No Time for Tears (54 page)

On the birth date of Moses, when the Moslem holy day was also celebrated, he inflamed the
fellaheen
against the Jews, ranting that the Jews were stealing their land, desecrating their holy places … Not surprisingly, blood flowed. Kibbutzim able to defend themselves were avoided. But in the holy cities of Safed, Tiberias, Hebron and Jerusalem pious old defenseless Jews were murdered.

The British, seeing too much of a good thing, needing to swing the pendulum, for show at least, a bit in the other direction, brought Haj Amim el Husseini before a British commission of inquiry, where he was chastised. And then pardoned. And once the pardon had been granted the British Colonial Office restricted Jewish immigration. Arab goodwill at all costs … it was mandatory for the British in retaining their control of this hugely oil-rich area.

Something had to be done for the Yishuv, or it would perish.

The Zionist Settlement Society called a secret meeting. From London to Palestine flew Chaim Weizmann. Dovid Landau was there, as was Yitzchak Ben-Zvi, David Ben-Gurion, and Binya Yariv. Many felt that Yariv, a large, impressive man of the Third Aliyah who had come to Palestine with an impressive war record from the Russian army, was a most likely candidate to lead the Jewish defense.

Arguments went far into the night … the British were too important to be sidestepped … the British were devils, replacing the Ottomans only in uniform and diplomacy since both were exploiters. Many favored retaliating against the British now, while Ben-Gurion, Dovid Landau and Binya Yariv, with others, counseled a more middle-of-the-road strategy. They agreed the need for arms was pressing, but to ensure a positive world opinion legal means were preferable. But one thing was agreed on—the Yishuv could not be left defenseless. Arms would be obtained. A militia would be formed, in secret. The militia would be used for defense only. Yariv was voted to head the new, secret organization, and so with this army of self-defense, the Haganah was born.

Dovid was best-known for his success in developing the settlements, but now there was an even greater challenge for him. His experience with NILI well qualified him—to find where arms could be purchased. A supply of arms was literally a life-and-death matter for the Haganah.

Given the Yishuv’s shortage of funds, Dovid quickly proceeded to the benefactor he was closest to. That night he took the late flight out of Lydda Airport. Destination, New York City.

Chavala never thought the day would come when he would ever ask for her help. At long last, she could perhaps believe her reasons for having left him. For all these years she had often been at war with herself … well, but now there was an even greater war to be fought. A war for not only her family but the whole Jewish family…

When Dovid, sitting in her living room in Manhattan, finished telling her what was happening, she simply asked. “How much money will help, Dovid?”

He wouldn’t even mention the enormous sums it would take to protect the Yishuv. “At this time, as much as we can get our hands on. Put it that way.”

Without another word she got up and used the telephone. Nervously she waited for the ringing to stop. When she finally heard, “Hello,” her heart jumped. Thank God her friend the
landsman
was there on the other end. “This is Chavala.”

“
Chavala
.” He was delighted to hear the sound of her voice. “You want more goods, this time of the night?”

In spite of the tense situation she laughed. “This time it’s not goods that I need. Just money … only this time I mean a
lot
of money.”

“So by you, what would be considered a lot of money?”

“Two million dollars, maybe. Give or take.”

The
landsman
stared into the phone. When he recovered his voice he asked, “What do you want it in, nickels and dimes? … Chavala, where would I get two million dollars?”

“Tomorrow morning I’ll come to see you, and then I’ll tell you how.”

Dovid was in shock. “Chavala, that’s insane. Not that we couldn’t use it, but two million dollars?”

“Have a little patience. If things work out my way, it won’t seem so much.” She went to her desk drawer, took out her checkbook and handed Dovid her own personal check for $200,000. He sat there, staring down at the six figures. And this was the little girl from Odessa who’d never given up a dream. She was the giver, and he, in fact, was somehow the taker. Her love of Eretz Yisroel was just as great as his. It had only taken a different direction. Come from a different direction, source … love of her family …

Next morning, as the two sat in the
landsman’s
basement, he adjusted his
yarmulke
on his sparse head of hair, adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses and said, “I’m afraid to ask, Chavala, because I know you. I know your plans and your schemes and your determination … but still I’ll ask. Now, where will I get two million dollars?”

After explaining Dovid’s mission, Chavala said, “Obviously, knowing you, you’ll make a good-sized donation. But two million dollars I don’t expect. But from your association, with your friends … it should be no problem …”

“Listen, Chavala,
kosher
I haven’t been, but then on the other hand, I never got mixed up with gangsters in New Jersey. Not even Jewish gangsters.”

“But you’re intimate with—”

“Intimate?” He shrugged. “I knew them when they were little kids, just starting out. So what do you want me to do?”

“Call a meeting tonight.”

He sighed. “What, you think it’s so easy to pick up the phone and call Bugsy Siegel, or Harry Teitelbaum and say, ‘Come over tonight and we’ll break a few matzohs together.’ … Chavala, you don’t understand, they’re not ordinary people, face it, they’re gangsters—”

“Yes, but they’re Jewish gangsters … who would you expect me to go to, the Italians?”

The
landsman
shook his head, shrugged and gave up. When Chavala had a plan, nothing would stop her. “All right, already, let me see what I can do.
Oy vay
, Chavala, the things I do for you.”

She laughed. “
That’s
what friends are for, and tomorrow night you’ll come to dinner with Dovid and me … Now, darling, get on the phone.”

It was no easy task to convince the boys he’d known in their youth to meet at Chavala’s apartment, but he talked and he talked and he talked and explained and explained and explained that for old times’ sake they should do him this favor.

When he’d hung up, Bugsy Siegel said to Waxey Gordon, “You think it’s a setup?”

“With the
landsman
I doubt it… in fact I’m sure it’s not. But where the hell is Palestine?”

Chavala knew that God was on her side, and even if the world was against them, and they never had a friend, God was also on the side of Eretz Yisroel. She knew it the moment she opened the door and in walked the
landsman
and his boys, formerly of the Bowery.

Chavala didn’t know whether Jewish gangsters were the same as just ordinary Jews, but she’d bet they could be reached, that a Jew was a Jew, whatever his profession. Or so she hoped. She put in a supply of whiskey she’d got from the
landsman
, which he’d gotten from his bootlegger. The table bore an assortment of bagels and lox, cream cheese, kosher dills, chopped liver (formed, God forgive her, in the shape of a Jewish star), as well as platters of corned beef and pastrami.

In the beginning, there was a distinct reserve on the part of her guests. But soon Chavala put them at ease with her mimicry and jokes. Even Jewish gangsters laughed … Well, she thought, if she could get them to laugh, maybe she could get them to give. The source wasn’t important. Now when the British had turned their back. As they always had, the Jews would survive, by whatever means left to them.

When the table was cleared, silence prevailed. Chavala looked from left to right: Doc Stacher, Bugsy Siegel, Harry the Lip Teitelbaum, Lepke Buchalter, Big Greenie Greenberg, Shadows Kravits, Dopey Shapiro, Little Farfel Kavolick, Little Hymie Holtz and Waxey Gordon. Next she looked at Dovid for moral support, and also to God that he should put the words in her mouth. To mention the money would be the kiss of death, she knew. No, the approach was to the Jewish heart that beat beneath their bulletproof vests. Standing to her fullest stature, she said, “You cannot believe the honor I feel this evening, that you gentlemen have agreed to come here.”

They looked at one another, wondering just exactly what it was that made the
landsman
persuade them.

Chavala continued, “All of your parents escaped the pogroms of Russia and Poland and other places. We have all been cut from the same piece of cloth, and because your dear parents had the wisdom to come to this great country, you have been given the opportunity to become prosperous men. I’m sure that all of you are aware that only in this country could such a miracle occur, that you men who came off the streets of the East Side were able to avail yourself of the great freedoms and gifts that this country offered us. But Jews all over the world are being killed, annihilated, thrown out of one country to another. For
them
there is no hope. And those Jews that live in the land of our ancestors have been deprived of the right to defend themselves. Deprived of weapons,
guns
”—she emphasized the word, knowing it was one they’d understand. “The British are the worst
mamzerim
in the world. To the Arabs they give guns, yes. But to our people, they give
drek.
If we don’t help them, our very own, who can they depend on, Lucky Luciano? Capone?”

Mention of the Italian competition was a masterstroke. Quickly she forged ahead to take advantage of it. “We must help our own, and the only way we can do that is to supply our Jews with the ammunition to fight all our enemies. You are as much involved as myself … and my husband. (Forgive me, Dovid.) Jews fight for Jews, and we will win the battle with the help of God, and your money.”

Little Farfel Kavolick’s parents had barely escaped the pogroms. “How much guns do you need?”

Chavala thought she would faint. “That, my husband will answer in just a few moments, but at this moment I’m giving three hundred thousand dollars, because it’s more than guns we need, we need big equipment … tanks, an airplane or two…”

Bugsy Siegel looked closely at this wisp of a woman. It had almost become a game, and Bugsy loved gambling. “I’ll double your ante,” he said.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d stretched the truth a little, but it was working.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Siegel.”

“Call me Bugsy. Now, what are the rest of you guys gonna come up with?” He had now taken up the lance. This was for his people.

Nobody outdid Big Greenie Greenberg. What would it mean? A few more boats of illicit booze coming in from Canada. “I’ll match you.”

Dovid was speechless. By the end of the evening, they had raised their two million dollars. When Chavala shut the door after her guests had left with the promise that the money, in cash, would be at the
landsman’s
in the morning, she allowed herself a yelp of joy. Running to Dovid’s arms she said, “Oh, Dovid, we did it.”

“No, Chavala. You did it, as you’ve done everything else you ever set your mind to.” He held her closer. “I love you, my darling. My God, how I love you.”

“And I you, Dovid. Hard as it may have been for you to believe it.”

And they went to her bedroom, to reaffirm what they both felt so overwhelmingly.

In the morning Chavala was singing as she fixed breakfast for Dovid and Joshua. A woman well-loved, she thought, was a happy woman. How could she ever have forgotten, or lost sight of that… ?

At the breakfast table Joshua looked intently at his father, scarcely listening to the conversation that went on between his parents. Did he have the courage to discuss what had been eating at him? When he’d come home from his summer in Palestine his mother had said that from now on his vacation would be spent at camp, at Lake Minnetonka. Who cared about that? He wanted to see Lake Kinneret. Finally he blurted out his long hidden thoughts: “I want to spend this summer in Eretz Yisroel too … is it all right with you,
abba?
”

Dovid looked at Chavala. She’d already given up one son, and now Joshua? It wasn’t merely the suggestion of another summer spent in Eretz Yisroel. Both knew that this was only a prelude to his ultimate goal of living there. Joshua, smart as he was, didn’t give his parents credit for being perceptive enough to read his deeper feelings.

He waited for what seemed a very, very long time, watching the exchange of looks between his parents.

At long last, Chavala nodded slightly to Dovid … It was he who had been asked the question by Joshua. He should be the one to answer.

Knowing too well how painful that apparently simple nod was for Chavala, Dovid also knew it meant she understood and respected her son’s need to be where his heart was.

Still, for a moment Dovid was tempted to say, some other summer, but seeing the look in Joshua’s eyes, and not wanting to demean Chavala’s sacrifice, he said, “I think you should ask your mother.”

Joshua was afraid. Wasn’t it a certainty that mother would say no? If only his father had just said yes, not placed him in this position. But his father had always said to Reuven, and to him too, “Never be afraid.” All right … “Could I … mama?”

Without hesitation she answered, “Of course. I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner … In fact, I want you to go.” She would kill herself if she allowed a tear to come.

For a moment he sat there in disbelief. Then slowly he got up from his chair, put his arms around his mother and kissed her. “Thank you, mama… I love you very much.”

She smiled. “Well now, that’s the best gift I ever received. We’ll call it your vacation going-away present.”

When Dovid returned to Palestine, it was at least with a feeling of hope that the Yishuv would be protected and that the Haganah could have its beginnings. No sooner had he gone to his apartment in Tel Aviv than he sat down and wrote a letter to Chavala. He told her of all that had been accomplished, the careful smuggling of weapons, the building of an arsenal, and ended by saying …