CHAPTER 13 - With Djemal Pasha in Damascus and Spies for the British
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| Aron in Damascus |
Damascus, Syria. The ornate office of the powerful chief of the Fourth Army, the Djemal Pasha - his ferocious black eyes perusing a document on the letterhead of ‘The Jewish Agricultural Experiment Station’, presented to him by by one of his Officer’s.
“This man dares to complain!?”
The Djemal Pasha’s voice rises: “Does he not know that I have had heads cut off - for lesser crimes!?!”
The Officer is quick to reply: “We will hang him if you wish your excellency.”
Djemal Pasha retorts: “Idiot! Fool!! Do you not know who this man is?! He is the Aron Aronson - chief scientist and advisor to the Americans on the locust business.”
The Officer looks confused.
Djemal Pasha snarls: “Bring him here immediately, or I’ll have your head cut off!!”
****
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| Djemal Pasha at his Desk |
Aron is summoned to an official audience in Djemal Pasha’s private quarters. Blue and gold cushions abound, Ottoman wealth and opulence everywhere he sets his eyes. Not sure whether he’s about to be hanged or not, Aron politely waits as Djemal Pasha smokes an enormous nargillah. The usual platitudes and many honourifics and greetings regarding health, are exchanged. Then the Pasha speaks:
“By a happy coincidence Mr. Aron we share the same passion - Agricultural reform!”
Having expected the worst, Aron is taken aback by this turn, but wearing his diplomat’s cap, quickly recovers: “How can I help you Pasha?”
The Pasha gestures for patience. He will reveal all when he is ready.
“You should get a wife, Mr. Aron. I have three of them - ”
Aron laughs: “I don’t have time for even one.”
“You must be a very busy man.”
He offers the nargillah to his guest, Aron hesitates - he is not in the habit of such local pleasures, then accepts. More diplomacy.
A cloud of smoke as Aron draws on the pipe: “Apricots from the Jordan Valley?”
The Djemal Pasha is pleased that his guest recognises the Palestinian provenance of his favourite tobacco’s delicate flavouring: “And lemon peel from Damascus. Now Mr. Aron, my friend, what I want, is you to solve the locust problem.”
Aron splutters on the smoke: “There have always been locusts, Pasha.”
A servant rushes up with a glass of water which Aron downs.
Djemal Pasha is getting into his stride: “I want you to get rid of them.”
Aron: “And if I cannot?”
The Djemal Pasha looks at him through narrowed eyes: “You are too modest, Mr. Satan! If the Americans have faith in you, why shouldn’t I?”
Aron looks thoughtful for a moment.
Djemal Pasha drops his voice to a menacing tone:
“I wonder Mr. Satan, what you would say, if I had you hanged?”
Aron smiles slightly: “I wouldn’t say anything, your Excellency, but the sound of my corpse falling would be heard all the way to America!”
He gestures to his stout girth.
Djemal Pasha dismisses the suggestion abruptly: “Indeed we would not want that.”
He stares at Aron and finally delivers the object of his meeting: “From now on, you are Inspector in Chief of Locusts! You are free to go wherever you want on any business you want - so long as you get rid of this plague!”
Aron takes another puff of the nargillah. This time he does not splutter.
****
The locusts have spread all over the country.
And so it is that Djemal Pasha appoints Aron to be the supreme commander of the war against the locust, with full military authority - and Avshalom as his deputy.
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| Eitan Belkind as 'Commander of War against the Locust' |
Eitan Belkind, who had long ingratiated himself in a double game with his Ottoman masters, is appointed secretary and moves from the headquarters of the Fourth Army to the headquarters in Jerusalem, where the war against the locust, is located. When the locusts return again, Eitan, who has successfully gained the Pasha’s confidence, is nominated to ‘Commander of the war against the locust’ in Trans Jordan and supervisor of ‘military agriculture’ - this includes the wheat supply in the Druze Mountains and the Golan. For this role, Eitan will receive the medal of the ‘Iron Crescent’ - the Turkish military’s highest award. When the locusts raid, in Iraq and northern Syria, he is loaned to the Third Camp, as an expert on the war against the locust and as adjutant to the German professor who is the chief of the war against the locust. In this function, he also receives from the German army, the Iron Cross for his work. During his stay in northern Syria, he has the chutzpah to meet members of the Jewish community and to coach in sports the club members of Maccabi there. Eitan, will become an important member of the spy circle.
****
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| Absa & Aron Regard the Locusts, Palestine 1915 |
The fields around Zikhron. A strange silence fills the air. No birds sing or insects chirp.
A dark cloud in the brilliant blue sky, accompanied by a threatening roar, overlaid with what sounds like the marching feet of a thousand armies, a symphony of destruction. The dark cloud is made up of a million locusts. The noise is overwhelming. The sky darkens like an eclipse.
Aron and Avshalom watch the enormous cloud of locusts go by, like a murmuration of a million black birds.
Avshalom: “Inspector in Chief of Locusts!? That’s a poisoned chalice if I’ve ever seen one.”
Aron: “It’s a cup I couldn’t refuse, even if I wanted to and it may prove to be extremely useful to us...”
****
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| Fighting the Locusts, 1915 |
In the fields around the town, an elderly Fureidis woman and a crowd of dusty children stand in a mirage of heat while locusts whirr around their heads.
Aron, Avshalom, Abu Farrid and labourers, in the khaki, uniform of the newly formed ‘Locust Brigade’, paint a sticky paste onto olive trees, wrapping white sacking around branches, digging ditches filled with poisoned water around the fields.
The drone of German aeroplanes flying overhead fills the sky.
Abu Farrid shakes his fist at the sky, as the planes dip over them.
****
Turkish Government office at Haifa where Aron and Avshalom face a bewildered looking Military Officer.
“We need reports on all garrisons and patrols,” Aron commands, in a voice which permits no dissent.
Avshalom further enjoins the hapless Officer: “Number of guns and ammunition details too.”
The Military Officer is more dumb-founded than ever: “Our Soldiers will fight the locusts with guns!?”
A straight-faced Aron issues his final exhortation: “With any means at our disposal. The Pasha has ordered it. Operation Locust! Orders from the Sultan.”
He taps his nose: “But all this is very confidential.”
The Military Officer quickly hands them a pile of documents: “Yes, yes Effendi, at once, without delay!”
Aron quickly hands the Officer a Turkish £5 note.
The Officer’s eyes widen and he slips it into his belt, but he is quick to capitalise on further transaction, believing more Turkish notes might come his way.
“Ah, I see. Operation Locust!” he taps his nose, miming Aron’s previous gesture.
Aron nods, but it is hard to keep a straight face at the poor chap’s gullibility.
Aron delivers his final instruction: “And my truck must be returned as soon as possible in order to carry out these important tasks!”
“ Certainly. Oh and I have something for you, Mr. Satan.” says the Officer. “Unfortunately we are not permitted to partake of it ourselves!”
****
It is dusk. The sun is low. Avshalom and Aron laughing and drinking from a large flagon of - the Officer’s illegal - home-made beer, they pass between them as they drive home in the pick-up truck, now safely restored to them.
A large satchel bulging with papers and documents on the seat between them. Aron is jubilant.
“Our enemies are playing right into our hands!”
Avshalom smiles in agreement: “But where is Sara, to enjoy all this?”
Aron admits: “No word from her or Alex in weeks? Something must have happened.”
****
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| Turkish Newspaper March 1915 |
Haim’s apartment, Istanbul. Sara at her window, reads a newspaper, tears run down her face.
The Turkish newspaper headlines: ‘Glorious Turkish Troops Victorious. Allies routed at Gallipoli!’.
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| Allied Soldiers Killed at Gallipoli |
And a smaller article: ‘All Post to Palestine Cancelled’.
****
Fields around Zikhron Ya’akov.
Zikhron’s farmers including Efraim and Meir, stand by helplessly as Turkish Soldiers on horseback round up their animals - sheep, goats, a cow, supervised by a Turkish Officer.
Old man Efraim steps forward, but Meir lays a hand on him to stop.
“We want forty per cent of the crops by the end of the month, or we’ll burn your fields!” threatens the Turkish Officer.
****
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| Aron & the Elders in Crisis |
Meeting room at the Synagogue, Zikhron Ya’akov. Zikhron leaders and farmers gather in protest. The mood is angry and desperate.
“Forty per cent of our crops will make it impossible to feed the Yishuv!” shouts one of the farmers.
“We can’t allow it!” says the next.
“We can’t afford it” says another.
Rabbi Kornfeld confronts Aron. “As head of the locust business only you have the Pasha’s ear.”
There is a general shout of agreement.
Gloomy Mayor Meir: “You must speak to him on our behalf! Tell him we are loyal subjects of the Empire!”
Aron retorts, exasperated: “There’s only one thing he’s interested in - locusts!!”
****
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| Burning the Fields |
A wheat field burns - black birds fly out of the flames against a blue sky. Turkish Soldiers on horseback visible in the rising smoke and heat.
Zikhron farmers stand helplessly watching as the crops go up in flames.
****
The Station at Atlit. Aron’s office. Avshalom stamping with anger waves his lit cigarette around. Aron trying to calm him down.
“I’d set them on fire too, if it would achieve our aim!”
Aron shakes his head: “Such open rebellion would get us nowhere!”
Avshalom blurts out: “I’d rather die like a hero, than live like a slave!”
“A dead hero’s no use to anyone,” Aron replies.
****
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| The Sheik of Fureidis |
Turkish Government office at Haifa. The Sheik of Fureidis, the neighbouring village to Zikhron, a wily, elderly man in traditional dress, confronts Hassan Bey.
“They are taking our land!” growls the Sheik.
Hassan Bey lifts his hands in resignation: “Our coffers are empty - if they pay for the land, we can’t stop them.”
His addiction, has actually landed him in dire need of funds.
The canny Sheik changes tack: “They are selling wheat to the British!”
Hassan Bey looks shocked: “That’s a different story - the Pasha must be told immediately!”
****
German army truck outside the Turkish Prison in Haifa. Night. Blinding rain and wind. A detachment of Turkish soldiers in a canvas-covered truck and a German Military Captain in a staff car with hood down, drive into the main square. In the back of the truck, handcuffed and chained are Avshalom, Leo and other young men from Zikhron.
As they disgorge their load of prisoners and the soldiers shove them inside, Avshalom moves into the shadows.
He whispers to Leo: “I’m off, Owl!”
Leo grabs his hand: “Good luck!”
Absa slips away in the darkness. Shouts follow his disappearance.
****
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| Atlit Laboratory with Aron, Alex, Absa & Rachel |
The Station at Atlit. Night. Rain pours down outside the window. Soaking wet Absa recounts his tale, to a worried Aron and Alex.
“They want to hang the others! We need to do something.”
“We must be careful. Not everyone is on our side,” Aron is cautious.
Avshalom: “We can’t let idiots dictate our policy. They’re nothing but a bunch of scared old men!Our worst enemy is the Turk. Can we stand by and do nothing?”
Aron sighs: “They’ll catch you Absa. You must give yourself up. I’ll go and visit the Pasha and see what he can do. When you’re free again we’ll discuss what to do next. Now go!”
Just at that moment, Rachel, who as we know, also works at the Station, enters under a huge, black umbrella dripping with water carrying a purple orchid.
Avshalom blurts out: “What’s she doing here?!”
Rachel hides her shock at Avshalom’s rudeness and sits down purposefully at her desk. While working at the Station with the Aronsons she has not been unaware of their machinations against the Turks. Later, obviously, when they relay reports to the British, as part of their work with Nili, she is certainly aware of what is going on. She herself was not against the idea of spying if it helped their cause, and by her own admission, she loved working at the station and the people she met there.
The rift between Absa and Rachel began that day and would continue until its bitter end.
****
The road outside Zikhron Ya’akov. Early morning. It is still raining. Soaked Avshalom on his horse, rides straight up to a Turkish patrol and hands himself over with a mocking smile. A soldier immediately handcuffs him in heavy iron manacles joined by a chain and marches him off.
****
Outside the prison in Haifa, a delegation of wailing women gather. One carries a basket of food. Turkish soldiers lounge on their rifles. A sleepy Officer swats flies and peers into the basket helping himself to some of its contents. Only when baksheesh is offered does he relent and take the basket into the prison.
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| Leo & Absa with Prisoners in Haifa Jail |
Inside a barred cell is filled to capacity with the town’s young men. Absa, Leo and the others await their fate. One of the young men is crying, everyone looks miserable.
Avshalom tries to rouse their spirits, in the only way he knows, by ticking them off roundly:
“To the devil with all this sniveling. You have to be ready for the worst. Why are you crying!? People are dying all over the place! If the time‘s come to die, we‘ll die.”
One of the young men mutters: “We never sold any wheat to anyone! We just want justice!”
The soldier carrying the basket opens the heavy door by a crack and shoves the basket through. The door clanks locked as he goes.
Avshalom points to the soldier’s receding back:
“And from him you expect justice?! You deserve to die for even thinking such a thing!”
“Oh shut up, Absa,” Leo grumbles. “At least they’ve brought us something to eat.”
The mood has lightened. The basket of food is unpacked and reveals a whole bottle of French brandy, bread and fruit. The men joke and laugh as they eat and pass the bottle around. Will this be their last meal?
Later, the prisoners asleep on the floor of the cell. Absa sits alone. Shaking and feverish. Perhaps he has caught cold from his wet night in the saddle or is it that persistent malaria that flares up every now and then?
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| Absa in Prison Cell |
Leo looks concerned: “What’s wrong?! What are you thinking?”
Avshalom replies: “How long Aron’ll take to get us out of here!”
Midnight. Everyone sleeping uneasily.
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| Avshalom's Fever Turns to Delirium |
Avshalom tossing and turning on the filthy straw mattress, has thrown his clothes off. His forehead beaded with sweat, his fever turns to delirium and his eyes are wild and bloodshot.
“Put ice on my head, my friend, I’m burning!” he shouts.
Leo wakes and tries to calm his friend. But Absa will not be calmed. The other prisoners wake.
“Put a sea of ice on my head. My blood is boiling. All the east is burning in me!” he shouts again.
Leo gets a bucket of water from one of the guards standing outside the door. He dips his kerchief into the water and ties it around the feverish Avshalom’s brow.
“Sara, where is Sara?” says the sick man.
“She’s with her husband,” Leo says. “Far from here. Calm down Absa, you’re doing yourself no good.”
Avshalom leaps up, his eyes blazing: “What do you know about it? What do you know about the woman I love?!”
The guard yells at Avshalom to keep quiet. The other prisoners grumble and try to get back to their uneasy slumbers.
Leo tries to shush his friend but is pushed out of the way.
Now the delirium has taken hold and Avshalom is like a man filled with demons. He jumps up as if possessed.
“Don’t try and stop me,” he exclaims melodramatically. “I am a Jew of the East. I can understand the mystery, the beauty, the laughter of the East. The hot nights in summer, the wild wind in winter. I hear the Bedouins singing, their song says so much more to me than your Wagner or Beethoven.”
“Absa, my friend, don’t get so excited,” urges Leo. “The compress is falling from your head.”
Leo dips the kerchief again and hands it back to Absa.
“Get away from me, you cold man from the North!” He throws the kerchief into the corner.
“You are from the Old Country. I am native born. A new generation. Don’t you hear it coming, with slow, vengeful steps? Listen, Owl, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. Don’t think I’m talking from fever.”
Leo keeps quiet, hoping that Absa’s sanity will soon return if he doesn’t confront him.
And indeed, Avshalom is now completely calm. The storm has passed. He gazes out with the utter conviction of his feelings and speaks now in an undertone of perfect rationality.
“We must fight Owl, get arms, free our country! We must make contact with the Turks’ enemy, with the British. With their help we will get arms. We will reveal to them the secrets of the country. We will free Palestine and we’ll do all this in secret, without any committee meetings or discussions. Our blood has already been spilled for our country. Whoever doesn’t want to do this can stay at home!
“And if we’re caught?” says Leo.
Avshalom smiles his wry, mocking smile: “Then we die.”
****
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| Turkish Prison Courtyard Haifa |
The Turkish Prison Quadrangle, Haifa. Dawn. Turkish Soldiers in a row with guns pointed as if preparing for an execution, at the prisoners who are lined against a wall awaiting their fate. One looses control of his bowels. Another falls to the floor and prays.
A black cat runs past. From outside we hear a woman scream: “Have Mercy!” Some of the others begin to say the ‘Shema’ - the prayer uttered in the face of certain death.
Leo whispers to Avshalom: “We’re finished!”
But at that very moment, a miraculous deus ex machina occurs and Captain Aziz enters, brandishing a telegram. An order has arrived from Jerusalem to free the detainees.
“Let them go,” he says curtly. “Pasha Djemal commands it.”
He turns to the trembling prisoners, his eyes glittering with contempt.
“But next time you won’t be so lucky.”
The men cheer and hug each other. Leo and Avshalom embrace - friends forever and united in their desire to fee Palestine from the Turks.
‘There is still no clear-cut plan,’ Leo wrote in his diary, ‘But Avshalom already knows. He will travel to Egypt. He will reach English headquarters. He will tell them: Listen gentlemen, we are a group of young Jews, who are familiar with all the roads in Israel, we will help you!’
The Station at Atlit. Aron’s office. Absa enters breathlessly with a bag of post and spills it out onto the desk.
“Our carter got through!” he says. “But look at this!”
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| Gallipoli Evacuation |
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| Australian & New Zealand War Dead Gallipoli |
Aron, Leo and Avshalom regard a creased newspaper article on Gallipoli with photo of hundreds of dead British and ANZAC troops. A major and entirely avoidable disaster.
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| Victorious Turks at Gallipoli |
The Turks are victorious, the Allies, mostly Australians and New Zealanders have been decimated.
Aron is flabbergasted: “Three weeks ago? What a waste! Damn fools! They could have walked in here - barely firing a shot!”
“So much for British Intelligence!” Avshalom says bitterly.
Aron nods: “That’s the problem - I don’t think they’ve got any!”
****
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| Aron, Avshalom and Alex in the Tower Room |
Aron, Avshalom and Alex talking in low voices in the tower room, with its red-covered sofa lit by the flickering light of a thick wax candle, windows tightly barred, shutters sealed. Maps, shipping charts, codes, spread out on the desk.
“So - we, are going to become spies for the British!”
Aron utters those fatal words as if he has been waiting to say them for a very long time. He recalls that the Lord had said to Moses: ‘Send men to spy out the land of Canaan which I am going to give to the people of Israel’. The group that he has long imagined will very soon receive its name: the acronym, ‘Nili’.
Alex is astounded and his eyes gleam with excitement. He too has long dreamed of this.
“Espionage, you mean? Secret Agents!? Spies?”
Aron has never liked Alex’s swashbuckling, cavalier attitude and his own elation at the revelation of his plans is tempered by a strong warning to his brother.
“This isn’t some boys’ adventure! There are many dangers ahead and many sacrifices to make.”
Aron’s decision not to remain in America with all it offered, both personal and professional, had been a hard one. As he would say later: “Yes, I stayed behind to become a spy. A word that had terrible connotations for any Jew - an agent provocateur, a betrayer of confidences, an informer - but I wasn’t afraid. I stood firmly before the tribunal of my own conscience.”
But Alex, for whom morality was never a guiding motive, is already asking the next question.
“How’ll they pay us?” he wants to know.
Aron is disappointed but not surprised. Alex is Alex, after all.
“We’re doing it for our country, not for money!”
“But how are we going to contact them?” his brother responds.
“You’ll go to Egypt, to British Military Headquarters, Rifka will join you. We’ll stay here.”
Alex snorts sarcastically: “To Egypt? The ports are blockaded!? We are forbidden to travel! How exactly are we going to get to Egypt?!”
Aron smiles: “Enemy aliens are being expelled every day. There’s a ship leaving tomorrow for Cairo.”
Alex stares. Avshalom looks disappointed. It is he who wants desperately to get out on the next boat.
Aron continues: “You are going to be Señor Alvarro, citizen of Madrid, Spain and Rifka is your wife, Matilde.”
He hands a surprised Alex two forged Spanish Passports, one in the name of ‘Señor Alvarro Ribiero’ and the other ‘Matilde Ribiero’.
Alex is take aback: “But I don’t look Spanish!”
Aron is impatient. “Well you’ve got twenty four hours to get to look Spanish!”
Alex attempts to protest, but Aron is already on to the next stage of the plan: “But first you must go to Beirut to see the Ambassador. Rifka can appeal to him for us.”
He adds to Absa who looks thoroughly out of joint: “And you Absa will have your turn soon enough.”
****
Rifka and Sara’s bedroom. We see signs of absent Sara’s presence, on her bed her straw sunhat and folded parasol. Rifka’s small face in the mirror. This is the first - and possibly, only - time Aron has involved her in anything important.
Her eyebrows are darkened, hair pinned up Spanish-style. Toba places a final pin in her low slung bun. Rifka hugs Toba - a farewell - tears gush from her eyes.
Toba: “Don’t cry or you’ll spoil all my hard work.”
Rifka nods, smiling through her tears: “It’s only that I never said a proper goodbye to Sara.”
Toba kisses Rifka on the cheek: “Don’t worry, you’ll see her again. She’ll be back soon and so will you. Now go before I start crying too!”
****
Outside in the garden, we see Alex, with his new dark moustache and pitch black hair, kissing goodbye to the weeping village girl.
“I promise, I’ll send a ticket as soon as I am in America.” he says with one last kiss.
****
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| The ‘Des Moines’ with Alex & Rifka bound for Egypt |
The Custom’s Quay in Jaffa Port. The American Warship, the ‘Des Moines’ is anchored in the quay. Her passengers are non-Turkish Jews, expelled under the new decrees.
Absa Fine offloads two passengers from his cart. Rifka in black lace mantilla, and Alex, both heavily made up with black hair-dye and darkened eyebrows, as they take their luggage, including Rifka’s violin, and Absa Fine trots off with his horse and cart.
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| Alex & Rifka's Spanish Passports |
A Custom’s man checks their passports as the ship’s horn gives out its melancholy wail.
In the heat, the hair dye beginning to run, a black rivulet down Alex’s face.
The Custom’s man looks them up and down. Rifka looks like she’s going to faint.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?” he asks
Alex answers a little too brightly: “Heat. Just the heat. My wife is - pregnant.”
In a low voice the Custom’s man hisses: “Look my friend - you’re as Spanish as a Rumanian pimp and your ‘wife’s’ not pregnant! - I’m a Jew too, from Bratislava - so get out of here quick, before they hang you!”
He waves them through hurriedly.
Alex and Rifka go through the embarkation door with their suitcases, Alex’s camera and Rifka’s violin.
And so it was that they set off for Beirut and Egypt, with the aim of getting to New York, ostensibly to appeal for funds - but actually to get America to join the war.
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| Rifka at the American Ladies' College in Beirut |
Rifka is enrolled at the American College in Beirut and will act as Aron’s contact with the American Consul who has a US Navy ship moored in the harbour to protect American interests. And Aron knows American interests - then as now, the most powerful country in the world - are the Yishuv’s interests as well.
****
The Consul General’s Office in Beirut. American president Woodrow Wilson and the Djemal Pasha continue to look down from the wall. Rifka carrying her violin in its case, dwarfed by the burly Consul who looks bemused at this timid, petite maiden in his office.
“So, Miss Aronson, what can we do for you?”
Rifka blurts out, in a breathless stream, as if she has long practised the sentence with its many clauses: “I am here to ask America to join the war and to send more, much more, supplies to us in Palestine because our people are starving, because of the blockade and the locusts!”
The Consul smiles: “You’re a plucky young lady.”
Rifka smiles too: “I’m not really brave - just hungry - ”
“Well, we must see what we can do to help you, starting with some breakfast!”
At a little table, laid with ambassadorial silver and white linen, Rifka tucks into a hearty American breakfast, though it is all foreign to her: waffles, maple syrup and - horror - bacon! But she scoffs the lot, kosher or not.
****
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| Isaac Halperin and Yehuda Zeldin |
Meanwhile, Nili, as it will be called, is growing fast. Zikhron boys, Isaac Halperin and Yehuda Zeldin, are among the first to join.
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| ‘Max’ Bronstein |
Menashe ‘Max’ Bronstein, son of Batya and Mordechai, also born in Zikhron Ya’akov, will follow.
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Naaman Belkind in the Winery, Rishon Le Zion |
But most importantly, Avshalom’s cousins Naaman and Eitan Belkind also join the spy group and prove to be invaluable for the cause. Naaman, a suave, chatty, moustached young man, was born in Gedera, also Avshalom’s birthplace, to Penina and Shimshon Belkind who were, like Avshalom’s parents part of the Bilu movement and among the founders of Rishon-Le-Zion. Father Shimson runs the Hotel Ein Hakoré in Rishon. An affable hotelier and vintner - an advertisement in Hebrew and French of the time calls him ‘Samson Belkind’ and says of his establishment that it provides ‘Excellent cuisine and bon service’. As a small boy Naaman attended the first Hebrew kindergarten in the country and then the local elementary school - ‘Haviv’ - in Rishon and the Alliance Israélite Universelle in Jerusalem. The clever, young student was selected by Dr. Matmon Cohen, principal of the school in Rishon, to be one of the ‘Young Hebrews’ whose task it was to renew the use of the Hebrew language as a vernacular. In this role, Naaman worked as teacher and secretary of the school in Ben Shemen set up by his uncle - and Avshalom’s - Israel Belkind, for the Kishinev orphans who had survived the appalling pogroms which murdered their parents. After the ‘Young Turks’ revolution in Turkey, an eager Naaman was one of the first to enlist in the Ottoman army, imagining, as other progressive Jews did, that Ataturk’s revolution would permit Jewish freedom and rights.
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| Naaman in the Turkish Army |
Photographs depict the dashing, young man in fez and Turkish uniform, complete with sword and diagonal bandolier, ostensibly used to carry ammunition, but empty of any bullets. A shortage of ammo, being only one of the problems, our young soldier would face. Despite his fine uniform and even finer, ideals, he was soon to be badly disillusioned.
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| Naaman & his Wife Adina |
After his release from the army he received land from the Palestine Jewish Colonisation Association and settled near his parents in Rishon. Young Naaman, with his dashing moustache was popular with all the girls and he chose one called Adina Raya Ginzburg - a petite woman with dark eyes and thick eye brows, and a mouth sealed in resigned silence - Naaman was a ladies’ man though he remained, as far as we know, faithful to Adina - together, they had a son Uzi, who was a year old, when the war broke out. When the Ottoman’s sided with the Germans, Naaman quickly joined his cousin Absa with the future Nili, though Adina, who had not been consulted, was not entirely happy with that choice.
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| Eitan Belkind |
His younger brother, Eitan, olive-skinned as an Arab, and handsome as a silver-screen star, was born in Rishon-Le-Zion where he went to the village school and later to Ben Shemen where he also joined the the Kishinev orphans at Uncle Israel Belkind’s school. At the age of ten, he went to secondary school and lived in Jaffa with his intelligentsia aunts, Drs. Olga and Sonia Belkind. When Naaman, enlisted in the Turkish army, Eitan wanted to copy his example and study at the Naval School in Constantinople. In 1912, at not yet fifteen, he was accepted, but when his parents refused to sign a waiver of their rights regarding their son - who would have become the Turkish state’s property - he left. On the outbreak of war, he was accepted at the Cadet School, and gained an Acting Officer rank. Eitan, being a prize student, was then attached to the Fourth Army headquarters in Damascus, headed by none other than the nefarious, Djemal Pasha, then Minister of the Navy. Being a speaker of French, Arabic, Turkish and German, young Eitan became the Djemal’s translator. By now he had joined Nili and he used his education to great advantage - he was, in fact, one of the country’s first double agents.
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| Eitan & his Sisters |
The Belkind family were extraordinarily good looking as you can see in a marvelous photo of Eitan and his lovely sisters, Meira and Shifra.
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| Alex in Cairo |
Alex was twenty seven years old and due to his proficient English skills, it was decided that he would travel to Egypt to meet with the British authorities based there and offer the group’s services. However, his cultivated, urbane American accent aroused many suspicions and because he offered intelligence services without asking for anything in return, the British did not trust his motives. They were indifferent to the plight and aims of the Yishuv and its people. A couple of months later they became ‘The Arab Bureau’ - an office which a certain Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Edward Lawrence, would later say ‘set out to bend England’s efforts towards fostering the new Arabic world order’, and which we remember as being extremely hostile to the Balfour agreement.
As Lieutenant Wooley, later Sir Charles Leonard Woolley, famous British archaeologist, who, during the Great War was in charge of Intelligence at Port Said, would say: “The Cairo people were very suspicious of Alex and thought he might probably be an enemy agent. So he was turned down in no uncertain terms.”
Thoroughly annoyed, Alex continued to write for the English speaking papers, calling for an attack on the Turks through Palestine, which did nothing to endear him to the Bureau. Eventually he was ordered to leave and expelled from Egypt in August, where he would journey on to the United States. Of the decision to leave for America, Alex wrote, ‘After weeks of fruitless waiting, despairing of any action I left for America with a view of working up American Jewry against Turkey and bring pressure upon Washington to join the Allies.’
It would have to wait to early April 1917, when the number of torpedoed US merchant ships and civilian casualties grew to such an extent that President Wilson finally asked Congress for ‘a war to end all wars’ that would ‘make the world safe for democracy.’ Words you may have heard before and probably will, again. On the sixth of that month, Congress finally voted to declare war on Germany, and America joined the raging battle which was consuming the world like a gargantuan cloud of swarming locusts.
Alex’s determination to garner sympathy for the Allied cause among American Jews was based on his belief that British power in the Middle East provided the best chance for the project to which he and Aron dedicated their most fervent hopes. Alex was not used to being refused. So when his reception was distinctly frosty, a certain Captain Vincent Smith, a devout Catholic, who was not at all partial to Jews or their problems, gave him short shrift, Alex was filled with the mistaken idea that being as haughty as his interrogator was a good idea. He also borrows a military jacket from a friend, not calculated to please his interrogator.
****
British Headquarters, Cairo. Confidant, confident, urbane Alex, in polished boots and borrowed military jacket, sits opposite stony-faced Captain Smith of the British High Command.
Alex announces with his conviction tinctured by a what he considers to be, a suitably superior tone: “We have it on the highest authority - The Turkish Army is planning a massive attack on Suez - ”
Captain Smith is unsympathetic and disbelieving, his personal prejudices are compounded by British policy: “I‘ve heard nothing of such an offensive. Our duties consist solely in guarding the Canal.”
Alex’s suave arrogance indeed does nothing to further his cause:
“Can’t you see! You need to help us for your sake and ours! Our people can give you figures, Turkish and German troop numbers and movements - ”
The Captain is quick to respond in the negative and gives a curt dismissal before turning back to his papers.
“His Majesty’s Government does not consider its role to be that of saving a small handful of troublemakers - ”
****
The British High Command. The busy offices of the Arab Bureau - Sheiks lounging on sofas, British Officers in a flurry of activity.
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| British High Command with Sonya & Lieutenant T. E. Lawrence |
A red-headed telephonist, Sonya, takes messages, punctuating her conversation with a throaty, seductive laugh. Alex sits waiting, Sonya pointedly ignores him.
A door opens - a handsome, strongly built but faintly feminine man, in flowing robes and Arab head covering - Lieutenant Colonel T. E. Lawrence, is whisked through the office and into an adjacent room. Alex looks curious. Who is he?
Sonya in a strong Russian accent flicks her eyes at Alex: “Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence, you know. The Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence!!”
Alex looks blank, not caring a fig, which Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence is, but having taken an instant dislike to one so obviously an Arabophile.
“I have an appointment with the High Command,” he tries to reassert his authority with a supercilious tone.
Sonya looks at him with some pity and glancing at her diary says with a final negative: “ I see no appointment. We’re shut now.”
The ‘trouble-maker’, Alex, finds himself ushered out by one of the cleaning staff.
Frustrated and humiliated, he exits through the revolving door which spins shut behind him.
Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence is driven off in a smart motor car, leaving Alex in a cloud of dust, to wait for a horse-drawn taxi.
****
Alex writes: ‘With a saddened heart I pursued my journey into Beirut. My coming was a joyful surprise to my sister. Many sad things had happened since she had last seen me. During my imprisonment she had suffered tortures, not knowing what would happen to me, and now that she saw me alive she cried from happiness.’
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| Steamer sailing from Beirut from Alex's 'With the Turks' |
On board ship in the Mediterranean. Alex staring out at the horizon, Rifka weeps, her hands on the rail. Alex’s voice over as he informs Aron in a letter:
“They turned me down. Thought I was an enemy agent and now we’re sailing for Gibraltar to wait there for a ship to get us to the United States...”
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| Aron & Avshalom in the Tower Room |
The tower room at the Station in Atlit, night. Aron reads Alex’s letter.
“Damn Alex! We still need a man in Egypt!”
Avshalom has already made up his mind: “I’ll go.”
“You’re mad. How?”
Absa smiles, undaunted: “There are two routes - the desert and the sea.”
Aron is disapproving: “The Sinai’s crawling with Turks! And there’s a blockade of our nationals leaving by boat.”
“I’m not afraid of the Turks and I can get through any blockade. But what about you?”
Aron is just as stubborn as his friend: “I’ll abandon my post when I have a rope round my neck.”
Avshalom caps the conversation: “Then we’ll both take our chances - I with the sea, you, with the rope.”
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