by Yaël Dayan
The letter was handwritten, several pages long, and it was obvious that I didn’t mean them to sit and read it in the lawyer’s office. Each in his own privacy and time, they read:
Rahel,
Everyone is busy “preserving the dignity of the dead,” tiptoeing and whispering in corners, while “honoring,” smoothing and cementing, and beautifying “In honor of” … I’d like to share a thought about the honor and dignity of the living. The dignity of my mother, who for decades—the rough ones, the ones lacking in glory and wealth and means, years paved with battles and dangers—stood beside him. Mother’s dignity, in years of love, of raising children, of anxiety, of building homes and a farm, caring for his wounds, and contributing a human dimension to his world, which often lacked it—poet that he was. And her less dignified years—when, unbearably, she lost dignity and carried on “for the children’s sake,” until she could do so no longer and broke her own path, having nothing and leaving you both with it all—all but the responsibility for taking care of the children and grandchildren, which remained hers. Mother’s dignity, who left the home—against our advice—in which we grew, into which both my children were born, the home I left only when I got married, a home her father purchased, the way he did the farm in Nahalal, she left the Zahala home, supported Udi and Assi, who needed help, and believed—so she told us then—that she was not jeopardizing us, because our father loved us, and was fair and wise.
The dignity of my brothers. The living, the young, who are—despite their errors and tempers—his sons. The good and the bad in them are his, very “Dayan” they are. Udi’s adventures, Assi’s talents, Udi’s courage and restlessness, infidelity and gloom—Udi is, as Father was, an artist, while Assi has all the Dayan charisma, and I wish our father had some of his sensitivities. Don’t think of them as if “they happen to be his sons” because in the last few years they have grown estranged and distant. Fatherhood, or “to be the son of,” isn’t measured in torn segments of time. There were years when Assi was Father’s favorite, his baby, Udi was his source of pride, and I was trouble.
The dignity of Udi and Assi, who will be—they and their sons—“Dayans” forever. Expected to continue in his path, they will often fail, but then, sometimes Father failed us, too.
My own dignity. I who never asked for anything, never appealed for help or burdened him with my worries, so as not to spoil the luxury and comfort of the image of “a daughter who is independent and takes care of herself,” even when I needed him and had nobody else to turn to. When I had, I shared with him; and when it was tough, I didn’t bother him.
His dignity, when alive, was dearest to me; his pain and sadness he shared with me when we were alone, without barriers, never holding back.
We did have a special relationship. Father–daughter, friends at times, teacher-pupil; and often I did things I wasn’t totally happy about, because I believed he knew better.
How a wise man like Father, who managed his life so well, didn’t think all the way—a generation ahead, when he came to settle his after-death affairs—I’ll never understand.
What are we to tell our children?
The children I’m supposed to bring up in the light of his memory, to be like him—patriots, brave, wise, proud of him—what do I tell them about morality and justice, of parents taking care of children? What do I tell them about generosity?
What to tell Udi, who may have to sell the family farm to afford a divorce; Assi, who lives in a rented flat; my mother, who believed the burden would be off her shoulders one day. As tragedies go, Dov’s parents were killed in the Holocaust. My own children had only one grandfather, special and wonderful, a source of pride and affection. Now they’ll have photographs, his books, some letters and they will look from the outside in on everything that was his that will now belong to your own grandchildren. What do I tell them?
My love for my father remains untouched; not so my respect. I never expected, I don’t think he “owed” me, and if there were nothing, it would have been easier.
When there is so much, it takes an enormous lack of generosity to “divide” it the way I am told he did.
The law accepts situations that are unacceptable to reason or heart. Father’s will does not “honor” him and doesn’t add to your “dignity” either. The archaeological collection should be made available to the public; the house—at least after your lifetime—should remain in the family, for our children and grandchildren, and even then, it would have left more than ample for you, the way Father wanted it.
So what he didn’t do when alive, maybe we’ll do after his death, letting justice and fairness win. I want you to know that this letter, in fact, isn’t just between us. It’s meant for Mother and my brothers, and whoever cares to judge the dignity of the living and the dead.
All your years with Father, I respected his love for you. Without effort or bitterness or blame. If there were moments of misunderstanding, they were not unnatural or many. I didn’t have to playact. It was a Dayan-like pragmatism, mixed with a degree of affection, and recently compassion for the hard months, the impossible daily suffering, the helplessness you went through at his ailing side, a feeling I shared—though my contribution was not often wanted.
The real addressee of these pages is, of course, my father, and so toward him only is directed any feeling of hurt, bitterness, or disappointment that may emerge between the lines.
Yaël
We took the elevator down, and this was the last time I saw Rahel of my own volition. Earlier that afternoon, I collected my belongings from the safe in Zahala, and did not return there until a year later, when it already belonged to the lawyer who had purchased it. The street was empty, and we drove together to see our lawyer, knowing there was little he could do.
SIXTEEN : LAST KADDISH
With Udi and Assi, typed pages in hand, I entered our lawyer’s apartment as if he were a magician or a miracle worker. Time was not wasted on preliminaries, and he sat us down in the living room, quickly reading through the legal phrases, which were his territory and our misfortune. Well controlled and dry as he was, he could not repress a bewildered anger. He threw the papers on the coffee table and sighed. Reason, he said, doesn’t tolerate a document like this one. Had he come to me, as a lawyer, he said, I wouldn’t have let him sign a paper like this. No way. He paused, and resumed his cool legalistic tone. As much as I admired him. Because I admired him.
He read it again, between the lines too, I suppose, and with a defeated expression laid it on the table. Now he addressed us.
I doubt it can be taken to court. There are two ways to dispute a a will. We could claim he was not in his right mind, under drugs or whatever, which I, and you, know he wasn’t. I wouldn’t do it anyway, I quickly volunteered, not for anything. True, he continued, he was sick, and this paper was signed only a few weeks before he died, but his mind was clear and sharp. The other way, it is proved that the will was written under the influence, accumulative or momentary, of the benefactor. That’s a hell of a thing to prove, and I don’t know of any evidence we can use to show that. He looked at us with a degree of pity. Unbelievable! he exclaimed.
We told him of Rahel’s offer. Good, he said, relaxing. Obviously, there is a crack there, and we should try to negotiate. Her offer is unacceptable, but I believe she will realize that, for his sake, she can do better. I suggest meeting with her, to see what I can do.
He figured the will would be made public in a few days; there was no way to prevent the courtroom reporters from getting it. One hell of an embarrassment. For everybody. Embarrassed and rich is still better than embarrassed and poor, one of us said.
I’ll let you know when I meet with her, our friend concluded, seeing us to the elevator. This was one case he was going to lose, but then, this was not a case, or one he had chosen to take.
As I drove home, my head cleared somewhat. Normally, under circumstances which called for common sense, for objective and cool thinking, I’d go to m
y father. In his absence I had to apply these faculties myself. I hoped they were in me. I realized that, as in a war, when one is defeated and an extra effort might prove heroic but suicidal, this was a time not to fight. All my life I have resented obsessions and kept away from fanatics. Preoccupation with the will and fighting for a settlement, in or out of court, could become an obsession. A full-time, unsettling, one-track experience. Even if it were to produce results, they would be measured in terms of dollars and cents and would come at the expense of respect, self-respect, peace of mind, and productivity. There was the golden calf again, winking and tempting, and a poor shiny substitute for some promised land of a normal, stable life. What was lost could not be returned, and to add to it the anguish and frustration of a futile fight would be destructive and pointless. I was not going to indulge in it, and when I opened my apartment door, my mind was made up. What I inherited nobody else did, and this could never be taken from me; and what I didn’t was not worth the disintegration of values and standards. I was not going to destroy my love for my father, or let anyone doubt or damage the memory of the love he had for me. I was not going to harm any chances my brothers had, or any hopes they entertained. Let the mediators talk to Rahel, and whatever the result was, I would not pursue the matter further.
Dov read the document with a look of disgust on his face. He was against minor negotiations. Either you leave it and let go, and let her have the piece of land as well, or you contest the whole thing, which he basically thought could or should be done. He had his own thoughts regarding the circumstances and influences that brought about this will, and he chose the easy and evasive way of leaving it up to me to decide what to do. Close friends reacted strongly. An all-out fight, they suggested, not with compassion for me as much as with hurt and hatred for “that woman.” It would be very easy to be trapped into a battle where we would all be losers, and I was determined. Let the lawyers discuss, and let me accept whatever resulted. I started feeling a deep sense of embarrassment whenever the subject was brought up, as if the relationship of a lifetime had to be measured and weighed according to a figure on a check.
A few meetings followed, each less pleasant than the previous one. Rahel was surrounded by friends and lawyers who advised her to be firm and stubborn. That’s the way he wanted it and they don’t deserve better, they suggested—advice she found easy to accept.
The first meeting with a mutual, objective friend was disastrous. Her nerves gave way, and she cried angry tears. The “civilized” façade was gone, and she said Assi was a worthless playboy, Udi a corrupt, lazy no-good, and I was a cunning, dominating bitch. A second meeting with lawyers produced a paper suggesting we would get half of Zahala. This was extracted under pressure, she suggested a few days later, and she wouldn’t sign it. Half of the house in Zahala was too much, Yossi suggested, and she should and could settle for less.
The press had a ball. The will was published in an evening paper. Lawyers offered free advice; gossip columnists and reporters offered interpretations and theories. My mailbox was filled with letters of solidarity and encouragement, as if I were fighting a battle on behalf of all the children of the world. Only I wasn’t fighting, and both the battle and its results had a stale, irrelevant taste.
The thirty days of the Shloshim mourning period were nearing their end. The deep pain turned into a scar, never to be fully healed, but not an open wound either; and the first rain wet the soil in the graveyard when the tombstone was placed. A heavy marble rectangle bearing in metal letters my father’s name and the dates of birth and death. A larger rectangle made of rough stones framed the flat marble, the space between them filled with earth and the few shrubs planted in it softened with an aura of green the austere, sad site. It would look sad and austere were it not for the valley below, which was a continuous burst of life, a patch of fertility, a weave of all the wonders that compose life, as far as the eye could see.
The thirty-day period, the length of a full month, was considered by some psychiatrist in Talmudic, ancient times as the proper time for intense mourning. Afterward, life resumed. Visits to the bereaved family then became less and less frequent; men shaved their beards, and business affairs were conducted once more. On the thirtieth day, ads announced a gathering at the graveside, and buses were available to the public.
No government officials came this time. There were very few men in uniform, although there were a couple of hundred people who came by bus.
Rahel, dressed in shades of brown and in a cardigan, flanked by her daughters and her mother, stood next to the rabbi. If she had tears, they were concealed by dark glasses, and we exchanged nods, no more. Compared to the funeral, the small number of people was evident, and Rahel seemed alarmed by it. She asked the rabbi to postpone the ceremony, expecting a few more creeps to show up.
We stood there in a circle, waiting.
I walked across the small cemetery to visit other graves. The uniform line of war casualties was drenched with flowers. These were the beloved sons of the village, and caring mothers and widows visited daily, tending to them as if fresh flowers prolonged these young lives, perpetuated their memory in a colorful, growing manner. My father’s brother, Zorik, was buried there. I could see his face, his clear eyes, square jaw, and the short, fair hair as he smilingly lifted me up in the air, higher and higher, accompanied by my giggles. I was a small child when he died in the War of Independence. Aviva’s grave, a naturally shaped black basalt stone, like a rock, part of the eroded hill. The letters of her name were barely visible, and there were no flowers. My father’s beautiful sister died young, and her small grandchildren played in the circular road of Nahalal, a living memory.
My grandparents’ tombs looked deserted. Very seldom visited by my father or any of the grandchildren. Were we ruthless to the dead, or merely realistic and devoid of ritual habits? How often would we visit our father’s grave? Did it really signify anything?
A soft wind was blowing from the west when I joined the circle and let go of accumulated tears. The rabbi read a prayer, and I realized I was crying for myself, out of frustration and self-pity, as much as for him. I loved him too much to blame, but not enough to sanctify.
Most evident was Udi’s absence. Assi read a fast, dry-eyed Kaddish; the cantor sang “El Maleh Rachamaim”; and a young woman read an Alterman poem my father loved.
Udi had shut himself away from us all, being or pretending to be sick, huddled in bed under blankets, and the wind didn’t carry the prayer all the way to his farmhouse. He vowed never to say Kaddish again for his father—rejection for rejection. Hidden in his drawer and heavy on his heart was a written accusation, composed between the Shiva and the Shloshim, to be published later. “People will perhaps say that it’s a shame for a father to be eulogized by his son that way. I will reply it was a shame to have had a father like you …” Udi wrote about our father’s greed, his lust for third-rate women, exposed his weaknesses, his craving for fame and publicity, his translating ideals into hard cash, and his immorality. Most of the piece read like an index of the scandal articles published through the years; some of it was written from deep hurt and with a morbid humor. “Those who blame me for desecrating the honor of the dead should know the dead, in his last will, also buried his dignity …” The words were in the second person present. “You might remember that I, your firstborn, Ruth’s son, came to visit you to talk about Pen and Sword, and instead you showed me the bathroom you had built for Rahel. Did you not know that interior design was not one of the talents I admired in you? … From the day you brought this woman to your home, your hair was being cut and your power gone. From one day to the next, ‘Moshe Dayan’ shrank and you became more and more Rahel’s husband; this is my private diagnosis of your fall …”
And so it went on. Harsh accusations, the settling of accounts with the living and the dead. Udi didn’t spare himself, but certainly didn’t spare others, and this “Letter to a Dead Father” was to become his sign of Cain. We hoped he ha
d the strength and conviction to bear the burden without collapsing. His real support, in spite of it all, in case he fell, was buried up on Shimron.
The ceremony in the cemetery was over, and people dispersed. I sat there, leaning against a tree trunk, still crying, when someone helped me up. I was the last to leave, and it was growing late.
Before driving to Tel Aviv, I stopped to see Udi. The house was locked and dark. I knew where the key was and let myself in. Udi had said earlier he wasn’t coming to the ceremony, not ever saying Kaddish again. He also mentioned the publication of his “real feelings,” and said he’d written it all and was waiting for the agreement to be final between Rahel and us. Self-destruction is not unfamiliar among the Dayans, but a good share of it fell to Udi, and all my adult life I have had a sense of anxiety concerning him. His whereabouts were unpredictable; he was inconsistent and insecure; and in spite of a façade of carelessness and humor, he was often melancholy, lonely, and unreachable. His artistic gifts were not sufficient to bridge the gap between reality and his dreams. I tiptoed in and noticed the spare bedroom door open. He was lying in bed, covered to his ears with a blanket, half asleep or pretending to be. He wasn’t feeling well; no, he did not want to see a doctor. He would be all right, not to worry, shalom, over. I was not an intruder, but neither was I welcome, and I left. Udi shared doubts and questions when it was too late, as if he had a need to err alone, to take all the blame. He realized he was mistaken only when things were hopelessly beyond recovery. Rather than confront me with his written pages—and there was no way I could justify or find them tolerable—he withdrew, extracted all the bitterness and pain accumulated over the years, and spat it out as a fact in print for us to digest and face. This was his act of independent expression, unsolicited and not totally courageous, for cowardice and bravery are mixed in most self-destructive acts.