My Father, His Daughter

by Yaël Dayan

  Other meetings followed, and I gave it little thought. Introducing me to Françoise, and Jeannine, Lady Something-or-other, and Gila made him feel better about it and left me indifferent. I didn’t show approval; I didn’t befriend any of them or treat them with the same wonderment he did; and I didn’t feel I was siding with him against my mother. Rahel, who was a more permanent companion than the others at that time, remembers meeting me in her office, though I don’t clearly recall the occasion. I graded his taste as very poor, wished he was more selective, and seldom wondered about the implications his affairs would have on his political career.

  Many of his affairs passed unnoticed. A few made gossip columns and headlines, and one made a book. A Miss Mor published a thinly disguised novel entitled Passionate Paths, recounting in elaborate detail the affair she had with a famous one-armed fighting general. My father tried to ignore it. He dismissed it as “nonsense” and complimented himself for not succumbing to, as he phrased it, “blackmail.” “It will soon be forgotten, and so will she,” he said to me, but added with childish remorse that he truly regretted the hurt it caused the family. Nothing is unforgivable between parent and child, but at the time it was difficult to face. There, printed and bound, for a few Israeli pounds, one could buy my father’s body, his performance in bed, his sweet talk and intimate thoughts. My mother was appalled and helpless, I was shocked at the vulgarity of it all, and Father withdraw further away, taking refuge behind a solid shell of superior indifference. Ben-Gurion was approached by Miss Mor’s separated husband, and the old man drew a distinction between a man’s intimate life and his public responsibilities. He drew upon the Bible, which offers parallels to everything, and cited the case of David and Bathsheba. My mother also appealed to Ben-Gurion, who understood her anguish, or so he said, but rationalized it in a cold, detached way. Even if he disapproved of Moshe’s behavior, he said, he would in no way consider him unfit for a public post because of it. He was destined to be a national leader, and his record in bed was not going to stand in his way. Ben-Gurion was right, of course. The public devoured the gossip, and it added to the multicolor image of my father as a popular hero. Men were jealous, women were intrigued, and admirers forgave and excused. He repeated to me what he said time and time again: “I don’t consider it anybody’s business, and I am not pretending to be a model husband.” He mentioned, with genuine anxiety, that he had given my mother the option of leaving, separating, or divorcing him if she so chose and that he truly hoped she wouldn’t. At times he tried to double-check with me regarding her intentions, but I could offer nothing but guesses. “She must know,” he said repeatedly, “that most of these things are the product of the imagination of hysterical women.”

  Passionate Paths or not, Ben-Gurion appointed my father Minister of Agriculture, a post he held for five years in three successive cabinets, from 1959 to 1964. I left for Europe, feeling less of a deserter than ever before. I had the handwritten first hundred pages of a novel in my briefcase, keys to a house in Brittany which was made available to me by the French consul in Jerusalem, and the encouraging interest of George Weidenfeld, the English publisher.

  From my mother I received blessings and a small fund, and from Father, confidence in my work and the usual token of love. “You should know it’s always there. Whatever, whenever you need—I’m there …” The promise of love was like a token, a coin for a phone call—even an overseas collect call. Did he know I would never use it? Did he figure I would be satisfied with the dime alone, with the label rather than the goods? “And don’t get married or something without telling me,” he added as he saw me off. He should have known that what I saw of his marriage was discouraging enough to put me off the subject for many years, and I definitely ruled him out as a consultant on the matter.

  This time I was going away, not running from something, but rather looking forward to a period alone. Two years of military service had made me feel I had paid my dues to the country for a while, and I was as pleased with myself as I could be. The pains of growing up were a dim memory, amazingly free of bitterness or grudges. The security home gave me was a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and the satisfaction and pleasure I derived from writing made me feel strong and in control. I had come to terms with my own personality, trimming away many false edges. I was not really a romantic; I was never going to be in grave despair or reach, alas, emotional heights beyond control. I was generous and giving, but received with great caution, afraid to owe. The phase of collecting was over, and experiences I missed or bypassed were not catalogued as losses. Life could be fun, not everything had to have a deep result-bearing meaning, and a low-key style was not inimical to happiness. When I finished my first novel New Face in the Mirror and it was accepted for publication, I stopped chasing. I also settled for the fact that some things were unreachable and many others not worth striving for, and scope could be measured in depth as well as width. Basically, this was the story of my first novel. My own new face in the mirror was to my liking, irrespective of the blemishes and faults I could plainly see. In any event, reviews and sales were very good, the novel was translated into many languages, interviews and appearances followed, and I swam the pool of fame with long, secure strokes.

  I was twenty, and I was fully conscious of the dangers of easy fame and exposure. Israel was much in the news, and there was tremendous curiosity concerning anything it produced—from small arms to literary works. My father’s name and image were synonymous with everything heroic and extraordinary that Israel stood for, and the international jet set, thanks greatly to Françoise Sagan’s breakthrough, adopted young writers with smothering embraces. I was referred to as the “general’s daughter,” the “Israeli Sagan,” and the “woman–soldier–writer,” all irrelevant titles where my writing was concerned, but door openers.

  Again, I had to distinguish between what was deservedly mine and the supporting fringes, and the serious good reviews helped me a great deal. Decisions had to be taken. I would wake up in the morning. It’s the Hassler or the Plaza or the Browns’. I dress up—it can be Pucci or Gucci or Ricci; I give an interview to Elle or Vogue or a literary supplement. I have lunch with Juilliard or Weidenfeld or Molden. I rest in the afternoon, I answer fan mail and phone calls, I go out, dinner or a club, or theater, the Rive Gauche or the Village or Trastevere or Chelsea, with writers, artists, publishers, film people, or just rich people who like to be surrounded by artists, writers … And so it went. Life could be a celebration, yachts in the harbor, private-island parties, festivals, lecture tours, fast cars, and late nights. The temptation to indulge in the superficial and the momentary was enormous, but boredom was my safety valve. I didn’t care for the small talk; international gossip bored me. I didn’t drink and hated the noisy atmosphere of nightclubs. And there is a limit to one’s ability to digest caviar or foie gras, as tasty as they may be.

  First priority was writing. I was not going to be a one-novel novelist, and I had to prove to myself that the commotion, sales, even the reviews had to do with quality. With a talent I sensed I had but which was still far from fully consummated. I knew my first book had charm, honesty, some passages blessed with perception, and a certain flow. It was not much more than “promising,” and promises, for a writer, always mean the next book. I was, in a way still am, more confident about my brain, personality, and integrity than about my ability to master the literary medium, and somewhere inside I sensed there would always be more to me as a person than as a writer. My ambition was shaped accordingly. I’m a storyteller, I’m not an innovator or a creator of masterpieces. Writing is a craft and a passion, but not a messianic call. I want to give my readers pleasure, a diversion, an involvement, and share rather than impose some message. I knew each new book was bound to be better than the last one; I also knew my limits. Language was an instrument; profundity should be an occasional result, and not intentional, and fireworks were not my style. I was never going to write to dazzle, and flowery, overloaded, pretentious lit
erature bored me even when I knew it was pure excellence. I wanted to reach the essential, the bare, elementary, stripped, truthful definition of human relations, predicaments, and sensitivities, while telling a story. The stories I had in mind were all set in Israel, against the background of a troubled, striving society, where mere existence could not be taken for granted.

  Yet I wasn’t ready to settle down at home and fall into a routine of writing and publishing. Instead of the desire to dig inside and explore the depth of my being and personality, I felt the need to add new layers. Rather than peel, I wanted to grow, as I wasn’t hiding anything in the core but was lacking in perspective and dimensions. There was so much to see, and learn, and find out in order to be self-sufficient, and though the process of learning is endless, I was set to embark on it as more than just a collector.

  My father was enjoying my success. He obviously realized I wasn’t going to be a scientist, agronomy expert, or doctor, and he encouraged me while I was writing, for some good and some less honorable reasons. He wrote me frequently, two-page letters in terrible handwriting, expressing a double hope—that I would write something of quality and make a fortune on it. “I hope you are advancing well with the book. If you started you should invest all efforts in it and produce the best thing you can. I hope you have the patience to concentrate, rewrite, improve and rewrite again. Do you think it could be a best-seller? Or at least a very good seller? It will be great for you, and for us, if you are suddenly a rich lady …” He wasn’t supporting me then, and I wasn’t a burden on his income, and only as this sentence kept repeating in other letters did I think of it as anything but a touch of humor.

  “What I really would like to do is come and stay with you, an evening (or two at the most), drink tea, nag, listen to you, get angry a little, and love you a lot. Help you a little and disturb you a lot … With much love, Father.” Or, still while I was writing: “I envy you, sitting and writing and doing what you truly want to do. I hope you enjoy the work and I expect you to be successful (financially too!) not only because of curious details but for your ability to reach under the skin of feelings and events.” “What are your plans? It’s obvious you should stay in Europe for publication, but please think of coming home afterward. If you don’t, you’ll find yourself detached from your roots here and unable to settle in Europe. You should find your place in Israel, regardless of your profession; a writer has to feed on surroundings and sources, and yours are here. I miss you so much …”

  I waited eagerly for his reaction to the book itself. Not as a literary critic, but because there was so much of myself poured into this first volume, his reaction was the only one I feared. I remembered his violent reaction when he read my diary, and I was shaking with nervousness, until he reassured me. “It is good, honest, readable and moving.” He liked the precision and economy of the language, and admitted he himself had been afraid to be disappointed and was extremely happy when he liked it all.

  The book critics in Israel hated it. It was written in English, and I was stupid enough to make some haughty irrelevant remarks about the Hebrew language. The language became the central issue, and I was anything from a “traitor” to a “deserter.” Writing in English was unpatriotic, anti-Israeli, or at least “fortune hunting.” The book itself was dismissed as “kitsch for export,” and the last thing I wanted to do was face the music. My father encouraged me to come home, offering me the full width and depth of his support.

  “Don’t fall into the trap of blaming the Hebrew language. There is nothing wrong in writing in whatever language you choose to, but make it clear it’s your choice, or shortcoming or achievement. No theory about Hebrew as unsuitable for expression of modern life will hold, and the animosity you’ll encounter here will have nothing to do with the quality of your writing. It is the result of your mistaken declarations about the language, and a great deal of jealousy, which is inevitable. We’ll face it together, and the sooner the better. You’ve been away for so long … I’m active, and it bores me to write about it. Mostly I am a target for attacks and gossip. I am not disappointed in what I am trying to do and get done, and although I am not a masochist, I never thought it was always a ‘happy state’ to be happy. Sometimes I’m happy to be unhappy … It’s easier to explain face to face, so please come home. If you put aside some money, I’ll help you look for a house somewhere …”

  I did come home, the book was published in Hebrew, and for a while I felt like a leper. I had to cut a path for myself through jealousies and flattery, self-appointed supporters and bitter enemies, and I knew I didn’t have the energy and the motivation to fight. There was one thing I wanted to do—go on writing, produce a second novel, let whatever creative talent I had speak for itself and satisfy my urge to expand and learn.

  My family was like a rock shelter around me. My mother liked my book but was hurt by some of the passages in it. My father enjoyed being “Yaël Dayan’s father” for a while, and eagerly read my fan mail and the American good reviews, and once he realized Israel would always be home and there was no danger of my looking for a substitute, he was carried away by my travel plans, intending to visit me in a variety of exotic places. I unpacked and packed in my room in Zahala, and we had long talks, mostly very early in the morning when everybody else was asleep.

  I found Father changed. He plunged into the agriculture scene with the same vigor, imagination, and farsightedness with which he had handled military objectives. He was clear about what he wanted to accomplish, but it wasn’t entirely up to him. He thought of agriculture products for export, of modern technology and specialization. He wanted to speed the completion of the National Water Carrier from the Lake of Tiberias to the northern Negev. He had the right concepts, but very few instruments and a limited budget to execute his policies. In addition, the political “machine” in action bored him and made him bitter. He was loyal to his superior, Ben-Gurion; enchanted with the team of professionals he worked with in the ministry, but had no illusions as to the growing rift between himself and his peers—other ministers, party officials, and a variety of powerful veterans who systematically undermined and criticized him. For the first time, he talked about a “hopeless battle.” He didn’t think he stood a chance, and was not going to compromise. “It’s not my game,” he said, “and not because I don’t know the rules. I can’t adjust to the pattern, the hierarchy, the pace, or the style of the so-called powerful members of the party.” He thought they were condescending; he thought they were out of touch with the people. He believed they advanced their personal ambitions at the expense of the common objectives, and obstinately dismissed any references to his political prospects in the near future, or ever. “No way,” he said. “They aren’t going to change, and I’m not going to change, and sooner or later they will have their way and be rid of me. I am a thorn in their thighs, and the party routine is stifling to me.”

  He was growing bitter without losing his sense of humor, but he made it clear to me that I was never going to be the Prime Minister’s daughter. Not that I had expressed a desire to be, but I certainly thought he should get there one day, for the benefit of us all. If I was disappointed, it wasn’t from personal ambition. I understood him, and hated to see him give up, not during but on the eve of battle, a battle he was clearly determined not to participate in.

  In fact, it wasn’t all so simple. I steadfastly refused to accept his lack of ambition, and I was reluctant to admit his failure in the political power plays. For a while, I blamed it entirely on the others. He was above them, he was a pure patriot, he couldn’t sink down to their level of little intrigues, he was a national leader while they were small party operators … History, I hoped, would bestow on him one day his natural role, up there at the top …

  But as he grew to accept his predicament and rejected any chances of changing it, I began to wonder: What if it suited him? What if he really didn’t want the full responsibility? What if he preferred to be perched halfway, satisfied with his persona
l fame and happy in his relative freedom?

  I was not his “little girl” anymore, and when we sat there in the beautiful garden, eating figs or a watermelon and talking, with long intervals of comfortable silences, we met on equal terms, as two adults. Or so he treated me. Admitting my independence liberated him of any responsibility toward me, and avoiding confrontations, or even debates, was an easy, comfortable way out for him. If I ever so much as mentioned that something bothered me, or hinted at some possible dilemma I faced, he quickly smiled, with all his charm, gave me a kiss, and said: You are a big girl, you’ll find the right answers! When I was a small child and cried in pain when hurt, he laughed it off as “psychological” and convinced me that crying would only magnify the pain. Now he felt I was well equipped, partly by him, to handle whatever came my way, and when he said “psychological” he meant imaginary, and in fact my worries were trivial. Still, when at home, I would have liked to have the luxury of support, advice, and guidance, even when I knew I could manage perfectly well without it.

  Now that Father was a cabinet minister, he tried to be more discreet about his philandering. The quality of his women and the superficiality of the affairs were the same as ever, and I could not find a physical or psychological justification for his insatiable desires and lack of discernment. Other than occasionally and mostly accidentally, there were no more “planned” meetings between me and his girlfriends, and I was grateful for it. I didn’t think too highly of my mother’s tolerance, but there was no way I could, or wished to, put myself in her place and seriously consider what her reaction should be. Not until I was myself a married woman did I think of infidelity as detrimental to the preservation of the family.

  My parents made love very often, if not nightly, and shared a bed and a bedroom throughout their married life. As a child, a teenager, and an adult woman, it filled me with a sense of warmth and security, as if their physical proximity offered reassurance of the continuity of everything that meant home.