The aim of “The Month in History” is to select out of the stream of events the principal developments that form the framework of Jewish affairs—in America, Europe, Palestine, and throughout the world—and to set down, as objectively as possible, their significance in the light of long-range historical perspective. The judgments expressed in this department are, of course, those of the writer.

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With the breakdown of the London Conference of Foreign Ministers, the struggle between Russia and the Western powers for control of the world entered a new phase. At Teheran and Yalta, with the war still on, the existence of that struggle had been officially ignored. Its reality had been obscured by an agreement to postpone the consideration of all questions on which an immediate decision was not essential. Sometimes this postponement was frankly agreed on; sometimes it was concealed by the adoption of ambiguous formulations. As for those questions which required immediate decisions, these were settled by unilateral concessions on the part of the Western powers. The concessions were dictated in part by the fear that Stalin would negotiate a separate peace with Hitler if his demands were not met, and in part by the hope that he would deal with his allies on a basis of mutual trust if they were. They did not, perhaps, seem as significant at the time as they did in retrospect; after all, the sacrifice of the democratic forces of Eastern Europe was habitual to the Western powers.

But as surrender to the Russians on some questions failed to make them any more tractable on others, and as it became ever more difficult to postpone decisions on questions in which the Western powers felt themselves vitally involved, this formula began to break down. At Potsdam, and in the subsequent period, the absence of agreement had at last become clear. But the hope of it remained, and “solutions” were adopted whose workability assumed agreement. Instead of concealing their disagreements by ambiguous phrases, the powers now “settled” them by referring them for solution to such organs as the Council of Foreign Ministers and the Allied Control Councils in Berlin and Vienna. But since these bodies were composed of representatives of the same principals whose disagreements they were to resolve, and since they still operated under the “principle of unanimity,” it was not surprising that the differences which were referred to them tended to persist and become sharper instead of disappearing. Disputes piled up; the four-power occupation of Germany and Austria began to dissolve into its component parts, and both the United Nations and the Council of Foreign Ministers served more and more as sounding boards for the disputes of East and West and less and less as instruments for their resolution. Still, however, the forms of seeking agreement were from time to time observed; Washington and London solemnly discussed how much they might still concede to Moscow without disaster, and how much they might undertake on their own initiative without making the breach irreparable. And many in Britain still saw that nation’s role as one of mediation between two great protagonists who were equally to be feared. But all of this could neither avert nor indefinitely postpone the day when it would be necessary to take into consideration the realities of the situation. And the first of these realities was that the Russians were neither in search of mediators nor in a mood for compromise.

In essence, they made this clear by their refusal to attend the Paris conference on the Marshall Plan and by their peremptory command to the Czechs and Poles to withdraw the acceptances those nations had already sent. Even then, however, the Americans and British did not abandon all hope that the London Conference of Foreign Ministers might arrive at some basis for the unification of Germany, or at least for the conclusion of a peace treaty with Austria. They came prepared to offer substantial concessions in return for an agreement. But they soon discovered that the Soviet delegation had come to present ultimatums, not to negotiate claims. Indeed, on some questions it even refused to define its demands, insisting on the acceptance of its own—unspecified—interpretation of the ambiguities of Yalta and Potsdam.

When the conference finally broke up after three weeks, it had only two accomplishments to its credit. One was an agreement that Pakistan should be added to the list of nations invited to the conference on the German peace treaty. The importance of this was somewhat diminished by the fact that there seemed little likelihood that the conference in question would assemble for a long time to come. The other, an agreement on a revised level of production for the German steel industry, was contingent on the adoption of a plan for German unity. Since it was precisely such a plan that the Foreign Ministers had demonstrated their inability to produce, this achievement also was of somewhat nebulous value, except in so far as it involved the acceptance by the French of a degree of German industrialization which they had hitherto resisted.

The specific issue on which the conference broke up was that of reparations. Here, the Russians insisted on receiving from Germany ten billion dollars worth of goods at 1938 prices—the same demand which they had presented at Yalta-but refused to give any accounting of the amount which they had received or taken in the interim. Since the United States and Britain were already pouring money into the Western zones of Germany, it was clear that for a long time to come any reparations which the Russians might receive from German current production would in fact be paid by the Western allies. Hence the reluctance of the Americans to agree to the Russian proposals on this question was easy enough to understand.

Yet, if the reparations question furnished the occasion for the breakdown of the conference, it could hardly have been said to furnish the reason. For this lay, not in any specific disagreement, but in the frame of mind which made the disagreements inevitable. And this, in turn, seemed to stem from a Russian conviction that the United States—impelled by the force of domestic public opinion, an impending depression, or both—would soon be forced to withdraw from active participation in European affairs, after which all things would be possible to the Soviet Union.

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The Cold War Warms Up

But if this was what Stalin expected, he nevertheless seemed unwilling to leave its occurrence to any dialectical inevitability. Rather, every effort was made to speed the parting guest. The anti-American campaign, which had started in the Communist press and blossomed organizationally in the Cominform—or, as one correspondent called it, the Misinform—now began to bear fruit in riots and political strikes. And as Europe’s Communists tried to push the United States out of that continent, American Communists redoubled their efforts to pull it out.

The first skirmish in the new campaign opened almost as the Foreign Ministers met, with the declaration of a general strike by the French trade unions, organized in the Communist-dominated CGT. Certainly the almost Balkan poverty of the French workers, accentuated by war and inflation and aggravated by a ubiquitous black market, gave them ample reason to strike. Even when the Communists had been a government party, pursuing a policy of industrial peace, they had frequently been unable to restrain the workers from going out on strike in the hope of adjusting their wages to the steadily rising prices. But the origin and timing of the general strike were too clearly political for it to win the undivided adherence of the workers; enough went out to disrupt production, but in the key fields of transportation and communication, the great majority ignored the call. What was more, this was no passive failure to strike; it was an organized refusal, led by non-Communist union officials inside and outside the CGT. The result was that the strike was not merely unsuccessful per se; it split the CGT wide open and resulted in the secession from it of almost half its membership, and the formation of a new, non-Communist, trade union federation, the Force Ouvriére.

If the Communists had expected the general strike to bring down the “third force” government of Premier Schuman, or to mobilize the workers of France against the Marshall plan, they appeared to have been signally unsuccessful. There was no doubt that the aftermath of the strike left the Schuman government stronger, at least for the moment, than it had been, and that Communist influence over the French workers had suffered a disastrous setback. But whether these results were more than temporary remained to be seen. The damage which the strike had done to French production was significant; it could play an important role in delaying or even preventing economic recovery. And the future of the “third force” coalition of Socialists, Popular Republicans, and Radicals depended on its success in achieving at least a considerable measure of recovery.

Perhaps warned by the experience of their French comrades, the Communists of Italy confined themselves for the time being to local actions of limited duration. By these, they were able to maintain a state of unrest and uncertainty, without risking a showdown such as had occurred in France. In Italy, too, they showed a willingness to compromise with the anti-Communist minority in the trade unions in order to preserve at least nominal unity under their own command. In some degree, this may have been due to the reluctance of the Italian Communist leader Palmiro Togliatti to enter on any struggle which would have alienated a part of his rather amorphous following. If this were the case, it seemed doubtful that Moscow would indefinitely tolerate the continuance of such a deviation from the prescribed line. (Even the British Communist party, which—perhaps because of its unimportance, perhaps because even Moscow was resigned to a certain amount of eccentricity on the part of the British-had always enjoyed an unusual degree of independence within the Comintern, was now compelled to come out reluctantly against the campaign for increased production in British industry.)

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On the Washington Front

However, the success or failure of the Cominform’s tactics seemed likely to be determined less by events in Europe than by decisions in Washington. For it was clear that only the economic rehabilitation of Europe could, in the long run, save it for democracy; and it was equally clear that Europe’s economy could not be restored in time, if at all, without substantial American assistance. Such assistance had, of course, been granted in the two and a half years since the end of the war. (Indeed, its annual magnitude had been little different from what is proposed under the Marshall Plan.) But it had been given piecemeal and in a haphazard fashion; it had saved Europe from collapse, but it had not in any significant measure restored her capacity for self-support. Now, under the Marshall Plan, there was at least a cautious and tentative attempt to integrate American aid and European productive capacity with the aim of attaining that goal.

True, neither the degree of integration nor the scope of the contemplated American assistance was altogether reassuring. Despite some tentative steps toward the removal of trade barriers and the cooperative utilization of complementary resources, Europe’s economy still remained atomized by national boundaries. And soaring prices in the United States made it more than questionable whether the sums requested by the administration for European aid under the Marshall Plan would be even approximately adequate for the satisfaction of the needs they were supposed to meet.

But if the adequacy of the Marshall Plan was open to question, the necessity for it was not. For the state of Europe was such that it could not hold out much longer without very substantial aid; the alternative was so sharp a reduction in the already perilously low standards of living of its peoples that few governments would be able to survive. Nevertheless, substantial opposition to the program came from those who still felt that it was not for the United States to assume the burdens of a staggering Europe. And, not despite but rather because of the necessity of the Plan, it was violently opposed by the Communists and those who echoed them.

One result of the Communist drive to force American withdrawal from European affairs was Henry Wallace’s announcement of his intention to run for the presidency on a platform of peace. Wallace is, of course, no Communist. (Communism, whatever one might think of it, does after all involve an integrated political philosophy such as Wallace has never achieved.) But the announcement of his candidacy came after a vigorous build-up from Communist sources, and in response to an invitation from the Progressive Citizens of America. The PCA had never had much non-Communist support; most of what there was—including such stalwarts as Frank Kingdon and Bartley Crum—melted away in the face of the Wallace boom. Labor groups and liberal publications hastened to make it clear that they would not support Wallace. Nevertheless, his candidacy could not by any means be discounted ‘altogether. The Communist party had the most effective political organization in the United States, and there was a large body of progressive discontent in the United States to which Wallace might appeal. Most of those whose votes he could expect did not agree with a large part of his program, but they did, for reasons of greater or lesser validity, completely reject the two old parties. Many, perhaps most, of them would have preferred to vote for a new anti-Communist progressive party. But since most anti-Communist liberals still adhered to the Truman administration, there was no such party in the field. And the Wallace candidacy seemed certain to benefit from that fact. Thus, in the crucial state of New York, the Gallup poll showed that Wallace would get from 13 to 18 per cent of the vote, depending on who was the Republican candidate. This was considerably more than the American Labor party vote in state elections.

Communist opposition was not, however, an unmixed evil. For there were many in the United States who, though they might still hesitate about saving Europe, had no such hesitation about saving Europe from Communism. James Reston, writing in the New York Times, declared cheerfully: “The Republicans may let the Truman-Marshall foreign policy down. And even the Democrats have their shaky days, but the Communists abroad and their supporters at home can still be counted on to get the Marshall Plan through Congress . . . . If it hadn’t been for the activity of the Communists in Europe there would never have been a program of this magnitude, and if they were to lie low for a while even now, the administration would be in serious trouble.

“Molotov and Stalin, however, have never failed the administration in any test with Congress yet. When the British loan was in jeopardy on Capitol Hill, the Communists in Europe provided the fears that put it over . . . When Congress was fed up with European appropriations last summer and the State Department conceived the Marshall Plan as a new approach to the problem, Mr. Molotov saved the Administration considerable embarrassment by walking out of the Paris Conference. And when the Interim Aid Bill was in the process of debate last month, the Communist bid for power through sabotage strikes in France and Italy furnished enough evidence to convince everybody except a few members of the House Appropriations Committee.”

This did not, perhaps, offer too much reassurance as to the depth of understanding underlying much of the new American internationalism. But it did, at least, offer a reasonable guarantee that it would not altogether collapse. For the Communist threat was one which would certainly exist until the restoration of Europe had been in large measure accomplished.

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On the German Front

Closely related to the Marshall Plan—indeed, vital to its success—was the rehabilitation of Western Germany. Here, in what was potentially the greatest industrial area of Europe, the United States was in fact a European government. So far, its record in promoting industrial recovery was considerably worse than that of any of the free countries of Europe within their own boundaries.

In part, this failure had been the result of deliberate policy. When American troops marched into Germany, they brought with them, in only slightly modified form, the idea of destroying Germany’s industrial potential which Henry Morgenthau had elaborated to Roosevelt and Churchill at Quebec. And even when, under the pressure of facts, the “pastoralization” theory was jettisoned, its after-effects remained in a long series of directives and—perhaps even more important—a complex of attitudes on the part of military government authorities which effectively hampered any effort to revive German production.

But in even greater degree, the continued prostration of the German economy was the result of the absence of any real American policy. And this, of course, was reinforced by the partition of Germany into four zones, united only by the fiction of four-power harmony and the fact of East-West rivalry, as expressed through the Allied Control Council in Berlin.

In the development of the Marshall Plan, it had been made abundantly clear that any significant immediate increase in European production could come only from Germany. Here were the steel mills, the coal mines, the machine and chemical factories, whose missing output accounted for a major part of Europe’s deficit. And here, too, was an area whose deficit of several hundred million dollars a year—paid by the occupying powers—could never be removed except by the revival of industrial activity.

Nevertheless—despite the good intentions expressed in the agreement for the merger of the British and American zones, and in the new American directive of last July—effective planning for the rehabilitation of Western Germany as a part of Western Europe was hampered by the desire to achieve an economically integrated Germany. The two courses were not completely compatible, and as long as the second remained an immediate possibility, the British and Americans hesitated to embark unreservedly on the first.

The breakdown of the London Conference, however, made it obvious that a unified Germany was a long way off. At the same time, it underlined the necessity of concentrating on the rehabilitation of Western Europe, in the face of Russia’s political and economic offensive. Hence, almost immediately after the Foreign Ministers left London, the United States and Britain announced the conclusion of a new bizonal agreement, in which the United States assumed a major part of both expense and power. And shortly thereafter they made public a plan for the establishment of an expanded and strengthened German administration for the bizonal economy. Meanwhile, negotiations continued for the incorporation of the French zone in the rest of Western Germany. And the French, whose efforts to mediate between East and West had finally been abandoned in the face of Russia’s persistent unwillingness to recognize any neutrals, seemed at last ready to sacrifice their prejudice against any degree of German unity.

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The Propaganda Front

An increasingly open struggle between the United States and Russia was also developing in the field of propaganda. Russian attacks on American imperialism were, to be sure, no novelties on the air or in the Communist press. But the United States had for a long time made little effort to reply in kind. Even the rather mild activities of the “Voice of America” had been hamstrung by an economy-minded Congress.

But here again the increasing intensity of the Communist campaign against the United States was at last bearing fruit. Almost every Congressman who visited Europe returned convinced of the need for a more active American information program to combat Soviet propaganda. As a result. the information program of the State Department, which had existed for a year on half-rations and without specific legal status, now seemed certain to be established on a permanent basis and with more adequate funds than it had ever had before. The State Department released its first salvo with the publication of the secret correspondence between Germany and the Soviet Union during the period of their wartime pact.

At the same time, not all the “anti-Communist” propaganda in which the United States was now beginning to engage seemed likely to prove effective. This was particularly true of the campaign against Communism inaugurated by Military Government in Germany. In part, this campaign suffered from its purely negative approach; in part, it was also handicapped by the fact that to a large extent it had the character of an order to the German people from the occupying power, and tended to make those Germans who opposed Communism appear in the light of American agents. And worst of all, perhaps, many of those to whom the task of combating Communism was delegated were not quite sure what it was they were supposed to fight. Thus one Military Government officer recently told a German Socialist leader: “I’m all for you fellows; I know you’re against Communism. But you’re infiltrated by the Communists. All this trade-unionism stuff—I learned in school that’s Communism.” And it seemed painfully clear that this was not an isolated instance of the functioning of the military mind. Hence there were many who ardently hoped that the transfer of authority in Germany from the Army to the State Department, already long overdue, would not again be postponed beyond the June 30 date recently announced.

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The Little Wars

If the world’s major conflict was still being fought out in the fields of diplomacy and propaganda, there were others where more directly lethal methods were already in use. Some of these, such as the civil wars in Greece and China, were merely aspects of the worldwide struggle between the two colossi. Others, however, were tangential to the main issue, however much they might threaten to become involved with it.

Thus, the still-recurring communal warfare in India and Pakistan was more a reflection of the impact of the sickness of modem times on more ancient ills than it was of the antagonism between the United States and Russia. Yet it could not be without bearing on the greater struggle, for political instability in Central Asia offered the Soviet Union an admirable opportunity to fish in troubled waters. And if the conflict between the two dominions in such areas as Kashmir, together with the slaughter of Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan and Moslems in India, resulted in the materialization of that threat to the peace with which each dominion charged the other, it was by no means certain that the great powers would not become involved.

For the moment, however, the moral influence of Gandhi seemed likely to avert a full-scale war. But it was a frail reed on which to rest, for at the age of seventy-nine the Mahatma seemed unlikely to survive many more of the fasts which were the ultimate sanction to which he resorted. And if Gandhi went, there was no one to take his place.

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The partition of India had been sought by one side, and reluctantly accepted by the other. Yet despite the consent of both parties and the moral influence of Gandhi, it had already cost tens of thousands of lives. The partition of Palestine had been bitterly opposed by the Arabs and accepted by the Zionists, not because it was what they wanted, but because it was the most that they could expect to get. And there were no Gandhis in Palestine.

It was therefore not surprising that, even before the departure of British troops and police, Palestine had a civil war well under way. The official casualty figures for the first forty days after the UN’s adoption of partition showed 634 dead, of whom 330 were Arabs, 262 Jews, and most of the remainder British. Zionist sources, however, estimated the total deaths at 692 Arabs and 281 Jews. In general, Zionists protested that the British consistently underestimated the number of Arabs killed by them. (Thus Histadrut sent a telegram to the Manchester Guardian in which it asserted that Arab casualties were twice the official estimates.)

So far, the Arabs seemed to have little taste for large-scale warfare, despite occasional incursions of armed bands from Syria who attacked Jewish villages near the border. This was probably due to a reluctance on the part of their leaders to commit themselves to a general offensive until Britain’s withdrawal made it possible for the Arab states to send in well-armed volunteers capable of meeting the Haganah in open battle. Exceptions to this rule, however, were to be noted in the mixed cities of Jerusalem and Haifa. In the latter, an Irgun bomb was thrown into a line of Arab workers at the oil refinery—where Jews and Arabs had worked together amicably even at the height of the 1939 riots. As a result, 42 Jewish employes of the refineries were massacred by Arab workers. (In this instance, a local Haganah leader said that he would kill the bomb-throwers if he knew who they were.) In Jerusalem another Irgun bomb was thrown into an Arab crowd at the Damascus gate of the Old City; this was followed by the institution of an Arab blockade of the Jewish quarter of the city. Richard Mowrer of Overseas News Agency reported: “The Arabs assert that their road-blocks and identity check are imperative precautions against the Jewish terrorists, who often operate disguised as British soldiers and policemen. The Arabs further assert that they have no objection to Jews living in the Holy City but that they object to the presence there of members of the Haganah.” Mowrer went on to state that the Zionists, on the other hand, claimed that withdrawal of Haganah from Jerusalem would expose the Jewish inhabitants of that city to massacre.

Irgun and the Sternists were, of course, devotees of the doctrine that the best weapon against Arab terrorism was counter-terrorism, applied in advance. Haganah, on the other hand, appeared to be wavering back and forth between different concepts of its function, and it was not always easy to tell which was being applied. Thus, immediately after the blowing up of the Semiramis Hotel in Jerusalem, a Haganah informant told Richard Mowrer that Haganah was now passing to the offensive, declaring: “The Arabs have shouted war for five weeks. Now they’re going to get it.” At the same time another Haganah spokesman explained that the hotel was an Arab military headquarters with no bona fide guests. The next day the Jewish Agency apologized for the fact that one of the victims of the bombing was the Spanish consul, and the day after that Haganah let it be known that the bombing had been a breach of discipline on the part of a local commander. Similarly, after blasting an Arab “military base” in the village of Khisas, Haganah apologized for the fact that five of the ten persons killed in the bombing were children under the age of ten.

Meanwhile, government offices were repeatedly disrupted by the refusal of their staffs to report to work under conditions they regarded as unsafe. Jewish employees refused’ to report if the guards on duty included Arabs; Arab employees refused to work unless there were also Jews present, since they feared that otherwise they would be the victims of Zionist bombs. For the moment, offices were again enabled to function when the British agreed to supply all-British detachments to guard them. But, in view of the impending departure of the British, this could be only a stopgap.

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Preparations for a State¹

While both sides prepared to expand the area and intensity of the struggle in Palestine as soon as the British should depart, the UN’s Palestine Committee constituted itself and prepared to implement partition. Karel Lisicky, the Czech member of the Commission, wondered out loud just how much it might be expected to accomplish as long as the only armaments at its disposal consisted of the chairman’s gavel. The disposition of Zionists to depend on Haganah to carry through partition unaided was noticeably on the wane. They were no longer referring to the eighty or a hundred thousand members it could mobilize, or stressing the superiority of their equipment to that, not only of the Palestinian Arabs, but of the neighboring states. Estimates of Haganah’s effectives were now seldom more than twenty or twenty-five thousand, and frequently much lower. Nor did Zionist leaders seem any longer to feel that either the numbers or the armament of Haganah were really adequate to the protection of the Jewish state. Thus Moshe Shertok declared that an international police force was necessary, but that if it was not possible, Haganah must at least receive arms from the United Nations. But since the claim that they themselves could take care of implementation had always been one of the strongest arguments used by Zionists to sway doubters, it was questionable whether their new line would fall on altogether receptive ears. Some now began to regret that they been so free with unqualified declarations demanding Britain’s withdrawal; where a few months previously they had declared that once this had occurred, they could establish the Jewish state without outside help, they now condemned the British for their hasty and irresponsible departure. But the British showed no inclination whatever to stand upon the order of their going, despite those who had maintained that it was their intention to seize on any pretext in order to stay. Rather, they even seemed anxious to remove themselves ahead of schedule from an area where both Zionists and Arabs, in the intervals of killing one another, were not reluctant to take potshots at British soldiers and police.

Thus the problem of implementation was once again on the doorstep of the United Nations, which had so studiously avoided it in adopting the partition report. Whether it was now any readier to accept responsibility than it had been in November was, however, still not clear. To be sure, New York newspapers published rumors that the UN Military Staffs Committee was informally discussing the creation of an international force for Palestine. The United States government issued an official denial that any American representative had participated in such discussions. Trygve Lie assured the Committee that it would have the full backing of the Security Council. In view of the well-known obstacles to effective action in that body, the fact that it had no forces at its disposal and no immediate prospect of obtaining any—certainly not by the middle of May—and the absence of any provision for such forces in the UN budget, Mr. Lie’s statement was not altogether convincing.

Under the circumstances, it surprised few that the Jewish Agency had begun to acquire high explosives in the United States. Unfortunately for the Agency, the United States had imposed an embargo on arms shipments to the Middle East. Moreover, the Agency’s purchases (made through a series of intermediaries) were discovered just after some cases of TNT being illegally shipped to Palestine as “used machinery” broke open on a Jersey City dock. There was no evidence to connect the Agency with the Jersey City shipment—which was reported to contain enough explosives to blow up six cities the size of Jersey City—or as to its intended use, but government officials repossessed the Agency’s purchases on behalf of the War Assets Administration.

If the military part of the Agency’s preparations was the most dramatic, it was only one aspect. Another, and perhaps more fundamental, aspect was economic. Here, the United Jewish Appeal occupied a crucial position. To provide for an expected seventy-five thousand immigrants in 1948, the United Palestine Appeal estimated that its constituent organizations would require $283,000,000. At the same time, the Joint Distribution Committee and the United Service for New Americans submitted budgets of $98,000,000 and $13,000,000 respectively. Had the United Jewish Appeal attempted to raise this entire sum, it would have had to adopt a budget of almost four hundred million dollars.

But in 1947, despite the highest collections on record, it had failed by some forty millions to achieve its goal of $170,000,000. Accordingly, in an attempt to achieve a compromise between the necessary and the possible, the UJA set a minimum goal of $250,000,000, with the proviso that all sums obtained above this amount were to go to the establishment of the Jewish state. The other agencies participating in the UJA willingly agreed to this provision. Meanwhile, the Jewish Agency announced its intention of approaching the State Department, the Export-Import Bank, and the International Bank for loans to meet the half of its prospective expenses not provided for in the UJA goal. There was as yet, however, no indication that any of these agencies was in a responsive mood.

At the same time, the Agency undertook to prepare plans for the structure of the Jewish state. In part, these dealt with the planning and staffing of ministries in the provisional government. But they also included preparations for the establishment of a constituent assembly, based on the existing Jewish National Council. It was not stated whether in government or in the constituent assembly there would be provision for including representatives of the Arabs who would form 45 per cent of the population of the proposed state. At least in respect to the constituent assembly, some effort to secure Arab representation would seem to have been required by the terms of the UN decision. However, there was no evidence that the Arabs would participate even if invited.

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¹ A more extensive discussion of the problems facing the nascent Jewish state may be found in the article by David Horowitz, on page 97 of this issue.—Ed.