Trumpet of Salvation : Autobiography

Chapter 1

Trumpeldor and Other Heroes

Kiryat Shmonah (the Town of the Eight), a small village at the foot of the Golan Heights, not far from the Lebanese border. On that day of remembrance in 1964, we students stood at attention in long, straight rows with our eyes raised toward the banner of the Jewish state as the Israeli national flag was lowered to half-mast. Today, I cannot remember all the lofty eulogies uttered by the principal and the senior class pupils on that occasion. They all spoke with pompous, austere language about the atrocities committed by the villainous Nazis against the Jews in a remote country called Germany.

When exactly did World War II break out? Ten years ago? A thousand years ago? Who knew! After all, the history of the Jewish people is inundated with accounts of atrocities. Every national and religious feast revives the memories of our enemies, who, in every generation, rose up against us to destroy us. But the Holy One, blessed be He, delivered us from their hands. In the mind of a twelve-year-old boy, all these stories were mixed up together in a confused mass of persecutions, tribulations, evil decrees, and hatred of the Jews - be it the Syrians in Hanukkah, the Persians in Purim, the Egyptians in Passover, the Romans in Lag b'Omer, or the Arabs on Independence Day. What child could distinguish between these numerous enemies that punctuate our history throughout the generations, centuries, and millennia?

Strangely enough, one sentence that was spoken on this occasion remains in my memory until this very day. It was: "We shall never forget, neither shall we ever forgive!" I still recall the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of mourning and the heart-breaking shrieking of the siren, which to me resembled the wailing of a bereaved mother as she laments over her dead child. Finally, we sang the national anthem, "HaTikvah" ("The Hope"), to mark the end of our ceremony.

I earnestly tried to visualize what exactly did happen in Nazi Germany and hoped to feel even a tiny drop of the ocean of death at the extermination camps and in the gas chambers. Yet, in spite of my most sincere efforts, I could not revive in my spirit what had already died and been buried on foreign soil. There, among the rows of students, on the vast playground of the elementary school, I stood at attention. My eyes watched the flag, wildly rippling as it was beaten about by the Galilean morning winds. Upon hearing the familiar tune of the national anthem, my heart was flooded with a crisp sensation of pride for being a citizen of Israel. Love for my country and my willingness to run to her defense at all times overwhelmed my excited heart.

The years went by. One day a huge bulldozer appeared in the front yard of our home. We lived then on a street in the north of Kiryat Shmonah, the closest point to the Lebanese border. Goats, ducks, and chickens, which normally would roam freely in the spacious yard, fled in terror from the noisy vehicle. As I watched the bulldozer at work, digging a large hole in the ground, my mind wandered off to those accursed corpse-filled ditches in Europe - corpses of men and women, old and young alike, the remains of our people. "No one will ever dig ditches like those in our country!" I promised myself.

However, this hole, just as all the others dug in those days across the town, was designated for an entirely different purpose. Soon it was filled with wooden boards, iron bars, and a concrete casting. Eventually, this all became an air-raid shelter. The dark dirt that covered it was planted with blood-red anemones, which represented to me the blood of the Jews that were hit - and still are - by katyusha, missiles fired at us from across the border of Lebanon.

As I gazed at the newly built air-raid shelter, I thought to myself, "Our enemies have never concealed their hatred toward us. If and when another war breaks out, we in Kiryat Shmonah will be the first to endure their blows. The screams of the sirens will chase us like frightened rabbits into the shelters. Will I also run and hide then? Will I flee as well?"

I promised myself solemnly, "Never! I will fight back! I will never let those heathen Gentiles do us any harm again! O God, why on earth did You create those Gentiles in the first place" Wasn't it possible for You to make all of them Jews? Wouldn't it be interesting to see what this world would have looked like if all its inhabitants were Jews??

Sabbath days and holy days were special in my family. Following the usual morning worship in the synagogue, we liked to sit together around the long festive table set by my mother and sisters. We had kiddush, a traditional prayer of sanctification, over the ya'in and challah, wine and Sabbath bread. In that blessed atmosphere of holiness, we ate the traditional brunch of baked potatoes, red beets, and hard-boiled eggs that had simmered all night long until they became dark and tanned. We also had slices of fried eggplant and squash and, on occasion, red spiced fish. None of us could forget the strong, sweet tea that was an inseparable part of the meal.

Afterward, while Father went to bed for his Sabbath nap and Mother fretted about everything and everybody, I would go out for my regular Sabbath afternoon stroll in the surrounding hills. There I liked to pick flowers, watch butterflies, and enjoy the wild raspberries, figs, and pomegranates that grew unattended in the valley. I refreshed myself with the cold river water and crisp air of the Upper Galilee.

Up in Tel-Hai (Living Hill) were the grave sites of some of the national heroes who had been laid to rest in that cemetery. All the sights and odors I absorbed on my way there in those early days of spring are still fresh in my memory, as if experienced only yesterday. I recall the huge eucalyptus trees that overshadowed the steeply meandering asphalt road, the children of the nearby kibbutz (a communal farm or settlement in Israel) driving their cart that was pulled by a long-eared, black mule down the road, and the weight of those baskets full of bitter olives that I would bring home for Mother to pickle.

As I ascended that "blood-stained" mound, a myriad of thoughts and emotions arose in me. Tel-Hai was where I visited my friend, Trumpeldor. With my head bowed down in deep reverence, I entered into the military graveyard. The dead, whose screams seemed to be swallowed up by the dark soil, were to me a model of patriotism, an example of love for the motherland. I could not help but think of Yosef Trumpeldor and his legendary last words, "It is good to die for our country!" He uttered those words, not with the same roar as the lion statue that overlooks his grave, but rather in a whispered, agonizing sigh from his deathbed. That whisper had begun to ring in his heart while he was still guiding the plow with his single hand in the fields of Tel-Hai, and it rings and echoes in the deep recesses of the soul of every Jew even today.

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