by Paula Wagner
Pondering this in silence, I tried to find joy in the undeniable charm of the village. But I wondered if René and Dafna sensed my unease.
“Let me show you the monastery,” Dafna continued. An early evening breeze ruffled the trees as the sun sank below the ridges. Long shafts of gold lit up their leaves. At the push of an obscure black button, the monastery’s massive iron doors creaked open to reveal an otherworldly oasis. A paradise of oleanders, olive trees, giant poplars, and conical firs spread out below terra-cotta walls and towering turrets. The chime of bells for evening vespers sent a few black-habited nuns gliding along paths toward an inner sanctum.
Immune from human folly, peace reigned inside the monastery’s cloistered walls. Still, I had a hard time banishing my thoughts of Ein Kerem’s previous dwellers. Had the Jews returned from two thousand years of exile only to oust another people? Had fate reversed their roles, ousting those who had lived here for generations in order for “new” refugees to rebuild them? As the wheel of misfortune turned, some people would always end up on the wrong side of history. Although I loved the beauty of Ein Kerem, I couldn’t silence the whisper in my ears: Would you welcome me back to my home if I returned from the squalid refugee camp where I’m now condemned to live?
But Israelis were not in a mood to be sentimental. Having won the war, they had reclaimed what was rightfully theirs, albeit after an absence of two thousand years. If innocent civilians had suffered, that was unfortunate, but their return posed too great a risk. The only choice was to compartmentalize the conflict and move forward with the building of the new state.
Jarring these thoughts, a pride of feral cats suddenly leapt from a large open garbage bin near the bus stop, crossed our path and disappeared just as quickly into trash-strewn thorn bushes. Skinny and flea-bitten, their instinct for survival in such harsh circumstances struck me as a metaphor for this part of the world—a place where beauty, ugliness, resilience, and violence often overlapped. History here was complicated beyond my comprehension. Boundaries were forever shifting, justice fluctuated like a witching rod, and someone always seemed to get the short end of the stick. Were Dafna and Khanan to blame for making their home in a house whose original occupants could never return?
Returning to the house, René and Dafna lightened my mood with stories of their army escapades, over a pot of lemon verbena tea picked fresh from the vines on the mirpeset. Dafna had apparently done her basic training under the command of a Czech/Canadian sergeant, whose patience for his unruly female French charges had run thin. The harder he worked to transform them into soldiers, the more they goofed off and giggled; the heavier his punishments, the more they mocked him. When this sergeant came up for a promotion, Dafna and her girlfriends saw a chance to sabotage him. One night, on a mock reconnaissance mission, they ignored his orders to maintain strict silence. Instead of filling their canteens to the brim, they let the water slosh against the half-empty metal. Whining and whispering along the trail, they made extra stops to blow their noses and tighten their bootlaces. The sergeant had fumed furiously, but the damage was done. Unable to control his insubordinate troops, he received an unfavorable review the next day. The French girls’ prank had cost him his promotion.
“What was his name?” I asked, laughing.
“Oh, you wouldn’t know him,” answered Dafna, but I persisted.
“Okay, okay,” she paused. “I think he was called Gidon.”
“Not Gidon Lev from Kibbutz Hazorea?” I echoed, incredulously.
“Why yes—how do you know him?”
“He just married my sister!” I gasped. “Oh my God, we’re in-laws now.”
“For better or worse,” chuckled René.
Tears of laughter streamed down our cheeks as we realized the joke was now on us.
I didn’t dare share this story with Gidon, but I hoped one day he and Dafna would fill their canteens with forgiveness. Despite the painful paradoxes of history, the village of Ein Kerem would become one of my favorite places in all of Israel. And despite the hilarious prank, I had a deep feeling that my friendship with Dafna would last a lifetime.
Church & Monastery in Ein Kerem
Paula and Dafna, A Lifelong Friendship, 2017
Chapter 35
PASSAGE TO FRANCE
By October of 1964, having said my farewells to all the people and places I’d come to love during my first year in Israel, I could no longer put off packing my few belongings for the final bus ride to Haifa. René wanted to reach France before the harsh Lyonnaise winter set in, and time was already short. His urgency made the last rays of the still-strong Mediterranean sun all the more precious. I could not imagine the cold, damp climate he described—a city under a blanket of frigid air on the banks of the Rhône and the Saône Rivers.
Anticipation fought with regret as I remembered all the tearful exoduses of my childhood as I left my schools and friends in Texas, Iowa, and Kansas on my parents’ westward trek to California. Now as then, I soaked the sun’s rays into every pore in a vain attempt to make my final days in Israel last forever.
We planned to spend our last night with Naomi and Gidon in Hazorea. With every bump on the rutted road south through the hills of Galilee, my pleasure in the landscape alternated with the pain of departure. When the bus made a lunch stop in Tiberias, I was relieved to follow the scent of falafel at the familiar outdoor stand where my family had enjoyed the vendor’s juggling act as much as the food. René and I joined the line, our mouths watering like everyone else’s. Placing my order, I savored the guttural sound of Hebrew, knowing I wouldn’t hear it again for a long while.
The next morning at the dock in Haifa, Naomi and I hugged each other a final goodbye. My eyes welled up as her still-sleek belly pressed against mine, and my heart contracted, knowing that I’d miss the birth the following April. Life seemed to have run away with our plans. Even my penchant for planning hadn’t foreseen this outcome. Maybe my mother was right when she said that life just happened to her.
Pulling away, I followed René up the ferry’s waiting gangplank. Ferrying back and forth over the Mediterranean had become almost routine, yet this trip felt as momentous as my first journey to Israel. As the ship pulled away, Naomi and I waved until we could no longer see each other in the watery gap between shore and horizon. Yet as wrenching as this separation felt, I knew I could withstand it. Like a chameleon that grows its tail back after a sudden amputation, in the year of our initial separation, I had discovered the capacity to grow a new part of myself. The memory of chameleons’ delicate resilience in the kerem was somehow comforting—the folds of their scaly rainbow skin and soft warm bodies palpable beneath my fingers.
I was truly leaving now. Naomi’s mirror image played like a dark dot on the retina of my eye. But she was truly out of sight by now. Were her eyes as wet as mine or was she still keeping up the brave mask we’d learned to wear as children, like shields against the distress of leaving yet another home? Did she feel any surer than I of the life she had chosen—or the life that had chosen her? The pregnancy had forced her hand. I tried to look to the future, but my many trips to and from the port in Haifa spiraled before me like a gyroscope—my arrival in Israel in November of 1963; the trip to England and my family’s brief but momentous visit to the Holy Land in the summer of ’64—not to mention my Chanukah jaunt to Eilat or the move to Kibbutz Dan. No wonder my head was spinning and my heart brimming. With all its ups and downs, it had been one hell of a year of adventure! And France was still to come. As I’d done so many times before as a child, I released my grief and welcomed the excitement of a new journey.
Three days from now we’d arrive in Marseille, after which we’d board a train for Lyon, according to René who had taken care of the practical details of our itinerary. With my savings and the small kibbutz stipend almost gone, we had only enough to buy the ferry tickets and a few small gifts for René’s family. But René had assured me his father would lend us the money for train tickets from Marseille to Lyon. I fe
lt embarrassed to ask for help, but René was certain he could repay his dad as soon as he started working in the market. “Trust me,” he said, and I had.
Thoughts of my mother waving goodbye to her mother flooded my mind, as they did with every departure. Had I learned from her example that to make a life with the man you loved meant sacrificing your own home and family? An indelible pattern of daughters leaving their mothers seemed imprinted in my DNA like the holy grail. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed.
“I’m going below to rest,” I told René.
Our third-class cabin felt familiar by now—barely wide enough for two bunks stacked on one side with a latched closet and a tiny washbasin on the other, and all too near the smelly toilets. Still, with the door closed, it felt like a sanctuary. Lying on the lower bunk, I watched the sunbeams refracting off the waves like water sprites in sparkling costumes dancing all over the cabin. Grateful to be neither refugee nor immigrant, I reminded myself that I had embarked on this new adventure of my own free will. Whatever the consequences, I was both captain of my ship and captive of my destiny. With that lofty thought, I fell into a trance, lulled by the lapping lullaby of waves. Soon I felt as weightless as a seagull’s speckled feather floating on an ocean of history.
By the time I woke up, dinner was long over. But René had saved me a plate of tomato-cucumber salad, rice, and stringy meat from the mess hall. Balancing carefully, I mounted the metal staircase to the deck to enjoy my meal under the starstrewn sky. Glancing over the moonlit deck, I cocked my ears to make sure I was alone. Thankfully, no piercing cry of “Gingit!” rang out; and no randy sailor pounced out of the shadows on my passage to France.
With time temporarily suspended on those three days at sea, my thoughts spooled out like the wake of the ship. Tomorrow we would arrive in Marseille and my next adventure would begin.
Emboldened by my success in transforming my fantasy of Israel into reality, I had hatched an even grander scheme for the next ten years. After two or three years of working in France, René and I would have saved enough money to return to Israel where planned to settle in Jerusalem. I would attend the Hebrew University while René found a job or perhaps went to school as well. René had welcomed this plan, including my insistence that we return to Israel. After more than three years in the army, he too needed a new direction. Whatever twists and turns our French detour might entail, at least I felt sure of our common commitment on that score.
After France (if not before), I dreamed of starting a family. Although in the back of my mind, I wondered vaguely why it hadn’t happened yet, especially with Naomi already expecting, I dismissed the shadow of my worries. If I could not foresee the future beyond my twenties, I believed with all my heart that a bright new vision would surely guide me to my next adventure.
As the ferry approached Marseille late in the last afternoon of our final day on the Mediterranean, the weather suddenly shifted from balmy to frigid. In a matter of minutes, the wind whipped the glassy calm to angry whitecaps. Lightning crackled in the gathering clouds, and sharp squalls lashed the deck. Undeterred, I stayed on deck to watch the city flicker into view in the stormy half-light. René wrapped me in his arms as I shivered in my flimsy summer clothes.
When the clouds parted briefly, I caught a glimpse of the evening star, shining through the storm like a talisman. “Look, Venus!” I shouted in the wind.
With the full momentum of youth driving me forward as inexorably as the wind now drove the ferry, what could possibly go wrong? With love, luck, and a lot of hard work, I felt sure I could overcome whatever obstacles lay ahead if only I followed my star. For the moment, my hopes held a victory party over my fears. Adventure had won the day! I took a deep breath, letting the brine rush into my throat. After the detour in France, I would have plenty of time to return to Israel as a newcomer in that ancient land.
Stormy Seas on the Mediterranean
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Boundless gratitude to my family, especially my husband, Gib, for his enduring love, infinite patience, and sense of humor as I burned the midnight oil; my cherished children and grandchildren, who light the way to the future but may also be curious about the past; my twin sister, Naomi, who corroborated facts and feelings but above all shares the laughter, tears, and love of our mutual journey. And to all my far-flung extended family, for enriching my world beyond my wildest dreams.
Heartfelt thanks to many friends and colleagues, including: Linda Joy Myers of the National Association of Memoir Writers (NAMW) for her tireless mentorship, encouragement, and faith as I slowly learned the art and craft of memoir writing; Brooke Warner, publisher par excellence of She Writes Press, for her forward vision, industry savvy, and fierce commitment to women writers; and my amazing in-person and online memoir community, too numerous to name, who critiqued and supported my early stories while inspiring me with theirs.
Special thanks to three friends: Victoria Post, my “other twin,” whose spirit, insights, and lifelong friendship sustain me like lifeblood; Gail Williams, whose life exemplifies the meaning of persistence in the face of challenges; and Andi Stein, for making fun her motto in life!
Sincere appreciation to The Story Circle Network Conference in Austin, TX, for the magic that happens when women writers gather together; kudos to web designer Sam Baja for her delightful creativity and formidable tech skills; a big shout-out to Crystal Patriarche of BookSparks for her energy in marketing the muse; and finally, a huge surge of gratitude to my readers!
You have all taught me that bringing a book to life takes a village. Your caring support has helped transform the sometimes lonely slog of writing into a joyful mission. For these and many more blessings, I am forever grateful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo © Raymond Holbert, MemoryBank Images
Paula Wagner and her twin sister were born in London to an English mother and a Jewish-American father. Arriving in the US, they grew up moving across the South and Midwest before the family finally settled in Northern California. Enticed by wanderlust at an early age, Paula has also lived in Israel, Italy, and France. She holds a master’s in career development and a BA in women’s studies, and has studied languages at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She divides her time between creative writing and career coaching. She and her husband currently live in Albany, CA. Their blended family includes four children, eight grandkids, and an extended family worldwide. Besides writing, Paula enjoys travel, swimming, singing, hiking, biking, river rafting, yoga, cooking, and building community.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Accidental Soldier: A Memoir of Service and Sacrifice in the Israel Defense Forces by Dorit Sasson. $17.95, 978-1-63152-035-8. When nineteen-year-old Dorit Sasson realized she had no choice but to distance herself from her neurotic, worrywart of a mother in order to become her own person, she volunteered for the Israel Defense Forces—and found her path to freedom.
Home Free: Adventures of a Child of the Sixties by Rifka Kreiter. $16.95, 978-1631521768. A memoir of a young woman’s passionate quest for liberation—one that leads her out of the darkness of a fraught childhood and through Manhattan nightclubs, broken love affairs, and virtually all the political and spiritual movements of the sixties.
You Can’t Buy Love Like That: Growing Up Gay in the Sixties by Carol E. Anderson. $16.95, 978-1631523144. A young lesbian girl grows beyond fear to fearlessness as she comes of age in the ’60s amid religious, social, and legal barriers.
Peanut Butter and Naan: Stories of an American Mother in The Far East by Jennifer Magnuson. $16.95, 978-1-63152-911-5. The hilarious tale of what happened when Jennifer Magnuson moved her family of seven from Nashville to India in an effort to shake things up—and got more than she bargained for.
Gap Year Girl by Marianne Bohr. $16.95, 978-1-63152-820-0. Thirty-plus years after first bac
kpacking through Europe, Marianne Bohr and her husband leave their lives behind and take off on a yearlong quest for adventure.
This is Mexico: Tales of Culture and Other Complications by Carol M. Merchasin. $16.95, 978-1-63152-962-7. Merchasin chronicles her attempts to understand Mexico, her adopted country, through improbable situations and small moments that keep the reader moving between laughter and tears.
