Israel’s immigrants, wherever they may come from, inevitably bring the aura of their old homelands into the new. This is as true for the melancholy, romantic German, as for the merrier-dispositioned Yemenite. Zev Tronik, who lives in the Jerusalem he writes about, was born in 1915 in Frankfort, Germany, and came to Israel in 1944. He has contributed frequently to German and French periodicals, and is now editor of an Israeli youth publication. This is his first appearance in our pages, and the first appearance, also, of Gerda L. Cohen, who now lives in Tel Aviv, after a year on the kibbutz “Ma’agan Michael.” She was born in 1927 in England, and holds a degree from Cambridge. Her articles have appeared in the Jewish Observer and Middle East Review, the Jewish Chronicle, and numerous Israeli weeklies; at present she is a feature writer and correspondent for the Jerusalem Post.
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I was almost sorry the tree had grown so tall—the trouble I had had keeping it alive! Now it was spreading in every direction, and each day it stole a little more of my view. Still, I loved to listen to the rustling of its leaves in the long evening hours, and I never tired of watching it bend and sway in the wind. But when I went to the window to look out before sitting down to work, or when I leaned out at sunrise to breathe in the fresh morning air, I missed the view into the distance. My friends, too, when they came to visit me, were distracted by the play of the wind and the tree—this physical presence seemed to make the great abstractions we were so fond of discussing distant and unreal.
The tree, which I had planted with my own hands, often made me think of what my existence was like in this city, for somehow it had become the symbol of my new way of life, with its painful limitations. Like most residents of Jerusalem, I treasured two things: a small circle of intimate friends, and the view into the distance, and I realized now that the view meant more to me than anything.
“Yes,” said my friend Hillel, “we are the eyes of the people who are planting and building down below, and if we up here cannot look into the distance we are no good to them any longer.”
Vlasta, stretched out gracefully on the sofa with her shoes off, extended her hands and smiled, “I love Jerusalem, it’s the most beautiful city in the world.”
Vlasta was in charge of a kindergarten, and she educated the children entrusted to her no better and no worse than anyone else might. She watched over their health, saw to it that they were clean and happy and developed according to schedule. She loved the climate—the light clothes she wore during the long summer months, and the color of the Oriental fabrics that were so becoming to her face and fitted in with the landscape.
She was content to have our conversation—Hillel’s and mine—turn to lofty abstractions; she would put on a classical record and listen quietly to the music and our conversation. Against this double background, her loveliness and her delicacy took on a special emphasis. In those moments she was near yet far, present and yet absent.
Hillel would often come late on Friday afternoon, and stay over till Saturday night. He knew I was always home on the Sabbath and on holidays, and he too disliked mingling with the idle, dressed-up crowd in the streets. Vlasta would join us later on in the evening, looking delicate and rested after her long Friday afternoon nap. It was she who brought order into the room; she rearranged the flowers so as to display their real beauty, and she would open the little package which Hillel was in the habit of handing me when he came in, but which was really meant for Vlasta. Vlasta’s arrival left us free for our great discussions; she served the tea at the right moment, and she put on the record when it seemed called for.
Around midnight, the sky was filled with high, white clouds sailing rapidly eastward; this was a usual sight in the fresh, cool nights of June, which is the happy month we wait for. In this season, the sunset often heralds a rush of thoughts and ideas that flow in a deep, wide stream straight to their far and invisible goal.
“It’s time to go,” Vlasta said, and she reached to shut off the phonograph. But she refrained, deciding to wait for the end of the movement. She slipped on a light sweater—the night was rather cool—and we walked down the stairs, one behind the other. On the first floor the light was still on, and we heard soft music coming from the open window.
Hillel, who led the way, turned round after he had crossed the threshold of the gate and looked at us pensively. “Music, wind, and the view into the distance,” he said, “that’s what we live on. Together they are an infinity, but if we should lose one of them, the other two would cease to exist.”
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We fell silent, walking slowly down the empty streets, looking at the sky, the houses, the trees. Slowly, yet irresistibly, the nocturnal city forced a peculiar gait upon us. It seemed to us that we were not really walking, but that we experienced a glorious, indescribable sensation of floating, of being immersed bodily in the dark, streaming waters of the night which refreshed and revived us with their coolness. The illusion was so strong, we began moving our arms like swimmers.
Suddenly we were going uphill, and soon the moonlit houses of the town lay before our eyes. Obeying an old habit, we walked in the middle of the broad street; it gave us the sense of being safe, of walking on ground that belonged to us. After a certain hour Jerusalem does belong to the night-walker. You are alone with the breath of her olive groves, and you are at your ease anywhere.
Vlasta walked between us, holding our hands. She breathed deeply the fresh, pungent air and from time to time turned to look at one or the other of us. Soon we reached a small, well-kept public park and sat down on a bench.
Hillel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; he appeared to have fallen into deep thought. From time to time Vlasta said something that did not seem to call for any answer. We two men felt no need for conversation, but Vlasta begrudged us our silence. She was a woman, she had the right to some conversation, and we knew it.
“Do you remember Shlomo Schwartz?” Hillel asked quietly.
“Oh, yes,” Vlasta said. “Poor fellow, what’s the matter with him?”
“He is sick, very sick. I met him yesterday in the restaurant where I eat every day. He must have been waiting for me, I had hardly sat down when he came straight at me. I was shocked when I saw him. He was terribly thin, his eyes were bloodshot . . . he looked, like a skeleton. His hand was cold, bloodless, almost dead. I saw that he didn’t have a penny and I invited him to lunch. He was starved, but he ate without appetite, like a man condemned to death. Then he told me that he was going to the hospital very soon; after a great deal of trouble he had finally been admitted.”
“Poor, poor man,” said Vlasta, “he was always so hopelessly alone.”
“It’s a terrible fate being an old bachelor in Jerusalem,” I said. “Shlomo has told me how he used to walk at night through the streets of the city, ashamed of his loneliness. All his friends and acquaintances knew he was wandering around.” And I added, “Where can you go in Jerusalem once the movies have closed?”
“To live in Jerusalem is to live alone, by definition,” Hillel said grimly. “To exhibit one’s loneliness is therefore ostentation.”
“Let’s visit him and bring him something nice!” Vlasta exclaimed.
“Perhaps that is the true greatness of this city,” Hillel philosophized, “that she reminds us constantly of our human loneliness. Wherever and however we may live, in the end we have only ourselves to fall back on. It is one of the great truths of human existence, too easily overlooked in other big cities. But Jerusalem is a city without make-up and without illusions, and it is infinitely encouraging that she manages to be so stimulating and beautiful in spite of it. We in Jerusalem know that the naked truth is beautiful, more beautiful and more interesting than any lie.”
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Just then all three of us raised our heads. We had heard the sound of steps and a low singsong. In a little while we spied the round hats and sharp silhouettes of three yeshiva bachurim approaching in our direction, walking with characteristically hurried step. They must have been coming from their Rebbe, in the neighborhood, and they seemed still to be filled with his radiance. Very likely they were singing to let everyone know how completely they had surrendered to the joys of the Shabbat. They fitted perfectly into the landscape, much better than we in our conventional clothes.
Suddenly I recalled that once before I had encountered a group of Hasidim in the streets of Jerusalem at the same hour, but under very different circumstances. It was the middle of winter, January, I believe. Just before then, several persons had been murdered by fedayeen bands and the military authorities had decided to send nightly patrols into the most exposed quarters of the city. I was a member of the military reserve, and I had been ordered to report. I went on patrol with two comrades in an outlying part of the city which was inhabited mainly by Hasidim. My comrades and I, burdened down with full field packs, were not exactly in the best of moods. It was bitter cold and we waited impatiently for the morning and our relief. Sometime after midnight we saw small groups of Orthodox Jews walking home peacefully, appearing in no great hurry. We were rather surprised to see so many of them in the street at that late hour. We decided to find out where they were all from, and we finally came upon a synagogue from which small groups of them were still emerging. We stopped and looked at these people who belonged to another world and stood for values so different from ours. They in turn gave us some peculiar looks but remained silent. With a slight shudder I realized that we were absolute strangers to them, that our uniforms and our weapons symbolized for them everything that was not Jewish. Yet I think some of them wanted to say something friendly to us, but could not find the right words, or supposed we did not understand Yiddish.
My comrades and I had to pool our small knowledge of religious customs, and then we concluded that these people were just coming from Tikun Hatzot, the Midnight Lamentations for Solomon’s Temple. This custom has, on the whole, fallen into disuse, but the Hasidim still guard it carefully.
A tall, slender Hasid silently took notice of our uncertainty. He held a prayerbook in his fine right hand, and his long kaftan glistened in the moonlight. He came toward us slowly, with great poise and looking at peace with himself, as do so many religious Jews. It seemed to me that he was sorry for us, and under his quiet glance I felt ashamed to be the representative of an institution based on force. I found it hard to look him straight in the eye, I was uncertain how to react to his self-possessed, benevolent look. I had a sudden impulse to throw away my rifle, but I stood motionless. As the Hasid passed us, he turned his head and said quietly, “A gitte nacht, Yiden,” and I answered, also in Yiddish, “A gitte nacht, Reb Yid,” grateful for the chance to show that I too, in spite of my martial get-up, had a Jewish soul and could understand his world which was founded on faith in God.
Now, as the yeshiva bachurim walked past our bench, Hillel suddenly spoke up: “Shabbat shalom, where are you going?”
They were surprised, but not startled. They stopped singing and looked at one another.
“Sholem, sholem,” they said finally, pausing to look us over.
“Don’t run away,” Hillel said in Yiddish, “we are not lepers.”
“It’s late,” one of them said, “time to go home.” They seemed torn between friendliness and suspicion. Vlasta’s presence quite obviously disturbed them. Some more hesitation, an awkward, hasty goodbye, and they were gone. Soon they started their singsong again, as if we no longer existed for them. The echo of their steps resounded for a long time.
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Then came a Friday when I was all alone. Hillel had for some reason decided not to come that week, and Vlasta had gone off for a holiday at the shore. When I came home late that afternoon I found a letter from her. I refrained from opening it, but put it carefully on the bookshelf. I still had a great many things to do before erev Shabbat: the usual shopping, the great house-cleaning, the customary shower. Afterward, I loved to look out on the street and see the people and the traffic disappearing at the approach of the Shabbat, till, just before the moment of the Shabbat’s arrival, there was a last-minute frenzied rush of stragglers hurrying to their destinations.
In common with many other Israelis, I observed the ritual of the great Friday afternoon house-cleaning as it is practiced in the kibbutzim. First, you place all your tools and the light pieces of furniture atop the heavy furniture. Then you pour great quantities of water over the tile floor and mop it up with a dry rag. Finally you open all the windows to let the sun and the air do the job of drying, while you enjoy your shower.
That afternoon, when I emerged from the cubicle of my shower, the floor was already dry and refreshingly cool. Obeying an old habit, I went through a few exercises, and then I put the room in order again. I find this a particularly pleasant chore, for one can envision the perfect harmony of the room while one is still engulfed in its chaos. Every move brings one closer to the ideal order, and one can identify oneself with each piece of furniture as it jumps back into its proper place as if by its own volition.
It was now five o’clock. I turned on the radio and stretched out on the sofa, basking in the thought that more than half the population of the city was at that very instant doing exactly what I was doing. This novel way of receiving the Shabbat in modem Israel marks a moment of national unity. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, bring into the homes a festive atmosphere of reflection and meditation. Throughout the country, in the cities, the villages, and the kibbutzim, at that hour, all those who are not getting ready for religious services arc listening to the Friday afternoon program of classical music on the national broadcasting system, and each person knows that all the others are, at the same hour and in the same spirit, giving themselves over to a sense of communion and to the joys of the music.
A wonderful, familiar sensation of peace descended on me. I felt that perfect order had come not only to my own modest apartment, but to my neighbors and to my street, to the holy city of Jerusalem and to the entire country. I listened to the pure music; against the background of absolute silence it seemed to rise like a solid pillar of sound.
I took down Vlasta’s letter and felt a sudden pleasure at the sight of her neat handwriting. Vlasta had written my address in Hebrew and I could see how she had struggled with it. I did not open the letter immediately, but examined the stamp and the postmark and the sender’s name: Vlasta Mayrowitz, Pension Katz, Nahariya.
Nahariya was more than a word for me, it was a symbol. I loved the place and its name. I was in the habit of spending my vacations there, eight days in spring and ten days in the fall. I loved the restless sea and the people, residents as well as guests Nahariya is situated approximately at the midpoint of the glorious Haifa Bay and from the beach one can see the splendid half-circle of the bay and the mountains of Galilee. In the fall, when there are fewer guests, a mood of quiet sadness settles over the little town, fitting well with the brave resignation of its inhabitants. Curiously enough, at this season one always meets visitors from Jerusalem, easily recognized by their white skins and intellectual faces: university professors, physicians, scientists, higher officials. They speak to each other in German, and they seem to feel at home in that place and at that season.
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I opened the envelope carefully, pulled out the thin paper, and unfolded two pages covered with Vlasta’s neat handwriting. What she had to say was, in itself, not very important, but to feel close to her just then was intoxicating; the music, the quiet, the festive mood of the approaching Shabbat provided the ideal setting for her words.
“My dear, good Gideon” (she wrote) “I have been here now for three days, and I am enjoying life in a thoroughly physical way, almost pagan. The ocean, the sun, the swimming, the walks into the beautiful countryside . . . it is unspeakably wonderful to feel joy in one’s body again, to run, laugh, dance, to drop, long after midnight, into one’s bed, exhausted but feeling well and healthy.
“I already have quite a tan, and everybody says it becomes me. How are you, my dear Gideon, in cool Jerusalem? Sometimes I grow tired of all the bright noise here and long for the cool nights of our city. But do I really, or do I just force myself subconsciously to feel guilty about my easy life in Nahariya? I don’t know, perhaps when I return you’ll explain it all to me and bring back some order into my mixed-up emotions. You know how much I trust your judgment.
“I’ll be back eleven days from now, and I am looking forward to it I am in a mood where everything makes me happy.
“All my best
your Vlasta.”
That was all; the letter of an intelligent woman, hinting at some things and omitting what was most important.
Suddenly I was sad. My body felt plump and awkward. I felt as if I were high above the world on light, drifting clouds, yet unable to free myself from the pull of gravity. I had an enormous desire to return to other people, to talk, laugh, and dance with them.
I jumped off the bed and noticed with a sudden pang that I was trembling with excitement. I stepped to the open window and looked into the dark night. I had missed the arrival of the Shabbat, the streets were empty and still now. A soft wind rustled through the streets, and many windows were illumined with lights. Try as I might, I could see no human face.
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