Abu Ghosh was an interesting and pretty village lying
athwart the main highway from the coast to Jerusalem and dominating the road.
Its inhabitants were friendly and many had remained behind in their homes when
the Arabs of neighbouring villages fled. For years they helped the Jews with
arms and information and the Sheik of Abu Ghosh, one of the village leaders,
and members of his family and village had belonged to the Stern Group. He was
amongst those arrested following the assassination of Count Bernadotte. Later
he stood as a candidate for the first parliament of Israel but was not elected
as his party only polled a small percentage of the votes.
The houses of the village clung to the terraced slopes of
the valley and to the pass that ran through the hills. On the summit of the
hill a large white Madonna, visible for miles, overlooked the surroundings. It
rose from a little church belonging to a French religious order under whose
auspices was a monastery run by a priest and nuns. This institution stood apart
from the village itself but in the village there was another, older church,
famous in the history of the Crusaders and fount of many a legend and story.
Inside its thick walls a well was preserved as a reminder that invading armies
sojourned at Abu Ghosh for refreshment.
Abu Ghosh village was out of bounds to all troops not on special
duty and the inhabitants were left unmolested. The troops lived in the police
station, which served as brigade headquarters, in peripheral vacated houses and
in tents.
An exquisite and comprehensive view was obtained from Abu
Ghosh of the approaches to Jerusalem, the valleys and hills westwards and
villages on the way to Bethlehem. Fruit there was in abundance particularly grapes,
figs and plums. Dan and I often went exploring and found many an ancient well,
wall or other interesting object. Dan was the most observant person I have ever
met. His knowledge of nature was profound and he was blessed with a capacity to
be intrigued by and enthusiastic over every occurrence and phenomenon no matter
how insignificant.
In the unsteady truce prevailing, our task was to hold the
narrow strip bounding the road to Jerusalem. To the north, one or two
kilometres away, lay units of the Arab Legion based on a village, Rada, a
target for our guns. To the South we were hemmed in by Egyptian and
Palestinian-Arab units. Forces of all parties were thinly scattered at
strategic points and patrolling was an essential feature of the routine. The
road was not yet completely safe and on numerous occasions the Arabs fired on
it. These attacks necessitated the division of our troop and two of our guns were
sent to cover the Burma Road from positions at Sara, the birth-place of Samson.
I remained at Abu Ghosh. Days passed pleasantly enough in
perfect weather, ideal for open-air life. From our heights we could see Tel
Aviv on clear days. Most of Israel stretched before the eye. The smallness of
the new Jewish state was apparent. And yet one felt isolated. There was no mail
and few English newspapers for the ‘Palestine Post’ rarely arrived.
Our troop was attached to a Palmach brigade named ‘Harel.’
They were renowned for their exploits and we were proud to be with them.
Palmach was the permanent, striking force of the underground Haganah. Boys and
girls leaving the schools did national service for a year or two and many opted
to serve in the Palmach. They were dominated by the spirit of ‘chalutziut’
(pioneering) and wished to do constructive upbuilding. They trained on the settlements.
There they were more secure and less likely to be discovered by the British
army and police activities. They worked half a day and trained half a day. The
work was not only an expression of their desire to create in a pioneering economy
but also enabled them to pay their way - the Jewish authorities could not
afford to keep full-time soldiers.
The Palmach training was severe and efficient. They came to
know and understand the Palestinian terrain; they learnt to improvise and compensate
for lack of arms and ammunition by ingenuity and courage.
Wingate, beloved in Israel, had played no small part in their
training. During the Second World War members of the Palmach performed daring
sabotage work in Europe, Africa and Asia. In the eventuality of the German
armies succeeding in reaching Israel they had been trained to form an
underground of sabotage.
When fighting broke out in Israel the Palmach bore the
brunt. The cream of the youth fell. Young, enthusiastic, spirited, they fought
against superior numbers and superior arms. They captured cities and villages,
protected settlements and opened the road to Jerusalem.
Now, in September 1948, ‘Harel’ contained few of its original
members, whose graves dotted the countryside. Large numbers of new immigrants
had filled the gaps but the old spirit and striking power were still evident.
The sabras of Harel were a queer bunch, different types. Those
from the settlements and villages were hard and obstinate and tough. Their
range of knowledge was narrow and prejudiced and the gist of their conversation
consisted of reminiscences of friends and occasions. Their common background
provided them with conversation. The world outside Israel was no concern of
theirs.
I found it difficult to converse with them at any length.
One had to create conversation and it was difficult to adjust oneself to their
abrupt ways. Their sincerity was crystal-clear. There was no doubt in their
minds and they were superbly confident.
Those from the cities were different. They had had more
schooling and education; they were better read and interested in the world
outside their own immediate sphere. One could talk to them about diverse things.
Yet many of them sank into the rut of humdrum life, amidst excitement.
These youngsters had grown up too quickly, the hard way, amidst
death and destruction. They took most things for granted. Some were genuinely
tough. Others felt that they had to be - if one were a Palmachnik it was
desirable to be tough. So they grew moustaches - handle-bar moustaches - and
cultivated a slouch and a slang of their own. And they drove wildly in
staff-cars and jeeps. I remember one girl particularly. She was from Haifa and
had probably been quiet and city-like. But her friends were tough. So she endeavoured
to be tough. She shouted, was abrupt and rude. Her voice was hard and brusque
and commanding.
What would these youngsters do when the war was over? Many
would join a co-operative settlement - the life they liked. Some wanted to
continue their studies, and the others? But I liked them. They were sincere and
honest. And good fighters. I was pleased that my duties on observation enabled
me to be with them a great deal, often for days on end. There was democracy in
their ranks, comradeship, an elan, an esprit de corps. No snobbishness
existed. From brigade commander to private all were treated as equals. There
was no saluting or officer privileges. Everyone called everyone else by their
first names no matter what the rank. The officers were young, capable and
experienced. Their men followed them freely. And this freedom did not impair
discipline. No complaints could be lodged against the fighting prowess of ‘Harel.’
We had interesting chats in the reading room in the police
station. We came from all over the world and told each other about our
respective backgrounds. And we sang songs.
The girls in the Palmach were natural. No make-up was worn. But
they were always neat. No fads of diet worried them and several were extremely
stout. Others were very masculine particularly one Bulgarian girl who sang nostalgic
songs in a husky voice.
Our troop did some training at Abu Ghosh. Each gun-number
was not able to perform the duties of all the other numbers with efficiency, as
good crews should be able to do. So there was gun-drill with gun-numbers
alternating positions. One day I gave my first fire-orders in Hebrew and was
extremely happy at the feat. My knowledge of this language was improving mainly
due to my association with friends in the brigade.
Dan still spoke English largely. We were often together for
whenever I had a special task to do, I managed to get permission for him to come
along as well. He was our machine-gunner. We had a Spandau and I was his
assistant besides my duties as ‘ack.’
Lectures and practical demonstrations on the Spandau were
given to members of the troop by Dan and since he knew little Hebrew I
translated where he could not improvise with his knowledge of Yiddish.
Members of the troop were given a special first-aid course
at the army hospital in the monastery and we acquired useful knowledge which we
hoped we would never be called upon to use.
It was not all work and no play. Entertainments were provided
at odd intervals.
One night there was an orchestral concert by the Jerusalem
Police Band, held in the grounds of the monastery. The atmosphere was
beautifully peaceful. Lightly waving trees, twinkling stars, the sweet sound of
music and the timid, swaying conductor. Some silly fool in the audience
disturbed the harmony by whistling during the overture to the ‘Barber of
Seville.’
Sometimes there were cinema performances at neighbouring
settlements and camps where members of the brigade gathered. New immigrants,
not knowing English or Hebrew, and not understanding the dialogue of American
films, chatted to their hearts’ content during its screening. Such a background
of voice spoilt the reception of the films.
Once or twice army concert parties gave performances. Some of
the troupes were good. Others overestimated themselves and tired with excessive,
voluntary encores. Soldiers in our and other units went anywhere, even on foot,
for a film or a concert irrespective of how many times they had witnessed these
before.
Every soldier in my unit was a special character in his own
right. A veritable League of Nations. All the commands and ‘official’
transactions were in Hebrew, but regularly employed languages in private
conversation included Yiddish, German, Romanian, Russian, Hungarian, Polish,
English and Dutch.
Hausler, the signaller, was from Holland. I understood his
Dutch and he understood my Afrikaans. Like the majority of the unit he had been
in a German concentration camp during the war. Several soldiers bore the tell-tale
branding of concentration camp numbers on their arms. But they never spoke about
those days. We lived with our thoughts in the future, for the past carried too
many tragic memories.
Eli Harari, another ‘ack,’ was young and keen as mustard. His
greatest ambition was to be an officer although, in principle, he disagreed
with the institution of officers. He knew a little English and whenever
strangers were in the vicinity tried to air his few words. Walking up to me,
he’d slap me on the back and say: “How you, Goot?”
Chernik, the third ‘ack,’ knew English well and possessed a small
English ‘library’ which was a well of learning in the isolation of Abu Ghosh.
Because he had been taken off an officer’s course, he was bitter.
Frischman was a married man with two children. He came from
Czechoslovakia and had visited South Africa during the war as a member of the Imperial
Forces. I learnt a lot about Palestine from his stories and accounts of the
diverse jobs he had held. He never had a decent wash all the weeks at Abu Ghosh
although whenever we returned from showers in the Police-station he spoke of
following our example. But he limited himself to a few drops from his
water-bottle.
Frischman had a sickening habit of expectorating everywhere,
in the tent, while at meals. It was a habit common to many of the unit and one
which sickened Dan and I. Most of the new immigrants expectorated excessively
without any hygienic consideration and irrespective of where they were. I
thought of South Africa where the practice is generally forbidden in public and
punishable by a fine of five pounds.
One had to be understanding in one’s attitude to former
inmates of D.P. camps. They had spent their formative years in uncongenial environments
without any training or sets of values. One could understand and condone their
unhygienic habits but one still felt sick and disgusted.
The nights and sometimes the hours of day were noisy around
the Judean hills. The rumbling of cannon could be heard rolling in from the
distant Negev and the staccato rattle and colourful display sounded and flashed
from Jerusalem. Time dragged on. U.N.O met and discussed. Jerusalem had few
peaceful nights. From Abu Ghosh we were interested spectators. Some nights
‘planes flew overhead and shortly afterwards the air-raid siren sent its stream
of noise through the night from Jerusalem. No bombs were dropped. The
uncertainty of the defective peace was fatiguing and irritating. One never knew
what would happen next.
The days were deceptively peaceful. Ripe fruit on the trees
and clear skies and a magnificent view. And the nights noisy and the road
deserted.
One afternoon, the day after our arrival, Dan and I were
picking figs when we saw two girls a few trees away. I noticed that they were
listening to us and understanding. One spoke up with an American accent: “Where
are you from?” We answered her questions and asked ours in turn. She was an
American girl who had been a student at the Hebrew University. Now she was in
the army nursing services. Her friend was a Sabra, also a nurse, who knew
English well. Both were at a hospital in Jerusalem and had utilised their few
hours’ leave to get into the country. So now we knew someone in Jerusalem.
From Abu Ghosh there was a good view of the outskirts of the
Holy City and I regularly asked for permission to go there. I had a burning
desire to see Jerusalem and meet its in habitants.
Finally, A few days after our arrival at Abu Ghosh, Dan and I wheedled leave to go to Jerusalem. We had a pass from 5 p.m. that afternoon to midnight - not much time considering the lack of transport. We hitched a ride on a ramshackle truck loaded with grapes and a bunch of gnarled, slovenly dressed Sephardi Jews, Arabic looking and very friendly. They offered us grapes. It was a slow trip which enabled us to survey the surroundings. Famous hills, guarding the route to the Holy City. Contested for centuries by Crusaders and Saracens and recently bitterly fought for by Jews and Arabs. We entered Jerusalem through Machaneh Yehuda, a dingy, crammed quarter - a veritable slum. Our grape-pickers lived there.
Ragged, dirty kids; muddy, dank, evil-smelling drains;
washing flapping in the breeze. Further on, busy market-stalls, jostling mixture
of the old world and the new; pious men in black garments and forelocks, little
children with forelocks and rosy-checked faces and skull-caps. And on the market-stalls
an abundance of fruit and vegetables. Gone are the days of the siege.
We continue. The surroundings become more modern; the people
better dressed. The streets are busy and the children play in the dwindling
sun. Uniformed men and women everywhere. Shops well-stocked with necessities
and luxuries. Books in all languages, chocolate and sweets and children’s toys,
cigarettes and liquors. Clothes and dress materials. A siege seems remote. Even
now it is difficult to bring in goods over the rugged, lightly-held Burma Road.
The people are happy and contented.
Twisted girders and shattered walls, vacant gaping holes in
buildings. There had been an explosion in Ben Yehuda Street and there are
ruins. No, this was not the work of the Arabs, not a result of their shelling.
It happened in mandatory days. The impressive Jewish Agency building also bears
the scars of a former outrage. But now the gates are closely guarded. Ravage
and destruction in Jerusalem, but not from Arab shells.
To me the Arab shelling seems to have been most ineffective.
Here and there little craters and wounds in houses and buildings. Building
regulations laid down that new buildings in Jerusalem had to be faced with
stone. They say unfriendly authorities promulgated the regulations to make
building more expensive and handicap development. A blessing in disguise.
Shells have done a little damage. If the buildings of Jerusalem had been like
the flimsy buildings of Tel Aviv much damage would have been caused. On the
outskirts of New Jerusalem, near the Old City wall, it is a different story.
Destruction and ruin and a deadly quiet of no-man’s-land, disturbed only by the
whine of snipers’ bullets and the screech of shells. An attenuated no-man’s-land
over which the Old City looms.
And from its confines the steel of hate flashes and whistles
into the new city. Everyday there are casualties of the truce. Brick walls and
barricades to screen the New City from the deadly missiles. Through slits the
ramparts and ancient walls of the Old City are visible.
I am in Jerusalem. A dream come true. Children’s voices and
the slow noise of slow traffic. And no water runs from open taps. Water is
rationed and scarce - carefully divided.
Up on Mount Scopus the University and the Hadassah hospital;
in between the Arabs cutting us off and barring our movement.
In Katamon, where wealthy Arabs once sipped cocktails on
terraces and planned for their peasants to drive the Jews into the sea, Jewish
refugees from the Old City now live. They are ill at ease in their new
mansions. They have grown up in narrow lanes and dark rooms. Their menfolk are
prisoners-of-wars in Transjordan.
It becomes dark as the sun sinks behind the hills.
Black-out. No light. People go home and the city is as quiet as death and Dan
and I are strangers in its midst.
It is no easy task to find the hospital where our
nurse-friends live. They are pleased to see us. They work hard and long hours
and study for their nursing examinations. Ten sleeping in one room - there are
many patients who need a place.
Jochevet and Dina show us more of Jerusalem. We go to
Bevingrad, the former British security zone. Buildings looming in the night. The
shops and offices are still sealed as in mandatory days. Fierce fighting took
place for this vital zone which dominates New Jerusalem. The girls tell how the
British shot indiscriminately from here down some of Jerusalem’s thoroughfares.
The Anglo Palestine Bank buildings, partially burnt and pock marked. Not too
far from the Old City. Jagged edges of masonry and brick work, barbed wire and
dug-outs.
In another direction to more pleasant Rechavia, a residential
quarter, pleasant, verdant surroundings. Modern houses and blocks of flats.
“Would you like to see a Yeshiva?” Jochevet asks.
We are interested to see a training college of the orthodox
Jews.
Every few minutes martial noises are heard. Scattered and
dispersed. Women are not allowed to enter a Yeshiva so our escorts remain in
the porch.
We pass through the black-out curtains. Murky rooms lit by
candle-light. Several rooms. Flickering lights and open books on the tables and
people poring over them in muttered study, sitting, and standing, swaying and
bending. Young and Old. Bearded men and forelocked youngsters. A remote world.
So unreal in times like these. Outside war and violence and men manning the
dug-outs. Inside quiet and reflection and men praying. We shake hands with the
students. Flabby, soft, girlish hands. Cold and clammy. Red-cheeked youngsters,
tender years. One young man claims he can talk English. His friends persuade
him to talk. He is dressed in working clothes and a peaked cap, a contrast to
his black-coated friends.
We return to the girls. The air is noisier. The previous
night was bad, hours of concentrated barrage and counter-barrage.
Dina says she hopes tonight will be quieter. The people in
Jerusalem are brave, but tired and restless. The siege is over and the Arabs
are held but they have many guns and there is neither peace nor rest. We go to
a café. Bright lights behind curtains. Dan and I have not much money. Coffee
and cakes and high prices. After paying we have little left. Strange worlds in
the Holy City, war and shelling, contemplation and prayer, coffee and lights
and money.
Some Palmachniks are going to Abu Ghosh. The girl from Haifa
says they have place in their limousine, the latest model. We say good-bye to
Jochevet and Dina and are on our way.
The driver must be sixteen or seventeen. He is in a hurry.
After that I went to Jerusalem fairly regularly. Sometimes I found quiet,
sometimes I found heavy shelling and people indoors and troubled. When the guns
opened up the streets cleared in a twinkle and the cinemas emptied and a hush
hyphenated the explosions. So people lived and died and defended their city.
Once I went to Jerusalem with Ravlevai and Guya. We visited
some of the look-outs and surveyed the Arab positions. That day I saw the 75-millimetre
gun, which had been sent from Herzliya to Jerusalem, just before Mike’s troop had
left for the Galilee. The Arabs had not found its whereabouts yet and the Jews
returned the Arab fire with impunity. A lucky gun, unlike our two in the Galilee.
Never did an Arab shot find them.
I saw most of Jerusalem that afternoon and had a good view
of the Arab lines. Names of places made famous during the siege. It was a
strange war in Jerusalem. A city almost surrounded. In one street Jews, in another
Arabs. A fortress city. Most of the soldiers on duty in Jerusalem were
inhabitants of Jerusalem. For non-combatants the anxiety of having dear ones
fighting nearby; for combatants the anxiety for dear ones under Arab shelling
behind the lines. Yet the Jews of Jerusalem knew what they were fighting for.
They saw their own homes and families threatened and responded gallantly.
At Artillery H.Q. in the basement of the Jewish Agency
buildings I had a pleasant surprise. I met Len, now second-in-command of the
Artillery in Jerusalem. Ravlevai and Guya were somewhat astounded at the way
Len revealed all the information to me, introduced me to all the officers and
showed me all the maps and plans. That was typical of Len. He did not care
about preserving the sanctity of an H.Q. My knowledge that our artillery was
hopelessly outnumbered in Jerusalem by the Arab artillery was confirmed by
definite data. Len told Ravlevai that he would like me to be transferred to
Jerusalem but Ravlevai refused to agree, saying that he wanted me. Len and I
spoke Afrikaans to each other. Perhaps it was rude to speak a ‘foreign’ language
but it enabled us to speak freely. On Len’s request Ravlevai agreed to allow me
to remain over in Jerusalem that evening.
While I was at H.Q. telephone communication was established
with Tel Aviv for the first time in many months.
It was ‘Shabbat’ and citizens were taking a stroll in the
streets.
Len and I visited two girls and made an appointment to take
them to the cinema that evening.
It was getting noisy when we arrived to fetch them. On the
way, in Len’s little car, we saw the inhabitants clearing the streets in a
hurry. By habit everyone crouched, involuntarily almost, at the sound of shells
even if they fell far away. The Arabs were shelling quite heavily and the
mothers of the girls refused to allow them out. So we had a little party at the
home of one of them.
Len took me back to Abu Ghosh that night. It would have been
impossible for me to have returned otherwise for trucks and cars rarely
travelled from Jerusalem at night. Stringent transport regulations were in
existence and Len had to obtain a special permit to travel to Abu Ghosh. My
conscience bothered me somewhat for my journey was not exactly essential but
Len insisted and not being eager to walk home, I acquiesced.
The following day Len ‘phoned me from Jerusalem and I took
the call in Ravlevai’s tent. We spoke in Afrikaans. Len wanted to know whether
I could get him any grapes or figs, a trivial matter which did not warrant the
call. When I had put the receiver down Ravlevai enquired whether Len had
broached the matter of my transference to Jerusalem. I replied that Len had not
even mentioned it. Probably Ravlevai doubted my word but I could not reveal
that we had merely discussed grapes and figs.
Two unhappy incidents occurred in the area covered by our
regiment. On September 22nd, a Jewish convoy, under U.N.O. auspices,
was on its way to Jerusalem along the main highway when it was attacked by the
Arab Legion at Latrun. Four people were killed including a woman and an
American civilian visitor. A U.N.O. officer had pleaded with the Arab Legionnaires
to spare them, but in vain. In my opinion this was cold-blooded murder for
according to the truce agreement the Arabs were to guarantee the safety of the
convoy.
Two days later a Jewish-held height at Midya, near Lydda,
was captured by Arabs and retaken by the Jews in a counter-attack. It was found
that the Jewish prisoners captured in
the first attack, had been killed, their bodies decapitated and mutilated.
Count Bernadotte’s report had been published. It made
unpleasant reading and was a disappointing document. He proposed a smaller
Israel, refused Jerusalem to the Jews and wanted Haifa internationalised.
These incidents and the report were embittering.
I thought of the people of New Jerusalem. And it was
suggested that they be denied their freedom!
I thought of Neve Ilan which I had visited and which would
not be in the Jewish State, in terms of the report.
Neve Ilan was a communal settlement situated on a hill near
Abu Ghosh. A steep climb brought one to the few bungalows and tents dotting the
rocky ground which comprised the ‘meshek.’ Shelters, storage-cellars and
fuel-reservoirs had been hewn out of the rocks. A drill enabled the settlers to
evacuate two meters deep. Very little was cultivated. The earth was being
reclaimed and cleared and the settlers were paid for their reclamation work.
Most of the settlers had been with the Maquis underground in France, some were
from Holland, others from Trieste. Long Island Jewry had taken a special
interest in their progress and sent regular gifts of equipment. Neve Ilan was a
stronghold and withstood many a siege and attack, although completely
surrounded by Arab villages. ‘Planes and artillery were used against them.
There were casualties, wounded and dead. But they stood
firm. The lesson of Neve Ilan and the few other settlements along the road led
to the construction, at a later date, of new settlements flanking the Burma
Road as a protective measure. The war had taught that a lifeline must be
protected and that strategic settlements were the best way to do this.
One morning a convoy came along the road and stopped at Abu
Ghosh for breakfast. An artillery convoy with guns, new ones of 75-millimetre
calibre. Field-guns and light, not like our three, six ton 75-millimetre ones.
They were on their way to Jerusalem to reinforce our meagre artillery strength.
Another happy and auspicious occasion. More weapons. Now the Arab guns would receive
a deadlier answer.
The Jewish New Year dawned and the army chose its occasion
for our brigade to move from Abu Ghosh to cover the Burma Road more strongly.
All the units had gathered a diverse assortment of equipment
and furniture and trucks were crammed to capacity. Before our departure the
priest and nuns came down from their quarters to reclaim the belongings which they
had lent us. I returned a wide, soft, spring mattress and a book-case. The
articles were handed over in the friendliest of spirits. The priest asked so
many questions that Hausler, who spoke French and provided the answers, was told
to desist, lest he reveal military information.
Before moving we went to Sara to join the other half of the
troop at a party to celebrate Rosh Hashana, the New Year. We travelled by a
round-about route to avoid observation and gathered round a lantern in a dip
out of view of the enemy. It was the first New Year in a Jewish State for two
thousand years and a fine close spirit reigned. Sketches and songs and speeches.
Ravlevai gave a stirring address. Here present, he said, were people from all
over the world, many from countries where they had lived in luxury. This had
been a year of victory. Nothing was ready-made in Israel. Everything had to be
built and demanded immigration, pioneering and settlement.
Nor did we forget those who had lost their lives for Israel.
The night was silent and the sky clear. Jackal calls disturbed the peace. Songs
in Hebrew and Russian. The enemy did not intervene.
But the food, for a Jewish festival like Rosh Hashanah, was
poor. One sardine sandwich, one biscuit and a little wine.
On the second day of the festival prayer services were held
at a neighbouring kibbutz, Kiryat Anavim, and in an Arab house at Abu Ghosh.
Ravlevai, Guya and I went to reconnoitre gun-positions, spent the day bumping
and jostling in the Judean hills and returned past ten that night. It was
difficult finding a suitable position. The roads were bad and there was no
water at most places.
Deir el Hawa, which I had noticed before, appeared to worry
Ravlevai. He pronounced the name with awe. It was a height held by the Arabs
overlooking the Burma Road. Passage on the latter would never be safe until the
former had been captured.
We decided that Sara was the best position and on Tuesday,
October 5th, we moved there with guns and impedimenta.
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