Goodbye 39

[We appear to have fought the Slugs to a draw.

I sprinkle salt at the borders of the walk and they don’t cross. I tried sprinkling them directly with salt. It kills them but the salt preserves the corpses which don’t decompose. I also used shallow dishes of beer, the idea being they would crawl onto the dishes and drown. This is a method purportedly successful both in Staten Island and New Jersey. Except that these Hamas-trained slimies drink the beer, then crawl away. Even the rare specimens that drown die with a look of happiness that doesn’t suit me at all.

So we’ll have to settle for a draw.

Next: The roach invasion. For now, just let me say that next to the roaches, the slugs are lovable.]



[The highlight of this summer’s cultural activities is the visit of La Scala. They are led by that great humanitarian, Citizen of the World and Honorary Citizen of Palestine, Daniel Barrenbum. Two Verdi works are scheduled, the Requiem and La Forza del Destino. The latter is translated into English as The Force of Destiny. Had it been translated into Yiddish, it would be The Fart of Destiny.

Too bad Maestro B wasn’t around two generations ago. He probably would have put together an orchestra of concentration camp guards and concentration camp survivors, to show us how well we can get along when we put aside petty prejudices.]



[Some of you were rather upset that I denigrated the police and IDF. “They’re your brothers, Moshe. They’re Jews.”

Do you know that the KGB had a department, the Yevsektsia, all Jews, whose job was to spy on Jews? Our General Security Services has such a department as well. They did yeoman work getting us out of Gush Katif.
During the expulsion of Jews from Amona, one of our kids said to a policeman beating him, “Brother, why are you hitting me?” The reply, delivered by the crucifix-wearing beater in heavily Russian accented Hebrew, was “I’m not your brother, you Jew bastard.”
Special units of seemingly-sympathetic soldiers and soldierettes were formed to stay with the families of those whose loved ones were to be disinterred from the Gush Katif cemetery. They wept with the families and acted in every way as family members. Their purpose: to keep the families from ‘over-reacting’ at the disinterment and thereby embarrassing the government.
Following one disinterment a bereaved mother came upon ‘her’ soldiers and soldierettes. They were laughing excitedly and giving each other high-fives.

One explained: “Our units were supposed to be broken up. But we did so well the army is keeping us together for future expulsions.”]



[Of the many comments on Goodbye 38, this is my favorite: “Most people lead lives of quiet desperation. Why do you have to be so damned noisy?”]



GOODBYE 39 NOTHING BUT GOOD CHEER



“Do you have any idea what it’s like, living with someone who is clinically depressed?” Rachel was finally blowing her stack. “You cry most of the time. You are negative all the time. You twist even good things to look bad.”

In my defense I pointed to my work as laundryman, chauffeur, shopper, gofer, typist, secretary, gardener, provider of personal services. To no avail.

“You are a black fog smothering the fun out of everything! Have you completely forgotten how to be happy?”



In the spirit of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony, written as “a Soviet artist’s reply to just criticism”, I hereby give you ‘Nothing But Good Cheer’, four tales of joy.



One of my favorite films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, had just begun on tv when my son and eldest grandson arrived for a visit. While Rachel prepared lunch we three males sat and watched the film. Of the three, the twelve year old is the closest thing to genius in the family. [The writer places a distant last in this respect.]

My son knows the film well, and enjoys it even though he is more grounded in the real world than his father.

To watch my grandson’s delight at discovering it made my heart soar. A rare feeling these days. With his imagination he will lose himself in the film in ways that I could only dimly imagine. And being so much more intelligent than I he will develop without my many defects.



A dear friend has a connection at the Israel Philharmonic that allows him to attend rehearsals, which he prefers to concerts. He took Rachel and me along twice recently, and both were sheer pleasure.

The first delight is the acoustic. In a packed or nearly packed hall the bodies absorb the sound. In a nearly empty hall the reverberation is spectacular. Not to mention that in a crowded hall you are trapped in your seat while an empty hall allows you to move around freely.

The atmosphere was also a cause for delight. Dress is casual to the point of ridiculous. Some of the ladies looked more like streetwalkers, and many of the men appeared to have been dragged out of dumpsters.

The nature of a rehearsal, as opposed to a concert, was a concern. I feared there would be much starting, stopping, passages repeated and repeated. But in both rehearsals pieces were generally played straight through, and only then were particular passages repeated. I ascribe this to the professionalism of the players.

The first of the rehearsals – we three were almost alone in the audience – was a relaxed affair led by a young and very talented French Canadian, and included works by Richard Strauss, Liszt and Ravel. For Rachel and our host the Liszt was the highlight, as they were able to move about to watch the pianist’s excellent playing. This was also the highlight for me, but not for the music. The pianist, a middle-aged Frenchman, sashayed onto the stage, dramatically maneuvered his tush until he was comfortable, pursed his lips and threw kisses in all directions.

The second rehearsal we attended was rather different in that there were almost fifty observers spread around the hall, fitting in that the stars were Maestro Mehta and pianist Murray Perahia. Missing was the relaxed atmosphere. The playing was still wonderful – Richard Strauss, Mozart and an Israeli piece being given its premiere – but with tv cameras and journalists and still photographers and public relations flacks the tension was palpable. The non-musical highlight for me was the Israeli piece which had a large choir, soloists and a platoon of a dozen Oriental-style drummers. Though purportedly on a theme of Brotherhood and Peace [is there no escape?] it sounded like the film score for the epic “Tarzan and the Treasure of the Lost Kishka”. A great time was had by all.



Two dear American Christian friends of long-standing, both pastors, visited one evening. Sitting around the table, in addition to Rachel and I and the pastors, were three local friends who had brought the pastors up from Jerusalem.

I don’t recall what we were talking about, though I remember the atmosphere was pleasant and relaxed.

Suddenly Pastor J, at my right, lowered his eyes and whispered to himself “gather at the river”. I had no idea what he was thinking but the effect on me was electric. One of my favorite pieces is Aaron Copland’s OLD AMERICAN SONGS, the ninth of which is “At the River”.

I started to sing it – the first lines are “We shall gather at the river/

The beautiful, the beautiful river/

We shall gather at the river/

That flows by the throne of God”.

I sang, Pastor J joined in, then Pastor V, and finally Rachel joined in.

I sang with a fervor I rarely feel for anything anymore, and the tears flowed down my face, and I felt what can only be described as exaltation. I was aware that the other three at the table were staring, incredulous, but I couldn’t stop because it seemed a great weight of misery had been lifted off me.

There was an embarrassed silence when we stopped, and the weight settled back on me, but the simple memory of it continues to draw tears of comfort.



Rachel received a call telling her the tractors have begun working on the roads and infrastructure in Lachish. She was ecstatic. To see her that way filled me, a major cause of her unhappiness, with great joy.

I may not – given my view on the State of Israel’s imminent demise – wax enthusiastic about the Lachish project, but I can’t help being affected by her hope and enthusiasm. Even at her worst Rachel is never less than attractive. Aglow, as she is over Lachish, she is radiantly beautiful.



[I was very upset yesterday to receive several emails with photos of demonstrators in New York carrying signs that read CLOSE GUANTANAMO. REOPEN AUSCHWITZ.

But Rachel explained it to me. It was a request to move all the ‘guests’ at Guantanamo to a reopened Auschwitz. I am much relieved.]



[The Fast of the Ninth of Av, when Jerusalem fell and the Temple was destroyed, starts in a few hours. One is not permitted to say ‘have an easy fast’, so I’ll close with ‘have a meaningful fast”.]



moshe