This record of what was truly an epic in the history of South African Jewry, who had previously confronted the Greyshirts and their bicycle chains at the Johannesburg City Hall in the thirties, and who were present to help in thebirth of Israel without any thought of financial recompense or of furthering their own ambitions, or seeking heroic stature.
I must admit, however, the three pounds per month (if we were lucky) that we received rather blunted our social and other contacts with the fairer sex. But fortunately the Lord, and later Philip Zuckerman with his specialist’s and Zionist Fed. pocket money helped to balance nature’s needs – viz: a gazoz to add to the obsequious and maybe libidinous felafel that we fed to the very suspecting maidens of Israel when dating them.
One of our group flying northwards was a doctor, whose name I can’t recall. As I remember, one of the chaps with us consulted this doctor on his apparent impotence. The doctor enquired as to the frequency with which he had visited the Bordellos of Rome, and when told, commented to the happy lothario that his state was completely in keeping with his activities.
We left Palmietfontein towards the end of June, a group of over 20. Some of the names: Mike Isaacson, Syd Langbart, Elliot Katzenellenbogen, Ivor Fix, Simmie Waks, Frank Herbstein, Cyril Gotsman, Basil Levin, Maurice Berger, Joe Krinsky, Joe Katzew, a nurse whose name I do not remember, and myself.
There were also three couples amongst us, Bully and Lily Margolis, Rudy and
Zafrira Matz, a doctor and his wife, whose names I cannot remember.
For various reasons we did not carry on with the final stretch, Rome to Haifa, as one group. Our pilot flying northwards was Nobby Clark. In Rome we spent two nights at the Alberge Regina, and two at the Boston Hotel. I stayed at the Boston again in 1971. In 1948 it was the only deluxe hotel I had ever been to through the front door.
Maurice Ostroff and I entered into a joint venture of a vintage motor cycle, which cost us twenty-five pounds, plus a suit which Maurice supplied. I still owe him either the pants or the jacket. The Bike? Well it ended up in a slit trench with our O.C. Moshe Ettenberg astride. Ettenberg survived, the bike didn’t. He should have known better than to ride a bike that I had modified to run on 100 octane fuel. Memories of some of the best years of my life.