by Yaël Dayan
There were two occasions on which we almost had a head-on clash concerning his “affairs.” Once, when he courted and probably slept with a girlfriend of mine, and the second time when he almost destroyed a close friendship I had with one of his friends and supporters because he assumed, or took for granted, that we had had an affair.
Among my many friends and acquaintances at the time I could count very few women; in fact, one or two at the most. There was Gila, with whom I served in the Army, enduring the officers’ course with her and sharing a bench in the university for a while. She was studying chemistry, was in love with a young interne in a Jerusalem hospital, and our friendship manifested itself in long but infrequent meetings, during which we talked in the utmost confidence and intimacy about our present problems and future prospects. She was bright, quite pretty, and her love of poetry contrasted nicely with her scientific brain, studies, and future endeavors.
On my return home after the publication of my first novel, she was one of the people I called immediately. I had a great deal to share, and little to hold to in Israel, and her personality was an imaginary rock I longed to cling to. She was abrupt and cold on the phone. Excuses followed, and I sensed great discomfort in her voice. I called her doctor friend, who informed me he wasn’t seeing her anymore, and I felt I had let her down. She must have joined the chorus of critics without giving me a chance to explain or at least to have it out. In my bitter disappointment, I decided to call on her, uninvited, and standing in front of her house, debating whether to go in or not, I saw them. My father’s arm was on her shoulder. Protected, as he thought, by the dark, he embraced and kissed her and walked to his car while she stood for a moment, both of us watching him, my father, her lover.
When I called her next, I merely said: “I know about you and my father; please don’t let it stand between us.” She choked back a tear and said: “He has ruined my life; please don’t call me again, ever.” Adult people, I said to myself. They choose and make mistakes and get involved, and destroy themselves and others; but it is not my business. I still felt I was to blame, and never really forgave him for something that I had no logical reason to hold against him. He must have known that I had found out about it, and tried one day casually to ask me: “Do you ever see Gila?” And when I started crying, saying, “Do you?” he sighed, displaying impatience, and walked away, as was his wont whenever an unpleasant topic came up.
It was only natural that some of the people surrounding Father befriended me. As he suggested, I was his favorite. A few tried to channel thoughts, ideas, or criticisms through me, while others shared their anguish at his stubbornness or inaccessibility. One or two grew to like me for myself and to respect my judgment. With them, I could establish a relationship that would soon become independent of my father. My closest friend in the early sixties was Daniel. He was a career diplomat, my father’s age, married, with three children, and an expert on modern Middle East history. He was also the least selfish and most honest man I ever came across, and his love for my father was free of personal considerations and bordered on admiration. Without ever admitting it, my father treasured this friendship, and at moments of crisis almost depended on it. There was no reason to hide the fact that we met often, talked on the phone, or wrote each other when one of us was abroad. Of all the intricate relationships I had with men, and women, this was the cleanest and deepest, unmarred by teasing or jealousies, never distorted by pretense or possessiveness. If Daniel gave me the attention, care, and love he gave his own family, it was not because I felt deprived by my parents; it was a manifest of his own emotional capacity.
One evening I was sitting with Daniel in his car in front of our house in Zahala, deep in conversation. I hadn’t even bothered to ask him to come in. My father’s cold, rather formal “Good evening” interrupted us, and Daniel’s warm greeting to him was left unanswered. He walked away from us, up the stairs, and from the distance we could hear him slam the front door.
When I entered the house shortly after, Father was at the kitchen table, obviously upset. “Does Lina know about you and Daniel?” he asked, referring to Daniel’s wife.
I couldn’t even pretend not to grasp the meaning of this question. “You must be crazy.” I couldn’t help myself. “You may suspect me, being your daughter, but how can you for one moment think of Daniel that way?”
“He is only a man,” Father said, somehow surprised by my reaction.
“And all men are ‘only a man’ and sleep with whoever comes their way, and a friendship between a man and a woman without it is beyond your comprehension?”
“Whatever you say, I don’t like it—it makes me uncomfortable …”
It made him uncomfortable. He switched the garden lights on, and his eye twinkled with satisfaction. “Isn’t it the most beautiful garden in the world?”
For once, I didn’t fall for it. Damn the garden, I thought. Damn the beauty of stones and pillars and the superficial sense of continuity and security we were supposed to derive from it. So what if Abraham held this piece of pottery and Rachel held this figurine to her bosom? If we didn’t inherit their faith and their values, what kind of dead roots was I expected to cherish? I didn’t say anything and went to my room. That night I packed, and when the offices opened in the morning, I booked a flight to Athens, one-way.
My mother was in Africa, where, in Lambaréné, she joined Dr. Schweitzer and his team of savior-healers, surrounding herself with human kindness at its deepest expression. She sent us pictures in which she appears with lots of black children. In her letters, she sounded peaceful. She, too, deserved an escape. Athens was not an escape but a home substitute, and Michael was my great unreciprocated love. We met in Cannes, at a film festival, and I found myself attracted to his personality in a strange, uncontrollable way. It was not sex or status. It was an affinity of mind. I had the novel sensation that the meeting of two people can produce something superior to either of them. This quality of “us” became an emotional and creative goal which enriched us both and initiated me into the pleasure of giving, something my mother knew to an exaggerated degree and my father seldom manifested. My need to love was obviously greater than that of being loved, and this slightly off-balance relationship brought out in me total emotional commitment while preserving mobility, and physical and cerebral independence. In Michael I had a home, intellectual stimulation, and integrity, which, coupled with a sense of purpose, made me produce four books. For a time, my parents, my country, Zahala, patriotic demands were all suspended, without guilt or nostalgia.
Greece before the colonels’ revolution was a paradise for expatriates and foreigners. Its ancient culture was indescribably nourishing, and the Athenian way of life was unimposing and tolerant. The slow pace accommodated every possible temperament, and what was specifically Mediterranean about it was my home ground anyway. In my imagination I fancied myself a Durrell heroine, Athens easily standing in for Alexandria. Being Jewish held a slight mystic dimension, and being Israeli and my father’s daughter generated respect and, often, curious admiration. We had the illusion of a Golden Age. Michael and Dassin were making films. Melina Mercouri, Irene Papas, and Lambetti were acting. Hadzidakis and Theodorakis wrote beautiful music. Elytis and Gatsos held court as leading poets, and the exchange of stimuli was genuine and gratifying. The political and social clouds that gathered above this bluest of seas were easily ignored in a screen of self-satisfaction and internationalism. The real life of the country was very remote from our protective haven.
The close contact I maintained with my family was a very happy one, expressed in weekly letters and occasional visits. My father’s letters and visits were both enchanting. In every letter, a few sentences were devoted to the plea: “Do come home, whatever your plans are, please find time to visit, get organized here and eventually stay.” In one very touching letter, the tone was more personal: “You must know I miss you terribly. I don’t remember ever missing anybody so much. So much so that I am desperately
trying to find a way to come and see you …” And: “… I realize with delight how happy you are. I wish I could sound the same. Ninety percent of what I do bores me, and of the things I want to do, I don’t achieve ten percent. If I was good at math I could calculate the balance of my life … If you were here the balance would have changed …” My mother and Assi came to stay with me, and I infused them with my love for Greece, its landscapes and the intriguing contrast of past grandeur and present simplicity. “My Travels with My Father” could almost merit a separate book. His first visit with me in Athens, which I anticipated with a degree of anxiety, was positively a success. He liked Michael; he enjoyed my friends; and he accommodated to social events, dinners with strangers, and basic sightseeing with the fresh enthusiasm of an excited tourist. For once, I saw him relaxed, in good humor, displaying charm, not at short intervals, but as a result of feeling well. He loved the small fish restaurants in the Piraeus marina, and could spend a long three hours over a leisurely lunch, sipping white wine and watching the fishermen spread their nets, without his habitual nervous need to get up, move, change positions, or even be alone. We hunted for antiquities together, drove to Delphi and the Peloponnesus, returned again and again to the National Museum, and talked. He didn’t want to be in charge, and there was nothing I suggested that didn’t please him. We were both wise enough to avoid controversial topics. He mentioned my homecoming as his own wishful hope, and not in a national context. He talked about Mother with respect and warmth, imagining they had reached a modus vivendi satisfactory to both of them, and he dismissed any references to his own advancement as a national leader. Not having to face the grave life-or-death military decisions enabled him to widen his horizons and discover the joy of deeper contemplation. He grew more interested in the fate and destiny of the Jewish people, studied the global power games, was aware of the tremendous technological evolution the world was facing, and dressed the bare skeleton of pragmatism with wordly wisdom, tolerance, and knowledge. It was obvious to him that my relationship with Michael would not result in marriage, but he took care to assure me that he would give his blessing to any choice I made. He sensed that my “Greek period” was a passing phase and enriching and was satisfied with my choice of subject for my next novels.
We stayed in my rented apartment. I had a car, and I paid all our bills and I paid for his purchases, which pleased him enormously. “I knew you would support me one day,” he said, regarding my Diners credit card as if it were a lottery ticket we’d jointly won. I was sad when he left, and knew he would make an effort to join me wherever I was. I also knew that the chemistry between us worked best when we were isolated from taxing familiar surroundings.
When he returned home, he wrote me immediately: “I don’t remember ever feeling so relaxed and happy. It seems that only with a daughter one doesn’t have to pretend or playact—what choice do you have but to accept me as I am? I left with a feeling that there were many things I meant to tell you and didn’t (mostly good things), but I’m not even sure what they were. Maybe this feeling is the result of a need to explain that we shall soon meet again. There is a good chance that I’ll represent the government at the independence celebrations of Nigeria. It is not Athens, but I can’t imagine a more pleasant surprise than seeing you on the runway in Lagos …”
I arrived an hour before he did, and I was there, on the runway in Lagos, to meet him. The independence celebrations lasted four days. We shared a room in a hotel where nothing functioned properly, and made short excursions to the fruit market, devising a method of peeling pineapples and cracking coconuts in the room. Father was not too patient with his Foreign Office entourage, and very enthusiastic about our massive aid to the budding agriculture of Nigeria and several other African states. We visited farms in cleared jungle areas, met with Israeli experts and local chiefs, had stomach cramps after tasting palm wine, and marveled at the abundance of water and at the lush vegetation. He didn’t wish to be alone, and if at moments I found the pace of formal events stifling, he assured me he was as bored. When at home, I was always on guard, choosing my words and tiptoeing around his changing moods, eager to please and compromising my own personal preferences to do so. In Athens, in Lagos, in the capitals of Europe, there was no need. We had the perfect relationship of two adults sharing tastes, interests, and attitudes. A wink, a shrug, the raised eyebrow sufficed as communication. We both got up very early, enjoyed outdoor activities, wanted to learn about flora and fauna, and were bored easily by formality, pomposity, and pretense. He thought we made a handsome pair, and when we walked into a ballroom or a chief’s tent, he was happy to be greeted by photographers, posing with a smile, his hand on my shoulder, whispering to me something like “We don’t look too bad, for farmers from Nahalal,” black tie and all. He was flattered when we were told we resembled each other, and childishly happy with the fact that I didn’t use makeup and had no need for a hairdresser. When the ceremonies were over, we went to eastern Nigeria, where a large group of Israelis lived and worked as agriculture experts, and then it was time to part. I was going to take a long train ride to Kano in the Moslem north and fly from there to Accra. He was going home. Before we kissed goodbye, he had a little surprise for me. “I’m sorry about Daniel,” he said, not looking me straight in the eye. “He is on the Continent, and I cabled him to meet you in Kano and take care of you. I, too, make mistakes”—he smiled—“very seldom. Give him my warmest regards and my thanks.” The train was about to leave and we kissed hurriedly. I was the only white person on this long, monotonous trip through the jungle into the savanna, and the sight of Daniel on the platform in Kano filled my eyes with tears, but the fact that it had been arranged by my father added an unforgettable dimension to it.
With stops in Accra, Conakry, Dakar, and Madrid, I was back in Athens with Michael when my second book, Envy the Frightened, was published. The reviews were good, the sales average, and I began to write Dust. Though I had graduated from being a one-novel writer to the status of professional, I was still best recognized and often introduced as “Dayan’s daughter, who wrote New Face in the Mirror.” This didn’t worry me, as I felt I had secured for myself a small niche in contemporary literature, and it was up to my talent to fill it with better and more meaningful work.
My father stayed on as Minister of Agriculture when Ben-Gurion resigned, swearing to pursue to the end the investigation of the “security mishap.” The old man wouldn’t rest until the 1954 Lavon affair was clarified, and to exposing “truth and justice” he devoted his political and moral energies. In June 1963, Levi Eshkol became Prime Minister and Minister of Defense. Golda Meir, Sapir, and Aranne, all veteran Labor leaders, crowded the corridors of power, and Father, Peres, and Eban, the “youngsters,” were offered cabinet posts, but without Ben-Gurion to support, advance, and lead them, they were bound to make concessions.
My father was clear in his determination and logic. He would help Ben-Gurion, but, as he declared, “If a situation should arise in which Ben-Gurion resigns, and I think that it is in the interests of the state that a Labor government should be formed, and if—God forbid—I’m offered a post in it, I shall join this government.” Ben-Gurion was perhaps the only one who fully appreciated Father’s resolution. My father identified himself fully and without compromise with Ben-Gurionism as a policy and ideology whereby the state came before all else, even before Ben-Gurion the man. At the risk of being called a traitor and blamed for shrewd personal ambition, he joined the Eshkol government. His readiness to compromise, for which he was attacked, eventually became an asset and was termed “flexibility.” He lost support inside the cabinet but gained it outside, among the people.
My father liked Eshkol, and I believe the affection was mutual, but strictly on a personal basis. Eshkol was a good listener, had a marvelous Yiddish-based sense of humor, and was an ardent Zionist in the old-fashioned, emotional, back-to-the-land sense. Whatever qualities my father sought for in a leader, he thought Eshkol lacked them,
and when he finally resigned from the government in November 1964, he told him: “There must be mutual trust between a Prime Minister and his ministers. I’m not a minister—or a person—after your own heart, and you are not a Prime Minister after mine.”
With the elections imminent, the minority group that formed around Ben-Gurion had to decide whether or not it would break with Labor and go to the polls as an independent list. My father’s views, and thousands of people were awaiting his decision, were contradictory. On one hand, he vigorously criticized the government. He accused Eshkol and Sapir publicly of letting personal political considerations color their decisions on state and economic affairs. On the other hand, he was against a break and announced his decision to stay with the Labor Party, even when his friends, led by Ben-Gurion, split from it and formed Rafi (the Israel Workers list) as an independent political party. I returned home and was soon involved with the new party, preparing for the coming elections. I believed, as many others did, that the old Labor group had grown stagnant and alienated, and Ben-Gurion would lead us to a renewed dialogue with the voters. The country’s needs had changed, a new society was forming, and younger leadership seemed called for. All the influence we could muster was exerted on my father. Delegations and individuals called on him, old friends and strangers begged him to join, and yet he hesitated. To my “whys” he simply said he couldn’t make up his mind. I believed him when he said it had nothing to do with his own career. He was against splinter parties and was pessimistic about the results of the upcoming elections. He was not highly impressed by the list of Rafi candidates. “On a battlefield,” he told me, “a small elite unit can win over a large organized force. In the political arena, the full advantage lies with the powerful establishment. If Rafi could not achieve its aims, what was the use of founding it or joining it?” he asked with self-confessed pessimism, and refused to assume the leadership offered him.