They both made friends, the rabbi and Miriam, she at the hospital and at her Ulpan, and he at the synagogue. These they entertained occasionally in the evening and were entertained by them, after the manner of the country with tea and coffee, cookies, and conversation. Once the rabbi overcame his misgivings of traffic conditions and rented a car; they toured the Galilee and spent a few days at a kibbutz. They had met the chaver, comrade, at a party when he had come up to the city to transact some kibbutz business. His name was Itzical. They never found out his surname.
"Come and visit us for a few days and see how the real Israel lives. My next-door neighbor is going on holiday and you can use his cottage."
"But who shall I ask for when I arrive?"
"Ask for Itzical— they'll know."
His child, a youngster of Jonathan's age. had been given permission to stay with his parents rather than at the Children's House, where the children of the same age lived together communally, so that Jonathan might have someone to play with. He came with his father the next day, Friday, to take them to the community dining hall for breakfast. The rabbi was reciting the morning prayers when they entered. The little boy watched, his eyes wide with astonished interest.
"What is he doing, Father?"
"Sh— he's praying."
"But those things he's wearing, the shawl and those straps?"
"Those are his tallis and t'Jillen. You remember in your picture book of the war, there were some soldiers at the Wall wearing the same things."
"Why do they wear them?"
"They think it helps in their prayers."
"But why do they pray?"
The rabbi had finished. He smiled at the youngster. "Because we are grateful and wish to give thanks." he said.
Itzical smiled, too. "We are a nonreligious kibbutz," he said. "Maybe even antireligious."
"You don't observe any of the holidays or the Sabbath?"
"Not the religious holidays, and the others in our own way."
"But none of our holidays are purely religious, except perhaps the Day of Atonement." the rabbi said.
"So that's the one we don't observe."
"You go out of your way not to observe it, or you disregard it— which?"
Itzical shrugged. "You know how it is. Most of us just disregard it, but some of the enlightened ones tend to be doctrinaire, and you could say they go out of their way to disregard it."
Nevertheless, the evening meal, the Sabbath dinner, was festive. All the kibbutz members had spruced up, the women wearing dresses instead of jeans and the men in white shirts open at the throat. The meal was the traditional meal of gefilte fish and chicken, and there were even candles and wine on the table.
The Smalls sat at the same table as Itzical and his family, and the rabbi looked around the large room. Over in one corner he saw several couples at a table, and all the men wore yarmulkes.
He nodded. "Who are they? Are they members of the kibbutz?"
"Yes, they are members. They are religious. No one minds; we even have a separate kitchen for them. They joined us a few years ago. We were glad to have them. It was a little dangerous in those days. Would you feel more comfortable eating with them?"
"No. I'm completely comfortable right here." the rabbi said. "But would you mind if I put on my yarmulke? It's a matter of habit as much as anything with me. And it will save Jonathan asking questions."
"By all means."
"And do you mind if I say the blessing for wine and for bread?"
"Go right ahead. Rabbi. I understand. Of course. I don't believe in it myself—"
"It's showing gratitude for the food one receives." He smiled. "The ability to express gratitude is one of the ways in which man differs from the lower animals, and it's good to manifest the difference occasionally."
Itzical shook his head. "I can see you don't know much about animals, Rabbi. Believe me, they can express gratitude, too."
The rabbi considered, and then he nodded and smiled. "Well, it's also good to show the similarity with the lower animals now and then."
Itzical laughed. "You're all right. Rabbi. I see that no matter what, you'll find an excuse for saying the blessing. Go ahead. I'll even stand while you say it."
As they started on the long drive back to Jerusalem several days later. Miriam asked. "Do you think you would like living on a kibbutz. David?"
"Yes, I think I might. If we were to stay on here. I'd give it serious consideration. It used to be a kind of heroic thing to join a kibbutz, and I guess it still is in some parts of the country. But for most of them, it seems to be the best deal in the country on a purely economic basis."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, you know things are not cheap here."
"Food is— at least certain things are cheaper than in the States."
"Yes, but everything else is apt to be more expensive— housing, clothes, a car. electrical appliances. Most people seem to have them, even though it would seem impossible on the salaries that are paid." He shook his head. "How people live on their salaries— that's the big miracle of Israel! I keep asking people, but I haven't got a convincing explanation yet. As far as I can make out. you borrow to buy the things you need, like an apartment, and then if you don't keep up your payments, it's almost impossible to evict you. So they just add the missed payments to your debt, and you just sweat it out until the currency is devalued or the government passes some sort of relief law. Well, in the kibbutz, you don't have to worry about such things. Everything, all expenses are taken care of. And it appears to be a good life. Yes, if we decided to settle here. I'd give it a lot of thought."
"A religious kibbutz, of course," Miriam pointed out.
"I'm not so sure. Or perhaps I should say that I'm not so sure that the nonreligious ones aren't really religious. You know, the Sabbath we just spent, it could be that was the way it was supposed to be celebrated. And I imagine that it's quite possible that in Biblical times, they celebrated the various holidays the way they celebrate them in the nonreligious kibbutz. Some of them are nature festivals like Shavuoth and Sukkoth. Well, the people who live close to the earth, as the kibbutzniks do. probably celebrate them the way those primitive people of Biblical times did and for the same reason— because it's natural."
They had left the irrigated fields of the kibbutz and were now traveling through desert, the land parched and dry, stony and barren, save for an occasional clump of low. dusty bushes that marked the path of a wadi. The bright sun was reflected off the hard-baked ground in a yellow glare. The oppressiveness of the lifeless scene silenced him. And then, in an effort to throw it off, he began talking again
"As a rabbi. I'm a professionally religious person. I pray at stated times and in specific ways. Some of it is a matter of habit, like brushing my teeth. And some of it I have consciously practiced because I thought it important for the preservation of the religion and the people like the Englishman who was supposed to dress for dinner in the jungle. But things are different here. You don't have to follow strict observances here because you don't have to make the point. I imagine that same Englishman was a lot less meticulous about dressing for dinner when he was back in London. It may be all that we've added over the years, the prayers, the special ceremonials, were done to make that same kind of point and were necessary for that reason. But now it may be that the reason is gone and they are no longer necessary."