A Wall of Light - Edeet Ravel [69]
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