At the time, I was working in the Czech consulate. I knew the vice consul. He’d studied at the yeshiva in Feherfalu, and my parents had suggested that he “eat a meal” every Wednesday. “I spoke to the consul about you,” he told me one day. “We need someone like you, with Hebrew, Yiddish, German and the Slavic languages.” They hired me as a translator. A decent salary and a reasonable work load. Talia couldn’t get over it: “How did you manage to do so well so soon? Do you realize—you’ve barely arrived and you’re already set!” What impressed her most was my consular ID. “If I understand this, you’re almost a diplomat, aren’t you? Do you have diplomatic immunity?” Talia laughed, and I too. I saw her happy, and I laughed.
I should have been more careful.
I remember one morning she was reading the paper and she turned pale. Overcome, she almost passed out. “What is it, Talia? Are you sick?” There was another question on the tip of my tongue, but I preferred not to ask it: Could you be pregnant? I brought her a glass of cold water. She took a sip, then another, as she stared at the front-page photo: five men, still young, chained together and surrounded by British police. “That’s Saul,” she said.
“Which one?”
She pointed: in his twenties, bushy-browed, an ironic smile. I asked, “Do you know him?”
She knew him. “A friend from school days.” In fact, he was a comrade in arms. And the others? They, too, but she didn’t know them: compartmentalizing was a rule of the underground. Arrested by British police during an attack on a military base, the five were to be tried by a military court. And then? The scaffold. “It has to stop,” she said. I agreed. But I was against terrorism. Talia and I discussed this often. “And you don’t oppose the British oppression that produces terrorism?” Yes, I did. “Then you’re against everybody?” Yes. I was against everybody; they were all too violent for me.
Even so, she was noticeably preoccupied with armed resisters. Most of her reading was news reports and articles about them. Irgun, Lehi, Palmach, Haganah: she knew them all as if they were her domain. She knew their tactics and the names of their leaders. The Haganah? Moderate, prudent. The Palmach: an elite paramilitary unit. The Irgun: more extremist than the Palmach. The Lehi: more extremist than the Irgun.
In 1946 and ’47, everybody talked about those four movements. Not a day went by without one of them sabotaging a bridge or a strategic building. Daring and ingenious, they penetrated the heart of civil and military administration. They extorted money from banks, cut telephone lines, stole vehicles and munitions, took hostages, and then issued communiqués: invisible, they were as ubiquitous as their too visible oppressors.
When I came home from the office one Sabbath morning I found Talia in tears. Rigid with pain, she was reading accounts of the trial of two underground fighters. Armed when captured, they refused to plead guilty. More, they denied the legitimacy of the proceedings. To every question from the judge they responded, “We’re Jews, and this land is our land.” The rest of the time, they sang. The prosecutor made speeches, the witnesses bore witness, the judge grew furious; but the accused sang. Finally the court tried them in absentia. To inform them of the death sentence, the judge and his entourage went to their cells. The two resisters received the verdict singing. One of them, Shimon, said, “You can keep us from living, but you cannot keep us from singing.” Wrenched, Talia’s father remarked, “Those words will live in the legend of Israel.” Reuma wiped her tears and said, “May Israel’s guardian keep them safe.” Talia corrected her: “They’re keeping Israel’s guardian safe.” I never intervened. Of course I admired the young Jewish heroes and grieved over their lot; but in my heart of hearts I thought, What a waste; haven’t we lost enough blood? My in-laws, surprised at my silence, exchanged glances, as if wondering whether I understood. No, I did not understand.
I was a fool.
One Friday night we were waiting for Talia, who was late, something that had never happened before. We were always together for the first Sabbath meal. I liked to hear my father-in-law recite, in his heavy Russian accent, praise of his wife, that “woman of valor,” and I liked my mother-in-law’s Yemenite zemirot, and I liked the mood at table. Sometimes I could close my eyes and see myself once more in my father’s house; I would tell him about Sabbath in Jerusalem.
Talia late? Where could she be? At the office? On a Sabbath eve? “Something must have come up,” said my father-in-law. “Maybe a boat came in unexpectedly.” He proposed that we sit down to dinner. My mother-in-law shook her head no. “Let’s wait,” she said.
“You’re right. Sabbath isn’t Sabbath without our daughter.”
Talia came home after midnight. She was unrecognizable. Her hair was tangled, her eyes swollen, her skirt and blouse stained with oil and blood. “I need a hot bath,” was all she said. She went upstairs, spent twenty minutes in the bathtub and came downstairs glowing, as if nothing had happened. Anguish fled from my mother-in-law’s face; it was replaced by pride.
Next morning we heard on the radio that the Irgun had attacked a military convoy. Two soldiers dead, three wounded. The terrorists had sustained no casualties.
Everybody knows the rest. The world press told pretty much the whole story. The British command ordered a curfew. Gigantic raids, mass arrests.
“Was it worth it?” I asked Talia at dinner, later.
“Of course it was worth it.”
“Look around: the whole country’s suffering for one skirmish.”
“Look around: that skirmish did permanent damage to the prestige of the British Empire.”
“Are you sure? On one side, a pinprick. On the other, draconian punishments.”
“A few more pinpricks like that, and the British army won’t have enough medicine to treat themselves.”
“Well, listen to you defending terrorists!”
“They’re not terrorists. They’re freedom fighters, they’re the resistance!”
“If you admire them that much, what would you say if I decided to join them?”
Talia became serious. She seemed to be considering my question, which was only intended as a joke, and then she answered, “If you join an underground movement, I hope it’s because you admire it and not just because I do.”
The truth is, I wasn’t ready. I recognized the resistance’s courage and generosity, but from a distance. They chose danger, and that was their business. I’d been through enough danger in my youth. I broke with violence in 1945. Forever? Why not forever?
Was it perhaps because we felt that fate was about to separate us and that we had to live out our whole future in a few months, a few deeds? We loved each other with a perfect and all-consuming love that haloed our daily existence with a fragile mist of eternity.
Sometimes Talia said, half seriously, “All this has me worried. What’s happening to us is too beautiful, too pure. The gods are jealous. Let’s do something to appease their envy.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A quarrel.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“All right,” I said. “You first.”
We argued for a moment and then burst out laughing.
I felt the threat everywhere. To wait for Talia when she worked late tested my nerves. One morning as I watched her drink her coffee, completely preoccupied, I felt my heart palpitating, as if it would burst. Usually the coffee mustache made me laugh. Not now. Now I suffered. Talia raised her head: “Are you in pain?” No, I was not in pain. It was something else, but what it was I could not say.
On November 29, 1947, an exuberant and profound joy surged through the country. Towns and villages, kibbutzim north and south, all applauded the United Nations vote in a delirious whirl. The world had finally acknowledged the validity of Jewish demands. Praised be Thou, Lord, Who granted us this victory. Everyone burst into song, into dance, into a celebration of history’s meaning and a triumph over destiny. A groundswell stirred the Jewish people’s memory. Never again, the wande
ring; never again, the exile; never again, the fear. In a burst of happiness, Talia kissed her parents and took my arm. “Let’s go make love,” she whispered. “Now?” I was startled. “With the whole world looking at Lake Success, you want to go to bed?” “Yes. Later, when our children ask us what we were doing when the United Nations voted for Israel’s independence, we can tell them, or at least think: we were making love.” And truly the people of Israel everywhere made love, not physically but through the joining of all their memories of the past and their hopes for the future. Every one of them felt at home in history, at last; every one of them meditated upon fate and said Amen.
In Palestine as in ancient Judea, some attitudes quickly changed. After the United Nations vote I shared the general belief that war was inevitable and not to serve would be dishonorable.
Next day I told Talia I’d decided to join an underground group. “Which one?” she asked. I had no idea. For my purposes, one was as good as the next. I was not involved in politics; I trusted my instincts. Also luck, which decreed that on this day the Lehi’s pamphlets would impress me by their lyrical tone and mystical content. A colleague at the consulate hinted that he had contacts with the movement. “Can you put in a good word with someone?” He could. A week later, December 10th or was it the 12th, I found myself in a cellar, before three men hidden by a curtain. They put me through a grueling interrogation. They insisted on hearing all about my past, my activities and opinions, my social relations. I wasn’t offended. They were doing their job, after all; how could they be sure I wasn’t an informer? “We’ll be in touch,” said a shadow. “When?” The same voice replied, “First lesson: don’t ask questions.”
Talk to Talia about it? Of course. I had to tell her. I shared everything with her. But this time she refused to listen. “Underground activities are serious matters. The less you talk, the better.” I was offended: “Even to you?” She answered, “Exceptions to that rule can be dangerous.” I was going to reply, “Tell me how you know so much about these rules,” but the discussion was obviously over, and I didn’t argue.
A few days later, I found a scrap of paper in my coat pocket “Tomorrow afternoon at 5 outside the Eden Cinema.” Probably my colleague had put it there. I took him aside. “Tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?” “Yes, Friday.” “Don’t you think the time and place are a bad choice?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “But—” “I’ll say it again: I don’t know what you’re talking about.” All right, I understood, security regulations made him play dumb. All the same, a good Jew like me doesn’t go to the movies on a Friday night (the theater would be closed anyway); he stays home and prepares for the Sabbath. How was I going to explain my absence to Talia and her parents?
Next day I left the office at one in the afternoon. At four I announced that I had a toothache. “I’m going to the dentist.” My mother-in-law made me promise to hurry back. Of course, of course. At five o’clock sharp I was in front of the Eden Cinema. Doors and ticket booth were shut. This is stupid, I thought, picking a place like this for a secret meeting. A voice jarred me from my thoughts. “Don’t turn around or attract attention. Just walk. The next street on the right.” A cold, neutral voice. Polish or Lithuanian accent. After a few steps I noted a dapper man beside me. Worked for a bank, maybe? He passed along some news: from now on I was part of Lehi. Caution and vigilance. For now, keep my eyes and ears open. Whatever I learned at the consulate or in consular circles, I would report back to him. He was my contact. I couldn’t hide my disappointment: “Is that all? I was a partisan! I’d hoped for action!” “It’s not up to you to determine where you can best serve,” answered this bank clerk, who was called Yiftah.
I met him two or three times a week and passed along news and impressions. Anything of importance? No. But it was not my place to judge. In January, Yiftah told me I was to attend classes in ideology. All right, go for ideology; what won’t a man do for his country? The courses were given at a dentist’s: the history of Zionism, the origins of anti-Semitism, geopolitical theory. The difference between Herzl and Jabotinsky; the breach between David Raziel’s Irgun and Avraham Stern’s Lehi; their common adversary, the Haganah.… The courses came to an end, thank God, and I repeated my wish to take part in real operations. “If I wanted a political education I could have enrolled at the university.” Yiftah didn’t dignify that with an answer.
But he must have relayed my request to his superiors, because shortly afterward I was taking a crash course in sabotage, followed quickly by my first mission. “I’m going out tonight,” I told Talia. “Things to do at the office.” She smiled and kissed me. “Be careful.”
The mission was a disaster. Our intelligence was poor, and our group walked into a trap. The arms depot we were to burgle was under surveillance. We were lucky: the British soldiers fired before we moved in. “Disperse!” shouted our commander. We made our way to the Kerem Hatemanim, the “Yemenite Vineyard,” where underground patriots were always welcomed with enthusiasm and gratitude.
The second mission, in March, was more successful. We attacked another depot. A textbook operation. In no time we had the sentries bound and gagged. Wearing army uniforms, we walked around the camp unafraid and in no apparent hurry. The booty: two trucks piled high with machine guns, rifles and ammunition.
Back home again, I was itching to tell Talia. But she had more important news. She was pregnant. My head whirled. It was totally unexpected. “Are you disappointed?” Talia asked.
I took her face in my hands. “I’m happy, Talinka.” Happy and worried. “When is our child due?”
“Why? Are you in a hurry?” No, I was in no hurry. “Late August, early September,” Talia said.
“What shall we call it?”
“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her after your mother, all right? And if it’s a boy …”
I said nothing. I couldn’t speak. I had a vision of myself far off, with my parents.
On May 14, 1948, we were all gathered together at my in-laws’, where our neighbors had joined us. Hardly breathing, we listened to David Ben-Gurion’s speech declaring the independence of the Jewish state, which would bear the name of Israel. Should I be ashamed to confess that I sat there dizzied, with tears in my eyes? Talia, too. And the neighbors. And my in-laws. When old Rabbi Fischman recited the shehekheyanu—“Blessed be Thou, O Lord, king of the universe, that Thou hast let us live to see this day”—we all hugged and kissed for a long time. “Our child will be born in a free Jewish state,” said Talia.
I went to the window. The past had seized me by the throat. I remembered my grandfather awaiting the Messiah, convinced that He was already on the way. I remembered my father asserting that the messianic promise dwells in each of us. I remembered my mother who—“Shabbat in a few minutes,” said Talia’s mother. “Let’s light the candles.” I thought of my mother most of all on the Sabbath. I’ll never forget her because I’ll never forget the Sabbath. (Forgive me. I know that in dictating these pages I say things I no longer believe; how can I say I’ll never forget when I’m plunging into forgetfulness? The day will come when I’ve forgotten everything. Even my mother? Even my mother. The Sabbath, too? Even the Sabbath. What can I do to preserve what keeps me alive? I don’t want to forget, do you hear me, Mother? I don’t want to.…)
“Don’t think sad thoughts,” Talia said, leaning against me. “Think of our child. It will be a boy. We’ll name him for your father.”
Across from our house a door opened. A Hasid appeared: he seemed to have stepped right out of my childhood. Suppose it was my grandfather? I called to him: “Where are you going?”
“What a question! Where do you suppose a Jew goes on Friday night? To services, of course!”
“Then you haven’t heard the news?”
“What news?”
“We have a Jewish state.”
“I heard it.”
“And you’re going off to pray?”
Grouchy, he pulled his beard and said, “
If we have a Jewish state today, isn’t it because the Jews never stopped praying? And now that we have it, you want us to stop praying?”
I turned to be closer to Talia’s warmth. I saw other eyes looking at me through hers. And I wondered, Why us? What have we done to deserve this happiness from history, when for centuries history has given us everything but happiness? “Talia,” I said, “promise me I’ll always remember this hour, this minute.”
“I promise,” Talia said.
And yet a day would come …
(On this late afternoon Elhanan was happy. Malkiel, too. Elhanan was in a cheerful phase. His memories of Jerusalem had restored the vigor he seemed to have lost. He had been at it for two days. His voice was stronger. He rarely hesitated. His power and eloquence were renewed. The mist that had shrouded his past was dissipated; the altar of memory was brightly lit. Tamar teased her friend’s father: “You’re young again, Elhanan. If you go on like this, I’ll marry you and not your son.”
On the table, two recorders taped his account.
These restorations of memory were strange and unforeseeable. They came in the morning, or at night, and they lasted ten minutes or three hours. After which, weary, depleted, Elhanan relapsed into an apparent torpor, which, in fact, disguised increasing pain.
Everything went well today. Loretta hummed as she served dessert. Everything was happy today.)
Jerusalem, in those days: I remember it well. A blazing climate, stimulating and oppressive at the same time. The Old City was under seige by the Arab Legion. The Jewish quarter was still fighting but was succumbing to sheer exhaustion. They issued hourly calls for help to every staff headquarters in the Jewish city. They’d have to move fast if they wanted to preserve the honor of the city of David. Not easy. Officially Jerusalem was not part of Israel. This city’s memories were the most Jewish in the whole world—but it had been internationalized. Did that hurt? All we could do was grit our teeth, wait, be patient.