Even before the first shots were fired in the Persian Gulf war, the exodus had begun.
From airports in New York, Paris and beyond, performing artists with ties to Israel found themselves dropping everything to head for the field of danger.
For three prominent artists-conductor Zubin Mehta, comic Jackie Mason and actor Chaim Topol-there was no question that the place to be was Tel Aviv, where Iraq`s Scud missiles would land in the first few days of the Gulf war.
”I decided to go to Tel Aviv on the 15th of January, as I was about to take off from Paris to New York,” says Mehta, music director of the New York Philharmonic and Israel Philharmonic, and recently returned from the battle zone.
”I found that I just physically couldn`t let myself step on that plane
(to New York),” adds Mehta. ”It was actually a physical thing.
”I`ve never done anything like this before, you know. You don`t just suddenly cancel a week of concerts (the N.Y. Philharmonic had to abruptly find a replacement).
”But as I was catching the plane in Paris, having traveled all night by car to make the flight, it hit me. Maybe it was the sleepless euphoria that made me realize I had to be in Israel.”
For Mason, whose hit Broadway show ”Jackie Mason: Brand New” had to be shut down, and Topol, who left his starring role on Broadway in ”Fiddler on the Roof,” the decision became clear when the first Scud missiles hit.
”When I heard missiles were flying and people could possibly get killed, I said to myself, `I have to run over there and see what`s happening,`
” recalls Mason, who recently returned to his show at the Neil Simon Theater. Topol, meanwhile, heard the news of the attacks on Israel ”on my way to the Gershwin Theater on Thursday, Jan. 17. When I arrived at the theater, I immediately telephoned my children and some of my friends in Tel Aviv.
”Throughout (that evening`s) performance, I kept a line open to Israel, so that whenever I had a moment (offstage) I could speak with my family.
”I intended to leave that evening, but, unfortunately, I had missed the last El Al flight and learned that the next flight was not until Saturday.
”I then asked the (`Fiddler`) producers to allow me to return to Israel. I also posted a letter to the cast and crew expressing my feelings that I had to go where my heart was, and that was with my family in Israel.”
Obviously, each of these artists had specific, compelling reasons for putting themselves in the line of fire. But what is it that they shared? What common need drives an artist to throw caution aside?
According to Mehta, it`s the universal need to lend a hand, even if the help may seem slight.
”When I arrived in Tel Aviv,” recalls Mehta, ”I found the mayor
(Shlomo Lahat) and said, `Look, I`m here. I have nothing really to do (all the Israel Philharmonic concerts had been canceled), so use me, take me around with you. I`ll just be your aide de camp.`
”So the next morning I went walking with him and talking to people we ran into.
”We went to the square where the old people sit around and talk, and I asked them, `Are you apprehensive about what`s going to happen?`
”And two people, out of a benchful of five, said, `Look. We both lived through Auschwitz. So what is this to compare? We have fought in two wars for Israel, we have fought all of our lives. We are prepared.`
”Talking to people like that gave me the strength to stay.”
Once the missiles began to hit, however, a sense of fear took hold of visitors and residents alike.
”I had to run for cover at least five times in the three days that I was there, and believe me, when the siren goes off, all of a sudden there are no heroes,” says Mason, whose forebears were Holocaust survivors. ”Everybody is just as panicky as everybody else, and the nervousness runs through your body. ”Every time the sirens went off, I would look in the faces of these very tough Israeli people who fear nothing. And I saw in their faces that no matter how you fear nothing, you`ve got to be insane not to fear the idea of passing away.
”After each air raid, when you find that you`re still living, you say to yourself, `No kidding, I`m still here? Frankly, I`m surprised to see it.` ”
For Mehta, the air raids also were shocking.
”The first alarm came in the middle of the night, and, frankly, when I heard the sirens I couldn`t think of what to do,” says Mehta, who has conducted in Israel since 1961, led the Philharmonic in performances during the Six Day War in 1967 and became music director in 1977.
”The hotel staff quickly took everyone down to a hermetically sealed room, in case of a gas attack. And when we were down there, I could think of nothing to do but try to console people, going from one to other.
”Luckily, one of them had one of these modern (remote) telephones, and with my gas mask on, I phoned my wife in California. Of course, everyone in the world knew the attack was underway, so when my wife heard my voice, she burst into tears.”
Coming out of the shelters, Mehta, Mason and Topol-like everyone in Tel Aviv-were startled to see the fallen buildings and bloodied civilians. Those images, however, had particular poignance for Topol.
”I toured the neighborhoods that were hit by the Scud missiles, in the company of the mayor of Tel Aviv,” he recalls. ”One of the neighborhoods was very close to the area where I had lived as a child, and I had the opportunity to speak to the people who lived there.
”(But) one of the strongest images of my return to Israel was that of the Soviet Jews arriving from Russia. As soon as they leave their planes, they immediately are given gas masks by young, Israeli women soldiers. (Today), during my performance of the exodus scene from Anatevka in `Fiddler,` I can`t help but think of these people who arrive in Israel every day faced with the possibility of a gas attack.”
Mehta, however, found a ray of hope amid the debris.
”The second attack was miraculous,” he says, ”because it occurred on the Sabbath morning in a very congested area of Tel Aviv. There is a tiny square surrounded by a theater, a school for retarded children, a gymnasium and a community center.
”And can you imagine that this missile that came down in the middle of this square didn`t touch a person, precisely because it was the Sabbath and nobody was there.
”Now you have to remember that this was before Israel had the Patriot missiles to shoot down the Scuds, but nobody was killed. Nobody.
”The same day, another missile fell in the city park, 10 feet away from an oil storage building, and again no one was killed.
”The third missile that day fell on a very heavily congested shopping street, but the missile didn`t explode.
”For three missiles that could have killed 1,000 people, and for nobody to be hurt is a miracle. It`s three miracles.
”Of course, it takes Gandhian strength for the Israelis not to succumb to the temptation to respond.”
When it came time to leave the war, each of these artists felt something a little different. Mehta could hardly tear himself away, feeling ”very strange getting on that airplane to safety.”
Topol found it ”very difficult to be separated from my family and friends at a time like this. But when the Israeli government announced that the children should resume school, I thought I should return to the show and do my job.”
Mason, back in his comic persona, jokes that, ”To tell you the truth, I was happy to get out of there. I know that I can`t take the same kind of pressure the Israelis can take.
”It`s not that easy to keep running back and forth to a shelter every 12 minutes, racing up six flights of stairs with a gas mask that you don`t know how to operate.”
Chances are that each of these artists will be back.
”I`ve literally grown up with the Israelis, I`ve been blessed to be sort of adopted by that country since 1961,” says Mehta, answering the unasked question of why a Bombay-born Parsi feels so tightly bound to the Jewish nation.
”We`ve been through three wars together: `67, `73 and `91.
”Spiritually speaking, I`m an Israeli.”
