Yom Hashoah, Yom Hazicharon, and Yom Haatzmaut

As I commented years ago, Israel has an extraordinary week of secular ritual that begins with Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Day), continues a week later with Yom HaZicharon (Memorial Day) and concludes a day later with Yom HaAtzmaut (Independence Day).  I would imagine that this week resembles Easter for Catholics.  You begin with unimaginable horror of a sacrifice of a people, you move to the sacrifice of young men to build a nation, and the following day, everything joyously bursts open (for which fireworks are an appropriate expression) in the happy redemption of a people renewed – Independence Day.

It’s unbearably sad on Yom Hashoah and unbearably sad on Yom HaZicharon.  I would say the sadness differs, although that might seem odd. Every year, on Holocaust Day, the stories of atrocities surprise me and move me to tears once again, as if I am learning about the Holocaust for the first time and not someone who at age 11 first read Night by Elie Wiesel. In Israel the radio program is filled with Holocaust narratives, and the evening of Holocaust Day, there are numerous documentary films. This year I watched the return of two brothers in their 70s to Krakow.  Little children, protected by an aunt, they had wandered through several countries. One wasn’t sure of his name, and one of the moving scenes was when he sat in the registry of names in Krakow and discovered his original name and that of his parents and grandparents.  They came alive again, and the man, who had escaped his childhood, burst into tears at his unbearable loss of identity and discovery..

Today is Memorial Day. To some extent, I am more deeply moved on this day, perhaps because all my four children served in the Israeli army, perhaps, because my youngest just finished, perhaps because I know that this is a story of the loss of children and the unrelieved pain of parents, and it is a story that might be that of every Israeli. This is the morning when cemeteries are crowded with the living who pay homage to the dead.

It may be true that you cannot escape the memory of the dead in Israel.  My former wife’s uncle was killed in the War of Independence.  For a decade, his parents mourned, and once, every year, my mother-in-law would visit the grave of her older brother in Moshav Rishpon.  When I lived on Kibbutz Kfar Hahoresh, the secretary was killed in the first War in Lebanon; and my son-in-law’s first cousin was killed years ago. I have been lucky I know; I know so few who have been killed.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, all of Israel celebrates with barbecues; and the skies are filled with smoke and the smell of burning meat.  And this, too, is an ancient custom, as if we have offered sacrifice to the Temple, and with the meat we have, as in days of old, we gather with our families and friends, and luxuriate in the goodness of life.

Madama Butterfly

The other day I drove down to meet Jonathan at the Israeli opera company to see a performance of “Madama Butterfly.” It had been one of those days in which nothing I had planned had gotten done, so I left for Tel-Aviv in a lousy mood, and basically, I didn’t want to go. But I knew that as soon as I reached the opera house, all the frustration, anger, and discomfort would vanish as if they had never been. The drive into Tel-Aviv is about 50  minutes, and it is not especially pleasant, although nearly all the way is on a super highway. I should modify that. It is not a bad ride at all, but I was disgruntled and I’ve made the ride so often, it has all the charm of the New Jersey  Turnpike. I know where there might be traffic and how to wiggle my way out of jams; and I knew that the worst part of the trip was Tel-Aviv, its traffic light, its traffic, and, most importantly, finding a parking space. Clearly, anyone who has driven knows that the anxieties regarding the future obstacles in store do not begin five or ten minutes before arrival, but they were already present when the foot first pressed on the gas pedal and I made my fretful way out of Pardess Hannah to the great metropolis of Tel-Aviv. By the time, I turned off the highway into the city, I was ready for a life and death struggle — and every other driver beware. Lo and behold! I found a parking spot immediately. My anger fell away without a sound.

There were two options at the opera house.  The opera was being shown on a large screen in the courtyard in front of the theater, and we had the possibility of getting half-price tickets if any were left.  The only seats available were in the last row in the house, so I found two empty chairs not far from the screen and waited for Jonathan to join me.  We arrived about an hour before the performance, and it was good we did, as the Israelis who had already claimed seats often saved enough empty chairs for entire households, so that one would see vast stretches of empty chairs in attendance for viewers who had not yet shown and probably wouldn’t for nearly an hour.

Before the performance, I was worried that the sound system would be dreadful, as they usually are in outdoor performances in Israel.  But it was excellent. And so, by the way, was the opera.  Michael Handelzaltz, the theater critic for HaAretz newspaper, had written that it was the best opera production he had ever seen in Israel.  That was why no decent tickets were available — and, by the time the opera began perhaps a hundred or more people were standing to the side (more chairs would be put outside).

I have seen several productions of Madama Butterfly on television and none came close to this one.  The opera, for those who are unfamiliar with it, tells a rather simple story of a young Japanese girl, Butterfly, who at the age of 15 is married to Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton.  Thrilled with all the romantic ardor of a girl, she converts to Christianity and remains steadfastly loyal to Pinkerton, even rejecting the offers of a rich landowner after Pinkerton abandons her for over three years when returning to the U.S.  Because she converts, she is rejected by her family, and lives as a poor outcast, her only companion her servant Suzuki. Pinkerton reminded me of a character in “Mad Men,” with that same disdain that comes from successful male enterprise.  He wants sex and comfort, and is willing to pay for it.  After three years, he returns with his American wife.  Butterfly gives her (their) son up and kills herself.

The opera is essentially a chamber piece, and usually, directors and stage managers distract from the eloquent story with stage busyness, for the opera is lost on a large stage. This, by the way, is a common problem with operas, since, of necessity, opera stages are built for grand 19th century productions, and intimate theater often seems out of place.  The staging and lighting here were both brilliant (a Polish production).  The actors generally played in the proscenium toward the front; behind them were sliding black screens that at times completely isolated them and at times opened to present different vistas — the sea with Japese fishing boys in silhouette, a shrine, or a higher ramp where other actors sat.  The acting of all the Japanese characters and occasionally Butterfly was choreographed as if from a Kabuki drama, and several of the characters were in whiteface.  I can’t describe how extraordinary the effect was.

And then there was Butterfly – Ira (pronounced Eera) Bertman, who was perfect.  She played as if she was a little girl first experiencing love, and her voice was both powerful and exquisite.  The opera was heartwrenching, truly, truly heartwrenching.

One said, “Wow.” One said (to oneself), “No, I will not cry.”  Who cries at an opera?  Nothing was false within the artifice of this opera — everything seemed perfectly realized.  I have seen a Madama Butterfly where Pinkerton had such a heavy Italian accent that his pretending to be America was preposterous.  This Pinkerton was utterly convincing as the callow imperialist, using his money to buy a temporary wife and home.

I drove home still enthralled by what I had seen. And, of course, the ride seemed shorter on the way back (I made it in record time).