Susan's Story
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Chapter 7. Effects of Israel
Love Song to Haifa
My love is
not merely
for that
spectacular
splendour
so obvious
to all
my heart
is held, too
by the
quiet loveliness
of your
hidden self
gardens and oases
old stones , warm sands,
cool forests
the charm of
homes and courtyards
small streets
crooked stairs and
peaceful balconies
the spell of
each inner sanctum
known only
to your
intimates.
Onward, onward we went. Onward we have been going. Onward we go, listening to God’s voice, influenced by certain ghosts, and touched by other mortals along the way.
We had been sent by the Israeli Mission in Paris, to Geneva. There we met Israel’s contact man, one Mr. Levinsky. We left Geneva at l0:00 o’clock on March 27th, 1949 and flew over the alps at 14000 feet in a converted army plane with no oxygen and no heat. I was crying right along with our daughters from pain, cold and fatigue. In my diary I wrote,
“We kind of half-slept-half-suffered until
5:00 AM when we landed at Malta. Then
we completely suffered. It was dark and
cold and we got into cars and rode to the
dining hall where we were served sausage,
baked beans, cold storage eggs, and fried
potatoes with some horrible luke-warm tea.
Two men were “laying tefillin” there in the
cold cheerless dining room. Dick explained
to me that they were praying. I kind of felt as
if we all should pray and said a few quiet
words of my own under my breath to God,
King of the Universe and then, back to the
plane as unnourished as before.”
“Warmth” was my first impression of Israel. As soon as our plane had rolled to a stop at Lydda Airport, a charming ground hostess came aboard, greeted us, helped with the children, and gave the impression that she (ergo, the country), was genuinely glad we had come. The day was balmy and we carried our heavy coats. Joy lightened my steps as I watched our little ones skipping freely and happily towards the terminal building in the “nice lady’s” charge. It was the end of an ordeal for us all; relief from the pain in our ears and release, too from fear. We had made it! We had arrived! I thanked God.
A little later, as I sat outside with the children, waiting for Dick to take care of the arrival formalities, I wondered what would be in store for us. I didn’t know whether we would like Israel or be happy in it, but I did know, for the moment at least, the sun was shining, our girls were playing gaily around the airport’s pretty flower beds, and though I was exhausted, I felt at peace, happy, and grateful.
‘I will never, ever leave Israel’, I thought to myself, smiling sleepily at our children’s antics, ‘it’s nice here, and besides….’, I stifled a yawn, ‘to go back to America would be far, far too much trouble!’.
I basked in the kindness of the ground hostess and felt like a sick patient receiving good nursing care when the children and I were offered orange juice in an upstairs lounge. Though Dick was being submitted to all kinds of difficulties with authorities who wanted to confiscate our cigarettes and who remained indifferent to the letter he carried stating that he was to be treated like a V.I.P., I remained impervious to his troubles and felt calm and happy.
At last, military vehicles arrived to transport us to Haifa. The girls and I were delegated to the back seat of a small car while Dick sat up front next to the driver. Our luggage was loaded onto an army truck that followed.
The driver was nice. He tried to explain things and point out sites of interest. We peered from the car’s windows eagerly trying, as we traveled, to get some idea of what Israel was like.
In my diary I described the ride from Lyda to Tel Aviv as “beautiful with sweet smelling clover, trees and green everywhere". The driver stopped at an orange grove and picked a few for us. We were thrilled. Never before had we seen oranges growing nor eaten them picked fresh from a tree. Never had oranges tasted so good!
I must have sneezed. I remember the driver teaching me that the response to a sneeze in Israel was “La Briuth” (“to your health”) rather than the “God-Bless-You” I was used to saying. It was the first Hebrew word I learned in Israel and I practiced saying it all the way to Haifa.
I wrote that we were
“very much impressed by the hill of lights
that makes the Carmel and Haifa” We were
taken first to “Stella Maris” (Naval
Headquarters) and the children and I stayed
in the car as Dick went in to announce his
arrival. The building was very large with
a huge searchlight on top. It stands on
the heights of the Carmel and from it you can
see the bay and all the lights of the town. It’s
a thrilling sight. Dick tells me the building
was erected in 1846 by some monks and part
of it is still used as a monastery.”
We were there for exactly five minutes, when
Dick returned accompanied by a major and
a lieutenant. Off we went again and in
five minutes were at the Carmelia Court
Hotel. We have two lovely adjoining rooms
both with porches. One faces the front and
one, the back. We splashed water on our
faces and ran down to get some supper.”
I remember the supper in the dining room of the hotel. Again, I felt like an invalid being nursed back to health. We were the guests of Major Forester and Lieutenant Eli Zohar. Forester was an American Marine regular and not Jewish. He was very happy to see Dick who was to relieve him of his communications job. Zohar was an Israeli who had been among those parachuted into Yugoslavia during the war along with Channah Sennesh (the one I had read about in “Blessed Is The Match”!) What a thrill! He was Enzo Serreni’s son-in-law. I was impressed and fascinated to be in the company of such a modest hero. The dining room and kitchen had just about closed, but stayed open long enough to serve us chicken noodle soup and goulash. I described it as “delicious and nourishing” and said that afterwards we went happily and peacefully to bed and to sleep.
As can be seen, on the day of arrival, I had felt enormously enthusiastic about our surroundings and relieved of all the anxieties, uncertainties, and strain which preparations for the trip and the trip itself had imposed upon me. However, my initial happiness and feeling of well-being was short-lived, and I had many complaints. During our three-month stay at the Carmelia Court Hotel, we slept on short, narrow, uncomfortable beds. The mattresses consisted of small sections of straw pallets which came apart at the least movement. Blankets and sheets were too limited in size to be tucked in even on our short and narrow beds. If the beds and bedding didn’t interfere with sleep, the plumbing did. Dirty, scummy, gurgling water rose each night like an ugly sea monster into our bathtub. Each time we heard its horrendous sounds, we would jump from our beds and stand by with horrified fascination, watching to see if it would overflow. It never did but would always arrive at a precarious level before abating and slowly returning down through the drain from which it had risen. Oh, yes! We called the desk immediately, the first night it happened. “Yes yes. We know. We know”, we were told. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Upon further complaining and questioning, the following unbelievable conversation took place:
Hotel Receptionist: “It’s the fault of you Americans.We can’t do anything about it.”
Dick Rosenberg: “Us Americans?”
Hotel Receptionist: “Yes!”
Dick Rosenberg: “Why is your stinking, defective plumbing the fault of us Americans”?
Hotel Receptionist “Because Americans built this Hotel, see.”
Dick Rosenberg “So?”
Hotel Receptionist “So, they put in the plumbing too and they didn’t do it right. They insisted on putting all the pipes underground. We never do it that way. Our pipes are all visible so you can fix them when there’s trouble.”
Dick Rosenberg “Well, don’t you have a plan of the plumbing?”
Hotel Receptionist “Oh yes, of course they gave us a plan.”
Dick Rosenberg “So?”
Hotel Receptionist “We lost the plan. That’s why we can’t repair the plumbing. It’s hidden….not like we do it. So, that’s why it’s the Americans’ fault.”
I complained because there was no heat in the hotel and the girls and I would sit huddled in the drab uncomfortable lobby drinking gallons of hot tea just to keep warm. We all grumbled about the food that had tasted so good on the first night. It never varied. There was always the hot, greasy noodle soup and a choice of “boiled beef, stewed beef, or goulash”. It didn’t matter which we selected, it all tasted and looked the same. If we griped about it we were made to feel like spoiled, pampered Americans. We were lucky to have meat, we were told. Most of the people in the country did not.
Then I discovered I was pregnant with our third child. I wrote, “One day seems like the next to me. I’m freezing cold at all times, stark raving hungry at all times, and sleepy enough to sleep at all times.” I’m afraid I whined a great deal.
In addition to physical discomforts, Dick had anxieties of his own and preoccupations which prevented him from being the moral and emotional support I particularly needed at that time. I complained to my diary:
”the sooner our year’s up, the
happier I’ll be! Great adventure,
fine ideals…pfah! It’s been some
adventure so far. The only part of
Israel I’ve seen is my hotel room.”
Another big minus was being homesick, not just for family, friends, and a way of life, but also because I felt deprived of familiar trivia. I missed my favorite radio programs, for example, comic strips, or soft drinks. Also, to my shame, I admit I had been brain-washed by American advertising to such an extent that I honestly believed if I ran out of a certain brand of toothpaste, mouthwash, or deodorant, I would no longer be attractive or that without a particular breakfast food, our children would not grow up with healthy bodies.
As mentioned, Dick had problems too. In addition to the Navy not paying him, and not providing the promised housing for his family, he was under the strain of trying to do his job in Hebrew, working with inexperienced naval personnel completely different from the way he was used to working in the U.S. Navy. Being aware that I was unhappy did not help matters.
One evening he was so fed up that he spoke of quitting and going back to the States. I was alarmed. I told Dick that I knew it was my attitude, in large part, that was responsible for his thoughts of going home. I told him that I was not only willing, but that I WANTED to stick it out if at all possible. We had decided to come for a year and I wanted to continue until the year was up. I believed that it was what God wanted of us. I told him I was not nearly so miserable as I sounded. After my conversation with him we chose to stay and I felt as if I had been tested by God and I had passed the test. I have been extremely proud of myself for that. However, as I write this, I wonder if, perhaps we were reluctant to return as failures or face parents and friends saying, “We told you so”. I think I would have denied it vehemently at the time, yet I suspect there might have been a bit of such self-interest traveling, on the sly, along with my noble motives. I don’t know.
I perceive myself as one who strives to be happy. In part, it is my religion. Being ever-aware of God’s multiple blessings and gifts; being grateful for health, good looks, and love; for bright, beautiful children, for life itself and for the glory in the world around me. During those early days in Israel, I felt, when I was unhappy, that it must have been caused by some lack within myself and that is another reason I spoke as I did to Dick. I realized the bad effect my attitude was having on him and I began to think more positively. My days were not completely gloomy and there were several “plus” factors to counteract my discontent.
For one thing, there were nice people staying at the Carmelia Court. We English speaking “inmates” were very chummy, swapped stories of where we had come from and why we had come, complained about the hotel in particular, the country in general, and eased for one another the pain of being strangers. Our girls, the only children in the place, became the beloved property of all and that gave us a nice family feeling.
Then, too, there were new insights and gains in understanding which have remained, since that time, as part of my psyche. One of our hotel friends was Gloria Broder, a young New Yorker, in Israel for a six-month stay. “I can’t get over it”, she said, at breakfast one morning. “It’s really funny, you know…to think that the maids who clean our rooms are Jewish! I guess the garbage collectors are too…..and the guys who clean the streets…..just everybody. Everybody’s Jewish! It’s so incredible. I can’t get it into my head.”
I couldn’t get it into mine either. I had known, before coming to Israel, that there were Jewish farmers, and Jewish soldiers. They were the “new breed of Jew” Zionists wrote and talked about; but what I was not prepared for, was the awareness, by golly, that it was all true and that Jews could and did engage in any and all occupations.
American-imposed impressions no longer held. Jewish stereotypes had become invalid. Each day in Israel had a healing effect on my bruised personality. Scars remaining from those carelessly hurled grenades (those small, compact explosive packages like “why DON’T you Jewish boys go out for football?) were being covered over. No longer did I need to struggle against my Father’s evaluations. I began to see that between his two poles, the self-image of “honest, honored gentleman”, and “the unscrupulous element”, there were limitless gradations.
We were (ah, yes, I thought in terms of “we” now), were really just like other people. The following conversation with Dick was recorded in my diary as one that took place while we indulged in some “people watching” from a sidewalk cafe.
Me: Look! Look at that guy! If you saw him in America would you take him for a Jew? We Jews look so different from one another.
Dick: Look at her! Look at her! (indicating a woman who had the appearance and air of a Spanish dancer)
Me: It’s really true what we heard about America being a melting pot but Israel being a pressure cooker.
Dick: Yep.
Me: Y’know…here, it seems that just one street can contain the whole world.
Dick: Or one room can…at work sometimes there are five or six languages all being spoken at once…really This morning, for instance, there was a meeting going on and, I’m not kidding now, someone was translating from French into Hebrew, then someone else translated that into German and English then (interrupting himself to indicate a group of eastern Europeans passing before us)…
Look! Look at those people. It’s not just languages. Look at the bone structure of those people, their stature…the way they walk everything about them.
You can tell where they come from before they open their mouths can’t you? You know, it’s amazing!
Europeans look like Europeans and Jews from oriental countries have taken on the characteristics of Arabs. Somebody told me yesterday that he would know I was an American even in my Israeli uniform just from the way I walk. Well look at us…you and I….we certainly look American, don’t we? I mean it’s not just our clothes or language. Anybody would know immediately that we were from the States just by looking at us, wouldn’t they? What is it then? Diet? Climate? Look at that guy. I’m sure he’s a Jew. He looks like an Indian, doesn’t he?
And so we sat rambling on, enjoying the spectacle. As we speculated about the curious results that long generations of Jews born and raised in different environments produced, I suddenly said, “Hey! You know what, Dick?” I was excited. I felt as if I had just hit upon a momentous and revolutionary discovery. “There IS no typical Jewish type!” and as I uttered the words, they sang in my heart…”there’s absolutely no such thing, no such thing, no such thing as ‘looking Jewish’! The song in my heart accompanied a dance of new found freedom as Jewish self-consciousness fell away piece by piece.
On another day, the scene was a Haifa restaurant. At a table next to ours some obnoxious, loud, rude, and unattractive people were having their lunch. Automatically, I glanced around to catch reactions of others. No one was paying any attention. Then I realized….’Of course. Of course. I don’t need to worry just because they’re Jews. Here, everybody’s Jewish. If these people are being offensive, it’s just because that’s the way they are, that’s all. It’s no reflection on me. I don’t need to feel answerable for the behavior of others.’
One morning while we were having breakfast at the Carmelia Court, Dick pointed to the article he was reading in the Palestine Post* and said, “If I had read of this scandal in the States, I would have thought ‘why does it have to be a Jew?’ but here, who cares?”
I agreed with him. I was remembering a much publicized sex-murder case that had been front-page news just before we left Philadelphia. It involved a young Jewish psychopath who had assaulted, then mutilated one of his schoolmates.
“Thank God it was a Jewish boy he murdered!” we Philadelphia Jews had said then with a logic all our own. I echoed Dick’s words, “Here, who cares?” Breathing easier felt good.
I am a very timid stranger. One of the reasons I didn’t get out of the hotel on my own was that not knowing the language and not knowing my way around frightened me. I was forced to overcome my fears, however, because we were soon to be moving from the Carmelia Court Hotel to our own flat and we needed to procure food-ration books for our family. I had so wanted Dick to do it but he couldn’t and the task was assigned to me. I was terrified. Someone told me where to take care of the matter. I took Carol and Betsy with me. I was pregnant. It was terribly hot. With some feeling of triumph I managed to find the specified place. There was a long line of people waiting. I stood in the queue for over an hour, trying to keep the children amused and safe. They were becoming thirsty and irritable. Then, just as the ordeal was almost over. Just as it became my turn, a huge man pushed me aside, almost knocking me down, stood in front of me and took my place with the clerk. I was flabbergasted. I was outraged and furious. I had no language to tell him so. Even in English, I don’t think I could have spoken since such manners were too alien to me. My own learned behavior was so entrenched that my sense of fight had been completely suppressed.
I stood glaring at him…hating him with all my heart. “Bastard!” I muttered under my breath, as tears came. Then, all at once, I noticed a number tattooed on his arm. Seeing that turned a switch. ‘Ah, well’, I explained to myself, staring in wonder, ‘Maybe he can’t help behaving that way, poor thing…if he was treated like an animal, then he had to become one…perhaps he got that way because he had to in order to survive…maybe time will heal him….’ Anger had turned to compassion and concern. In a way, I almost felt I owed him my place in line because of my nice, normal life. It was not to be the last time that I felt apologetic and guilty in the presence of one of Hitler’s survivors. It was not the last time I felt like saying, “Excuse me, please, for having been so lucky.”
“The Carmelia Court Days”, as we called them, were behind us. We had moved to nineteen Caesaria Street, a three-story, stone building situated in what had been an Arab neighborhood called Wadi Nisnas. It was being held by the “Custodian of Enemy Property”, the official in charge of looking after homes belonging to those Arabs who had fled. We understood they had left on the advice of their leaders and the British. “In a few days”, they had been told, “we’ll take care of the bloody Jews and then you can come back”. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way and so properties were being held for them and rented out.
Our house contained four apartments. We were on the ground floor. The Finards from Wilmington lived above us and on the third floor, in two apartments, lived Fredo, Mina, and their son, Shooky, ex-kibbutzniks who had decided to try city-life; and an Israeli architect, Joseph and his Italian wife, Alda. We four families were the “aristocrats” of the neighborhood.
We lived among swarthy-skinned, poor, rough and crude “Oriental Jews”. It was a strange world for me. Shortly after we moved in, I heard a commotion in the street, looked out of the window, and saw a bleeding woman. Her kimona was flying open, she had long, black, uncombed hair and she was running up and down the street like a crazy person. I saw a man, knife in hand, staring after her. I saw the police van and ambulance arrive. I saw crowds of curious neighbors milling around, carrying small children on their shoulders…”the better to show them”, I supposed, “the blood! The knife! The man! The woman! The police!” I had the feeling it was all commonplace entertainment for the area’s residents.
Often we would hear screams from somewhere in the vicinity. A sixteen-year-old girl living in the house next door to ours, beat her paralyzed mother to death one summer night.
Even before we were unpacked from moving, tiny dirty, raggedy girls with small hoops dangling from their pierced ears, and scowling little boys with shaved heads and purple medicine spotting their infested scalps, knocked on our door asking to play with Carol and Betsy. In spite of warnings from all my upstairs neighbors, I invited the children in and encouraged friendship by offering refreshments and seeing to it that my girls shared their toys.
I had long been passionately against segregation and barriers between peoples. Back in the States, whenever a discussion about racial problems had come up and I would be asked the inevitable, “What would YOU do if a Negro moved next door to you?”, I would hotly declare that I welcomed the chance. I considered myself a liberal, I equated “Negro” with “slum” and believed that the Caesaria Street situation was my opportunity to prove I had meant what I said.
I’m afraid my resolve did not last for more than a week or two. When toys were stolen from our girls including a favorite doll and buggy coach, I tried, even without a common language, to teach and explain. I found it urgent to reach the urchins somehow and to get the cooperation of their parents. Though I walked about the neighborhood searching them out, I couldn’t find where they lived…nobody knew who the parents were, and it seemed to me that people were disappearing into dark doorways, watching me, protecting their own. A few days later, when I caught a child sneaking from our house with a silver ash tray stolen from the living room table, I….well…then I was quick to cooperate with the l9 Caesaria residents in paying for and putting up a gate. The gate kept our children in and the neighborhood kids OUT. I grieved a lot about my failure.
Adjusting to life in Israel must certainly have been a gradual process for me, but I think I can remember the precise moment of a decisive turning point in the way I perceived things.
For quite some time, after leaving the Carmelia Court, I continued to feel uneasy and ignorant whenever I ventured forth from the security of my own home. Even going to buy provisions for our family at the near-by fruit and vegetable stand was a terrible ordeal for me. I didn’t know how to shop in Israel. I was completely confused by the weights and the monetary system. I had no idea of what things cost or of what quantities to buy. In America I had purchased oranges by the dozen, for example, in Israel they were sold by the kilo. Since I was so bewildered, the gruff proprietor would lose patience with me and take care of other customers who knew what they wanted. I hated the place. It was dirty and fly-infested and I always came away from there feeling depressed.
One rainy day, I trudged miserably over to the shop and stood inside looking over the produce and rehearsing mentally what to say when my turn came. There was an abundance of fruits and vegetables that day and the heaps of purples, greens, oranges, yellows, and reds were dazzling and seemed more colorful and brilliant than usual. I watched customers carefully selecting their purchases while the proprietor skillfully manipulated the weights and poured kilogram after clanging kilogram into net bags held open by housewives’ well-used hands. Outside rain dripped from the shops’ striped awning. I heard myself thinking, ‘What a beautiful painting this would make. How picturesque it is here. How pretty and charming!’ Then I was startled by the oddity of it. ‘What? Me think this is pretty? How could it be? How could what had seemed so dismal and squalid only a short while ago suddenly find favor in my eyes?'
In going through my memoirs, I found several letters to the States written by me in those days. They contain only descriptions of our friends upstairs, of Dick’s work, of our Children’s ’progress, and of a beautiful lemon tree growing in the back yard. How strange! How strange! I had almost forgotten about that lemon tree!
Memories of those days swim in and float out …of Marie…an Arab woman….heating her water on kerosene flames, squatting outside our door, scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing, wringing huge sheets, heavy towels, clothing….swinging it up into the sunshine, folding it down, bringing it to me, at day’s end, the clean warm laundry and her wet, tired self. Of Carol…in kindergarten, rhythm band performance…”Echad, shteim, shalosh” One-two-three…her pronouncing, practicing, growling the sounds of Hebrew…pronouncing-practicing-back-of-throat sounds…pronouncing, practicing, pronouncing, mastering. I relied on her four year old self to be my spokesperson in Hebrew. Once, when I punished her, making her angry, Carol said, “All right for you, then. All right for you! I won’t translate for you anymore!”
Of Betsy’s nursery school birthday party…our small three year old daughter on a chair decorated with flowers, a floral wreath crowning her blond head, short Hebrew speeches made by each child expressing good wishes. Dick translated for me. ”She should have a long life”. “She should obey her parents.” “She should have good luck” “good health”, etc. Then there were the imaginary gifts (flowers, a doll, an airplane)…Betsy, having to guess from the children’s pantomimes what was being presented to her. Dick and I raised our little daughter, the seated queen, in the air three times and one more for next year or good luck. “Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov!, accompanied the ritual, followed by songs to the birthday girl and then, only then, after all that, birthday cake and refreshments.
My big belly, my little girls and me huddled around a radio set with other Navy wives and personnel up at Naval Headquarters, straining to hear the voices of our husbands transmitting what was to be the first radio communication from Eilat (“Accaba”, I wrote in my diary). Experts had said it couldn’t be done because of mountain interference. Lonely nights of waiting, listening, waiting, squawking, static…Dick’s voice! His message….they had done it! Soon….soon, then, he would be home with us again.
My joy, when a friend, waving to me at a concert one evening, called her invitation before we hurried to our seats;“Will you come for tea this Tuesday afternoon? Bring the children? Good!”
..Of love, of friends, an end to anonymity, of parties, of learning my way around, of bus trips to the beach. “We were swimming in the Mediterranean”), I wrote to family. Exotic and glamorous words for a girl from Elkins Park…..Slowly….slowly….we settled into a life style.
The life style was Jewish. It was so good to feel at one with those around me. I was a freak no more. All….all the housewives I saw in the shops, all those I passed in the streets, all who hurried by with their challoth, candles, wine, flowers, candy, and special foods bulging from their string-bags; all had the same purpose I did. Like me, they had squandered their week’s ration coupons; like me they spent Thursday and Friday bustling and preparing for……not just a weekend, ….but for an honored, welcome guest….the Jewish Shabbath.
At home, part of the pre-Shabbath ritual was the reading of a “Ruth and Debby” story to Carol and Betsy before their Friday afternoon nap. We had a new book about them….a sequel to the previous one, called “Little New Angel”. The title story was about the family at their Shabbath table. It told how, when Ruth and Debby’s voices sang out in prayer to God, their unborn brother, “A Little new angel”, waiting to be born, enjoyed the prayers of his family to be. We loved that story. We had a little new angel hovering over our Shabbath table too. We knew it could see how beautiful we were and how beautiful it was to be Jewish.
It was Rosh Ha Shannah, 1949. I put on my best, black maternity dress. I put on the hat with a veil I had been married in and I walked with Dick to Haifa’s main Synagogue on Herzl Street. At the entrance, Dick said, “Here’s where we part company. You go in this way”, and he left me feeling a bit panicky. Nevertheless, I climbed the stairs to the women’s section. I took a seat in the last row of wooden benches. In front of me sat old women, with kerchiefs on their heads. Each must have told the other about the strange creature sitting behind them. They turned around for good long stares. Some turned every few minutes…unable to contain their curiosity. Because of the women’s rude and unfriendly staring, I felt most uncomfortable. Also, though I could hear the men praying downstairs, I didn’t know what they were saying. It was noisy and sounded as if there was no order at all. I had no prayer book. The bench was hard. There seemed to be no air. I was hot, and finally, I could stand it no longer. I quietly left to walk home alone hoping that Dick would understand. I knew that God did.
My daughter tells me she remembers that on Yom Kippur, I stayed home and read the prayer book. She remembers because it was the day that Shooky threw a stone from his upstairs balcony and the stone hit and cut her above the eye.
She remembers because, she says, when she came in crying to me, I put the prayer book down and said, with a tone of great finality, “Well, THAT does it!” She says she hadn’t understood whether I meant I wasn’t going to ever pray again or what…..?
Carol, Betsy and I went shopping for Succoth. Joyously, we selected fruits and vegetables in season. Gaily, we carried them home in overflowing baskets. Everybody we saw seemed in a holiday mood, smiling and increasing our mounting gladness.
When we pushed upon the gate at l9 Caesaria Street, we saw our upstairs neighbors already driving in stakes for the frame of the communal succa we had decided to build together in our back yard.
The girls ran to the front porch where Shooky and Gili Finard were busy creating paper decorations. I hurried into our house to find blankets suitable for serving as sides to the Succa. Dick came home and went with Joseph, Sandy and Fredo in search of branches and greens for the shelter’s roof. This year, no tinsel stars for us! This year we would have the real thing!
Fruits and vegetables were strung and hung. The children’s artistry, exclaimed over, was added to the decor. A table and cloth were produced, a bowl of fruits placed on it. Swiftly, the interior of our hastily executed construction underwent a magic transformation becoming at once cozy and charming.
“Isn’t it beautiful!” we congratulated ourselves. “It’s really lovely, isn’t it? Really it is the prettiest ever”.
We gathered around. We lit candles. Dick made kiddush. We blessed the Lord and broke bread together.
My God, I was happy! Everything was the way it was supposed to be. Everything was so right. We took a walk around our shabby neighborhood. It too had been transformed. Every house, on balcony or in yard, had its Succa. We exchanged greetings with fellow-Jews, no longer perceived as strangers. “Chag Sameach” (happy holiday), we called to each other. Out loud, we admired their artistry, but quietly agreed among ourselves that ours was the nicest of all the booths.
Booths. Fragile booths of the wilderness. Home at last.
On November 22, 1949, Dr. Pnina Ruttenberg* handed me the new born infant she had just delivered, smiled at me, and said, in slightly accented English,
“You see, in America they could only give you girls. WE give you a son!”
I smiled at those first words heard after giving birth, and at the woman who had uttered them. I loved her.
Dr. Ruttenberg took my swaddled baby out of the delivery room to meet his Father. She came back chuckling. “Your husband just kept repeating, ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it’ when I told him he had a son so I said to him, ‘Do you want me to undress him and prove it to you?’ He’s waiting to see you. I invited him to stay for lunch. You can have lunch together when you’re back in your room. Good?” Good? Heaven!
[Dr. Pnina Ruttenberg was a sister-in-law of Pinchas Ruttenberg, founder of The Palestine Electric Company, and wife of the Company’s President. She was a Russian-born, Russian-trained, Israeli obstetrician. When she decided to open her own hospital, she and her husband converted their family home into “Ima Hut” (motherhood) Hospital.]
During the nine months of pregnancy, (in the days before ultra sound), Dick and I had naturally speculated about the sex of our third child. Dick kept saying, “I know it’ll be another girl. Don’t be upset if it’s another girl, Susan. I love girls. I WANT another girl. I wouldn’t even know what to do with a boy.”
Now, here we were lunching together in my airy room. After embracing and expressing the deep, deep emotions for which one has no words, the kind that can only be transmitted by look and touch, we settled down to food and conversation. Our topic, of course, was what to name our first son.
Quickly and unanimously, we decided that he must be named after Dick’s Zionist Grandfather, Max David Stashower. Because neither of us liked “Max” as a first name, we agreed it should be his middle name. Then, came the problem of his first name. I thought it was simple. "We can just call him David Max instead of Max David”, I said. I learned from Dick that even though it is more superstition than law, one of the things Jews just don’t do is to name their young after the living. Since Dick’s middle name was David, that title was out. Finally, we selected “Daniel” from all the Jewish names we could think of that began with a “D”. We both liked it. “It’s perfect!”, we agreed, “It’s a good Jewish (Hebrew) name for here and it’s also a good American name for when we go back.” We were delighted with ourselves. The dilemma was over. So was lunch time. Dick left and they brought in my baby.
As I held him, examining his perfection, I thanked God for His great goodness. I studied the warm human bundle at my side and pondered the mystic wonder of God’s ways.
Max David Stashower’s dying words to his wife, Sarah, made no sense really…not at the time and place in which they were spoken….unless….did he know somehow, dying in Cleveland that his seed would be re-born in “Palestine”?….or did it become a fact….did we make it happen because he had said those words?
I felt a participant in somebody else’s vast scheme. Was it God’s? Was it the Grandfather’s? It didn’t matter. I yawned. I was tired. I kissed the soft hair on Danny’s small head and was happy to watch him being carried off in the nurse’s arms. I was floating away wrapped in contentment and satisfaction. I slept.
I awoke to flowers, messages of congratulations, and smiling nurses. The day passed in a succession of happy events and my feelings of joy rose in expressions of superlatives. I had the handsomest of sons, the most loving of husbands bringing news of our dearest daughters; visits from the kindest friends bearing the nicest gifts for our baby. I was flooded with love. It flowed from and to everybody around me. I was enjoying an exquisite state of well-being, sheltered in a private heaven where celestial cherubs sang out hallelujahs.
It was into this atmosphere that my room mate was brought on a stretcher. She had had a miscarriage. I noticed her gray hair, lined face, and old eyes. I quieted down. I commanded the cherubim to be still. I did not want to flaunt my ecstasy before this woman’s sorrow.
She told me that she was not sorry. “No”, she said, “I’m glad I miscarried. I didn’t want another child. You bring children into this world. You feed them. You love them. You worry about them. You care for them….and then…then, when they’re grown, they take them away from you. Nobody asks you. They just take them.”
I hadn’t understood. “ah…who? Whatd’ya mean? Who takes them?”
“The government. The army”, she replied, a little impatiently, “war!”.
I was feeding my little one. I held him closer. “Maybe”, I said gently, “Maybe by the time he grows up, there won’t be any wars.” That was my fervent hope though it was extremely difficult for me to imagine that the baby boy at my side, would some day be grown up.
Next day I received news in a letter from the States, that my sister, Peggy, expecting at the same time as I, had lost her baby. My family hadn’t wanted to tell me sooner because they were afraid it would worry me while I was waiting to give birth.
Also, Dick was withholding information, as he had been advised to do, so not to “upset my milk”. It was about Carol. She had pneumonia, a high fever, and was not responding to medication. He had hired a full-time nurse to care for her. As I watched him fidgeting during his bed-side visit, I knew there was something serious bothering him. He denied it vigorously. “No, nothing. Really, nothing!” he said.
I wasn’t fooled. I saw the anxiety clouding his eyes. Later, during the day, he and Dr. Ruttenberg cheerfully told me I was to stay in the hospital for longer than had first been declared. Then I was really alarmed.
“Why?” I wanted to know.
“You might as well have a nice rest here. Don’t you like it here?” Dr. Ruttenberg smiled a disarming smile.
I thought I understood. Something must be the matter with the baby and they just weren’t telling me.
“What is it?” I wanted to know. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, really, darling. We’re getting along just fine at home. You might as well get as much rest as you can. You’ll have a lot of work with three children when you get home.” Dick had well-prepared his case.
“That’s what I thought”, Dr. Ruttenberg went on quickly, “I didn’t know that I’d have a bed for you….but when I found that I could arrange it, I told your husband. He thought it would be best….so, you might as well take advantage and enjoy your vacation.” She smiled reassuringly. She had made it sound reasonable. Once she saw I was soothed, she left the room.
Dick gave me an absent-minded kiss goodbye.
I lay there quietly and thought of words long before memorized from Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet” . I said them to myself:
“They (your children) come through
you but not from you and though they
are with you, yet they belong not to you.”
I was also remembering the Biblical story of Hannah who vowed, when praying for a man child, that if God answered her prayers, she would “give her son unto the Lord all the days of his life.”
I was certain that I was being kept in the hospital because something was amiss. I prayed long and finally promised….”I understand, God, that he is only being lent to me. I understand he is not mine. Please……….please let me care for him and love him. When the time comes, I’ll be ready to give him up. I shall. I promise. I know. I understand. He belongs to You, not to me. Thank You God. Thank You for him. PLEASE….let me enjoy him until the time comes….yes….I do understand…..I do now know that the time will come.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do”, Dick said. “Everyone is so excited about this baby. People I don’t even know are coming up to me at work, congratulating me, and asking, ‘nu? When is the brith?’ I guess a brith is a big deal here! I guess everyone expects to be invited. In the States, it’s nothing…you just have the family….ten men. I don’t know what to do. Dr. Ruttenberg says we can have it right here at the hospital. She has a tent….did you notice that big tent on the hospital grounds? There’s this huge tent. King Abdullah gave it to her in gratitude when she delivered a baby to his daughter. Anyhow, the tent can be used for the reception….but what’ll I do about refreshments?”
Poor Dick! He seemed so frantic. There was nothing I could do from my hospital bed. Fortunately, friends came forth and offered to bake cakes and make sandwiches for the big day. Dick was relieved that all he needed to do was supply the drinks.
I was relieved too, when I learned that no “dirty old man” was going to perform the circumcision. A qualified doctor in white coat would perform the small operation while a bearded Rabbi (my Mother’s connotation of “Dirty old man”) recited the required prayers, making it all properly “kosher”.
“A Son Is Born To Chayl Ha Yam!” (the navy), were headlines in an Israeli newspaper followed by a picture-story of us and our baby. I remember feeling Rita Hayworth-like when the photographer came into my room, on the day of the *brith, and posed us. Dick, in navy uniform was placed behind the bed. I was told to sit up and hold Danny in my arms. We still have the picture. Dick, smiling tenderly and I, looking proud and perky, with a ribbon in my hair.
I was even allowed to go downstairs and mingle with our guests for awhile. The entire Israeli Navy must have closed down that day since so many officers were present. We have photographs of all of them, surrounding us, glasses raised, drinking *“L’chaim” to the parents of the new sabra.
I have memories of being a bit overwhelmed by it all and of being astounded by the splendor of the tent with its oriental carpets and hangings.
I felt a little shaky and returned to my room soon after making my appearance. I left the festivities feeling so pleased. The rejoicing was not just because we had a son, I realized, but because we had a “son of the covenant”.
Back in my room, I began thinking about America and how different it was being Jewish there. In America, it wouldn’t be likely for a Jewish boy to grow up to be President even though a common comment, after the birth of a son, was, “Hey!, that kid may grow up to be President some day!” No Jew ever had.
‘But here’, I thought to myself, ‘I mean, MY son really could grow up to be President some day
I was told about Carol’s pneumonia after it was all over. Danny was already two-weeks old when I came home from the hospital. It took some time to settle in as a family unit of five and we realized more and more, as the days passed, how right Dick had been in predicting that once home, there would be a lot of work to do in caring for a household and three children. We two adults felt in desperate need of domestic help and had let it be known among all our friends that we were looking for a maid.
One morning, just as I picked Danny up to change and feed him, there was a knock at our door. I came to open it with the baby in my arms. A young woman stood before me.
“Mrs. Shulman sent me. She told me you were looking for a……”
“Come in! Come in!” I said eagerly and motioned her to be seated as I closed the door.
‘Oh, if only she can start in right away’, I thought, opening my dress so I could feed Danny. ‘At least, get the diapers washed, the floors clean, and maybe…’, my mind raced on as Danny protested the delay of his breakfast…’maybe get the breakfast dishes washed too so I can get to the store and back and have lunch ready when Carol and Betsy come home….’
“What is your name?” I began the interview, as Danny began to eat.
“Chayah”, she told me.
“I see”, I smiled at her, “and what experience have you had with this type of work, Chaya? Have you worked for other people here in Haifa?”
Much to my surprise, she spoke at length, giving an impressive resume of her academic career, and describing some teaching jobs she had held.
I was completely confused. Danny burped. Baffled, I wiped away some dribble from his chin and tried to make sense out of what I had just heard. I began to feed him again, realizing, with sinking heart, that Chaya wasn’t a maid at all.
It turned out that she was a Technion graduate student who wanted to earn some extra money by giving Hebrew lessons.
“Oh”, I said, after the entire misunderstanding began to be unraveled. “I’m so sorry”. Both disappointed, we laughed at the absurdity of it and I confessed I had indeed, once, a long time ago, mentioned to Rose Shulman that I would like to learn Hebrew. I tried to explain the situation “You see, but I simply can’t now. I have so little time and until I can find help, I don’t see how….I mean, I really do want to learn Hebrew, but I have this baby and two older children and, I mean, before I can start studying Hebrew, I’ve just got to find help….it’s….”
“I understand”, Chaya said, “but you know, I will not be able to wait until you find a maid. I have to find students NOW and my time is limited too…..so….”
Danny was sleeping. I held him over my shoulder trying to "bubble him”. “What time?” I asked. “What time are you free to give me lessons? Can you come to the house? Come to me?”
“Yes,” she said, “I can come at this time if it would be all right….at ten o’clock”.
“But this is the time I usually feed the baby so I can’t”, I said. I was putting my satisfied infant back in to his crib and a new thought occurred to me.
“Wait a minute! If you wouldn’t mind….if you think we could do it…perhaps I could learn while I’m feeding him. What do you think?” Chaya didn’t see why I couldn’t and that’s the story of how I began to study Hebrew.
The arrangement worked out very well. Chaya was an excellent teacher and I learned rapidly with her. We used three books. My favorite contained simple tales of new immigrants to Israel. The conversations of the characters were conversations I could have. What happened to them, was also happening to me. I found the episodes interesting, relevant, and applicable. In addition to helping me learn to read and speak a little Hebrew, the stories taught, in subtle ways, how to be an Israeli.
The second book, much more difficult to read, was Chaya’s favorite. It covered Israel’s history with accounts of Zionist leaders, wars, heroes, and geography. It told what event took place where, about immigration, the kibbutz movement, Israeli life, its people, holidays, and customs. There were many photographs,. As I struggled to read the Hebrew text, Chaya, a Sabra, supplemented a great deal. She loved her country, wanted me to know about it and to understand and feel Zionism in all of its aspects. She was not merely a student working for a little pocket money, she was a builder in Israel who put her entire self into the chosen task.
We both disliked the third book. It was a basic grammar. With patience and dogged discipline, Chaya would prod me to study and drill me in the monotonous task of learning declensions and tenses.
The lessons added a great deal to my life. I looked forward to them. I admired Chaya as a human being and as a teacher. I was proud of my progress. I was beginning to be able to communicate both orally and by writing; to read, to decipher, to comprehend the strange new language which heretofore had seemed impossible.
One day, Chaya came to the house, as usual, and informed me before the lesson began, that she would only be able to teach me for two more weeks. I was crestfallen.
She explained that she had received a fellowship to continue her studies in the States and since she had the opportunity to go, she couldn’t pass it up. I received her news with mixed feelings. I rejoiced for her, but it was a real blow to me. I felt abandoned. “Don’t feel so bad”, she said, “I have a colleague, also from the Technion, who likes to teach….so you will be able to continue. Shall I ask him to come and speak with you? So you can arrange it?”
I felt a little better.
When Chaya’s colleague arrived to discuss the continuation of my studies, I learned, alas, that the only time he had available for me was at ten o’clock in the morning.
“I didn’t know what to do”, I told Dick about it later. “I realized I’d either have to wean Danny or quit Hebrew”.
And that’s the story of why my Hebrew studies came to an abrupt end during that period of my life
We went through a difficult time. Dick began to suffer from a skin condition. For weeks, our doctor’s trial and error recommendations of ointments, medicines, dressings, baths, and powders kept us hopeful that some way would be found to end Dick’s torment. Finally, the unrelieved itching and accompanying raw skin became so unbearably torturous that he was hospitalized. While at the hospital (which was situated nearer to Tel Aviv than to Haifa so that I couldn’t even visit him), he was tested as well as treated. After some time there, his affliction was diagnosed as “Neuro-Dermatitis”
“He has been under severe pressure”, some medical authority informed the Naval command. “How could you have taken an American with a family and placed him in such a neighborhood? No wonder he got sick. Get him out of there and put him in a flat on the Carmel.”
Of course, I had no idea of what was happening. We had no telephone on Caesaria Street and I had had no news of Dick. The girls were both quite ill with the measles. I was coping the best I could without a husband, and life was grim. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
“Be ready to move tomorrow”, said some sailor. “There’s a flat on Mt.Carmel for you. I have orders from Naval headquarters to come and move you up there tomorrow. Will it be all right?”
“No!”, I said, the children have the measles and I…………….”
We moved the next day.
