My Father, His Daughter

by Yaël Dayan

  Since he had married Rahel in the summer of 1973, we all played according to new rules. A dimension of bliss had been added to his life, and who can blame a man in love. He adored her with all his heart, marveled at her beauty and charm, boasted about her cultural assets, and was carried on Eros’ wings to heights of delicate romance, with gratitude and at times disbelief. He was the frog kissed by a princess, the farm boy dwelling in a palace, the primitive being enlightened.

  History often blames women for everything, from taming to castrating men. Samson and Ulysses, King David and Antony, felled, wooed by women’s charms. I doubt that any man is altogether an uncooperative “victim.” Men don’t succumb unless they are ready for it, and willing. The fact was that my father’s priorities and life style changed in the last ten years of his life, perhaps reflecting weakness or vulnerability, obsessive materialism, and eventually egocentric self-pity. These were changes by choice, options offered and taken voluntarily. If Rahel was the catalyst, the guideline or prompter, the substance must have been there all along. The timing was most unfortunate, and this may have not been accidental either. The Yom Kippur War caught us all off-guard. Bathing in self-indulgence and carrying the self-image of 1967 supermen to untoward extremes, we were not ready for the earthquake that struck us. My father’s personal state of euphoric contentment didn’t contribute to the sharpening of his senses, though I doubt that it, in the slightest way, affected his behavior and decisions once we were swept into action. My own feelings were a mixture of love for him, admiration of her uncompromising devotion, occasional nausea at the physical expression his new life took, and many deep regrets when counting the losses inflicted in the process of change.

  His good healthy sense of humor disappeared where Rahel was concerned, and I had to remind myself to be on guard. Objectively, it was funny to hear her calling him “darling” in English, see him change to “work” clothes when gluing pottery, in order to protect his new made-to-order outfits. The charm that came with exasperating carelessness, sloppy appearance, lack of tolerance, and devilish mischief was fading away, to be substituted by new mannerisms, tamed behavior, cashmere sweaters, and Dunhill suits.

  Rahel, in an interview, did mention the changes and took some credit for them. The fact that I didn’t appreciate intimate dinners of delicacies and wine, candlelight and background music, as factors that “humanized and opened him” may be my failing. I didn’t regard the reading of a few contemporary best-sellers, the watching of “Armchair Theatre” series, and an occasional concert as “intensive cultural life,” and acquiring a wardrobe labeled Céline, Hermès, Gucci, and Cartier did not necessarily mean “exquisite taste.” It was skin deep, it made me nervous and sorry for him. And Dov, who could see through it all, insisted it was none of my business. And it wasn’t. The luster was real, the self-indulgence was genuine, the woman lived for him to love and be loved, and if he found comfort and delight in lobsters and white wine, admired the gifts she received, and rested on a pink velvet sofa, it was not my concern. His quick and brilliant mind didn’t soften; his political courage didn’t fail him or us when he applied himself. As for his seemingly new preoccupation with making money, it may have been there, dormant, all along.

  I kept my resentments to myself. Zahala ceased to be an open, welcoming home. The new furniture was in great style and cold. I found myself being told to cut a piece of the butter and put it on my bread plate, rather than grate it from the top, and being asked to call before I visited, so “I could have undivided attention.”

  Rahel was dominant in his life, and I had to learn to live with it, and while I was envious, I wasn’t jealous. I couldn’t live her life or enjoy her style, acquire her priorities or share her conventionalities. I was envious because his whole being was taken up, and I had to look for loopholes, for myself, the children—an intimate anxiety I wanted to share, a corner of love I wanted to indulge myself with. If I abided by the rules, I could have some of it. Still, the natural, spontaneous father-daughter behavior was gone.

  It was only when he died that I realized I hardly knew Rahel. What I saw was a reflection of my father, his aura engulfed them both, and I thought of her only in terms of his personality—good and bad. Our own independent small talk was also related to him one way or another, and it lacked the confidence which could fill the gap between Rahel my father’s wife and Rahel the woman she independently was and is now. I never bothered to find out, and I may have been remiss, what was left of the totality that was “they,” once he was removed from it by death.

  Whether or not Rahel provoked laxity in him on the eve of Yom Kippur, she helped him endure the horrendous personal aftermath of it, and probably prompted him to concentrate on writing his autobiography.

  I myself was about to begin work on a new novel when my father called to say he wanted to make me an offer. On the phone, in brief sentences and confident of a positive answer, he suggested I collaborate with him on his book. Only the first few chapters, he said—background, childhood, Nahalal, right up to the War of Independence. He quickly quoted the sum of money he would pay me, and added in good humor: “For you, it’s nothing. You know it all, you are a writer, and I’ll add my own flavor to your version.” I said I had to think about it, mumbling something about authenticity and credibility. I also believed he was an excellent writer himself and had no need … I had to think.

  He said he would call back soon for an answer. He had diaries and material relating to the rest of the book, but he’d rather I did the first few chapters. The answer was going to be negative when he called again. I didn’t think it was a good idea. It wasn’t merely “background” but the beginnings of psychological processes which underlined his entire life. It wasn’t a story to be told but an evaluation of factors contributing to his making. And besides, I was about to begin work on a novel. After I said all this, he answered very simply. If I was not going to do it, he wouldn’t either. Nobody else would. The book would not be written. There was nothing pathetic in his words, just a statement of fact. There was no way I could refuse, and we met the same day to decide on an outline.

  My son Dan started school, and little Raheli was in a nursery school in our own building. I had free mornings, and my own writing would have to wait. Father was a slave driver. The first few pages took a long time, but when he declared his satisfaction, I produced more, and faster. He did give it his own touch, made me expand on a few points and do some more research, and was soon happily writing the rest and, in fact, the major part of his thick volume, Story of My Life. The obstacle I helped him overcome may have been only technical. As a writer, I know all too well the sheer horror the page numbered 1 inspires. The experience, which meant daily contact and some emotional proximity, may have helped me to begin and end my own novel, Three Weeks in October, once my pages of his book were delivered.

  My mother was still with Maskit, working hard to keep it from going overly commercial, and concentrating on the artistic, fundamental adaptation of folklore and artisanal wares to the consumers’ needs. Since my father had married, and there were now two Mrs. Dayans, she avoided the social scene and managed not to meet with Rahel, seeing my father on rare occasions, on family matters. She held her position with pride and integrity, developing a sense of humor about the many misunderstandings that resulted from this duality of names. Rahel encountered similar incidents and with a smile answered, “No, I am not with Maskit,” while Mother explained that she had nothing to do with the PX where Rahel was working. “Thank you,” Rahel would say, “but Yaël is my husband’s daughter. Ruth is her mother”—whenever she was offered compliments on a speech I made or an article I wrote—mostly abroad, where people were less knowledgeable about the intricacies of the Dayan double setup. I had to react to “I met your mother, she is gorgeous, you don’t look at all alike,” and understand they meant Rahel, whose own daughters—delightful, intelligent, and very pretty—were often approached about or reproached for something I had done. I, in turn,
had the “I understand your sister Orna has remarried” remark, and would explain I had only brothers and a good number of sisters-in-law. And so it went, without aggravations or bickering.

  My brother Udi was divorced and remarried, had another child, and worked on the family farm in Nahalal, which was now his. His first wife and children moved to Beersheba, and my father still felt extremely close to them. They needed him, he figured. They were his first grandchildren, and he was going to see to their needs, a few while he was alive (this was principally my mother’s task in his eyes) and, as he promised, in his will—a subject which was not discussed other than in this frame of reference. Assi had two children, but his marriage had its ups and downs, and he finally divorced Aharona, which was a sad moment for me, since I had shared a happy wedding with them.

  My own life acquired a contented routine. Dov and I cultivated friendship and love, not treading on each other’s toes. At least, he accommodated my liberties. I was loyal, easy, and satisfied with my domestic duties, and he let my mind, and too often my mouth, run as free and wild as I chose. I often acted in haste, in contrast to his measured, logical steps. I would come to half-baked conclusions, and I spoiled the children rotten. I treasured my mobility and traveled often—to the United States for the U.J.A., or to Europe on vacation—and when he couldn’t join me, or didn’t wish to, there was no hurt or annoyance. I cooked well, the house was tidy, I needed no outside help, and his was always available. We visited Zahala together, with the children, at least once a week, bringing a pot of borscht, a tin of crispy cookies, or a tureen of chopped liver, and these visits were warm and cordial. I think my father liked Dov and esteemed him; he was dear to the children and patient with them for the short duration. If Dov was not enthusiastic about Rahel, and I felt on her part the discomfort of being exposed, it was never expressed in words or behavior. “Civilized” was the word, and in their different ways, both embodied that concept.

  Shimon Peres was Minister of Defense, and a good one, my father thought. The Army needed rehabilitation from the inside, without political interference, and options were open to a new generation. Peres concentrated on the arms, electronic and air-industries buildup, and gave these technological aspects a tremendous boost. He worked well with the military staff and gave them the adequate freedom to form new doctrines. The Arabs and Israel were licking the deep wounds caused by the last war, and a sense of futility that stemmed from it was perhaps the first element in a search for peace.

  Peres met with my father occasionally, kept him informed, and at times sought his approval and advice. When in ’76, the Air France plane and passengers were held hostage in Entebbe, my father called me a few hours before the liberating assault took place and hinted with pride, respect, and optimism at what was to happen later that night. Jonathan (Yoni) Netanyahu, the young commander of the operation, was killed in the rescue, and my father’s reaction to his death reminded me of his admiration for the war heroes he trained and fought with, and the deep emotion he felt for them. He may have been a civilian, a highly paid lecturer, a collector of ancient pottery (which by now he traded, selling at high prices, with his autograph on the pieces). He was almost fit for the best-dressed-man list, and he could perhaps tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a Burgundy; he was bored in the Knesset; and his social life was aglitter with the wealthy, the diplomats, and high society. But when the commando unit was flying through the silent night to liberate the hostages at Entebbe, when the frontier was threatened by terrorists, and the candle of good old heroic patriotism had to be rekindled, his heart and mind and all his faculties were undivided, putting aside everything else, where they really belonged.

  There was no way to think he would sink into obscurity, or not resume a central place in our political scene. He was no longer a wild forest fire, but was reduced to a log in the Zahala fireplace, warm and cozy. He was not the wild prairie horse, but pulled a cart behind him, slowed with the weight of worldly goods—and it was impossible to predict what or who would set the spark aglow again.

  In the spring of 1977, the final price of the Yom Kippur War was paid by the Labor Party. It lost the elections, and Menachem Begin, for thirty years the Opposition leader, was forming a government headed by his Likud right-wing party. On Saturday, May 7, 1977, a day after my father celebrated his sixty-second birthday, Begin telephoned Father in Zahala and offered him—a reelected Labor MP—the post of Minister of Foreign Affairs in his cabinet.

  THIRTEEN : PEACE

  Some knowledge of the Israeli political system is required to understand the shock effect Begin’s offer to my father had on all of us. Menachem Begin had led the Opposition Likud Party for thirty years. The gap between his right-wing ideology and Labor’s philosophy was such that, at the time, Ben Gurion ruled out the possibility of coalition with him in most vehement terms. Only in 1967, on the eve of an all-out war, was a national unity government formed to share the burden of a possible disaster. The Israeli electoral system of proportional representation has contributed to perpetuating the gap between the two major political groups. We elect a party, the party nominates candidates, and the allegiance of the voter is to ideology, policy, and to some extent the personalities heading the list, but we do not vote for a person, and those elected are not directly responsible to us, the electorate.

  If I wanted Rabin or Golda, I had to accept Dayan and Peres and dozens of others who were on the same list. Lines were seldom crossed, and occasionally, a small independent list would make it to the Knesset on the merit of one or two individuals. In 1977, the former Chief of Staff, General Yadin, a renowned archaeologist, presented such a list and captured a large number of votes, mostly the votes of ex-Laborites who were fed up with the thirty-year Labor rule. The Likud emerged as the largest group and was able, for the first time in our history, to form a coalition government with Yadin and the religious parties, placing Labor in the opposition and entirely changing the political map. The 1977 vote was one of protest and punishment. It was a vote of “we’ve had enough,” an expression of anger and disgust and rather naïve hope for a new era removed from the guilts of Yom Kippur and the collapse of a system that had failed to deliver.

  My father was on the Labor list—Rafi having merged back into the mother party in the late sixties—and intended to sit in the back benches of the Opposition. If Labor had won, there was little, if any, chance that he would have been offered a cabinet post. He was not popular with the new leadership, and in spite of the Agranat Commission’s report, was still stigmatized. It was heartbreaking to drive along a cement wall on the outskirts of Tel Aviv on which, in red paint, I would read: “Dayan, the architect of military cemeteries.” Indeed, in making him an offer, Begin ignored all conventions. It was intuition and a touch of political genius that must have prompted him to offer my father a ministerial post in his government. It was certainly against the advice and judgment of both Likud and his Labor supporters.

  Father asked Begin for time to reflect. The offer had already been made public, and the popular reaction was violent. The press labeled him an opportunist and a traitor; demonstrators hysterically shouted: “The murderer should not inherit,” and even close friends or supporters turned their backs on him with bitter disappointment. My first reaction was similar. I had voted for Yadin, and basically believed a change was welcome. I thought the political system was rotten and hoped for eventual change in the electoral system, but until this change took place, I found the crossing of party lines distasteful. I had no doubt that my father’s qualifications for Foreign Minister were better than any other candidate’s, but I thought that if he chose to join the coalition, he should return his seat to Labor. I did not think beyond that, and I knew very little of the new postwar overtures which made a peace agreement with Egypt more feasible than ever before. I was upset, and expressed my thoughts in a letter which was delivered to Zahala on Sunday morning. I don’t know whether my letter upset Father or, more probably, irritated him, but I felt he s
hould know what I thought. What I do know is that he ignored it, and his two-day shuffling of the pros and cons terminated in his acceptance of Begin’s offer.

  All the immediate or short-term considerations pointed to a negative answer. The long-term, the future prospects and options which he was wise and courageous enough to consider, determined his ultimately positive answer. He believed we were facing decisions that would determine our final borders; he believed that, four years after the Yom Kippur War, and after thirty years of bloodshed, there was an option for real peace. He thought he had what it took to handle these new options and trusted he would have enough independence and freedom, even in a Likud government, to act without having to make concessions. He felt—and I was the first to admit that he was right and that I was totally wrong—that he could not dismiss such an opportunity out of loyalty to a party. He remained Labor, he declared, even if the party rejected him, but the state’s good always had priority over party politics.

  On June 20, 1977, I took my children to Jerusalem, to the Knesset, to see my father sworn in. It was an unpleasant, noisy, interrupted session. Fanatic Laborists screamed when he got up to speak, and his first few sentences could not be heard against the shouts of anger and mockery. He stood there like a rock, unbending and brave, and imposed his integrity and superiority over a turbulent House. He was as lonely as he ever would be, and I felt the need to share those moments by being present and offering my humble support. It was my way of admitting I had been wrong in criticizing his decision a few days earlier.