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Sarah Aaronsohn’s relationship
with T. E. Lawrence,” I told her
crisply, for I wanted to get back
to Haifa by 12, and it was already
nine. “Can you tell me about it?”
She looked at me blandly. "I
can. But sit down, sit down.” Sev
en hours later I was still sitting
there. I had eaten, because little
Arab girls had appeared from
time to time, wheeling in delicious
refreshments on a tea trolley. But
Malka Samsonoff (that was her
name) had neither eaten nor
drunk as much as a sip of water.
She had talked the whole time,
dramatically, relentlessly, like
someone under compulsion, like
the Ancient Mariner rpust have
talked. (Don’t think she told me
the story of Lawrence and Sa
rah. It took me four years to get
that one.)
It was the history of the
Aaronsohn family that she reveal
ed to me, and the story of Nili.
Here I heard for the first time of
that crude, compassionate, iron-
willed genius, Aaron Aaronsohn,
the first scientist, the first states
man of the reborn Israel. He had
thrown everything to put himself
at the head of the spy organiza
tion “Nili” which enabled Allenby
to make his brillant conquest of
Palestipe. His sister Sarah helped
him, a humble, home-loving Jew
ish girl, a Daughter of the Resur
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rection, as Malka called her.
I heard for the first time as well
of Absalom Feinberg, the beloved
of the Aaronsohns, a young man
so handsome and so heroic that
sagas might be written about him.
“Soldier of the Negev. Hero of
the Negev No. 1,” she called him,
for it was in the trackless Negev
that he met his death in 1917,
while on active service for the
unborn State. Less than a year la
ter Sarah was dead, and within
two years Aaron, then engaged
in secret political work at the
Paris Peace Conference, had gone
as well.
“The roulette of history turns
and turns,” said Malka. “Aaron,
with all his documents disappears
in the Channel. Lawrence was
given money. But Nili didn’t want
money. They gave money. They
wanted Bet Israel. (The House of
Israel).”
Hypnotically, almost like one in
a trance, Malka droned on: “The
roulette of history turns and
turns. Twenty-nine years later the
State of Israel is founded. On the
5th of Iyar, the same day that
Aaron fell. (It was May 15th in
1919, just as in 1949.) People did
not choose that day. History chose
that day. History that is written
in blood cannot be blotted out.
You can’t rub out blood. These
people shine like stars. They are
the fires that a nation warms
itself by.”
When I left Malka I was like a
worn out rag, my eyes were swol
len from weeping, and my head
swam. But I was determined that
I would tear away the curtain
that obscured the name of Aaron
Aaronsohn. That Sarah should
take her rightful place among the
world’s gallery of great women.
I wrote one or two articles
which appeared in Anglo-Jewish
publications, and I broadcast on
Aaron over the Voice of Israel.
But there was no reaction. We
Jews are so used to heroism and
self-sacrifice, they have become
commonplace to us. And then by
chance—if there is such a thing
as chance—I found myself in
London for a few days. Here I
visited the editor of The New
Statesman & Nation, who agreed
to take an article on Sarah.
Almost before I knew what was
happening, the distinguished di
rector of Hogarth Press, Leonard
Woolf, was in Israel to commis
sion a book from me on the sub
ject. This was in May, 1957. My
book, THE NILI SPIES, is now
published. As Malka said, the
roulette of history turns and
turns. Without any planning or in
tention, the book has almost
emerged exactly 40 years after
Aaron vanished over the Channel.
Literary critics have already
placed Sarah among the great
Jewish women of human history,
and Aaron no longer hovers like
an uneasy ghost over the story
of modern Palestine.
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