A Journey of Memory, Emotion, and Return

"We will have Jewish jets. We have our own country. We have Israel." I don't recall who the speaker was—only that it was 1948. We were gathered in the school hall "to listen to the man from Israel." I was seven years old, but his words stayed with me.

I remember my dad taking me to the Duncan Docks in Cape Town. A large ship had arrived, filled with refugees—Russian or Polish Jews, I believe—as they were calling out "papieros" (cigarettes) from the deck. As the ship pulled away from the dock, an Israeli flag was raised. Everyone on the deck and onshore began singing Hatikvah. I began to cry. My dad asked, "What's the matter?" I replied, "I don't know. I just feel so emotional." I was only eight years old.

As I grew up, I joined Bnei Akiva, and later, Habonim. It was there that the seed of my dream to go to Israel truly began to grow. During my matric year, we were offered the opportunity to spend a year in Israel on a youth leadership course: Machon L'Madrichei Chutz LaAretz. I was determined to go. But my mother was adamant: "Go study first. Make a career. Then you can go."

So, I made a plan. I told my mother and sister to attend a school PTA meeting—except it wasn't a PTA meeting. It was actually a parents' information session about the Israeli leadership course. When they came home, they were even more determined not to let me go. I was devastated, especially as so many of my friends were going.

Thank God, I completed my studies and qualified. Now, nothing was holding me back.

I boarded a TWA 747, flying via Greece, en route to Lydda Airport. To my surprise, upon landing, I saw Neville Friedland from Esra working on the tarmac—he had attended the same school as me. Waiting for me at the airport was my aunt, my mother's sister. A Holocaust survivor, she had made her way to Israel years earlier. (Her story is told in the Times of Israel: "I Have a Grave" by Martine Maron Alperstein—well worth reading.) She was a theater nurse, assisting in surgical operations.

We arrived late at night at her home in Petach Tikvah, on Rechov Histadrut. I still remember the scent of orange groves—what a delight. After a long chat about family, she told me to shower.

"You're dirty and smelly from the journey," she said.

I stepped into the shower, finally relaxing, when she called out, "Ivan, here is some soap."

"I have soap, thank you, Aunty." "No," she insisted. "You need clean soap. The soap you have is dirty."

Her experiences in the ghettos and her nursing background made hygiene non-negotiable. When she returned from shopping, she would flame the bread, and scrub fruit and vegetables with a block of solid sanitizer wrapped in shiny red paper. Street food—such a hallmark of Israeli culture—was off-limits because it was "not clean." I would sneak out during her afternoon naps to enjoy a secret falafel—pure joy.

She was so thrilled to have close family nearby that she took me everywhere: from the Banyas River in the north to Eilat in the south, and everything in between. In Jerusalem's Old City, we trekked through the Arab market square. Suddenly, the massive Western Wall appeared before us. I cried uncontrollably. The emotion was overwhelming.

We saw Kazablan, starring Yehoram Gaon at the Alhambra Theater in Jaffa. I also tried to practice my limited Hebrew—with sometimes hilarious results.

One time, visiting a friend studying nursing at Beilinson Hospital, I realized I had missed my bus stop. I jumped up, pulled the overhead cord, and shouted, "Rega, ani rotze laledet!"

I had meant to say I wanted to get off—but I accidentally shouted, "Wait, I want to give birth!".

The passengers roared with laughter. What better place to give birth than outside a hospital?

On another occasion, I went to a makolet to buy eggs. I asked, "Eifo habeitzim shelcha?"

But my pronunciation turned it into: "Where are your testicles?" Not sure whose face turned redder—his or mine!

My aunt refused to let me pay for anything. "You've brought me so much joy, being here after all I've endured. It's my honor," she said.

When it was time to return home, she insisted I deposit all my American Express travelers checks in Israel: "You'll need them one day when you make Aliyah. Leave it safe here."

We went to Bank Hapoalim on Pinsker Street in Petach Tikvah. They gave me a small green booklet showing that in July 1967, I had deposited a sum in USD in a foreign client account.

True to her words, years later, when my wife and I made Aliyah, I presented the booklet at the bank. The teller looked at me and asked, "Are you from the time of the Dinosaur. Ata min hazman shel hayevusim?"

In 2000, we made Aliyah to Raanana, our daughter had already made Aliyah and had six happy years there before moving to Modiin. Years later we too settled in the wonderful city of Modiin. Its superb mayor has accomplished amazing things. What a blessing.

Since then, we've made dear, interesting, and incredibly warm friends. Our younger son and his family joined us three years ago settling in Modiin. Now we pray for our eldest and his family to follow and complete our family circle.