by Judy Nunn
Ruth hadn’t been sure whose case her aunt was championing at first, hers or Moshe’s, but she hadn’t taken the matter seriously – Sarah was a compulsive matchmaker. Besides, she’d thought, Moshe was old enough to be her father; indeed his manner towards her seemed more paternal than anything. She was sure that he, too, would pay no attention to Sarah’s heavy-handed hints.
For the first month or so after her arrival in Palestine, Ruth had enjoyed Moshe Toledano’s company. A Palestinian by birth, he and his brother ran a family import-export business inherited from their father, based in Haifa. Moshe made weekly trips to their agent in Jerusalem, always dining with the Steins when he did so. He’d offered to show Ruth the city and the surrounding countryside which he knew so well, and she’d found him not only an informative companion, but a welcome distraction from her troubled state of mind.
‘I was born here in Palestine, Ruth,’ he’d told her. ‘So was my father and my father’s father. We are part of this land.’
He’d taken her on an excursion to the Dead Sea, and during the drive back to Jerusalem he’d expounded upon the beauty of the harsh landscape which he fervently loved. He’d also talked of his sympathy for the plight of the Arabs.
‘I have many Arab friends, I grew up with them. We Mizrahi Jews have lived in peace with our Arab brothers for centuries. We have shared the same love for this land.’
She’d become accustomed to Moshe’s rather dry history lessons and his tendency to lecture. The passion with which he’d spoken that day had seemed intriguingly out of character.
‘I welcome my brothers, the Ashkenazim, in their return to their spiritual homeland,’ he’d said, referring to the European Jews who had continued to flood into Palestine following Britain’s Mandate to govern after World War I. The flood of immigration had become a torrent after Hitler’s rise to power. ‘And I welcome the creation of the State of Israel. But the creation of an Arab State is not being given equal attention; the Partition of Palestine is an empty promise. The money and the might of America supports Israel, and the Arab State of Palestine is simply words on paper. The Arab will be forced from his land and he will no longer live in peace with the Jew. There are fearful times ahead for us all.’
He’d told her that he intended to escape the conflict. He was contemplating an early retirement to his citrus orchard half an hour from Jerusalem, he’d said.
‘I have no wish to take sides; the thought of it saddens me. The orchard is a place of peace, a haven from the hate that already invades this country.’
Ruth had wondered why he was sharing his views and his plans so intimately with her, but she had found the man interesting.
Moshe Toledano and his views had ceased to be of interest, however, when, at her cousin David’s suggestion, Ruth had started attending meetings and had become immersed in the study of Lehi.
Conversely, Moshe’s visits to the Stein house had increased in regularity – he was there every second day. He had business in town, he said, he was staying at the King David Hotel. That was when Ruth had realised that, with the endorsement of her Aunt Sarah, Moshe had come to look upon her not as a friend at all, but as a potential wife.
Now, less than a month before she was to start her training at the kibbutz, the man’s intentions were evident, and his company stifling. They had nothing in common, Ruth thought, and his views, which she’d initially found interesting, now offended her. How could he be a Jew and sympathise with the Arabs? Even in the early stages of her Lehi conditioning, Ruth found the notion traitorous.
‘The cholent is good,’ Moshe said.
‘It is only as good as the guests,’ Sarah responded.
Walter and young Rebekah smiled, acknowledging the compliment and the response, but Ruth didn’t. She pretended not to hear them and concentrated instead on the stew of meat and beans and sweet potatoes, although she wasn’t hungry.
The cholent received the same compliment and the same response every Friday night. It was the normal polite exchange between guest and host. But since when was Moshe a guest? she thought. He’d been devouring cholent at the Stein house every Friday night for months – surely that made him one of the family. Ruth wished she could have avoided the tedium of the evening meal and Moshe Toledano, but David hadn’t allowed her the easy escape route when, having announced he was dining out with friends, she’d privately asked if she could join him. ‘Sorry, it’s men only,’ he’d said, and she’d known from the smirk on his face that he’d arranged an assignation with one of his many girlfriends.
‘I’ll clear the table.’ She bounded to her feet the moment the meal was over.
‘No, no, dear.’ Sarah rose. ‘Rebekah and I will do that, you entertain your uncle and Moshe.’
It was the same every time, Ruth thought, sinking back into her chair. She tried to look interested as Walter and Moshe chatted, and she tried not to notice that Sarah and Rebekah were clearing the table at breakneck speed. Thank goodness only two weeks to go, she thought. She couldn’t wait to be at Kibbutz Tsafona, serving the cause, away from this empty existence.
Then, suddenly, the dishes had been cleared, her aunt was placing before her a tray with a kum kum of Turkish coffee, milk and sugar with, ominously, two cups, and her uncle was rising from his chair.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Moshe, Ruth my dear, I have some business to attend to in my study.’
But her uncle never went to his study straight after the meal, Ruth thought, and where was Rebekah? She’d disappeared from sight.
As Walter was ushered out of the dining room, Sarah was unable to resist a meaningful glance over her shoulder, and Ruth realised that this was the moment she’d been dreading.
‘May I?’ Moshe asked, picking up the kum kum.
‘Thank you.’ She watched as he poured the coffee. ‘Milk and …’
‘… no sugar,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know.’
There was a proprietorial air about him that she found irritating.
He carefully poured just the right amount of milk – he knew that she liked her coffee strong. Then he handed her the cup, his craggy face grave.
‘I’ll get straight to the point, Ruth,’ he said, and she steeled herself for what was coming next.
Moshe himself was feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He wouldn’t have been two months ago, he thought. Two months ago, he would have been hopeful of his chances. She’d been a lost young woman then, interested in learning about him and his country, and he’d wanted to protect and nurture her. First as a friend, then he’d fallen in love, and with Sarah’s encouragement, he’d believed that he might have some hope. But Ruth had changed, he’d noticed. She seemed stronger, and he was thankful for her sake, but her attitude towards him was different these days. She was remote, disinterested, and he didn’t know why.
‘As you know, I’m anticipating an early retirement to my orchard …’
‘Yes, you want to escape taking sides.’ She hadn’t been able to help herself.
‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘You’re a Jew but you want to escape the commitment of being one.’
‘I don’t understand you, Ruth.’
‘The reclaiming of our historical and spiritual homeland, Eretz Yisrael – you don’t believe in fighting for it.’ She hadn’t intended to sound so belligerent, but his complacency annoyed her.
So that was it, he thought. He was relieved to discover that her change in attitude towards him was not personal. She’d been influenced by some radical set, he told himself, probably David and his university friends who sat around in cafes talking intensely and doing little else. Moshe didn’t take them seriously, particularly David, whom he found superficial.
‘I leave the fighting to the fanatics,’ he smiled, picking up the kum kum. ‘I am a confirmed pacifist, and always will be.’
‘Yes. I know.’ She wondered if it was intended as a joke, but Moshe never joked. What an arrogant statement, she thought.
He didn’
t notice the coldness of her gaze as she watched him pouring his coffee.
‘It is a peaceful life I should like to offer you, Ruth,’ he continued, adding milk and sugar to his cup, ‘a life free of the conflict that surrounds us.’ Methodically he stirred the coffee with his teaspoon, feeling self-conscious, aware of the disparity in their ages and hoping he wasn’t making a fool of himself. ‘I wish to offer you a life with me on my orchard.’ He knew that he sounded stilted and formal, but he didn’t know how else to voice himself. Finally, he looked up from his cup to meet her eyes. ‘I am asking you to be my wife.’
She found his manner pompous, and felt an intense desire to shock him. She would have liked to have yelled, ‘I don’t want a peaceful life. I don’t want a life free of conflict. I intend to fight for our homeland, like every Jew should, and I’ll kill if I have to!’
But she was courteous instead. ‘You do me a great honour, Moshe, but I cannot accept.’ She was thankful to see him finally stop stirring his coffee. There was the tinkle of silver on china as he replaced the teaspoon on the saucer. ‘I do not love you.’
He hadn’t thought that she did. But in time perhaps she would. Many a successful marriage had been based on affection and respect. He was about to say as much, but before he could do so, she quite firmly terminated any further discussion.
‘I thank you for your proposal and the honour you do me, but I cannot become your wife, and I cannot live with you on your orchard. I am sorry.’
‘I see.’ He picked up his cup and sipped at his coffee. Cannot meant will not, he thought; she had no wish to accept the life he offered her. But he was grateful for the courtesy of her reply, and thankful that she hadn’t made him feel like a self-deluding old fool.
‘Well, we’ll say no more on the matter,’ he replied. ‘And I trust that we will remain always good friends.’
‘Of course.’ She breathed a silent sigh of relief.
‘As your friend, Ruth, I hope you know that you can call upon me at any time should you be in need of help.’
‘I know.’ She was glad now that she hadn’t given way to the outburst that had threatened. Misguided as she found his views, he was a kind man, and a man of dignity. ‘Thank you, Moshe,’ she said.
Kibbutz Tsafona, twenty minutes’ drive east of Haifa, housed a thriving community of two hundred. The surrounding landscape, arid as it appeared, was surprisingly fruitful, yielding healthy orchards of citrus fruit, figs, and groves of olive trees.
Wooden-framed buildings with tin roofs, tiled floors and white painted interiors formed the accommodation, with separate barracks for men and women, smaller huts for married couples, and a nursery where children over the age of three were brought up communally. There were outlying buildings that housed workshops, garages and store depots, and in the middle of the commune stood the largest structure, the chadar ochel. The chadar ochel, where the workers gathered for their daily meals, was more than a dining room – it was central to the community’s social existence, often doubling as a recreation space or lecture hall.
Kibbutz Tsafona, although relatively newly established, was self-supporting. Along with its orchards, it maintained vegetable gardens and livestock in the form of goats and sheep, and the work was constant and hard. But no-one minded. The majority of the community were young, mainly in their twenties and thirties, and they considered themselves chalutzim, pioneers, like those original settlers of the Hashomer Hatzair kibbutzim in the 1920s. And, like those before them, they too were working the Land of Israel and creating a new society based on social justice and equality.
But, among the chalutzim who farmed the land, another breed of Israeli resided at Kibbutz Tsafona. A breed accepted by the young farmers as their future protectors, but whose activities were conducted at a camouflaged camp a few miles from the settlement. At the kibbutz itself, there was no evidence that close to fifty of its members were Lehi, most of them new recruits, secretly training in guerrilla warfare. They wore no distinguishing uniforms, they carried no weapons, and the American jeeps and soft-top GMC cargo trucks known as ‘Jimmies’, which transported them to their training camp, were identical to those used by the settlers themselves. The jeeps and trucks were largely donated by American Jews eager to assist their Israeli brothers and sisters in the reclamation of their ancient homeland; in fact, American Jews did much to fund the kibbutzim and, indirectly, Lehi.
Under the command of Eli Mankowski and his lieutenant, Shlomo Rubens, Lehi Unit 6 comprised a communications expert, an acquisitions officer, an engineer specialising in explosives, and two squads of twenty fighters. Ruth Lachmann and her cousin David Stein were among the latest recruits.
Ruth embraced her new life from the moment she arrived at the kibbutz. She became strong and fit, her body responding to the rigorous daily training sessions, but of far greater importance to her was the response of her mind. The nightmares faded, along with the past and the woman she’d once been, as she devoted herself to the collective ideology of Lehi and the part she now played in the future of Eretz Yisrael.
The day started early for both farmer and fighter, and the new young recruits quickly discovered that, like the settlers, their work was arduous, unrelenting and demanding.
After breakfasting in the chadar ochel on yoghurt, pickled fish, bread and fruit, the fighters were transported by Jimmies to the training camp three miles from the kibbutz. Situated in a valley surrounded by low hills and rocky outcrops, the camp’s location was remote, but no chances were taken with its possible discovery. All training devices – the targets, the barbed wire, the climbing apparatus and other equipment – were stored in caves or out of sight among the rocks, and the cache of weapons was housed in a well-concealed bunker. A cave in the side of a hill had been extended by detonation, and behind the camouflaged netting of its entrance was their motley collection of firearms – mostly German, others stolen from the British. Alongside the Luger and Walther pistols, the K98s, and the Erma sub-machine guns, sat the Webley & Scott revolvers, the .303s, and the Mills Bomb standard British hand grenades.
Before the heat of the day set in, the morning started with rigorous exercise. The several seasoned fighters worked out briefly before starting on target practice and assault tactics, but the new recruits spent two hours mindlessly stepping in and out of car tyres, climbing ropes and crawling under barbed wire. There was weaponry training, further instruction in the use of plastic explosives and the construction of Molotov cocktails and other incendiary devices, and, finally, their own target practice and assault course. As they drove their knives into straw-stuffed hessian dummies, the eager young recruits found it a rewarding conclusion to an arduous morning.
Normalcy descended at lunchtime when the unit returned to the kibbutz. Fighters and farmers dined together on meat and potatoes, the main meal of the day. But when the kibbutz workers retired for their three-hour siesta, the chadar ochel became a military headquarters. It was the one time Lehi activities infiltrated the kibbutz.
Guards were placed at strategic lookout points, and no maps or demonstration equipment was produced during the meetings, which could have appeared to be lectures on farming to a young kibbutz collective. In reality they were lectures in military tactics, planning sessions and, above all, conditioning in Lehi ideology, the most important aspect of the recruits’ training.
Eli Mankowski and his lieutenant, Shlomo Rubens, who at thirty-eight was the oldest member of the unit, worked well as a team. The experienced and pragmatic Rubens, having recognised Mankowski’s leadership skills, had accepted the younger man’s quick rise in the ranks and was content to serve as his lieutenant. Eli, in turn, respected Shlomo’s expertise in terrorist tactics and the effectiveness of his motivational techniques. Competition was encouraged and a reward system set in place. Strict discipline was instilled throughout the unit, authority delegated to those deserving of it and punishment meted out to those found wanting. But it was Eli Mankowski’s personal zeal that was the unit’s prime
motivational tool. Under Mankowski’s fanatical leadership, the unit was indoctrinated with a fierce sense of comradeship and a steadfast belief in the task at hand.
‘We belong to this land, and this land belongs to us!’
At the conclusion of each two-hour session, Eli would fire up his troops with all the fervour in his possession.
‘We are Lehi and our mission is pure. Rid our homeland of those who threaten it. Do not shirk in our duty. All ends justify the means.’
The actual words of his daily address varied, but the content was always the same. In Eli’s personal interpretation, and in true Lehi belief, the command of the Torah, ‘Obliterate – until destruction’ allowed for no moral hesitation on the battlefield. And as he raised his fist in encouragement, the entire unit joined in the final chant.
‘Obliterate – until destruction. We are the future!’
Following the meeting, well before the settlers resumed work, the unit would again depart for the camp where they would continue training until dusk. Then, upon their return to the kibbutz, normalcy would once more reign as fighters and farmers shared their light evening meal of cold meat and salads, before gathering around the campfire.
An active social life existed at Kibbutz Tsafona, particularly in the evenings when, gathered about the finjun, young musicians strummed guitars and played piano accordions while others sang along. After a heavy day’s work for all, the mood was one of fun, and the members of the unit were encouraged by their commander to socialise with the settlers. Eli Mankowski believed that socialising was an important reminder to both parties of Lehi’s purpose as the protector of Israelis and their land. Fraternisation of any sexual nature was, however, firmly forbidden, as was any such fraternisation between male and female soldiers.
The young man on the piano accordion was playing ‘Tum Balalaika’, one of the favoured campfire songs, and Eli tapped his foot in time to the rhythm.
