My Father, His Daughter

by Yaël Dayan

  Commanding, cleaning, and feeding us all was Simcha. She was there when we moved in, scrubbing and preparing the enormous house for its new residents. My mother realized that there was no way she could cope with the housework by herself. Simcha’s excellent cooking soon spoiled us all, and reluctantly my parents agreed that she should stay as a hired maid. Her son was killed in the war, a small daughter was living with her downstairs, and she soon became part of the family, pampering my brothers, treating Assi like a royal prince, and enchanting us all with her natural wisdom and bedtime folktales. I don’t remember my father treating anybody with the respect and humble obedience that he accorded Simcha. She couldn’t read or write, and she worshipped him in a way that he must have found embarrassing at times.

  If HQ was partly based at home, the actual front line was around the corner. So much so that we had to sleep in the basement many nights when the siren sounded, and use the back driveway entrance to avoid sniper fire. The trenches facing the Old City walls were a short distance away. My father thought no more of taking us with him on inspection tours than he had of putting me on top of a haystack. Or teaching me the names of wild shrubs or flowers, or climbing the Hill of Moreh or Mount Tabor. The same reasons that had led him to share a night with my mother during the Deganya battle or to make us move to Tel Aviv with him during the Saison still motivated him. Not because he needed me there, on ladders and steep tunnels leading into trenches, or because he thought it was good for the morale of the soldiers or educational to us. He didn’t give it a thought. We were his family, this was his life, and he didn’t wish or know how to separate the two. I certainly felt important. There I was, facing the walls of the Old City, a pair of binoculars held to my eyes by my father, and he explaining to me where we were and what I was seeing. Through the binoculars I could see the Jordanian soldiers in red-and-white kaffiyehs, posing with their guns at the ready. My father told stories of King Solomon and Absalom, described Jerusalem’s ancient water system, and made a few remarks concerning the tactical position we were in. Was he talking to me, or to all those around us? It didn’t matter. He made a place for me so I could look at the map. He lifted me up when I was unable to reach an observation hole, and held me tight when we were speeding in a jeep on a bumpy road. I drank water from canteens and ate army rations, and nobody seemed too concerned with the presence of the thin little girl in these unlikely places.

  Courage must be contagious as well as built in. I don’t know whether I was naturally courageous, but I don’t remember being afraid, either. There were nights of explosions, there were bullets that missed me by a few meters, there were night walks in the old Moslem cemetery not far from our house, there were visits to Ramat Rahel in a half-track shot at along the exposed road, but there was no fear. The kind of confidence my father inspired in me was lacking in bravura or exhibitionism. It was more the certainty of being in control. He assessed a situation, took everything into account, and the logical conclusion ruled out emotional or even instinctive reactions. The other person I knew who was capable of rationalization that resulted in fearlessness was my Grandmother Rachel. On these two models my own behavior was formed, and when they were no longer physically around me, I suppose my “courage” was already a conditioned reflex.

  I was vaguely familiar with Jerusalem when we moved there, and all explorations ended in cul-de-sacs that announced the proximity of the border or a mine field. I did not feel for the split city in a religious or historical way, but sensed a deep frustration whenever I had to turn back because the road I took led to no-man’s-land or ended in a “last trench” on the roof of a “last house.” As small as Nahalal was, we could walk in any direction as far as our legs could carry us, and the circle we left behind felt less claustrophobic than this wounded city. The transfer from the provincial village to the cosmopolitan city didn’t affect us much. My mother felt at home, my father retained his farm-boy charm and informal manner without being ill at ease when the occasion called for a change in tone, and my brothers simply ignored whatever restrictions the new life presented. If there were complaints, my parents dealt with them with patience and humor. I suspect my father was rather satisfied to hear that Udi set free the doves from a locked dovecote that belonged to a friend, and was not too worried when Assi wandered off into no-man’s-land, to be returned by UN observers. My Aunt Aviva moved with her children to the top floor in the Abkarius house. Shmuel and Dvorah came whenever they could, with fresh farm eggs and cream. And Simcha soon served daily meals to a dozen people or more. By the time school resumed, we knew the city well. Udi and I explored it on bicycles, and Assi joined us for the shorter walks. I had my own hideout, on the roof of one of the buildings overlooking the Old City walls. I managed to sneak an old blanket there, along with a pair of binoculars and a few books, and I spent hours watching the Jordanian soldiers, at times waving to them, pretending this was “my place,” as the rest of the house was badly damaged and deserted.

  The fighting in the Jerusalem area was not renewed, beyond two minor and not too successful operations, and my father, who had been posted there for his combat qualifications, found himself involved in an entirely different type of battle. The ceasefire was mostly observed by both sides, and supervised by Ben-Gurion directly. Father was in charge of negotiating local arrangements with the Jordanian commander of Jerusalem and participated in the ongoing discreet talks with King Abdullah.

  Life acquired a new pattern for us too, as the outside world, or its dignified representatives, gathered in our house every Friday afternoon. Franciscan monks, UN observers, foreign consuls, and a variety of journalists were permanent and welcome guests at what was referred to as the Dayans’ open house on Fridays, which soon became the focal point of Jerusalem’s social life. Simcha baked pitta bread and made hundreds of little sandwiches every Friday. Tea and coffee were poured into beautiful porcelain cups, and I helped to serve, shaking hands, being kissed, mumbling in English, and enjoying it all. We didn’t have to climb anywhere socially; we didn’t have to copy anybody or be jealous or want to reach higher. We were parachuted there, at the top, and the world was ours. We definitely were not village people who had to acquire some sophistication and reach from the perimeter to achieve centrality. My mother was in her element, and my father was the center for the best of reasons. His position was well earned, and he proved as successful in Abdullah’s palace as he was in the breakthrough to Lydda and Ramie. Fortunately, both my parents managed to retain a Nahalal-style informality at home, even when the guest list was imposing. Lower ranks, family, visitors from the valley, our own new friends were all welcome, and if my father praised somebody, or categorized him as “an idiot,” it had nothing to do with a person’s position or title.

  Food and water were rationed, but with occasional fresh supplies from Nahalal and Simcha’s miraculous touch, we were never short. For fresh fruit, my father introduced a new pastime on Saturdays—family visits to deserted fruit orchards in the Jerusalem vicinity. The ventures were not illegal, but there were very few families, if any, who went where we did. On dirt roads, near deserted Arab villages, the five of us in a jeep would climb the side of a mountain to discover ripe figs and the sweetest of grapes. Father was a fruit maniac, and each of these wild, overgrown, unattended “bustans” was like a new Eden.

  He taught Udi and me to shoot, and if at the beginning we could hit a tree trunk, we were soon good enough with a revolver or a light rifle to blow a ripe red pomegranate to pieces. We talked about Nahalal and the farm, as if we were to return happily there the next day, and Father told us about King Abdullah’s palace as if late-night dinners there were a natural part of his life. We recited Alterman together, and he shared his daily experiences with Mother. We watched pheasants and drank spring water, and if the wireless on the car summoned him back, we were involved.

  The school year began, and Udi and I went to the Rehavia Gymnasium, which was within walking distance of our house. Assi was taken daily by Simcha t
o a nearby kindergarten, and my mother started to work with the Jewish Agency. Both, school and Mother’s work, did mean changes for me. School discipline was difficult to take at first. Nahalal classes had offered little challenge, and farm work always had priority over scholarly occupations. Here, school meant studies and education as well. The pupils were from affluent Jerusalem families, sons and daughters of lawyers and doctors, and a snobbish touch was not lacking. I was supposed to consider it an honor to be in the Rehavia school, and adjust to its rules unquestioningly. We had to stand when a teacher entered the classroom, address the teachers as Mr. Yonah and Mrs. Fuchs rather than by first name, and being late or talking during a lesson or not doing homework was, naturally, not tolerated. I soon found out it was easier to obey the rules than to fight them, and rather liked the competitive spirit. I was still younger by two years than my classmates, always the smallest and least developed, so that being able to excel in studies and sports was doubly rewarding. I made a few friends—two girls, but mostly boys—with whom I shared my secret rooftop and a variety of afternoon activities. My father took great pride in my high grades, and it proved profitable to invest a little effort and be a very good if not a top student. I soon found out our name had acquired fame, and attached to this came an obligation. Udi, being younger and less interested in formal schooling, didn’t notice it at all, but I was made to understand that “being Dayan’s daughter, you are expected …” or not expected, according to the specific propositions. My parents laughed it off; my father said I shouldn’t do anything I didn’t feel like doing, but he said it with the knowledge that I would always be good in school. I was curious and intelligent and aware of the importance of good schooling. I did not have to become ambitious to fulfill expectations; I was ambitious almost in a cunning way. Being better, I knew, would secure me liberties if not privileges, and certain popularity.

  Fame was not a burden. It was not a false fame, and not mine in a way I had to forever justify or keep up with. It was all my father’s, and there wasn’t yet any jealousy or malice attached to the appraisals. Although his name and picture were often in the newspapers, his own attitude was neither aloof nor boastful, and the full credits for the political achievements were undisputedly Ben-Gurion’s. The Army hierarchy itself limited Father’s scope of action, and he never pushed his way higher in the echelon or grumbled about not getting there sooner. For me, being referred to as Dayan’s daughter was not a stigma or a handicap, and if expectations were attached, I didn’t feel obliged to justify them. I showed my schoolmates the special telephone connected to the Jordanian colonel Abdullah el-Tel, with a childish wonderment rather than as a boastful gesture, and they lined up for rides in the military jeep because it was fun. Still, though fame, and Father’s position, didn’t hinder or advance me, I realized it could. It could give one wings or be a weight around one’s neck; it could open doors or expose weaknesses, make you fly or drown. One thing was clear: I couldn’t fight it or reject it, and there was no way to be anonymous; but then, the Nahalal circle didn’t offer anonymity or privacy either.

  Mother’s absence from home was not at the expense of anything important. Simcha ran the house, and we were busy with school, homework, and the youth movement, and she carefully explained to me what her work meant. Women from old established moshavim volunteered to work with new immigrants, initiating them into a style of work and life they had never known. My Grandmother Dvorah had been doing it for a while already, and my mother joined in, going every day to the moshav not far from Jerusalem to which she was assigned. My father encouraged her, and she was always home in the evening, to settle our quarrels, look at our school reports, or engage in the social activities my father’s position required. I never resented her taking a job, and soon she shared her experiences with us, her failures and satisfactions, and we were more than enthusiastic. What was supposed to be simply guiding agricultural work turned into a series of discoveries and added a new dimension to Mother’s life and ours.

  These immigrants, from Yemen and Hungary, from Bulgaria and North Africa, had a talent that was taken for granted, that of superb mastery of handicrafts. My mother had no sense for business, but she could tell one embroidery from another and the value of a handmade silver chain. She noticed in their homes the hand-drawn lacework and the extraordinary needlework and soon found out they could make these beautiful things at home, in their spare time, and thus add to their meager income. It took a while to convince Jewish Agency officials to allocate a small budget for her endeavors, but she was soon working with two dozen settlements, all over the country, reviving ancient crafts, preserving traditional arts, and creating a national framework for artistic home industries.

  My father was more than cooperative, and she managed to work long hours without failing to be home when he needed her. The tremendous challenge to absorb, settle, and train more than a quarter of a million new immigrants in 1948–49 was of national dimensions, and it was soon given top priority as the War of Independence came to an end and permanent armistice negotiations commenced.

  By nature and upbringing, my father was a patriarch. He didn’t mind who was in the kitchen, as long as somebody was there, and he didn’t resent the idea of women working at anything. He wasn’t concerned with questions of equality and took it for granted that the last word was his. Not because he knew better, or felt superior, but being in charge was natural to him and unquestionable. My mother’s lack of confidence and natural humility served both of them well. He was the master, the supportive shoulder, the shelter, while she was able to assert herself, work, and be independent. They both knew that his needs, his desires and comforts and plans would come first with her.

  On July 20, 1949, the last of the armistice agreements was signed, and for all intents and purposes the war ended. My father headed the Israeli delegation to all four Mixed Armistice Commissions which negotiated the demarcation lines—in fact, the borders of the State of Israel. For a short while, I thought we would return to Nahalal—by now a thought which, although not unpleasant, was not exciting, for it was clear that my father would not stay in command of Jerusalem. It was Ben-Gurion, this time too, who decided for us. The Southern Command had the longest borders with two Arab countries, and the influx of immigrants was mostly destined to settle there. The return of the Jewish exiles and the renewal of the desert were the immediate goals, Ben-Gurion declared, and my father was promoted to major general in command of the south.

  The southern part of Israel was like a foreign country for me, like a trip back in time. The valley in the north was all soft contours, many of the trees evergreen, and each season delicately adorned the black soil with flowers. Nahalal offered shelter in the muddy earth and in flows of water; insect life was abundant; and I didn’t have to look for living creatures or signs of the perpetual cycle of life. Jerusalem was man-built out of stone, perched on rocks, with a sense of eternity. The city had an ambiance all its own, as if it hardly mattered what people inhabited it, or how many armies stormed it. It was indestructible on its firm foundation, and offered hospitality and protection behind walls, in cellars and courtyards and alleys.

  The Negev meant total exposure, from the flat, bare desert patches to the deep craters or lofty peaks of the central range of mountains. It had a life, but one had to search and discover it; it had plants, but they were thorny and dry, and the landscape was harsh and imposing. A country without shade, forever trying and surprising. The eroding, sweeping winds, the sudden, yearly, violent floods in the wadis, the moving, treacherous dunes, the scorching heat during the day and the freezing cold at night offered no comfort or shelter or a firm foothold. There were no footsteps or tracks to follow; civilizations were buried or exposed at random by the forces of nature; and any thought of taming this wilderness seemed a hallucination.

  My father fell in love with these very qualities that others found sinister and forbidding. His resentment of frills and excuses, his search for the basic and the essential was satisf
ied in the desert. He was eager to adjust rather than dominate, and set to learn the language of the place rather than impose on it his own. For a variety of reasons, which didn’t apply to Southern Command generals who succeeded him, we did not move away from Jerusalem. The road to Eilat was not built yet. Beersheba was a small, Wild West-style town, a desert trading station. Desert agriculture was still a dream, and all in all, the south was no place for women and schoolchildren. Father’s HQ was south of Rehovot, in a large camp, and an old one-room trailer served him as living quarters. To be sure, our life pattern did change. Mother was working. Simcha took care of us and the house. A few of the rooms were rented out to students, and Father stayed a few nights a week in camp. Since his imprisonment in Acre, he had always been home at night, but now his side in the large double bed was often vacant. We didn’t question it, or even miss him all that terribly, but there was an adjustment to make. We were five people, I realized, not one conglomerate, and each of us had a life, whether already shaped or being formed. Each of us had independent choices to make and decisions to take, and eventually we would be five different streams flowing in the same or in separate directions, crossing or parallel, self-supporting, even if we all stemmed from the same source.

  The cocktail parties and receptions stopped, or rather became smaller in size, moved to my grandparents’ house on Friday afternoons, and though Father now was a major general, he was not a newsmaker, and some privacy was restored to our daily life. Just in time—for the “international” touch to my life was premature, and if I benefited, by learning English and feeling at home in a variety of surroundings, I doubt that I was equipped with the right sense of proportion to cope with the many temptations it offered.

  My father, too, needed the trimming effect the south offered. He was no longer a farm boy, and not yet a full-fledged statesman. The active war was over, and he was aware of the gaps in his formal education—military, diplomatic and general. Ben-Gurion promised him a period of study, but it had to wait. Securing and settling the Negev had first priority, and my father was to deal with civilian as well as military development plans. Ben-Gurion spoke of a road to connect the Mediterranean and the Dead Sea, a road to Eilat, railways, a large military training base in the Negev, fishing in the Gulf of Eilat, agricultural settlements, and small towns based on local industry. These were national goals, and my father, still a farmer, was happy to take time from military duties and work with the civilian authorities in charge of Negev development. The operational activities of the Southern Command in 1950, a quiet year, consisted of preventing border crossings, of reconnaissance patrols into the Sinai, and of dealing with some hostile Bedouin tribes.