Reason on a Scaffolding

REASON ON A SCAFFOLDING

(Tel Aviv, 1963)

 

 

I.REVISITING MY TEL AVIV HOME

 

            Lydda’s airport – recently renamed the International Airport of Tel Aviv – had been reconstructed during my two years of study at Oxford and my two first years in Singapore. The old viewing gallery, from which you could drop a parcel with black market money to a departing friend, was gone. So were the untidy passages leading from the pandemonium of the main hall to the well guarded and orderly departure gates. The new airport looked smart, tidy and functional. Like most airports I had seen during my years of self-imposed exile, it had an impersonal atmosphere.

            Mother was waiting for me just outside the customs area. Her hair had gone white and the wrinkles on her face had multiplied. From a woman in her late middle age, she had metamorphosed into a senior citizen.  Still, her smile was unchanged, and her self-confident airs had remained as of old. I was amused to observe how her glance took in my receding hair. She knew, of course, that many men had a similar experience when they were close to thirty.

            We took the bus to the terminal in Tel Aviv. From there we proceeded home in a taxi. I was too tired to engage in small talk. After a few questions about my health and progress,  mother, too, remained silent. Fortunately, we arrived before the atmosphere became oppressive.

 

 The old bedroom, in which I had grown up, looked unchanged. The sofa-bed, the small cupboard and the mahogany desk were still there. So was the shelf with my books.

“It’s all as it used to be, Mamma.”

“What did you expect? Well, you better wait here while I warm up our supper.”

 

            I was perturbed by the arrangement of my books. I had classified them by using the Hebrew alphabet. After four years abroad, the method appeared alien. Reflectively, I leafed through a Hebrew translation of The Pickwick Papers. Before long I pushed the book aside and read pages of the original. I then turned to Light in August. Some six years earlier on, I had struggled with it. Presently, the text was clear and the style appeared smooth and flowing. To my relief, I had no difficulty with a novel by Remarque, my favourite German author.

            We had supper in the compact dining room. As anticipated, mother had prepared a goose liver followed by cabbage rolls. I enjoyed every morsel, although during my Oxford days I got used to steak and kidney pie and, over in Singapore, learned to cope with Chinese cuisine.

            Mother started the old questioning process while I was digging into the goose liver. She began by asking about my defence of my doctoral thesis. She then kept asking about my life in Singapore. To mother, who had never been in the Far East, a street with crowded food hawkers’ stalls appeared alien. So did my description of Chinese and Indian cultural traits and culinary attainments.

            She came to her main point when I enjoyed the spicy cabbage rolls. I had written to tell her that I had met a nice girl in Singapore. Mother realised Pat was not of our race or religion. This did not perturb her. She had rung my father, who was then living in Vienna, and he convinced her that neither of them should interfere in such a delicate matter. In truth, I had discussed my plans with him before I wrote to her. All the same, I felt the urge to talk to my mother. I wanted to get her blessing.

“Do you intend to marry her?”

“It looks that way,” I conceded.

“Then you won’t be my problem any longer!” Seeing I was not going to reply, she added: “Do you love the girl?”

“I believe I do.”

“If you marry her, you would find it hard to come back to Israel, Peter’le. Have you thought about this?”

“I have, Mamma. By and large, life in Singapore is easier than over here.”

“You don’t intend to change your faith, Peter’le?”

“Of course not. Singapore is tolerant. Nobody will interfere with my faith.”

“Not even your wife?”

“Pat and I have a clear understanding in this regard.  And look, Mamma, there is very little to attract me back to Tel Aviv. Father has re-settled in Vienna and, sooner or later, you’ll join him. You know I never fitted in here. The ambience of our home, and my general outlook, made me an odd man out.”

 “Is there nothing to draw you back to Israel?”

“I am afraid not, Mama.”

 

            Mother’s last question turned my mind back to my years as an advocate in Tel Aviv. I had spent them as an employee of  Jacob Keren & Associates, a well known law firm in Tel Aviv. One of my colleagues was Rachel Zeitlin. She used to practise law in Jerusalem but, after the breakdown of her second marriage, took up the position of a Senior Associate in our firm. Initially, I appeared as Rachel’s junior in a number of cases assigned to her by our aging employer. In due course, we became a team.

Rachel, who was some six years older than me, was a brilliant courtroom advocate. Her timing was perfect and her manner firm and dogged. Further, she was an outstanding cross-examiner. Frequently, she exposed dishonest witnesses.

            My role was mainly to fortify our legal points. Rachel, whose understanding of theory left much to be desired, relied on my analytical ability. In a sense, my task was to guard her flanks.

            Before long, we became close friends. Then, one evening, she invited me over to her place. She knew I admired her and that I had fallen deeply in love with her. When we became intimate, she was still recovering from the breakdown of her second marriage. She got over her setback only after she invited me to live with her.

“Do you think of Rachel frequently, Peter’le?”

“I do, Mamma. I’ve tried hard to put her out of my mind; but I can’t.”

“Do you know Rachel and I have become friends?”

 

I had been aware of their friendship. Mother had met Rachel in a bridge club. Rachel had invited her for dinner and in due course they started to meet regularly. Was this an indication that Rachel, too, had not forgotten? During my years abroad, I wrote to her sporadically. Whenever I did, she replied punctually. She had told me of her friendship with my mother, asking: “How on earth could a lively woman like her have a morose son like you?”

“Rachel asks you to call on her as soon as possible. She wants you to handle a case for one of their clients: an insurance company called Rotem.”

“What sort of case, Mamma?”

“It concerns a claim by a fellow called Fischer. He fell off a scaffolding erected in a building he had designed as an architect.”

“What took him there?”

“He was also appointed as surveyor. Rachel tells me you know him. He appeared as expert witness in a few of your cases.”

“Oh yes: I remember him. I would rank his integrity at minus zero. Still, he is glib and proficient. Actually, Mamma, this type of case is very much Rachel’s domain. Why does she want to pass it to another lawyer?”

“Nowadays she scarcely appears in court. She has taken over the Banking Department. She drafts documents, handles corporate finance and has become an expert in home loans and mortgages.”

“So why haven’t they assigned to another lawyer of the firm?”

“I am sure she has reasons.”

“But should I really take on a case when I am here for just a few weeks? And how did she know I about my visit. I did not contact her.”

“I told her you were coming over for a few weeks. And, Peter’le, whether to accept or decline the brief is up to you.”

“Well, I’ll decide after I’ve seen her.”

 

II. RACHEL ASSIGNS ME A CASE

 

            Next morning I walked over to Rothschild’s Boulevard. The old building, housing Jacob Keren’s law firm, looked as dilapidated as ever. So did the boulevard. The sparse shrubs along the centre lane had grown wild. They had not been pruned for months. Indeed, this ancient part of Tel Aviv remained as ugly and as untidy as it had been during my pupillage.

            The door to the office of the Head of Bank Documentation was slightly ajar. Having knocked and entered, I looked Rachel over with amazement. In her days as a courtroom advocate, she had looked tidy and trim. Now no trace was left of her smart coiffure and her elegant posture. I was facing a woman past her youth. True, her confident manner and her captivating smile had remained unaltered. Somehow, though, she no longer looked like the woman I had worshipped.

“Have I aged that much, Eli?” As always, Rachel used my Hebrew Name.

“Rubbish. You are still the most beautiful woman in Tel Aviv, Rachel.”

“You used to say: ‘in the world’, my pet.”

“That goes without saying!”

“Flatterer,” she replied bursting into laughter. But she looked pleased.     

 

            For a while we talked about the four years that had elapsed since she sent me packing.  I had gleaned from her letters, that her third husband, Uzi, was a highly regarded orthopaedic surgeon. Rachel, who had met him shortly after I went to Oxford, was his second wife. She knew that his work was his priority. Often, she had to prepare an improvised meal, or just a snack, when he had to rush back to hospital, for instance, because a patient’s bleeding could not be stopped. Uzi, in turn, knew that Rachel was immersed in her job. He did not protest when she came home late at night or had to leave early in the morning. When she was in a rush, he often prepared her breakfast.

All in all, theirs was a loose arrangement based on understanding and affection.  In Tel Aviv, each had an independent agenda. Still, twice or thrice a year they travelled. During these periods both were ‘away on leave’.

“Was our own relationship suffocating, Rachel?”

“We did live in one another’s pockets.”

“Was that why you sent me away?”

“One of the reasons.  But look, we better turn to the case I want you to handle.”

 

            Rachel’s narration of the facts was clear. Both of us knew Zvi Fischer well. We had used him as expert witness in some cases and had to confront him when he was called by an adversary. Fischer was glib, self-assured and quick on the uptake. On a number of occasions, when he appeared against us, Rachel beat him. On others he managed to find a way out.

            Fischer’s reputation as architect and designer left much to be desired. He excelled when he planned standard designs, such as factories and apartment blocks. When it came to more innovative projects, his plans were usually rejected. He lacked both imagination and originality. At the same time, he was an excellent engineer and a meticulous surveyor.

            My main concern was the man’s lack of integrity. It was known that, on at least two occasions, he gave expert evidence on industrial accidents without even visiting the site. Rumour had it that some of his plans were, likewise, based on photographs and measurements taken by others. You could never predict what he was up to.

            In consequence, Fischer’s earnings remained modest. Usually, he was not the developer’s first choice. At the same time, he was a popular expert witness. Lawyers knew he was always ready to give battle.

 

            The accident that took place in the instant case was banal. Fischer was in the course of a supervisory visit to a construction site of a factory he had designed. In the process he stepped on a wooden plank that was not part of the scaffolding. It gave way. Fortunately, one of the labourers arrested Fischer’s fall. He ended up with a twisted ankle and a broken foot. His suit against the developers was taken over by their insurance company. As no settlement was reached, the case was put down for trial.

“What is so special about the case, Rachel? There is the fine legal point of the extent of a duty of care owed by a developer to a building surveyor. Surely, an experienced professional – like Fischer – ought to know how to handle himself on a scaffolding. Didn’t he know the plank was not part of the scaffolding as erected?”

“He claims he didn’t!”

“Surely, you are one of the best lawyers to make mincemeat out of him.”

“You better have a look at Rotem’s instructions.”

            The perplexing words were in the last paragraph of the letter instructing Jacob Keren’s firm to take charge of the case. Ruth Schwartz, the Head of Rotem’s Law Department, requested  that  Fischer be ‘handled gently’ when he gave his testimony. That ruled out a searching cross- examination à la Rachel. The case was to be fought on the legal issue.  

“Why does Ruth give us such a strange instruction? I know Rotem uses Fischer regularly as expert witness. I can understand they don’t wish to discredit him. So why don’t they settle amicably?”

“Have a good look at the amount Fischer demands!”

“Good God,” I exclaimed when I took in the figures. “Has Fischer gone berserk?”

“I don’t know. But I have one important clue: he is Ruth’s current boyfriend!”

“I thought the blighter was married?”

“He is. But since when has this become an obstacle?” retorted Rachel with gusto.

 

For a while, I reflected. There was something fishy about the case. It deserved the attention of a lawyer subtler and more experienced than me.

“Have you thought of using Boaz Tamir, Rachel? I know he has given up practice and has become a back bencher of a left-wing party. But I’m told  he still appears from time to time.”

“He does. A back bencher’s earnings are meagre. But, you see, Fischer stole a march on us there. He engaged Boaz right from the start.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“You mean ‘shut’, my pet. The legal world uses clean language. Jacob Keren would have a fit if he overheard you.  He uses foul language only at home.”

“You have a point there: our beloved legal world has its own double standards.”

“Not an original observation, Eli. But be this as it may, how about the case?”

“It is an interesting case, Rachel. If Boaz is not available, why not use one of the firm’s own lawyers. I am sure you have engaged a few good ones.”

“Any hawk would refuse to take the case. Ruth’s instruction would be bound to turn him off. And the less efficient old guard fellows would be unable to handle Fischer. They might turn us into a laughing stock. You are up to it. I am sure of it.”

“I didn’t really want to take a case during such a short visit but, very well, I’ll take it. I need the money, Rachel. Further, I’d love to brandish swords with my old mate and adversary, Boaz. We had great times together: in moots, in debating societies and in court. How is he?”

“I haven’t met him for years, Eli. He lives in Kibbutz Yokneam.”

“I’m sure he’ll have a lot to tell me. I better go carefully through the documents. Has the case been set?”

“It’s to be heard in ten days. I believe Ehud Morag is the trial judge.”

“So, I better hurry.”

“Quite so. And look, Eli, I can’t have lunch with you today. Ruth Schwartz booked me two weeks ago. Why don’t you prepare your notes? If you come over at about 11.30 on Friday, we’ll have a business lunch.”

 

 

III. DISCUSSING THE CASE WITH MOTHER

 

            Mother looked at me searchingly when I passed through the door. After a short pause, she came straight to the point: “What went wrong when you met Rachel?”

“She is no longer the woman I fell for. She is a different person.”

 “But, Peter’le, did you fall for the real Rachel or did you create your own image of her?”

            Mother’s question made me see light. The real Rachel was a fine woman: smart, vivacious and enterprising. She had entered into my barren life at the appropriate moment. But, in my simplicity, I had placed her on a pedestal. I had created a perfect statue and, like Pygmalion of old, was perturbed when I discovered her real image.    

“Perfect men and women exist in novels: not in real life, Peter’le. Thank goodness she did not take you on as ‘Prince Charming’. She knew yours were feet of clay. But then, women are more realistic than men.”

“You may be right, Mamma. I do like the Rachel I met today. But she isn’t the girl of my fantasies.”

“Lucky it is all clear to you now. Still, will you see her again?”

“Only to discuss the case. I’ll have to peruse the documents during the next day or two. I’m having lunch with her on Friday.”

“So, you have taken the case on?”

“I have, Mamma. A one-day hearing won’t disrupt my schedule. And the money will be handy.”

“You know. I’m relieved you have decided to go ahead with matter.”

“Why?”

“Because you are now on firm ground.”

 

            Before I went to my room with the bundle of documents, I told mother that Boaz represented Fischer. Mother knew that Boaz was one of my closest friends. He had often come over for lunch or dinner when both of us were in practice in Tel Aviv. To my surprise, she also knew Boaz had moved to Yokneam, the very Kibbutz on which his wife had grown up. Mother ran into Boaz in Allenby Street a few weeks ago. He had confided that, occasionally, he missed the drama of the courtroom.

 

 

IV. FURTHER PERUSAL OF THE FACTS

 

            To my relief, Boaz and Rachel  had agreed on a ‘bundle’ of documents. Accordingly, the judge was entitled to review the documents before the hearing. A conscientious man like Morag would go ahead. In consequence, he would have a basic grasp of the case before the trial.

            The more I looked at the documents the less easy I felt. Fischer had stated in his report of the accident that he had parked his car on the grounds at about 8.30 a.m. The car-park-attendant’s record suggested he had arrived half an hour earlier. I realised it might have taken Fischer time to find a vacant lot. Thirty minutes, though, suggested the car park had been near full. But could this happen  early in the morning?

            Another suspicious fact related to the accident itself. Fischer claimed it occurred shortly after he climbed up to the first floor. The affidavit of the workman, who had arrested his fall, stated that Fischer proceeded to the ‘accident spot’ on his way down from the 2^nd Floor. A further perusal of the documents revealed that the 2^nd story was, at that time, ‘still in progress’. It had not been ready for inspection.

            The third oddity related to the plank that had given way. It was not part of the scaffolding and should not have been there. Labourers used it as a short cut when hopping from one part of the scaffolding to another. The workman’s report mentioned the plank had been loose. Obviously, the labourers took their chance when they made use of it. Fischer should have insisted that it be removed. Instead, he too stepped on it.

 

            Mother looked with concern at my harassed expression. When I explained  the problems, she thought they would be a good starting point for Fischer’s cross- examination. She was startled when I showed her Ruth’s instructions. She understood, instantly, that a genuine cross-examination was ruled out. She then asked whether such instructions were common.

“Of course not, Mamma. But, you see, I am told Fischer is Ruth’s current boyfriend.”

“I am not surprised. I saw them together in the theatre and in a restaurant. And you told me a lot about Fischer years ago. I am not surprised he is a Tachshit [ornament; slang for philanderer].”

“I suspect that explains it. Are you surprised, Mamma?”

“Of course not. And a fellow like Fischer would make use of an old maid like Ruth. I used to feel sorry for her when she came to concerts and shows unaccompanied. But Peter’le, could there be even more to it than that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is Ruth entitled to give such instructions?”

“Well, she is the Head of Rotem’s Legal Department. In this case, she is our boss.”

“But doesn’t she have to clear such an odd instruction with her superiors?”

 

Mother searching question threw fresh light on the issue. At the same time, neither Rachel nor I were in a position to question Ruth.  Still, Jacob Keren, the Head of our firm, was a non-executive director of Rotem. He could bring the matter to the attention of Ruth’s superiors by raising it at the next Board meeting.

 

            A further study of the file exacerbated my misgivings. Both the car park attendant and Fischer’s rescuer had no reason to lie. True, one or the other could have made an honest mistake. But could both err?

            I was, accordingly, inclined to believe them. But even so, I remained in the dark. Why would Fischer misrepresent the time of his arrival at the site? Further, why did he proceed to the 2^nd story when the area was still out of bounds? Fischer was a cunning and unprincipled fellow. But he was no fool. What was he seeking to hide?

            Despite her effort, mother was unable to come up with any clue. One thing, though, became clear. Ruth’s instruction ruled out an attempt to get to the bottom of the matter during the hearing. She had played right into her boy-friend’s hand. All in all, the outcome depended on the delicate legal question.

 

V. LUNCH WITH RACHEL

 

            During the Friday lunch, I devoured the Mediterranean dishes as if I had been starving for days. When the meal came to its end, an amused Rachel wanted to know what sort of food I took overseas. She grinned when I told her Chinese cuisine was tolerable but that the delight of boiled mutton kept eluding me during my two years at Oxford.

            She was not surprised when I repeated my mother’s observation about the oddity of our instructions. She, too, sensed that Ruth might have acted without authority. All the same, it was best to stick to our instructions. The case was bound to turn on the legal issue. A searching cross-examination could be counter productive.

“Why would Ruth take such a risk, Rachel? Issuing such instructions without her superiors’ consent could lead to an in-house scandal. Her very job may be on the line.”

“But look, Eli: Ruth is pushing forty. And she is still on her own and has few friends. On many social occasions she looks forlorn: out of place. She would go a far way to please somebody who knows how to handle her. Chaps like Fischer pry on women of her type.”

            Rachel’s words made me reflect. She herself was of about the same vintage as Ruth. Further, both were good looking and highly intelligent. All the same, they were worlds apart. Ruth was the pampered daughter of an upper-class German Jewish family. She was widely read, genuinely interested in music and art and a pleasant person to talk too. Rachel, in contrast, came from no-where, had no cultural aspirations and had to fight her way to the top. Her main asset was her worldliness. She understood people, knew how to get on with them and had an outgoing personality. One might admire her or hate her. But she was hard to ignore. Unlike Ruth, she was not prepared to blend with the scenery.

“Ruth and I are very different persons, Eli. Life has taught me I have to pay for making mistakes. Ruth is afraid to make any. She has not realised that to be human you have, occasionally, to step out of line. She does not know that erring is a human trait. She is now paying for her diffidence.”

“Did you ‘err’ when you took me on?” I asked compulsively.

“I don’t think so. You, Eli, had to be taken out of your isolation. And, as you know, I was still recovering from the breakdown of my second marriage.  I needed a shoulder to lean on.  I brought our romance to its end, when I felt the time had come.”

 “I know. In any event, I shall always remain your friend.”

“It goes both ways,” she told me. Then, abruptly, she turned back to our case. She knew I was still mystified by the facts. She too had noted the inconsistencies.

“Is Fischer a fool, Rachel?”

“A cunning devil is a more apt description.”

“So why this silly pack of lies?  Why does Fischer assert he arrived later than he did and what on earth was he doing on the 2^nd story?”

Having nodded her head, Rachel concluded: “But Eli, why does all this matter us? Where is the benefit of exposing him? We have a good legal case. All you have to do is to convince the Judge that Fischer is an expert and knows all about scaffoldings. Ruth’s instructions do not proscribe this line of questioning or indeed the argument.”

“But what made her take such a risk? What are they trying to hide?”

“I’ve no idea, Eli.  Perhaps it is best to leave well alone.”

 

Rachel’s approach made sense. As often before, her strategy was superior to mine. She sensed that, in certain situations, it was best not to open Pandora’s box. As matters stood, Fischer’s case was weak. He was the expert asked to report on progress and standards. In the process, he had a fall where men less qualified than himself knew how to handle themselves. Suppose you instructed a technician to repair the brakes of your car. Could he complain when, in the process, he had an accident because, unexpectedly, the brakes failed altogether?

 

 

VI. MEETING WITH BOAZ

 

            On Saturday –  the day of rest in Israel –  I went again through the documents. I was by then certain Fischer was lying between his teeth. Ruth was prepared to stand by him. Still, she had not asked us to throw the towel in.

            To look up recent authorities, I went down to the Supreme Court library on Sunday morning. As soon as I entered, I spotted Boaz. He, too, was refreshing his memory. To my delight, he invited me to have morning coffee with him.

 

“I hear you’ve come back for a visit, Eli.”

“News travel fast in this town, Boaz. Sorry for not calling on Miri and you. Yokneam is a bit out of the way. Actually, I’m told you’ve entered into politics.”

“I’m a Mapam beck-bencher now, Eli. Still, I do appear from time to time when I need the money. But tell me: are you happy in Singapore?”

“Contented is the right word. I fit in without belonging.”

“Here you belonged but, in many ways, you did not fit in.”

“True: but I’ve had really good friends.”

“You still have them,” he assured me.

 

            Before long, we turned to the case. Boaz was aware I had been briefed. Naturally, we had been pitted against one another on previous occasions. We had also appeared together, albeit for different parties, in complex cases. Our professional engagements had never marred the close friendship we had developed during our days at the University. I had been a frequent guest in Boaz’s welcoming home and, both he and his wife, had been to my home. I suspected that, like myself, Boaz looked forward to our forthcoming appearance. Both of us could be tricky. But we had always been fair to one another in our skirmishes.

            Like Rachel and I, Boaz had noted the oddities in Fischer’s testimony. Still, he decided not to raise the issues because he, too, realised the case was bound to turn on the fine legal point. Further, Fischer had acquainted him with Ruth’s remarkable instructions. In consequence, Boaz concluded that Fischer would not be subjected to a devastating cross-examination.

“Still, Boaz, Fischer is no fool. He’s a cunning bastard. What made him come up with these stupid assertions? Off the record, do you know what is behind them?”

“I’ve no idea, Eli. I’ve tried to probe. But Fischer has been evasive. I am as much in the dark as Rachel and you!”

            Boaz knew that any information he gave me off the record would remain confidential. Quite apart from the bond of friendship, my silence was dictated by the code of conduct of our legal world. 

 

Boaz’s next observations threw light on one point. The excessive amount of the claim was Fischer’s own idea. Boaz had warned him that, even if the Judge accepted that amount as a ‘base 1’, he might have to take into account Fischer’s contributory negligence. If, for instance, he decided that Fischer ought to bear half the loss, the damages would be reduced accordingly. Fischer had listened attentively but, in the event, decided to claim the largest amount feasible.

“He won’t get that, Boaz. Not if the Judge is going to be Ehud Morag.”

“Well Morag has agreed to hear it. Think about it, Eli. He was our teacher. And we used to appear before him in moots, in debates and in court.”

“He is brilliant: best legal mind I know.”

“He is. But you better prepare yourself for a shock, Eli. You must have heard that Morag’s wife left him.”

“Rachel told me about it. I felt sorry for him. He was devoted to his elegant, even if playful, wife.”

“Her desertion affected him. Then, one of Morag’s best friends committed suicide. It hit Morag hard. We’ll have to handle him with extra care. We were his favourite students. And you know: he remembers. When I appeared before him in chambers on another matter, he asked about you. He knows Rachel and you broke off.”

“Did he attend her wedding?”

“I don’t think she invited people. It was a very private occasion. Still, Rachel’s Uzi operated on Morag’s knee.”

“It’s a small world,” I muttered.

“Incestuous. Everybody knows everybody and everything, except the truth.”

 

            In the event, we agreed to ask that the case be heard in two parts. The first, we concluded, ought to deal with the issue of liability. Did a developer owe any duty of care to his consultant? The second stage ought to deal with the issue of damages and contributory negligence.

“Once we get over the ‘liability’ issue, everybody would wish to settle,” grinned Boaz.

“Why haven’t they settled up to now?”

“Rachel offered Fischer a niggardly amount. In his chagrin, he instructed me not to negotiate any further.”

“What a pity,” I muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. It ain’t so bad for our fee notes.”

 

 

VI. THE HARING

 

            Boaz and myself wore gowns: a remnant of the colonial period. The judges had by then discarded the archaic attire. They wore a black silk jacket and a matching discreet tie. Wigs were no longer in use.

            As I entered the courtroom accompanied by Rachel and a young employee of Rotem, Zvi Fischer stepped over and shook my hand.

“I’ve heard you are back, Eli. I hope you liked Oxford.”

“I did, Zvi,” I replied slightly perplexed. On all previous occasions, Fischer and I had remained on formal terms.

“And how do you like Singapore?”

“It’s a nice PLACE. Actually, the government has launched public housing projects all over the town. They operate on a system akin to our joint ownership apartment buildings. Your designs would be just right.”

“I’d love to see these developments one day,” he told me and returned to his side of the room.

 

            Shortly thereafter, the usher announced the Judge was about to arrive. The few persons present rose to their feet and bowed to. Morag returned our greeting graciously and took his seat on the bench. As I looked at him, I felt grateful to Boaz for his warning. Ehud Morag’s presence and keen expression used to command the respect of all in attendance. Even now his demeanour confirmed that he remained the master of his court. But the lustre in his eyes was gone. So was the eternal twinkle. I was facing an aging man.

            Before the formal hearing started, Boaz applied that the case be heard in two parts. When I agreed, Morag granted the application. Boaz then introduced his case and as called Fischer as his first witness. To my surprise, Fischer proceeded slowly and with some hesitation.

            Boaz’s examination-in-chief was brief. He took Fischer through the main events but, I noticed, did not touch on facts that had not been spelt out in Fischer’s original report on the accident.

Fischer stuck to his original story: he had arrived well after 8.00 a.m. and proceeded directly to the accident site. Boaz did not refer to the time of Fischer’s arrival or to the time of the accident.  He was keen to close the examination-in-chief as quickly as possible. As soon as he resumed his seat, I stood up to cross-examine.

“You are one of Tel-Aviv’s renowned designer of factories and joint ownership housing, Mr Fischer?”

“I believe I am well known in my profession,” retorted Fischer with pomp.

“Please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’, Mr Fischer,” interceded Boaz.

“In that case: yes, I am.”

“You are also an experienced surveyor of work on building sites?”

“Well, yes.”

“How many sites did you survey in, say, the last six months?”

“I don’t see what this has got to do with this case,” Fischer flared up.

“Kindly answer the question” instructed Morag, looking at Fischer narrowly.

“I can’t recall!”

“Three?” asked Morag.

“More than that.”

“Twenty?”

“Not so many!”

“So, you can’t recall how many sites you inspected during the last six months, but you are certain the number is somewhere between 3 and 20?”

“Quite so,” replied Fischer testily.

“How many times did you inspect the current building site?” asked Morag unperturbed but irked.

“Two or three, Your Honour,” replied a much deflated Fischer.

“You inspected the progress made in the construction of the 1^st floor?”

“I did.”

“On these occasions, was the accident-plank there?” persisted Morag, who had by then taken over my role.

“I don’t know! I mean: I have no idea.”

“And on the day of the accident, did you expect to find the plank?”

“Of course not.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be there, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Did you ask what it was doing there?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You just stepped on it?”

“I did, rather.”

“Sorry for butting in Mr. Berger. I think you better continue.”

“Just a question or two, Your Honour. Mr. Fischer, the scaffolding was erected according to standard building regulations?”

“It was.”

“And you have a great deal of experience in inspecting sites under construction.”

“I’ve already said so.”

“No further questions, Your Honour. But, of course, my Learned Colleague may wish to recall the witness if the case proceeded to the next part.”

“Precisely,” nodded Morag.

 

            Boaz advised that he was not calling any further witnesses at this stage. I, in turn, decided  not to introduce evidence. Under standard civil procedure, Boaz was supposed to address the court forthwith. Keeping with the philosophy of Jacob Keren’s law firm, I waived my right to have the last word.

“Then, you have to address me straight away,” pointed out Morag.

 “I am ready,” I assured him.

“So am I,” grinned Boaz.

“Very well then,” said Morag smiling at both of us benignly. We were about to address him on one of his pet subjects: the difficult legal issue he had discussed in his role as our teacher. Morag looked forward to the occasion.

 

                 My address was brief. A landlord did owe a duty of care to people using the building. He had to maintain the premises so as not to cause injury to a reasonable man. Such a person should not be expected to dodge traps. In particular, no ‘ambush’ should be placed in a reasonable man’s way. In the instant case, though, it was impossible to invoke the test based on the expectations of a reasonable man. Such a man had no place on a scaffolding. He ought to find less hazardous pastimes, for instance, relaxing in front of his television set.

“But surely, you must not put a chair in his way or ask him to walk over a dangerous surface like a wet floor?” asked Morag.

“Of course not. And you must not booby trap the terminal. These duties are owed to any person found on the premises or in the television room. And, Your Honour, I submit this is the only duty owed by a developer to a technical surveyor, who is a construction works expert.”

“But wasn’t the plank a trap?”

“The plaintiff conceded that the plank should not have been there. He himself is the very expert to establish the point. Instead, he stepped on the plank although he knew that was not part of the scaffolding. Why then did he step on it? There is no evidence to establish that, seen from the plaintiff’s point of view, the plank was a trap.”

            Boaz’s reply was even shorter than my address. He insisted that Fischer, had been asked by the defendants to inspect the progress and standards of the factory under construction. In consequence, they owed him the duty to make the site safe for any ‘reasonable man’. How could a reasonable man be expected to examine the safety of every plank on a scaffolding? By its very nature, such an object was a trap.

“Even when the victim of the accident  is an expert on buildings and scaffoldings?”

“That is my submission. Further, a reasonable man cannot be expected to anticipate  such a hurdle. Here the plaintiff was in the position of a ‘reasonable man’ notwithstanding his expertise.”

“Notwithstanding his knowledge that the plank ought not to be there?”

“That, Your Honour, is our submission.” Boaz then referred to the authorities in point.

“Two fine addresses, if I may say so,” observed Morag. He was beaming at his two one- time students.

            “Both are derived from what my Learned Friend and I were taught by a fine teacher,” I told the Judge. Boaz nodded his consent.

“I need some 15 minutes to collect my thoughts. I’ll deliver an ex tempore judgment as soon as we resume.”

 

            All present rose to their feet and bowed. Morag nodded and withdrew to his chambers. When he resumed his seat on the Bench, he dismissed the claim. By and large, he accepted my arguments. But he added two points. First, Fischer had not established that the plank was a trap. In other words, he had failed to prove a vital point of his case. Secondly, the ‘reasonable man’ test was of no help. If a ‘reasonable man’ were to find himself on a scaffolding, he would take extra care when he sought to depart. It was common ground that the accident took place when the plank gave way. But it was unclear why the plaintiff stepped on it when he knew the plank should not have been there.

 

“The parties may wish to address me on the issue of costs. Further, the case turned on a difficult issue. Please let me know in case you require Written Grounds of Judgment. The plaintiff may, of course, wish to take the matter further. I’ll call a break now. Please be back at 2.30 p.m.”

“Can we have an indication of Your Honour’s thoughts respecting contributory negligence? The issue could arise if one applied the ‘reasonable man’ test,” asked Boaz.

“The evidence is too scanty for a determination or even a firm indication. Off the cuff, I would anticipate a finding of about 60 per cent  against the plaintiff. In my judgment, though, the ‘reasonable man’ test is inapplicable. Further, I wonder if the test has been  misguided right from its inception. Has any one of you ever met a ‘reasonable man’?”

 

 

VII. A CLASH WITH RUTH

 

            Boaz and Fischer slid out of the courtroom forthwith. I was taking off my gown when Ruth Schwartz’s voice startled me.

“Why didn’t you stick to your instructions?” Her voice was harsh and her demeanour antagonistic.

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked angrily. Before Ruth had the time to respond, Rachel approached us.

“I’ll tell you what she means: she wanted us to lose the case. Well, Rotem did not instruct us to do so. And we should not have accepted such a brief. We are lawyers: not clowns.” Rachel was breathing hard. On occasions, I had seen her irked or annoyed. But she had never lost her temper before.

“We did not ask you to lose the case,” protested Ruth.

“Then what is this fuss all about?”

“We asked you to handle Fischer gently in the witness box.”

“we did. But Fischer was impudent. So, Ehud Morag took the cross-examination over. And he is not subject to your instructions.”

“I am told you capitalised on it.”

“We did!” replied Rachel angrily. “But then, you say you did not instruct us to lose the case. And we didn’t!” Turning to me, she added:  “Your address was excellent, Eli. On behalf of Jacob Keren and Associates, I congratulate you! Well done. If Rotem takes exception, they can challenge us! Actually, Jacob Keren intends to raise the nature of these strange  instructions at Rotem’s next board meeting.”

            Ruth looked at Rachel narrowly: the barb had found its mark. I was by then convinced Ruth had given the instructions without the necessary internal clearance. Regardless of things to come, she was bound to face a storm.

 

Our immediate task, though, was to bring the matter to its close. An appeal by the plaintiff would be costly. Even if Rotem won, it might be difficult to recover the costs from an impoverished Fischer. An ex gratia payment might be the best solution.

I was about to express my sentiment, when Ruth regained her cool. In point of fact, I knew her well from a literary circle. One evening we took opposing roles in a literary trial of Franz Kafka’s Castle. It had been a pleasant and highly civilised occasion. At the end of the debate, all present conceded they found Kafka hard to understand.  Both Ruth and I were given an ovation. Ever since, I regarded her a likeable person.

 “Look, Eli. I am sorry I flew off the handle. I did not realise Ehud Morag stepped in. I arrived during your fine address. Can you please tell me what triggered Morag’s wrath? He hasn’t been the same man for the last two years.” Ruth’s voiced evinced embarrassment mingled with regrets.

“He did not appreciate Fischer’s demeanour. Actually, I’m still in the dark. Fischer appeared to sort of look over the Judge’s shoulder. He did it to me too. But I thought he was being awkward. Coming to think of it, he sorts of limped to the box. I asked myself what was the matter with him.”

“Boaz may be able to tell you now,” said Ruth.

 

            For a short while the three of us kept our silence. Then, to my relief, Rachel regained her composure. She emphasised that, if the Court of Appeal disagreed with Morag’s legal analysis, the case would be sent back for a further hearing. An ex gratia payment was the best way out. She thought Fischer might be willing to accept the amount offered to him originally plus an additional sum to cover some of his costs. We concluded it would be best to leave the negotiations in Ruth’s hand.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t have lunch with you Eli. Uzi has to attend to a patient who developed some complications. I’ll go back home to prepare him a snack and some sandwiches. He’s got to be at the hospital at 2.30 p.m. and may not be back until late in the evening. Are you free for dinner?”

“Of course.”

“Come over to my office at 6.30p.m.  I want to back at home at 9.30 p.m.”

“That should be easy. And well, thanks,” I said and was startled by the Ruth’s supportive smile.

 

VIII.REACHING A SETTLEMENT

 

            I had no wish to remain in the empty courtroom for about three hours or to join the queue of advocates at the cafeteria. To save mother the trouble of preparing a hasty lunch, I got myself a Pitah Falafel – a local delicacy which had lined the pockets of many a surgeon specialising in abdominal ulcer operations – and walked home. In those golden days of youth, a half hour’s walk appeared a trifle.

            As I entered, mother looked up from her needle work. As soon I sat down and took off my jacket, she started to question me about the case. She was taken aback when I told her of Morag’s intervention.

“Was this appropriate?” she wanted to know.

“Hard to say. Fischer irked him. But I suspect there was more to it than that.”

“How did Fischer irk Morag?”

“Fischer was plain uncivil to me when I started my very mild cross. Morag is known as a master of his court. He intervened when Fischer stepped out of line. Still, I think there was some other factor. Fischer kept looking over my shoulder when he talked to me. I suspect Morag was given the same treatment. And he did not appreciate it.”

“I think I understand,” conceded mother.

 

            Mother was not surprised when I mentioned Rachel’s outburst.  She knew Rachel disliked Ruth and her entire milieu. All in all, Rachel was a self-made woman. She had no time for the pampered carriers of mid-European culture. She looked down on them.

“Surely, Mamma, she did not ‘look down on me’?”

“She didn’t. I know that. But you Peter’le had never been a cultural snob. Further, you admired Rachel for months before she took you on. I remember how you kept raving about her. On the surface, you admired her courtroom manner. But right from the start there was more to it than that.”

“I know. Still, Mamma, I am out of the woods now. As you know, I am a reasonable man prepared to concede defeat.”

“Thank goodness. Still, Peter’le, Rachel continues to have a soft spot for you. This, in part, explains her outburst. I’m pretty sure of it. You see, women tend to remember. And Rachel is human. She took you on at the right time and decided, on her own, when to call it a day.”

“Was I just an ‘episode’ in her life?”

“Perhaps. And, of course, it is over. But all in all, neither of you has grounds to regret the past.”

            Mother was pleased to gather that Ruth and Boaz would be working out the details of an ex gratia settlement. When I told her about my dinner appointment with Rachel, she urged me to talk as little as possible about the case.

“You better make it clear to Rachel that your affair did not leave a bitter taste in your mouth. That’s what she wants to hear.”

 

            I got back to our courtroom at about 2.15 pm. One of Ruth’s assistants handed me a note advising that Rotem has agreed to make an ex gratia payment of an amount slightly above Rachel’s original offer. A few minutes later, Boaz stepped in accompanied by Fischer. Stepping over to my side of the courtroom, he confirmed the details of the arrangement.

“How did you feel about Morag’s intervention, Eli?”

“Coming from him it was fine. I don’t think another judge would have stepped in like that. Thank goodness, he did not persist.”

“I was getting ready to object when he handed poor Fischer back to you.”

“What on earth possessed him? Morag has a short fuse. Still, he knows how to control himself.”

“Fischer was unnecessarily rude to you. But I think there is a background. Before Morag’s wife ran away, she had a number of affairs. I believe one was with Fischer.’

“Did Morag know?”

“Rumour has it that he did. Still, Fischer appeared as an expert witness in a few cases tried by Morag recently. Morag showed no irritation on these occasions. In any event, the present dispute has been settled. Accordingly, all is well.”

“But why did Fischer play the fool? He is a shrewd fellow. What’s the matter with him?”

“I found out three days ago. I’d like to tell you over dinner.”

“Rachel has asked me out for tonight. How about lunch tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to catch the bus to Haifa before 3.00pm.”

“Let’s then meet in our old eatery at 11.45am.”

 

            As soon as Morag returned to court, Boaz advised him of the settlement. Morag made it clear he was pleased. He assumed that the matter of costs had been attended to and that there was no need for him to write a full judgment.

“Procedurally, there is no need, Your Honour. But I am convinced my Learned Friend, other members of the profession and, of course, I, would love to read Your Honour’s analysis of the issue.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” responded Boaz.

“Very well then. It will be ready in about two weeks.”

 

IX. LAST CHAT WITH RACHEL

 

            Rachel was waiting for me when I arrived sharp on time. I admired the skill she showed as she steered us through the congested traffic. To my delight, we got the very table we used to occupy in the same restaurant in times past.

            Rachel grinned again as I devoured the excellent dishes. During the first two courses we talked about the case. Rachel was happy with the settlement but, like myself, continued to wonder about Fischer. Why would an experienced expert witness step out of line for no apparent reason? He knew I had been instructed to handle him with silk gloves. What had induced him to become antagonistic when the reply was obvious and harmless?

“I suspect there is a reason,” Rachel opined.

            “Boaz will tell me all he knows tomorrow over lunch.”

“I too would like to know. But honestly, we’ve dug deep enough for the time being. Tell me a bit about your life in Oxford and in Singapore.”

            For the next half hour, I told Rachel about my isolated but fruitful existence in Oxford: my well heated but lonely room, the junior common room and the pleasant strolls along the Cherwell and  Addison’s Walk and my occasional trips to Woodstock. I then told her about my experiences as a teacher in Singapore, as a resident fellow in one of our halls and about the splendid meals in the canteen and in Chinatown.   

            Rachel, in turn, told me how she had met Uzi, how they went together to concerts, to the theatre and to the cinema and about their recent trips overseas. It was clear she had brought her ship home.

“I’m glad you’ve got there, Rachel.”

“But how about you, Eli? Do you have any regrets or hurt feelings?”

“I’m sorry things did not work out for us. But I remain deeply grateful to you.”

“For what?”

“You transformed me from an immature boy into a young man. I shall always think of you with affection.”

            As we were getting ready to leave, Rachel mentioned that my mother told her about the girl I had met in Singapore. Rachel wanted to know more about the girl and about my plans. Was I going to settle in Singapore?

She smiled happily when I told her Pat was beautiful and had a presence. Still, Rachel manifested concern when I told her Pat did not share my interests in art and literature and had no academic bent. She was, further, perturbed by Pat’s ardent Christianity. Rachel knew I was either an agnostic or an atheist. At the same time, Rachel knew that my revolt against Faith and Judaism concealed a firm commitment to the tribe. She did not think I would never be happy if I were induced to change my religion. She was reassured when I told her how much Pat cared for me and that Pat’s family had welcomed me as I was. They knew I had no intention of changing my skin.

 Rachel realised that my plans had been worked out neatly. The University provided subsidized accommodation for its staff and did much to encourage expatriate staff members to stay put. Both financially and in terms of prestige, my future was more secure in Singapore than it could ever be in Israel.

            For a while Rachel reflected. She then summed up with the confidence and clarity she manifested whenever she dealt with an issue.

“Look, Eli, in these personal matters every person  has to make his own decision. But I want to give you one solid advice: be guided by your instincts. Personal decisions concerning a relationship, a union or a divorce are not dictated by reason. They are produced by emotions. In that area, instincts provide the best guide. Even in a courtroom skirmish they have a role to play. Still, reason often forces you to suppress them. This should not happen in your personal life.”

            Rachel drove me back to my parents’ flat. Before we parted, she asked me to give her regards to mother. In a sense, she transported me back to the place from which I had come over to her originally.

 

 

X. A REVEALING LUNCH WITH BOAZ

 

            Boaz arrived before me. As soon as we had placed our orders, he told me the truth about Fischer. A few days before our trial, Boaz went to have an eye check. As he stepped into the waiting room, Fischer emerged from the ophthalmologist’s room. His eyes were still blurred and so he failed to recognise Boaz. From Fischer’s conversation with the receptionist, Boaz gleaned that Fischer was making an appointment for the removal of one of his cataracts. Dr Much was uneasy about operating on both eyes together.

“What did you do?”

“I went over and greeted Fischer. He was embarrassed but after a while blurted out that he had been suffering from cataracts on both eyes for a few years. Dr Much had urged him not to delay surgery any further. It was best to operate forthwith.”

 

            I looked at Boaz uneasily. Our profession imposed certain ethical doctrines on us. Every lawyer was ‘an officer of the court’. Misleading a judge or suppressing the truth was an offence. Reading my thoughts, Boaz explained he would have discharged himself from the case if had learned the truth earlier on. He was not prepared to leave his client in the lurch just before the trial.

            I realised that, in Boaz’s position, I would have taken the same course. He faced  Hobson’s choice: desert your client or compromise yourself.  Boaz’s misgivings were allayed when we agreed to divide the case into two separate parts. The ex gratia settlement got him off the hook.

“I feel sorry for Fischer.” I observed. “No wonder his eyes could not focus. And he lost his cool as soon as my  questions got too close to the mark for comfort. Still, now that I know the facts, I can’t understand why they eluded us.”

“Again, I agree, Eli. I believe Fischer arrived at the site at about eight o’clock. He lost his way as he climbed up. When he realised he had overshot, he returned to the first floor. All this took a while! Impaired eyesight is the obvious explanation.”

“A man in his condition should not climb up a scaffolding. He was no longer fit for his job. But I can see his dilemma. If the cat got out of the bag, he would lose his livelihood,” I concluded

“Precisely. Who would employ a surveyor with defective eyesight? Fischer tried to hang on. Well, we know the outcome.”

“Did Ruth know about his condition?”

“I suspect she did. Still, to Rotem the ex gratia payment is a mere trifle. Fischer was their regular expert witness. The payment will help to tide him over.”

            All in all, I found Boaz’s analysis unexceptional. In those early years, any eye surgery was serious. The healing process was prolonged and the prognosis – especially in the case of cataract removals – was questionable. 

 

            Having exhausted the issues respecting the trial, we turned to personal affairs. Boaz told me all about his life in the Kibbutz, about Miri and about their children. I told him many of the anecdotes I picked up at Oxford. I was amused by the shudder that passed his spine when I referred to boiled mutton. We laughed together when I related my reaction to hot Indian and Indonesian dishes.

            He also told me about his life as a back bencher of his left-wing party. On some occasions he had to vote with the other MPs even if his conscience pricked him.

            “But surely,” I told him, “in the very least you can bring up the social problems that used to bother up. And you hold the key to law reform.”

            “The trouble is that politician raise questions only when an issue is topical: if it can bring them votes. Many of the idea we have developed, for instance, about fixed pensions for injured parties, are not popular at the moment. Parliament will deal with them when some interested lobbies emerge. Sometime, we can trigger them. But such instances are rare.”

            “Would you have better chances if you moved to the front bench – became a minister?”

            “Marginally. You see a front bencher must always reckon with his electorate.”

            “Still, will you get there?”

            “Time will tell.”

            “If you had remained with the law, you could by now be on the Bench!”

            “Perhaps. But, Eli, I still prefer to slog on in politics. I’ve made my choice.”

            I accompanied Boaz to Tel Aviv’s old bus exchange. He asked when I would visit Israel again. He had been told I had met a nice girl in Singapore and assumed I would marry her and stay put in her town.

“Are you more content there than with us, Eli?”

“Difficult to say. You see, here in Israel I shall always be an insider who does not fit in. The best choice of the odd man out is to live away from home. He is unlikely to be ‘accepted’ but, as long as he is sensible, he will be regarded an outsider who moves with the tide. It can be a pleasant existence.”

“I wish you well, Eli. And, yes, I know what you are talking about. Here, at home, everybody knows everybody. Look at our case. You have known Rachel, Ruth, Fischer Morag and me for years. Your mother, too, knows every person or, in the very least, hard the relevant gossip! It is a small, incestuous, network. True, we are a tolerant lot. Nobody interferes with you if you don’t cross the line. But how many times did you, yourself, do things because you knew they were expected of you?” 

“Most of the time. Worse still, on many occasions I did not raise my voice …”

“Because you thought it best to shut up?”

“That too, Boaz. But usually I maintained my silence because ‘acting’ would have been ‘unacceptable’.”

“And overseas you are a free man?”

“Not really. Each society has its norms and conventional wisdom. But nobody expects an outsider to be a member of the crowd. In consequence, it is easy to follow the old wisdom of ‘don’t see, don’t hear and don’t speak’. It makes life easy.”

“I must agree. But you know, Eli: the way back will always be an option.”

“Precisely. And you can trust me to keep a foot in the door.”

 

            We joined the lengthy queue in front of bus stop to Haifa. Most busses left the depot full to the brim. In sheer disregard of local norms, Boaz did not board a congested bus. Shortly after that packed sardines can departed, another bus slipped in. Boaz embarked, found a comfortable seat and let down the window. We kept talking until the bus went on its way.

 

 

Mother was not surprised by my revelations. My account of the proceedings had aroused her suspicions. My description of Fischer’s demeanour suggested to her that his vision was down. True, she had not suspected he had cataracts. But she perceived that the explanation of his stupid behaviour could be a deterioration of his eyesight.

            In my mother’s opinion, Fischer did not deserve much sympathy. You had to take life as it came. Once you reached forty, you had to wear sunglasses or, better still, give the glaring beaches a miss. Fischer had always acted as a young man. In the end, he had to pay a price for his extravagance. 

“How do you know he pretended to be a youth?”

“Rachel tells me he used to be seen on Herzliya’s beach in the company of girls half his age!”

 

X. MY DEPARTURE

 

 

            During the next few days in Tel Aviv I attended  emigration procedures. In the evenings, I skimmed through many of my old books. It soon became clear that my  literary tastes had remained largely intact. Both Kafka and Joyce remained high on my priorities list. The main  change was my migration from Hebrew to English. The latter had become my natural, even if acquired, medium of communications.

 

            Mother and I arrived in the airport well before the estimated boarding time. To my surprise, we ran into Ruth Schwartz. Having seen off a VIP, she was getting ready to take a bus back to Tel Aviv. Ruth, who knew that  mother’s Hebrew was poor, greeted us in German.

“Again, Eli, I’m sorry for my outburst. And you know, the result is satisfactory.”

“Were you aware of  Fischer’s deteriorating eyesight?”

“Well, I was. For quite a while I pressed him to take stock. We knew that eventually everybody would talk about  Fischer’s condition ‘in strict secret’ to one and all.”

“It is our type of society, Ruth. That’s the way it is,” interjected  mother.

“I know. Still, Zvi had to go through a lot. I am genuinely worried about him.”

“Don’t you worry, Ruth. Men like Fischer always fall on their feet. But it is good to know he has a shoulder to lean on,” I expressed my sentiments.

“Not for long, Eli. My boss called me up and told me off.  Our Human Resources Department decided to transfer me to Beer-sheva.”

“Quite a change,” interjected  mother.

“It’s going to be a challenge. But, you know, all in all, I am looking forward to it. Here in Tel Aviv I got myself into a rut. Hopefully, I’ll find new horizons. Look me up if you come over for another visit, Eli.”

 

            Boarding started shortly after Ruth had left. Mother smiled at me sadly. She was familiar with my plans.

“See you in Vienna when you take your next leave, my son.”

“It won’t be long, Mamma. I promise.”