by Ron Bahar
I walked into the apartment and was relieved that essentially nothing had changed. It was a small and incredibly simple, but perfectly kept two-bedroom, third-story abode (I’m not sure how my grandfather was able to continue climbing its stairs). As a child, I was fascinated by two of its features, including the overhead tank with the pull-chain flush system on its only toilet and the small but beautiful stone-tiled balcony with a view of Fichman Elementary School and the hills and trees behind it. Suck it, Tommy, I thought. Even your mansion doesn’t have a vintage toilet, a biblical view, and a badass hero of a grandfather. I stood at the railings, closed my eyes, and listened to the children in the playground of the school I had attended the summer after first grade. I smelled the aroma of the forest mixed with my grandfather’s Turkish coffee.
My mother’s sister, my aunt Shlomit, had gone to the local market to purchase food for breakfast, but my grandfather insisted on meticulously preparing the meal. Though a cheese omelet and fresh baked bread with butter would certainly qualify as comfort food to most Nebraskans, chances are that the accompanying Israeli cucumber and tomato salad would not. It worked for me, however. I nostalgically plowed through my feast, though I stood clear of the diesel-powered, unfiltered java.
I spent the next two hours bringing my grandfather and Shlomit up to speed on my life. I left out the part about getting shit-faced on prom night, attempting to lose my virginity at lightning speed to Julia the Siren before getting knocked out by Tommy, her jealous boyfriend, and ruining the relationship I had with my secret, non-Jewish girlfriend in the process. I instead concentrated on Zillie, Iris, high-school graduation, my father’s health, and my future as a medical student in Wisconsin. As I spoke, they both smiled, and my grandfather would repeatedly interrupt, “If only your grandmother could have lived long enough to see our grandchildren.” Shlomit could only wipe away tears. She was, of course, my mother’s sister.
By mid-afternoon, jet lag set in. My grandfather routinely napped at this time of day, so Shlomit left and I crashed on the living room couch. About two hours later, I awakened to the sound of a whistling teakettle. My grandfather called me to the kitchen. “Ronnie, we need to talk.”
I entered the room a bit dazed from the depth of sleep from which I was awakened. I smiled when I saw that my grandfather had prepared afternoon tea and toast, Israeli style: black tea in giant coffee mugs, toasted French bread, and a tub of Nutella. Goddammit, he really did love me.
“Sit down and eat,” he said, and continued as I complied. “I’m glad to hear you have a bright future ahead of you in medicine, but your mother tells me you’re not really happy. She didn’t tell me why. She simply told me that she and your father were sending you here because they wanted you to see me, and they thought the trip would cheer you up . . . I want to know what’s wrong.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I’m not happy . . .”
“Ronnie, I’m an old man. Don’t waste my time; I don’t have much left.” He grinned, but I knew he was serious . . . and persistent. Any attempt to deceive him would be pointless. I lathered my toast with Nutella and dove in.
“Okay, it has to do with a girl.”
“Tell me about her,” he said, now with an impassioned look on his face. He then placed a sugar cube between his front teeth (dentures, actually . . . he had performed this maneuver for decades) to sweeten the tea as he sipped it.
I paused a moment before answering, then took one deep breath before spilling my guts. “Saba, I fell in love with a non-Jewish girl. Her name is Amy. I didn’t tell my parents about her, and they discovered we had a serious relationship only after I tried to cheat on her. It was an absolute disaster, and it was all my fault. My parents were furious with me, and now Amy doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
My grandfather nodded slowly for what seemed like a century. His sugar cube had dissolved, and he finally spoke. “Do you still love her?”
“Yes.”
This time he answered without hesitation. “Ronnie, I have seen a lot of pain, suffering and regret in my life . . . enough for one hundred lifetimes. What you did was stupid, but falling in love was not.” He went on. “Risking my life to come to Israel was only the second most courageous thing I ever did. I think perhaps the most courageous thing I ever did was to pursue your grandmother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Unfortunately you never met her and you’ve only seen pictures of her. She’s pretty in them, but she was much more beautiful in real life, I’m telling you. I literally couldn’t speak around her. She left me tongue-tied.”
“Now that I understand,” I said, laughing. “So how did you finally do it?”
“I threw up.”
“You what?”
“You heard me right. I was so nervous every time I saw her that not only did I become speechless, but I also became sick.”
I had a difficult time visualizing a vulnerable Zalman Rodov puking. “So what happened?”
“Well, I finally became so tired of my predicament that I decided not to hide from it anymore. So, you see, the meaning of ‘courage’ depends on one’s perspective. Of course, courage can be defined by one’s willingness to wear a uniform, carry a gun and go to battle. But sometimes, courage is simply the ability to listen to your heart. So, after vomiting, I told her I was in love with her.
“And what did she say?” I asked, still barely able to wrap my head around the all-too-familiar barf tale.
“She said she already knew.”
We both laughed. “But Saba, this is different. She’s not Jewish.”
“Love transcends all religions, Ronnie. If you love her, try and get her back.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.
CHAPTER 29
“Nobody's ever loved me like you do
Nobody’s broken through”
—SANTANA’S “HOLD ON,” FROM THE ALBUM SHANGO,
RELEASED AUGUST, 1982. IT PEAKED AT NUMBER FIFTEEN ON
US BILLBOARD’S HOT 100 SONGS.
I spent the next three days escorting my grandfather around Haifa. It seemed inappropriate and borderline dangerous for an elderly man with a cane to try and negotiate the city’s slopes. He, however, insisted, and who was I to argue? When I was a child, he held my hand while we visited the best the city had to offer: The Baha’i Temple, the cable car, the Druze village at Daliat El Carmel, Elijah’s cave, and, of course, the beach. We had now come full-circle.
We had an unspoken and mutual understanding that these days likely represented his swan song as a tour guide. By the same token, we never discussed Amy again. At the end of our third afternoon, we took the bus for an overnight stay in Shlomit’s west-side neighborhood, The French Carmel, which overlooked the Mediterranean. Before we entered her home, my grandfather turned to me and said, “Ronnie, take a seat with me at this park bench.”
Though the sun was setting, the balmy, humid, salty air blanketed us with warmth. We sat silently for several minutes, watching the sky change its jeweler’s display of sapphire, gold, ruby, and emerald. I remembered Frank Dupuis’s lecture on color during sunset: “When the sun is at its peak, the short-wavelength visible blue lights are scattered more than the longer-wavelength lights to reach your eyes from all directions. That’s why the sky looks blue in the middle of a sunny day. As the sun descends in the horizon, the light passes through more and more air and thus more and more air molecules. When that path is long enough, the blue light is completely scattered and gives way to longer-wavelength yellow, orange, and red lights, and even a flash of green light.” I then tried to ignore his words and instead live in the moment. Two gulls and a catamaran crossed our view of the sun in a manner that would have made Ansel Adams convert to color photography. The scene was spectacular.
As dusk settled on the horizon, my grandfather finally broke our silence. “Ronnie, I think your parents have told you about what I did after World War II to help European refugees secretly enter this country
from Cyprus.”
“You mean helping them ashore on lifeboats? Yes, of course.”
“It was from these same beaches.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m proud of what I did, but I’m not mentioning it to boast,” he explained. “I brought you here because I want you to think about those people . . . what they went through . . . what they sacrificed . . . what they dreamt about Israel.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“I think you can imagine,” he answered kindly, and continued. “I think they were incredibly brave and proud of being Jews and keeping their faith. The look on their tired faces, at the point they reached the shore and kissed the sand before running to shelter in one of our houses, is something I’ve never forgotten.”
I considered the relative triviality of my predicament as he went on. “And though what they did was courageous, they would tell you they had no choice. Once they were here, however, they became part of the country and the society that saved them. They chose to become farmers or bus drivers or teachers or electrical engineers. They even chose to become doctors or singers.” He paused and smiled. I smiled back. God, he was good. “And they fell in love, just as they do in Europe or Africa or South America . . . or Nebraska.”
He had one subject remaining on his agenda. “Now, Ronnie, I haven’t heard you sing since I came to your Bar Mitzvah almost five years ago. You know I don’t like it when those horrible electric guitars play that cat music.” (The term “cat music” was actually spoken in English to emphasize his disgust for what he considered a bastardized version of the acoustic guitar he had played decades before). “But your mother tells me you have developed a very special voice, and that you sing the words to some of this cat music on stage. Apparently you have quite a reputation . . . so, let’s hear something.”
I burst out laughing. “But you just said you hate cat music!”
“I’m waiting,” he answered. Then he stared at me. He was serious. This was going to be a command performance.
I contemplated his request. I reminded myself that, besides the words “cat” and “music,” he understood only a handful of English words. Okay, I thought, he asked for it. And Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do. But who doesn’t love Marvin Gaye?
“Oh, baby now let’s get down tonight . . .”
Yes, I sang “Sexual Healing” to Zalman Rodov. He ate up my performance with the glowing pride that only a grandparent could display. In my nearly eighteen years, I had never seen him unfold that meticulously placed kerchief of his . . . until that moment. After wiping away tears of joy, he responded only with this brief colloquialism:
Hebrew:
Transliteration: “Kol hakavod!”
Literal Translation: “All of the respect!”
Intended Translation: “Hell, yes!”
To this day, I believe it was my all-time best performance.
SHLOMIT made the best schnitzel outside of Europe, and the scent of this Austrian-style pan-fried chicken would have led me to her home from the other side of town. Shlomit’s husband, my uncle Haim, answered the door and offered me a bear hug before leading my grandfather and me to the living room. He looked paradoxically like Vladimir Lenin, complete with receding hairline and goatee, but the comparison between the two ended with their appearance. Haim spoke his mind, but he had a heart of gold and doted over his family.
Shlomit and Haim Pesso had three daughters: Sigal, Rakefet, and Yael. Sigal, the oldest, was my age. Unlike many of her American counterparts, she would complete her obligatory two years of service in the Israeli Army before starting college. After a short summer break, new soldiers would participate in basic training. One advantage of living in a country the size of New Jersey, with the unity of a single (if often dysfunctional) family, is that, when given leave, enlistees could hitchhike home for the weekend. Sigal was stationed in Northern Israel, near Nahariya, a seaside town about six miles from the Lebanese border and less than one hour by car from Haifa. It was, therefore, easy for her to arrive on time for Sabbath dinner. Depending on their proximity to home, recruits would often invite other soldiers for the weekend, away from the grind of army life.
Like my aunt and uncle, my three cousins were very effusive and quick with warm embraces. “Sit down, Ronnie!” demanded Rakefet in Hebrew. Not quite fifteen, she was already the most assertive of the sisters and would later show her leadership skills as a colonel in the Israeli Air Force. “We have a surprise for you,” she added. She turned to the kitchen and yelled, “Dalia, get off the phone and come in here!”
During the 1970s, Dalia Klein lived three doors down from the Pesso family. Her mother moved to Israel from the Gulf of Aden in 1950 as part of “Operation Magic Carpet,” in which 49,000 Jews were airlifted from Yemen, Djibouti, and Eretria to escape anti-Semitism. Her father’s parents immigrated to Palestine from Germany in 1939 while the Nazi government still encouraged Jews to leave the country. Through disparate routes, families like Dalia’s helped form Israel’s melting pot.
I had last seen Dalia five years earlier. I seem to remember a shy, gangly girl with a mouthful of braces, who clung nervously to Sigal. You could imagine my reaction, then, when Dalia entered from the kitchen. I saw before me a genetic cocktail that successfully merged supermodels Christie Brinkley with Iman. Her seemingly endless legs, copper skin, indigo eyes, wavy, honey-brown hair, and perfect teeth successfully combined to create nothing less than a miracle of circumstance, nature, and dentistry. One could also imagine the magnitude of my reaction, given that she was still wearing her uniform.
“Hi, Ronnie,” said Dalia, excitedly. “Remember me?” She kissed me on both cheeks and grabbed my hands for just a moment before letting go. Holy shit she was hot. And not shy.
I stammered before answering. “Uh, shalom!” I finally responded clumsily with an unintentionally exaggerated American accent. So smooth.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” interjected Haim. So subtle.
Dalia simply smiled as Shlomit took over. “Dalia’s family moved down to Tel Aviv last year, so she thought about coming to Haifa to spend the weekend. When she heard you were coming, she was happy to say yes to our invitation.”
I performed the “extended versions” of the Sabbath blessings per the request of the entire unabashed Pesso family. After my dog and pony show, I guzzled Carmel wine (Israeli Manischewitz) to calm my nerves. Dalia was strategically placed next to me, perhaps specifically to fuck with my head.
“Doesn’t he have a beautiful voice?” asked Shlomit, directly at Dalia.
“He really does,” answered Dalia. I was incredibly uncomfortable, but I was equally horny. I busily consumed a pile of Persian rice and schnitzel while stealing glances at her.
Between bites, we made small talk about life in America. I could barely concentrate on her questions regarding Michael Jackson, Miami Beach, and leggings. Leggings? What the hell did I know about fashion, and who gives a fuck? I literally couldn’t listen to her, as I was entirely too focused on her sun-bronzed breasts, which peeked alluringly around her partially unbuttoned shirt, as if to say, “What are you waiting for, anyway?”
My head continued to spin as dinner finally came to a merciful end. After we shared dish-drying duties, Dalia turned to me. “I haven’t been to Carmel Beach since I moved from Haifa,” she said. “Will you take me down there?”
“Now?” I asked, enthralled.
“Yes, silly. How often are you in Israel, and how often does a girl ask you to take a walk on the beach?” At this point, I had no idea what the hell was happening or what the hell she saw in me.
THE circuitous route from the bluff to the beach involved several switchbacks. As this surprisingly long walk with Dalia progressed, we held hands, and I became increasingly skittish. I vacillated between thoughts of sex—did I still have the Trojans?—to irritable bowel syndrome—would I fart?—to Amy—what did my heart tell me now?
After a near-death experience with
a tour bus while crossing the coastal highway, we arrived at Carmel Beach. Once there, we sat barefoot, side-by-side, silently facing the water, which was minimally illuminated by the sky above and the neighborhood behind. I pretended to be calm; my heart pounded. Thankfully, the din of the waves muffled the sound of the storm brewing in my belly.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“You really want to know?”
“No, not really,” she answered, giggling.
“Okay. Just tell me something . . . I’m guessing you don’t have any problems meeting men . . . so why did you want to spend time alone with me?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
“Alright . . . I asked you down here for the novelty.”
“The novelty?”
“Yes, the novelty. I’ve never been with an American boy before.”
I laughed. “You know I’m also Israeli.”
“No, you’re not!” She smirked. “Just shut up and kiss me.”
I didn’t argue; our lips met. A grope fest ensued, and I quickly found myself on top of a shirtless, pantless, exotic, sizzling Israeli soldier. She smiled as I grabbed for my wallet to retrieve a Trojan. “Hurry up, American boy!”
American boy? Novelty?
I felt a plastic condom wrapper and wrestled it free from the inner confines of the billfold. As I did so, out popped the photo of Amy and me holding hands by the Duster. Though in this lighting the image would not be discernible to Dalia, what now was only a pair of silhouettes was more than enough to taunt me. It had traveled with me across eight time zones as a memento, not just of our relationship, but of my giant clusterfuck . . . and my ability to perpetuate it. I quickly shoved the photo back into the billfold, and Dalia appeared not to notice. However, I began to perseverate, as flashbacks of prom night collided with those of me on top of Amy in the Duster. I had betrayed her so easily before, and I desperately needed her back. So what the fuck was I doing? Regardless of whether or not I would have sex with Dalia, I was engulfed with an overwhelming sense of remorse.