I watched their faces while the music was playing. There was no rapt attention or warmth of spirit or even a slight attempt to comprehend. Not indifference either. What was there, in those silly faces, is hard to describe to somebody who hasn't lived with the likes of them for a long time. The nearest thing to it is the slight curiosity of a surfeited child before he pokes his hand in the plate to muck the food up. What made it worse for me was the sudden realisation that this is in essence their general attitude to things in the Kibbutz.
Pampered? Not in the least! Young boys and girls who in their childhood were daily bathed in cold water, in a kind of conveyer belt operation (one nurse applied the soap, a second hosed them down and a third dried them with a towel) could not be said to have been pampered in the usual sense of the word. Yet they have grown to take everything for granted, everything for their own benefit in a materialistic, utilitarian way. Not a hint of gratitude on their part or the least sign of respect for those who provided them with the luxuries they wallow in.
That night I struck a blow for my generation. One by one the young bastards slunk out of the library, leaving me alone with some comrades of my own age. Of course, they complained to the social committee and Elisheva came to see me. She spoke about her latest pet subject: the need to bridge the generation gap and all the rest of it, trying to make me feel guilty in an oblique way. I flew into another simulated rage as only an old man can do. Flushed and sputtering I began to tremble. She had to apologise and leave me in peace. After all, she couldn't risk my having a heart attack or a stroke. What the stupid woman had not realized was that this time my rage was skilfully simulated. I even rehearsed it beforehand in front of the mirror in anticipation of her visit.
And it succeeded brilliantly. The whole issue was settled as things usually are settled in the Kibbutz: no formal decision is taken but people grab a position and entrench themselves in it. I was left in charge of the music library, where I and a few friends of the old generation gather every afternoon, or sometimes also in the evenings, to listen to music or to chat among ourselves.
The young bastards retaliated by demanding their own discotheque which, of course, they got in due course.