by Tony Klinger
I looked at my companions through my ever-present cocktail of drink and drugs. My pals were preening themselves, sprouting their usual nonsense. Looking at myself wouldn’t have been pleasant, I was described in the newspaper gossip columns as dissolute and louche, and I took this as a compliment.
The passing of the years had eviscerated my emotions; I imagine what it was like to be gutted like a fish. Maybe I looked like the old Arnie but my warmth and humanity had fled me and been replaced by a void. I felt nothing. “Same again waiter, for me and all my friends!” I called to the young fellow who rushed to fill the order, knowing me as his biggest giver of tips.
The buxom blond girl next to me stroked my leg under the table, and I can’t even remember her name, or sadly even her face. I’m sure she meant well. “I’m your number one girl ain’t I Arnie, your special model, but we ain’t getting much painting done are we Fritz?” she made sure all of her friends heard her. The crowd of youngsters all laughed, “You call me Fritz and I shall call you all Tommy?”
The black girl seated to the other side of me took a drag on whatever she was smoking, “From what she tells me darling we should be calling you bloody King Dong!”
“You English girls, so shy and reserved, that’s why I’ve always loved you.” The black girls boyfriend raised his glass in my direction, “Hey Fritz, leave some of our crumpet to us will you.”
The waiter began to serve the round of drinks but before he does so he gave an envelope to my blond companion. It was addressed to me so I nodded for her to open and read it. “It’s only a telegram from New York, New York, from a bloke called Hynie,” I was instantly sober; Hynie didn’t bother with me unless it was something serious these days.
“What does it say?”
Something about the tone of my voice made the whole group become silent as we all waited for her to continue reading from the note, “Bertha Hessel gravely ill STOP Flight booked today to Tel Aviv on El Al Heathrow Terminal 3 at 15.30 hours STOP Medics strongly suggest you go. STOP Regards Hynie MESSAGE ENDS Hey, I didn’t know you was married.”
I didn’t bother to respond, I was already whistling for a taxi to the airport.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Israel
July 1967
The airport was a madhouse. The air conditioning was winning the necessary and unceasing summer battle with the overwhelming heat. I felt so totally alien but impressed with this, my first look at the rapid progression of this country. I couldn’t quite grasp that almost everyone I saw was Jewish, be they bus driver or orthodox, soldier or prostitute. Everyone was here because they felt driven to be here, except for me, I was there, I hoped, in time to say farewell to my mother. Every fiber of this small country was buoyant and almost exultant after their recent triumphant war that had lasted just six days. The victory had been almost biblical in its margin of triumph but no one had any idea of what to do next.
A pretty, slim raven-haired El Al stewardess helped me pass through customs and immigration before all the other passengers. Someone had been very efficient, I thought appreciatively. We rushed through the busy security area until we reached the outer door, which opened automatically. The harsh sunlight blinded me for a moment, but the stewardess noticed that my sunglasses were in my jacket pocket, “Would you like me to put those on for you?” she asked, and I nodded. As she put them on the bridge of my noise I could suddenly see through the Polarized lenses. The crowd seemed to be full of young men, and I studied them, looking for someone that might appear familiar. The stewardess said her farewells and I grunted in response, still looking intently in the buzzing crowd.
Then I saw them, two handsome young men in military uniform. They are dark I thought, burnt brown by the never-ending sun. They were hard from their training, and suspicious of me because I had given them a lifetime of reasons.
One is dark, dark brown eyed and almost swarthy, the other is taller, blonde and blue eyed. The perfect Aryan I thought. The two young men moved towards me, but they left a little island of space between us.
“My sons?”
The blond boy answered, “They call me Ben, and this is Ezra.”
“They aren’t the names we gave you.”
“They’re the names Israel gave us, they’re our names now.” Said Ben, and there was another moment of silence broken when I smiled and Ezra spoke, “ Have you got any bags?”
“I came as soon as I heard, in what I was wearing.”
Ben, who I began to realize, was the softer of the two, spoke again, “We’ll fix you up. Come on the Jeep is over there.”
He pointed to a Jeep illegally parked amongst the taxicabs but the boys didn’t take any notice of the hooting horns of the cab drivers.
Ezra drove with controlled aggression through the growing pandemonium of the late rush hour traffic. He made no effort to conceal his resentment of me and I didn’t know what to say, or whether this was the right time. I realized that these two men were strangers, and one might be interested in me, but the other just seemed to hate me.
“How is your grandmother””?
“She’s asking for you.” Said Ben, “She’s dying.” Added Ezra.
“You don’t have to be so cruel.” Ben said quietly to his brother.
“It’s OK Ben, I understand.” I tried to bring down the emotional temperature.
We were at the traffic lights and Ezra turned to face me, “I don’t want you to understand me. I don’t want anything from you at all. Why change the habits of a lifetime. Ben the only thing he has in common with us is his blood.”
“Would it help if I admitted I was wrong, if I said I was sorry?” I asked him.
“Now isn’t the time.” Ben insisted, do you follow football. Dad?”
“Call me Arnie, both of you please, you’ll be more comfortable with that.”
“No, dad is better for me,” said Ben, I’ve always wanted to call someone dad, and it might as well be you, as you are my father. I thought I might understand you, but I don’t. Do I? No, I don’t. But Ezra is right, none of this is OK, none of it ever made sense.”
“Will the two of you really say what you feel.”? Said Ezra, “Everyone is dancing around the real issues, and who knows it might be twenty years or never before we get another chance to talk. Why did you abandon us?”
He drove the car fast through the traffic, making spaces where there weren’t any, weaving in and out, ignoring the honking horns of the other angry drivers. I had no idea what to say to these two strangers, these handsome, tough young men, my boys.
We pulled up outside the Hadassah hospital in Jerusalem, a vast modern complex. We got out of the car and hurried in through the entrance, which was more like an American hotel than a European hospital.
I followed my sons as they rushed into the first elevator and made space for me. The crush of the other passengers forced us into proximity, and almost touching. It was uncomfortable for all of us. The elevator stopped, the doors opened and we got out. Again I followed Ezra and Ben as they hurried through the broad corridor. We arrived outside a room with the name Bertha Hessel on the space for the patient’s name. “We put this on your tab, we thought you wouldn’t mind.” Ezra said pointedly to me, “Of course its all right.” I started to say more, but I was more intent on going into the room, “Prepare yourself dad, she isn’t like she used to be.” Ben told me. I nodded as they opened the door and I followed them in.
There was a crowd of men gathered around the bed, so many I couldn’t even see what had happened to my mother. Ben and Ezra understood better than me, they looked at each other and donned their army berets. I didn’t immediately comprehend the situation. The men in the room felt our presence and turned, seeing us they parted to let us through. My mother, Bertha, was lying there, dead.
A heavily bearded man turned and smiled kindly, his face benig
n but sad. He was clearly a rabbi, about my age; his hair completely white, and he was dressed in the formal black clothes of the ultra orthodox Jew; he gripped my shoulder. His face was familiar but I didn’t know any orthodox Jewish men. Instead I noticed that he had a skullcap under his broad fur trimmed hat and wondered why a person needed two head coverings. Something about him was familiar, but I still couldn’t see past my tears and shock, he patted his face with a large white handkerchief, it was very warm. Then he embraced me in a brotherly fashion, his fine silk coat felt cool against my cheek. He even smelt familiar. He sighed and then talked to me. His English was heavily accented, but had a European edge, his first language wasn’t Hebrew I thought. He patted his face with the large handkerchief again; it was very hot in the crowded room.
“I wish you a long life. Your mother had a good heart.” He said to me. “I was too late.” It was the only thing I could think of to say at that moment. “Can you read Hebrew?” the rabbi asked me. I shook my head, “I’m sorry, no I don’t.” I didn’t understand why he asked.
“Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Don’t worry, I can say the words, and you just repeat them after me.” He was very kind.
The next thing I clearly remembered was standing in the prayer chapel at the graveyard; friends and relatives of Bertha, none of whom I knew, surrounded us. I was standing alone at the end of the small sunlit hall next to my mother’s plain pine coffin. I hadn’t remembered the Jewish ways and tradition, no flowers, no fuss. You come into the world with nothing and you go out the same way.
Ben and Ezra moved silently so that they stood either side of me, each with an arm placed protectively around my shoulders. At that moment I understood a little bit about being a part of a family for the first time. The Rabbi uttered the ancient words praising God in the prayer for the dead and I quietly repeated them, finding comfort in them as I looked at my mother, who was at peace at last.
“I want to say a few words for Bertha Hessel;” the rabbi said, “Who can find a woman of worth? For her price is far above rubies. She stretches her hands out to the poor and needy. She is clothed in strength and majesty and she laughs at the times to come. She speaks with wisdom and the law of love and kindness is on her tongue. Give her the fruit of her own goodness and let her works be remembered. The Lord repays you for your efforts and a full reward will now be given to you by the Lord God of Israel.”
For the first time I could remember I began to sob uncontrollably for someone other than myself. My sons embraced and supported me from each side. I was distraught; the rabbi smiled kindly towards me. As he turned to speak to one of those attending something about the way he stood struck me, but I couldn’t think what it was.
Later, after the coffin had been interred we returned to my mother’s house. I spent days there for the Shiva, the seven days of mourning customary for all Jews when someone in the family dies. The mirrors were covered, the pictures put in drawers, the principal mourners sitting on low uncomfortable chairs. Family and friends came every day to say prayers, share some refreshment and to reminisce.
Because there were no mirrors I didn’t see how unkempt and disheveled I was becoming. The Rabbi had me sit on one of the small wooden chairs and then instructed me, “Please stand up Mister Hessel.” I did so and he showed me the razor in his hand, “This must be done.” He deftly hacked at the lapel of my jacket, splitting the fine material and then he cut and pulled at my shirt collar and tie. I didn’t react.
Something made me look into the eyes of the rabbi, and I knew who it was. Standing in front of me was Ratwerller, now disguised as a rabbi.
“You!” I said, inches from his face, he tried to smile at me, and my two sons realized something was happening between me and the rabbi who still had the razor inches from me. How ironic, I thought in that moment, that a rabbi was going to take my life.
Ezra approached as Ratwerller nodded his head. I saw Ben pull his Uzi sub machine gun from the cupboard in which it had been stored. Ratwerller concentrated on me, “It started as a clever disguise.” He said, “Where better to hide, who would look for me dressed as a Jew, among so many others?”
I snorted with derision, “You don’t expect mercy do you, we don’t turn the other cheek any more, us Jews, we fight back. You deserve whatever you get.”
“So you’re Jewish now, me as well, I really am, I became Jewish, what do you think of that?” He asked me, “I wish you death so you can meet your maker and let him decide.” I replied.
Ratwerller nodded and looked at me with curiosity, “Why did you have to come here, I was a good rabbi you know. This is a fine country, fine young men, you should be proud of it, of them.”
I was about to tell him that we needed nothing from him when he raised his razor, I thought I was about to die. But instead Ratwerller smiled at me, in the most-friendly way, and suddenly, in one sweeping motion he slit his own throat.
A great gush of Ratwerller’s life-blood flew in my face and he slumped to the floor at my feet. I was too shocked to move.
Ben and Ezra tried to revive him but it was hopeless. “He’s a murderer and a Nazi torturer!” I told them, hoping they wouldn’t try, “We’re not like them.” Said Ezra, “Bastards like this we want to stand trial, to be punished.” But, as Ben said as the last breath juddered through Ratwerller’s torn throat, “What better punishment could there be for him than to live as a Jew?”
It delayed the Shiva that day as the authorities descended on the scene, determined to investigate with forensic thoroughness the strange death of the Nazi rabbi. But this is Israel where family and tradition comes before everything. They soon cleaned up the bloodstains on the floor and removed all the physical traces of the incident. They had rapidly decided that the best thing was to let the Shiva proceed. They would deal with the implications of this messy suicide after dealing with the immediate needs of the living.
The following day I sat on the same little stool in the same small room, the object of much curiosity from the seemingly never ending crowd of well wishers, all of whom wanted to wish me a long life. They talked to me about my mother, with endless anecdotes extolling her virtues in every conceivable way. I found myself surrounded by this strange, unruly but loving mass of humanity. Although I knew she wasn’t perfect I was thrilled that her life had so obviously been blessed with love and warmth. Finally I had found a place, which felt like it was my home.
Ben came over to me with an attractive, vibrant girl in tow, “Father this is Michal.” She smiled, and the room seemed to light up, “I’m sorry to meet you in such circumstances Mister Hessel.”
“It’s funny you know, I’m not really Jewish. I had never prayed a Jewish prayer until yesterday, I don’t understand any of it.” I smiled.
“You know your mother was Jewish, but my mother wasn’t.” Ben answered, “So under Jewish law that makes you more Jewish than me. We follow the mother’s line, not the father’s. Anyhow, all of this is what nana wanted, it isn’t for you or me.”
I smiled at him, “Your mother taught you well; and you’re right, I shouldn’t always think of myself at the centre of every story, but it’s a hard habit to break when you’ve been the hero in your own mind for all your life.”
He looked at me and paused, then he smiled, “I guess not, but time passes, and we have to let go, move forward. Today we sit Shiva for nana, just for this last day with the High Holy Days coming tomorrow. Meantime Ezra and Ben are kidnapping you so that you can all get to know each other.”
“It sounds good to me, is Ezra OK with it?”
Michal smiled then, “It was his idea, and he doesn’t usually take any prisoners so I’d say yes if I was you. Besides, a bit of our country air will do you all good.”
On the other side of the room, out of my earshot, Ben and Ezra were arguing with each other. “I don’t want any part of that man,” said Ezra to his exasperated brot
her, “I can’t stop you wasting your time if that’s what you want to do.”
“Give him a chance.” Ben said, “He’s still our dad, we don’t know what went on in his life. It’s time to find out for ourselves, we’re grown up now; we need to hear this directly.”
Ezra pointed his finger at Ben, jabbing it at him to emphasize every point, “He had his chances, a million of them, we’re twenty-one years old. He is a selfish old bastard!”
“So you know all his problems do you?” Ben challenged Ezra.
“I don’t care about his problems. Are you like everybody else, blinded by his talent, by the fact that he overcame his handicap? Hoo-bloody-ray! Can’t you see he only cares for one person, himself!”
I could see the boys were arguing, but I preferred not to hear so I was talking as loudly as I could with whoever would listen. I just wanted to love my boys and I hoped it wasn’t too late, and I didn’t know how to ask for help any more.
Ben looked over at my anxious face and turned back to his twin, “Look at him, he needs our help, now he needs us. Are you going to be like him in order to punish him?”
Thank the Lord, I thought. The next day we were in Michal’s house in the hills near an artist colony called Safed, a beautiful little town. We had driven there first thing in the morning. The atmosphere hadn’t been easy in the car, but it eased as the scenery improved.
I was seated on the verandah of Michal’s house overlooking the beautiful scenery. Michal was painting a candid portrait of Ben and Ezra who lay sleeping on adjoining recliner chairs dressed only in swimming trunks, their taut, lean muscled bodies being fed from the sun.
She leaned back from her work, “Don’t they look sweet, your boys.”
“They look dangerous to me. Excuse me for being abrupt, but I’m getting too old for being patient. Are you and Ben going to marry?”