Yigal Allon, Native Son. Anita Shapira

Dor,” their hearts pounding at the poet’s words when he visited their village. “Just imagine”—the mature Allon would quote the poet he had heard in the spring of his life—“how great King Saul was. The history was written by David’s sycophants, and even they did not manage to dwarf him. And if that is how he emerged from their hands, one may easily imagine how great a man he really was.”¹⁰³ Much like Kefar Tavor’s own boys, Saul was the pure, innocent country lad, the sacrifice of both the “sullen and displeased” Samuel, who ignored political considerations and the ways of war, and of David, who though he may have been the “sweet Psalmist” yet was ready to join the Philistines in their war against his own people. In Mes’ha’s childhood world, the preference for Saul—the handsome tragic figure of the Book of Samuel—over David, the devious victor who did not shrink from wrongdoing or bloodshed, was self-evident, especially since Saul’s brave war was waged near the village and Ein Dor was visible from the window. The love of Saul, the noble victim, and the rejection of David, the reckless victor, was anointed with Reuven’s blessing: the one and only kiss Allon ever received from his father was after Tchernichowsky’s talk, when the excited child bared his heart to Reuven, objecting to David and identifying with Saul.¹⁰⁴

      A product of the Mes’ha of the 1920s and 1930s, Allon lived in a world that was imprinted with “earthiness.” Love of nature, of landscape, of the surroundings were givens. Life was molded by work. The daily routine, the yearly cycle, prosperity, and dearth, all revolved around the farm. Allon was born into agriculture without agony or agonizing. It may have been hard, but it was a fact of life.¹⁰⁵

      The realities gave rise to a very simple value system: a concept of primary, almost biblical, justice—of “an eye for an eye”; relations of “give and take” with the Arab neighbors; courage and physical prowess; a farmer’s love of the land; loyalty to the family, to the village, to the country, to the nation. The measure of a man was how he lived up to these values.

      Daily life at Mes’ha no doubt posed a challenge to these values since the villagers hardly excelled in mutual help or cooperation. Extreme individualism occasionally degenerated into downright selfishness. Allon must have been aware of this, and it may explain his omission in Bet Avi of neighbors’ names, including those of boyhood friends. Perhaps he consigned them to anonymity because the mention of any one person might have offended those not named. Or, perhaps if he had done otherwise, relating to Mes’ah as it was, he could not have painted its picture as he did: naïve, but pretty and wholesome. The myth of Wild Galilee with his father cast in the role of tough, stern, dauntless sheriff, a myth he constructed by carefully selecting certain fragments and ignoring others—was the foundation of his worldview and the source of his pride. When he was to come into contact with youth of the Zionist movement, including those steeped in Labor traditions and proudly brandishing Labor’s banner, the only asset he could offer in return was his father’s house, rooted in the land, a rock of its rocks, an oak of its oaks. Against slick and worldly city youth, he held out the authenticity and simplicity of a country boy, the aristocracy of the land.

       Chapter 2

      Kadoorie Agricultural School

      Allon’s first meaningful introduction to the world beyond the horizon was at the Kadoorie Agricultural School. He entered Kadoorie as a child of Mes’ha and emerged from it determined to leave his native village.

      Once Reuven Paicovich realized that his youngest son was not to benefit from a Mikveh Israel education out of the PICA’s pocket, he began to nurse a fresh hope: Yigal would attend the newly built school next door to Mes’ha, on lands adjoining the Paicovich holding at Um-J’abal—meaning Kadoorie. The public storm surrounding its founding was typical of the Jewish Yishuv at the time, when Zionist fervor imbued every deed, big or small, with value and significance beyond ordinary mortal measure. Only in this sort of atmosphere could a school’s establishment turn into a national project, an open controversy, the focus of animosity and suspicion toward the British authorities, and a source of pride and sense of overall achievement for the Jews. Kadoorie—before it ever even rose—came to represent British injustice toward the proud Jewish Yishuv.

      It all began with a misunderstanding: the last will and testament of one Ellis Kadoorie, an Iraqi-born Jewish millionaire who had lived in Hong Kong and bequeathed a third of his legacy, £1 million, to his majesty’s government for the building of a school in his name in Palestine or Iraq.¹ The bequest, soon enough, was given the following complexion by the Zionist press: an upright Zionist Jew wished to leave money for a Jewish school in the land of Israel, when along comes “wicked Rome”—that is, the British—which helps itself to part of the gift for an Arab agricultural school in Tul Karm.² This Zionist interpretation was passed down as bald fact from one generation of Kadoorie pupils and graduates to another.

      As it happens, the government of Palestine was interested in building a Jewish high school in Jerusalem. But the legendary teacher Asher Ehrlich threw a spanner in the works: he began to lobby for a Jewish agricultural school around the Jezreel Valley, and, in 1925, a whole series of institutions, colony councils, community bodies, and so forth signed and submitted a petition to High Commissioner Herbert Samuel to earmark the funds for an agricultural school in the Lower Galilee and the glory of local education. Mes’ha added its voice to “the people’s will,” as it stated in its application to the high commissioner.³ The government of Palestine endorsed the idea of a Jewish agricultural school similar to the Arab school in Tul Karm, and the question of location came up for discussion. Several sites vied for the honor and the not inconsiderable benefits—a road, a well, and a boost to the consumer population. The felicitous choice ultimately fell to a hillock between Sejera and Mes’ha, bordering on a-Zbekh lands at the edge of the Tabor, and, following divine and human delays, construction began in 1931. The edifice designed by government engineers was expansive and tasteful: the barn alone was fairer than any of the buildings in all of the local colonies put together, as were the living quarters, classrooms, laboratories, and other enhancements.

      The school belonged to the government of Palestine, coming under its Department of Agriculture. The department financed it, was to appoint the principal and teachers, and set the curriculum. At one of the early planning stages, Herbert Samuel suggested that it be an English school, only to provoke more furor: Jewish money was to go for a non-Hebrew school in the land of Israel?! The British backed down. They promised to build a Hebrew school with a Jewish principal and teachers, and a number of Yishuv representatives on the school board. Hereafter, government officials consulted with the Jewish Agency (JA) on all school matters. In Tul Karm, in contrast, the principal was indeed English and the school’s character was British colonial.

      At the suggestion of the JA, Shlomo Zemach was appointed principal.⁴ This ideal candidate was an agronomist, a writer, and an educator, and the zealous champions of Hebrew could breathe easy.⁵ The fact that he belonged to the Ha-Poel Ha-Tza’ir Party, as did Chaim Arlosoroff, the director of the JA-PD at the time, presumably did not harm his nomination. He was appointed in 1933 and began to prepare actively for the school’s opening in 1934.

      Allon acceptance at Kadoorie involved protracted negotiations between Paicovich, Zemach, and British officials about the boy’s fees. Paicovich was of the opinion that the school’s proximity to Mes’ha entitled his son to a full scholarship. In his address to Mes’ha, High Commissioner Arthur Wauchope had mentioned that one of the village children had been accepted at the new school. Paicovich understood that “the high commissioner meant that the lad study at the government’s expense for the benefit of the village nearest the school.”⁶ The motif the “lad of the village nearest the school” was reiterated in Paicovich’s letters as sufficient cause to relieve him of payment. The fees had been set at Palestine £24 per year, no mean sum at the time: an agricultural worker earned only 20 pennies (grush) a day, and a teacher about £5 a month. Given Mes’ha’s financial straits, it is hard to imagine that Paicovich could come up with the full sum. Zemach wanted a local child at the school and was sympathetic to Paicovich’s circumstances. To make it easier for him, he employed Allon for about a year in the school’s construction prior to its opening, in the hope that the boy would save up for the