Elisha Roih, One of Israel’s Patriots

Remember the movie “The Patriot”? Mel Gibson played the part of  Benjamin Martin (loosely based on Revolutionary War Hero Francis Marion) an American patriot in the Revolutionary War. The movie gave us a glimpse of what life and battle may have been like for the out-manned, out-gunned band of American patriots during this country’s war for independence. It also portrayed the sacrifices and raw courage of these men who have earned their place in American history as true patriots and heroes.

The fight for American independence took place in 1776; more than 230 years ago. But there was another war of independence on the other side of the world, much more recently, with its own patriots and heroes. The patriots that insured Israel’s independence, like their American counterparts, were out-manned and out-gunned. Also like the heroes of the American Revolution, Israel’s patriots made crushing sacrifices and displayed incredible courage in their fight to win and build a free country; they too have become a part of their nation’s history.

In his letter to Zion Oil shareholders last week, CEO Richard Rinberg featured retired Vice President of Israeli Operations, Elisha Roih. Richard mentioned that, “… Elisha has put in a lifetime of service – as a very young member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade during WW2 and as a veteran of the Israel Defense Force, attaining the rank of a full Colonel. He is a true hero of the State of Israel.” What he said about Elisha Roih is true, but what doesn’t appear in Richard’s statement is the life written between the lines.

Elisha is “a true hero of the State of Israel.” But in order to fully grasp what that means, those of us who haven’t personally experienced a patriot’s fight for freedom can benefit from the narrative of someone who was there. The following excerpt is from the book Never The Last Journey, by Holocaust survivor, Israeli patriot and electronics giant Felix Zandman. Felix met Elisha in France, early in 1948, as preparations were being made for Israel’s birth as an independent nation.

Among the people I got to know in Nancy were a few Israelis-Palestinian Jews. The first was Elisha Roih, a student in agricultural science at the university, or so he said. Elisha was tall and rawboned. He had a slightly Slavic cast of features, high cheek bones, and an instant smile. He was one of the friendliest, most sympathetic people I had ever met, and I took an instant liking to him. There was something different about Elisha, something I couldn’t quite define. He was brash in his bearing and in the glint of his eyes he exuded self-confidence, even a hint that he could be dangerous if provoked.

Elisha’s demeanor was strikingly different from that of the Polish Jews I knew, most of whom had a fearful, wounded air about them I attributed the difference to the fact that he was an Israeli, born and raised on a kibbutz. I looked up to Elisha. He seemed a symbol of something that had come to have great meaning for me – a strong, self-sufficient Israeli man. I had met a few Israelis in Poland while I was running guns, but only fleetingly. Elisha was the first I actually got to know

In fact, Elisha’s bearing wasn’t only due to having been raised on a kibbutz. Before long I learned that he was no ordinary agricultural science student either. Elisha was one of the first contingent of Israeli secret agents in Europe – forerunners of the Mossad. Most were members of the Palmach, the strike force of Israel’s underground army. During the war they had fought with the Jewish Brigade, which had been raised by the British Army. When the brigade was disbanded at the close of hostilities, 550 Jewish soldiers had remained in Europe under new identities, their places in the demobilized unit taken by refugees they had trained to assume their old identities.

The agents bought and smuggled arms, organized and escorted refugee boats, and gathered intelligence. For a while Elisha had traveled under a Canadian passport, according to which he was a Québécois (his French wasn’t perfect, nor was his English). Now he was an agricultural student. But what he really did was smuggle guns and immigrants across the German border, keeping his eye out for talent – potential candidates for the clandestine Haganah camps that were training Jews in Europe fur the coming war with the Arabs.

I didn’t know any of this at first. What I did know was that here was an engaging Israeli I could speak my Tarbut school Hebrew to. I sensed there was something else when one day I invited Elisha to take a shower at the Cité Universitaire, where I was living. Hot water in Europe was in short supply at the time (soap was in no supply), and showers were rationed, Elisha was living in a small rented room with no bathing facilities at all, so when it was my dormitory’s turn for showers, I invited him over.

We stood in the long line waiting our turn, but when mine came someone pushed me rudely aside. It was a rough- looking older student. “This is my turn,” he said. “Excuse me,” I said politely, “it’s my turn. “Merde,” said the French student. Suddenly Elisha was standing between us. “Sorry,” he said, “actually it’s my turn, and I’ve given it to him.” He gestured at me,

“Your turn?”

“Yes, my turn. And I’ve given it to him. So he’s going to takes shower now.”

“You?” the French student looked at him disdainfully. “What are you, some kind of Jew-lover?”

I couldn’t believe how calm Elisha was. My own heart was beating a mile a minute. “Listen,” he said, “I’ll forget what you just said. But it’s my turn, and I’ve given it to my friend. So he’s going in now. Is that plain enough?”

“Not only are you a dirty Jew-lover,” said the French student, “but you’re a liar, too.”

This was too much for Elisha’s patience. His voice got very quiet. I was riveted. “I come from a place,” he said softly, “where if you call somebody a liar, he’ll kill you.”

“Oh, and where’s that?”

“I come from Palestine,” said Elisha.

“So,” he said, measuring his words. His body tensed, ready for a fight. “Then I guess that makes you a dirty Jew, too.”

The next thing I knew, the rough-looking Frenchman was lying on the floor. Elisha had done something to him, though I wasn’t sure exactly what. I walked in to take my shower. Then Elisha took his. The long line of students simply moved up, as if this kind of thing happened every day.

It wasn’t much of an incident. In terms of what Elisha had done in his life, it wasn’t something that he would remember more than five minutes. But to me it was extraordinary. I had seen a Jew standing up for himself and dealing out punishment to a bully. It struck a chord so deep, I thought about it for days. Later I thanked Elisha for what he had done, mumbling a few embarrassed words about “protecting Jewish honor when I didn’t feel that I could do it.” The words were awkward, and I wasn’t sure he understood what I meant. How could anybody understand who hadn’t lived through what I had? But then again, I thought, maybe he did.

Elisha was worried about events in Palestine. We were now several months into 1948. In November the United Nations had voted to partition the country into two parts – one Jewish, one Arab. The Jews had accepted the resolution; the Arabs had rejected it. Since then, violence had been increasing. We heard about attacks by the Irgun and skirmishes and battles between the Jewish underground army – the Haganah – and Arab forces. Pressure was building in anticipation of May 14, the day the U.N. resolution was supposed to go into effect. Everyone knew what would happen then. The Jewish community would declare its independence; then full-scale war would break out. The fight for Jewish survival was coming on.

In early March Elisha suggested to me that maybe I should be part of the Haganah. The way he said it I knew he was telling me that if I wanted to, he could arrange it. His confidence overwhelmed me. I wasn’t even quite sure who he was, but what he was saying was clear enough. The Haganah needed people. Elisha thought I had the right stuff for it.

I told him I was interested. I had wanted to go to Palestine for years. I wanted to fight. What did he mean, he could arrange it?

“We have a camp,” he told me, “a training camp for Haganah squad leaders. I’ve already recommended you for it, and you’ve been accepted. When the time comes, we’ll get you over to Israel. If you want to start training, you can leave tomorrow”

The next day I was on a train for Lyons. At the railroad station someone was waiting for me. He said little as we drove off toward the mountains. In the early spring the French countryside looked idyllic, dotted with farmland and pastures and small herds of brown and white cows. The sign at the gate where we stopped said “Colonie de Vacance” – Vacation Colony.

Beyond the fence and low hills that separated the camp from the road, the Haganah had built a full-scale training facility with barracks, obstacle courses, and firing ranges. The basic training course I started the moment I put my bag down was short – I’d be here only a month – but it was intense. Our instructors went under code names; they were all Aries and Jehudas and Avrams. They were British-trained and had fought with the Jewish Brigade or had served in the British-sponsored Jewish Settlement Police back in Palestine. The whole system was British.

Training with weapons came first, taking them apart, cleaning them, putting them together again. I was already pretty good at this before we started. After the war I had sworn to myself that I would never be without a weapon, and once I got involved in the Bricha, I wasn’t. In Poland I always carried a pistol. My instinct for survival told me not ever to leave myself helpless again. The upshot was that I knew guns. The most difficult to put together was the Belgian FN automatic pistol, a very complicated piece of equipment. But I quickly became expert with it, and with all the other weapons they trained us on.

My fellow trainees included girls as well as boys. We were taught weapons handling, how to use a compass and maps, how to navigate at night. We learned grenades and hand-to-hand combat – knife-fighting and basic jujitsu. The instructors, the Aries and Jehudas, were young, and there was something uncomfortable about the idea of Jewish youngsters being expert at killing. But to my surprise I became pretty good at the techniques myself.

Our instructors built up our stamina fast. We went on thirty-mile hikes with backpacks. We climbed in the low Alps that started near the camp. The pace was fast and brutal, designed to take people with no training and harden them at breakneck speed. Every minute counted, and once the course began, no one left camp for a moment.

Meanwhile, in Israel the fighting was heating up. By early May everyone knew that armies from the surrounding Arab countries would attack the Jewish community the moment the British formally gave up their mandate.

Zandman’s narrative gives us a peak into the men and women who became Israel’s heroes. Elisha Roih is among them. The rest, as they say, is history.

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