MemPalText

Introduction

My father and his family lived in Zamosch, Poland. In the mid 1930's, his father warned that dark days were coming in Europe, and that the family should leave and go to Palestine. My father, his two sisters, and their father managed to cross Europe, eventually reach Italy, and board a boat to Palestine. My grandfather's warnings were prophetic, since all the Jews remaining in Zamosch perished in the Holocaust. In Palestine, the family began a new life. My father's sisters married; Lea to Beno Amit and Shoshanna to Bruno Sobel.

My mother and her family lived in Zaparozhie (in the Ukraine) until they immigrated to Canada in 1925. During the early part of WWII, she moved to New York, with a few of her friends, all feeling that opportunities were better in the United States. She lived in Brooklyn and married a man named Sam Sobel around 1944. Unfortunately, Sam died in 1946, leaving my mother childless. Since my grandmother was religious, she believed that Paula must go to Palestine to obtain a release from Sam's only brother, or she could not be remarried under Jewish Law. Sam's brother was Bruno Sobel. This memoir is the account of Paula’s trip to Palestine in 1947.

These were turbulent times in Palestine. The British were trying to control Jewish immigration into Palestine, administer their 1946 administrative mandate (which confined Jews to 22% of their original homeland), and keep the peace. Arabs and Jews were in conflict, and both groups terrorized their British rulers. The United Nations ratified a partition of Palestine into separate Jewish and Arab states. Jewish leaders approved the partition even though it further compressed the Jewish state. All nearby Arab states rejected the plan, calling for war when the British left.

Part 1

This is, I think, our fourth day out at sea. I wish I had started writing this morning when I had the feeling that I may be sorry when the time comes for us to land. But now, in the evening, I feel entirely different. I don’t know what happened to me this afternoon, but suddenly I realized that I was awfully bored. I don’t know what brought that on, as up to then, I had a really nice trip - in spite of the many shortcomings.

First of all, instead of leaving at 12 as we were supposed to do, we pulled out of the pier at 5 P.M. I was at the time having dinner, so I rushed as fast as I could in order to see the downtown skyline and the Statue of Liberty. When the boat finally reached the spot half-way between these 2 landmarks it stopped and we remained there for the next six hours. Being a good Brooklynite I wanted to see us pass the Bay and the Parachute Jump at Coney Island, so I stayed up on deck and waited until 11 P.M. By that time I was frozen and thinking that perhaps we will not pull out until morning. I decided to go to bed. The minute I got into bed I began to feel the boat moving. I guess I’ll see the Parachute Jump in the same place when I get back.

Next morning when I awoke, the sea was nice and calm and the weather beautiful. But the boat had a rocking about it which gave me a peculiar feeling at the pit of my stomach. Right after lunch I decided that it was going to be my last meal and in order to keep it where it belonged, in my stomach, I stretched out on the sun deck and stayed there for the next four hours. By the way, this boat does not have any deck chairs, so we have to lie down on the bare floor of the deck. For that reason I have resorted to one outfit - a pair of black slacks and no doubt this also adds to the boredom of the trip. Sometimes the boredom is broken by the thrill of seeing the smoke of another ocean liner in the far-off horizon. This exciting part of the trip I would not like to miss for the world.

To get back to my sorry plight; at the end of my hours of struggle on deck I finally realized that the food in my stomach had a longer trip up than down and at the same time I began to feel my face burning like fire. I managed to reach my room all in one piece and flopped into bed. I creamed my face thanks to Florence’s last minute suggestion that I take the boric acid ointment, and resolved to accept the fact that I was going to spend the balance of the 14 days at sea on my back in my bunk. Thank G-d I was wrong. The nurse came in with some dry toast and gave me instructions to get out of bed on the morrow, eat lightly, dry foods only, and if I must stay on my back, to do it on deck. I was a good patient, did what she told me, and lo and behold by the end of the second day, I was an experienced sailor. By now I eat every meal to my full capacity and so far have managed to keep down all I ate. Maybe the weather has something to do with it. It has been glorious. Smooth sailing, as the experienced people call it. My face is all burned and my body rested. More than that it has become so lazy that I wonder if I will ever be able to do any work again.

Today, the fifth day out, has been a most glorious one. My mood has changed for the better and a good thing too, because today has really been a day one could not help but enjoy. The sky was positively clear of all clouds and the water was as still as a lake. Slowly and gradually I have been shedding my heavy clothes and today I spent on the sun deck in my shorts. I have just witnessed a most beautiful sunset, but I’m afraid I could not do it justice on paper. One would have to see it to appreciate it. I hope I will see more like this one.

It just occurred to me that my feeling bad yesterday was perhaps the result of my cholera shot. No sooner had I cured my sunburned face and settled on my stomach than I was faced with the choleric injection on my one and only good arm, the left one. For two days it was swollen and painful, but today it was all gone. Next week I will have to take another one. Never a dull moment, so to speak - but in general it is dull, due perhaps to the fact that I speak so few languages.

Contrary to what I had expected, that is, an entirely Jewish passenger list, I have by now discovered that this is a direct route to the Near East and most of Africa. The passengers on board consist of Arabs, Greeks, Armenians, Turks, Catholics, Protestants and Jews. The Christians consist mainly of young students and a great number of missionaries heading for the wilds of Africa. The Jews are either older folks visiting their children in Palestine or middle aged Palestinians returning home after having visited folks in America. In my cabin we are six Jewish women. Five of them speak German, three speak Hebrew and I’m the only American. So naturally they converse in the language they speak best, which is not English. The young part of the Jewish crowd consists of students and they are all very anxious to brush up on their Hebrew. So here am I, an American on an American boat and am lonesome to hear my own language. That makes things a little dull. I read a little, but not too much as after a short while I get a dizzy spell and have to stop for a while.

We expect to reach Gibraltar in three days. We may, of course, pass it in the middle of the night. That will be too bad indeed.

Half the journey is now over and from what some people say, the best part of the journey is yet to come. That is the Mediterranean. There we expect to pass a number of boats and occasionally see land. Today we have seen a few birds which is an indication that we are approaching Spain.

I have a strange feeling that we are not travelling at all, but are on an island in the mid-Atlantic. We are sailing at such a direct easterly course that each morning the sun rises at the same point and each night it sets at the same point. And since the scenery is always the same and the course of the sea is the same and the dipper is always on the same side of the boat, it really makes me feel that we are always on the same spot.

The weather is getting warmer every day and soon we expect to start the fan in our bunk. Incidentally, in spite of the fact that we were told to bring one valise only, they dumped all our baggage that was supposed to go into the hold into our six bed bunk. The place looks like a warehouse and there is no place to hang up or lay down anything. And since there is such a mixed crowd on board I was advised to keep all luggage under lock and key. So every time I need a bobby pin or handkerchief I have to try out all my seven keys to unlock my wardrobe and rummage through the whole conglomeration to find what I need. Then I have to replace the three or four valises which I had to remove before reaching my own. Today it took me exactly half an hour to get set for a shower and then find that one of the 12 who share one toilet, sink and shower has sneaked in before me. Home was never like this.

Today, I’ve decided to study a little Hebrew. I’m sorry I did not do so a little sooner, but at the rate we are going, I still have plenty of time. In 8 days we have made 3 stops on account of engine trouble. So anything can happen and now we can never know when we will ever get to where we are going.

This is the ninth day out at sea and we expect to see Gibraltar any hour now. So everyone is out on deck with field glasses and cameras watching the skyline very closely. There is an air of tense expectation. Now we see many ships around us as they all have to come together near the strait. Weather getting still warmer. Am continuing to study a little Hebrew. At this very moment there is a storm coming up. It’s one of those mild, windy, drizzly affairs that lasts only a few minutes. We have had no storms to speak of throughout the entire journey. 11:25 A.M.: I have just spied land and everyone around me confirms the fact. This is going to be an exciting day for all. Columbus was not more excited than the people on this boat. Within three hours the excitement was all over but it was thrilling while it lasted. During those few hours we saw land on both sides of us; Southern Spain and northern Africa. The coast of Spain was rugged and mountainous with only two small villages along the coast. There were a few miles of what seemed like fertile soil. Then, of course, we passed the Rock of Gibraltar. It’s on a large island connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land. It’s large and solid. We saw the harbor and a number of vessels, also a submarine, but could not make out the fortifications. They signalled us with a torch light. Contrary to what I had expected, the coast of Africa is rugged and mountainous, without any sign of human life. I had expected a sandy beach and beyond, desert country. Well, it’s a good thing I had the opportunity to learn the truth. We are now again completely surrounded by sky and water, which looks and feels much calmer than the Atlantic.

This is the third day in the Mediterranean and we finally saw the outlines of a few rugged islands. But as luck would have it, from the minute we entered the Mediterranean it has been cloudy, rainy and foggy. We are quite close to them, but even through binoculars it is impossible to see what is on these islands. Occasionally, we spy a shark. But it is quite a strain watching them as only a few inches of the top fins protrude out of the water and even that is not steady. In and out, in and out. Hope the weather clears a little, in case we do pass a few specks of land.

This is the fifth day out in the Mediterranean. At last the weather has cleared to a point where there is not a spot in the sky. We are, at this point, passing the island of Crete. It is a very high and rugged country with an occasional snow-capped mountain. We are quite close to it and since the fog has cleared, we can see most of it quite clearly. There is no sign of habitation as that will be almost impossible on such a coast line. It reminds me of the Palisades along the Hudson, or better still, the Grand Canyon of Arizona as seen through the View-Master.

This is supposed to be the island that the Germans landed on when they were driven out of Africa. How they ever landed on these shores is hard for me to imagine, unless there were a few beaches that I missed while down below. Gosh, but the shore looks tough.

At last the Mediterranean looks as I had always pictured it to be. The sky is a perfect blue - dark blue straight above and paler blue towards the horizons. This blue is beautifully reflected on the water which is very calm - with small ripples. Looking at the sunny side - with the sun reflected on the small ripples of the water - I wish I could write, but I simply can’t describe it. Possibly something similar to what one may see in Florida or Atlantic City or maybe even in Coney Island, only much, much nicer. Looking at the other side - the water is calm and blue, with the mountains of a very slight purplish tint and some snow-capped, presenting a gorgeous sight. Crete is quite a large island. It will take us six hours to pass it.

I just read over what I have written in the last paragraph. Sounds crazy. I understand it, of course, but will anyone else? That is the $64 question.

Gee, it’s swell to get away like this and travel. The minute the boat pulled out of New York, my life began to center upon this one and only existence. I never think of - as a matter of fact I have completely forgotten my past and all the people in it, both family and friends. By now I have become so accustomed to this life that I think I will be sorry when we reach our destination. It’s surprising how completely one can accept and become accustomed to a new way of life. The only person I remember and think about is Sam. This kind of a life was just made to order for him. He would have enjoyed it tremendously.

The sun is hot, the breeze is cool. Lovely.

Saturday, the day before arrival. Another gorgeous day. This morning we passed the island of Cyprus. The same coast line as all the others. I’m standing on the top deck and looking out at sea and am getting a peculiar sensation that brings tears to my eyes. The ocean is a beautiful blue calm, the sky a lovely cloudless blue, the boat so smooth I can hardly feel it, the sun warm, the breeze cool. And twenty four hours from here, people are arming for warfare. I must start concentrating on the world outside the Jumper [the boat]. But it’s hard to return to a troubled world when you are in a serene paradise. Good heavens, how I’ve changed. I can hardly believe it myself.

Last night I stayed up to see the moon rise over the water. It’s like any other moon over the water, only nicer because it is so dark and clear here. Before the moon came up it was pitch black and the stars were bright white and sparkled like diamonds. I know this isn’t new or original. I must have read it somewhere written by someone who was here before me and had seen it, just as I had seen it last night. So - we can’t all be wrong. Then it must be so.

I’m down on the lowest deck of the boat and seeing the sun rays right down into the water. It keeps changing into green and blue, but so clear that I imagine I can see down to about six or seven feet.

At about 2:30 of the same day we saw an outline of land right in front of us. Two hours later it turned out to be the city of Beirut, capital of Lebanon. At first we saw it as mountains, later as a light strip at the bottom which looked like a sandy beach. As we approached it, the scene began to clear and we realized that the light strip was the city with mountains as the background. Huge terrific mountains, some of them snow-capped. It became more and more beautiful as we approached it. Maybe it’s because we had not seen land for so long, but to me it did seem like the most beautiful and dramatic approach to a port I had ever seen. Maybe because it was directly in front of us. But on the whole it was breathtaking. We were all very excited - hugging the rail of the ship and straining our eyes to see what we could see. It looked like Montreal if approached by sea instead of river. But nicer than Montreal because the cities of the Middle East are built of white and light yellow brick instead of the dark shores of the Western world. It really was a sight to behold.

At about five o’clock in the evening we finally pulled up to the pier and then the fun began. It was strange, thrilling and exciting for a Westerner to get a first glimpse of the East. If I ever thought that I used to see a mixed conglomeration of characters in Times Square, it was nothing compared to this. The Arabs are a very loud race of people and before we had pulled up to the side of the pier we already heard them shouting at the top of their voices. This, together with the passengers recognizing their families and shouting and crying, was enough to wake up the dead.

I managed to survive the noise and began to concentrate on the people and land. It was such a mixture, hard to imagine. There was the usual amount of people wearing Western clothes. The Arabs are very poorly dressed, in long baggy pants - baggy on top and narrow on the bottom. Some wore Oriental shawls on their heads, others the red fez. Some wore large Arab shirts, others regular jackets. Some wore shoes, some had sandals, some were barefooted. The women also were dressed in numerous different fashions, from chic French to complete Oriental, others half here and half there. Some women even had their faces tattooed, others wore black scarves across their faces so we could not see what they looked like. I cannot understand why these people cannot stick to their traditions or accept the Western styles. But the half and half affair is both silly and yet extremely fascinating.

As soon as the gangplank was lowered, the noise and confusion became terrific. Like hell let loose. It seems that out here the unloading is not systematized like in America. The Arab porters work in pairs. One goes on the boat with heavy ropes and sends down the packages to his partner on the pier. Each one yells instructions to the other and each one disregards the instructions and yells others. There was so much racket and confusion that I did not think they would ever get through, but to my surprise, within about three hours all was quiet and in order.

We were to spend the night in Beirut, load new passengers in the morning and pull out for Haifa. So next morning the same racket began, only a lot louder. More strange people and more strange sights. Peddlers appeared with their wares - rugs, pocketbooks, shoes, slippers, postcards, etc. They would throw us a rope and at the end of the rope was a basket. We would pull up the basket with the merchandise and send down money. The loading was loud and terrific, so were the partings, and the confusion again was unbearable and I could not imagine how it would end. But after a few hours it did.

It seems that the officials here were not very efficient. The passengers were not allowed on shore, but the crew was. But any man who was half man was in town that night. For a while it was quiet on the boat, but around 12 midnight the boys began to come back. One was drunker than another, carrying souvenirs and talking about the girls they had made that night. That went on until about 2 A.M. until finally everything settled down for a few hours of quiet.

Part 2

Next morning, about 12 noon, we pulled out of Beirut and headed for Haifa. This time we travelled along the shores of Lebanon and Palestine. Within about 5 hours we reached Haifa. This port is also situated along a mountain and presents a beautiful panorama. But this time it was not as thrilling as the sight of Beirut, because, I think, it was not our first sight of land with nothing around us but water. Although we did enter Haifa from the front, we travelled along land. Also there is one big mountain, not numerous ones like in Lebanon. Also Haifa is a much smaller city than Beirut. But from the boat it looked so nice, white and clean. And it has a beautiful harbor. By American standards it is nothing but a basin, but by Eastern standards it is considered the biggest port in this section of the world.

We did not disembark the same day. That evening the passengers on board checked in with the immigration authorities while our baggage was being quietly and peacefully taken out to the pier. So that the next day, early in the morning, all we had to do was go down the gangplank carrying only our personal and immediate belongings. But once we entered the customs shed, lo! there it was again, tumult, noise and confusion in a few languages, flying back and forth. I’m not green when it comes to travelling, immigration and customs, but I can readily say that if it had not been for my family who had connections and managed to enter the shed, I would still be in that shed. They made things very easy and in a short while we were out of that hell and on a truck which took us to the bus terminal. Getting out of the harbor area was quite a job too. We all, foreigners and locals, had to identify ourselves. Shortly, we reached the bus which within one hour brought us to the town, or rather, the village of Affula.

Boy o boy! Is this a village. If I ever expected anything like Ellenville, I sure got a lemon. The population here is about 2,000 with only two roads and one main street paved. The rest is not even cobblestones, but gravel and dirt. So far there has been no rain, so it’s fairly passable. It’s only dusty. When the rains begin, I imagine it will be pretty muddy, to say the least. There are two blocks of Main Street, the rest is residential. Anything goes here, from a two-story store house to a wooden shed with toilet and water outside. The life here is poor and primitive. It’s very similar to what I remember of Russia twenty years ago - especially so the kitchens - where they use kerosene burners to cook on. Nobody here owns a car. A few families have fridgedaires, some haven’t even got an icebox. None have gas stoves - but a few have electric burners. But in spite of all that, every woman here knows how to cook and bake. Yes! And they do it well too.

The people here claim that as I see Affula now, it’s a paradise, I should have seen it 15 or 20 years ago. No thanks! What I see now is enough to make me feel that America is the greatest country in the world. These people work hard, very hard, and they have nothing to show for it. They are poor. They live poor, dress poor and eat poor. Whatever else they think they have, in my estimation isn’t worth having. The land is not theirs - the government is not theirs - they live with fear and hate.

Affula is a Jewish town. That is, there are no Arabs living here. But there are a number of small Arab settlements around it and every day the Arabs come here to peddle their wares. They come in on little donkeys - loaded with merchandise in two sacks or boxes hanging on each side of the animal. The man sits also on the donkey, with his feet astride and almost touching the ground. The Arab’s wife or wives walk behind him. He has as many wives as he can afford, not to support them but to buy them. He has her tattooed so that if someone steals her he can identify her. Why on earth anyone would want to steal these miserable looking creatures is beyond me. They look old, worn-out and ugly. They never wash, go around barefoot and dress in as many rags as they can pick up. Most of the Arabs with their wives and children live in tents made out of sack material. That is where they eat, sleep and sometimes take in the donkey. To me they appear like a miserable and ignorant nation. To think that after living for so many years among the civilized Jewish peoples, they can still be so primitive. I have a great pity for them. The first time I saw them and how they looked and dressed and lived I was shocked. Now I’m getting used to them, but it’s a pity. Of course, they are not all like that. There are a number of them who have fully or to some extent accepted Western civilization. But a greater number of them are still primitive and lead such unwholesome lives. The proof of it is the present cholera epidemic in Egypt which, within a period of 2 months, has claimed close to 7,000 dead and 12,000 new cases now on record, none of which are now expected to survive.

These are the people that the Jews of Palestine have tried to get along with, but have ended up by hating. There are a few exceptions, of course.

Affula is in the heart of the Emek Valley, one of the worst productive sections of Palestine. Most of the biggest kibbutzim are in this section and for miles around. One day my niece and I got hold of some bicycles and we cycled out to see one of these farms. It was a medium sized kibbutz comparable to a large organized farm. The only thing like it I have seen in the Americas is the Boys Farm at Shawbridge, Quebec. There may be bigger and better farms in America, no doubt there are, but I have not seen any. Anyway, on the whole, this kibbutz looks pretty rough and primitive. Some dwellings are large and well constructed, others are mere wooden shacks; there are even tents where people sleep. In some instances they use modern, up to date implements, in other cases they use simply their hands and ingenuity. But the most wonderful thing about the kibbutz is their soil. One can travel for a stretch and see nothing but hilly country of dry red earth and rocks and stones - and suddenly one hits upon a beautiful sight of green. To acquire this must have taken plenty of hard, hard labor, patience, study and ingenuity. Because rain and water in Palestine are scarce and most of the vegetation has to be acquired through artificial irrigation, they stretch pipes along every bit of the soil and have to water the crops continuously. The orange and grapefruit gardens are being watered by digging ditches in between every row of trees. These ditches are being continuously filled with water which soaks into the earth, allowing the trees to grow. Some of the land is not irrigated. They prepare it for the rainy season and allow nature to take its course. It rains here only three months of the year. The rest of the time it is dry and arid. They have learned to produce from two to three crops per year on different soils. It must have taken a lot of struggle, courage, will power, time and money to produce in this land, what other lands have gratis from nature itself - rain and good soil. These are the people who built Palestine, not the city slickers who try to get rich so that they can get something out of life. The chalutzim put everything into it and get nothing in return, except maybe satisfaction. They work very hard, live poorly, and do not even know of the early pleasures which city people take for granted. But for the idealist it must be a good life. Hard work, healthy bodies, long life and no worries. Not many people can live like that - but to those who do, I take off my hat. They are the backbone of this nation. In time I hope to see other and bigger kibbutzim.

Spent three days at Haifa and had a chance to see the city at close range. Although from the boat it looks white, clean and beautiful, like all cities it has its poverty, filth and squalor as well as its good and better side. This is a mixed town, that is, Arabs and Jews, with a few British soldiers thrown in for good measure. Although the people do try to segregate themselves, there are sections where Jews and Arabs live next door to each other. Also there are so many different kinds of Jews, that some of them are more Arabic than Jewish. It is very difficult for me to tell the difference between a Jew and an Arab.

The lower part of town is mostly big business and Arab residential. The streets here are narrow and some of them are in the form of steps. I went through the Arab market, not alone of course, and found it fascinating. The streets are so narrow that more than five people cannot go abreast. And to make it a little more difficult, each shop, which is 2x4, puts its wares on display outside the shop on stands or on the floor, so that when two people go hand in hand the third person has to struggle to pass them. Here in this section is such a mixture of characters that it is hard to describe them - from the dirtiest, filthiest rag-torn beggar to the rich, well-cultured, Western-trained merchant. In between these two types of people are a mixture of individuals in as many different types of outfits as can be counted on both hands and feet. There are even Arab women, who boldly display their painted faces and their red-dyed hair.

After wandering through a few narrow streets and ascending some 150 steps, the town changes into the Jewish business section known as the Hadar. Here the streets are much wider, allowing for car traffic and sidewalks for people to walk on. The main street is Hertz Strasse. You can walk the length of it in about half an hour. It is full of shops with all sorts of merchandise and in between every few shops is the ever popular cafe house. The store may be very small, with room for one table and two chairs, but the rest of the business is being conducted on the sidewalks (and I don’t mean curb service). People can order one cup of coffee and spend all afternoon reading newspapers or magazines supplied by the house. How the hell they can make a living that way is beyond me. Some of these cafes instead of being on the sidewalk in front of the store are in the backyard behind the store. Something like a beer garden. There are also numerous open and closed cafes of the nightclub standard. One of the nicest of these in Haifa is the Werner Cafe. I’ve been there and found the atmosphere quite pleasant. Fortunately, this place has no entertainment, which most of them have. The programs here stink. Back home we would call it third rate show vaudeville or Minsky’s burlesque without the dirty jokes or wisecracks. Higher up the hill is the middle class residential section and on the very top of the hill is the most exclusive section of the city known as the Hacarmel. This is one of the nicest sections I have ever seen anywhere. It is all new, consisting of three and four story apartment houses and private houses, with many gardens and parks. The air here is fresh and cool and from here one can get a gorgeous panorama of the city of Haifa, the harbor and the sea.

There is also a section on the outskirts of Haifa known as the Bath-Gabin. This is right by the sea. Here people are right near the beach. There is also a swimming pool, where I saw a water polo match between Palestine and Greece. Near the pool is the Casino, a cafe house built overlooking the ocean. It is very nice to dance there in the evening. There are a few large cinemas, which I have seen from the outside only. All in all, it is a quaint, interesting city, not too busy and not too dead.

It is interesting to note that every building housing British authorities is completely surrounded by rolled barbed wire - three sections deep. The British, and not the Arabs, are most afraid of the Jews. While we were on the Atlantic, we heard on the radio that the Hagganah bombed a British municipal building with a specially constructed contraption which shot a barrel of dynamite right into the buiding. I went to look at the front. It was a sight to behold. All the other buildings near and around it, both Jewish and Arab, suffered from this shot. It struck home.

One evening our friend, Sergeant Moishe, arranged for us to go to Kibbutz Beth-Alph, which that night celebrated its 25th anniversary. This kibbutz is situated at the foot of Mount Gilboa, which has a historic background. The kibbutz has, at present, a population of about 500 persons. We were not able to look over the place as it was dark, but we tasted their pastry and cheese, and drank their wine. Then we went half way up Mt. Gilboa, which was arranged in the style of a rugged, miniature Hollywood Bowl. They placed wooden boards along the mountain side for 2,000 spectators. In front of the audience was a large gully which separated us from the stages, which were roughly constructed on another nearby mountain. There were three stages. First the choir sang the Hatikvah and then to my biggest surprise, they sang the Internationale. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Then they had a balalaika orchestra play for a short ballet number, modern Palestine style. Then came the big moment.

It seems, as history tells us, that on this very mountain, some few thousand years ago, a Jewish King, Shoel, fought the Philistines. The Jewish army was defeated, and instead of being taken prisoner, the king stabbed himself, telling his son Jonathan to carry on. Also, a few years ago, while digging along the mountain, people found the remains of a synagogue and part of a wall.

The program, therefore, consisted of the story of King Shoel, reenacted on the very stoop where history was made a few thousand years ago. One of the stages was made from the remains of the synagogue which they dug up. The indoor scenes were acted on the stages, with the flood lights jumping from one stage to the other. The outdoor scenes were acted right on the open mountain, supposedly on the spots where they occurred. They had little scenery on the stages, but they had nice costumes and the wonder of it was that the natural acoustics carried the voices so well. It really was something strange and nice to behold. Another great wonder was that such a large Jewish crowd kept such good order. All the while the moon shone, bright, beautiful and clear on the entire scene. Really, one sees things like that once in one’s lifetime and I’m sure glad I saw it. Thanks to Sergeant Moishe.

I also saw the Hamma players right here in Affula in Ibsen’s The Devils. It took place in a gymnasium which looked like a barn. We sat on rough wooden benches, and I thanked my lucky stars I did not wear my nylons. Of course, I did not understand a word they said, so I took note of the scenery, which they brought with them, their costumes, make-up and acting. The impression I gathered is that at home, in their own theatre, they must be pretty good, and a match for any troupe, anywhere.

A few days ago I visited Kibbutz Ein Harod which has a population of 1,100 people. It can almost be called a little town, as it is not only a farm, but has a number of small factories, so to speak, and they work for outsiders as well as for themselves. It is one of the richest kibbutzim in Palestine. The people who took me knew every nook and corner of the place, and we went over the place thoroughly. They have a dairy plant, which cools the milk, and packs it into cans for delivery to the cities. They also make their own cheeses and enough to sell. They are now building a large fridgedaire to be able to produce and store more of their dairy products.

They also have an olive canning plant where they wash them, sort them out according to sizes, soak them in liquids and pack them in cans. We also saw their orange and grapefruit packing houses and tasted some of their fruit. They have a fairly large carpentry shop and metal shop, which keep them pretty busy with work for outsiders. They have their own laundry and primitive press machines. We also went through their incubator room and chicken coops - if you can call them that; housing thousands of chickens. It is interesting to note that in all the kibbutzim and farms, they all breed the same chickens; Leghorns. They all look alike, perfectly white. Anytime one sees a black or brown chicken, it comes from an Arab and not a Jewish farm.

We went through a few of the children’s buildings. It seems that each age group has its own building and specially trained people to take care of these children. The children live here until they are old enough to go to school, that is 6 years of age. At this time they go to live, or that is to sleep, at home with their parents. Their education consists of a modern progressive education together with farming. Those who show an aptitude are also trained in sewing, carpentry and mechanics.

This kibbutz is a proud possessor of a library and museum, consisting mostly of the different animal and plant life of Palestine. They also have what they call their own private zoo of two deer and one monkey, which the boys themselves picked up in the neighborhood.

The housing situation here is better than in most kibbutzim. Although some of the new recruits still have to live in tents, the older members and families are pretty well housed. Each family has two rooms and a small balcony. One room is for the children and one for the parents. No other rooms are really necessary as the rest of their life is conducted on a community basis. They, as well as the entire country, are practical people. Almost every room is furnished studio style, so that the same room can serve a number of purposes.

I repeat that for those idealists who like it and want it, it’s an ideal life. Personally, I wouldn’t like to be found dead there. Not that it is far from civilization and dull. They have a large theatre and have a variety of entertainment, their own and from the outside. But when I walked into a cow shed and saw two women cleaning up the dung, that was enough for me. I can see some farmer’s wife occasionally doing this sort of work, when no no else is around, but with a population of 1100 persons they put women to do that sort of work, and that, in my humble opinion, is carrying equality and socialism a little too far. Palestinian women in general don’t look so hot. In small towns they look even worse. In the kibbutzes they look like hell, but in a cow shed they stink. Yet when I spoke to some of them, the first question they asked me was the price of nylon stockings in America. Were they kidding me?!? I wonder who was laughing at whom.

For the past few days we have had what is known as a chomsin kind of weather. It is sort of hot one minute and cold the next. As you walk along a road you walk into a hot breeze and then step right into a cold one. This weather has been holding on now for three days. This is supposed to be typical fall weather, before the rains come. So far I have seen no rain here at all.

Spent two days in Tel Aviv and have nothing to say. Perhaps next time I’m there I will be more touched.

We also visited Jaffa, the Arab city next to Tel Aviv. After having seen the Arabs living in dirt and squalor, in tents and huts, it was indeed enlightening to note that here at least they show some semblance of civilization. It’s not a large town, but it has a few nice streets, a few fairly decent buildings and its people seem more advanced towards Western civilization than anywhere I’ve seen so far. We were there the day before the Arabs were to stage a strike against the Balfour Declaration. Everyone advised us against entering the city that day, but we three brave souls, two gentlemen, myself and the taxi driver braved it. We spent about half an hour there walking the streets with the taxi driver following us around. I even managed two snapshots for which I could easily have gotten a knife in my back. Needless to say, we all returned safely to Tel Aviv.

This past weekend I spent a few days in Tiberias on Lake Kinereth. This lake is situated 609 ft. below sea level. This spot, next to the Dead Sea, is supposed to be the warmest spot in Palestine. Also this place has natural hot spring water, which is supposed to be a cure for all ills. It is a very popular winter vacation spot where people come to warm up, take baths, spend money and enjoy illicit love. The lower part of the town is inhabited by poor Arabs and Orthodox Jews, while the upper part of the town is loaded with hotels and cafe houses. So far, this is the most beautiful natural spot I’ve seen in Palestine, and Palestine is a country that abounds in natural beauty. The Palestine side of the lake is bound by a tremendously large half green, half rugged mountain. The other side is bound by the mountains of Syria and Transjordan. The beauty of those mountains is indescribable. They seem purple from afar.

From Affula to Tiberias we traveled by train in a roundabout way because I wanted to see the land. We traveled through the Emek and saw most of the kibbutzim; also many of the artificial lakes which breed fish for consumption. We also passed the Jordan Valley, a very productive section along the Palestine-Transjordan border. This border line consists of the Jordan River. This important river, to me, is a dirty little creek that one can cross on foot. Yet the Russian engineer, Ruthenberg, managed to work out an electric plant which produces most of the power for Palestine. In the past three years the Jews of Palestine have quickly managed to establish a number of new kibbutzim along this section so that when and if partition comes, they can claim this part of the country.

This past weekend was quite an active time here in Palestine due to terrorist activities. It all started with the British fatally wounding four Jewish teenagers, which started a wave of reprisal killings throughout the land. Curfews were established in the large cities, especially in Jerusalem, where I was scheduled to spend the weekend. Needless to say, we did not go there. Instead we decided to spend a few hours in Nazareth, an all-Arab town, situated on top of a mountain not far from Affula. To reach Nazareth we traveled by a bus which wound its way up the hill on a snake like road. This road is very narrow without any side protection. The buses here are very small and light in weight, and going up that hill it seemed to me that at any moment we would turn over and roll down the hill. When we finally reached the top of the hill, all alive, I began to breathe again. But the scenery we saw during the ascent was breathtaking.

Nazareth, being an all-Arab town, as any all-Arab town, is a dangerous spot for Jewish people. So to be on the safe side we took with us a Jewish gentleman who used to be with the Jewish police, secret service. He did a lot of work with the Arabs, knew their language and customs and had many Arab friends. Luckily for us, he met an Arab friend, a rich and influential man of the town, and under his protection we spent a few hours visiting the city. It is a very old city and most of it has fallen apart and has been replaced by new and more modern buildings. These sections of the city we avoided and instead visited the few old remaining markets and business streets. These are narrow cobblestone streets, going up along a mountain with a gully in the center for the water to run down during rain. The shops are small cubbyholes built against the mountain side to avoid building an extra wall; also to have protection against winds and storms. We passed the tin works and woodworks section and I was surprised at their lack of implements. Most of the work is done by hand. We also passed a few streets of shops selling everything of local and foreign make. On the whole, this section of the town is dirty and smelly, with human and animal dung strewn all over the place. We visited an Arab cafe and had some Turkish coffee, which tasted like poison to me.

In the center of the town we came upon a well, where women come to fetch water for home use. They carry this water in pitchers or tin cans on top of their heads. The Jews despise the Arabs for being dirty, but I can readily see the reason why. When women have to walk half a mile or a mile along those ascending cobblestone streets to carry a pitcher of water on their heads to cook a soup, it would certainly be a pity for them to use this water to bathe in. None of the Arab towns have water pipes or any sort of water system, hence the dirty people and the dirty streets.

We also visited a church, which our friend, the Arab, was at first reluctant to enter as he is of the Moslem faith. This church also contains a natural water well, where it is believed that the Virgin Mary used to come to fetch water. The first part of the church was built during the time of Christ. Later, the Christian Crusaders built a second section to it and recently, about four hundred years ago, the Greek Orthodox built still another section to it. Therefore it is now three faiths in one church. The entire affair is like a hole in the wall, consisting of a million odds and ends gathered from all parts of the world, put together by spit or any other means, and giving the impression that it is going to cave in or collapse any minute. Everything is yellow with age and gray with dust, but to a connoisseur of ancient history it must be a first class - A1 - Paradise, with a capital P.

We also had dinner in an Arab restaurant. We ordered a special Arab dish which turned out to be nothing but hamburgers and French fried potatoes. Incidentally, while in Tiberias, we also had an Arab dinner which turned out to be broiled liver sprinkled with mint leaves. As Bruno would say, “Ce is de Zelke Velt.” [“It’s the same World”]

That night we went to Haifa by train. At this point I might say that the transportation system in Palestine is about the worst possible, due of course, to the uncertain political condition of the country. Most of the Jewish people travel via Egged, the Jewish and only bus company in Palestine. There are also Arab bus companies, which the Jews use only in emergencies. All inter city transportation ceases at 6 P.M. and there is an inter city curfew for cars at 7 P.M. Therefore, there is no traveling permitted at all after 7 P.M. So if one must travel, one has to catch the last bus which leaves the terminals at 3, 4 or 5 P.M. depending on the length of the journey to the destination. Otherwise it is necessary to spend the night where one is stuck and begin going back early on the morrow. There is also one “shin” [Hebrew Letter] railroad, but this also stops running at 6 P.M. as the engine men are afraid to work after dark. On Saturdays, all Jewish transportation ceases completely and the only means of transportation is the private taxi. All in all, it’s a hell of a way to get around. Luckily the country is so small.

Anyway, that night we went to Haifa by the last train and reached our destination at 5:45 P.M. Due to the unrest throughout the country that week, Haifa was under an auto and bus curfew from 6 P.M. until 6 A.M. We just managed to catch the last bus which took us only half way between the station and our hotel. The rest of the way we had to go on foot, from the lower part of town to the upper part of town. We had to go up about 200 stairs along narrow winding streets. We finally reached our hotel. From there it was not far to the cafe, where we spent the evening. Here, for the first time, I realized what life was like in Palestine under curfew. Although there were numerous people on the streets, the roads were empty of cars. But every few minutes radio army tanks, with strong lights, would dash down the road. This was the only sound of traffic through the entire evening and night. On the way back from the cafe, the town was pretty quiet, but the sound of these rattling tanks was deafening. This continued all night and when next morning we had to leave Haifa by the 6 o’clock bus, we had to walk half way across town in the dash to reach the bus terminal, as the city traffic did not start until 6 A.M. It was both beautiful and frightening to walk through the dead and quiet streets, hearing the echoes of our own footsteps and watching the sunrise. We passed a few guards who looked skeptically at my make-up kit, as most people here mistake it for a secret radio.

Part 3

Another restless weekend and again we were unable to go to Jerusalem. Instead we went to Tiberias again. Here also, we came across the 6 P.M. curfew and the only traffic was the everlasting radio tanks, rattling away through the night.

One incident I recall during that weekend. We were having a final glass of tea in a cafe at about midnight. The crowd consisted of about 20 couples. Suddenly, outside the cafe, we heard a shot. Not one man walked out, but they all gathered near the door to see what was what. It seems that a British soldier was a little late celebrating Princess Elizabeth’s wedding and picked that night to get drunk and fire his gun in the air. To think that such a mild incident could strike terror into the hearts of some 20 men. Or it may be that they have been taught to be on the alert and careful. Still, no one left that cafe until someone called the police to get the drunken soldier out of the way.

Yesterday night, Affula was honored with the presence of the Jerusalem police symphony orchestra. They gave a performance in an old gymnasium with benches and a tin roof. But in spite of that and the fact that they did manage to squeeze in a few sour notes, it was a pretty enjoyable evening. The orchestra consisted of some 18 men and they did quite a good job on the Overture to Nozze de Figaro, William Tell, Nutcracker Suite and a few Hebrew horas. Under better conditions I think they could have done much better.

Finally this past weekend I managed to get away to Jerusalem for a few days. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, this was the weekend when the U.N. in New York decided to partition Palestine in order to finally establish a Jewish state in Palestine. This made conditions both before and after the announcement rather tense, so that we were not able to go and see all the places I had hoped to see. Still we managed quite a bit, considering the circumstances.

Prior to going to Jerusalem, I stopped in Tel Aviv for two days. Again, I can say that I’m not enthusiastic about this city. This time I’ve had more time and opportunity to see and make note of things and it seems to me that I see only the bad. Perhaps it is because I expected a large, modern, beautiful town, but having come from New York, I expect all large towns to look like New York. So naturally I’m disappointed.

Tel Aviv is situated along the Mediterannean and has a nice coast line, beach and small harbor. The earth in this part of the country is rather sandy and soft so that heavy construction is impossible. None of the buildings exceed three stories. The town is growing very rapidly and half of it, at present, is under construction, which gives one the impression of it being dirty. I’m afraid I’m being rather polite, because I really think the town is dirty. There are numerous old business sections, where the streets are not yet paved, where on dry days it is dusty and on wet days it is muddy. There are, of course, no sidewalks on these streets. There are some newly put up residential sections that have no roads either. In general, the business sections are rather like our small towns, but some of the better residential sections are nice. While wandering through the streets one day, I came across a market street similar to our East Side. The dirt, squalor and stink on that street is worse than anything I’ve come across even in Arab markets. The town has a few nice theatres and a few squares, but in general, to me anyway, it is not what one expects of it.

As far as it being “Little Paris,” I wonder. True it has a large number of night clubs, also cafe houses. These cafe houses are nothing but a few or many small tables, placed along the sidewalk where people can spend a few hours reading; all for the price of a cup of coffee. All these cafe houses, both indoor and outdoor, are situated in the section along the beach or the streets near it. Since all the people in Tel Aviv gather in this one neighborhood, it is naturally very crowded, almost as bad as our Times Square. As far as I’m concerned, it is a wonder to me why in such a dirty, dusty, fly-infected city, people should want to sit outside and eat with all the dust and sand flying in the air. But that is Tel Aviv and the people here love it.

Another thing, in the midst of some of the poorer and better residential sections of the city, one can come across a lot of old, low, wood constructed huts where people live without toilet, bath or electricity. I’ve been told that these huts belong to Arab landowners who do not want to sell to Jewish speculators, who could have put up some nice buidings. Here are the sore spots before one’s eyes.

The women in Tel Aviv look a little better than the women of Affula, but even here, most of them look like hell. Sitting in a sidewalk cafe, watching the world go by, one can see an occasional well-dressed, neat woman, but to me, they seem to lack our American chic. They do not know of high heels. They wear their skirts short and the jackets long and like most of us, they go without hats. Here they use quite a bit of jewelry, but not much make-up. Lipstick and eyebrow pencil. That is all. As far as the men are concerned, and this accounts for all the men all over Palestine, they are the handsomest lot I’ve ever come across. Be they young or old, city, town, village or kibbutz, dressed elegantly or in working clothes, they all, at all times, look handsome. Maybe it’s because the women look so bad. But I doubt it, because here is a shortage of women; one can see half a cafe filled with men only and they still look good. And now for the children - the poorest and dirtiest child off the streets of Palestine anywhere can win a beauty contest against any child in America. Each child is more beautiful than the next one. I don’t know what makes them like that, but I sure would like to find out. But there is one great trouble with these children. They all, but all, suck their fingers. I’ve seen them as old as 8 and 12 with a thumb in their mouth. I find it disgusting.

From Tel Aviv I went to visit someone in Holon. It’s about 15 minutes from Tel Aviv. Outside the city limits of this small town is a project built for the refugees. Standing in the midst of this project and looking around one can see nothing but sand. There is no sign whatever of mountains or any sort of vegetation, nothing but sandy desert. Yet in front of every home is a garden with flowers. Strange how in such a dry, sandy country people have so much love for flowers. And it takes lots of money, time and effort to tend to these gardens.

Here in Holon, in the project, one can see how poor working class people live, under what standard of living. Each family has one room with a couch, a crib and wooden closet. Through an arch, not a door, one enters what is known as a kitchen. A sink, a sideboard, half a bridge table and two Arab straw stools. Of course there is no stove. A kerosene noitke [stove] like we had in Russia. And that is all. Oh yes, these people live in luxury. For every two families there is one toilet and one ice cold shower. Sometimes when the sun is very strong it heats up the pipes which are on the ground, and then the water is lukewarm. Although this particular project has streets, it has no sidewalks and one walks in directly from the sand into the house.

The refugees who live in this project are quite happy and content. Perhaps they knew no better in Europe. Perhaps after going from concentration camp to camp they find this a refuge. Some of them claim they had a chance to go to America and chose Palestine. But me, I’ll take America any time. Of course, not all people in Palestine live like that, but the poor worker here does have quite a struggle.

I also visited the town of Ramatayem; people who are better off than the refugees. They have land, a home, some furniture, but still no toilet in the house. Here I visited an orphanage of European children where they give them a general education and teach them farm life. After 17, these children go out into the world to find a place for themselves. It is more or less in the style of a kibbutz.

On Friday morning I left Tel Aviv to go to Jerusalem. Going into the bus terminal my heart sank, as this was my last biggest stop off and I did not want to be disappointed. But once we walked out of the depot, Jerusalem took on a new face.

It is not a large town; but a solid one. It is situated on a mountain, high, hard and solid and it gives that impression. Most of the streets are built on hills and one is continuously walking up or down the hills. The buildings here are quite modern and some are as high as 8 stories, both in the residential and business sections. I think this is the only place in Palestine that has elevators. The streets are clean and well kept, wide, all paved with sidewalks. Really, I was quite impressed with this modern, clean, up to date town. Small but impressive. Of course, this is the new Jerusalem. The old Jerusalem is something else again.

The first thing I had to do upon entering Jerusalem is go to the American Consul. All the consulates and other government buildings are situated in one section of the city. This section is all surrounded by barbed wire and one must get a pass to be able to enter this part of town. The American Consul was guarded by an Arab and an Englishman. All consulates are guarded by soldiers of other nations, and not their own. There are a few British buildings outside this area, that is, in the heart of the city, and these buildings are guarded by heavy metal netting running along the first two stories of the building, while the balconies are lined with sheets of metal. All these precautions are against the Jews, not the Arabs. The Jews here, all, Orthodox and free-thinking, are as brave as the bravest nations of the world. They fear much, but are ready for anything.

This was the Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when the Conference on the partition of Palestine was in its last stages. We were very anxious to go to the city, the old Jerusalem, and knew that once the conference came to an end, it would be impossible to enter this citadel. We were advised strongly against going there, so we went to the Visitors Aid Bureau and there found four people who were anxious to go also. So the six of us set forth for one of the oldest cities of the world.>

Old Jerusalem is completely surrounded by a high stone wall, with five entrances at different points. The first street inside the walls is usually wide enough for double auto traffic, but the inside streets are wide enough only for about six civilians abreast. There is no mechanical traffic here. Only people, donkeys and camels. The streets are paved with cobblestones and have stone walls of about 8 ft. on both sides. Occasionally there is an arch in these walls, which leads to a courtyard; around this courtyard are other arches, which are Arab dwellings of one room, no windows. Although the streets of Jerusalem are clean, the courtyards stink, since here, as in all other Arabs towns and villages, except I think Jaffa, there is no water system, and this courtyard is used for everything from a toilet to a play yard for the children. This is the general layout of the town. Some of the streets are level, others are hilly, some with stairs, and some with a gutter in the middle for the rain water to run down.

We wanted to see the richest church in Palestine, but found that it was locked. We then visited the tombs of Solomon and David. This place is considered so holy that we had to take off our shoes before entering and the men had to cover their heads with skull caps or handkerchiefs. Here we entered one room and from there we looked through a grating into another room with what looked like a bench against the wall, covered by a velvet spread. As is usual with these places, one is supposed to make a wish and pray. From here we proceeded to go through the streets of Jerusalem towards the Wailing Wall. To get there we had to pass through the old Orthodox Jewish Quarter. This is the place, and these are the people, who for two thousand years, kept alive the tradition that Palestine belongs to the Jews. They are a Jewish sect all their own. They live like the Arabs, speak Arabic and Jewish, not Hebrew, and have very little contact with the world outside the citadel of Jerusalem. Although this part of Jerusalem has a great number of different religious sects and peoples, the Arabs are predominant and the Jews take second place. They have undergone many heartaches at the hands of the Arabs; still they never wished to get out of this poverty, squalor and filth, and to this day, they resent the interference of the Jews from other parts of the world. But in the past 25 years they have learned how to give back, and some of these young, religious boys, with capotas, beards, payess and all, belong to some of the strongest gangs in the land. Although they preach religious peace and goodwill, they will not hesitate to kill when necessary.

To get to the Wailing Wall we had to pass through a few of their business streets. Here one can buy anything one can think of; also many things one never thought about. Some of the streets are not streets at all, but merely arch-ways, without sight of the sky or sun. The stores are built or dug like holes in the wall - a few feet deep and with most of the wares spread out in sacks, on boxes or paper on the streets in front of the stores, which have one door, the width of the store. This makes the street even narrower, so much so that only two people, and in some places, only one person, can pass. For light they use kerosene lamps, and that is how they produce their handmade merchandise. The place stinks to high heaven; luckily these streets are almost as short as they are narrow. More open streets, more stairs, until finally and suddenly, there we were. It’s like in the pictures I have seen of this historic place, except that I was always under the impression that this Wall stood in a large square. It does not. It’s like one side of a narrow street except that it is tremendously high. Along the side of the Wall were the everlasting Jews, both men and women, praying, swinging, swaying and some crying. Unfortunately this was a bad hour as it was still too early for the customary Friday evening prayers. But we could not remain here very long, as the hour was getting late and it was not advisable to get stuck in this part of Jerusalem after dark, and we still had quite a way to go to get out of the Citadel.

From there we went to the Church of all Nations, and of all things, they did not let us in because we were Jews. Imagine, here in Palestine, to come across a thing like that. Instead we visited a Russian Orthodox Church. This church, instead of being built on the ground, was dug deep into the earth and rocks. We entered first a courtyard, which is thirty steps down, then from the courtyard we entered the church, which is about fifty steps down. There are, of course, no windows in this church, also no means of lighting it except by candles, which we had to purchase. It is said that Jesus used to come to this church to drink water from a natural well situated right in the middle of the floor. This church possesses some 500 icons, collected from all over the world. We had hoped to see the Rockefeller Museum, but it is situated in a bad neighborhood and it was already dusk, so we decided against it. I don’t know why I say we - I feel no fear whatever. If it was up to me I would stick my nose into every hole in Palestine. But the people I go with know better, so I have to do what they say.

That evening on the way to dinner I saw an entirely different city. During the day the business sections of the city were as busy and crowded as in any large town. But at night the city looked like a warehouse. Every place of business, from a cafe house to a tinsmith shop was closed by a metal grating, or a zigzag steel door. But when I say every, it means every one, without exception. All that is as protection against riots and bombings. As for the people, there were very few, especially so since it was Friday night when all business here ceases for the Sabbath. After dinner, since there was no place to go, we decided to go for a walk along some of the better residential sections. At this late hour, around 9 P.M., the streets were so deserted that even I began to fear, I know not what, so we went home, or that is, to our hotel. Here we found that the doors had already been barricaded, so we had to ring for the watchman to let us in. The night life in Jerusalem is not only dead, but deathly.

Next day, Saturday, we heard the news that the Conference was going in our favour, although the final decision had not yet been reached. The tension here was terrific. We had planned on the Rockefeller Museum, or the Dead Sea, or Rachel’s Grave on the road to Bethlehem. The Jewish bus service does not operate on Saturdays. The Arab bus service was considered unsafe. Our only hope was the private taxi. Here again we were sadly disappointed. They refused to go anywhere except Mt. Scopus. So off we went. We passed the cemetery where lie buried all men who perished in World War I; men of all religions and nationalities. This brought us to Hadassah Hospital, situated on the highest point of the mountain. According to American standards it could not be considered a large hospital, but it is the largest hospital in the Middle East. It is a beautifully constructed building of some six or seven stories, surrounded by beautiful gardens. Our driver’s wife was a nurse in the hospital, so she took us around through the wards, kitchens, equipment rooms, galleries, etc. From the top story we saw the Dead Sea. The hospital is situated way above the sea level, whereas the Dead Sea is some 1,000 ft. below the sea level. It’s quite a distance from one point to the other, yet here the atmospheric conditions are such that one can see much beyond the average distances of other parts of the world.

Near the hospital, also on Mount Scopus, is the Hebrew University, most of which is still under construction. Next to the hospital are a few buildings, recently completed, which will give a complete medical course during the coming season. We saw a few other completed buildings which look unusually beautiful since we see very little of such architecture in the Western Hemisphere. There is an open-air amphitheatre and stadium where a number of young boys and girls were studying fighting tactics. This is part of the education which every Jewish student from the first grade on must learn in order to graduate. There isn’t a man, woman or child in this country who does not know how to shoot a gun or rifle, fight with a rod, throw a grenade or put up a good fight with bare hands.

We were unable to go into any of the buildings as this was the day of the Sabbath and everything was under lock and key. At night the streets were deserted as usual, so we killed a few hours in a movie and going home at 10 P.M. was like walking through a graveyard.

At about 2 A.M. we heard a lot of shouting in the streets. We went out on the balcony and found that most of the houses were lit up and people were shouting from the balconies at one another. The Jewish state, or the partition of Palestine, had just been passed at Lake Success, and the news had just come through the short wave. We stayed up a while talking to our neighbours and then decided to continue with sleep, if possible. The noise in the streets continued into the next day, Sunday, and by the time we went down to breakfast, the streets were full of people. The sidewalks were covered with passing throngs, while the streets were full of buses, cars and trucks piled up high with children waving Jewish flags and shouting slogans. Anything movable was moving, including bicycles, motorcycles, Jeeps and even donkeys. These were all crowded to capacity, and the noise was terrific. In the public squares people danced the hora and sang the Hatikvah. Some liquor stores offered free drinks, as did the Workers’ Kitchen, where we ate our dinner.

Again, it was impossible to go sightseeing as no taxi would take us outside the Jewish city limits. So we went to see the Jewish Agency building. Outside the building we saw a car, probably belonging to some important official, no doubt Ben-Gurion. This car had double unbreakable glass which was completely covered with bullet cracks. Honest, this is no exaggeration; it looked like a car that we see in our gangster films. The building is rather nice, two stories, built in the shape of a horseshoe. We did not go inside as there were too many people buzzing around. The only place of interest that was accessible was the Jewish Orthodox Quarter in lower Jerusalem. This section was built around 25 or 30 years ago, in the style of old Jewish European small towns - narrow streets permitting one way bus traffic and sidewalks for two people only. But most people here walk in the middle of the road. Fortunately for us (unfortunately for them), we came across a funeral of a great rabbi and this gave us an opportunity to see hundreds of these characters. I was dressed in a simple suit and no hat. My escort wore a regular business suit and a silk skull cap which I had purchased that day for one of my nephews in America. Here in this neighborhood we looked so out of place that they laughed at us. The women, old and young, wear medium length dresses, aprons and kerchiefs. But the men, well they had on such a variety of clothes that it’s hard to describe. All, without exception, from about 17 or 18, wear beards and payess, some of which, when curled, hang beyond their beards. On the heads they wear black velvet hats with wide brims trimmed with long-hair fur. Most of them wear striped pants with narrow striped coats tied with a black rope. Some wear different color large, wide, velvet coats. They all speak with their hands and have a tendency to lean forward when they walk, probably from the swaying while praying. We tried to guess their ages through their beards, but it was impossible. We were both way off and we had no means of proving which one of us was correct. I had my camera with me and was itching to take a few shots, but did not have the nerve. My friend was a little bolder and tried, but when they noticed what he was up to, they hid their faces and turned away from us. The children are a scream. They shave their heads but leave the payess. They wear black knee length pants and high black stockings. We tried to get some children to pose for us, but they refused, saying that it is forbidden. We wandered into a courtyard which was the market place. Like all markets around here they sell everything from “soup to nuts”. Here we also saw a men’s mikvah. We did not go in of course, merely saw lots of clothes hanging outside along the wall of the building. The surprising thing about this market, like the rest of the district, is that it is clean and well kept, but occasionally we came across a terrific smell coming from the dwellings. They live in small quarters and very close to each other. All in all, it was a very interesting visit. In New York one hears of so few religious people and sees even less of the strictly Orthodox that one gets the impression that with each generation, the Jewish religion will pass. But here, the impression is that religious Jews will never die, because one sees the old men and the new generation of young children carrying on the same way.

When we got back to the center of the town around 4 P.M. the crowds in the streets were still celebrating. But when we went down to dinner it was rather quiet. After dinner, around 9 P.M. it was as dead as in a graveyard. We made a beeline dash to our hotel and did not stick our heads out until next morning.

Next morning, we already heard stories of Arab riots against Jews and that many Jewish buses had been attacked by ammunition or stones while passing Arab villages. As a matter of fact, one story was that a bus from Affula to Jerusalem had been stoned. In spite of that, we left Jerusalem on a three-hour ride to Affula. We were a fortunate bus, as we got home on schedule and without incident. During this ride, I noticed a strange thing. I was sitting in such a position that I was able to observe the driver in the mirror in front of him and I realized that he drove not only with his attention on the road in front of him, but was also watching what was going on behind him. It seems that all Jewish bus drivers are able to ride from the back as well as from the front.

While in Jerusalem, I had seen the American Consul about a personal matter, and he had suggested that I go to Haifa. But the people here all suggested that I do not take this trip this week, as they expect a little trouble from the Arabs. So I have decided to listen to these people who have lived through many such incidents and postpone my trip until some time next week, depending on events.

One week later and I still did not go to Haifa, and don’t know when I will be able to. There are terrific riots all over the land and many innocent people have become victims in this struggle. Many incidents occur on the roads where the Arab bands block the highways and start shooting at the buses from the hills. The trains are not safe either, as the Arabs attack them also and pilfer the produce. They have stolen much sugar, flour and butter, both from trains and trucks. All drivers carry guns and some buses travel with Jewish police escorts. But even that does not seem to help much. The British, who are supposed to keep peace in the land, do nothing about it; as a matter of fact, word goes around that they incite these incidents and then take the guns away from the Jews and give them to the Arabs. On other occasions they take their time about coming and by the time they do arrive, there are many from both sides lying dead. Other stories are that when they arrive at a scene of fighting they cause more confusion than help. And so it goes; every day a different road, a different city, a different village. One day it may be quiet and the next day it starts all over again.

Haifa, being a mixed town, is a pretty dangerous place. There, most of the fighting is going on in the streets; from homes, windows and roof tops. One is not safe anywhere in the streets, or traveling in buses. So I sit here in Affula and bide my time.

When I first arrived in Affula, in the quieter days, I learned that the town was being patrolled all night by the townspeople going with guns in groups of two along all roads leading into the town. Each man, from sixteen to sixty, goes out once every three weeks. Now, in addition to this regular nightly patrol, there are six men with a doctor and nurse sleeping all night in the last house on every road leading into the town. These people sleep with their clothes on and with guns beside them, ready for action at a moment’s notice. The intervals between service are getting shorter for each man.

Another week went by and still I did not go to Haifa. Conditions are going from bad to worse. Fortunately, here in Affula things are very quiet. So quiet indeed that we do not hear a shot and the Arabs are parading through this Jewish town as if they owned it. In spite of that, the people have taken to guarding the town during the day as well as at night. They have also set up a searchlight on the water tower and keep it going all night.

I have finally managed to go to Haifa. On the way there I traveled with a sergeant of the police of Affula. He traveled in full uniform with pistol and shots. Most of the trip was through Jewish sections of the country, but near Haifa we had to pass an Arab town. Here he changed places with me to sit near the window and, pulling out and loading his pistol, he covered it with one hand, leaned out of the window and said he was ready for those “vildechayas.” Nothing happened. He pulled in his pistol and we continued. A few minutes later, out comes the pistol again. It seems we passed an Arab street. Still nothing happened and so we finally reached our destination without incident.

In Haifa I noticed a change in the buses. All the windows and glass doors were lined with iron gratings, to protect them from bullets and stones. At night, when we went out of the movies at 11 P.M. the town was so dead and locked up that we were unable to obtain a cup of coffee. We made a beeline dash to our hotel and had to knock on the door for the manager to let us in. Next day we returned to Affula on schedule and without incident.

A few days later we went to Tiberias, Palestine’s most popular resort during the winter months. On the way there we traveled on two buses, with a truck full of Jewish soldiers as our escorts. These are young boys, 17 or 18 years of age, who spend all day traveling up and down the highways escorting buses to their destination. Most of these boys are known as “sabras”. The name originates from the word sabra which means the thorn of the cactus plant, sharp and painful. The cactus is a local plant and these boys are born here on this land. They are brought up with the idea that this place is theirs and they must fight for it. In spite of their age, they are tough and fearless and are prepared at all times to fight and even die for Palestine.

Usually, Tiberias, at this time of the year, is the most popular resort in Palestine. Now however, it is the quietest place and all the hotels, which make their living from a five-month season, are suffering a terrific financial setback. The same applies to many other business people, as those Jews who had their places of business in or near Arab districts have had to close down. Also, many Jewish workers who worked together with Arabs left their jobs to look for work elsewhere.

Even a small place like Affula is affected by conditions now prevalent here. Some 40 young men have been sent away on a one to two month military training course. Also 20 of the older men, who have had previous military training, are gone for 10 days to review their knowledge and learn the use of the newer military equipment that has fallen into Jewish hands. In a small town like Affula, the absence of these young men is quite noticeable.

On the way back from Tiberias we were also escorted by the “Gafirin” but this time they crowded into the bus with us. They were ten, while the passengers numbered six. When we reached Affula, they got out of our bus and boarded another, to continue their daily routine.

This Palestine government sure is giving me a run around. To prolong my visa for another three months, I had to go to Haifa again. This time we were unescorted, as we traveled through Jewish sections only. We did not pass the Arab village near Haifa, but instead traveled half an hour extra in a round about way to avoid same. We did, however, pass a section of the city where the Arab and Jewish quarters meet and noticed that all the homes on both sides were completely deserted and there were British soldiers guarding the neighborhood from the roof tops.

The bus we traveled in had three bullet holes. One was through the roof and the other two were through two windows directly opposite each other. This is one bullet that caused no damage. The place I had to go to was in a mixed neighborhood and we asked a number of people if it was safe before proceeding to go there. At first we considered going by cab, but on second thought decided to take the bus, our reason being that the buses are protected by iron gratings, and also, that if trouble should arise, we would be some forty people instead of just three. Our informants were right. The place was quiet and orderly, with most of the businesses in that section closed up until further notice.

Haifa, being a mixed town, is in a confused state at present. Until now, many Jews and Arabs lived in mixed quarters and apartment houses. When the troubles started, people began moving, to be among their own kind. Some of these people, out of good will, exchanged homes. These were the very fortunate ones. Others found friends and relatives who took them in. But the greatest number of them had no place to go. So in some parts of the city, they had to stop the children from going to school and filled the classrooms with these refugees who could find no other roof over their heads. In one building I saw an old woman sleeping on a folding cot under the stairs in a public hallway. She was sitting on the bed, eating off her lap, having cooked her meal on a small kerosene lamp which she kept beside her bed.

The housing shortage here in general is very bad. There is talk that when the Jewish government comes into power, it will immediately release all internees from Cyprus and bring them into Palestine. How they expect to house these people is something I cannot picture. I do hope their optimism doesn’t run away with them.

We returned to Affula and had a nice, quiet and leisurely trip. So far, thank G-d, I have not had the honor to be included in an incident. Not that I’m looking forward to seeing one. I’d much rather live to read about it in the papers or hear it on the radio. I’m not used to these thugs and I don’t like them.

This is hardly what one might call a war; or even a civil war. There is no battlefield and no soldiers. No one knows where the next shot or bomb will land, or from where it will come. It is merely a matter of planned riots and may occur any time and any place, involving innocent people. The streets, the autobuses, the homes, the factories, the cafes - everything is a target for human bloodshed. That is how the Arabs fight. The Jews are more systematic in their attacks. They either fight back their offenders, or when they do attack, they have a purpose behind them. They strike only when and where they know their true enemies will get what is coming to them. They are pretty smart and have always hit the nail on the head.

It looks like I spoke too soon because the very next day after I wrote the last item, I went to Haifa to get married. As soon as we pulled out of Affula, we met a bus coming from Haifa, and the driver told us that there was shooting on the bridge entering Haifa city. We had an hour’s ride before us and I, being an American, and being used to law and order, considered that by the time we reached that spot everything would be under control. I soon learned otherwise. Most of the ride was quiet and uneventful and on the way we picked up a Hagganah man who stopped a few times on the way to receive orders on how we were to travel. This time we passed the Arab village we had avoided on our previous trip, as we were told that the village was being guarded by British soldiers. So far, so good. Upon nearing the bridge where the shooting was taking place, I learned that there was another road which could be taken in an emergency, but it was such a poor road that the drivers were anxious to avoid it. The Hagganah man received and gave the driver the final order to proceed for the bridge. When we reached same, I noticed all the people in the bus lowering the windows and, realizing that this was protection against shattered glass, I did the same. At the entrance to the bridge were a few British tanks and a few soldiers in each, also some plainclothes men. I do not know who gave us the order to cross the bridge, but no sooner were we half way over than we heard a shot and a loud bang, meaning that the bullet hit the metal part of our bus. Instinctively, I and everyone else in the bus, like precision work, bent our heads down to avoid the windows and be as close as possible to the floor of the bus. The driver was the only one who stayed up and kept moving. In about a minute we were off the bridge and slowly the heads began to appear from above the seats. The bus proceeded nonchalantly to the bus terminal where we all rushed out to examine the damage. There it was - a bullet hole.

I went to the same place I visited last week and again found the section almost deserted. This is the lower and mixed part of the town. After attending to my affairs, we had to take the bus to the Hadar, a Jewish section of the city. In the bus we met a friend who, when we passed a certain street, told us that there was shooting there that morning. No sooner had he said the last word, when, psst - a shot, but this time it went completely astray and we heard no more.

On the Hadar, which is not far from the bridge, we heard the firing. It was going on continuously for a few hours and we had decided to spend the night in Haifa. But suddenly it ceased. We then learned that buses going out of Haifa did not cross the bridge, but were using the other road, so we set out for home the same day.

There is a saying, “You live and learn” and so now I learned why the bus drivers are anxious to avoid the extra road to detour the bridge. I personally think that the bridge, with all its shooting, is the lesser of the two evils. To cross the bridge only takes about a minute or two, while the side road is up and down a tremendously high, steep and winding hill. All the thrill rides in Coney Island put together are child’s play in comparison to this ride. To go up took us about ten minutes, during which time my heart was not only at the pit of my stomach, but down to my arches. It is a winding, narrow, sandy road, with soft shoulders, and no side protection. Most of the traffic at present in Palestine consists of buses and trucks, so that when we passed someone, it was “do or die” for us or them. And to top it all, the drivers in Palestine are considered the best in the world, but methinks in America they would not get a license to drive in Central Park on a one-way road. We finally reached the top and were stuck there for over an hour. While waiting, we heard a terrific explosion down in Haifa proper. What it was, I do not yet know, and probably never will. Then came the moment when we started down. This road was no better than the one we ascended, and our driver, being the toughest “sabra” on the road, made it in five minutes, during which time I died a thousand deaths. Both my heart and eyes gave way. My heart stopped beating and my eyes stopped seeing. G-d must have been with us, as we did reach bottom. There again we met a Hagganah man, who told us not to go through the Arab village, but our sabra, wanting to make up for lost time, took it upon himself to disregard orders and proceeded through forbidden territory. This time we did not mind his speed, and no sooner did we enter the Arab village than we were out of it. But the trouble was that we continued at the same speed all the way home. We cut the time by exactly half and most of that time I prayed. I do not know who it was that answered my prayers - but here I am still writing.

The past week has been a terrific one in Affula. Twice in one week the know-it-alls have had some secret information that the village would be attacked, and both times they spared nothing to make the event a sensational one. All women and children were bunched into homes in the middle of the town, while all men were scattered on the outskirts. We are still waiting for something which I think will never come...And the only thing sensational as I see it is the fact that the men of this town are so tired out from lack of sleep that if anything should come, they would have no strength to cope with it. There is such a thing as overdoing, even in so important an event as an Arab attack.

And it’s not likely that Affula will ever be attacked as it is so situated that the Arabs have too far to come to make an attack, which means that they have too far to run to seek cover. The women here have been telling me stories of what they lived through and when I asked them when Affula was attacked, they tell me “never.” Yet in spite of the past, they tire out the men by making them stay up and guard all night and create panic among the women and children by taking them out of their homes at night. I suppose they know what they are doing, but sometimes I wonder.

After two months of waiting, my husband and I finally braved the trip to Jerusalem which we had to make in order to arrange his visa to America. In spite of everyone’s warning that our lives were at stake, we decided to take the chance. Ordinarily we could have made the trip in a day and a half, travelling direct to Jerusalem, a trip which would have taken us three hours. As it is, it took us five days and then it took us three more days to recuperate from the ordeal.

On Sunday morning we left for Tel-Aviv and travelled three hours instead of the usual 2 hours. We travelled mostly through Jewish territory and had a nice quiet trip. Upon arrival in Tel Aviv we immediately purchased tickets for Jerusalem. We were to leave next morning at 6 o’clock in a special metal lined bus as a precaution against bullets. Here, I learned the true meaning of travelling by convoy to Jerusalem.

The bus company has six buses specially prepared for travel to Jerusalem. These buses are completely lined with steel except for six small openings - 6 inches by 3 inches - from which to return fire, if necessary. The driver also has a steel shield which he can close at a moment’s notice, leaving him a horizontal opening about 9 inches by 1 inch, for vision only. The doors are also lined, as well as the motor. These six cars, together with a few private taxis and a number of food trucks and other delivery trucks, make up a convoy of about 20 to 25 machines. They travel together, under escort of the Hagganah and a few armored tenders of students, both boys and girls, who have special duties to perform during this pleasure trip. As soon as this convoy reaches Jerusalem, they immediately unload, reload and head back for Tel Aviv, arriving at about six o’clock in the evening. In other words, it takes them 12 hours to make a round trip, when ordinarily it could have been done in 3 hours.

We considered ourselves rather fortunate to be able to leave for Jerusalem on the morrow. But our joy was short lived when we learned that the convoy which had left that morning received so much “salt and pepper” that it did not return that day. So that Monday’s trip was cancelled and we were to leave on Tuesday morning, that is, if all went well and the buses would return from Jerusalem. They did.

On Tuesday morning we got up at five and with a pre-arranged taxi reached the bus terminal at 5:30 A.M. Needless to say, we were not the first on line. We waited until seven, before the “Pancer” buses started pulling up for loading. Our baggage was piled up, pell-mell, into regular buses. These buses are not arranged like regular buses. They have three rows of low benches, two against the walls and one without a backrest. There is room for about 21 persons, knees bent, no stretching. On top of the 21 persons, who were like sardines, the bus carried a second driver and 2 women and 1 man from the Hagganah. When all is said and done, we were like a box of sardines with a few flat anchovies thrown in.

When we finally moved it was only to go around the corner on a side street to wait for the rest of the buses, the taxis, the food trucks and the Hagganah cars. It wasn’t until after 8 A.M. that we finally started out at a snail’s pace, as in order to avoid passing through Jaffa, we had to pass through improvised side roads, which included small narrow market streets, farms, farm-schools, desert, and some private roads. All these roads, without exception, are unpaved and unleveled. They are full of dirt, holes and ruts. I tried to picture going on this kind of road on a rainy day. Fortunately there is little rain in this country. I recalled the “short-cut road” we used to travel to Camp Nitgedaiget in Canada. Well, that road was a “stairway to heaven” compared to this one. It was enough to shake your innards out.

We travelled thus for over an hour, making stops in many small towns to pick up other food trucks. Finally, we reached the highway which would lead us to the hills on the way to Jerusalem. This is considered the most dangerous spot in Palestine, as here we were in the mountains and passing a number of Arab towns. There are many snipers among the Arabs who hide out in the mountains and hills to let loose fire on the convoys. The spot known as Castle Hill had a taste of this sort of thing only two days ago.

But before reaching the hills, we had to pass an English prison camp for Jewish political prisoners. Here we are being searched for arms. So the young students from the armored cars entered the buses and distributed guns and ammunition among the women, none to the men. When we reached Latrun and had to stop, the driver greeted the guard with a “Hello, George” and three bottles of beer. The guard then ordered the men out of the bus to be searched, while another one entered, looked around, asked one woman for her identification and completed the search with a “Cheerio, everything in order.” The men then piled in and we drove off a short way, when the arms and ammunition were returned. One old woman was given a bag and was told that it was more precious than gold. When everything was being collected she kept quiet. After three attempts to retrieve the bag in a diplomatic manner, the Hagganah man finally said, “Who has the bag of bullets?” The old lady blushed and produced the bag. She said she thought it was gold and was reluctant to return it.

I had my own little tragi-comedy to perform in this tense hour. I was given a roll of ammunition to hide on my person. The driver heard me speak English to my husband and learned that I was an American. He gave me instructions not to speak a word of English if I was to be questioned. But what to speak? “Jewish.” But everyone in Palestine spoke one other language in addition to Jewish. Besides, I may be asked to produce my American pass. “Then play dumb - but do not speak English.” To this day I do not understand why. Fortunately, the guard didn’t bother me, otherwise I think I would have failed.

To me, the entire operation looked like a farce. Surely the British guards know what is going on. Not one man carrying ammunition and all the women huddled in their seats, weighed down by the heavy loads they carried. If one of us was to get up, the game would be up. But the guard made no attempt, not an honest one, anyway, to search us. Besides, the women here are not very smart. If a young woman runs around the country with three or four pistols tucked around her waistline, she should at least have the sense to wear a loose coat not a princess style.

Anyhow, as I said before, to me it looked like a farce. I still don’t know why a British guard should allow himself to be bought off like that, with only three bottles of beer. Surely, in times like these, they can do better. It is not wise to ask too many questions, and you don’t always get an answer.

We finally reached the mountains and here the crowd became a little more tense. This was around 11 A.M. and it could be that most of us were getting rather tired and hungry. Or that some of the men in the bus were constantly on the watch, through the small openings in the bus, watching the hills for snipers. The worst part of the ride was when we had to descend a very steep and winding road. The Pancer cars were so lined that there was no back window, only a small hole for a gun or pistol. Therefore, one of the drivers had to go to the back of the car, look out of this small opening and yell out his instructions to the driver in front. We were the first car in the convoy, and therefore had to keep the proper speed in order that the convoy should be as close together as possible, as this was a very bad spot, both for driving and for snipers. During those ten minutes or so, when we drove at about five miles per hour, I watched some of the faces. All were tense, some had tears in their eyes, some had closed their eyes, others tried, when possible, to watch the road and one Orthodox Jew who had laid on tefillin before we started out, now prayed. Even our driver, who made our ride pleasant by singing, whistling and flirting, deserted us in our worst hour by going to the rear of the car to watch the convoy and yell instructions to the front driver.

We got out of this one and a few others like it without any incidents and finally, at around 12:30 P.M. we entered Jerusalem through the Jewish Quarter. I looked out of the small opening and saw how the first few Jews of the town raised their fists in salute to us and with broad grins on their faces that we had reached our destination safely. All along the streets people stopped and looked at us as our convoy headed for the center of the town and the bus terminal. As soon as we got out of the buses they immediately started loading up for the return trip. And so it went with them, day in, day out.

While talking to different people on the bus, I found two men who were also going to the American Consulate, so we decided to stick together. Since the consulate is closed between 12 and 2 we all had a chance to grab a quick lunch. After an hour, we met and took a cab to the Jewish Agency, hoping to get information on how to reach the consulate. All the foreign consulates are situated near each other in a section known as Zone C. This zone is being carefully guarded by British police and only workers and people with appointments or special permits are allowed to enter this zone. The agency advised us to get a taxi driver who has a special permit to enter this zone. We located one, but when we approached Gate A, the guard would not let us through. He told us that we could get passes near Gate B. This section is strictly Arab and going there would mean certain death. So our driver suggested that he knew of yet another gate and started driving through the outskirts of the town to reach that point. Driving through the outskirts of any town is no pleasure, especially so Jerusalem, which is the center of all activities and surrounded by mountains. I don’t know about the men, but I was scared. I don’t think my husband enjoyed the ride very much either, as he felt responsible for my safety in his country. We finally reached this gate and here, as if by magic, we were immediately told to proceed. We soon reached the American Consulate, and it did not take more than an hour and we were all through, piling back into the same cab which was waiting for us, and out by the same gate, riding through the same streets, and back again to the Jewish center of the town. By the time we delivered some food packages from friends in Affula to their relatives in Jerusalem, ate our supper and finally settled down in a hotel, it was seven o’clock in the evening. We had been up and about from 5 A.M. to 7 P.M. under strain, tension and rush, so that, when at 7 P.M. I put my head on the pillow, I did not pick it up again until 7 A.M. next morning.

In spite of the fact that there is a food shortage in Jerusalem because all food must be brought in by convoy and not all convoys reach their destination daily, we ate a fairly decent breakfast and began a battle to get out of Jerusalem. Before leaving Affula, my husband provided himself with a letter from the Local Council stating that he is needed on the home front and to allow him to return immediately. With this letter and four hours of hard labor running around from one authority to the other, we finally got tickets to return the same day - standing room only. Once inside the terminal grounds, we began to look out for the arrival of the convoy which would take us back to Tel-Aviv. So, like the previous day, people were watching, but for us, now we were watching out for the new batch of arrivals. Suddenly, all faces lit up when they saw first the Hagganah car pull in and after it, the buses and the rest of the convoy.

During the short period of the 24 hours that we spent in Jerusalem, 12 of which were spent in bed, and the balance spent helter-skelter and rushing: to the consulate, local councils, ticket office and bus terminal, I managed to observe a little of the condition of Jerusalem at this time and under present conditions. The consular section of course is completely surrounded by barbed wire, with only three entrances. The British buildings are protected by indescribable contraptions from top to bottom. The Jewish section of the city is completely under Jewish civilian guard. Every few blocks, the roads are blocked by metal barrels filled with heavy rocks. There is an opening allowing only one car to go through at a time. And here men stand and watch that none but Jewish vehicles only go through. The guards consist of the civilian population from all walks of life, taking their turn at the road and with a gun. Every man here, as throughout the rest of the land, both young and old, knows how to handle arms. At one point I saw two men of about the same age, around 40. One was young-looking, handsome and well dressed, as if he had just stepped out of an advertising page of Esquire magazine. The other looked older, due no doubt to the fact that he had an age-old beard and payess, was dressed in a black round hat trimmed with fur, plus high black stockings, and a tight black coat with a corded girdle tied around the waist. The first gentleman could be an owner of a haberdashery, while the second might be a teacher or a pupil of a yeshiva. On these and such-like depends the life of Jerusalem.

The great wonder about Jerusalem is the Old Walled City, which is completely surrounded by Arabs, where in the Jewish Quarter, dwell some 2,000 Jews who claim that they will fight to the last man in order to hang on to a 6,000 year old tradition. There stands the Wailing Wall and many other historic spots which these Jews, most of them strictly Orthodox, do not wish to give up. As Orthodox as they are, they do not hesitate to shoot and kill. These people are completely cut off from the rest of the world, fighting a continuous battle from the roof tops. There is no means of getting help to them, nor food, ammunition or medical supplies, as no Jewish vehicle can enter the Old Walled City. Yet, by every unconceivable means, they manage to get what they need, to continue their struggle. It’s hard to imagine how this is possible, yet it is so. This part I did not see.

Preparing to leave Jerusalem took less time than preparing to leave Tel Aviv, as the convoy was much smaller, due to the fact that some of the empty food trucks did not go with us, but made a convoy of their own. Going from Jerusalem was not as dangerous as coming here because since there was no trouble coming in, it wasn’t likely that there would be trouble going out.

After the regular passengers were distributed among the six buses, they pushed in a few standees into each bus. We were four standees and among us was a man who had just come out of the Hadassah Hospital on his way home to Tel Aviv. Naturally, we arranged for his comfort first and gave him the best seat available, that being the steps of the rear door. The rest of us started out on our journey standing, but after a while we managed to squeeze in here and there, even if it was with only half an ass at a time.

Before Latrun we went through the same operation of distributing arms, and after Latrun, of collecting same. Ours being the first bus again, with the same cheerful driver, we had to wait for the rest of the convoy and so we took the opportunity to get out to stretch our legs. While wandering from bus to bus to see if we could come across someone we knew, who should we meet but Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, who was traveling with our convoy. He was traveling in the same armored car with unbreakable windows that I had once seen standing in front of the Jewish Agency. There was a cameraman traveling with him, and he was surrounded by a number of people asking him numerous questions and some even indulging in the luxury of asking for his autograph. Suddenly we heard a shot in the distance and we all made a beeline dash to our buses and were on our way. I think one of the men in charge fired the shot to make us all get back to our places in a hurry.

It had been raining that morning in Tel Aviv and as we neared that town and started going through the unpaved side roads, naturally one of the cars had to get stuck in the mud. The usual rumpus followed, with each man giving instructions on how to get the car out of the mess. That being put in order, we continued, finally reaching Tel Aviv at 6 P.M.

This also has been a pretty hectic day and after settling in a hotel and eating a hearty supper, we slipped into bed at 9 P.M., only to get up next morning at six to return to Affula.

All this time, while in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, I heard an odd shot here and there in the distance. Shot is all. It seems that I have an unlimited capacity for good luck, because two days after we left Jerusalem, the Arabs blew up a publishing house, the Jews shot two English, they in return drove their jeeps through the streets shooting people at random, and the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway again felt the taste of Arab “salt and pepper”.

During the one day we spent in Tel Aviv waiting for the convoy to take us to Jerusalem, I managed to see some of the better residential sections of the city. This leaves me with a better impression of the city, although I still recall the horrible slums, with wooden shacks, no roads or sidewalks, no toilet, bath or shower, and no electric lights. The business sections are nothing to write home about, especially the old ones. Tel Aviv isn’t without its old, dirty produce market. I wandered through one of these markets and unknown to myself entered Jaffa. What made me turn back was the fact that I noticed a change in the faces of the people. The traditional Jewish beard was replaced by the equally traditional Arab moustache. I immediately turned back and within a few minutes was back in the center of Tel Aviv. Later on, I learned where I had been.

That night we went to hear the Palestine Philharmonic Orchestra. It was conducted by Bernadino Molinary and the guest soloist was a violinist, Ida Staendel. The concert left nothing to be desired except a better music hall. Here I found myself rubbing shoulders with the cream of Palestinian society. Unlike a similar concert of its kind in New York, where one sees a great number of working people, here most of the gathering consisted of well-to-do Germans, clad in a variety of expensive furs (although the Tel Aviv weather does not call for it), bejeweled and bedecked in hats and all kinds of modern hairdos, not omitting large, elaborate hairwigs. Being a woman, I noticed all this, as one sees very little of this sort of thing, even on the streets of large cities, let alone small towns, where it was said I dressed as if for Purim every time I wore earrings in Affula.

By the way, the climate in Jerusalem is the coldest in the land, the city being situated on a high mountain. Here, fur coats are in order.

Upon returning to Affula, we were congratulated for having returned, all in one piece.