The Last Exodus
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Heavy packs were being lifted by frail old men, old women,
and teen-agers (young and able-bodied men had already been
made prisoners), and they hobbled away with their loads. One
longed to help them, but help whom, how many? It was already becoming dark; I wanted to see where these people were
being taken. Where was the Haganah? I wanted to see with
my own eyes those who had withstood the attack of thousands of Arabs for months, living on starvation rations and
fighting with scanty ammunition, defying the might of the
Arab Legion till neither flesh nor spirit could endure any
more.
I learned that the Jews were to leave the Old City through
Zion Gate. I raced back through the ghetto streets and joined
streams of refugees pouring into Zion Gate Way from another
direction. A burning building before which they were about
to pass suddenly gave way, and crashed in an avalanche of
cinders and stone. Terrified, they pulled back. The children
huddled close to their mothers, whimpering pitifully. The
refugees were led over an alternate route—passing over a pile
of wreckage from an earlier fire. The Jews were ordered assembled together in the square before Zion Gate for a last minute
check-up. I quote from the notes I made on the spot.
The Exodus, Zion Gate, 7.00 p.m., May 28, 1948
I'm sitting atop an English armored car, its mortar cannon
and Hotchkiss machine-gun pointing to Zion Gate. I'm in
dirty khaki, unshaven. My clothes are soiled, my hair grimy
from the soot and the cinders of the Old City. I'm fortunate,
though not happy, to be here. The whole flow of miserable
humanity has gathered in the square in front of me, beneath
the ancien Bv