I was in midst of a festive Chanukah party of the Israel Student Organization at the Jewish Agency in Manhattan in 1947. During that long evening, most of us were called in, one at a time, to an office and questioned at length by three “elderly” men (who appeared to be in their thirties), one of whom was Gad Frumkin, the son of a prominent judge in Jerusalem.
Several weeks later, I found myself in Poughkeepsie at a Habonim camp which would prepare us for our future mission; together with three other girls (non-Machal) and about a dozen young men, we attended a course held for radar technicians and operators. At that time Israel did not have radar, and we were the first to handle the radar that had been ordered. The course was quite interesting, and we were instructed by a friendly American called Nachman, probably a veteran of the US Army during World War II.
After completing the course, we returned to New York for about two weeks for personal preparations prior to departure for Israel. These preparations included running around to Jewish tailors and shoemakers who had volunteered to outfit us in proper uniforms – boots and caps, and skirts for the girls.
Afterwards we were ready to leave by boat to our war zone overseas. We were about to sail aboard the “Marine Carp”, which had been converted from a troop ship to a passenger ship two years earlier. The route in those days was New York-Beirut-Haifa- Alexandria, sailing the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Our mission may have been less hazardous (which we were all prepared for) had there not been thousands of cheering Jews, along with a grand orchestra and tons of flowers to throw at us in order to give us a proper send-off to our holy war. The trip was to last 14 days. Sailing was smooth and we were having great times aboard. One day we ran down to the lower deck to listen to the Declaration of Independence from Tel Aviv on the radio.
Rather suddenly, I came down with the measles. I was put into the sick bay below, and no one was allowed to visit me. Next door was a mad woman, screaming most of the time. I had no idea what was happening on the upper deck. As the boat was approaching Haifa, the ship’s doctor came to visit me. He tried to convince me to stay out of sight until the boat left Haifa on its return trip, otherwise everyone on board would be put in quarantine, and would be in a lot of trouble because of me. I absolutely refused on the grounds that I was enlisted and loyal to my corps, and besides, my father would be expecting me in Haifa. That offending gentile explained that I shouldn’t even think of it, as the news on the radio was that Tel Aviv was burning and there was nothing for me to do there. My war started then.
My girlfriend, who was sailing with me to the unknown, entered the sick bay, leaned on the door-frame, and told me the saddest story I ever heard. When the ship had stopped in Beirut, Lebanese troops had come aboard escorted by the American Consul, had removed all the ammunition sent with us (some of which was thrown into the sea by our men), had taken away the precious and only radar (which had been registered in my name), and captured all the males barring two – one who was 80, and the other who was only eight! The departing men left us their money, watches and other valuables to deliver to their families, and the boat then continued its journey to Haifa.
Upon arriving at Haifa after the Lebanese passengers joined us (the women refused to descend), all agreed to go on strike until the Palmach arrived to remove these new passengers as hostages.
When the ship docked, only three passengers were silently removed by a small boat and left standing at the port – the mad woman, the old man, and I. The rest of the women remained on board. The most amazing part was that there I was, with no one else in sight, and the last British soldier had left that same morning, and Israel had not taken over yet.
Mr. Eliahu Dobkin came over to find out about the radar, and explained that the main road between Haifa and Tel Aviv was cut off, and consoled me over the loss of “our” radar. Mr. Dobkin was then chairman of the Jewish Agency and knew my father well, they were probably together in the Jewish Legion. To make a long story short, my father did show up after all. We had to remain in Haifa until my girlfriend showed up with our luggage, so after finding a small hotel in Haifa near the port we waited there. The next day the “boat-women” realized that the Palmach was far away, fighting and losing men. They gave up and finally came off the ship just before it was supposed to sail away. We finally met my girlfriend with all the luggage and we traveled a round-about route to my parents’ house in Petah Tikva. My friend was billeted with the air force at the Ramat David airbase, while I remained at our home briefly to recuperate. Later on, I joined my three former mates and we were given accommodations in the old Panorama Hotel in Haifa. There we joined first-timers in order to pass another radar course, this time as mere operators.
Six weeks later we were billeted in huge abandoned military cellars together with some equipment left behind by the British; the other half of that immense space was shared by our navy. I spent nearly a year at Stella Maris, and then I was moved to the Jaffa Ariel Camp, and ended my service in July 1949 in Ekron, and did reserve duty until 1952.
All Machalniks were offered return tickets to their countries of origin, but I gave up mine in order to remain in Israel.