Ben Gurion’s Germ Warfare
An account of the poisoning of the wells of Palestine as ordered by Ben Gurion, can be read in Haaretz, from an article by Ofer Aderet on 14. October. 2022
Dr Mengele had asked to see me, and although, according to rumours circulating in the kriegsgefangenenlager, his sinister experiments mainly involved children, specially twins, I shuddered as I heard his, fearing I was going to become his guinea pig.
Come in, 176519, he said in a dry assertive voice, immediately changing it to, Oh, Come in Herr Doctor Singer, the amended bit in a rich plummy voice, of the sort that a child being tucked in would feel was promising the sweetest of dreams. I had caught glimpses of him in the camp but this was the first time I was looking at him at close range. There was nothing frightening about his appearance. I would not go as far as to say that he had a kindly face, but when he grinned, parting his lips just enough to reveal a very small gap in his upper front teeth, one felt reassured. So glad to see you, liebe kollege, he said, can I call you Eli? So kind of you to come.
As if I had a choice.
He came towards me and offered me his hand to shake. The hand that had inflicted a thousand cuts on the bodies of so many innocent children and sent them to a painful death in the name of scientific research. He pulled a chair opposite his desk, and invited me to komm her und leg die füße, take the load off my feet. He was obviously doing his best to put me at ease, but I have rarely felt so confused, so apprehensive.
He then took great pains to explain to me how, this unfortunate war that he deplored as much as I surely did, had given him the chance to advance our scientific knowledge. There are so many avenues for us to explore now, than the laws of peace time would have allowed. The sentimental unthinking man, not looking at the bigger picture, might condemn what we are doing, but the little pain we cause to a few, will bring in lasting benefits to so many. Did I follow his logic? Although I did not, I said, Absolut, herr doctor, instantly regretting my cowardly response. I tried to wriggle out this by adding all sorts of caveats, but knew that I had sealed my position. He smiled patronisingly at my useless attempts to wriggle out of the situation, and rubbing his hands, smiling happily, he offered me the vergünstigung, the privilege of helping him in his laboratory. I choose my assistants very meticulously, he said, nodding happily. This time I had gathered all my wits about me, and I told him firmly that I had no intention of taking up his kind offer, it went against everything I believed in as a doctor. Please understand and respect my position. On hearing this he stiffened, his expression darkened, and even his voice changed. The second time in a matter of minutes that I would notice this rare gift that he had. Häftling, he said sternly, I am not giving you a choice here, this is my decision, an irrefutable order. You Jews are all the same, we offer you a hand of friendship and you spit on it. Just as suddenly his expression changed.
He was once more Mr Nice Guy. I would naturally not expect you to carry out any procedure that you do not approve of. On the contrary, some of our experiments might necessarily cause a lot of pain, unintended, but unavoidable, I need someone to alleviate their suffering, and if sadly death became inevitable, I would want you to ensure they have a peaceful passing. Hippocrates would surely not frown at that.
As he had pointed out, I had no choice. After the war, subject to insomnia, I would never stop questioning myself. Did I help those poor suffering children, or was I as guilty as Joseph Mengele?
***
In 1948 I was living alone in a small dark hole in the north of Tel Aviv, my dear Juta unaccounted for after Ravensbruck was liberated, when I had a surprising visitor. Moshe Dayan, whom I had seen a few times before. He claimed we were distant cousins. This was the first time I had heard this, and must have looked surprised. Your great aunt Hepzibah, he said, had a cousin who was married to my grandfather’s brother Ari Dayan. Does that ring a
bell? I did have a great aunt Hepzibah, but I also knew that as a prominent member of the governing class he’d have access to all sorts of data. Everybody knew of his status, he was a legendary character, a womaniser, a hero-gangster, who deviated ancient treasures our archeologists had found, but I had also heard people discounting his alleged heroics in the British army, even suggesting that his left eye was in excellent shape and that he wore an eyepatch because it gave him a special je ne sais quoi.
Ben Gurion himself asked me to get in touch with you, he said, adding, the old man knows we are cousins.
I invited him to take my only chair, whilst I sat on the edge of my bed. I made him some ersatz coffee which he drank with great relish.
I sometimes think this is better than the real stuff, he said, adding, I suppose it reminds me of my time in the British army.
The man had obvious charisma and charm, and I found myself warming up to him. He was in no hurry to reveal his reason for visiting, and I knew he would not have come just to say hello to someone who may or may not be a distant cousin.
Finally he decided to put me out of my misery. What I’m gonna tell you now is absolutely top secret. And he told me that it was something in the planning called Operation Cast Thy Bread.
The image of my interview with Joseph Mengele flitted past my subconscious.
And what is operation Cast Thy Bread? I asked.
If I tell you now, you will have no right to back out of it, he said.
I can’t commit to something if I don’t know what it is, I said.
If I tell you, you are putting your life on the line. Should you breathe just one word of it to anybody, I’d have no choice but to shoot you myself. And trust him to theatrically opening his holster and taking out a Luger and waving it before my eyes. Even Mengele had not been that forceful.
My dear General_
I’m not yet a general, he said, but I’m your cousin, call me Moshe.
Moshe, you can’t do this. We are not in Nazi Germany.
You will regret this, cousin Eli.
Look, you haven’t told me what the operation is, so I’m not privy to state secrets. Not that I would reveal them if I knew. He smiled impishly.
We’re planning to infect the wells of Palestinian villages, and the water delivery systems of bigger towns with viruses, typhoid, typhus or cholera to show those Arab worms we mean business. Now you know the state secrets, you can’t back out. You better shoot me. I did not point out that these scourges were from bacteria and not viruses.
No, I repeated, I will not be part of this. I am a doctor, fighting diseases, not spreading them.
He said nothing, stood up, kicked the chair, and before storming out, said, you will live to regret this, Dr Singer.
*
However tired I am after a strenuous day at the hospital, I have to go for a walk at the Alhabanin Garden on the El Auja at sunset, I live nearby, and every single day thoughts of Auschwitz Birkenau carry out a Brownian motion in my brain. If unavoidably I miss out on that routine, I sleep not a wink that night, with the postponed thoughts bursting in on me with a vengeance. That afternoon, I was remembering a walk on the borders of the Templiner See with Juta and this made me tearful. Sometimes I cannot control my tears and make no effort to stop them, or even to hide them from passers-by. When you have been associated with a monster like Mengele, you are contaminated for life, and in the expression on the face of a stranger looking at you, you read their contempt. I do not know how they do it, but they know your secret, they know your cowardice, your complicity. Ten years are not enough to purge your guilt. Perhaps it will be the same after fifty! I was barely aware of the footsteps behind me as they became gradually louder, which should have suggested people approaching me from behind with intent. Although there were half a dozen people nearby, two men brazenly fell upon me, one on each side, grabbing an arm firmly. You shut the fuck up, Eli Singer, or you’re dead. And I felt the nozzle of a revolver on my spine. Although they were visibly dragging me, if the people around noticed, they gave no sign that they were shocked. They led me towards a black Citroën, shoved me inside and put a ku klux klan mask over my head, except that it had no eye holes.
I was completely unconcerned. I knew that this was connected to Moshe Dayan’s visit and proposition. Were they taking me to a quiet place and there put a bullet in my head? Would they torture me until I agreed to whatever my putative cousin meant me to do. I was not even sure. There was nothing they could do which would make me change my mind. Help me liebling, I made a mute plea to Juta, I need your strength. The car drove on unimpeded, perhaps traffic was low. A fragrant aroma of spices seeped through my mask and filled my nostrils. We must be crossing the Arab market, I surmised. Confirmation came in the shape of a muezzin’s call to prayers. Other sounds and smells took over, never defining as precisely where we were. After about forty minutes the car stopped. Must be still in Tel Aviv, or maybe Jaffa, I guessed. A strong pair of arms pulled me out and then two men, one on each side dragged me along, I had no idea where. They opened a door, we were inside a house. We walked fifteen to twenty metres. A big house. We then went down some steps, perhaps ten to twelve. We were most probably in a basement. Another door, and my mask was removed. It was a barely lit basement room. And behind a desk, two tufts of hair on either side of his head like stunted wings of a giant butterfly, sat the benign figure of the father of the nation, David Ben Gurion. He nodded at me and smiled happily.
Do take a seat, Eli Singer. You must excuse the histrionics of my security people. The service is still in the process of being cobbled together, they aren’t sure how to carry out their tasks, so they rely on the cheap spy novels they read. And I am happy to indulge them.
Surely he was not going to carry out the shooting himself? Perhaps no one was gonna shoot me. They brought me here so the father of the nation could convince me that the fate of our newly-created promised land lay in my hands. If that was the case, where would I find the strength to refuse?
I read that in Birkenau, you assisted Mengele in his criminal work, he began. I opened my mouth to protest, but could not find the words.
I know, he said, I read your dossier here, you only agreed because you thought somebody had to look after his victims, assuage their agony, am I right? I nodded. He took out a large handkerchief and wiped his shiny pate before he spoke next.
Although to me it’s clear that you had no choice, my legal chaps aren’t so sure. He pursed his lips and looked at me sadly. He pretended to be looking at the dossier in front of him. Some nitpicker has put a note in the margin, shall I read it to you?
I stayed silent, and had no particular interest in what some anal retentive overzealous and paranoid attention-seeking junior might think of my case, but he told me all the same.
Case not clearcut_ in red pencil. Needs further investigation_ underlined. Can you believe that? I could believe anything, and shrugged.
Suddenly his face lit up. Worry not, Eli, I can bury this, trust me. Someone brought coffee which we drank in silence.
Your cousin Moshe can’t have explained it properly. Our scheme is not at all what you might think. Cast Thy Bread_ don’t ask me who came out with this name_ is not specifically designed to infect Arabs with typhoid for the sole purpose of killing them. He looked at me with his gentle eyes, reminding me of my grandfather although he was barely older than me.
Now, either we want a prosperous Eretz Israel or we don’t. We have encouraged the Arabs to leave the land of our forefathers, and they have. With a mischievous smile and a wink he added, we didn’t give them any choice. We are now a new country, and nobody, nothing’s gonna stop us on the road to greatness. Only those Arabs stand between us and progress. We must stop them coming back at all cost. Should somebody persuade them that it is in their interest not to mess up with us, we need not take those drastic actions, we are not monsters, we are the descendants of a righteous people, and do not kill needlessly. But don’t let anybody believe that we will sit on our bottom doing nothing if they stand in our way. We are prepared to do whatever it takes, you better believe it. You say nothing, Eli, do I take it you see my point?
I was cornered, and gave a half-hearted nod.
Of course one or two people will die of their infection. They must, in order to spread alarm and put the fright of God in them. We want them to spread the message to their people: Do not go back, your wells are poisoned, you will catch typhoid, typhus, cholera and die, it’s not advisable. You see, Eli, if operation Cast Thy Bread fails, then our soldiers will be forced to kill many more to arrive at the same point. So you will in fact be saving lives. You are a doctor, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?
*
Bat Yam was the ideal place to harvest noxious germs. It was the most decrepit part of the Tel-Aviv Yafo, and that was where my hospital was. The place was rampant with drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes and vagabonds, mainly Yemenites or Iraqis. Dayan gave me precise instructions, brought me new microscopes and I carried out his orders to the best of my ability. He was reluctant to give me exact details, but I gathered that there were a number of villages which had been vacated_ usually forcibly_ and which were not ready to receive the new Jews daily landing at Haifa or Lydda airport in droves. The Jewish Agency had made plans, but this took time, specially with the scarcity of wood for furniture making. They obviously did not want the Arabs to mess things up for them. I was given a letter written by the prime minister, carrying an impressive seal, destined to the directors of all hospitals in Israel to allow me without let or hindrance, to collect any specimen I deemed fit, without asking for explanations. Dr Singer is carrying out ultra secret research for the benefit of the nation. I visited a good few hospitals in Tel Aviv and Jaffa, and found there was never going to be any shortages of our commodity. Although I was working by myself, I was able to easily provide Dayan with any quantity of phials of the typhoid and typhus germs as well as cholera. With available treatment, he had assured me, the number of deaths anticipated would not exceed double figures.
Having handed over to Commander Dayan the stock of the germs that he had ordered, my input was over, until he asked me for a fresh batch. I gathered later that these were then passed on to the nascent IDF, with instructions on which villages and wells to attack. Daily, news reached me that people were being infected, with the elderly dying. There were six deaths in Abu Snan and another six in Kfar Yasif. Within a week, a full-blown epidemic of typhus had hit Akko. I pacified my conscience by the thought that the Arabs wanted this war, and they were responsible for the casualties. Dayan asked for more, and I had no difficulty in meeting up with his demands.
When the news that two of our soldiers had been arrested by the Egyptian authorities in Gaza, few people had any idea what this was about. Certainly this did not worry me unduly, it had nothing to do with me. What were they doing in Gaza? we wondered. Our newspapers claimed that they were in fact civilians, and that they had been kidnapped by a special Egyptian task force which had infiltrated Israel in the cover of darkness, taken across the border into Gaza, and accused of carrying out sabotage. Rumours started flying about, and one was particularly concerning to me. The two men, were soldiers of our army, and they were caught disguised as Arab fedayeen, and found to be carrying phials of my germs, destined to poison the wells of Gaza. Under torture they had revealed that their secret service had sent task forces to carry out the same mission in Egypt, Syria and Jordan. We then heard that they had since been arrested. I do not know what happened to them all, but I read in some foreign newspapers that the two men caught in Gaza had been tried as spies, duly found guilty and executed by a firing squad. This was not what I had signed for. I had agreed to play my part in keeping Arabs from returning to the villages they had left. I wanted no part in spreading disease and death to Arab countries.
*
Ten years after Birkenau, I had reached a kind of equilibrium in life, I lost myself in my practice, and had learnt to cherish nothing more than four hours’ sleep. Food had no appeal, I was never a drinker, and had abstained from sex since I lost Juta. Now, after the chemical war I had been tricked into, sleep had been entirely banished. I cannot go on. I’ve got my syringe ready, and I am going to inject myself. I had thought of diving into the El Auja after the infecting_ it’s called Yarkon now, but I’ve done enough harm to this our world without needing to poison our rivers with typhus.
Note: The illustrations are all from wikipedia, royalty-free.
