part0021

THE BRITISH WERE watching our every move, so after two or three nights of false starts, the Kaf Gimel departed from the port of Bocca di Magra. We left in the dead of night, when we were less likely to be detected. We boarded small rowboats that shuttled us to the awaiting Kaf Gimel Yordei Ha’Sira, “The 23 Seamen.” The Kaf Gimel , which held 790 refugees of all ages, was one of nearly one hundred or so boats that transported Jewish refugees from Europe to the unpredictable frontier of Palestine.

The vessel was named in memory of twenty-three members of the Haganah who lost their lives, along with a British major, on a ship that departed Haifa on May 18, 1941, and went down during a mission against the Vichy French Forces.

The war left us shattered, but we had begun the long, arduous process of creating new lives for ourselves. After years of torture and trauma, we embarked on yet another journey of survival. Bricha , meaning flight or escape, was the name of the organized, yet clandestine, emigration of survivors from Europe to Allied-occupied areas and to Palestine. Although Britain was part of the Allied Forces and controlled Palestine, they too limited the number of Jewish refugees who could legally immigrate. Those who went with legal documentation were known as Aliyah Aleph, but many resorted to entering illegally, as was the case with Geulim, in an effort known as Aliyah Bet . The British intercepted many boats carrying illegal refugees, who were often repatriated to Europe and incarcerated, or held in detention camps in Cyprus or elsewhere.

Few of us had ever ventured on the rough Mediterranean waters, and most of us were overcome by seasickness. The toilets were below deck, where quarters were cramped and the air was stale. Soon, the toilets were all clogged, so some of the adults took wooden two-byfours and constructed rudimentary “toilets,” hanging them over the side of the ship, and draping them with blankets to provide for some privacy. Little by little, we were restoring our sense of dignity and self-consciousness following years of extreme humiliation.

Refusing to go below deck, I gathered what few things I had with me, staked out a corner on the upper deck, and remained there for twelve long rocking days and nights. The motion of the sea did little to soothe me; on the contrary, for most of the journey, it contributed to my distress.

As we neared Turkey, the ship broke down and we drifted for three days. We sent out an SOS and waited for the Haganah and other volunteers to bring us tools and functioning motors. As we waited in the hot summer sun, rocking back and forth, we spied lowflying British airplanes. With no place to hide, the British caught us. Although it may seem unimaginable, after fighting with the Allies to defeat Hitler, the British rammed or bombed boats carrying refugees, causing many to drown. Who would have thought that survivors of the Nazis could perish at the hands of our so-called allies?

The British towed the Kaf Gimel to the Port of Haifa, where we anchored. We could see the Land of Milk and Honey; it was within our grasp, but we were not permitted to disembark. Like Moses, we stood on the threshold of the Promised Land, but were unable to enter. At least we could taste the sweetness of tomatoes grown in the Holy Land that volunteers brought to the ship, along with cases of food and other supplies. We had food and water on board the ship, but it was not sufficient for the length of the journey, which was not expected to last two weeks. Volunteers brought provisions at just the right moment, as supplies were running low, and water had to be rationed.

The motors never arrived. The British forced us off the Kaf Gimel and onto their warship, which carried us to Cyprus. Before August 1946, illegal refugees who made it to Palestine were taken to a processing center called Atlit before being released by the British. After that time, the British stopped accepting illegal refugees at Atlit, but sent them to Cyprus instead. The Kaf Gimel was one of the first ships sent to Cyprus. We arrived there on my sixteenth birthday, August 15, 1946. At that time, the British permitted 1,500 Jews per month into Palestine – 750 from Cyprus and 750 from displaced persons (DP) camps in Europe. We were interred at Famagusta , a camp surrounded by barbed wire and soldiers in watchtowers.

This cannot possibly be happening. I cannot possibly be back in a camp surrounded by barbed wire, without freedom once again. Have I come all this way to have only gone backward? When will this nightmare end?

We were still prisoners; still not free, but thankfully we were no longer rocking on the interminable waves of the Mediterranean Sea. From within Famagusta, we organized demonstrations at the fence surrounding the camp. The facilities were minimal, and we had no showers, so the guards led us to the sea to bathe. We had passes that allowed us to enter and exit the camp for these outings. On our weekly swimming expeditions, we would hide our passes in a box of matches. Upon exiting the camp, we would throw the box of matches over the fence in order for others to use our exit passes. This was especially important for the crew of the ship. The crew was made up mostly of Italians, Greeks, and some Jewish leadership from the Haganah . We needed to get the crew out, so that they could continue their heroic work of returning to Europe to transport more of our survivor brethren.

During the three months that we remained on Cyprus, we continued to learn Hebrew and prepare for what lay ahead for us in Palestine. Little did we anticipate that we would soon need to take up arms and fight a new war – Israel’s War of Independence.