She leaned into her chair, combed back her crinkly bobbed hair with the fingers of both hands, lit up a cigarette, and eyeing us through the flame of the match, said, “So now you understand why Africa is such an emotional issue for me. Does anybody have any questions?”
A hand went up. “Are you not afraid the Africans will view us as the new colonialists?”
“No, I’m not. Unlike the Europeans, Israel is totally free of the taint of colonial exploitation. And unlike wealthy America, we can’t offer money to buy influence. What we have to offer is our nation-building experience, nothing else, no strings attached. Few developing countries in the world have accomplished what we have accomplished. As a new country, we built ourselves up from scratch. Now they, as new countries, are starting from scratch. We have the know-how, a vast reservoir of practical experience to share with them. We shall work with them side by side, in their fields, and in their workshops. All we ask from Africa in return is friendship.”
“No political quid pro quo – nothing at all?” somebody else had the temerity to ask.
Golda Meir took a puff of her cigarette, inhaled deeply, pursed her lips, and gazed over our heads at the coils of smoke spiraling in expanding wreaths from her mouth to the ceiling. Then, in a small voice, she said, “At the end of the day, what we give to Africa we give without conditions.”
“But why not something political in return – UN votes, for example?” asked the first questioner, persistent.
The foreign minister settled her elbows on the table, threw the doubter an expression of disapproval, and with exasperation, said, “Of course I am hoping for something in return, but I won’t say so in public. Now that independent African States are beginning to emerge, I want to leapfrog over our hostile Arab neighbors and build bridges of fellowship to them.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and brooded over an amethyst brooch pinned to the lapel of her plain black jacket, clearly pondering her next thought. When it came her voice was gritty: “But have I not got through to you? This is, first and foremost, a matter of principle, of ideology, of my socialist beliefs, of my Labor Zionist faith!”
Labor Zionist faith!
This crusading woman, then in her early sixties, was born in 1898 in Russia, and raised in Milwaukee, USA. She had studied to be a teacher, but in 1921 changed her calling to that of kibbutz pioneering in a malaria-ridden swamp in Palestine. The man she married, Morris Myerson, a reserved sort of fellow who earned a living as a sign painter, and who loved music and poetry, gave up on her ten years after their marriage, unable to keep up with her overwrought notions, whimsies, and grandiose Labor Zionist passions.
As plucky as Deborah, at times as witty as Wilde, she became as jovial as Jeremiah when pontificating about Labor Zionism. This was manifest when she held forth to us that day, speaking as though there was such a thing as an all-encompassing, all-conquering Labor Zionist ideology that need never bow to overwhelming odds. Her élan, her will to pit her Labor Zionist creed against the rest of the world, would, by her lights, enable the Jewish State to transcend the regional isolation imposed by the Arab States and extend its vision far beyond its frontiers, to Africa. This was to be Israel’s equalizing factor in international affairs, and it was in this spirit that we were put to work, propagandizing Golda’s Israel in Golda’s Africa.
Golda Meir’s bold African initiative did achieve impressive results. Leapfrogging over the Arab barricade, a vast structure of Israeli assistance programs gradually spread across the African continent, and the Foreign Ministry’s Department of International Cooperation evolved into an enterprise of worldwide repute. Israel, a young state of only two-and-a-half million people, scarce in resources and short on manpower, was promoting the development of dozens of countries far and wide. Soon, hundreds of Israeli experts were rendering aid and sharing their know-how of one sort or another with some sixty-five countries, the vast majority of them in Africa.
Chapter 8
A Greenhorn in the Prime Minister’s Bureau
In 1963, a small miracle fell into my lap when Adi Yaffe was promoted to become director of the prime minister’s bureau, and arranged that I be seconded as the prime minister’s English speech writer, note-taker, and responder to letters from the general public, most of which came from people with madcap ideas on how to wage war and make peace.
The prime minister of the day was Levi Eshkol, successor to Israel’s founding father, the legendary David Ben-Gurion who, in 1963, amid a storm of rhetoric, abruptly renounced the premiership, quit his Labor Party in a war of principle, and went off in a huff to live in a hut on a remote desert kibbutz. There, surrounded by books, he relentlessly harangued his longtime trusted lieutenant, Eshkol, pouncing on him at every turn. Curiously, in 1965 he even set up his own rival rump party – Rafi – the Israel Workers’ List – supported by his two young Turks, Moshe Dayan and Shimon Peres. They, in turn, lost no time in besmirching Levi Eshkol’s competence, charging that his intellect was not as finely honed as that of his predecessor, that he did not enjoy Ben-Gurion’s international reputation, that he was a military lightweight, and, to top it all, that he was an utter neophyte in matters of cabinet command.
This last was partially true.
I was present at a musical evening in London in 1986 when Abba Eban, exemplar par excellence of Israeli diplomacy, past master at witty stories, and droll purveyor of salacious gossip, regaled a circle of admiring guests with a tale about Levi Eshkol in his first days as prime minister. He related how Eshkol had summoned him to the prime minister’s office to ask him what exactly the job of the prime-ministership entailed.
The former foreign minister was in terrific form that night as, with dry wit and subtle animation, he mimicked Eshkol beckoning him into his room, making sure the door was properly shut and the telephone off, and then asking Abba Eban to tell him as clearly as he possibly could, what exactly was involved in being prime minister of Israel. In his previous capacities as minister of agriculture and of finance, Eshkol explained, he had dealt with concrete matters for which his responsibilities were clearly defined. But now, he had been sitting at his desk for a couple of days as prime minister, and he was not quite sure what he ought to be doing. He was so unused to his new position, he said, that at a public event the evening before, when the prime minister was announced, he had looked around to see who was entering.
Eban described how he had told Eshkol that, first and foremost, the job of a prime minister was very much like that of a conductor of a symphony orchestra. The conductor did not play an instrument, but his will, personality, and interpretation decisively determined the sounds that emerged from the collective whole.
“And you, Mr. Eshkol, are our conductor,” trumpeted Eban, impersonating a maestro waving a baton. “Your task is to persuade us, your cabinet ministers, to perform together in a single, harmonious whole in accordance with your program, your vision, and your interpretation.”
This simile was particularly apt on that night in 1986, for as Israel’s then ambassador to Britain, my wife and I were hosting a musical soiree at our residence in support of the Friends of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, whose chairman was Abba Eban. A goodly sprinkling of socialites and commercial big hitters were gathered in our spacious lounge to hear Daniel Barenboim’s rendition of Beethoven piano sonatas, and it was in the glow of the post-recital drinks that Eban told his tale. He ended it off on a solemn note, saying bleakly, “I also advised Mr. Eshkol that if Israeli history was anything to go by, he would very soon find himself occupied with tasks bearing directly upon the Jewish State’s very survival.”
The author with Abba Eban, London, 1986
And indeed he was. Hardly a year went by before Eshkol found himself confronting a Syrian stratagem to divert the headwaters of the Jordan River in an effort to dry up Israel’s main source of water. It was at this juncture of affairs that I started my new job as a junior member of the prime minister’s staff.
The prime minis
ter’s office was located in the heart of the newly built government compound in Jerusalem, and Eshkol’s office was a tastefully appointed wood-paneled chamber whose magisterial authority so overwhelmed me that when the man himself extended his hand and asked me my name, my throat clamped up and I stood there frozen, speechless. He beckoned me to take a seat, which I did with the ramrod posture of a new recruit.
“Nu, yunger man, tell me again, what is your name?” he grunted.
I cleared my throat and managed to squeak it out.
“And where are you from?”
“Manchester.”
“Manchester?” His eyebrows rose a trifle and his eyes squinted in amusement when he teased. “Our first president, Dr. Chaim Weizmann, once told me that Manchester was a rainy place – a place to come from, not to go to. Ha! Ha! Actually, I hear it’s a fine community. Been here long?”
“Twenty years, almost.”
“Married?”
“Yes.”
“Oy vey. That’s not good. Children?”
“Four – a boy, three girls.”
“Oy vey! That’s not good at all.” And then, lightheartedly, “This means you won’t be able to be at my beck and call day and night. Never mind, I’ll make do with what I can get.”
I was quick to learn that this utterly likeable man was an accessible and easygoing chief, with no airs or graces. So devoid was he of personal vanity that one day, after instructing me about a letter he wanted drafted to former President Harry S. Truman, he turned to the doorman, who was holding open the door of his car preparatory to departure, and wryly asked him in Yiddish, “Nu, Yankele, how am I doing as your prime minister today? Ere bist tzufreiden? ” – Are you satisfied?
Yankele, a dour, lean, stooping figure, closed one eye as if to take aim, and in a no-nonsense fashion, shot, “No, I’m not. My taxes are far too high. You have to bring them down. I’m being robbed.”
The prime minister, one leg in, one leg out of the car, cupped a palm to his ear the better to hear the man out, and then spent the next few minutes explaining why taxation was still high and what was being done with the money.
“We have to buy weapons for our army to deter our enemies,” he explained, “and that costs a lot of money – twenty percent of our budget. And we have to build homes for our refugee immigrants, schools for our children, hospitals for the sick, and factories for employment. The more we develop our economy, the quicker I’ll be able to bring taxation down. So be patient, Yankele. Be patient.”
“I hope you’re right,” grumbled Yankele, unconvinced. There was skepticism evident in his eyes as he whirled a salute, closed the door, and let the premier go. And I, mouth agape, watched the limousine move off, wondering how many other prime ministers ask a doorman for an opinion, listen, and then try to explain what they are endeavoring to do.
Eshkol was sixty-eight at the time, a bit on the paunchy side, with a high forehead and a solid square face. He wore half-framed spectacles that gave him a perpetually bemused expression and a wise, family-friend countenance. His thickset body, hefty shoulders, gnarled fingers and the waddle of his walk still suggested the period in his life when he had dug irrigation canals, swung a scythe, pushed a plow, heaved a sack, and sweated in the dust and heat of the Jordan Valley. The old pioneer was a man of the fields who had, at various times, been a kibbutznik, a labor leader, a planner of rural reclamation, a builder of new towns and factories, and finally, as Minister of Agriculture and then of Finance, the paramount overseer of Israel’s economic development.
By nature a ponderer, Levi Eshkol’s leadership style was that of a quiet persuader. He would spend hours talking problems through, collecting opinions, weighing their substance, and invariably easing tensions with droll Yiddishisms spoken in a lilting, singsong vernacular, charged with overtones and undertones and peppered with sentimentality, cupidity, and hilarity. His mixture of irreverence, affability, and authenticity was rooted in the soil of Oratova, the Ukrainian Chasidic shtetl near Kiev from whence his folksy banter and Yiddish witticisms sprang. Born into a family that traded in lumber, cattle, and fish, he spent his youth in cheder [elementary schools that taught the basics of Judaism and Hebrew], then in yeshiva, and then in a Jewish high school in Vilna where he ran with the Zionist socialists who spawned a generation of pioneer nation builders.
As a politician he cut a bland figure, caring little for either material possessions or appearances. And as a public figure he suffered from one gross handicap: he had no rhetoric, no eloquence, no charisma. Yet, in some enigmatic way, his unassuming demeanor, nimble mind and keen instincts endowed him with an unaffected affability and an artless honesty that invited a confessional trust. People instinctively sensed he was not the sort of politician who would try to sell coals to Newcastle or ice to Eskimos.
Chapter 9
A Walk with Harry Truman
The letter which Mr. Eshkol had asked me to draft to Harry Truman expressed appreciation to the former American president for having lent his name to a peace research institute at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Eshkol extolled the choice of name as emblematic of Israel’s gratitude to the president for his moral and courageous decision to assert the power and prestige of the United States in his historic support of Israel’s founding in 1948, against the advice of cabinet colleagues.
On the morning I placed the letter on the prime minister’s desk for his signature he was receiving a delegation of fifteen or so of the top-ranking leaders of the Council of Jewish Federations – now the Jewish Federations of North America – who greeted him with zeal and pumped his palm with zest. Eshkol responded in kind, for he knew these American Jewish leaders were the genuinely dedicated ones, the ones who traveled tirelessly across the United States, elbowing their way into disinterested Jewish communities to fire them up for Israel, pounding on tables to demand a bigger slice of their funds, tearing up in disgust pledge cards they deemed inadequate, and sometimes even locking doors at fund-raising events so that no one could leave until more money had been raised for Israel – much more money.
If asked why they expended so much time, means, and prestige in doing what they did, most of these philanthropists would probably have said that the fate of the Jewish State was every Jew’s responsibility. Some might have confided that their fund-raising for Israel was their last identifiable attachment to Jewish devotion of any sort. And some might have confessed a sense of guilt at the appalling record of their elders – the American Jewish leadership of the Holocaust years – who, paralyzed by inertia, ignorance, apathy, and indifference, had done too little too late to save Europe’s Jews. Now, they were resolved that the Jewish State would not go the same way.
There was a predictable animated note to Eshkol’s welcoming remarks as he informed his guests that the National Water Carrier, for which some of the people present had raised considerable funding through the sale of Israel Bonds, was finally up and running. They congratulated him heartily, knowing that this immense project was his personal brainchild, vision, and passion.
The National Water Carrier was Israel’s largest development project to date, and to this day remains the hub of Israel’s entire water system. Fed by winter rains and melting snows that swell the upper reaches of the Jordan River before cascading into the Sea of Galilee, the National Water Carrier is a mammoth network of canals, tunnels and pipelines – some as wide as jeeps – that funnels surplus waters from the north to the arid south, integrating local water systems along its route into a single national grid. With understandable pride, the premier illustrated this enterprise with photographs and maps.
When he had finished his presentation, one of the delegates announced, with much emotion, that he would like to make a personal announcement in the presence of the prime minister. Everyone straightened up. The man, a Los Angeles magnate whom everyone knew as Ruby, spoke with a heavy European accent.
Ruby was elderly and short, with a skinny neck, a big head, and white tusks of hair that stuck o
ut on the sides of his head, reminiscent of Einstein. He closed his eyes when he rose to speak, pulling his mouth in at the corners. He twiddled the lobe of one ear, blew his nose to blink back tears, and rolled up a sleeve to reveal a tattooed death camp number. Sitting down again, he chokingly announced that, as a survivor who had lived to see this day, he was doubling his pledge to a million dollars.
All applauded, and the prime minister leaned across to shake the man by the hand and wish him “a groise yishar koach ” – a hearty congratulation.
“Now, there you have it,” piped up the leader of the group. He was a slim, trim elder with a shock of silvery hair, a patrician authority, and piercing blue eyes that never left Eshkol’s face.
For the briefest moment the prime minister stared back at him perplexed. “Now there you have what, Henry?”
“There you have Ruby here doubling his pledge because he’s moved by your remarkable water project, and there you have the rest of us working with him night and day for the love of Israel.”
“And we certainly appreciate that,” said Eshkol.
“I’m sure you do, and we ask for no reward in return. However, with all due respect, how many other Israelis appreciate what we are doing? How many other Israelis know how hard we voluntarily work for Israel? We Americans are expected to know about every new kibbutz and every new moshav going up here, yet how many Israelis have the slightest idea about what’s going on inside our American Jewish community? What do they know of the problems we face trying to raise the funds you need? What do they know of our local needs? What do they know of our political lobbying for you, and of our other fund-raising commitments to aid the Jews suffering behind the Iron Curtain?
The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership Page 13
