Chapter 7

The war with Egypt ended five days after the relief of Ein Tsofar and six days after the birth of Herzl Daniel Grossman, on January 7, with a cease-fire agreement that led a week later to the start of serious armistice talks, which in turn led on the twenty-fourth of February to a completed Armistice Agreement with Egypt. Operation Horev had been an outstanding success.

With Egypt effectively out of the war, the action against the balance of Israel’s enemies became largely diplomatic, and Benjamin Grossman—Captain Benjamin Grossman, now—was not in his proper element as a diplomat. Fighting was his specialty, his love, but at least he now knew what his career would be. He would remain in the army. Someone had to, and he was as qualified as any. He was also convinced, as were most, that the war would go on for a long time. After all, there had been no peace settlements to end hostilities, only armistices until peace would someday come, and that day was nowhere in sight.

The final Armistice Agreement was signed with Jordan on March 4 after a month’s negotiation; with Lebanon on March 23; and the final agreement was concluded with Syria on July 20.

The Preamble of the Armistice Agreements stated “… that the Agreements were concluded in order to facilitate the transition from the present truce to permanent peace.” Article 1 stated that “… no aggressive actions by the armed forces—land, sea, or air—of either party shall be undertaken, planned, or threatened against the people or armed forces of the other.” Article 2 stated that “… no warlike act or hostility shall be conducted from territory controlled by one of the Parties against the other Party.”

Everyone knew as the agreements were being signed that the war would go on. The armistices were meant to give time to regroup, rearm, replan. And Benjamin Grossman intended to be part of that replanning. After all, he now had to plan, not just for himself, but for his family.

Herzl Daniel Grossman was everything a father could have hoped for. He was handsome, bright, and healthy. At times Benjamin Grossman regretted that his son could not have been raised with the advantages he had enjoyed on the sweeping estates in Angermünde, of being trained in the Junker tradition to sustain him through life. But he had to admit that in those many absences of his occasioned by his increasingly important position in the Israeli Army, Deborah was doing an exceptional job of raising their child, even though she maintained her job as head nurse at the Magen David Adom. True, she was raising him to a full appreciation of his responsibilities as a dedicated Sabra, but this no longer meant very much to Benjamin Grossman. The important thing was that Herzl was growing up a happy child; thinking back, Benjamin Grossman could not recall having been very happy as a child, even with the estates and the stables and even with the Junker tradition.

In appearance, the boy was remarkably as Ben had been as a child. He had slate-blue eyes, a wide forehead beneath unruly sandy hair, an almost perfectly chiseled profile. He had a quick mind, and from his mother he had inherited a certain steadiness, a dedication to the integrity of his own convictions. A few of his teachers in school called it stubbornness, but it was actually more a refusal to concede when he felt he was right. He was, in short, everything Grossman was sure he would have been himself had he had a father to appreciate him, love him, raise him and direct him as Herzl had been appreciated, loved, raised and directed. It compensated to a large extent for the fact that Deborah could not have any more children; the difficult delivery in the darkened Ein Tsofar cave had seen to that.

Although there were increasingly constant demands upon Colonel Grossman’s time by his increasingly important position in the armed forces, he still made special efforts to get home to Tel Aviv as often as possible. And when he was home he spent almost all of his time with his son. Herzl, growing up, was a very popular boy, but he also took time from his own activities whenever his father was available to spend with a parent he respected and adored. Herzl was a lucky boy, and unlike many lucky boys, was wise enough to know it.

When Ben Grossman was home, and occasionally when he was not, Max Brodsky would drop over to have a drink, to share dinner, or simply to pass the time. Following the war, Brodsky had also decided to remain in the defense establishment, returning to Mossad, which handled intelligence and security matters, and in the years since had risen to the position of colonel. He was now assistant to the head of section, and it was predicted in the army that in time he was sure to head the section.

Max Brodsky had never married—a subject often brought up by Deborah in their many meetings, since Deborah had come to believe in the necessity of marriage for happiness—and being alone Max was free to enjoy his friendships where he found them, and the Grossman family were very close to him in many ways.

None of them lived luxuriously; the State of Israel had little money to waste on extravagant salaries either for its soldiers or for its security or intelligence personnel. Still, Max Brodsky and the Grossman family lived comfortably enough in apartments only several blocks apart in the Tel Aviv suburb of Ramat Gan, a little farther from the beaches Herzl liked so much than he would have preferred, but otherwise they were all quite happy there. But money, Grossman often thought on reflection, was certainly not vital to happiness. They lived contentedly; he enjoyed his work and loved his family, and the same was true of Deborah. Life before he had come to Israel—actually, before he had been forced against his will to come to Palestine, as he often smilingly admitted in Brodsky’s presence—had faded from his mind completely. He wondered to himself many times why he had set such a high value on that money in Switzerland. With it, where would he be? Wherever it might have been, it would have been without his family, without Herzl, and without Deborah, which would have been unthinkable.

He and Brodsky would often sit on the small porch of the apartment, enjoying the breeze, sipping brandy, watching the neighborhood children shouting and screaming in the street below, and speak of many things. They spoke of the vital necessity to improve the army, to organize the reserves more efficiently, to develop more sophisticated weaponry both offensive and defensive; and little Herzl, forgoing the games in the street, would sit and listen, excited to be in the presence of two men whose influence upon his country’s future—his mother continually assured him—was so important. He was proud to be the son of one and the good friend, the adopted nephew so to speak, of the other.

But the times spent with his father and his Uncle Max were not always confined to serious discussion. The two men would take Herzl with them when they went to Morris Wolf’s restaurant in the southern sector of Tel Aviv not far from Yafo, and sit for hours, with Wolf telling them of the odd and humorous things that can happen in the life of a German-refugee restaurateur in a Yemenite neighborhood; or they would go on picnics at the beach, and Brodsky would point out the exact spot where the Ruth had landed them, and tell Herzl how his father had saved them all that night by shooting out the radar scope and the floodlight on the British gunboat, and go on to tell him how his father had been picked up that night with a gun in his hands and had been sentenced to death by the British, only to be rescued and sent to Ein Tsofar, where he had met Herzl’s mother.

Ben Grossman would laugh.

“You make it sound very romantic, very heroic. I was simply stupid, that’s all. I spoke no Hebrew then, nor English, and I had no idea of what was happening or what anyone was talking about. My biggest concern when the British took me in that night, believe it or not, was that they were taking my passport away from me and I knew I would never get it back. It was a forged passport, of course, supposedly a Venezuelan one—and I couldn’t speak Spanish, either.” He would laugh at the memory. “How’s that for being heroic?”

Or Herzl would take the opportunity at times when his Uncle Max was around—for he knew his Uncle Max’s presence would elicit reminiscences from his father when nothing else could—to ask his father about stories of the war of 1948, or the Sinai campaign of 1956 that had ended a few years before. Major Benjamin Grossman had been one of those responsible for the planning of that campaign, which had turned out so brilliantly from a military standpoint, and so disastrously from a diplomatic one. But on the subject of war, Grossman would put the boy off with a smile.

“War is just a job,” he would say to the eleven-year-old Herzl. “Just another job. It’s neither particularly noble nor particularly demeaning. It’s just something that, unfortunately, has to be done from time to time if you and I and your mother are to survive. And survival is what is important, not war.”

“It’s just a job,” Brodsky would say, “except you do the job exceptionally well. And you also seem to enjoy the job.”

Grossman would shrug deprecatingly.

“One should always do a job he enjoys, or at least try to enjoy whatever job he has to do. As for doing it well, with enough practice one has to improve.” He would smile at his son and put his hand on the boy’s head affectionately. “When you’re a famous surgeon, Herzl, you won’t need as much practice saving lives as I have, sadly, taking them.”

Then there was the time both Brodsky and Grossman decided they needed more exercise; they were middle-aged men now and spent too much time sitting at desks. They decided that tennis was the best sport suited to their age, and that it would also be a good sport for thirteen-year-old Herzl to learn. One day Herzl sat on the side lines while his father and Uncle Max played. When the two men were finished and came to sit beside the boy, wiping the sweat from their faces, Herzl frowned at his father.

“Dad, were you ever wounded in the war?”

“Wounded in the war? No, why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just—well, when you serve the ball you serve it sort of underhand, like a girl. I know something’s wrong with your arm, you never lift it up high, like Uncle Max or me. That’s why I wondered if you were wounded in the war.”

Grossman laughed delightedly.

“Herzl, Herzl! You and your Uncle Max insist on making your father out to be a big hero. The truth is, I fell out of a tree when I was a little boy, about six or seven, a tree I ‘shouldn’t have been up in in the first place. I broke my arm—my shoulder, actually—and the doctor who set it didn’t do a very good job.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and then leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. “And that’s why your heroic father can’t raise his arm too high.”

When Herzl Grossman was fifteen years old, he was seduced by a friend of the family, a widow of thirty-eight named Rifkah Zimmerman. Rifkah Zimmerman’s husband had been killed in the Sinai, and as the years went by she found herself more and more missing the passionate nights they had enjoyed. Mrs. Zimmerman began noticing the son of her old friend, Deborah Grossman. As she watched Herzl grow older and larger she often found herself, at first unwillingly, and then purposely, erotically picturing the sexual education of the boy and her own enjoyment at providing it. She would tell herself she was ridiculous, a sick woman; but that did not stop the fantasizing. She could not, however, think of a proper excuse to get Herzl alone at her home, and so she filed the desire, along with all the many other unfulfilled wishes, and went about her life.

But then Herzl began delivering groceries for the neighborhood store, and Mrs. Zimmerman always ordered her groceries from this store by telephone. Rifkah worked and had little time for shopping, preferring to use her one day off doing housework or resting. This particular afternoon, when the bell rang, she had just finished her bath and was dressed in a dressing gown. She went to answer the door and then felt a sudden flush as she saw Herzl there. She swung the door wide to allow him passage with the large carton he carried, leaning forward a bit as she held it open so that his arm brushed one of her full breasts.

“Herzl! Come in. When did you start delivering?”

“Just this week,” Herzl said, and turned to leave, his arm tingling from the unexpected and exciting softness it had encountered. He had also pictured being alone with Mrs. Zimmerman; he was at an age when his thoughts were predominantly on being alone with many women and girls. But like Rifkah Zimmerman, he knew it was an impossible dream. He also knew he was too nervous with girls to do anything about any of his dreams.

“Wait,” she said hurriedly, trying to form a scenario on short notice, not wishing to lose a rare opportunity. “Have a cold glass of tea, or a soda. Sit, sit. You don’t have to run, do you?” She thought for a moment of inquiring about his parents, but then felt it would be a mistake to bring in her contemporaries at this point.

“No,” Herzl said, surprised at the invitation, but still convinced it had to only be friendly hospitality, because what else could it be? Anything else could only be another dream to add to his frustrations at night in bed, when he knew he would recall the incident and embellish it in his imagination. “No, this is my last delivery.”

“Good! Then sit, sit. Tea? Or soda?”

Herzl sat and thought considering the choice, but his mind was not on it. He tried not to stare at the bulge where Rifkah’s fine breasts strained against the smooth cloth of the dressing gown, aware of his growing erection, and also aware that the dressing gown allowed a glimpse of a dimpled knee as it gaped every now and then. Rifkah looked at him coyly, gaining confidence.

“It’s such a hard choice, tea or soda? Your mind is on something else? What is it? Your girl friend?”

Herzl blushed. “I—I don’t have a girl friend …”

Rifkah stared at him in pretended disbelief. “What? No girl friend? A handsome, good-looking, big boy like you?” She shook her head, the movement dislodging the dressing gown a trifle more. “You must be joking! I bet the girls are all over you. I bet they can’t keep their hands off you.”

“No, really,” Herzl said, confused by the discussion. “I never even—” He stopped, his face flaming with embarrassment, forcibly raising his eyes from the now partially visible cleavage.

Rifkah Zimmerman felt a wave of heat suffuse her body. She knew now that she was on a path that could end only in bed, or in a rejection that would shatter her. Should the boy tell his parents—! She forced the thought away. She could not stop now.

“No girl friend?” Her voice sounded odd, even to herself, but the words almost formed themselves. “And what haven’t you ever? Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a woman without her clothes? A naked woman?”

Herzl stared at her, speechless. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Or was it happening? Maybe she was merely being curious, making a friendly query, as an aunt might make. Or, rather, an uncle. He wet his lips.

“No, ma’am …” His voice was low and hoarse.

“Would you like to?” Rifkah’s voice had also dropped, as if they were two conspirators deciding on a terrible but needful act.

Herzl could only nod, his throat dry. Rifkah opened her dressing gown and then watched his face anxiously, as if fearing his rejection. Herzl’s eyes were wide, his face pale. She dropped the gown entirely, watching him.

“Well? Am I ugly? Say something.”

“No … No … You’re beautiful …”

“Good. Come.” She felt the flush of success and took his hand, pressing it to her breast, leading him toward the bedroom. “Come …”

Their affair lasted two years.

Once, one evening when they had finished making love, Herzl pulled Rifkah to him tightly.

“I love you …”

For the first time Rifkah’s voice was sharp with him.

“Never say that! When you fall in love, you’ll know it. Don’t make a mistake about that. You’re just a boy; I’m an old woman. We give each other pleasure; that’s enough.”

And when, after those two years, Rifkah Zimmerman remarried and moved to Haifa, Herzl felt betrayed. He had not even known she was seeing anyone else. But after a short time the ache went and he found himself realizing how much he owed her. She had taken him through some very difficult growing-up years, and while he knew now he had never loved her, he also knew he would always feel a profound sense of gratitude to her for all she had done for him. He wondered how he would feel if he ever saw her again, but he never did.

Colonel Benjamin Grossman’s stature in the Israeli Defense Forces grew as time went on and as his usefulness in assignments other than fighting became more and more evident. Old Shmuel Ginzberg was still alive but he was a very old man now, who lived with a daughter on a kibbutz in the Galilee, and who was no longer active in any capacity. In his place, Colonel Grossman was often called upon to travel to foreign countries, to make purchases of everything from armaments—which were still needed despite the growing Israeli industry—to supplies of every nature. His technical skills came in handy, as well as what Morris Wolf claimed was his natural Jewish ability to bargain, despite Grossman’s evident antireligious attitude. And on several occasions of his trips abroad, Colonel Grossman took his son along, for he felt the boy needed broadening before facing the demands and sacrifices almost built in to the study for a medical career. So Herzl grew up a well-rounded boy in a happy home with a happy future ahead of him—which was exactly as Benjamin Grossman had planned it.

It was very shortly after the 1967 war that Brigadier General Benjamin Grossman was one day asked, rather formally to his surprise, if he might drop into the office of Chief of Security Max Brodsky. The request almost amounted to a demand, and it was therefore with a bit of surprise that he presented himself in the outer office and was told by an extremely efficient-looking secretary that he was expected and could go right in.

Max was sitting behind his huge desk, which, as usual, was entirely clear of papers and supported only two telephones and a note pad. He smiled at Ben and waved him to a chair. Ben took the one directly across the desk from Brodsky, and frowned.

“You wanted to see me, Max?”

Brodsky swung his swivel chair to stare from the window a moment, and then swung back. He tented his fingers and stared at Grossman across them, thoughtfully.

“Ben,” he said slowly, “you spent a lot of time at Ein Tsofar …”

“Too much,” Grossman said, wondering at the statement. “Nearly a year, in fact. Why?”

“Your shop, where you worked, was in a cave, as was the hospital. And there were other caves, as well, where arms were stored, and there were also the old cisterns, I believe, going back to biblical days …”

“That’s right. Why?”

“What did you think of the caves?”

“In what way?”

“Were you ever afraid the roof might collapse and bury you?”

“Those caves?” Grossman shook his head, becoming more and more puzzled by the direction the conversation was taking. “As you said, they were there from biblical times without falling in; they’ll be there forever. They’re solid as rock. Why?”

“All of them solid?”

“All of them.” Grossman leaned across the desk. “Now tell me why the questions.”

“I know you’re not a geologist,” Brodsky said, totally disregarding Ben’s request, “but you are a fine engineer. I don’t want to bring in any geologists on this; in fact, I don’t want to bring in anyone I don’t definitely need. Let me ask you this. If we were to take all of the caves, plus the old cistern excavations, and make one big room out of them or out of some of them, by cutting away the walls, would the mountain simply collapse and fill them in?”

Grossman leaned back, considering the question on its merits.

“I don’t believe so, not if you took proper precautions. You would have to shore up the present cave roofs before you started to cut away the walls and eventually, of course, you might want to concrete the entire roof area, but it could be done. Why?”

“How big a room could be built inside that mountain?”

Grossman shrugged. “As big as you want, I suppose. Acres, if you wanted. I understand they have bomb shelters in the United States built under mountains in the west, there, the size of villages. Why? What are you thinking of putting there? Not a bomb shelter, I’m sure, a hundred miles away from people.”

Brodsky swiveled his chair and stared from the window a moment before swiveling back.

“I suppose you’ll have to know …”

Grossman frowned. “You suppose?”

Brodsky laughed. “I’ve been in security too long, I guess. I mean, of course you must know. I’ll need your help. We have a big job to do.”

The war of 1967 also had a profound effect on Herzl Grossman. When the war was over and Herzl emerged from it unscathed at the age of eighteen, he strongly suspected that surgery was not the profession he would have chosen without his father’s influence. As an infantryman in the attacks on the Old City of Jerusalem, and at Ramallah, Nablus, and later the storming of the Golan Heights by way of Tel Azaziyat at the northernmost end of the Syrian fortifications, he had seen enough blood in that short week to last him a lifetime. He recognized that there would undoubtedly be other wars in the future in which he would be called upon to serve, and he also knew there would be bloodshed in those. But that was blood that could not be avoided, while the blood of the operating room could be. It was a weak argument and he recognized it as such, and so he dutifully entered the university in the fall of that year, prepared to continue his pre-medical studies at least until he found some other profession more to his liking.

Three additional years of university did not make him more amenable to the ideas of spending his life either cutting someone open or sewing them back together again. They were years that formed a sort of hiatus in his life, years passed through in a state of inertia rather than of progress, pointless years. He spent only as much time with books as was necessary to pass his subjects; otherwise he often found himself restlessly walking the streets or sitting on the beach staring out to sea, searching for he knew not what. At times he would sit with his friends at one of the sidewalk cafes on Ben Yehuda Street, halfheartedly arguing with his more impassioned companions such youthful subjects as sex, or politics, or religion—for nowhere is religion argued more vehemently than in the all-Jewish country of Israel. Girl friends he had none; he felt he wanted to settle down to a meaning, a significance in life before encumbering himself with girls. On occasion he would visit one of the houses at the upper end of Hayarkon Street, but he always came away feeling cheated by the falseness of their affection as compared to the warmth and passion of Rifkah.

As the years passed Herzl began to feel a sense of panic, as if he were being drawn into medicine as a future against his will. But he needed an anchor to hold him from being swept into the operating room with its sutures and its scalpels and its blood and death, and in the middle of his final year of pre-medical studies, he found it.

One evening a friend of his, studying Communication at the university, invited him to a club the friend had recently joined, a film club, and in the course of the three hours spent at the meeting, Herzl Grossman felt as if a curtain had been raised before his eyes, revealing his future so clearly as to make him wonder why he had not found the miracle answer before.

He sat on the floor with the others who could not find seats, and watched a jumpy, amateurishly made picture, filmed with a handheld camera in black and white, covering a trip the cameraman had made to the Dead Sea caves, and the uncovering of some of the early discoveries of the archaeologists exploring there. The cameraman, admittedly a beginner but a definite enthusiast, kept up a running commentary—for the film, of course, had no sound—describing what was being done, how he and another member of the club had climbed together with the archaeologists to the caves high in the cliffs, how they had managed lights from battery packs or used light reflected from tilted stainless-steel mirrors for some of their interior shots of the caves. He apologized for much of the camerawork, explaining that he had a very limited collection of lenses, and pointed out certain shots he would have improved had he owned better equipment.

When the showing was over and tea and cake served, Herzl listened enthralled as the members criticized the picture, not in any fashion meant to denigrate, but rather with an eye to learning themselves, to fathom the means of improvement. The evening opened an entire new vista for Herzl, and as he walked home that night he pictured the endless things that could be brought to the screen through the magic of the camera. Until that night he had gone to the cinema as most of his friends did, to enjoy whatever was unfolded on the screen for his entertainment, without the slightest thought as to the techniques and combined efforts behind the finished product.

The following week the film club was privileged to have for showing a professionally produced documentary, produced by a small but active company for the Israeli Government’s Department of Highways. The film dealt with the construction of the first all-weather road from Ein Bokek at the juncture of the Arad Road and the Dead Sea, down through the Negev Desert to Eilat on the Red Sea Gulf. The film was in color and accompanied by proper sound, and Herzl lost himself in it. It was an area of the country he knew; with his father he had returned several times to Ein Tsofar to see where he was born, and to listen again to the tales of those tense days. Several times on these trips they had taken their jeep down into the desert south of Sdom, once as far as Ein Yahav, nearly halfway to the gulf, bouncing along the barely defined trails, noting the signs that indicated there were mines still scattered about the inhospitable terrain, seeing the depth markers for the water that could suddenly flood, even in that arid region, from a cloudburst over the sharp wadis.

He found himself studying the film from a completely different angle than he had ever watched a film before, trying to picture where the cameraman had set up his equipment for various shots, how they must have waited for a certain position of the sun—for it certainly wasn’t luck—to get the reflection just right off the steep cliffs behind the mounds of potash at the Dead Sea Works, or how they arranged the sharp shadows of the broken country surrounding Hatzeva Ir Ovot. As he walked home that night, rerunning the film through his mind, he knew how very little he knew, and how very, very much he would have to learn.

But the university, he was convinced, was not the place to learn. As one couldn’t study war properly at the university despite the training one received in the reserves, so one couldn’t study film-making there despite the courses taught. During the week he had gone over the curriculum of the communications courses and the little they had to teach in film techniques and the related subjects was certainly not enough to justify the time. He had wasted over three years already; he could not afford to waste more. The field was where one learned, as it was in war. With experience one learned, not with theory. So he went out and got a job.

But he wondered how his father would react.

At the moment his father was in bed, reading a newspaper—he had little time during the day. At his side, Deborah was knitting—she also had little time during the day. She put aside her knitting and turned to him.

“Ben—”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Of course.” Grossman put down the newspaper he wasn’t particularly interested in reading in the first place, since it represented the political opposition, and looked at Deborah with a smile. Married twenty-two years and she still excited him. “What is it?”

“It’s about Herzl.”

“What about him?”

“He’s been talking to me lately. He wants to leave the university—”

Grossman frowned. “A girl?”

“No, no. He doesn’t want to be a doctor. He wants to make movies—”

“Movies?”

“Ben, listen. Please. He’s become totally involved. He told me all about it, about how it’s not just pointing a camera and you take a picture, but how it’s writing and planning and balancing—whatever he meant by that—and knowing about sets and locations and lenses and angles and lights and shadows—”

“Deborah—”

“And he said there’s research, too, because if a film doesn’t have authenticity, the people can tell in a second. And he said there’s a lot to the business angle, too, the question of financing, which he says is sometimes the hardest part of a project. He went out and got a job with a company named Zion Films—”

“Deborah!”

“—they’re a small company making documentaries, but that’s what he wants to make,” Deborah went on quickly, not looking at Ben, “and he got a job in the research department, which is starting at the bottom, but they’re planning a film that will take him to Munich, there’s a library there for research—”

“Deborah!” Ben put his hand over her mouth and then removed it when she finally stopped talking. He looked at her, smiling, and then became serious. “You’re obviously in favor.”

Deborah nodded slowly.

“I wasn’t, at first. But Herzl wants it, he wants it very much. And he’s a man, now. It’s hard to believe, but he’s a man. And he sounds very sure of himself. He—he’s a bit nervous about telling you.”

“Am I such an ogre?”

“You’re no ogre at all—no, Ben! You have to get some rest; you have a long trip tomorrow—”

“I’ll rest on the plane,” Ben said, and drew her close. “How many times have you made love to an ogre?”

Ben Grossman was in the bedroom, packing for his trip, when Herzl came in. He was carefully folding clothing into a suitcase when Herzl cleared his throat.

“Dad—”

Grossman carefully considered the arrangement of his clothing in the suitcase; proper packing for a trip required proper planning, as everything did.

“Yes?”

“Dad, I’d like to talk to you for a minute—”

“Of course—” The suits beneath, folded with tissue paper between, that way they wrinkled less. The shirts on top, spread out for balance, the socks and the underwear and the handkerchiefs along the edge, filling in the irregular spaces. The general tucked them in and stood back, contemplating the result.

“Dad—” Herzl took a deep breath. “I want to quit school—”

“So?” The neckties now, folded over the little bar on the divider. A smart gadget; he wondered who had thought of it.

“Dad, did you hear me? I said I want to drop out of the university. I want to learn how to make films—”

Benjamin Grossman finally looked up from his task. “I know. You went out and got a job with Zion Films. Your mother told me. Did you think she wouldn’t? We talked about it half the night.”

“I—” Herzl didn’t know what to say. “What do you think?”

“Me? More important, what do you think?”

“I think it’s what I want to do. I mean, I know it’s what I want to do. I know I don’t want to be a doctor; I’ve known that for a long time. But I didn’t know what else I wanted to be. Now I know.”

Benjamin Grossman shoved his suitcase out of the way and sat down on the bed, looking up at his son.

“If you know what you want to do, you’re lucky. And do it.” He shrugged. “Look at me. I graduated an engineer; now I’m a soldier. Actually, I’m only a soldier when there’s a war on; in between I’m a combination peddler and bargain hunter.” He tilted his head toward his suitcase. “Now I’m off to trade electronic equipment from Israel for meat from Argentina. Who knows what a person is going to do in this life? If you find something you like, then do it. I wanted you to become a doctor. Why? I have no idea. I’ve tried to raise you—your mother and I, we’ve tried to raise you—to make your own decisions. You’ve made one. If it works out, fine. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll try something else.” He considered his son curiously. “Your mother said your job was in research. What kind of research?”

“For a new documentary they’re planning. In the film business, research is important, but it’s also about the bottom of the ladder, next to the man who carries the equipment on his back, but I’d have taken the job if it meant painting sets. Eventually I want to work in all the departments. I want to learn it all.”

“And I’m sure you will. Your mother said something about a trip?”

“To Munich. There’s a library there, a historical research library.”

“It sounds interesting. You’ll like Munich, I think.” Grossman smiled. “The traveling Grossmans,” he said and came to his feet, putting his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Just one thing—”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Whatever you do, do it well,” Grossman said seriously. “Plan it well, plan it fully, and do it well. Look at me; anything I have is because of planning—” He paused a moment and then smiled, a smile Herzl did not understand. “Oddly enough,” he went on slowly, his smile fading, “it’s the truth.…”

And it was the truth. And Benjamin Grossman never felt happier than at that moment, in realizing it.