ISRAELI FILM STAR WRESTLES WITH HER MOTHER`S DEMONIC

ISRAELI FILM STAR
GILA ALMAGOR
WRESTLES WITH
HER MOTHER'S
DEMONIC
PAST by Masha Leon
Gila Almagor is one of Israel's foremost
actors. She has appeared in over 35 feature
films, and has ten times won Israeli
"Oscars" (called "David's Harp" awards)
for best actress. In 1990, she was selected
"Best Actress of the Decade" by the Israeli
press.
Among her more memorable roles in the
Israeli theater are Peter Pan, Anne Frank,
Jeanne D'Arc, Maggie in Arthur Miller's
After the Fall, Masha in Three Sisters and
Nina in The Seagull both by Anton
Chekhov.
The Summer of Aviya is Almagor's
crowning achievement, and is largely autobiographical. The book, a runaway bestseller written in 1986, was followed by a
stage adaptation (starring Almagor herself
in a one-woman tour-de-force) which won
Almagor the prestigious Rovina Prize for
Excellence in Acting.
The film (co-authored and co-produced
by Almagor) recently toured the U.S. to
overwhelming acclaim. Wrenching,
powerful, draining, the movie has won
awards in Spain, Holland, Italy,
Yugoslavia and Germany. It recently won
the coveted Silver Bear Award for Best
Film at the Berlin Film Festival.
The story depicts one summer in the life
of a ten-year-old girl (Aviya), the daughter
of a widowed Holocaust survivor, during
the first years of Israel's independence.
Aviya's mother was a partisan fighter, and
she has a blue number tattooed on her arm;
she is also mentally ill. (She "sees" fleas
on Aviya's head and shaves it bald.)
Periodically Aviya's mother has been institutionalized, and the child has wandered
in and out of orphanages. (The name
"Aviya" is a strange one: it means "her
father"; indeed the child, in her profound
loneliness, hallucinates a father for
herself.)
The film chronicles the last, bittersweet
summer together of mother and child
during which time they are living in a
decrepit wooden shack — outcasts of their
village. The Summer of Aviya portrays not
only the searing relationship of a courageous, desperate daughter and her Nazivictimized mother, but it reflects a nationwide trauma, and the two generations that
are wracked by it. At the end of Aviya's
summer, her mother is hospitalized for the
final time and the stubble-headed child
stands alone.
[The Summer of Aviya is available
through Ergo Media, POB 2037, Teaneck,
NJ 07666, 201-692-0404 or 800-695ERGO.]
ML: Was your father also a survivor or
was he a sabra?
G A : My father was a Jew who left
Germany for Palestine just in the nick of
time. He was killed by an Arab sniper
before I was born. My mother never once
Spring 1991
LILITH
21
talked about him. If you see The Summer
of Aviya you will know more about my
father than I do. I have a black hole.
ML: Why did your mother never talk
about your father?
G A : Because she was mentally ruined.
ML: By the war?
G A : By everything. By life, by the fact
that she never forgave herself for surviving. It was a huge family; there were
twelve brothers and sisters, and she had
been a rabbi's daughter. And she was the
only survivor! And she never, never forgave herself to go on living.
There was a pattern. When she had her
seizures, she would scratch numbers all
over her arm and would go out in the street
and shout, scream numbers, just numbers.
In the early years there were times that she
was okay. She even got married for a
second time and she really tried to make
something of her life.
But my father... he was the love of my
mother's life. The last 22 years of her life
she spent in a mental institution where she
died. God took her while she slept on Rosh
Hashana morning. He took her like an
angel, and I will always be grateful that
God took her this way and she did not
suffer in death.
My mother was very remote, very noncommunicative. She hardly could bear to
touch me. In the book of Aviya, I devote an
entire chapter to physical touch — how the
mother cares for Aviya, as if Aviya was a
baby. The physical connection. But really,
my mother was utterly emotionally
crippled.
My mother suffered from very deep
depressions and terrible outbursts and
then, 22 years before she died, she became
very dangerous to herself because she
wanted to join my father. She tried to
commit suicide a few times. We always
managed to save her life.
Then I would say, "Mama, why? Why
did you do it?" and she would reply, "I
must rush. He is waiting for me. We have a
date. If I don't hurry up, I will find worms!'
For so many years I mothered her. She
was my baby. She never taught me how to
cross the street. I taught her. I took her by
the hand and told her to stand still, to look
22
LI L I T H Spring 1991
Scene from the film "Summer of Aviya" Gila Almagor (left) and Kaipo Cohen.
left and then right, and she would get
excited about the cars and I would tell her,
"Don't worry, don't hurry, they will stop"
ML: This was in the 1950's, before people
realized there was something like survivor's trauma.
G A : People realized it, but the cultural
goal in Israel was to erase the past. To turn
one's back on what had been. We were in a
new country!
Every step in making the film was a
challenge. Finding artifacts from the
1950's in Israel proved difficult because
no one keeps anything "old!' The nostalgia craze — so prevalent in America — is
unknown in Israel. Everyone wants the
latest, the newest. No one holds on to old
furniture or household items. It took so
much work to find even a set of drinking
glasses circa 1951-.
ML: The film paints Israelis as being very
callous, treating Holocaust survivors with
surprising insensitivity and even hostility.
G A : This is my story, not everyone's
story. Maybe tomorrow you will meet
someone from my old neighborhood and
you'll ask him, "The summer of 1951 in
Petach Tikvah in Israel, what does it mean
to you?" The person might reply, "Oh, I
had the time of my life. I was young, we
were running on the sand, and there was
this crazy woman in our neighborhood
who used to shout numbers!'
ML: I believe the attitude towards survivors changed in Israel during the
Eichmann trial. Right?
G A : Yes. I remember... I remember as if
it happened yesterday. Our teacher came
into our classroom with a transistor radio,
and we did nothing but listen to the
evidence, the court hearings. That's when
we first learned about "it!'. Now the Holocaust is taught in the schools. Still, there
are many who will carry their secrets to
their graves.
In Aviya's story the Holocaust is in the
background. It was just the starting point. I
think that the people in my generation are
the real "survivors" — my mother hardly
"survived!' But my generation, whether
you were born in Morocco or Israel,
whether you are Sephardic or Ashkenazic
— we sucked with our milk everything
about the Holocaust; it was in the air, under
our feet. It was everywhere and it was
nowhere because it was all hush-hush.
I go to Yad Vashem a few times a year. I
have an obsession.... I must look into the
open wound again and'again and again. I
-
have a sixteen-year-old daughter, and I told
her that next year we will go on a pilgrimage, a kind of crusade, from one
concentration camp to another in Europe,
in Poland. And she said to me, "Please
don't force me to go. Let me decide. If I
decide to go, I will go!' (You see in two
years she will be in the Israeli army, and
then my years to educate her will be
finished.) While she is still in my hands I
want to teach her about good and evil, I
want to be the one to show her how evil
human beings can be. Anyway, finally she
agreed to go, and now we will go.
ML: In my own experience — I was a child
victim, I left Warsaw when I was ten — I
could deal with the Holocaust. However,
years later I saw the well-known photograph of two starving children sitting on
a curb in Warsaw, and one of the children
reminded me of my then very young
daughter. The moment I saw this as a
mother, I could not deal with it. As long as
I was the child victim, I had hardened
myself to the events. But suddenly I found
myself in my mother's place, and it was
years before I could see another film or
read anything else relating to the
Holocaust.
G A : I know what you mean.
I give talks to students in schools, and
they always ask me questions about being
an actress. I say to them, "Don't ask me
these stupid questions. Go to Yad Vashem
once a year! Then go buy your ice cream
and have fun. But make it a habit to go to
Yad Vashem!' We must teach the Holocaust
to our children and our grandchildren. It
must be our new Hagadah. We must never
forget. Never. Never.
At birth I was placed in an orphanage,
and I stayed there until "I was four. My
mother was sick, poor and a widow, and
she already had serious mental problems.
The administration at the orphanage gave
my mother odd jobs to do — cleaning,
washing. They let her work there so she
could be near me. On and off, I was able to
go back and live with my mother. At
fifteen and one-half I left the orphanage
and lived with my mother for four years,
until she was institutionalized for good.
My classmates were all children from
the Inferno, all "survivors!' During the day
the place looked like paradise, the trees,
the swimming pool and the laughter. But at
night, if you just walked down the corridors, you could hear the shouting and
screaming and nightmares and weeping.
For years, this group was my family. We
were all orphans and we established a
family and now we have reunions twice a
year. And if, God forbid, there is a funeral,
or a wedding, we all meet.
Last year I decided that it was time for
each one of us to tell our "stories!' On the
invitation it said to bring lots of drinks and
wine and food because it was going to be a
long day's journey into night. So it was
already two in the morning and we turned
off the lights, and then one of the courageous ones said, "Okay. I will be the first
one. My story is not as bad as yours. It is
easier for me!' And he started to talk. And
then another and then another.
One man, a survivor from Poland who
had been with the partisans as a child, and
who for years only made sounds like a
wolf, said, "Okay. Now I will tell you.
Okay. I will tell you...!' But then he could
not tell us. "Okay, now, in a minute I'll
start...!' Then, "Just wait another minute
and I will start!' "Turn the lights on and I'll
tell you!' "No, turn the lights off and I'll
begin!' And then finally he said, "I am
grateful that you want to listen, but I can't
talk. My children know nothing about this.
I will take this with me to the grave!'
ML: And the pain goes down the generations, like ripples in a lake when you throw
a stone in.
Tell me, one of the characters in the film
is called Mr. Gantz. Is he real?
G A : Yes, he existed, he was also a
Holocaust survivor. Every day he went to
work with his fancy corporate briefcase,
but in truth he was just working as a
chicken flicker. Before the war he had been
an important man.
He came to my childhood neighborhood
with his wife (who was Christian). He was
very nice to my mother from the first
moment he saw her. You remember in the
movie when he sees my mother in the
WE ARE PROUD
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SALLAH (1965)
SIEGE (1970)
HIDE AND SEEK (1980)
THE SUMMER OF AVIYA (1989)
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Spring 1991 LI L I T H
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grocery shop and he looks at her (and
Aviya just catches the look), and then he
starts bringing my mother his dirty laundry
to wash. He used to come and talk to my
mother.
Well, the girl (Aviya/me) is sure that
because the Gantz family has a wooden
chest just like in the photo of her father that
Mr. Gantz is her father. She wants him to
be her father and so she does strange
things. She perfumes his laundry and she
befriends the Gantz's spoiled, mean
daughter.
One day I was with this daughter at her
house and I heard her parents fighting, and
I thought I knew why — because he must
get rid of his wife so he can come back to
my mother. And he has to do it quickly! I
used to follow him everywhere when he
went to and from work.
And one day when I was following him
— it's in the book — he says to me, "What
are you doing here?" and I replied, "Look
at me, look at me! Look at my face! You
know who I am!' And instead he shouted at
me, "Go away!" and I looked at his face
and his eyes were so mean. And I realized
that this cannot be my father.
ML: Was there a point in your life at which
you no longer felt responsible for your
mother?
G A : NEVER! Even now after her death
about two and one-half years ago. She is
there, she is there. She talks to me. She
tells me what to do. And especially when I
pass by beggars. She told me never to
ignore someone in need.
My mother was very, very original,
very, very smart. I got so much from her.
She was the most important person in my
life. And I miss her so much; there is a void
in my life since she died. I used to go visit
her in Natanya every day, sometimes twice
a day. She used to call me because the only
number she could dial was mine. And
sometimes in the middle of the night she
would call me.
the hospital with her. I have a very close
friend who is a psychologist, and one day I
asked her to help me. My mother was
calling me at 5 in the morning, 4 in the
morning, and crying, "Why aren't you
here?"
My friend told me to get a calendar, and
she worked out a schedule for me to visit
my mother every two weeks and later on
every three or four weeks. But, you know,
I cheated. I told her that I had not seen my
mother in two weeks, but I saw her three
times during that period. I could not not
see her. And I told my friend that her
calendar was very cruel.
ML: Your mother might have had a
daughter who was willing to follow those
instructions.
G A : You know, whenever it rains I say to
my daughter that I must go visit my
mother. "Ima" she says to me with disbelief. "You want to go to the cemetery?"
I think I can face myself. I can look into
my face and eyes and I know that I was a
very, very good daughter to my mother. I
think I was the best daughter she could
have had. Oy, I loved my mother so
much. I loved her so much! And she had
such a miserable, sad life.
ML: I know what you mean. Being an
only child I became the sole resource for
my mother who was often ill and hospitalized. It is hard to be the substitute for an
entire family.
ML: Let me ask you something about your
professional choices. You started your
career playing ingenues, then more varied
roles, then writing, then producing
G A : When my mother was first hospitalized, in the beginning I had the feeling
that she would push me until I also was in
G A : In the beginning, I was a sex symbol.
I was blond for three years. It was a
nightmare, terrible, I cried at night. I knew
24 LILITH Spring 1991
it was all wrong, but every director wanted
me to play a stupid blond with big breasts.
Finally, a foreign director came to Israel
and he told me to leave acting. "Come
back!' he said, "when you have deep
grooves, deep lines!' I once thought I
might write a book called "I Was Blond for
Three Years!'
Today I am someone who has written a
book (The Summer of Aviya) which has
already had twelve printings and is still a
bestseller. This spring the book will be on
the shelves in France and Germany, and
soon it will come out in Russia and
England.
The film seems to have universal appeal. Even in countries where they know
nothing about the Holocaust, they understand the anguish of a struggling child, a
relationship between a mother and a
daughter, a sick parent. Whether in Hong
Kong or Egypt or Russia, they cry and cry.
In Russia they stood there for twenty
minutes just applauding. I think the film
touches everyone.
I am interested in certain large ideas —
peace, reconciliations. These days it is so
scary in Israel. I was always active in the
peace movement. Being an Israeli and
going through so many wars, it seems
endless. Endless and frightening and sad.
I dream about living a peaceful life. I
lost so many friends in the wars. I saw so
many widows, so many cripples, so many
children without fathers. My father was
killed by an Arab, but so what? That only
leads me to feel that we must seek peace.
In 1969 I played the widow in a movie
called Siege. The plot was my idea. It was
a family project — my husband produced
it. A widow of an army officer, after the
Six-Day War, finally meets and falls in
love with a new man — but he also, like the
first husband, is violently killed. This time
it's a land mine.
My point is, even after the Six-Day War
when euphoria dominated the land, I felt
the warnings. I saw something scary. This
movie is as relevant today as it was twenty
years ago. I see that wars simply end with
widows and orphans. Not with glory. Just
widows and orphans. Terror and widows
and orphans.
Masha Leon is a feature writer and also a
columnist for The Forward, the nation's new
Jewish weekly newspaper. Portions of this
interview originally appeared in The Forward.
,