Four and a Half

Let me paint you a picture. This very well many be a true story, however no one can verify it with any certainty. I am sure everyone will come to their own conclusions and judge for themselves. Be warned, this could change your life…

The twisted and winding roads in Old Yaffo (Jaffa) hide one of Israel’s most secret facilities. Streets upon streets of squat, grey unremarkable buildings create a neighborhood no one would give a second thought to. Off an unmarked side street where even the locals get lost, a path leads away from the road towards yet another grey building. The path leads toward a seemingly ordinary apartment building known only as building Four and a Half.

Like many buildings in Israel this one has a guard stationed outside. On closer inspection one might notice some interesting differences in this particular building. Unlike most guards at public schools or buildings, the guards at four and a half seem to have just finished their military service, a good generation or two younger than the average guard. The guards at Four and a Half seem to act with a sense of mission, knowing the installation they guard holds the key to Israel’s future. They walk upright and are constantly on alert. The building must be the only one in Jaffa without a rampant cat problem, as they too are scared away by the constant patrolling presence of the guards.

The apartments all have dark windows, as if decades of grime and dirt have built up and no one bothered to wipe the windows clean. Like gargoyles perched on the rooftop, Four and a Half is littered with dozens of security cameras, following, watching. There is no laundry blowing in the wind from the balconies, no one is every seen walking outside or sitting out in the sun. If it was not for the trickle of people coming and going, the building would seem to be just another neglected building, forgotten and abandoned.

To enter Four and a Half, ID must be shown and the current password must be given to the guards. Everyone entering the building must pass through a metal detector, as well as scanned by several humming machines. Upon approval from someone unseen, the guard ushers people into the small lobby. There are video cameras everywhere, tucked away unobtrusively in the corners, silently watching everyone. The interior of the cramped lobby has the ambiance of an era gone by; it was probably furnished in the 60’s and is now frozen in time. Old travel magazines in Hebrew featuring trips to the Orient litter the small corner coffee table. The only other features of the room are a few vinyl chairs draped with cracking plastic covers and a lazy ceiling fan, slowly revolving as if it doesn’t have the energy to spin properly. The air in the lobby smells old and musty, as if it too had not been refreshed in decades. At the opposing end of the small lobby is another door with a panel of buzzers at its side. The door is covered in a faux wood finish, perhaps from the same era as the vinyl chairs. Inserting a key and entering a secret combination on the panel causes the door so slide open silently, the first hint of what lies beyond is much more than just another dull grey building.

The door has the appearance of a simple door panel, but slides away into the wall, as if it were something out of Star Trek. The open doorway reveals the interior of a gleaming elevator, decked out in chrome and mahogany. It’s certain the interior decorator of the elevator was born decades after whoever designed the outside of the building. It’s a huge contrast to the lobby, the air smells fresh and sparkly pushed around by an unseen silent fan. The chrome gleams in the sophisticated halogen recessed lighting, and the wood gives off an aura of prestige. This is a very serious, very powerful elevator, used to transporting people of a similar standing. After several seconds, card verifications, video confirmation and a destination chosen, the elevator door silently slides shut and the decent beings. The speed of the elevator is hard to gauge, but the pressure which builds up, popping ears again and again, may suggest the depth of what lies below.

After several minutes, the elevator arrives at floor one. From an unseen speaker a soothing computerized voice announces “floor one, research, administration and conference rooms”. Whoever designed that voice knew what they were doing, it gave the impression it was thanking you and at the same time complementing you on your excellent taste in elevators. The door slides silently open to reveal a glaring corridor painted in bright white with pastel trim. A light blue sign painted on the wall says “Welcome to Four and a Half”. To the right, another guard checks clearances, and issues a pass. The hallway looks as if it were a sterile environment, not a speck of dust can be seen on the white polished floors. Down the hall are huge plate glass windows, one after another, revealing laboratories with scientists in white lab coats running around and performing experiments, taking notes, and taking naps. Taken out of context the activities and experiments being carried on in the labs might seem strange, but there is an excellent reason for everything. Next to each window in a door with a sign, each labeled with a series of seemingly nonsensical letters and numbers. Directly ahead, at the end of the corridor, are large doors set with a small engraved plaque simply stating “Conference Room”.

Entering the conference room, the true purpose of Four and a Half becomes no less apparent. What seems like a panel of seven delegates sit in the front of the room on an elevated stage, while the rest of the room is ringed with desks arranged in rows. The design is reminiscent of the UN or the Knesset. On each desk is a small card with the name of the occupant. The seated people come from across the spectrum of Israeli society. Every religion, ethnicity, language and culture is represented. The Druze delegate stands and shouts the famous Druze saying “The pen is in thy hands, write and fear not” to the assembly. Heads nod, and the murmuring of the crowd turns to a dull roar. After a moment, the Chassidic Rabbi raises his hand and says , “Does it not say in Perki Avos that Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said, On three things the world stands: on Judgment, on Truth, and on Peace?” More argument, more muttering and all heads turn to the Muslim and Christian delegates to see which would be able to come up with a witty retort.

But before anyone could take the floor and should out in true Israeli fashion, all attention was suddenly diverted to a heated debate between the Israelis of Yemenite and Moroccan decent. “It has to be ground! That’s what my mother said!” one shouted and turned a slight shade of red. The other screamed loud enough for all the assembled dignitaries to hear while turning a slight shade of purple. “It’s roasted and then ground! Everyone knows that”. The crowd screaming, the panel banging for attention and everyone screaming only added to the chaos. More screaming, more cursing, and the delegates took a few minutes break. Everyone has their own recipe for the perfect cup of coffee, how exactly to put in the grounds, how much sugar, how much water, when and for how long. The five minute break turned into an hour long shmooze about coffee and everything else. Slowly, the delegates filed back into the conference room.

I imagine there really is a place like this in real life, there has to be. Go to any supermarket or makolet, you will find dozens of chummous containers of all shapes, sizes, ingredients and types. How do they come up with so many blends of peppers, eggplant, chickpea, technia, charif and a million other additives? How do they make it appeal to everyone while coming up with new variants on a weekly basis? Chunky, creamy, inbetweeny, green, red, orange, pine nuts and walnuts, the variety is endless. American style, Moroccan, Yemenite, Mediterranean, and Greek, picked peppers, chopped up leek.

The only logical explanation I could come up with is a secret national laboratory, where new recipes are not only created, but cultural input from all sectors of Israeli society is taken into consideration. In a small country where a matter of miles is like a continent away, it’s an amazing challenge to take everyone into consideration. How to make someone who hails from Jerusalem find the same chummous flavors interesting and exciting as someone from Cairo, Siberia or Detroit. We all have different backgrounds and inputs into how things are in Israel. Unlike any other country I have been to; we certainly have the most strangely flavored potato chips, but that’s a whole other story.

A story from the Moshav

Shira's father, R' Dovid Hertzberg z'l wrote the following story in the second chapter of his joke book. The joke book is a collection of jokes, stories, and recollections from R' Shlomo Carlebach, his followers and friends, otherwise known as the chevrah... Sometimes a little disjointed, sometimes nonsensical, they are always wonderful. Reading through the joke book makes you laugh, smile and cry. The stories run the gamut of emotion, you can always find a deeper or hidden meaning in them. Sometimes a simple story or a joke which has a punch line which you had to be there for, brings back something. I picture R' Dovid and R' Shlomo sitting with a group of friends and laughing into the night. I never had the pleasure of meeting Shira's abba, but through his stories, I hope to learn a little about who he was, the importance of being happy, and enjoying a good joke.

From the joke book, chapter 2, Dovidl's Jokes.

It was Friday night at the Moshav, and the Rebbe was going strong. We were all in the synogogue that was exquisitely painted by the famed artist Reb Yitschak ben Yehuda. He and his wife Rivka had been on the Moshav for some twenty years, ever since the school bus they were living in broke down. Sitting in this beautiful Shul (synogogue) with Reb Shlomo was truly a taste of the Garden of Eden. The teaching and the prayers went on for hours, and It was almost midnight by the time we got to 'Shalom Aleichem,' welcoming in the Shabbos angels. It seems the angels had a worthwhile wait as Reb Shlomo sang slowly and melodiously, swaying back and forth with his eyes toward heaven.

The holy Kiddush wine was flowing freely but our Rebbe gently taught us that the whole world drank in order to forget, but we Yidden drink wine to remember. The main thing, he said was that, G-d forbid, a person should never get drunk on Shabbos; but then he reminded us that we have to be drunk from Shabbos. So, too, we drink wine under the wedding canopy to remind ourselves that we should be drunk with love for each other. We ate, drank and sang for hours, and I don't remember anyone getting drunk. But we were certainly flying high that Shabbos. By the time we stood in front of Reb Shlomo's house on the Moshav I couldn't tell anymore what I was drunk from, but it seemed like an appropriate moment to tell one of my favorite jokes. I'd heard it from my good friend Reb. Fred.

Once there was a guy who went into a bar and ordered two scotches on the rocks. The bartender brought him a double scotch on the rocks. The guy started complaining saying, 'I ordered two single shots, not one double shot.' The bartender took back the double scotch, muttered something under his breath and brought back two single shots. They guy drank the first one and then crank the second one, saying 'cheers!' Now this went on for a month, and the bartender finally said to himself, 'I can't take it anymore. I have to ask this guy what's going on.' So the next night he said to the guy, "Hey Buddy, I know it's none of my business but could you tell me why you have to drink two single scotches everyday at the exact same time, five o'clock?" The guy started getting nostalgic. "Well, Joe, I'll tell you the truth. I have a buddy I served with in the army in Vietnam, and when we got out of Nam, he joined the Navy. We swore to each other that every day at five PM, wherever we were, we would both drink two scotches on the rocks and say 'cheers'; I do it twice, once for him and once for me. And he says 'cheers' twice, once for me and once for him. And that's the reason." After the guy left the bar, Joe the bartender turned to his regular customers, and with a tear in his eye he told of this guy's story to everybody. "Can you imagine? His buddy is out in the middle of the sea and he's here and the both of them are always connected, toasting each other and themselves. That's just so touching." By this time just about everyone at the bar was crying. Now this two-drink ritual continued for another six months until one fateful day the guy came into the bar at 5:00 and ordered one single shot of scotch on the rocks. Joe the bartender began trembling and was afraid to ask what happened to his buddy in the Navy. But the regulars kept signalling to Joe to ask him.

Finally, with trepidation, Joe asked: "Hey, listen, I don't mean to be nosy but I noticed you only ordered one drink. Is your buddy OK?" "Oh yeah," the guy answered, "he's as fine as can be." "Well then," Joe continued, "what's going on? How come you only ordered one drink?" "Oh," said the guy, "that's because I stopped drinking!"

Shlomo laughed hysterically and then said, "Dovid'l, that's a great joke. Where did you hear if?" I said, "where else Reb Shlomo? At the bar!"