Authors: Cynthia Freeman
“I only have four days, Simone. Do you think
that’s
enough time?”
“I don’t know, probably not—”
He grabbed her hand, walked quickly down the hill until they reached the hotel. “We’re going back.”
“Well, you do give up easily.”
Okay, he’d take the challenge, annoyed—or frustrated—as he was. He’d stick it out for the next four days. She wasn’t going to defeat him, damn it. And he was going to seem far more indifferent to her than he felt. Some chance.
The first days passed tranquilly enough … sun and surf, dancing, moonlight walks. Romantic but not intimate.
On their last night, Joshua had just shut his door when there was a knock. He opened it and was confronted—rewarded—by Simone, dressed in a blue silk peignoir she’d kept hidden from those other members of Aliyah Bet … she was French, after all. A Zionist, but definitely a
French
Zionist.
She had to come to him, he stood there like a lump. She closed the door behind her, walked toward him, dropped the robe, kissed him, and said, “I think the time has come when
we
can be very good friends.”
Trying to control the throbbing between his thighs, he took her in his arms, kissed her, and then the urgency each felt took over. The gentle surf was a fitting accompaniment to their lovemaking … gentle, powerful and repetitive …
In the morning, Joshua had no doubts about being in love with Simone. Never mind if it was sudden. It was there. His whole life moved quickly. He had no doubts. He watched her lying there for a moment, then kissed her.
“Simone, I want you to marry me. Please don’t put me off with how sudden this is and so forth. I
know
what I feel. How about you?”
“Not yet … Joshua, I told you I was attracted to you. Last night, God knows, was wonderful. But it’s a beginning—”
“You are a damned stubborn woman, Simone, but I’ll try to love you anyway.” He forced himself to wink and appear to be a good deal more jolly than he felt.
They drove up to Caesarea, wanting the day to last as long as possible, and had lunch, then visited the old Roman aqueduct, the ruins near the old harbor, and went on to the Roman amphitheater. Simone sat on a stone bench in the middle of the huge arena. Joshua stood below on what had once been the stage. From that platform he spoke out and his voice resounded in that ancient theater … “To be or not to be, that’s the question … Marry me, Simone, marry me …”
His answer was her applause., Not what he wanted, but at least she didn’t say no. Progress? He thought so. Hoped so …
With those good thoughts they left and he took her as far into Jerusalem as he felt it was safe for him to go. He kissed her just before she boarded the bus and warned her he’d call her every day.
As he watched it speed away, he held to her promise that it was the beginning, and with this reassurance for himself he turned westward and drove back to the unknown future in Kfar Shalom.
The house was still, everyone asleep. Dvora sat at her kitchen table wondering how she could find the words to tell Chavala the terrible news. No way, except to tell the truth of it:
My dearest Chavala:
We’ve survived many things, you and I. I wish there was a better way … a different way for me to tell you what I am about to say.
I’ll tell you details later, but through the most extraordinary set of events Sheine’s son is with us here at Kfar Shalom. God must have planned it. Erich was one of the refugees that was saved on the ship that Joshua brought to Eretz Yisroel. He is a very upset young man, but with love and understanding he’ll recover. Somehow I see a great deal of you in him. He refused to be denied his birthright.
The tragedy I have to tell you is that Sheine was not saved. She did not suffer, she died in her sleep. She cheated the devil and through her son she defeated and outlived Hitler. She lies buried in the ashes of Berlin, and her son now fights for the freedom of a new land that will one day soon be born … the State of Israel.
It pains me, dear Chavala, to be the bearer of such news, but we have shared the best and we will share whatever life has in store for us.
God takes away, but God gives back. Maybe that’s what gives meaning to the whole thing.
Being both sisters and grandparents makes us closer than most. Our Pnina and Reuven were blessed with a baby girl. She was named Tikvah, and rightly so, for that is what she is … hope for the future.
She is very beautiful, Chavala. Pnina was very brave through it all, and Reuven was at her side.
Joshua has fallen madly in love with a delightful young woman you will more than approve of. She is a French Jewess, Simone Blum. She is a survivor of the Holocaust and a part of Aliyah Bet. Joshua has been very occupied, and if he has not written and told you about this it’s not because he doesn’t think about you. I’m sure you’ll hear from him very soon.
I pray that this good news will at least help ease the loss of our beloved sister. Please take care and give my love to the family as I give mine to you.
Dvora
At another time Chavala’s joy about Joshua and the birth of her first grandchild would have offset any sorrow. But nothing seemed to mitigate her grief over Sheine.
For days she lay in bed and brooded. She did not berate God. She did not question why. God wasn’t responsible for the evils of man.
And God was certainly not responsible—though perhaps his opposite, the Devil, was—for the disruptive violence of Haj Amim el Husseini, the mufti, who was running the Arab politics of Palestine from his exile now in Cairo. Thanks to him, the violence between the Arabs and Jews escalated. The British were increasingly unable, it seemed, to control the situation. The Haganah could no longer exercise its restraint. The jails were filled with Jews whose worst crime was to be charged with possessing a weapon, which was against British law.
Out of this turmoil the Irgun emerged into increased prominence. And the British proceeded to retaliate against the Irgun, including raids on the settlers of the kibbutzim—during one of which a sixteen-year-old girl was arrested for carrying a weapon concealed under her petticoat. She was taken to prison in Jerusalem, beaten and died of internal injuries with a British major watching.
Yehudah Rabinsky, formerly Erich Hausman, took it upon himself to avenge this girl’s death—his feelings no doubt reinforced by his frustrated need to avenge his mother’s end. Acting independently of the Irgun command, Yehudah and four other survivors of the Holocaust waylaid the British major as he parked his car. Next day he was found shot through the head. The Yishuv as well as the British was shocked. But for the British it was about the last straw. They could no longer even pretend to keep order. They had long ago, of course, sown the seeds of their troubles by betraying the Jews, by playing them off against the Arabs, and often favoring the Arabs while presumably being friends of the Jews, who had served them so well through two world wars. Palestine, they decided, was no longer worth the effort.
O
N THE AFTERNOON OF
November 29, 1947, a five-thousand-year-old problem for the Jewish people was placed on the world’s agenda. Zionist Chaim Weizmann and now-statesman Dovid Landau assembled in a cavernous gray building in Flushing Meadow, New York. Present were delegates of fifty-six members of the General Assembly of the United Nations. They had been called upon to decide the future of that small strip of land that ran along the eastern rim of the Mediterranean. No debate in the brief history of the United Nations had stirred the passions aroused by the controversy over the piece of land.
Dovid worked quietly behind the scenes. He had been delegated to keep up with the hourly shifts, find any weak spots, reassign his men to meet any unexpected changes and to become the chairman of any committee-room debates.
The Arabs had come to the Assembly confident of victory. The Moslem bloc comprised eleven votes in the General Assembly. The Yishuv, which had contributed so much to the building of the land and to the Allied cause, had not a single vote.
On that afternoon the delegates from Palestine sat in a downtown hotel room, glued to the radio as the General Assembly of the United Nations was ordered into session.
Chavala sat alone in the gallery. There was a hush in the hall as the gavel came down and the Yishuv awaited its fate. The chairman stood behind the lecturn and announced, “This Assembly is now in order and the rollcall for the nations on the partition resolution will begin. Two-thirds majority is needed for passage. Delegates will answer in one of three ways: for, against, or abstain.”
Afghanistan was the first to be called on … verdict? … Against. The vote went on and on, until a shout erupted in that downtown hotel which housed the delegates from Palestine. After all those hours of agonizing waiting they had won their two-thirds majority … barely.
Mazel tov
was the word most heard.
Dovid read the tally, then picked up the phone and called the overseas operator and asked for Ben-Gurion’s private number in Tel Aviv.
In Tel Aviv, as in every other city, kibbutz and moshav, pandemonium had broken out. In the streets of Tel Aviv there was dancing. Tears of joy rolled down the faces of the revelers. There were no strangers tonight. It was as though the entire Yishuv was one small, united family. Young boys kissed and embraced old ladies with wrinkled faces. There was dancing and singing and clapping and the storekeepers opened their doors … tonight everything was free … today a miracle had occurred … a long-awaited one.
When his phone call was finally acknowledged, Dovid said, “
Mazel tov.
It took a long time but we made it.”
Ben-Gurion, the leader of the Yishuv, was not quite so exuberant He knew the battle was only half-won. “Wait a minute, Dovid. There’s so much going on in the street below I can barely hear you. Let me close the windows.” He returned, picked up the phone and said, “That’s better. Now, what were you saying, Dovid?”
“That we made it.”
“Yes … but by the skin of our teeth. A long time ago I remember telling you on a leaking boat coming from Odessa that I was a builder, a builder of dreams. But the dream’s not realized yet, Dovid. For the miracle to become a solid reality we’ll have to fight for the independence of our state, and when we win that battle, then the dream I dreamed so long ago will have been worth the effort. Now, sleep well. And remember we’ve only just begun.
Shalom
, and come home soon.”
Dovid hung up and looked at the silent phone for a long moment. Ben-Gurion’s words were sobering. Dovid knew he was right, that only half the battle had been won and that the ultimate victory would no doubt still have to be fought with Jewish blood. Still, for at least a while, he didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to savor what they’d won. And for that he wanted to feel his wife Chavala in his arms….
Together with her now, he poured champagne and toasted, “To the State of Israel.”
Chavala then led him to the dining room, where she had prepared a celebratory supper. She told him what she’d seen through her binoculars from the upper gallery. “You should have seen those Arab’s faces every time there was a yes vote … And what about Russia voting yes? You know how much
they
love the Jews … and the same with Poland … I loved it that the Catholic countries voted for us. I could have jumped right down from the balcony into the arms of, what was his name?”—she looked at the roster—“here it is, Professor Fabregat of Uruguay. And the delegate from Venezuela … I could have kissed them all. Oh, God, Dovid, it was so exciting.”
Let Chavala be happy tonight. But like Ben-Gurion, Dovid knew that getting the partition of Palestine was only a prelude to winning independence. That would take much more than a two-thirds majority in the United Nations. “It was exciting,” he said, but the tone of his voice was sobering to Chavala. She reached across the table, “What is it, Dovid?”
“What? Nothing … really, I’m very happy, I’ve worked and prayed all my life for this day.”
She got up and went over to him, put her head against his shoulder. “Dovid, dearest, I’m so happy for you … for all of us, but I wish I’d had more faith. I thought the British would be in Palestine forever, and after that another empire. But you never once doubted. You were right, and I wrong—”
“
No
, Chavala. I think you believed more than you realized. We worked in different ways, but our dreams weren’t so different. No matter how many miles separated us, I always felt we were together. I’ve never stopped feeling that way. I never will.”
It was more than she had dared hope for, and she poured out her love for him in the way she knew best. As a woman … as a wife.
T
HE NEXT MAJOR TASK
that lay ahead for the world Zionist groups was to launch a fundraising campaign for the purchase of arms.
That celebratory night in Tel Aviv, David Ben-Gurion turned to Golda Meir and said, “Golda, I think you better get ready to take a little trip.”
As she poured the coffee in her kitchen and lit an ever-present cigarette, she said, “Me?” I’m the best you can think of? I haven’t even got a new dress. Why don’t you send Chaim Weizmann, he’s got a beautiful new suit, or call Dovid Landau, he has a good mouth. That one knows how to talk.”
“But you’ve got one thing they don’t have. You’ve got the appeal of a woman, a mother with a heart that could make the Devil cry for mercy. Who could resist you, Golda?”
“Start with a dozen cabinet members.”
Ben-Gurion laughed. “Them, I wouldn’t worry about. From them you wouldn’t get any money anyway.”
The next day, with no more than the thin spring dress she wore and the handbag over her arm, she boarded a plane for New York. When she arrived on the evening of the following day, freezing in the bitter cold night, this remarkable woman who had come to New York in search of millions, had all of ten dollars in her purse. When the perplexed customs agent found that was all she had when he went through her belongings, he asked. “How are you going to get along on ten dollars?”