Israel
Title
Israel
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"When I was growing up, the concept of a Jewish State was a dream."
Date
2010/2011
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Coverage
1975
Identifier
ISRAEL
Text
ISRAEL
When I was growing up, the concept of a Jewish State was a dream. At the Pesach Seder, we ended with “Next year in Jerusalem.” A lovely thought, but which next year? In Hebrew school we were given “pushkes” each spring to collect money for the Jewish National Fund to buy land in Palestine. How many nickels will it take to buy the whole country? I was vaguely aware of Zionist youth groups, but I didn’t join. In high school, I appeared on a teen-agers’ radio program, moderated by J. Raymond Walsh, arguing for a Jewish State, but mostly because I liked the idea that I was going to be on the radio..
About this time, the early ‘40s, my mother told me a story that my father had a nephew who went to Palestine and was serving as a guard on a Kibbutz when he was killed by an Arab. That was it. No details. When did it happen? Where was the kibbutz? She didn’t know. I filed the story away, taking pride in knowing that my relative gave his life so that some day, there would be a Jewish State.
And it came to pass. And from 1948 on, my mother’s dream was to visit Israel. Unfortunately, she died in 1951, the dream unfulfilled. Meanwhile, I became an ardent supporter, along with most every other American Jew, of the new State, sang Hatikvah with tears in my eyes, contributed to UJA, was surprised to learn that the Bundists with whom I worked at the Jewish Labor Committee didn’t share my enthusiasm, and worried about Israel’s future in a hostile neighborhood and an unfriendly world.
Skip to 1973. I received a call from my cousin Bob Schlitt, very excited. Did I know that we have family in Israel? No. I believe I told him the story that my mother told me. He proceeded to tell me a better story: His father, Haim (Henry), the son of one of my father’s brothers, maintained a correspondence with the family in Kishinev, and with other members of the Schlitt family that had moved on to Moscow. This correspondence, begun when he came to the United States in the ‘20s, with my parents’ help, continued until his death in the ‘60s. The Schlitt family in Russia also corresponded with the Schlitt family (that we did not know existed) that lived in Israel. What? There was a Schlitt family in Israel? Yes! And the daughter of one of my father’s siblings had just arrived in New York from Tel Aviv. Her name was Varda Ecker.
There was a triangular correspondence, but one link was missing: Haim, in the US, wrote to the Schlitts in Russia, and the Schlitts in Russia wrote to Haim; the Schlitts in Russia also wrote to the Schlitts in Israel and the Schlitts in Israel wrote to the Schlitts in Russia. But the Schlitts in Israel did not write to Haim. Though the Schlitts in Israel eventually learned about Haim from the Schlitts in Russia, Haim did not learn about the Schlitts in Israel. Complicated, but we managed to figure it out.
I immediately went to New York to visit my new-found cousin, and to learn about the Schlitts of Israel that I never knew existed. She told the following story: Before World War I, one of my father’s brother’s sons went to Palestine (the second Aliyah) and was one of the founders of a Kibbutz in the upper Galilee, Ayelet Hashachar. After the war, he returned to Kishinev and persuaded several brothers and sisters and his parents to return with him to Palestine. One brother went to Haifa, a sister to Tel Aviv, the parents and the youngest brother, whose name coincidentally was Israel, accompanied the persuader to his Kibbutz. Varda was the daughter of the sister that went to Tel Aviv. She completed the triangle. Varda learned about Haim from the Russian Schlitts, tried to contact him, and got Bobby.
The following year, Israel Schlitt’s son Moshe and his fiancé, Dorit, had been given approval (and the funds) by the Kibbutz to travel to the US, and they visited with us. I learned, among other things, that they spell our name Shalit and sometimes Shelit, but not Schlitt. In 1975, I reciprocated, and made my first visit to Israel.
The flight on El Al was unforgettable, and very long. The passengers have been described in countless articles, but I hadn’t read them, and was not prepared for the sight. Orthodox Jews all over the plane, getting up in the morning, putting on Tallis and Tefillin and davening. And the excitement on the part of all the passengers as we approached Ben Gurion airport! The cheering, clapping, singing—very emotional. I was carrying additional baggage: fulfilling my mother’s dream; I was carrying her ashes as well.
I was also carrying the names and addresses of Varda’s parents, the Gutnicks, in Tel Aviv, and my cousins on the Kibbutz, Ayelet Hashachar. Getting around by bus was tricky, but I did it. I had a guide book, and planned to see as much of the country as I could in two weeks. First stop: Tel Aviv. The Gutnicks were wonderful, generous, my first introduction to Israeli food and culture. I saw the sights, walked on the beach, visited Jaffa, learned more about the family, and then headed north to Caesaria, Hertzliya, and Haifa, where I visited with my friend Sid Stern’s relatives. Then east to Sfad, and Aylet Hashachar. Each new city was extraordinarily moving, the sights unforgettable, but the truth is, they are now a blur. The images come back as we revisit them or look over the photos I took.
The bus took me to the kibbutz, and I entered the impressive lobby of the Guest House, and asked, in English (my Hebrew is non-existent), where I could find Israel Schlitt. I was directed to an area which led to scores of modest cottages. I saw an older woman and asked her, in Yiddish, where I could find Israel Schlitt. She looked me over, and responded, in Yiddish, directing me to his home. Then she stopped and, looking up the road, pointed to a handsome older man, tanned and muscular, in an undershirt and shorts, on a bike, coming in our direction. She said, there he is, and called to him. When he arrived, I walked over to him and said, in Yiddish, I am Jacob Schlitt, the son of Louis Schlitt, from New York. He stopped me, and said, “Would you be more comfortable speaking in English?”
He took me into his house, and I spent several days with Israel and his wife as a kibbutznik. Moshe and Dorit, his son and daughter-in-law, and Pua, his daughter, lived nearby. We ate in the kibbutz dining room, which had two spigots on the wall: one for water and one for seltzer. I learned how to line up, get my meals, and bring my dishes to be washed. I climbed onto the trucks at 4 am to help pick apples. I visited the kibbutz cemetery where his parents and his older brother were buried. I learned the real story about what happened. The older brother was not killed by an Arab while he was guarding the kibbutz. He drowned in a wadi as a result of a flash flood. I now had a real connection to my father’s family and to Israel that did not exist a week before. After several days, I left, promising to return, which I did, four years later, with my daughter Martha., and many more times with Fran and with David.
Leaving the kibbutz, I went on to the Galilee, the Dead Sea and Masada. Finally, Jerusalem. 1975 was a good year to be in Israel. It was after the 1967 Six Day War, and the 1973 Yom Kippur War, and I was able to travel through the territory that had been occupied by Jordan. I even stayed at a hotel in East Jerusalem and visited the Dome of the Rock, in addition to the Western Wall. There were UN trucks and jeeps everywhere, and I walked everywhere. (I can’t do that today.)
When I was growing up, the concept of a Jewish State was a dream. At the Pesach Seder, we ended with “Next year in Jerusalem.” A lovely thought, but which next year? In Hebrew school we were given “pushkes” each spring to collect money for the Jewish National Fund to buy land in Palestine. How many nickels will it take to buy the whole country? I was vaguely aware of Zionist youth groups, but I didn’t join. In high school, I appeared on a teen-agers’ radio program, moderated by J. Raymond Walsh, arguing for a Jewish State, but mostly because I liked the idea that I was going to be on the radio..
About this time, the early ‘40s, my mother told me a story that my father had a nephew who went to Palestine and was serving as a guard on a Kibbutz when he was killed by an Arab. That was it. No details. When did it happen? Where was the kibbutz? She didn’t know. I filed the story away, taking pride in knowing that my relative gave his life so that some day, there would be a Jewish State.
And it came to pass. And from 1948 on, my mother’s dream was to visit Israel. Unfortunately, she died in 1951, the dream unfulfilled. Meanwhile, I became an ardent supporter, along with most every other American Jew, of the new State, sang Hatikvah with tears in my eyes, contributed to UJA, was surprised to learn that the Bundists with whom I worked at the Jewish Labor Committee didn’t share my enthusiasm, and worried about Israel’s future in a hostile neighborhood and an unfriendly world.
Skip to 1973. I received a call from my cousin Bob Schlitt, very excited. Did I know that we have family in Israel? No. I believe I told him the story that my mother told me. He proceeded to tell me a better story: His father, Haim (Henry), the son of one of my father’s brothers, maintained a correspondence with the family in Kishinev, and with other members of the Schlitt family that had moved on to Moscow. This correspondence, begun when he came to the United States in the ‘20s, with my parents’ help, continued until his death in the ‘60s. The Schlitt family in Russia also corresponded with the Schlitt family (that we did not know existed) that lived in Israel. What? There was a Schlitt family in Israel? Yes! And the daughter of one of my father’s siblings had just arrived in New York from Tel Aviv. Her name was Varda Ecker.
There was a triangular correspondence, but one link was missing: Haim, in the US, wrote to the Schlitts in Russia, and the Schlitts in Russia wrote to Haim; the Schlitts in Russia also wrote to the Schlitts in Israel and the Schlitts in Israel wrote to the Schlitts in Russia. But the Schlitts in Israel did not write to Haim. Though the Schlitts in Israel eventually learned about Haim from the Schlitts in Russia, Haim did not learn about the Schlitts in Israel. Complicated, but we managed to figure it out.
I immediately went to New York to visit my new-found cousin, and to learn about the Schlitts of Israel that I never knew existed. She told the following story: Before World War I, one of my father’s brother’s sons went to Palestine (the second Aliyah) and was one of the founders of a Kibbutz in the upper Galilee, Ayelet Hashachar. After the war, he returned to Kishinev and persuaded several brothers and sisters and his parents to return with him to Palestine. One brother went to Haifa, a sister to Tel Aviv, the parents and the youngest brother, whose name coincidentally was Israel, accompanied the persuader to his Kibbutz. Varda was the daughter of the sister that went to Tel Aviv. She completed the triangle. Varda learned about Haim from the Russian Schlitts, tried to contact him, and got Bobby.
The following year, Israel Schlitt’s son Moshe and his fiancé, Dorit, had been given approval (and the funds) by the Kibbutz to travel to the US, and they visited with us. I learned, among other things, that they spell our name Shalit and sometimes Shelit, but not Schlitt. In 1975, I reciprocated, and made my first visit to Israel.
The flight on El Al was unforgettable, and very long. The passengers have been described in countless articles, but I hadn’t read them, and was not prepared for the sight. Orthodox Jews all over the plane, getting up in the morning, putting on Tallis and Tefillin and davening. And the excitement on the part of all the passengers as we approached Ben Gurion airport! The cheering, clapping, singing—very emotional. I was carrying additional baggage: fulfilling my mother’s dream; I was carrying her ashes as well.
I was also carrying the names and addresses of Varda’s parents, the Gutnicks, in Tel Aviv, and my cousins on the Kibbutz, Ayelet Hashachar. Getting around by bus was tricky, but I did it. I had a guide book, and planned to see as much of the country as I could in two weeks. First stop: Tel Aviv. The Gutnicks were wonderful, generous, my first introduction to Israeli food and culture. I saw the sights, walked on the beach, visited Jaffa, learned more about the family, and then headed north to Caesaria, Hertzliya, and Haifa, where I visited with my friend Sid Stern’s relatives. Then east to Sfad, and Aylet Hashachar. Each new city was extraordinarily moving, the sights unforgettable, but the truth is, they are now a blur. The images come back as we revisit them or look over the photos I took.
The bus took me to the kibbutz, and I entered the impressive lobby of the Guest House, and asked, in English (my Hebrew is non-existent), where I could find Israel Schlitt. I was directed to an area which led to scores of modest cottages. I saw an older woman and asked her, in Yiddish, where I could find Israel Schlitt. She looked me over, and responded, in Yiddish, directing me to his home. Then she stopped and, looking up the road, pointed to a handsome older man, tanned and muscular, in an undershirt and shorts, on a bike, coming in our direction. She said, there he is, and called to him. When he arrived, I walked over to him and said, in Yiddish, I am Jacob Schlitt, the son of Louis Schlitt, from New York. He stopped me, and said, “Would you be more comfortable speaking in English?”
He took me into his house, and I spent several days with Israel and his wife as a kibbutznik. Moshe and Dorit, his son and daughter-in-law, and Pua, his daughter, lived nearby. We ate in the kibbutz dining room, which had two spigots on the wall: one for water and one for seltzer. I learned how to line up, get my meals, and bring my dishes to be washed. I climbed onto the trucks at 4 am to help pick apples. I visited the kibbutz cemetery where his parents and his older brother were buried. I learned the real story about what happened. The older brother was not killed by an Arab while he was guarding the kibbutz. He drowned in a wadi as a result of a flash flood. I now had a real connection to my father’s family and to Israel that did not exist a week before. After several days, I left, promising to return, which I did, four years later, with my daughter Martha., and many more times with Fran and with David.
Leaving the kibbutz, I went on to the Galilee, the Dead Sea and Masada. Finally, Jerusalem. 1975 was a good year to be in Israel. It was after the 1967 Six Day War, and the 1973 Yom Kippur War, and I was able to travel through the territory that had been occupied by Jordan. I even stayed at a hotel in East Jerusalem and visited the Dome of the Rock, in addition to the Western Wall. There were UN trucks and jeeps everywhere, and I walked everywhere. (I can’t do that today.)
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Israel,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 24, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/116.