No Time for Tears

by Cynthia Freeman

  That morning the bride’s coronet was made of white roses from Dvora’s garden. The short tulle veil was placed beneath it. Her dress was a simple white embroidered organdy, and around her slim waist was a crushed cummerbund of the violet velvet. Simone carried the only thing she had left from her mother, a small Bible. Between the pages of the Book of Ruth was a white satin streamer to which was attached a spray of violets.

  Joshua was dressed in his uniform, and wore a white satin yarmulke. Standing on either side of him were Dovid and Chavala. Since Simone had no parents, Dvora and Ari escorted her to Joshua. Reuven and Zvi waited near the chuppah even after the bride and groom were alongside each other.

  The ceremony took place under the spreading almond tree in Dvora’s garden. The rabbi who had married Pnina and Reuven performed the ceremony in front of the community of Kfar Shalom … they were all like family. After being pronounced man and wife, the groom kissed the bride, stomped on the glass, and the festivities began.

  Cakes and cookies had been baked by the dozen in Dvora’s kitchen. Homemade breads and rolls, roasted chickens, turkeys, salads and platters of fresh fruit strained the table’s capacity to hold them. But it was a day of days. Even Raizel had consented to leave Mea Shearim and come with her sons, their wives and children. It was a day that would be remembered forever. A day of joy. A day of family.

  Israel 1948

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE BRITISH, AT LONG last, were leaving.

  It was May 14, 1948. British soldiers were leaving the old walled city of Jerusalem. There was a solemnity about them as they marched along the worn cobblestones in formation. At the head and the rear of each column one soldier held a Sten gun crooked in his arm. The sound of bagpipes reverberated inside these ancient stone passageways for the last time.

  Along the Street of the Jews from the sculptured stone windows of their synagogues and the mildewed hallways of the sacred houses of learning, bearded old men watched them pass by, watched as their ancestors before them had watched other soldiers march out of Jerusalem—Babylonians, Romans, Crusaders, Turks, and now the last, one prayed, were leaving.

  As the last British column moved down the street, it veered left up a twisting cobblestone alley and stopped in front of the Hurva Synagogue. Inside, surrounded by his collection of holy books, Rabbi Mordechai Weingarten, an elder of the Jewish Quarter, hesitated for a moment at the knock on the door of his private study. He got up, put on his black long coat, adjusted the old rimmed spectacles, then his black hat, and stepped out into the courtyard.

  In front of the rabbi stood a middle-aged British major wearing the yellow-and-red insignia of the Suffolk regiment From his right hand dangled a bar of rusted iron. With a solemn gesture he offered it to the elderly rabbi. The old man looked down at the object in his hand and then said, “This is the key to the Zion Gate. From the year of 70 A.D. until this moment a key to the gates of Jerusalem has never been in Jewish hands. This is the first time in eighteen centuries that our people have possessed it.”

  Extending a trembling hand, Weingarten held the hand of the British major as the British major accepted the gesture, then stood at attention and saluted. “I regret to say that our relations have often been strained, but let us part as friends. Good-bye and good luck.”

  The Englishman turned and marched his men out of the courtyard as the rabbi intoned, “Blessed art thou, Oh God, who has granted us life and sustenance and permitted us to reach this day.”

  Scenes elsewhere that day were not quite so benign or touching. As Sir Alan Cunningham, the last British High Commissioner for Palestine, sailed from Haifa he deliberately left behind a chaotic land without police or public services, confident that the Arab superiority of numbers would fill the vacuum.

  On that day in another part of the world, London to be exact, Whitehall had been hopeful almost up until the very end that, after the ratification of the partition and with the problems that had fallen on the Jews, the Yishuv would turn to the British for help. But the Yishuv that had stood up to the terror and bloodshed of Haj Amim el Husseini would not ask the British for its help now….

  In another part of what was now the State of Israel, five Arab countries were poised like vultures at the borders of Israel, only waiting for the British to evacuate so that they could wage their holy war against the Israelis….

  At Israeli General Headquarters, Israel’s commanders had been assembled. They listened now to their leader, their Commander-in-Chief, Binya Yariv. Yariv looked at the young faces of his commanding officers and said, “I hardly need tell you that by tomorrow morning we will be at war. It will be an undeclared war. We need no formal declarations, we know who the aggressors are. Now let us get down to it.”

  Yariv took a sip of water, cleared his throat and looked at a few notes. “The strength of the invading Arab armies has been estimated at twenty-three thousand five hundred. They are equipped with British and French tanks, airplanes, heavy artillery, spare parts and ammunition. We have some three thousand regulars under arms and approximately fourteen thousand inadequately trained recruits, most of which have come from the camps. The others are newly arrived immigrants. They may be raw, but they are on fire with the conviction that we have no alternative except to win. Never again Masada is their faith, and ours.” Yariv flipped over the sheet of notes and went on. “Now, what we have in the way of arms is only ten thousand rifles with fifty rounds of ammunition each, no tanks, four ancient cannons smuggled in from Mexico, and thirty-six hundred submachine guns … and a very unusual piece of hardware called the Davidka.”

  Yariv smiled. “We can thank God for its inventor, David Leibovitch. It’s made up from waterpipes and packed with explosives, nails and bits of scrap metal, and it’s about as effective as David’s slingshot when it comes to destruction. But it’s at least accurate and it makes a hell of a lot of noise, enough, we hope, to make the Arabs run.

  “Now, with the British gone, Dovid Landau tells me that those arms that have been stored in Alexandria by him are already en route, and that he’s making progress in Czechoslovakia. He told me this last night. This morning when I spoke to him from Paris he had purchased two small one-engine planes. A little obsolete, but they can at least drop hand grenades … All right, gentlemen, let’s break for lunch and then we’ll get on with the campaign.”

  After a brief luncheon, the men stood around the campaign table and scanned the maps.

  Pointing to the sectors, Yariv said, “You, Daniel Avriel, will take command of the Negev … Ehud Biton, you will defend the Galilee … Dov Laskin, the Huleh … Nachman Messer, Tel Aviv up to Haifa. You will all have your instructions shortly.” He looked at Reuven. “I don’t have to tell you what we’re up against, or that the most important of all is Jerusalem … anything we gain will be a loss unless Jerusalem holds … without Jerusalem there will be no Israel. Reuven Landau will take command. Joshua Landau will be second in command, and Zvi Ben-Levi will act as liaison.”

  Yariv paused and tried to put out of his mind what these young commanding officers would be facing … outnumbered, with a small cache of arms, they would truly have to fight like the lions of Judea …

  “And you, Yehudah Rabinsky, will be in command of Tiberias, Hebron and Safed … Safed is the most vulnerable.” And almost in a jocular tone he added, “I suggest to you, Yehudah, that you equip yourself with a Davidka … the Arabs are firmly in control of those cities. Now, I wish you God’s speed. And more than your share of good luck …”

  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 Av
iv.

  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.