Goodbye 35

Subject: GOODBYE 35

[Even a pretentious purveyor of perverse prose like moi finds it grotesque to start a mm(hopefully) humorous Pessach letter on Holocaust Festival Day. To hear ‘Never Again!’ – started by Rabbi Meir Kahane who is universally reviled when he should be universally revered – in the mouths of our governing Judenrat and their uniformed Kapo accomplices, leaves me aghast.

As does watching you, my co-religionists outside of Israel, particularly in the States where 78% of you voted for The Manchurian Candidate, allying yourselves with the JStreet/Reform movement crowd, the good Jewboys who are aiding and abetting our destruction, solemnly intone ‘Never Again!’

One can only hope that, busy as you will be preparing Israel Holocaust Memorials, vigils, Walls of Remembrance, etc, following our erasure you also take the time to attend a ceremony marking your receipt – individually and collectively – of the Rabbi Stephen S. Wise Collaborator’s Award.

For the next Holocaust is almost upon us. Sooner than you can say Rahm Emanuel Barney Franks George Soros it will be here.

And though we in Israel will no longer be around to say ‘we told you so’, it will be coming for you soon after.]



[Some of you have expressed concern that, with my constipation problems, the constipatory qualities of matzah – especially the 90% concrete shmura matzah that we aspiring-to-be-holy types impose on ourselves – would cause hardship. But the Good Lord was merciful. Imagine, if you will, that my bowels are Egypt. Every day during Pessach there was a new Exodus. Of course that vision is problematic in what it implies about the contents of those bowels. Fortunately I am not a profound thinker, and can ignore the implication of my half-witticism.

Alas, following the Pessach remission, the problem has returned and (sorry) there’s no end in sight. I have developed a technique, as elaborate and fixed as a Japanese tea ceremony, of breathing/stretching/pushing/squeezing/bending to get the desired response. While there is no denying I resemble a sumo wrestler more than a gymnast or dancer, I find it amusing that in my dotage I – who never achieved even a low level of competence at social dancing – have become the Bowel-movement Balanchine.

We will leave this subject, as it were, behind us with a quote from One Fine Lady who suggested I consult an accountant rather than a physician: “He can work it out with a pencil”.]



[Many thanks to the sage who wrote in response to Goodbye 34: “Beware excessive exuberance when using ailing protuberance.”

To the many who suggested alternative treatment for bladder problems, I was in downtown Jerusalem and passed one of those small, private pharmacies that have been there since the Second Temple Period. A hand-lettered sign in the window caught my attention: ‘Inglsh Spic Hir’. The proprietor, a wizened ancient, gave me a look of undisguised contempt when I asked if he carries homeopathic medicines. “Ve only got heteropathic medicines here!”

In any case, I have been swallowing three Saw Palmetto whatsits for almost a month. No change, but it makes me feel virtuous.

By the way, are you aware there is a hotel chain for people with bladder problems? The Incontinencel.]



GOODBYE 35 April 19, 2009



“AGE BRINGS WISDOM, PATIENCE, SERENITY”
AND OTHER NONSENSICAL BELIEFS

or

TAILS FROM THE CRYPT


We spent Pessach at the Kibbutz Lavi hotel in lower Galilee. We had been regulars at the hotel from our arrival in Israel in 1968 for some ten or twelve years. Then, for no particular reason I remember unless it was the kids being tired of it, we went elsewhere. In those early days it was perfect for a family with rambunctious children. Informal, relaxed, just an extension of the kibbutz. More important, many of the members were from English-speaking countries and there was an air of civility unlike the incivility that characterized most other places.

We visited again early in 2005, months before our expulsion from Gush Katif, and while we were happy to see old friends it was infuriating to see the general support for our expulsion. On a tour of the synagogue furniture factory there were signs like “Peace is more important than the Land of Israel”, and the kibbutz synagogue itself was filled with flyers and booklets from ostensibly religious left-wing movements.



I have longed nagged Rachel that I am ready for an old age home. But I had reason to reconsider. Arriving at Lavi the morning of Passover Eve we found ourselves, literally, in an old age home. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, crutches, motorized carts and Asian caregivers everywhere. At lunch it was treacherous maneuvering in the dining room, and disconcerting to be poked and pushed aside at the self-service food counters by grumpy, aggressive oldsters.

As the day wore on young(er) people arrived, generally relatives of the geriatrics, many with children in tow. This created some balance, but the initial impression of a Last Stop Before the Pearly Gates establishment remained strong.

One of my favorite comic books as an impressionable pre-teen was “Tales From the Crypt”, and it occurred to me that where I to write about this Pessach, given the large number of females among the decrepit, I might have to call it “Tails from the Crypt”.



The hotel has changed enormously. The original buildings are still in use, and have been spruced up, but several large and luxurious newer buildings have been attached.

Other things have remained the same, particularly the people we have known for years. I was shocked at how old they have become, until Rachel suggested I look in a mirror. More important, the grounds are beautifully maintained. And most important, the staggeringly awesome views remain undisturbed.

From the window in our room we could see Mount Tabor, much of Nazareth to the west, north to Tzfat, northwest to Megiddo which my Christian friends believe will be the sight of Armageddon. A few minutes walk through a landscaped garden and we are looking east down at the Horns of Hittin where the Saracens defeated the Crusaders, and at Tiberias and the entire Sea of Galilee.

I spent hours lying in bed watching the cloudscape through the picture window. If history excites you, if nature exhilarates you, if religious belief exalts you, this is THE place.



Rachel, still high from her flirtation with Nico at the Dead Sea Meridien, ordered salt-free meals in advance of our arrival. These were lovingly prepared and lavishly served at each meal. But instead of Nico there was Shula, kindly, anxious to please, advanced in years. And each time the food was served Rachel would fulsomely thank all the staff for their efforts, move things around on the plate until the server had left, then push the plate aside and snatch food off my plate. I was alternately amused and annoyed.



The Seder started badly. Family units had private Seders, but the elderly and disabled and alone were in a community Seder. I was sleepy, Rachel was weepy. “What kind of Seder is it” she wailed “without our children and grandchildren?”

“Relaxing” was my ill-considered reply.

In truth, looking around a room many of whose inhabitants appeared to be either comatose or anticipating a Celestial Seder, was quite depressing. But the gentleman leading the Seder was witty and charming, his wheelchair-bound wife smiled infectiously, and as we progressed from wineglass to wineglass the mood improved considerably.

Indeed, when all moved to the large dining room the next day the children howling and teenagers cavorting among the wheelchairs engendered an instant nostalgia for the lonely Seder of the night before.

In general the meals were enjoyable for Rachel as she is a people-watcher and delighted in observing and commenting on the people around us. That her assessments were incorrect as often as they were accurate, was of no importance. She was having a good time. I, El Grumpo, spent my time wondering whose wheelchair to kick or crutches to knock over as I wended my way up and back from the table to the food, which I did constantly as I could only manage a single plate per trip.

And when Dafna, Hanan and four offspring visited for some hours one day, and Tamar, Oshri and the Wrecking Crew spent an entire day, even Rachel’s need for family was sated. Particularly pleasurable were the visits by Johan and Christa, our Dutch friends, who were staying about fifteen minutes away.



This being a religious holiday much time was spent in the hotel synagogue. Alas, most of those leading the services were British and American guests who thought of themselves as cantors and were determined to enlighten their benighted Israeli cousins on the finer points of cantorial ornamentation..

One fellow in particular, a genuinely nice and intelligent man, had the disconcerting habit of interrupting his prayers every few seconds with a loud “oy vey!” I was never able to determine if his pain was physical, artistic, or existential. In any case I was able to relieve my alternating boredom and annoyance by staring at Rachel through the latticework separating the men’s and women’s sections. Unlike my easily distracted self, Rachel was deep in concentration and watching her both calmed and inspired me.

The synagogue itself, while attractive, could hardly contain the worshippers. Making the problem worse, several old cane-wielding geezers – invariably the first to arrive – placed their canes on the table in front of them, effectively taking up three places. Anyone who tried to sit down was growled at. Few had the temerity to object.

But most annoying to me – I know this is ridiculous – was what happened on the last day of Pessach. Long before morning prayers I lit a cigar at a stand of memorial candles near the still-empty synagogue and stepped outside. The hotel is at the top of a hill and though a heavy ground fog obliterated the surrounding vistas, the sky was clear. Absolute silence, no one else about, flocks of birds emerging from the fog then being swallowed up in it. A delicious chill in the air. It was magical, and exhilarating for one who hasn’t the intellectual prowess to lose himself in Torah study or philosophy but connects with the Divine best in Nature.

I finished one cigar, re-entered and lit a second, and spotted a coven of wizened cane tappers shuffling toward the synagogue each to establish suzerainty over at least three seats. I had to beat them inside, but what to do about my freshly lit cigar? The solution was to hide it in one of the outsized rubber plants that serve as decoration, so it could be recovered after services. I chose one that totally hid the cigar and whose access was limited to the freely mobile. I proceeded to pray, untroubled by any fears that my treasure was at risk.

Following the service I went to retrieve my cigar. It was gone! No one had seen me hide it, so who could have taken it? And why? Foul-smelling, marked with my teethmarks and saliva, who would have wanted to take it? The mystery of the disappearing cigar has troubled me ever since.



Finally, last and definitely least, my massages. The holiday being paid for by the Defense Ministry, I was required to have massages. As these were not available in the hotel I had to go to the Tiberias Baths on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. A real bummer. Though only fifteen kilometers away, it was tortuous winding down through Tiberias. And coming back was worse. Crawling traffic, straight uphill.

What made it a delight was that my masseuse, a young Ukrainian woman, was expert at her job. And the last massage was best. She told me of her youth in the Young Pioneers and serenaded me with songs I already knew through Russian films. If the massage was wonderful, the concert was exquisite.



The trip back to the refugee camp was somber because the holiday had been so special. Adding to the mood was a steady drizzle. And on arriving back any doubts as to where we are were immediately dispelled: our lawn was covered with chunks of Matza.



28 April. Memorial Day, always tough for us. By now you should have read Rachel’s piece, powerful and direct, unlike my own tortured and labyrinthine prose. I have never been able to figure out if His repeatedly sparing me from certain death was an act of kindness or He was just mocking my desire for a quick and heroic demise. Once I believed I was spared to fight for Gush Katif. With our expulsion that belief was replaced by one in which I was spared to do laundry. Which held until today, when I went out to collect my freshly washed best jeans [actually, the sole jeans I can still stuff myself into] only to find them covered in bird poop. He couldn’t be that cruel…

Some months after I was wounded the first time, my army unit held a dance/reunion/memorial. A fee was charged, but waived for those who had been disabled. I presume it was also waived for those who had died in combat and could only attend in spirit. Wives or girlfriends required. Rachel had misgivings but back then I was too insensitive. During the social dancing we were stared at. I assumed it was because Rachel looked gorgeous, but clearly my buddies and their significant others were discomfited by the empty sleeve and the bandages on my head. It finally dawned on me – ridiculous as the image is – that I was like a ballplayer who had been traded to another team. Instead of being part of Jerusalem Brigade’s Unit 161 I was now a member of the Tel Hashomer Cripples. New teammates, new loyalties. Before the speeches began everyone was asked to stand for a minute of silence in memory of those who hadn’t ducked in time. I expected a cascade of laughter when I called out “How about ten seconds extra for my arm?” Absolute silence. Cringing embarrassment silence. We were not invited to subsequent gatherings.



29 April. It seems appropriate to conclude on Israel Dependence Day. ‘Hatikva’, our national anthem, has the line “to be a free people in our land”. Which is a con, because 80% of Israeli Jews state that they want Israel to be part of the European Union, ie, to lose their unique identity in the vast European swamp. The desperate-to-be-assimilated Jews ‘Final Solution’ to the Jewish Problem: total anonymity. Little wonder we won’t survive.



I didn’t go to evening prayers last night, nor to morning prayers today. I simply would not say, and could not hear others say, the celebratory prayers for the State on its 61st birthday.

That the public at large says them is understandable. But why should the Gush Katif refugees, disenfranchised and continually demeaned by the State they served so bravely, shout Hosannahs! and Hallelujahs! for our oppressors? That so many of us do so bewilders and depresses me.

It is said of the French that they forget nothing, and learn nothing. I don’t know how accurate that is about the frogs, but it certainly fits us.



The worst thing about today is that, with the smoke and the stench of outdoor barbecues, I can’t do laundry.



moshe