Excerpt from the Zionist Record and S.A. Jewish Chronicle
(September 14, 1966)
S.A. NURSE IN THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE
Gita Freedman, of Johannesburg, was a volunteer nurse from South Africa during Israel’s War of Independence, serving at the Djani Hospital, Jaffa. She recalls those moving days in three vivid sketches.
Courage
I was the nurse on night duty, and in the blackout I couldn’t see very well. The sound came again. Looking around me I found everything silent, everyone asleep.
I walked through the ward between the beds wondering at the sound in the night. It came from Eli’s bed. I leaned over and realized that Eli was crying. This surprised me very much. Eli? It couldn’t be possible. Eli the brave, Eli the cheerful, the consoler and soother of all the sick of heart and sick of body.
Any newcomer to the ward who was brought in from the front line suffering from loss of limb or any other injury would find himself befriended by Eli. He would push himself across the floor and with great difficulty climb onto the injured one’s bed, and in no time there was laughter and joking from the bed.
Everybody suffered except Eli. They had pain, they had heartache, they were homeless and limbless, they cared, but not Eli. “He laughs and jokes. He has no worries, he doesn’t feel a thing”, they said.
“Eli, whatever is the matter?” I asked. “This is so unlike you?”
“Nurse, I am so unhappy, my heart is broken. I cannot stop my tears. I am all alone in the world. My family were killed before my very eyes in the concentration camp. You cannot imagine the unspeakable horror I went through before I came here. The longing for the sight of green grass, flowers, and trees. The dreams I had of resting in God’s green pastures and the smell of flowers. The awakening in the nightmare that was my home for so many years.
When I arrived in Israel my happiness knew no bounds. I breathed in the beauty of this wonderful land, my cup was full. Being only sixteen, I couldn’t join the army, but during a bombing raid I was injured and I lost my leg. This still didn’t dishearten me. I am in Israel. There are so many others worse off than I am.
Today I had another operation and suddenly I feel the futility of living. Nothing is worthwhile any more. I haven’t the courage to go on”.
This hospital in Israel during the Israel War of Independence was filled with suffering, tragedy, loneliness, and heartbreak. Eli’s words made me feel helpless. In the face of it there was nothing I could say. It was so true. This was a war like no other in history. This was a fight against many enemies, most of them so personal.
“Oh, Eli, you cannot disappoint Avie. You promised to sit next to his bed after his operation which you know he is dreading tomorrow. What of David who only keeps going because of you? The whole ward is looking to you for comfort. You are the link with a sane world. Without your courage and understanding they have nothing to live for. You are their symbol of happiness, hope, and stability. You cannot let them down, you dare not. Can I bring you a nice cup of tea?”
After drinking his tea, he said “I feel very much better now, nurse. Please don’t tell anyone that I cried. You are right, I will not disappoint them. Let them go on thinking that I haven’t a care in the world. I only laugh and am merry. I am the life and soul of the ward”.
A Miracle
I am on night duty again, or should I say as usual. Jaffa is lit up by a full moon. As I look out of the ward window I feel a great peace envelope me. The little drab houses look very beautiful and mystical from where I stand. The moon hides their ugliness and filth. Instead it gives an appearance of great dignity and peace.
As I look out I feel an awareness and closeness to God. I feel the great presence of a mighty being. The only sound is the distant bombing and gunfire at the front and the occasional sirens of ambulances as they arrive at our casualty station with the injured.
Suddenly I hear a faint voice saying, “Dy, dy”. I realize with a start that I am looking after a severely injured young girl. She was brought into the hospital a few days ago, and has been unconscious ever since she was blown up by a mine on the way to the front line where she was going to entertain the troops. She is a well-known dancer.
I rush up to her bed thanking God that she is conscious. “I am so glad you are awake, especially while I am on duty”, I say.
“Where am I, who is speaking English?”
“I come from South Africa, and I am a nurse in this Israeli hospital. Why are you saying “Dy Dy” all the time? You will not die. I won’t let you?”
“Die means ‘enough’, and I have had enough”. With that she begins crying and with great difficulty I manage to quieten her.
“I know that my legs are gone. I don’t want to live. Without dancing my life is nothing”.
I am very sad and at a loss for words. Since I have been here I have seen such a lot of suffering. The sort of suffering one doesn’t encounter even during a war. This war was different. Not only were these people suffering form a war with the Arabs, but also suffering unaccountable horrors, deprivations and loss of loved ones, and above all, dignity. I am so familiar with the cry, “I have had enough, I want to die”.
Touching her legs encased in plaster, to show her that they were there, I said:
“God gave you your legs. No one can take them away. They are yours, have faith in God, and everything will turn out well”.
Somehow I was conscious of the presence of some greater power in this little drab room. God was indeed with us.
The moonlight bathed the room with a great light. It was like a promise to this brave and lovely girl.
She was in hospital for almost a year, but she walked out on her own legs. With the aid of a stick, but on her own legs.
I am convinced that a miracle took place in that little room that night, because doctors were talking of amputating her legs.
The Culprit
Naphtali was a very good-looking young captain in the Army. He was refined and courteous. He was a fourth generation sabra. He came into the hospital for an operation on his upper arm. Before his operation we had to feed him up a bit so he had extra rations. One egg and a pat of butter every morning.
The pat of butter was like a rare diamond. It was inspected by one and all in the ward. We looked at this yellow piece of butter as if it was the Hope Diamond. It lay on a saucer and before it reached Naphtali it caused all and sundry to lick their lips and think of days gone by before rationing in Israel.
The South Africans used to discuss the good old days of butter oozing from a hot piece of toast, of julep steaks with two or three eggs, of hot buttered scones and most of all of hot buttered toast. We were so hungry that food was the only subject of discussion.
One morning a tragedy occurred. The egg and pat of butter had disappeared from Naphtali’s tray. Can you imagine such a thing? It was unheard of, such things don’t happen; well, they should not happen. Not amongst nice people. This incident caused quite a stir in the ward. I must admit that we all looked enviously at the treasure each morning, but none of us even had the faintest thought of helping ourselves.
This was such a great crime that the matron was called in. After all, the egg and pat of butter were irreplaceable. They were worth a fortune. They couldn’t even be bought for a fortune. They were unobtainable. After a great deal of deliberation it was decided to set a trap for the culprit.
Lo and behold Nurse Rachel was caught red handed the next morning. She was a refugee from Bergen Belsen concentration camp. She just couldn’t resist the temptation. She wanted to taste butter and eggs again after all the years of deprivation. Her intention was not to deprive Naphtali of his breakfast, but only to taste once again something about which she only had dreams.
Naphtali and the other patients were disgusted with the state of affairs. Sabras didn’t take the butter out of other people’s mouths. She should have asked for it, not stolen it.
After much discussion they told the matron and the Medical Superintendent that if Rachel was not removed from the ward, they would remove her themselves in a manner from which there would be no return.
After such threats there was nothing else to do but remove Rachel. I was sad. The times were so hard and in the unwritten law of any hospital, patients came first in everything. Rachel erred greatly. The care of the sick and injured must take first place.
GITA FREEDMAN – Excerpt from Henry Katzew’s book “South Africa’s 800.”
The passengers on the Dakota were all volunteers on the way to Israel, to help in the War of Liberation. Near Lake Victoria, the plane suddenly developed engine trouble and made a forced landing in the bush. While waiting to be taken to a nearby air-strip, Robin, one of the volunteers, noticed that a gold charm his parents had given him for luck, had disappeared from his watch strap. He was most perturbed and said it was a bad sign. Nothing we could say put his mind at rest. We searched in the tall grass around the plane and in the plane but to no avail.
For days we sat around at the small hotel making idle conversation, but with an additional heartache for which neither we nor our families had been prepared. Only our parents knew where we were heading and now they could not ask anyone of our whereabouts, not even the authorities. We had vanished – just like that.
On the fourth day during lunch, suddenly without warning and with conviction I said to Robin. “They’ve found your charm. They’re bringing it now”. Everyone was dumbstruck, including me, as I didn’t know where the information was coming from. It was as if I had witnessed something without being present, so sure was I of the facts. Five minutes later, the pilot and crew approached me in the dining room and asked if I had lost a charm which they had found. I told them that Robin had lost it.
The people in Israel were definitely different from any others I knew. To them everyone is the same. You don’t have to have a lot of money or influence. You are accepted on your own merits. I was very surprised at the things that occurred there. I knew Mrs. Chaya Lichtenstein quite well. She came to the hospital every afternoon to see a patient of mine who was a relative of hers. Mrs. Lichtenstein was a charming woman, about 65 years of age, very cultured and clever. I loved her very much.
From the time we met she offered me her home for a meal, a home and companionship. When I had leave I would go to see her in her beautiful and tasteful flat. She had wonderful books and paintings and a very large photograph of Dr. Weizmann, president of Israel. I never remarked on this as many people in Israel had the same picture of the President.
One morning it was arranged that I sleep over at her flat. When I arrived, she asked whether I would mind joining her in the kitchen as she had a great deal of cooking to do. She had only two small Primus paraffin stoves on which to do all her cooking. I really admired her. When I asked why in the middle of the week she had to do so much cooking, she answered that Dr. Weizmann would be coming to lunch next day. I became very excited and said, “I didn’t know you know him so well that he is coming to lunch with you!”.
“You silly girl”, she said “don’t you know he is my brother?” I was amazed. I had known her for some eight months and never in this period did she ever mention that the president of Israel was her brother. I stared. I was dumbfounded. She even invited me to join them for lunch but unfortunately I had to be back on duty at the hospital. I asked myself if this could happen anywhere else?
Prepared by Joe Woolf