The Nation State and the Promised Land: An American Yiddish Writer in Israel, 1949, by Solomon Simon. English translation, 2024, by David R. Forman. All rights reserved.
Page numbers from Medines Yisroel un Erets Yisroel, 1950, Farlag Matones (NY), are included for those who wish to follow along with the original Yiddish, below.
To begin with the Introduction, click here.
p. 47
When I was in Israel, there were no trains running. The only transportation was by bus. A few cooperatives had a monopoly over the country’s traffic. The buses did not run very often. They were by no means new, either. The roads were narrow and bad. Naturally, the arrival and departure times were approximate. A New Yorker, accustomed to the subway, to punctual trains, and to large, comfortable buses that come and go to the minute would have to be made of steel not to lose patience waiting for those buses. And when they finally did arrive, there was often nowhere to sit and you would have to stand the whole way.
But you have to remember that the State of Israel is just one year old, and no cars are being manufactured in the country. You need dollars to buy a new car, and there are higher priority things to buy with dollars. You should understand, too, that the railways were ruined, and that the population has increased by more than a third in one year.
The Jews in Israel are mature enough to understand all this. Besides, the securing of the country is still new and fresh. People are constantly saying:
“You see this bit of road we are traveling on? A year ago,…
p. 48
no one could pass through. There were Arab villages on both sides. Now we can travel freely, and even blow the horn to our heart’s content.”
“Do you see those ruins? Those were the scoundrels’ homes. Who could have dared to show themselves here?”
And so, no one complains about the tight space, about the long lines, about the waiting or the rattling of the old jalopies.
But for a tourist with only three months to see the country, transportation is a big problem. Renting a car or hiring a taxi is not for the average tourist’s pocketbook. There’s a story they tell here about the cost of renting a car. There are a lot of variants, but this is the most common version:
A tourist goes into a rental company and says, “I want to rent a car for three days.”
“Bevakasha, be my guest,” says the owner, “we have these three cars here, take your pick.”
“I will drive myself, and take care of the gas myself, of course.”
“Good. It will cost you thus and such.”
The tourist answers, “You don’t understand. I don’t want to buy your car, just rent it.”
The joke does not exaggerate the high cost of renting or taking a taxi at all.
Well, before I set off to see the country, I wanted to see the Negev. Heading off to the Negev alone would have been extraordinarily difficult and would have taken too much time. Hiring a taxi was not in my budget. I decided to travel on an organized tour with my family for one day.
I was not enthusiastic. They only take you where they think it’s interesting. You can’t stop just anywhere. You can’t look around where you’re not supposed to. But under the circumstances, it was better…
p. 49
than nothing. Even a pre-packaged tour cost me more than seventy dollars for four people for one day, not including food.
The tour was arranged by the Histadrut[1]. We went into the office to pay. The employee asked me if I was a member of the Natsionaler Arbeter Farband [The Jewish National Workers Alliance].
I asked, “What does the jubilee year have to do with Mount Sinai? What does one have to do with the other?”
“If you are a member of the Farband, then you are actually a member of Histadrut, and so we charge you ten percent less.”
That was a surprise and a bit of welcome good news to me. I saved over five dollars.
We were told to come at six o’clock, so I hired a taxi to drive from Ra’anana to Tel-Aviv, a distance of seventeen miles. It cost me twelve dollars. But the tiul [excursion] only started at eight o’clock, and we could have easily come with the bus. And even so, someone was late and had to chase us for twenty miles from Tel-Aviv with a taxi.
We rode in two buses, one for Hebrew-speakers and one for those who did not know Hebrew. I sat in the bus for the “ignoramuses”.
As soon as we left Tel-Aviv and our guide began to point out the important and historical places of the Yishuv[2], we ran into trouble. He spoke to us in English. Bad English, and with a British accent to boot. The crowd could barely understand him, and we started pleading with him to speak Yiddish. He told us that he did not know Yiddish. It would have to be either English or Hebrew. When we stopped for a while, we complained to the leader. He told him to speak Yiddish. So he spoke Yiddish. His Yiddish was no worse than his English. And once he forgot that “he did not know Yiddish” he spoke rather well. When he got stuck on a word, he used an English word (not always the right one) or a Hebrew word (always the right one), and the crowd helped him out. We were much happier.
For two hours, our path took us through old settlements and…
p. 50
we heard the same incantation every time: “This was an Arab settlement. Before the war, it was dangerous to go here. In such and such a year, they murdered so and so many people. During the war, our boys fell here by the dozens.” We came to a fork in the road. Both buses stopped and everyone went out into the open field. The lead guide blew his whistle. It grew quiet and he began to talk, in Yiddish, naturally, so that everyone would understand:
“Look at the road. Our fighters are buried like field mice here. This road needed to be held to stop the Egyptians from getting through. Our boys did not have any anti-tank guns, no machine guns, just hand-grenades and Molotov Cocktails. The Egyptians did not break through.
“And see and behold (his words) – this road is even more famous from long, long ago. This road led past two cities: Aphrah and Shaphir. In Micah, chapter one, verses ten through fifteen, it is written:
“And Gath shall not tell you, ‘Refrain from weeping’. In the houses of Aphrah, strew dust around. Go away (into exile), inhabitants of Shaphir!
“In Hezekiah’s time, Sennacherib arrived by this road. He went to Jerusalem. Nearby there were Philistine cities, Gath and Ashkelon. You can feel how it is cool here, even in the heat of day, because there is always a breeze. It blows from the inland sea. Do you remember how Isaiah describes the swift movement of the Assyrian army?”
A man in his late sixties stood next to me. His head, beard, and moustache were clean-shaven. Nor did he have any eyebrows or eyelashes. His eyes were big and bulging. He spoke to his wife in a garbled mixture of Yiddish and English. “What is he hocking a tshaynik for? Who is interested in the Bible? They are just foolish stories. Show me life in Palestine now. What does he think, we are in Bible class?”
I went off to a side, away from the crowd, and studied the field. Flat, level ground as far as the eye could see. Not a tree,…
p. 51
not a bush, not a hill. Here and there was a freshly filled-in hole with a pipe left sticking up like a pole with wires above, swaying in the wind. I closed my eyes for a moment. I saw: Jewish boys lying in holes, waiting for the armies that would sweep in from the horizon. Suddenly I heard horses hooves and the clattering of chariots. I heard a call: The archers of Sennacherib are here. And above the noise I hear a clear voice:
He came to Aiath
He went through Migron
He left his baggage in Michmas
They were through the mountain pass
In Geva they spent the night
Ramah trembled…
He waves his hand towards Mount Zion
Towards the high place—Jerusalem.
[Isaiah 10:28-29; 10:32.]
Who said that? Had I heard an old voice, the echo of which remained in the clear air of this abandoned field? Or was it the guide quoting Isaiah so beautifully and clearly?
The leader blew insistently on his whistle. Apparently I had crept too far into the field and it was time to get back in the bus. The man with the bare head was next to me again, talking to his wife:
“Why is he bossing us? Pest! Maybe we’ll come to a kibbutz soon and get a cold drink of water? I’m hungry. Did you bring some good sandwiches from the hotel?”
We rode on. The Negev began to spread out before us. Workers were working for miles and miles along the side of the road, laying water pipes. I don’t know where the water was being drawn from or where it was being brought, but it was a large undertaking.
The Negev looks very different than I had imagined. I thought that the Negev would be a barren desert: sand and sky. But as far as Beer Sheva (we were not taken any further)…
p. 52
the Negev is bedecked with tall grasses. The grasses are dried out from the sun, but still, it isn’t just sand and dunes. Here and there the grass was even a bit green and, not infrequently, a tree with green branches stood in the middle of the burned grass. The guide told us:
“This green tree is called “Eyshel,” as it is written in the Chumesh: And Abraham planted a tamarisk (an eyshel) in Beer Sheva. There it stands to this day, and I will bring you to it. But meanwhile, look how strangely the tree grows. Not especially tall, but very thick with branches. And remember, wherever there is an eyshel, there’s water there.”
A Jew from Brooklyn, one of our own, was sitting next to me. He turned to me. “It’s very strange. We are traveling on the pages of the Prophets and the Five Books of Moses.”
He asked me for a cigarette. Apparently, that was his first good look at me. He recognized me and said, “What do you know! You are in the bus with us, and I didn’t even realize it. It’s good I met you here. Maybe you can explain some things about this country to me?”
I answered, “This is just my second week here. What could I know better than you do?”
“This doesn’t have to do with time. You understand things better than I do. I’ve been in the country for three weeks. As you can see, I’ve been riding around the country, going on tours like this one wherever they’ll take me. I’ll tell you the truth. The country is wonderful. Small, but beautiful. Our Jews are going to make something of it. But it’s strange to me that they keep telling us there is nowhere for people to settle. It’s a lie. Wherever I go, I see barren hills and empty fields. The country is empty! Our Jews, who have developed The Bronx, Brownsville, Boro-Park, East Flatbush, Flatbush and Queens will get a hold of Israel. The country will be developed and populated.”
“So, that’s good. So what’s eating you?”
p. 53
“Yes, it’s good. The first few days I thought I would spend three months here. I’ve been here only three weeks and I am going back.”
“Why?”
“I’m ashamed to tell you. I, a Zionist, feel like a stranger here. I am still not such an old man. I like to go to meetings, to all kinds of gatherings, to the theater, to concerts. I am without language here. On the street, in the bus, at the hotel, even at the post office, people will talk to you in Yiddish. But at any kind of assembly or performance – everything is Hebrew. And I don’t understand a word. I don’t even have a Yiddish newspaper here. Yes, they print an English paper, but my English is not that accomplished. I want a Yiddish newspaper.”
“What’s this, you’re a Yiddishist now?”
“Heaven forbid. Never have been. But to be in Yidn-Land and to see newspapers in every language on the newsstands: English, German, Polish, Romanian, and none in Yiddish… it’s unpleasant to me. Please don’t get me wrong: I am not saying they should get rid of Hebrew. Only allow Yiddish. Even their Hebrew is peculiar to me. I can read a Torah portion, even a little bit of Rashi. But that has nothing to do with the language that they speak. ‘Avrom’ has now become ‘Avraham’ and ‘Sore’, ‘Sarah’. It’s like some kind of Arabic.”
“So, this is already old news,” I answered.
“I’m sure you’ve been in on the joke,” the man smiled, “but I just got it. I heard and I knew they speak Hebrew here, but I am here in the country for the first time. So, tell me, with so many Jews who still speak Yiddish here, why aren’t they provided with a newspaper and something to entertain them?”
I did not want to get drawn into a debate with him. I answered, “I’ve been here just two weeks, and cannot give an opinion yet. Besides, I am a Yiddishist, and am useless as a witness.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Perhaps.”
The bus stopped. The guide called out:
p. 54
“We’re in Negba! We will stay here for half an hour!”
Negba. How much has been written about Kibbutz Negba! Right opposite this kibbutz was a fort. From that fort you could see the kibbutz as though it were laid out on a plate. The Egyptians shot at the kibbutz day and night. Nevertheless, Negba did not capitulate. The kibbutzniks halted the Egyptian army. The road to Tel-Aviv remained closed.
The bravery and heroics of Negba have been described by journalists and writers, and sung by poets. Negba became a symbol of the recent war. Of course, our tour would include a visit to Negba.
All of the participants stood around the guide. He began to talk:
“Our nehag (driver) often brought ammunition and food here. I thought that he would tell you about the deeds of the heroes of Negba. But I see Mottel is walking over here. He is the kibbutz baker. He was the m’fakeyd, the commander. Perhaps he can tell us what was done here.”
The guide called out. “Mottel, come on over. Maybe you can tell my Americans about Negba. But you’ll have to speak Yiddish. More than half of them don’t understand Hebrew.”
“Nu, Yiddish is Yiddish. I still have not forgotten my Bessarabian Yiddish,” answered Mottel. He stationed himself on a little mound of sand next to a dug-out trench, and he talked.
I went off to see the community. I’d read my fill about the heroism of Negba. I preferred to use my half hour to meet the people and talk with them.
The water tower was still standing, but was completely shot up with holes like a sieve. There were holes that you could put your whole head into. Below, the tower was encircled by yellow tarps. I went in to the tent.
A kind of earthen wall had been built around the water tower,…
p. 55
about waist high. The sand was supported by a wooden fence. A strapping young man stood there, working. He was working on a mural—a diagram of how the kibbutz had looked before the war. He did the work with primitive tools: A razor, a pocket-knife, a spoon to dig up the sand, and a bucket of paint. The figures of stables, houses, cows, and fields, lay packed in a crate that one might use to pack citrus fruits. He measured, calculated, and placed one “building” after another onto the wall of the earthwork.
We had a conversation.
Yes, he was “…here the whole time of the siege. Amazing to hold out? You had to hold out, if not, we were ready to fall here and be cut to pieces by the savages. It was no game. It was not a sure thing that we would hold out. It was lucky the first cease-fire came. That saved us. The second cease-fire saved the Arabs.
“What was left of the kibbutz? That, you can see in a different tent. I’m showing how the kibbutz looked before the war. There are two more displays in two other tents: How the kibbutz looked after the destruction, and how it will look after we have rebuilt it. Only the water tower will remain as a monument to future generations.
“We are over our heads with work to be done. Sure, it would be good if we could take in three hundred immigrants. But they won’t come. They don’t want to settle in a kibbutz, let alone in a kibbutz so far from a city. We don’t have it so good. We have to hire day laborers. That won’t do.
“No, the children still have not come back. There’s still nowhere to put them. But the buildings will be ready in a couple of months. We have gotten a loan.
“Why a loan? You can see how the kibbutz is practically completely destroyed. Rebuilding will take a pile of money. We’ve had enough important guests here; even your [Henry] Morganthau and [Daniel] Frisch have been here. All of them saw the destruction, were amazed at our heroism, and promised us the world. Have you seen anything? We haven’t. So, we got a loan.”
p. 56
“Tell me, young man,” I asked. “You’re working like a demon, you have to take on extra workers for hire, and here you are preparing an exhibition that is swallowing up a lot of time and effort. You’ve invited people from all over the country to an event [for the display] in a few days. It must cost money. How does that make sense?”
“What do you think we are, robots?” he asked. “All we do is drive ourselves and work? A little culture is also a necessity.”
The guide whistled. I left the tent. We went on our way.
We arrived in Be’er Sheva. A lovely city. There was very little destruction. The big mosque was untouched. Next to the mosque was a fine big restaurant, filled with military people.
As soon as we had finished eating, our guide began showing us the city. First he led us to Abraham’s well, which Abraham dug, and the servants of Abimelech took from him by force. A roof, or a kind of tent made out of heavy stones, had been built over the well. On top of the roof there is a hole from which you can see the water in the well. Right above the opening is a wheel with a long chain to which metal buckets are attached. That is how water is drawn there.
Off went the tourists, clambering up onto the roof and from there still higher onto the nearby stone arch. The women shrieked, the children yelled and the men took photographs.
I stood leaning against the wall of a half-collapsed house, a bit away from the well, looked at the scampering tourists, and could not for the life of me relate them to our patriarch Abraham. However much I struggled to do it, I could not imagine that these men and women who look like all other Americans are the great-great-great-great-grandchildren of Avrom Avinu, who dug this well in Be’er Sheva.
The guide whistled. He brought everyone to see the most beautiful building in Be’er Sheva. The Jewish Army had taken it over. It had been a courthouse and, before that, a pension [boarding house] for the daughters of well-off Arabs. Now the house is the soldiers’ recreation club. It was something to see.
p. 57
I stayed, alone. I looked and looked at the well. A mist rose from the water. The quiet was almost disorienting. The light of the sun was so bright that you could feel it. At my right there was a sign: “Travel in the Negev beyond this point is forbidden.”
I stood and looked at the well, at the mist and at the sunlight. Suddenly, I heard voices. Long-forgotten voices. My schoolteacher Sholem “Crooked Hand” was teaching me Chumesh:
Vayehi boeys hahie[3] and it was in that time, vayomer Abimelekh uFikhol sar tsevoy el Avrom lemor Abimelech and Phicol, his field marshal, spoke to Abraham saying: ‘Eloyhim imkho bekhol asher ato ose.’ God is with you in all that you do.’ [Genesis 21:22]
Now the stone canopy over the well disappeared. Only a ring of rectangular stones remained. Abraham and Abimelech and Phicol arrived. Abimelech tall and thin, a dark-skinned Arab sheikh. Next to him, Phicol the field marshal, short and stout, with bright eyes. There were servants, and seven bound sheep, not far from Abraham’s tamarisk.
How did they come together? I thought. The tamarisk would have to have been planted later.
But now here was Abraham, alone, and I asked him:
“Father Abraham, did you not long for Babylon, for your father and for Ur-Kashdim? Your brothers and sisters were still there. You had planted trees there, too. Here, you had to fight with Abimelech and do battle with kings. You had seen God there too, hadn’t you?! Father Abraham, how could home be there and here?”
Abraham did not answer. Another voice woke me from my reverie.
“Shalom! What are you doing standing there by yourself? They’re all gathering and are ready to leave.”
I looked at him. A Mem-Tsadik (mishtara tsvayot— a military policeman) stood next to me, smiling.
“You really speak Yiddish?” I answered.
“I am not that good at Hebrew. I’ve only been in the country for two years.”
p. 58
“How did you become a policeman?”
“The army doesn’t ask.”
“What are you guarding?”
“Didn’t you see? Travel in the Negev is forbidden beyond this point.”
I felt lightheaded, apparently from the heat. We went into the shade together. He brought me a cold drink of water. Then we talked. An old story. Out of his whole family, only he remained.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head on the wall and listened. Soon another voice joined in. Father Abraham gave his delayed answer: If the Abimelechs had remained here, where could he have gone? It’s easy to pose questions. Sometimes, one has to find a way to answer.
The young man led me to the bus. They had been waiting for me. Five minutes later, we were headed back to Tel-Aviv.
On the way back we stopped at some kibbutzim. We visited Yad Mordechai, which had been taken by the Egyptians. We saw the mass grave of the fallen. Our tourists took pictures of themselves next to the grave. After a while everyone went down to the valley where there was a new dining hall. They were in the process of eating, and our tourists, nearly seventy people, went in with a commotion. A kibbutznik lost his patience and asked:
“In America do people let themselves into someone’s house in the middle of a meal?”
Not everyone exited promptly.
An hour later we stopped in another kibbutz, a younger one: Nir Am. There were dozens of boys and girls. The boys in yarmulkes. The girls dressed like in all kibbutzim.
The group of young people served us tea. It was hard for me to fathom why they served hot tea to seventy strangers so enthusiastically. They apologized for not having any food to go with it.
I didn’t have the heart to accept the tea they served. I…
p. 59
…sat in a corner and talked to a young man. He told me about the war and about how they’d come there to occupy the empty land. Yes, besides working they have a Mishnah study group and a Gemara group. The girls study, too, and they pray three times a day. At prayer, the girls sit on the left side and the boys’ benches are on the right. Matches are arranged. They hope to have a mixed economy. Meanwhile, it’s hard. The hardest thing is being so far from another settlement. They are happy to get to see other people.
We stopped in other kibbutzim, too. But I will write more about kibbutzim later.
We drove back to Tel-Aviv. The crowd was tired. But there was not time to sit still. We drove past a city. A military police officer stopped us. “This is the Arab ghetto.” No, it was not fenced off, but he had to open a gate to let us in. The street was teeming with Arabs: women, men, old people and children. They did not look at us. Several young men sat on the sidewalk and smoked, looking defiant.
Our tourists were a little confused. A few spoke quietly. “Yuck. This is not right.” Others answered, “Well, the war just ended. What do you expect people to do? You can’t just leave them free as birds. Anyway, it’s not fenced off, only guarded by soldiers.” But still others called out happily, “Thank God we survived! And that it’s not them fencing us in, but us holding them.”
We came to the exit, which was blocked off. A soldier let us through and waved us on. The bus rode through slowly. Some of the Jews called out, “Guard them well! Watch them!”
We arrived in Tel-Aviv at half past nine at night. We’d missed the last bus to Ra’anana. I went to look for a taxi. The city was lit up, busy, and noisy. Children had some kind of activity in the nearest park. Apparently they were “Young Workers”, because I saw a madrikh, a leader, who directed them in singing and dancing. They sang the closing song, Moledet [Homeland]:
Motherland, motherland. We will build you.
Motherland, it’s our land
we are building you, motherland,
this is the commandment of our blood,
the commandment of generations.
An end to cursed servitude!
The bright blaze of a hopeful light
Rises in our blood…[4]
The children finished the song and scattered joyfully. The leader began to hurry off the ones who were still clustered there:
“Off you go, home!”
I found a taxi. My wife was upset with me.
“What took you so long?”
I was tired from the trip. Very tired. From everything I had seen and heard. Our family got into the taxi. I sat next to the driver and closed my eyes. As the car started moving, the driver hummed the melody of the song that the children had sung.
(click to continue with Chapter 6)
[1] The Histadrut was originally a labor organization, which grew into a business conglomerate and employer in its own right.
[2] Lit. “the settlement”, the Yishuv is pre-Independence Jewish Palestine. After the war it was sometimes used to distinguish the Jewish community from the nation as a whole.
[3] [translator’s note] Here, the reader will have to forgive me my mangling the Ashkenazi pronunciation of the Hebrew. Simon was clear that he prefered it, and if he is channeling his kheyder teacher’s voice, it would certainly be with that, rather than the modern Hebrew pronunciation.
[4] It may be the song he is refering to is נבנה ארצנו, “Our Country Will be Built,” by Avraham Levinson.
The Nation State and the Promised Land 