Read Online Art of a Jewish Woman by Henry Massie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henry Massie
Tags: Literature & Fiction, History, World War II, Biography, Europe, Holocaust, Jewish, Memoir, Art, Jews, World, st louis, World Literature, Palestine, jewish history, Felice Massie, Modernism, Eastern Europe, Poalnd, abstract expressionism, modern art, Szcuczyn, art collector
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immigration continued, of course, but The Promised Land, promised to the Jews in the Old Testament, then (it seemed to them) by Britain in 1917, was, in being promised back to the Arab majority, three times promised.
The British Mandate Report to the League of Nations for the year 1936 described the April 19 events in Jaffa: “Near Morum’s Corner two private cars had been violently attacked by the mob. The occupant of the second car, whom the crowd imagined to be a Jew, but whose identity has never been discovered was saved from certain death by the action of an officer who, seeing two Arabs in succession about to attack the car, ordered a British constable to shoot. Both Arabs were killed. Curfew was imposed on Jaffa and Tel Aviv on the night of 19 th of April.”
Felice may well have been an occupant in one of the two cars. The evening after the Jaffa rioting in which she was caught, Felice found an envelope under the door of her flat. It was addressed to her with no stamp. It read, “Fraternizing with the enemy is not allowed. If you continue, you risk being killed.”
The radical Jewish underground paid children to spy on the populace. They had seen Felice dining with Ibrahim and had reported it. The letter gave her the chills. It scared her more than the street riots. She had been through strikes and demonstrations—even participated in them—as a student in Wilno. This was a threat to her personally. Her life was threatened simply for who she was: a young woman who enjoyed being with people, a person who did not discriminate.
Two evenings later, even though the streets were still under curfew, she met with Shuli and told him about the warning. “The militant Zionists are trying to make me conform but I can’t. I don’t want a separated way of life. I want a land that is for everybody.”
Shuli nodded, weighing things in his mind. Their cigarettes glowed like little tracers in the darkened room as they gesticulated with their hands while they talked; there was just enough light to see the little cups of black, sweetened Arabic coffee on the table when they reached for them.
“I can’t control the underground cells,” he finally said, “But I don’t condone their threats.”
“Is it because of me that you don’t condone their threats, or would you extend that to any Jew who wants to be a friend of the Arabs?” Felice asked. “All of your organizations, your cells are like little boxes nestled inside each other.”
“So?”
“Inside the last one, do you think you will find a fertile seed or a bomb that will destroy everything?”
“Felice, my dear, you have no idea what it is like—how bad it is in Poland and Germany. We have to do what we have to do here.” He thought for a moment. “There is a way.”
“A way for what?”
“For you to keep your Arab friends. The Jewish Agency has a new section, Special Squads. I know the word sounds terrible, but it is not for people who work in a squadron, it is for people who work alone. You could spend as much time with your Arab friends as you want. You would give the section information, and when you are in Tel Aviv you will be protected.”
Felice got up and said, “I have to leave.”
To sustain herself intellectually and obtain political analysis, Felice’s favored newspaper in Palestine, as in France, was the communist newspaper L’Humanité. It had the best reasoning, even though she wasn’t a Bolshevik. It was her food, her nourishment. It didn’t matter that it arrived days or weeks late from Paris. She would buy it before she would eat. In the May 26, 1936 edition she read Gabriel Peri’s column, “The Revolt in Palestine”:
For a month Palestine is in a state of open revolt. There have been 36 deaths to date in the Arab and Jewish population and in the British occupation force. New tanks and armored vehicles are being sent…today the Port of Jaffa, after colonization, has become a quarter of Tel Aviv … Under the pretext of a
The British Mandate Report to the League of Nations for the year 1936 described the April 19 events in Jaffa: “Near Morum’s Corner two private cars had been violently attacked by the mob. The occupant of the second car, whom the crowd imagined to be a Jew, but whose identity has never been discovered was saved from certain death by the action of an officer who, seeing two Arabs in succession about to attack the car, ordered a British constable to shoot. Both Arabs were killed. Curfew was imposed on Jaffa and Tel Aviv on the night of 19 th of April.”
Felice may well have been an occupant in one of the two cars. The evening after the Jaffa rioting in which she was caught, Felice found an envelope under the door of her flat. It was addressed to her with no stamp. It read, “Fraternizing with the enemy is not allowed. If you continue, you risk being killed.”
The radical Jewish underground paid children to spy on the populace. They had seen Felice dining with Ibrahim and had reported it. The letter gave her the chills. It scared her more than the street riots. She had been through strikes and demonstrations—even participated in them—as a student in Wilno. This was a threat to her personally. Her life was threatened simply for who she was: a young woman who enjoyed being with people, a person who did not discriminate.
Two evenings later, even though the streets were still under curfew, she met with Shuli and told him about the warning. “The militant Zionists are trying to make me conform but I can’t. I don’t want a separated way of life. I want a land that is for everybody.”
Shuli nodded, weighing things in his mind. Their cigarettes glowed like little tracers in the darkened room as they gesticulated with their hands while they talked; there was just enough light to see the little cups of black, sweetened Arabic coffee on the table when they reached for them.
“I can’t control the underground cells,” he finally said, “But I don’t condone their threats.”
“Is it because of me that you don’t condone their threats, or would you extend that to any Jew who wants to be a friend of the Arabs?” Felice asked. “All of your organizations, your cells are like little boxes nestled inside each other.”
“So?”
“Inside the last one, do you think you will find a fertile seed or a bomb that will destroy everything?”
“Felice, my dear, you have no idea what it is like—how bad it is in Poland and Germany. We have to do what we have to do here.” He thought for a moment. “There is a way.”
“A way for what?”
“For you to keep your Arab friends. The Jewish Agency has a new section, Special Squads. I know the word sounds terrible, but it is not for people who work in a squadron, it is for people who work alone. You could spend as much time with your Arab friends as you want. You would give the section information, and when you are in Tel Aviv you will be protected.”
Felice got up and said, “I have to leave.”
To sustain herself intellectually and obtain political analysis, Felice’s favored newspaper in Palestine, as in France, was the communist newspaper L’Humanité. It had the best reasoning, even though she wasn’t a Bolshevik. It was her food, her nourishment. It didn’t matter that it arrived days or weeks late from Paris. She would buy it before she would eat. In the May 26, 1936 edition she read Gabriel Peri’s column, “The Revolt in Palestine”:
For a month Palestine is in a state of open revolt. There have been 36 deaths to date in the Arab and Jewish population and in the British occupation force. New tanks and armored vehicles are being sent…today the Port of Jaffa, after colonization, has become a quarter of Tel Aviv … Under the pretext of a
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