RUTH STERN (NEE SARETZKY) – MY MACHAL STORY
My experiences as a volunteer nurse, 1948-1949,
during the Israel War of Independence.
Ruth Stern (right) with one of the Haganah supervisors, on board the Kedmah en route to Israel
Early in 1948, the excitement of recruiting people to go over to assist Israel was spreading by word-of-mouth across South Africa. I was at the SA Zionist Federation in Johannesburg, sitting in the office of Simie Weinstein, the former chaplain of the South African Expeditionary Forces in East Africa. He had taken time to speak to me, although he was extremely busy organizing volunteers to serve in the war that had broken out against the fledgling State of Israel which was facing attacks by five Arab States.
“Ruth,” Simie Weinstein said, and smiled, “I’m always pleased to see you, but my dear, this is about war, and not for you. Right now we are preparing to send people with military training and experience, to Israel. It is remarkable that the call to the South African Ex-servicemen’s League has aroused an uncanny flame of identification; especially gratifying is the concern from those who hadn’t been oriented to Zionism. The general response for volunteers from so many unexpected sources has been heartwarming.” He looked at his watch, and I realized that Simie, in his quiet and unassuming way, was being polite. He was aware that I had spent a year in 1946 in Palestine (then under the rule of the British Mandate), one of the 30 participants in the first course for Zionist youth leaders, and now I had come to see him about returning to serve as a volunteer in the war. Despite my recent experience, his fatherly attitude to me hadn’t changed as he kindly tried to dissuade me.
He obviously had many pressing and important matters to deal with and was rightly impatient for me to leave. “I won’t take up your time, Simie, but please understand, I have to go back to Israel. I made a vow to someone called Uri when I spent time on Kibbutz Revivim in the Negev. He was killed recently.” I tried to keep the emotion out of my voice. “I also want to join the many friends I made there, in Tel-Aviv and in Jerusalem.” I plunged on, “I could really contribute to the war effort. Don’t forget that I speak Hebrew, I have studied biochemistry and anatomy and physiology and dietetics, and done first aid courses, I’m sure I could go as a practical nurse.”
Simie interrupted my outburst, “Okay, Ruth, I’ll see what I can do. Now off you go. I realize that your parents have a very determined and unusual daughter on their hands. Don’t forget to give them my regards.”
As I got up to leave, he added, “Have you spoken to Bernard about your plans to return?” He was referring to my uncle, Bernard Gering, chairman of the S.A. Zionist Federation, who was influential in organizing the manpower needed to reinforce the new Israel Defense Forces. “I don’t want special privileges, Simie, I know you’ll be objective, that’s why I’ve come to you. Israel needs reinforcement urgently, and hopefully formal arrangements to send qualified ground forces, air force, navy and medical veterans to Israel are already on the way. I want to join them. I must go back, Simie,” I repeated, “and thanks for listening.”
The South African Jewish population was very pro-Zionist. Thousands responded to the call for volunteers in Israel. Surprisingly, non-Jewish people, Afrikaners too, who were strong believers in the Bible, heard about the massive attack on Israel and answered the call for help. Israel, a tiny strip of land in a corner of the Middle East, with a population of barely 600,000, was facing a formidable onslaught by the trained and equipped Arab armies of Syria, Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon and Iraq.
Fierce fighting had broken out as soon as the United Nations General Assembly voted to adopt a partition plan to end the British Mandate in Palestine, which the Jews accepted but the Arabs rejected.
I had received word about the death of Uri Weinhaber a few months before the War of Independence started, but had not yet told my parents about my stay at Kibbutz Revivim, as I was sure they couldn’t fathom how I felt, or even imagine the tiny Negev outpost where 25 young Zionist pioneers were creating a new presence in the desert. Life in South Africa was so different from that isolated spot; it would have been impossible for them to grasp the simple and idealistic way of life that had so appealed to me. But they did understand and comfort me when they heard my faltering account of Uri’s tragic death while he was trying to rescue his friend trapped in an Arab ambush near Beersheba. They accepted my desire to return to Israel, but assumed it would be sometime in the future, perhaps. They could let their daughter take part in a study course to learn about our Jewish roots in Palestine which in 1946 was governed by the British; as a British citizen, under the watchful eyes of supervisors I was in safe and good hands. Now that I was safely home I could be a good Zionist in South Africa and support the movement and the war effort from the Diaspora. However, allowing their daughter to go to a war-stricken country would be madness. I stood my ground to the consternation of my parents.
At last I got word that I was to join a group of volunteers, the only woman among the twenty. We were briefed on the plan to fly us to Europe, our supposed destination, where we would be met by Haganah members and from there transferred to Israel. A fictitious air line, Universal Airways, had been established by the organizers as a cover to allow us to leave SA legitimately. Each one of us was assigned a role; mine was as a student going to study in England via Italy.
“It’s not too late to change your mind.” My father broached the subject again. We were having tea on our veranda. “Please consider the practical side and the dangers. All the volunteers going over are war veterans or qualified doctors and nurses. You’re too young and inexperienced.”
My mother quietly added her thoughts: “Causing others to worry about you, you might even be a hindrance.” Then, aloud, “Ruth dear, why can’t you be like your sisters? Why not enjoy your popularity, complete your studies? Why do you have such strange aspirations?”
It was not easy to be the parents of a non-conformist daughter who had become dedicated to the Zionist cause and was drawn to the Land of Israel, unlike her three older sisters.
“It’s as if she has a calling,” my dear old nanny Janet said. She realized that I had changed, and that my convictions were not my former euphoric idealistic dreams. Now I was aware of a much harsher reality and was ready to face it.
I remember my parents at the airport wondering what to say, their forced smiles hiding their trepidation. Outwardly I appeared calm, hoping my inner trembling was not obvious as we walked toward the runaway and into the small plane, a twin-engined Dakota. Years later, I could appreciate how those nineteen fellow travelers formed a sort of protective shield around me.
On our way we stopped to refuel in Bulawayo in Rhodesia, slept at Entebbe in central Africa, had a meal at Wadi Halfa, a few hundred miles from Khartoum and eventually landed in Rome on the 27th August. We were met by a member of the Haganah, a tough young sandy-haired sabra who informed us of a change of plans. We would not be flying directly to Israel as expected, but instead would take a train to Genoa and then on to Marseilles where we would board a boat sailing for Israel. Our bluntly-spoken guide, who soon won our respect, added that we were to join the boat Kedmah carrying new immigrants from Europe. This surprising announcement was received without protest from our group with the usual good grace and humor.
Walking toward the Kedmah docked in the Marseilles harbor, we stopped to look at our transport, by no means a tourist cruise ship, but appeared quite seaworthy. It was packed with refugees who had survived the hell of Nazi cruelty. As we approached, hundreds were leaning over the lower decks watching us.
“At least it isn’t one of those run-down tubs that brought illegal immigrants to the shores of Palestine,” one of our group remarked. “Most of those poor survivors reached Haifa in the most ghastly conditions, only to be turned away by the British.”
While crossing the Mediterranean we had very little contact with the immigrants, as we were accommodated on the upper deck. The Haganah supervisors were friendly and curious about us, the South African volunteers, coming from so far away to join them in battle. I suppose we did seem incongruous compared with the other passengers. “How did a young lady like you get into this group?” I was startled by the rather brash question from our blue-eyed Israeli supervisor, David. “What do you expect to do in our land, facing the dangers of war?
What chutzpa. I put my book down. How dare he patronize me, I fumed. Finding me alone at last, he has found the occasion to satisfy his curiosity. I had been reluctant to show that I knew Hebrew or to speak about my experience in Palestine in 1946. Now to David’s astonishment I replied in Hebrew. “I shall quote the words of Ruth in the Bible, Your people are my people, David,” I suppose I sounded dramatic, “and I wish to share the fate of my people and do my share in the war effort. That is why I am here, and I object to your insinuations that I’m unfit to face danger.”
Soon all the Haganah people began chatting to me in Hebrew. They assumed that I knew much more Hebrew than I did, and often used my linguistic ability as translator, giving me far more credit than I deserved.
One of our supervisors, who reminded me of Miri at the kibbutz, taught me to play the recorder. Many of our group tried to make contact with the refugees. How could we overcome the enormous language barriers and different life experiences? Here we were, all Jewish, all of one people: The tall fair sun-tanned Israeli youth, who only months before the declaration of the State of Israel were also known as Palestinian Jews under British rule. They went about their tasks seriously, yet they joined us, moving and laughing unselfconsciously. They seemed to me like the Hebrews, the Biblical people of Israel, who had never been part of the Diaspora. I offered a prayer there and then that the survivors from Nazi Europe would also learn to live in freedom in their own land, Eretz Israel, and bring children into the world who would not know the persecution and degradation of anti-Semitism. Like the sabras on board the Kedmah, the children of these new immigrants who had faced annihilation and degradation and those who came after them, would be ready, if need be, to fight for the survival of their land and their liberty as Jews.
And where do we fit in, I wondered, we South Africans who have come from a sunny land of plenty to give our support? It was indeed miraculous that the precarious situation facing Israel had sparked such a response, proving the link of all Jews to each other, not only the staunch Zionists but thousands of others who were prepared to help their fellow Jews.
On September 3rd, as the boat approached the shores of Israel, the setting sun illuminated the beauty of Haifa and Mount Carmel, glowing and silhouetted against the cloudless sky. The magical scene brought cries of joy from the new immigrants. At last they were free to enter their ancient homeland. It was actually happening, their dreams and yearning becoming a reality. The sky darkened and the lights of Haifa started to twinkle while we all stood there on the decks of the Kedmah and sang Hatikvah, our national anthem. Then a voice from the newcomers rose in a prayer of thanks and we all chorused, “Amen.”
As soon as we disembarked, we were separated from the other passengers and driven to the Kelet, an induction center. I was directed to the women’s section where I suddenly felt stranded without the quiet support of my nineteen “body guards.” The impact of the strenuous journey now struck me. I recall the impression of being in the midst of confusion and darkness and feeling terribly tired as I was led away by a khaki-clad woman. “Why is everything so dim?” I whispered. “Air-raid precautions,” she replied. She looked at me and kindly took my hand. I did not meet her ever again after that night, but I never forgot that simple act of compassion as a moment of panic came over me, as I realized what I had let myself in for.
The next morning I went through the procedure of becoming a member of the Medical Corps. The initial problem of dealing with a young woman who didn’t belong to any contingent was solved by my insistence that I wished to assist as a nurse. I managed to make myself understood and received sympathetic attention. Perhaps it was because they didn’t have much time to waste, or more likely they were so short of nurses that they welcomed me. Thus on the 6th September, 1948, I was accepted into the Medical Corps. I was sent to Tel Litwinsky, Military Hospital No. 5, where there were already many Machal volunteers including South African doctors and English-speaking nurses.
Tel Litwinsky was originally an Allied army base which had been converted into a sprawling hospital. An enormous clean-up had made the filthy barracks suitable to accommodate patients and staff, but it was far from being anything like my vision of a hospital.
I found myself in the staff quarters housed in a room with three nurses. Someone showed me where our showers and toilets were. Others took me to receive my white uniform and led me to the dining room. It was very informal and friendly, but I soon realized how hard everyone worked, and how the sick and wounded needing immediate care were attended to unstintingly. With very little time to get my bearings, I was sent to meet Lea, the head nurse of the internal medicine wards. She sat me down and with matter-of-fact scrutiny introduced me to the various duties I would be expected to undertake: making beds, general assistance to patients’ needs, preparing food trays, administering medicines and sterilizing syringes. I hardly registered the long list as she spoke. I was assigned to report for duty at 7 a.m. the following morning at the internal medicine ward, hut no. 35. At that first meeting Lea was rather intimidating but I soon learnt to appreciate the enormous pressure of her workload. Later I learnt that for some time she hadn’t heard from her husband who was serving in a unit on the Syrian border
“Now you must have some supper. You had better get a good night’s sleep after your long journey and remember you’ll be on morning shift this week.” She led me to the dining room, but to my disappointment she did not join me. “I want to hear about your dietetic studies and training,” she remarked, “and about your 1946 experience in our land.” Then she touched my cheek. “Sleep well and enjoy your supper,” and walked away, thus ending our first meeting, How often during my nursing duties I would wonder what was happening at Kibbutz Revivim. I worried about those friends I had made for so short a time only two years before and was then obliged to return to South Africa. How often, above all, had I thought about Uri and what might have been if he were alive. Every wounded soldier made me think about him, wounded there so far away on the Negev sands. News came through, so I knew about the battles in the Negev. Should I write to the kibbutz and tell them I had returned as I had promised Uri I would? Should I try to meet Uri’s family? What would I say? What a strange story, they might say. Then, again I would thrust aside those painful thoughts and return to nursing sick soldiers.
It was amazing how the staff managed to improvise and cope in such austere, almost primitive conditions.. There was a shortage of everything, from bedding and food to basic medical equipment and supplies. The few syringes and needles were washed and sterilized in boiling water on an electric hot plate to keep up with the demand.
How people at home take their comforts for granted, I found myself comparing, while here in the midst of war and suffering no one complains. What had to be done was done by all, doctors and nurses. No matter how insurmountable the challenge seemed, no matter how exhausted they were, each was supportive of the other, all part of the team.
I had done the basic Red Cross training as a student in South Africa which was then really a game, but now I went about learning the methods of bed making, bandaging, scrubbing surfaces, preparing food trays, handing out medicines, taking temperatures and pulse counts, and more, until I was promoted to more advanced nursing procedures like taking blood samples and blood pressure and giving injections.
Two South African nurses, senior sisters, appeared one day, creating a hush of awe. They were attired in starched white uniforms, including the white headdress of their rank. Most of us were rather slipshod in comparison. Even the most meticulous of nurses like Hansi and Lea from the Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem couldn’t match these two, who were quite unaware of the sensation they aroused. However, they calmly got on with the job pleasantly but firmly. It was a standing joke that when Phyllis Fisch came onto a ward everyone came to attention, even the patients in their beds. They always kept up their high standards, despite the inadequate facilities, and they set examples that many of us followed, doing the most menial tasks with the same efficiency as they performed their highly-skilled nursing.
It was to Phyllis that I went running when I had questions about my work. She gave me practical advice and reading material which helped to fill in the huge gaps in my nursing knowledge. With her guidance I became proficient at giving injections ‘with a light hand,’ my patients would say, learning the many skills of bandaging and preparing treatment trays and recognizing medicines and medical jargon. Her short stocky figure became a legend at the hospital. She was loved and respected. (Editor’s Note: Phyllis Fisch had arrived by air on September 20th together with two other nursing sisters, Mickey Shapiro and Freda Celia Myers.)
Lea, especially, taught me a lot, giving me more responsibilities as I became more competent and confident. I learnt in days what nurses would normally learn in months. Soon she relied on me to perform many professional treatments that qualified nurses did.
An official letter arrived for me, from army head-quarters! I wondered what-ever that could be. We were in the midst of a meeting in the nurses’ room when we were interrupted. The messenger looked around. “I have a letter for Ruth Saretzky.” “That’s me,” I faltered, remembering the letter I had received in South Africa that Uri had been killed in the Negev. Now why a special delivery for me? Afraid and embarrassed as all eyes were on me, I accepted the envelope and began to read and couldn’t believe my eyes. On a slip of cheap paper I read the type-written words stating that I had been promoted to the rank of 1st lieutenant.
“Nurse Ruth Saretzky No: 65911, you are informed with our blessings, that as from the 3rd January, 1949 you are obliged to acknowledge your rank of Lieutenant (Segen) by wearing the insignia. Please enter the new rank into your army book.”
Lea hugged me, followed by the rest of the staff. I put the envelope into my pocket trying to adopt a nonchalant air. Lea smiled knowingly. “Okay, now let’s gets on with the job.”
New supplies started to arrive from the Diaspora Jews. What a blessing to all the hospitals. Naturally, I was especially proud of the South African contributions. We appreciated the most basic equipment and wondered how we had managed without the spare towels and sheets and blankets and soap and cotton-wool and bandages and pajamas, syringes and sterilization sets, the list was endless and amazing. Even South African jam from the Cape for breakfast, what a feast! Each consignment brought more supplies and made our patients more comfortable, our work easier, and our wards more up-to-date.
One day, a tall dark-haired woman sat down beside me in the dining room. I had become used to the arrival of so many remarkable people, especially among the Machal volunteers. Mildred Schlumschlag, a physiotherapist (M.A.) from New York who had come to join us, was obviously someone special. Mildred wasted no time setting up a physiotherapy department. The hospital director, Professor Spiro, known as a “toughie,” was soon complying with all her demands for a suitable place, as well as the necessary fittings and equipment and staff for her centre. Mildred received all her needs in record time, and began work. There were very few physiotherapists anywhere in Israel, but none with her qualifications. Her physiotherapy clinic, opened in 1948, laid the foundations for the establishment of the ‘Tel Hashomer Center for the Treatment of Paraplegics in Israel.’ (Tel Litwinsky was renamed Tel Hashomer after the war).
The never-ending numbers of casualties were brought in, confirming the daily reports of so many killed, so many wounded. Many of our patients were newcomers from the refugee camps who had been taken straight off the new immigrant boats and into battle to join the Israeli fighters. They usually had no military training or knowledge of the country or Hebrew, but I recall our praise for their uncomplaining spirit and enthusiasm. As soon as they were able to, they would offer to help on the wards, trying to emulate the Israeli patients who had grown up in the Haganah or the Palmach or the Etzel. Our patients were so varied, old and young, Israeli born and newcomers. Young Yossi was brought in one evening with a raging temperature, clothes torn and dirty. We learnt that he had left the kibbutz and gone after his father without letting anyone know his plans. He was about 17, and had run off to join his father in battle, without knowing where to find him and not knowing that his dad had been seriously wounded. When he was brought into our ward with a raging fever, exhausted and suffering from exposure, we still didn’t have his exact story until his mother, serving in the army, was contacted and came rushing into the ward. Who would tell Yossi about his dad, we wondered, and when? With all the daily stories of wartime, how could I not become involved? How could I not take time off to speak to this youngster and even teach him an English song instead of enjoying a few free hours? How could I not rush over to see how he and others were doing, even when I was off-duty? To me it was more important to spend time with our wounded soldiers or sometimes with their families.
One morning we were called to an urgent meeting. We were told that a group of soldiers who had been prisoners in Jordan had been released, and we would accommodate them on our ward in the isolation section, which would be extended. Our “isolation section” was a standing joke because it meant curtaining off a wider area of the main ward. There was only one small room that was really cut off from the rest of the ward and it was used for really special cases. These ex-prisoners (POWs) had been exposed to drugs and made to become addicted in order to force them to ‘sing,’ meaning to divulge information. Now they were in advanced stages of being treated, but they were still under close observation, especially to ensure that they were not finding ways to receive drugs on the sly.
When Lea was called away, we suspected the worst. Her husband was among the fighters captured and tortured by the Syrians. Now their families had to face the horror of identifying the mutilated bodies of their loved ones that had been returned to Israel. To my consternation, when I came to express my condolences, Lea took me aside, controlling her tears, and asked me if I would accompany her on that dreadful mission. I could not refuse. For me Lea typified the strength of the Sabra nurses and all the Sabra fighters, men and women. Now suddenly in a reversal of roles she was leaning on me for support. Up to this time I had tried to keep my thoughts away from Uri’s death in the Negev, but Lea’s loss brought my loss back to me and gave me the courage to say yes, naturally I would. I was proud that she regarded me as her friend and one to give her support in the hour of deep sorrow and need. I overcame my fears, and went with her.
The tragedies of war inevitably demand relief. I even accepted invitations from local people as well as joining the Machal volunteers on outings to Tel Aviv. It was impossible to reach Jerusalem unless one was in a military convoy. Friends I had made in 1946 somehow found me and offered their hospitality. If I came off-duty and an ambulance was going to Tel-Aviv, I would take a lift to the Epstein family, who extended an open invitation to me to have a bath and wonderful tea. Their daughter Margalit had studied in England and worked at the hospital as a dietician. Her father had been the district officer during the British Mandate. Many Machal volunteers were made welcome at their home. Sometimes we received unexpected orders. I was to participate in a seven-day Hebrew course for Machal volunteers on Mount Carmel in Haifa, at the impressive former home of Pinchas Rutenburg, founder of the Israel Electric Corporation. We studied and spoke Hebrew, learnt Zionist history and geography of the area, read the Tanach, sang and danced and had fun.
For the final event, many VIPs were invited to meet the Machal people and hear them show off their Hebrew. I was chosen to compare synagogue proceedings in Israel and South Africa. When my turn came to speak I got one word wrong. Instead of Beit Knesset (synagogue) I said Beit Ki-sei (lavatory). Naturally the outcome was startling and hilarious when I explained how, in South Africa, the elegant ladies observed the men from their seats above, while the children often disturbed their concentration. When I concluded my talk, wondering why people were laughing, the American pilot next to me said, “Oh honey, you’ve sure blown it.” When he explained my faux pas, I was overcome with embarrassment and fled to my room.
Years later, as a teacher of English and literature, my experience at Beit Rutenburg served as a reminder that language acquisition has many incongruous pitfalls.
One fine June morning I returned to the ward after a week of night duty. At the daily staff meeting a new patient, Theodore Ben-Amar, an officer in the engineering corps who had commanded the forces opening the way to Eilat, was singled-out especially. “He’s very dashing, one of the ‘desert rats’”, Osnat remarked, grinning.
Making my rounds, I went from bed to bed to chat with each patient and check their charts before the doctors arrived. As I approached the bed of the famous fighter, I noticed that he was reading an English book. I came nearer out of curiosity and discovered it was ‘The Forgotten Ally’ by Pierre van Paassen.
“Shalom,” he said, and his white teeth flashed a smile. He seemed to be the one in charge instead of me. I returned his greeting, and went on my way, angry at myself for being so flustered by the handsome green-eyed soldier.
Later, while I was writing my report in the staff room, the door opened and there he was. “Please leave the room right away,” I said, and tried to hide my surprise and speak severely. “This room is out of bounds to patients. There is a sign on the door.” He didn’t seem perturbed at all by my authority, but sat down and offered me a cigarette.
“Now you have disobeyed two rules, entering the nurses’ room and smoking,” I exclaimed, just as Dr. Bruno, our chief, walked in, adding to my consternation.
I’m in for a reprimand, I thought as I tried to appear calm.
“Hello, Teddy,” Dr Bruno addressed my disobedient patient. “How is all the family? Does Eli know you are here?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction, “Does our South African nurse Ruth allow you to smoke and sit in the nurses’ sanctuary?” Three days later Teddy was discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health. However, he returned again and again, but not as a patient.
Our story began then and when I married Teddy my Machal story ended.
Editor’s Note:
Upon her marriage to Theodore (Teddy) Blumenfeld (later Ben-Amar) in August 1949, Ruth left the army. After living in Haifa and Netanya, where Ruth became interested in education, they moved to Ashkelon, where Teddy accepted the position of Town Engineer. They finally settled down in Afridar , where they raised their two sons, Gideon and Gilad, and Ruth became a dedicated educator and English teacher. Teddy died in 1973. A year later, Ruth moved to Jerusalem, where she earned BA and MA degrees in English literature at the Hebrew University. Eventually she became head of the English Department at Leyada (Hebrew University High School). She met her second husband, Gideon Stern, through one of her pupils.
In 2003, the State of Israel and Ministry of Defense awarded Ruth Stern the Ot Hakomemiyut for her services in Machal during the War of Independence.