Newcomers in an Ancient Land

by Paula Wagner

  The last stop on our sightseeing marathon was the town of Tiberias, also known as Tiveria, on the slopes of the Sea of Galilee, also known as the Kinneret. Every place in Israel went by multiple names and spellings, connoting the conquerors of the times. Scouring a guidebook, Jon was thrilled to discover that Tiberias had been founded in 20 CE in honor of a Roman emperor, although earliest evidence of habitation dated back to the Bronze Age. He recited the various periods of rule over the town from the earliest eras to modern times: “Jewish Biblical, Herodian, Roman, Byzantine, Early Muslim, Crusader, Mameluke, Ottoman, British Mandate, and last but not least, the state of Israel. Hey, it also says that Tiberias is the lowest city in Israel at 200 feet below sea level.”

  “What about the Dead Sea?” challenged Laura. “Isn’t that the lowest place on earth?”

  “Well, it may be the lowest point on the planet,” answered Jon with authority, “but there’s no actual city there.”

  “Well, I beg to differ,” sniffed Dad. “Jericho, which is close to the Dead Sea, albeit in Jordan, is supposed to be the longest continuously inhabited town in the world.”

  “I’m sure you’re each right in your own ways,” interjected Mom, attempting to keep our differences from turning into an argument.

  “And isn’t the Sea of Galilee where Jesus walked on water and turned it into wine?” added Laura, with equal authority.

  To avoid the worst of the day’s heat, we had arrived early enough to visit the ruins of a two-thousand-year-old Roman theatre and admire the town’s unique black-and-white basalt buildings before relaxing in the warm waters of the Kinneret, on the western side of the Upper Galilee’s brown hills. Although larger than Eilat, Tiberias was still a small enclave, devoid of the high-rises, hotels, and apartments slated to climb its hills.

  Hungry for lunch, we followed the tantalizing scent of sizzling falafel to an outdoor stand where a curly-haired young vendor was juggling balls of chickpea paste high in the air, then deftly catching them in pockets of pita bread as if they were baseball mitts. The show wowed us all. Mom was initially wary of the spicy saucy condiments as I rolled their names my tongue—pilpelim (peppers), chamutzim (pickles), and chatzilim (eggplant)—but like a stalwart Englishwoman, she gave them a try. By two p.m. it was time to catch the last bus to Haifa, and from there to Hazorea in time for Erev Shabbat.

  Back in Hazorea, Gidon would take over as tour guide for the second week, a role he loved. Meanwhile, René and I needed to return to Kibbutz Dan for work. But this created a huge dilemma—we wouldn’t have time to go to Ein Hashofet. To solve the problem, I asked Gidon and Naomi to arrange a visit for my parents with the Feins. I couldn’t cope with the guilt if they didn’t at least share a cup of tea after coming all this way. But I also couldn’t deny my immense relief that I wouldn’t be there for a second grilling, or smile away the stress I had caused in their long friendship.

  Unlike Kibbutz Dan, Hazorea had a swimming pool. After our busy week of sightseeing, I imagined Mom and Dad would be more than happy to relax under a canopy there while Jon and Laura splashed in the water. But Jon was also eager to see the archeological ruins of Megiddo, not far from Hazorea, where the fate of nations had been decided in many biblical battles. It was also associated with Armageddon, whose mystery enthralled him. And I knew Gidon had a long list of other points of interest—the natural pools at Gan Ha’Shlosha, a hike on Mount Tabor, the Roman ruins at Beit She’an, and the Baha’i Temple in Haifa with its gleaming gold dome, to name only a few in the Jezreel Valley and Lower Galilee. His only problem would be taking time off from the refet.

  The sheer number of ruins, ramparts, castles, dungeons, Roman theatres, and Byzantine mosaics unearthed in such a small country was dizzying—and more were constantly being discovered. Like amateur archaeologists, my family had been fascinated by Israel. Their fears had subsided as they experienced the reality of our lives in this new land. Having added their own footprints to the historical record, they would carry home a context for our lives in Israel.

  Beit Ushishkin at Kibbutz Dan

  René, Paula, Jean and Laura, Kibbutz Dan, 1964

  Horshat Tal National Park

  Gidon, Naomi, Jon, Laura and Jean at the Pool at Hazorea

  Chapter 31

  WINNING AND LOSING

  The two weeks of my family’s visit flew by until all too soon, the day of departure arrived. Once again we journeyed to the sweltering port of Haifa. We no longer talked about when or whether Naomi and I would accompany them home.

  “How can you bear this awful heat?” my mother asked irritably. “It’s as bad as Texas.” She’d braved Israel’s roiling dust and roasting temperatures for as long as she could, but now I sensed her urgency to escape. Whereas Israel reminded me of the climate I’d loved as a little girl, my mother had suffered asthma attacks and exhaustion in Texas. Iowa and Kansas hadn’t been much better. After a decade of moving across the US, she had been only too happy to settle on the foggy coast of Northern California. Now our longings for escape were reversed.

  Nevertheless, I could hardly bear the sight of my parents boarding the Theodore Herzl. Mom made a show of waving bravely, as her own mother must have done, while Dad hid his grief behind a camera, snapping photos of the daughters he was losing.

  Despite how articulate we were as a family, we had failed to find a common language to bridge our differences. Our paths had long since diverged toward separate horizons. And so, although there had been ample opportunity during my parents’ visit in Israel, we had carefully avoided any meaningful conversation. Mom, Dad, Jon, and Laura would journey home, while Naomi and I stayed in Israel. If our parents hadn’t fully accepted our decision, at least they had acquiesced.

  It would be years before I saw the photos of their journey home. In one, Naomi and I appear to be smiling as we wave from the dock, while René and Gidon stand behind us with their hands on our shoulders. In another, taken in the ship’s mess hall, Dad sports a jaunty smile, as if trying to desperately assuage Mom’s misery. But my mother’s gaze is distant. In truth, they both look shell-shocked by events they could neither foresee nor forestall. Other pictures show them smiling at the pool in Hazorea. In another, my mother looks impossibly young standing next to Laura and me, on Kibbutz Dan.

  As the ship’s cable uncoiled like the fraying bonds of my family, I too felt unmoored. Love, loss, grief, and relief clamored like wild children in my chest. If only I could fly after the ship like an albatross! Finally, burying my head in René’s chest, I let my tears flow.

  “Ne pleure pas, Chèrie—don’t cry,” he comforted. “It will all right.”

  Like a river breaching a sandbar to the sea, my heart emptied out at last. In the void that gaped open, an unfamiliar power rose within me. The mournful bellow of the ship’s horn now rang like a clarion. Free! I was free at last from Dad’s control! Independent and on my own!

  Still, my newfound freedom had come at a huge cost. Suddenly my happiest childhood memories of Dad lay like limp toy soldiers slain on the battlefield of my rebellion: Memories of happier times came flooding back—camping trips in the redwoods; Dad composing a new piece on the piano late at night; snowball fights in Iowa; rescuing a box turtle from a road that cut through shimmering cottonwoods in Kansas; hunting for prized agates at the tideline of a beach in California; summer trips to the annual Shakespeare Festival in Oregon. But like a phantom, my childhood had suddenly sailed away.

  I had come to Israel in search of my father’s roots, but also to slip his control. I had come on a quest for my freedom, but now I had lost him—if indeed I had ever been sure of him. Separating from my mother and even Naomi felt different—a sad but necessary transition. The love at the core of those relationships would endure over time and space, of that I was sure. But Dad’s love seemed bound up in approval ratings, something to be earned or achieved, never unconditionally bestowed. At school, at home, or at the piano—would I ever be accomplished enough to deserve his love?

>   All the way back to Dan, my emotions lurched and jostled with every hairpin turn on the tortuous road. But by the time we reached the gates of the kibbutz, my grief had turned to gritty determination. Paradoxically, I had needed a hot, harsh land to dry up all my tears. A land whose people had endured hardships far beyond my own and yet survived. A land where my sensitive soul—my nefesh adina—could grow strong and resilient, like the vines in the kerem. No longer the dejected girl I’d been in the fog of Arcata, I’d gained a sense of purpose and identity through my struggle to learn the language and adapt to an unfamiliar culture. In the span of ten short months, I’d moved light years beyond the confining comfort of my family, too far to turn back now. Besides, I liked this new me much better than the old doubt-plagued self that I’d shed like a husk. By the time we reached Dan, I strode decisively through its gates and into my new life.

  Naomi, Gidon, Paula and René, Waving Farewell in Haifa

  Jean, Leon, Jon and Laura, Homeward Bound

  PART IV

  ISRAEL—FALL 1964

  Chapter 32

  NAOMI’S WEDDING

  The day promised to be warm and sunny for Naomi and Gidon’s wedding to be held on Shabbat at Kibbutz Hazorea in late September of 1964. René and I had made the long trip from Dan with a stop in Haifa, then narrowly caught the last bus to Hazorea before all public transit ceased on Friday for Erev Sabbath. Initially, René had favored hitchhiking to save what little money we had for our upcoming trip to France. But I had argued that the roads would surely be clogged with soldiers hitchhiking home for Shabbat and we might be stranded for hours. We had lots of pre-travel business to take care of before our trip to France and couldn’t afford to waste time waiting for a ride. The ferry ticket office and the bank would gobble up most of our time before they pulled down their shutters at noon or at the latest two. With everyone else rushing to finish their business before the Sabbath, Friday lines were always long. The last bus for Hazorea was at three, and we couldn’t afford to miss it. We argued the pros and cons of hitchhiking versus taking the bus until I was almost in tears. At last René had relented, but the stress of our squabble had tinged my excitement for what was supposed to be a special occasion. Boarding the early morning bus under a cloud, I hoped my mood would improve for the wedding.

  As I approached the dining room to meet Naomi for breakfast that Saturday morning, the sounds and sights of wedding preparations were already in full swing. On the wide lawn outside the hadar ha’ochel, several men were hammering in the last nails of a large platform—the bima. Next, a crew of women swooped in to sheathe it in sheets of white. The men then set six sets of folding chairs in a wide semicircle and added a wooden podium. Someone was testing a microphone, hooked up to endless extension cords. The only thing conspicuously absent from the preparations were any religious symbols. Not even a chupa—the traditional canopy held over the bride and groom—graced the platform. This was to be a completely secular celebration.

  Inside the dining room, small vases of colorful flowers adorned the white cloths on at least fifty tables. To one side, two men were reaching precariously from the platform of a large indoor crane, trying to tack rainbow streamers to the ceiling. When the silky panels slipped from their hands, people below gathered them up and cheered them on. Although it was still breakfast, the garlicky scent of chicken soup and spices—cumin, cardamom, and cinnamon—told me the cooks were already hard at work preparing a wedding feast for hundreds of guests.

  In the collective tradition of the kibbutz, Naomi and Gidon would not be celebrating this festive occasion alone, but sharing it with five other couples who would join them in the semicircle on the outdoor stage before family and friends. Many were already streaming in from neighboring kibbutzim, towns, and villages. Others had arrived the day before.

  Although the ceremony wouldn’t happen until four in the afternoon, after the heat of the day had subsided, the kibbutz buzzed with growing anticipation. But the time seemed interminable to Naomi. I tried to calm her with small talk, but she seemed in a daze.

  “You’re in a brown study,” I said, using our mother’s quirky English expression for daydreaming.

  “What?”

  “You’re in a daze,” I repeated, cajoling her gently back to earth. “Remember how Mom used to say that when we were kids and we thought it was so weird?”

  Although I had no idea where the expression came from, my memory of it was suffused with a warm and fuzzy quality—like the muted light that filtered through my mother’s amber pendant at the neck of the velveteen dress she had worn for poetry recitals when we were eight; or simply like the comforting taste of a cup of milky tea.

  “Oh yes,” laughed Naomi at last, only to lapse back into a brown study that seemed more blue than brown.

  I hoped I hadn’t inadvertently opened the door to Naomi’s nostalgia too. Was she missing Mom as much as I on this occasion? While there would be hundreds of guests on the lawn, our parents would not be among them. With Dad’s sabbatical at an end, they could afford neither the time nor the money to return so soon from California. In fact, I would be my sister’s only next of kin.

  Who was absent from weddings in my family defined our tradition at least as much as who was present. Because our parents had married as bombs still fell on London in 1944, our grandparents had been unable to come from Chicago for their wedding. It was doubtful my parents would be able to attend my marriage ceremony in France. Flying halfway around the world, even for a wedding, was simply too expensive for most people in the sixties.

  However, Naomi and I would not be the only ones without family for the occasion. Gidon’s mother would not be flying in from Toronto in Canada either. And his father, having died in the Holocaust, would be present only in spirit. Gidon was the last surviving male in his generation. The community of kibbutz members, friends, and army buddies would have to stand in for the lack of blood relatives.

  By three-thirty, the hushed excitement of waiting gave way to a growing wave of laughter and chatter as guests crowded into a sea of folding chairs below the bima on the lawn. Men had exchanged their blue work overalls for black pants and white shirts open at the collar (no ties). Women had traded in their weekly brown garb for colorful Shabbat skirts and dresses. Store-bought sandals replaced the heavy leather kibbutz variety. Children shouted and turned cartwheels when not darting between the legs of grownups. Everyone looked scrubbed and combed as friends and family embraced until the low chatter rose to a roar.

  When everyone was finally seated, a string quartet played a classical adagio and the crowd grew calmer. The celebration was beginning. A duo of guitarists led the group in some traditional songs such as “Hine Ma Tov U Manayim”—How good it is for brothers to gather together. In place of a rabbi, the kibbutz president made some announcements, then gave a brief secular blessing, congratulated the couples on behalf of the entire kibbutz, and wished them well.

  When it was their turn, each couple rose to read a psalm or short piece, chosen more as poetry than for piety. Although she sat among five other couples, Naomi was the only bride I observed. From my vantage point below, I could see a poised figure in a sleek crepe gown, accented only by the thin gold necklace and modest pearl eardrops that I’d given her.

  I wondered how she saw what I was seeing. Later she would describe it as a summery scene of upturned heads swiveling over a checkerboard sea of black and white in a bright floral garden. She would also tell me that she felt swept along by a future beyond her control. That she had felt herself becoming small and invisible, floating like a bubble on a river. That, like me, she was becoming a new person with a new language and culture, while her old American self faded away. But while I had welcomed this transformation, she had experienced it more like a hijacking of her former self. The collective pressures and rewards of kibbutz life were as seductive as the arms that had drawn her into it.

  But I knew nothing of this as I played the role of loyal sister. A part of me longed to si
t on the bima beside René, as Naomi now sat next to Gidon. Then they would be our guests. But kibbutz weddings were for members only, and René and I were not planning to become members of Kibbutz Dan. A kibbutz wedding was a public covenant signifying a commitment to the group that was as strong or stronger than the bond between spouses. Only individuals deemed likely to contribute to the collective good would rate a ceremony, but even divorced couples could still stay on as members. The kibbutz would simply give them separate rooms. The personal and the political were inextricably intertwined.