37 Humus on Friday

On Fridays I get up at the usual time and before I leave for my 'Friday round trip' I sit down for an intensive hour or so of work. After that I stretch, go down to the kitchen, take the car keys from the drawer and go on my way.

My first stop is at the gas station around the corner where I can get the weekend edition of "Yediot Aharonot" for five shekels. I save the television section for my mother, and try to include a short visit to her in the course of the morning. If this does not work out she will receive it at the Shabat meal at our home. The vegetable store is my next stop. After that I go to the grocery store in the shopping center, but first I stop at another gas station where I can get the Friday edition of 'MaAriv' for three shekels.

Although I took the shopping list with me, before I reach the stores I receive two telephone calls from my wife. She remembered a few more things we need and just now opened the fridge and saw that there wasn't any butter. I promise to add it to my shopping list and to remember it, but my wife takes no chances; she adds an SMS in which she itemizes the added items. When I am already next to the butcher, I receive a call from my daughter who wants me to add another few items and my mother calls to say that as long as I am already out shopping I should see if I can find some Kumquats, she wants to make jam.

I finish shopping and on the way to the cashier I am still undecided, but in the end I add a modest bouquet of flowers to the list. Now I decide that I deserve a good beer and choose a bottle of dark Czech beer. After unloading all the packages at home I take the car to the carwash. Until the car is ready I go to the nearby Humusaria for a small order of humus-techina.

Ah, the pleasure of relaxation in a humusaria on a Friday afternoon. There you find the youngster's home from the army, the bike riders who have just finished riding over Amikam's Hills, families of three generations, and young couples with babies in their baby carriers. And all of them are seated around tables in a strange structure whose like is nowhere to be found, not even in the movies, and everyone is relaxed and smiling - and the world looks good on a Friday afternoon.

36 To Buy a Book at the Book Fair

To buy a book at the book fair? Actually the fair is first and foremost a meeting place for authors, editors and publishers – especially publishers. At a fair one mingles with literary personalities and buys rights to Israeli books for distribution in the world, and rights to books from abroad for distribution in Israel. The book fair is the place to see and be impressed. It is possible to buy books in book stores. Did I say that it is possible? Not really.

Enter a typical book store in the city or shopping mall and what books are on sale there? Books that were published in the past few months; especially those on best seller lists, and most of all books that are advertised two minutes before the news on the radio, as if they were the discovery of the century in world literature. Poetry books? Only a few dozen. Reference books? Again, only those that were published recently and promoted aggressively and a very limited selection of other books, primarily books likely to interest students and, of course, cook books, books on travel, leisure and so on – in short, boring.

That is the reason why I am attracted to book fairs; the book fair in Jerusalem and the Hebrew Book Week in Tel Aviv. During book week all the publishers empty their warehouses and display all their books to the public. Finally it is possible to feast one's eyes on a vast supply of books that all year were the object of endless pursuit. Although the Jerusalem book fair is very small it is possible to see there, for example, the books of "Even Choshen" publishing house, the beautiful and exclusive bibliophile editions. And a few more surprises.

But in Jerusalem I try to concentrate on foreign books that I will not see during the Hebrew Book Week. And because I'm not a regular at the universities books stores, I'm attracted to the stands that present alas, a poor variety of them, but still much more than I can see in almost all of the bookstores in Israel.

What books did I buy at the fair? I bought two books. One: a "Dictionary of Symbols" published by Penguin. It contains l200 crowded pages of interpretations of symbols from various world cultures, religions, nations and continents (five pages are devoted to the word "black" and fourteen to the word "snake"). It is not a new book but it is an important and helpful aid and makes for fascinating reading. Two: an edition of Shakespeare's sonnets published by Cambridge with extensive and copious explanations – in all 150 pages. Even if I seriously study only two sonnets, the purchase will have been worthwhile.

35 The Israel Philharmonic and Kurt Mazur

Until about two years ago I regularly attended the concerts of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra. For better or for worse, that is the orchestra I grew up on and the Mann Auditorium is to this day one of the places in Tel Aviv in which I feel at home (incidentally I don't understand the fuss about preserving the building. I never liked its external architecture and the acoustics of the hall are not something you have to protect against change). Today I am somewhat fed up with the Philharmonic and it seems to me that it has become uninspired and set in its ways – with its eternal musical director, its conservative repertoire and ageing audience. Its policy for years now to attract younger listeners is pitiful – beer, pleasant atmosphere and light music instead of daring, contemporary, enticing and invigorating programs. But still, the IPO performs 19^th century music excellently – when being directed by a great conductor who knows how to obtain the best results from it.

Last February the IPO was in New York and gave a concert at Carnegie Hall. The New York Times' music critic Bernard Holland marveled at the orchestra's unique sound, the rich, beautiful sound of the string sections – especially the violins – but nevertheless he noted an outstanding characteristic of the orchestra – the lack of unison. In his opinion this is a matter of choice (!) by this orchestra in which every violinist thinks he is a virtuoso.

I thought about Holland's remarks while attending a concert in the Mann Auditorium, sitting in the 20^th row and listening to Symphony no.4 (the "Romantic") by Bruckner. Even visually the independence of the violinists was evident (perhaps it was only a lack of emphasis on unison). There is a great deal of tremolo and murmur in Bruckner's music that each one in the IPO plays as he likes. One plays with a large part of the bow, and another plays with a small part of the bow. One plays in the middle of the bow and some other violinist plays it with the end of the bow, to say nothing of the fact that the movement of their hands is not together by any means. Bows go up and down in groups of violinists without any order.

Nevertheless, in some magical way the result is quite beautiful. Especially when the orchestra plays a Bruckner crescendo: the strings sparkle and the tone is rich and full.

Kurt Mazur, 80 years old, is, thanks to his character, a wonderful match for the Philharmonic. He is serious, the product of a long European tradition and a proponent of typical mid 20^th century interpretation of late romantic music. His conducting is very restrained but authoritative and resolute. The orchestra responded willingly to its honorable conductor, and the Bruckner symphony was played in a deep beautiful tone that accompanied me long after the concert was over.

34 The Kibbutz Hill

Friends of mine persuaded me to go with them to The Kibbutz Hill, a place I had never heard of and whose history sounded as fantastic as the story of the secret cave of 'Chasamba' – to anyone who still remembers it – but it is absolutely real. Next to the Rechovot railway station, not far from the Weizman Institute, at the edge of the Scientific Industrial Park named after Yitzchak Rabin, there is a little hill where time, as it were, stopped, ever since the establishment of the state of Israel. The road out of the industrial park suddenly narrows suspiciously, an iron gate confronts you and when you pass the guard's hut and are surrounded by eucalyptus trees, a few tents and modest houses – you have been thrown back sixty years by a time machine, to the mythological times characterized by words such as 'Palmach', 'Haganah', 'Hachsharah' and 'Maavak'.

On the hill between old huts, clothes wave on laundry lines, remnants of a kibbutz in the 1940's (this image all of us retain as if we had experienced it ourselves). But the laundry and the adjacent bakery exist only to distract attention from what is underground.

Look at this puzzling photo. Note the wonderful gear, the little electric motor behind it and the belt which extends from it. Take a look at the boxes on the floor and the green machine on the left under which a brass perforated belt is hidden. You are looking at the 'Ayalon Institute', the secret project of the military industry before the establishment of the state of Israel. Here, under this ground, more than two million bullets were manufactured in the years between 1946 and 1948 for the Palmach's fabulous "Sten" gun. The Kibbutz above, which served as a training ground for kibbutz members, hid this heroic endeavor from British eyes. As if what they had done near the Kineret was not sufficient, (see my column 'On the Banks of Lake Kineret'), Kibbutz members were also outstanding in the 1940's – to their credit many deeds and projects including the 'Ayalon Institute', on the Kibbutz Hill.

33 The Shikshuk

It all began thanks to the initiative of local artists and, of course, wonderful Ziv Hadas – whom we miss very much to this day and for whom there is no substitute (in time I will tell the history of "Kore BaMoshava", the special local newspaper that Ziv established and in which I also participated, which was unique and there has never been anything quite like it). The idea was to create a monthly gathering on Friday mornings, lasting until the onset of Shabat, taking place in the shade of the wadi's wonderful trees, situated in the center of the moshava. An open-air market, where everyone would be free to sell anything whatsoever, be it old books or records, toys or second-hand clothes; or set up a stand and offer freshly squeezed orange juice, warm pita with za'atar or cake.

This market was a big success from its very beginning. The entire moshava streamed to it – as well as many who came from far away. The simple homey atmosphere, the informal get-together, the pleasantness and festivity of a Friday morning, as well as the modest musical events – combined to make the market an enjoyable and popular event.

But other times followed. The local council started making problems and justified its position by citing the complaints of neighbors, noise, parking problems as well as the reason that some activities had failed to end before the inception of Shabat and the ultimate reason – security. The police made conditions that were financially prohibitive and promised the end of the Shikshuk.

None the less a wonder has occurred. Like the legendary phoenix the market came back to life. Even with its organizers forbidden to enter the confines of the Shikshuk it takes place again every month with the children who come to sell old cassettes and put up their stands to sell juice and pita – and this week some children appeared wearing white T shirts which bore the inscription in Hebrew and Arabic: "Bridge Over the Wadi".

32 I Like Tea

I like tea. Especially in winter when it pours outside and I am working in my warm room. I buy my tea in bulk at Wissotzky's Tea House in Tel Aviv. From time to time, on my way to the musical evenings at the home of Rafi Lavi, I make a stop at the Tea House on Hashmonaim Street and stock up on fresh, fragrant tea. I prefer the blue Earl Gray and the mild Darjiling (with its large leaves) but occasionally also try other flavors. For example, Assam or Ceylon, English Breakfast or my latest – green Earl Gray.

I prepare my tea in various ways, almost all of which I discovered at the tea house. I had already tried tea bags hanging on a round frame and serving as filters, metal filters and a micron filter. However, lately I acquired a personal tea kettle that I am very satisfied with. When I used to prepare large glasses of tea, I preferred tea with milk, mainly blue Earl Grey, strong and aromatic. Now my taste has changed and all because of my new kettle which is seen in the picture. When I bought it, it was suggested that I also buy a little glass cup from which to drink the tea. In the beginning the little cup seemed to be a joke. One gulp and the tea is gone. But that is exactly its advantage. The tea in the kettle stays hot (more than half an hour!) thanks to the insulated cover, and every few minutes I pour myself a little cup of hot tea. What a pleasure.

When I changed to this method of preparing tea – and specifically to the new style of drinking tea which is completely different from what I had been used to – I discovered that I prefer tea without milk, as well as a red herbal tea that is sweet and sour. I enjoyed the latest brew so much that I quickly got out my cell phone camera to preserve the image. On the kettle's cover you can see a reflection of me and of my cell phone camera.

31 Plow and Mortar

On my way to the moshava center I cross an orchard, walk on unpaved ground between the orange trees next to the guavas, and before the "dove square", opposite "Yad La'banim" (soldiers memorial) I pass "Beith Harishonim" (pioneer's house). Years ago a plow and mortar were placed in front of it, close to each other so as to constitute a sort of statue. In the young country's heroic years this was a symbol that could be seen everywhere, Like in the song about Trumpeldor: "all day with my plow and at night with my rifle in my hand" and so on. There is hardly a settlement that doesn't have a statue like this from that period – a statue that symbolizes the Zionist dream of conquering the land in both of these ways. Now those monuments seem naïve and tasteless. Their obvious symbolism renders all artistic expression superfluous. Their very existence in settlements centers next to public buildings, gives them their meaning. The plow and the mortar (or the rifle or the tank): the agricultural labor of a people that returned to work the land, and the weapons of war that defend the existence of the new Hebrew entity.

Today one's eye is drawn to the material which these monuments were made of, to the iron itself. I come so close to the plow that it hides the weapon, and then I observe the rusty iron. What does it tell me? Up close it is like a remnant of a previous civilization whose secret it is difficult to fathom. The iron, which is decomposing and crumbling away, is remarkably beautiful.

In order to appreciate it fully, I'll have to get even closer. And then even the plow will disappear and all that remains will be the disintegrating wheel and the pole on its axis.