Ninety per cent of the Haganah force were from either kibbutzim or moshavim. Redemption was so much a part of
them that they could not stay long in one spot without trying to grow something. They began farming at Ha Mishmar! The place had been opened in the guise of a kibbutz, and by God they were going to make it one. Hillside fanning was a new venture for them-and it was especially difficult when there was no natural water except the sparse rainfall. None the less they went at the task with the same vigor with which they had redeemed the swamplands of the Jezreel Valley and the eroded Plain of Sharon. They terraced the hillsides and petitioned the Zion Settlement Society for money for farm tools.
The Yishuv Central and the Haganah were so delighted over the success of the dogged youngsters at Ha Mishmar that they decided that from then on some new settlements would be selected for their strategic value in choking off the Arab revolution.
A second group of pioneers set out for another troublesome spot. This time they were Orthodox Jews. They moved deep into the Beth Shean Valley and built a kibbutz at the juncture of the Syrian and Trans-Jordan borders. Their kibbutz was called Tirat Tsvi, the Castle of the Rabbi Tsvi. It stood in the midst of a dozen hostile Arab towns and villages. Again the Mufti attempted to dislodge them. But this force of religious Jews was not of the same ilk as the old pious Jews of the holy cities. As at Ha Mishmar, the Arabs could not defeat the Jews of Tirat Tsvi.
Ari was sound asleep in his tent.
“Ari… come quickly.”
He threw off his blanket, grabbed his rifle, and ran after them to the south fields which were being terraced for grapevines. There was a gathering. Everyone turned silent as they saw Ari approach. He pushed through and stared at the ground. It was blood-spattered. Parts of a blue blouse were on the ground. A trail of blood led off to the hills. Ari looked from face to face. No one spoke.
“Dafna,” he whispered.
Two days later her body was dumped near their camp. Her ears, nose, and hands had been amputated. Her eyes had been gouged out. She had been raped over a hundred times.
No one saw Ari Ben Canaan weep or even raise his voice.
After Dafna’s murder he would disappear for hours at a time, returning chalky-faced and shaken. But he never displayed passion or hatred or even great anger. He never mentioned her name to anyone again. Ari accepted this tragedy in the same way that the Yishuv had learned to accept such things-not by being stirred to violence, but only by deepening his determination not to be thrown from the land. An
Ben Canaan was all soldier. Half a dozen Arab villages near Ha Mishmar cringed and awaited a revenge attack—but it never came.
The Jews hung on at Ha Mishmar and at Tirat Tsvi and half a dozen other strategically placed settlements. The new tactic was hampering the Mufti’s revolt but,not stopping it.
Into this hodgepodge came an English major named P. P. Malcolm.
Major P. P. Malcolm had been transferred to British intelligence in Jerusalem at the outbreak of the Mufti’s revolt. He was a loner. P.P. dressed sloppily and scorned military tradition. He thought protocol ridiculous. He was a man who could express his feelings openly and violently if need be, and he was also a man given to deep meditation for days on end, during which he might neither shave nor comb his hair. His periods of detachment came at odd times-even in the middle of the formal parades, which he hated and believed a waste of time. P. P. Malcolm had a tongue like a lash and never failed to startle those around him. He was eccentric and looked upon as an “off horse” by his fellow officers.
Physically P.P. was tall and thin and bony-faced and had a slight limp. He was, all told, everything that a British officer should not be.
When Malcolm arrived in Palestine he was pro-Arab because it was fashionable for the British officers to be pro-Arab. These sympathies did not last long. Within a short period of time P. P. Malcolm had turned into a fanatic Zionist.
Like most Christians who embrace Zionism, his brand was far more intense and rabid than a Jew’s. Malcolm learned Hebrew from a rabbi and spent every spare minute reading the Bible. He was certain it was in God’s scheme for the Jews to rise again as a nation. Malcolm made detailed studies of the Biblical military campaigns and of the tactics of Joshua, David, and especially Gideon, who was his personal idol. And finally-he became obsessed with the notion that his coming to Palestine had been divinely inspired.
He, P. P. Malcolm, had been chosen by God Himself to lead the children of Israel in their noble mission.
Malcolm drove around Palestine in a battered secondhand jalopy and he hiked on his gimpy leg where there were no roads. Malcolm visited every site of every battle of Biblical times to reconstruct the tactical events. Often Jew and Arab alike were stunned to see this strange creature limping along a road singing a Psalm at the top of his voice and oblivious to everything worldly. 282
It was often asked why the British command tolerated Malcolm. General Charles, the commander of Palestine, recognized quite simply that Malcolm was a genius and one of those rare types of military rebels who pops up every so often. Malcolm laughed at the British handbooks on war, had nothing but disdain for their strategy, and for the most part thought the entire British Army was a waste of money. No one ever seemed to win an argument with him for he never appeared to be wrong and he was convinced of his own infallible judgment.
One day toward evening P. P. Malcolm abandoned his car when it blew two tires at once and hiked along the road toward Yad El. As he entered the defense perimeter half a dozen guards headed in on him. He smiled and waved at them. “Good work, chaps,” he called. “Now be dear lads and take me to Barak Ben Canaan.”
Malcolm paced up and down Barak’s living room. His appearance was even more slovenly than usual. For a solid hour he lectured Barak Ben Canaan about the glory and beauty of Zionism and the destiny of the Hebrew nation.
“I like Jewish soldiers,” Malcolm said. “The Hebrew warrior is the finest, for he fights and lives close to ideals. This land is real to him. He lives with great glories all around him. Your chaps in the Haganah probably constitute the most highly educated and intellectual as well as idealistic body of men under arms in the entire world.
“Take the British soldier,” Malcolm continued. “He is a stubborn fighter and that is good. He responds to discipline and that is good. But it ends right there. He is a stupid man. He drinks too much. He would sleep with a pig and often does. Ben Canaan, that is what I have come to see you about. I am going to take your Haganah and make a first-class fighting organization out of it. You’ve got the best raw material I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Barak’s jaw dropped!
Malcolm looked out the window. He could see the water sprinklers whirling in the fields and in the distance he could see Abu Yesha nestled in the hills below the Taggart fort, Fort Esther.
“See that fort up there-Esther, you call it-stupidity, I call it. All the Arabs have to do is walk around it. The British will never learn.” Malcolm began humming Psalm 98 and singing the words softly in Hebrew. “I have the Psalms memorized up to a hundred and twenty-six. It comforts me.”
“Major Malcolm. Just what is the nature of this visit?” Barak said.
“Everyone knows that Barak Ben Canaan is fair and non-283
partisan. Frankly, most Jews like to talk too much. In my Jewish army they won’t have ten words to say. I’ll do all the talking.”
“You have made me quite aware that you like to do all the talking,” Barak said.
“Humph,” Malcolm grunted, and continued to look at the lush fields of Yad El through the window. Suddenly he swung around and his eyes were ablaze with the same intensity Barak had often seen in his brother Akiva-