Authors: Cynthia Freeman
And so the Holy War began. In the south the Egyptian forces jumped off from their advance bases in Sinai and crossed the frontier. Passing through Arab-populated territory, one group moved up the coastal road to Gaza, another landed by ship at Majdal further north while a third drove up from Abu Aweigila northeast to Beersheba, some of its units pressing on to the Arab town of Hebron, where they linked up with Transjordan’s Arab legion and took up positions just south of Jerusalem. Their main thrust was aimed at Tel Aviv.
The fighting was fierce, and both sides suffered great losses.
Any
loss for the Haganah was devastating. Twenty-seven settlements had been badly hurt. But the loss of Yad Mordechai was the most crushing blow the Haganah could have. That
kibbutz
was special. It had been born out of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising of 1943. It had been named after a twenty-two-year-old man who took command and helped fight off the Nazis for forty-two days and nights with almost no weapons. He died, of course, but in dignity. He had not been led to slaughter like an animal. But that kibbutz was also considered by the Egyptians vital to liquidate if they were to proceed with their drive on Tel Aviv. Yad Mordechai was on the coastal highway between Gaza and Majdal and blocked the link-up of two important Egyptian bases. The fighting was terrible. The defenders were outnumbered, but it took the Egyptians five days of hard fighting to overcome them. But finally Yad Mordechai fell. Its resistance, though, had been crucial to the Haganah cause. It had held up the main Egyptian advance and was able to strengthen the Haganah defenses near Tel Aviv, thereby buying a little time for Jerusalem….
At his headquarters outside of Jerusalem, Reuven spoke to his unit. “I’m sending a small squad into the Old City and up to Mount Scopus. If we can hold and capture that sector, then we’ll have a better chance of taking the New City.”
When he sent that small squad into old Jerusalem, Reuven had hoped that because within the walls of that city were the remains of Christian and Moslem shrines, the Old City would be left untouched. Which was why he’d sent such a small garrison of men to be used for defense of the Jews only.
But from the top of Mount Scopus fifteen vehicles bringing down doctors, nurses and scientists from Hadassah Hospital were attacked, and the dead bodies were desecrated by the Jordanians. The Haganah within the Old City was doomed by the strength of the overpowering Jordanian army.
On May 29, 1948, after ten weeks of violent fighting following the proclamation of the State of Israel, the Jewish Quarter of the Old City was in flame. Pillars of smoke marked the end of almost two thousand years of Jewish residence in the ancient alleys beside the western wall, the famous Wailing Wall. There were few survivors, civilian or military….
Reuven could not reconcile himself to the loss of Old Jerusalem. He questioned whether he was the right one to be defending Jerusalem. Yariv told him differently. “When a soldier stops feeling, he no longer is a human being, and for you to feel as you do makes you more human.”
Still, even after the loss of the Old City of Jerusalem, West Jerusalem remained intact and in possession of the Israelis. But Reuven realized that they were still in desperate straits … West Jerusalem hadn’t fallen, but its one hundred thousand Jewish citizens were holding out on a starvation food ration. And even worse was the shortage of water. The pipelines bringing water to the city had been ruptured, and Jerusalem had to survive on the water stored in its reservoir and in the cisterns under private homes. The People’s Guard, mostly elderly men, took over the distribution of the water.
To break the siege of Jerusalem, Reuven knew, he had to capture Latrun. The first attempt was thrown back by the Arabs. A second and third also failed. Jerusalem was on the edge of starvation.
Reuven hadn’t slept for days. His eyes were hollows, his cheeks sunken, and his spirits in no better shape. As he sat at his desk looking for the answer, a soldier delivered a note. Quickly, he tore it open, and his spirits were lifted. Pnina had given birth to a baby son.
Maybe it was the inspiration of his son’s birth … he didn’t know … but from whatever source it came he thought he’d hit on a possible way to save Jerusalem.
He summoned his men to headquarters. “Between Jerusalem and the coast there’s a link and it’s serviceable. There’s a rough dirt track, broken by a steep
wadi
, and maybe if we work day and night we can make it fit for vehicles to pass through.”
As it was being dug out and smoothed, the men dubbed it the “Burma Road.” Before it was finished, within five kilometers of the most difficult terrain still separating the sappers working up from Tel Aviv from those working down from Jerusalem, food began to pass into Jerusalem.
The opening of the Burma Road came just in time. Unknown to the Arabs—and to the Jewish population of Jerusalem itself—the city was down to one day’s ration of bread. Now Jerusalem was linked to the coastal plain and soon afterward the piping of water to Jerusalem was resumed. The siege was over. The long, hard battle for Jerusalem was won, but at a great price. Especially for the Landau family.
Joshua Landau was dead. He lay on the bloodstained cobblestones. A sniper who had heard of the truce wanted to give Allah one more sacrifice, and between the turrets at the Old Wall he shot the Jew through the heart.
Reuven was at his headquarters in West Jerusalem when Zadoc Ben-Ami, a member of his unit, came in white-faced and stood at attention in front of his commanding officer. There had never been any formality among the officers and their men, but Zadok now stood ramrod-straight, eyes forward. He saluted. Reuven nodded with some irritation and casually returned the salute. “Yes, Zadok?”
The man seemed unable to speak. “What’s the problem, speak up.”
“It’s … Joshua.”
Reuven knew immediately, he didn’t need to hear the words. But his mind refused to believe, to accept… “
What about Joshua?”
“… He’s been shot, Reuven …”
Reuven found himself running into the streets, as though he would find Joshua there and prove this was all a stupid lie.
Zadok Ben-Ami went after him, took his arm and gently led him to where Joshua was.
Reuven dropped to his knees. He turned his brother over, lifted him and held him in his arms, rocking him back and forth like a small child. And in his grief he said, “You were my brother, my responsibility … I wasn’t there when you needed me …”
When the litter came to take Joshua away, Reuven was still on his knees. He looked down at his hands, red with Joshua’s blood. Zadok tried to help Reuven up and was pushed away. It was several moments later that Reuven was able to get off his knees and walk slowly back to headquarters, Zadok following.
In his office, the door closed behind him, Reuven sat and thought about all the years he’d spent training his brother to be a soldier. To be brave, never to be afraid … He thought back to the night of Joshua’s birth, the first time he’d seen him in Dovid’s arms. He’d loved Joshua from that very first moment, and now he was gone … And Simone, a young bride and now a widow … she’d given Joshua so much, but she couldn’t give him the days of life to see the child she now carried.
How long he sat there he didn’t know, but he did know he didn’t want to see his father or his mother, not yet. First he had to see his newborn son. He had to hold him and feel him and know there was something new and
alive
in the old world built on old hates and death … Well, his stubborn people would refuse to die. They would
not
die, and they would never give up … When would the world believe them?
Pnina tried to comfort him. He only took his child in his arms, and more to himself than to Pnina he said, “We’ll change his name from Jonathan to Joshua. They both mean the same. Both died in battle. May this Joshua be more blessed with long life than his namesake…”
When Reuven went to his father, he was almost as tongue-tied as the soldier who’d tried to tell him about Joshua’s death.
Dovid immediately went to Chavala. The moment Dovid walked into Dvora’s house, Chavala knew … knew from the anguish in his eyes that nothing could hide. She knew one of her sons was dead, but which one? “Dovid, I know,” she said, “just tell me who.”
He held her close, and barely managed to whisper Joshua’s name.
She trembled uncontrollably, but at this moment there was not a tear. Only the words … “My baby … my little boy … my Joshua … my youngest baby … my baby son …”
The Landaus’ was not the only grief in Kfar Shalom, nor were they the only family to lose a son. Thirty sons and daughters were buried. It was a village in deep mourning. All throughout Israel there were young widows and grieving parents. The faith of their fathers was put to the extreme test.
Simone was near-unconsolable, and Chavala reached out to her. They seemed to comfort one another. For to Chavala, Simone was like Tikvah … her hope. She carried Joshua’s child.
Almost from the very beginning, when he’d first been brought back into the family circle, Yehudah Rabinsky had felt a special closeness to Simone. She too had lived through the Holocaust. Both were survivors whose parents had died. There were times when they revealed things to each other that were left unsaid to anyone else. A special bond existed between them. Simone could understand that Jews had been a “necessary commodity” to the Germans. Simone knew that Jews built the concentration camps by their labor, that Jewish bones had been crushed to be used as fertilizer. Yehudah could talk to her about the gold extracted from the teeth, about warehouses of eyeglasses and storage houses of hair to be used for mattresses. About fat used for soap and skin for lampshades. He and Simone had lived through it all. Maybe her circumstances during those terrible years hadn’t quite been his, but she had suffered as he had. They shared the awful memory of each other’s private horrors.
Now she was the widow of his dead cousin. He felt an even greater bond with her. He wanted to comfort her, perhaps love her. Privately he hoped that in time she would reach out to him, as the one who could best understand her deep pain. In time she might want, need a father for her child. But most important, he wanted to become a father to Joshua’s child … he owed Joshua his life. His sanity.
On June 11, 1948, the United Nations peacekeeping effort brought a ceasefire. Israel had won the War of Independence, and for the moment there was an end to hostilities. For the moment.
The months passed slowly. On August 22 Simone brought forth a new life. Joshua’s baby.
Chavala held her youngest grandchild in her arms. With Dovid at her side, they looked down at this precious little girl, both silently remembering the night Joshua was born.
When the baby was to be named, Simone asked Chavala if she would like to make the choice. Chavala looked at this beautiful young woman who had become like a daughter and understood why Simone had offered her this gift. She was telling her that she too would be a mother to this child, this child who was all she would have in life of her dead son …
Chavala nodded and said, “
Eliana
… Hebrew is such a rich language … that name means so much … ‘My God answers.’ Well, He has. You gave us Joshua’s child.”
Chavala had been in Israel for almost a year now. They’d not spoken of it, but Dovid was sure she’d be getting back soon. Moishe had been calling more frequently from America about urgent business matters. Chavala had, after all, built a small empire and had many obligations …
This day, they sat under the almond tree in Dvora’s garden, Dovid said, “Well, darling, you came for a ‘vacation,’ and I hope it never ends …”He certainly wouldn’t be the one to mention her going home.
She looked down at Eliana, sleeping in her arms. “You know, Dovid, for a long time I never really knew where home was. When I went to America, I wasn’t convinced then. But I thought it was a necessity. Now? With one son gone and the other with two children … my Israeli family here and a Jewish State being born … well, who knows?”
“What about your business?” He hardly dared hope she was saying what he thought
“I’ve thought about that. I don’t know…”
“You’ve built a great deal, you did so much, and all on your own.”
“No, Dovid. No one builds anything on their own. I had help … from God and a few good friends … Which gets us back to where home is. You know what I think?”
“No …” He could only hope.
“That
you
are home to me, Dovid. And that Israel is where I belong.”
He didn’t say a word. He was afraid she might change her mind.
“And as for my great business … I’m not so needed. Let Moishe take it over. He’s very capable and it’s about time he stopped depending so much on me. Julie loves the business, and so does Chia, and her husband is a good lawyer. He’ll make it into a family corporation. I don’t need it any longer. What I need is
you.
I always did, in case it’s news to you.”
Dovid was six inches off the ground. “Where do you want to live? In the hills of Haifa, in a big house you talked about to Dvora once?”
“No, Dovid, I was mistaken then. It doesn’t matter what hill you live on. It’s who you live on it with. Do you know what I would love? To buy a nice farm here at Kfar Shalom and build a house with a lot of bedrooms for the grandchildren, a big dining room to use for Passover and simchas. And I’d like a wide porch. The American family can come whenever they want. And someday, when you decide to slow down, you can take hold of a plow again … you always loved the land so much, Dovid.”
He laughed. “And you always hated farming.”
“So, where is it written I have to be a farmer? You farm and I’ll cook and I’ll have the
naches
of seeing my grandchildren running out of their
bubbe
and
zayde’s
house.” She smiled for the first time in a very long time, a truly contented smile.
“You know, Dovid, I love Hebrew, but somehow grandma and grandpa in Yiddish sound better. More like what they really are. That’s good. It’s time we all faced up to what we really are, and be thankful for it …