A 'mensch' for prime minister - On the 90th anniversary of Menachem Begin's birth

Jerusalem Post ^ | Aug. 7, 2003 | Yehuda Avner

[yonif]

On the 90th anniversary of Menachem Begin's birth - a fond recollection of Shabbat in his company

The weather in Jerusalem was unusually warm and naturally breezy that Shabbat afternoon, adding spice to the smell of poplar and pine that always fills Rehavia in high summer. Under a blue sky streaked with tangerine wisps of cirrus that heralded the onset of sunset, tourists, soldiers, yeshiva boys, neighbors, and even casual passers by, lined up at the prime minister's gate waiting their turn to enter.

Menachem and Aliza Begin were hosting an open house, a tradition they had maintained for the 30 years they had lived in the cramped, two-room ground-floor apartment in Tel Aviv, where they raised their son and two daughters. There, as the Sabbath sun waned, friends, acquaintances - anyone - would habitually drop in to say "Shabbat shalom," shmooze over a glass of something and, when night fell, wish each other a good week and be on their way.

Now, however, in this summer of '77, Begin had unexpectedly shot up to the premiership and he and his wife had to give up their modest home at No.1 Rosenbaum Street in favor of the spaciously posh Jerusalem official residence on Smolenskin Street. But they had no desire to give up their Shabbat afternoon hospitality - which was a source of matchless pleasure to the general public and an unmatched migraine for the Shin Bet. For no prime minister had ever flung open his house to the community before.

"Shabbat shalom. Welcome. Come in. Have a drink. Thank you," said Mr. and Mrs. Begin, extending a hospitable hand to the visitors in the entrance hall, many of whom were holding housewarming gifts, of cake, flowers, chocolate and wine. Some were so awestruck they instinctively bowed and tiptoed across the threshold.

Once inside, people hung about gawking at the expansive living room with its furnishings that were a blend of old-style European and contemporary Israeli, set out on rich carpets. They silently admired the crystal chandelier in the dining room, the paintings on the walls, the Shabbat candelabras still coated with molten wax, and the framed pictures of the grandchildren on the grand piano. And while they stood and stared, the two Begin daughters and an older grandchild circulated among them, carrying trays of juice and soda and cookies and urging everybody to feel at home.

One skinny old man dressed in his Shabbat best, with pockets of fatigue under his eyes and jaws and jowls drooping with mourning, peered into Begin's face in the hallway as though studying an object at a museum. He refused to let the premier go until he had examined a snapshot of his wife and four children, discolored and crumbling at the edges. He thrust it under Begin's nose, gesticulating and shouting in Yiddish that in all his years at Auschwitz, where his family was gassed, he had never let go of this photograph and that whenever the SS searched him he had stuffed it into his mouth, which was why it was so cracked and creased and crumpled.

His voice trailed away as he spoke and his eyes went misty. Begin clasped him to his breast. A silent thread of communication passed between them, and the man's shattered posture slowly straightened. Wordlessly, he walked away.

Now a Yemenite walked in, with a flimsy beard and tight side-curls, and an alabaster-white skullcap with a tassel on top. He introduced himself as a grocer from Katamon, prompting Begin to ask him in saucy, folksy banter: "Nu, so tell me Mister Grocer, how am I doing in these first few weeks as your prime minister?"

The fellow stared at him hard, cocked his head, closed one eye, and shot back: "The truth? You want the truth? Here's the truth: I'm being robbed. My taxes are too high. You must bring them down."

"Azoy!" brooded Begin.

He took the man aside, and, with endless patience, spent the next few minutes explaining why taxes were high. "Things will change," he concluded. "We shall initiate new peace moves. We shall eliminate the slums with the help of our Diaspora brethren. We shall bring in new investments. We shall build new factories. We shall create new jobs.

And, yes, b'ezrat Hashem - God willing - we shall bring the taxes down."

The grocer listened intently, trust softening his eyes. And then, abruptly, he bent his knee to deferentially kiss the prime minister's hand. But Begin would have none of that. "A Jew bends his knee to no one but God," he reprimanded him gently.

Incredulous, disbelief written all over his sun-whacked face, the fellow moved off into the crowded living room. And I wondered how many other prime ministers ask a grocer for an opinion, listen to it, and then take the trouble to respond.

THE PLACE was by now jam-packed, so I stepped into the garden that led off from the living room, for air. Here, too, people were gathered, among them a driver I recognized from the Prime Minister's Office. His name was Rahamim and he was in the company of a dozen or so muscular young men, all nimbly cracking roasted sunflower seeds between their teeth, and all sporting Likud and Betar T-shirts.

Insisting I join them in their binge, they regaled me with tales of Begin's love fest with Sephardi Jews like themselves. And I provoked them, wanting to know what made them so passionate about Menachem Begin. After all, both Begin and his opponent, Shimon Peres, were born and bred in Poland.

Begin was as much an Ashkenazi as was Peres. So why?

"Ashke-Nazi," one man spat outrageously. Another, with the sloped shoulders of a boxer, shut him up with a look.

"We voted Begin because he's amcha - salt of the earth," this man said. "He's humble, honest, sincere. He never lined his pockets."

"And he's a Jew," offered another.

"That's why Labor treats him the way they treat us - like scum and garbage. Begin speaks like a Jew. He's not ashamed to say the word 'God' once in a while. So they laugh at him."

"Are you saying that Peres, Rabin, and all the rest of that crowd are not really Jews?" I asked challengingly.

"Jews they may be, but they behave like goyim," said the fellow, contempt in his eyes. "When was the last time Shimon Peres walked into a synagogue?

What's a Jew without walking into a synagogue sometimes? Even if we go to the football game or the beach Shabbat afternoons, we're there mornings in the beit knesset, most of us. It's self-respect!"

"Ya habibi," cut in another with a thick crown of black hair and a physique seemingly hardened by exercise into cast iron and wire. "Labor brought us here as cheap labor. In Casablanca my father was an honored member of the community. He was the patriarch of our family. He had kavod - honor! Dignity!

"Kavod!" they chorused in corroboration.

"He ran his own butcher shop in the casba. That's kavod! Now what does he do? He breaks his back on a building site. In Morocco only Arabs work on building sites."

Heads nodded passionately.

"In Morocco I was learning bookkeeping. Now I'm a dockworker. In Morocco only Arabs are dockworkers.

"The Ashkenazi socialist elite stole our kavod. Now Begin is giving it back. He has appointed some of our own as ministers in his cabinet. That's kavod!"

TWENTY-SIX years later, thinking back on that conversation in the prime minister's garden, I cannot but reflect that the things those men said resonate today like a ranting clich . But they were not a clich then. They were raw. And few could foretell that the rage and obsession those men personified would linger, infesting and agitating Israel's polity for generations to come.

But there was no time to mull over such matters in the twilight hour of that Shabbat, for one was distracted by the sight of the prime minister stepping out of the crowded living room into the floodlit garden, his animated features lit by a dazzling smile.

His entry was welcomed with whistles and applause. Eager faces greeted him.

Rahamim and his friends began to cry, ecstatically, "Begin! Begin! Begin!"

Everybody cheered, shouted, clapped, snake-danced their way around the lawn, and finally formed a circle around the prime minister, singing a rousing singsong proclaiming him "King of Israel."

Then somebody opened up with a thumping, patriotic Am Yisrael chai - The people of Israel lives! - which stirred Begin to lead them on, clapping his hands and bending his knees up and down to the rhythm of the beat, like a hassidic rabbi, rhapsodized. The atmosphere was bursting with delight.

Three stars appeared in the sky, and men assembled to recite the end-of-Shabbat prayers. A thick plaited candle, a silver spice box and an overflowing goblet of wine were brought in from the kitchen and the prime minister solemnly drew from his pocket a black yarmulke and lifted a granddaughter onto a chair. He placed the lit candle in her hand and she held it aloft, while he raised the wine goblet and chanted havdala, the closing ceremonial of the Sabbath day.

With that, the whole throng sang "Eliyahu hanavi" - the stirring verses signaling the start of a good week.

It was a moment folks wished might last forever.

Clearly, these were Begin's people, and this was their field day. Outcasts of the socialist establishment for decades, they had finally dumped the heirs of the country's agnostic founders, slipped the national anchor from its familiar moorings, and were now pushing off into uncharted waters, critical to the Jewish state's future. With Menachem Begin at the helm, they were setting their untutored course to navigate the perilous shoals ahead, while their shocked Labor antagonists instantly began arguing among themselves about what had caused their downfall.

They have never really stopped arguing since. All Israeli cabinets are vinegary vessels, punctured with caustic leaks and acerbic fights. But with the exception of two brief seasons in power since 1977, internecine warfare has been the distinguishing lot of the Labor Party, a fact that adds no muscle to a young democracy's vigor.

The writer is a veteran diplomat (avner28@netvision.net.il).

[yonif]

On the 90th anniversary of Menachem Begin's birth - a fond recollection of Shabbat in his company