Flying Colors

By Jonathan Danilowitz

Jonathan Danilowitz was born into the privileged life of the ruling white class of South Africa, where discrimination was the name of the game. Being Jewish meant that he too was the butt of anti-Semitic discrimination, and his book reveals the anomaly of being on both sides of discrimination. His subsequent emigration to Israel was the result of the push from South Africa, with the pull towards Israel.

For 33 years he flew on two very different airlines as a flight attendant. His revealing tales mirror the experiences within the context of his struggle to release himself of the apartheid complex, South African anti-Semitism and the gay closet.

If you’ve ever wondered what apartheid was really like for white folks (not to mention the Africans); if you’re puzzled about Israel, the gay closet; if the vagaries of civil aviation intrigue you ... ;

Jonathan cracks open the closet and many other doors for an intimate yet revealing look at a world most people never get to see; Apartheid, airlines, Israel, the struggle for gay rights & more. Written with pathos and humor, his experiences will both amuse and touch the reader.

“I really enjoyed [your book]. I read it in one sitting and found it absolutely riveting. You’re both a strong writer and a gifted story teller. Many thanks for sharing it with me.” Matt Mills, Editorial Director, Pink Triangle Press.

" 'Flying Colors' reads like an enjoyable tale of suspense. It is about a man who starts his life off not knowing his own true identity. When his homosexuality stares him in the face, he slams the door shut on his discovery. Even though he stoically refuses to acknowledge his homosexuality and struggles against it with all his might he cannot escape his destiny. The reader remains in suspense as to whether he will ever let himself live his life fully or opt for a life of self-denial.
There are several additional stories entwined around the central theme, affording us fascinating insights into the life of a white Jewish family in South Africa during apartheid times, the life of flight attendants, Israel and the struggle for equal rights for gays.
Jonathan's progression from passive paralysis to pro-activity at the forefront of the fight for civil rights for gays is truly inspiring." (Esti Geron, Tel Aviv).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Danilowitz
• Release date: Apr 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476023458

Jonathan Danilowitz

I came crashing out from deep inside the dark and frightening 'closet' in a blaze of publicity, with the Israel Supreme Court's precedent-making decision that gay people have rights too. I won! I now live a calm burgeoise life in Tel Aviv with my partner of 32 years. Civil rights, animal rights, gay rights, politics, bridge and socializing fill my days. Writing "Flying Colors" was a fulfilling journey - I hope you enjoy the flight too.

Book preview

FLYING COLORS

Jonathan Danilowitz

****

Published by:

Jonathan Danilowitz at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Jonathan Danilowitz

****

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

****

"Silence is the Voice of Consent"

In memory of my parents, Bella and Baar.

With grateful thanks to Gabriel Baharlia, Tel Aviv,

for permission to use the cover photograph (c)

Chapter 1

A Fateful Flight: New York-Paris, Early 1970.

A strident voice interrupted my thoughts. I specifically asked to be seated in the no smoking section! The speaker was tall and handsome, and he was furious. My antennae quivered: How would the stewardess (we still used the not-politically-correct stewardess back then) handle this difficult passenger? I’d often dealt with similar situations in my three years as a flight attendant on South African Airways, with varying rates of success. I’d learned the hard way. The secret is not to argue: You can’t lose when there’s no argument.

This lady was obviously a pro. She made all the appropriate noises of regret and apology, smiled sweetly and tried everything to calm the angry passenger’s ruffled feathers. But clearly, he was looking for a fight and wouldn’t let go. I waited for that oh-so-common I demand to be upgraded to First Class! but suddenly he noticed me watching. I lowered my eyes at once, embarrassed at having been caught eavesdropping and staring.

His voice and attitude changed abruptly. What did you say my seat number is? he asked, and even as she answered him, I realized that he had the aisle seat next to me. Well, okay, he said gruffly. I could tell his anger was no longer genuine. I guess it will be okay after all. A look of pleasant (but surprised) relief passed over her; she was as perplexed as I was at his abrupt change of pace. She sailed away, and in a flash he dropped into the seat on my right.

It didn’t take more than 30 seconds before he turned to me, and in that inimitable and so-surely-American way, stuck out his hand and introduced himself: Hi he said, smiling broadly, I’m Frank Webb. I guess we’re going to be together here for quite a while. How are you? Next to Have a good day, the How are you? of American polite niceties is the one that irritates me most. Here was a person who had not been properly introduced; a person who by his first sentence, demonstrated to me that he in all probability did not even know the term Properly Introduced; a person to whom I may never wish to be introduced; and he was asking after my health! I sighed mentally at the boorishness of these Americans, but was of course too polite (and too snobbish) to disregard the outstretched hand. I took it frigidly, said my name, and that yes, I was quite well thank you.

The first thing I noticed about Frank Webb was that he held onto my hand for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. And his glance held my eyes for that superfluous nanosecond too. I wondered why, but ignored it, naturally, and as the phony smile faded from my lips I turned back to watching the other passengers settle down for the night flight to Paris. The excitement level rose as more and more passengers streamed onto the plane. This was to be one of TWA’s first flights across the Atlantic in the spanking new 747 Jumbo Jet. Even though I was a frequent flyer (the term still hadn’t been coined in 1969), I too was hyped up. Flying across the Atlantic was not all that common, even for Americans, less so for a country boy from South Africa, as I was. The Boeing 747 was considered an amazing aircraft back then, and Paris: well, her charms have not waned.

I tried to look nonchalant, but without much success. What an aircraft! The Boeing Company had outdone itself. Now, forty-some years later, it all appears dated, but back then the sheer size of the flying giant was enough to impress even the most jaded passenger. I was awed by it all: the size, the design, the decor. I’d just flown in from Los Angeles, also on a 747, and I was dazzled by the lounges, the pianos, the stand-up bars, and of course, the service. When the airlines had taken delivery of their first Jumbos, they had wallowed in overcapacity. It took several years before passenger demand caught up with and exceeded the seating capacity of the giant airliners. Only then did the air companies rip out the lounges and piano-bars, and jam in more and more seats.

The plane was fairly full and before long the cabin crew began the oxygen-mask and life-belt demonstrations, both of which are very familiar to me. Still, I watched with professional interest because crew members of various airlines have their quirks and difference and I wanted to make comparisons. And all the time, I had this uneasy sensation that my seatmate was staring at me.

As soon as the plane was airborne, Frank turned to me again, making small talk. For how long was I going to France? Where was I from? Where had I been in the United States? He was super-friendly, seemed genuinely interested in me, and it was very flattering. Slowly, my typical British reserve melted away, especially after the drinks trolley came by and he insisted on paying for my gin and tonic. After a few sips I felt a lot more relaxed. I couldn’t understand why he sat so close to me, though. He leaned right over the arm rest and touched me often – albeit wisps of a touch – but often. He smiled beautifully, and I noticed that although he was dressed casually, his clothes were fashionably tailored.

I wanted to smoke. My cigarettes were in the seat pocket, and I leaned forward to get them. In a flash he moved his knee up against the seat-back in front of me; I was forced to rub against his leg to get at my Marlboros. I couldn’t understand it, and looked at him. Frank had the strangest look on his face: His eyes were staring into mine, and his lips were just barely parted. He seemed to be waiting for the answer to a question that hadn’t been asked. I didn’t know what it meant. I forced his knee away roughly and took out my cigarettes. The moment passed. I lit up and took another sip of gin. Frank continued to chat away but I could tell he was edgy. He wasn’t drinking anything alcoholic and wasn’t smoking. I hadn’t a clue as to what was going on and decided that he was just another of those crazy Americans.

The book I was reading was also in the seat pocket, and I stretched to get it. Instantly, his knee was there again, and my hand rubbed against his thigh as I had to push his leg away. I was sorry that they hadn’t moved him to First Class after all, nice as he was. What was going on?

The crew began to serve dinner, but I wanted to go to the bathroom first. I had to climb over Frank to get to the aisle, and although he made the motions of making my getting out easier, he really succeeded in forcing me to stretch and jump as much as possible in order to avoid bodily contact. It became clear to me that that was what he wanted.

When I returned, Frank had moved to the inner seat, leaving his aisle seat vacant for me. I had decided that I would give him no cause for further contact with me and I sat down without comment.

Our dinner arrived. Frank suggested we share a bottle of wine, for which he insisted on paying. He leaned over me to pay, pushing his body against mine, as I struggled to get out of the way. It was then that I began to suspect that Frank was one of those, and that he was trying to put the make on me. I blushed and gasped, and a shiver of fear shook me. I gulped down the wine, threw my ideas of correct behavior in polite society to the winds, and tried to ignore my seatmate. But he was hard to ignore, and I didn’t have the self-confidence to do it. Was this man really a Homosexual? (In my mind, the word was capitalized.) Was he interested in me? Why, for heavens sake? I felt awful. The more I tried to keep away, the stronger he came on to me. I was at my wits end.

Finally, I could bear it no longer. I summoned all my courage and turned to Frank. I want you to know I’m not interested in men, I hissed. He looked at me blankly. I am not ‘that way’ , I said. I couldn’t utter the actual word. What if I was mistaken about him? What if he was just being super-friendly, as I knew some Americans were?

I waited for lightning to strike, for the wings to fall off, for the plane to crash. Nothing happened. Frank took another sip of wine and seemed to relax a little. Wow, I’m disappointed, he whispered, and even as he spoke, he drew away from me, ever so slightly. I happened to notice you in the terminal at Kennedy Airport, and you looked great. That leather jacket you were wearing is such a turn-on, especially as it was so incompatible with the rest of your clothes. I followed you to the men’s room, but you didn’t see me. Then, when I boarded and realized I was seated next to you, I couldn’t believe my luck. I bet the stewardess was surprised when out of the blue, I suddenly agreed to sit here in the smoking section. He laughed at the recollection.

Frank didn’t know it, but the leather jacket, now stowed in the overhead locker, didn’t even belong to me: Even though I was a pretty hip 20-something, I’d never worn leather before. But I’d met a friend who was touring the United States for a few more weeks, and he’d asked me to take the jacket back to South Africa, a gift for his brother. He didn’t want to schlep it through the National Parks he was still to visit. I didn’t mind, I told him, as long as I could wear it. Frank didn’t realize just how right he was about my clothing.

I too relaxed a fraction, once I understood I’d been right about Frank and that I’d caused him no offense. On the contrary, I’d cleared up this whole terrible misunderstanding and felt that now I could enjoy the rest of the flight. Just then, a steward walked by offering the headsets. Although I’d seen the movie, I paid for two, and gave one to Frank, hoping the gesture would demonstrate that there were no hard feelings. I felt light as air, glad that all the problems were behind me. I was so naïve, as I was to discover.

Chapter 2

Apartheid South Africa

In Krugersdorp, South Africa, in the 1950s, we’d lived a typically white-middle-class South African family life. My father was in business, and my mother was a housewife and didn’t work. By the 1980s it was no longer politically correct to say of a housewife that she didn’t work simply because she was a homemaker, but it really was semantically correct regarding my mother. My mother didn’t work. She had three full-time live-in servants, Africans of course, plus a woman who came twice a week to do the washing and ironing. The only labor-saving device in our household was an electric floor-polisher, which the houseboy used to keep the vast expanses of parquet floor tiles shining brightly. All else was done by hand, black hands.

A huge quaint coal stove that they stoked each morning and kept going all day stood in the kitchen. When my father one day brought home an electric kettle, we felt we’d properly entered the 20th century. And when, in 1953, a distant relative came to South Africa from the United States and presented my parents with an automatic pop-up toaster, I stood for hours admiring the amazing device and proudly invited all my friends in to see it too. They were appropriately impressed, and we ate lots of toast.

One of the servants, Lydia, was a friendly woman who worked for our family for years. She had a young son who lived with her in the servants’ rooms at the bottom of the garden. We called him Oompie, though I don’t think that was his real name. I had a bicycle, and little Oompie loved riding on it with me. He was too small to use it alone, but I would take him on the pillion, and he’d shriek with delighted horror as I rode faster and faster, purposely wobbling from side to side to add spice to the ride. I had as much fun as Oompie did. But one day my mother took me aside and told me I could no longer ride with Oompie on the streets, although it was still okay, she said, to play with him in the back yard. I couldn’t understand why, and she wouldn’t explain. Years later I discovered that she had received an anonymous telephone call, warning her that the neighbors would not tolerate seeing a white child and a black child playing together in public. I was too young to know that I should have felt superior to him because I was white and he was black, or because he was only the child of a servant.

Oompie spoke the Zulu dialect of his mother, and I, of course, spoke English, but verbal communication, or rather, the lack of it, had never been a problem until then. Although he begged me, Oompie could not understand why I refused to take him on my bike any longer, and even if I had known the real reason, I could not have explained. Wisely, Lydia did not intervene. She knew her job depended on it. Oompie stayed angry at me for weeks.

***

I’m the third of four children. Ros is the oldest, and by the time her third brother David was born, she was fed up at having only brothers. Benjy, my older brother, is five years my senior and to him I was the nuisance that tagged along with him and his friends. But I loved being with them. I adored watching them; touching them; (by accident of course); and just being with them. By the time I was 9, they were already smoking behind the shed at the bottom of the garden, talking dirty, collecting pictures of half-naked women, and maturing sexually. I have clear recollections of trying to catch a glimpse of their dicks, although I didn’t know why. Benjy would shoo me off like an annoying insect, but his friends were a little more polite and would speak to me and even answer my questions. It was heaven, but I didn’t know why.

We grew up never having to lift a finger at home. Our beds were made, our clothes washed, our shoes polished, our rooms cleaned, our food cooked, all by the willing hands of Lydia and her staff. To her last day my mother was a terrible cook. The servants earned a pittance, but considered themselves lucky to have such relatively good jobs. They had a roof over their heads, food, and even (gasp) free medical attention. That is to say, my parents would, at their own discretion, pay the doctor if they decided that his medical services were truly necessary. My mother and father were strict but fair employers (all things being relative of course), and the servants appreciated that. It was years before I learned about the iniquities and injustices of the apartheid regime.

Ros could not understand by what divine decree she should have three (!) brothers, and forbade us to speak to her at school. She didn’t want her friends to be reminded of this cross she had to bear. She barely spoke to us at home, and would yell in fury if we dared enter her boudoir. Benjy was her worst enemy, with me a close second. David, still a cute baby, was spared her wrath, though he was the cause of it, so to say. Had he been a girl, she probably would have been much more tolerant of her two other siblings.

In 1955, Ros, Benjy and I went to summer camp in Lychees Bay, on the Indian Ocean. Ros, at age 17, was already a camp councilor and during the vacation she met another councilor, one Philip Minster. Phil was in charge of entertainment at camp, and he was terrific. It was clear to all the campers, including Benjy and me, that our sister and Phil were having a summer romance, but then almost everyone at camp had a steady, and it didn’t bother us at all. On the contrary, she seemed sweeter than usual and even lent me a shilling one day when I was out of pocket money. The good days had arrived, and I took full advantage.

Camp ended, summer ended, and we went back to school. One day soon after, I noticed a nicely-framed picture of Phil displayed on the coffee table in the living room. Nobody was home, and I barely paid attention to it. I was doing homework in my room later when I heard yelling coming from the other side of the house. At first I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I listened carefully as the volume rose. How dare you put a picture of your boyfriend in the living room? That was my mother. She must have come home and seen the photograph too. She seemed agitated, and I remember being surprised that such a minor issue would annoy her so. Her word was law and all she needed do was tell Ros to get rid of the picture. And then I heard my sister, all 17 years of her, scream back, obviously on the verge of tears: That’s not my boyfriend, he’s my fiancé. That’s the man I’m going to marry.

The lines were drawn and the atmosphere at home continued to be unbearable for weeks. My parents were adamant: Their 17-year old only daughter was not going to marry some boy with whom she’d had a three-week summer romance – a boy they’d never even met; (Phil was from Durban, 500 kilometers away); a boy who was leaving to go and live in Israel in two months, and who wanted Ros to join him. My sister stubbornly refused to understand why mom and dad insisted on ruining her life. It was very clear to her that her future lay inextricably linked with Phil’s and that the sooner they married, the better for all concerned.

My mother was on the verge of tears all the time, her eyes red from weeping as she saw