Netanya, Ch. 3

We arrived at 4am.

We figured that since we were planning to be in Netanya to visit my father's gravesite, and I remembered that Netanya had some really upscale hotels we would just try that before we just camp out in our car. Well, Netanya has changed (it's quite rundown and all developed near the beach) and we found only one upscale hotel which was booked. The other hotels in the area did have rooms, and at least their clerks were honest, for when I asked if they had problems with Roaches, they said, This is Israel, and so yes, they can't guarantee there aren't any. They come through the windows, the waterpipes, etc. (and btw, all the hotels lobbies were unbearably hot, they do not use the a/c.) so David and I made the decision to just sleep in the van. We found a nice spot near a park off the beach and made the best of it.

A few hours later we all were up, had breakfast from our cooler, and headed for the beach for a short visit for the kids. Of course they loved the beach (which of course changed greatly - does not look anything like it did when I lived there) and were excited to see all the jellyfish that had washed ashore (I think the Israelis call them Medusa?) After the beach and a stroll along a very nice promenade, we were ready to go to my father's gravesite.

A few months ago, I posted on the Netanya Yahoo list serv an inquiry to asking how I could locate my father's cemetery and gravestone. I got so many responses back, but one person actually wrote me that he not only called and got the information for me, he went to the cemetery, found the location and took pictures. He wrote to me all the information and even offered to clean the marble. I was beyond words with his generosity and a little suspicious especially for the offer, so I passed on that. He told me that when we get to Netanya to call him and he would help us find the cemetery.

So I did. He literally dropped everything he was doing, grabbed a taxi and met us at the Bus Station (where Natalie, who was waiting with me, got a taste of some of the Israeli culture - competing taxi drivers yelling at each other, and passengers getting on a bus - ok not getting, but pushing, shoving, crowding in, to board the bus (that's another thing about this country - they have no clue what a line is - whether it's standing in a line, or parking a car - nada, but I digress.) He was this young guy in his 30's (I expected him to be an older man) who made aliyah with his family about 15 years. He was very nice, expected nothing in return, and was just so thrilled with himself for doing such a great mitzvah for us. He told us that he told his Rabbi about what he had done, and even when we were at the cemetery, he called his Rabbi again.

He said he used to be frum before he got married, but his wife wasn't and he is very bitter that he can't be because of it (he told us how unhappy he was in his marriage, etc.) He also said that it was his fate to help us, because when he originally went to the cemetery, he couldn't find the headstone. He then asked G-d to help him find it, and viola, the number just appeared in his head and was standing in front of the stone.

Uh huh, I know what you are thinking, and yes, he was a little off, but still very sweet. He even kept the the vultures away from us - vultures meaning the religious men who hound you in the parking lot about saying a prayer in exchange for money, and the employees of the cemetery who drive around and are persistent with their requests to clean the marble. They came up to us as we were looking for the stone and insisted on showing us the gravesite. Then he just kept asking us if we wanted them to clean it. When we said no, he just kept haggling the price, until, David yelled at them to have some respect and to leave us alone. It was just unreal. Flashbacks of the day we buried my father came rushing back. It was very disgraceful, the people who are responsible for the whole process of the burial and caretaking.

Actually early in the morning, I was sitting in the park before anyone got up, reminiscing about my father and our life in Netanya and even our visits to Haifa. I rarely talk about the last few months that my father was alive and all the guilt I have felt for leaving him behind, when he was still so sick and frail.

He had travelled to the States over the summer prior to his passing where he had visited the VA hospital and had a full checkup. It took several months before the mail caught up with us when it said in the letter that there was something wrong, like internal bleeding or something similar and he needed to get medical attn for it. It came too late. A few weeks after he returned from the States, he was in the Hospital (a very bad one at that.)

We thought he had a heart attack but it was pulmonary edema. He was in the hospital for several weeks and I hated him in there, as well as him. I wanted to try to move him to Jerusalem or to a hospital in Tel Aviv, but the insurance wouldn't cover it and we didn't have any money to do it privately. He wouldn't eat the food, his already thin self, was just barely skin and bones, and the nurses didn't speak English. AIDS was very well known then, so I was so shocked by the appearance of used blood soaked cotton balls and gauze on the floor. The nurses used their teeth to cut the (tubes?) they used to tie around the arm to take blood. Also in the waiting room there was a table with some coffee. Next to it was a pitcher of milk (back then milk only came in a plastic bag which sat in a pitcher.) I noticed that there was lipstick on the opening of the milk bag. I asked the nurse how she opened the bag and she gestured with her teeth. I was so disgusted and so shocked. This was a hospital. How barbaric.

I felt awful because I also was living and working temporarily in Jerusalem, and I was dating someone that I really care for, and wanted to only spend time with him because I was planning to leave Israel soon and to finally backpack through Europe. When my dad did get home, he stopped smoking cold turkey - a 2 pack a day, 50 year old habit, he also was still quite ill and weak and his normal, very calm, gentle, personality was replaced by someone very cranky and in need of a lot of help. All I wanted was to leave the country. I had desperately wanted to visit Europe and I was so tired of living in Israel by then, I just acted very selfishly towards my father and his needs.

When I got my ticket to leave (couldn't go to Europe because I had to quit my job in Jerusalem and move back to Netanya) my father didn't want me to leave. He wanted me to stay in Israel with him. My neighbor, who so kindly looked after my father also thought I should stay until my brother arrived, which was going to be in another few weeks, and my brother also told me not to go. That Dad needed me there until he got there, and of course my boyfriend didn't want me to leave either. But, I didn't care - I was feeling suffocated and just wanted to escape and get back to the States as soon as possible.

Before I left, I stocked up the refrigerator and freezer and knew that my neighbor would take of him until my brother arrived. Less than a week after my departure - he died. He had another attack and couldn't reach for his medicine in time. My neighbor hadn't seen him and when she went to check on him, erev Yom Kippur, she discovered he has passed away, alone in his bed, with his medicine bottle knocked on the floor. My brother was very angry at me and I know he blamed me for what had happen.

I have never talked about this with my brother or my sister. After 22 years, I still find it very difficult to talk about it. In fact, I almost skipped going back to Netanya and the cemetery. I don't think of my dad in that way. Just because his body is buried there, his soul is always near me, no matter where I live. But in the end, I am glad I did go, if not for me, for my kids.

We ended our journey by going to Herzilya Petuach and grabbing some lunch in the Marina, then headed back to Jerusalem, to our cousins clean and wonderful flat.

The last two days were most definitely an adventure, but that's what great stories are made of ....