A fictional story about an Israeli father and son. With homage to James Michener, the historical references are true but the people in the story are completely fictitious. Those familiar with the history of the State of Israel will appreciate the candor of the story. I hope you enjoy it.
By Ya'cov Rosenne
Yitzhak had survived Hitler's ovens and in 1943 was one of the survivors of the Sorbibor breakout. He spent the rest of the war fighting with partisans, confounding the Nazis, hurting and killing them whenever he could. All the time he spent in this situation he began to think about Palestine. He had wanted to go there since he was a child. He had decided that if he survives the war he would make his way to and help build the Jewish homeland. In 1945 the war ended and he found his way to a Haganna headquarters in Warsaw. They told him of an underground railroad that was sneaking Jews into Palestine under British noses. Code name: Bricha. That is how Yitzhak got into Palestine.
When he arrived he settled in the Carmel section of Haifa. There were so many Polish Jews there. He was able to survive with his Yiddish until he learned enough Hebrew. The Bricha system outfitted him with papers and a new name. He went to work at the oil refinery, the only refinery in Palestine. While he worked there he got interested in politics. He rose to be the representative of the refinery for the Haifa Workers Council, the arm of the Histadrut in Haifa. Yitzhak made many friends there. He was very likable. Both Arabs and Jews grew to respect Yitzhak’s leadership. There was harmony among the workers of Haifa. Everyone pulled together. It was a good thing.
Then the partition vote in November of 1947 gave the Jews a legitimate right to a small piece of the Palestine Mandate. The partition designated two states out of Palestine one Arab and one Jewish. The Jews accepted. After 2000 years there was going to be a sovereign Jewish homeland in Palestine. The Arabs did not accept and began immediately attacking Jews in the streets and in the country side. Overnight people who were friendly now were enemies. During the month of December 1947 things were very bad for the Jews. They did not expect such a violent reaction from their Arab neighbors. They had miscalculated. This cost the Jews dearly during that month. On a cold morning at the end of December, the Arab military contingent in Haifa led by Mohammed Hamad al-Huneiti, attacked the refinery. Yitzhak and his friends fought bravely but did not have many weapons. Yitzhak was one of the few survivors. Forty-one Jews died that day. It was an ugly scene after it was over. Bodies and body parts were strewn all over the refinery floor where the battle took place. After they killed the Jews, the Arabs took large knives and mutilated the bodies. It was awful.
Yitzhak, undaunted by this display of barbarism by Haifa's Arabs knew deeply in his heart that they could live together as they had been, side by side after the Jewish State would be declared. Even though partition had included Haifa as part of the Jewish State the Arabs were not going to go quietly. The Jews then decided to take the city by force. For two months, fighting raged in the streets between the Haganna and the Arab forces. Yitzhak took up his old partisan stance and did his fair share of heroics. But at meetings he always emphasized the importance of relaying to the Arabs after they were defeated, to stay. To continue working along side their Jewish neighbors. The Haifa Workers Council responded to Yitzhak in positive terms. Out of 12 men only one was insistent on letting the Arabs go.
In mid April Yitzhak accompanied Moshe Carmel and Mordachai Makleff, the Haganna commanders of the Haifa forces, to the offices of General Stockwell, the British mandating authority over Haifa. Stockwell had called a meeting between the Jewish and Arab leaders to see if he could stop the fighting. Now that the Jews were taking the upper hand he knew he may have a chance for a cease fire. The Arabs rejected the terms. Stockwell, was beside himself. He felt the terms were fair. He pleaded with the Arabs to change their minds. They refused. Once again Yitzhak was not deterred by this intransigent reaction from the Arab leaders.
Yitzhak's call to keep Arab integrity intact in Haifa spread through the community. Haifa's Jewish mayor called out to the Arab residents that if they accept the terms of surrender they would be welcomed to stay and help build the city together. They received only negative responses. The Jews continued to take the city by force. Arabs fled in terror from Jewish reprisals for the brutal attack on the refinery back in December. Yitzhak, called an emergency meeting of the Haifa Workers Council. Even as Arabs poured out of the city the council delivered pamphlets. One last ditch effort to try to persuade the Arab population to stay. Most of them unfortunately did not.
For years afterwards Yitzhak blamed himself for not trying harder to persuade the Arabs not to leave. He lied awake at nights running the events over and over again in his mind. What could he have done differently? He was always an advocate of trying to reconcile with the Arab states. To work for peace now was the only answer to Yitzhak's guilt.
In 1952 he befriended an Arab leader from Abu Ganeim on the eastern side of Lake Kinneret. He worked with this man for six months in hopes that they could together once again bring peace to their two peoples. Then Arab hooligans murdered the man. They carved into his chest a Magan David to show the man was a traitor. Yitzhak could not believe that the Arabs had once again destroyed their own hopes for regaining their self respect. Over the years other individual Arabs were killed the same way for the same reasons. In 1962 while Yitzhak was visiting some friends in the North during Tubish'vat, he was downed by a terrorist's bullet.
His life was ended by the people he had worked for the last twenty years to save. It was an ironic end to such a giving life. He loved Israel. Saw it as the redemption of the Jewish people.
He was a good man
He was my father.
I love you Abba,
Ya'cov
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
The American Nazi Party 1970
A true story of an experience I had as a young man. Some of this is embellished to make the story more interesting because my life was so pitifully boring during that time, but most of it is true. Originally written in the early 1980s, I hope you like it.
Recently I was reminded of some memories of a personal experience with the "American Nazi Party" I would like to share with all of you. The year was 1970. I was working while in college at a record and music store in downtown Los Angeles. Growing up in that city I never really came into contact with real live "Nazis" before. But it was no secret to the Jewish community and others that they had their Southern California headquarters located in Glendale. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Glendale is a small incorporated city adjacent to L.A.
Anyway there was very little warning, not like what you have today. Around lunch time the street became buzzing with the fact that the Nazis were going to march right down Broadway and past my store. I have to point out here that this area was heavily traveled by immigrant groups. The most prevalent being, even for 1970, were the Mexicans. That part of downtown catered to the people of East L.A. Every where you walked you heard the blaring of Mariachi Music (indigenous folk music to Mexico). The smell of Mexican food wafted down the street and attacked your senses, sending images of Mexican culture, surrounding you at every turn. Spanish was heard frequently. I myself had to be bilingual to work in the store that employed me. It was a bit unusual as most of the employees of this area were from the "Barrios." How a nice Jewish boy from Pico/Robertson ended up working there is another story. But I digress. There were all the other minority groups there too. Asians, Blacks and of course our own people who usually were the proprietors of most of these shops that lined the blvd.
Upon hearing this news my skin began to crawl, I became tense, I had a feeling that trouble was looming ahead. When I was young, I was volatile, passionate and always ready for a fight if the cause was just. I had the feeling that I always get, just before the pugilist inside gets the better of me. I was scared that something awful was going to happen. Around 1:30 PM the little Armenian kid from the cigar stand next door came running in yelling "Larry, here they come. There coming down the street, come on, come on!" The owner of the store, who was a Holocaust survivor, was standing at the counter opposite me. I dropped what I was doing and started to walk to the front of the store. Our eyes met and locked. He did not say anything and never spoke about it afterward but I felt as if he was giving me his blessing to go and do what was necessary. He knew I was a Jew. He knew I could handle myself, as on more than one occasion I had bodily thrown out the local riffraff that was making trouble in the store. For that split second I felt a connection, a kinship, with our people who too late, fell into the Nazi grasp and were not able to do enough about it to make a difference. The ghosts of that past were urging me on through this one man's eyes who I am sure if he had been younger and healthier would have joined me on that walk out to the front of store.
When I came out the door, I looked down the block which was filled with people as it always was. About a block away rising over the sea of humanity several red flags were bobbing slightly up and down in a standard rhythm. As they came closer the "Swastika" was plainly in view. A familiar lump appeared in my throat. They were closer now, I could see them clearly. The were all dressed up in Brown shirted uniforms complete with the "Swastika" armband. They looked authentic all right. Right down to their spit and polish Jack boots which they were strutting in the goose step that was a trademark of the German Army. What was coming down the street in color I had seen many times before in black and white in the newsreels as they would bully there way down busy German streets before they came to power. It was Kafka-esque to be sure. As they came closer I could see their faces. The front of the line was where they strategically put the biggest guys. If there was violence they wanted these big, ugly looking red necks up there where they could hopefully crack enough heads to get them through any trouble that might arise. This one guy I remember was marching down the street with a smile on his face like he was enjoying the whole thing. He was just waiting for someone to make a move. That's what he was there for.
They were now about three or four doors away. I would say there was probably between 25 or 30 of them marching two by two. They carried placards with the usual racist stuff that you would expect the Nazis to incite with. Most of it was against Mexicans and other Spanish speaking people. Since this was an area that catered to Latin culture they thought it would be a good idea to have lots of insulting stuff about Mexicans. Oh, and of course I saw at least two signs about us in there. They couldn't have a march anywhere without saying something about the Jews.
They were close enough now that I could see the pimples on their faces. The scars of previous fights and the beads of sweat that were beginning to show on some of them. As they approached my muscles tightened and my fists clenched. I had decided that if trouble started I was going to go after "Smily" in the front of the line. The laws of the street say to always go after the biggest ones first. You always better your odds that way. Usually when things would get to this point, I would be concentrating too hard for me to hear anything else other than my own breathing. But something stopped me.
I heard the crowd shouting back at them. There was a groundswell of anger being directed right at them. It suddenly dawned on me that I was not alone. There were many people out there that hated what I hated. And they were expressing it in a way that only Latin tempers can do. It was beautiful. I fell back and relaxed. I let them pass because I knew they were going to have to end their little exhibition soon or they would be terribly outnumbered from the people on the street. With each step they took the crowd seemed to get louder and moved closer to them. They passed me without incident but as they were going by I saw real fear from the guys who were pulling up the rear. One young man in his early twenties seemed genuinely scared as his eyes kept darting back and forth as if an attempt to watch every move the crowd made. That was quite a contrast from that big, ugly smiling redneck they had in front. The irony of how fast the scene went from something the Nazis could control and remain confident to one where they looked intimidated and scared, is something that sticks in my mind to this day. That guy on the end looked like he would have rather been anywhere else at that moment other than in that line.
About twenty yards past my store bedlam broke. I saw the flags with the "Swastikas" go down first. Fists were flying every where and people were screaming. Non combatants were running from the scene to avoid possibly getting hurt. Every single one of the Nazis went down. None of them escaped at least minor injury. I did not partake in those activities as I was content to be a spectator. I was just too amazed that so many people could get so pissed off at one time at the people who were my mortal enemies. There were old ladies and people in wheel chairs getting into it. It was really a sight. The LAPD had their work cut out for them in breaking it up. The Nazis were taught a lesson that day. They were sent back to Glendale licking their wounds, like the dogs that they are. Its too bad some of them didn't die.
I learned something that day too. The Nazis will never be able to gain any kind of foothold here in America. Americans are just too smart for that. I believe that as long as we keep our democratic principals, groups like the KKK, the Nazis, and the Aryan Brotherhood will always remain small and at the very outskirts of our society, lest they get their butts kicked.
Recently I was reminded of some memories of a personal experience with the "American Nazi Party" I would like to share with all of you. The year was 1970. I was working while in college at a record and music store in downtown Los Angeles. Growing up in that city I never really came into contact with real live "Nazis" before. But it was no secret to the Jewish community and others that they had their Southern California headquarters located in Glendale. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Glendale is a small incorporated city adjacent to L.A.
Anyway there was very little warning, not like what you have today. Around lunch time the street became buzzing with the fact that the Nazis were going to march right down Broadway and past my store. I have to point out here that this area was heavily traveled by immigrant groups. The most prevalent being, even for 1970, were the Mexicans. That part of downtown catered to the people of East L.A. Every where you walked you heard the blaring of Mariachi Music (indigenous folk music to Mexico). The smell of Mexican food wafted down the street and attacked your senses, sending images of Mexican culture, surrounding you at every turn. Spanish was heard frequently. I myself had to be bilingual to work in the store that employed me. It was a bit unusual as most of the employees of this area were from the "Barrios." How a nice Jewish boy from Pico/Robertson ended up working there is another story. But I digress. There were all the other minority groups there too. Asians, Blacks and of course our own people who usually were the proprietors of most of these shops that lined the blvd.
Upon hearing this news my skin began to crawl, I became tense, I had a feeling that trouble was looming ahead. When I was young, I was volatile, passionate and always ready for a fight if the cause was just. I had the feeling that I always get, just before the pugilist inside gets the better of me. I was scared that something awful was going to happen. Around 1:30 PM the little Armenian kid from the cigar stand next door came running in yelling "Larry, here they come. There coming down the street, come on, come on!" The owner of the store, who was a Holocaust survivor, was standing at the counter opposite me. I dropped what I was doing and started to walk to the front of the store. Our eyes met and locked. He did not say anything and never spoke about it afterward but I felt as if he was giving me his blessing to go and do what was necessary. He knew I was a Jew. He knew I could handle myself, as on more than one occasion I had bodily thrown out the local riffraff that was making trouble in the store. For that split second I felt a connection, a kinship, with our people who too late, fell into the Nazi grasp and were not able to do enough about it to make a difference. The ghosts of that past were urging me on through this one man's eyes who I am sure if he had been younger and healthier would have joined me on that walk out to the front of store.
When I came out the door, I looked down the block which was filled with people as it always was. About a block away rising over the sea of humanity several red flags were bobbing slightly up and down in a standard rhythm. As they came closer the "Swastika" was plainly in view. A familiar lump appeared in my throat. They were closer now, I could see them clearly. The were all dressed up in Brown shirted uniforms complete with the "Swastika" armband. They looked authentic all right. Right down to their spit and polish Jack boots which they were strutting in the goose step that was a trademark of the German Army. What was coming down the street in color I had seen many times before in black and white in the newsreels as they would bully there way down busy German streets before they came to power. It was Kafka-esque to be sure. As they came closer I could see their faces. The front of the line was where they strategically put the biggest guys. If there was violence they wanted these big, ugly looking red necks up there where they could hopefully crack enough heads to get them through any trouble that might arise. This one guy I remember was marching down the street with a smile on his face like he was enjoying the whole thing. He was just waiting for someone to make a move. That's what he was there for.
They were now about three or four doors away. I would say there was probably between 25 or 30 of them marching two by two. They carried placards with the usual racist stuff that you would expect the Nazis to incite with. Most of it was against Mexicans and other Spanish speaking people. Since this was an area that catered to Latin culture they thought it would be a good idea to have lots of insulting stuff about Mexicans. Oh, and of course I saw at least two signs about us in there. They couldn't have a march anywhere without saying something about the Jews.
They were close enough now that I could see the pimples on their faces. The scars of previous fights and the beads of sweat that were beginning to show on some of them. As they approached my muscles tightened and my fists clenched. I had decided that if trouble started I was going to go after "Smily" in the front of the line. The laws of the street say to always go after the biggest ones first. You always better your odds that way. Usually when things would get to this point, I would be concentrating too hard for me to hear anything else other than my own breathing. But something stopped me.
I heard the crowd shouting back at them. There was a groundswell of anger being directed right at them. It suddenly dawned on me that I was not alone. There were many people out there that hated what I hated. And they were expressing it in a way that only Latin tempers can do. It was beautiful. I fell back and relaxed. I let them pass because I knew they were going to have to end their little exhibition soon or they would be terribly outnumbered from the people on the street. With each step they took the crowd seemed to get louder and moved closer to them. They passed me without incident but as they were going by I saw real fear from the guys who were pulling up the rear. One young man in his early twenties seemed genuinely scared as his eyes kept darting back and forth as if an attempt to watch every move the crowd made. That was quite a contrast from that big, ugly smiling redneck they had in front. The irony of how fast the scene went from something the Nazis could control and remain confident to one where they looked intimidated and scared, is something that sticks in my mind to this day. That guy on the end looked like he would have rather been anywhere else at that moment other than in that line.
About twenty yards past my store bedlam broke. I saw the flags with the "Swastikas" go down first. Fists were flying every where and people were screaming. Non combatants were running from the scene to avoid possibly getting hurt. Every single one of the Nazis went down. None of them escaped at least minor injury. I did not partake in those activities as I was content to be a spectator. I was just too amazed that so many people could get so pissed off at one time at the people who were my mortal enemies. There were old ladies and people in wheel chairs getting into it. It was really a sight. The LAPD had their work cut out for them in breaking it up. The Nazis were taught a lesson that day. They were sent back to Glendale licking their wounds, like the dogs that they are. Its too bad some of them didn't die.
I learned something that day too. The Nazis will never be able to gain any kind of foothold here in America. Americans are just too smart for that. I believe that as long as we keep our democratic principals, groups like the KKK, the Nazis, and the Aryan Brotherhood will always remain small and at the very outskirts of our society, lest they get their butts kicked.
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