Haim Gouri - The Wellspring of Memory

Haim Gouri

Yes, there was a British army camp there, near the Caucasian Quarter. Indian tents. A field kitchen that spewed its smoke into the cold morning. Soldiers wearing greenish woollen uniforms with puttees around their calves. Some wore greatcoats like the ones that were worn during the World War, according to the pictures. Some of them smoked English cigarettes. A fragrant, sweet smoke Players, Woodbine, Senior Service, State Express mingled with the evaporating bacon fat, the fried eggs.

A few ungainly transport vehicles were parked there, with thick rubber wheels, without tyres. A driver tried to start one of them with a crank. The motor sputtered, gave a few signs of life, as though inclined to respond, and lapsed into silence. The soldier starting it didnt despair. He knew in advance that thats how things were, that the motor was still cold and that you had to repeat the imploring, pleading, rigorously demanding action. He stuck the end of the crank into the front of the motor, and with a vigorous, circular motion, again tried to convince the inanimate, unresponsive monster to show signs of life. Again it volunteered its coughs, as though hesitating as to whether to start or remain silent. The man didnt give up. He continued to turn the crank with the same ceremonial motion, over and over until the right sound was heard. A smile of victory spread over the soldiers face. The morning air filled with the reek of burned gasoline. That was it! The enormous body of the transport vehicle was shuddering now. The cold, stifled, choked, asthmatic motor had chosen life, was gaining momentum.

Not far away stood a sentry wearing a flattened steel hat, with a bayonet on his rifle, a short Lee-Enfield with magazine, as the boy later learned.

Here, exactly here, stood the British Goliath, arrogant and impudent, who kept calling on the "bloody Jews" to stand up and box in a "fair fight." He repeated the challenge for several days. When no one responded, he said the Jews were cowards. Ephraim Koitzim found it hard to bear the disgrace of his nation, and he presented himself for a battle he despaired of winning. They raised him from the arena of packed sand with a dislocated jaw, with two black eyes, spitting blood and fragments of teeth that are preserved to this day in the museum of renewed Hebrew heroism. Its better to lose a duel than to avoid it.

Then Emil came along and wrought a historical transformation, becoming a national hero. He redeemed our sullied honour and provided moments of joy, pride, and pleasure to Tel Aviv and the Hebrew settlement in the Land of Israel.

He was as handsome as a prince, splendidly built, made for dealing blows. A sound mind in a sound body. He had a rare combination of elusive speed and crushing power, thoughtful prudence and daring self-exposure. His cool presence of mind didnt detract him in the heat of combat. He presented himself before their champion, who had nearly killed our brother Ephraim, and he said, "Youve bullied weaklings... Thats nothing to brag about... Lets see you against me." A lot of people thought Emil was out of his mind, and that his doom was sealed. Only he, pupil of the Bennie Leonard Club, knew it was no idle boast. In the third round Emil landed his dreadful right hook. The referee counted to ten. Goliath didnt get up.

Afterwards, our hero Emil won a victory over Muhammad Naguib, the boxing champion of the Egyptian army, who later headed the officers coup that overthrew King Farouk.

Not far away, to the west, in 1932, the first Fair of the East opened, whose symbol was the Flying Camel. I was nine years old. At the gates of the fair the banners of the countries and nations that had sent us their wares fluttered in the Tel Aviv wind. From the loudspeakers came a song that had been composed especially in honour of the festive event. I must be one of the few remaining people who remember the words:

"Let us sing a song to the Fair of the East,
Let us sound the song of tomorrow.
To Ophir our ships do bear
Grain and wine and olive oil.

Ever since Ecclesiastes ruled us,
Great King Solomon, Davids son,
Our land has been a doorway
Open to the western lands."

And heres the chorus, so festive:

"Fly, camel,
Fly up in the air,
Soar over seven seas,
Greet every nation with peace
And bless them at the Eastern Fair."

The Land of Israel is the bridge between Europe, Africa, and Asia, the gate to the Red Sea, to Ophir, and the open door to the lands of the West. The Flying Camel brought a greeting to every nation, blessing them in honour of the Fair of the East. Always, for some reason, we thought that "the eyes of the whole world are turned to us." And Tel Aviv celebrated.

Oh, what beauty there was in that Luna Park. I remember the Ferris wheel, swooping down to the underworld and rising high up, the frightened girls shouting, "Mammaleh!," manly reassurances. I remember the "Ghost Train," through dark tunnels of dread, the sudden appearance of pale skeletons with clenched teeth. I remember the "Wall of Death," the motorcyclists spellbinding by their impressive, thundering speed riding up and down that steep wall.

Everything, I remember everything. Not far from there was the shooting gallery with air-rifles, and behind it in the dusky light stood "the Indian Sorcerer," a Rumanian Jew who had gained a worldwide reputation as a great magician. Perhaps he wasnt Houdini, the king of magicians, but he was one of his greatest disciples. He, too, came as a guest to our white city to exhibit signs and wonders. With my own eyes I watched him saw a living woman in two, and then, with a wave of his wand, rejoin the pieces. He pulled a multitude of national flags from his left ear and from his right, he pulled a flock of pure white, cooing doves. He read peoples minds and probed their hearts, and did similar strange and wonderful feats, that cannot be explained, and only the finger of God...

And all around, crowded, excited, and crammed together, the people of our white city gathered, as well as many who streamed in from all over the country, from Ruhama and from Metulla, and Arabs in fezzes and kaffiyahs, cloaks, and European suits, who had come here from nearby Jaffa and also from Jerusalem, the city of many days. Veteran settlers were there, and natives, and also recently arrived immigrants, judging by the Polish phrases on their lips, who saw with astonished eyes that Palestine was also this Luna Park, not only sand and the sunlight beating down, and castor-oil plants. Fortunate are we, that we have come to this!

And I, too, was there, wandering about in that truly wonderful togetherness and hearing that song burst from the loudspeakers "Let us sound the song of tomorrow..." Everything was full of tomorrow.

Then the Central Bus Station was built in that area, serving our city and our country for about 60 years, until it was transferred to its new building. What can I say for or against it that has not already been said? It was more, much more, than a bus station serving near and far. Here, in that scurrying, shifting commotion, shouting and grunting, buying and selling, among stores and stalls and kiosks, among eateries and cheap goods, in that ugliness, naked and exposed to sun and rain, you could sense that other Israel that you, too, willy-nilly, belonged to. Yes, you, too, were part of those spectacles, that didnt ask your permission. Here, among the clothing and shoe stores, among the coffee cakes and burekas made by the "professionals from Seriar," you could also find tables for beer, arak, and brandy, and all the newspapers, all the pornographic magazines, and the Central Cinema, that screened "Desires and Lusts," like stolen grapes, and the marvels of falafel, according to the system of "grab what you can," letting hungry people stuff their pitta with all the fried vegetables and salads and pickles and spicy sauces, and to pour more and more tehina on that assemblage, in honour of the national food. A land of people who eat standing or on the run, a land of hawkers shouting to high heaven, a land of masses of people, with no form or glory, which was supposed to fuse together in the melting pot and turn into the Hebrew nation in its homeland, as the orators say. My friend Moussa Fisch claims that "its not a melting pot of the ingathering of exiles but a pressure-cooker of ingathered exile." I have often heard that the Central Bus Station isnt the heart of Israel, that two hops away from here you can find Kibbutz Givat Brenner and the Weizmann Institute, and the museums, and the Habimah theatre, and Central Staff Headquarters, the libraries, and the university, and similar institutions that give Israel its stature. Others have replied that the Central Bus Station is stronger than they are, and it is far more than a giant bus station. This is also a cultural crossroads and the laboratory of another sort of Hebrew. Perhaps it isnt a place fit for those with delicate palates. I am sure that bus stations abroad look different.

Here, in the din and the shouting and the fumes of burnt fuel, thousands of tourists loaded with heavy packs also go through it. And you, who have grown up meanwhile, like a fine Israeli patriot, were ashamed to see them asking someone for the "facilities" or the "washroom," because you knew what awaited them at the urinals and toilets of our Central Bus Station, and you were afraid lest, perish the thought, they might speak ill of the country.

Now its no longer there. Its moved to Levinsky Street. Among what has remained here you find an enormous used book warehouse. Treasures. I, too, found there several books of my own that I lacked, first editions. Among them I found "Opposite the Glass Booth," and on it a cordial dedication to "M. D., scholar and soldier." My book had made its way from the plain of oranges to the Jordan Valley, to Kibbutz Gilgal, according to the stamp of the library. From there it had arrived in this warehouse in the old Central Bus Station. I hope that it was read before it undertook that odyssey.

I hadnt been near the old Central Bus Station of Tel Aviv for a long time. Recently I visited it for several hours. And if you wish to know the "other" Israel, go there. I sat and, in my old age, I drank a beer. From a nearby clothing store the melodies of the Mediterranean burst out at a scandalous decibel level. I sat there, a bit woozy and thoughtful, looking at the passersby Israelis of various kinds, and Arab citizens of our country, and Palestinians from the Autonomy, and next to them and among them, masses of Rumanians and Turks and Africans and Asians, our builders of Pithom and Ramses, more and more of the sewer-scrapers in the First Hebrew city. Some of them gathered at the doors of international telephone centres and called their relatives; others made purchases, while their fellow workers drank coffee or hard drinks.

I wandered about those streets, familiar to me from my early childhood, Neve Shaanan, Bnei Berak, Tiberias, Yesod Hamaalah... in a stationery and toy store the saleswoman said to me, "Weve been here for 50 years, but its not what it used to be. Since the buses went somewhere else, we have fewer customers. Instead of them you see all these people. It feels like a foreign country. Come at night and see what goes on here. Every other house is a whorehouse."

I kept walking, among the signs for peep-shows in Hebrew and English. Show-windows with pictures of paradise on earth awaiting those who entered. "Lolita," "Little Paris," "Amsterdam," "Copenhagen." Massage parlours. Thousands of foreign men, alone and aroused. Demand and supply. Cafés as though not from here, and television, video, blue movies. They came to gather supplies in Israel. Bread and work. Labourers to do the menial work that Israelis look down on. Our "labour brigades." The builders of our land and its servants. Crammed in like sardines. Disgraceful exploitation. Our foreign workers. Here you find not a few of those tens of thousands. In the south of the city, not the north. Some of them are parents of Hebrew-speaking children. How and when will they move away from here and return to their homes? What will be the fate of those who remain here? If Israel were Canaanite they, or at least the worthy ones among them, would somehow receive a part in this big immigrant encampment and change their identity. But Israel is so Jewish, needing their labor and sweat, but not wanting them. It wont convert these multitudes. Theyll stay in a no-mans-land, in their glaring foreignness.

I wanted to start up a conversation, but I dont know their language, and I only looked at them like a stranger who happened upon the place. I wanted to tell them that here, in this very place, a boxing match was held between the British champion and a young Hebrew named Emil Avineri, and then the first Fair of the East was celebrated here, and then there was the biggest bus station in the country. And now theyre here. The new Israelis. Video pictures flash on the television screen. The whole Kama Sutra before our eyes. Above, the flags of Israel and Turkey. A memory of the Ottoman Empire.

Translated by Jeffrey M. Green