The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership by Yehuda Avner Page B

David’s kingdom was called Yehuda – Judea.”
    “Zion,” cried another. “It’s an obvious choice.”
    “Israel!” called a third. “What’s wrong with Israel?”
    “Let’s drink to that,” said Elisha with delight, breaking open the bottle of wine and filling a tin mug to the brim. “A l’chayim to our new State, whatever its name!”
    “Wait!” shouted a Chasid whom everybody knew as Nussen der chazzan – a cantor by calling, and a most diligent volunteer digger from Meah Shearim, the ultra-Orthodox area of Jerusalem. “It’s Shabbos. Kiddush first.”
    Our crowd gathered around him in a hush, as Nussen der chazzan clasped the mug and, in a sweet cantorial tone began to chant “ Yom hashishi ” – the blessing for the sanctification of the Sabbath day.
    As Nussen’s sacred verses floated off to a higher place of Sabbath bliss his voice swelled, ululated, and trilled into the night, octave upon octave, his eyes closed, his cup stretched out and up. And as he concluded the final consecration – “ Blessed art thou O Lord who has hallowed the Sabbath ” – he rose on tiptoe, his arm stiffened, and rocking back and forth, voice trembling with emotion, he added the triumphantly exulted festival blessing to commemorate this first day of independence – “ shehecheyanu, vekiyemanu vehegiyanu lazman hazeh ” – Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has given us life, sustained us, and brought us to this time.
    “ Amen! ”
    Not a squeak came out of Ein Karem throughout the rest of that night, and by morning we were replaced by a batch of trained fighters, relieved for a twenty-four-hour rest. We returned to a town that was bursting with excitement. As Sabbath noon became afternoon, and afternoon became evening, the mood grew from excitement to tumult. Despite the threat of shells, clusters of people roamed the streets, rejoicing. In the giant crater that had been blasted into the top of Ben Yehuda Street by a bomb a few weeks before, a bonfire was ablaze, and youngsters were leaping around it in a feisty folk dance – the horah . One young man, alight with the joy of the day, cartwheeled over to Mahler and me and slapped our backs. In Zion Square, an old man with a trombone and a girl with a guitar were playing a spirited rendition of hava nagilla. Spying Leopold Mahler’s violin, the musicians persuaded him to join in. Picking up the beat, Mahler began reworking it into wildly spiraling variations, his notes fluttering this way and that, improvisation upon improvisation, as if man and instrument were rediscovering each other in shared pleasure after a long separation.
    Café Atara, still lit only by candles and hurricane lamps, was offering a free glass of wine to all comers. Four dusty-looking fellows with pistols at their belts – whom I learned were Irgun fighters, out and about openly for the first time – were fiddling with the battery-powered radio on the counter until they finally found the station they had been searching for.
    “Keep the noise down everybody,” one of them yelled. “Begin’s about to speak.”
    “Where from?” somebody asked.
    “The Irgun’s secret radio station in Tel Aviv.”
    “What’s he going to offer us – civil war?” shouted Mahler provocatively.
    “Shut your trap and listen,”
    A husky voice, rising and falling through the crackling airwaves, solemnly began addressing the nation:
    “Citizens of the Jewish homeland, soldiers of Israel, Hebrew youth, sisters and brothers in Zion! After many years of underground warfare, years of persecution and moral and physical suffering, the rebels against the oppressor stand before you with a blessing of thanks on their lips and a prayer in their hearts. The blessing is the age-old benediction with which our fathers and forefathers have always greeted the Holy Days. Today is a true holiday, a Holy Day, and a new fruit is visible before our eyes. The Jewish revolt of nineteen forty-four to