Being surrounded by a growing family and a widening circle of friends helped to heal the wounds of the Holocaust. I could never replace those who were lost. But now life had real meaning, especially when a new life came along. The sense of belonging enriched our existence, as did our lifelong friendships. In retrospect, this time we spent with family and friends in Israel was one of the happiest periods of my life.
Although we enjoyed the sea, Maier and I were more suited to living in Jerusalem than the coast. We adored its complexity and history, the timeless quality of its architecture, the crisp, clear air and brilliant light. Treading its streets, I always had the feeling that the stone houses had been there for eternity and would stand ad infinitum. Our fleeting existence in Jerusalem’s continuum was a privilege and we made the most of it. Buildings scarred by bullet holes were a constant reminder that our liberty came at a price. I adored the eclectic blend of Arab women in long, colorful dresses, orthodox Jewish women in modest clothing, religious Jewish men in their unique attire and girls in miniskirts bringing a sense of the Swinging Sixties to restaurants, stores and falafel stands amid the aroma of cumin and za’atar.
During downtime from work, we explored the four quarters of the Old City, sharing our curiosity with our children and imbuing them with a sense of history. My favorite site was — and still is — the Burnt House in the Jewish Quarter, which was unearthed not long after the Six-Day War. Beneath layers of ash, archaeologists discovered the remains of a priest’s house that was set on fire and pillaged by the Romans in the year 70 AD. The contents of the house were a time capsule from the period when the Western Wall formed part of the Second Temple.
In the Christian Quarter, we wandered along the Via Dolorosa, past the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, supposedly the site of Christ’s crucifixion and burial, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee from nearby cafés. In the Armenian Quarter, I always felt a sense of solidarity with the residents who fled the 1915 genocide in which 1.5 million of their ancestors were murdered. In that quarter, they produce beautiful hand-painted tiles, mosaics and dishes known around the world.
I admired the entrepreneurial ethic in the bustling bazaars of the Muslim Quarter. Our sightseeing tours always ended in the Jewish Quarter, with falafel and a cold drink near the Cardo, an ancient Roman market. Although diverse in character and faith, what united these communities was the thread of spirituality.
Every few weeks or so, we’d drive an hour east from Jerusalem to the Masada National Park in the Judaean Desert. We’d hike to the top of Masada, a rock formation 1,300 feet above sea level. We’d get there at dawn and watch the sun rise over the Dead Sea and Jordan and explore the ruins of King Herod the Great’s first-century fortress. After our exertions, we’d cool off by swimming in the pools of Ein Gedi, close to the Dead Sea.
These experiences are a sample of how, by and large, after the Six-Day War, life in Israel felt safe and comfortable. The children attended an experimental school that adopted a new approach to education: they didn’t mark the pupils’ work because they didn’t believe in competition. The children loved the school and flourished. The building was close to the Machane Yehuda shuk, a two-hundred-year-old market that Maier and I visited every Friday to buy food for Shabbat (Sabbath).
However, we had to live in a state of permanent vigilance. Part of the new normality was the War of Attrition. For almost three years, Israel and its neighbors engaged in frequent tit-for-tat raids as our Arab neighbors attempted to destabilize Israel and undermine its security with a series of incursions. Still, we took it all in our stride. Walking the children to school one day, we passed a bomb squad disarming a device in the middle of our path. We just changed course without thinking and continued on our way. But the children were taught not to pick up toys, food, pens or interesting rocks, even in the playground, because it might be an explosive booby trap. A bulletin board with potential threats was regularly updated and parents organized patrols to monitor the school, the classrooms and the grounds for suspicious objects.
And so life went on.
My love for Israel was tempered by one significant area of disappointment: the subject of the Holocaust (Shoah) was seldom raised, even though the country was home to a large number of survivors who migrated in the 1950s with the intention of rebuilding their lives.
Israel’s founders had erected a permanent memorial to the Shoah in 1953 (known as Yad Vashem, the beautifully designed remembrance center was an attraction for people from every country and walk of life), but the Israeli education system discouraged students from visiting it, arguing that the country was too fragile, insecure and vulnerable to teach children about the atrocities that the Jewish people, and possibly even their extended families, had endured.
Israel was trying to develop a new, self-confident, psychologically strong, proud generation, ready and willing to fight to defend their country. Educators claimed that studying the Holocaust could instill self-doubt and undermine the confidence of youth. I was hurt that I could only share my story with other survivors, but I knew many other survivors who agreed with the prevailing sentiment of not addressing the Holocaust. Some of my friends and even my aunts, Ita and Elka, never even shared their experiences with their own children for fear of damaging their egos. Some removed their tattoos and never spoke of their past. Consequently, their children only discovered their parents were survivors after they had passed away.
Thankfully, this way of thinking began to change in the 1980s when Israel started teaching the Shoah to high-school students, and today, Holocaust education is core curriculum for all ages. Today, Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, is observed as a day of mourning and as a pledge to never let it happen again. But back then, I was reminded of the tattooist in Auschwitz telling me to cover my number with a long-sleeved shirt and the teacher in Astoria who told me to forget the Holocaust. I felt the pressure once again and decided to remain silent.
It wasn’t long before everyone’s attention focused on a new conflict. Sirens pierced the air on Saturday, October 6, 1973. It was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Surely this was a mistake, a technical glitch? Galei Tzahal, the national army radio station, assured us that the alarm was genuine, however. Egypt and Syria had launched a coordinated attack to try to reclaim territory they had lost six years earlier. This time, the Israel Defense Forces weren’t prepared. Many front-line units were understrength because soldiers weren’t at their posts for this High Holy Day. The Egyptians made rapid progress in the Sinai Desert, while the Syrians struggled in the Golan Heights.
Within a few hours, the country had mobilized. Maier reported for reserve duty, taking with him our vehicle, which was requisitioned by the army to help transport the troops. Civilians, young and old, kept the country ticking. Government departments, schools and the post office were mostly staffed by volunteers, supervised by professionals not serving in the armed forces. Even my seventy-year-old father-in-law, Leo Friedman, stepped up to do his part, becoming the local postman.
The conflict lasted three weeks. Fighting was intense. In the Golan Heights, the biggest tank battle took place since the Second World War. The Israelis counterattacked and destroyed five hundred Syrian tanks and armored vehicles in the Valley of Tears.