The first evening, Riga, November 1923. a cold autumn night. The leaders of the Zionist Organization in little Latvia are still discussing the advisability of greeting Jabotinsky officially. After all, he had just resigned from the Zionist Organization and was now the opposition. They have sufficient time for discussion, for the first announcement had declared the hour of his arrival to be midnight and now we learn that we may expect him at five o'clock in the morning.

And we, several young fellows, we wait too. This is not simply because we are eager. After all, Riga was honored very often by visits of prominent Zionist personalities and until that night, none of us would have dreamt of sitting up and waiting an entire night fir a guest. This time, however, we do wait as though we had foreboding.

Sitting upon a long table in the corridor of the office of the Zionist Organization, we tell each other all we know of him. It soon becomes obvious that we actually know very little: Legion (the first jewish fighting force in 2000 years), Jewish self-defense in Palestine, 15 years imprisonment in Akko, and that is all. And with that, our entire story, as we narrate it, assumes the following pattern:

The English government approached Jabotinsky with the request that he create a Jewish legion. This Jabotinsky did; put himself at its head and then, after a series of battles, liberated Eretz Israel from the Turks. Just so, simple, naive - England requested...

Or: The Arab riots against Jews break out. At night Jabotinsky opens the ammunition supplies, distributes arms to the Jews and delivers Jerusalem from the Arabs. For this he is arrested and sentenced yo 15 years penal servitude.

We were very vague as to just how he was freed from prison. One claimed that Jabotinsky escaped from there with the aid of his legionnaires. Another maintained that Palestine Jewry make a pilgrimage to Akko in whose dungeons Jabotinsky sat and declared they would not leave the city until their hero was turned loose, a free man. Of course, other explanations, products of young phantasy were not lacking. Finally, in the early morning hours, the Zionists decide to greet Jabotinsky, but not officially. All of us go to the station, all of us - barely a minyan.

It is cold and drizzling. The city sleeps well, snugly, complacently. The Jews, the Jewish youth sleep too. We stand upon the platform of the station. In several minutes the train comes in and with it our guest. His greeting, "Shalom!" comes shouting out of the window at us, and in a few minutes he marches out of the carriage with firm, steady, youthful steps. We look upon him for the first time. An obscure feeling overwhelms us, an internal restlessness grips us, and a question is left hanging in the air, "Is this all?"

In our phantasy, we picture that any moment now several thousand Jewish Legionnaires, proud and fortunate because of the mission which they fulfilled, would pop out of the carriage after him and carry us away.And then again, perhaps he did not step out of the carriage, but really out of the goal. By goal we meant not only Akko, but that miserable dungeon called the Galut. Has he come to redeem us?

Youth knows how to dream beautifully. Several hours later the dream became the beginning of a new reality. He called and spoke to us. And we? That early morning, we yielded our souls to him: hopes, beliefs, everything a youth possesses. And thus ended the most beautiful night of our generation. And we faced that G-d blessed dawn, the dawn that saw the creation of B'rith Trumpeldor.

* * * * *

Since that night and early morning, how many happy nights were spent with him. These cannot be spoken of, cannot be written down. Months, many months, often years of bitter battles, of tremendous obstacles, persecutions, and calumny passed until we saw him again. At the first few meetings, all this would be forgotten, disappear into obscurity, be erased from our memory. No, even before the meeting, at the announcement that he was coming, all this vanished.

Seeing the Rosh Betar, hearing him, sensing him in our presence, feeling his eyes glancing at you, the smile upon his lips, even when you were one among the hundreds, all this can be understood only by him who has lived through these experiences.

Those Moments.

A year consists of days and nights, our lives of a definite number of years, as many as fate destines us to have. In our generation all the days and nights have been combined into one heavy mass, gloomy, bitter, bloody, just like our Jewish lives for the past 20 years. But for those who were fortunate enough to know him, those lovely evening and nights, the minutes and even seconds spent with him were able to swim away and separate from the mass. No matter how difficult the future will prove to be, no matter what obstacles lie on our road to freedom, those moments with him are sufficient to carry us along through the raging storm.

Those evenings and nights...

How many were there? How could we count them? Can happiness be counted? Happiness can appear but once, and yet demonstrate its ability to fill an entire lifetime.

When? When you need him most, when your heart pines and yearns for him.

Where? In every spot where Jewish distress wept and moaned, where the agonies of the Galut were mightiest, where the hopes of being drained and had almost vanished. In the very midst of that distress and hope stood his youth. Hence it was there that he was an often guest, beloved, anxiously-awaited, worshipped. And thus he remained.

Those evening and nights, when he would come to us, live with us, the face of the entire world differed, and primarily, we ourselves altered too. He brought such wealth into our poverty, the poverty of Jewish life. In all aspects, he differed from those about him. He made no attempt to understand us, but worried that we understand him. We would watch his every move, word, and smile. We memorized his statements and addresses, repeating them a thousand times.

When he was satisfied, we were serenely happy. Thirstily we dragged ourselves toward him. He sensed this, and gave us so much, more and more of his thoughts, feelings, and love, especially in recent years.

In those evenings he would rest among us, his youth, his children. And since words always failed us when he was near, we expresses our innermost in song, his songs. He often requested that we repeat one. In his presence it was all too easy to sing.

His head bent slightly, leaning upon his fists, He would sit in thought and listen, listen to us sing, with the words of such song, his song. An evening and a night of one of his children, one of us, Shlomo Ben Yosef, ended - ended with the words of a song and the name of its composer, the composer not only of a song, but of Jewry's most beautiful symphony - Betar.

Search For Youth.

In one of those evenings, he wanted to persuade us that sought an entire lifetime for a youth which he hoped Betar would bring, a youth that believed in one G-d, and knighthood, a youth prepared to battle and sacrifice its life for those ideals which it considers sacred. A youth proud of its Jewishness, satisfied and happy that it carries on its shoulders the great humanitarian battle for freedom.

However, we knew and felt that generations of young Jews had waited for someone like him to appear, teach and lead them.

Many, a great many, blundered in their search, some inscribed their names in our history as sacred martyrs instead of perishing like heros. And the largest part aged and disappeared without having lived as youth... without leaving behind a memory.

Those evenings and nights...

We thought it would always be thus. Had not G-d performed one of his rare wonders and sent him to us. Why not this miracle too? We accepted this as an exceptional, great gift from the almighty. Thus we believed.

We thought, can a well become dry? Can a song end? Intoxicated with love, we drank from that well and demanded more. Happily did we listen to his song and believed that it would never be silence, that its ring would never be dumb, that its tenor never be torn away.

* * * * *

That evening, that night.

For weeks we had been awaiting him. On his last visit, he had promised to return to camp soon. He kept his word, as always.

The Betarim stood in a long line turned toward the direction from which he was to appear. According to our calculations, the auto should have been in the camp. Evidently we were mistaken, but that evening, we were not alone, for the Master of the Universe also erred.

It gets darker. We postpone the evening Misdar until he arrives. The flags are still waving high even though the sun had practically set and they wave in anticipation of greeting our guest.

It gets still darker. Autos pass our road with their lights on. Finally, he has arrived. The order "Dom" echoes and re-echoes over the hill tops. The Betarim are ready to receive their Rosh Betar. Their hearts beat quicker and quicker.

He passes the line slowly, peers into the face of every Betari as if he wanted to remember every one, or as though he sought someone amongst them.

It is very dark. We illuminate the ranks with flash lights, so the Rosh Betar may see his children better. The misdar is over. With slow steps he walks up the single flight to his room. He does not feel well but says nothing about it.

The Betarim stand in formation in the field, prepared for the evening Misdar. Their prayers said, they lower the flags. The Rosh Betar sits in his room sunk in a deep chair, suffering from severe pains. The heart attack has developed, but he still does not want to upset anyone.

The flags have been lowered, the young Betarim are in their bunks, the older ones wait for the Rosh Betar to come down. And the sun, not wanting to witness that which will soon occur, had previously hidden behind the mountains.

Two doctors at his bedside. Of his nearest associates, some around him, others are in the neighboring room. Downstairs the older Betarim stand frozen with fear."Leave me alone for five minutes, I want to rest," he requests.

We did not hear more. Then began the injections, artificial respiration, and prayers - silent prayers from all of us to the almighty. Such pure prayers as these from the depths of our souls, the almighty has never heard before.

The night swallowed the evening too.

* * * * *

Candles at his head. An honor guard of Betarim. Someone is reciting Psalms. Something horrible has happened. We do not understand what, we cannot realize it yet. This night, too, we shall not forget.

What differentiated that night from other nights? Perhaps that night was the holiest. That night he met eternity and became himself a part of eternity.

My Rosh Betar...

This night passed. The morning Misdar. Last evening the final Misdar with him, today the last for him.

Why do our hearts hurt so? Did it have to happen so quickly, so early?

Tel 'Hai, Rosh Betar.

Only one who has warmed himself in the happiness and fortune of those evenings and nights spent with him can understand our pain and agony in the first night without him.

Those evenings and nights...

We thought it would be thus always. And today we know that we were not mistaken. His song will ring eternally, his name will call eternally.

My Rosh Betar.