Leivick in Eretz Yisroel 1937, Part 7

On a Night of Hot Storms by the Coast of Tel Aviv

Back to Part 6.

On a Night of Hot Storms by the Coast of Tel Aviv

— A first ‘Khamsin’ night. — Khamsin is a burning desert wind which torments without mercy. — All morning, when still Tel Aviv sleeps. — An encounter with a young man who wanders in the sand. — ‘We must find the way to peace.’ — Once more about Yiddish and Hebrew, and Shop performed by Ohel.

The Moghrabi Theatre, demolished in the 1990s

With great impatience, I waited for the opportunity to travel to see the kibbutzes. Emek, Galil.

There, where lie waiting the fundaments of a new life in truth. Mingling with the earth. Communist communal living. There, where is sought a liberation from urban contradictions. Even the cultural contradictions, I had the idea, certainly live themselves out in the presence of nature, mountains and fields, differently, easier, naturally. So we imagined, and were right, the comrades who were in the kibbutzes already, and so I felt myself, before I yet had a concept of what they looked like.

It could be that I began unknowingly to feel a bit of heaviness in Tel Aviv. The evenings, the visits, although they gave me a lot and I learned much from them, becoming acquainted with the character of urban life in the new Eretz Yisroel, they more and more began to underscore in me a feeling of isolation. The evening with the PEN club had strengthened it in me and the further encounters and meetings strengthened it still more and more.

I felt that Yiddish and Hebrew ceased to be for me a linguistic question but something more, something more difficult. A painful thing that I wished I would all the sooner be liberated from.

All the sooner. Everything in me cried: I won’t have it! I don’t want it! It oppresses me!

I told no one about this. I spoke to no one about this. I hid it within myself. The Yiddishist colleagues and the Hebraist colleagues — to me they are no different from one another. They are all equal to me. But in their eyes of one I saw security and expansiveness, and in the eyes of the other I saw defeat — and I, myself, was filled with an unease. Above all, in experiencing the painful difference in the evening reception which the Tel Aviv Worker’s Council arranged in the Moghrabi Theatre,¹ and the evening reception which was arranged in the same theatre a day or two later by Y.L.Peretz Library (by the Yiddishists).

The evening with the Tel Aviv Worker’s Council in the Moghrabi Theatre, like the performance of Shop two days earlier at Ohel,² was done with great success and in a natural tone, according to the wishes and character of the institution which carried it out.

Ben-Aharon, the president of the Worker’s Council, spoke, as chairman of the evening, in Hebrew. I gave my speech about Yiddish Literature in Yiddish. The same at Ohel, where my drama Shop was performed.

The director of Ohel, M. Halevy,³ held his welcoming speech in Hebrew, I — when they called me up — spoke from the stage in Yiddish.

M. Halevy did not make that ‘mistake’ and did not commit that ‘sin’ that Chemerinsky of Habima committed.

M Halevy did not ‘gamble’ and did not ‘risk’ like Chemerinsky, and did not conclude his greetings in Yiddish like Chemerinsky.

I had no resentment toward him for it. I had already heard that a severe penalty was being readied against Habima for Chemerinsky‘s ‘sin’ — it would have been wickedness on my part if I were to have even the least request that Ohel should also, on my account, may the all-merciful one protect us, fall into disgrace in the eyes of the Hebraists, who in their examination never sleep nor slumber.

Finally — I am no thief. And continuing to steal the sleep and slumber of the respectable citizens certainly isn’t right. And casting Ohel into disgrace is also of no interest; and it doesn’t deserve disgrace. On the contrary, the Ohel theatre commands appeal and attention. The production of Shop was carried out with skill and much liveliness; and although the theme is a Jewish-American one, the plot was nevertheless not lost on the boards of Ohel, neither in the essence and nor in actuality. The Ohel troupe, as a worker’s ensemble, displayed fresh energy in acting, much artistic desire, and I believe that it cost them a lot of preparation.

Israeli life is such a dramatic life — it is such wonderful material for drama and theatre, so many crises, so many conflicts of the soul, so much pathos and so many silent, stifled experiences.

Habima, with its great experience and profound artistic mastery, Ohel, with its desire and seeking of realism — for both theatres, life in Eretz Yisrael is an open treasury.

But this is beside the point (I will yet, I believe, happen to speak about this later).

It seems that both evenings, whether from the Worker’s Council or Ohel, were thoroughly of a natural tone, according to the wishes of the Worker’s Council and Ohel.

Why, then, one wishes to ask, was the evening which was organised by the Y.L. Peretz Library in honour of my coming, not also carried out in a natural tone according to the desire of those who had arranged it?

The Y.L. Peretz Library is a Yiddishist library — why, then, had they not wanted to let the Y.L. Peretz Library the Moghrabi Theatre, unless provided that apart from me, the so-called guest, none of the welcomers — adherents of Yiddish, Yiddish writers — may not speak any Yiddish?

That evening should have been carried out through the Yiddish Literary and Journalistic Club; but for this organisation, they had not wished to let the Moghrabi Hall at all.

What, then, does that mean? — It means open, official cherem on Yiddish.

To what, then, comes of that which the dear Dov Hoz, the vice-mayor of Tel Aviv, had been proud of a few days earlier, that today is not like 25 years ago, that today such heroism as in the past, when they surrounded Zhitlowsky’s house and did not allow him to hold his lecture in Yiddish, is no longer heroism?

For what end, in truth, bravery, if one can do it on a commonplace, non-heroic matter — do not let the hall and done.

The evening was indeed carried out in the name of the Y.L. Peretz Library and not in the name of the Yiddish Literary Club. Zerubavel, the chairman, wanted to speak Yiddish, but he was not allowed. It was forbidden him. He had to speak Hebrew.

And entire night afterwards in my hotel room, it jumbled in my head like a nightmare: wanted — not allowed — had to…

Or perhaps: didn’t have to and permitted.

Or perhaps: didn’t want to and and had to.

And perhaps: didn’t have to and not allowed and only needed to.

Moghrabi may not, the guest may.

Zerubavel may not, but Moghrabi may.

I only just began to doze off with difficulty, but no peaceful sleep came to me.

Outside the window of my hotel room, the sea noisily stormed. The wind was damp and hot and suffocating, as though concealed flames would whirl themselves hastily and exude from them a thick steam.

Everything in the room was damp and hot, and my face, as well. Sweat ran from my forehead and my lips were covered in salt.

I flung myself down on the bed and didn’t understand what was happening to me. I had forgotten where in the world I was. I rose and looked at the clock — four in the morning. I saw that I would no longer be able sleep. I got dressed and went out into the street.

The hotel watchman looked at me with questioning eyes.

— Something of a strange night tonight in Tel Aviv, — I said to him. — Somewhat stifling. I can’t be in the room.

— A khamsin, — the watchman said. — In the middle of the night, it comes. Someone’s already probably told you, what the khamisn is.

Yes, I already knew what khamisn meant: a burning desert-wind which makes several visits throughout the year in Eretz Yisroel and tortures everyone without mercy. Sometimes it lasts two days and sometimes three days and also sometimes a whole week.

According to the meaning of the word khamsin (khamishim, that is) it would need to visit the country fifty times throughout the year, and there are likely such places where the khamsin keeps exactly to this number, but not everywhere does it keep to the number fifty — and thanks to it for that.

I went through the streets. Tel Aviv still slept. The hot wind carried from street to street and did not meet any obstacles. It seemed all were already accustomed to it. I do not see that anyone, like I, has left their bed and walks through the streets a bit before dawn.

The stillness of the streets calmed me a bit. And the more I walked, the more peaceful my spirit became. I entirely freed myself from the unpleasant nightmare, back into a balance.

Tel Aviv sleeps, Tel Aviv rests. Take this rest into yourself. If sleep has departed from your eyes, draw into yourself the rest of others. Go to a house, to the threshold, lean yourself with your head against the wall or to a support of a stair and see — here is the sea.

I went to the edge of the sea and, in going there, I encountered someone who walked exactly opposite me. A young man of twenty-five. He was dressed very lightly, without a hat, in white shorts, and open shirt without a tie. A white chest, like a girl’s, peeked out from his unfastened shirt.

The day had already begun to dawn.

The young man came directly opposite me, and in a soft, quiet voice, greeted me and called me by name.

— You don’t know me, — he said, — but I know you. I was at the Moghrabi Theatre last night at your lecture. They didn’t want to let me in at the beginning, because I had no ticket, I’m unemployed — but then they let me in.

— What, then, are you doing by the sea so early? — I asked — although you could also ask the same of me.

— Yes, I will indeed ask it of you, — answered the young man. But I thought: Not everything that one wants to ask needs be asked.

— It seems you’re annoyed that I’ve asked you what you’re doing by the sea so early?

— Oh, no, no! — The young man answered with feeling. — On the contrary, I’m delighted with such an encounter. Who would have thought? I’m unemployed, you understand. Have nowhere to sleep. I spend my nights lying on the beach. Already several weeks like this. And today is a khamsin, I couldn’t lie down. I walk around by the shore and in the nearby streets. It may appear

— I’m the guardian of Tel Aviv. Because, you see: Everything sleeps. Also, you don’t see the real city watchmen. They’ve dozed off. And the danger is great, the danger lurks on all sides. Lying night after night on the sand by the sea, I’ve heard more than once a lament over it. A death wail carries to my ears, and a scent of blood burns my nostrils. Do you know, do you know in what sort of danger the redemption stands?! The redemption wanders about in the sand. The redemption is hungry and thirsty. The redemption’s heart becomes wounded. The redeemer stabs himself in the heart. He needs not wait for an opponent — for the Arabs…we must speak together with the Arabs. Certainly. We must find a way for peace. We will find it. I say you you, that we will find it. Should the desire in their hearts for peace be so strong as it is in our hearts. Should their hearts wail for rest the way our hearts wail. And our hearts wail doubly. Greatest of all desires for peace is the desire for peace with ourselves. Because what should I do, I ask you, in order for my heart to be at peace with itself? And in order for my heart to be at peace with its own surroundings? You think that I speak like this because I’m embittered, because I’m roofless and unemployed? — No, no. Never in my entire life have I set myself higher than others and never set my stomach at the centre of the world. I am a revolutionary, a socialist. With today’s order, one must fight and I fight. I am always happy when I can give something away, give away and — put it aside. I’m not angry even now, when I am exhausted and homeless. I am only unsettled. My soul is troubled: Eretz Yisroel stands at risk. I love Eretz Yisroel. The pioneers stand at risk. The pioneers — I love them to a fault. There runs through me the thought that now, God forbid, absolutely everything can be destroyed — England can make a ruin of it. Italy can make a ruin of it. Hitler can make a ruin of it — we ourselves can make a ruin of it…when it runs through my thoughts, I feel as though touched in the head. Most of all, I am driven out of my mind by the thought that we, ourselves, can make a ruin of it. And hear what I will say to you, Comrade Leivick: Jews themselves will make a ruin of it — we ourselves will make a ruin of it.

— Calm down, — I said. — Calm down. It’s already day, you see. Come, let’s go together and drink a hot coffee. Come. And if you have something to eat, you’ll lie down and rest. I’m tired from the night too. Our bones want rest. And now, you see, people are getting up already, people are already rushing in the streets. The day is cleverer than us.

Life will win.

Creation will win.

When I arrived at the hotel afterwards, I met Zerubavel and Yoskowitz already waiting for me. I was pleased.

— So early in the hot khamsin?

— We’re driving to Emek, and first to Ein Harod.

Of all my night-weariness — no longer any trace. We got underway.

H. Leivick, Tog, 26 December, 1937

Leivick with the Ohel troupe (presumably on the set for Shop, judging by ‘Office’ on the right). Leivick front and centre.

Onward to Part 8.

If, by chance, you missed me talking far too fast about Leivick’s The Poet Went Blind at this year’s Farbindungen Conference on ‘Bad Yiddish’ and are interested, the recording is available here. I really like the play and, of course, am always up for stuffing twenty minutes of Leivick into a fifteen minute slot.

1. Former opera house and cinema.

2. Hebrew language theatre troupe, associated with the Hisdarut.

3. Moshe Halevy, actor and director.