To my delight, Keren engaged me straightaway as a ‘probationary cadet’. Thereafter I shuttled regularly between the Law School in Jerusalem and my tiny office at Jacob Keren & Associates in Rothschild Boulevard in Tel Aviv. In the process, I gradually developed from a starry eyed schoolboy into a young, down to earth, lawyer.

 Pilkin and I met from time to time during these times of hope. On each occasion, he  amused me with  indiscreet tales about feats of the army and about his affairs with mysterious and only too willing girls. All in all, I was gratified by his general progress in the military and particularly by the praise lavished on his performances on the stage, such as his appearance as  Schweik  in the  party given to celebrate the graduation of his group of trainee officers.

At the same time, I could not close my eyes to his limitations. Pilkin excelled  only  in dramatic parts imbued with a touch of irony or ridicule. He was lamentable as  Mark Anthony  in  Julius Caesar, ruined  Peer Gynt and failed miserably in his  characterisation of  Lennie in Steinbeck’s  Of Mice and Men. Another cause for concern was his inability to come to terms with secondary parts. Pilkin felt the need to be in the centre. Even when out of the limelight he sought to focus attention on himself. Initially, Shosh and I tried to reason with him but, after a while,  realised that our protestations fell on deaf ears.

            Pilkin’s eccentricity led to many raised eyebrows when he returned to the army’s entertainment corps as a two stripped officer. To my dismay, Shosh confided she had heard talk about his imminent transfer to a less prestigious unit. Events, though, took an unexpected  turn.

 

2.Pilkin’s heart attack

 

One morning, when I was trying to unravel a legal problem in a complex case, I was startled by the ominous bellowing of the telephone. Preparing myself for the onslaught of  my impatient employer, I picked the receiver up with trepidation. To my surprise,  it was Shosh.

“Eli,  haven’t you heard about Chayim?”  Shosh aspired to rid our ancestors’ ancient tongue from alien implants. So she  disowned nicknames, like ‘Bushi’, that ‘did not sound right’.

“Did anything happen to him? Not a shot gun marriage, I hope?”

“That’s not funny, Eli! And no – nothing like that. Chayim had a heart attack a few days ago!”

“What?”

“So you haven’t heard about it!”

“I wouldn’t be here if I had,” I let my annoyance show.

“Well, yes – I know. But of course one can never be sure. We haven’t seen much of you lately!”

“How did it happen?”

“They had a wild party: plenty to drink and I don’t know what else. And   next morning they had to  take him to hospital.”

“Where is he?”

“In Jerusalem, in Hadassah – he  came up from Ramleh to see some chaps from the theatre!”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m spending a fortnight with  Uzi’s family. One of Pilkin’s pals rang me.”

“I’ll  call you from the Jerusalem this evening. I’ll be there at about 6.30.”

 

            The ward had a synthetic aroma of hygiene. Everything appeared tidy, neat and well managed. Pilkin, alas, looked haggard. His cheeks were sunk, his eyes lacklustre and his hair was unkempt and untidy. The lower part of his enormous, immobile, bulk rested on a large air ring placed above the mattress. Gone was the ‘little elephant’. Lying in front of me was a felled bull. 

As I entered the ward, Pilkin’s gaze was fixed, dejectedly, on some invisible object on the ceiling. When, eventually, his glance shifted to me, he nodded and a ghost of a smile descended on his pale, dispirited, face.

“So you have  deigned to come over, Lord Bushi – at long last?”

“I  found out only  this morning, Pilkin. Shosh rang me.”

“Hope the toll call didn’t bankrupt her!”

“Come off it, Pilkin! You’re behaving like a spoiled brat!”

“And suppose I am?”

“Bitterness hurts the sufferer – how often did you tell me this?”

“Often enough,” he muttered. “But just now I can’t get over it. It’s all so monstrously unfair!”

“It probably is; but – then – who said life’s fair?”

“True,” he agreed sadly. “And, Bushi, I didn’t mind the pain; the helplessness; the nuisance of having to lie still; and the smell of the ward. I can handle these.”

“What then?”

“I can’t go to the ‘loo! They put a pan under me; and then they carry it out; pfui!”

“Don’t be silly; you are in  a hospital.”

“I know; but it’s humiliating!”

“It’ll soon be over. You’ll be out, well and kicking before long!”

“They’ll keep me here for another two or three weeks. And then I’ll be housebound for two or three months.  David and his friends will have to carry me upstairs  when I’m  back in Tel Aviv. And it’ll be years before I can run up the stairs again! I’ll have to climb up like a zombie.”

“That’ll be a nuisance; but – at least – you’ll be free to come and go,” I consoled him.

“I suppose that something!” he retorted.

 

For a while I sat silently beside him, having nothing to say.  When the silence became oppressive, I asked with trepidation: “What will you do when you are out of here?  But I suppose there’ll be time enough to think of that?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“Well?”

“I’ll have three options: the army will not offer me a permanent job but I think they’ll give me a year or two on probation, to see how it goes. The pay’s quite good but I shan’t accept: the army is for the well and fit! Another opening is  TA.1. They’ve asked me to come back as a teacher. Enrolling in the Teacher’s Training Course is a pre-requisite. But the three years  scholarship I’ll get on my discharge from the army will see me through. It’s a quite an attractive opening!”

“When did they ask you?”

“Last year. But I’m sure this business  makes no difference!”

“So you’ll accept?”

“No, Bushi. My scholarship is OK  for three years at the University and I can give some private tuition to see me through the rest of the course. This way I can study  art and get ready for a career on the stage. And that’s what I always wanted!”

“So that’s what you’ll do?”

“Precisely!” He replied in a changed tone.

“Wouldn’t it be safer to enrol in  Law, Accountancy or perhaps Architecture?”

“But I’m not interested in that stuff!”  His animated voice, eager expression and determined air brought a smile to my face. Just for the moment he was – once again – my Pilkin of old!

“I’ll cross my fingers for you,” I assured him.

“Thanks. I’ll need all the support and luck I can get!”

 

Some three weeks later Pilkin was transferred to his mother’s flat in Tel Aviv. His recovery took time. Initially, staircases were proscribed. For some two months he was housebound. Then, gradually, he started to take one set or stairs down from his mother’s apartment on the 4^th floor and climbed back.  After some three months he was once again mobile. Still, he had to walk slowly and, I noticed, had to hold on to the rails whenever possible. It was clear that the heart attack had taken its toll.

During the entire period,  I visited him  regularly. Frequently, I  brought some books with   me. In addition, I cheered him up by telling him news about my office work and by relating gossip about  former classmates.

 

3. Dreaming Beyond Revovery

 

It was during one such visit that Pilkin came up with a grand idea. To start with, he pointed out that, all in all, we were untravelled, even parochial. Trips to distant lands, such as India, were unfortunately beyond our means. But he thought that a  trip to Europe was feasible. Italy and  Greece were his priorities.

“Also, Bushi, I want to see Turkey?”

“Eh?”

“It is the corridor leading from the Middle East to Europe. And, Bushi, Istanbul must be fascinating. Think about the Haga Sophia. Originally built as Byzantine church, later on turned into a mosque and – in modern times – into a  museum.”

His words convinced me. I, too, wanted to see the places discussed by our History Master. Pilkin added that, in addition,  he wanted to watch overseas theatre performances. In this respect, Paris and London struck him as the most suitable places. I, in turn, told him I wanted to visit my father in Vienna.

Pilkin realised that his proposed  trip would be expensive. We should have to save hard for at least two years. All extravaganzas would have to be dropped in the meantime.  Once we had put aside enough cash, it would be time to go.

“But how about your health?” I asked with unease.

“I’ll be fine in a few months, as long as I don’t overdo things and take care of myself. And I sure will! I want to see the world, Bushi!”

            “It involves a risk, Pilkin.”

            “I know. But I won’t let this silly heart attack curb my life forever.”

 

 

 

 

VI.          OUR EUROPEAN TRIP

 

1.Turkey

 

It took us just over two years to save enough money. By then,  I had nearly finished my pupillage at Jacob Keren & Associates. Pilkin was slogging his way through his course at the Hebrew University and making every effort to shine on the stage.

 Sipping a second glass of Cognac in the comfortable dining room in Pension Kegel, I recalled with amusement the unadorned berth my friend and I had taken on a Turkish ship sailing along the coast of Anatolia to Istanbul. It had been a no-frills trip marked by the need to economise. Yet, despite the parsimony dictated by our circumstances, our adventure  had left a deeper impression on me than the many high class tours and neatly planned excursions I had enjoyed later on in life.

 

 In the ancient port city of Iskenderun, the sight of women in Purdah startled both us. In Israel, the attire (even the veil) had been dropped by Arab girls for years. During the subsequent stops of the ship, we were captivated by the sprawling market in Mersin, although both of us closed our nostrils as we passed by the bags of salted fish, and by the beauty of ancient Izmir. Unexpectedly, we had traversed back in time, from modern and prosaic Tel Aviv to an environment we should have known from our books but which, in reality, was alien. I recall vividly how a taxi driver  drove in a remarkable zigzag as we returned to the port from Izmir Peak along the steep and poorly formed road. When, at long last, I managed to convey our concern, he explained he had to proceed in this manner because his car had no brakes. It seemed best not to translate his retort to my bewildered friend.

            We felt more at home in Istanbul, where Pilkin secured us a room in a youth hostel. After a few hours of rest, we proceeded, as planned, to the notorious district whose fair occupants had contributed so much to the history of the town founded by Constantin the Great. For a while we watched the demi-monde women, smiling at passers by from the windows of their ramshackle houses. Then, as planned, we separated, agreeing to meet ‘later on’.

 

Pilkin arrived at our rendezvous some twenty minutes later than expected. To my surprise, he was scowling. “Well, how was it?” he wanted to know.

“Awful!” I admitted. “She did her best to finish me off as fast as possible. It was disgusting – might as well have pulled myself off!”

“What language,” muttered Pilkin, trying to keep a straight face. “But, Bushi, did you pay straight away?”

“Well, yes; she told me that was ‘the custom’!”

“No wonder she rushed you off!”

“And you? I suppose you got a better deal? “

“To tell you the truth – not really!”

“But then what took you so long?”

“I haggled with her. So she told me all about her drunken father; her sick mother in hospital; her younger sister with her two bastards;  her twin brother in jail and her nephew without shoes!”

“How about her grandmother?”

“We didn’t get that far! I gave in  after the ‘nephew’!”

“How much did you pay the bitch?”

“25 lira!”

“That’s what I paid!” I conceded, adding with a touch of Schdenfreude, “and without a fuss! But what happened after you struck a bargain!”

“She got me off in a flash. Said she had to visit her sick mother. But she promised me a discount if I came again tomorrow!”

“Pfui,” said I.

“Stunk” sighed Pilkin.

“Might as well have saved our pennies,” I muttered. “Think about it: we work like coolies for two years and then throw the money away on two brainless tarts!   Might as well have stayed in tonight!”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Pilkin thoughtfully.

“Well, we might have gone to a show or a concert?”

“But, Bushi, what would our friends say if we hadn’t had a go? They’d call us chickens and worse!”

“And what will they say when we tell them!”

“But we won’t tell them the truth!”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll tell them it was exhilarating – a touch of real life!”

“And next thing is some harmless clods  will also get cheated because they believe us?”

“Just as we made fools of ourselves because we listened to the nonsense of  some other yokels!”

“Oh, very well,” I agreed, thinking that equality was rough justice.

            We were by then well past the red lights district. Suddenly, a delicious aroma struck my nostrils and the sight of the  Shwarma, rotating on the spit in the window of the small Donner Kebab stall, made my mouth water. A swift glance at Pilkin confirmed that he, too, was going through agonies.

“Well, how about, Mr. Chief Treasurer?” I coaxed.

“It smells good, Bushi,” he groaned. “But we’ve spent too much money today. We’ll come back tomorrow or the day after. We must be prudent!”

“I know,” I capitulated and walked on briskly. Initially, Pilkin followed resolutely in my steps. Then, deliberately, he turned round on his heels.

“Bushi, I dropped my note-book; I’m sure I took it with me. We better  look for it. Let’s walk back!”

“Of course,” I volunteered, although I recalled vividly that, just before we went out,  Pilkin had hid his note-book beneath the false bottom of his suitcase. When we were again in front  the Shwarma stall, Pilkin succumbed.

“The hell with money: its smell’s delicious. Let’s have one! We’ll go without lunch tomorrow!”

“Amen!” said I.

 

The vendor smiled at us sympathetically as we produced our crumpled notes. Taking in my friend’s enormous bulk, he added some extra scraps of mutton to what was, in any event, a generous helping.  Munching away with zest, I concluded that gluttony was a sin more rewarding than lust.

            During the next few days we went to the museums, to the Blue Mosque and to St. Sophia. All were fascinating. We also took a trip along the Golden Horn and another to the ancient citadel policing the sea route to the Marmara sea.  We were, of course, aware that, in modern times, Istanbul did not occupy a place similar to ancient Constantinople. It had long lost its status as one of the major centres of the old world. But, even so, the splendours of the ancient town made us gasp. The porcelain museum, in particular, made me open my eyes wide.

Although we used public transport and took advantage of all discounts available to students, our meagre funds were dwindling fast. The Shwarma and Falafel stalls, the brilliant cafés – each of which appeared quite inexpensive in itself – produced their domino effect. We were perusing our accounts with concern, when my favourite Goddess – Fortuna – sent us her angel, clad as a middle aged, one eyed Turk, with a sharp goatee and a sizeable paunch.

“You two boys want work?” he asked in broken English.

“Yes,” said the spokesman, viewing him with overt suspicion.

“My tour guide is hospital! Porter tells me small chap speak German.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“You now guide. I pay  35 Lira a day and you get tips!”

“But I know very little about Istanbul!”

“Here is book for guide. You learn.”

“And my friend?”

 

For a while Mercury scratched his beard. He then came up with a splendid offer. His ‘Organisation’ was running a gambling joint. Pilkin would be paid 50 Lira a day for acting as scout. If there was any sign of the police he had to take off his hat and scratch his left ear. The policemen were uniformed and so easy to spot.

            We served our new boss loyally for two weeks. In the process, I acquired an expertise in the history and demography of the ancient capital of Byzantium. Pilkin, in turn, developed into a master spy, with an understanding of Istanbul’s underworld. As we counted our accumulated earnings at the end of the period, we discovered it added up to more than the modest amount we had at the beginning of the journey. Thanking our cycloped benefactor warmly, we promised to be again at his service on our next trip.

 

2.On wards

 

The sense of financial security, prompted me to propose that  we take the train to Saloniki. Pilkin exercised his veto. Wealth, he asserted solemnly,  should not ‘go to a sane man’s head’! The appropriate procedure was to get free passage.

Making myself comfortable in the neat dining room of Pension Kegel – some 40 years after our jaunt  – I could not help smiling at the financial prudence accommodated by youth and high spirit. Who from amongst  my long line of students  –  in New Zealand, in Australia and in Singapore – would believe that his  grey faced, bald headed, Professor had ever contemplated as undignified an act as ‘bumming a ride’?  The truth is that ‘Prof.’ had waited patiently in a queue of youngsters, at the outskirts of Istanbul, until the kindly driver of a goods truck offered him and his portly friend a trip to  the desired destination!

            In the event, Salonika was a disappointment: yet another prosaic town without  character. We were equally disenchanted with the Thermopylae. The  modern coastline and mountain pass bore no trace of the heroic  stand of Leonidas and his Spartans.

To my relief Pilkin came to life in Athens. We were relaxing  in the ancient amphitheatre, each  lost in his thoughts, when Pilkin got up, raised his right arm majestically, and recited without a flaw the sparkling Hebrew translation of a passage from  Iphigenia in Aulis.

“Brilliant,” I said, clapping enthusiastically. “So this is where Euripides staged his plays!”

“And the stupid Athenians  pelted him with mud!”

“And that fool of an Aristophanes parodied him,” I muttered in disgust.

“Out of  envy  – surely,” observed  Pilkin, who admired Lysistrata and The Birds.

“Quite,” I admitted, adding after a pause: “So this is the way to see Athens!”

“How?”

“By experiencing the atmosphere and charm of this modern town whilst recalling, when possible, the glory of the past!”

“I agree,” nodded Pilkin.

 

            This sensible orientation stood us in good stead during our days in the Greek Islands, in Corinth, during the short visit  to  Mycenae and on our trip south to the ruins of Sparta. Then, after a few days in Kalama, we were engaged as crewmen on a freighter sailing to the  Bay of Naples.

 

Both of us enjoyed Italy.  Notwithstanding his portly expanse, Pilkin joined me on the climb to St. Michele in Anacapri. After a fierce argument, he accepted my views about Tiberius Caesar. With some chagrin, he conceded that  an emperor who retreated  from the hustle and bustle of Rome to the peace and quiet of this enchanting spot could not have been as evil as depicted in The Twelve Caesars.  He grinned when I told him fiercely, that Markus Suetonius was yet another unreliable historian.

            “You are not thinking of Josephus, by any chance. You made a reasonable argument to exonerate him from treason. But wasn’t he unreliable and gullible?”

            “Oh well,” I gave way.

We had comparable, political and sociological arguments, as we visited the shrines of Rome, the museums of Florence, the Scala and The Last Supper  in Milan and the Piazza St. Marco in Venice.  Throughout the inspiring trip, we replenished our ever dwindling funds by securing odd  jobs in bars, in restaurants and in other establishment  that thrived on the toil of  lowly paid transient employees.

            After some deliberation we agreed to proceed to our next destination – Genoa – on a night train. To our surprise, the conductor offered us a first class cabin for a small handout. Making ourselves comfortable in this luxurious accommodation, both of us soon fell soundly asleep.

 

3.Zermatt

 

When the brusque knocking on the door brought us back into our surroundings, the sun was glimpsing  warmly through the window blinds of the cabin. A glance at the watch told me it was close to 8.00 a.m.

“Quite a long trip for such a short distance,” muttered Pilkin as we munched the sandwiches we had got in Venice.

“I suppose the train stopped for a while on the way,” I guessed.

“Maybe,” said Pilkin.

            Even after we alighted, we were  pondering about the length of the journey. The mystery was solved when Pilkin, who was looking in amazement at the large lake and fountain in front of us, bumped into a passer by.

“Salud,” yelled the fellow as he pulled away.

“I thought ‘Porco’ would be more like it,” commented Pilkin as his protagonist rushed on.

“Quite,” I agreed, “but, Pilkin, something’s not quite right. Listen to them talking! They speak French – don’t they? And this fountain and lake – do they look like the Bay of Genoa?”

“Well?”

“Pilkin,” I said, having just noticed the signpost of the station, “Pilkin – do you know where we are?”

 “Don’t keep poor me in suspense!”

“We are in Geneva! That idiot in the ticket office confused the issues.”

            For a few moments Pilkin gazed at me dumbfounded. Then, oblivious to the hostile glances bestowed on us by the seriously minded populace, he burst into peels of hilarious laughter. Before long, I joined in his mirth.

“So we gave Columbus’ birthplace a miss,” guffawed Pilkin, “and landed in the City of Calvin; not bad – for a pair of ‘greenhorns’!”

“What are we to do?” I asked when I recovered.

“Make the most of it, of course,” retorted Pilkin, soothingly. “After all, what’s wrong with Geneva?”

“Nothing! Except that it wasn’t our destination!”

“So what? So we’ll put it on our map!”

            For three days we toured the ancient capital of the French speaking Canton. The Clocks Museum, the Voltaire Museum and, above all, the Art Gallery were alluring. So were the lengthy walks along the shores of Lake Laman and through the old city.

 It was towards the end of the third day, that I noticed that Pilkin was dragging his feet and, occasionally, slurring his speech. Alarmed, I had a word with the matron in charge of the youth hostel who, we had been told, was a nurse by training.  She listened patiently and, after some reflection, suggested the  trip must have been too tiring for my friend. She counselled a few days of rest in a quiet, even secluded, place. As neighbouring Montreux was expensive, she recommended we move on to the mountain resort of Zermatt, distinguished by its peaceful atmosphere and by the absence of any motorised traffic except electric cars. She offered to secure us a suitable room at an inexpensive establishment patronised by  young mountaineers.

            For years to come, I had a vivid  recollection of  splendours of our trip to the Resort – my very first glimpse of the Swiss Alps, of the spreading green valleys and of the snowy peeks high above them. Pilkin and I were enchanted. My own visits in later years underscored my original admiration.

 

For a while I kept thinking of the past. Then the lights of the dining room in Pension Kegel were discretely dimmed. Glancing at my watch, I realised it was well past 10.00 p.m. and that I was the only patron left in the spacious hall. Mumbling my apologies, I appended my initials to the bill. After a short walk to the deserted centre of town, I returned to Pension Kegel and climbed up the stairs leading to my room. In no time, I fell fast asleep.

 

 

VII.       THE RENDEVOUX

 

1.Leah

 

Early next morning, as the Matterhorn emerged in its splendour at the first rays of light, I resumed my vigil. Soon the electric cars started to arrive from the station but the patrons alighting  from them bore no resemble to my Pilkin of old. By 9.00 a.m. I threw in the towel. For all I knew, Pilkin might be snoring  in a comfortable room in some other hotel in Zermatt. Despite his formidable size, he constituted a needle not easily pinpointed in the haystack of the buoyant flow of tourists in the popular resort.

            After  a lavish breakfast buffet, I proceeded along the short bridge and the small church abutting on it to a mountain train climbing to an area distinct from Furi’s. As often before, I found the ride to a resort known as the Riffelalp exhilarating. For a while, I wandered along the tracks I had come to know so well. Eventually, as I caught my breath on a bench that had been there for years, my eyes strayed back to a trip Pilkin and I had enjoyed so may years earlier.

            On the advice of a local physician – a solemn Swiss gentleman in his late forties –  we had  refrained from taking any of the rides to the imposing glaciers  surrounding us. Furi and the Riffelalp alone were within our reach. After three days of comfortable strolls, Pilkin’s face had regained its colour and his voice its vigour and resonance. 

Our only adventure took place as we were sitting side by side on the very bench I had kept coming back to in later years. We were deeply engrossed in a debate of a banal question. In Switzerland four distinct races had coexisted in relative harmony during a period in which the rest of Europe practised communal slaughter and savagery. Obviously, the Swiss were a  civilised people. Why then had they contributed so very little to literature, music and the arts?

“Is it possible that culture needs the stimulus of discord?” asked Pilkin.

 

Before I had the chance to reply, a mellow voice broke in: “Two Israelis opining on civilisation?” She used the plain Hebrew of our era, but  a touch of sarcasm was readily discernable.

            Turning around in unison, we faced an attractive girl a few years older than us. Her smart clothes, confident manner and relaxed posture left their impact. Pleased with our reaction, she rewarded us with a warm smile.

“I’m Leàh Cohen! I’m from Herzliya.” Her voice had now lost its amused overtone.

“I’m Chayim Rosenne,” replied Pilkin, making his recovery, “but my friends call me Pilkin. And this is Eli Berger – or, rather, Bushi. We come from Tel Aviv!”

“Nice to meet both of you,” she observed complacently. “And what brings you here?”

“Just a break,” I found my voice at long last. “And you?”

“Same thing!”

“Care to join us?” asked Pilkin.

“Sure,” she said.

            For the rest of the morning the three of us kept treading along the pleasant Alpine paths. Leàh was at home in the idyllic surroundings. Obviously, she had visited them before.  We had lunch together in a small café and then wound our way back to the mountain-train station.

“Shall we take a ride further up the slope?” Leàh asked eagerly. “You get a magnificent view up there?”

“Perhaps better not,” counselled Pilkin, his eyes avoiding mine. “Eli has  Asthma and the thin air may not be too good for him!” 

“Also it’s no good for Pilkin,” I retorted, stung to the quick. “He had a heart attack some time ago and the doctor told him to avoid extreme heights!”

For just a moment, plain delight animated  Leàh’s attractive face and her eyes danced with merriment. Then, as she took in the furious stares Pilkin and I directed at one another, her expression sobered.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, boys, I, too, am not much of a mountaineer. I get dizzy. But occasionally I ignore it and let myself go. Still, if all three of us may be uncomfortable higher up, we better stick to the lower terrain. Have you two been to Furi?”

“We have,” replied Pilkin, back to his normal state of composure.

“Shall we then go there? It’s about the same height as the Riffelalp and just as lovely. Well, how about it?”

“We’d love to come with you,” I assured her while Pilkin expressed his agreement with a benign, grateful, smile.

Leàh’s  intervention calmed the waters. Despite my initial irritation, I had to admire her presence of mind and her smooth handling of an explosive situation. Obviously, there was more to her than good looks.

We spent the afternoon walking together along a mountain  track. Leàh, who was familiar with the area, amused us with tales about skirmishes that had taken place in this lovely corner of the Alps during the 17^th and 18^th centuries. Both of us agreed enthusiastically to spend the following day together with her.

 

 

Having seen Leàh back to her hotel, Pilkin and I walked in a sombre mood to our considerably less elegant lodgings. Although Leàh’s smart handling had averted a storm, the  exchange of words and of angry stares weighed heavily on both of us. In the event, I took the initiative.

“Pilkin, I don’t know what came over me!” I told him contritely.

“Same here,” muttered Pilkin. “For once, both of us behaved like …”

“… savages?”

“No, Bushi, not savages.  Like brainless louses, rather!”

“But what made us do it, Pilkin? We never try to score off one another? Why this time?”

“Because Leàh’s sexy and  we are  young unattached males. And because both of us fancied her!”

“Pfui to both us, then! For all we know, she was just bored and wanted some company. So what made us act like stupid assholes?”

“Stop being melodramatic, Bushi. Leàh’s an eligible girl – from our own  milieu – and both of  us responded to normal impulses. So let’s not turn a mole  into an anthill!”

“And she bloody well enjoyed it!”

“Only for a second, Bushi; any woman would! But she smoothed things out very nicely! All in all,  she behaved beautifully. And you have to admit: she is a cool one!”

“True. But how about the way we acted, Pilkin?”

“Let’s just forget about it.  Let’s enjoy our outing with her tomorrow. And, Bushi, I think she’s … committed. Something tells me she’s waiting for her steady.”

“So why didn’t they fly down together? You think he’s married?”

“Maybe; or maybe he’s a Swiss Jew from Zürich or Basle coming up for the weekend?”

“Oh, very well: we’ll find out tomorrow!”

 

We had a pleasant morning with Leàh, strolling happily along the pleasant paths. When we got tired, Leàh unpacked a picnic basket and watched gleefully the healthy appetites displayed – shamelessly – by Pilkin and myself. Because Pilkin skipped the fine raw ham and pork sausages,  I had the lion’s share of the generous meal.

Leàh’s relaxed airs encouraged Pilkin and me to talk about our backgrounds and to reveal our aspirations for the future. She, in turn, told us what had brought her to Zermatt. About two years earlier, when she was employed as a travel guide in Tel Aviv, Leàh  had met Rolf – the scion of a prosperous Swiss Jewish family. He fell for her, took her out for a lavish dinner in the fashionable Dan Hotel by the beach of Tel Aviv and, before long, returned to Israel to pursue his interest.

 A year later she flew down to Zürich to meet his parents. She had  reservations about their closely knit, rather bigoted community. But she became increasingly fond of Rolf and sensed they could enjoy a good and stable marriage. The difficulty was the need of giving up her home. Despite the wealth and comforts Rolf was able to provide, Leàh was loath to make the move. Rolf,  who was a patient man,  bided his time,  hoping to win her over. His mother, though, was getting restive: she was yearning for a grandson.

            Placing the utensils back into the picnic basket as we were getting ready to make our way back to the train  station, Leàh confided she had to make  her decision next day.

“You see,” she explained, “Rolf is coming up from Zürich tomorrow. We’re spending the weekend together. And I’ve promised to tell him ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ by Monday.”

“But why don’t you suggest you  settle together in Israel?” I asked in the direct manner common amongst young Israelis in those remote, golden, days.

“Rolf is with a well known Swiss bank,” she explained. “His place is in Zürich; or perhaps later on in New York. He’s got no future in Israel!  And I can’t see myself leaving my home …   even if  the move is to an affluent town like Zürich. I’m an Israeli born and bred.”

“I understand,” I assured her. “But why can’t you marry him, settle in Zürich and fly back to Israel once or twice a year? This way you won’t uproot yourself!”

“That’s what my father says,” she replied. “But I don’t want to become a tourist at home. I want to spend my life in Israel. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Pilkin.

“And you, Bushi?”

“It’s your decision, Leàh,” I said after  a pause. “You must do what’s right for yourself!”

“Wouldn’t you stay in Tel Aviv even if you could build up a  better life abroad?” she wanted to know.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed.

“And you, Pilkin?”

“It’s difficult to look into the crystal ball. But the way I feel now: Israel is my home.”

“But you want to be an actor, Pilkin,” she persevered. “Suppose you’re offered a good opening  on a foreign stage?”

“I might go; but with the hope of coming back! Still, as Bushi says, this type of decision is strictly personal. You’ve got to make your own choice. And, Leàh, money is important; but it’s not everything.”

“You are, of course, right: I mean both of you. And I’ve already made up my mind. But it won’t be easy to tell Rolf. He’s a dear and he’s in love with me.”

            For the rest of the day, Pilkin and I made genuine efforts to cheer Leàh up. In due course, her face brightened. When she excused herself for a while, Pilkin suggested we take her out for a farewell dinner at the elegant restaurant of the Zermattschein. After weeks of frugal living, we could  afford the gesture. It would also be a celebration marking the end of our trip.

Initially Leàh would not hear of it. In the end, though, she agreed. When the splendid meal in Zermatt’s best restaurant was over, she insisted on going Dutch. As she was  better off  than ourselves, Pilkin – exercising his role as treasurer – accepted. Smiling with satisfaction, she further insisted on  treating us to a liqueur. It was my first taste of Pfümlei.

 

 

A gust of fresh wind, blowing down from the peaks, conveyed to me that, once again, I had become immersed in the past.  I was now an aging man. Neither Leàh nor Pilkin were with me on the Riffelalp.

Smiling sadly, I realised that the splendid excursion with Leàh had taken place some forty years earlier.   Indeed, like Pilkin and myself, Leàh Cohen – if, indeed, she was still known by this  name – had turned into a member of the older generation. Who was the lucky guy who had stepped with her  under the canopy? What had become of her? How many children and grandchildren could she boast of after all these years?

Tightening my leather jacket around me, I took the track leading to the small local restaurant.  I had patronised it many times in the course of the last forty years and, on each occasion, had reflected on our encounter with Leàh. After years in Anglo-Saxon societies, her lack of reserve when  she had talked to casual acquaintances like us, appeared alien. At the time, though, it had seemed natural. Whilst, in many regards,  Israeli society constituted a closed shop, communications between those counted “in” – or, in other words, members of the community –  were open and frank to the extreme. That explained also the last conversation of Pilkin and myself on the final day of our trip.

 

2. We plan a reunion

 

It had been a warm and pleasant day but, toward dusk, it started to drizzle. After a simple meal in an Italian eatery, we made ourselves comfortable in the small sitting room of our hostel. For a while, both of were immersed in the daily newspapers. Eventually, Pilkin, who had read the Herald Tribune, pushed the paper away and said it would be refreshing to regain access to the Israeli press. Countering my sullen retort about the parochial orientation of our newspapers, he observed that the Herald Tribune had New York written all over its pages and that The Times was as broad minded as Gunga Din! He let his irritation show when I opined that, even so,  the international press  “was still twice the ‘man’ than” ours.

To avoid an altercation, Pilkin turned back to the Herald Tribune. When he raised his eyes from it, he looked at me reflectively. For a moment, I thought he intended to revert to our argument. His expression, though, indicated that his thoughts had strayed in a different direction.

“We’ll have to disagree about the Press, Bushi. But  I want to bring up another point – about yourself, actually!”

“Oh?”

“It has been bothering me since our chat with Leàh; I mean,  about Rolf. I’ve been asking myself, Bushi, whether you would be as keen as her  to spend the rest of life in Israel?”

“My training is for a legal career at the Israeli Bar.”

“True. But – socially – aren’t you more at home abroad than in Israel? I watched you throughout the trip, Bushi. You were more self assured in Istanbul, Athens, Rome and here than back in Tel Aviv. You fitted into all foreign environments without effort: more readily than on social occasions at home. I remembered how awkward you were at my officers corps party. And you were always relieved when a Kumsitz was over. Am I right?”

“You may be right,” I conceded.

“But why, Bushi?”

“Outside Israel nobody expect me to conform. I can do as I like – that is, within reason and as long as I don’t  break the law. At home, you have to fit in; and  I’m not really ‘with it’, Pilkin!”  

“And you are a non-conformist at heart – you demonstrated it in the Josephus trial!”

“I am. And I don’t think I’ll change my outlook!”

“Which means that if you find a good opening away from home you might go ahead.”

“I might. I said so to Leàh. Well do you condemn me as a Yored – a deserter or renegade?”

 

For once, Pilkin hesitated. Acting out of character, he  chose his words with extreme care, as people do when they tread on thin ice. I realised he feared that any blunt words, be they as innocent as may be,  might hurt my sensitivities. Like myself, he was aware that, despite the closeness that had grown between us,  a certain gap – an unseen barrier – had remained in place.

“No, Bushi,” he said at long last. “I don’t sit in judgment. You have the right to make your own choice. But you are my friend. And so I want to make sure we won’t lose track of one another even if – in years to come – we take diverse routes!”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let’s have a rendezvous! In precisely 40 years from today we meet again here in Zermatt for a reunion dinner! We’ll tell one another our life stories without camouflage. And we’ll follow these up with a post mortem.  If both of us are still in Israel, we can travel together. But if  you live abroad, each of us makes his separate way to this place.”

“But, Pilkin, we’ll be in our sixties – two aging men! Will we recognise one another?”

“Perhaps not. But this can be taken care of. We’ll have our dinner in the Zermattschein! And I’ll book our table in you name!”

“Why not in yours?”

“Because I might change it!”

“Again? You’ve already dropped ‘Rosenberg’ and picked up “Rosenne’?”

“But every ‘Rosenberg’, ‘Rosenzweig’, ‘Rosenbaum’, ‘Rosneblum’ and ‘Rosen-I-know-not- what’ goes for ‘Rosenne’. It’ll soon be an Israeli ‘Schmidt’ or ‘Brown’!”

“Well, there are plenty of ‘Bergers’. But I’m going to stick to it. If it was good enough for my grandfather, it’s good enough for me! A name’s not a label!”

“To my mind, it’s nothing but a label, bestowed on many of our ancestors by capricious European rulers. Still,  in many ways you, Bushi, are a Tory! So it’ll be safer to book the table  under ‘Eli’, or – better still – under ‘Peter Berger’.”

“But suppose the Zermattschein is no longer there?”

“Then I’ll look around for a good restaurant and I’ll leave a message for you at the Tourist Information Centre. Well, how about it then?”

“It’s a deal!  And  it’ll be a fascinating evening.  But, Pilkin,” I wished to get things straight, “this rendezvous does not mean we have to avoid one another when we are in Israel?”

“Of course not. But regardless of what the future has in store for us: in forty years precisely we meet in Zermatt.”

            “I’ll look forward to the occasion,” I assured him.

 

            The object of my trip to Zermatt,  forty years thereafter, was to keep our rendezvous.  As I entered the restaurant on the  Riffelalp, as  a  grey faced man in his sixties, I recalled vividly the  unforgettable conversation we had in our youth.

I also recalled our parting in the railway station on the last morning of our anabasis.  I was about to board a train to Zürich and onward to Vienna, where I planned to spend a few days with my father. Pilkin had decided to proceed to Paris: he wanted to familiarise himself with the French stage!  Thereafter, he planned to proceed to London. Each of us had been  ready to embark on our respective journeys.

 

VIII.    INTERMEZZO

 

1.Meandering about life

 

As I relaxed over lunch in a booth table in the mountain establishment on the Riffelalp, I kept reflecting on the forty years that had passed since the days spent by Pilkin and me in Zermatt. Professionally, I had made it. Although I was not destined to develop into a court room virtuoso, it had not taken me long to rise from strength to strength in Jacob Keren & Associates. Initially, I had worked with Hannah Hod,  the scion of an old Jewish family from Hamburg, who was a few years my senior. We won many of our cases and, in the process, developed a good, even if unromantic, friendship.

When Hannah took up the job of in-house counsel at an insurance company, I was assigned to work with Rachel Zeitlin, an attractive woman some seven years older than me. She used to live in Jerusalem but came down to Tel Aviv after her second divorce.

Rachel was a brilliant courtroom tactician whilst my strengths lay in working out the finer legal points of our cases and in spotting the dents in our opponents’ armour. In no time we gained the reputation of a formidable team. After one of our spectacular victories, we became lovers. My sporadic dates with Leàh, whom I had contacted a few weeks  after the Zermatt trip,  came to an end.

After a few months, Rachel brought our affair to an end. Shortly thereafter I left Israel and read for a doctorate in Oxford. Right from the start, my academic career went from strength to strength. An appointment in Singapore was followed by a Professorship in New Zealand, a better paid  Chair in Australia and, eventually, by a  return with my Chinese wife to  Singapore. Late in life, on the invitation of one of my former students, I took the bold step of moving into private practice. My swelling bank account witnessed my success. So did my substantial collection  of works of art.

I had less to boast of in my personal life.  My marriage in Singapore to a Chinese educated girl was unhappy. After  years of a strained relationship, no  love or affection remained on either side. As  both of  us were insecure, we simply stuck together. In due course,  work became both my escape and relaxation! It was only late in life – after a desperate attempt to salvage my marriage led me back to Singapore – that a friendship, albeit non-physical, with an attractive and highly intelligent woman half my age, brought a few rays of light into my life. 

 

A glance at my watch told me it was getting late.  Having settled the bill, I went back to the mountain train station on the Riffelalp.  As I took my seat back to Zermatt, I started to meander on the period preceding my  departure from Israel. I had spent these years in Jacob Keren’s firm in Tel Aviv. Pilkin was busy working on his Arts degree in Jerusalem. At the same time, he persevered with  his efforts to find a niche on the stage.  He had considerable success in comic roles – adding  French characters like Tartuffe – to his repertoire. In contrast, his numerous attempts to excel in serious dramatic roles were not crowned with success. He appeared to have a knack for irritating high minded  critics.

As Pilkin lived in Jerusalem while I was working in Tel Aviv, we saw little of one another during these years. Usually, even my day trips to the Law Library in Jerusalem were too fleeting to provide an opportunity for anything except a brief luncheon engagement in King George Street or a cup of coffee in the late afternoon in the Arts cafeteria. Our only other encounters took place in the weddings of mutual friends and in gatherings of our old classmate of TA.1.

None of these occasions gave us the chance for a heart to heart talk. Naturally, Pilkin and I were always glad to see one another. But I was, invariably, disturbed by my friend’s decline. The edge to his smile, the lacklustre of his eyes and his languid expression told their tale.   A particular cause for alarm was his demeanour in the party given by Shosh and her husband to celebrate the circumcision of their first son. Pilkin, who used to be the heart and soul of each festivity at school, stood by himself in a corner.  His face was set and he drank more than was good for him. Still, I experienced some comfort when he confided that, if he did not have a breakthrough on the stage in the foreseeable future, he would take up the post awaiting him at TA.1.

Some three months after that occasion, Rachel Zeitlin brought our relationship to its end. In public, I did my best to put up a stiff front. In the privacy of my own room, though, I felt that my world had caved in. Fortunately, I had by then become too experienced a hand to allow any  pressure to interfere with my professional commitments. In consequence, my work  did not suffer. But my existence in the office, side by side with an estranged Rachel,  had become unreal.

Jacob Keren – whose harsh mask disguised a kind heart and sensitive soul  – tried to smooth matters over for both of us. One of his ruses was to send me up to Jerusalem, whenever he found a suitable pretext, to carry out research required for complex files. Earlier on, I had been expected to take a train back to Tel Aviv as soon as I finished a project. After my fall, Keren encouraged me to take my time on each matter and, if necessary, take an afternoon off.

 

As the mountain-train sped through the Alpine landscape on its way back to Zermatt, I reflected on the sharp contrast between the everlasting magnificence of the cliffs and chasms and the impermanence of humanity. To me, the scenery appeared identical with the spectacular views that had captivated Pilkin and me forty years earlier. The mountains  and the snowy cliffs  were – and would remain – in their untouched primeval state. True, the persistent hand of Man had transformed the tracks here and there, had hewn fresh paths out of the rock and had erected new buildings. But the original planners and their workmen had been replaced by a younger generation, which in turn would give way to new men. Indeed, Pilkin and I, who had admired the same eternal view together – each with great expectations at heart – were by now reaching the other end of the tunnel. What had been a life-time to us, was but a fleeting moment in real terms!    

 

2. Chat with Pilikin prior to my move to Oxford

 

A similar feeling of transience, of inadequacy, had  engulfed me years earlier, in Jerusalem, when Jacob Keren’s kindness enabled me to visit Pilkin  after I had sorted out a particularly tricky file.   Pilkin was at that time sharing a flat on the outskirts of a fine suburb with some acquaintances. As  he was not contactable by ‘phone, I had arrived unannounced.

“So it’s you,” he said as he opened the door.

            “Who else?”

“Now, now: if I had to wait for your appearances, I should be a very lonely fellow!”

“Come, come, Pilkin: sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Oh, very well then: so come and step into my parlour!”

 

As I sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in Pilkin’s ramshackle room, I was distressed by the sparseness of the dilapidated furnishings and by Pilkin’s personal appearance and attire. He was unkempt and unshaved and, despite the chilly weather,  wore a shabby vest, a pair of untidy shorts and his bare feet were stuck into old sandals. Noting my apprehensive glance, he closed the window and switched on the electric heater.

“Thanks,” I said feebly, fastening my leather jacket around me.

“Don’t mention it. I hope you’re OK?”

“Of course; and you, Pilkin?”

“As well as can be expected. But, Bushi, what’s up? Such an unexpected call has a reason!”

“It has, Pilkin. I’ve come to say goodbye. I leave in a few weeks!”

“Where to? Vienna?”

“No, Pilkin: Oxford. I’m enrolling for a doctorate!”

“I thought you were doing very well in practice?”

“Well, I am – or was. But this is a new opening; and it’s coming at the  right time!”

            “The right time?” he mused. “Oh, I see: is it because Rachel Zeitlin and you have split?”

“How on earth do you know?”

“A little bird told me!”

“What’s her name?”

“Actually: the source is Rachel’s second ex: Ami Mor!”

“You know him? Isn’t he in the construction business?”

“He’s an architect. But his dream is to become a producer. So we’ve … common ground!”

“And how did he find out?”

“He still thinks of her!”

“I see!”   For a few moments both of us were immersed in our thoughts. Eventually, Pilkin broke the silence. Looking at me awkwardly, he volunteered: “Bushi;  if you want to tell me about it – go ahead. Only don’t you end up resenting me because you blabbered. It happened to me  with other friends.”

“I’m not that perverse. And, yes: I want to tell you about it. I’ve kept mum up to now; and I can’t stand it any longer. But, first, tell me about yourself. How are you doing?”

“Not too well. You won’t see me on stage in Ha’bimah or the Kameri,” he replied with a shrug, referring to the two leading theatres of Tel Aviv.

“But you’ve done well as  Polonius and as Falstaff!”

“In minor theatres; amongst amateurs! And the Kameri turned me down for Lennie! I wanted that role; wanted it badly! And have you read that review of my Uncle Vania?”

“It was unfair! We saw you. You were OK! Still, what’ll you do?”

“I’m giving myself another five months! If I don’t have a breakthrough, it’s back to TA.1!”

“Is this so terrible?” I asked, perturbed by his mournful tone. “Ben-Zvi, Frank and that Simple Simon were a happy enough lot!”

“I know, Bushi. I keep telling myself teaching’s a noble job.”

“Well?”

“But I want to be an actor! I crave the limelights, Bushi!”

“I know! But surely, Pilkin, a good teacher is a bit of an actor! Remember how old Klein used to draw hyperbolas and parabolas in front of him to make his points!”

“True. Still,  teachers and lawyers use acting as a tool – not as an art in itself. And that’s what acting is all about!”

“But who can get everything he wants, Pilkin?”

“Have you ever taken a fall, Bushi? Do you know what it feels like?”

“I do know! I too have taken falls!”

“In you career?”

“Yes!”

“Oh! I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. And, Bushi, here you are – on your way to the top!”

“It ain’t that simple, Pilkin!”

“What d’you mean?”

“I wanted to be  courtroom virtuoso, Pilkin – like Jacob Keren!”

“And?”

“I haven’t got it in me. My timing is bad and I’m too slow on my feet. My strength is in planning the strategy in tough cases and in booby trapping opponents. I’m good at that! Even better than Keren! But my execution is poor. So I’m bound to remain a support person. And there goes the great dream.”

“You were pretty good in our Josephus trial!”

“I was. It was my type of case: turning on unexpected points. And, Pilkin, I booby trapped your ‘corner’, and you didn’t anticipate such tactics. It’s different when the opposition  expects them! I get flustered when they punch back! So I need a cool headed leader in front of me!”

“And for all appearances you remain the backup. Is this why you’re going to Oxford?”

“It’s one reason. And, of course, I’m a good researcher! Also … well … the split with Rachel. If she hadn’t sent me packing, I should have loved to stay on as her chief-of-staff. And I’ve taught myself to take pride in my role. Nobody wins a case without thoughtful – often ruthless – planning. So someone like me is just as indispensable as Rachel or as Jacob Keren! And so is a good teacher, Pilkin. We were lucky – very lucky – to have outstanding teachers in TA.1!”

“I get the drift,” muttered Pilkin. “You think I ought to join their ranks!”

“And you needn’t  give up acting. You can teach and remain a prominent part-timer on stage. It’s a compromise – but not such a bad one!”

            “Maybe. Beggars can’t be choosers!”

“You mustn’t look at it like that, Pilkin. Feeling sorry for oneself is poison!”

“You are right there. And a classroom full of admiring pupils is an audience – even if  captive.” 

 

 

 

3.Pilkin’s nalysis

 

“Very well, then Bushi,” proceeded Pilkin. “That – well – takes care of me. Now, let’s turn to yourself. What do you want to tell me? The split with Rachel?”

 “Yes; and I want your … analysis!”

“But, Bushi, all I know about Rachel is what I’ve been told by Ami. And I’m sure he’s one eyed! And the only time I saw you with her was about a year ago. You came out of the cinema.”

“So?”

“So how can I form an opinion? I don’t want to talk from the top of my head!”

“But didn’t you notice anything?”

“Well. Anybody could see you were madly in love with her. And she was responsive!”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t Rachel a  bit older than you?”

“Not significantly!”

“How old is she?”

“In her thirties – 34, actually!”

“And you’re 27!”

“But she looks so young. And she’s young in spirit!”

“Maybe; but didn’t the difference in ages crop up in your conversations?”

“It did, rather. And I always told her it didn’t matter. I assured her again and again I’d be just as much in love with her in ten, in twenty and in thirty years!”

“I see. But, Bushi, what do you think led to the split? What happened?”

“I honestly don’t know, Pilkin. I was so happy with her, and I was sure she was just as happy with me.  We had been living together for about a year and everything seemed fine; couldn’t be better. And then she told me leave. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why!” I had been trying hard to remain in control but, at this juncture, my resolve failed me. “I want to know why she sent me packing, Pilkin. I’ve got to know; I’ve got to know!”

            Pilkin’s eyes opened wide as I blurted the last words in a trembling, shaky, voice. He had seen me in the grasp of  severe attacks of Asthma and, on other occasions, fighting panic prior to  crucial exams in TA.1. But in none of these ordeals had I lost the grip on myself.

“But Bushi,” he reasoned  when the echo of my scream for help died out, “I told you already: I don’t know enough about Rachel to form a dependable opinion.”

“Can’t you try?”

“Alright. But you’ll have to tell me more about your liaison.”

“What should I tell you?”

“Just describe how you went through an ordinary day!”

“I always got up first, Pilkin. Rachel’s a sound sleeper and I’m an early riser …”

“I remember,” growled Pilkin, whom I had woken up mercilessly in Istanbul, to watch the daily opening-up of the Galata Bridge, and in Athens, to see the sunrise on the Acropolis.

“Alright, alright,” I retorted. “So you see: I made breakfast: Rachel loves porridge with a bit of sugar and a trace of cinnamon. And  it takes some skill and time to cook it! When we finished,  Rachel took her time over her toilette. So I washed the dishes. If it was a nice day we walked to the office. If it was cloudy she drove us over!”

“And then you worked together?”

“Only in the early and final preparation of a case. Generally, I did my research  and opinion work and she handled the clients – took their depositions, prepared the witnesses and so on. But we always had lunch together!”

“And then you went back to work. Still, you returned home together?”

“Yes; but often we stopped in the supermarket, or at the grocer. We usually bought some sandwiches or Kebabs or some other stuff. In the evening we went out or just relaxed at home. And, Pilkin, Rachel has a good taste in wine: so on weekends we often drove to a vineyard. In  summer we went for swims and sometimes  I’d row us for a few hours on the Yarkon! I was so happy with her!”

“But, Bushi, don’t you think such an existence is claustrophobic?”

“What do you mean?”

“From what you tell me, the two of you were always together – day in, day out! Didn’t you fear it might be too much for her?”

“The thought did cross my mind. So I  encouraged her to go out with old friends and to attend all kinds of functions like former school mates’ parties. And when she went to visit her mother in Jerusalem, I came along only if she asked me.”

“I understand. But whenever she came back there was a hot dish in the oven, or a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates!”

“Of course!”

“I see. And what were your plans for her?”

            “Well, I proposed to her, of course!”

“What did she say?”

“That she’d think it over. So I went on proposing; and she kept saying: ‘we’ll see later’.”

“Humph. But actually, Bushi, that’s not what I was after when I asked about your plans for her. What was the professional target you had in mind for her?”

“Well … I wanted her to be the first woman Judge on the Israeli Supreme Court. With me by her side she had every chance of getting there. I’m not exaggerating!”

“And you kept telling her this?”

“My object was to inspire her!”  

“What was her response?”

“At the beginning, she treated it as a joke! Later on, she used to say: ‘too high a target, Eli, I’m not sure I want it!’ Occasionally, she just shrugged.”

“But you persisted?”

“I raised the subject from time to time: usually  after a victory in court!”

“That’ll do, Bushi. I have a hunch. But, of course, that’s all it is!”

“Well?”

“A combination of factors. The difference in age; do you really think it didn’t matter!”

“It didn’t” I insisted.

“But any sensible woman in Rachel’s position would have feared the future. Human relations are fluid, and nowadays not too stable! And I do think your relationship was claustrophobic. More often than not  women thrive when a relationship is very close  and men hate it. But there are exceptions. Ami says she is  very independent. Maybe she needed a looser sort of tie.”

“It is possible. But then – why didn’t she tell me?”

“Perhaps she lacked the courage, or didn’t want to hurt you. Love can lead to strange results!”

“Anything else?”

“Actually, two points. First, your ambitions for her might have frightened her! Tell me, Bushi – can she get there without you?”

“Not too easily. She’s not so good on the finer legal point. And I’m not sure she has the drive!”

“So your high target might have put her off?”

“She didn’t say so! At least – not directly”

“But indirectly?”

“Well – perhaps. And, Pilkin – what’s the second point?”

“Rachel has had two divorces. And Ami told me she had a liaison after her first divorce!”

“So?”

“How many girls go through so many relationships in less than twenty years?”

“To tell you the truth – I can’t think of any.”

“So isn’t it possible that Rachel Zeitlin is unable to maintain lasting relationships? Maybe she needs change or maybe she keeps things – I mean little resentments and irritations – bottled up inside for too long. When she can’t take them any longer – she walks out.”

“So it may be a pattern?” I observed after a pause.

“I think so! So stop flagellating yourself. I suspect the split was on the cards from the word go!”

 

Pilkin’s tone carried conviction. Even in our school days, he was renowned for keen insights. His objective  perception lent support to his words. So did scenes from my life with Rachel, which flickered in front of my eyes as he spoke.

“Then, perhaps, it’s fortunate it happened now,” I observed.

“Why?” he wanted to know.

“Because I have the opening in Oxford. Do you think I should  go?”

“As long as the move makes sense as a career decision. Plainly speaking: I suggest you make your decision without taking Rachel into account!”

“You think there’s no chance of winning her back?”

“Based on past and general experience – none!”

“That in itself is a reason for going!”

“No, Bushi; it isn’t! You musn’t ‘escape’. Of course, it’s no good for the two of you to work in same office after you’ve broken up. But I’m sure each of you can easily get another job in Israel. So don’t let the split affect your decision on Oxford. Do what’s best for your future!”

“There can be no doubt on that: Oxford presents a unique opportunity!”

“Then grab it!”

“I will. And thanks, Pilkin.”

“So, you see, we can still help one another. Well, when will  you leave Israel?”

“The Oxford term begins in  about six weeks. I’ll have to be there by then.”

“Which means we’re not likely to meet again before you leave?”

“True. But, Pilkin, how about a goodbye  dinner  before I take the  train back?”

            “Just have a look at these magazines while I tidy  up,” he accepted warmly.

 

            Despite the worn out appearance of Pilkin’s tee shirt, jacket and trousers, his neatly shaved face and tidy hair gave him a fresh look. As we made our way  to the German Colony, I noticed that girls bestowed their glances on him rather than on me. Pilkin, I noted, was lost in his thoughts. During the sumptuous meal, we engaged mainly in small talk and in gossip about old friends. It was only when we enjoyed the delicious chocolate cake, that I took the courage to raise a point that kept bothering me.

“Pilkin, my experience with Rachel suggests that I’m not too good when it comes to the ‘fair sex’, doesn’t it?”

“Well?”

“Do you think it’s a trend I can break?”

“Time will tell,” he replied, shifting his glance and breaking our eye contact.

“Tell me the truth, please!”

“I’m not a prophet, Bushi!”

“But what do you think?”

“You do have a problem there. You see, Bushi, after we came back from Zermatt, you went out a few times with Leàh. But nothing came of it!”

“I didn’t think she was serious about me.”

“That’s where you are wrong. Leàh’s a worldly girl. She’s out for a good husband: a dependable chap with good career prospects, steady and not too hard to handle. You fit the bill. But you had no idea of what she was after!”

“I thought she was interested in you? You are far more flamboyant than I would ever be!”

“I may be. But that’s not what Leàh is after. She has had her fill of mere flirtations. She wants to settle down and start a family!”

“How’d you know!”

“I’ve teased her about it. You see, we went out together a few times just for fun and she kept asking about you, far too innocently, I’d say!”

“I’d no idea. But surely it’s only a one instance?”

“I can think of a few others. You see, Bushi, you admire ‘glamour women’. But – as far as I can see – you’d be better off with a plain wife who wants to make a career of her home and family. And that would suit you because your real existence is at work. In the long run, a glamour woman would be nuisance!”

“You are right. So what should I do?”

“It’s not easy to go against ones nature,” sighed Pilkin. “I’m a showman at heart: that’s why I hate the idea of giving up the stage!”

 

A brisk walk took us to the railway station. I sensed that Pilkin had no desire to accompany me to the platform. I recalled that in Zermatt, too, he felt the need to cut our parting short.

“Bushi,” he asked as I was about to take my leave, “did you tell Rachel Zeitlin about the opening in Oxford?”

“I did. She sent me packing  a week later!”

“I thought this might be the case. You see, she must have concluded you should not miss the opportunity!”

“Do you think that’s why she broke off with me?”

“No, Bushi. But it may have prompted her to make her decision forthwith!”

“Something like the ‘last straw’ or ‘the point of no return’!”

“Quite! And this, Bushi, means that a ‘reconciliation’ – if that’s the words – is definitely out!”

“Coming to think of it, she said it was possible – even probable – I shan’t come back!”

“So Rachel knows you pretty well. And you  should not dream of  her  when, after you’ve finished your research, you decide what to do. The question will be: where will you be happiest?”

“Do you think I’ll come back?”

“I tend to agree with Rachel. Remember, I told you as much in Zermatt!”

“I remember!”

“So remember also that we have a rendezvous! Even if we get out of touch with one another, don’t you forget our dinner in the Zermattschein! And, Bushi, I do hope you don’t mind if I walk back now. Lengthy partings are too sentimental for good taste!”

“I understand. So – if  we don’t meet sooner – see you in Zermatt as arranged! And, Pilkin, thanks for everything!”

“Bye for now – my friend,” he said and  walked away without turning back.   

 

4.Getting out of touch

 

My parting with Pilkin kept hovering in front of my eyes while the mountain train covered the last few miles to Zermatt. As I walked back to Pension Kegel, through the winding lanes of the resort, I reflected that Pilkin’s two predictions had come true.  I had not returned to Israel and, during the years of my self imposed exile, we had got out of touch.

            This apparent estrangement materialised gradually. Initially, during my years in Oxford and my first years in Singapore, I got  news about him from my mother,  whom Pilkin visited from time to time after he joined TA.1. I was relieved to glean that, right from the start,  Pilkin proved an excellent and popular teacher. His success as an amateur actor was borne out by the numerous newspaper cuttings mother forwarded me. 

            A letter she wrote just before my departure from Oxford, referred to Pilkin’s marriage to Galya Hadar, a starlet in the Kameri Theatre. In a subsequent letter, mother told me Pilkin had been appointed one of the founding members of  Israel’s Educational Television. Later still, she mentioned TA.1 had seconded Pilkin to this Channel  for a two years attachment.

            Shortly thereafter mother left Israel and joined my ailing father in Vienna. For a while, I got some scattered news about Pilkin from Shosh, who kept sending me cuttings respecting his performances. Then – to my disappointment – all information dried up. Notwithstanding my direct and indirect enquiries, neither Shosh nor any other mutual friends favoured me with news about Pilkin. It was as if a blanket of silence had descended to widen the gulf separating the two of us.

            Pilkin, in contrast, was able to keep tabs on my progress. Throughout our many years of separation, I kept getting sporadic communications from him. Most of them were greeting cards, sent on festive occasions such as the Jewish New Year. Others were plain postcards. The majority bore Israeli stamps and a Tel Aviv postmark. Some, though, came from places as diverse as Acapulco, London, Marakesh, Madrid, New York and St. Petersburg.   None of them set out  his address.

            Usually these cards were just dated and signed “Pilkin”. In only few did he add a message. For instance, shortly after my marriage, he wrote: “hopefully you will continue to deny the existence of the same God”. During my years in New Zealand, he expressed the hope that I had taken up the national art of sheep shearing, adding that rugby and cricket were too dangerous for a sedate scholar like me. Writing in a more serious vein after my transition to Melbourne, he reminded me that my new abode had a thriving Jewish community. He urged me to forge links with it. “Blood,” he exhorted, “is thicker than water and must not be diluted”. The only message I received after my return to Singapore, was a reminder of our rendezvous.

 

            That Pilkin had not reneged on our arrangement was confirmed as soon as I arrived back at Pension Kegel.

“There is a message for you, Professor Berger. You are expected for dinner in the Zermattschein at 7.00 p.m. sharp. Please give your name to the Concierge when you arrive. He will guide you to your table.”

“Thanks,” I told her, unable to suppress a happy smile. “I’ll need a wake up call at 6.30 p.m.”

“Very well!”.

IX.           REUNION. REMINISCENSES

 

1.We meet

 

My neatly tailored three piece grey suit,  white shirt and fashionable tie did little to ease the pounding of my heart as I followed the concierge through the imposing dining room of the Zermattschein. Would I recognise Pilkin as soon as I spotted our table? Had his appearance changed as much as mine?   For all I knew, he could by now have become the heart and soul of parties given in his honour by a group of jolly grandchildren!

            For just a moment I was overcome by dismay when my guide steered a course in the direction of a table occupied by the American fund manager, whose arrival in the hotel I had witnessed on the previous day. Had Pilkin turned into yet another money minded financier? Then, to my relief, I was navigated in the direction of  a private dining room, camouflaged by a curtain. Holding my hand out, I stepped into the alcove and, instantly, came to a halt. With the world spinning around me, and my mouth wide agape, I stared  at the vast bulk of the Hassid, Rabbi Zohar.  He was, again, decked in his  black caftan but the wide outmoded hat – a 17^th century relic – had made way to a fashionable Yarmolka. The walking stick, with its carved handle, rested against a spare chair.

“Pilkin?” I stammered when I had recovered sufficiently to venture to speak.

“Who else?” He replied in the resonant Hebrew of our youth. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Bushi. I won’t bite you!”

“And to think we had virtually run into one another yesterday,” I muttered as I sank into a chair facing his. “You didn’t recognise me – did you?  But did you have an inkling?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” he conceded with a grin. “But Bushi, Bushi! Where did you leave your hair?”

“Where you, Pilkin, got your cane!” I retorted, rising to the bait.

“Touché!” he chuckled, his eyes regaining their lustre and his face assuming, despite his heavy beard, pronounced sideburns and severe appearance, the light hearted, even bantering, expression I remembered so well. “So come on, Bushi, let’s celebrate with a nip of Kümmel. I brought an excellent bottle – Rischon’s Special Bin! Well – what d’you say?”

            The very thought of the piquant Schnapps, sweetened by the heavy  crystal sugar coating on the bottle, made my mouth water. In the old days, Pilkin and I had consumed many bottles of the excellent  East European liqueur. It pained me  to tell him: “Sorry, Pilkin, I can’t take such sweet drinks any longer. How about a glass of Cognac?”

“Oh, I see. Very well then – will a nip of Rischon’s Deluxe Brandy do? I brought a bottle of that too.”

“That’ll be great,” I said but, at the same time, looked at him with apprehension. If Pilkin had turned as orthodox as suggested by his attire, he would have to discard the entire bottle if  he  shared a drop of it with a  fellow Jew who did not tithe.

“Let me pour it out for you then,” he said with a twinkle as he produced the bottle. “We assume – incidentally – that our People tithe when given the chance!”

“A broad minded surmise. So you ain’t … if you’ll excuse my asking … an … extremist?”

“Of course not! Fanaticism marks inconfidence! I see no cause for that! And, Bushi, like all lawyers you must accept that the roads to Heaven and Justice are paved with fictions!”

“The Law thrives on fictions!” I assured him.

“So let’s accept mine and drink to our reunion!”

 

2.Pilkin’s Change of Name

 

            The Israeli brandy I used to relish in my youth did not match the XO to which my palate had become accustomed over the years. All the same, the potent drink made me feel at home.  Rabbi or secular sage, my friend had remained my Pilkin of old. The gulf created by years of separation receded.

“So now you are Rabbi Chayim Zohar. No wonder I was unable to get news about you through old contacts on the stage. But – you know – even  mutual friends, like Kaktus and Plinius, kept mum about you!”

“I saw to it,” he sneered. “I wanted my … metamorphosis … to come as a surprise. So I told them to hold their tongues! And they did! But, Bushi, it ain’t ‘Chayim Zohar’. Here, have a look at my personal card!”

“ ‘Rabbi Loeb Zohar’ ” I read out. “But, Pilkin, why on earth did you drop Chayim? What is better than ‘Life’; and ‘Bright Life’ would have sounded good!”

“Quite,” nodded Pilkin. “But I got  sick and tired of people leering at me when they drained their glasses and yelled Le’Chayim [Hebrew slag for ‘bottoms up].”

“I didn’t think you were that sensitive.”

“Come on, Bushi. How would you like to be known as Mr. ‘Bottoms Up’?”

“You have a point there,” I conceded reluctantly. “But why Loeb? Don’t you think ‘Bright Heart’ … gilds the lily?”

“But ‘Loeb’ has a second meaning. It’s an abbreviation of …”

“  … lion.” I broke in and – as the penny dropped – added with a grin: “Lion, the leader of the pack!”

“Indeed; and, Bushi, I liked the sound of it! And it’s a good label for a New York Rabbi! You see – don’t you?”

“I do. But – hold on – so you are the Rabbi Loeb Zohar?”

“It is my name now. Have you come across  it before?”

“I read  about you in Life. You were acclaimed a mystic, a spiritual leader and a healer!”

“They were too kind – or, rather, extravagant!”

 “In what way?”

“I’m no mystic, Bushi.  Mysticism and orthodox Judaism are miles apart!”

“Quite!” I conceded.

“And I ain’t a new Moses, Luther or William Penn! So that bit about religious leadership was bullshit!”

“How about your healing powers?”

“That’s more complex – occasionally, I can  help!”

“Can you cure blindness or a broken back, Pilkin?”

“Not if the eyesight is really gone or if the spinal cord is severed. In plain language – I can’t ‘heal’ a physical impairment!”

“Where, then, can you step in?”

“If the patient suffers from a neurotic condition or if his disease is exacerbated by psychological complications. For instance, I can’t ‘cure’ a joint deformed by rheumatism. But I can alleviate the patient’s sufferings: I show him how to overcome the panic often associated with the onset of an attack!”

“You helped me in the old days: when  an asthma attack was setting in.”

“It’s still the same power: I tranquillise the sufferer. That’s all I can do.”

“A form of hypnosis?”

“Probably.”

“So the sufferer’s creed is irrelevant?”

            “But, Bushi, only Jews come to me. And if they don’t believe in my powers I can’t help even them. So it is a matter of faith – in me or in Him! That’s why we call it ‘faith healing’!”

“Do your … patients … reward you?”

“All donations  go to the Loeb Zohar Foundation. It pays me an honorarium. The bulk is paid over to Jewish charities.”

            “So you distribute some of the wealth amassed  by our well-to-do brethren to our Schlemiels and Schliemasels!”

“Quite so! And I make no excuses for keeping it an in-house charity!”

“You needn’t. I understand your philosophy: you concern yourself with the problems of the ‘clan’!”

“Well spoken,” Pilkin beamed at me. “In the old days, we often  viewed the world through glasses with different tints. But we also saw each other’s point!”

“The mark of civilised men,” I muttered. “And Pilkin – is your home in New York or in Tel Aviv? Quite a few of your postcards bore Israeli stamps!”

“I shuttle between the two cities, Bushi. I have a Schul  in Manhattan and another not far from my mother’s old flat in Tel Aviv!”

“So you still live there when you’re in Tel Aviv?”

“No, Bushi. We have a flat in Nordau Boulevard, a short walk to the beach. I swim every morning: even in the winter!”

“So how do you get back from your Schul  on the Sabbath? It’s  an hour’s walk!”

“I took it in my stride  as long as I was up to it. Then, when my hip started to give trouble, we made arrangements to stay for the weekend with a member of the congregation. But we’ll have to find some permanent solution!”

“Can’t you drive back home after the service? Remember: risk to body and health overrides the Sabbath!”

“Too easy, Bushi – far too easy! It’s a sin to play hard and fast with the rules. We’ll probably have to move to a flat nearer the Schul. And I don’t mind too much. Swimming is no longer such fun! And you, Bushi – you are all settled in that Eastern paradise of yours?”

“Quite. I’m too well entrenched and comfortable in Singapore to fancy another move. And it is my wife’s hometown. Also, I enjoy my work: a consultancy in a major law firm in town plus my teaching job in the University. I won’t be able to get such a deal anywhere else: not at my age!”

“I see.” For a short while both of us kept reflecting. Then we turned to the menus placed in front of us by the waiter.

 

2.A liberal Rabbi

 

“I didn’t realise they had a Kosher menu here,” I let my surprise show.

“An orthodox Jewish family from Basle bought this establishment some ten years ago. But you take what you like. I’m told the non-Kosher menu is one of  the best in Zermatt.”

“The Kosher one, too, looks very good. I’ll have a go at it.  But I hope you don’t mind if I have a coffee with milk after the meal.”

“Not at all. I’ll have mine with coconut cream.”

“How come they have a beef stew on the Kosher menu? I thought Kosher butcheries are outlawed in tolerant Switzerland?” I wanted to know.

“They get the meat from a Kosher outlet in Israel. But I’d recommend the goose: it’s excellent!”  

“Splendid!”

“And I’ve brought me with me two bottles of Karmel Hock. You relished it in the old days.”

“We don’t get it in Singapore. I’d love to taste it again. It was a great wine!”

“Still is. At least – I think so,” beamed Pilkin.

 

As soon as the waiter departed with our orders, I gave vent to an  unease  I had felt during the preceding few minutes. “I accept you are a Rabbi, Pilkin. You always had an orthodox streak in you. But how can you, willingly and apparently quite happily, stick to …”

“ … a set of rules and customs which the rest of the world considers ludicrous?” he finished the sentence for me.

“Precisely.”

“Well, let’s ask ourselves: what’s the object of these – h’m – ‘strange rules’ – not only the dietary laws but also others, such as not wearing clothes made of mixed fibres?”

“The teachers in TA.1 used to say these rules had ‘hygienic’ objects!” I reminded him.

“And you had a row with old Lipez when you asserted camel meat was O.K.!” grinned Pilkin.

“He summoned my mother and gave her a lecture on the bad influence of heretical parents!”

            “Well, Bushi, so what is the purpose of all these ‘funny laws’ as you used to call them? You angered many of us when you said they were sheer nonsense and that a ‘smart guy’ like you could not be bothered with them! Surely, that was a perverse reaction.”

“It was, rather,” I conceded,  failing to hide my embarrassment. “And, well, I think I have worked out what’s behind them. But – Pilkin – I don’t want to spoil our reunion. Perhaps I shouldn’t have raised the subject?”

“Rubbish! Out with it, Bushi. I, too, have mellowed. Nowadays I can take all this in my stride. So let’s have your thoughts.”

 “If you obeyed all these rules to the letter, Pilkin, we could not dine together or, possibly, even socialise. For instance, we couldn’t have a drink together. And if I had a son, you would have to stop your daughter from seeing him, unless, of course, he became orthodox. And any mixing with gentiles would be a no-no!”

“So?”

“We are dealing with segregatory laws: meant to keep the community intact. And, I suspect, they can be used to excommunicate non-conformists. Historically, the rules probably originated as different tribal customs each with its own object. For instance, you don’t eat camel meat because the camel is too valuable a pack animal to be slaughtered for food. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with shellfish. A bad fish can give you just as  bad a food poisoning as bad oyster. And God alone knows what’s wrong with mixed fibre clothes. But the aggregate effect of all these laws is clear: conserving the community as a group apart from the rest of the world!”

“I agree,” said Pilkin, whose expression had remained immobile throughout my harangue.  

“So why do you accept them?”

“But that’s the point, Bushi! I’m all in favour of the policy they serve!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Bushi – what do you think of the survival of our nation – the Jews?”

“It is a historical fact, Pilkin!”

“But do you cherish it!”

“Not really – to be honest.”

“And why?”

“All other people of antiquity have disappeared from the face of the earth long ago. The Hittites had been forgotten for centuries.  Babylon and Assyria have long perished. Old Egypt is no more.  Even mighty Rome – which ruled the world with an iron fist – is today just a town in Italy.   Only we, the Jews, keep going on: we stick to our old ways. We prosper in Diaspora and fail to mingle with the people who let us into their countries. We are living fossils, Pilkin! ‘The little men upon a stair; the little men, who weren’t there; we weren’t there again today; Oh God  – please let us  get away!’ I think this doggerel sums it all up.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pilkin, bewildered.

“If we had gone they way of all flesh as a nation, the world would have had to look for another flogging post! I wish it had to!”   

“But, Bushi, the ‘world’ – as you call it – has massacred at least as many gentiles as Jews. I don’t have to teach you history, do I?”

“No, you don’t. And it’s true that pogroms are carried out against many minority group. I know all this. But the Jews, Pilkin, stand out as the subject of systematic persecution over the centuries.”

“But then, Bushi, doesn’t it make you proud to belong to a group that has braved all these storms. Aren’t you proud to be a Jew?”

“Can’t say I am, Pilkin. Not anymore than I would have been of my ‘race’, had I been  a Chinese, an Englishman, an American or a Singaporean.  Our national or cultural affiliation is a heritage: not an achievement!” 

“Well, I beg to differ! I am  proud of my  forefathers, who  risked life and limb, and turned their backs on prosperity and safety, to preserve that cultural and national heritage.”

“With the aid of anti-Semitism and the Yellow Star of David,” I muttered.

“Perhaps, but conversion was open to them; and they desisted. And so have both of us!”

“True; and I’ll be damned if I see my reason for remaining Jewish. Plain stubbornness, I venture!”

“And pride – even if you deny it!”

“Perhaps; but it would be perverse pride – at least on my part!”

“But consistency is the tribute of an ox, Bushi,” grinned Pilkin, regaining his relaxed airs. “Still, now it’s clear why you hate our dietary rules whilst I put up with them: I treasure the survival of our nation; you don’t!”

“In the ultimate, then, both attitudes make sense: they are functional!” I summed up.

“So they are. But in reality neither of us takes an extreme stand. You are still a moderate radical with idiosyncratic notions: like when you clamoured to convince us that Josephus wasn’t such a bad guy. And I’m still on the liberal wing of orthodox Judaism!”

 

3. Tittle Tattle

 

            The waiter placed a plate of Gefilte Fish in front of Pilkin, who pretended not to see the unfriendly look I bestowed on the renowned delicacy savoured by East European Jews. He, in turn, glanced with a connoisseur’s appreciation at my smoked salmon with the horse radish.

“Won’t you  have a glass of Alicante with the Gefilte Fish?” I tried to make up for my unmannerly reaction.

“I’d better not. With my arthritis and a touch of the gout it’s best to be careful!”    

“I’m sorry. Is that why you need the cane?”

“Yes,” he said without bitterness, adding as an afterthought: “we’re not getting younger, Bushi. We are now the older generation. So we have to reckon with some  wear and tear.”

“I suppose it applies to all  our old friends,” I said sadly.

“What do you think?”

“I know. But I recall all of them as young men and women, fresh out of TA.1. I find it hard to think they are now  a group of  oldies!”

“That’s because you’ve been out of touch for so long.”

“Well, tell me about them!”

 

It soon dawned on me that Pilkin had kept tabs on all our  classmates. He talked  about them as we enjoyed our starters and the excellent soups. It grieved me to learn that two of my old schoolmates had passed away after protracted wrangling  with cancer, that another had suffered a stroke and that one of the girls – wooed by many boys – had committed suicide after her only son had met with a fatal car accident. To my relief there were, of course, also a number of success stories. One old friend had been constituted the Attorney General of Tel Aviv. The ‘Chief Justice’  of the Josephus Trial had been awarded a Nobel Prize in Science. Another boy had become the Head of an important Faculty in the Hebrew University and others still had made their careers in the business world.

Many of the girls, too, had done well for themselves. I was particularly intrigued to learn that one had become a famous, albeit left wing, journalist and another the author of a number of well regarded books on Oriental and European Cuisine.  Pilkin’s account further revealed that, with but few exceptions, our former classmates enjoyed steady and lasting marriages. Most of them had, by now, become grandparents.

 

When Pilkin’s discourse came to its end, I observed with a benign sneer: “So our TA.1 graduates have carried the banner to the heights anticipated by our venerated teachers”

“We have” he agreed, with a kindly smile. “But now, Bushi, I have something special to tell you. Guess about whom!”

“Leàh?” I asked after a momentary hesitation.

“Precisely!”

“How is she? What has become of her?”

“She married a nice sort of a businessmen and they did well, really well. Then, suddenly, he died. It took her a while to get over his loss.  For months, she was very lonely. Then she opened a modern art gallery in Dizengoff Street!  It’s going well.”

“How d’you know all this?”

“We went out for lunch from time to time and she opened up. I thought it best not to see her in the evenings.”

“Eh?”

“Leàh can be rather basic, Bushi; and I’m a Rabbi – remember!”

“True. Well, so what happened?”

“Eventually, she met a nice chap – some fifteen  years her junior – and they got married. Initially,  her two sons by her first husband objected to the new union. So I had a word with them. And, Bushi, she made it again. Young Ronnie dotes on her! Eats out of  her hand!”

“So all is well. She must still be attractive; or she couldn’t have landed such a young fellow!”

“Have a look,” volunteered Pilkin. “I’ve told her we were having a  reunion and so she sends her regards. She asked me to show you this photo!”

Pushing the emptied soup plate aside, I placed the large photo in front of me. What I saw gave me a start.  The sagging bust, wrinkled neck, double chin and protruding cheeks bore no resemblance to Leàh of Zermatt.

Sensing the extremity of my reaction,  Pilkin chided: “Pull yourself together, Bushi. You’ve always been a hypersensitive guy. But really: do you think – per chance – that you have remained a good looking youngster: a dashing  fellow with a cute mustachio – the dream of the girls?”

“I never was that,” I assured him when I regained my composure. “But, really, Pilkin: Leàh was such a beautiful girl!”

“Time doesn’t stand still for anybody, Bushi. Did you – my friend – expect to end up  a pale faced baldie? Did I ever think I’d need a cane? And, Bushi,  Leàh was not beautiful. Buxom: yes; sexy: most men thought so. But her real strength was personality. She could hold her own in any gathering! And she still can. Two years ago she stood for Parliament and – but for a silly outburst against the Mayor of Tel Aviv –  would have made it! And think about it: how many women in her age group can captivate  a young fellow like Ronnie?”

“I suppose you are right. But I wish you had prepared me. I hope you haven’t brought with you   photos of our other old flames.”

“I haven’t. So cheer up!”  

            “Have I aged as much as her?” I asked uneasily.

“Well, yes; but you look distinguished. So let’s not worry about this. And, perhaps, Leàh’s photo doesn’t do her justice. She made a few conquests even before she came across Ronnie!”

 

 

The waiter wheeled a neatly arranged trolley into our private dining room. Lifting the elegant silver domes from the dishes, he placed a vegetarian cutlet in front of Pilkin and a trout in front of me. He then removed the bottle of Karmel Hock from the wine cooler,  extracted the cork and waited politely as, at Pilkin’s suggestion, I tasted the tart wine. As soon as I nodded appreciatively, he filled our glasses,  placed the bottle back in the container, and withdrew discreetly.

“Well, Bushi. So now it’s the time to tell our stories. Why don’t you start?”

His expression as my Odyssey unfolded confirmed that he had kept a close watch of my progress. He displayed no surprise when I recounted my life as a young, unattached, bachelor in Singapore in the early sixties and the saga of my long yet unhappy marriage. The story of my pleasant years in New Zealand, the enjoyable trips in the country’s two islands, and my tense yet industrious existence as a Professor at Monash University in  Melbourne brought a wry smile to his face. His looked sombre when I told him how I had, to my own surprise and after agonising for months, turned down the  Professorship in Banking Law at London University and, eventually, took up a less prestigious but better paid post in booming Singapore.

“So you gave a miss to the Moon and grabbed the Six Pence!”

 

Perturbed by his condemnatory tone, I related the tangled domestic and personal considerations behind my decision. To start with,  my wife had never found herself at home  in New Zealand and  Australia and wished to return to Singapore.   In addition, her failing eyesight would have posed obstacles to her mobility and freedom of action in an alien metropolis like London.  For instance, she would be unable to use the underground system.

I too faced problems. I lacked the gumption to  proceed without her and feared the emptiness of a lonely existence. And  I dreaded the cold and wet English winters.

“I understand, Bushi. So, all in all, your career  leaves little to be desired. You went up and up throughout and your decision to move to Singapore and give a miss to London is understandable in the circumstances. What is most impressive though is that even now, when many of our old classmates are happy to wash the dishes and play with their grandchildren, you try to climb new peaks in your professional life. What a pity you didn’t show the same determination in your personal life!”

            “Pathetic?”

“No, Bushi – I’d rather say: true to character. You never sorted out your Achilles heel!”

“Which was?”

“Your penchant for glamour women:  I’ll bet Pat was beautiful and self assured.”

“She was!”

“Like Rachel Zeitlin?”

“Not quite. But I didn’t expect to meet a second Rachel: for me she remained the only one!”

“Were you still in love with her when you met Pat?”

“Well, yes!”

“So you married Pat because you didn’t want to remain alone?”

“One of the reasons.”

“Don’t  tell me you still  think of Rachel?”

 “Actually, I do. In the old days Racel was my entire world. So how could I ever forget her? I was miserable when she died a few years ago.”

“Actually, I saw quite a bit of Rachel during her last few years,” said Pilkin after a reflective pause.

            “How come?”

“By sheer chance I put my  mother up in the same ‘establishment’! I spotted Rachel in the dining room when I came for a visit. Did you know she had to be … interned?”

“Well, yes; she wrote to me from there: a few months after she … moved in.”

 

            Breaking our eye contact, I reflected on Rachel Zeitlin’s  story. A few years after she had broken off with me, she married  an orthopaedic surgeon some five years older than her.  As both were career persons, they had their separate daily existences and their home life remained secondary to their professional commitments. About twice a year, though, they left their work behind and travelled overseas, booking upmarket tours.

This loose  type of union suited both of them: her letters suggested she was happy. Then disaster struck: Rachel experienced loss of memory and started to act in a strange and uninhibited manner. Documents drafted by her became unintelligible and clients complained about her appearance and attitude. A rum letter which she sent me some three months before her internment gave me a shock. Unlike her usual,  ironic and pungent communications, it was confused.

            In the event, it turned out she had succumbed to Alzheimer and could no longer manage her affairs. Fortunately, her husband did not abandon her. He came to visit her  regularly in the Sanatorium and did all he could to alleviate her mental sufferings and make her feel at ease. Judging by the letters she kept writing me, she continued to have hours of lucidity. All the same, an underlying depressed tone was always discernible.

“Did you see Rachel  often in the … home?” I asked Pilkin.

“I  called on her whenever I visited my mother. Rachel  was always glad to see me: that is, when she recognised me. In her bad spells, she was pitiful!”

“What did you talk about in her good spells?”

“Sometimes about politics; occasionally about her past; about her marriage and, Bushi, quite a bit about you.”

“What did she say about me? Please tell me!”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did she have any regrets?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, it doesn’t. All the same I want to know; I must know!”

“Very well then. Rachel, Bushi, did not live in a fantasy world. And she was not an ‘if only’ person. She had made her decision and that was that. And she never told me her reasons. But she had a great deal of affection for you. I believe you kept sending her your publications.”

“I did indeed!”

“She displayed them on a shelf in her room. And she told me you had done just as well as she had expected. I believe she was  proud of you.”

“Did she know I was unhappily married?”

“Your so called ‘hints’ had been pretty clear. She was sorry for you but – I suspect – not surprised. She thought your personal unhappiness spurred you on in your career.”

“I can’t quarrel with that,” I sighed.

 

X.             PILKIN’S ODYSSEY.

 

1.Pilkin’s Remaining Years in Israel

 

At this point, the waiter wheeled in a trolley with our  main courses. As soon as he departed – having  re-filled our wine glasses – I said: “Well, now it’s your turn, mon Cher Pilkin – or shall I say Rabbi Zohar?”

“At you service,” he smiled benignly. “And ‘Pilkin’ will do!”

“So out with it!”

“Where shall I start?” he asked, smacking his lips  as he savoured the excellent goose.

“I know you were a founding member of the Israeli Educational TV and that you married Galya Hadar of the Kameri. Thereafter, it’s a blank!”

“Let me then fill you in,” he agreed readily.

 

            Pilkin related his tale in the classic Hebrew of our youth, embellished sporadically with Yiddish phrases. He emphasised his points with gesticulations I remembered well  from our school days and with occasional winks and sly smiles. As he spoke, the years melted away, the slate became clear and his canvass – larger than mine and than life itself – glistened  with the rich colours of modern lithographs. Try as I may,  my account is bound to remain but a pale shadow of his dazzling performance. But, then, he was acting his own role!

 

Pilkin’s first two years as a performer at the Israeli Educational TV had been uninspiring. His function was to prepare and occasionally to take part in pedagogically oriented programmes. It was as dramatic, he claimed, as  a wild cat’s life in a cage. To keep himself going, he went back from time to time to TA.1 to stage some plays. Mourning becomes Electra  – so he said – had been well received.

He had also remained in demand, throughout Israel,  as a seasoned Tavyeh. After one performance – on a well known secondary stage – he had his breakthrough. On his way out of theatre, he was buttonholed by an elderly Hassid, whose mannerism and accent smacked of New York. Introducing himself as Rabbi Margalioth, he engaged Pilkin in a short conversation culminating with an invitation to come over for a visit to the New World. The Rabbi’s congregation was looking for a suitable Tavyeh and Pilkin appeared the ideal candidate. 

            Pilkin was undeterred by the challenge of having to play the role in Yiddish, of which he had but a fleeting command. He recognised the chance and was not going to let it slip by. In the event, his performance was a roaring success. In the course of the next few years, he kept shuttling between his permanent post in Tel Aviv and the Jewish theatres in the United States, which kept inviting him regularly.

 

2.The Move to New York

 

Then came the next breakthrough. Tavyeh the Milkman was transformed into a musical. As Fiddler on the Roof it became an internationally acclaimed modern classic.  Pilkin’s fine Baritone stood him in good stead. His popularity reached such measures that he assumed the courage to sever his link with the Israeli Educational Television.   Thereafter, his spells in Tel Aviv grew shorter and shorter. In due course,  he acquired a flat in Manhattan. His career as an actor, idiosyncratic as it appeared, was secure. He entrenched himself further by taking on other  comic roles, such as Falstaff and the Malade Imaginaire. His appearances, though, were still on secondary stages. Broadway, alas, remained out of his reach.

            Pilkin’s realistic life philosophy commanded that he resign himself to a comfortable – even if not spectacular – career  as a second rank actor. Destiny – or my beloved Fortuna – had another plan for him. During his years in New York, Pilkin became increasingly friendly with Rabbi Margalioth, attended his Synagogue whenever possible and, frequently, was invited to his home for the Sabbath and for holidays.  One Sabbath eve, when the venerable Rabbi had lost his voice in the wake of  a severe cold, he asked Pilkin to  officiate. Explaining that his accolade was on leave and that Pilkin was his only hope, he assured Pilkin that the delivery of his sermon was an easy task. It had been typed and, if need be, Pilkin could simply read out from the manuscript.

            Initially, Pilkin had his misgivings. He lacked the necessary training and feared he might mess up the lines. But he had become very fond of the kindly Rabbi and, after reading the sermon through several times, decided to have a go at it. To his own surprise, his performance was lauded by the congregation. His youthful resonant voice – which compared favourably with the aging Rabbi’s sonorous  manner of speech – cast a spell as did the new life which he breathed into the worn out clichés.

            Rabbi Margalioth was delighted with the enthusiastic reports which reached his ears. He felt fatherly affection for  the young man he had sponsored. Further,  he was  convinced that his congregation needed the injection of fresh blood. So he  took a bold move. After a consultation with the Directorate of the Yeshiva, he asked Pilkin to join its ranks as a special student. Cross credits, based on subjects taken by Pilkin for his Arts degree in Jerusalem,  would enable him to complete the course for Rabbis in two instead of the ordinary four years. If he did well, he would, undoubtedly, be given his first posting upon  completion.

“What was your initial reaction?” I wanted to know.

“Confusion,” grinned Pilkin.

“Why?”

“I had not expected anything like it!”

“And when you recovered?”

“I told him I had to think it over. And he said ‘that’s fine’.”

“Did you agonise over it?”

“I did, rather! I  was at a  turning point! If I said ‘yes’, the great dream – Broadway, the Kameri, the West End and all that –  would be over. But I realised that this was a one time opportunity.”

“In the end you accepted – why?”

“You’ll find it hard to believe!”

“Try me!”

“The calling, Bushi! I concluded it was the hand of God. You, of course, would say it was a ‘coincidence’ – the hand of Fortuna!”

“Quite. But Pilkin, weren’t you frightened – I mean apprehensive?”

            “Of course I was. It meant a radical change of life: from benign, loose, observance to strict orthodoxy.”

“So how could you even consider such a transition?”

“For a number of years I had observed Rabbi Margalioth. The association with him influenced  my thinking and, Bushi, my view of life. It reinforced my belief in divine intervention in our lives! As you well know, I have always been a believer!”

“So you were. But, Pilkin, if Rabbi’s Margalioth offer was ‘the hand of God’, why didn’t the calling come earlier? What about the years you spent on your B.A. and on the stage?”

“These years paved the way, Bushi. I got a first class training at the Hebrew University and on  the stage. And  isn’t a Rabbi a performer – just like a teacher, a lawyer and, not to mince words, a salesman and a politician?”

“Quite so,” I conceded.

“So these years had not been wasted,” pointed out Pilkin. “Not any more than your years in legal practice prior to your academic career!”

“I get you point. But, Pilkin, were you really able to make yourself believe that God almighty – Providence – lays plans for something as unimportant as a human? Where was the rational support for the step into the blind alley you resolved to take? I still can’t understand!”

“Can’t or won’t, Bushi?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You assume, Bushi, that a step like this has to be ‘rational’!”

“I do; I do indeed!”

“What was the name of that 17^th century philosopher who tried to establish the existence of Man and of God by applying logical formulas?”

“Rene Descartes,” I muttered, aware that Pilkin knew his name just as well as I.

“He didn’t convince either of us or any other analytical thinker? And do you remember the telling retort to his arguments, emanating from one of his contemporaries!”

“That logical proof is not the way to establish points like these because in issues respecting Divinity and Faith  we have to trust our senses, meaning – incidentally – senses and sensibilities or spontaneous perceptions.”

“Quite,” agreed Pilkin. “Blaise Pascal asserted – and I agree – that in ‘these matters’ you depend on what we call today an ‘act of faith’ – a ‘revelation’!”

“I haven’t had one!”

“Neither did Descartes. So he tried to use ‘reason’ and ended up with a tautology! He, too, closed his heart.”

“Didn’t stop him from being a deeply religious man!”

“But without a sound base for his convictions! No, Bushi – in the ultimate – you either believe or do not. I did – always have – and so I could hear a Bath Koll – a voice from heaven  – – as Rabbi Margalioth’s words kept going through my mind again and again. The Bath Koll urged me to accept.”

“A miracle, I suppose. Like poor old Josephus’ Bath Koll in the cave after the fall of Jodefet?” I muttered.

“Now, now, Bushi, sarcasm is out of place here – surely!”

“True,” I conceded shamefacedly, adding after a short pause: “Well, in these circumstances, you were right to accept. And – Pilkin – in more than one way I envy you. The only voice that keeps going through my mind is shrill and metallic: my wife’s incessant complaints!”

“That, too, ain’t funny, Bushi!” Pilkin let his irritation show.

“It’s not meant to be!”

“In that case, Bushi, all I can do is to sympathise. But, then, how do you manage to carry on? What keeps you going?”

“A few good friends!”

“So God has not forsaken you, even if – perversely – you insist on calling his unseen hand  ‘chance’!”

“On this point, we’ll have to agree to disagree, Pilkin. But, please, carry on!”

 

3.Pilkin Settles in America

 

Pilkin’s eyes brightened as he covered the events of the next few years. Although he was considerably older than most of the students, he fitted well into the Yeshiva. He had always been a good mixer and in no time was accepted as member of the cohesive group.

The formal method of instruction agreed with him. True, most of the courses involved memory work. The training in TA.1 was of great help in this regard. Further, many of the subjects he had read in Jerusalem stood him in good stead. In some cases, the courses in the Yeshiva dealt with the very topics he had covered in his academic courses. Still, in the University, Biblical and Talmudic texts had been analysed critically and structurally, with a clear emphasis on style and language. In the Yeshiva, they were discussed from a religious point of view, giving prominence to the  scriptural contexts and to the traditional implications. In reality, a single topic was being reflected in different mirrors. Pilkin enjoyed every minute of it!

As anticipated, he completed his course of studies with flying colours and was constituted a Rabbi. Shortly thereafter,  Rabbi Margalioth offered to appoint Pilkin his second in command. Pilkin was delighted. His heart told him that – at long last – he had arrived. For the rest of his life, he would have the privilege of guiding his congregations along a path in which he believed. It was a worthy vocation!

“Did you leave Israel, Pilkin? I mean, did you migrate?”

“No. I love my country too much. But my spells at home became shorter and shorter and far in between.”

“What did your wife say to that? Did she join you?”

“She did not! She had risen high while I was making my second start in New York. By the time I finished my course she was getting lead roles in the Kameri and, occasionally, in Ha’bimah! I had no right to ask her to give all this up. Also, Bushi, ours was a ‘modern marriage’! True, Galya was moderately traditional. For example, she didn’t take pork. But she was a ‘liberated woman’ and believed she had the right to satisfy  her basic needs. She encouraged me, too, to have my ‘fun’ in New York.”

“Did you?”

“Not after I enrolled in the Yeshiva. But, of course, that was my decision. She couldn’t have cared less!”

“Humph,” said I, for want of a better phrase; and then added in haste: “so what did you do?”

“When I got my posting in New York I asked if she wanted to come over. She said she had no penchant for the role of a Rebbezen [a Rabbi’s wife]! So I agreed to give her a Gett [divorce].”  

“I see,” I nodded. “But Pilkin, did you remain in touch with her? The way I did with Rachel?”

“No, Bushi, I didn’t. My relationship with her was very different from yours with Rachel. You were madly in love with Rachel. You romanticised her and – in a way – you continued to woo her even when it was over. Galya and I had a down to earth marriage. She wanted to demonstrate she  had a husband and a family life. In Israel, I wanted to have a wife like her. But I was getting fed up and tired of being on my own in New York.”

“But weren’t you happy together before you went to New York?”

“In a way we were: the chemistry was right but emotions ran low. So when it was over, we were done with one another!”

 

4.Pilkin Marries Yentl

 

            In the event, Pilkin did not have a prolonged celibate. A few months after his divorce, Rabbi Margalioth introduced him to a wealthy Jewish stockbroker in Philadelphia, who had a marriageable daughter. Yentl Jacobs had done her B.A. in a well known college in New Jersey. The course of studies widened her horizons but,  all the same, she remained an orthodox, well bred, Jewish girl. Margalioth was confident Pilkin would find her  an excellent match.

“And how did it work out?” I wanted to know. 

“Brilliantly,” Pilkin spoke with feeling: “couldn’t have been better!”      

 

Yentl insisted on having a ‘decent’ Jewish home. They celebrated the Sabbath and the Jewish festivals in a big way. Pilkin enjoyed himself and loved the related social life that replaced his previous austere existence. Their marital relationship, too, brought Pilkin bliss.

By the time he took over the Schul from the aging Rabbi Margalioth,  Yentl had presented her doting husband with a son and a  daughter.  She had also used her influence and intuition to secure Pilkin’s rise in the community.

When she discovered her husband’s hidden healing powers, she spread the good news. When success was in view, she came up with the idea of inaugurating the Loeb Zohar Foundation. Grinning, Pilkin conceded that his change of name had also been carried out after a heart to heart discussion with his smart and worldly wife. He had been reassured, when she told him  she would rather be ‘Mrs Loeb Zohar’  than ‘Mrs Rosenne”!

“So you are really happy with her!”

“I am. She turned me from a drifter into a well balanced and  highly respected member of the community. What more could I ask for?”

“So you brought you ship home!”

“And the credit goes to her!”

“And how did you come to spend part of  your time back in Israel? Did she have anything to do with this too?”

“She did, rather. She knew that, in my heart of hearts, I was home sick. So she suggested I accept a second, part time, posting in Tel Aviv: not an easy thing to arrange. Still,  Yentl is a first class organiser and knows how to identify and pull the right strings!”

“And the arrangement worked out to everybody’s satisfaction?”

“It did indeed!”

“And is Yentl, too, pleased with it?”

“Of course, Bushi. Like many American Jews she kept dreaming about the ‘chosen land’! And so her dream has come true!”

“Well,  how many months a year do you spend in Tel Aviv?” I asked after a short pause.

“Four or five; sometimes six. Recently Yentl started to speak about retirement in Israel!”

“Not in Tel Aviv, surely?!”

“No, Bushi, don’t look so apprehensive. We have settled on Zefat!”

“A lovely spot: Dreamy Zafat’ – the pearl of the Galilee.  I’ll visit you there one day!”

“You are always welcome!” he assured me with a broad brotherly smile; adding: “so now you know my life story!”

“Not really,” I disagreed. “How bout your offspring. Are they in America or in Israel?”

            “The boy has a job in an electronics firm in Boston. And, Bushi, he’s married out.”

“Married out?” I let my surprise show.

“He has!”

“A Rabbi’s son?”

“The idols of the school were stronger than the influence of Dad and Mom! Still, he has not changed his religion.”

“How do you get on with his wife?”

            “Jane is a stunner: she’s beautiful and sweet. Both Yentl and I have come to love her. So, all in all, we  are a close family. And Grampa and Grandma adore our grandchildren. But, of course, they go to church!”

“How do they react to your … attire?”

“They think I’m cute. And little Mary loves to play with my beard. Last Christmas she called me ‘Santa Claus’. So, you see, we are still a happy family. But, of course, there is no chance of Uzi and his family  migrating to Israel. They are Americans!”

“How about your daughter?” I asked.

“Sarah  studies law in Columbia. She has a Jewish boy friend from an assimilated home. They, too, will stay put!” For a moment he averted his eyes, then added with a strained smile: “We’ll miss our young ones when we settle  in Israel. But,  Bushi: we have made our decision!”

            “Yentl and you are of the same view!”

“Indeed! She has become an ardent Zionist. And – between ourselves – I don’t really feel at home in America. I am – will always remain – an Israeli!” 

“You’ll visit your offspring from time to time – surely!”

“Of course, and I’m sure they’ll come over to see us,” he affirmed. “But it’s not the same thing as living next door to them. Still, Los Angeles or Seattle are almost as far away from New York as Tel Aviv. And Bushi, in the ultimate, the younger generation must make its own way. We did – so why shouldn’t they have the same inclination!”

“And, of course,” I summed up thoughtfully, “you didn’t uproot yourself when you moved to America. You still have many friends, even a Schul, in Tel Aviv. So you are making a choice between two homes.”

“Quite.”

“While I burnt my bridges in Israel long ago and have not forged close links anywhere. My home is where I have a job. Life without an office and working files is unthinkable. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I know,” said Pilkin. “And, Bushi, this was on the cards right from the start.”

“From the day Rachel Zeitlin sent me packing, surely.”

“Even before then. Your liaison with her postponed the day. But sooner or later you were bound to leave in any event! Deep at heart you were and remained a Nomad – no wonder you ended up as a mendicant professional!”

 

XI.          A POSH KUMSITS

 

1.Indulgence and Old Songs

 

For the next few minutes Pilkin and I watched  as the waiter cleared the dishes and smartened the table by brushing the crumbs  into a silver tray. After a quick glance at my host, who signified his approval with a nod, he uncorked another bottle of wine and then placed the dessert menu in front of us. Sighing, Pilkin ordered Zimmes, an East European sweet made of carrots. I knew he would have preferred a créme caramel but, after  meat, a milk based dish  was proscribed for four hours.

Knowing my own heretical views about our dietary laws, Pilkin directed, peremptorily: “You just order what you like, Bushi: my first motto – circumstances permitting  – is ‘tolerance’.”

“I can’t take a sweet, Pilkin. But I’d like a cheese platter: if you really don’t mind!”

“Of course I don’t! Go ahead!”  

 

            As soon as the waiter left with our orders, Pilkin observed it was time to celebrate and started  singing. My heart was moved by the  melodious Russian tunes with their Hebrew words and the popular army songs from the days of the resistance. Pilkin’s  resonant Baritone reminded me of my of the old times. Somehow, the clock turned back and – once again – we were in a Kumsitz, sitting hunched like Indians around a fire, listening eagerly to melodies composed for this type of occasion. 

 When Pilkin finished, I  chimed in, notwithstanding my poor voice, with my favourite song, expressing the elation of a farmer who  views the Kinereth, Lake Galilee, right  at dawn from the height of a his horse driven cart, heavily loaded with fresh hay. Pilkin’s applause encouraged me to carry on with a song about young soldiers marching through the streets of Tel Aviv and a well known chanson about Samson’s Foxes.

“So you haven’t forgotten,” said Pilkin when I finished.

“I haven’t. I’m away but still there – the little man upon a stair!”

“He wasn’t there again today,” Pilkin continued smilingly, “I wish he hadn’t gone away!”

“Life or chance – or maybe Providence –  makes its own plans for us!” I sighed.

“It does. But enough of that! How about our Yiddish songs?”

“Yiddish?” I was aghast. Although the aversion most young Israelis had felt for the Jewish Jargon  had long evaporated from my system,  I was concerned about the nature of our  repertoire. Coming from a bunch of unruly young intellectuals, the songs  were acceptable. But  circumstances had changed since then. Pilkin had metamorphosed into a Rabbi and I had turned into a renowned expert on international commercial law.

Grinning from ear to ear, Pilkin brushed my misgivings aside and offered to lead the way. I was still trying to cast a veto, when – without a change in his benign expression –  he started to relate the deeds of the notorious Schlemiel, Rabbi Elimelech, whose clumsiness, inaptitude and absent minded demeanour wrought havoc amongst his  hapless victims: the Schliemasels over whose trousers he poured his boiling soup, whom he knocked over as he rushed out of the lift when they tried to get in and whose rooms in the hotel he entered in the most awkward moments, confident he was back to his own quarters.

Pilkin had a perfect recall of  the eight stanzas, recanting the hero’s adventures. Falling in line, I assumed the role of the chorus, chiming where appropriate the two lines ending with the memorable phrase: “En der Rebbe Elimelech, Oy Yoy Yoy”.

“Your turn, Bushi,” commandeered Pilkin when he completed his performance. “Let’s hear Sara-Beyle!”

            The very mention of the bawdy song made me sit upright. The song related to the  endeavours of the spirited heroine, whose navel kept dancing with merriment. Notwithstanding the liberal outlook of Israelis, there was a taboo on the performance of the masterpiece in any decent or mixed society. Sara-Beyle fitted into the sombre setting of the Zermattschein  like Jazz into a Gothic church.

“Don’t be silly, Bushi,”  insisted Pilkin. “If there’s any  Yiddish speaker around, he’d enjoy it. And Goys [gentiles]  wouldn’t know what it’s all about!”

“Oh, very well,” I capitulated.

            When I finished, and mopped my brow with relief, Pilkin suggested we chant  Belz, a song about a Stetl. As we were half way through, the waiter tip-toed  in with our desserts. Curious about his reaction to the sight of two old men, carrying on like school boys, I stole a glance at his face from the corner of my eye. To my surprise, he appeared neither amused nor perplexed. Swaying to the sound of the sentimental tune, his face expressed a connoisseur’s brotherly sympathy.

 

When we finished, both of us had to recover our breath. The abstract, inward looking expression, that descended on my friend’s face gave me the chance to observe him closely. His ruddy face, powerful frame and broad shoulders still denoted strength and determination. Here was a man who had come to terms with life and, in the process, emerged on top. He was not  caught up in the twilight zone. The sober world to which he belonged gave him  no cause  for self doubts. His odyssey, I thought, had been unruly at the start but propelled him to calm waters as he continued on course. All the same, one detail was missing.

 

2. Family Estrangement

 

“Pilkin,” I spoke with some hesitation, “you have given me  the news about all our old friends – even about that pain, Lupus – and also about Rachel, about your late mother and, of course, your family and yourself …”

“What are you getting at …” he broke in, startled.  

“You didn’t say a word about your brother! And David and you were so close!”

“Don’t talk to me about that swine,” snarled Pilkin, thunder written all over his face.

“Pilkin!” I countered, shocked.

“A swine: a stinker, a poz!” Pilkin went on vehemently.

“I thought you were close, very close. And the way he looked after  you when you had that heart attack. Goodness, Pilkin: he doted on you! What on earth happened?”

“Very well, I’ll tell you. When David graduated from Mikveh [a tertiary school specialising in farming]  he joined a Kibbutz near Haifa. After some two years, his present wife, Kate – a nice girl from Birmingham – went for a stint to the same Kibbutz. They fell in love with one another and so they got married. For a while they stayed put but then she wanted to go back to England. So they left and settled in a township near her family. David got a good job and so all seemed well. They bought a house in a good suburb and, after a few months,  he was elected member of  an uppish club in Birmingham. Eventually, they even ‘constituted’ him wine steward!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing; except that when I came to visit the Schul in Birmingham, David asked me not to mention he was my brother. He was always a bit of a snob and so he didn’t want his club to know too much about his background!”

“I don’t understand,” was all I could come up with.

“Kate is an Anglican, Bushi. But she didn’t expect David to convert. She is far too nice and  sensible to make such a demand. Yet David has gone into hiding, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t deny his origin; but he doesn’t boast of it either. I believe I could  have come to terms with that. But  the whole business took a different turn when he renounced me. That was filth – plain filth.”

“Aren’t you being too sensitive?”

“No Bushi: I am not. You know how I slaved to see David through. I did everything I could for him. If – after all that – he could disown me, I didn’t want to know him any longer! I wasn’t prepared to communicate with him like a fugitive!”

“I understand. But – Pilkin – what would you have done if he had converted but without allowing his change of faith to affect his relationship with you?”

“I would have had to accept that! A man’s religion is a matter for his own conscience. But that’s not what David did! He played a stupid and undignified game, pfui!”

“Has there been  a reconciliation?”

“Kate engineered one when they came to visit friends in Israel. Yentl sided with her. So we are again on speaking terms. But I can’t forgive him, Bushi.”

“Put it behind you, Pilkin,” I pleaded. “Snobbery is a weakness like any other. And it’s not like you to bear a grudge. Life is too short and David ain’t a bad chap. He was there when you needed him!”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. Still, the episode has remained a thorn in my flesh. So that’s that!”

“I understand. Still, as you yourself say, blood is thicker than water. And David is – and will always remain – your brother.”

 

3.Reverting to Shosh

 

For a while, Pilkin kept breathing hard. When, in due course, he suppressed his anger, I took the courage to ask him about Shosh. Breaking into a smile, he expressed his surprise I had not asked about her right at the start. It was not like me to forget  a friend as close  as her.

 “I simply didn’t want  to  risk  hearing  bad news about her!”

“The Ostrich posture?”

“True!”

“Well, let me put your heart at ease. The news isn’t all bad!”

“What d’you mean? There’s nothing wrong with her health?”

            Grinning slyly, Pilkin assured me there was nothing wrong with Shosh’s health. For all appearances, she was thriving. The trouble was at home. She had known for years that her husband was playing around but thought it best to close her eye. She felt certain he would not desert her, the children and their four grandchildren. She was, however, badly shaken when she discovered that her Uzi had a second household, with a girl half his age.

Her initial reaction was to demand  a divorce. Fortunately, she rang Pilkin before she went to see her lawyers. In the event, he managed to persuade her think the matter over and to discuss it with him, over lunch, after ten days.

 “When we met,” Pilkin told me,  “she had simmered down. She was still annoyed but had realised that the talk about divorce and scandal was silly. So she settled on sweet revenge!”

“At her age?”

“Not that sort of ‘sweet revenge’. Shosh’s far too sensible to look for a lover. And I’m not sure she’d find one. She ain’t a dish any longer!”

“So what was the big idea?”

“Do you remember Shosh’s appetite?”

“How could I forget that,” I muttered, recalling vividly how she used to have two or  three scoops of ice cream when Pilkin and I had but one and how she used to gobble up at least one extra Pitah Falafel when we went out together. She had, also, found ways and means to get an extra helping at every Kumsitz and party.

“For many years she made an effort to control her eating. She didn’t want to burst at the seams. Well, when we met she said she’d decided to drop all caution: she was going to eat to her heart’s delight,” Pilkin told me.

“Not a good idea at our age!” I exclaimed.

“I told her so. And d’you know what she said?”

“What?”

“She said she’d rather die happy on a full stomach than  starve herself for the sake of appearances!”

“Good old Shosh,” I let my enthusiasm show. “What a woman! And did she keep it up?”

“You bet she did. Here – let me tell you about our last lunch, just two weeks ago!”

Trying hard to appear objective, Pilkin told me how Shosh had devoured a five course meal and, in addition, had gobbled away most of his own, far less sumptuous dishes.

“Poor Pilkin. You must have  starved!”

“I filled my stomach with bread rolls!”

            “I shudder to think what she looks like nowadays? A cube?”

“A balloon, rather, Bushi. When I told her I was going to meet you, she asked me to give you her love. But she refused to send you a photo. Need I say any more?”

“That’ll do. Shosh was always a  piglet. But I’d hate to see what she looks like nowadays! Still, I hope she took a strong tea or coffee after that carnivorous lunch to help get all that stuff out her system.”

“Did you say tea or coffee, Bushi?”

“Well, yes; I did.”

“You better get ready for a real shock. Yes, Shosh took a coffee – a coffee of a sort. She ordered an ‘ordinary black’ in a long glass, with a nip of Dom, two spoons of raw sugar and topped with whipped cream!”

“After that  meal? You are making it up!”

“Shame on you! Rabbis don’t tell fibs, Bushi. And to finish the tale: when Shosh drained her cup of ‘coffee’, she smacked her lips and said it was so good she had to have a second!”

“Good God,” was all I could bring out. The thought of her Einspänne, and of its seductive aroma,  made my mouth water. During my visits to Vienna, in my Oxford days, I had often drunk such a coffee, albeit mixed with brandy rather than with Dom, in the coffee houses I used to visit with my late father. Such a coffee equalled a full meal, and was best consumed  late in the afternoon over a newspaper or a weekly.

“And she had two in one go?” I asked, trying to recover.

“She did.” Pilkin assured me, with a twinkle in his eye.

“And she smacked her lips thereafter!”

“It’s a free country,” countered Pilkin.

 

4.A Refreshing After Dinner Drink

 

“So it is!” I agreed and, turning to the waiter who had just stepped in to attend to us, ordered an Einspänner, adding: “But with Kümmel, please!”

“Hold on,” interrupted Pilkin, whose amused expression gave way to a look of brotherly concern. “Please use saccharine instead of sugar. And is there any good but not too sweet Liqueur?”

“Well,” said the waiter after a moment’s contemplation; “the Kirsch is splendid this year. And may I suggest Pro-Sweet instead of saccharine? It doesn’t leave the metallic taste.”

“That’ll do,” I said with relief.

            “And please use unsweetened whipped cream,” added Pilkin.

“Very well,” said the waiter.   

            When the rich, delicious drink arrived a few minutes later, I inserted the glass straw into the steaming coffee at the bottom of the long glass, mixed the Kirsch in, and  took a sip through the snow white cream. Conscious of  Pilkin envious glance, and feeling it was my turn for a spot of Schadenfreude, I smacked my lips appreciatively and, staring above Pilkin’s shoulder, pronounced: “A-Mechayedic.”

Instantly, Pilkin’s eyes started to pop out of his head. Amongst gourmands like us, the Yiddish phrase,  meaning ‘finger-licking-good’, was not uttered lightly. For a few moments he fought temptation. Then, with a shrug, he gave in.

“Alphonse, I’ll have one too,” he said to the waiter whom, obviously, he had come to know quite well over the years.

“After the goose?” The waiter, who must have become acquainted with Jewish traditions, was aghast.

“The spirit is strong, Alphonse. But the flesh is weak. And if we don’t give in to temptation from time to time, there will be no sins left to be forgiven! Sinning – on rare occasions – is human!”

“In that case, Rabbi Zohar, may I suggest you have a nip of Pflümlei instead of Kirsch? It is sweeter and just right this year. One spoon of brown sugar will do. And can I use sweetened cream?”

“Go ahead. You are a virtuoso when it comes to drinks”.

“Thanks, Rabbi Zohar. You are too kind!”              

            Pure delight was written over Pilkin’s face as he  wiped his mouth  after the first sip of the rich drink. “Delicious,” he confirmed. Grinning sheepishly at one another, we touched our  glasses and Pilkin   proclaimed, with the airs of a religious leader blessing his congregation: “To good old Shosh!”

“Amen,” retorted I, enthusiastically.

 

XII.       POST MORTEM

1.Bushi’s analysis

 

 “Well, Bushi” said Pilkin when the glasses were empty,  “it’s good to know that entre nous we’re still Bushi and Pilkin: never mind about that Professor Dr. Berger and the Rabbi Zohar stuff. So we have weathered the years! But now we have to  turn to the awkward part of our reunion: the post mortem. You remember: we agreed to have it!”

“So we did,” I nodded, “why don’t you start?”

“No, Bushi: your work involves analysis – analysis of facts and cases. So it’s really your domain. I’ll step in if I’ve anything to add.”

“Very well,” I agreed reluctantly. “To start with, Pilkin, both of us have done well but neither has set the Thames – or the Yarkon, if you please – on fire!”

“Few have,” interposed Pilkin.

“Quite! Apart from that, each of us has a positive balance on his score sheet. You have done well in your chosen vocation and, in addition, have become a real pater familias: and a happy one at that. I’ve done well professionally. In circles of banking lawyers my name is known. But I have failed miserably in my personal life. The less said about my marriage and home life the better. So – all in all – you have come out on top.”

“How about the fact that my attainments are in-house – within the community – but you went from strength to strength in an alien society?”

“But mine, too, is a narrow circle. And as regards your rise, Pilkin, remember:  nobody is readily declared a prophet in his own town. So, in a sense, yours is the greater achievement. Also, Pilkin, my success – if we call it that – is transient. Within five years from my retirement all my writings will be obsolete.  If I’m lucky, my name will survive in footnotes in the works of future banking lawyers.”

“I shall be forgotten just as quickly; and without the honour of mentions in footnotes” grinned Pilkin. “But there is another side to our respective tales. You, Bushi, were trained as a lawyer and remained in the fold.  I am a failed actor turned Rabbi!”

“But is it as simple as that, Pilkin? I’ve been wondering about this all the evening.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Is your spiritual role really detached from your original vocation?”

“D’you think I’m just  acting a role?”

“Not necessarily. But are you now a Boibrick [ultraorthodox]? Do you really believe, verbatim, in every point you preach: in every detail you expound during catechism?”

“You know I don’t,” he conceded readily. “And I don’t accept the literal historicity of events related in the Bible. I haven’t forgotten what I picked up in TA.1 and at the University. But I do believe in the essential validity – and in the religious truth – of the message delivered to us in the scriptures. I always did.”

“All the same, you have to  …  stretch … points when you prepare your addresses. You can’t, for instance, tell your congregation you doubt certain details – if not the very historicity – of the flood.”

“Quite. But – you know – when I deliver my Drashe [sermon] I do believe in the truth of what I say: just as a good actor believes in the role he plays!”

“Care to explain?”

“A good actor, Bushi, identifies with his role. If the role does not appeal to him, he ought to avoid it. For instance, if you can’t accept Hamlet’s madness, you better give the role a miss. That, incidentally, is why so many actors play stereotypes: they can’t cope with other roles. Only the few great ones can make a success of almost any role. Lesser mortals have to find suitable ones. I, Bushi, was a good Tavyeh because I believed in him. I identified in him and actually became him. But I could not identify with Peer Gynt or Uncle Vania.”

“I understand,” I nodded thoughtfully. “And, of course, a good court room advocate, too, acts a role. We discussed this before!”

“How about a university professor?”

“Same thing. I don’t really believe in all the crap – rules and exceptions – I often have to cover in a lectures. I know the law is fragile and transient. But I, too, have to play my part.”

“So, in a sense, you play the role of the legal sage. I play the role of the religious oracle. The similarity lies in that both of us thrive on what we do. And we have the respective aptitudes and, of course, the necessary  ‘faith’ in our respective calling and subject!”

“That sums it up neatly,” I agreed readily. “You, Pilkin, could have been a great lawyer!”

“I’d rather stick to what I know,” he retorted. But he smiled happily, cherishing the compliment.

 

2. Momeentums

 

“Well, Bushi,” said Pilkin after a short pause in which both of reflected on what had transpired. “I’m afraid I’ll have to call it a day soon. I’ve got to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Sure. I’ll stay around for a short while. I need to let my head clear. But before you go – here’s a small token of appreciation. I hope you’ll like it!”

“Thanks, Bushi,” said Pilkin, smiling broadly as he viewed the small package I brought with me. “Only I hope it’s alright if I don’t unwrap it now: it’s packed so neatly. But, please, tell me what’s in it.”

“It’s a collection of short stories, published privately. There are only fifty copies. I hope you’ll enjoy reading them.”

“What are they about?”

“My  life at the Bar in Tel Aviv and some stories from my days in  Singapore, Wellington and Melbourne. The illustrations are by a good friend of mine:   he rose to the occasion.”

“Will you write a story about our reunion?”

“You know I shall!”

“Let me have a copy of the manuscript!”

“Sure will,” I promised.

 

“And here, Bushi, is a small gift for you,” said Pilkin and placed a  small parcel, wrapped in gift paper, on the table. “It is hand-made, by a Bezalel craftsman whom I saw through when his wife ran away. Initially, when she left him, he was  a broken reed. It took some time to nurse him back into sanity and equilibrium. When he was back on deck, he gave me a box containing three almost identical pieces and said he made them for me when he started to feel he was recovering. I’ve kept one, gave the second to Shosh when she had her crisis, and here’s the third, for you!”

“But what is it?” I asked.

“Please have a look at  it tomorrow, after I’m gone. You’ll love it. And it will convey a message.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I still love every Bezalel piece I have. Their silver work is exquisite!”

“And this is special even for Bezalel. My friend is one of their top artists. And he put his heart and soul into the pieces he creates!”

            Inserting the small  parcel into my breast pocket, I shook my friend’s hand. “Take care of yourself, Pilkin!”

“You too, Bushi!”

“Till we meet again, then!”

“Indeed,” he agreed.

“Pilkin,” I stammered, suddenly out of control, “shall we perhaps schedule another – reunion? What do you think?”

“At our age, Bushi? Don’t you think this might be pushing fate or – in your terms – taking a chance?”

“True,” I conceded, sadly.

“But don’t look so glum,” smiled Pilkin. “Now that we have met again we’ll be able to schedule meetings whenever we feel like it!”

“Good.”  

“And now I must really go!”

 

             Rising to his feet,  he proceeded, without looking back, to the door. Despite his huge frame and broad shoulders he was – as he supported himself on his walking stick – just another old man striving to retain his dignity, his independence and his self esteem.

 

XIII.    FINALE

 

Next morning I packed my suitcase, went for a walk and then had a light breakfast. When I stepped back into the lobby, the receptionist told me the room facing the Matterhorn was ready. After I settled in it, I took Pilkin’s gift out of the spacious pocket of my parka. Was it a paper knife or some other small Bezalel artefact? First to be revealed was a fine chamois sachet. Inside it was a velvet sheath, neatly tied with a maroon lace. When I opened it, my hand started to tremble. I was holding in my hand an exquisite  religious object,  delicately crafted in silver: a Mezuzah, traditionally mounted on the door post of Jewish homes in remembrance of the Exodus myth. Smilingly, I recalled the Mezuzah that had been displayed on front door of my parents’ home in Tel Aviv. It, too, was a fine piece, but not of the same quality as the work of art I admired this morning.

What – I asked myself – did Pilkin intend to convey through it? Did he mean to tell me that, wherever I turned, I had remained one of the fold? Even as the thought crossed my mind, I realised that Pilkin would not seek to acquaint me with such a basic truth. A sophisticated, worldly, man like him would  know that I, too, was aware of this fundamental  fact of life. He would also have realised that, if I had sought to sever my links with the past, I should not have kept our rendezvous.  Could he, nevertheless, have wished to underscore the existence of the link – driving its existence home in the manner of one preaching to the converted? Grinning inwardly, I rejected the notion. Such a banal ruse was out of Pilkin’s character.

What then was the hidden message attached to his generous gift? Closing my eyes, I let my fingers run along the lines of its articulately engraved pattern. Far from breaking into precise geometrical forms, they wound around an axis, imperceptible to the eye, spraying in places into  loops arranged in a capricious design. I sensed that the hand that shaped these fine embossed lines had been guided by a keen eye and an inwardly focused glance. The artist had viewed his emerging masterpiece even as he was forming it with his unerring hand. He, too, sought to convey a thought, perhaps even a credo, through it.

Opening my eyes, I experienced a strange sensation. A few minutes earlier, when I had slumped into the armchair in my room, my heart had been pounding with trepidation mingled with anticipation. I had been edgy and restless. Now that sense of unease, of disharmony, had evaporated. It had given way to a welcome feeling of inner piece and calm: a rare sensation in my turbulent life. I was in harmony with the world around and with myself.

            Had the Mezuzah, an artefact without a life or soul of its own, triggered off  this reaction? Did it have the effect of  a tranquilliser? As my eye travelled along the  skilfully grafted petals of the Mezuzah and its intertwined configurations, I wondered   why did a message enshrined in an artefact affect me? I had never met the Bezalel artist. In a way, though, the tragic experiences that spurred him on when he crafted the piece were common to mankind. From times immemorial, life proceeded along endless grooves. Anyone could  have a fall  as he wound his way  through one of them.

            The  message conveyed by  the Bezalel craftsman – a message forged out of pain and sufferings, out of misery and longings – was loud and clear. Somewhere along the path you traversed, as the blizzard disrupted your comfortable routine,  you had to rekindle your strength by looking deep into your own soul to find the way back to light. Once you had spotted the nearest petal en route, you had to grab it and pull yourself up by holding on to it. More often than not, that petal was your own  survival instinct but, occasionally, it turned out to be the willing support – the ready shoulder – of a real friend. He alone could and would step in when needed. And he would  not do so for gain, not even with the hope of being rewarded with words of thanks, but, simply, because you were friends.

            This, I felt certain, was the message of the Bezalel  artist and of my friend Pilkin! For a while, I continued to admire Pilkin’s gift. Then I placed it back in its protective wraps and hid the  parcel in the small safe in my room.

Having put on my parka, I closed the window and went out. “Did you have a pleasant dinner, Herr Professor,” asked the  receptionist as I dropped my key on her desk.

“Outstanding,” I assured her.

“I am delighted! And what are you doing today?”

“I’m taking the chair lift well above Furi.”

“It’ll be lovely up there today; but the air is very thin!”

“I won’t go too high up. And thanks for warning” I smiled at her. “And I hope you have a nice day down here.”

“It should be: it’s my last day in Zermatt.” “Your last day?”

“Well, yes: my fiancé wants to open a  restaurant in Kufstein; and so we’re getting married!”

“Congratulations! So you’re going back to Austria?”

“Yes! I’m from St. Anton – in Tyrol, you know;  and it’s time to go home!”

“All the best to you then; all the very best!”

“Thanks,” she beamed; “and you, take care of yourself!”

“I’ll sure try,” I affirmed.