My Promised Land: The Triumph and Tragedy of Israel (5 page)

It is a dire story. Herbert Bentwich’s generation is one of emancipated Jews who fell in love with Europe and tied their fate to Europe. After breaking free from the ghetto in which they had been imprisoned for centuries, they went forth and embraced enlightened Europe—enriching the Continent and enriching themselves. Yet as the nineteenth century draws to a close, these Jews realize that as much as they care for Europe, Europe does not care for them. For these newly emancipated European Jews, Europe is like a surrogate mother. They look up to her, they worship her, they give her all they have. Then, suddenly, these devoted sons of Europe notice that Europe won’t have them. Europe thinks they smell. Overnight there is a new, strange look in Mother Europe’s eyes. She is about to go insane. They see the insanity dancing in her eyes, and they understand that they must run for their lives.

That is why Theodor Herzl is going to convene a congress in the late summer, and why Herbert Bentwich and the Bentwich delegation are riding now through the ancient land of Israel. Because just as Europe’s progress and enlightenment have reached a peak, the Jews must escape Europe. This desolate land is where they will find refuge from Europe’s Medean insanity.

Herbert Bentwich’s journal stops abruptly after the visit to Jerusalem. Perhaps fatigue has taken its toll, perhaps too much excitement. One witness claims that Bentwich fell into a local prickly pear cactus whose tiny thorns tormented him and deprived him of his peace of mind. But notes taken by other pilgrims tell me that what impressed Bentwich most of all was the sight of Jerusalem at dusk, as he saw it from Mount Scopus just before departure. The next day it was the eerie, ancient quiet surrounding the Sebastian ruins that enchanted the chief pilgrim. He was moved by the biblical views of Samaria: terraced hills, olive groves, sleepy valleys. He found Mount Gilboa magical. Yet what left the strongest impression on him was the sight of the Sea of Galilee at sunset, surrounded by glowing red mountains, and the experience of taking an early morning sail in the lake’s silence.

I watch my great-grandfather lead a hundred-horse convoy as it climbs from the Sea of Galilee to the Lake of Hula over the Valley of
Ginosar. And I watch him as the hundred-horse convoy climbs from the Lake of Hula to the springs of the Banias, the snow-covered summit of Mount Hermon hovering above. The twentieth century is also hovering above. My great-grandfather doesn’t know it yet, but the next half century is going to be the worst ever in the history of the Jews. After that will come another half century in which, at horrendous cost, the Jews will regain their sovereignty. But for the time being, all is quiet. The land is at peace. One can hear the hoofs of the horses as they climb the slopes of the Hermon. One can hear the musings of the gentlemen, the silence of the ladies. And when my great-grandfather looks back, he sees for the very last time a land not yet affected by his future enterprise, a land not yet transformed by the need and despair of the Jews. He observes the serenity of Galilee, the magic of the lake, the staggering omen of the Horns of Hittin.

Herbert Bentwich will not make it to the first Zionist Congress in Basel. Though he will attend future Zionist conventions, he will not be there to present the report that Dr. Herzl was counting on at the historic 1897 gathering. But once back in London, he will talk and write about his experiences. Wherever he goes, my great-grandfather will be adamant. “Palestine has never yet adopted another population,” he will claim. Arguing with the critics of Zion, he will insist that Palestine is absolutely suitable for “the teeming millions who are in distress in the East of Europe for whom a home might have to be found with a minimum of difficulty and a maximum of hope.”

In the future debate, my great-grandfather will have the upper hand. Along with his friends and colleagues he will establish a sound Zionist power base in Europe’s foremost capital. Exactly twenty years after his pilgrimage to Palestine, Herbert Bentwich will attend the first meetings between the Zionist leadership and the British Crown regarding Palestine. By that time, the aging, dignified solicitor will be a relic of times past, but as a matter of honor and courtesy, he will be given the right to participate in the early stages of the dramatic negotiations. Half a year later, on November 2, 1917, the negotiations will produce a famous seventy-word commitment, included in a letter, that will be sent by Foreign Secretary Lord Balfour to Lord Rothschild:

The Bentwich journey to Palestine was short and hurried and somewhat absurd. Yet it transformed the life of my great-grandfather. On his return to England, he would not be able to resume his Victorian gentleman’s routine. He would not settle for practicing law, playing chamber music, reading Shakespeare, and raising his nine daughters and two sons to be British gentlemen and gentlewomen. The twelve days Bentwich spent in the Land of Israel would make it difficult for him to enjoy the comforts of his privileged life on the family’s estate in Birchington-by-the-Sea. For beyond the Kent coastline he would now see a lighthouse. The Bentwiches would now live in constant dialogue with that beacon.

The enigmatic attraction to Palestine would inhabit the souls of all members of the family. In 1913, Herbert Bentwich’s daughter and son-in-law would build a fine mansion in the wine-producing colony of Zichron Ya’acov. In 1920 Herbert Bentwich’s son would be appointed the first attorney general of the British Mandate in Palestine, the British
rule over Palestine authorized by the League of Nations in 1922. In 1923, Herbert Bentwich himself would establish the first Anglo-Jewish colony on the shoulder of Tel Gezer and within the Palestinian village of Abu Shusha. In 1929, the elderly Bentwich would finally settle in the Land of Israel, where he would die three years later. The patriarch would be buried on the western slopes of Mount Scopus, by the newly built Hebrew University, not far from the spot from which he viewed that unforgettable sight of Jerusalem at dusk in April 1897.

But now the steamer carrying the Bentwich delegation back from Palestine to London is crossing the dark sea on its way to Constantinople. The May night is hot. My great-grandfather is on deck, watching the white foam and the black waves. He only vaguely understands what he has just done, only vaguely envisions the transformation that will take place in the Land of Israel. His understanding of the Land is so very limited. But he does know that an era has come to a close and that a new era is set to begin. Something both grand and terrible occurred when the
Oxus
made its appearance at the Jaffa port and laid on its shore all that it carried on board.

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photo credit 2.1
)

I
AM BOUND NORTH
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stations, and shopping malls. Crowded graceless cities appear and disappear, and it is difficult to tell them apart. Coastal Israel is dense, intense, consumerist, and sweaty. But when I turn east and pass the Arab-Israeli villages of Bartoa and Umm el-Fahem, and reach the Valley of Yizrael, which Bentwich crossed in 1897, I see a fertile basin of plowed brown fields. And when I continue eastward, surrounded by the scent of heavy soil, I arrive at one of my favorite Israeli vantage points. Just after the kibbutz named Yizrael, the landscape suddenly opens up. Before me are the Valley of Harod and the rocky ridges of Mount Gilboa, and I can see the gentle green slopes of the Isaschar heights, with its numerous kibbutzim. It’s so quiet here. The spell of another era still hangs over the Valley of Harod.

In the dilapidated archives of Ein Harod, the first kibbutz of the valley, I pore over maps, plans, protocols, articles, letters, and personal journals. I look at the black-and-white photographs from the 1920s: our very beginning in the valley. Before me is the genesis of the Zionist adventure.

Harod Valley is a long, narrow strip of land locked between the dramatic mountain ridge to its south and the gentle heights to its north. To the east is the city of Beit Shean; to the west, the watershed line. In the 1920s there were three Palestinian villages and two Palestinian hamlets in the valley. These thirty thousand dunams
*
were owned by the Sarsouk family of Alexandria. Most local inhabitants were their serfs.

Local history is ancient and bloody. On the mountaintop of Gilboa, King Saul and his son Jonathan were killed when the army of Israel was crushed by the Philistines. The bodies of the king and prince were violated. Under Gilboa burbles the water source to which Gideon brought his warriors before defeating the Midianites. And by the spring of Harod, Gideon divided the brave from the timid, separating those fit to serve their nation from those unfit.

In 1904 the Turkish Empire laid down a German-planned railway in the midst of the long strip of land. Yet the valley’s torpor proved to be stronger than progress. Twice a day the steam train whistled through the silence, but the silence prevailed. As late as 1920, the valley was first and foremost a patchwork of wild fields scarred by boulders and stubborn bushes that prevent cultivation. Scattered among the fields were deadly marshes in which Anopheles mosquitoes bred, infecting most of the local Palestinians with malaria. Yet on the paths descending from the spring of Harod, barefoot village girls walked in their long black dresses, carrying clay jars full of water on their heads. Skinny young shepherds roamed with their herds of gaunt sheep. On both sides of the Turkish-German railway, native life meandered as it had for hundreds of years. Still, death was in the air. It lurked low in the poison-green marshes of Palestine, and it hovered above the endangered Jews of Europe.

In April 1903 an Easter pogrom took place in Moldova’s capital, Kishinev. Forty-nine Jews were murdered, hundreds brutally injured. World Jewry was in turmoil. Theodor Herzl was personally shocked. Deeply
affected by Kishinev, he considered buying the property of the Sarsouk family in Palestine in order to relocate the victims of European anti-Semitism there. He had the proposal reviewed by a consultant, who concluded that the land in the Valley of Harod was exquisite, but to evacuate the serfs from the estate would require the use of force.

Herzl’s Zionism of 1903 found the use of force unacceptable. But seventeen years later, Zionism was no longer so fastidious. The Great War and the Great Revolution had hardened hearts. So when the Sarsouk transaction was finally signed, in the summer of 1920, it was clear to all concerned what was required: decisive, rapid action. Action to be carried out by a new breed of Jew.

In the decade following the Kishinev pogrom, some one million Jews fled Eastern Europe, while fewer than thirty-five thousand immigrated to Palestine. The choice was clear: the masses who wanted a life went to America. The few who wanted utopia made
aliyah
to the Land of Israel. Unlike the traditional farmers my great-grandfather met in the colonies of 1897, the post-Kishinev immigrants were secular and utopian. They were Tolstoyan idealists who traveled to Palestine in order to find salvation, both for the nation and the individual, by adopting a humane and environmentally friendly socialism.

The great creation of the utopians was the commune. In 1909 they established Degania, the first small, intimate commune, with the aim of respecting individual needs and freedom. Degania survived, but the utopians failed. Many felt lonely in the harsh, barren land. Some sank into depression. A few committed suicide. Most gave up and left for America.