by Erich Segal
At last he dozed off into a troubled sleep. The next thing he knew he was being prodded gently by Yossi. He was with a broad-shouldered man of about forty, whom he introduced as Aryeh, the kibbutz security officer.
Jason quickly shook the sleep from his head and joined them to walk across toward the children’s quarters.
“It seems kind of strange to me,” he said as they neared the dormitory. “Why do you have all the kids sleep in one place? Wouldn’t they be safer with their parents?”
“It’s part of kibbutz philosophy,” Yossi explained. “The young children are brought up together to give them a feeling of comradeship. They don’t lack for love. They see their parents every day.”
The long rectangular nursery had two rows of beds, and walls decorated with some of the youngsters’ artwork. There were no visible signs of any destruction. The damage obviously had been quickly repaired.
“So it was here?” Jason asked quietly.
“Yes,” Aryeh acknowledged, pain in his voice, puffing at a cheap cigarette. “A little girl had tonsillitis and Fanny was taking care of her when.…”
“Don’t you have guards here? I mean, you’re so damn close to the border.”
“Everyone in the kibbutz does a night a month walking the perimeter of the land. But there’s so much area to cover that if the Fedayeen are patient, as these fellows obviously were, they can wait for the patrol to go by, cut the wires, do their nasty business, and escape.”
“You mean you didn’t catch any of them?”
“No,” Aryeh answered wearily. “The explosions made so much confusion—they also set off flares by the water tower. And we first had to think of our wounded. Besides Fanny, there were three children injured. By the time I organized a search party, they had gotten too big a lead on us and gone back across the border.”
“Why didn’t you keep chasing them?”
“The army took over. We just have to be sure we stop them next time.”
“You mean, you know they’ll be back?”
“Either them or their cousins. They’ll keep trying to drive us away until we convince them that this is our home.”
Jason asked to be left alone. The two men nodded.
He relived the scene of the terrorists smashing through the screen door and lobbing their grenades at the sleeping children. Reflexively he reached for the pistol he had once worn on his hip to shoot at the attackers. Rage exploded inside him. Anger with himself.
I should have been here to protect them, he thought. To protect her. If I had, she would still be alive.
Something was keeping Jason in Vered Ha-Galil. Superficially, he told himself, the hard physical labor was the only anodyne for his all-pervasive grief. And the evening discussions with the kibbutzniks were a catharsis for his troubled soul.
A week after his arrival, he managed to get through to the United States on the telephone in the main hall. The connection was weak and he had to shout. His father reported that he had spoken to the Harvard Law School dean and explained the circumstances. Jason would be allowed to make up the exams he had missed during the following spring.
“When are you coming home, Jason?”
“I’m not sure, Dad. I’m not sure about a lot of things.”
The kibbutz was one of the oldest in the country. It had been established by visionary Jews who had left Europe before the deluge, believing that they, like every other people, should have a homeland. In fact, they believed Palestine had always been their homeland. And their idealism inspired them to lead what they hoped would be a mass return.
“If you think these buildings are primitive,” Yossi remarked one evening after dinner, “imagine how it was when the older folks came. Living in tents all year round, plowing fields without a tractor.”
“It must have been intolerable,” Jason commented. “Uncomfortable yes, but not intolerable. Most relished every minute of it, even the freezing rain. Because, like the land it was falling on, this rain was for them.
“World War Two brought us more. First, those who got out ahead of the murder squads. And later, the survivors of the camps. Some of them are still around here working a full day in the fields next to youngsters like you.”
Jason had already noticed the blue numbers tattooed on their forearms, which they made no attempt to hide.
Eva’s cousin, Jan Goudsmit, had escaped the gas chamber and reached Palestine on one of the many illegal boats. But he was caught and interned by the British as an alien.
“Can you imagine them trying to tell a man he doesn’t belong in his own country?” Yossi laughed. “Anyway, they locked Goudsmit in another camp. Not as bad as the Germans, mind you. The British didn’t mistreat them. But the barbed wire was the same. He escaped in time to fight in the War of Independence. That’s where he and I met up. We were sharing the same rifle.”
“You what?” asked Jason.
“You hear me, my American friend. We had one rifle for two people. And, believe me, we didn’t have very many bullets, so the second man always kept an accurate count. Anyway, when it was over I brought Jan home with me.”
“That’s how I found him,” Eva joined in. “Once he had a fixed address, he gave his name to HIAS, which was trying to unite survivors. Their Netherlands committee got us in contact.”
“It must have been tough to leave the country you grew up in,” Jason offered. “I mean, learning a new language and all that stuff.”
“Yes,” Eva acknowledged, “it wasn’t an easy decision. I was so fond of the van der Posts. But curiously, it was they who convinced me.”
“Don’t you ever get homesick?” Jason asked, instantly regretting his poor choice of adjective.
“I do get nostalgic for Amsterdam,” Eva acknowledged. “It’s one of the loveliest cities in the world. I went back a few times to see Fanny. But by the time Jan died he had convinced me there was only one place a Jew could ever be at home.”
“As a patriotic American,” Jason said, “I take exception to that.”
“You mean as an ostrich,” Yossi interposed. “Tell me, Jason, how many years have Jews lived in America?”
“If I can recall my grade-school history, Peter Stuyvesant let a few into New Amsterdam in the early 1600s.”
“Well, don’t be so quick to draw conclusions, my boy,” Yossi responded. “Jews lived in Germany for more than twice as long as that. And they were just as successful—”
“—And just as integrated,” Eva quickly added.
“—That is, until that mad housepainter decided they were infecting Aryan society and should be exterminated. Then suddenly the fact that Heine was a Jew and Einstein was a Jew and most of their orchestras playing Mendelssohn were Jews meant nothing. They had to destroy us. And they almost did.”
Jason sat quietly for a moment and tried to tell himself that this was merely the propaganda that every visitor to Israel received.
Besides, he’d been brought up to think that there was another way the Jews could save themselves from the pogroms and persecutions of their long and painful history. His father’s way. Assimilation.
And yet, after the first week of orange picking by day and debates throughout the night, he still felt no desire to leave. In fact, it was only when reminded that Dov Levi would be returning from reserve duty and would want his bed back that Jason realized he had to make some sort of plans.
“Listen,” Yossi reasoned, “I’m not asking you to spend your lifetime here. But if you want to stay the summer, I can put you in a bungalow with six or seven other volunteers. What do you say?”
“I think that’s fine,” said Jason.
He sat down and wrote his parents:
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry I’ve been so uncommunicative since our phone call, but my whole world has suddenly fallen apart.
Next month was supposed to be the wedding. I feel such aching sadness that the only solace I can find is staying near the place she died.
Also, I need t
ime to think about what I want to do with the rest of my life. Losing Fanny has changed me a great deal. I seem somehow to feel less of the ambition I once had to go out and become a big “success”—whatever that means.
The attitude on this kibbutz is catching. Sure, some of the young men want to be doctors or professors. But when most of them have finished their studies they’ll come back and share what they’ve learned with the community.
It’s curious that among all the people I’ve met here, there’s not one whose aim in life is to be famous. They just want to live in peace and quiet and take pleasure from the real joys of life. Like hard work. And kids. And friendship.
I wish I could say that my mind is tranquil, but it isn’t. Grief is not the only thing I feel. There’s something primitive in me still crying out for vengeance. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t exorcise these feelings yet.
So I’ve decided to spend the summer as a volunteer working side by side with the rest of the kibbutzniks.
Since I can handle firearms I’ll also take a regular turn at guard duty. And if a terrorist is crazy enough to try to attack this place again, he’ll sorely regret it.
Anyway, thanks for letting me work all this out for myself.
Your loving son,
Jason
From the Harvard Alumni Bulletin of June 1963:
Theodore Lambros received his Ph.D. in Classics at mid-year’s. The Harvard University Press will publish his revised dissertation, under the title of Tlemosyne: The Tragic Hero in Sophocles. This fall he will join the Classics Faculty as an Instructor.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 25, 1963
I called up Lambros to congratulate him on fulfilling his dream—making it to the faculty of Harvard. This in addition to getting a book accepted for publication. The guy’s an absolute rocket.
He kind of downplayed it, telling me that an instructorship is not that big a thing, and that the real challenge is whether or not they give you tenure. But the guy’s in such a hurry. I know he’s going to make it all the way. I just wish he wouldn’t be so overanxious.
Then Sara took the phone to congratulate me.
I protested that credit ought to go to Faith. I mean, all I did was get home on time from the office one evening to sort of start things going. She carried little Andy for nine months.
Sara was keen to discuss diapers and breast-feeding and all kinds of maternal stuff. Which leads me to believe that she and Ted have got procreative inclinations. It makes sense. He’s reached the point in his life where he can be proud of what he’s accomplished. And that’s the time to start a family.
When Faith was preg, we splurged and bought a big house outside Stamford. It’s an easy commute for me. Indeed, since I’m now involved in IPO’s—otherwise known as underwriting—at Downs, Winship, I can sometimes use the commuting time to arm-twist an old school or college buddy from another institution on the Street into joining us in financing a new issue.
I’ve learned a good deal about banking in the past few years. There is some technical stuff but a lot depends on getting along with other preppies over lunch at their Wall Street clubs.
There’s nothing difficult for me in that, and so I’ve not been kicked out yet. In fact, just the other day, one of the vice-presidents told me to “keep up the good work.”
I don’t know how I can possibly improve, unless I have two lunches a day.
I like marriage. It’s not only enjoyable, it’s efficient from the point of view of time and motion. All the bachelors in my office are preoccupied with where their next date is coming from. While I know that after a hard day of being likable, when I get off the train and drive eleven minutes, there’ll be a great-looking blonde waiting to greet me with the driest martini in Conneticut. I mean, you can’t get any closer to bliss than that, can you?
Naturally, we go to all the Harvard football games, following the whole ritual from tailgate picnics before to cocktail parties after. Sometimes I even stay in New York after work and watch films of the previous Saturday’s game at the Harvard Club. And then sit around with the guys discussing what we did wrong.
Faith doesn’t mind. She’s a great kid that way.
Actually, I dream of taking my son along to the game someday. He’ll be the Harvard Class of ’84.
I know that the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in my whole life is becoming a father.
Of course, there’s not much for me to do yet. In fact, we’ve got this great English nanny, so there’s not much for Faith to do, either. But I really look forward to talking to Andy, teaching him how to swim and play ball, and having him—for a while at least, I hope—look up to me with respect.
And I’ll try to spare him all the pressures of the “Eliot tradition.”
I talk to him already. Sometimes I sneak into his room when the nanny’s not around and say stupid things like, “Hey, old buddy, why don’t we two slip down to Cronin’s for a few beers?”
I think he smiles at this, so maybe he understands more than I imagine.
All in all, my life seems to be “a fun thing.”
I’m bullish on the future.
On the first Sunday in July, the kibbutz volunteers arrived at Vered Ha-Galil, and Jason moved into the small barracks that had been set aside for them. They were from Scandinavia, France, and England, as well as the United States and Canada. Almost all were younger than he. And surprisingly, many were Christian.
They rose at 5:00 A.M. and, with few complaints, worked in the orange groves till 8:00. Then after breakfast when the others returned to the fields, they went to the classroom for elementary language instruction. Even though he felt like their grandfather, Jason tagged along.
But in the evenings while the others partied, he would work alone in the kibbutz garage repairing and tuning their vehicles. What had once been a pleasant hobby was now a necessary activity. To keep him from thinking.
Since the kibbutz was not a religious one, on the Sabbath they piled the volunteers into their ramshackle bus and bounced them over the countryside on endless excursions.
As one of the English teachers, Eva was in charge of the descriptive aspects of these expeditions. One was to the mountain fortress of Masada, overlooking the Dead Sea. Here, in the first century A.D., a small band of Jewish Zealots withstood a two-year siege by the Roman legions. And when they were finally on the verge of defeat, chose to take their own lives rather than become slaves.
Eva gave her little explanatory briefing, while all about them archaeologists—including hundreds of summer volunteers—continued to excavate the site.
“This remnant of old Israel,” she began, “has become a rallying symbol for us. It shows our determination never again to surrender to an oppressor.”
Jason looked over the stone walls at the plain below and imagined what it must have been like for the outnumbered Zealots to see the heavily armed enemy swarming below them. God, they had courage, he thought.
But then, they had nowhere to go.
• • •
If Masada had been uplifting, their next tour was devastating.
They visited Yad Va-Shem, the memorial in Jerusalem dedicated to the six million victims of the Holocaust.
On the floor of the darkened building were plaques naming the many concentration camps in which the victims had perished. The magnitude of the catastrophe was almost too monstrous to contemplate.
The flame burning in eternal commemoration of those wretched martyrs seemed pitifully small. Yet indestructibly bright.
Eva dwelt on this theme during the solemn bus ride home.
“Compared to the many who died, there are few of us here to keep that flame alive,” she said. “I don’t think anyone can understand what this country means until they have seen what we saw today.”
The Sea of Galilee glowed with the rays of the setting sun as the bus journey neared its conclusion. For nearly an hour all had ridden in total silence. Then Jonathan, an American volu
nteer, spoke out.
“Eva, something’s always bothered me. Whenever I try to discuss the Holocaust with my gentile friends back home, they always ask the same question—Why did they go so passively to the gas chambers? Why didn’t they fight back?”
There was a slight stirring among the passengers in the bus as they strained forward to hear how Eva would reply.
“There were some who fought, Jonathan. Like the brave resisters in the Warsaw ghetto who gave the Nazis a battle to the very end. But it is true that not enough were like that. And there is an explanation.
“When the world found out—and believe me, everyone, including your own President Roosevelt, knew—that Hitler meant to destroy all the Jews of Europe, countries did not throw open their gates and offer them sanctuary. On the contrary, I could tell you terrible stories about shiploads of escapees being turned away and sent back to Germany.
“And when the Jews realized that there was nowhere in the world they could go, a great many despaired. They had no will to fight because they had nothing to fight for.”
There was silence for a moment. Then a young Danish girl raised her hand and asked, “Do you think it is possible such a thing could happen again?”
“No,” Eva replied. “Never. And what makes me so sure is what you see outside the window. The Jews at last have a country of their own.”
“That was quite a speech you gave,” Jason remarked to Eva as they were strolling after dinner. It was a late-summer evening, the air heavy with the scent of flowers.
“Did it make sense to you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “In fact, it was very upsetting.”
“Which part?” she asked.
“Well, your intimation that a Jew will never be fully accepted anywhere but here. That’s not what I’ve been brought up to believe.”
“Forgive me,” she replied, “but my family was as Dutch as yours is American. Still when the war came, it was amazing how quickly we became Jews and aliens.”
“My father thinks otherwise.”