CHAPTER 12 - War, Hunger and Alexander's 'With The Turks in Palestine'
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| Alexander Aronson in British Uniform |
When Alexander Aronson writes his little book ‘With the Turks in Palestine’, he dedicates it to his beloved mother, Malka: ‘Who lived and died for a regenerated Palestine.’ He begins somewhat melodramatically: ‘While Belgium is bleeding and hoping, while Poland suffers and dreams of liberation, while Serbia is waiting for redemption, there is a little country, the soul of which is torn to pieces, a little country that is so remote, so remote, that her ardent sighs cannot be heard, it is this country of perpetual sacrifice... Palestine. A country that can be made again, a land of milk and honey when the heavy boot of the Turks is removed...’
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| ‘With the Turks in Palestine’ |
He writes too: ‘No war correspondents, no Red Cross or relief committees have gone to Palestine, because no actual fighting has taken place there, and yet hundreds of thousands are suffering there that worst of agonies, the agony of the stomach and the spirit...’
And of his youth in Zikhron with more than a touch of Zionist pride for the pioneer spirit and of disdain for the natives of the land: ‘Here I was born; my childhood was passed here in the peace and harmony of this little agricultural community, with its whitewashed stone houses huddled close together for protection against the native Arabs who, at first, menaced the life of the new colony.’
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| The Village of Zikhron Ya'akov in the Early Years |
An idealised description, to be sure, and tinged with the Eurocentric superiority of the time: ‘The village was far more suggestive of Switzerland than of the conventional slovenly villages of the East, mud-built and filthy; for while it was the purpose of our people, in returning to the Holy Land, to foster the Jewish language and the social conditions of the Old Testament as far as possible, there was nothing retrograde in this movement. No time was lost in introducing progressive methods of agriculture, and the climatological experiments of other countries were observed and made use of in developing the ample natural resources of the land.’
He describes the growth of agriculture and the greening of the Land, all the while, casting aspersions on Arab ignorance of modern practices: ‘Eucalyptus, imported from Australia, soon gave the shade of its cool, healthful foliage where previously no trees had grown. In the course of time, dry farming was introduced and extended with American agricultural implements; pedigree cattle were imported, and poultry-raising on a large scale was undertaken with the aid of incubators - to the disgust of the Arabs, who look on such usurpation of the hen's functions as against nature and sinful. Our people replaced the wretched native trails with good roads, bordered by hedges of thorny acacia which, in season, were covered with downy little yellow blossoms that smelled sweeter than honey when the sun was on them.’
And perhaps, a little disingenuously, of the rights of women: ‘More important than all these, a communal village government was established, in which both sexes enjoyed equal rights, including that of suffrage - strange as this may seem to persons who when they think of the matter at all, form vague conceptions of all the women-folk of Palestine as shut up in harems.’
Yes, Alex's young women enjoyed sexual freedoms, inconceivable in the Old Country. But they were still at the mercy of male power and exploitation.
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| Jewish Soldiers from Palestine in the Turkish Army |
In late 1914, when the war broke out Alex was conscripted into the Turkish Army. He reported obediently for duty at a recruiting station at Acre along with twenty other young Jews.
‘Of course, we never dreamed that Turkey would do anything but remain neutral. If we had had any idea of the turn things were ultimately to take, we should have given a different greeting to the mouchtar, or sheriff, who came to our village with the list of mobilizable men to be called on for service. My own position was a curious one. I had every intention of completing the process of becoming an American citizen, which I had begun by taking out 'first papers.' In the eyes of the law, however, I was still a Turkish subject, with no claim to American protection. This was sneeringly pointed out to me by the American Consul at Haifa, Jacob Schumacher - who happens to be a German American; so there was no other course but to surrender myself to the Turkish Government.’
Indeed, the Ottoman Empire - or what was left of it - now on the side of Germany, called upon its subjects of all ethnicities to support the war effort.
The new recruits from Muslim, rural backgrounds faced harsh conditions. They were ill-equipped, lacked adequate supplies, and suffered from poor sanitation and medical care. Along with these poor devils, Jewish boys were marched off and made to wait in the heat, seated in the dust, with hundreds of impoverished locals.
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| Alexander marked with an X in the Turkish Army 1914 |
Alex reports: ‘I was young and strong and healthy - and even if I had not been, the physical examination of Turkish recruits is a farce. The enlisting officers have a theory of their own that no man is really unfit for the army - a theory which has been fostered by the ingenious devices of the Arabs to avoid conscription. To these wild people the protracted discipline of military training is simply a purgatory, and for weeks before the recruiting officers are due, they dose themselves with powerful herbs and physics and fast, and nurse sores into being, until they are in a really deplorable condition. Some of them go so far as to cut off a finger or two.’
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| Safed/Sfad from Alexander's 'With the Turks' |
Alex and some of the others were ordered to travel to Safed, where a garrison was located, a four-day march, an arduous journey on foot, in the heat of the September sun. They had to obtain their own food, and the 'deplorable' and hungry local recruits caused conflict by stealing from villages they passed by.
In Alex's own words: ‘It was a four days' march - four days of heat and dust and physical suffering. The September sun smote us mercilessly as we straggled along the miserable native trail, full of gullies and loose stones. It would not have been so bad if we had been adequately shod or clothed; but soon we found ourselves envying the ragged Arabs as they trudged along barefoot, paying no heed to the jagged flints. Shoes, to the Arab, are articles for ceremonious indoor use; when any serious walking is to be done, he takes them off, slings them over his shoulder, and trusts to the horny soles of his feet.
To add to our troubles, the Turkish officers, with
characteristic fatalism, had made no commissary provision for us
whatever. Any food we ate had to be purchased by the roadside from
our own funds, which were scant enough to start with. The Arabs
were in a terrible plight. Most of them were penniless, and, as the
pangs of hunger set in, they began pillaging right and left from
the little farms by the wayside.’
On arrival in Safed, they were informed that a rodent-inhabited mosque would serve as their barracks.
‘Next morning we were routed out at five. The black depths of the well in the center of the mosque courtyard provided doubtful water for washing, bathing, and drinking; then came breakfast - our first government meal - consisting, simply enough, of boiled rice, which was ladled out into tin wash-basins holding rations for ten men. In true Eastern fashion we squatted down round the basin and dug into the rice with our fingers.. A most unpleasant habit, it must be said...’
The nightmare was only beginning but canny Alex played the usual game of bravado and flattery.
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| Soldiers Tents in Samaria from 'With The Turks' |
‘It was my good fortune soon to be released from the noise and dirt of the mosque. I had had experience with corruptible Turkish officers; and one day, when barrack conditions became unendurable, I went to the officer commanding our division - an old Arab from Latakieh who had been called from retirement at the time of the mobilization. He lived in a little tent near the mosque, where I found him squatting on the floor, nodding drowsily over his comfortable paunch. As he was an officer of the old régime, I entered boldly, squatted beside him and told him my troubles. The answer came with an enormous shrug of the shoulders.
'You are serving the Sultan. Hardship should be sweet!'
'I should be more fit to serve him if I got more sleep and rest.'
He waved a fat hand about the tent.
'Look at me! Here I am, an officer of rank and' - shooting a knowing look at me - 'I have not even a nice blanket.'
'A crime! A crime!' I interrupted. 'To think of it, when I, a humble soldier, have dozens of them at home! I should be honored if you would allow me - ' My voice trailed off suggestively.
'How could you get one?' he asked.
'Oh, I have friends here in Saffêd but I must be able to sleep in a nice place.'
'Of course; certainly. What would you suggest?'
'That hotel kept by the Jewish widow might do,' I replied.’
And so our handsome soldier was comfortably rehoused with a charming widow.
****
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| Turkish Officers c 1914 |
Of Ottoman corruption, Alex informs us: ‘Nine Turkish officers out of ten can be bought, and I had reason to know that the officer in command at Saffêd was not that tenth man. Now, according to the law of the country, a man has the right to purchase exemption from military service for a sum equivalent to two hundred dollars. My case was different, for I was already enrolled; but everything is possible in Turkey. I set to work, and in less than two weeks I had bought half a dozen officers, ranging from corporal to captain, and had obtained consent of the higher authorities to my departure, provided I could get a physician's certificate declaring me unfit for service.
This was arranged in short order, although I am healthy-looking and the doctor found some difficulty in hitting on an appropriate ailment. Finally he decided that I had 'too much blood' - whatever that might mean. With his certificate in hand, I paid the regular price of two hundred dollars from funds which had been sent me by my family, and walked out of the barracks a free man. My happiness was mingled with sadness at the thought of leaving the comrades with whom I had suffered and hoped. The four boys from my village were splendid. They felt that I was right in going home to do what I could for the people, but when they kissed me good-bye, in the Eastern fashion, the tears were running down their cheeks; and they were all strong, brave fellows.’
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| Palestinian Jews in the Ottoman Army |
Alex’s time as a conscript in the Sultan’s army would change him forever. He realised that to be a Jew in the Ottoman Empire was an impossible situation, and this made his devotion to political Zionism more essential than ever. He understood now, like Aron, that new alliances were essential. It was in this context that the Aronsons - at least three of them - made the strategic decision to realign their loyalties from the Ottoman Empire to the British one, the ascendant power in the region.
From that time on until his escape on the cruiser the USS Des Moines, Alex was involved, both in the campaign of the Turks in Asia Minor and in Aron’s spy group, which would very nearly lead to his execution. Despite Alex’s ties to the United States, he was not protected by the capitulations - not having yet gained American citizenship. The conditions among the recruits and the morality - or lack of it - of the Officer corps aroused his disgust and disdain, in equal measure. Living in close quarters with Muslim fellow recruits, strengthened his feelings for his own community, for Christian Arabs, who were equally afflicted and for the European and American powers. By his own admission and within the cultural constraints of the time, he found the local recruits ignorant and dirty, and the Turkish Officers corrupt and useless. The final insult came when non-Muslim soldiers were ordered to disarm after the Empire’s declaration of Jihad on 14 November. A soldier without a gun forced to be on the side of the brutish Turks and the war-worshipping Germans, who like the Valkyries, in Norse mythology, served the warrior god Odin on the battlefields. Alex, who had been a reasonably supportive Ottoman subject, quickly became infuriated at his impotence.
On his release from the army, he went straight to Atlit where he found Absa and Aron, just as distressed and angry.
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| Alex, Aron and Absa at the Station in Atlit |
Alex, Absa and seething Aron at the window of the tower room at the Station in Atlit. Aphrodite, goddess of love, sits on the window sill, but Mars, the god of war, is the prevailing deity.
Alex bangs his fist on the table: “An impossible situation! We’re on the wrong side!”
Avshalom bursts out: “Four hundred years!! They’ve been here four hundred years too bloody long!”
Aron is, by contrast, deadly calm. A calm, like one before a terrible storm, which hides his true agenda, long in the making, but now ripe for action.
“And they’ve appointed Djemal Pasha, as commander in chief - and you know what that means - ”
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| Djemal Pasha Commander of the Fourth Army |
Drums sound a steady beat; the beat of war. The Ottoman Sultan in all his glory, with his aide Djemal Pasha, a short, pugnacious, hunch-backed man, with ferocious, black eyes and blue beard, medals on his beribboned chest, are driven slowly through the crowds lining an Istanbul street, in an open-topped German armoured car. Djemal Pasha, one of the Three Pashas - Enver, Talaat and Djemal - who rule the Empire will come to dominate our story.
He is protected by ranks of marching soldiers, some on horseback, some beating drums, creating the booming sound track to this blatant show of aggression, others bristling with arms and sporting curled, black moustaches.
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| Djemal Pasha |
Ahmed Djemal Pasha will become infamous for his role in the Armenian Genocide. He had joined the underground movement of Ottoman Officers - the 'Committee of Union and Progress', which was opposed to the regime of Sultan Abu Farrid-Hamid. Djemal used his position as a military inspector to spread these ideas and by the time of the Young Turk Revolution, he was one of the most brutal leaders of the movement and was soon promoted to the executive committee. He served in a succession of militia, all noted for their cruelty and violence and when war was declared, he was at the peak of his powers and ambition.
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| Sara in Istanbul |
Sara at the window of Haim’s apartment. Alex might have thought Sara and Rifka fortunate to be away from unhappy Palestine, but for Sara, to be locked up in her stern husband's home in these tumultuous times is unbearable.
Through the lattice slats of her window, she sees - the disorderly rabble of Djemal Pasha’s army marching through the streets with hundreds of flags, red, white and black with the Crescent and Star of Islam. The fervent crowd shouts: “Jihad - conquerors of Egypt!” and “Allāhu ʾakbar!”
Women prostrate themselves in their black hijabs, some throwing themselves dangerously close to the horses’ hooves. They cry the holy refrain: “Jihad - conquerors of Egypt!” and “Allāhu ʾakbar!”
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| Leaflet proclaiming the call for Jihad, Istanbul 1915 |
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And then the letters from home simply stopped, nothing from Aron, Rifka, Alex or Avshalom and the Pasha’s actions became more and more unhinged. There was little post, little food and no funds for Aron’s activities in Palestine. It was a year of drought and locusts, and everyone suffered.
Sara felt helpless and depressed.
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Back home, Avshalom, Aron and Alex are equally depressed. No letters from Sara and only one meal a day.
Aron is at his wits’ end: “We need to take practical steps to end these mamzers' rule.”
Aron hardly ever swears, but there is an exception to every rule.
Alex retorts: “Practical? What do you suggest?”
Avshalom shoots back: “A military revolt of the Yishuv community with British support.”
This scenario was indeed something of which Turkish military commanders were terrified. As Djemal Pasha wrote: ‘If the English and the French managed to gain support from the locals and landed two divisions at any point on the Syrian coast - Beirut or Haifa, for instance - we would be in a desperate situation.’
“How do you propose arranging that?” shouts Alex. “We’re starving. No one’s going to risk their lives while they’re dying of hunger.”
Aron shakes his head.
“Such insurrection would risk the life of every Jew in the country. The whole Yishuv would suffer. It’s no solution.”
****
As we read in the history books: Djemal Pasha was now stationed in Damascus as commander of the Fourth Army, serving also as military governor of Syria, and thus having full control of Palestine. He would lead unsuccessful campaigns against the British in Egypt by advancing on the Suez Canal from Southern Palestine to attack the British-protected Canal, marking the beginning of the Sinai and Palestine campaign. Ottoman forces crossed the Sinai Peninsula and managed to reach the Canal, but the overall attack failed because of strong British defences. However, before the British turned the tide, Djemal’s administration of Syria had devastated the region. Arab nationalists were hanged, Zionists were persecuted and steps were taken to remove Jewish settlements. Grain requisitions for the army in Lebanon drove the populace to the brink of starvation.
These catastrophes, however, would pale in comparison to the destruction of the deported Armenian population carried out in Syria during Djemal’s rule. By virtue of the fact that he controlled all the resources and the government in Syria, this murderous dictator, oversaw over the final leg of the deportation of the Armenians and the extermination of its population.
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| Armenian Dead 1915 |
By the middle of 1915 Syria was filled with concentration camps where the Armenians were starved to death and where the still fit, were employed as slave labourers on construction projects, including the notorious Baghdad rail line, laid through the mountain passes of northern Syria.
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| The Armenian Massacres from Alexander's 'With the Turks' |
The killing sites of Rakka, Ras ul-Ain, and Deir el-Zor were in his jurisdiction. In this respect, when the Young Turk triumvirs conspired and executed the Armenian Genocide, Djemal held responsibility as the final enforcer of that extermination.
It is perhaps some justice that the Pasha would be assassinated in Tbilisi in 1922, by two Armenians determined to have revenge for their people’s decimation.
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| The Fields around Zikhron, 1915 |
The fields around Zikhron. A dark cloud in the brilliant blue sky.
We hear the sound of a whirring wings overlaid with the marching feet of a thousand armies. The dark cloud is made up of a million locusts. The noise is overwhelming.
Aron and Avshalom helplessly watch the cloud of locusts go by, devastating the fields in one fell swoop.
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| Hamsin with Locusts Palestine 1915 |
The Hamsin blows for three days and three nights.
Aron, Avshalom, Abu Farrid and a number of local labourers, regard the ruined fields.
Aron to Avshalom: “I’ll call the Consul General in Beirut. The Americans must help us!”
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| Report on Palestine Famine, New York Times, April 1915 | |
Beirut. The Office of American Consul General, William Stanley Hollis. A portrait of President Woodrow Wilson hangs alongside one of Djemal Pasha, an American flag, next to tribal banners of Greater Syria.
The Consul General's mind is filled with more pressing issues than mere Palestinian famine. Intelligence is coming in, fast and furious from all quarters and it appears that Suez itself is threatened.
As Aron telephones he is busy writing an urgent letter to the US Secretary of State: 'It appears that the Turks have suddenly changed their plans. The watchword now is 'On to Egypt.' From what I have been able to learn, it appears that the troops and recruits which have been sent north to the Aleppo district will not be sent further north, but that the intention is to double quickly back, along the line of the Hedjaz Railway, and make a sudden dash for Egypt. Already all of the railway lines here have been taken over by the military administration. A significant requisition for 100,000 empty jute grain bags has been made by the vali, and the town and district is being scoured to discover and commandeer that quantity of empty sacks. These sacks it is stated, are to be filled with sand and thrown into the Suez Canal to block the same and form a causeway.'
The Consul General, tapping impatiently on the telephone, on the vast ambassadorial desk.
We hear Aron’s voice over the crackling phone line. And the Consul General’s response:
“The President is of the opinion that there is nothing useful to be gained by such engagement, at this time. ”
****
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| Aron at his Desk at the Station |
Aron on the telephone at his desk at the Station. Goliath asleep at his feet.
“Yes, yes! I understand that Sir, but we are in terrible danger and our country will starve if we don’t get supplies.”
The drawl of the Consul General can be heard very clearly, punctuated by some suspicious clicks.
“Yes, yes, very unfortunate. We’ll see what we can do regarding relief supplies. Keep in touch Mr. Aronson, by all means - but I’d advise you not to use this method of contact again.”
He returns to his important missive and signs it with a flourish.
One final click and the line goes dead. Aron furiously slams the phone down. Takes a deep breath, then sticks some heavy masking tape across the phone’s mouthpiece.
“Bloody Americans!” he yells stomping around so that he wakes the dog who jumps up and growls loudly.
Avshalom with a quizzical expression stands opposite Aron.
“What now, Lieutenant?”
Aron stops pacing around and says with fierce determination:
“Our only hope lies with the British - and with Sara - ”
****
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| Sara Writing Letters in her Study, Istanbul |
Sara’s study nook in the Istanbul apartment. She is writing her letter.
Haim enters and stares at his wife with disapproval: “I‘ve told you before, Sara! We are loyal subjects and whatever your brothers are getting up to, I forbid you to have anything to do with it!”
“May I not write to my family?”
“Write, by all means, but absolutely no politics. Nothing that will bring us trouble!”
A phone rings and he goes to his study.
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| Turkish Postal Stamp with Hagia Sophia Mosque & Boulevard |
Sara at her desk sticks a Turkish stamp with a design of the glorious Hagia Sophia Mosque, fronted by a grand boulevard, on an envelope addressed to ‘Rifka Aronson, 12 Farmers’ Street, Zikhron Ya’akov, Palestine’ and hands the letter to a servant, who bobs a bow and exits with the letter.
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| Rifka & Sara Embroidering Together in Happier Days |
At home in Zikhron. Delilah curled up on a cushion, Rifka, her embroidery at her side, tears open her sister’s letter.
We hear Sara’s clear voice over: “Ma petite soeur, You know how we used to enjoy embroidering together and how flowers were our favourite subject matter? I know you love pretty things, so look beneath the ‘boule’ for an interesting sight...”
She uses the French word for tree-lined boulevard, a pun on the Hebrew word bul, or stamp. Rifka perplexed, picks up the envelope with its stylised, floral Turkish postage stamp - slowly, she peels off the stamp. Out comes a tiny piece of tissue paper with micro-writing on it.
Aron in his study inspects the piece of paper with Sara’s message on it, with a magnifying glass.
He reads: “My dear brother I bring terrible news of a massacre of the Armenian people.”
It is the first news of the genocide that comes through to Zikhron, but not the last.
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| Efraim 'Fischel' Aronson |
Efraim reads his Bible, Rifka with her violin looks weepy and depressed. Ayla brings a jug of water and drinking glasses, then goes. Rifka and her father converse in low tones.
“We‘ll have to let Ayla go - there’s not enough money.”
The father responds in his patient voice: “We must all make sacrifices, my daughter. Play - It does my heart good.”
Rifka is trembling: “How can I play, when all around is suffering?!”
Efraim responds: “There has always been suffering and there has always been music. And God.”
Rifka picks up her violin and plays through her tears. Her violin music, though a tad sentimental for our more cynical ears, is a pathos-filled counterpoint to what we see and hear in the next scene.
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On Friday in late March 1915, about ten thousand Jews are exiled from Palestine, residents who do not have Ottoman citizenship and who carry foreign passports. They are taken to Jaffa and forced to board ships belonging to neutral states such as Italy and the USA.
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| Exiled Jews Board Boats, Jaffa Harbour, March 1915 |
The U.S. Navy’s USS North Carolina lands in Jaffa harbour and delivers money to the U.S. Consul General for the Jewish community, followed by the Des Moines - of which we will soon hear more - which would ply the eastern Mediterranean between Beirut and Cairo delivering money, food and aid.
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| Hassan Bey, Djemal Pasha & Officials |
The Zionist Organization of London related: ‘The harshest and
most cruel of all the Turkish officials was the Commandant of the Jaffa
district, Hassan Bey. It would suddenly come
into his head to summon respectable householders … with an order to
bring him some object from their homes which had caught his fancy or of
which he had heard - an electric clock, a carpet, etc. Groundless
arrests, insults, tortures, bastinadoes - whips - these were things
every householder had to fear.’
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| Jews Expelled from Palestine March 1915 |
The deportation is carried out with great cruelty and violence. Fires burn, smoke fills the air as a line of hungry refugees, are expelled from the city. They walk in the dust with carts, furniture and belongings and little children. The deportees are forced to leave all their property and possessions behind and men, women and children are hurled into the ships. A tragic and oppressing sight. As Aron described the situation: ‘Meanwhile, people are literally starving. Our eyes have seen horrifying sights: old women and children wandering about, hunger and nightmare-like madness in their, no food, no shelter.’
Turkish Soldiers goad them on with sabres, with cries of ‘Jihad ! ‘Jihad !’’ - Holy War!
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| The Muftir Hassan Bey |
The Turkish Government office at Haifa. The Muftir Hassan Bey and Captain Aziz with other Officers. The Muftir’s putty coloured features, fixed in grim stasis, his pinprick eyes, too small for his face, mouth a mask of fixed scorn, moustache drawn on like a cartoon villain, declares:
“All Jews from enemy countries to be deported to Egypt! All post to and from Turkey to be stopped - military orders from the Pasha! We are at war!”
****
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| Turkish troops mass at Be’er Sheva |
Turkish troops mass with wagons, horses, donkeys and camels on the sands surrounding the southern city of Be’er Sheva.
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| Officers March |
They wear battle helmets and carry large packs. Among their mass, Absa Fein, twenty-four-year-old carter, with his cart and horse.
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| General Von Kressenstein in Ottoman Military Hat |
German General Von Kressenstein, leader of the Ottoman Desert Command Force, instructs Turkish Officers. At his side, his auxiliary, a young Officer, of pale complexion, Felix Baha-eddin, carrying a portable writing desk, hands him a document which the General signs as he issues a string of commands.
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| General Von Kressenstein & Military Adjunct |
“Orders must be sent out for troops to move to Suez for the offensive. We will need pontoons for crossing the canal. Inform the engineering corps.”
The Turkish Officers salute, clicking their heels together sharply, as they go. Adjutant Felix packs up his portable desk and awaits instructions, his face a mask of loyal obedience.
Friedrich Siegmund Georg Freiherr Kress von Kressenstein, as is his full name, known by the Turks as ‘Kress Pasha’, is an old school, Prussian-type, born in Nuremberg, trained in the military in Bavaria - upright, correct, of patrician birth, his narrow unsmiling, face, many medals and military crosses and Astrakhan fur hat, leave one in no doubt as to his credentials or his politics. He is a rigid and brutal fascist, paving the way for others of his type in the next war. In 1936 he writes about the ‘war in the desert’, discussing the use of poison gas both in the Sinai Desert during the First Great War and in the Italian conquest of Abyssinia. Prototypes for the lethal gas that would murder six million Jews in the Second Great War.
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The Station at Atlit. Aron pacing up and down like a caged animal, with Alex and Reuven Schwartz, who as we recall, is accounts manager and looks dismally at a pile of unpaid bills.
“We can’t pay this month’s outgoings,” he says.
Aron responds: “No more funding! Our people starving, a blockade of the ports, mass expulsions!”
“I could do so much more if I was out of the country!” snaps Alex.
“But how to get you out?!” Aron is even more exasperated.
Reuven thinks for a moment, then he replies: “Absa Fein, can get through the blockade! But he’ll need payment.”
Aron sighs: “We’ll have to use our reserves. No one does anything for nothing anymore.”
****
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| Avshalom 'Absa' Fein, the Carter |
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| Absa Fein with the Turkish Army |
Absa Fein - not to be confused with Avshalom - 'Absa' - Feinberg, our hero - the former with his cart in the German Camp at Be’er Sheva is that rarity, a Jewish carter with the Turkish army in Be’er Sheva, he has free reign and a free pass to go anywhere and also runs odd jobs and deliveries for the Germans. The regular carters having absconded as the war and confusion got worse.
Around him Turkish troops in tarboushes and uniforms trimmed with gold braid, and rifles as tall as they are.
Aron has entrusted Absa Fein with making an updated report on the Turkish Gaza- Be’er Sheva front line.
When Sara meets Fein, at Naaman’s house in Rishon, the Carter writes: ‘I was trembling, I saw a blonde woman, pretty, tall, gentle. Belkind introduced me as ‘one of the boys prepared to make sacrifices. He can be depended upon.’ She answered with a sweet smile: ‘Good, we’ll make him work hard.’
****
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| Haifa Map c1900 |
The Turkish Government Office in Haifa. Aron with a purse of sovereigns.
The Muftir Hassan Bey shakes his head, his mouth does not appear to move as he speaks but his moustache, having a life of its own, bristles with impatience.
“Those days are over, Mr. Satan. We are instructed to limit the independence of your people in our lands - I cannot help you - ”
Aron is incandescent: “Forbid us to travel? Throw us out of our homes?”
Hassan Bey looks stiffly ahead: “You are foreigners here. There may be traitors - ”
“Even those of us who have sought our whole lives to develop our country!?”
Hassan Bey folds his hands: “It is a Holy War, my friend. Allah and the Sultan command us.”
The interview is over and Aron is no longer the Bey’s friend.
****
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| Captain Aziz at Turkish Army Post in Zikhron |
A detachment of Turkish Soldiers patrols the street outside the Army Post in Zikhron. A young Arab woman with child on her hip, begging for alms, is moved along with a rifle butt.
A table has been set up at the top of the street where a deputation of elders, including town heads, Mayor Meir, Rabbi Kornfeld and Dr. Yaffe, plead with an implacable and unmoving, Captain Aziz. A handsome brute of a man for whom power is everything and for whom brute corruption and contempt for Jews, is a way of life.
“You are enemy aliens and must hand over your weapons, these are the Muftir and the Sultan’s orders,” he says rocking back in his chair, and daring anyone to say different.
Perhaps our less than genial officer hopes for the usual handing over of an envelope or a small, but heavy, clinking bag. In this, he is to be disappointed. None is forthcoming.
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Alex writes of this event:
‘When I finally reached Zichron-Jacob, I found rather a sad state of affairs. Military law had been declared. No one was supposed to be seen in the streets after sundown. The village was full of soldiers, and civilians had to put up with all kinds of ill-treatment. Moreover, our people were in a state of great excitement because an order had recently come from the Turkish authorities bidding them surrender whatever fire-arms or weapons they had in their possession. A sinister command, this: we knew that similar measures had been taken before the terrible Armenian massacres, and we felt that some such fate might be in preparation for our people. With the arms gone, the head men of the village knew that our last hold over the Arabs, our last chance for defence against sudden violence, would be gone, and they had refused to give them up. A house-to-house search had been made - fruitlessly, for our little arsenal was safely cached in a field, beneath growing grain.
It was a tense, unpleasant situation. At any time the Turks might decide to back up their demand by some of the violent methods of which they are past masters. A family council was held in my home, and it was decided to send my sister, a girl of twenty-three, to some friends at the American Syrian Protestant College at Beirut, so that we might be able to move freely without the responsibility of having a girl at home, in a country where, as a matter of course, the women-folk are seized and carried off before a massacre. At Beirut we knew that there was an American Consul-General, who kept in continual touch with the battleship anchored in the harbor for the protection of American interests.
My sister got away none too soon. One evening shortly after her departure, when I was standing in the doorway of our house watching the ever fresh miracle of the Eastern sunset, a Turkish officer came riding down the street with about thirty cavalrymen. He called me out and ordered me to follow him to the little village inn, where he dismounted and led me to one of the inner rooms, his spurs jingling loudly as we passed along the stone corridor.
I never knew whether I had been selected for this attention because of my prominence as a leader of the Jewish young men or simply because I had been standing conveniently in the doorway. The officer closed the door and came straight to the point by asking me where our store of arms was hidden. He was a big fellow, with the handsome, cruel features usual enough in his class. There was no open menace in his first question. When I refused to tell him, he began wheedling and offering all sorts of favors if I would betray my people. Then, all of a sudden, he whipped out a revolver and stuck the muzzle right in my face. I felt the blood leave my heart, but I was able to control myself and refuse his demand. The officer was not easily discouraged; the hours I passed in that little room, with its smoky kerosene lamp, were terrible ones. I realized, however, how tremendously important the question of the arms was, and strength was given me to hold out until the officer gave up in disgust and let me go home.’
****
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| Mayor Meir, Dr. Yaffe & Rabbi Kornfeld |
The meeting room at the Synagogue. Rabbi Kornfeld, Dr. Yaffe, Mayor Meir, along with most of the male inhabitants of the town, have been summoned about the crisis.
The Mayor admits the civic coffers have run dry and that the orders of the Sultan brook no dissent.
Alex is adamant: “Who will defend us, if we give them our guns?”
Leo gives a stark warning: “First they disarmed the Armenians - then they murdered them!”
The Mayor addresses Alex: “We’ve no choice! You endanger us all, if you do not obey!”
Dr. Yaffe interjects: “You must hand in your weapons or we’ll hand them in for you!”
Unrepentant, Alex responds: “Never!”
There is uproar in the room. Alex, Leo and some of the other young men walk out in disgust.
****
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| Absa & Alex Burying Guns |
The sun sets in a flurry of orange and purple. Grapes hang heavy on the vines. Alex and Avshalom bury their rifles in the vineyard. Pigeons flutter wildly overhead as they cover the hole with branches.
Alex is sweating with the exertion: “Don’t worry, they’ll never find them.”
Avshalom rests his hands on the spade: “But what if they do?”
Leo arrives on the scene and bursts out breathlessly: “Now, they’ve thrown everyone out of Jaffa - citizens and non-citizens!”
****
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| The Muftir Hassan Bey in Haifa |
Turkish Government Office Haifa. We hear the heavy sound of soldiers drilling. The Muftir Hassan Bey at a window looking onto the street, while Aron petitions him on the latest drama.
The Muftir responds with indignation, his moustache quivering with barely suppressed rage: “We have not thrown them out! We are moving your people for their own protection.”
Aron can barely contain his own anger: “Muftir, how can that be?”
The Muftir turns away, those small eyes almost disappearing into his flesh: “The British are coming. Now is the time to see who is on our side and who is not. And beware those who are not. Any Jew with arms will be arrested as from tomorrow!”
Through the window we see soldiers with bayonets marching.
****
Aron’s office, Research Station, Atlit. Anxious Aron and Avshalom with Alex.
Alex, a big grin on his face, placates them: “We’ve hidden them all over the place - orchards, vineyards, caves - ”
Aron is not convinced: “Idiots! It’s only a matter of time before someone discovers them and then there’ll be hell to pay!”
****
The future spies’ hatred for the Turks and their belief that they should work to remove them had been simmering since a December night in 1914, when a close knit group of chevra, from Hadera, including Leo, brother, Mendel, best friend Absa and a couple of girl friends, went on a night time ‘tiyul’ - a midnight walk - along the coast. Using flashlights to light their way, they enjoyed some bottles of wine and marveled at the phosphorescence coming from some magical, blue, sea creatures, stranded along the beach.
Leo wrote of that experience: ‘Suddenly Yocheved Madorsky - one of the girls - cried out that something had got into her eye. Dr. Glicker was also with us and he treated her eye by the light of a pocket flashlight which my brother Mendel happened to have with him. The light from the flashlight aroused the suspicion of some nearby Bedouins, and they approached us and we greeted them and offered cigarettes to our guests, who happily accepted them and left us a short while later.’
They did not think of the event again, until in early 1915, a delegation from the Ottoman government, made up of mounted riders and a number of angry Arabs, arrived in Hadera. The Bedouins had apparently reported the midnight hikers to the Turks, saying they were signaling to British ships. The delegation separated the Arab labourers from the Jews of the Moshava. The head of the delegation, Sheikh Abu-Hantesh, began to interrogate the workers about the ‘secret intelligence activities’ that the Jews of Hadera were accused of carrying out with the British.
As the investigation continued and all was denied, the Sheikh grew angrier, and the interrogation was replaced with louder and louder accusations and more and more kicks. When Mendel’s flashlight was discovered, they were even more convinced that there was a connection between Hadera and the British and that the torch was used to signal to the British navy.
This was the first time, the idea of such espionage, ever entered Leo and Avshalom’s heads.
A few weeks later, the Turkish Officer, Captain Aziz, a man in a league of his own, appeared in the Moshava and arrested thirteen of its members, including Leo, Mendel and Absa. A seminal moment in the lives of the three men, one that coloured the rest of their days. Leo writes that it was at that time that he and Avshalom discussed the possibility ‘of concrete help from the English, who are going to liberate the Holy Land.’
Aron had got to the same conclusion some months previously, but his strong reservations about endangering the fragile relationship between Jew and Turk, meant he had to hold his council.
That relationship, always fraught, was unraveling like a frayed rope that no amount of splicing could ever repair.
****
Soldiers salute as Captain Aziz, driven by a military driver, in a German army vehicle, stops at the Army Post in Zikhron, where the Hadera men have been taken. A smartly dressed soldier opens the door of the car. The Captain gets out, and inspects the guard of Turkish militia, bristling with guns, in smart leather leggings, their fezzes replaced with green military caps.
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| Jewish Prisoners marched off by Turkish Guards |
Alex, Absa, Leo, young Izi and other Zikhron men have been arrested along with those from Hadera. Soldiers shove the chained prisoners out into the street.
Alex writes of this nasty and humiliating incident:
‘It was a dismal departure. We were driven through the streets shackled like criminals, and the women and children came out of the houses and watched us in silence - their heads bowed, tears running down their cheeks. They realised that for thirty-five years these men, my comrades, had been struggling and suffering for their ideal - a regenerated Palestine; now, in the prime of their life, it seemed as if all their hopes and dreams were coming to ruin. The oppressive tragedy of the situation settled down on me more and more heavily as the day wore on and heat and fatigue told on my companions. My feelings must have been written large on my face, for one of them, a fine-looking patriarch, tried to give me comfort by reminding me that we must not rely upon strength of arms, and that our spirit could never be broken, no matter how defenseless we were. Thus he, an old man, was encouraging me instead of receiving help from my youth and enthusiasm.
At last we arrived at the prison and were locked into separate cells. That same night we were tortured with the bastinado. The victim of this horrible punishment is trussed up, arms and legs, and thrown on his knees; then, on the bare soles of his feet a pliant green rod is brought down with all the force of a soldier's arm. The pain is exquisite; blood leaps out at the first cut, and strong men usually faint after thirty or forty strokes. Strange to say, the worst part of it is not the blow itself, but the whistling of the rod through the air as it rushes to its mark. The groans of my older comrades, whose gasps and prayers I could hear through the walls of the cell, helped me bear the agony until unconsciousness mercifully came to the rescue.’
****
A small crowd of townspeople including, those righteous citizens, Tsipporah, Adele, Gita and Perl, wives of Misters Appelbaum, Lerner, Goldstein and Blumenfeld, Dr. Yaffe and Mayor Meir - who is, as we know, Izi’s grandfather - watch aghast, as the manacled line of young men are kicked, beaten and dragged through the street.
Cowering Izi covers his head as blows rain down on him and pleads: “ I don’t want to die!”
Izi’s mother screams and falls to her knees. “What’s my son done? He’s only a boy. You must let him go!”
Meir tries to calm her but her screams continue: “Let him go! Let him go!”
Following the chained men, comes a sorry procession of young women roped together - stoical Toba and terrified Rifka, among them - goaded by leering soldiers, lead by arch bully, Aziz.
“Putains! Whores! All of you!” he yells.
Rifka weeps hysterically: “Alex! Save us! You must save us! Give them your guns, I beg you - or they’ll kill us!”
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| Alex and Aziz |
Alex, despite his chains, steps forwards: “You are cowards and bullies. What do our women have to do with this?”
A soldier stops him with the barrel of his gun and hits him hard in the stomach. Alex crumples to his knees. Captain Aziz brandishes an evil-looking spiked whip.
“Sons of a bitches! You think you can beat the might of the Sultan’s army?! Take your shoes off sons of dogs! We’ll give you a taste of the bastinado!”
The prisoners are forced to untie their laces and start to remove their shoes.
We see the pile of work-worn boots and shoes and hear the whiz of whips lashing into flesh and the terrified screams of the watching women.
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| A Taste of the Bastinado |
Captain Aziz, our malevolent - some might say - caricatured villain, walks up and down cracking his whip: “Now give us your guns!!”
The bloody soles of the prisoners’ bleeding feet reveal the first stage in a common Turkish practice. Usually followed with a further tightening of the screws and another dire threat.
“If we don’t have your guns by sunset, we will have your girls instead - for the whole battalion - ”
More cries of horror from the crowd and the Zikhron girls.
Overwrought Rifka falls in a heap onto the pavement.
“Let them go - we’ll bring you our guns!”, says a defeated Alex, who has taken it upon himself to act as spokesman.
****
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| A Table of Confiscated Weapons |
A table loaded with confiscated weapons guarded by a baleful Captain Aziz, as a grim Leo, Absa, Zvi and the others hand over their guns.
Unwilling Alex holds back his treasured Smith and Wesson.
“Your Sultan is nothing but a thief!” he cries out.
Soldiers grab Alex and pistol-whip him about the head. He drops the revolver onto the ground.
Captain Aziz’s warning is clear: “One more word from you and we’ll hang you for your insolence!”
An Arab boy with shaved hair and a nasty cut on the back of his head, picks up Alex’s revolver and with an insolent look, runs off. Alex shouts his anger and tries to give chase, but the heavy hand of Captain Aziz on his shoulder, stop him and the whips come out again.
****
Alex writes of the desperation and humiliation of the last days:
‘Finally, when it was found that torture and imprisonment would not make us yield our secret, the Turks resorted to the final test - the ordeal which we could not withstand. They announced that on a certain date a number of our young girls would be carried off and handed over to the officers, to be kept until the arms were disclosed. We knew that they were capable of carrying out this threat; we knew exactly what it meant. There was no alternative. The people of our village had nothing to do but dig up the treasured arms and, with broken hearts, hand them over to the authorities.
And so the terrible news was brought to us one morning that we were free. Personally, I felt much happier on the day I was put in prison than when I was released. I had often wondered how our people had been able to bear the rack and thumbscrew of the Spanish Inquisition; but when my turn and my comrades' came for torture, I realized that the same spirit that helped our ancestors was working in us also.
After this, Alex’s heart hardens. In his book he makes it clear that even before Sara returns from Istanbul and her hideous train journey where she witnessed evidence of the massacre of the Armenians, the rumours have deeply affected both him and Aron. It is an easy step to imagine that the fate of the Armenians brings the potential of a similar threat against the community in Palestine. Alex first invokes this fear when describing the forced disarmament in his own town where he and his friends had been so horribly beaten and humiliated. This grievous situation added to Alex’s already volatile mood. His failure to keep their weapons, their only means of defence makes him feel impotent and unable to change anything.
****
The living room Zikhron Ya’akov. A family meeting with Aron, battered Alex, grim-faced Zvi, and red-eyed Rifka sobbing into a handkerchief. Alex is still smarting from his public mortification and the loss of his revolver. He and Zvi face each other. It looks as though the two brothers are about to come to blows.
“We should be ashamed!”Alex snaps. “We should never have given them up!”
Zvi retorts: “Speak for yourself, Alex! Perhaps you’d rather they’d raped our sister?
Rifka cries louder.
Alex lashes out: “People that sit on the fence should shut up!”
Zvi grabs Alex by his collar: “You’re a hot-headed fool and your recklessness has put us all at risk!”
“And you’re a lily-livered coward!” Alex sneers at Zvi.
Zvi pummels Alex who kicks Zvi.
They roll about on the floor until Rifka shouts: “Stop it! Stop it! You’ll wake Papa!”
Aron pulls his brothers apart, physically placing himself between his warring siblings.
“Leave it, you two. You’re as much a danger to us as the bloody Turks!”
Alex scowls, dusting himself off: “What are we going to do!? We can’t fight without guns!”
Aron looks thoughtful: “First, we must get you and Rifka out, then we’ll see about getting guns - ”
He turns on his heel: “In the mean time, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do tomorrow and I plan to get some sleep, even if the rest of you don’t.”
****
Aron spends the next weeks waiting for the hoped for US relief aid. Despite the fact that the Consul General has been so evasive and there is already a blockade, he remains hopeful.
Aron had already met with Greek-Orthodox, Lebanese, Charles ‘Charlie’ Boutagy in Port Said - of which more later. Charlie carried letters and briefs written by Alex, that reached the attention of British intelligence in Cairo. Charles and Aron suggested arranging a meeting attended by Alex and British officer, Colonel Newcombe. Unfortunately, a meeting that never took place. Meanwhile, Aron and Charles were joined in Port Said by Avshalom’s cousin, Raphael Aboulafia, who promised to do what he could to expedite the aid and would inform them where and when that was to be.
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| Telegram from Henry Morgenthau about the Crisis |
More importantly Henry Morgenthau, American Consul General in Turkey made a plea for aid to some of America's Jewish notables in October of that year.
****
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| The USS ‘Des Moines’ which brought Aide to Palestine, 1915 |
The Port of Jaffa. The American Warship, ‘Des Moines’ is anchored on the quay. Behind a wire fence refugees beg for food for their hungry children. A young mother with baby in arms cries out with hunger. It is impossible to know whether she is Arab or Jewish.
Aron, Leo and Avshalom, arrive on the quay at the appointed time.
Sacks marked USA Relief Supplies are loaded from the ‘Des Moines’ onto the harbour by Arab labourers.
Aron breathes a sigh of relief: “Thank God!”
Avshalom: “If God’s got anything to do with this.”
“It’s not the time to discuss existential matters and there’s nothing remotely funny about any of this!” says that wise, young Owl.
****
It appeared that the Consul General had had second thoughts and wanted to make good on the matter of famine relief. As it so happens The Jewish Joint Distribution Committee had already sent much needed aide to displaced Jews in Alexandria and the US Government was afraid of loosing face.
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| The Jewish Joint Distribution Committee sends Medicines to Alexandria |
The American Chargé in Turkey wrote to the US Secretary of State that he had telegrammed the Consul General at Beirut with the following request: 'For the information of Embassy please let me know how many members of Beirut chapter American Red Cross might be available for work in connection with representatives Ottoman Red Crescent directing distribution relief supplies should these be sent from United States for the inhabitants of Palestine, Syria and the Lebanon.'
And that he was now in receipt of the following reply from the Beirut Consul: 'Chapter has 25 men, 15 ladies whose service will depend on personnel of cooperating parties. Can not guarantee chapter cooperation unless it has controlling voice in management and distribution. Supplies from America should consist only of wheat, as Syrians can not cook American flour; also sugar, rice, coffee. Can accomplish nothing without oil.'
****
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| Jaffa Port Seen from the Sea, c 1915 |
Back on the quay in Jaffa, dockers offload relief supplies. Aron and his men quickly load the sacks of flour and packets of other foodstuff onto Absa Fein’s cart. Sweat glistens on Aron’s brow as he hefts the last sack onto the cart.
He looks back at the hungry people behind the fence and quickly hands out a few packets of biscuits - or cookies as Americans call them. The refugees fall upon them with hungry gratitude.
A shadow falls over the wharf. A Turkish army vehicle draws up and blares its horn. A wooden-sided truck out of which a dozen soldiers jump out briskly, dropping the heavy chain which secures the back of the vehicle, with a loud clang. The soldiers surround the cart with guns at the ready.
Captain Aziz climbs out of the cab, waving his fist angrily in the air.
“Mr. Satan! The Jew’s own devil!! Stockpiling is forbidden. We shall have to requisition your supplies!”
The soldiers push a protesting Aron and his men out of the way and start to load the supplies onto their own truck.
Aron explodes: “It’s an outrage! This is international relief meant for the refugee camps!”
The Captain screams: “Dog! You are in league with the Americans! You can address your complaints direct to the Pasha, in Damascus!”
He gestures with a curt nod to two soldiers who bundle Aron roughly into the back of the truck, leaving Leo, Avshalom and Absa Fein with open mouths, an empty cart and a long journey home.
****
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