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The Southern Israelite
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
Queen Of A Garden City
PURIM SCENES IN TEL-AVIV
By RABBI LAZARUS AXELROD, Liverpool, Hebron
“But, ya Sidi — two piastres — all
this luggage.” And with a deprecat
ing gesture, the Arab porter pointed
with his dusky hands to the couple of
suit cases he had carried in for me
from the droshky to the train at Jeru
salem station.
“And I tell you, you son of Beliyal,
that two piastres is more than you de
serve.” And with these words I
stepped up nimbly into the waiting
train, leaving the Arab blinking un
certainly at the two metal coins in
his hands. Perspiring and panting, I
subsided into one of the uninviting
wooden seats, straightened collar and
tie, and had barely settled down, when
the engine gave a piercing shriek for
the right of way, and proceeded on its
tedious journey to the Garden City,
fourteen coaches trailing snakelike in
wake. Its human cargo seemed in
merry mood, for Purim comes but
once a year, and the hilarious festivi
ties in Tel-Aviv and its selection of a
queen offer a facetious and light dis
traction to the daily worries of the
Palestinian.
From my coign of vantage, I
could view the scene with complac
ency. The masses of spirited human
ity which fills my compartment to
overflowing, represents Palestine’s
population in miniature. A motley
horde, a picturesque blending of the
Orient and the Occident, of culture
and barbarism, of modernism ami
primitiveness, of devil-may-care adol
escence and sedate maturity. The at
mosphere is heavy with tobacco
fumes, and I hasten to open the win
dow on my right to admit the exhil
arating oxygen, which assails one’s
nostrils and sends the blood tingling
down the spine. We are now away
out of town, and the panorama, tinted
with the first blush of spring, un
folds itself before our rapturous gaze
in an ineffable study of purple and
gold. Under the sheen of that East
ern sunshine, unrolling between the
horizons, lies the broad illimitable ex
panse of the Judean plains, the ripen
ing corn and sesame whistling softly
in the gentle breeze amid a multiplex
rustling and wavelike undulations.
Dotted here and there, like some in
significant specks on a great sweep
of landscape, could be seen the jerky
figures of Arab fellahin astride their
eternal donkeys, leading troops of
docile camels laden with precious car
goes of luscious Jaffa oranges. Oc
casionally an Arab shepherd boy
would flash into view, rounding up his
wandering flocks of mountain goats,
bawling away in his native tongue to
subdue the friskiness of those exuber
ant spirits. And throughout all this,
the puffing engine makes its way
amid a series of wild and deafening
screeches, round winding curves, up
steep slopes, and descending at times
precariously near to the brink of a
jagged precipice.
Reluctant to part with this glory of
scenic beauty, I turn to the more prac
tical side of life, and discover that hu
manity has a romantic flavor all its
own. The occupants of the carriage
are not slow in manifesting their
presence, and soon the twanging notes
of old time melody, produced by an
amateur guitarist, break in upon the
hubbub of guttural jargon, and heat
ed discussions. The group of stalwart
Chalutzim who have monopolised the
entire corner of the compartment,
now commence to display their vocal
powers, and sing of love and romance,
of heroic battles fought and won, of
the marvels of the Kinereth, that
dreamlike basin of medicinal waters
lying at the foot of Tiberias. There
is something almost uncanny in the
singing of a Chalutz. It is entirely
devoid of science, harmony or melody.
Yet mysteriously it touches those hid
den chords in our hearts, susceptible
to all that is divine and godly. The
heart leaps in ecstasy, the soul, so
long asleep, dances forth to meet
those kindred spirits which are cre
ated in those thrilling moments.
Glistening dewy tears appear in not
a few dull weary eyes, as the old
folks, their battles over, nod in acqui
escence to those old Eretz Yisroel
songs, suffused with the story of our
heroic past, bringing memories of un
told romance. At the extreme end of
the carriage, the party of Arab peas
ants that came aboard at Bittir and
the Vale of Sorek, are gazing hazily at
the group of sunbronzed youths who
radiate cleanliness and godliness. Un
kempt, filthy, and fanaticism personi
fied, the Arab fellah contrasts vividly
with the halo of spotless purity that
clings to our pioneer boys and girls
Chatting, singing, reading, smok
ing, time wears on, and we finally
pull into the Palestine terminus, Ludd
or Lydda. Here the scene is one of
unusual activity, as the three trains
from Jerusalem, Jaffa and Haifa,
breathless and exhausted, all meet to
unload and reload passengers and
freight. Arab porters are tearing
their way up and down the long plat
forms, struggling desperately with
masses of baggage, followed closely by
the perspiring and temperamentai
passengers. Time is limited, and soon
the chimes of the massive bell are
heard pealing through the station,
warning all and sundry of the ap
proaching departure of the trains.
Another twenty minutes and our tram
is due in Tel-Aviv. We are now pass
ing through the most fertile section
of Palestine, and the intoxicating
scent of orange blossom, fragrant and
vivifying, wafts in through the open
windows. Suddenly a mighty roar
which causes the train to tremble
from end to end, breaks forth from
the passengers, there is a wild dash
for the windows, and all eyes are
strained upwards. The Graf Zeppe
lin has been sighted; the giant dirigi-
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SAVANNAH, GA.