preaching havlaga, or self-restraint, were acting like cowards.

There was only one way a boy could respond to the situation. We had to kill Arabs in return, kick out the British, and turn our own official leaders, the people of the Jewish Agency, out of office. When the British hanged Shlomo Ben-Yossef, a young Irgun member who had thrown a bomb at an Arab bus after a similar Arab outrage, I knew what I had to do. The place of every selfrespecting, upright young Hebrew was in the Irgun.

* * *

One day in the late summer of 1938, just before I turned fifteen, I got a message to appear at nine that night at a certain school building in a remote corner of old Tel Aviv. The password was "Samson and Delilah."

With pounding heart, I approached the building. It looked dark and menacing. No light showed. It seemed completely deserted. As soon as I entered, dark figures surrounded me. I stuttered the magic words, and they waved me on. This happened several times, until I was shunted into a room where a brilliant spotlight blinded me.

I nearly flunked the interview. When asked whether I hated the Arabs, I gave the wrong answer. I said no, I could fight the British without hating the Arabs. These seemed doubtful sentiments coming from a boy of fourteen. Yet somebody behind the light must have decided that I would still make a good underground soldier, for I was accepted.

The next year and a half were pure bliss. My life was circumscribed by a certainty I never knew again: We were doing the right thing. Our leaders, whom we did not know, were wise, heroic supermen. The Arabs and the British were the enemy, the Jewish Agency leaders were despicable ghetto Jews, we were the "Chosen Few" who would bring salvation to our people by acts of self-sacrifice.

We exercised. We marched. We toughened ourselves.

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