There’s a curfew in Jerusalem. It has been in force for nearly three weeks, and there is no indication that it will end soon. It is now November and the first winter rains have not yet fallen. But Jerusalemites declare with feigned gaiety: “Oh, it will probably go on all winter!”
A curfew is an insidious thing. It is like a nightmare. It comes with darkness. With dawn it lifts its oppressive weight. In the bright morning light, it is difficult to believe in the curfew, any more than one can believe in a nightmare. But as the hours pass and the sun begins to incline toward the horizon, one is seized by a restlessness and a dread. One senses the oncoming hour of the curfew as a sick person senses the rise of his temperature toward nightfall, or as one obsessed by fright grows panicky with the coming of darkness.
The curfew in Jerusalem lasts from six o’clock in the afternoon till six in the morning. To be exact I should perhaps say: “in part of Jerusalem,” for the curfew only applies to a part of the city, that large section of it that is densely inhabited by Jews. The old city within its ancient walls is outside the curfew limits; so are several of the wealthier suburbs, most of which are inhabited by non-Jews.
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In The morning, Jerusalem lies golden on its rocky hills. The bright light of the sun is reflected from the massive, cream-colored masonry of the buildings. The red-tiled roofs add to the cheerful atmosphere. There is a solidity and severe dignity about the city that is reassuring and rules out thoughts of gloom. The bright light is mixed with sound and motion. In the central streets the sidewalks are crowded with a colorful throng. Hebrew, German, Yiddish, Arabic, and occasional other languages mingle in a Babel of voices. Little boys and girls, briefcases containing their schoolbooks slung on their backs, scurry underfoot. Groups of people, trying to catch a glimpse of the morning headlines, crowd about the newsstand. Automobiles dash by at breakneck speed, constantly blowing their horns. And into this medley there occasionally strays a flock of goats that somehow manage to keep out from under the wheels of the autos; they amble carelessly along until they vanish into a side street.
People sit at the small tables in the numerous cafés, drinking their morning tea before going to work. They are in a hurry, since many of them still work on the summer schedule: from seven-thirty till two-thirty in the afternoon. They read their papers while they eat. The headlines tell of military vehicles blown up on the highways by mines, of a boatload of “illegal” immigrants approaching the coast, of a new Jewish settlement established somewhere on the countryside. These have been the customary headlines in past weeks. In many cases the newspapers belong to the cafés; the patrons gulp down their tea, return the papers to their racks, and dash away to work.
For some hours, life retains its normal tempo. The bomb explosions of the previous night seem far away. The boatload of immigrants creeping toward the shore under the watchful, waiting eyes of British destroyers and planes seems very unreal in Jerusalem, many miles from the coast. The new settlement, putting up its first barrack, its tents, and its barbed-wire fence somewhere in the rocky hills or on a sandy plain, is also very remote, as if in a distant country. The city breathes and lives its usual life.
In a well-furnished room in a public building, a group of newspaper correspondents sits and listens to official announcements. Bright questions are directed at the spokesman; answers are given. Tomorrow, the newspapers will report that some wounded terrorists were found near the scene of an explosion, that the vessel carrying the “illegal” immigrants has already been boarded by British sailors. Meanwhile, the life of the city goes on as if nothing untoward has happened or is likely to happen.
Soldiers walk about the streets. They carry their weapons with them. They saunter aimlessly from one show window to another, looking at the displays. Some stop in front of a theater. The sight of their weapons is annoying. In the bright light of noon the street seems utterly peaceful. Why should they be carrying weapons? But nobody says a word to them. People pass them by as if they did not exist.
Military vehicles pass in the streets, singly and in convoys. Like the armed soldiers and the ever-present barbed wire, they, too, are ignored. Two different worlds seem to coexist here, the military and the civilian, and each appears to disregard the other. One steps out of the way of an armored car; one avoids a projecting strand of barbed wire with an expression of non-recognition.
In the afternoon a cool breeze begins to stir. The crowds on the street become more dense. Office and shopworkers are through for the day and stroll about the streets talking with friends or shopping. The stores and cafés are crowded.
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Then a certain tension begins to be felt. The lines of people waiting for buses lengthen. Shoppers as well as shopkeepers become just a little impatient. Café habitués still occupy every table, but a strain creeps into their conversation. Is there really a shade of hysteria in their laughter? No, it must be a trick of the imagination. And yet, there is definitely something in the air as the afternoon breezes grow strong and cooler, and the slanting rays of the setting sun hint at the approaching twilight. There is uneasiness.
“I must be running along now, the curfew, you know,” someone in the street says loudly in parting. “Lady, please!” a woman shopper pleads with a salesgirl, “it’s getting near curfew time.” The dandified young man and his girl friend sitting in Café Vienna hastily finish their Turkish coffee: “Let’s go. The curfew.” And the young man surreptitiously glances at his wristwatch to see if he has enough time to take his girl home and reach his own home before the streets have to be cleared.
Now the curfew seizes the city. From Jaffa Road and Ben Yehuda Street and King George Avenue, masses of humanity stream away, drawn by an invisible centrifugal force. It looks like a mass exodus from the business section. People walk fast and increase their pace with every passing minute. There’s only a minute left to play and each must get to his goal—either reach his home or cross the line separating the curfew area from the free zone. The clatter of iron shutters being pulled down over display windows and the shuffle of rapidly moving feet are heard on all sides.
And almost suddenly, the streets are empty. Now everybody has suddenly died, and one is left alone in an empty world. Sidewalks so crowded half an hour earlier are deserted. Doors and windows are shut. In the gloom, a solitary cat surveys the scene, is apparently frightened by the emptiness, and dashes off into a hallway.
Now the creatures of the night appear. British armored cars and tanks begin to patrol the streets. At the borders of the curfew zone, barbed-wire concertinas are stretched across the streets. Posts are set up at the main intersections. The gun-carriers and tracked cars plod along and send probing fingers of light into dark corners, alleys, doorways. From an upper-story window a light sifts through the shutters; there’s the sound of a radio.
Jerusalem is besieged for the night.
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Scarcely an hour has passed since the streets were cleared when a powerful explosion is heard. The sirens begin to scream. A few minutes pass and then comes another explosion, and still another.
A group of people sit in a room dimly lit by a kerosene lamp and a pair of candles. The lights had been shut off from their block. They didn’t know whether the explosions had anything to do with it or not. In Jerusalem, electricity is frequently shut off in different quarters for a few hours in the evening. Jerusalemites resent this unnecessary inconvenience, but they are no longer excited by it and take it with the same outward calm they display toward more dramatic events.
“What do you think of these fellows who throw the bombs?” I asked a middle-aged woman who was in the room.
“Maybe they’re doing us a lot of harm,” she said, “but I love them.”
Her answer came as a surprise, considering her age and her generally mild disposition. She seemed to feel that her outburst called for an explanation, and continued: “You, you are from America and you don’t understand things like this. I am from Poland. I came here many years ago, more than twenty years ago. But most of my family remained behind in Poland. Do you know what the Germans did to them? They didn’t kill them outright; they buried them alive. I saw a letter from a man from my native town who escaped and is now in a camp in Germany. He saw it all. Five hundred Jews were herded along by one German soldier, and they didn’t even dream of defending themselves. They could have torn him to pieces, but they didn’t even try. I had a nephew. He escaped to Russia. Some months ago he returned to Poland and wrote to me asking that I help him reach Palestine. I went to the immigration office of the Jewish Agency. They could do nothing for me. ‘He will have to come here the way other Jews are coming,’ they told me. Who knows, he may be on the ship the British warships are trailing now.
“I know these terrorists are causing us a lot of grief. If I had my way there wouldn’t be any bombs thrown. In elections I vote for moderate Zionist parties. All the same I can’t help feeling the way I do. Whenever I hear an explosion at night, I bless the hand that planted the bomb. I feel that it is avenging my relatives who would have been here, alive in Jerusalem, if the English had not kept them out of the country.
“You have just come from America and complain about a lot of things, the high prices and the housing shortage. Believe me, that’s nothing. We could take in all the Jews of Europe if they would only let us. You saw the solid houses of Jerusalem. We would put up another story on every one of these houses. Then there would be room for everyone. And food, too. Go to see the settlements. There you will see what we can do to raise food.”
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I Recalled another conversation I had had some hours earlier with a wealthy Palestinian. He was a native of the country and had accumulated a small fortune during the war. The conversation inevitably drifted toward terrorism and the general political situation. He, too, was opposed to terrorism, but on somewhat different grounds. “We cannot afford to fight or even to antagonize the English,” he said. “We are too weak for that. Our only way is to try persuasion. The terrorists are our greatest enemies.” Then he changed the subject and, knowing that I was from America, he hinted at some scheme by means of which I could help him import some luxury for his household from New York. I politely declined.
This earlier conversation ran through my mind as the middle-aged woman—so non-terrorist in appearance and mentality-spoke. I asked her: “Would you shelter a wounded terrorist were one to knock at your door and ask for asylum?”
She paused for a moment, then answered: “I would. I know their deeds are harmful but I cannot consider them enemies.”
The attitude of this woman may have been exaggerated in some particulars. In general, however, it is fairly representative of her class of people and, allowing for some modifications, this class represents the bulk of the Jewish community. If the mentality of the terrorists themselves is a product of final despair, the attitude of the majority of the people is one bred by the experience of European Jewry, to whom they feel so closely bound, and the state of siege under which the Jewish community in Palestine now lives. Common sense prevents them from justifying indiscriminate terrorist acts. But as long as the leaky boats carrying “illegal” immigrants roam the seas, and their human cargo is exiled to Cyprus, they cannot feel that terrorists, though condemned by the recognized Jewish organizations, are criminals in the simple sense of the word.
And the curfews, too, contribute to this attitude. Jews of Jerusalem may not formulate their reaction in so many words, but sitting cooped up in their homes night after night without prospect of early release, many of them cannot help but feel their hearts leap within them when they hear an explosion. It tells them that some Jews are out on the streets. To many, the sound of an explosion is the sound of the battle for freedom, and for the right to walk about freely. They feel bitter and sad that five hundred Jews in Poland were led to extermination by one German; many also feel bitter at having a whole city of Jews forced indoors for an indefinite period.
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On Many occasions the authorities have stated that the curfews were imposed, not as punitive measures, but in order to facilitate the apprehension of terrorists. So far, to the best of my knowledge, the curfew in Jerusalem has led to no such captures. On the contrary, since the curfew has been imposed in the Jewish sections of Jerusalem and on the main highways, the number of acts of terrorism has increased. The curfew serves, in a way, as an invitation to the terrorists to come out and act, for during these hours they are certain that no casual civilians are about. Whoever is about is, to them, legitimate prey.
A recent incident cast some light on the purpose of the curfew from an unexpected quarter. When a group of correspondents, properly armed with curfew passes, gathered at the scene of an explosion, they were ordered taken away to be interviewed by the British officer in command of the patrolling units. He kept them until he received word that the residents of the house near the scene of the explosion had been properly screened and interrogated. Screening and questioning in such cases is only too frequently accompanied by the active use of rifle butts and similar persuasive measures; those to be screened are often lined up against a wall with their hands over their heads after having been searched for weapons. The officer explained that the presence of correspondents was likely to inhibit—“embarrass” he said—his troops. And he declared bluntly that they did not expect to find terrorists in that house, that it was only a measure to annoy the “ordinary Jew.”
It is irrelevant that this officer, who on this occasion also indulged in some rank anti-Semitic remarks, was promptly relieved of his command. The basic function of the curfew remains the same whether the officer enforcing it admits it or not. Aside from its economic effect—which is also probably one of the real reasons for the imposition of the curfew-it serves to exasperate the mass of the peaceful people. Most significant are the morbid moods that accumulate as a result of being forced to live one life during daylight and another during the night. Curfew becomes a tension and a fever of the night, something akin to the primitive instinct that shunned the outside world and sought shelter after dark.
Perhaps this is what the British are really after. This may be an effort to break the spirit of a people when other measures have failed to break it.
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With dawn, Jerusalem comes to life I again. The pall lifts. The barbed-wire concertinas are removed from the intersections. The pulse of the city begins to beat. Small crowds gather where bombs exploded the previous night. The shattered glass is swept away, and in one store a glazier is already busy replacing the window panes. In the reassuring morning sun, it is difficult to connect the heaps of glass with the tension and the explosions during the night. People seem to exist on separate levels during the day and the night.
But there is no time to waste and soon the little crowds scatter to their work and to the cafes where, over their morning tea, they read the latest reports about the boatload of “illegal” immigrants that is being hounded by British destroyers.
