76

A Bathroom

What do you see in this picture? A bathroom, a small cabinet, a marble top, a sink and a mirror. Is that all? I knew it. I knew that you would not see the two months we spent with a broken cabinet, shattered marble top, exposed bricks and rotten pipes. Yes, the broken pipes, they were the cause of it all.

This began when we discovered a wet spot in the place where the wall and ceiling meet. For the first few days we didn't pay any attention to it, of course. But the stain grew. We looked at it, silently pleading. We measured it with our eyes every evening. We hoped it would get smaller and disappear of itself. But, of course, it grew and grew. The paint on the wall started to fall off and showed signs of mold. And then we realized that there was no alternative and we got in touch with the "shiputznik", our handyman-plumber.

He looked in silence and then asked for a ladder. He climbed to the roof, remained there briefly and came down with news: "You are lucky. Maybe I'll be able to exchange the rusty pipe with a new one without breaking the marble counter and the wall". And, indeed, we were lucky. He took out the pipe, put a new one in its place, and we rejoiced in our good fortune.

But a few days later a spot of moisture began to expand between the ceiling and the wall in the shower on the first floor, which is below the bathroom. We called the shiputznick. Again he looked and was silent. And then he said: "Bring an insurance adjuster, this time it's something serious." Why? Because the problem is the connection of the pipe that was fitted with the pipe that goes down to the first floor, and this connection is exactly behind the cabinet. It has to be taken apart, and the wall behind it has to be opened. And also take into account a new marble counter top, because yours is full of cracks and fissures and as soon as we pull it away from the wall it will break.

And so it was. The cabinet was dismantled, the marble broke and the wall was opened. But at least the pipes were fixed. The insurance adjuster came, took pictures and authorized the work. But then, when we thought that all was behind us, the plumber came up with this: now we leave the walls in the bathroom open and wait at least a month. Only then, when we are certain that there are no more leakages, we'll close everything. The insurance guy approved the idea. And thus began the longest month that lasted a month and a half, and the bathroom remained like a building site.

All's well that ends well. The episode is behind us. The above picture, that seems so ordinary to you, is a picture of great happiness. Finally we have a new marble top, a sink with running water and a mirror! Simple everyday things that became for a month objects of longing, and their return to us seemed the restoration of the world order, or at least our little world.

75

A Seven Year Old Child Walking in the Snow

I write quickly, from memory. I just now returned from Kibbutz Mishmarot. There Zigi told his story. A story that begins with a seven year old child walking in the snow to his death. Budapest. 1945. The child's father had been taken to forced labor and froze to death. His mother was caught and sent to Auschwitz. She will not return. He does not as yet know that. He stays very close to his big brother. Nine years old. Listens intently to every word of his brother. They are walking with all the children of the orphanage. Leading them is a group of young members of the "Arrow Cross" armed with rifles. They are on their way to a bridge over the Danube. There the young "Arrow Cross" will fire on them and they'll fall into the river.

Suddenly an Allies plane appears in the sky and drops an illuminating bomb. It hits the electricity wires of the Tram and a large fire breaks out. Many people flee. Among them some of the orphanage children and most of the "Arrow Cross" youths. Seventy little children remain as well as a red-headed "Arrow Cross" adolescent. It turns out that he is a Jew. He takes the children back to the orphanage.

The legs of the two brothers are frozen. They cannot walk. One day a Russian soldier appears in the orphanage with a loaf of bread. The war is over. Liberation. The children are taken to a hospital. Two toes are cut off of Zigi's foot. There is no food in the hospital and the feet do not heal. An aunt who survived comes daily and brings a little food. That saved the lives of the two brothers. They return to the orphanage.

The year is 1948. A shaliach from Israel convinces the brothers that there is no point in waiting for their mother any longer. They join a group that will go to Israel via France. They reach an immigrants camp near Haifa. One day Sasha Ariel (the father of Meir Ariel) from Mishmarot comes there. He gives the children an arithmetic test. Zigi knows the multiplication tables by heart. He is accepted. Aged twelve he begins a new life in Mishmarot.

74 Passover – 'wandering in the desert'

Every year during the Passover vacation and before the evening of the Seder we children went 'wandering in the desert'. All of us were divided into tribes. We would paint ourselves flags of the Israel tribes, put keffiyehs on our heads, provide ourselves with military water flasks hanging on wide military belts and set out to 'wander in the desert', that is to say, through fields and orchards to the hidden valley. There we would set up a scout camp with tents, tables and towers, bake matzos and spend the day there until darkness fell.

Here we are seen about to start on our way, the children of 'Sela' and 'Shachaf'. Apparently I am the one holding the flag. It is difficult for me to identify myself in this picture, but there is no reason for it to be in my album if I do not appear in it and the only possible child is the one that holds the flag. To the left of me is Shlomit, and on the right is Ronit, and then Ygeal and Neomi. Next to me and slightly behind is Hagit, and the tall child behind the others is Yair.

There was fierce competition between the tribes to have the most beautiful flag. Pride was taken in marching straighter and singing louder, in preparing the most successful show and in building the highest tower. We are tribe Yehuda, if I succeeded in making out correctly the faded flag in the picture.

Up to this day has this tradition been kept up in the Kibbutzim. Not long ago when in Kibbutz Hatzor, I saw a picture of Ronit, who died this year, leading a group of little children that she worked with, on such a 'wandering in the desert'.

The flag poles were long, straight branches cut from Eucalyptus trees that also served us for scout structures in our improvised camp. Two flags are fluttering high above us.

73 The Philosophers' Convention

Right after Succoth the annual convention of 'The New Society for Israeli Philosophy' took place at Tel Aviv University. I spent many years at that university and have two degrees that I received there. Partly due to nostalgia as well as the desire to keep up with present day philosophical thought I took the time and went to the convention. I was glad that the opening address was delivered by my teacher that supervise my thesis for master's degree in philosophy, the honorable Ben-Ami Sharfstein, winner of the 'Israel Prize' of Philosophy in 2005.

Here he is in the picture, eighty nine years old and still more creative and wiser than many of his young colleagues. He is standing on the stage of Gilman Auditorium 144, where I heard the introductory philosophy lectures as a freshman, many years ago. What he says is simple. He urges philosophers younger than himself not to shut themselves off from the world or from non-philosophical research methods, to be receptive to every idea and to refrain from dogmatic conclusions. He urges them to be skeptics – even concerning their own conclusions.

I spent about half a day at the convention and skipped from one lecture to another. I wanted to get an impression of the discussions on various subjects. I came across a room in which there were lectures on contemporary French philosophy. As one who was educated in the spirit of analytical philosophy (it was in fashion at that time) and as a person whose inclination is towards what is clear and logical, I am very skeptical about the complicated linguistic constructions and the intentional obscurantism of modern French philosophy. What I heard at the convention did not lessen these reservations. I left the room quickly, before the lecture of my former fellow–student who is now amongst the leaders of that sect, whose discourse is an impossible tangle of winding, indistinct and closed language.

Afterwards I heard a few more lectures on various subjects. In one of them a young philosopher attempted to test morals with logical means, but his line of reasoning came to a halt after one logical step and he became completely entangled before he managed to contend even one interesting argument. On my way back home I thought about that and concluded that it would have been better if the young colleagues had listened more carefully to the remarks of the old philosopher. One of the tests of clear thinking is the ability to explain it to the common man, as Socrates did in Athens' Agora. Philosophy that cannot be expressed in clear, simple, understandable language runs the danger of losing contact with reality and becomes tied up in disconcerting inner contradictions.

72 Yom Kippur 1973

I slept in my room in the kibbutz. The only telephone of the kibbutz was in the dining hall. Someone came to wake me up. The call was from my squadron. They asked me to come immediately. It was Saturday, Yom Kippur, 1973. Kibbutz Hatzor is located within walking distance of an air force base. I walked to the base and caught a ride from the living quarters to the airfield. I reached the runway of the light aircraft. Already additional pilots had begun to assemble. I was one of the youngest. There was no chance of my getting a Piper (Pa-18 "Super Cub"). The veteran pilots had already taken them all. Someone received a call from his squadron asking him to bring maps, he ran to look for them. His partner was already sitting in a Piper with the propeller running. There was a feeling that something big was happening. But we didn't know what it was. After the light planes departed we waited for a transport plane that would distribute us between various bases.

When I landed in Ezion (in the "Moon Valley") I learned that my squadron had been disbanded and its members had been distributed among other flight squadrons. The Skyhawk flight squadron established in Ezion was a new one, and not yet operational. Every one of us received an airplane 'as a bonus' and was sent to one of the other Skyhawk squadron bases. Thus I returned to Tel Nof, but not to my original squadron, from which I had been transferred to Ezion, but to its twin squadron.

I remember that one evening the "Kaveret" ensemble performed on the squadron's porch. And on another evening (perhaps at the end of the war, I don't remember exactly) Leonard Cohen made an appearance on the base's football field.

As early as the end of the first day of the war I was informed that the plane of my classmate Ishai Katziri, was shot down near the Suez Canal, in the Bardawil area, and he was considered to be missing in action. On my first leave of a few hours in the course of the war, I sat in Ishai's parents room in the kibbutz, dressed in my flight overalls. They spread before me a map of Sinai and asked me to show them where their son's plane was shot down. I did not know what to say and in my heart there was little hope. Afterwards we learned that Ishai was a prisoner of war in Egypt. He returned about a month and a half after the war. His story and the story of the failed attempt of the General Staff's special unit to rescue him, was shown a few days ago in a television film on the program "The True Story".

One day toward the end of the war Ran Peker, the base commander, called us for a talk. All of the pilots. I sat at the top in the last row of a little auditorium. From the middle aisle a pilot from another kibbutz, married to a girl from my kibbutz, came up to me. He said, "Yesterday I was in Hatzor, someone there was killed, someone from your class – Gilead". Such moments you remember forever. Gilead Zohar was my best friend. A musician. He had the soul of an artist. I remember the words that went through my head: "I have lost this war already".

Afterwards I went on a mission from which I almost did not return. We bombed the surrounded Egyptian Third Army. We blocked their escape routes. Everything was quiet already. We flew at a high altitude in a circle for bombing, almost as we did in practice flights. Suddenly I heard a shout: "Four, break! A missile…!" I flipped over and pulled the stick with all my strength. In the mirror I saw a pillar of fire passing behind my plane. My savior was a veteran reservist pilot, who flew for "Arkia". If it had not been for him, my fate would have been like that of Gershon Funk, from my flight course, who, while flying at high altitude, was hit by a rocket which blew him and his plane to smithereens.

I remember the return from that flight. These words did not leave my mind, "I have lost this war already". Since we fled from enemy missiles and attacked once again we were running out of fuel and landed at Refidim to refuel. One of the refuelers was a member of my kibbutz. I sat in the plane (we refueled without leaving the aircraft) without my helmet and he recognized me. He yelled to me, "Have you heard about Gilead?" I answered, "Yes". We looked at each other and did not say another word.

I remember the film about Ishai. Mainly the words of one of the fighters that were send to find him. He said that the only thing in the present situation that reminds him of the special spirit of those days, are the military actions of Hezbollah. He also said that he feels that we are living the last days of Pompeii. Everything is good as long as it is good. But our sons no longer see any reason to make sacrifices as we did, unconditionally, whole heartedly. Even in a moment of need, he said, our children will not be willing to sacrifice as we did.