Maggie's Farm

 One, prior to the talk, tells me that her name is very Polish,
Korscak, like the Polish doctor, Janusz Korszak, who chose to walk
with his Jewish children into the gas chambers.  But I tell her that I
am fairly sure that Korscak was Jewish, only adopted a Polish name.
She is shocked by this.  We comb the internet, so excited, that my cup
of mineral water is spilled. She makes nothing of this, mops up and
continues surfing. A phone call comes, asking me to prepare for the
presentation; we wave it off.  Korscak found, she is surprised to
learn of Korscak's Judaism, how he chose a fictional character's
Polish name (later misspelled by a publsiher) to assimilate better.
Puts a different spin on his decsion to march with the Jewish children
into the chambers to die. There is a Korscak Society.  Bettelheim
revered Korscak.
    Sharon, the woman who guided me to Geha, made arrangements, and later
calls my cab, tells me that her father and I were/are neighbors: I am
thinking Ra'anana; she is meaning SF. He lives at 1620 Lake St, known
for his Japanese  Bonzai garden; down the block from 1720, my digs.
Afterwards, she escorts me to the private dining room. She assures me
the grub is good, fine victuals. People arrange for this dining room
to cater events.  Its tasty, although, I was remembering in Finland,
at the hospital you could get some low-beer (2.5% alcohol) at lunch;
well, not very good beer.  We sat, an Israeli, Orthodox Jew who talked
about treks to Peru, Chile, Tibet; an Argentine, who grew up in far
north Argentina, once a thriving Yiddish community; Sharon and myself.
The Argentine couldn't speak English and my Spanish is limited to
ordering burritos, so Hebrew it was, such as it was.
    My Tel Aviv cab driver, whom I fuel with botz (Turkish coffee),
enjoys the trip and before I fall asleep, says to me that the way for
Jews to live together (he demonstrates with his hands) is with
mountains between each Jew.  These cab drivers are challenged, for
they must use both hands to talk; driving interferes with this, only
somewhat.  The cup of botz I give him, leads me to wonder if I have
signed my death warrant, as he now prepares to empty a sacket of sugar
(through a tiny tear) into the coffee cup, lid up-ended.  I offer to
sugar his coffee; waves me off. Thinks he can do it at a red light.
But the hole he has torn from the edge of the packet permits only
individual granules to trickle out.  This continues for several
blocks: hot, unlidded coffee in left hand, packet clutched in right,
left foot working clutch; right doing brake/accelerate, and Newton's
laws of physics maintaining our course.  Packet done, I worry he wants
two, but he seems to settle for less-than-satisfactorily sweeetened
Botz.  He has an immaculate Skoda diesel and his dress and finely
tuned shadowed beard fits the car. His Russian accent is soft, but
audible.

Now, the trick to finding the Lishkat Hagiyus, the army recruitment
center, is to not ask people where is Rashi street.  It exists -- the
street I mean -- but, unlike Rashi, it is a bit circuitous, streetus
interruptus.  As we approach the entrance to the city, he is quick on
the questions for directions through the window.  He has a piercing
whistle: fingerless, he couples his tongue into a "V", purses the lips
a bit and lets loose, more a shriek than a whistle.  I watch in his
rearview mirrow, make feeble attempts; he consoles me that he has
studied this since childhood. The directions vary from driver to
driver, but he is quite sure which one trust -- and is right.  Had
anyone simply said, "It's a half block north of Jaffa Road, just a few
blocks past the Central Bus Station," the story and the chase would
not have been so good.  I think that I did mislead my driver as he was
counting stop lights; he was probably correct that we should have
turned earlier; he doesn't hold this against me.  We find Rashi, the
street.  But the numbers are descending, and we must ascend, just as
Rashi lifts our understanding of Torah, my thoughts add.  But Rashi is
one-way (the street, I mean).  My nahag backs up, turns about, makes a
left and a couple rights and we seem to be at the beginning of  a
street.  He thinks it's Rashi.  (He's correct.)  But the numbers start
at 99; we need 103.  Where should be 103,k is a children's park.  I
offer to exit, let him head home so I can reconnoiter -- preparation
for any navigation I may need to do for the army.  He makes sure that
I leave nothing behind; I am sure to hand him my coffee cup, not to
leave a trace of myself behind.
    I go to the building with white underthings flapping from the
balcony; rows of underpants, t-shirts, proletarian lingerie, all
wavering white, as if the building were surrendering.  I scan its
facade, the mortar crumbling between the Jerusalem boulders; yes,
surrendering to time.  I think of Amichai's poem; he, as a child,
watching the white sheets billowing in Jordanian-captured Jerusalem's
rooftops. These now belong to Jews, us.  Work myself along the side of
the building toward the children's park.  Tack starboard and discover
there is what appears to be another street, although no traffic can
pass; the children's park blockading; Huit Clos, very Sartre.  This
street, unlabeled is triangled with 99 Rashi.  I work myself along a
wavy metal fence and ask the first young woman green-clad soldierette,
where's the Lishkat Giyus.  She points to the building beyond and
behind a tree, behind a wall, limply, I see an Israeli flag; then the
usual metal barricades, a bit haphazardly aligned. (Haphazard seems to
be the Israeli aesthetic, make-do).  Just tucked inside is an empty
guard booth and outside it, two young guys sitting on metal chairs,
one with legs up, rifles leaning on their laps. They greet me
nonchalantly.  Do not check my heavy back pack.  (I feel I must look
remarkably unthreatening; but I am doctorly done-up, Navy blazer and
Armani shirt, bespoke British capt-toed oxfords, slightly pingeon
toed.  Direct me to the crowd of guys in front of the entrance.
Entering, I see a semicircular formica-clad desk. Behind which, tubby
fellow, perhaps 35, flanked by two dolls in uniform. Almost ignore me.
Then directs me up to fourth floor, turn left, then left again; ask
for Tzahi.  I ascend.  Behind me ascends an oak-structured fellow in
uniform, carrying upon the back of his trunk a uniformed young woman,
he ascending two steps at a time, a regular "Yakov," nipping at my
heels.  Rivulets, of soapy water descend the stairwell, greet me; a
water fall in the midst of Jerusalem.  I suspect someone is washing
the floor above; look and see no-one. But a pool of brackish-looking
liquid, bubbles thinly wandering its surface, is the source for this
Ein Gedi down the stairs. I take care on the soapy stone stairwell.
Occassional poster-size photos ascend the stairwell; most of guys in
basic training, face into mud, crawling below barbed wire, rifle
protected; a young girl in uniform, looking as if into the future,
advertises the Navy.  I think of the F. family in Ra'anana, olim from
the States perhaps 15 years past, whose two daughters directly entered
from high school a specialized computer programming unit in the Navy
(I think); six years and no need to get B.A.; they will get fine jobs
as soon as they leave, but of course, marry also.  There is much youth
here, milling about.  Also plastic Heftys full of garbage in the
hallway, tied, ready to go.  Also desks in disarray.  One floor has
piles of "Intel Inside"-labelled boxes, a bit more orderly than the
surroundings.  Inside offices are throngs of youth; some offices have
carrols, like in libraries, but as a rule, these kids aggregate, won't
be parsed off ffrom each other by artificial barriers.  thse kids are
clumpers, relish being together.  Even an ocassional solo "office,"
(closets with a desk and chairs) have kids spilling in and out.
    The uniforms seem impoverished, these green drabs.  These soldiers
are thinly veiled; kids.
    Tzahi found, of course with a buddy visiting his closet and door open
to the balagan in the outer office, he eyes me.  First question: how
old are you.  I try to draw myself up to full height, shoulders
squared, disguise the pain in my hip from morning fall, mumble 56,
then say, "Ani rofeh," I'm a doctor.  They eye each other now,
responding, "Oh, a doctor, that's something different. Perhaps as a
volunteer."  Sends me downstairs to Ronit.  To the first floor, hang a
left, then a sharp right, then a left again; gives me an office
number, which later almost corresponds to the correct room, off by
only one doorway.
    Stumbling into an entrance foyer, then sharp left into the smallest
closet imaginable where two girls sit, I ask for Ronit, and am
directed to the "other room 115."  (Clever security tactics these;
ambiguously placed building; ambiguously numbered rooms; really know
how to fool an old fellow like me.)
    Ronit.  Several possible Ronits (and mostly "Rons"). Here is a
cluster of desks, some chairs corresponding to particular desks; some
hovering between desks.   I use my tactical techniques and go for the
oldest looking Ronit.  I score.  She looks more mature than the
others, a bit of a worn look in her eyes, a sense of tolerance of the
youngsters around her; she must be at least twenty-two.
    All the "Ronits" in this building sport long hair, past the shoulder
tresses, simply held up -- a pin or two.  But, there is occassional
repinnings, almost subconciously, while talking with someone, or
typing or walkiing, there is an upsweep of the arms, a reach to a
wandering tress and a simple repinning.  An unself-conscious of their
simple beauty.
    Ronit checks me out.  I should go talk with Tzahi.  I -- having
maneuvered since entry with my Hebrew -- explain that Tzahi sent me
here.  She scans me tip to toe again.  Why do I want to do this?  I
restrain the ideological cant; want to help out in some way and have
the time; I'm and oleh hadash.  Asks me if I have a medical license;
confirm, although sitting in some office in Petach Tikvah.  She hands
me a one-page form to complete.  In Hebrew.  The box with the "why
question" I complete, briefly writing that I am finishing a book on
Israeli soldiers.  She looks. You do research?  (Yes.)  On American
soldiers?  (No, Israeli.)  Her face relaxes.  O.K.  We will call you.
I offer to leave copies of my certificates.  No need.  Perhaps they
have enough papers, files.
    And I exit.  Tubby-Gingy now sits with the guards, between their
rifles and the entrance gate, as if his bulk and gingy hair could
protect them from attack.
    To the Mechane Yehuda market, which I relish entering, even though it
means back pack inspection, usually by the young and elegantly lovely
Ethiopian soldier, her beret slightly raked.  The colors here, the
people, so focused. Food vending, the exotica.  Near the end, I take a
new route and as I approach an exit to Agrripas, find a small both
fronted by a vender, Ari-ben-something-or-other, who does natural
stuff. Ari has an ivory-tinted knit kipa from under which emerges
curled thatch, from which seem to descend a descent lengthed beard.
His short filthy white jacket, like an intern's barely covers his
overalls. He has two, three people clustered about and to his right he
has the typical four or five transparent cube-shaped drink
mixer-dispensers. Their paddles rotate slowly.  But the colors within
are new, strange; an emerald tinged soupy drink is called etrogot, the
liquid of etrogs.  Within it are suspended seeds -- black ova --
sluggishly sloshing about the liquid, like some primeval slime from
which life would evolve.  He is the softly ruby-tinted pomolite drink.
He give me thimble-sized quaff of etrogot, not taking eyes off the
other prospects. Before I can finish it, he whips away the thimble and
adds pomolite. Delicious. He asks a shekel. Given. He is spraying
something he has hand mixed onto the face of a fellow; tells him to
massage it in vigourously. Asks me to step forward, close eyes,
spritzes me forehead to eyelids to cheeks. Has a lemony-fragrance.
Brings to mind Leopold Bloom's bar of lemon soap, wrapped in tissue in
his inner coat pocket as he wanders Dublin.
    Now for the young woman, he takes greater care spritzing.  Asks us if
we notice how this relaxes us. (I won't disillusion him; I probably
couldn't. But, entertaining he is.)  Now, as I continue to massage
this citrusy oil, I see him beckon the young fraulein approach.  Close
the eyes, he requests.  But just before she lid-locks, he points to
the bamboo-looking bells above his right shoulder, and purses his left
fingers before her face, making a milking motion, as if trying to draw
some adverse energies out of her face, through the tip of her nose, it
seems.  She stands, eye-closed, and Ari-ben-etc... softly jangles the
bamboo bells, clacking more than tinkling, and his left hand continues
finger milking before her face. This takes perhaps a minute, maybe
more. He asks her softly if she is feeling relaxation.  Polite, she
says nothing.  Opens her eyes. He asks, did she notice that she couldn
not hear the sounds from the street.  Not clear if the bell-clacking
and finger milking stuffed up her ears, but the woman is polite.
    Next, he does a negotiation with a bearded fellow over the face
spray; two versions, I gather in Hebrew, perhaps one for the whole
body.  The fellow hesitates over the cost, then bottle proffered by
Ari-ben-etc..., the man brings home something for the wife, his Molly
Bloom.
    Looking for nigunim for my father (But, who really wants anything
that sounds like Lodz cantors.) Well, this is the Middle East; singers
do Mizrahi, not "Peilsher."  I find seven cassetes on sale of
Tehillim, Psalms of David the King (The Lord is my shepherd, I shall
not want).  Listen. Sounds Morrocan to me, the tunes, but the salesman
corrects me; Yerushalmi.  Dad won't dig this.  I hesitate, then buy
them for myself. I need to also buy a tape player (Now that I am
wedded to my iPod) and plan to sit, read in Hebrew and English and
listen to the Yerushalmi chant of Solomon's poems.
    Now, for a rest.  Did Tmol Shilshom last night. The last Bellow, I
think.  Several people asked for more, but I am not sure David Erlich
can shut down half the cafe for the dozen and half attendees, poor
fellows like me, so dependent on English. Will see.

Copyright Nathan Szajnberg 2005