My Father, His Daughter

by Yaël Dayan

  My father’s sense of freedom was intensified in the wild region he commanded. If in Jerusalem he had been called a Bedouin, as a derogatory remark, it now was an advantage. As much as he loved his home and a certain routine, he was a spartan nomad, and at thirty-four was still uncorrupted by material comforts and worldly possessions. He took every opportunity to join patrols and excursions across the dunes, down the ravines, and up the steep mountains. Very often, he had me along. Away from my mother, Simcha, my young brothers, and school, I discovered this new territory and learned to love it the way he did.

  We would leave the camp when it was still dark, with me wrapped in a blanket over a windbreaker, my head covered with a kaffiyeh, and my small frame huddled between my father and other soldiers. The best vehicle for these desert trips was a four-wheel-drive command car which had enough room for supplies, sleeping bags, and ammunition, and I didn’t take any more room than a jerry can. At sunrise we would stop for breakfast, and my father explained to me, over 1:100,000 maps I was familiar with, the route we were about to explore. It was usually a wadi, the dry bed of a watercourse. We would follow one as far west as the Egyptian border and return along another—all the way east, crossing the Negev along ancient caravan trails and creating new ones. What seemed to be static, glorious, but dead scenery came to life as soon as we moved into it.

  What I didn’t notice, my father pointed out to me, and he often stopped the car, took me by the hand, and led me to a hidden cave, a top of a hill, or for a closer look at a desert tree. Deer rushed past; wild rats were caught in the headlights of the car; and majestic camels appeared from nowhere, going nowhere, it seemed. I never exclaimed aloud or cried with joy, but we exchanged looks and we knew we were excited and moved by the same things. The trackers with us told of their adventures; the officers talked defense plans; and there was always someone who knew the names of birds and plants to initiate us into this magic world. An eagle flying to its nest was justification for a whole day on a dusty track; a cave dug into the white rock, used as a cistern in ancient times, was a cause for joy; and the best part of these trips was the nights.

  Father arranged our sleeping bags or blankets near one of the cars, making sure no sharp stones or scorpions or thistles were under mine. “The princess and the pea,” he would laugh, and get me a fresh canteen to wash with. The men cooked dinner, opened cans of army rations, and boiled water for coffee, and we would all gather around a small fire, barely talking, listening to the occasional sounds and relaxing. I took it all in with a sense of gratitude. I was the only female, the only child around, and I felt honored, as if allowed a glimpse of the world of giants.

  These men, my father’s friends and subordinates, were new to me, too. He took command of the south, arriving alone. His old followers dispersed or stayed in Jerusalem or returned to their farms, and he didn’t need the security of a familiar entourage. He didn’t need them, and some were probably not qualified for higher rank. Soon Father assumed authority over and even developed friendships with the group of officers he found in HQ, though most of them were loyal, close associates of the previous commander, Allon, and perhaps resented Dayan replacing him. But all these men had a special love for the desert, and my father’s lack of discipline in minor matters, his resentment of routine, and his sense of adventure appealed to them. If Gandhi (a nickname given one of the able officers for his looks) was surprised when his commander, on their first meeting, took him along to steal fruit from a nearby orchard, he still joined with pleasure, and it never occurred to my father to comment on the way he looked, barefoot or in sandals. Discipline for Father had to do with battle routine, behavior under fire, devotion to a friend and a cause, and not with salutes, rank, or paperwork. If he learned to appreciate the importance of these external disciplines later, it was because the Army itself had changed, was less homogeneous and couldn’t count on a friendly “gang spirit” as a common denominator.

  One evening, in Wadi Hiani, Gandhi showed up with a goat tied to a rope and presented it as our dinner. A lively discussion followed as to the proper means of slaughtering the poor thing, and the choice fell on a spade, which chopped off its head. It wasn’t a sight for a little girl to behold, and my father felt uncomfortable. “You don’t have to eat it,” he told me. We looked at the animal as Gandhi skinned it with one expert yank. “I doubt that I could eat it either,” Father added, and we went to our blankets.

  The cloudless sky offered an ethereal sense of proximity to the stars. His bedtime stories had to do with our ancestors who walked this desert, or very close by, and filled my imagination. Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and his brothers, Moses and the Children of Israel … I knew my Bible, and my father added his own compassionate version. This was the land that offered men nothing but trouble, and the only motivation to move on had to do with faith. No water, no livelihood, no shade, moved by a promise of a God they could not see, hear, or touch. Yet he could understand, if not explain very well, why the desert was conducive to the creation of monotheism: it was bare, imposing, and its strength rejected plurality. If in Nahalal he taught me the wisdom of the Judges, who in war and in peace united the tribes into one people, and in Jerusalem he made me feel the grandeur of Kings, here we were back where it all started. Abraham was a Bedouin, Jacob had flocks of sheep, Joseph went to Egypt and his brothers followed, and Moses liberated us. Between slavery in the green pastures of the Nile and the promised land of Canaan lay this desert. Only those who traversed it deserved freedom.

  Before dawn, he woke me with a cup of tea, drove me to a less exposed spot to relieve myself, and on we would drive to what always seemed new horizons. I could have gone on like this forever (so could he, perhaps), but these trips never lasted more than a couple of days, and I always knew there would be a next time. After each trip, I returned to school with a note from my father, excusing me and explaining my absence as “inevitable, for special reasons.” He rightly felt I was learning more on these days of absence than in school, and if my teachers didn’t agree with him, they didn’t show it. There were no other privileges or demands stemming from my father’s rank or position.

  I was growing enchanted with school. My father and mother came to hear teachers’ reports and always left with a smile, sharing equally their pride in my advance and the few complaints, which had to do with behavior. “Unsuitable behavior” reached a peak when at the end of the school year I managed to bring nearly a hundred small frogs from the Moslem cemetery pond, with the help of Udi, and install them in the classroom, all over. “There is no room for her in our school,” the headmaster told my parents, but at the end agreed to accept a written apology.

  My occasional bad behavior was an expression of childish naughtiness rather than of a need to attract attention or establish leadership. I was surrounded by friends in school and was immersed in the youth movement, was loved though not spoiled at home, and was left alone when I wanted to be. There were no rules as to homework, regular hours, or my whereabouts. I had my parents’ trust, and as long as school reports were good, it didn’t occur to them to forbid, or prevent me from doing whatever I wanted. I read a great deal, and when I ran out of books in the school library, I borrowed from friends. A collection of horror stories was lent me by a boyfriend, who told me to hide it from the grownups. It had no sex but plenty of bloodsucking by vampires, dissecting of limbs, and burials in double walls. I could tell it was cheap, vulgar, and rather violent, and in no way took it seriously. My father did. He found it next to my bed, gave it a long look—the picture on the cover sufficed—and slapped my face strong and hard.

  Shock rather than pain brought tears to my eyes. He had never done that before, and although my brothers, for good reasons, were often spanked hard, I never expected such a strong reaction, not for anything, least of all for reading a book. “Why?” I screamed. “This is trash, and I forbid you to read it.” I stopped crying and assumed a new tone. “I will read whatever I want. It’s a nonsense book, but it’s thrillin
g and fun. All my friends read it.” I was slapped again. He threw the book on the floor and left me hurt and puzzled. He never referred to it again, and after I returned the book to its owner, I remained puzzled for a long time by this outburst.

  He tried to make up, but behind the kissing and hugging, the funny stories and small gifts, he sensed my hurt. He wouldn’t admit he was wrong, and neither could I. During the years that followed, we both developed ways of indirectly admitting wrongs, almost by a code. Right then, it was clear to me that I had to watch out, that his tolerance was not total and his reactions not always predictable. Did he feel his absence meant a loss of control? Did he notice something I hadn’t yet which had to do with growing up? Was he beginning to feel guilty, or was it just “a bad day at work,” which was my mother’s explanation for just about everything.

  The freedom he discovered in the Southern Command definitely contributed to a loosening up of the tight family unit. He enjoyed the space, he loved the mobility and the speed, he took minor liberties, such as stealing chickens from a moshav nearby, and, I was told much later, he discovered he could survive the guilt he felt when indulging in extramarital affairs.

  He was Ben-Gurion’s favorite general, and the old man’s door was always open to him. On many occasions he ignored the chain of command and approached the Prime Minister directly. It was clear to those around him that he never did it to show off or assume authority he didn’t have, but only to save time and achieve results. At times, even the straight line between two points was too long for him. Ben-Gurion saw in him a natural candidate for the supreme military post—Chief of Staff—and it was clear to all of us that any plans for a return to the farm in Nahalal would have to be set aside. His life, our lives, would exist within the framework of the Army.

  PART

  Three

  SIX : ADOLESCENCE

  In 1952, my parents went abroad, not on a vacation, but for a six-month stay. For me this was a significant separation.

  My father was to attend a senior officers’ school at Devizes in England, and my mother would accompany him. “Arrangements” were made for us children. Udi and Assi were sent to close friends at kibbutz Maoz Haim; Simcha stayed in the Abkarius house to run it and take care of a variety of tenants who occupied some of the rooms; and I moved to my grandparents’ house so I would not have to change schools.

  My mother often compared me with my father, and, at times, with my grandmother. The second comparison had to do with what she thought was our cerebral approach to behavior. She said I never played with dolls and never cried. She said she didn’t remember seeing her mother cry either. And there was some truth in the comparison insofar as it summed up Mother’s inability to communicate with either of us. She feared confrontations with us, where we supposedly remained cold while she expressed herself emotionally and often by crying. Of course, I did play with dolls, a big variety of them, and I certainly cried, as often as was natural for a girl my age.

  My first night at my grandparents’ was a night full of tears. I slept on a couch in the dining room. Everything had to be carefully folded and neatly arranged, and all the traits I was supposed to have in common with my grandmother did not come in handy. I was alone and lonely, and this was anything but home. My Grandmother Dvorah had a physical warmth about her that radiated and engulfed me whenever we were together. My father was always fondling and kissing; my brothers were all over each other and everybody else. My Grandmother Rachel was different. I didn’t doubt her love, her caring, her ability to supply me with all I needed or even wanted, but if she didn’t cry, she didn’t kiss either. Most of all, I missed my mother. I knew my father had to go away; it was his duty, part of his training, and this I could grasp. But though I wasn’t jealous of Mother for being with him, I felt a self-pity which took some effort to overcome. My imagination didn’t help much. What if something happened to them? My brothers were so young and dependent, and I was not capable of taking care of them yet. I soon relaxed. Letters arrived regularly, and I realized my parents were not exposed to any dangers and that six months was not an eternity.

  My grandfather took enormous interest and pride in my studies, and my grandmother encouraged my independence, and relied on me and respected my privacy. She treated me as a capable adult, and I soon learned not to interpret her balanced, coolheaded, controlled behavior as a lack of love. I was very much on my own, for both Rachel and Zvi worked during the day and were usually busy in the evening. I doubt that the ability, and later the need, to be alone is inherent. “She is like her father, she likes to be alone,” my grandparents said, and it was true enough, even if I had acquired the need there and then because of circumstances.

  School grew more and more interesting, mostly because I was lucky to be taught by two great teachers. One, who is now the head of the classical history faculty at Tel Aviv University, not only opened for me the fascinating terrain of Greek and Roman history but basically taught me how to study. I learned from him how to ask questions and where to look for answers, how to choose among the given and at times contradictory answers, and how to analyze and draw conclusions from a series of interrelated facts. Pericles and Aristotle, Socrates and Alexander, as well as Marius and Cicero, Julius and Trajan, filled my life, and if he drew analogies to modern times, he gave us the scholarly tools to disagree with him, too. The teacher who taught us literature and poetry, now one of Israel’s leading poets, was unknown and unpublished at the time. He encouraged me to write, taught me that imagination had no rules or limits, and led me not only to love the beauty of words but to appreciate their power as well. School was not a duty when these two teachers were around, or a pastime, but a challenge and a pleasure, and my grandfather’s beautiful library provided me with additional hours of inexhaustible search for knowledge.

  Youth movement activities supplied the necessary physical outlets. We hiked and walked and camped, and though I missed the Negev excursions, I delighted in smaller discoveries of caves hidden by olive trees, secret streams with transparent waters in the winter, and treasures of edible mushrooms under the Judean pines. We sat around a bonfire every Saturday evening, planning and dreaming, and even when we laughed or played games, we took ourselves desperately seriously. I was thirteen, my classmates were fifteen, and what I lacked in size or years I had to make up in brains and behavior.

  My mother shared an apartment with her sister Reumah in London. Reumah had married Ezer Weizman, then a young Air Force officer and pilot (the wedding had taken place a year earlier, in the Abkarius house garden) who was now attending an officers’ course in Andover. My father and Ezer came home for weekends, and during the week my mother took courses in weaving, basketry, and other handicrafts. She was going to continue her work when she returned to Israel, and it was clear to her that what had begun as a job would be a lifelong occupation, a mission. Both my parents, each in his own field, were filling in gaps in their education. With all my father’s dashing natural talent, he was not a dilettante, and his admiration of excellence and proficiency, in whatever field, equaled his contempt for pretentious amateurs.

  Three major events took place in my life while my parents were away: my first menstrual period, the acquisition of my first brassiere, and my first kiss. The first two were treated by my grandmother in a very matter-of-fact way. She rightly presumed I knew all about it, and bought for me what I needed. I washed my own underwear anyway, and she added a few remarks on feminine hygiene. I suspect it was a nuisance for her, just as much as when a lice epidemic hit my school and she had to wash my hair with kerosene. My first kiss was a treasured secret, and I was quite glad my parents were away at the time.

  Most of my friends had boyfriends already. They danced together, held hands, and kissed. Saturday night, when we returned from our gatherings, most kids went home in couples; and these couples were more or less steady. When a boy from a higher grade offered to walk home with me, I was naïve enough to say I lived in the opposite direction, a long way away. H
e insisted, I accepted, and a few days later we walked beyond my grandparents’ house down a hill to a hidden site surrounded by bushes which we called ours. He had dark curly hair, delicate hands, and the beginning of a mustache. He was sixteen, and what seemed most important, he was the favorite student of both my history and my literature teacher. His kisses were wet and long and clumsy, and I participated and contributed, as this was my entry ticket to maturity. He was aroused sexually, but I was more interested in talking than in necking, and I was sure that this was an everlasting, deep love. Or I thought I should be sure. For at that time I discovered how often I tended to separate myself from any experience I was going through. First, this frightened me. Later it offered the escape of an observation post, and eventually I accepted it as part of my character and took advantage of it. There I was, in shorts and sandals, with the boy in question, Avi, holding me or fondling me in our secret corner, and we were whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. There I was, the same me, looking at myself mercilessly through a magnifying glass. There and on many other occasions. Inevitably as an onlooker, I saw the pathetic, ridiculous, or, at best, humorous aspect. I was in the frame, and at the same time behind the lens, taking snapshots and cataloguing them in my mind. I wasn’t playacting, and most of the time I was carried away and involved in the experience itself, but I had this defense mechanism, a control knob at my disposal.