Jewish
Frontier

As the world Jewish community and Israel celebrate the 50th anniversary of the founding of the State of Israel and the fruition of the Zionist dream, the Jewish mass media and intellectual journals have been devoting attention to the state's founders. A series of old and new perspectives, particularly revisionist ones, focuses upon such leaders as David Ben-Gurion and his role in building and leading the new nation.

I had two memorable experiences with this giant. In the winter of 1946 I was on the Supreme Allied Headquarters staff, stationed in Frankfurt, Germany, and was part of a team that met with all soldiers leaving for home. General Dwight Eisenhower was concerned about how GIs would report their experiences to their friends and families in America. Our task was to deal with "Why we fought" and help GIs tell about Adolf Hitler's vast destruction of Europe and the Allies' role in the defeat of Nazi Germany.

In my off-hours I and Nahum Guttman, a fellow Gl in my outfit who was from Minneapolis and a Habonim founder, were involved in helping our co-religionists who were then displaced persons get to Palestine or other countries of their choosing. Nahum and I spent lots of time at Zeilsheim, a displaced persons' camp near Frankfurt, which was, for its inhabitants, yet another closed community that did not provide the freedom that the victory over the Nazis had promised.

Nahum had recruited me to help clothe our fellow Jews. I was one of his "gonifs." The late Barney Mitzman of Newark was another member of this group. We all embraced and cherished our gonif status. This activity involved "liberating" blankets GIs did not use or need. These were made into overcoats by the displaced persons. We provided other items such as toiletries and cigarettes that they had not had in some time and that helced restore some sense of normal life.

One afternoon Nahum told me to meet him at 6 p.m.; he was going to introduce me to Israel's first prime minister. I took him at his word, but in 1946 I wondered if this all could be real: The British were so steadfast in their opposition to a Jewish homeland, World War II had just ended and what would the new United Nations do about finally establishing a Jewish state? We took an Army jeep to Zeilsheim, where what passed for an auditorium was packed with displaced persons and their families; signs in Yiddish and Hebrew called out, "Welcome to haver Ben-Gurion." Sure enough, at about 7:30, BenGurion appeared on the makeshift stage and, with no lengthy introduction, started speaking. He spoke with passion, with warmth, in Yiddish and Hebrew, about the need to build a homeland for all Jews. He spoke on such a personal level that each of us could feel he was talking to each one of us alone. And, in this room full of Holocaust survivors, he spoke with a profound understanding of the recent Holocaust experience.

He ended with a plea to the survivors to renew family life, to build a new Jewish homeland. Start rebuilding your family life, be fruitful and multiply, he urged. The response of those listening — who rose to their feet to applaud and cheer while tears poured down their cheeks (and Nahum's and mine as well) — was like a giant roar that had been pent up for a lifetime and now was like a loud blast of the shofar. In the midst of all these survivors' difficulties came a message of hope, hope that had lingered in their hearts and minds all their lives — "Next Year in Jerusalem." The large group then spontaneously broke into "Hatikva"; only one other time have I heard it sung with such feeling, that was the next time I saw Ben-Gurion.

Nahum, true to his word took me to meet Ben-Gurion; it was a meeting I shall never forget. Here I was, a young Jew from New York City's Lower East Side, who knew little about Zionism or Jewish history but whose service overseas in Europe gave me a crash course in Jewish history. To meet a world figure, a Jewish giant, was overwhelming. Ben-Gurion set me at ease with a firm handshake and greetings in English and Hebrew. I was overwhelmed.

More than two decades later, I had another chance to meet this giant. In May 1969 I was awarded an international travel grant to lecture to professionals in Uruguay on children who are mentally retarded and their families. This award, made by the National Association for Retarded Children involved a UN agency working in Uruguay.

My hotel, an Inter-Continental, was located on the main square in Montevideo, opposite the country's version of our White House.

As I returned to the hotel one day, I saw the public square packed with people; I thought they were a mob protesting governmental policy. As I pushed my way through the crowd to get to the hotel, I listened to bits and pieces of Yiddish being spoken. I stopped one man and, in Yiddish, asked him what was happening. He proudly replied: "Ben-Gurion is coming to speak to us." He radiated excitement. The large square was filled with mostly middleaged and older Jewish men and women, most were Holocaust survivors, though a few had migrated from Europe in the 1930s.

When the entourage appeared on the platform that had been erected in front of the president's building, David Ben-Gurion was clearly recognizable, with his large mane of white hair. Uruguay's president spoke first and welcomed him, followed by Jewish community officials and members of the rabbinate.

Then it was Ben-Gurion's turn. The audience, previously excited and noisy, quieted down to an eerie kind of silence. Ben-Gurion spoke about realizing the Zionist dream and the aspirations of the Jewish people everywhere. He spoke of rebuilding the Jewish state and the Jewish people and the tremendous challenges still ahead in a hostile world community. His mixture of Yiddish and Hebrew captivated the crowd; he had a wonderful way of making you feel that he was speaking to you alone. Here, thousands of miles away from home, I listened, I cried with the crowd.

Then spontaneously, like a roar, the crowd burst into "Hatikva." It was a pent up collective outpouring of intense feeling, of thwarted hopes; for this assemblage of Jews, this was a moment of pride and of passion. As at Zeilsheim, our fellow Jews listened and were then able to rejoice collectively. In both arenas there was opportunity to speak up, and "Hatikva" became a splendid vehicle for the participants to assert their Jewishness.

I could not leave the square after Ben-Gurion finished. I stayed and listened to small groups of men and women who remained almost riveted to the cobblestones to talk about the speech and how Ben-Gurion took them, and me, through Jewish history and into the present day and into the future for our children and grandchildren.

These experiences have remained with me for all these years; they are alive, vivid and meaningful. The people at Zeilsheim and in Montevideo made me realize more than ever that we Jews are responsible for each other. And David Ben-Gurion dramatized the continuity in Jewish leadership over the centuries.