Chedva & Yacey Margalit

THE thump of the descending wheels on the tarmac activates the hesitant clapping of the passengers as they express their relief at having touched ground. The preoccupation with gathering coats, hand luggage, books and shoes strains the faces of the travelers as they assume the eager glow of expectancy before setting foot on the soil of the State of Israel.

               How different it was 54 years ago when we reached the port of Haifa on the quaint Greek ship, the Cyrenia. In the first flush of dawn we had stood, on that bright December day, waiting tensely, gripping the ship’s rail and searching among the pastel brushstrokes on the horizon, for a glimpse of Eretz Yisrael. What a great gasp of appreciation escaped our throats when the golden dome of the Bahai temple emerged from the mist in a dazzling display of light on the lower slopes of Mount Carmel.

               In those days the port of Haifa could not be entered by a large vessel. Therefore, we were obliged to wait our turn as lighters approached the ship.

30 passengers at a time descended into the little craft and were then buffeted about on the waves on the last lap of their journey to the Promised Land. As we climbed out of the boats onto the pier we became very conscious of the British presence in the “occupied” land of Palestine. Despite the fact that we were Americans carrying bona fide American passports stamped with the precious British visa that had been acquired with such difficulty in this period of restricted Jewish immigration, we felt intimidated by these blue uniformed officials curtly asking questions in strangely accented English. We knew what power they had to keep out so many desperate Jews from entering the last haven left to them.

               It was December 21, 1947. Yacey, his mother and I were making aliyah and his father was returning home to his birthplace in Jerusalem. Just three weeks before we had been aboard the S.S. Mauritania. On November 29, 1947 we had asked the captain of this British ship if we might listen, on his shortwave radio, to the roll call of votes in the United Nations on the partition of Palestine. “The Captain invited us to his cabin and he watched with amusement as we jubilantly noted down each “yes” and finally celebrated the news that the General Assembly had approved the partition of Palestine. Remarkably this British officer offered up a toast for the occasion”.

 December 28, 1947

         Dear Family, 

         We have finally realized the dream, the essence of the dream being in aliyah, not in settlement in a kibbutz or avoda on the land – as yet. But to start describing Eretz Yisrael, my impressions and what we may have accomplished so far would seem irrelevant after you hear of more pertinent experiences.

               We had expected to go to Jerusalem immediately, but because of the Arab snipers in the hills along the road to Jerusalem we decided to wait a few days. Finally, Friday, we joined the convoy. The convoy between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem consisted of three or four buses, some private cars and an armored truck filled with Jewish Settlement Police. The little group of people  that met that early morning on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, in front of Mikve Yisrael, were fearful and well aware that almost 100  people had been killed or wounded on that road in the past few weeks. Somehow the determined look on Golda Myerson’s face encouraged us. She sat in one of the private cars, her very black hair tightly pulled into a bun, topped by her familiar, large-brimmed black hat.

               The British do not allow Jews to carry arms. Every few miles during the journey they would board to search the bus for guns. At one point, on a deserted stretch on the road, the bus screeched to a sudden stop, two young people leapt on and the bus continued… then the passengers fell into action like well-trained soldiers. The two, a young man and a woman, opened their jackets and took out parts of a machine gun (a Sten gun). At the urgent whisper of “slik” (a Hebrew word for “hide it quickly”) each passenger passed one of the parts down the aisle until a floorboard was lifted and all the parts of the gun were stashed away.

               Just as we reached Bab-el-wad (Sha’ar Hagai, today) at the foothills of the Judean Hills, a British jeep pulled up to the armored car, manned by Jewish Settlement police, and commands were issued that  they turn back. Then, these British representatives of the Mandate in Palestine whose purpose it was to “keep order and protect the people” took their place at the head of the convoy and proceeded to lead us towards Jerusalem. As we approached Aqua Bella they fired shots in the air, obviously to alert the Arabs who we were coming. Then these socalled British Security Police raced on ahead, abandoning us. We were left alone und unprotected.

                              The road up to the mountain was narrow and tortuous, flanked by natural fortresses of stone. As we approached the halfway point up the Castel we heard the first shots. Rifle shots sound so like firecrackers that for a moment I couldn’t grasp the gravity of what was happening. Everyone was crouching, and suddenly I saw blood gushing along the aisle. The driver’s arm had been hit but he doggedly gripped the wheel and drove steadily ahead and up, because we were climbing all that time. The screams of the wounded, the "ra-ta-ta" of the guns, Yosef standing, composedly, applying a tourniquet with a handkerchief and a fountain pen to the arm of the man who was sitting by the window – all these I sensed in a haze of fantasy until one single shot jolted me back to reality. The young man seated a few rows ahead of me had been shooting with a pistol through the window. One bullet, shot from among the rocks, reached him and made a neat hole in the middle of his forehead. Then I started to yell for Yosef to get down.

                              By the time we reached the downgrade of the hill our engine was spluttering and the tires were riddled. The shooting had stopped. We rolled halfway down the hill to a place where steps lead up to a settlement (later I found out that it was Motza). The Jewish villagers came running down to help as we all got out to count our casualties. The dead person in Myerson’s car was Hans Beyth who had been the coordinator of rescue efforts with the Youth Aliyah.

                                 In all there were three killed and seven wounded. While we were busying ourselves with our wounded, a British patrol car pulled up and we heard, “I say, has something happened?”  We all felt a feeling of revulsion, and turned away. One man actually spat on the ground.

               The rest of the trip to Jerusalem was “uneventful”. When we arrived at the Central Bus Station the place was filled with people who had already heard of the attack, relatives searching, calling for their close ones, strangers pushing cups of coffee or tea into our hands, concerned comments about our bloody clothing – but then I heard the long blast of a shofar, and I was filled with the thrill of having reached the City of Zion. The shofar is generally blown on Erev Shabbat to pronounce the beginning of the Shabbat, but at this particular moment it had a surrealistic effect on our emotions.

               We were gathered up by our relatives and brought to Rehov Hachabashim (Abyssinian St.) to spend our first Shabbat in Jerusalem in a cold stone house on an ancient street – a bit shaken but glad to be "Home".

Love,   Hedva