PASSPORT PHOTOGRAPH
A veteran member of the kibbutz appears in a sepia
photograph taken in Lodz some fifty years ago.
It
shows a pudgy youth of seventeen, with his shirt buttoned up
to the neck but without a tie . (Perhaps a compromise between
respectability and pioneering ideals.) An open, slightly ingenuous
face, a spoiled mouth, and a frank, direct look in the eyes . An ex–
pression which seems to be saying, "I have no complaints, and I am
sure that no one has any complaints about me . I'm perfectly all
right. Everything's perfectly all right. It'll be OK."
The hair is brushed straight back, apart from a single unruly
lock, suggesting a schoolboy-but-definitely-not-a-child: "You all
think that I'm a simple, straightforward, likeable sort of lad, and
you're not mistaken. I certainly am one of those decent chaps you
can rely on, but you should know that if we're talking about, say,
girls, I'm perfectly capable of getting up to a spot of mischief, and in
fact I've already managed one or two japes, I'll leave it to you to
guess what."
It
is still possible to compare the old photograph with the man's
face as it is now-wrinkled, tired, sunburnt, and windlashed, and
yet, not healthy. Now, almost at the very end, all that is left of that
cultured-but-pioneering smile is a disillusioned grin : "All right.
That's the way it is. So be it." The hair has receded and the furrowed
brow extends almost to the top of the skull. The ears, large and pen–
dulous, have finally found their rightful place. The chin is more
pointed now, and underneath it there are pockets or bags, as though
this were an elderly philanderer instead of a veteran Zionist socialist
and an exemplary working man.
And the concerns now: "It's all over. It's all happened. Not that
it was bad or disappointing, or-heaven forbid-a bad bargain, but
it's simply all over." What a terrible thing. All over. Girls . Wars.
Discussions. Children. Work. Rifts and reconciliations. Grand–
children. Assignments. Victories. All over. Now the ideals have faded
and the desires have grown cold, and of all the old longings, only a
handful are left. A little honor. A little peace and quiet. A little affec–
tion. And, no muckraking. A little politeness please. Remember
who you're talking to. Mind your manners. I haven't spoken my last
word yet, and I can still cause a fair amount of unpleasantness if I
decide to speak up. So, if you don't mind ... And the astonish–
ment: ("What?! So that's it? All over? How on earth?") And the fear,
