by Yaël Dayan
Maturity has to do with not taking anything for granted. Zorik’s death gave me a shocking blow in this direction. All these good things bestowed on us, the obvious, the God-sent, the natural, had a price tag on them. And on a shelf in a corner, not too exposed but ever present, Mother’s peach-pits necklace made in the Acre prison, Tzippi’s screams at night, Zorik’s photo draped in black, all were warning signals that I was too young to understand but old enough to be alarmed by. The phrase repeated at cemeteries every day was suddenly real: “In their death they bequeathed us life …” Family, my little brothers, the pretty room the three of us shared, the cowshed and the smell of clover I chopped, my schoolmates and my watch and my own life, nothing, not even the change of seasons in the valley or rainfall in the winter, could be taken for granted again.
On May 14, 1948, we listened to the historical radio broadcast of Ben-Gurion reading the Declaration of Independence. The blue-and-white flag of Israel flew everywhere, and even we children held our breath in awe when Ben-Gurion spoke the words “Medinat-Israel”—the State of Israel. Born in Mandate Palestine, we would grow up and have children in the independent, free, and, we hoped, secure State of Israel.
By May 14, the line of graves in Shimron was long. Zorik did not rest alone there. The all-out attack on Israel by six Arab countries on May 15 hadn’t taken anybody by surprise. The British had left, the Haganah had officially become Zahal—the Israel Defense Forces—and my father was assigned to organize and train an elite commando battalion. He had a khaki uniform; a revolver dangled from his belt, legally and openly; and he had the rank of major. The state was three days old when General Yadin summoned him to command the Jordan Valley front. Deganya, Father’s birthplace, was under heavy attack. It had been seven years since my father actively participated in a battle. Physically he was fit, and the absence of his left eye was a fact he had adjusted to. “To aim and hit, you need one eye only, and one good finger,” he said.
He arrived in Deganya on the eighteenth. The Syrians were preparing for a major onslaught with an infantry brigade reinforced by tanks and artillery and some air support. The defenders had homemade explosives—Molotov cocktails—a few anti-tank bazookas with limited ammunition, small arms, and dedication. Two of the settlements nearby were deserted, which added to the gloom, and when representatives of the settlers appealed with tears to Ben-Gurion, he said: I’m sending you Moshe Dayan as reinforcement…
According to my father, he wasn’t instrumental in saving Deganya, but what was obvious was his contribution to morale, his inspiring courage, and a few well-timed and inventive tactical decisions. My father ignored the chain of command and was not bothered by who was subordinate to whom. His orders were carried out because they were given with confidence and self-assurance. There was no time to check whether a written authorization was on hand. He moved about quickly in his jeep, inspecting each trench, changing positions, placing the few bazookas at the flanks. Luckily, a 65mm gun, initially on its way to Jerusalem, was diverted to Deganya and helped save the settlement.
The battle took place at the kibbutz gates. A Syrian tank made its way into the main square but was stopped in time in front of the trenches. When shells began to hit the approaching Syrian infantry, they started to withdraw in panic. Father was surrounded by close friends, some of whom had no business being there but followed him faithfully. Nahalal fighters, his brother-in-law Israel, friends from the settlement of Yavniel—all hand-picked and capable. The assault on Deganya lasted nine hours, with brief intervals. The danger to the Jordan Valley was removed, and that evening Father, with a few friends, drove into Zemach, the small Arab town across the river which served as HQ to the Syrian forces. Later he talked often about this night visit. There was no way of knowing if there were troops still in the town, but his curiosity was stronger than his sense of caution. He didn’t have to leave the bridge during the Allied invasion and go look for the police station where he lost his eye. This time the risk proved worth taking, for Zemach was totally deserted.
He returned to Deganya with a Syrian radio car and some guns and was deeply affected by the ease with which the enemy had abandoned everything, including their wounded and dead. “They knew they outnumbered us by far. They knew we couldn’t attack the town, and yet, at the sound of the first shell, they broke down and fled. Like the birds in the corn field, when we chase them, banging on empty cans.”
If he needed a boost to his self-confidence as a fighter, the battle of Deganya did it, and he reported back to Sadeh reassured in his acceptance of the command of the special commando battalion.
Although Nahalal was only a short distance away, we didn’t sense the danger. Mother was sent for one night to visit Father in Deganya, something that recurred in every battle thereafter. When he was away more than one night, he would send a jeep for her to join him; he would take her around the trenches, talk with her and inquire about us and the farm. There were no camp followers, but no full-time soldiering either, and it seemed only natural for him to have her around.
The only one among us who was nervous was my grandmother. Since Zorik’s death, she feared for my father, and her fear was not irrational. She knew his daredevil courage, and she counted the minutes to his return. My visits to her were less frequent, as I felt I had to tiptoe in the presence of a great grief. She said to me one day: “You don’t have to whisper. Zorik is not asleep, he is dead,” and cried. Later, better adjusted, she read me Zorik’s poems, showed me pictures of him, and talked to me of my father’s boyhood as if passing on to me secret information which would be precious if her prayers weren’t answered and the same fate befell my father. For his part, Grandfather said to me: “Your father is a hero”—a sentence that bothered me no end then, as in those days it was almost like saying “Your father was a hero” to an orphan.
Battalion 89, plainly known as the Commando, was organized, equipped, and trained in unconventional methods. It had in its ranks a mixture of fighters. The nucleus, composed of volunteers from Nahalal and from other farms, was joined by ex-Lehi dissident underground fighters, by a group of eager Tel Aviv youngsters, and by a few volunteers from overseas. It was a heterogeneous battalion: nobody was forced to join, but the prestige of the group and its commander soon spread, and other units started to complain of the miraculous disappearance of men and equipment who deserted to join “89.” The unit embodied informality at its best: no rank badges, no salutes, individually designed uniforms, and a sky-high spirit that was toughened and solidified by hard training. The weaponry consisted of jeeps with machine guns attached, for the key word was mobility; and the tactical instructions were to race forward, surprise, destroy, and move on. Each individual soldier counted, and each had to be relied on to act with courage, initiative, and precision. My father was in his element as a field commander—surrounded by friends, free of textbooks and conventions, and ready to go. And when they did go, they reached far.
The battalion’s first objectives were to capture enemy posts around two Arab villages not far from the airport and the city of Lydda. Another brigade was to enter Ramle and Lydda later and disrupt the enemy line in the central sector, between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
At dawn, Battalion 89 moved out. The two objectives were soon achieved. During the short battle, my father left his scout car, ran under fire to the company commanders, took command of one of the companies, and demonstrated what he meant by storming with full fighting power. The battalion had five wounded and was resting when my father was summoned by Ben-Gurion. He drove his jeep to the Tel Aviv HQ and found B-G worried. He was upset mostly about Jerusalem, unhappy with its command and the morale of its defenders. He wanted to appoint my father commander of Jerusalem.
Father, in fatigues which bore traces of the fighting he had just been in, was amused and irritated. This was Ben-Gurion’s way, and later his own, too. He wanted to see Dayan there and then, and he had to be found and summoned—from wherever … My father rejected the proposal outright. H
e was fighting with his own men; he was not about to relinquish this command and go somewhere where he was bound to send others to fight. Not right then, not in the middle of combat. Ben-Gurion asked for details of the morning’s battle, and dismissed my father. It was understood that the Jerusalem appointment would be brought up again.
“89” proceeded to Deir Tarif, which was held by the Jordanian Legion, and my father found his men engaged in a static battle not to his liking. He ordered his driver to zigzag to the top of the hill, avoiding sniper fire, “to get a better look at what was happening and what’s next.” He quickly assessed the situation, and a devilish brain wave went through his mind. They were dillydallying. There was no element of surprise in besieging Deir Tarif. The real target was down there in the flatland, surrounded by olive groves—the city of Lydda. Tens of thousands of people, large stone buildings, a well-armed military force defending it—the idea seemed completely crazy. His eye caught a nearer target, crazy enough, too, in the shape of a beautiful armored car equipped with a two-pounder gun! It took a few hours under Jordanian artillery, the ingenuity of a mechanic who volunteered to help, a tow cable, and some luck, and the vehicle was towed down, to the applause and cheers of the fighters. A few men were put through the fastest artillery training course ever, and were able to operate the gun. The radio was repaired and a suitable name was painted on the armor: The Terrible Tiger. Many of the vehicles bore written phrases—the best-remembered of which was Nahalal–Amman Express.
Encouraged by the condition of the Tiger, my father casually said in a loud enough voice for the company commanders to hear: “Let’s finish up here and make for Lydda!” Those who thought he was joking didn’t know their commander. In a short while, with the Tiger in the lead, the half-tracks following, and the jeeps in the rear, they stormed the main street of Lydda.
The successful attack on Lydda and Ramle has been told and retold many times. The use of shock tactics, crushing by surprise, the speed and fire element, all have been analyzed in textbooks and debated. Many tend to belittle the victory by emphasizing the luck element while criticizing the risk-taking chutzpah. It could have been a disaster … But my father was no trigger-happy, daredevil hero taking chances. The risks taken were calculated ones within a battle plan that, though perceived and worked out on the spot, was clear and quite detailed. The breakthrough lasted less than an hour. The column proceeded from Lydda to Ramle as the radio system failed and the leading half-track lost its brakes. When they stopped, both cities were behind them. Then they retraced their route, returning to the point of departure. A sweeping, storming, surprising move which enabled Yigal Allon’s brigade to engage later in a final battle at the end of which both cities yielded. My father himself was everywhere. Jumping from vehicle to vehicle, shouting orders when there was no functioning radio, encouraging, helping to load casualties for evacuation, and operating small arms when advancing.
In this short, exemplary battle, my father thought he demonstrated many qualities and methods which should typify—and did later—the “something unique” of the Israeli special units. The reactions to the battle were various. Yadin was angry but added: “Nothing succeeds like success.” The brigade commander who completed the takeover of the cities said: “Moshe acted according to his character; he did his demonstrative bit, and walked away.” Sadeh criticized and praised. Ben-Gurion listened to a full report and commented at the end: “This is not the way to fight a war.” Father thought then that this was the only way to fight this particular battle with this particular unit. Still, Ben-Gurion insisted that his choice of my father as commander of Jerusalem be accepted, against the better judgment of Yigal Yadin, Ya’akov Dori, and the other active generals. A delegation of officers from Battalion 89, threatening a “strike” if my father was posted elsewhere, didn’t change Ben-Gurion’s mind, and the appointment was finalized. August 1 we were to move to Jerusalem.
After the battle of Lydda and Ramie, having visited the wounded in the hospital and reporting to HQ, Father came home to Nahalal. He always did this in the days and weeks that followed, when, before taking command of Jerusalem, the battalion participated in the breakthrough that prevented the Negev from being cut off from the rest of the country. He would be in Nahalal for a few brief hours, take a bath, change clothes, and refresh himself. These short visits were a boost of life to his mother and father and a source of security for us. My mother managed to see him more often, as he arranged reunions in the battalion’s headquarters.
His presence at home was very physical. He always kissed us on the mouth, hugged and embraced and patted. The three of us would climb into his bed when he was resting, and he would find a moment to play a favorite game, listen to what we had to say, and tell us what he’d been through. We never suspected that a goodbye kiss could be the last one, because he seemed so infallible and so fully protected. Not because I was an innocent. I went up the cemetery hill, not to gather flowers as before, but to lay fresh ones on gravestones of young people I knew. Nahalal was bombed from the air, by Iraqi light planes, and the silly-looking ditches we helped dig came in very handy. We were covered with dirt and gravel while sitting crouched in them as a shell hit not far off. Our next-door neighbors on both sides lost a son and a prospective son-in-law on the eve of his wedding. My mother’s spells of crying had to do with the agony and pain of other people’s losses, not with her own anxiety for our father, and when a truce was announced and there was a ceasefire in Jerusalem, we sensed the relief of the adults around us, and shared it.
We were told we were to move to Jerusalem, and though I didn’t find the prospect appealing, there was the knowledge that Father would be with us, every day and night. I didn’t want to leave Nahalal, the school, or the farm, or my grandparents or my schoolmates. It wasn’t a move to an unknown place, either. My other grandparents lived in Jerusalem. I visited the city often; I didn’t fear a change of school and wasn’t particularly excited or frightened by what a big city had to offer. But Nahalal was always home.
I was not aware that, breaking away from the protective circle, I was to enter a new world where, from the start, I would be referred to as “Moshe Dayan’s daughter.” I was a precocious child of ten, and whether this new epithet would be an unbearable handicap or a springboard was not yet up to me.
FIVE : GROWING UP AND AWAY
The main road to Jerusalem was blocked and we took an alternate route—an unpaved, dangerous, bumpy track known as the “Burma Road.” In the heat of August, it meant hours of riding in a thick cloud of dust. We first lived in my grandparents’ house, while my parents were apartment hunting. The Abkarius Bey house was not exactly my father’s idea of “a small warm nest.” It had belonged originally to a rich Greek lawyer, whose widow left Jerusalem when the war began. The house, like other deserted houses, was taken over by the Custodian of Absentees’ Properties. When we moved in, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a palace from the pages of a novel, a mansion of princes in St. Petersburg, or a castle from a wicked fairytale. Each room was painted in a different color, and we couldn’t stop counting them. There was a pink room and a green room, and a green-tiled bathroom, a blue bathroom to match a blue room, and two enormous living rooms. There were bay windows, and a downstairs with a huge kitchen, and more rooms. There were long corridors and terraces and a walled-in garden with a water cistern and a couple of fruit trees. My parents chose furniture from the Custodian’s warehouse and paid for it with a loan from my grandparents. It was made clear to me that this pink-stone, spacious dwelling was not permanently ours. Somewhere there was a woman who owned this house and who might return one day to claim what was hers. For many weeks I imagined a beautifully dressed woman coming to the house and ordering us out with a royal gesture. The wineglasses were pink crystal, the furniture mahogany, and the beds huge and comfortable. The change was unreal and sudden, and so many adjustments had to be made in a short time.
My father was by now brigade commander, with the rank of lieut
enant colonel. Beyond his military duties, he assumed diplomatic missions as well. Nothing had changed in his attitude to us, but there was a new commotion about his comings and goings. There were drivers, other officers, telephone lines, and vehicles, which more or less turned the house into a second HQ for the brigade. There were revolvers and maps and binoculars and sandbags piled on top of the outside wall. If, before, the war had been brought home by the radio or through men on leave, or by the dead, now we were in its midst. Our home, and it soon felt like home, with my mother’s graceful touch applied to it, was also an outpost. The carpets, crystal, and velvet were not out of bounds for tired, dusty, dirty men from the field, and the kitchen operated around the clock to provide meals and sandwiches to what seemed like a micro-kibbutz assembled in the Abkarius residence. The empty rooms were filled with people who joined my father to form a semi-official entourage. These included, among others, my Uncle Israel, Mart, an old Shimron friend—Nachman—Alex, his loyal adjutant, and Uri and Akiva from “89,” who managed to join.