Near Tel Aviv beach in 1939, an almost mythical struggle took place between a desperate refugee and his saviour, my grandfather
The rock rises out of the water about a kilometre from Tel Aviv beach. It is sharp and serrated, and only desperate hands – the hands of a drowning man – would dare to grasp it. From an outsider’s perspective, my perspective, the perspective of a woman standing on dry land, what happened on this rock is simply impossible. How on earth could it have supported not one but two men, for long, endless minutes, in a life or death battle?
The year is 1939. The Mediterranean is deep and blue. Tel Aviv’s shores are under the control of the British mandate and British law has forbidden Jews from entering the country. Those who manage to escape Europe find Palestine’s borders closed to them. Ships are sent back to the continent – only for some of their passengers to find themselves in the Nazi death camps.
Continue reading...from The Guardian https://ift.tt/31Bn3FJ
