The Last Rain (28 page)

“My parents can only read Yiddish and I believe it’s my privilege to write to them.”

“LAC Stavitsky, this interview is terminated. French or English.”

I went directly, letter in hand, to the Catholic padre. He was a red-faced jovial-looking man. When he heard the story his round face crinkled and he laughed. “Bring me your letters. Promise me that you will not include any military information. Directly, or in any other way.”

The padre subsequently was also transferred and once again my letters went straight to the post box.

Knowing that the officers were discussing my letters, the letters became, in part, didactic. I described in detail to Varda the activities of the Women’s Division, the proliferation of pubic lice amongst the airmen. I reported on anti-Semitism on the base and in the world at large. I criticized the deplorable policies of the British in Palestine and reviewed the books I had read. In short I had a captive audience and I did my best to score points.

Some weeks later my name again appeared on the Daily Routine orders to report to the medical officer.

The doctor was a very short pudgy man with a boxer’s face. His name could have been Jewish, but he was a Toronto

Presbyterian. He politely asked me to sit and relax. I sat and waited. Finally he spoke.

“I censored your letter last night in the officers’ mess. I was intrigued by your comment on Arthur Koestler’s Arrival and Departure. Can I borrow it?”

I brought him the book and subsequently, at his request, all my mail.

“I won’t read your letters, but you must be aware that they arouse some pretty wild reaction in the mess. You will be well-advised to bring me your mail.”

It seemed obvious to me that the doctor was lying. Not only did he want to read my letters, he wanted to discuss them. At first I felt inhibited, but then, conversely, I experienced a sort of exhilaration. “He wants excitement, this doctor, I’ll damn well give it to him.” At one of our meetings, always pleasant—the batman served tea and wonderful pastry—the doctor made a startling statement. “You want a discharge, I can get it for you.”

“Why do you think I want a discharge?”

“Because you hate it here.”

“But you also know, I’m sure, that I’ve been requesting transfers to an aircraft carrier, far cry from a discharge.”

“From your letters, the message I get is that you want out.” “What kind of discharge do you have in mind?”

“On mental grounds.”

“You must be kidding, Doctor. Thanks, but no thanks.”

About a month later, I arrived to deliver my mail. This time the batman was absent and the doctor himself ushered me in. He was wearing only underwear. Instead of the batman, the doctor himself served tea, waddling around, his rather sizable posterior appearing to be doing its own separate exercises. The talk, in reference to some book, turned to sex. The doctor asked, “Do you have any 69 experience?”

I stared somewhat blankly at him. I had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about. The doctor, realizing his faux pas, abruptly stood up, cup in hand, and dismissed me. I deposited my next letters in the mailbox.

Weeks later I was again summoned to the doctor. I assumed he would request that I resume bringing my mail to him. However the doctor greeted me in full dress, his brass buttons and bars glistening.

“I’ve been transferred, and before I leave I wanted to thank you for the pleasure being your friend was for me and here is a little token of my esteem.” He handed me a small flat box, neatly wrapped. I thanked him for the gift, and for the time he had spent censoring my letters.

“Perhaps when this is all over you can look me up,” the doctor responded. We shook hands.

Back in the barracks I unwrapped the gift and found a very fine leather wallet with the doctor’s name engraved in gold.

One more mail incident occurred. This time the order to report was to the Chief Provost, the top man in the Military Police establishment on the station. This was apparently serious business and I was far more apprehensive than on previous occasions.

Outside the office I was immediately treated as a prisoner. The sergeant-at-arms asked me to surrender my hat and belt and marched me into the Provost’s office. The Provost had a magazine open on his desk. He dismissed the sergeant and kept me standing at attention in front of his desk. He looked up. “Do you really read this shit?”

I inhaled deeply and relaxed. If this was about reading, no problem.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, sir.”

“This piece of shit.” He lifted the journal so that I could identify its name: Youth Horizons.

“Yes, sir, I do read it.”

“Do you agree with what’s written?” The Provost glared hatefully.

“Generally I do. Yessir.”

“Do you agree with this?” He again held up the magazine

to display an article entitled ‘The Death of Lord Moyne.’”

“Well, sir, I don’t know. I haven’t been able to read it yet since you have it here.”

“None of your shit now, Airman! I don’t know whether I should give this to you.” His British accent was getting thicker.

“This is a Zionist magazine, sir. It’s against Hitler.”

“This Stern gang here, Zionists too, no? And they murdered a British diplomat. In cold blood. Stavitsky, you’re dismissed. I can’t stand the sight of you. I pity you. Here, take this piece of fuckin’ shit.”

15
. The beautifully produced edition was Italian, with illustrations by Libico Maraja (1912–1983). The text had been translated into Hebrew, but Naftali paraphrased and toned down the story.

16
. The reference is to a general assembly (in Hebrew,
sih
_.
a
, the common term for “conversation”). At one time pivotal to the functioning of the commune, these weekly meetings were initially governed by only rudimentary rules of order and had no quorum requirements. The kibbutz Secretary served as chair; when the presiding Secretary’s tenure was up, the nomination committee approached members who were considered desirable. Candidates, if there were more than one, were presented at the Meeting and often listed reasons they did not think they’d be suitable; the most reluctant candidates were usually the ones chosen. The system is much more variable today,* but according to Nissim, the one topic everyone still votes on is membership: whom to accept for a trial period, who has passed the trial period, who must leave.

Committees (a kibbutz of four hundred members may have as many as thirty committees) have always handled specific issues as they arose; members who are not happy with the committee’s decision, or committees who do not feel they are up to dealing with a given situation, can ask the Secretary to bring the matter to the meeting. In the early days, meetings were frequently stormy, but as the years passed the emphasis moved from ideology to efficiency.

* Sorry it’s taken me so long to answer. My role as Secretary means I’m up to my ears in work.

Regarding your question: even on the most privatized kibbutzim there is still a
sih
_.
a
at least three or four times a year because the kibbutz is a collective and there are decisions which for legal reasons must be reached at a members’ meeting. The alternative to the
sih
_.
a
is different on different kibbutzim—some have a “council” of 30 members who reach decisions on collective issues; others continue to grant the main committees (Economic and Social Secretariat) the role of acting managers; and yet others allow the people who hold the positions to make decisions on their own.

At our kibbutz we have a
sih
_.
a
about once a month and 30 out of 300 members show up. There is no voting during the
sih
_.
a
, the voting is by a ballot box which is placed in the Dining Hall on the Friday and the Sunday after the meeting. At Galron, for example, the issues are divided into the type that are voted on during the meeting by a show of hands; those that take place during the meeting but by a ballot box in the Dining Hall; and those that are voted on by open ballot in the days following the meeting. In short, the kibbutzim are struggling with direct democracy.

All the best,

Rakefet

17
. In biblical poetry, the inflected
dodi
means “my beloved” (see Song of Songs, 2:8). In general use, however,
dod
is “uncle” and
dodi
is “my uncle.” Naftali’s use of
doda
(“aunt” in ordinary usage, but borrowed here from the poem) as a pet-name is idiosyncratic. I did find a blog, however, in which an Israeli woman recalled that
doda
was a common pet-name among her fellow conscripts when she was in training.

18
. Interview with a founder, from Snarey (1982–1983), “The Social and Moral Development of Kibbutz Founders and Sabras: A Longitudinal and Cross-sectional Cross-cultural Study
,
” Doctoral dissertation, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA (Gut-mann Library No. Sn19; Pusey Library No. HU90.11684.50), 224.

19
. The Hebrew word for gizzards is
kurkevan
, but in colloquial Modern Hebrew the word is more commonly used to refer to bellybuttons. Because of this linguistic overlap, Dori thinks the cooked gizzards from the Kitchen are bovine navels. This may be a widespread misconception among Israeli children, especially since the Modern Hebrew slang for “bellybutton,”
pupik
(from Yiddish), is also used to refer to the dish.

20
. Eldar members took turns patrolling the border of the settlement; all were trained to use a rifle, though the ability to aim of many members was uncertain. The Night Guard was a second guard who was stationed at the Infants’ House and who checked on the Children’s Houses at regular intervals. Night Guards at Eldar were equipped with a walkie-talkie connected to loudspeakers inside the Houses. At times, if a baby was sick or a parent insisted, the roster manager assigned Night Guard duty to the parent concerned, but as a rule, assignations were arranged in accordance with kibbutz principles.

21
.

22
. The line was changed for the sake of rhyme; a literal rendition would read: “We struck him/And he began to cry.” This once-popular street song was sung to the tune of the “Mexican Hat Dance.” Contributors to internet chat rooms recall several versions; in some it is “Moishe” or “Yankele” who either gets hit or eats ice cream/an egg/an omelette. In other versions, after “Abdallah” receives the blows, he is taken to a National Health Clinic, where his underpants are removed. Eldar children would have picked up the racist version from visiting children, Combat Pioneer soldiers posted at Eldar, Israeli volunteers, and/or resident city children.