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— for the Jewish state Herzl had first dreamed of 50 years before — had been
won. A huge bonfire blazed in front of the bakery. All around us the grown-ups
were singing and dancing in celebration.
On the Arab side, there was no rejoicing. Every one of the Arab delegations
at the UN voted against partition, rejecting a Jewish state even if it was created
along with a Palestinian Arab one. Violence erupted the next day. An attack on
a bus near Lydda, near the road up to Jerusalem, left six Jews dead. Similar
attacks occurred around the country. Shooting broke out in mixed Arab-and-
Jewish towns and cities: Jaffa on the southern edge of Tel Aviv. Safed, Tiberias
and Haifa in the north, and in Jerusalem.
I followed all this with curiosity and trepidation through my halting attempts
to read Davar le Yeladim, the weekly children’s edition of the Labour Zionist
newspaper Davar. We children felt an additional connection with what was
going on. One of our Dror housemates, a boy named Giora Ros, had left the
year before when his father took a job in Jerusalem. As the battle for the city
raged through the end of 1947 and into 1948, its besieged Jewish residents
fought for their lives. We sent our friend packages of clothing and food, which
we saved up by eating only half of an egg at breakfast and smaller portions at
dinner.
The mood darkened further at the end of January 1948, four months before the
British departed. A cluster of settlements known as Gush Etzion, south of
Jerusalem near the hills of Bethlehem, also came under siege. Around midnight
on January 15, a unit of Haganah youngsters set off on foot to try to break
through. They became known as “The 35”. Marching through the night from
Jerusalem, they had made it only within a couple of miles of Gush Etzion when
they were surrounded and attacked by local Arabs. By late afternoon, all of
them were dead. When the British authorities recovered their bodies, they found
that the enemy had not simply killed them. All of the bodies had been battered
and broken. Rumors spread that in some cases, the dead men’s genitals had
been cut off and shoved into their mouths. Since I was still a few weeks short of
my sixth birthday, I was spared that particular detail. But not the sense of horror
over what had happened, nor the central message: the lengths and depths to
which the Arabs of Palestine seemed ready to go in their fight against us.
“Hit’alelu bagufot!” was the only slightly sanitized account we children were
given. “They mutilated the corpses!”
Even after the partition vote, statehood was not a given. In the weeks before
the British left, two senior Americans —the ambassador to the UN and Secretary
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