A person dies when
the last memory of him dies.
In the 1980s in Rehovot, where I settled with my family, a so-called "Russian club" came into being. This singular idea, emblematic of the high cultural aspirations of the "Russians" of that era, was conceived by several wives of new immigrants who were writing their doctoral dissertations at the Weizmann Institute. Among them was my wife Nina, who was preparing a dissertation in physics.
At first it was a small circle of friends, drawn together by a shared interest in meaningful leisure and worthwhile pursuits; in our free time we would gather in our then-cramped apartments, socialize, and exchange ideas. Gradually we came to feel that we needed to spread our wings. We rented a large empty villa in the very center of Rehovot. In one room we set up a billiard table, in another a ping-pong table, and we fitted out a sauna. For the kitchen we bought a large refrigerator, which was always stocked with light snacks, canned goods, all sorts of sandwich fixings, and a variety of soft drinks.
Club members could drop in whenever they pleased — to play tennis, billiards, chess, or checkers, or to take food from the refrigerator, paying for it according to the price list posted alongside a special little box for the money. Various clubs were organized for our children: Russian, Hebrew, drawing, and others. I personally gave lessons in chess and checkers.
Among the members of our "cooperative" were vivid personalities who had distinguished themselves in various fields. There was, for instance, the gifted Hebrew University chemistry professor Alex Goldman, who had once captained the Kishinev team on the television show KVN. The driving force of our group was Sonya — daughter of the once-famous refusenik Professor Alexander Yakovlevich Lerner — and her husband Boris Levin, who since childhood had gone by the name Bob, so that now not only his friends but even his children and grandchildren called him that.
From an early age Sonya displayed phenomenal abilities. Despite her Jewish surname, at fifteen she was already finishing her first semester in the mathematics department at Moscow State University, and she was the only Jewish woman in a country of state-sanctioned antisemitism ever to appear on the cover of the magazine Sovetsky Soyuz. Bob, for his part, astonished us with his subtle sense of humor, his easy way with people, and his unconventional cast of mind. He could give even the most commonplace things an original twist.
Our club arranged meetings with interesting people. Once we drove to Netanya to visit two "Russian" artists, the owners of a small ceramics workshop. They were husband and wife, and they had mounted an exhibition in their own home. Alex and his wife did not drive long distances, so we volunteered to take them. When the exhibition ended and people began to disperse, Galya Karmeli — the artist and organizer of the show — came up to me and said:
"Don't worry about the Goldmans. We'll drive them home ourselves. They're staying for a supper with close friends."
Some time later, our club was holding one of its usual friendly gatherings. Someone had also invited the artist couple. As always, the life of the party was Alex Goldman. He performed his new comic ditties, one of them dedicated to me: "Where will you find a mankal who's so deft at the mangal."
The artist was puzzled that there was some sort of mankal (general director) in our midst and began asking whom he meant. They pointed me out — there he is, Semyon Borokhov. Borokhov? Somewhat startled, the artist began asking where I had come from. Learning that I was from Uzbekistan, she walked resolutely up to me.
"Excuse me — where in Uzbekistan did you live?"
"In Samarkand," I replied.
"And what was your father's name?"
"Avraham."
"And your mother — Hana?" the artist asked in agitation.
When she heard my affirmative answer, she gave a start and, without warning, threw her arms around me.
"During the war we were evacuated to Samarkand. My parents and one other family from Odessa lived in your house for almost a year," she said through her tears.
"I know," I replied. "My parents told me that during the war years two families from Odessa lived with them — the Makhlins and the Karmelyuks. But you are Karmeli?"
"Yes," she nodded. "The Karmelyuks — that's us. I was only a little girl then, but I remember your parents very well. Here in Israel we became Karmeli."
"My dear brother," she said, again in tears, "your parents saved our family by taking us in. And I… I turned you out of my house!"
I was deeply moved; a feeling of pride in my parents welled up in me. Forty-two years had gone by, and the boomerang of memory had come flying back from 1941 (the very year I was born) into 1983.
