My Father, His Daughter

by Yaël Dayan

  My father was wild with frustration and anger. He wrote Mother: “I couldn’t understand anything from our phone conversation, though it was long and cost fifty dollars. I can’t understand why I should cut my trip short because of our 14½-year-old daughter, and how to explain it to others. Can’t you, your parents, Ezer or my parents put some sense into her? If you think I should return immediately, I will, but this will create an even greater scandal, for me and for her, which may mark her for life. It makes me blush to think I will have to go to Eban and tell him I have to cut my trip short because something happened with my daughter. I cabled Yaël asking her to listen to you and enable me to finish what I have to do here. I asked her to terminate her friendship with you know who, and put it to her as if she was doing me a great favor …” etc., etc.

  A letter a day, telephone calls and cables, and yet he didn’t cut his trip short by one day. I was terrified of his arrival and was forever grateful that he didn’t cancel any of his “national obligations.” Though I wasn’t worried about the actual “scandal” or any of the public aspects, I was not looking forward to a confrontation with him. My mother was sick. Unable to cope with, or face, or even understand the circumstances, she became physically ill, which was probably a combination of shattered nerves and too much crying, and moved for a few days to her sister’s house. Now another guilt was loaded on me, by my uncle, who pointed her out to me through a curtain, lying in bed, swollen-eyed and red-faced. “Look what you did to your mother.” He explained that her entire world was shattered, that my behavior was a blow to the strong foundations she had so carefully built for our family, that she was in a state of shock and felt hopeless about the future, too. At that point, rather than melting with shame and misery, I felt that I was forming a shield. I hated sacrificial attitudes, I couldn’t stand the missionary approach, I didn’t feel guilty and wasn’t even falling into the trap of self-pity. I promised not to see the man in question. I said I was beginning to feel like a scapegoat, maybe someone was guilty of leaking something to somebody, but, as it wasn’t me, they were wasting their time, and interfering with my studies and playing spy in the wrong arena. I derived from my absent father the strength to answer back, and from the fact that he was far away and less alarmed now, and from a night-long decision-taking analysis of the situation.

  When Father returned, the scene was brief, painful, and enlightening in many ways. I found him in my room. My diary, which he had obviously just read, was open on the desk. He kissed me warmly, as we hadn’t seen each other for a long while, and then he slapped my face, so hard I was almost thrown across the room. He threw the diary on the floor. I cried from the pain, and all I could mutter was “Why?” “What did I do?” He wasn’t very clear when he tried to answer, and I managed to compose myself and even assume a certain detachment. “I am not talking about Kibya, or Lavon or the Intelligence Service report. You are fourteen and a schoolgirl, and you are not yet smart, or wise, or experienced enough to know when you are taken advantage of. So don’t take risks until you are fit for them.” He was furious about the incident in the Scout summer camp as read in my diary—shocked and somehow hurt.

  “It is partly fiction,” I said, “and I learned my lesson.”

  “Oh, did you? And went on to sleep with a man who could be your father?”

  The use of the term “who could be your father” from my own father made me smile. At my smile, he slapped me again, and this time I could detect regret in his eye as he did it.

  “I didn’t sleep with him. I am a virgin, for what it matters, and I’m not even interested. I can’t say the same about many of my girlfriends, and that isn’t important either.” I was afraid to smile, but I felt a devilish grin inside when I added: “One of the intelligence officers who talked to me, in a very fatherly way, and made me cry, also tried to kiss me in a way which was not fatherly at all. So I’m on guard now, Father, and I am in control, but so many people around me are not, and maybe you should handle them first.”

  “And so I will. But you’d better watch yourself.” It was obvious that the conversation was over. He was uncomfortable. We both let out steam and were aware of the dangers of melodramatizing, and he was looking for a way out. “Come up and see the dresses I bought you. I hope the sizes are right.”

  “Don’t you want to talk some more?” I tested him.

  “The subject is closed as far as I am concerned.”

  It sounded like “Roger and over and out,” and I was grateful. We walked up the stairs, and before we entered the apartment, he kissed me again, and said, “I love you very much, but don’t take advantage of it.”

  The dresses were beautiful, and so were the other gifts. My mother managed to relax and pretend it was all over for her too, and no apologies were exchanged at any time. Though we had all handled the given situation badly, the nearness between my father and myself was not impaired, and the distance between Mother and me didn’t diminish. I had a notion of the price I had to pay for fame, notoriety, and independence, and the “straight talk” with my father was satisfactory only to him. There were things he couldn’t ignore but wanted shelved, and he absolved himself rather than support me. He, too, wanted to be free of guilt and anxieties as a father, and I offered him an easy way. No blames, no psychology, no question marks as to how we ever reached this gap or rift, and, above all, no moralizing. Two slaps, five sentences, a diary which was to be burned and forever discontinued and a renewed façade of happiness and unity which supplied a good alibi for both of us. We both wanted, with different degrees of legitimacy, not to be slaves to the confining dictates of family routine.

  A month later, my father reached the top of the military pyramid and was appointed Chief of Staff of the Israeli Armed Forces, and we moved to our own new house in the suburb of Zahala.

  SEVEN : PERSPECTIVE

  The house in Zahala was home. It was to remain so until my parents were divorced almost twenty years later, and it was a home we all loved. Nahalal was more than a memory—the farm was ours and someone else lived and worked there; we visited the village often enough—but I knew I should never live there again. It would remain a loved birthplace, having given me a basic sense of security, simplicity, proximity to the land—whatever the term “roots” is comprised of—but it would not present me with obligations, only the privilege of belonging. The Jerusalem house was an episode. We couldn’t afford and, in any case, we didn’t really care to live in the Abkarius Bey style. Both in Nahalal and in Jerusalem, I had grandparents in whose house I was always welcome, and Zahala was just in between, both geographically, being a suburb of Tel Aviv, and in life style.

  The house was bought with a loan granted by my mother’s parents. The entire suburb was state-subsidized to enable Army officers to buy and own their own houses. It had three bedrooms, a large garden, a small kitchen, and a living room, and Simcha joined us from Jerusalem, as Mother resumed her work with the Ministry of Labor, developing handicrafts.

  I had my own room, and this time there was no change of schools. Most of my friends lived in Tel Aviv; the youth-movement club was there too; and even the daily ride to school and back was time-consuming, so in fact I was a commuter, but it had its advantages. I frequented Tel Aviv less, devoted more time to studies, and started writing feuilletons for an evening paper, using a pseudonym. I was more than careful now, having learned my lesson, and kept a low profile. I was going to work doubly hard and reassure myself time and time again that my achievements were my own, that no advantage was taken of me, and that I was treading the thin line into self-assertion safely, and on my own merits.

  My father was Israel’s number-one soldier. His face, so easily distinguishable because of the black eye patch, was synonymous with tough bravery and pride, and I wasn’t going to ever try to wage that losing battle for anonymity or even privacy. I didn’t need to test my father’s love; it was fully there and mine. What had to be proved was my own capacity, my own talent and persistence. The doors were
open, the obstacles obvious, and I knew there was no way to avoid exposure.

  In Nahalal, my father had sworn not to be the “average Nahalal farmer,” and now he was set on not being the “typical Chief of Staff” either. When it was suggested to him that he should change his style, “become more respectable and circumspect and fashion a new Moshe Dayan,” he answered: “It is not I who would change; the image of the Chief of Staff, and if necessary, the Army itself would change.” And it did. He moved into a smaller, less formal room in HQ, replaced the furniture with a plain wooden field table covered by a khaki blanket, and a few simple chairs. He cut down on ceremonial and established direct contact with lower echelons in the fighting units.

  He felt restless confined to the office. He was often bored with long meetings concerning issues he felt others on his staff could handle. He needed to remain on edge and preserve his restlessness and mobility. He was often absent at night, waiting in a remote post or distant camp for soldiers to return from night exercises or an operation. He didn’t need intermediaries; he wanted to hear direct reports and make his comments directly to the young officers, in his own style. His principal objective was to overcome mediocrity and not allow lethargic routine to take over. His unexpected presence, dressed in fatigues, munching on fruit, brought more than a smile to the faces of tired soldiers returning with dawn to some out-of-the-way border post or settlement.

  His informal style and unpresumptuous behavior affected the family, too. We were part of the scene. I could call or enter his office whenever I wanted; I was always welcome to join him on inspection trips or visits. The house in Zahala was open to private visits from military and civilians, and there were no office hours or any attempt at privacy at home. His effort to remove all barriers between himself and the troops antagonized many officers along the chain of command, and his informal, direct, and at time impatient style was often interpreted and criticized as irresponsible.

  The driver, the secretaries, the members of the General Staff, officers of commando units, and favorite “fighters” were all welcome. At the same time, my father resumed his ardent interest in archaeology, and whenever he could, he went digging or sat in the garden putting shards together. His collection grew, and the garden acquired a special near-magic when among the shrubs and flowers he placed Corinthian pillars and ancient millstones. The delight he took in his discoveries was still childlike and appealing, totally free of materialistic considerations. He would wake me up in the middle of the night to show me a new piece, or at the crack of dawn to look at the garden in first light. We all helped push and pull and place the sometimes ton-heavy sarcophagi and pillars, but what for us seemed an interesting hobby was becoming for him an addiction.

  Ben-Gurion resigned as Prime Minister in 1953 and retired to Sde Boker, and there was constant friction between Moshe Sharett, the Prime Minister, and Defense Minister Pinhas Lavon. My father was not close in spirit or even ideology to either of them, and his relations with his ministerial chief he defined as cool and proper. Sharett believed in diplomatic solutions to problems like Egypt’s ban on all cargo to and from Israel, while Lavon was an activist anxious to use his authority over the head, almost behind the back, of his Chief of Staff. This was intolerable to my father, who presented his resignation, withdrew it when Lavon asked him to, and eagerly awaited the return of Ben-Gurion after the failure of an attempted act of sabotage in Cairo referred to in public as “the security mishap.”

  Ben-Gurion returned to office in the winter of 1955, and the intangible web of suspicions and trustlessness that had begun to form was removed. I had a feeling, which became stronger with time, that as powerful, self-confident, and independent as my father was, he did need to share responsibility with a number-one, above him. As long as it was Ben-Gurion, it was understandable and reflected the admiration, respect, and love he felt for the old man. Later, his need and acceptance of the authority of lesser leaders reflected a strange, paradoxical reluctance to stand alone at the pinnacle of power.

  The main security concern of that period, other than the Egyptian blockade, was the recurring attacks on civilians by guerrilla infiltrators. The Jordanian, Syrian, and Egyptian borders could not be hermetically sealed, and defense alone was no solution. Reprisal operations were accelerated, and as my father put it, “We cannot totally prevent the murder of an innocent family, asleep in its moshav home, or the blowing up of a pipeline. We can, however, quote a very high price on our blood, a price too dear to be worth paying by Arab villages, Arab armies, or Arab governments. We can fight the infiltrators if they understand that the killing of a Jew in kibbutz Ruchama endangers the life of the inhabitants of Gaza.” However, he chose military rather than civilian objectives and made it clear that his was not an “eye for an eye” policy. His intent was not to punish but to deter. It was up to the Arab governments, and much in their own interests, to control the terrorist activities launched from their territory. The small, extraordinary, special Unit 101 was integrated into a larger force, that of the paratroopers, enhancing the morale and setting standards for other regiments as well.

  “Dayan is stripping the Army of its fat, it’s all muscle now,” a government minister suggested. Although it was not meant as a compliment at the time, the remark aptly defined my father’s intention. The set standards and criteria were highly demanding. “Officers of the Israeli Army do not send their men into battle. They lead them into battle,” Father said to cadets graduating from an officers’ course, and 50 percent casualties was a very high maximal price before withdrawal or retreat. The tough demands produced results. The paratroopers drew volunteers, and this large force, all muscle, was, as Ben-Gurion put it, a “nursery for heroes.”

  These developments, debates, conflicts, and achievements were never limited to camp or office hours or staff meetings. They constituted our life. I was in my last year of high school, alert and political-minded, and though Father didn’t seek my opinion, or consult with me, or treat me as an equal, I was no longer a child and I was a good audience. He liked to air his views, he gave me his speeches to read before he delivered them, and talked about operations and reprisal acts, returning red-eyed and smiling or anguished, according to the number of casualties. He decided all officers should be trained to parachute, and he was going to do it, too. Jump he did, and fractured his knee in the night jump, but if some were surprised or saw in it some typical Dayan stunt, we did not. He would never send a soldier where he wouldn’t go himself, and if the ability, the courage, or whatever it took, was to be the standard of an Israeli officer, it was natural for him to undergo it himself. The day he got his paratrooper’s wings, pinned to his shirt by Sharon, then the paratroopers’ commander, he felt proud and joyous like a little boy, and we felt as proud. For myself, I felt invigorated and truly privileged at this sensation of belonging, allowed to share, not only witness, this world of purposefulness.

  I have always been a light sleeper, and the phone ringing in my parents’ room would wake me up many times most nights. After a few calls, when it was obviously going to continue, I would wander into the kitchen, to find Father peeling an orange or slicing a watermelon—depending on the season—and he almost always felt like talking. Not long discussions, no philosophies or preaching or bombastic historic declarations, just small talk, a few rhetorical questions, an indication of an idea—counting on me to complete the obvious or assume the relevant end. His pride and admiration of the acts of bravery of some of the soldiers he recounted as if these were tales of ancient biblical heroes; his sadness when speaking of someone who died in action was unfathomable even if his voice hadn’t changed or broken, and I learned to detect the fine emotion that underlined each expression, though for an outsider his face would have seemed a static mask. He was forty, and not as slim, but he was very strong and sturdy, and being sixteen myself, I tried to look at him the way other women probably did. I didn’t regard him as physically attractive, but I could well see that he appealed to women. The scar of
the missing eye pained and troubled me, and his physical behavior in the privacy of home was clumsy, gauche, and a subject for teasing. He would clean his ears with a well-selected key, clean the dirt from between his toes sitting barefoot near the garden table, walk around the garden in shabby, baggy underpants, urinating in a corner if he felt like it. “So don’t look,” he would say, or: “What’s wrong with a key? Is a ball-pen better?” He had no inhibitions, and while he didn’t act to spite one, he was definitely not out to please either. There was something endearing in his genuine lack of consideration as to “what will the neighbors say.”

  I think of those years as years of harmony. A teacher-pupil harmony, at that. It was easy to admire him, and I did so without reservations. He looked his best in uniform; he inspired confidence and, in me, trust as well. Qualities that drew criticism and were regarded by others as appalling or distasteful, I found endearing, exciting, and worthy of imitation. He was snappy and impatient with people as well as with certain red tape and even legal procedures. He held in contempt the stupid, the mediocre, the coward, and the meek. They were referred to as “idiots,” “worms,” and what they had to say was “bullshit” and “utter nonsense.” Sensitivities, human shortcomings, and the mere fact that most people are not endowed with above-average talents or qualities were not taken into account. He placed the traffic lights, the white lines, and the stop signs along his way, and often removed them according to changes of mood or circumstance. He didn’t feel superior, he was superior, but he totally lacked the tolerance and respect for fellow humans who were less lucky. I, at sixteen, was a perfect audience for his “humorous,” often degrading remarks about people.