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.
For someone who did not live in Israel during the war, it could seem as though the whole fight between the Jews and the seven Arab nations was nothing more than a combat between small armies over a limited area of land. But when you visit the State of Israel even for a short time, you soon grasp that this was a total war involving the lives of around three-quarters of a million Jews. If the Arabs, heaven forbid, had won, the fate of these Jews in the State of Israel would have been the same as the fate of the Jews in Europe under Hitler’s rule.
The victory of the Jews over the Arabs was so large and independence came so unexpectedly, that it is hard for the Jews to get used to the thought of an independent state of their own, without an Arab majority. They do not believe it. In the Yishuv, I very often heard:
“Just now English were in total control here and the roads were not safe because of the scoundrels, the Arabs, and only a few months later, we became the ones in charge over our own fate.”
Jews still lack experience in governing a country. I witnessed a lot of funny incidents in the State of Israel. The pokidim, officials, who had…
p. 198
not been officials under English rule, still do not accept that they are actually government officials and have authority.
Both government experience and skill are lacking. The military parade that was conducted in August was supposed to have taken place at the beginning of May, but the parade was postponed after it began. Neither the military nor the civilian police could succeed in clearing a path among the onlookers for the soldiers to parade with their weapons.
The Jews are proud of having won independence, and boast about how their army fought in the war. But at every turn you also hear them sigh, and finish up by saying, “If only we did not need such heroism.”
Here the people show a mixture of the old deeply-rooted Jewish antipathy to yevonim,[1] to government officials, and to rulers in general, and pride in their own nation-state and respect for official people.
It is interesting that when military parade was finally conducted in August, its official purpose was not just to show off the strength and preparedness of the army. The government linked it to Herzl’s and Bialik’s yortsayts[2], and to bringing Herzl’s remains from exile in the time of independence. But, in the end, the military parade drowned everything else out. On that day, the speakers spoke only about the army and Bialik’s yortsayt was set aside. The ceremony around Herzl’s casket also took place a little later that month. Pointed articles about the jumble were printed in the Israeli press. It seemed to me that it was not done out of confusion, but simply that Jews could not initially bring themselves to organize a military parade just for the sake of a parade, or to show the greatness and heroism of the army. But having had a taste of a parade, they found they liked it.
I saw a good example of Jewish reticence with respect to patriotism when I witnessed a patriotic event in Ra’Anana. The community had made a plan to erect a monument. But the public was not called to gather just for a patriotic commemoration, using the occasion to raise the necessary funds. Instead, the gathering for the monument was linked to the interment of Herzl’s remains.
p. 199
When Herzl’s remains were brought to the State of Israel, the government put out a call to every community, moshav, kibbutz, and town in the country, for every settlement to send a delegation to Jerusalem with a little bag of soil. The casket of that dreamer from the diaspora would be covered with this soil taken from every settlement in the country.
The community of Ra’Anana called a meeting for all its residents: “That evening will also include a memorial for the fallen soldiers and money will be collected for the monument. A ceremony will be conducted to fill the bag with soil. Finally, a delegation will be chosen to attend Herzl’s burial, which will take place in Jerusalem.”
A good crowd came out for the evening, but not a huge one. It was a very strange patriotic event. No one had taken the trouble to prepare a program. It could very well be that no one knew what kind of a program they should prepare. Here were our Jews who had come from Eastern Europe, and it apparently did not occur to them to arrange for a band to play patriotic songs, or a children’s choir, or to have a slate of speakers to give patriotic speeches. There were no representatives of any of the political parties, nor were there any high government officials to be seen. The secretary of the public school announced in a monotone: “Our esteemed rabbi will speak about the subject of the day.”
The rabbi stood up and gave a talk that was part modern-day speech, part Talmudic interpretation and sermonizing. One memory stays with me. He said there is a midrash that the Jews in the time of the return to Zion [from Babylonia] were sinful, and that therefore they did not have the merit to conquer the land by force. They were not qualified to wage a war, and so instead God sent a pious king, who gave them the land without bloodshed. But our generation, like the generation of Joshua son of Nun, occupies a higher level, and had the merit to conquer the land by the sword.
Someone whispered in my ear: “Even if there is such an exquisite midrash, he did not need to bring it up. Spilling blood is spilling blood.”
After the sermon the school principal stood up and…
p. 200
explained that the bag of earth would be taken from the earth around the “mother tree”, the first tree that was planted in Ra’Anana.
The crowd positioned itself around the thick and luxuriant tree and the rabbi took a little bit of dirt with a spoon and poured it into the little blue and white cloth bag. Then he called out names of the oldest residents of Ra’Anana. After them, names were called of the fathers and mothers of the fallen soldiers. Each was asked not to take too much earth in the spoon, because the mourners were many and the bag was small (Fifty souls had fallen in Ra’Anana).
When the earth ceremony was done, the crowd stood on line and everyone each one signed a pledge for a contribution to the monument. The donor received a printed receipt, that read as follows: “This witnesses and certifies that so- and so- has contributed this sum as a brick in erecting the memorial to the fifty souls from Ra’Anana who fell in the war of liberation.” Signed: “Security Advisory Board and City Administration of Ra’Anana”.
When it was finished, people stood and sang the Hatikvah. Among the usual singing of the crowd, voices full of quavering and tears rang out. I looked around to see where these voices came from and saw a group of women who stood separately: The mothers of the fallen solders were singing. The old familiar tune sounded as though I was hearing it for the first time in my life. When the last two lines were repeated:
Lih’yot am chofshi b’artseinu
Eretz Tsiyon v’Yerushalayim[3]
I am not ashamed to tell you that tears began to catch in my throat. I turned away. When I stole a look back at the singing mothers, I saw that their eyes were dry, though their lips trembled.
People dispersed quickly and quietly. I arrived at my brother’s house, sat down on the veranda, and stayed there, thinking, late into the night. No, the patriotic event did not reflect the…
p. 201
passionate bond between the Jewish people and the land of their ancestors. I heard a kind of hint in the singing of the mothers, but what do the parents of fallen soldiers truly think? I found out by happenstance.
A couple of days before I left the State of Israel, a fifteen-year-old boy came to me with a note in Hebrew from his mother, who lived not far from Ramat Gan. In the note she wrote that she wanted me to come to see her for the sake of bygone years. She wanted me to have a look at her son. She cannot even imagine that Shloymke (that is how they called me in the town of my birth) could be in Israel without seeing her son.
The name that was signed at the bottom was unfamiliar to me, and the wording of the note, “have a look at her son”, and, ‘without seeing her son,” was perplexing. I went out to the chicken coops, where my brother was working, and showed him the note. He told me that the note was from Hannah the Redhead, a long ago neighbor of ours from our town. I immediately remembered who she is. She was a year or two older than me and was a fanatical Zionist. Her father had been a tanner. Yes, my brother said, that is her. It would be a great mitzvah for me to go to see her. Her son was killed. He was a very talented boy, eighteen years old. He was in the Palmach, and he fell into Arab hands, and afterwards he was found, cut to pieces. Obviously, they did not show his mother the body, but she knows about it. He said I have to be very careful when I talk to her; since her boy was killed she is still a little bit confused. Her younger son, Hershl-Tsvi is the boy who brought the note.
I went off with the boy. I found her in a typical moshav house with three rooms. She was sitting on the veranda with two neighbors. I recognized her right away. Her red hair had not gone completely gray.
She gave me her hand, turned to her neighbors and in a calm tone said to them: “This is Shloymke. He came all the way from America to look at my Nathan.” Then she asked me, “Do you want to see him now, or after you have something to eat?”
p. 202
I feigned ignorance. “I do not want to eat. I am curious to meet your Nathan. Where is he?”
“Come,” she gestured to me, “he has a whole room to himself. His friends have sent flowers from the Galilee, and ears of grain from the Jordan Valley. I have set them out for him.”
Her words sent a shiver up my spine, and I followed her with a heavy heart. We went into the room. A large picture of him, set in a finely carved frame, stood on a small table. I looked at the picture. Still, really a child. A vase with dried flowers stood on the table next to the picture. A bundle of wheat sheaves lay next to the vase.
She pointed to a bookcase. “These are his books and his things are hanging in the closet.” She chuckled quietly. “He loved to spruce himself up like a girl. He resembled my brother Aaron David. I’ve kept his clothes, his books, and his shoes. You know, Shloyme, I often like to sit here and look at him. He was never a talker, and when I sit here and look at him, here he is. His clothes smell like him.”
I could not take my eyes off her. Hearing her speak with such calm and ease, that an uncanny dread came over me. I was afraid something in her might suddenly burst. I thought, Someone has to take her out of the room. I said to her, “I am thirsty. Come, Hannah, give me a cold drink. You can tell me about him sitting at the table.”
As she went to leave the room, she said to me, “It won’t help you. I am not letting you go until you eat something. That would be a fine thing, for you to come all the way from America and leave hungry.”
I chewed my food patiently and she talked.
“He came to me and said, ‘Momma, I got into the Palmach’ I said, ‘You are not even seventeen years old. You should still be in school.’ He answered me, ‘Of course I should be in school, but if the Arabs win, there will be nowhere to learn and no one to teach me. We will be driven into the sea.’ You understand, Shloyme, he was wise beyond his years. So I said…
p. 203
to him, ‘But you are too young, nonetheless. You are not fit to be in the Palmach.’ He answered me, ‘Doctors have examined me. They say that I am fit. Who knows better?’ So, I said to him, ‘And if worst happens?’ And he answered me as an adult. ‘I’ll tell you.’ he said, ‘You will suffer. As for me, I do not want to die young, either.’ Done talking, we sat together in silence. What could I say? He has to obey his parents? I did not obey my own parents. I ran off, leaving a prosperous home straight into the wilderness. I hacked rocks, suffered from malarial fever, and took my punches. Hadn’t I signed up for guard duty, spent whole nights with wounded comrades, and carried a gun myself? Then how could I advise him otherwise? And he, being my son, was as stubborn as I was and would not have obeyed me anyway.
“That evening, before he left, I spoke to him, not like an old Zionist, but as a soft-hearted mother: ‘Who will be left to me?’ He answered me sternly, ‘What kind of way to talk is that?’ I’m telling you, he had a head like a wise old man on his shoulders. ‘You have Poppa and Zvi, still.’ Zvi is my younger, named after my father, Hershl[4]. I said to him, ‘You do not need to sacrifice yourself so young:’
“He answered me: ‘In fact I am young, and it is not good. But what do you want? For someone else to shed their blood so there can be a motherland for me? Zvi is still here. Maybe he will not have to fight. And don’t cry, Momma. It is not going to help. A land always demands blood, sweat and tears.’ I’m telling you, he was an old soul. He told me, ‘The young gives his blood, the father his sweat, and the mother her tears. But we can do without the tears.’ Only later did I get ahold of myself. Woe is me! Both of us spoke as though we were sure he would not come back. Later I beat myself up about it: ‘How can a mother talk to her son like that before he goes off to war? I should have spoken to him differently. Differently.’ But how could I have spoken to him differently when I knew, and he knew too, that he would fall in battle? How did we know? You can see we knew. But that they would dismember him, that I did not…
p. 204
know. When they would not show me his body, I understood right away. But I did not cry. He had said to me, after all, ‘Momma, don’t cry. It will not help you. We can do without the tears’.
“But I’m not doing well. I know that the earth demands blood, that’s how it has always been. But when the blood that the earth soaks up is the blood of the light of your life, you don’t do well. You have a son, so you know. But not crying. ‘It can be done without tears,’ he said. And he was right. Tears do not help, because we have come to posses a land as our inheritance. And until the earth soaks up your blood, it is not yours!”
In the evening I sat and spoke with my brother.
“If she had cried and become hysterical,” I said, “it would have been a lot easier for me to sit with her and to hear her pour out her words. But her dry eyes and quiet talk, her calm shocked me. Why didn’t she cry?”
“The Yishuv does not cry,” my brother replied. “The burden is born in silence. We have taken it on ourselves voluntarily. Our sons have not fallen on the battlefield because the goyim were fighting one another, but because we wanted to take a land as our inheritance. Earth demands blood. We know it and we do not cry. This is how it had to be. The misfortune is great in many houses, but it is still nothing compared to what happened to our brothers under Hitler. We have received payment for our spilled blood. A country of our own. This is a comfort.”
The dry eyes of the mothers who sang the Hatikvah, the not-completely-coherent speech of that unfortunate mother, and my brother’s words now came together for me to create a picture of a unique Jewish patriotism.
[1] see earlier “Comment: On Pair of Hebrew Words in Yiddish”
[2] Yortsayts. The anniversary of their deaths.
[3] To be a free people in our land / The land of Zion and Jerusalem.
[4] The name Hershl comes from ‘hirsh’, Yiddish for deer. ‘Zvi’ is Hebrew for deer.
The Nation State and the Promised Land 