As the war quickly progressed, and victory was within grasp, my perspective changed. I became calmer. I realized I was providing Risa and Gadi with a gift. Being citizens of a Jewish nation meant they would never experience anti-Semitism, discrimination or shame. They would not have to endure the agonies that my family suffered. The physical danger they faced was transient, but their spiritual enrichment would be permanent. I convinced myself I had done the right thing by not sending them away. They belonged in Israel. Compared to everything I had been through, the risks were within acceptable limits. We had a country with an outstanding army and air force. We were far from helpless. We were strong and effective.
The war only lasted six days before Israel prevailed. The day after victory was declared, Maier and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary with some of the other students from the ulpan. It was a bittersweet affair. I regarded our triumph as a miracle, and Israeli casualty figures were relatively light. Nevertheless, our happiness was tempered by the wave of funerals taking place across the country. Seven hundred and seventy-six young soldiers sacrificed their lives to make Israel a much more secure country for the rest of us.
As soon as we could, we headed toward the Kotel (or Western Wall) in Jerusalem’s Old City, which, for so long, had been inaccessible for Israeli Jews. We had waited a lifetime to make this pilgrimage. The Kotel is the only surviving section of the retaining wall that had supported the First and Second Temples built thousands of years ago. It is the most sacred place of worship for Jews.
Before the war, Jerusalem had been split in two. The Israelis administered the western half, while the Jordanians controlled the eastern section, including the Old City, with its crenelated limestone ramparts and diverse holy sites, sacred to the world’s three major monotheistic religions: Judaism, Islam and Christianity. After driving back Jordanian forces in house-to-house fighting in East Jerusalem, the Israelis seized control of the Old City on day three of the war.
We could feel the tension when we entered the Jaffa Gate about a week later, although we felt safe because troops patrolled the maze of narrow alleyways inside the walls.
We were overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the bustling souk, or market. Stalls brimmed with exotic goods, dresses with intricately hand-stitched embroidery and beautifully crafted pieces of jewelry. Paprika, cumin, cardamom, za’atar and other brightly colored spices in large open sacks emitted intoxicating aromas. Traces of familiar and strange languages I’d never encountered before mingled with shouted conversations of stall holders in Arabic. Although the souk merchants belonged to the losing side, any resentment toward the Jews now exploring their new world was diluted by pragmatism. Given the circumstances, they were reasonably hospitable.
Finally, after navigating the Old City’s labyrinth, we reached the Western Wall, rising sixty feet above us and glistening in the sun. Although partially hidden by the dilapidated shacks propped against it, amid reeking donkey dunghills and piles of garbage, the monument was awe-inspiring. I quietly mouthed an ancient prayer known as Sheheheyanu: “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who has granted us life and sustained us and allowed us to arrive at this time”.
For over 1,500 years, Jews have recited the Sheheheyanu to express gratitude for new and unusual experiences. It is hard to describe just how sublime this moment was, standing there with Maier, holding our children’s hands, before the Western Wall. At last, we, as a people, were able to pray where, for nearly two millennia, our ancestors had also petitioned God.
I felt immense gratitude and pride to be there with my family, touching those giant, ancient stones. As I stood in reverence and silence, I realized the wall represented part of my identity. It was a testament to Jewish strength, tenacity and chutzpah. Furthermore, it was vindication, and a far cry from being defined by the Nazis as Untermenschen—subhumans, parasites and vermin to be annihilated. This felt like another moment of liberation. Not surprisingly, it also felt like home. Confirmation that I belonged.
Not long after peace broke out, we left the ulpan and rented a three-bedroom house, five miles outside Jerusalem in the Judaean Hills, two thousand feet above sea level, in a community called Motza. The house nestled in knee-high grass among cedar trees and a small orchard brimming with peaches, apricots, apples and pears. After Manhattan’s landscape of concrete, steel and glass, it seemed like paradise.
One morning, a tall figure in a robe and sandals appeared at our door. He didn’t say a word. Using his hands, he gestured, “Can I be of help to you?”
In no time, our garden was pristine. He scythed the grass, pruned the trees and disposed of the rotting fruit on the ground. Ahmad, who lived in a small Arab village without electricity or water, became our gardener, babysitter and friend. He honored our family by naming his two boys Maier and Gadi.
Maier immersed himself in a niche area of cancer research. At the time, international health bodies and food companies were striving to mitigate the impact of aflatoxins, naturally occurring carcinogenic fungi that grow in hot and humid climates and contaminate a wide range of products, including maize, rice, nuts, spices and cocoa beans. In a project sponsored jointly by the Hadassah Medical Center and the Hebrew University, Maier and a team of researchers developed a fermentation process to produce aflatoxins in order to help other scientists around the world protect the food supply chain and reduce the risk of cancer.
I took a job at the Hebrew University, teaching English to students who required help to matriculate or qualify for entry to university. One of my pleasures was driving past the Dome of the Rock, with its magnificent golden orb, sparkling in the sun. The Dome meant as much to most of my Arab students as the Western Wall meant to me.
My students came from poor, male-dominated villages. In their traditional patriarchal world, women were discouraged from studying or teaching. Most were indignant that a woman should be their instructor and expressed their resentment in many ways. Some talked ostentatiously during presentations, others stripped off their shirts, and whenever there was political tension or instability, they tuned into Arabic news on small transistor radios. Although I couldn’t understand the language, I was aware that their tone was strident, not least because my students always seemed to get wound up.
Ever since childhood, I had always stood my ground. The habit had served me well, and I saw no reason to change now. The students settled down once they realized that their test grades would reflect their inattentiveness. I understood them and empathized with their plight. They felt powerless, ineffectual and maybe even scared. Being a minority in a dominant culture is always a challenge. But I’m pleased that some of them became high achievers and went on to obtain advanced degrees.
All the while, family life expanded and improved. My father and Sonia settled in Tel Aviv. Maier’s parents, Ruth and Leo, also moved from Brooklyn to Jerusalem. They were now close to both their sons, as Maier’s brother, Bunim, lived with his family in Tel Aviv. A few years later, my daughter Itaya was born and we moved into Jerusalem itself, as it was nearer to family and more convenient. There, Maier’s parents lived across the street and were able to help us raise the children while the two of us worked full-time. Fridays and holidays were often spent with Papa and Sonia in Tel Aviv, but our favorite activity was going to the beautiful Israeli beaches with Bunim, Davida and their three children, Shavit, Boaz and Oded. Jerusalem’s safe streets also became the children’s playground. At that time, young children even rode buses alone, and Risa, Gadi and Itaya would take themselves to activities like their sports teams, karate lessons and horse riding.