Herschl flew from P[rague], direct from Gigi, the aircraft was loaded with—among other things—Gigi’s (scanty) belongings and the idiots [at Tel Aviv] did not recognize the Skymaster and started the alarm. What did that mean? That meant they failed to light the airport and the plane could not land. I should add here that the aircraft was not working [properly] and of the four engines it started with, only two were still functioning. That meant that the valuable cargo it was carrying had to be pushed overboard, that meant in other words, the whole consignment. With considerable effort he reached Erez [Israel] where they would not switch on the lights, so he circled T[el] A[viv] like an idiot and at very low altitude, and still there was no light. He could find no radio connection, he fired flares and made all the signals possible, but down below it was dark. What can you do when you have no fuel left and no power to climb. Herschl landed in the Jam [sea]. Some of Gigi’s things ended up in the sea. Herschl and the crew saved themselves and some of Gigi’s things. So he arrived here yesterday crazily cold with some wholly sodden things of Gigi’s and Steffi’s stamp album which was completely sea-waterlogged. I have dried out all the stamps and put them in envelopes. They have been salvaged. I will send Gigi two golden wedding rings and (these are also here), three pictures (which are also wet through) … It is a wonder he is still alive.4
Herschl then decided that he wanted to deliver the salvaged stamps in person. At the same time he finally handed Alice the Toulouse-Lautrec, which was coated with a layer of sea-salt. Years later, when she had put enough money aside, Alice had the picture restored.
* * *
“ZENA,” OR simplicity, was one of the first Hebrew words that Alice learned. Many years after the state was founded a satirical folk song characterized the years between 1949 and 1952 as the “Zena-regime.” It was a time of biting economic measures which affected all citizens alike, and which for the most part meant great privations. Above all, the new Israel needed money to ensure its military security as well as for the assimiliation program for the many immigrants. Alice, too, had used the assimilation program: her intensive course in Hebrew was paid for by the state.
Nearly everything was rationed then, and every family had to take account of their allotted “points.” There was a shortage of milk, cheese, jam and margarine. You also needed to have “points” for shoes, clothes, soap and many other vital ingredients of everyday life. There were queues of people outside every shop. A rumor went around that in Israel you got everything twice: once on the radio and once more in the shops. Every day, the goods that were available and where they could be obtained was announced on the wireless. Everyone who heard the news then tore round to the appropriate shop and stood in the queue.
Alice did not listen to the announcements. She was happy with fruit and vegetables and the two foods that were not rationed: bread and fish. She quickly learned the Modern Hebrew words for these, for everything else she needed much longer. Most of the time, Raphael did the shopping.
The fact that no one locked their doors in the Rechavia district was probably because no one had any more than his neighbor. There was no obvious crime among the population, who originated mostly from Europe but with a smattering of people who had emigrated from the Mediterranean and North Africa. After the depressing years of Nazi occupation and Stalinism, when any knock at the ever-bolted door could mean danger, Alice found this particularly refreshing. Mutual trust seemed to be an expression of the enthusiasm that people had for making the Jewish state work. Even Alice could play her role in the process by contributing her knowledge and ability as a piano teacher. She never lost this feeling in the thirty-seven years she spent in Israel. It was for this reason, too, that she, in contrast to many people of her age, had the ambition and strength of will to master the new language.
When Alice learned vocabulary she showed a preference for ideas rather than anything connected with everyday life. “You make me think of an immigrant newly arrived from Germany who drowns in the sea because no one can understand his cries for help,” Marianne remarked. “You need to learn how to say bread, milk, potatoes and common things like that, so that you can survive from day to day; rather than concerning yourself with so many abstract things the whole time.”
Alice defended herself: “But for me, those things are more important than everyday life. In the end I want to be able to talk about things, I want to go to the theater and read books.”
Alice had always found it easy to learn languages. Since childhood she had been able to converse fluently in German, Czech, French and English. It surprised her therefore how difficult she found it to learn Hebrew. Although she was fascinated by the attractive logic of the grammar, it was a long time before she could hold a proper conversation. She subscribed to two newspapers, the very serious Ha’arez and one aimed at new arrivals, written specially in an approachable idiom. She tried to read the newspaper every day, but for a long time it was a waste of time. The unfamiliar alphabet was hard to decipher; and she found the idea of unwritten vowels that had to be imagined extremely irritating. For weeks she could not construct a single sentence and came close to giving up. It was no consolation to her that her fellow immigrants did not find Modern Hebrew any easier.
Eventually she got hold of an exercise book, which she carried with her at all times. Whenever she came across a new word, at the grocer’s, on the bus, while teaching or at concerts, she would ask about it and write down what it meant. This lonely battle continued for years, and Irma and Marianne often shook their heads about the amount of energy their sister expended on the language. After a while she could understand Hebrew reasonably well, although she went on making mistakes when she wrote or spoke it. It took decades before Alice felt that she had mastered the language. In retrospect she calls it one of her “life’s great performances.”
SIXTEEN
Jerusalem
“Only in Israel did I feel happy in my soul.”
“MAMINKO, THEY are all having their bar mitzvahs this year.”
Raphael had been curious about his fellow pupils’ forthcoming bar mitzvahs since he had started at his new school. The ceremony, which takes place on their thirteenth birthday, marks the moment when Jewish boys come of age. At least as important as being able to claim the honor of being “grown-up members” of the Jewish community were the presents the boys expected to receive at the family party afterward. Most of them were hoping for their first bicycle.
Raphael was different. He neither knew the meaning of the words bar mitzvah, nor could he work out whether it had any significance for him. But he clearly understood, from the discussions in the school playground, how important the event was to his fellow pupils and this awoke vague longings in the boy, as well as one absolutely concrete wish: to belong.
“Am I actually going to have a bar mitzvah of my own?”
Alice was not ready for this question. Traditional religious beliefs had never played a part in her life, nor had her brothers Georg and Paul had a bar mitzvah. Although Alice knew there were three main religious groups in Israel—orthodox, conservative and reformed Jews—she did not feel she belonged to any of them. She tried to explain this to Raphael. Naturally they would have a big party for his thirteenth birthday, of course he could invite his friends and relations, and he would indeed get presents, but did he have to have a bar mitzvah?
At first that was enough to placate the boy, but as the weeks passed he became increasingly depressed. His new friends were getting ready for their parties; they were receiving religious instruction and dreaming of what they were going to eat at the celebratory feast at which they would be the chief guest. He alone was an outsider. As so often before, Alice sought the advice of her brother-in-law, Felix. In his view the Jewish religion was also important for non-religious Jews. Without a religious foundation, he argued, neither Zionism nor Israel would be possible. It was complicated and often difficult, but national and religious values, however illogical their relationship to one another might seem, we
re inextricably linked. He therefore thought that all thirteen-year-olds should have the opportunity to celebrate their bar mitzvahs: the stronger their consciousness of history and tradition the more it promoted the feeling of togetherness that was vital for the construction of the state of Israel.
Alice was convinced, but how was she to prepare Raphael for the celebration in the time she had left? Most of his friends had been having instruction for months. Felix suggested that she ask his friend Friedrich Thieberger, the son of a rabbi who had once been a famous religious teacher in Prague and was now living in Israel, for help. Alice had met him many times at the Weltsches, when she was a girl; he had been teaching Kafka Hebrew then. For the next four months Raphael received private instruction from Thieberger and throughout his life he never lost the enthusiasm for Jewish history that his tutor awoke in him.
On the morning of the first Sabbath after Raphael’s thirteenth birthday family and friends gathered at the synagogue. Raphael was smartly dressed in a white shirt and new navy-blue trousers. He read out the text from the Torah faultlessly with a crystal clear treble voice, which was in striking contrast to the expression on his face which read: from now on I am grown up.
The Thiebergers and the director of the Conservatory were present at the family party afterward. Raphael knew only too well how little money there was in this first year in their new country and had not dared hope for a bicycle. His pleasure was therefore all the greater when a brand new one was revealed. They had all chipped in: the Weltsches, the Adlers, and the Thiebergers.
From her first years in Jerusalem, Alice visited her sister Irma and her brother-in-law Felix every Sunday afternoon. It was the high point of the week for her. Felix was now recognized as a philosopher in Israel and his ethical writings earned him a prestigious Ruppin Prize from the city of Haifa in 1954. Alice, impressed by his wisdom and enlightenment, was always fascinated by what he had to say. Alice was also happy to see what a touching grandmother Irma had become. She spoiled both her grandchildren and Raphael too with culinary delights, often cooking several meals at once in order to give all the children their favorite dishes.
In spite of this, though, Irma’s uncontrollable temper was as bad as ever. “The fury continued unabated, and I cannot suggest anything anymore. I cannot suggest any possible cure but I can see how unhappy she is,” Felix wrote to his daughter Ruth in 1958. “She is incapable of relieving the feelings, which we are all given to, for one single moment. Nothing helps, be it religion, philosophy, art, or a proper relationship with her fellow man.”
* * *
ALICE HAD never been remotely sentimental. But at the beginning of 1953 she was on the way to her usual early morning swim when she suddenly realized that she would be fifty at the end of the year. It set her thinking. There was no question that she led an ideal life: she played her music and enjoyed culture in all its aspects; she had a circle of good friends and she enjoyed a plunge into the splendidly cool water of the swimming baths. Raphael, too, with his warm, steadfast character was at her side. What more did she need?
Should she have married again? as Marianne had suggested. She had never given it serious consideration, despite having had some significant admirers. Alice had no wish to impose a stepfather on Raphael, but it was not just for his sake that she had no wish to remarry. It was as much to do with her constant striving for independence. Marriage would mean too tight a bond and she could not hope for another considerate man like Leopold.
And what about the piano? Did she want to give more concerts and teach less? In the end, she didn’t think so; she was happy with the balance between them. Recently, she had given a number of concerts every year and she did not find the teaching a burden. On the contrary, it was a constant source of joy, whether her pupils played well or not. The only thing she wanted, she concluded, was to have her own separate flat again, and it didn’t matter to her how big it was.
* * *
AT THE age of fifteen Raphael discovered he had a talent for acting and joined an amateur group. Through it he developed many new contacts and good friendships that would last throughout his life. One day a presenter on Radio Jerusalem launched an appeal to schools to nominate a talented schoolchild to appear on a program for children and teenagers. Raphael was the first choice at his school and from then on reported daily to the radio station straight from school, putting together a stimulating program which was broadcast live. During it he read aloud, played his cello or the piano, and explained different pieces of music. Not only did he gain respect from his own peer group but he was also earning his own money for the first time. The listening figures rose from program to program and it soon gained something like cult status.
For years Raphael had seen how hard his mother had to work to pay for everything they needed. He knew that she had been saving up for a long time for the flat she so desperately wanted. Without saying much about it, he decided that he would pay for a good many things himself. He bought not only his own clothes and shoes but also paid for his English and cello lessons. For a while Raphael was so involved in his role as radio moderator and actor that music played second fiddle.
In 1954 the seventeen-year-old heard from his cello teacher that Paul Tortelier and his wife and children had arrived at Kibbutz Maabarot to spend a year living in Israel. Tortelier was a legend. As far as Raphael was concerned there were just two towering figures in the world of the cello, Pablo Casals and Paul Tortelier. He had all their records and had read in a French review: “If Casals is Jupiter, Tortelier is Apollo.” Raphael’s teacher wrote to Tortelier on his pupil’s behalf and was able to tell the boy that he had an audition the following weekend.
It was to be one of the key moments in Raphael’s musical career. He was fascinated by the charismatic virtuoso and how Tortelier and his wife, the cellist Maud Martin, responded to each other. Their relationship was both a communion of talent and a great love affair. On the evening he arrived at the kibbutz, Raphael attended a concert at which they both performed. He could feel how their love and passion was reflected in the music they made.
The next day Raphael met their children, Yan Pascal and Maria de la Pau. Yan was the same age as him and an ambitious violinist while his sister Maria was an excellent pianist. It seemed to Raphael that they were the perfect happy family and, despite his remarkably close relationship with his mother, he was suddenly acutely aware of the pain of being without a father.
Tortelier auditioned Raphael and was immediately sure that he had heard a more than hopeful talent. The rough diamond, however, needed polishing. Tortelier told Raphael that he must practice more than he had up to now and invited him back to Maabarot in three weeks to work with him. There was a regular bus from Jerusalem, and Raphael could get there in two and a half hours. The months that followed laid the foundations for Raphael’s future. Tortelier agreed with his teacher that as soon as Raphael had finished school he was to go to Paris as soon as possible and start studying the cello there.
* * *
RAPHAEL’S MANY successes seemed to justify to him the view that he could concentrate on the things he enjoyed to the detriment of the subjects he did not. He often missed maths or physics lessons and his teachers were doubtful that he would pass his leaving certificate, but at the same time they had to acknowledge his talent as a musician. Alice tolerated Raphael’s lack of interest in the natural sciences, and was overjoyed that he was going to Paris; he would get through school in his own way. Raphael’s aunts Irma and Marianne were a lot more critical. They could not understand how he could be so indifferent to the results of his final exams. Their warnings and reproaches seemed to have an effect and in his last year at school Raphael made a great effort and got his leaving certificate.
As a concentration camp survivor Raphael could possibly have been exempted from national service, but nonetheless he wanted to volunteer. Alice felt that a boy like Raphael, who had grown up without the firm hand of a father, might find some positive benefits from a period o
f service in the army. Both Alice and Raphael agreed that in gratitude to their new country he should show his readiness to defend it.
The first six weeks of basic training were hard, but after it was over Raphael loved being a soldier. He became first cello in the Israeli Army’s Symphony Orchestra, playing not just the cello but also mastering the saxophone, the trumpet, the clarinet and the oboe. He performed in concerts not only in Israel, but also in Europe—even in Germany.
During his time in the army he came home almost every weekend in a good mood. Alice knew that he had been working hard preparing for a nationwide competition, the winner of which was to receive a grant to study music abroad in an academy of his choice. When Raphael turned up unannounced in the middle of the week beaming from ear to ear, she immediately guessed that he had got the grant.
* * *
IN 1955 Alice bought at last the two-bedroom flat she was longing for. It was at 5 Ben Labrat, not far from her first rented flat. The house looked much like the others in the street and in the Rechavia district in general. It was constructed from the local stone and surrounded by a little garden. It was on a raised ground floor and not only did it have a front door of its own but it was a little bigger than her previous flat. There was enough room for the grand and an upright piano and for her books too. In the second, rather smaller room there was an iron bedstead and a relatively large table at which ten people could sit. From both rooms you could step out onto the balcony, which stretched round the whole flat, offering a view over a wonderful floral courtyard.
There were around twenty houses on the street, and after a few weeks Alice knew all her neighbors quite well. At the top of the street were the Erles with their daughter Esther, Alice’s first pupil, who had arrived illegally from Berlin in 1935. Next door lived the Czech writer Viktor Fischl; Fischl like Alice had arrived in 1949 and had now adopted the Hebrew version of his name—Avigdor Dagan. In the same house as the Fischls lived the family of a lawyer from Prague, Dr. Schulz.
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