March 18, 1949
From the article “Shanghai Refugees Mark Sabbath in S.F. Before Leaving for Israel”
Shma Yisroel, Adonoy Eloeynu, Adonoy Echod (Hear O Israel, the Lord our God) …
It was stifling there, in the first class lounge — not meant to hold the hundreds of third-class passengers. It was hot and it was murky and it was grim. There was the undertone of whispering and a child’s wild laughter. And there were the gritty, sweaty smells of tired bodies.
And as my eyes roved over the heads, upright and proud under battered yarmulkes, they fell with a shock on the neck of the man standing directly before me. Etched there, in the pitiless blue of a healing scar, was the unmistakable cross of the concentration camp.
Lehu Nranno (Come, let us sing to the Lord) …
The voice of Cantor Vittorio Weinberg of Temple Beth Sholom rang out clear and loud, echoing through the portholes, and re-echoing through the silent night outside.
It was Friday night, Shabbas. It was Shabbas on board a ship called the SS General Meigs which had just come from Shanghai with 228 Jewish refugees. Outside was the emptiness of the bare dock, the silence of the night. But inside were 228 Jewish refugees, bound for Israel, who would spend one day in this city of ours by the Golden Gate, before entraining for a 15,000-mile journey by way of New York City and Naples to the only land where they would never be “in transit.”
Imagine yourself walking up that darkened dock, nodding silently to a silent Pinkerton man, a little bit cold and frightened as you moved warily up the gangplank to the ship, and all the while hearing — louder and louder as you approached closer and closer — the unbearable sadness of the Cantor’s voice raised in song.
Vshomru Bnai Yisroel Hashaboth (And the Children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath) …
The scene had some of the qualities of Coney Island about it — too many people, too much frenzy. And, like Coney Island, there was something that wrenched your heart, as well.
The pulpit was a battered oak table; it had served as lunch table and bassinet earlier in the day. The congregation looked worn and weary, unkempt and battered — like the table. There were no candles, but a single electric light dangling down from the very center of the ceiling, harsh and too-bright — like the light in a painting by Van Gogh. And the heat hung over everything, blanketing everything with a humid pall.
Huddled around that table, in a semi-circle of crowded, makeshift prayer, stood the 228 refugees, keeping the Sabbath.
Al Kein Nkaveh (Yet will we hope) …
From Rabbi Saul E. White of Temple Beth Sholom came a message of Torah. The Rabbi spoke of the Sabbath of Remembrance, of Moloch and Haman, of the festival of Purim and festival of Passover. “We have seen the end of Haman,” his words rang out, “and we are about to see the end of Diaspora.” Then quietly, “Peace be with you. May the Lord watch over you.”
From Sam Ladar, representing the Welfare Fund, and United Service for New Americans (USNA), came a greeting on behalf of the entire San Francsico Jewish Community. “I want to assure you,” said Ladar to the faces lifted in hope, “that we in San Francisco and other American communities will raise the funds necessary to help you begin your new life in Israel.”
Dr. Samuel C. Kohs greeted the group on behalf of the Hebrew Immigrant Society (HIAS). Telegrams were read from Henry Morgenthau Jr., general chairman of the United Jewish Appeal, and from Reuven Dafni, Israeli Consul for the west coast. “Shalom.” “Godspeed.”
Asher Bochar Bonu (For He has chosen us) …
The boat which docked in San Francisco last Friday is probably the last which will come through our harbor bound for Israel. The round-the-world journey is no longer necessary because the Suez Canal, controlled by Egyptians until the recent Israel-Egypt armistice, is now open for passage. But though the thousands of DPs, streaming in Israel at the rate of 20,000 a month, will no longer touch us as closely and as immediately as they have in the past month, the fact remains that somewhere — in Marseilles, in Shanghai, in any of the ports of embarkation scattered throughout the world — these scenes will be repeated, day in, day out.
But to say “will be repeated” is to be optimistic. Their repetition depends upon dollars and cents, the hard cash which spells transportation, rehabilitation, resettlement, and which can come only through contributions to campaigns such as San Francisco’s coming Jewish Welfare Fund drive. At this very moment, 9,500 DPs are languishing in Marseilles because there is not that hard cash available with which to transport them.