So far I haven't written a word about the Chaim Walder affair, not because I didn't have anything to say. Of course I did. At least like the 596392992 people who bombarded the various social media platforms with seminal articles.
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I first met Walder when I was 10. He was my tutor for something. The fact that I don't remember what he taught (maybe prophecy, or arithmetic) says more than anything about what we really learned from him: lessons about life, about struggles, about broken hearts, and the rest of the time we sat open-mouthed in front of fictional suspense stories, which for some reason he never published. I remember to this day, 24 years later, Haim standing and giving the daily episode of a crazy suspense story about a Jew in the jaws of the KGB. I can see Walder moving his hands, drawing the escape, the panic in the air. It's alive and tangible in front of me. I haven't had any other teachers like him.
Lolder was a minimal early acquaintance with my family. He appreciated the books written by my grandmother, Rivka Galai, and this allowed me to connect with my beloved teacher a little more than others. After school, Lolder would give me a ride home, in a blue Ford, which was considered something of a dream at the time. He always loved life, alive.
One day he even gave me 'My Name is Zviki Green' as a gift, and I never stopped being proud of the long dedication he wrote to me.
Once, when I came to class, an uncountable number of days ago, he tore out a page from a notebook and wrote me a lovely poem about a boy who saw black people, until one day it turned out that he simply hadn't had a haircut in a long time and his hair was preventing him from seeing the beautiful reality.
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One afternoon, Walder came into the classroom and announced a new book he had written. "It's structured in such a way that it starts with a contemporary story, and as it progresses, the story moves to a historical story from the past," he described to us, and asked for suggestions on how to read the book. The children threw out a lot of ideas, proud of themselves for the privilege of taking part in the greatest literary work they know.
I, who came from a visionary family, where the attitude towards people like Walder was reserved from the start, muttered, "Moderns talk about themselves." That's it, a childish, idiotic sentence.
But Walder heard, made an offended face, and that day he didn't give me a ride in the blue Ford. I walked home.
The following Sunday, he took advantage of his regular platform in the 'In Front of the Mirror' section in 'Yated' to write about children who were raised at home to be tough. That's how he wrote. And he explained that this sometimes leads them to be rude to adults, and that harshness is not always the right way. Mom showed me the article, and she really enjoyed it. Shoulder wrote a suggestive column about her eldest.
At some point I apologized, and we made up. He gave me a ride home again, and things got back on track.
The book was finally called 'Children Following the Past'.
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After I finished my studies with him, we parted ways. But something about his personality must have captivated me. I would think a lot about the teacher who disappeared from my life.
The day before my Bar Mitzvah, I called him, he didn't answer, so I left him a voicemail with an invitation. To this day I have no idea if he heard. He didn't come to the Bar Mitzvah.
I grew up, and neglected Walder and his books. Many years would pass before I would be reincarnated into the world of media, and meet him in social circumstances. The former teacher had now become a friend. And when I published a book, I dedicated the opening line to him, "My name is Zviki Green." That's how the book that shaped my childhood begins, that's how my book begins.
Walder was very amused by the book, and was flattered by the unusual dedication. He purchased several copies from me, and distributed them to all his children. One of them told me on occasion that his father leafs through my book occasionally at night, and laughs.
Do you understand what it is for a child? That the writer was so admired for his childhood years, giggling at his texts? I think there is no need to exaggerate.
I went up to his house several times, and on one of them I also brought my children. The ones who became my idols, and who duplicated my father's admiration. It was easier for them than for me. While I cunningly took advantage of some literary affinity of my grandmother, they received Chaim Walder the man on a silver platter, who sat them down next to him in the house, talked to them cordially, and gave each of them a book with a personal dedication.
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This week these children came to me, "Dad, what happened to Chaim Walder?" And I came prepared. I decided to tell everything. From the investigation phase, through the last two months that have passed for Walder and his victims and those affected.
I took the opportunity to talk to them about protection, and how important it is to protect what is yours, your body, your soul. I explained to them that they should never take too much for the appreciation of society, the admiration of those around them, because you never know where it will throw them in life. "Be full of yourself," I asked them. "Not of your surroundings.".
And then I came to the most important line in my opinion as a father of children. To the big lesson from the story. "There is no case that is beyond repair, it can always be fixed. Sometimes easily, and sometimes with difficulty. But it is always possible. Suicide is not an option! It simply does not exist! And if Walder did it, then we no longer read his books. We do not want to receive life insights from a man who failed at his most significant moment.".
They looked at me excitedly, realizing that this was a dramatic moment.
We went to the room, collected all of Chaim Walder's books from the shelf, 18 in number. We put them in a black trash bag. Also the books with their dedications. Also 'My Name Is Zviki Green' with my dedication from 24 years ago. We went downstairs and threw them in the trash.
And starting this week, I, like many other children, try not to live in the past.
