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I
formed a first group of Haverim from the Hashomer Hatsair in
Casablanca, then in Fez, Meknes, Marrakech and Rabat. Simon, the
Shaliah, and I alternated visits to these groups city after city. We
would make conferences on different topics and we organized camping
activities in several places. And this is how we could form a first
Garin Solelim who would make his Aliya in Israel.
Certainly,
the youth movements have been the melting-pot from which we were
able to pick young people capable to work for the clandestine
emigration, the Makela, and other more secret tasks. But I must also
mention those who came from Europe and other countries of
North-Africa; and whom I personally met, such as Hubert Corchia (z’l)
and Roger B., to name only the two. They were, for the most, from
Oran, in Algeria, and spent two years in Morocco to supervise
illegal emigration.
Roger
B. played a very important role during our “Honeymoon”, the
story of which is told further.
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However,
after having accomplished a great job, they were “burnt” and had
to leave Morocco and joined the Ahshara in Agen in France. These two
Haverim were the first members of Garin Solelin.
I
remember one night when the Shaliah paid me a visit to inform me
that the Aliya section needed my help for an important operation. My
role consisted in going to Fez to take charge of five boys aged from
ten to twelve, and take them to Casablanca. The parents in tears
asked me to take care of their children dressed like scouts. During
the trip, I told them that, if they were asked where they were going,
they should simply answer that they were going to an important
jamboree.
The
boys were hungry and I realized that their parents, distracted by
their emotions, had forgotten to give them any food. When the bus
stopped for a pause, I bought sandwiches and drinks. While savoring
a sandwich, one of the boys asked me if it was kosher. Without
hesitation, I said “yes” while lying for a good cause!
Once
in Casablanca, I delivered the boys to another member of the
movement who sheltered them for the night. The following morning, I
picked them up in my car in direction of the North. We made another
pause to switch the boys into another car, and I went back to
Casablanca. Fifteen days later, we received a telegraph from the
Israeli Government, transmitted to us by our Shlichim,
congratulating us for our participation in successfully emigration
of 250 children through the Aliyat Hanoar. We were very happy of
this success and proud to learn that the children had landed safe
and sound, and that a great future awaited them. This was a
demonstration of the efficiency of our organizations of which each
contribution, as small it could have been, added to success of the
other groups.
I
praise the courage and the parents’ determination that showed a
total trust towards the State of Israel and our other movements.
Whenever
the members of a family made contact with the organization, showing
their willingness to make Aliya, they were instantly taken charge
of. We would then give them an approximate departure time and asked
them to discretely dispose of their possessions, not to attract
suspicion from their neighbors. Each member of the family was
allowed only one suitcase, leaving very little choice between the
necessary and the indispensable.
Sometimes,
on the set departure date, it was impossible to leave and the date
would be postponed. The families had to rely on the minimum
available to them, and we had to provide them with food. The wait
was excruciating. The emigrants, and us too, lived in the anxiety of
the departure, the fear of being arrested which demoralized everyone.
However, the fierce desire to reach the land of Israel took over
everything else and, while writing these lines forty-for years later,
tears come to my eyes and I remember the courage of these anonymous
families, simple and rich in hope and whom, without saying a word,
proved to each of us that Zionism was not just a word.
On
that note, I remember a rumor that spread around the Mallah: The
Arab owner of the public oven, where the Jewish families had brought
their dafinas to be cooked, realizing that the plates brought on
Friday were still there on Saturday, he would say: “Another ten
families have left for Israel”. This rumor is engraved in my
memory and demonstrates that no one could predict a precise
departure date.
Around
October 1960, a second group from Garin Solelim, composed of four
members bearing pseudonyms Orna, Moshe, Lulu, Felix et Yuval, left
for the Achshara of Agen without identification. A few days later,
we learnt that they had been arrested at the border and thrown in
jail in Nador, a city located in the Rif on the Mediterranean. The
organization immediately mandated lawyers to obtain their liberation.
Obviously, all the Haverim were worried about their wellbeing as
well as their reaction to eventual interrogation. All members of the
organization who had been in contact with them were now hiding, and
certain groups ceased all activities to guarantee security. However,
we were relieved to learn from the lawyer in charge of their defense
that they had not suffered much from interrogation.
We
got in touch with the families, so they could see the prisoners, but
this seemed to be a risk. I volunteered to help but, given the fact
that I was known by the five Haverim, and probably “burnt”
myself, this option was rejected. In spite of that, I insisted that
being a native of the same town, like Lulu, I could stand as a
cousin and it would seem normal that a cousin could visit one of the
prisoners. The contact with the lawyer was loose, but we were
determined to inform the five prisoners that we supported them and
that we would bring them food and cigarettes to lighten their
spirits.
As
soon as I got the green light, I shaved my goatee to change my
appearance and took a train to Oujda, city located at the
Algero-Moroccan border. After spending the night on the train, I got
off in Oujda, a city I didn’t know at all, and tried to find a
transport to Nador. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a way to reach
Nador. I had to resign myself, for visits were only authorized
during the day. But a man who might have heard me inquire about
Nador approached me and offered to take me there for a fee. I took
for granted that this was a collective taxi, but, as we were driving,
I realized it was not the case. I felt I had made a mistake and that
my security was in jeopardy. I was sitting at the back next to a
Moroccan, and a woman was sitting in the passenger seat. Each of us
paid the agreed fee. The driver asked me the reason to go to Nador,
and I replied that I was on vacation and wanted to go to enjoy the
beach of Melilla. He invited me to pay him a visit at his home and
told me that he was a policeman working at the Nador-Melilla border,
a Spanish enclave up to this day. I became anxious and made
insurmountable efforts not to panic.
But
the driver was jovial and started groping the woman. She pushed him
and tried to open the door, as the car speeded. He tried to reach
the door and lost control of the vehicle which rolled over several
times until it stopped upside down at the bottom of a ravine.
Miraculously, we were safe, except for the woman who had disappeared.
We climbed up the ravine and, once on the road, we saw the woman
covered with blood a hundred yards away from us. There was a feeling
of total panic on my part, the woman was screaming and I had only on
thought in my mind: disappear! But how? I feared the intervention of
the police and an investigation that could rapidly destroy my alibi
of vacation in Melilla. I don’t know if it was luck or a miracle,
but a bus appeared suddenly and slowed down to watch the scene. I
asked the driver to stop and jumped in the bus. The stupid policeman
thought he had to run after me to give me my money back, instead of
taking care of that poor woman, but I refused and the bus left.
I
finally arrived in Nador and started looking for a place where I
could clean up and restore my composure. It was a real Arab city
with a wide avenue lined with Moorish cafés. I was rather looking
for a European café, one like the ones we find in all the cities of
Morocco when, at the end at the avenue leading to the sea, I
discovered a superb restaurant built over the sea on piles. I
entered and went directly to the men’s room where I could undress.
Tiny fragments of glass fell from my clothes and I could see I
wasn’t bleeding. I ordered a coffee and a sandwich, and then I
bought canned food, fresh fruits and American cigarettes for my
friends.
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