Cohen, Naomi Wiener - The Americanization of Zionism, 1897-1948 - Brandeis University Press (2003)

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The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

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Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page iii
The
Americanization of
Zionism,
1897–1948
Naomi W. Cohen
Brandeis University Press

      
   
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page iv
Brandeis University Press
Published by University Press of New England,
37 Lafayette Street, Lebanon, NH 03766
© 2003 by Brandeis University
All rights reserved
This book was published with the generous support of the Lucius N. Litthauer Foundation, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Cohen, Naomi Wiener, 1927–
The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 / Naomi W. Cohen.
p. cm. — (Brandeis series in American Jewish history,
culture, and life)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
 1–58465–346–9 (alk. paper)
1. Zionism—United States—History. 2. Jews—Attitudes toward
Israel. 3. Jews—United States—Politics and government—20th
century. 4. Israel and the diaspora. I. Title. II. Series.
..  
320.54'095694'0973—dc22 2003018067
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page v
Brandeis Series in
American Jewish History, Culture, and Life
Jonathan D. Sarna, 

Sylvia Barack Fishman,  
 . , 

The Americanization of the Synagogue, 1820–1870
  , , 

Follow My Footprints: Changing Images of Women in American Jewish Fiction
 , 

Taking Root: The Origins of the Canadian Jewish Community
 , , 

Hebrew and the Bible in America: The First Two Centuries
  , 

Observing America’s Jews
  , 

These Are Our Children: Jewish Orphanages in the United States, 1880–1925
  , 
Alternatives to Assimilation: The Response of Reform Judaism to American Culture,
1880–1930
 , , 

The American Synagogue: A Sanctuary Transformed
  , 

A Breath of Life: Feminism in the American Jewish Community
 , , 

Sephardic-American Voices: Two Hundred Years of a Literary Legacy
 , , 

Talking Back: Images of Jewish Women in American Popular Culture
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page vi
 , 

A People Divided: Judaism in Contemporary America
 .    , , 

Encounters with the “Holy Land”: Place, Past and Future in American Jewish Culture
 , 

Shul with a Pool: The “Synagogue-Center” in American Jewish History
     . , , 

Jews in America: A Contemporary Reader
    . , , 

A Second Exodus: The American Movement to Free Soviet Jews
 . , 

In Search of American Jewish Culture
 . , 

Jacob H. Schiff: A Study in American Jewish Leadership
 , 

Suddenly Jewish: Jews Raised as Gentiles
 .     , , 

Jewish American Poetry: Poems, Commentary, and Reflections
 . , 

Irreconcilable Differences: The Waning of the American Jewish Love Affair with Israel
  .    . , , 

Women and American Judaism: Historical Perspectives
 ,       , 

The Soviet Jewish Americans
     , , 

Jews of Brooklyn
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page vii
 -, 

Diaspora and Zionism in American Jewish Literature:
Lazarus, Surkin, Reznikoff, and Roth
 . , 

Fixing the World: Jewish American Painters in the Twentieth Century
 , 

The Jews of Prime Time
 .     , , 

California Jews
 . , 

 .  , , 

The Dynamics of American Jewish History:
Jacob Rader Marcus’s Essays on American Jewry
 . , 

Through the Sands of Time:
A History of the Jewish Community of St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
 , 

An American Orthodox Dreamer:
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and Boston’s Maimonides School
 .    , 

“How Goodly Are Thy Tents”: Summer Camps as Jewish Socializing Experiences
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page viii blank
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page ix
To the memory of G.D.C.

Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page x blank
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page xi
Contents
Acknowledgments xiii
Introduction 1
Chapter 1 Forging an American Zionism: The Maccabaean 15
Chapter 2 A Clash of Ideologies: Reform Judaism vs. Zionism 39
Chapter 3 Zionism in the Public Square 64
Chapter 4 A Modern Synagogue in Jerusalem 95
Chapter 5 The Social Worker and the Diplomat:
Maurice B. Hexter and Sir John Hope Simpson 113
Chapter 6 Jewish Immigration to Palestine:
The Zionists and the State Department 137
Chapter 7 The American Jewish Conference:
A Zionist Experiment at Unity and Leadership 165
Chapter 8 Out of Step with the Times: Rabbi Louis Finkelstein
of the Jewish Theological Seminary 189
Afterword 213
Notes 219
Index 249
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Acknowledgments
I have studied and written about American Zionism ever since I was a graduate
student at Columbia University. Along the way I have benefited from the wis-
dom and insights of teachers, colleagues, students, and friends. To all of them,
beginning with my revered mentor, the late Professor Salo Wittmayer Baron, I
am grateful. This book, which ties together segments of my research over many
years, represents some of their contributions.
The libraries I have used are too numerous to thank individually, but the fol-
lowing librarians deserve special mention: Adina Feldstern of Hebrew Union
College in Jerusalem, Cyma Horowitz of the American Jewish Committee,
Kevin Proffitt of the American Jewish Archives, and Mira Levine of the Insti-
tute of Contemporary Jewry (Jerusalem).
Many friends and associates have contributed to the completion of this
book in a variety of ways. Nor do I minimize their help when I single out only
two to whom I am particularly indebted: Jonathan Sarna, professor at Brandeis
University, who read the first draft of the manuscript and offered incisive and
valuable suggestions, and Phyllis Deutsch, editor at the University Press of New
England, whose investment of time and energy in my work helped me shape a
more sharply focused book. I alone, however, am responsible for any inadequa-
cies that remain. It is also a pleasure to give special thanks to my research assist-
ant, Charlotte Bonelli, and to my children, Jeremy Cohen and Judith Rosen, for
their unstinting aid and encouragement.
Some material that I published previously has been reworked for this book, and
I wish to thank the original publishers for permission to include that material
here:
Chapter 1: “Forging an American Zionism: The Maccabaean,” from “The
Maccabaean’s Message: A Study in American Zionism until World War I,” Jew-
ish Social Studies 18 (July 1956): 163–78.
Chapter 3: “Zionism in the Public Square,” from “The Specter of Zionism:
American Opinions, 1917–1922,” in Melvin I. Urofsky, ed., Essays in American
Zionism (Herzl Year Book, Volume 8) (New York: Herzl Press, 1978), pp. 95–116,
and from The Year after the Riots: American Responses to the Palestine Crisis of
1929–30 (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1988), ch. 3.
xiii
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page xiv
Chapter 8: “Out of Step with the Times: Rabbi Louis Finkelstein of the Jew-
ish Theological Seminary,” from “ ‘Diaspora Plus Palestine, Religion Plus
Nationalism’: The Seminary and Zionism, 1903–1948,” in Jack Wertheimer, ed.,
Tradition Renewed: A History of the Jewish Theological Seminary, vol. 2 (New
York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1997), pp. 113–76.
xiv The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page xv

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Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page 1
Introduction
W riting a few years after the organization of the Zionist movement in

1897, Dr. Max Nordau, a prominent European Zionist leader and close
associate of Theodor Herzl, said: “Zionism’s only hope is the Jews of Amer-
ica.”1 In large measure he spoke correctly. But for the financial support and po-
litical pressure of American Jews, a group whose numbers and socioeconomic
importance made them by midcentury the most powerful Jewish community
in modern history, Israel might not have been born in 1948. Indeed, the Ameri-
can Jewish investment in the development and preservation of the Jewish state
has continued to the present day. Nordau, however, could not have foreseen the
compromises and vicissitudes, or the achievements and inadequacies, that
molded the character of Zionism in the United States. The result was an Ameri-
can Zionism, one that differed markedly from Nordau’s own interpretation of
Jewish nationalism.
Much has been written on the subject of Zionism—its origins, leaders, ideol-
ogy, and development. American Zionism, however, with features peculiarly its
own, requires separate treatment. Like the Zionist movement worldwide, it
went through several chronological phases before the founding of the state of
Israel. But different from the movement in Europe, Zionism in the United
States was shaped by its American context. In each of its phases it responded to
the same elemental factors: the needs of Jews in America (as well as in Europe),
the stand of the American government, and the demands of American public
opinion. Nor could it ignore the forces operating within the American Jewish
world—a passion for acculturation and acceptance, the struggle over commu-
nal leadership, and the impact of American antisemitism. On the Zionist lead-
ers, therefore, devolved the task of accommodating their movement and its
message to the realities of the American and American Jewish scenes. The
product they created was an Americanized Zionism, a movement that was as
much American as it was Zionist.
The process of building an American Zionism was fraught with weighty
1
questions: Could or should Zionists mouth Herzlian rhetoric, predicated on

the belief in an unrelenting, universal antisemitism that inescapably doomed
the survival of world Jewry, at the same time that they considered themselves
an integral part of American society? Wasn’t it futile for political Zionists who
despaired of the future of Jews and Judaism even in the Western world to en-
gage in American politics? Was American antisemitism a nonissue or was it
something to be feared? Were assimilation and total acceptance inevitable in
the United States, or was the Jew always destined to be the alien or outsider in a
Christian culture? Perhaps, as Saul Bellow wrote many years later: “As a Jew you
are also an American, but somehow you are also not.”2
The Americanization of Zionism is the theme that connects the following
chapters. This study does not purport to be a synthetic history of American
Zionism. Nor does it consider anew the persuasive interpretation of some his-
torians of how Zionism in the United States, identifying with the ethos of
America, held forth the vision of a more perfect social order for America, in-
deed for all humanity, as well as for a Jewish state.3 Rather, my approach has
been to concentrate on certain specific events, institutions, or persons that flesh
out the American/Zionist nexus. Based for the most part on primary sources
that are treated in depth, the chapters explore the strengths and weaknesses of
the organized American movement and suggest certain significant sub-
themes—for example, how Zionism can serve as a barometer of the overall
condition of the American Jewish minority in any given time period, and how
Zionist activities provide an index of Jewish acculturation.
Overall, the book posits that Zionists and their opponents always measured
the compatibility of Zionism with Americanism, and that during its first fifty
years American Zionism constructed its own balance between American iden-
tity and Jewish particularism. The Americanization of Zionism may not have
convinced all Americans of the rectitude of the Jewish nationalist cause—it
failed, for example, to win the approbation of the American State Depart-
ment—but it succeeded in making Zionism a familiar and legitimate issue in
the political arena. It thereby contributed significantly in preparing American
public opinion for the establishment of a Jewish state.
The roots of Zionism are embedded in traditional Jewish prayers and customs
that express a yearning for a return to Zion. Phrases in prayers repeated gener-
ation after generation, “Next year in Jerusalem” or “From Zion shall come forth
the Law,” testify to a force that propelled Jews throughout the ages—idealists
and dreamers, mystics and pseudomessiahs, as well as some ordinary people—
to repair to the land ordained by God for their forefathers and for them. In-
spired by the biblical promise of restoration, they believed that when the mes-
siah came at the end of the days, Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel and birthplace
of the Torah, would again become a Jewish country. The theme of restoration
has figured as well in Christian eschatology, which held that a Jewish return to
2 The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

Palestine was a precondition of the second coming of Jesus. In both synagogue

and church those motifs have lasted to the present.
Modern Zionism emerged in the last quarter of the nineteenth century as an
offshoot of the resurgence of European nationalism. Nurtured by the failure of
liberalism in Europe, which left millions of Jews unemancipated, and by the
pervasiveness of a virulent antisemitism, Zionism developed a Jewish national-
ist ideology. Many now defined the Jews as a discrete national group; like all
those that populated the Continent yet apart from the others, the Jewish na-
tional group had its own religion, language, and culture. Jews, as Professor
Hans Kohn pointed out in a seminal study of nationalism, also had a “national
consciousness” and a “national aspiration” of long standing.4 Despite denials
from newly emancipated Jews in western Europe, the idea that Jews constituted
a national group in the modern sense was axiomatic to the thinking of Jewish
proto-Zionists in eastern Europe.
At the same time, Jewish nationalism shed its religious cast and became sec-
ularized. Modern nationalists looked for neither divine intervention nor a per-
sonal messiah to lead them back to Palestine. Jews themselves, responding in
particular after 1870 to the new, racist antisemitism, would by their own efforts
build a secure home in Palestine. In the last quarter of the nineteenth century
Zionists banded together in small groups such as the Chovevei Zion (Lovers of
Zion), and the first modern aliyah (ascent to Palestine) was initiated by a few
idealists who set out to drain the swamps and cultivate the soil. Zionism be-
came a political movement, however, only when an assimilated Western Jew,
Theodor Herzl, convened the First Zionist Congress at Basel in 1897. Herzl’s
message was straightforward; he appealed for the creation of a democratic Jew-
ish state in Palestine, to be achieved by Jewish political activity and to be under-
written by international fiat.
Although the modern Zionist movement retained a secularist bent, it should
be noted that secularists too could not divorce themselves totally from
Zionism’s religious matrix. Whether religiously observant or not, they too car-
ried the baggage of Jewish tradition with them and could well empathize with
the sentiments of the traditionalists. One example is blatant: when England of-
fered a piece of its territory in Africa to the Zionists in the first decade of the
twentieth century, a majority of delegates at the Seventh Zionist Congress in
1905 turned down the idea. The persecuted Russian Jews were in desperate need
of a refuge, but most Zionist leaders knew well that their movement could suc-
cessfully appeal to their fellow Jews only if the end goal were Palestine.
Herzl died in 1904, but by then he had put political Zionism on the world’s
diplomatic agenda. In 1917 during the First World War, England issued the Bal-
four Declaration, expressing approval of a Jewish national home in Palestine
and promising to facilitate its establishment. Written into the terms of the post-
war mandate over Palestine, the declaration stamped political Zionism with the
seal of respectability. With confidence, albeit misplaced, in the promise of the
Introduction 3
declaration and mandate, some believed that the political struggle for an inter-
nationally recognized Jewish homeland was over.
After the Great War, Zionism worldwide passed through new phases. Dur-
ing the 1920s and ’30s, political Zionism stagnated, and under the leadership of
Chaim Weizmann the movement shifted to Palestinianism, or the practical job
of building up the land. A significant aliyah from the West never materialized,
but Zionists repeatedly sparred with England, the mandatory power, over the
right of Jews to enter Palestine. In the 1930s, the turbulent decade or third
phase, the need of a refuge for those fleeing Hitler raised the debate on immi-
gration to fever pitch. When World War II erupted, Jews worldwide became the
captive allies of the nations fighting the Axis. Zionists, however, continued to
press England and the United States on Jewish immigration to Palestine, even
as they built up the infrastructure of what in 1948 became a Jewish state. Within
a few years a more aggressive leadership of the World Zionist Organization
(WZO) moved into the fourth phase, the resurrection of political Zionism and
the demand for statehood.
The Formative Years of American Zionism
Far fewer Jews in America than in Europe were attracted to Herzlian Zionism.
To be sure, religiously observant Jews affirmed the traditional belief in restora-
tion, and a small handful of nineteenth-century Jews had been prepared to ac-
cept a man-led Jewish return or had joined American branches of the Chovevei
Zion. But the realities of life in America and the immediate concerns of a
largely immigrant community in the two decades preceding the war dictated
other priorities. Thousands of Jewish immigrants were arriving annually from
eastern Europe, and their primary focus was the need to find jobs, housing, and
schooling for their children. Having chosen the United States as their refuge
from czarist oppression, they had little personal interest in uprooting them-
selves once again, this time from a country comparatively free of antisemitism,
to make their home in an undeveloped land in Asia Minor. Moreover, a move-
ment built on Jewish separatism clashed with the immigrants’ aim of acclima-
tizing rapidly to their American surroundings. Zionists like philosopher Hor-
ace Kallen and Rabbi Judah Magnes may have endorsed the theory of cultural
pluralism, but had the new immigrants themselves been polled on the issue of
melting-pot versus cultural pluralism, most would have opted for the former.
Despite the weak response to the Zionist cause, the period until World War I
set the dominant patterns of American Zionism’s first fifty years (chapter 1).
While Zionist leaders were Americanizing their ideology in order to appeal suc-
cessfully to the Jewish public, four Zionist organizations were founded. The
most prominent was the English-speaking Federation of American Zionists
(FAZ), the precursor of the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA). Although

the rank and file were mostly eastern Europeans, the founders stemmed from
the older stratum of western Europeans—Reform Jews like Stephen Wise and
Gustav and Richard Gottheil.5 Strains developed in a short time between the
leadership and the members, coming to a head shortly after the war when the
eastern Europeans gained control of the ZOA and replaced the dominant and
the most Americanized faction under the leadership of Supreme Court Justice
Louis Brandeis. Rivalry for control of the ZOA testified to the power of
Americanization. The newer immigrants basked in the importance of
Americanized leaders whose participation added social respectability and pres-
tige to the movement, but as the newcomers themselves acculturated, they felt
freer about substituting leaders of their own.
Parallel to the rise of the Zionist organizations was American Jewish oppo-
sition to political Zionism. The opponents included the anti-Zionists, those
opposed to all aspects of the movement, and the non-Zionists, those who ob-
jected to a Jewish state and a separate Jewish nationalism but who, out of a con-
cern for oppressed Jews seeking a refuge, willingly contributed to the upbuild-
ing of Palestine. In the ranks of the “antis” stood Jewish labor, the powerful
Jewish unions, which were committed to the universalist ideal of socialism and
scorned the nationalist movement. Alongside them were those Orthodox Jews
who, despite a faith in restoration, deplored a godless and secular nationalism.
More significant opposition came from the leaders and institutions of Re-
form Judaism (chapter 2). Born in Germany in the early nineteenth century, Re-
form flowered in the United States. American Reformers equated their philoso-
phy with Americanism. Setting themselves up as the expositors of Judaism in the
modern age, Reformers, with the exception of a few like the Gottheils and Wise,
delivered impassioned tirades against Zionism—its medieval character, its im-
migrant constituency, and, in particular, its un-Americanism. The Reformers
said repeatedly that Zionism, unlike Reform, was incompatible with patriotism
and thereby exposed all Jews to the serious charge of dual allegiance. Since Re-
form paraded its opposition before the non-Jewish public, and since Reform
was the oldest and best-organized English-speaking branch of American Juda-
ism, it helped to cultivate anti-Zionism among Jewish and Christian Americans.
Most non-Jews showed little interest in Herzl’s movement until the Balfour Dec-
laration of 1917, but if they did, they usually agreed with its opponents.
Reformers and other assimilationists dominated the Jewish Establish-
ment—those Jews, self-appointed stewards, who took it upon themselves to
handle the problems of the community at large and to guide its development.
Powerful adversaries of political Zionism, these men, most of German origin,
aroused Zionist wrath. In response American Zionism led a crusade against the
Establishment and for a democratically run community. Not all democrats
were Zionists, but the democratic impulse, articulated in an American idiom,
strengthened the movement’s popular appeal. The Zionist struggle to shift the
locus of power to the masses cropped up repeatedly before 1948. Here too the
Introduction 5
issue reflected the process of Americanization. Earlier German Jewish immi-

grants had, as they assimilated, entrenched their leadership of American Jewry
but the eastern Europeans, far stronger in numbers and also bent on accultura-
tion, were rapidly catching up. By supporting democracy in Jewish communal
life, the Zionists were able to argue that they were as much American as their
opponents.
The most important product of the formative years was a “comfortable”
American Zionism. Early political Zionists like Herzl and Nordau as well as the
leaders of the FAZ were prepared to modify the function of American Jews in
the Zionist design. They expected Americans to agitate for a Jewish homeland,
but in appeals aimed at winning their approval, they saw the Americans primar-
ily as financial supporters of the movement rather than as potential olim (those
who embarked on aliyah). Even Herzl, who decried the stunted Jewish life of Di-
aspora Jewry, never expected all Jews to leave their homes for Palestine.
Some Zionists substituted a cultural and spiritual ideal for Herzl’s political
focus. They too favored a national Jewish center in Palestine, but men like Sol-
omon Schechter of the Jewish Theological Seminary taught that the state of Ju-
daism was more important than a Jewish state (chapter 2). The true objective of
Zionism, they said, was the establishment of a vibrant religious center
equipped to revitalize Judaism wherever Jews lived. American Zionists were ob-
ligated to support the creation of that center, but they were not required to do
the physical building themselves. Rejecting Herzl’s premise that Jews had no fu-
ture as Jews outside Palestine, the spiritual-cultural Zionists made a major con-
tribution to the Americanization of Zionism. They never called on fellow Jews
to prepare for aliyah or to renounce their faith in American exceptionalism. In-
stead they offered an undemanding Zionism that freed American Jews from
any serious personal commitment but served their needs both as Jews and as
Americans.
As financial contributors to a refuge for oppressed Jews, or as proponents of
a Jewish religious center in Palestine, American Jews could discharge their eth-
nic responsibilities without sacrificing the comforts of American life. True,
Zionists of all stripes posited the existence of a separate Jewish national group
and stressed a Jewish national consciousness—concepts that many Jewish and
Christian Americans rejected out of hand. But as long as Jewish nationalism
manifested itself as philanthropy or as a function of religion, and as long as
Zionist propaganda for a Jewish homeland confined itself to those goals, it did
not seriously jeopardize Jewish “at homeness” in America.
American Zionism scored the greatest triumph of its formative years when
Louis D. Brandeis joined the movement (chapter 2). Brandeis, the “people’s at-
torney” and a close adviser to Woodrow Wilson, headed the ZOA for a short
time (1914–16) before his appointment to the Supreme Court, but both his term
in office and his influence throughout the 1920s reinforced the patterns set dur-
ing American Zionism’s first phase. Most important for our purposes, Brandeis

contributed significantly to the process of Americanization. Not only did he

employ American imagery in describing Zionism and Zionists—“our Jewish
Pilgrim Fathers” is how he referred to the pioneers in Palestine—but as a sup-
porter of cultural pluralism, he defended Zionists against the charges of un-
Americanism and dual loyalty. The Jewish mission in Palestine and elsewhere,
he said, was to propagate the humanistic, American-like values of liberty and
justice. That belief underlay his oft-quoted statement, “Every American Jew
who aids in advancing the Jewish settlement in Palestine . . . will . . . be a better
man and a better American for doing so.”6
Discounting the need of aliyah from America, Brandeis viewed Zionism
through the lens of an American Progressive. He likened it to the tide of
American reform that had peaked before the war; a Jewish Palestine would be
the social laboratory in which Zionists experimented with new forms of eco-
nomic and political democracy. A proponent of communal democracy against
the elitist Establishment, Brandeis also put the Zionists squarely behind the na-
tional campaign for a democratic American Jewish Congress (1918) to represent
the Jews at the postwar peace conference. By such means he interpreted Zion-
ism in American terms—it was essentially a Progressive movement led by men
who resembled America’s Founding Fathers—and he thereby made it more at-
tractive and respectable for American Jews.
Although Brandeis participated in the negotiations with England leading
to the Balfour Declaration, his primary focus after the war shifted from politi-
cal to “pragmatic” or “practical” Zionism. Active behind the scenes and
through his lieutenants throughout the decade, he encouraged American Jew-
ish investment in the physical upbuilding of Palestine. That emphasis, also
adopted by the ZOA, well suited the shift of world Zionism into its second
phase, Palestinianism.
Palestinianism
Palestinianism, the substitute for Herzl’s program, was a modified version of

Jewish nationalism that lasted from 1917 until World War II. Precisely because it
put statehood aside, thereby deradicalizing Zionism, Palestinianism brought
certain advantages to the American Zionist movement. For one thing, it pro-
vided a needed cooling-off period for war-weary Americans to absorb the polit-
ical implications of the Balfour Declaration without immediately confronting
the potentially divisive issue of statehood. Furthermore, since Palestinianism
made practical aid to the yishuv (the pre-state Jewish settlement in Palestine) its
primary focus, it placated many critics.
The Balfour Declaration, tantamount to an announcement that Zionism
was here to stay, did, however, generate heated discussions of Jewish national-
ism by the American public. Non-Jewish opinion, which dictated the limits to
Introduction 7
which Jews could push their nationalist or indeed any objectives, now wielded
greater influence over Zionist policy. Although a strong majority in Congress
and the American press expressed approval of the declaration when it first ap-
peared, popular opposition to the Zionist movement slowly increased.
One public debate immediately after the war disclosed the multifaceted op-
position to Zionism (chapter 3). Jewish “diehard” Reformers, still fulminating
against the Zionist “menace,” were joined in those years by liberal and assimila-
tionist Jewish intellectuals and by serious Christian critics. Liberals, disen-
chanted by a war and a peace treaty that seemed to mock the Wilsonian princi-
ples of internationalism, democracy, and anti-imperialism, saw no justification
for a Jewish nation, which they saw as another product of British imperial
interests and one at odds with the democratic rights of the Palestinian Arabs.
In a decade that witnessed the wide circulation of the Protocols of the Elders of
Zion and the popularity of the “Jew = Bolshevik” myth, Zionism, a “foreign”
product that conflicted with the antiforeign mood in America, easily became a
target for nativists and bigots. In some cases antisemites found in anti-Zionism
a more respectable garb for purveying Jew-hatred. Zionists attempted to refute
their opponents, but at times they found it more expedient to recoil. In the un-
friendly setting of the 1920s, when discrimination against Jews reached new
heights, Zionism had to give way to other priorities crowding the communal
agenda.
Despite the Balfour Declaration, Zionists worldwide failed to capitalize on
the momentum for Jewish statehood generated by the war and the peace con-
ference. Since neither European nor American Jews bent on aliyah were storm-
ing the gates of Palestine, earlier Zionist expectations were dashed. Moreover,
Jewish inaction not only gave England cause to retreat from its promise but
vindicated those anti-Zionists who charged that Zionism was impractical and
chimerical.
Nevertheless, the retreat to Palestinianism wasn’t all bad. Coping with anti-
semitism, which increased in the 1920s, and with the grim conditions spawned
by the Great Depression of the 1930s, American Jews dared not risk any major
outbursts about Jewish statehood from their non-Jewish fellow Americans.
Within American Jewish circles, Palestinianism, far less strident than political
Zionism, permitted the spread of a “quiet” Zionism in synagogues and Jewish
schools. It also made possible significant cooperation between Zionists and
non-Zionists, which resulted in new economic, social, and cultural institutions
in the yishuv. Perhaps the best example was the establishment in the 1920s of
the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, which received significant funding from
the American non-Zionist Felix Warburg. During this period the importance
of American non-Zionists grew. Non-Zionism peaked in 1929 when the Zion-
ists and the “nons” agreed to share control of the Jewish Agency, the body pro-
vided for in the terms of the mandate to formulate and administer policy for
the WZO. For the most part the partnership was not a happy one, but the pres-

ence of prominent Western non-Zionists raised the status of the Agency in its
dealings with England and the League of Nations. The middle road of Palestin-
ianism and non-Zionism also thinned the ranks of the American anti-Zionists
and permitted access to financial resources hitherto untapped on behalf of a
Jewish homeland. Although many Reform laymen and rabbis remained vocal
critics of Zionist objectives, the organization of Reform rabbis bowed to the
appeal of non-Zionism and officially repudiated its anti-Zionist stand in the
1930s.
Above all, Palestinianism seemed eminently compatible with American re-
quirements of the proper citizen. To outsiders, it was basically a philanthropy,
and Americans admired philanthropy and philanthropists. Since the end goal
of a Jewish state was at least temporarily shelved, Palestinianism as philan-
thropy shielded Jews against any charges of disloyalty or dual allegiance. Zion-
ists still talked of a Jewish “home” or “religious center,” but those were bland
terms devoid of political meaning. In the eyes of many Americans, Jews who
sought religious guidance from a restored Jewish center probably seemed little
different from American Catholics whose spiritual center was the Vatican.
After the war, when more American Jews were visiting Palestine and judging
for themselves how Zionism was shaping a Jewish nation in the making, talk of
“cultural bridges” between American and Palestinian Jewries became more
common. One variation of that theme emerged in the heyday of Palestinian-
ism in discussions by spokesmen of Conservative Judaism on what American
Jews could do for Judaism in Palestine. Beyond the all-important expertise and
financial help to Palestinian Jews and institutions, American Jews could per-
haps export their modern style of worship. The yishuv needed to revivify reli-
gion, and since traditional Orthodoxy by then was grossly inadequate for mod-
ern Jews, a modified traditionalism, or Conservatism, offered a possible
answer. The basic question—could Judaism in its Conservative version take
root in Palestine?—was daunting, but the very idea was exciting. Were it to suc-
ceed, the Diaspora and Palestine would be forging a symbiotic relationship
whereby Palestinian religious life would take from and be enriched by the Dias-
pora (specifically America) in the building of a spiritual center. Just as America
had shaped Conservative Judaism, so would the latter in turn endeavor to
Americanize the religious dimension of life in the yishuv. An early attempt in
the 1920s to build an American-like synagogue in Jerusalem failed (chapter 4),
and the challenge of transplanting American Judaism (both Conservative and
Reform) to Israel, with rights equal to those of the Orthodox, remains even
today.
During the era of Palestinianism a prime factor in the American Zionist equa-
tion, the government’s stand, took on significant meaning. Until then Wash-
ington, whose primary concern in the Near East was the protection of busi-
ness interests and the powerful Protestant missionaries, was largely silent.
Introduction 9
Nevertheless, several anti-Zionist forces—missionary influence, increasing

business interest in Near Eastern investments, and Turkish apprehension about
Zionist territorial aims—combined to plant a tradition of anti-Zionism in the
State Department. That opposition, often flavored with rank antisemitism, be-
came significantly more pronounced after the war. To be sure, the Zionists had
fared well under Woodrow Wilson. The president sympathized with humani-
tarian diplomacy, or the right of the United States to intercede on behalf of
victims of foreign oppression, and he called for ethnic self-determination in his
Fourteen Points. Both principles could be harnessed for the Zionist cause, the
first to validate the establishment of a refuge for eastern European Jewry, the
second to endorse the legitimacy of Jewish nationalist aspirations. Most im-
portant, Wilson added his personal approval of the Balfour Declaration.
The State Department, however, thought differently. Secretary Robert Lan-
sing, the incumbent during the war, and his successors during the 1920s wasted
little sympathy on the Jewish nationalist movement even when it involved the
interests of American citizens. Since the United States was now recognized as a
major world power, its opinions carried more weight than ever before, but
since the country was swept by a wave of isolationism, the department steered
a course of noninvolvement in Palestine. Meanwhile, the middle managers of
the department, the men who stayed in office and for all intents and purposes
set policy regardless of the political party in power, ignored a pro-Zionist Con-
gressional resolution of 1922 that approved the Balfour Declaration.
Colored by an anti-Jewish bias, the State Department’s anti-Zionist and pro-
Arab sympathies flowered at the end of the 1920s in the wake of the Arab riots,
which left some Americans dead or injured. The United States was forced to
take note of Zionism in Palestine, if only for the protection of its citizens, but
despite Zionist pressure it refused to admit then or at any time before 1948 that
its responsibility for the Balfour Declaration or for England’s obligations under
the mandate went any further.
The Turbulent Decade
The first decade of Palestinianism closed on a sorry note. The bloody Arab
riots of 1929 followed by the MacDonald White Paper of 1930, which restricted
Jewish immigration to Palestine, pointed up the yishuv’s vulnerability to Arab
attacks and to British malfeasance. Both the colonial officials in Palestine and
the Labor government in London preferred the Arabs to the yishuv; they dis-
liked the Jewish settlers, and they feared that Arab unrest in Palestine might
spread through Asia and rock the imperial boat. Given international endorse-
ment of the Balfour Declaration and the mandate, England was in no position
to dismiss the Zionist cause in one fell swoop, but within those broad and often
ambiguous parameters it adopted pro-Arab rather than pro-yishuv policies.

The events of 1929–30 also triggered the second popular debate on Zionism
in the United States (chapter 3). Although the focus this time was broader, en-
compassing as it did Zionist behavior in Palestine, it resembled the debate of
1917–22 in several ways. Antisemitic themes and imagery permeated much of
the opposition to Zionism, and again the Zionists lost both Jewish and Chris-
tian liberal support.7 Nonetheless, the anti-Zionism of liberalism, the ideology
with which Western Jews had identified ever since the Enlightenment, failed to
sway Jewish voters to a conservative posture in American politics. For a variety
of reasons American Jews, including Zionists, remained loyal to liberalism and,
beginning in the 1930s, to the New Deal and its legacy. As was their custom,
they continued to rank their American interests above the needs of the Jewish
homeland.
During the years of the mandate both Arabs and Jews agreed that the core issue
dividing them was that of Jewish immigration to Palestine. England’s contra-
dictory wartime promises to the Zionists and the Arabs placed it, the manda-
tory for Palestine, in the unenviable position of having to juggle claims and
counterclaims for the next thirty years. The Balfour Declaration notwithstand-
ing, the British proceeded slowly to pare down the rights of the Jews. Embold-
ened by less than modest Jewish immigration in the immediate postwar years
and by the fact that Zionists worldwide barely reacted to the closing of Trans-
jordan to Jewish settlement or the initial curbs on immigration in the early
1920s, they deemed it more prudent to appease the troublesome Arabs. The
Arab objective in the two decades before World War II was to curb if not end
Jewish immigration and Jewish land purchase, and Arab riots in the 1920s and
1930s succeeded in alarming England.
On the issue of immigration, American non-Zionists usually sided with the
Zionists. Although they still opposed statehood and the philosophy of Jewish
nationalism and were prepared to compromise with the Arabs and with En-
gland on most matters, American non-Zionists stood firm on the right of Jews
to enter Palestine. Using whatever personal clout they could muster with Lon-
don and Washington, they even resorted to one-on-one diplomacy with British
officials (chapter 5), and indeed they were far more palatable to the State De-
partment and Whitehall than the Zionists. But alone they were too weak to ef-
fect a change in British policy. If anything, their failure served to discredit the
myth of Jewish power.
When Arab opposition to Jewish immigration erupted in violence in the
mid-1930s, England was again hard-pressed to find a compromise solution. At
that time, however, the Zionist case took on a new urgency. Since European
Jews increasingly tried to flee Nazi persecution, and since the United States and
other Western lands kept their doors shut to refugees, Zionists pleaded with the
mandatory to honor the promise of the Balfour Declaration. Chaim Weizmann
and the Jewish Agency had no success with England, and neither did the
Introduction 11
American Jews, Zionists or non-Zionists, who sought to convince the State De-
partment to apply pressure on England. Washington took its cue on Palestine
from the British, and in general wasted little sympathy for the Jewish refugees.
The Department had not softened its stand on Zionism; like all its representa-
tives despatched to Jerusalem, it favored the Arabs and lent a willing ear to Arab
opinions. The ZOA brought Zionist demands to the Department’s attention in
a steady stream of representatives and memoranda, and its pressure for involv-
ing the United States directly in the Palestinian impasse intensified. But as long
as the State Department knew that American Jews were divided on the issues of
Jewish nationalism and statehood and that Jewish support for Roosevelt was
unshakable, it refused to budge (chapter 6).
A few short months before the outbreak of World War II, England issued
the notorious White Paper, which put a finite limit on Jewish immigration to
Palestine. Although the Zionists had no recourse but to support England’s war
with Hitler, they refused to accept the White Paper without a struggle. A more
bellicose tone against the British was heard in the yishuv, and it slowly spread to
the United States. Finally, in 1942 American Zionists reverted to Herzlian ideol-
ogy and resurrected the demand for a Jewish state.
The Struggle for Statehood
At a conference held at New York’s Biltmore Hotel in May 1942, the major Zion-
ist organizations in the United States called for control of immigration to Pal-
estine by the Jewish Agency. More dramatically, the Biltmore platform commit-
ted the American Zionists to support the proposal that “Palestine be
established as a Jewish Commonwealth integrated in the structure of the new
democratic world.”8 Fifteen months later, after news of Hitler’s extermination
of the Jews first reached the public, the commonwealth resolution was over-
whelmingly passed by the Zionist-controlled American Jewish Conference, a
democratically elected assembly that represented more than two million affili-
ated American Jews (chapter 7). Primarily a response to the Holocaust, it was
the first time since 1897 that American Jewry acting in unison endorsed the po-
litical aims of Theodor Herzl. Many of the delegates may not have understood
the essence of Zionist ideology, but the need to “do something” in answer to the
death camps drove many to the side of a Jewish state.
The organization of the American Jewish Conference signaled the emer-
gence of a different type of Zionist leader. Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver,who took
center stage in the direction of American Zionist affairs during World War II,
was of the new breed. Like David Ben-Gurion in the yishuv, he injected an as-
sertive if not aggressive note into the campaign for a Jewish state. Simultane-
ously, the conference, at least theoretically, brought an end to the earlier com-
petition between the elitist anti-Zionists and the democratic Zionists over

leadership of the Jewish community. How well it succeeded would, among

other things, test the efficacy of representative democracy for the community
at large. The conference lessened the power of the elitists, but the latter were
never totally displaced. They felt impelled, however, to bow to the appeal of
self-rule. For example, the American Jewish Committee (AJC), long the bastion
of a small group of stewards, undertook to broaden its leadership base by orga-
nizing chapters. Over time, what had started as an exclusive club opened its
doors to all strata of American Jewry.
The drive for an independent Jewish state between 1939 and 1948 erased the
distinctions that heretofore had divided American Zionists. Cultural or spiritual
Zionism, as opposed to political Zionism, and non-Zionism, or the doctrine of
material aid to the yishuv that stopped short of political entanglement, lost their
meaning. The yishuv was unconditionally committed to independence, and any
sort of contribution from the outside—be it even by planting trees through the
Jewish National Fund or by endowing a scholarship at the Hebrew University—
was a contribution to the infrastructure of a state in the making. True, there
were some notable holdouts on the issue of a political state instead of a religious
or cultural center (chapter 8), but for the most part it boiled down to a single
issue—one either favored or opposed a Jewish sovereign state.
Despite the need for communal unity, a new organization, the American
Council for Judaism, founded in 1942 for the express purpose of preaching
anti-Zionism, determinedly distanced itself from the main body of American
Jews. Dedicated to the prevention of nationalist activity of any sort on the part
of American Jews, it publicly fought the conference and lobbied with the
government and the two major political parties against Jewish statehood. The
council slowly lost ground during the early years of Israel’s existence, and after
the Six-Day War of 1967 the few remaining antistatists organized the American
Jewish Alternatives to Zionism, a group that actively cooperated with anti-
Israel Arab propaganda networks in the United States. Like the council, the or-
ganization failed to make a significant dent in Jewish and non-Jewish accep-
tance of the state of Israel. For all intents and purposes, vocal anti-Zionism
within the American Jewish camp has become a relic of the past.
Events moved at a rapid pace during the trying days of the war and the Holo-
caust. American Zionists unleashed a massive public relations campaign for
winning public approval of their efforts on behalf of Jewish statehood. They
circulated innumerable information sheets and petitions; they staged mass ral-
lies; and they nurtured cooperation with sympathetic Christian clerics and lay
leaders. Avoiding the charge of dual allegiance, Zionists were careful to couch
their appeals in an American idiom. They interpreted Zionism as a war aim of
the United States; the Zionists, American patriots first and foremost, were
“interested” in Palestine “because Palestine is an important outpost in this in-
divisible war.” News of the Nazi death camps and the needs of the survivors
Introduction 13
injected the humanitarian issue into the Zionist cause even as it dramatically
swelled the large sums of money raised to aid the yishuv.
In the immediate aftermath of the war, free immigration to Palestine, espe-
cially for Holocaust survivors and displaced European Jews, continued to gen-
erate support for Jewish statehood. Until the United Nations voted the parti-
tion of Palestine into an Arab and a Jewish state (1947), and until the yishuv
declared its independence in May 1948, American Zionists incessantly lobbied
their own government and England on the issue of free immigration and a Jew-
ish commonwealth. Since England, however, held to a policy of stringent re-
strictions, many Jews openly supported the yishuv’s efforts to bring in immi-
grants illegally. Because of the problems of displaced persons (DPs), the AJC,
heretofore the most powerful non-Zionist organization, finally joined the
Zionists on behalf of a Jewish state. (In 1946 Joseph M. Proskauer, then presi-
dent of the AJC and long a confirmed non- or even anti-Zionist, indicated a
readiness to modify his position. He explained: “The one great overwhelming
objective is to get immediate substantial immigration into Palestine and . . . I
don’t care very much how I get it.”)10
The same reason contributed to the support of statehood on the part of
members of Congress as well as the president. Realizing in the end that the DP
issue could not be separated from the issue of a state, Harry Truman rejected
the State Department’s advice and sided with the Zionists. Eleven minutes after
Israel’s independence took effect, the president recognized the Zionist state.

CHAPTER 1
Forging an American Zionism:

The Maccabaean
T he Federation of American Zionists (FAZ), the most important organiza-

tion of American Zionists, dutifully followed the policies set by the con-
gresses and executive bodies of the World Zionist Organization (WZO). Until
Herzl’s death in 1904 both European and American Zionists committed them-
selves to Herzlian or political Zionism, i.e., attempts at securing an internation-
ally recognized charter for an autonomous Jewish state in Palestine before ef-
forts at mass settlement. Different emphases precluded total unity within the
ranks; some Zionists argued the need of practical work in Palestine to precede
or at least operate alongside the political, and others stressed the development
of the cultural and religious dimensions of Jewish nationalism. But until 1905
when Israel Zangwill led a group of dissidents into the Jewish Territorial Or-
ganization (ITO), which was willing to accept any suitable land outside Pales-
tine for Jewish settlement, the political Palestine-centered goal remained fixed.
Wrangling between the “practical” and “political” camps increased, and the
practical emphasis won out at the Tenth Zionist Congress in 1911. Instead of re-
placing the “political,” however, the Congress merged the two in what was
termed “synthetic” Zionism.”1
Four years after the First Zionist Congress at Basel (1897), the FAZ launched
its official monthly journal, the Maccabaean. The mirror and mouthpiece of its
parent organization, the journal pitched its message to American Zionists and
potential Zionists. Its task, to win acceptance of Zionism and the FAZ, was an
uphill battle. In 1901 Zionism was not yet a respectable movement in the United
States. The popular melting-pot theory was antithetical to the heart of the
Zionist message, and the new Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe, as the
journal itself explained, “resent the idea of [Jewish] national interests apart
from the general interests of the country.” Within the Jewish community, the
3800 members who paid their shekel (a biblical word used for membership
dues to the constituent groups of the WZO) in 1900 were greatly outnumbered
15
by their opponents and by the apathetic. Within the larger society some non-
Jews followed the lead of the assimilated Jewish anti-Zionists. Among most
other Americans, general indifference to or ignorance of Zionism prevailed. In
1908 the Maccabaean proudly printed a letter from Dr. Lyman Abbott, editor of
the influential weekly Outlook, in sympathy with Jewish nationalism even
though Abbott confessed that he knew very little about Zionism.2
Less obvious but potentially powerful were the advantages that the FAZ en-
joyed. Its enthusiastic officers and staff disseminated a convincing message pre-
cisely because they were genuine idealists. That message did not fall on totally
deaf ears. Zionist leaders could count on some familiarity with Jewish tradition
or at least nostalgic sentiment on the part of the eastern Europeans. Unencum-
bered by fixed habits and organizational machinery, Zionists were also able to
serve as disinterested critics of the American-Jewish scene and, where advanta-
geous for them, to capitalize on any disaffection with the prevailing system of
communal organization. Finally, since the formative years of American Zion-
ism coincided in time with the burgeoning Progressive movement, the FAZ
could hope for sympathy from liberals who, as Professor Eric Goldman wrote
many years ago, saw a similarity between “greater opportunity within the na-
tion and minority nationalism.”3
Since the Maccabaean appeared in English—a Yiddish supplement lasted for
less than a year—its target was not the newest immigrants, those concerned
with the bare necessities of life in the new country, but those who had at least
mastered the language and had the wherewithal to purchase and peruse a
monthly journal. On one occasion the editor noted that the FAZ was directed
by professionals and supported by members of the middle class and upper pro-
letariat.4 The Maccabaean opened its pages to different shades of Zionist opin-
ion—political, cultural, religious, philanthropic—and occasionally even to
anti-Zionists. Its own views, however, were usually in accord with Herzl’s prime
objective for a legal charter.
The periodical offered a rich and varied menu. News on Zionism and fea-
tures of the movement’s leaders in the United States and Europe dominated its
pages, and full coverage was given to local, national, and international con-
gresses and conventions. Visits by prominent European Zionists to the United
States were reported in detail, and so were the impressions of American visitors
to Palestine. Openly propagandistic, the Maccabaean frequently appealed for
new members. It urged its readers to circulate their copies of the periodical; it
also advised: “When you see a Jew who is not a Zionist, hand him a Zionist
pamphlet. If you haven’t one with you, hand him an argument.”6 The journal
welcomed articles that explained Zionist principles and those that dealt with
some aspects of the yishuv’s development. For a limited time it ran a page for
children or young adults. Most striking was the full literary portion in each
issue. A large amount of space was allotted to fiction and poetry—both by past
masters and by contemporary authors—as well as to serious articles on Jewish

history and culture. With its eye on the Jewish and general press, the journal
occasionally reprinted articles from other periodicals, and on occasion it pre-
sented a piece written by a non-Jew. If, as one rabbi said, many American Jews
merely followed a periodical of their choice,6 the FAZ entered the competition
with a journal of quality.
A National Consciousness
When the Zionist movement was born, its marketability among Occidental
Jews, i.e., those in western Europe and the United States, was virtually nil. Had
Zionism not answered the needs of the eastern Europeans, mired in poverty
and ever vulnerable to attack, it could never have survived. Nonetheless, the
Westerners who gloried in their emancipation and joyfully chose to abandon
Judaism for rapid assimilation could not be written off. If for nothing else,
their wealth and any influence they had with the masses made them extremely
desirable for the nationalist movement. To convert the Westerners thus became
an important goal of Zionists worldwide.
Dr. Max Nordau, Theodor Herzl’s closest disciple and counselor, set forth
the problem in the first issue of the Maccabaean. He said that since Zionism re-
quired leaders of substance and stature, the culture of the Westerners and their
experience with freedom made them ideal candidates. But, he added, it was im-
possible to reach the Occidental Jew by the use of reason. He imagined a dia-
logue between the Zionist (Z) and the Westerner (W) that in part went like this:
Z: Zionism is the only means for preserving Judaism.

W: That is the very fault we find with it. We do not want Judaism to be pre-
served; we want it to disappear.
Z: Zionism guarantees the Jewish race a future and dignity as a nation.
W: Nonsense. There is no Jewish nation; there is only a Jewish religion, and
with that we don’t concern ourselves. Our Jewish past and present is enough of
an annoyance to us; what should we want with a Jewish future? No, thanks! Na-
tional dignity? Is the old clothes trade to become an ideal occupation? Is the Jew-
ish singsong to reach the aristocratic distinction of the military snarl? Are the
splay foot and the hooked nose to be the models of manly beauty? We don’t be-
lieve in such a shifting about of values, and we don’t want to do it. . . .
Z: Zionism makes freemen and citizens of the [Jews].
W: Legally that’s what we already are; and that’s what we shall be socially, as
well, when we have completely sloughed our Judaism, or hidden it so skillfully
that even the antisemites cannot scent it out.
Nordau concluded, therefore, that Westerners could be converted only by ap-

peals to idealism and sentiment.7
Forging an American Zionism 17

Even without Nordau’s reminder, the founding fathers of the American

Zionist movement knew that American Jews, different from their eastern Euro-
pean brethren, were unlikely to make an existentialist commitment to the core
of Herzlian Zionism. Most had found their promised land in America, and in a
country of freedom and equality Herzlian laws on the course of antisemitism
appeared totally irrelevant. From the outset, therefore, the need to square Zion-
ist theory with American reality and make it meaningful to the lives of Ameri-
can Jews remained the major task of the FAZ. Its leaders addressed that issue in
the various roles they assumed—as propagators of Zionism among Jews and
other Americans, as critics of American Jewish behavior, and as defenders of
Jewish interests in the United States and foreign countries. Their arguments
and interpretations were hammered out publicly and further refined in the
pages of the Maccabaean, and their conclusions constituted an Americanized
Zionism.
Until the Balfour Declaration of 1917 the editors of the Maccabaean, par-
ticularly Jacob De Haas, a longtime associate of Herzl, and Louis Lipsky, a jour-
nalist and writer of fiction, remained consistently loyal to the original political
objective. They and many of the articles they printed were, like Herzl, harsh
critics of other approaches. For example, they often said that the Lovers of
Zion who stood for piecemeal colonization erred. Colonies without legal guar-
anties faced serious risks to their security, and they diverted resources away
from the goal of statehood. The political thrust was all-important: “The mere
adoption of a political attitude, independent of its success, means some en-
franchisement for us as a people; it gives us strength and courage.” Cultural
Zionists who, under the influence of essayist Ahad Ha’am, focused not on a
state but on a Jewish center that would vitalize Judaism throughout the world,
were also wrong; since Jewish ideals could not survive if the people died, cul-
ture in itself was not an end. Philosopher Horace Kallen dismissed the theories
of Ahad Ha’am as being only “an intensification of the status quo,” and De
Haas candidly wrote that they “belong to an unreal world and an unreal age.”
The worst wrongdoers were the philanthropists, including men like Baron Ed-
mond de Rothschild, whose generosity notwithstanding cramped attempts at
self-help and even self-sacrifice. In the words of Herzl: “A people cannot be
helped by means of Philanthropy; it can only be helped by means of Politics.”8
Nevertheless, political Zionists like Lipsky and De Haas had to compromise
their personal convictions. They well understood that a successful Zionist ap-
peal to American Jews could not rest exclusively or even primarily on the de-
mand for a political charter. Acceptance of the need for Jewish statehood re-
quired the more gradual approach of indoctrination. Accordingly, the
Maccabaean concentrated on another plank of the Basel program—“the
strengthening of Jewish national sentiment and national consciousness.” Stat-
ing that Zionism stood for “a rebirth of the Jewish folk [and] of the Jewish
spirit,”9 the journal posited that an awakened national consciousness had to

precede political efforts for a Jewish state. That emphasis altered the order of
Herzl’s priorities. The latter had put a charter first; national consciousness-
raising would follow or, at best, proceed concomitantly with political work. In
the United States, however, early Zionist leaders made consciousness-raising
the first and all-important objective. Political statehood would or would not be
won—and the subject was never fully discussed by the Maccabaean—in the
vague and distant future.
Writers for the Maccabaean rested the crusade for an aroused national con-
sciousness on the premise that Jews were not only a religious body but a na-
tional group that shared a common history and common ideals. As a separate
race or nation, they had made lasting cultural and spiritual contributions to
world civilization, but since galut (exile from Palestine, or Diaspora) put them
by definition in a hostile environment, such contributions could resume only
when Jews developed their own talents, preferably in their own land. First,
however, they needed to recover “their individuality as a people” or what Kallen
called the “race-self.” Before we have Zion, we must prepare the masses—“we
must have the Jewish people”—and that necessitated a concentration on na-
tional consciousness. Like Nordau, the writers interpreted Zionism in arational
or idealistic terms more relevant for the Western Jew.10
An aroused national consciousness, the Maccabaean explained further, would
breed loyalty to the Jewish nation or race as well as feelings of Jewish unity and
self-respect. It also signaled the rise of the New Jew—self-emancipated, proud,
unafraid of non-Jewish opinion, physically strong, fearless as opposed to timid,
independent, and confident. In that vein, Richard Gottheil, the first president
of the FAZ, told how he was captivated by the assertive and dignified demeanor
of the delegates to the Fifth Zionist Congress, who proudly asserted the indi-
viduality of the Jew and his right to a dignified existence. Only in a state of
their own could Jews reach their full potential, both with respect to character
traits and their gifts to mankind. Ranking Jewish nationalism above universal-
ism, Zionists saw their movement as the “highest expression” of the life of the
Jewish people.11
To be sure, the way in which a heightened Jewish national consciousness in
America directly advanced political Zionism was never clearly spelled out.
Perhaps it was assumed that Zionists and potential Zionists, after proper in-
doctrination, would make the necessary leap of faith and commit their re-
sources as well as themselves to the goal of a Jewish state. In any event, imme-
diate political statehood was not a serious objective of American Zionism
until World War II.
In tandem with consciousness-raising, the Maccabaean presented a strong
indictment of galut. Jewish life in the Diaspora was unavoidably abnormal—
luftmenschen existed in place of productive men, the values of the Torah were
neglected, and expressions of Jewish art were eccentric and bizarre. Since the
taint of exile was all-pervasive, it was “impossible to attain permanent forms of

Jewish life.” Most important, exile spelled the disintegration of Jewish ideals
and dignity: it “attracts our people away from their own [and] it produces
mean vices and common virtues.”
On the subject of galut, Zionists desperately sought a compromise between
Herzlian principles and American exceptionalism. They admitted that the bur-
den of galut was less weighty in America, but nonetheless its inherent abnor-
mality led to social evils like prostitution and crime in the immigrant ghettos.
More significant, galut even in America augured total assimilation and dissolu-
tion of Jewry. In 1912 a review of The Promised Land, Mary Antin’s autobio-
graphical account of her adjustment to America, pointed out that the author’s
glory in Americanization was purchased at the price of drifting away from the
Jewish people.12 Yet although the Maccabaean hinted that unstunted American
Jewish development, like Jewish development elsewhere, could not be ensured,
it avoided the issue of sh’lilat ha-golah (negation of the galut, or the idea that
Jewish life in the Diaspora was automatically doomed). The closest the journal
ever came to introducing that idea was in one paper by Louis Lipsky. There Lip-
sky argued that a Jew couldn’t be bound up emotionally with both America and
Zionism; he had to decide where his destiny lay. But, Lipsky concluded, that
sort of emotional allegiance was neither “censurable” nor dangerous to Amer-
ica. Neither he nor the Maccabaean ever brought it up again.13
Theoretically at least, the journal stood squarely behind Herzl with respect to
the problem of antisemitism. The founder of Zionism had made antisemitism
a prime mover of the Zionist scheme. His very definition of a nation, reprinted
in the Maccabaean, had said it all: “The nation is a group of people of recogniz-
able kinship kept together by a common enemy.” The Maccabaean agreed;
everywhere Jews were victims of at least a “silent” persecution. Reports of
major antisemitic outbreaks throughout the world appeared in the journal, and
never were they excused as aberrational or singular events. Rather, they were
functions of the Jewish condition and applied to all Jews. Commenting on the
famous ritual murder case of Mendel Beilis in Russia (1912–13), the Macca-
baean was horrified that Jews, “the oldest monotheistic race, the People of the
Book,” were still charged with “religious cannibalism by men outside of a luna-
tic asylum. . . . Enough of the comical to make Satan roar with laughter; but the
tragedy of it is ours!”14
Jews even in America were not immune to the eternal hatred, and the jour-
nal offered concrete examples—exclusion of Jews from clubs and vacation
resorts, exaggerated charges of Jewish crime, antisemitic attitudes of univer-
sity faculties, and unfounded taunts about Jewish wealth. Those instances as
well as the mob attack on Jews at the funeral of New York City’s Rabbi Jacob
Joseph (1902) were not pogroms, but they were sufficiently alarming to justify
the need of raising the Jewish national consciousness.15 Moreover, and despite
the attempts of assimilationists to shrug off talk of American antisemitism,

Jew-hatred cast doubt on the claim that Jews had reached their Zion in the
United States.
Logic may have dictated that the one solution to bleak exile and ubiquitous
antisemitism lay in a new Jewish life in Palestine. Rigid negators of the Dias-
pora might also have argued that it was futile to combat antisemitism; for ex-
ample, why bother asking, the way the Maccabaean did, that the Merchant of
Venice be banned from elementary schools if Jew-hatred was eternal?16 The
Maccabaean, however, stopped short of suggesting that the solution lay in Jew-
ish statehood. In sum, its position was riddled with inconsistencies. On the one
hand it preached that the evils of galut, specifically antisemitism, were fixed in
the United States. On the other hand, its occasional advice on how to meliorate
discrimination suggested that a secure future for American Jews (as opposed to
Judaism) was perhaps attainable.
A focus on national consciousness without joining it to statehood accounted
for such inconsistencies. Juggling Zionist principles with the Jewish faith in
America, leaders came up with compromises that combined elements of both.
The result, inconsistent or not, was an Americanized Zionism, a Zionism ac-
ceptable and beneficial to Jews in America. Aware that the majority would not
opt for aliyah with or without a legally recognized Jewish homeland, the jour-
nal insisted that Zionism made for better Jews and better American citizens. It
was the force that would invigorate American Jews, and by supplying that
needed ferment and inspiration, it would undergird American Jewish survival.
In the words of one writer: “To us American Jews Zionism will serve as moral
support, as a spiritual adviser, [that] will elevate our social and political stand-
ing in the eyes of our [non-Jewish] neighbors.” Sensitive to the limits of Herzl’s
logic and conclusions for America, American Zionism stipulated that America
was different.17
Complicating the issue still further, the Maccabaean preached the political
empowerment of Jews at the same time that it soft-pedaled statehood. History
begins, the journal stated categorically, when the Jews have political power.
Ideally that meant a Jewish state, but short of that it meant the liberation of Di-
aspora Jewry and the latter’s full use of the rights that the law guaranteed. In
the United States, one editorial stated, we need to wield our political power. Ar-
guing that Jews were either too ignorant of their rights or too timid to use
them, the journal pointed out the underrepresentation of Jews in appointive
offices. The implication was clear: Jews had a ready weapon in the ballot box for
registering their concerns, and their votes did make a difference. Challenging
conservative Jewish leaders who had long argued the pitfalls of a “Jewish vote,”
the Maccabaean advised against denying or apologizing for separate Jewish po-
litical interests. Here too, where involvement in politics rested on faith in a se-
cure future for American Jews, the journal’s advice contradicted the principle
of an antisemitic galut.18
Justification for a Zionism that ignored or at least questioned the relevance

of Jewish statehood for Americans was provided in articles by Zionist leaders

and other contributors to the journal. Rabbi Gustav Gottheil, a founder of the
FAZ, claimed that Zionism never proposed to withdraw all Jews from their
homes in the Diaspora. His son Richard admitted before a convention of the
FAZ that Zionism meant more than political efforts for a Jewish homeland:
Zionism means, “as it should mean, a return to Judaism as well as a return to a
Jewish land.” A lifelong political Zionist, he prudently deferred to American
Jewish inclinations and assigned to national consciousness-raising a status at
least equal to Herzl’s goal. Another contributor to the Maccabaean quoted di-
rectly from Herzl where the Zionist leader himself acknowledged more than
political objectives. For example, one of his sentences read: “Zionism is the re-
habilitation of Judaism before the return to the Jewish Land.” Again, an empha-
sis on a strong national consciousness not tied necessarily to a separate Jewish
state was an American-inspired modification of the pursuit of immediate
statehood. American Zionists scored twice thereby. They neither alienated
American Jews, nor did they renounce their right to engage in American and
American Jewish affairs. Some also took comfort in the thought that practical
work added a dimension to the viability of political work.19
The amended reading of American Zionism grew more pronounced when
Dr. Harry Friedenwald, a prominent ophthalmologist of Baltimore, served as
president of the FAZ (1904–11).20 His public addresses to Zionist audiences that
appeared in the Maccabaean reflected the sentiments of a cultural-religious
Zionist. A member of the board of the Jewish Theological Seminary,
Friedenwald’s opinions may have also been influenced by the Seminary’s presi-
dent, Solomon Schechter. The doctor’s favorite phrases, repeated time and
again, were “national consciousness,” “spiritual center,” and “Jewish idealism.”
Friedenwald claimed that Zionism was far more than a response to antisemit-
ism or a concern for persecuted Jews. Rather, it aimed at forging a spiritual
unity among Jews that would lead to the creation in Palestine of a spiritual Jew-
ish center. Taking a page from Ahad Ha’am but adding a religious dimension,
he believed that the center would inspire a vibrant Judaism in the Diaspora
built on traditional ideals. A political state was not crucial; after all, the Jews in
Palestine during the Second Commonwealth influenced Diaspora Jewry even
though the latter outnumbered the former. On the other hand, a national con-
sciousness was essential. It raised Jewish dignity and self-respect at the same
time that it made the Jew a “complete” person.
More important for our discussion, Friedenwald gave a non-Herzlian pur-
pose to national consciousness. Unlike the political Zionists who preached
about a national consciousness leading to a state, he stressed a national con-
sciousness for American Jews. “The work of Zionism,” he said, “lies not only in
Palestine, not only in Russia, but everywhere and especially here in America”
(emphasis his). To guard against assimilation and to keep the American Jew
Jewish was the task of Zionism, and Friedenwald repeatedly urged that national

consciousness suffuse Jewish education, libraries, clubs, and literature. Jews

had prospered in America, and now, for the preservation of the Jewish people
and Jewish idealism, they needed to develop as loyal Jews. That loyalty em-
braced Palestine too, and Friedenwald called on his fellow Jews to develop and
support institutions in the yishuv. In no way, however, did his Zionism impinge
on American patriotism, and Friedenwald never doubted that American Jews
would remain in America.
Coincidentally, the Maccabaean published an article by Professor Ralph Bar-
ton Perry of Harvard during Friedenwald’s incumbency. Under the title “Jew-
ish Ideals,” Perry wrote of his sympathy with Zionism. His conclusion well
suited Friedenwald’s interpretation of national consciousness: the Jew “will be
the man who is a good American, possibly a better American than anyone has
seen, because he has the courage of the Judaism which is within him.”21
Zionism and Americanism
The Maccabaean understood that talk of Zionist principles as well as criticism

from opponents of Zionism demanded an answer to the question “Is Zionism
compatible with Americanism?” While the bogey of dual allegiance fast be-
came a major weapon in the arsenal of Jewish anti-Zionists, the problem was
made easier just because American Zionists concentrated on the development
of a national consciousness in place of Jewish statehood. Since they had mod-
ified Herzl’s end goal of working for an immediate political state, American
Jews were enabled thereby to hold on to their good life in galut while simultane-
ously satisfying their collective ethnic urge. Nor were they forced to admit to
any contradiction between their amended Zionism and their loyalty to Amer-
ica. From that vantage point the journal strove to disarm opponents and to
convince unaffiliated Jews that Zionism would not compromise their position
in the larger society.
Some commentators on the problem of compatibility explained that belief
in a separate Jewish nationality in no way contradicted Americanism because
the nation was a composite of nationalities. Not only did the Irish and the
Germans retain their distinctive (and tolerated) group interests, but America’s
composite makeup and the manifold contributions of its different national
groups accounted for the success of the country. Americanization would pro-
ceed naturally even if not deliberately fostered. For those reasons the journal
was highly critical of Israel Zangwill’s popular play “The Melting Pot” and its
message of assimilation.22 Interestingly, however, most Americans disagreed.
While the Maccabaean was developing an early version of cultural pluralism
on behalf of the new immigrants, the latter, both Jews and non-Jews, pre-
ferred the path of the melting pot, or conformity to the established Anglo-
Saxon mold.

Writers for the journal liked to point out the similarities of the American
and Zionist ideologies. Democratic Zionism, they said, ran parallel to the im-
pulse of the Pilgrim Fathers and the American Revolution, and loyalty to
Zionism, because it never mandated political allegiance to a Jewish state,
suited the American concept of patriotism. Seeking to reassure those whose
fear of gentile disapproval and nonacceptance was paramount, Harry Frie-
denwald once explained: “This land demands our complete loyalty. . . . But it
does not demand that we shall be recreant to any duty, whether it be to our
family, to our kin, to our people, here or elsewhere.” Judah Magnes added that
American citizenship did not require national or religious suicide.23 Nor was
aliyah seriously discussed by the Maccabaean. Only once, in connection with
the writings of an eighteenth-century rabbi who favored settlement in the
Holy Land, did the journal ask “Why not live in Palestine?” It also mentioned
a speech by Magnes calling on Jewish youth to prepare for aliyah. For the most
part it kept silent on the chalutz (pioneer) movement then inflaming Zionist
youth in eastern Europe.24
Lengthier pieces on the compatibility of Zionism with Americanism were
featured in the journal. One was a statement allegedly written by Theodor
Herzl on Zionism and patriotism that had not been published before. In an-
swer to a question from America, the Zionist leader said that Zionism would
not separate the nationalist Jew from his compatriots. Calling Zionism the only
humane and practical solution for persecuted Jews, he alluded to the tradi-
tional American ideal of aid to the oppressed: “American Jews aid their beloved
fatherland [the United States] when they aid an unhappy people from whom
they spring. That is not disloyalty . . . but a double measure of loyalty.”25
The Maccabaean reprinted statements on the issue of compatibility from
three individuals well known in the American Jewish world—Israel Zangwill,
Cyrus L. Sulzberger, and Josephine Lazarus. None of the three preached ex-
tremism, nor did they belabor the issue of Jewish statehood. The longest piece
was that by Lazarus, sister of the more famous Emma and herself a writer. She
discussed in detail the idealism of Zionism and its intrinsic resemblance to
American ideals. Just as America taught the gospel of “freedom and light,” so in
a new Jerusalem would the Jews again be the great religious teachers of the
world, the preachers of true liberty. A “prophetic” movement, “Zionism like
Americanism is not a matter of creed or custom or local ‘habitat.’ The Zionist
may remain an American, even as the American may be transplanted to the
Philippines, or to Palestine, and yet remain an American. . . . Zionism is the
soul, the spirit of the Jewish people to-day, coming into its own again, coming
into self-consciousness, self-manifestation, self-realization, in a word spiritual
autonomy.” Like Americans, Zionists were a composite of peoples from differ-
ent lands determined to create a “spiritual democracy”: “Zionism, like Ameri-
canism, is an emancipation, a release from enforced limitations and legislation,
from a narrow . . . tribal polity of life . . . and from old-world prejudice and

caste. Like Americanism, it is a sifting of the nations of the globe, among all of
whom our people are to be found, and the recasting of them into a new mold
. . . with more exalted and more fearless ideals of freedom, and a more assured
conviction of the inherent dignity of the race and the individual.” Lazarus
added a new twist when she said that Zionism idealism could enrich America,
because it offered an idealism for countering the materialistic race of the
times.26
The strongest weapon of those who defended the compatibility of Zionism
with Americanism was the claim that the essence of Zionism was democracy.
(The claim began with Herzl; when his scheme for a Jewish state was initially
turned down by Barons Maurice de Hirsch and Edmond de Rothschild, the
Zionist leader called for a democratic movement and looked for support from
the Jewish masses.) Zionism, they said, was a movement of the people; it stood
for democracy within the American Jewish community, and it was the base for
the intended Jewish state. Statements like the following were frequently aired in
the Maccabaean: “Zionism stands for a democracy of the Jewish people”;
“Zionism has everything in common with the needs of a democracy”; “Zion-
ism in America has become the first triumph of a Jewish democracy.”27 Since
democracy was a built-in feature, how could Zionism not be compatible with
Americanism?
Jewish Culture and Religion
Convinced that a national consciousness could not be propagated in a cultural

vacuum, the Maccabaean filled its pages with scholarly and popular articles on
Jewish history, art and philosophy, translations from Yiddish and Hebrew clas-
sics and original stories and poems in English. A perennial favorite was the
great Hebrew poet of medieval Spain, Yehudah ha-Levi, who dreamed of Eretz
Yisrael and moved there at the end of his life.29 To further an appreciation of
Jewish culture, the journal often included “think pieces,” book reviews, and
guidelines for study circles. It even planned a model Jewish library for its read-
ers.29 The varied content was directed not only at subscribers but also at neu-
tral, unaffiliated, and indifferent Jews. Unfortunately, the scholarly and educa-
tional emphases dulled over time, and the later volumes dealt primarily with
contemporary developments in the Zionist world and information on the
yishuv.
A topic treated repeatedly by contributors and by the editors was the need
to properly educate the children. As Louis Lipsky put it, “A people which has
passed through centuries bearing the burden of Christian hatred, persecuted
in common, reading a common literature, hoping for a common freedom, and
living the same life for centuries and centuries . . . must retain a peculiar
psychology which demands a peculiar education.” Since, according to the

Maccabaean, the Reform Sunday school and the “ossified” old-world Orthodox
classroom were inadequate to the task of instilling a full appreciation of the
Jewish heritage and of counteracting the neglect of the “Jewish spirit,” the jour-
nal was entering what was still virgin territory. The early Zionists did not orga-
nize schools of their own, but at conventions and in the pages of the Macca-
baean they debated ideas of improved educational programs. All agreed that a
proper education would preserve Judaism in America and would inculcate a
national consciousness. A consensus also emerged on language; Hebrew and
not Yiddish was preferred.30 None, however, suggested the replacement of
American public schools by Jewish day schools.
Simultaneously, the Maccabaean encouraged Jewish cultural activity in the
United States. It applauded the efforts of the young Jewish Publication Society,
“a valuable auxiliary to Zionist propaganda,” to disseminate serious works in
religion, history, and literature, and it took pride in current literary activity.
The establishment by banker Jacob Schiff of the Semitics Museum at Harvard
was also praised. (Schiff hoped thereby to show how the ancient period in Jew-
ish history contributed to world civilization and to inculcate an appreciation of
the Jewish heritage among Jews and non-Jews.)31 As in the case of education,
the emphasis on an American Jewish culture was a Zionist investment in the
preservation of a Jewish future in the United States.
Contributors to the Maccabaean claimed that only a grounding in national-
ism could erase the indifference of Jews to the riches of their heritage. Religion
alone did not suffice. Aware, however, that most American Jews and non-Jews
held religion to be the most natural and legitimate expression of Jewishness,
the journal never assumed the secularist stance of so many Zionist activists in
Europe. On rare occasions it even printed articles by, or made mention of, reli-
gious leaders who urged the observance of the Sabbath. In one editorial De
Haas called the substitution of Sunday for Saturday services by some rabbis a
betrayal of Jewish religious and historic causes. But although it carefully re-
frained from disparaging religious faith, the Maccabaean claimed that “the Jew-
ish nation cannot . . . be maintained in the religious form. It must re-establish
itself on its own territory [and] re-assume its normal national life.” Only a res-
toration to Palestine, it continued, could safeguard religious values: “As exiles,
we are always in danger of neglecting the values contained in the Torah. Only as
citizens in our own land can the Torah be surrounded by the faithful.”32
The Maccabaean was far more biting in its treatment of religious anti-
Zionists. It accused those among the ultra-Orthodox, who objected to the very
concept of a manmade restoration to Palestine and who were scandalized by
the godlessness of the Zionist platform, of formalism and rigidity and of driv-
ing American Jews to assimilation by their outmoded and inadequate educa-
tional facilities. The journal predicted only a brief future for Orthodoxy in
galut, and it advised traditionalists to adapt their Judaism to modern condi-
tions.33 Reform Judaism, led mostly by earlier German immigrants, aroused

more serious attacks. Recent scholarship has shown that although Reform in-
stitutions remained officially anti-Zionist, early Zionism gained more than a
few adherents among Reformers.34 Nonetheless, the opinions of the small if in-
fluential minority were eclipsed by the intense, at times near-hysterical, state-
ments of the anti-Zionists and their press. Well organized, affluent, and at
home in Christian America, Reformers bitterly fought Zionism on theological
and political grounds. (Reform’s anti-Zionism is fully discussed below in chap-
ter 2.) Copying Reform’s method of attack from pulpits, institutions, and the
press, the Maccabaean lashed back: By its rejection of Jewish nationalism, Re-
form was only present-minded and deficient in “sincerity, genuine piety, and
manliness.” (The periodical, to be sure, was not overly concerned about piety,
for it conceded that had Reform accepted the concept of Jewish national life, it
would have condoned even Reform’s repudiation of the Torah.) As for those
Reformers who feared that Zionism could alienate Christian good will, the
journal called them “weak-minded, half-hearted Jews” without self-respect.
Since Zionists were unafraid of public opinion, it proved that they, who relied
on the fundamental liberty of freedom of expression, had more faith in demo-
cratic America than their opponents.35 Hardly a single issue of the journal ap-
peared without some dissection and/or ridicule of Reform’s principles or of in-
dividual Reformers who preached against Jewish nationalism. For several
months the Maccabaean traded insults with Reform in a separate page under
the heading “Among the Mission-Jews.” Our enemies help us in one way, Rich-
ard Gottheil wryly remarked, for they keep us from making any false moves.36
In the drawn out conflict between Reform and Zionism, mudslinging and
ad hominem diatribes by both sides glossed over significant facts. Reform may
have encouraged rapid acculturation, but it stemmed the wave of complete as-
similation and conversion. In the United States it offered a religious anchor for
Jews racing to keep up with a rapidly changing environment. More important,
in an age when Americans expected some sort of religious affiliation but
frowned upon group separatism on other than religious grounds, Reform fash-
ioned Judaism into a respectable religious denomination. It failed to recognize,
however, that the peculiar condition of eastern European Jewry had bred a Jew-
ish nationalist enlightenment; nor did it grasp the Eastern Jew’s identification
of Zionism with liberty. For its part, Zionism concealed its true colors when it
criticized Reform on religious grounds. Although it built on the traditional
yearning for a return to Palestine, Zionism was basically a secular movement, a
child of nineteenth-century nationalism. Like Reform it offered emancipated
Jews a compromise formula between modernity and Jewish loyalty. At bottom,
the issue between the two movements was secularist nationalism versus univer-
salist religion.
Although they charged that Reform had betrayed the essence of Judaism,
the Zionists did not lose hope of converting them. Occastionally they reported
that Reform leaders were indeed modifying their views of Zionism. The

journal’s confidence also rose as Zionists observed that the day of the German
Jew was fast giving way to the day of the Russian Jew.37 Increasingly outnum-
bered by the nationalist-minded eastern Europeans, Reformers by 1917 had the
option of digging in their heels on the issue of Zionism or swimming with the
nationalist current.
Jewish Leadership and American Jewish Politics
The focus of American Zionist leaders on national consciousness-raising legit-

imated the Maccabaean’s concern with the American Jewish scene. A rigid
Herzlian Zionist might have decided that his purview included only matters
pertaining to political Zionism, or that his interest did not encompass a Dias-
pora unable to nurture Jewish continuity. But national consciousness without
immediate statehood permitted a wider latitude because it could be linked with
any feature of the contemporary Jewish scene. The first editors of the Macca-
baean, who never personally disavowed Herzl’s objective, may have been illogi-
cal or inconsistent, but as previously mentioned, the course they chose better
suited the realities of American Jewish life.
The Maccabaean kept an eye on important American Jewish personalities
and institutions. Its primary focus, however, was the lack of a democratic com-
munal structure and the concentration of leadership in relatively few hands,
usually those of German Jews who were non- or anti-Zionists. The Zionists
had more in mind than merely replacing the incumbents with men of their
own. Herzl had posited that Zionism was a democratic movement standing for
the political empowerment of the Jewish masses. Furthermore, a democratic
community was theoretically more compatible with the essence of American-
ism. Accordingly, the journal lashed out time and again at the unrepresentative
and undemocratic character of the major defense and philanthropic organiza-
tions, such as B’nai B’rith and the American Jewish Committee (AJC).
The AJC was the periodical’s bête noire: “The American Jewish Committee is
an instrument of a party of worthy gentlemen, who disdain to be accountable
to the Jewish people for what they do; they conduct their sessions in secrecy, re-
fuse to admit the Jewish press, and make no public statement of their income
and disbursements.” Paraphrasing a line in a popular poem by Bret Harte, the
journal added: “Our American Jewish Committee, like the Heathen Chinee,
works in ways that are dark and peculiar.” Whereas the AJC stood for steward-
ship, or shtadlanut and hofjudenthum (the ways by which “Court Jews” inter-
ceded with pre-Emancipation governments), the Zionists championed democ-
racy. Adopting the watchword “benevolent despotism is out of date,” they
claimed to have fashioned the most democratic Jewish organization in America.
An editorial further explained that control by a few stewards could not awaken
national consciousness: “The Jewish people must emancipate themselves. They

must . . . solve their own problems. . . . The success of Zionism depends upon
our success in creating a Jewish democracy.”38 The same criticism applied to the
major Jewish organizations in Europe, like the French Alliance Israélite Univer-
selle and the German Hilfsverein der deutschen Juden, as well as to ideas of co-
ordinated activities through an international elitist committee.39
In the formative years of American Zionism, even when eastern European
Jewry required all the non-Jewish help it could get, the Maccabaean harshly
criticized those organizations or prominent individuals who took it upon
themselves to intervene with the American government on behalf of the op-
pressed. In 1902, largely under prodding by three leading Jews—Oscar Straus,
Jacob Schiff, and Lucius Littauer—Secretary of State John Hay circulated a
note among the powers protesting Romanian persecutions. The journal op-
posed the move, arguing first that Jewish diplomacy that aimed at coercing one
government through the intervention of other governments was doomed to
failure. Second, America’s kindness was appreciated, but Jews had to help
themselves. A year later the Maccabaean more vehemently objected to the Kish-
inev petition, a protest against the recent pogrom (a “holocaust,” the journal
called it) drawn up and circulated by B’nai B’rith and dispatched to Russia
through State Department channels. The petition did not receive the sanction
of the Jewish people or their responsible representatives, the Zionists said, and
it risked a worsening of the Russian situation. Again, in 1905, the Zionists sup-
ported the Jewish Self-Defense Association, an organization for arming Rus-
sian Jews in case of pogroms, instead of the stewards’ relief campaign, the Na-
tional Committee for Relief of Sufferers by Russian Massacres (NCRSRM).
The Maccabaean had this to say about two of the officers of the NCRSRM: “We
should be only too glad to see Mr. Schiff and Mr. Oscar Straus elected to carry
out a Jewish policy—but it must be a policy that has the sanction of the people
who elect them to carry their messages to the nations.” For similar reasons, the
Zionists foresaw only failure when a small Jewish delegation appealed to Ser-
gius Witte of Russia, then in the United States to negotiate a peace treaty con-
cluding the Russo-Japanese war, for the emancipation of Russian Jews. The del-
egates may have meant well, but they should have first consulted with
American and Russian Jews. Furthermore, the meeting injured more than it
helped, because the unrepresentative delegation, acting as the guardian of its
eastern European wards, left the impression of Jewish helplessness.40 Con-
stantly decrying oligarchical rule at the expense of self-help, the Zionists urged
the convocation of congresses that would enable Jews of all countries to ex-
press their will on problems of foreign Jewries.41
Only when the AJC orchestrated a national campaign in 1911 to have Con-
gress abrogate the Russo-American treaty of 1832 did it win the Maccabaean’s
approval. Russia was refusing visas to American Jews, and the committee, as
well as the Zionists, rightly interpreted the practice—to which the United
States under the treaty was a partner—as an infringement of American Jewish

equality. The committee at first applied quiet pressure on political leaders to

force an end to Russian discrimination, and the Maccabaean as usual criticized
its methods. But since quiet pressure proved unsuccessful, the AJC went pub-
lic in order to rally the community to its side. At that point the journal ap-
plauded the stewards and their change of policy; not only had the committee
abandoned its “backstairs” habits and appropriated the straightforward Zion-
ist approach, but an appeal directly to the people was in fact a show of politi-
cal power. Hadn’t the Zionists always said that the methods of the shtadlanim
“who were afraid to speak in the name of justice but appealed to the sentiment
of charity, must be replaced by a new method, breathing the spirit of freedom
and self-help”?42
The Zionists deserve a large measure of credit for the decline of stewardship
in America. Nevertheless, the picture of shtadlanut painted by the Maccabaean
was incomplete. Admittedly, shtadlanut was inherently undemocratic. For a
few men to arrogate to themselves the right to bargain for the community with-
out the community’s consent or even awareness bespoke a belief in their own
superiority. Given the wide social gap between the stewards and the rank and
file, and the deferential treatment they received from non-Jews as well as Jews
because of their socioeconomic status, they were in a position to mold the
community as they alone saw fit. Rarely were the stewards constrained by the
masses. Shtadlanut also meant cautiousness to the point of timidity; it implied
excessive fear of official disfavor or popular antisemitism, which, the stewards
thought, could be sparked by loud agitation or public demonstrations.
The Zionists ignored the impressive record of the shtadlanim—how they la-
bored to avert antisemitic outbreaks abroad and restrictive immigration legis-
lation at home, and how they provided financial relief for needy European
Jews. Not only did American officials approached by the shtadlanim prefer
behind-the-scenes pressure to noisy agitation, but the Maccabaean itself, de-
spite its criticism of the stewards, and despite its protestations of Zionist fear-
lessness, rarely risked alienating the government or public opinion. Finally, it
was most unlikely that the hopelessly divided American Jewish community at
the beginning of the century could have been organized democratically to deal
with the same problems. As history would show, the Zionists too indulged in
behind-the-scenes negotiations when they became a respectable lobby in
America.
In a veritable crusade for democratizing the communal structure, the Mac-
cabaean also charged that the major Jewish charities were undemocratic and
therefore estranged from the community. Dealing principally with the seem-
ingly endless flow of immigrants, the charities, according to the journal, were
unable to cope properly with the material and educational needs of the new-
comers. The Baron de Hirsch Fund, controlled by nine prominent philanthro-
pists and saddled with problems of immediate relief, economic rehabilitation,
and Americanization, was called an agency that crushed Jewish life “into the

mold of prejudiced theories,” and the Educational Alliance of New York City, a
settlement house supported by the fund, was a place where “the American
spirit is so rampant, at the expense of Jewish instruction.”43
The fund as well as other organizations also aroused criticism for attempts
to uproot Jews from the congested ghettos on the eastern seaboard and ship
them to points farther west. The sponsors of distribution sought thereby to ac-
celerate the process of Americanization and to defuse the mounting alarm of
immigration restrictionists. The Maccabaean, however, which roundly con-
demned distribution for its destructive impact on Jewish cohesiveness, prophe-
sied the failure of their plans. Although it did approve of schemes to settle Jews
on farms, it observed that it was natural for immigrants to herd together in the
cities and equally natural for them to ignore directives from above that paid no
attention to their personal preferences. Besides, inner-city congestion was not a
problem for which Jews alone could be blamed, especially at a time when a gen-
eral exodus from the American countryside to the cities was under way.
Schemes of distribution, the Maccabaean concluded, only validated the charges
of antisemitic restrictionists who held the new immigrants responsible for the
evils of rapid urbanization. (It is quite likely that the Zionists also realized that
densely settled urban enclaves enhanced the influence of the Jewish vote in
local and national elections.) In short, just as it measured individual Jews, so
did it judge communal institutions by their loyalty to Judaism as a national and
cohesive force.44
The Maccabaean’s concern for a heightened Jewish national consciousness en-

abled it to discuss American as well as American Jewish issues. On grounds of
Jewish interest, it supported separation of church and state, denounced Sunday
laws, and criticized the prejudiced and what it called the anti-American immi-
gration restrictionists. Denying that it was a political journal that freely com-
mented on political developments and parties, or boasted a political agenda for
the country, or advised Jews how to vote, the journal found it easy enough to
relate most events to Jewish interests.45 Here too the question of consistency
arose; as long as they posited an unfriendly if not destructive Diaspora, it
would have been quite logical for political Zionists to stand aloof from all
American issues. But at the same time the special position of American Jewry,
who had neither a physical need of, or personal desire for, a Jewish state, and
whose passion for acceptance as Americans by Americans was paramount, was
not forgotten by Zionist leaders. Since America was recognized as different, the
solution was not clear-cut. Flitting back and forth between engagement and
nonengagement in current American affairs, the journal never fixed on any
firm line that delimited Jewish from non-Jewish interests.
Two examples point up the halfway compromises settled on by the Macca-
baean. One instance: When New Yorkers prepared to choose a new mayor in
1901, prostitution in the Jewish ghetto on the city’s Lower East Side became a

major focal point of the anti-Tammany party. Although Jewish leaders joined
the reformers’ campaign, and although they made special efforts appealing to
Jewish voters, the journal refrained from advising Jews how to vote. A month
later, however, Richard Gottheil used the journal to attack the Jewish press. The
recent election concerned a moral issue, he wrote, but not one Yiddish or He-
brew newspaper supported the antiprostitution ticket. 46 Jewish interests were
unquestionably involved, but if so, why had the journal ignored the issue until
after the election?
A second example concerns the Maccabaean’s approach to the subject of
immigration restriction. During the formative years of American Zionism,
pressure for limiting the seemingly endless flow of immigrants increased sig-
nificantly. Although popular opinion was not specifically antisemitic, it did sin-
gle out the Jews as among the most undesirable groups. The Maccabaean re-
ported the successive attempts in Congress at framing restrictive legislation,
and repeatedly it registered its opposition. True, as Jewish life in eastern Europe
continued to worsen, free immigration was very much a Jewish interest. But in-
stead of concentrating on Jewish needs, the journal spent more time arguing
how restriction worked against the country’s democratic tradition and the
promise of America.47 It may have been a wiser political choice to rest the case
on American rather than Jewish grounds, but the entire subject appeared
somewhat out of place in a Zionist journal. How logical was it to press for free
immigration to the United States if Zionism looked upon a Jewish Palestine as
the optimal refuge? One might have sooner expected a campaign encouraging
would-be Jewish immigrants to make their goal Palestine, where their labors
would redound both to their own security and to the establishment of a Jewish
state. Here again the treatment of immigration shows that the guidelines for
what was within the Maccabaean’s purview were neither hard nor fast.
The World War
The outbreak of World War I injected a new tone into the Maccabaean. To be
sure, some subjects were rehashed as before—the errors of the anti-Zionists,
the undemocratic AJC, the need of continued support for the yishuv, and the
internal problems of the FAZ. But in the swift course of events on the war and
home fronts, a sense of imminent radical change pervaded the journal. Despite
the untold atrocities and suffering that accompanied military action, the jour-
nal usually presented an optimistic face, confident that postwar gains would ac-
crue to the Jews and to humanity at large. Caught up in the wave of American-
ization that swept the country, the Zionists also used the war years to prove how
American they and their movement were.
Before 1914 the Maccabaean had paid scant attention to foreign affairs. Ex-
cept for news of Zionist developments, the only two countries of concern were

Turkey and Russia—the former because it ruled Palestine, the latter because of
recurring pogroms. In light of the violent waves of anti-Jewish outbreaks in the
czarist regime, the journal showed little confidence in the prewar revolutionary
ferment in Russia, and despite the calling of the Duma in 1905, Zionists did not
expect the emancipation of their fellow Jews.48 On the other hand, the Young
Turk revolt of 1908, which the journal consistently applauded, generated much
optimism. Whether the new constitution would help Zionism, what the Young
Turks thought about Zionist efforts in Palestine, and whether the time had
come to renew Herzl’s earlier negotiations with Turkey became favorite topics
for articles and editorials. Judah Magnes wondered whether Zionists ought to
reformulate their objective. Was it necessary to insist on an autonomous Jewish
state or was settlement under a free government sufficient? In answer to such
comments, Max Nordau explained that it was premature to reopen Herzl-like
diplomatic negotiations; it was necessary first to ascertain Turkish opinion on
Zionism and to strengthen the movement. Even if the Turks were to offer con-
cessions for Jewish settlement, Nordau said, there was no need to alter the Basel
program. In 1913, Zionists hailed Woodrow Wilson’s appointment of Henry
Morgenthau as ambassador to Constantinople, and the Maccabaean was confi-
dent, although its confidence proved to be misplaced, that he sympathized with
their cause. When the war broke out less than a year later, the Zionists aligned
themselves with Turkey in opposition to any intervention by Europe. Banking
on Turkish friendship, the Maccabaean said that any move against Turkish ter-
ritorial integrity was a move against Zionism.49
Never had the prewar issues of the journal seriously suggested the form that
a Jewish state would take. Herzl had offered several pointers in Der Judenstaat,
but like other statements by the Zionist leader, they were not developed in de-
tail by his supporters. Aside from very occasional remarks—that Zionism was
“radically progressive,” that it would be not enslaved by laissez-faire or laws of
private property—and aside from denunciations of the widespread charge that
Jews couldn’t govern themselves, writers for the Maccabaean usually ignored
the subject.50 (An interesting exception: The writer of one article posited that a
Jewish state would not be like all the nations. An exemplar of justice and mo-
rality, it had to be better than the others.)51 Only during the war years, when
England was considering a pro-Zionist move to win Jewish support, did
thoughts turn to the future of a Jewish homeland in Palestine.
The closest attempt to define the nature of the Jewish state was Herzl’s
novel, Altneuland, which was serialized in the journal. Employing the genre of
the late-nineteenth-century utopian novel, Herzl wrote that he meant the
novel to be a fairy tale with a moral. The story begins with a visit to Palestine
by two young disillusioned western Europeans, one Jewish and one Christian.
The Palestine they find at the end of 1902 is a land of decay. Twenty years later
the two visitors return, this time to a land transformed, a Jewish utopia. The
introduction of technology and electrical power has modernized industry and

agriculture, cities and commerce. The prevailing economic system is neither

individualism nor collectivism but is rather one of cooperatives. Cooperatives
also distinguish a reformed social order that deals successfully with matters like
education and treatment of prisoners. The rights of women are guaranteed
and so is religious freedom; Jew and Arab live side by side in a spirit of brother-
hood. Despite the rosy aura that was projected, the Maccabaean never dis-
cussed Altneuland. Modern Zionists took to heart only the motto coined by
Herzl for the novel: “Wenn Ihr vollt, ist es kein Märchen.” (If you will it, it is no
fairy tale.)
From the onset of the war, Zionist opinion supported Wilson. Sounding no
different from the established Jewish organizations, the Maccabaean aimed at
proving the patriotism of American Jews. The journal came out strongly in
favor of the president’s early efforts at mediation as well as his call for strict
neutrality. Neutrality was a sticky issue for Jews; whereas Americans in general
showed greater sympathy for the Triple Entente, many Jews opposed any alli-
ance in which czarist Russia was a partner. The Maccabaean’s tone smacked of
anti-Russian sentiment, but the periodical itself, careful not to take sides
openly, criticized Richard Gottheil for a public statement in support of the Al-
lies.53 When Wilson broke off relations with Germany, the journal announced
its full accord. “The Zionist movement runs parallel with the idealism of this
land,” it said. Agreeing with the president’s idealistic talk of a world safe for de-
mocracy, the Zionists added a note of self-interest: the war was for democracy
and for the rights of small nationalities. “Since nations do not disappear,” one
article asked, “why should we?” America’s entry into the war in April 1917
prompted further patriotic declarations. Identifying America’s cause as “our”
cause, the Maccabaean spoke against Jewish pacifists and urged Jews to enlist in
the war effort. Military service was not only the duty of the citizen, but neces-
sary to dispel a popular view of the Jews as draft dodgers.54
American Zionism underwent a radical upheaval upon the outbreak of the
war. Since it was now impossible for the Actions Comité, the executive of the
WZO, to coordinate activity in Europe, a substitute body in the United States,
the Provisional Zionist Committee (PZC), was established for the duration
under the chairmanship of Louis Brandeis. Since the hub of WZO which ad-
ministered financial affairs was transferred temporarily to the United States,
the shift automatically elevated the status of American Zionism. Until now we
were only a “distant contributor” in the upbuilding of Palestine, one statement
in the Maccabaean said, but now we are asked for our personal services, our ex-
pertise, and our abilities in state-building. The journal asserted with great con-
fidence that since “the future of Zionism lies in America,” American Jews
would rise to the challenge.55 More significant for the future of American Zion-
ism was the assumption of leadership by Brandeis, a close adviser to the presi-
dent and a reformer of national repute.

The PZC eclipsed the FAZ, and for all practical purposes, as Professor Mel-
vin Urofsky has written, the FAZ existed during the war in name only. The PZC
immediately turned its attention to the problems of Jewish wartime relief. It
faced a dilemma: Should it respond first to the needs of the yishuv or the needs
of European Jews? In the end it undertook both. The Allies had imposed a
blockade upon Turkish ports, and economic life in Palestine, dependent upon
export of its citrus crop, ground to a virtual halt. In central and eastern Europe,
more than three million Jews lived directly in the path of the contending ar-
mies and suffered atrocities at the hands of both sides. Despite their military
service in the various countries, the Maccabaean commented bitterly, Jews were
still regarded universally as aliens. On behalf of the yishuv and with the help of
the American government, Zionists in cooperation with the AJC contributed to
the despatch of a relief ship with necessary foodstuffs and other supplies. They
also raised funds for the direct relief of Jewish victims in Palestine and Europe
and for keeping alive the Jewish institutions in Palestine. Unable to compete fi-
nancially with the wealthy steward-led American Jewish Relief Committee, the
Zionists nonetheless kept their multipronged relief campaign before the read-
ers of the Maccabaean.56
Zionists took particular pride in their newly created Transfer Department,
which serviced both Palestine and Europe. With the approval of the American
government they introduced a way for relatives to send money to victims in dif-
ferent battle zones. The money was transmitted by the PZC to the State Depart-
ment, which in turn relayed the funds to American representatives abroad for
distribution to the designees. One statement in 1916 reported that about $1000
was transmitted daily. Available also to non-Jews and to people of all groups at
home and abroad, the Transfer Department earned Washington’s commenda-
tion, and it functioned as long as the United States remained neutral. Zionists
basked in the praise; they thought their prestige had risen just because people
now saw the Jew as a humanitarian.57
Relief work brought another benefit. According to Brandeis, aid and sup-
port from the American government to Zionist wartime ventures showed yet
again that Zionist ideals were in essence American. He elaborated in broad
terms: “It is democracy that Zionism represents. It is full and complete liberty
which Zionism represents, and every bit of that is the American ideal of the
Twentieth Century.”58
Of all their wartime activities the Zionists were proudest of their campaign
for an American Jewish Congress. The oft-told story59 of the movement for a
congress began at the very onset of the war. Attention turned to the issue of
guaranteeing Jewish rights in Europe, and the notion of a democratically elected
congress, representative of the community, that would formulate and present the
Jewish case to the peacemakers rapidly caught on. The Zionists favored the idea
for two reasons. First, the congress planned to ask for Jewish national rights in
postwar countries—success would mean international sanction of the concept of

a Jewish nationality, the heart of the Zionist brief. Second and more compelling,
a democratically elected congress promised to shift communal leadership away
from the established Jews into the hands of the Zionist-led majority.
The fight over a congress, which raged between 1914 and 1917, pitted the
Zionists against their old adversary, the AJC. Since much of Zionist invective
was directed at the committee, the latter bitterly contested the Zionists and
their supporters. It had assumed that it alone would handle postwar negotia-
tions; later, in light of communal pressure, it grudgingly agreed to a conference
of delegates of national organizations, still a far cry from a democratic con-
gress elected by the masses. Fearful of noisy agitation directed by nationalist
Jews, the AJC believed that its very life was at stake. Long drawn-out negotia-
tions between the Zionists and the committee and between their leaders—
Cyrus Adler, president of the AJC, and Louis Brandeis, chairman of the PZC—
publicly exposed the bitterness between the two sides. The committee was
finally compelled to capitulate. It managed, however, to win on two matters:
the leaders of the congress movement promised that the congress would not
become a permanent organization, and bowing to the government’s sugges-
tion, they agreed to defer the congress until after the war. In the end, there was
a congress and a congressional delegation to Versailles, but it was Louis Mar-
shall of the AJC, and not the Zionists, who formulated the American Jewish de-
mands and led Jewish negotiations at the peace conference.
Understandably the Maccabaean, ever the champion of communal democ-
racy, cheered on the congress supporters in its very full reportage of develop-
ments. Claiming an increased interest in Zionism brought about by the war, the
journal stated that the very idea of a national and democratic congress would
further activate that interest. The AJC, it said, was unworthy of serving as the
people’s representative, because it didn’t even pretend to care about public
opinion.60 In the summer of 1916 a conference to resolve the differences was
held at the Hotel Astor. There, according to Zionist reports, the committee ap-
peared particularly high-handed and belligerent in an interchange with the
Zionists. Its blatant insults, the Maccabaean charged, forced Brandeis to resign
from the congress organization committee. Peace was finally reached; the com-
mittee accepted a congress with the stipulations mentioned above.61
The Maccabaean was ecstatic. The congress, it said, marked a new era of
self-emancipation and self-help, a virtual “revolution,” in American Jewish
life. It was the Jewish Parliament, “the organ of Jewish national aspiration”;
and “the first step in the direction of distributing the responsibilities, as well
as the privileges, connected with Jewish citizenship.” The Zionists were re-
sponsible, the Maccabaean concluded, for having democratized the American
Jewish community.62 For our purposes it should be noted that the victory of
communal democracy, like the wartime patriotism of American Jews, proved
yet again how Zionist leaders made use of American principles on which to
base their activities.

Zionism scored its first major triumph when England issued the Balfour Dec-
laration. In a letter dated November 2, 1917, from Arthur James Balfour, the
British foreign secretary, to Baron Lionel Rothschild, it was announced that
“His Majesty’s Government view with favor the settlement in Palestine of a
national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavors to facil-
itate the achievement of this object.” A wartime measure, the declaration had
been in the making ever since Turkey had entered the war on the side of Ger-
many and Austria-Hungary. Its immediate object was to capture Jewish sym-
pathy, especially in the United States, for the Allies and to shore up England’s
strategic interests in the Near East. Pushed by leading Zionists in England and
by Brandeis, who intervened with President Wilson, the declaration, which
was eventually recognized internationally, put the seal of legitimacy on politi-
cal Zionism. Twenty years after the first congress at Basel, Herzl’s goal had
been achieved.
A mood of exhileration gripped American Zionists. Those who shared their
sentiments with the Maccabaean lavished much praise on England. They talked
exuberantly of the Jewish Magna Carta, the “happiest epoch” in Jewish history,
and the first ray of light for eastern European Jewry. An editorial in the Macca-
baean summed up the Zionist hopes: “Zionism was. Zion is about to be.”63
Overall, American Zionist leaders were satisfied with the progress they had
made during the first twenty years of the FAZ. As early as 1910 they demanded
that European Zionists not limit the role of the Americans to philanthropy;
they wanted greater European attention to the American situation and a
greater share for themselves in Zionist policymaking.64 To be sure, as the Mac-
cabaean reported, the leaders frequently bemoaned the paucity of members—
twelve thousand in 1914, an increase of only eight thousand since 1900—a
condition that changed dramatically only under the leadership of the charis-
matic Brandeis.65 Troubled throughout the years by lack of funds, they real-
ized too that their type of organization, a loose federation, bred problems of
inefficiency and disunity. Nevertheless, at least according to the Maccabaean,
they had successfully injected heightened idealism and self-confidence into the
evolving mold of American Jewish life, and their movement had contributed
to a palpable diminution of Reform’s intense opposition to a Jewish homeland
in Palestine.
Inconsistencies and compromises notwithstanding, the Maccabaean took
pride in its contributions to Zionism and to American Jewish life. Louis Lipsky
wrote on the journal’s tenth anniversary:
The Maccabaean has contributed something to the fabric of Jewish life in Amer-
ica. It has contributed the silver threads of a proud Jewish consciousness. . . . The
Maccabaean has brought into the literature which the American Jewish youth will
read something more than the apologetics that have belittled Jewish life. It . . . has

interpreted the positive movements in Jewish life abroad, and has aided materi-
ally in preventing the isolation of American Jewry by compelling it . . . to give
attention and thought to the larger interests of the Jewish people.66
Nor were Lipsky’s claims unfounded. A dignified pride in Jewish culture and
history, which was conspicuously absent from other Anglo-Jewish periodicals,
made the Maccabaean a serious literary journal. Without apologetics, a com-
mon characteristic of the Jewish minority, it encouraged the development of
an American Jewish literature.
How successful the Maccabaean and its parent organization were in building
a strong American Zionist movement was quite another matter. Undeniably
they planted Zionism in American soil, never to be uprooted. Their ability to
win the support of a man like Brandeis testified to the attractiveness of their
message and, like their campaigns for heightened self-respect and communal
democracy, was a notable achievement.
Some Zionist weaknesses, however, lasted as long as Zionism itself. Despite
the creation of an Americanized Zionism, the leaders of the FAZ failed to de-
fine adequately the differences that Zionism would make in the life of the aver-
age American Jew. Their answers to questions about American antisemitism,
Jewish activity in American politics, and the limits to acceptance in Christian
America were neither firm nor entirely convincing. Most American Jews, in-
cluding enrolled Zionists, neither regarded America as galut nor disengaged
themselves from participation in American affairs. The very idea of an aroused
national consciousness was doubtless lost on the vast numbers who consciously
or unconsciously preferred the path of assimilation. For them Zionism was at
best another philanthropy dedicated to the needs of Jewish refugees.
Other weaknesses marred the progress of the formative years. Just as the
FAZ and the Maccabaean neglected the concerns of Jewish labor, so did they
keep aloof from the social and economic problems of needy Jews. The fer-
ment of Progressive reform left them untouched. Despite a vague identifica-
tion with liberal forces in general, they never actively sought out allies within
the political parties. Alone, their arguments were unable to stand up to the
American nativist forces of the postwar decade. More disturbing, American
Zionism during its first twenty years failed to impart to Jewish youth the en-
thusiasm of the European chalutz (pioneer) movement or the idealism of
aliyah. Zionists preached the need of a Jewishly educated community, but they
provided neither schools nor specific guidelines of their own. Consequently,
their message was unable to attract or make sense to the next generation, the
children of the eastern Europeans, who in increasing numbers were lured
away from things Jewish by secular studies at American colleges and univer-
sities. After the glorious days of Louis Brandeis, American Zionism remained
little more than a comfortable Zionism, one that was eminently fitted to the
oncoming era of Palestinianism.

CHAPTER 2
A Clash of Ideologies:
Reform Judaism vs. Zionism
T he most formidable opposition to American Zionism during its formative

years came from Reform Judaism. Indeed, Reform’s anti-Zionism was in
place long before there was a Zionist movement. From its very beginnings Re-
form had fused its theological precepts with American principles, and the re-
sultant compound was the base from which it derived its anti-Zionism. At the
heart of its controversy with Zionism lay the issue of two antithetical ideolo-
gies and two contradictory assessments of the compatibility, or incompatibil-
ity, of Zionism with Americanism. By Americanizing its religious principles—
or, the obverse, by cloaking Americanism in religious garb—Reform’s leaders
became the most vehement critics of Jewish nationalism in the United States.
Just as Zionists worked to depict their cause in terms familiar and acceptable to
other Americans, so did Reformers Americanize anti-Zionism.1
The argument that Reform because of its American dimension could not
tolerate Jewish nationalism was heard in some Reform circles well into the
twentieth century. In 1944 Rabbi Solomon Freehof, then president of Reform’s
Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR), explained that long-lived
theme:
All American Jews love America . . . but the love of America among Reform Jews
is to this extent different, that it is virtually part of their religion. . . . Judaism
and Americanism are so inextricably intertwined that any doctrine which car-
ries the slightest implication of any other national allegiance arouses their in-
stantaneous opposition. Nothing is gained by describing this feeling in depreca-
tory terms as an inferiority complex. . . . The fact is, this Americanism is a living
and integral part of the religious feeling of the average Reform layman. He dis-
likes the word “national” in connection with the word “Jewish” because it in-
stantly implies to him that he is asked to have some national allegiance other
than the one which he so proudly holds in his heart and mind for America.
39
These sentiments, deep-rooted and pervasive, have not been the result of indoc-
trination. They were, in some form, part of the conviction of the first Reform
laymen long before the rabbis even participated in the Reform movement.2
Classical Reformers fashioned their religion into an American creed par excel-
lence. In their eyes, should political Zionism ever succeed, it would signal the
bankruptcy of their faith.
Reform put American Zionism on the defensive and forced the young na-
tionalist movement to find answers to the incessant criticism. Although the
contenders fought for the same prize, i.e., public acceptance, they were in no
way equals. In manpower, material assets, and social status Reformers out-
stripped the Zionists by far. Nor did the Zionists begin to enjoy the influence
that Reformers wielded with non-Jews. All told, the wonder is that Zionism did
not collapse under Reform’s onslaught. But for the counterchallenges to
Reform’s anti-Zionism—notably by those Reform rabbis who supported Zion-
ism and by Solomon Schechter and Louis Brandeis—the American Zionist
movement might well have succumbed to its archenemy.
Reform’s Religious Principles
With roots going back to the seventeenth century, the idea of a “reformed” Ju-
daism was given a significant boost by the climate of the French Revolution.
Freedom was in the air, and European Jews dreamed of emancipation from the
servitude and degradation they had so long endured. Intellectuals among
them, having imbibed the optimistic teachings of the Enlightenment, latched
onto the ideas of rationalism, liberalism and individualism, universalism and
progress, and turned their backs on the “anachronistic” Judaism of the now-
despised ghetto. Understanding that the modern state would not tolerate sepa-
ratism of a nationalist nature within its borders, they defined themselves solely
as a religious group. In a few cases government prompting led to public denials
of Jewish nationalism and the excision of prayers for a return to Palestine. Al-
though many Jews left the faith entirely, some thinkers who desired to retain
their religion, albeit in modern dress, experimented with reform—changes in
substance as well as form in the local synagogues and Jewish schools. Underly-
ing those experiments was the quest for civic equality and social acceptance;
implicit in them was the promise to conform, as Jews, to the practices of the
countries in which they lived. Those pioneers well understood that only by rec-
onciling the Jewish faith with modernity could they hope to keep their fellow
Jews within the fold. The experiments spread, and by the 1840s, when German
rabbis held three conferences for outlining their emendations of Jewish law and
ceremonials, Reform had become a movement. For our purposes it is especially
important to note that the repudiation of the “national” dimension of rabbinic

Judaism—including laws and customs connected with Palestine—had by the

middle of the nineteenth century become a norm of the new faith.3
Reform continued to develop in Germany, but it came to fruition in the
United States. Without the medieval baggage of ghettos, feudalism and caste,
monarchy and established church, America, a land of liberty and promise, at-
tracted wave after wave of European immigrants. Early Reformers saw a coun-
try that offered freedom of religion, a commitment to the separation of church
and state, and noninterference in rifts between Reform Jews and traditional-
ists—in short, a land destined for the fulfillment of their religion.4
Rabbis first arrived in the new country after 1840, but the stirrings of Re-
form, influenced by the German experience, had begun earlier.5 In 1824, mem-
bers of Charleston’s Beth Elohim congregation petitioned for a revision of the
traditional beliefs and customs of their synagogue. When their requests were
rejected, they seceded from the congregation and organized the Reformed So-
ciety of Israelites. Their intellectual leader, Isaac Harby, called for shrugging
off the yoke of rabbinic Judaism and substituting a rational faith that was rel-
evant to American sentiments. Among other things, he taught that if the
country lived up to its ideals, American Jews had no need of Palestine (“some
stony desert”) in place of “this happy land.” Harby co-authored a new prayer
book for the Society, and, not surprisingly, references to a return to Zion were
omitted. The Reformed Society failed within a short time, but the arrival from
Germany of rabbinic leaders like Isaac Mayer Wise, David Einhorn, Kauf-
mann Kohler, Samuel Adler, and Samuel Hirsch speeded up the pace of
Reform’s growth in the United States. The revolt of the rabbis against Mosaic
laws and Talmudic precepts proceeded, and also high on their list of recom-
mended changes in beliefs and liturgy was the rejection of the traditional
longing for restoration to Palestine, replete with Temple, priests, and sacrifi-
cial system.
After the Civil War, attempts were made to unite the moderate and radical
Reform rabbis and to formulate a common creed. The first successful confer-
ence was held in 1869 in Philadelphia. There the assembled rabbis adopted res-
olutions that summed up the repudiation of restoration: the destruction of the
Second Temple was providential; the institutions of sacrifices and priesthood
were “consigned to the past”; the messianic era no longer meant restoration
and Jewish statehood. Reformers repeated those principles along with their
definition of Israel’s mission and Jewish exile in the Pittsburgh Platform of
1885, the official creed of Reform rabbis for more than half a century. In Pitts-
burgh the rabbis explicitly stated: “We consider ourselves no longer a nation,
but a religious community, and therefore expect neither a return to Palestine,
nor a sacrificial worship under the sons of Aaron, nor the restoration of any of
the laws concerning the Jewish state.”6 A few years later, a firm denial of a resto-
ration to Palestine was included in the Union Prayer Book, which serviced
American Reform congregations for almost fifty years. In 1890, at its first annual
A Clash of Ideologies 41
convention, the CCAR incorporated into its proceedings the resolutions passed
by the conferences in Germany and at Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, saying that
those precedents constituted the basis on which the CCAR built.7 Opposition
to Jewish nationalism and to the hope of restoration thus became keystones of
the American Reform creed.
The American Reform movement was well entrenched by 1897. Its tripartite
structure—an organization of rabbis, an organization of congregational lay
leaders, and a rabbinical seminary—governed a network of congregations, usu-
ally the more affluent in a city or state, which were spread throughout the land.
By 1917 the number of congregations had risen to two hundred, with a member-
ship of twenty-three thousand. At the same time, Reformers dominated the
Jewish Establishment; their rabbis and laymen headed the major charitable and
defense agencies and for the most part set policy for the community. The na-
tional religious census of 1890, the only one to distinguish between Reform and
Orthodox Jews, revealed that the former outdistanced the latter in membership
and in the value of synagogal property.8 To be sure, the numbers of the tradi-
tionalists, from whose ranks most of the Zionists came, rose rapidly with the
mass immigration of eastern Europeans. But they were as yet too foreign, too
poor, and too divided—hardly a match for the acculturated Reformers.
After the publication of Theodor Herzl’s Der Judenstaat (The Jewish State)
in 1896 and the calling of the First Zionist Congress a year later, Reform vigor-
ously renewed its antinationalist stand. To begin with, the secular cast of the
Zionist movement alienated religious leaders and traditionalists of all stripes as
well as Reformers. On the premise that nationalism by definition was secular,
critics leveled charges against Zionism. “There is nothing religious . . . about
the whole scheme,” and their “very use of the name of Zion is a profanation
and abuse,” said one Reformer. Agnostics and infidels, Zionists lacked “a spark
of religiosity in their soul,” ranted another.9 But unlike the spokesmen for tra-
ditionalists, Reformers more frequently sparred with Zionists on theological
grounds. Since the time and energy expended on that effort seems excessive in
light of the small number of enrolled Zionists, it is not unfair to assume that
Reform’s anti-Zionist crusade was directed at a larger audience, i.e., the general
public as well as the undecided Jews. Doubtless non-Jews learned more about
Zionism from Reform statements than from Zionist sources.
In 1897 the CCAR passed an anti-Zionist resolution that was reaffirmed time
and again by American Reform institutions and Reform press:
Resolved, That we totally disapprove of any attempt for the establishment of a

Jewish state. Such attempts show a misunderstanding of Israel’s mission, which
from the narrow political and national field has been expanded to the promotion
among the whole human race of the broad and universalistic religion first pro-
claimed by the Jewish prophets. . . .
one line short

We reaffirm that the object of Judaism is not political nor national, but spiri-
tual, and addresses itself to the continuous growth of peace, justice and love in
the human race, to a messianic time when all men will recognize that they form
“one great brotherhood” for the establishment of God’s kingdom on earth.10
The resolution touched on the key ideological precepts of Reform—the mis-

sion of Israel, Jewish exile, and the messianic age. Since those beliefs readily
lent themselves to denunciations of political Zionism, an explanation of each is
in order:
1. Israel’s mission. Reform taught that Jews constituted a unique religious
community, preserved by religion and bound together only by religious ties. As
the chosen priest-people of the Almighty, theirs was a universal mission to
propagate the religion preached by the Prophets—the knowledge of Israel’s
one God and the loving-kindness of man to his fellow man throughout the
world. Borne by past, present, and future generations of Jews, the mission was
“for all times and places.” But for that mission, Jews had no claim to a separate
existence. When the prophetic ethical message was realized worldwide, Jews
would become part of a common humanity and the messianic era would have
arrived.11
The mission idea was sufficient to damn political Zionism and Zionists. In
Kaufmann Kohler’s words, “the underlying idea, the fundamental principle of
Reform Judaism to be accentuated more than any other, is that Judaism is no
more a national religion than its God is a tribal God.” Zionism, reactionary and
pessimistic because it reverted to narrow and particularistic nationalism, de-
nied the promise of the oncoming universal messianic age. Its “negation of the
best hope . . . of Judaism” made its message one of despair. It was destined to
fail, confident Reformers agreed, and bound to add yet another “disillusion-
ment” to the “tragedies of the ghetto.” Failing to recognize the universal charac-
ter of Judaism and its mission, which transcended the confines of a political
state, Zionism preached a false philosophy.12
2. Israel’s exile. A logical derivative of the ideas of universal religion and
mission was Reform’s interpretation of Israel’s exile. Repudiating traditional
beliefs and flying in the face of Jewish history, Reformers had reached a consen-
sus as early as 1869 on the concept of Jewish dispersion among the nations. At
Philadelphia they affirmed the following:
We look upon the destruction of the second Jewish commonwealth not as a pun-
ishment for the sinfulness of Israel, but as a result of the divine purpose revealed
to Abraham which, as has become ever clearer in the course of the world’s his-
tory, consists in the dispersion of the Jews to all parts of the earth for the realiza-
tion of their high priestly mission, to lead the nations to the true knowledge and
worship of God.
one line short

A few years later Rabbi Emil Hirsch wrote in a similar vein that Israel had left
Palestine not longing for restoration but “as a missionary, to suffer and sigh,
live and die for the truth entrusted to him.”13
With the advent of political Zionism, Reformers expatiated on the concept
of exile. The dispersion of the Jews after the destruction of the Second Temple,
they reiterated time and again, was a positive blessing, for exile from Palestine
was the first step toward the fulfillment of the Jewish mission. Therefore, it was
wrong to mourn the destruction of the Temple. Turning rabbinic tradition on
its head, some Reformers even taught that Tisha b’Av, the traditional day of
mourning the destruction, should be commemorated as a joyous occasion:
“Our Judaism is . . . not a widow mourning for Zion and Jerusalem, but a bride
adorned for the wedding with humanity.” Modern Jews needed no separate
homeland of their own, Reformers insisted, since the Torah was not bound to
any particular soil and the center of Judaism was the “universal kingdom of
righteousness to be established on earth.”14 It followed that Zionism, based on
the “ingathering of exiles” into a Palestinian Jewish center, home, or state, was
unacceptable.
3. The messianic age. Substitution of a messianic “age” in place of a personal
messiah had been discussed by Reformers since the early nineteenth century.
The creed of the Reformed Society in Charleston, for example, omitted men-
tion of a messiah. At the German conferences in the 1840s rabbis spoke against
both a messiah and a national restoration to Palestine and statehood. The
thrust of those pioneers was to spiritualize eschatological beliefs, to interpret
the end of the days as the golden age dominated by “light, truth, and peace.”
Whereas rabbinic tradition spoke of redemption from exile when the messiah
came, Reform defined redemption as deliverance from physical and spiritual
evil. Restoration had no part within history or the messianic age.15 Since Zion-
ism was but a pseudo-messianism, its teachings were at least as false as those of
rabbinic Judaism.
Reformers did not omit entirely the mention of Palestine in the liturgy. Pal-
estine deserved a place in Jewish memory just because it was the birthplace of
Judaism, the “cradle of our people” and the setting of the Prophets and the
psalmists. Nevertheless, it had no purpose as a home for the modern American
Jew: “Do not weep for Zion. Jerusalem is not our tomorrow. It was our yester-
day.” Jewish nationality and statehood belonged to a closed chapter of the past,
one that served merely as a training period to prepare the Jews for their future
mission. The Zionists cried “backward,” Reformers taunted, while Reform’s
path was “forward” to the “promised and certain future.”16
The theology of classical Reform in the formative years of American Zion-
ism clearly set forth the essential differences between the two movements. As
Rabbi David Philipson wrote, they were “incompatible” and “irreconcilable”:
“Reform Judaism is spiritual, Zionism is political; Reform Judaism is universal,
one line short

Zionism is particularistic; Reform Judaism looks to the future, Zionism to the

past; the outlook of Reform Judaism is the world, the outlook of Zionism is a
corner of Western Asia.”17
Reform and Americanism
The teachings of the Age of Reason resonate throughout the writings and
speeches of Reformers. The Reform movement was a child of the eighteenth-
century Enlightenment, and it remained fixed in that time warp long after the
Age of Reason had given way to Romanticism and heightened nationalism.
American Reform stayed true to its roots. Not only did it shape its theology ac-
cording to the philosophy of the Age of Reason, but it found in the Enlighten-
ment the connective link between Americanism and the Reform faith. It could
thereby claim a shared parentage with the American creed.
Reform’s identification with Americanism had a mathematical precision
about it. Given: Reform was grounded in the philosophy of the Enlightenment,
and the American creed was grounded in the philosophy of the Enlightenment.
Thus, if “a” (Reform) = “c” (a product of the Enlightenment) and “b” (the
American creed) = “c,” then “a” = “b.” On those scales Reform confidently
equated American ideals with its own religious beliefs. It followed first, that if
Zionism was at odds with Reform theology, it was simultaneously un-
American, and second, that if Zionism appeared to be un-American, it was also
a contradiction of the Reform faith.
Buttressing the American connection still further, Reformers found support
in the mission concept of the early Puritans. The latter, calling themselves the
children of Israel, drew heavily from the Pentateuch and the books of the
Prophets in their quest to establish a new Zion on the American continent.
When Reformers became aware of the Puritan legacy, they embraced the simi-
larities to their beliefs. Like the Puritans, they too consigned the Israelites of
biblical times to the past, and they too proclaimed a mission to create a spiritual
Zion. Their Zion, again like the Puritans’, was in the United States, the Holy
Land, the new land of milk and honey. One Reform Jew and amateur historian,
Oscar S. Straus, advanced the theme of a common heritage still further. His
book, The Origin of Republican Form of Government in the United States of
America, showed how the biblical commonwealth, frequently cited in early
American sermons and political tracts, served as the model for the colonists
during the Revolution and the establishment of a democratic government. Like
his fellow Reform Jews, Straus reduced both Judaism and Americanism to the
common denominator of liberty.18
Talk of an American mission persisted in the postcolonial era. In many cases,
interpreters posited that America was destined to be the exemplar of universal
one line short

liberty. As Benjamin Franklin had said during the Revolution: “Our cause is the
Cause of all Mankind, and . . . we are fighting for their Liberty in defending our
own.” A national mission of freedom was also invoked during the era of mani-
fest destiny; since America was destined to spread the blessings of liberty, its
expansion into new territories was entirely justified. Reformers extolled the
American mission; along with the values of justice, equality, and righteousness,
the American mission echoed themes in the Old Testament. The biblical verse
“Zion shall be redeemed with righteousness” (Isaiah 1.27), one Reformer said,
clearly referred to America, since only in that land was there a hope for right-
eousness. Kaufmann Kohler, the leading theologian of American Reform at the
turn of the century, was moved to write:
We perceive in the jubilant tocsin peals of American liberty the mighty resonance
of Sinai’s thunder. We recognize in the Fourth of July the offspring of the Sixth of
Sivan [the traditional date marking God’s grant of the Torah to Israel]. We be-
hold in the glorious sway of man’s sovereignty throughout this blessed land the
foundation stone for the splendid temple of humanity we hope and pray for.19
Like the statement of Rabbi Freehof quoted above, Kohler’s message under-
scored the American content that permeated the Reform faith. A loyal Reform
Jew was thereby a loyal American and one whose feelings for America evoked a
religious-like passion that transcended mere patriotism. Untroubled by the
seeming contradiction between intense nationalism and their universalist mes-
sage, classical Reformers believed that Reform could soonest come to full
bloom in the United States.
During the formative years of American Zionism (1897–1917) Reform rabbis
and lay leaders preached incessantly on America as the religiously sanctioned
promised land. The Union of American Hebrew Congregations (UAHC), the
lay organization of Reform congregations, resolved in 1898 that “America is our
Zion. Here, in the home of religious liberty, we have aided in founding this new
Zion, the fruition of the beginning laid in the old.”20 Used principally against
Zionism, the theme well fit the upsurge of hypernationalism in the United
States during the same twenty years. With arguments acceptable to both non-
Jews and Jews, Reform’s anti-Zionism was far more than a Jewish in-house
squabble. Throughout the first period of American Zionism, Reform served as
the most articulate and best-known critic of the Jewish nationalist movement.
With the average Reform layman in mind, we may assume that the Ameri-
can element of the Reform creed was of greater pragmatic value to the anti-
Zionists than the theological. Members of a Reform temple were usually those
who enjoyed or aspired to social status within the community and whose reli-
gious needs were filled by truncated prayers in English conducted by
Americanized rabbis in a Protestant-like setting. Since full acceptance as
Americans by the larger society was their aim, they could well relate to Reform’s

charges against the un-Americanism of Zionism even if they didn’t understand

Reform’s theology.
According to Reform leaders, Zionism contradicted Americanism in extra-
ideological ways as well. To begin with, its origin was foreign—it was brought
into the country by recent refugees fleeing eastern European antisemitism—
and it stood for Jewish separatism and clannishness. Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise,
the master builder of the American Reform movement, feared what he called
the “Russification” of the American Jew. As pernicious as hyphenated national-
ism and the retention of Yiddish and other abominable ghetto habits, Zionism
was a movement alien to the United States and to all Americans. No decent na-
tive American Jew countenanced Zionism, Wise’s American Israelite, the lead-
ing Reform periodical, wrote, except for “a very few young visionaries and im-
practical college professors.” The solution, which meant stripping Zionism of
its appeal, lay in rapid and total Americanization, or the casting of the immi-
grant Jews into the mold fixed by the Reformers.21
Reform preached the need of assimilation to the masses of eastern Euro-
pean immigrants who were then seeking refuge in the United States. Even if Re-
formers didn’t actively encourage the growing sentiment for immigration re-
striction, they very likely contributed to nativist prejudice against the
separatist Jewish arrivals. Positioning themselves as the virtuous champions of
Americanization and hence the acceptable Jews, Reformers spoke with the
support of American tradition. Hadn’t John Quincy Adams demanded of im-
migrants as early as 1819: “They must cast off the[ir] European skin, never to
resume it. They must look forward to their posterity rather than backward to
their ancestors”? The anti-Zionists found backing in Jewish tradition too, and
like the prophet Jeremiah, who counseled the first exiles from Jerusalem to
Babylon, they advised the new immigrants to “ ‘seek the welfare of the city to
which I have exiled you and pray to the Lord in its behalf, for in its prosperity
you shall prosper’ (Jeremiah 29.7).”22
Reformers protested repeatedly that American Jews were at home in their
new land, that they neither required nor desired any other. Content to identify
with the United States, and sharing the same values and interests as other
Americans, they rejoiced in the honor and successes of the nation. In light of
Jewish loyalty and love of country, it would be “lunacy to ask us to give up our
glorious birthright here for a mess of pottage elsewhere.” America was not exile
(with the traditional nuances of suffering), and to suggest as much was “little
short of treason.”23
Thus disposing of the Zionists’ political dream for American Jews, Reform-
ers also trained their arguments on cultural Zionism, or the concept that Jews
worldwide needed a spiritual center for the salvation of Judaism itself. Re-
form, however, countered that assimilation, a characteristic of the modern
age, did not presage the extinction of Judaism. Weren’t the greatest Jewish cul-
tural achievements products of lands outside Palestine where Jews enjoyed the
environment of their neighbors? Only cross-fertilization with elements of

foreign civilizations enriched Jewish culture and ensured the vibrancy of the
Jewish faith. Conversely, in a land of their own, which would amount to a new
ghetto, culture and religion were bound to stagnate. Implied was the assurance
that Judaism and Jewish culture could live and thrive in the United States. In-
deed, if, as Reform posited, America was the one true homeland of American
Jews, the culture created in a Jewish state would not be their culture.24
Reformers found answers to Herzl’s emphasis on the threat of antisemitism
to a viable Jewish existence outside their own homeland. Not only did they mini-
mize European antisemitism—and this at a time when pogroms raged in czarist
Russia—but they also claimed that the constant noise about the wrongs suffered
by Jews abroad had become wearisome to American non-Jews. After all, the pop-
ular wave of antisemitism in Paris in response to the Dreyfus affair was merely a
minor outburst by juveniles and loafers! “If antisemitism sets the brain of Dr.
Herzl on fire,” Rabbi Kohler fumed, “must we act as madmen, too?” As for the
charge of American antisemitism, that was only “reckless exaggeration” on the
part of the Zionists. In truth, there was no “Jewish Question” in the United
States. The significant rise in social discrimination in the last quarter of the cen-
tury was similarly dismissed. Any anti-Jewish feeling that did exist, like exclusion
of Jews from some hotels and clubs, was too insignificant to warrant protest.25
Far worse according to Reformers was the fact that Zionist ideology pro-
moted antisemitism. By postulating that Jews were homeless and that they con-
stituted a separate alien national group within the larger society, Zionism fed
the streams of bigotry and fanaticism. Rabbi Joseph Stolz put it this way in his
presidential address to the CCAR in 1906:
Should we make anything else than our religion the line of cleavage from our
non-Jewish fellow-citizens, we would be putting into the mouths of others an ex-
cuse for Antisemitism and would be giving our enemies an opportunity to charge
us with an unwillingness to assimilate and to impute unto us the desire of creat-
ing a state within a state.
Zionism thereby was tantamount to treason against the Jews. Moreover, should
Zionists ever achieve a separate Jewish homeland, the United States and all
Western countries would close their doors to Jewish immigrants.26
The accusations heaped by Reform on the un-American character of Zion-
ism—its foreign origins, its secular nationalist character, its threat to Jewish
“at-homeness” in America, its promotion of antisemitism—added up to the
ugly charge of dual allegiance. Years before the rise of political Zionism, Re-
formers had sworn their primary allegiance to the United States: “First Ameri-
cans and then Jews,” Rabbi Max Lilienthal had said in 1870. But then along came
Zionism and threatened to undo all that had been achieved to convince Ameri-
cans of unalloyed Jewish patriotism.27 Arguing that Zionism and its emphasis

on loyalty to Jewish nationalism compromised the single, total, and unqualifed

allegiance demanded of its citizens by the United States, Reformers sounded
the alarm of “dual allegiance.”
The very phrase “dual allegiance” had a strong impact on both Jews and
non-Jews. It troubled most Jews; in an environment where Americanism was a
monolith and acceptance of pluralism had not yet taken root, the fear of “what
will the Gentiles say” was still widespread. Zionists worried too about arousing
popular disapproval, and that fed a determination to express their interests in
terms of American tastes and standards. As for non-Jews, the charge of dual al-
legiance was one that even those who were otherwise ignorant of Zionism
could well understand. Doubtless many felt that it was hard enough to tolerate
the Jews in general let alone those whose loyalty was suspect.
By the end of the First World War, the word Zionist, with connotations of
disloyalty and incompatibility with Americanism, had entered the vocabulary of
American antisemites. The phrase “dual allegiance” was still in use after the state
of Israel was established. David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s first prime minister, tried
to reassure a prominent American Jew, Jacob Blaustein: “Dear Yaacov,” he wrote,
“don’t be afraid of dual loyalty. Every human being must have many loyalties.”28
Despite the abuse and ridicule they suffered at the hands of Reform rabbis
and the Reform press, Zionists slowly built up their strength. In the clash of
ideologies average Zionists did not dispute the theological principles of Reform
theology, but they refused to accept the underlying premise that Jews consti-
tuted no more than a religious group. The eastern Europeans, whether believ-
ers or nonbelievers, knew that Jewish tradition and history proved the insepa-
rability of faith from peoplehood. Moreover, most had came from the empires
of Russia and Austria-Hungary, where people were commonly divided into na-
tional groups. Like the Reformers who had rejected restoration even before the
Zionist movement began, many eastern Europeans, who had been acquainted
in Europe with the antecedents of Herzl, actively or passively supported the
nascent Zionist movement before the first congress at Basel. Building on that
rapidly expanding base, Zionists in the United States established four organiza-
tions before the war, the English speaking Federation of American Zionists
(FAZ) and Hadassah, as well as two groups of European origin, one founded by
labor (Poale Zion) and the other by the Orthodox (Mizrachi). Those groups
boasted their own journals, and full coverage of Zionist affairs, if not endorse-
ment, also came from the influential Yiddish press. More and more, knowledge
of the Zionist movement permeated the Jewish community.
Challenges to Reform
Zionism stood to gain when forces both internal and external attacked or
weakened Reform. Such was the case during the formative years of American
Zionism, when serious social and intellectual influences compelled classical Re-
form to review and perhaps amend its cardinal antinationalist beliefs.
Despite its numbers and material assets as attested to by the census of 1890,
Reform was showing signs of slippage.29 Challenges to its resources and hege-
mony coalesced in the last two decades of the nineteenth century and inten-
sified before the First World War. In that era of heightened nationalism, Ameri-
can Jews, including Reformers, were called upon to press for the amelioration
of the Jewish plight in eastern Europe and to raise massive sums for the relief of
the hordes who sought refuge on American shores. (Unlikely candidates for af-
filiation with Reform, the new immigrants were not warmly welcomed, but de-
spite Reform’s crusade against Jewish ethnicity, a sense of responsibility for fel-
low Jews remained.) Simultaneously, discrimination against Jews in the United
States, now bolstered by racism, was also on the rise. All those issues not only
taxed Reform’s institutions, but, more important for our purposes, they made
a shambles of Reform’s optimistic beliefs in the decline of antisemitism and the
inevitability of universal progress.
Meanwhile, Reform’s internal problems were gnawing away at its very es-
sence.30 As a result of the forces of industrialization and secularization, defec-
tions from the synagogue, particularly among the youth, multiplied. Many
married non-Jews; some were attracted to the Ethical Culture and Christian
Science movements; others followed the “great infidel,” Robert Ingersoll; some,
out of sheer ignorance, advised a merger of Reform with liberal Christianity.
Those who retained synagogue affiliation were largely apathetic. Little wonder
that sermons on the need to “rekindle” the spark of religious faith became
more popular.
At the same time, the older generation of Reform rabbis had largely died
out, and their successors lacked the zeal of the earlier pioneers. Faced with the
inroads of materialism and secularism, which increasingly characterized
American society, they were ill-suited to shore up Reform’s beliefs or to revive
the spirituality of their congregants. The average Reform layman had little
interest in Reform’s concepts of mission, Jewish exile, and universalism. When
Jews, like other middle-class Americans, were won over to the popular faith in
science and scientific research—including the currents of Darwinism and bib-
lical criticism—Reform Judaism was badly hit. Why bother with religious
teachings of any sort, many wondered, if science advanced contradictory an-
swers? If, as Reform said, the national element in Judaism was irrelevant, and if,
as the biblical critics said, the religious corpus of Judaism was anachronistic or
downright false, was there any meaning left in Judaism for the modern Jew?
(One possible answer, the synagogue’s involvement in the movement for social
justice, the Jewish equivalent of the Christian social gospel movement, com-
pensated to some degree for Reform’s spiritual inadequacies.)
Reformers accepted the new currents of thought like evolution and biblical
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criticism, but most rabbis who ministered to congregations lacked both the
knowledge and the ability to engage in critical scholarship or theological crea-
tivity. There were, however, two notable exceptions, Kaufmann Kohler and
Emil G. Hirsch. Those two prominent men (each a son-in-law of Reform pio-
neer David Einhorn) probed deeply into the shortcomings of Reform in the
new intellectual climate. In effect, they admitted that the ideas of the Enlight-
enment were at odds with the temper of the times. Looking back at the philo-
sophical roots of their own movement, they now criticized total acceptance of
the Enlightenment’s belief in rationalism. Hirsch maintained that the “old lib-
eralism” of the Age of Reason had outlived its purposes. It had spawned “shal-
low” or “insipid” liberalism as well as materialism and even nihilism. Early Re-
formers had needed rationalism to free Judaism from fossilization and to gain
toleration from Christians, but the task of their successors was to teach a vi-
brant human religion. Kohler similarly indicted rationalism for having im-
paired Jewish reverence, and he too saw the need to fire and sustain Jewish
idealism: “Reform theology, when based on sole reason as fundamental princi-
ple, is, or was, built on sand and quagmire. Reason, which often ends in doubt
and anarchy, is a corrective, not a constructive force of humanity.” According to
Kohler, spirituality did not exclude reason, but only a balance between intellect
and spirit—and here he also stressed the importance of Jewish rituals—would
allow Reform to propagate its mission with renewed vigor. Their criticisms of
reason and “old liberalism” notwithstanding, neither man dared to attack the
Enlightenment foundations of the American creed.
Despite their critique of the early Reformers, neither Hirsch nor Kohler re-
linquished the concept of mission. Influenced by the work of Moritz Lazarus
on the psychology of nations, they now grounded the Jewish mission in the
concept of “national consciousness.” The Enlightenment’s dream of a single
humanity was illusory; nationalism was the reality. Positing that Jews, like
other peoples, had a distinct “soul” (Volkseele), that it was not merely a religion
like all others, the two rabbis now freely used terms like “Jewish race” and “na-
tional genius.” The mission to teach the true monotheism remained, but only a
Jewish collectivity—a people, or nation, or race—committed to the observance
of Jewish rituals and ceremonials could effectively carry out that mission. By
emphasizing the legitimacy of Jewish group survival, Hirsch and Kohler ad-
justed Reform theology to fit the nationalist spirit of the age. That might have
been the cue for Zionism to push its answers to the meaning of Judaism, but
the young movement lacked the knowledge and ability to missionize among
the disaffected Reformers.
In the end, both Hirsch and Kohler, whose theories of ethnic psychology
antedated the appearance of Herzl’s Der Judenstaat, had little success in con-
verting their followers to their way of thinking. Although a few rabbis wrestled
with the need to defend their faith against further onslaughts and to restore the
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attractiveness of their beliefs, Reform’s institutions, the CCAR and UAHC, be-
fore the 1920s were content with both classical Reform and anti-Zionism.
Hirsch and Kohler themselves remained ardent anti-Zionists.
The fact that Zionism had defenders within the Reform camp was of greater aid
to the nationalist cause. Indeed, some leading Reformers identified with Zion-
ism from the very beginnings of the movement. One active Zionist was the
venerable Bernhard Felsenthal, a pioneer Reform rabbi in Chicago. A believer
in Jewish “racial” unity—a word used interchangeably at that time with “eth-
nic” or “national”—he supported Jewish colonization in Palestine before Herzl
and the Basel program. His enthusiasm for the Zionist cause increased during
the last years of his life; he participated in local Zionist meetings, and he served
on the Actions Comité of the World Zionist Organization and as a vice-
president of the FAZ. During that period he argued against the mission con-
cept of classical Reform. As he saw it, the Jewish mission was simply “to work as
one nation among many to further the ends of humanity.” He wrote repeatedly
that “from Palestine, from a Jewish Mutterstaat, our so-called ‘mission’ can best
be fulfilled.” The Reform creed, on the other hand, would result in the absorp-
tion “of Israel by other nations and gradual dying of Judaism.” Too old to at-
tend the Second Zionist Congress in 1898, he sent a warm message to the dele-
gates via Richard Gottheil: “Extend my greetings to them, and tell them that on
the shore of distant Lake Michigan there is an old man who longs for the
blessed fulfillment of their hopes.”31
Among Felsenthal’s younger colleagues the most prominent of the Reform
Zionists were Max Heller, Stephen Wise, and the Gottheils (Rabbi Gustav of
New York’s prestigious Temple Emanu-El and his son, Professor Richard). Only
a small minority, they nevertheless made their voices heard to the Jewish and
non-Jewish public through the FAZ, at sessions of the CCAR, and through the
pulpit and the press. In a statement printed by the New York Times, Gustav
Gottheil dismissed the very possibility of anti-Zionist Jews: “There is no such
thing as an anti-Zionist. . . . [H]ow can anyone in whose veins flows Jewish
blood oppose the movement?”32 Never did he or his colleagues contemplate a
rupture with Reform, nor did they differ from other Reformers on issues like
Americanization.
Aiming to prove the compatibility of Reform with Zionism, the Reform
Zionists worked on the premise that Zionism was the most effective instrument
for preventing the extinction of the Jews and Judaism. They defined the Jews as
more than a religious group; Jewish history, they said, testified to the everlast-
ing link between Jewish religion and Jewish nationality. Since Reform substi-
tuted universalism for Jewish nationalism, they claimed that it had more in
common with Unitarianism and Christian theism than with Judaism. More
important to the Reform Zionists, however, were the fallacies they found sur-
rounding the mission concept. They didn’t renounce the mission idea, but they

took exception to the conditions outlined by Reform for its fulfillment, partic-
ularly the need of a dispersed Jewry. Some men argued that a Jewish national
homeland would actually facilitate the propagation of the mission.
The one who most cogently criticized Reform’s anti-Zionist ideology was
Richard Gottheil, professor of Semitic languages at Columbia University and
president of the FAZ from 1898 to 1904. Before the war Gottheil wrote a
pamphlet for the FAZ called The Aims of Zionism, a comprehensive survey of
Zionism for the Jewish Encyclopedia, and the first full-length history in English
of the movement.33 His writings discussed the problems facing the modern Jew
in the aftermath of Emancipation: the breakdown of Jewish unity, the loss of a
common language and customs, and, as a result, the “deadening of Jewish con-
sciousness.” At the same time and despite the rosy optimism of the Reformers,
the “ravages” of antisemitism and social discrimination compounded those
problems. The best solution, he wrote, lay in the establishment of a Jewish cen-
ter in Palestine, one that would infuse Diaspora Jewry with moral and religious
strength and thereby keep them loyal to the faith.
Gottheil focused special attention on Reform’s concept of mission. He could
not deny the noble objective of the mission, but he charged that the Reformers
had ignored a vital prerequisite. National unity came first, and despite the
“doctrinal sublimity” assigned by Reform to dispersion, unity was essential in
order to guard against the extinction of the Jews in emancipated nations: “The
first mission of a people is to live its life as a member of the great family of na-
tions the world over; and in so far as it lives that life worthily and contributes to
the moral uplifting of society, it is fulfilling its first and primary mission.” Only
then could it turn to its “higher” mission. Furthermore, Reformers had failed to
stir modern Jews to engage in mission activity, and to think otherwise was
merely self-deceptive. “Are the pitiful denizens of our eastern ghettos preaching
actively a gospel in the world? Or are the well-fed dwellers in our golden west-
ern ghettos more actively engaged in this messianic propaganda?” While de-
fending a Jewish center in Palestine, Gottheil attempted to reconcile Reform to
the nationalist idea. He maintained that Reform too would benefit, because the
center in Palestine would provide a stimulus for spreading the mission: “The
closer Jews are kept within the fold, the greater their interest in Jewish life and
Jewish thought, the more propagators there will be for that mission.”
Gottheil’s analysis gave short shrift to Reform’s argument of dual allegiance.
A country could demand services of its citizens, but—and here he was the plu-
ralist—it could not require any group to give up “its historic associations [or]
its connection with other[s] of the same race or of the same religion living else-
where.” Didn’t other non-Jewish ethnic groups in Europe and the United States
retain bonds with the countries of their birth at the same time that they were
loyal to their adopted lands? Emancipation had left Western Jews with a cer-
tain “nervousness,” he explained, which was played out in “an exaggerated na-
tionalist ardor for the country of their adoption.” Zionism, on the other hand,
instilled the Jews with confidence. Gottheil also affirmed that American Zion-
ism neither demanded nor expected an existential commitment from its fol-
lowers that they give up on America and move to Palestine. We are not asking
you to go, he said; “we are striving for a Jewish home and a safe political condi-
tion for those Jews who have no such home, and a Jewish environment for
those who feel that they need such.”
Gottheil weighed the principles of classical Reform on the Zionist scale and
found them wanting. Although his writings were addressed to all Western Jews,
The Aims of Zionism had particular relevance for Americans. As historian Ar-
thur Hertzberg has pointed out, in that first pamphlet published by the FAZ
(1899), Gottheil confronted the major problems that acculturated American
Jews had with Zionism. Not only did he exempt them from aliyah, but he rec-
ognized the fears attending the subject of dual loyalties and reassured them
with a reminder about the ethnic ties of the Germans and the Irish in America
to their homelands. Implicit in his discussion was the suggestion that the coun-
try itself was less extreme about rapid Americanization and assimilation than
the Jewish anti-Zionists. We also know that Gottheil, who corresponded with
Herzl on American affairs, cautioned the European Zionist leaders, as yet unfa-
miliar with the American scene, against injecting the subject of Jewish nation-
alism into American politics.34 He could thereby show his fellow American Jews
that Zionism in no way compromised the demands on their civic behavior. In
time Gottheil’s views on ethnic separatism and the caveat against political ac-
tion became outdated. Americans grew more resentful of “hyphenates,” and
Zionists in time did turn to political action. But at the turn of the century his
opinions served to familiarize world Zionist leaders with the special concerns
of American Jews and to assure the Americans that those concerns were ad-
dressed in Zionist policymaking. By seeking to adjust the nationalist movement
to the tastes of American Jews, Gottheil contributed to the Americanization of
Zionism.
The prominent Reform Zionists were of important propaganda value. Their
main contribution was to teach the meaning of Zionism to the English-
speaking public and thereby counter the influence of the anti-Zionists. By vir-
tue of their position in the Jewish “aristocracy,” they made Zionism less foreign
and more respectable to the Jewish upper class, the new immigrants, and the
non-Jews. Furthermore, the fact that these Americanized Jews met the newer
arrivals under a Zionist banner helped to bridge the chasm that separated the
established German Jews from the “lowly” eastern Europeans. In practical
terms the first Reform Zionists, like Felsenthal and the Gottheils, were too few
in number to undo the edge that Reform enjoyed over the nationalists; of the
same socioeconomic class as the leading Reformers, they had too little in com-
mon with most Zionists and would-be Zionists. But the sentiments of that so-
cially secure and Americanized minority were of great psychological value to
the average Zionist. If men like the Gottheils were unafraid to support Zionism

publicly, then the same applied to the immigrants. In the case of two young
charismatic rabbis in New York, Stephen Wise and Judah Magnes, involvement
in Zionist affairs brought them closer to the newcomers from eastern Europe.
(Wise later wrote that the Zionist movement changed his opinions of the east-
ern Europeans; at the Second Zionist Congress of 1898 he met Jews who “were
not victims, nor refugees, nor beggars, but educated men, dreaming, planning,
toiling for their people.”)35 Understandably, the new immigrants responded
with pride and admiration.
At times Reformers exacted a price of the Zionists within their ranks. Not
unlike the subjects of the Protestant heresy trials that swept churches and semi-
naries at the end of the nineteenth century, some were tested and found guilty
of flouting the principles of their creed. Reform Zionists, who by definition
strayed from accepted Reform theology, became the Jewish heretics. One well-
known episode involved Stephen Wise, an applicant for the position at Temple
Emanu-El in 1905. Negotiations broke down, however, on Wise’s condition of a
“free,” unmuzzled pulpit. Louis Marshall of the temple’s board informed him
in no uncertain terms that the pulpit was subject to the board’s control and that
certain matters, like Zionism, could not be discussed in sermons. Wise de-
fended the concept of a free pulpit, an issue admittedly broader than Zionism,
but doubtless the board found his nationalist sympathies as distasteful as his
involvement in politics. Whatever the importance of Zionism in their calcula-
tions, the trustees proceeded to reject Wise’s candidacy.36
Less than two years later, Zionists were angered by the resignations of three
of their supporters from the faculty of Hebrew Union College (HUC).37 It
seemed clear to them that Professors Henry Malter, Max Margolis, and Max
Schloessinger were victimized by the president of HUC, Kaufmann Kohler, the
anti-Zionist Torquemada. Not only was their academic freedom curtailed, but
as the Zionists told it, Kohler persecuted them precisely because of their Zion-
ism.38 Some Zionists expected a formal response from the FAZ; we know, Judah
Magnes wrote to Harry Friedenwald, president of that organization, that “these
men are after all giving up their positions because of Zionism.”
HUC had been committed to an anti-Zionist stand ever since the First Zion-
ist Congress. Isaac Mayer Wise, the first president of the college, affirmed in
1897: “We want teachers of Judaism. Judaism, we say, and not nationalism, Ju-
daism and not Zionism, Judaism and not Messiahism of any kind; that eternal
Judaism which is not tied down to a certain piece of land . . . or to . . . peculiar
laws and institutions.” Wise himself bent the law at least on one occasion; he
permitted a known Zionist, Caspar Levias, to remain on the faculty. When
Kohler succeeded to the presidency in 1903, he told the Board of Governors that
he wished to make the school completely American and thereby prove the
Americanism of his fellow Jews. The Judaism he advocated “stands for Ameri-
can thought and American spirit, and not for Zionistic neo-Hebraism or the
language of the Jewish ghetto.” The laymen who ran the college may not have
understood the fine points of theology, but it sufficed for them to believe that
Zionism was un-American. Between 1903 and 1905 two Zionist instructors (in-
cluding Levias) were forced to resign.
HUC drew its anti-Zionist lines tighter in the 1907 case of the three profes-
sors. Malter, a stauch nationalist, had written five articles for the Hebrew Union
College Journal before 1907 in which he criticized Reform’s theology and advo-
cated a revival of the Jewish national idea. But the sixth article, in which he was
to give his solution to the Jewish question, was refused publication. Schloes-
singer, a Zionist since his student days in Germany, also published an article at-
tempting to refute the claim that Reform theology was incompatible with Zion-
ism. Margolis had at first been an anti-Zionist, but by 1907 was an active worker
for the cause. Discounting Malter, who explained his resignation on the
grounds of salary and tenure—although those problems might have stemmed
as well from his Zionist sympathies—we are left with the more complicated
stories of Schloessinger and Margolis.
An examination of relevant documents pertaining to the case discloses that
reasons other than Zionism were doubtless involved. The strained personal re-
lations between Kohler and each of the men were significant, and so were the
charges and countercharges of lehrfreiheit and insubordination. The board also
figured in the chain of events; a resolution adopted two weeks before the resig-
nations that vigorously reaffirmed the college’s anti-Zionist stand fueled the
controversy further. Understandably, a crucial issue was whether a theological
institution could tolerate “heretical” opinions. From other sources we learn
that Kohler, at exactly the same time, was impressed by a scandal in Berlin sur-
rounding the forced resignation of a Zionist rabbi who had held the post of
preacher and teacher. Aware therefore of how the pernicious teachings of
Zionism could split a community, Kohler was not likely to be moved by ac-
counts of the professors’ martyrdom.
Early in 1907 Schloessinger requested Kohler’s permission to attend a Zion-
ist banquet in New York. Kohler refused, but the professor took his leave none-
theless. On his return the president pressed charges of insubordination.
Schloessinger answered that Kohler would have permitted the leave for any
other but Zionist purposes, and that the president was denying him the free-
dom of personal opinion that was guaranteed by faculty regulations. The mat-
ter was brought before the board, and Schloessinger’s resignation, which fol-
lowed shortly thereafter, was accepted unanimously.
Within the walls of the college, the Margolis case commanded most atten-
tion. The incident immediately preceding his resignation concerned a Zionist
sermon that he had delivered in the chapel of the school. A public scene en-
sued, and Kohler went away enraged. He met with the professor and, according
to Margolis, said that “the College was not an academic institution where
mooted questions might be freely discussed and the students trained to think
for themselves and arrive at their own conclusions.” Referring to Margolis’s

controversial articles that had appeared in the Jewish press, he declared that
“had I informed him of the nature of my sermon, he would not have allowed
me to preach it.” “Dr. Kohler further stated,” Margolis added, “that as a Zionist
I could not be entrusted with the teaching of Biblical Exegesis at the College.”
In his own defense the professor claimed that two years before the sermon
Kohler had assured him that his theological opinions could be freely expressed.
Moreover, faculty regulations provided specifically for academic freedom; an
instructor could not be criticized before students, nor could his personal opin-
ions be questioned as long as those that conflicted with the purpose of the
school were not introduced into the classroom. On all those grounds Kohler
was the transgressor. Margolis added that he had never discussed Zionism in
class—a statement that was corroborated by the students before the board—
and that Kohler, who had used the pulpit for his own partisan views, denied his
lehrfreiheit only because of Zionism.
Margolis submitted a letter of resignation to the board, but in light of its
consistent anti-Zionist policy, there was virtually no chance that the board
would decide against Kohler. The latter, however, wrote formal statements in
answer to the professor. He charged Margolis with misrepresentation of facts
and distortion of his, Kohler’s, words. Furthermore, Margolis approached the
Bible with “a preconceived partisan opinion detrimental to the principles of
American Reform Judaism, inducing him . . . to falsify facts and willfully mis-
represent the position of Reform theology.” Never at any time in the college’s
history was complete lehrfreiheit guaranteed, and Margolis was disseminating
ideas “subversive” of Reform principles in his teachings and articles. While nar-
rowing the definition of academic freedom to fit the needs of a theological col-
lege, Kohler also intimated that Margolis’s actions reflected the professor’s per-
sonal animus against the president, an animus that bred disrespect and
disloyalty. He asked the board, however, to disregard his personal differences
with Margolis and discuss the professor’s resignation solely on the grounds of
his opposition to Reform. Despite counterefforts on the part of students and
some alumni to prevent positive action by the board, Margolis’s resignation,
like that of Schloessinger, was finally accepted in May.
The episode of the three resignations damaged Reform’s public image. To
the Jewish public the issue appeared to be one of academic freedom and blatant
discrimination against Zionism. Kohler himself contributed to that interpreta-
tion. In statements to the Jewish press he argued that a seminary could not tol-
erate unrestricted academic freedom. He insisted that since the aim of the col-
lege was to inculcate the specific religious views of Reform, it was necessary to
prevent a Zionist professor “from twisting and distorting the grand universal
teachings of the prophets and sages of Israel or of the Pentateuch with the view
of turning them into crude and nationalistic utterances.” Kohler, however,
could not maintain total unity within the college; two members of the board
voted not to accept Margolis’s resignation, two rabbinical students resigned,
and the alumni divided. Besides the turmoil within HUC surrounding the res-
ignations, the episode may have encouraged another rift between Zionists and
Reformers, when but a few months later Jacob Schiff opened a public debate
with Solomon Schechter, the president of the Jewish Theological Seminary
(Conservative), on the dangers of Zionism.39
While Reformers licked their wounds and called Zionism a power for evil,
Zionists gleefully pounced on the opportunity to criticize their opponents. The
Maccabaean, the journal of the FAZ, talked of unethical behavior and persecu-
tion by HUC and warned that Kohler might, among other things, withhold the
rabbinical degree from Zionist-inclined students. Linking the president’s be-
havior to its long indictment of Reform generally, the Zionist journal happily
announced that Reform had been exposed and had destroyed itself.40
Solomon Schechter and Louis Brandeis
American Reformers were dealt a major blow when Solomon Schechter joined
the FAZ in 1905. Schechter was then president of the Jewish Theological Semi-
nary (JTS), the Conservative rabbinical school and competitor of Reform’s He-
brew Union College. He preached the Conservative message of traditionalism
adapted for modernity, an ideology that had its greatest appeal in America to
the rapidly acculturating eastern Europeans and their children. From its faint
beginnings in the nineteenth century, the movement stood squarely behind a
restoration to Palestine. Some of its early leaders opposed a Jewish state, but all
supported the upbuilding of Palestine.41 It was Schechter, however, who made
Zionism an integral component of Conservative Judaism and Conservative
Jewry an integral component of the American Zionist movement.
Schechter championed Zionism42 partly out of a bitter opposition to Re-
form theology. In his anti-Reform brief, which began even before he left En-
gland for the United States, he consistently fought Reform’s divorce of a Jew-
ish national consciousness from Jewish religion. That consciousness, he
maintained, had kept Jews and Judaism alive through the centuries, and there-
fore “the rebirth of Israel’s national consciousness, and the revival of Israel’s
religion . . . are inseparable.” Sniping time and again at Reform’s catch phrases,
such as “prophetic Judaism,” “universalism,” and “progress,” he disputed the
concept of a religious mission separate from nationhood. He claimed that
such antinationalist ideas approximated theological antisemitism, and he
warned that Judaism stripped of its national features would lead inevitably to
tragic results—i.e., the very extinction of the Jewish faith and the drift of Jews
to Christianity. Zionism, on the other hand, was the bulwark against Reform’s
destructive tendencies.
A religious and cultural Zionist, Schechter believed in a Jewish center in Pal-
estine whose influence would radiate throughout the Diaspora, a center that

would generate a vibrant Jewish religion and culture for Jews worldwide. A cen-
ter in Palestine did not preclude Jewish centers elsewhere—and he accepted the
ongoing existence of multiple centers—but Diaspora Judaism would depend
upon the Palestinian center for a meaningful existence. Although he rejected
Herzl’s premise that Jews as Jews had no future in the Diaspora, the Conserva-
tive leader, unlike Reformers, never considered Jewish dispersion providential
or galut less than a tragedy. More concerned about the exile of the “Jewish soul”
than the exile of Jews, he maintained that the Jewish soul required a center in
Palestine for its sustenance. Until the soul was redeemed, any talk of a Jewish
mission was premature and meaningless. Only then, just as a Jewish Palestine
had given birth to the Bible, might Jews resume their mission for the benefit of
humanity: “Israel will be the chosen instrument of God for [a] new . . . mis-
sion; but . . . Israel must first effect its own redemption and live again its own
life, and be Israel again.” Schechter’s views added significantly to the American-
ization of Zionism. Speaking primarily as a religious Jew who criticized the sec-
ular cast of Zionism—on those grounds he opposed an American Jewish Con-
gress under Zionist sponsorship—he conformed to the American preference
for religion over secularism. Even the importance of a Jewish national con-
sciousness was predicated on the needs of the Jewish religion. Nor did he agree
that his interpretation of Zionism, any more than the traditional belief in a
Jewish restoration to Palestine at the end of the days, conjured up any hint of
dual loyalty. Most important, Schechter’s Zionism freed the American Jew from
any personal sacrifices like aliyah. Palestine as the Jewish religious center never
questioned the legitimacy of Jewish survival in America, nor did it deny the
right of Jews to share in the American dream. It was a comfortable Zionism
that Schechter bequeathed to the students at the JTS, and they in turn to their
congregations. The typical Conservative parishioner welcomed the way that he,
a loyal American, could satisfy his ethnic urges as a Jew at a cost no greater than
that of any other philanthropy. Doubtless for many, Zionism under the rubric
of the synagogue became a surrogate for the religion of the synagogue.
Louis D. Brandeis’s affiliation with the Zionist movement compounded the

challenges to Reform. Raised in a liberal agnostic home in Kentucky, Brandeis
was a star pupil at Harvard Law School and went on to establish a successful
and profitable law practice in Boston. His Jewish consciousness, which he inter-
preted as a belief in the morality of Judaism and its mission of morality, had
been awakened by members of his family, but in no way observant, he was con-
nected only peripherally with the American Jewish world. Not until he turned
fifty did he acknowledge his Jewishness publicly. Meanwhile, he found ways to
express his liberal political principles through his legal cases and his meetings
with social reformers in industry, labor, politics, and social work. The Jews
among those reformers contributed in turn to the development of his Jewish
consciousness. The oft-cited example in that connection concerned the 1910
strike by the garment workers (largely Jewish) in New York, which Brandeis
mediated. He was impressed, he recalled, by the idealism of Jewish labor; their
commitment to democracy and social justice made for exemplary American
citizenship and proved to him that the ideals of America “had been the age-old
ideals of the Jews.” By preserving and disseminating those ideals, which consti-
tuted the Jewish mission, Jews could best contribute to the welfare of the coun-
try. Indeed, that mission would come to fruition in the United States.
A few years after he articulated his interpretation of the American-centered
Jewish mission, Brandeis added to it the elements of a Jewish nationality and a
Jewish state. In 1910 he announced his sympathy and respect for the Zionist
movement, but he saw a Jewish state as ancillary to the Jewish moral mission,
whose principal focus would remain in America. Essentially, a Jewish Palestine
of courageous and idealistic settlers, living according to time-honored Jewish
values, would serve as a laboratory for testing new principles of economic and
social organization that could be applied equally in Palestine and the United
States. For those like Brandeis, Jonathan Sarna explained, “Zion became . . . a
utopian extension of the American dream, a Jewish refuge where freedom, lib-
erty, and social justice would reign supreme.”43
On a path by which he constructed a nexus between Americanism and
Zionism, Brandeis gained fame as a spokesman for political democracy and a
champion of socioeconomic reform. Leaving his practice to fight social issues
through litigation, the “people’s attorney” became an architect of sociological
jurisprudence. In 1910 he joined the Progressives, who sought to destroy the
power of the conservative Republicans, and in 1912 he served as adviser to the
Democratic contender for the presidency, Woodrow Wilson. That same year he
met Aaron Aaronsohn, a Palestinian agronomist known for his experiments
with wild wheat. According to one biographer, Brandeis was won over by
Aaronsohn’s descriptions of Jewish Palestine, which appeared to embody the
attributes he so admired—democracy, morality, experimentation, industry,
and smallness. The yishuv appeared to replicate his beloved New England, and
the Zionist pioneers were the new Puritans: “Zionism is the Pilgrim inspiration
and impulse over again; the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers should not find
it hard to understand and sympathize with it.
Although aliyah was unnecessary, American Jews had a duty to support the
creation of a Jewish nation to further the development of the Jewish mission:
“Every American Jew who aids in advancing the Jewish settlement in Palestine,
though he feels that neither he nor his descendants will ever live there, will . . .
be a better man and a better American for doing so.” Since Americanism and
Jewish national creativity were one and the same, the issue of dual allegiance
was totally irrelevant. As Brandeis explained:
There is no inconsistency between loyalty to America and loyalty to Jewry. The

Jewish spirit, the product of our religion and experiences, is essentially modern

and essentially American. Not since the destruction of the Temple have the Jews
in spirit and in ideals been so fully in harmony with the noblest aspirations of the
country in which they lived.45
The “Brandeisian synthesis” the term used by Melvin Urofsky, welded

American Progressive ideals to those of Zionism. Brandeis may not have
understood the emotional and religious baggage that underlay the movement,
but he fired American Zionism with renewed idealism. By making Zionism a
tool for constructing a better America, and by adding to the comfortable Zion-
ism of Schechter and the cultural Zionists, he brought the Americanization of
Zionism to a dramatic high. Many Jews were impressed by his idealistic and
well-circulated pronouncements and, above all, by his political prominence.
The first Jew to be appointed to the Supreme Court (1916), his appeal was mag-
nified, and after he assumed leadership of the American movement in 1914, the
number of affiliated Zionists rose rapidly.46
Opposition Is Moderated
Despite the gains that accrued to Zionism before the war, a majority of Reform
leaders continued to denounce the aims for a Jewish state. On the appearance
of the Balfour Declaration in 1917, Reform institutions dredged up the argu-
ments used over twenty years to express their opposition. The CCAR passed a
resolution that said in part:
We are opposed to the idea that Palestine should be considered the home-land of
the Jews. . . . The ideal of the Jew is not the establishment of a Jewish state—not
the reassertion of Jewish nationality which has long been outgrown. We believe
that our survival as a people is dependent upon the assertion and the mainte-
nance of our historic religious role. . . . The mission of the Jew is to witness to
God all over the world.
Equal rights for Jews all over the world and not a Jewish homeland was the so-
lution to anti-Jewish sentiments.47 Reform laymen in the UAHC concurred.
Repeating its anti-Zionist resolution of 1898, the union added that Jews must,
for their own welfare, heed their religious mission and that Israel must spurn
“any aspiration for the revival of a Jewish nationality or the foundation of a
Jewish state.”48
Responding to what they saw as the danger in the Balfour Declaration, some
Reform Jews attempted more extreme ways of distancing Reform from Zion-
ism. One layman, Isaac W. Bernheim of Louisville, Kentucky, called for the for-
mation of a “Reform Church of American Israelites” made up of “100 percent
Americans.” His object was to sharpen the differences between Zionists with
their divided loyalties and Reform Jews who believed that “here is our Pales-
tine, and we know no other.” Since Zionists used the word “Jewry” to signify a
separate national group, Bernheim suggested substituting the name “Israel”
for “Jews” and the word “church” for “synagogue” or “temple.” Neither his
project nor one by Rabbi David Philipson at the end of the war, to convene a
conference for the sole purpose of combating Zionism, made any serious
headway. Both plans showed, however, how deeply rooted Reform’s prewar
anti-Zionism was.49
Nevertheless, American Reform was inching its way to a new position on
Zionism. Its very tone had changed; the vitriol and ridicule that characterized
its early denunciations of Herzlian Zionism slowly gave way to more serious
and even respectful appraisals. The same CCAR that expressed its opposition to
a Jewish homeland in Palestine in answer to the Balfour Declaration also noted
the issuance of the declaration “with grateful appreciation.” Even the American
Israelite, long a sharp critic of a Jewish center in Palestine, now printed state-
ments supporting a Jewish Palestine as a safe haven for refugees. Finally, when
England received the mandate for Palestine after the war, Reformers joined
wholeheartedly in projects for the rehabilitation of the land.50 Political Zion-
ism, no, but Palestinianism, yes.
A combination of reasons accounted for Reform’s gradual change. For one
thing, Zionism had grown increasingly respectable during its first twenty years
and could no longer be dismissed as a passing and foolhardy fad. Abroad,
Theodor Herzl had negotiated with heads of state; in the United States, Reform
Zionists and leaders like Solomon Schechter and Louis Brandeis were by no
means a deranged extremists but rather men who wielded significant influence
within the Jewish and non-Jewish communities. The Balfour Declaration
added the final touch. International support of the declaration and mandate at
home and abroad, including American public opinion, legitimated Zionism
and quieted the fears of many anti-Zionists. Second, American Reform felt less
secure in 1917 than it had in 1897. The shortcomings of its theology had been
exposed; the Conservative movement under Schechter’s leadership was fast be-
coming a serious competitor; and it is likely that the younger generation of Re-
form rabbis began to realize the inadequacy of Judaism shorn of its national
component. Finally, and at least of equal significance, the nationalist-minded
eastern European immigrants were maturing rapidly. The more they accultu-
rated and the higher they rose on the economic ladder the more reluctant they
were to heed the strictures of the Reformers about political Zionism. Vastly
outnumbering the German Reformers of the Jewish Establishment, they were
on the way to assuming the leadership of American Jewry.
Reform’s dramatic shift on Zionism came only in the 1930s. Confronted by
the worsening condition of the Jews under Nazi rule, Reformers, if for no other
reason, looked more favorably on the right of Jews to enter Palestine. In 1935,
exactly fifty years after the Pittsburgh platform, the CCAR resolved to leave the

acceptance or rejection of Zionism to the determination of the individual rab-

bis. Two years later, in the famous Columbus platform, the rabbis officially
bound the membership of the CCAR to the Zionist cause: “We affirm the obli-
gation of all Jewry to aid in [Palestine’s] upbuilding as a Jewish homeland by
endeavoring to make it not only a haven of refuge for the oppressed but also a
center of Jewish culture and spiritual life.” (Because the opposition to Zionism
was stronger among Reform laymen, the UAHC lagged behind the rabbis.)51 A
hard core of anti-Zionists, both rabbis and laymen, remained opposed to Jew-
ish nationalism, and from their ranks came the rabidly anti-Zionist American
Council for Judaism in 1943. Through that organization the anti-Zionism of
classical Reform, albeit significantly reduced, lived on.
CHAPTER 3
Zionism in the Public Square
U ntil the Balfour Declaration of 1917, Zionism in the United States was for
the most part an in-house affair. Zionist ideology divided the Jewish com-
munity, but non-Jews did not actively participate in struggles that usually pit-
ted Reform anti-Zionists alongside the steward-led communal agencies like the
American Jewish Committee against the Jewish nationalists. Nor did the gen-
eral press or prominent non-Jews customarily take a stand on the Zionist
movement or pass judgment on the contending factions. The Balfour Declara-
tion changed all that. Since the British move legitimated Zionism, raising it in
effect to an Allied war aim, the American government and the public became
very much involved. And, since the war catapulted the United States to the po-
sition of a leading world power, the course of Zionism and especially of
American Zionism, from then until the establishment of Israel some thirty
years later, was significantly shaped by American opinion.
Like all American Jews, ever sensitive to the attitude of the government and
the general public on all sorts of Jewish matters, from Sabbath observance to
crime in the ghetto, Zionists could not close their eyes to public opinion. In
every major step they took, they factored that element into their equation. They
had Americanized Zionism to accommodate the Jews, and after the Balfour
Declaration they had to Americanize it further by consciously shaping their
goals and demands to accommodate the larger society. In two major public de-
bates on Zionism’s compatibility with Americanism, 1917–22 and 1929–30,
Zionists were hard-pressed to prove to Jewish and non-Jewish assimilationists
and liberals, to religious spokesmen and journalists, how American-like their
movement was.1
The First Debate
The year 1917 stands out as one in which the course of Jewish history was per-
manently altered. First, England issued the Balfour Declaration, a statement of
64
policy sanctioned by the other Western powers, that raised Herzlian Zionism
out of the realm of fantasy and into the world of realpolitik. Secondly, the
Bolsheviks in Russia swept into power. Jewish sympathizers had hoped that the
Russian Revolution would bring about the long-awaited freedom of more than
five million Jews, but it resulted instead in a new kind of tyranny. More imme-
diately, the two events called forth new expressions of anti-Jewish sentiment in
the United States and Europe. The Balfour Declaration aroused supporters of
disgruntled Arabs, Protestant missionaries, and Jewish assimilationists to
mount a campaign with worldwide reverberations against Zionism. Oppo-
nents of the new regime in Russia seized upon the participation of Jews in the
revolution to accuse them of engineering the Bolshevik takeover. Judeophobes
in different parts of the world had no qualms about finding parallels between
Zionism and Bolshevism. Their task was facilitated by the spread of the Proto-
cols of the Elders of Zion between 1919 and 1922. Elaborating on the conspiracies
of the alleged Elders of Zion to attain world dominion, propagators of the
Protocols cited both Zionism and Bolshevism as proof of the nefarious designs
of an international Jewry. From then on, “Zionist” and “Bolshevik” enriched
the vocabulary of antisemites. As Zionist or as Bolshevik, or as both at the same
time, the Jew was the quintessential menace to Christian civilization.
In the United States not all antisemites were outspokenly anti-Zionist, nor
all anti-Zionists antisemites. The two, however, were connected in the first de-
bate. To be sure, neither anti-Zionism nor antisemitism was foreign to the
United States, and even before the Balfour Declaration many Jews who criti-
cized Jewish nationalism, like the Reformers, had called it a cause of Jew-
hatred.2 But only with the Balfour Declaration and the postwar mandate did
the menace of political Zionism appear more serious. In turn, criticisms by
opponents, if not intrinsically antisemitic, played directly into the hands of
Jew-baiters.
Americans who spoke out against political Zionism usually made two as-
sumptions about the Balfour Declaration. In the first place, they claimed that
the declaration implicated all Jews, Zionist and anti-Zionist alike. Although the
British statement promised that “nothing shall be done which may prejudice
. . . the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country,” the taint
of Jewish nationalism rubbed off on the entire group. Second, like the political
Zionists, anti-Zionists interpreted the declaration to be the license for Jewish
statehood and not merely the right to a “homeland.” Some critics insisted that
they did not oppose colonization in Palestine or the need to make that country
a refuge for oppressed Jews. But the distinct possibility of a Jewish state, or at
least the expectation that statehood was the next logical goal of organized
Zionists, aroused their bitterness.
This reading of the Balfour Declaration may not have led to so vehement an
opposition had it not emerged during the war and immediate postwar years.
The intense Americanism generated by a “crusade against the Hun,” which
Zionism in the Public Square 65

sparked concentrated drives to Americanize the immigrant and which read

hyphenate groups like the German-Americans and Irish-Americans outside the
pale of a loyal citizenry, spilled over into the post-Armistice period. The war
had been advertised to Americans as the way to make the world safe for democ-
racy, but the shocks of readjusting to a peacetime economy and the collapse of
Woodrow Wilson’s design for an effective League of Nations raised American
antagonism toward the outside world. The unspent hatred of the Germans was
channeled into a hatred of the foreigner generally and into an hysterical Red
Scare. In the postwar period as during the war itself, loyalty meant Anglo-
conformity, a monolithic concept of Americanism that earmarked any display
of political or ethnic separatism as an outright danger.
Jewish opponents of Zionism included many liberals—prominent academics,

journalists, government officeholders, and Reform spokesmen. Popular essay-
ists Ralph Boas and Gilbert Seldes raised the specter of dual allegiance. They
argued the dire consequences of Zionism, which branded American Jews as a
hyphenated group. “Certain as the day follows the night,” Professor Morris Jas-
trow similarly wrote, Jews would be considered a foreign group, or temporary
sojourners with separate political interests, for whom their enemies would ad-
vocate an exodus to Palestine. Rejecting Brandeis’s oft-hailed statement that
Zionism made for better Americans, Jastrow added: “The State has a right to
demand, especially under the modern conception, that all its citizens should be
100 per cent citizens—not 50–50, or even 70–30, but full 100 percent.” There-
fore, “it was impossible to belong to two countries. . . . ‘Allegiance must be per-
fect—cannot be divided. Either a Palestinian or an American.’ ” When the New
Republic of October 5, 1918, supported the idea of a Jewish state on the grounds
that Jews could not contribute to mankind generally as long as “they dwell as
aliens among more or less friendly peoples,” Jastrow blamed the Zionists for in-
citing the public to put the label of “aliens” on American Jews.3
Two men known for their government service added their criticisms. Con-
gressman Julius Kahn of California used words reminiscent of the antisemitic
image of the Wandering Jew, the Jew who sojourned in different lands never
sinking permanent roots but merely skimming off the benefits of those lands:
“One of the great dangers of Zionism is the fact that the non-Jew will begin to
look upon the American Jew as having a lurking desire always to return to the
so-called Jewish homeland—that the Jew will be accused by the non-Jew of
being merely a sojourner in the United States, using the benefits, opportu-
nities, and advantages that he can get by residence here with the ultimate ob-
ject of becoming . . . a resident of the Jewish State.”4 Henry Morgenthau,
Wilson’s ambassador to Turkey and later the head of the government’s investi-
gative mission to Poland, wrote an article for World’s Work in 1921 that devel-
oped the theme “Zionism is the most stupendous fallacy in Jewish history.”
Lambasting Jewish nationalism while it glorified the “spiritual” Americanism

of anti-Zionist Jews, the article caused quite a stir in the secular press. Like
Jastrow’s statements, it supplied material for Christian writers who joined the
attack against Zionism.5
Other Jewish anti-Zionists charged that Zionism sought to turn the clock
back on the desirable process of assimilation. By choosing self-ghettoization,
as well as by trampling on the rights of Palestinian Arabs, Zionism was alien to
the American spirit of democracy and progress. In that vein, the renowned
liberal philosopher Morris Raphael Cohen formulated the equations “liberal-
ism = Americanism = good” and “Zionism = tribalism = evil.” He claimed that
Zionism rejected the American ideals of individual freedoms in favor of
group rights:
Nationalistic Zionism demands not complete individual liberty for the Jew, but
group autonomy. . . . Indeed, how could a Jewish Palestine allow complete reli-
gious freedom, freedom of intermarriage and free non-Jewish immigration,
without soon losing its very reason for existence? A national Jewish Palestine
must necessarily mean a state founded on a peculiar race, a tribal religion and a
mystic belief in a peculiar soil, whereas liberal America stands for separation of
church and state, the free mixing of races, and the fact that men can change their
habitation and language and still advance the process of civilization.
Because Zionists opposed the path of assimilation, Cohen charged, they feared
the American ideal of freedom. Parenthetically he added another dig by liken-
ing their readiness to ignore the rights of the native Palestinian Arabs to Prus-
sian oppression.6
American Jews whose loyalty to nineteenth-century liberalism fueled their
attack on Zionism were caught in a logical trap. Defenders of assimilation and
internationalism, they denounced Zionism, the child of darkness and reaction.
Yet wasn’t it equally reactionary to tout American chauvinistic nationalism if
the road to progress lay through internationalism? Anti-Zionist Jews, however,
sidestepped the issue. They tailored their liberalism to fit the American temper,
indicating thereby a greater concern for their security and a desire to demon-
strate an unquestionable patriotism.
Leaders of Reform Jewry and their institutions joined the secular liberal
chorus. As discussed above, Reform’s ardor in combating Zionism had cooled
somewhat by 1917, but the unyielding antinationalists had a new burst of en-
ergy with the appearance of the Balfour Declaration. Laymen joined rabbis
when Jastrow, Max Senior, and Rabbi Henry Berkowitz drew up a petition
against Zionism in 1919 that was signed by 299 Americans and presented by
Congressman Kahn to President Wilson. Announcing that it was speaking for
the majority of American Jews, the petition revived the bogey of dual alle-
giance in all its intensity. It added that if Jews were to leave for Palestine, those

left behind would suffer increased prejudice and hostility, which would impede
their attempts at assimilation.7 The petition was meant not only for the Ameri-
can government but for the nations engaged in peacemaking at Versailles.
In 1922, when Congress considered the Lodge-Fish resolution, which ex-
pressed American satisfaction with the proposed mandate for Palestine—the
terms of the mandate incorporated the Balfour Declaration—Reform anti-
Zionists were particularly upset. This time they faced the challenge of coun-
tering a commitment by the American government to a Jewish homeland. To
prevent any official endorsement of Zionism, Rabbis David Philipson and
Isaac Landman summed up Reform’s position in testimony to the House
Committee on Foreign Affairs. Adding to the usual litany, Philipson said, “I
know that ever since political Zionism has been in the limelight the troubles of
the Jews in the world have largely increased.” The only solution to the Jewish
problem, he said, would be the grant of full freedom for the Jews everywhere.
The rabbis charged that the resolution itself was un-American, since it ap-
pealed to the Jewish vote, a concept whose existence and very legitimacy was
denied by Reform. Philipson, consistently among the most rabid of the anti-
Zionists, also criticized the resolution for deviating from the nation’s tradi-
tional policy of nonentanglement in Old World affairs. Landman fought the
resolution outside the committee’s rooms too. Editor of the American Hebrew,
he printed numerous opinions against congressional action and the un-
American character of Zionism.8
More than ever before, Reform felt threatened by political Zionism. Should
Zionists succeed in capturing the loyalty of the Jewish majority or, even worse,
acceptance by the American public, Reform would lose the predominant posi-
tion it had held since the 1870s in Jewish religious and secular institutions.
Zionists had scored one major victory when they swayed American Jews to the
idea of a democratic American Jewish Congress, and Reform had admitted
then that the Jewish nationalists had the ear of the masses.9 If after the Balfour
Declaration that pattern persisted, the power of Reform in determining the al-
location of communal resources as well as the very path that the community
chose to follow for the future would be largely eroded.
Some of the Christian opinion molders and academics who contributed to the
public critique of Zionism followed the line of Professor Albert Bushnell Hart
of Harvard. Hart announced upon the appearance of the Balfour Declaration
that Jews now had to fish or cut bait, to choose which country and nationality
claimed their loyalty.10 Thomas Nixon Carver, a sociologist and colleague of
Hart, agreed that the Jew could not divide his allegiance. At bottom, he said,
Jews had two diametrically opposed alternatives: territorial separatism through
Zionism or complete amalgamation with other peoples and disappearance as a
distinctive group. If Diaspora Jews chose separatism, they had to be prepared
to pay the price—racial hostility on the part of their conationals.11 Paul

Mowrer, foreign correspondent for a Chicago newspaper, wrote that Jewish re-
sistance to assimilation—that the Jews constituted “a body persistently and
willfully foreign”—was the root of antisemitism throughout history. Jews
ought to discard certain religious practices—even be ready, he specified, to
intermarry with non-Jews—in order to be accepted fully in the United States.
Those who could not prove their undivided allegiance in this fashion should
make their way to Palestine.12
A professor of international law at Princeton, Philip Marshall Brown, began
with the premise that the Jew was the eternal alien in Western society: “The Jew
is restless, and by nature detached from most nationalistic interests because of
his sense of racial solidarity that militates against his taking deep root in any
community. . . . This thing we term Christian civilization is something alien to
him.” Brown called racial solidarity the driving force behind Zionism, and he
suggested that the prominence of Jews in the Socialist and Bolshevik move-
ments derived from the same matrix. Although he denied that Jews joined
those movements out of sinister motives, his choice of analogies was unfortu-
nate. In the years 1917–22 Bolshevism was anathema to proper Americans; if
Zionism drew from the same source, it was inherently evil.13
Doubtless very few of those who argued the either-or position on Jewish
versus American nationalism considered their opinions antisemitic. It was not
the Jew they disliked, they said, as much as Jewish group distinctiveness. To
many well-meaning Christians in the United States, Jewish separatism had al-
ways been the major stumbling block to harmonious relations with Gentiles
and was responsible, more than Christian prejudice, for anti-Jewish discrimi-
nation.14 For their own good, some advised, Jews had to look beyond the Jewish
community and show their readiness to participate on multiple levels of civic
activity. Accordingly, Zionism was an unwise course, for it merely reinforced
clannishness and in turn the barriers between Jew and Christian.15
Although responsible Christian criticism usually stopped short of attacking
Zionists directly—it was Zionism that caused the Jewish problem16—Dr. Her-
bert Adams Gibbons was as harsh as the Jewish liberals who denounced the
“un-American” Zionists. Differentiating between Zionists and other Jews, he
said openly: “We do not hold in abhorrence the Jews, but we do hold in abhor-
rence the Jewish nation.” According to Gibbons, a Presbyterian minister who
had taught at a missionary college in Turkey, “the Zionist movement tends to
emphasize in the immigrant what makes him unfit for American citizenship.”
The immigrant had to submerge himself in American interests and build his
life around American ideals, in short to copy the biblical example of Ruth, who
merged her identity with Naomi’s people. But a Jewish immigrant who brought
with him the belief that he was part of a closely knit international community
with an attachment to a cultural center in Zion would always be an unwelcome
alien. “Many of my dearest friends are Jews,” Gibbons protested, but because of
the Zionists who undermined Jewish loyalty to the United States and weakened

American unity, antisemitism could well flourish. Therefore, it behooved the

anti-Zionists within the Jewish community to fight the nationalists.17
The distinction between the good antinationalist Jew and the bad Zionist
quickly took root. In 1919 the prestigious liberal weekly the Independent printed
an editorial summarizing the pros and cons of Zionism. What purported to be
an objective account of the two opposing views concluded with the Indepen-
dent’s own value-ridden statement:
On the whole the conservative Jews, who desire above all things to maintain the
old Jewish faith and the Talmudic tradition, incline to be Zionists. The progres-
sive Jews, the men who deprecate race distinction and hostilities . . . would prefer
to see Jews intermarry and amalgamate with their Gentile fellow citizens in Eu-
rope and America and are disposed to discourage the Zionist experiment. Yet the
Zionist movement has also attracted the support of many of the radical Jews who
see in it an opportunity to found a semi-socialistic state.18
With “progressive,” “race hostilities,” and “radical” as clues, it took little wisdom
to tell the good from the bad.
Unlike the Jewish opponents of Zionism, Christian critics concentrated
more on depicting the evils of the Zionist movement in Palestine. Those who
had lived in the Near East, such as the missionaries, journalists, and former
government officials, were the most outspoken. They agreed that Zionism, the
attempt of a minority in the country to gain complete control over Palestine,
would incite the justified hostility of Muslim and Christian inhabitants, who
had their own histories and aspirations, and they predicted pogroms, religious
strife, and even war between the “white” and “brown” races. The Zionists in
Palestine were imperialistic, conniving with their British protectors, trumpet-
ing an aggressive and bombastic propaganda line, and always seeking more
land. Ruthless exploiters of the natives, the Jews pursued an undemocratic pro-
gram. Since they rejected the principle of self-determination for the Arabs,
they denied the latter their rightful share of political power. Although a small
minority in Palestine, Jews in a state of their own would wield absolute power.
A Zionist state would also mean a Jewish theocracy, offensive to Muslims,
Christians, and secular democrats. Furthermore, Zionists made their settle-
ments exclusively Jewish and thereby created a gulf between themselves and the
non-Jews. All told, the native Palestinians understandably preferred the tyr-
anny of their former overlords, the Turks, to the tyranny of the Zionists.19
Not all critiques confined the specter of Zionism to Palestine alone. Some
charged that Zionism was a child of international Jewry, financed by Jewish
money from around the world and protected by a powerful Jewish press,
which carefully doctored the news. Edward Reed of Yale interpreted Zionism
as a vast international Jewish conspiracy when he testified against the Lodge-

Fish resolution of 1922. The Balfour Declaration, he said, was a secret document
framed by British and American Zionists, who kept some of its details hidden
from the public. Hinting at Zionist influence in American government circles,
he talked of the Zionists’ inordinately strong position at the Versailles peace con-
ference, where they succeeded in drawing up the very favorable provisions of the
mandate and made plans for assuming control over the land of Palestine. Al-
though Reed was the most extreme, other critics, including American consuls in
the Near East, struck equally ominous notes by linking Zionism with Bolshe-
vism. That connection would make the Jewish “materialistic” and “atheistic”
state the center for the spread of international revolutionary propaganda.20
The long brief against the effects of Zionism in the yishuv evoked images
well calculated to turn war-weary Americans against the Jewish nationalist
movement. Alien to American ways, Zionism betrayed the American war aims
of universal democracy, self-determination, and impartial justice. Most impor-
tant, after “the war to end all wars,” Zionism jeopardized world peace. Imperia-
listic and Prussian-like by nature, a Zionist-controlled Palestine that aroused
Arab opposition could only be maintained by armed force. If the United States
was not dragged into a war begun by Zionist-generated hostility, it might be
forced into supporting a Jewish state by military means. Still another scenario
suggested that America and Britain would be compelled to use stringent meas-
ures to counter Bolshevism in Palestine before it infected the entire Near East.21
Thus, the apprehensive American would understandably shudder at the
thought of a Jewish state, which threatened his own security. He might also di-
rect his resentment and suspicions against his American Jewish neighbor, who,
even if not a Zionist, was somehow related to the troublemaking Zionists in
Palestine.
The indictment of Zionism by non-Jewish critics clearly illuminated the
interrelatedness of anti-Zionism and antisemitism. Like the picture of the
good Jew versus the bad Jew, the popular charges resembled the antisemite’s
brief against Jews in general: the international Jew was clannish, materialistic,
manipulative, exploitative, separatist, and radically anti-Gentile. When the
anti-Zionist adopted those readymade images, he intentionally or unintention-
ally found a respectable rubric for any latent Jew-hatred he may have harbored.
He may have opposed Zionism for objective reasons, and like Dr. Gibbons
many of his best friends may have been Jews, but his indiscriminate use of ad-
jectives about the Zionists made him in the last analysis indistinguishable from
the antisemite. From then on to the present, anti-Zionism became more often
than not a synonym for antisemitism.
The Jewish liberals, the Reform critics, and the Christian anti-Zionists found
nothing qualitatively new in the theory of political Zionism. They all agreed on
its alleged dangers, which stood in the way of the assimilation and social accep-
tance of American Jews and disrupted the postwar order. All three relied on

traditional images of the undesirable Jew, for even the Jewish liberals struc-
tured their arguments on the basis of the alien and clannish Jew. What aroused
their concentrated opposition at this time was the fact that the world powers at
Versailles had shown that they took Zionism seriously.
Basic differences, however, precluded the possibility that the several groups
could ever consciously band together in a fight against a Jewish state. In the eyes
of the Jewish critics, the ones who would suffer most because of Zionism were
the American Jews themselves. The Christian commentators agreed that Jewish
security was endangered, but they added warnings about Zionist (and Bolshe-
vik) threats in Palestine and to world peace. Only Jewish liberals really believed
that Jews could change their behavior and obliterate the unfavorable images re-
flected in Zionism. As for some of the moderate Christian critics, their use of
anti-Jewish imagery suggests that they expected nothing different from Jews.
The linkage between anti-Zionism and traditional antisemitism had two
important corollaries. First, it meant that Zionists were less likely to convince
opponents of the merits of their case, no matter how effective a countercam-
paign they mounted. Second, since American Jews were frightened by the in-
creasing Judeophobia and overt discrimination of the 1920s, which led among
other things to barriers against Jewish immigrants as well as Jews in white-
collar jobs and in higher education, the anti-Zionist attacks drove many in the
Jewish community away from the cause of political Zionism.22 Nevertheless,
American Zionists had no choice but to defend their movement. They, like
their Reform counterparts, were fighting for control of the community, and it
seemed more prudent to answer their opponents than to maintain silence.
Under Brandeis’s leadership their prestige and power had soared; they could
point to the Balfour Declaration and the organization of the American Jewish
Congress as notable victories. But challenged after 1917 by a wide and militant
opposition and by serious internal rifts, their movement, especially if unde-
fended, could easily revert to a weaker position.
In 1906 Zionist leader Richard Gottheil had stated that only Jews and not
Christians worried about Jewish nationalism. An exaggeration even then, his
claim was hardly relevant after the Balfour Declaration. However, much as they
felt the need of non-Jewish support, Zionists reasoned that it would have done
little good to contest those who spun their anti-Zionism out of a deep-seated
Jew-hatred.23 In the immediate postwar period they focused principally on
Jewish critics like Cohen, Jastrow, Morgenthau, and Philipson. Resorting fre-
quently to ridicule and contempt, they denounced those men for creating dis-
sension within the community and thus aiding the Jew-haters. They fumed es-
pecially at the rabbis who had testified against the Lodge-Fish resolution,
calling them traitors and Benedict Arnolds. Their charge that Zionism con-
flicted with Americanism, the Zionist witnesses at the hearings said, was totally
groundless. How could Zionism be called un-American when it numbered
among its supporters prominent government officials and civic leaders like

Brandeis and Julian W. Mack, and Jewish soldiers who had fought in the
American army? Since the Allies gave their support to Jewish national self-
determination, Zionism had become one with American patriotism.24
Widely respected Zionist leaders in particular took pains to defuse their Jew-
ish critics. Several, usually toning down Zionist demands, wrote for the Meno-
rah Journal, a bimonthly published by the Intercollegiate Menorah Association
that appealed to Jewish intellectuals. For example, Julian Mack, federal judge
and onetime president of the ZOA, asserted categorically that “we do not want
an independent State for the Jewish people in Palestine at this time [emphasis
his] . . . because at this time the Jews form only one-sixth of the population,
and an independent State under such conditions would be both impracticable
and undesirable.” Until such time, Zionists were content with a mandate held
by England that would lay the foundation for a state. When Jews became a ma-
jority under British administration, they would be ready for statehood. During
that transitional period, American Jews could not in good conscience hold
aloof from aid to the yishuv. Nor would a Jewish state when established hurt
them in any way: “We are Americans politically, and nothing but American.
There is no dual nationality in any political sense; there can be none. We look to
Palestine for nothing. We look to America for everything.”
Another contributor to the Menorah Journal, law professor Felix Frankfurter
of Harvard, discussed the obligations of American Jews to a Jewish state. A
state did not mean, he said, “that we should desire to go there or that we should
be forced to go there.” European Jews living in undemocratic lands needed Pal-
estine, and on American Jews rested only the duty to help them, financially and
intellectually, to build a free and healthy life. In Frankfurter’s essay, American
Zionism boiled down to a philanthropy dedicated to the creation of a Jewish
state for other Jews.25
Two younger Zionist intellectuals probed more deeply into the nature of Ju-
daism, nationalism, and assimilation. Elisha Friedman, an economist who
worked for the government during the war, discussed the beneficent effects of
Zionism and a Jewish state. The better-known professor of philosophy, Horace
Kallen, addressed the issue of assimilation. Privately, he and Friedman, follow-
ers of Brandeis, labored in 1917–18 at converting a leading non-Zionist, Jacob
Schiff, to the Zionist cause.26
Other Zionists also replied to the prominent critics. Law professor David
Amram answered Morris Jastrow; attorney Samuel Untermyer took on Henry
Morgenthau; Louis Lipsky, then head of the ZOA, rebutted David Philipson at
the committee hearings in 1922.27 The most profound interchange pitted two
respected philosophers, Morris Raphael Cohen and Horace Kallen, against
each other. Cohen’s article in the New Republic, in which he equated Zionism
with tribalism and Prussianism, triggered the clash. Kallen’s rejoinder, appear-
ing in the same journal a month later, laced into Cohen’s impassioned denunci-
ation of Jewish nationalism and called it erroneous, slanderous, irresponsible,

and downright false. Different from the extremist Teutonism and Slavism to
which Cohen had likened it, Zionism, Kallen said, was not a challenge to liber-
alism but rather a product of a liberalism derived from the bonding of democ-
racy and nationalism. It stood neither for a tribal religion nor despotic rule
over Palestinian non-Jews. The core of the article—and here the reader recog-
nizes Kallen, the expositor of cultural pluralism—was the defense of group
freedoms. In Kallen’s words, Zionist ideology was “an extension of the assump-
tions of liberalism from the individual to the group.” With only slight modifi-
cation, it resembled the Declaration of Independence: “All nationalities are
created equal and endowed with certain inalienable rights; among their rights
are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Every individual was shaped by
the nationality in which he was born; those nationalities were “the essential res-
ervoirs of individuality” and “the prerequisite to the liberation of the individ-
ual.” The nation too would be enriched by the free development of various na-
tionalities. A return to Zion, which in turn would lead to continued Jewish
contributions to civilization, was predicated on the acknowledgment of the
rights of the Jewish nationality.28 Even if Kallen didn’t change Cohen’s mind,
his article reached more readers than those that appeared in Jewish periodicals.
Along with taunts and slurs against anti-Zionists, the New Palestine, the
weekly newspaper of the ZOA and successor to the Maccabaean, took on the
New York Times. That prestigious daily was solidly entrenched in the anti-
Zionist camp. A prominent non-Jewish writer once suggested in the Nation
that the Times, perhaps just because it was known as a Jewish newspaper, did
not readily plead the cause of Jews on any issue. But, as reflected in its news
coverage and editorials, the Times was more exercised than usual about Zion-
ism. Why, for example, the New Palestine pointedly asked, was it the only New
York publication that failed to mention, let alone quote, Untermyer’s response
to Morgenthau? In the spring of 1922 Times publisher Adolph Ochs visited Pal-
estine. Since he commented favorably on the Jewish settlements he had seen,
the New Palestine was eminently gratified. Despite Ochs’s reservations about a
Jewish homeland—it could lead to friction with the Arabs, and it posed pos-
sible dangers to Christian holy sites—he was seen as a non-Zionist rather than
an anti-Zionist. A few weeks later, however, the Times strongly criticized the
Lodge-Fish resolution. A long editorial said that the resolution appealed to the
“Jewish vote” and that by injecting religion into politics, it would arouse anti-
Jewish prejudice. True, the Times shifted the blame to Congress, but it cau-
tioned Jews who “unthinkingly” supported the resolution not to endorse a
move that divided them from their fellow Americans. At this point the New
Palestine switched gears. Ignoring Ochs entirely, it pulled apart the “muddled”
editorial: “There is a flavor in[it] that reminds us of [Rabbi David] Philipson. It
seems to be written by a Jewish anti-Zionist pen, that at the same time wanted
to appear as if it were just a plain goyish pen.”29
one line short

· · ·
Throughout the public debate on a possible Jewish state, American Zionists
were on the defensive. To be sure, there were some prominent non-Jewish sup-
porters of the Balfour Declaration, but the stature of the liberal critics and
Christian opinion molders arrayed in opposition to Jewish nationalism, plus the
renewed vigor of Reform anti-Zionists, endowed the “antis” with greater au-
thority and influence. Most important, since the debate itself was caught up in
the antisemitism unleashed by the Red Scare and the popularization of the
Protocols, the antistatists enjoyed a decided advantage.30 The embattled Zionists,
confronting intense Judeophobia as well as anti-Zionism, were left with two op-
tions. They could have asserted that America was no different from other coun-
tries with respect to antisemitism, thereby directing their movement closer to
Herzl’s initial premises. Or, they could have watered down American Zionism to
make it more palatable to the critics. Opting for the latter course, the movement
neither abandoned the principles set in its formative years, nor did it doubt that
Jews had a secure future in the United States. Zionists continued to insist that
America was different and that a personal commitment by American Jews to a
Jewish Palestine was unnecessary. Along the lines of the article by Frankfurter,
they said that American Jews supported Zionism on behalf of oppressed Jews
elsewhere. Further trimming their movement down to a philanthropy, Zionists
tacitly admitted that the regnant concept of a monolithic American loyalty was
both unimpeachable and too difficult to combat. By accommodating to public
opinion they took another step in the Americanization of Zionism.
In the end, it mattered little that in November 1917 the initial American re-
sponse to the Balfour Declaration was favorable. The negative criticism of the
immediate postwar period held fast, reemerging with new intensity at the end
of the decade in the wake of Arab riots in Palestine. Jewish and non-Jewish
anti-Zionism also served to strengthen the State Department’s opposition to a
Jewish state during the 1920s and 1930s. Meanwhile, American Zionists re-
coiled. The enthusiasm of the Brandeis era leading up to the declaration rap-
idly dissipated; membership in the ZOA, which stood at 149,000 in 1918, shrank
to 18,500 in 1922.31 In the United States and elsewhere Palestinianism replaced
Zionism, and the evolution of a Jewish state out of the British mandate, which
Zionists had confidently predicted, appeared less and less certain.
The Second Debate
In August 1929 the Arabs went on a weeklong rampage against Jews and Jewish
settlements in the yishuv. Native unrest, which was fueled by claims that En-
gland had reneged on its wartime pledges to the Arabs and had made conflict-
ing promises to the Jews in the Balfour Declaration, had been simmering since
one line short

the end of the World War. It erupted more furiously in 1929, amounting to a
veritable spree of killings and destruction of property, which went uncon-
tained by British officials. Among the brutally massacred victims were six
young students, all citizens of the United States, at a yeshivah in Hebron. If for
no other reason, the reaction of the American government and American pub-
lic opinion to the riots was immediately involved.
Technically the headache over the mandate was England’s alone, but be-
cause England looked to America after the war to shore up British interests in
the Pacific as well as the Atlantic, it trod warily with its strongest ally even as it
sought to balance the conflicting Arab and Jewish claims. But the United
States and American public opinion posed no serious obstacles, and London
chose to appease the Arabs, a path that received encouragement from the anti-
Zionist American consul in Palestine and from the anti-Zionist State Depart-
ment. His Majesty’s Government (HMG) found a temporary solution to the
problem in the Passfield White Paper of October 1930, which followed the re-
ports of two British commissions of inquiry. Unsatisfactory to both sides, it
failed to settle the Arab-Jewish controversy, which dragged on through the
1930s and World War II.32
.  
The second debate on Zionism, in 1929–30, was more than a reprise of the
first. To be sure, Jewish and Christian liberals as well as the press again led the
anti-Zionists, and criticisms of Zionism laced with antisemitism again de-
picted the Jewish oppressor and the Arab victim. But since the Arabs had
taken up arms against the yishuv, the same charges rang with greater intensity.
Seen as a vindication of those who had argued that the Balfour Declaration set
the Arabs and the Jews on a collision course, the riots appeared to justify the
claims that Zionism, a threat to world peace, could be maintained only by
force.
All American parties concerned in the aftermath of the riots openly ac-
knowledged the importance of public opinion, both Jewish and non-Jewish,
in the resolution of the Palestine question. The government carefully assessed
that opinion; Arabs and Zionists tried to capture it. The end result was never
really in doubt. Barely had the ink dried on public statements in sympathy
with the victims or in condemnation of the rioters when the public’s concen-
tration shifted. Americans knew who the killers and looters were, but they set
about questioning why the rioters had so acted. The pro-Arab answers they
formulated derived from evaluations of the Arab and Jewish cases as well as of
Arabs and Jews in general. Thus, both sides had their work cut out for them—
the Arabs to play upon and nurture American support, the Jews to dig beneath
the riots and defend the beliefs and behavior of their nationalist movement.

Jewish defense spelled retrogression. Challenging the legitimacy of political

Zionism, the public focus on Arab rights set back Zionist efforts to prove the
similarities of their program to American democratic principles. In essence,
Zionists were forced to reargue the terms of a twelve-year-old contract (the
Balfour Declaration) that had been signed by England, sealed by international
approval, and acclaimed by Americans.
During the months between the riots and the Passfield White Paper, the
Jewish and non-Jewish anti-Zionists targeted Zionism in general and the poli-
cies of the Jewish Agency in particular. (The Agency was a body created under
the terms of the mandate to cooperate with the British in the development of
a Jewish national home. Consisting at first of members of the WZO, it was en-
larged to include non-Zionists only days before the riots.) Ostensibly, any de-
fense of Zionism and the Agency devolved on the three American Jewish fac-
tions most concerned about the yishuv : the ZOA, now headed by Louis Lipsky
and always loyal to Chaim Weizmann, president of the Agency; the non-
Zionists, the new participants in the Agency under the leadership of banker
Felix Warburg; and the independent and influential Brandeis group, the jus-
tice and his close associates who, although without office in the ZOA or
Agency, were committed Zionists and fully immersed in Palestinian affairs.
Together, theirs was the task of creating a climate of opinion supportive of
Zionism.
Various reasons, however, crippled the possibility of a joint effort at de-
fense from the very outset. Even the bare essentials that united the Zionists
and non-Zionists—a commitment to the yishuv, a partnership with England,
and an acceptance of Weizmann’s leadership—could not produce a united re-
sponse. For one thing, the mood of the 1920s militated against public support
of the nationalist aspirations of a beleaguered minority; for another, the de-
fenders faced formidable adversaries of all stripes—liberal and conservative,
capitalist and worker, religious and secular—whose combined numbers and
influence made their position virtually unassailable. In the end, however, the
failure of the three factions to mount a joint campaign, thereby dooming any
chance of an effective defense at all, stemmed primarily from their inability to
rise above personal rivalries and unite the American Jewish community.33
It is arguable that had the discussion been limited to the failure of England
to encourage and protect the upbuilding of the yishuv, the Jews would have
been in a stronger position. Circumstances, however, precluded that option.
In light of the country’s recoil from political involvement abroad, and in light
of the strong Anglo-Saxonist current within American society, the public
shied away from an indictment of England. Moreover, the leaders of the
Agency in London, all loyal Englishmen, had warned American Jews against
raising an anti-British cry. The Agency itself recommended the removal of in-
competent colonial officials but refrained from faulting London’s policies.
Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann sought to impress upon Prime Minister

Ramsay MacDonald the mutuality of Zionist and British aims in Palestine and
how he, Weizmann, had encouraged Jewish trust in England. If that confi-
dence, particularly among American Jews, were betrayed, he was prepared to
resign.34
Neither the ZOA and the Brandeis group nor the non-Zionists contem-
plated a rupture with Great Britain. Their gratitude for the Balfour Declara-
tion, and their hope that England would thereby become the guardian of a de-
veloping Jewish homeland, had been fixed since 1917. The Jewish community at
large followed suit; a mass rally of more than twenty-five thousand Zionist
sympathizers at Madison Square Garden on August 29 affirmed Jewish confi-
dence in England’s honor and good faith. More important, faith in England ac-
corded with American diplomatic policy. Hadn’t President Herbert Hoover
made it known that although he opposed anti-British attacks, it would not be
inappropriate to blame the colonial officials? Therefore, the position chosen by
the Jews not to fault the Labor government was eminently American.35 The co-
incidence of American and Zionist diplomatic aims, another facet of the
Americanization of Zionism, took root and continued to flourish long after the
birth of the Jewish state.
The months passed, and the issue of England’s obligation to live up to the
Balfour Declaration, which was incorporated in the text of the mandate, drew
increasingly less attention. Since the Agency agreed to the two British investiga-
tive commissions, the first led by Sir Walter Shaw and the second by Sir John
Hope Simpson, any sharp criticism was put on hold until the final reports were
submitted. Reassured that Jewish acquiescence if not cooperation was beyond
doubt, England felt freer about appeasing the Arabs. As events turned out, any
Zionist reliance on British honor or sense of “fair play” was misplaced.36
.  
The fragmented nature of the Jewish community precluded the emergence of

any one Jewish point of view. The outpouring of relief funds aside, American
Jews broke ranks and spoke in many tongues. On the fringe of the opponents to
mainstream Zionism stood the Revisionists, the militant faction that had
broken away from the movement and opposed Weizmann, the British govern-
ment, and Louis Lipsky. Charging Weizmann with tiptoeing around the Brit-
ish, they called for his ouster and that of his henchman Lipsky. A different type
of response came from a small group of young Jewish intellectuals who wrote
for the Menorah Journal. One of them, Lionel Trilling, recalled years later: “We
were inclined to be skeptical about Zionism and even opposed to it, and during
the violence that flared up in 1929 some of us were on principle pro-Arab.”37
Outnumbering the Revisionists and the intellectuals by far, the Jewish Left
also withheld its support. The Communists knuckled under to Moscow’s line

and explained the riots in Marxist terms: the Zionists were the bourgeois capi-
talists, the Arabs the heroic and rebellious proletariat, and the Grand Mufti the
people’s liberator.38 Unlike the Communists, the Jewish Socialists had long
been divided on the issue of a Jewish national home in Palestine. The minor-
ity who believed in a reconciliation of economic class with nationalism had
joined the Poale Zion (Workers of Zion) party. As for the powerful Jewish un-
ions, the leadership was neutral if not opposed to Zionism, and although the
rank and file, the more recent immigrants, were more sympathetic, the leaders
went unchallenged.39
Immediate circumstances also contributed to Socialist disaffection. Since
the Socialists were enchanted by the rule of the Labor party in England, they
were reluctant to embarrass MacDonald’s government. Socialist leader Nor-
man Thomas, at best lukewarm toward Zionism, called the riots tragic, but he
saw the tragedy primarily as a setback to world peace. Idealistic Zionists would
agree, he said, that Jewish nationalism could not be imposed by military means
on an unwilling majority. Thomas denounced the Balfour Declaration, an ex-
pression of England’s imperial motives, at the same time that he urged trust in
the Labor government.40
The American partners in the enlarged Agency paid scant attention to the
individual anti-Zionist Jewish groups. There were no high-level conciliation
meetings and no appeals for united responses to the crisis. The measure of
communal unity that had marked the successful relief drive for victims in the
yishuv quickly evaporated. Efficient machinery nourished by public outrage
had assured the successful collection of funds, but it was dismantled after a
short campaign. Protest meetings organized locally in August and September
were exploited neither as an opening wedge for public rallies nor for a network
of active local committees. When the American Jewish Congress suggested a
national Jewish conference, both Weizmann and Warburg objected.41 In short,
no one advanced a sound strategy for the education and mobilization of the
community at large.
The obstacles to American Jewish unity were compounded by the plan for
an Arab-Jewish binational state put forth in November 1929 by American rabbi
Judah Magnes, chancellor of the Hebrew University.42 Explaining his program
in Jerusalem, Magnes said that despite the riots a “spiritual pressure” within
Jews required them to find an answer to the Palestinian problem, even if that
meant Jewish concessions to the Arabs. A moral peace was the only proper
foundation for a Jewish homeland: “If we cannot find ways of peace and
understanding, if the only way of establishing the Jewish National Home is
upon the bayonets of some Empire, our whole enterprise is not worth while.”
The plan drew from Magnes’s background—a Progressive and a pacifist, a Re-
form rabbi seeking to harmonize universalist beliefs with Jewish particular-
ism—and from ideas being circulated in 1929 by a former British official and
adviser to Arab leaders.

It mattered little to Magnes, still calling himself a Zionist, and to his follow-
ers that his suggestion of a legislature based on population spelled total surren-
der by the Zionists to the Arab majority. In his eyes the Balfour Declaration and
mandate were products of imperialistic machinations and international politics
that denied democracy and self-determination to the Arabs. He urged that Jews
act in accordance with the Jewish ethical tradition, and he called for an “act of
faith” from both sides showing that they could rise above their passions and
weaknesses. His projected binational government, he said, recognized the claims
of the Arabs and would lead them and the Jews to a mutual acceptance of each
other’s rights. Nevertheless, given the realities of both the Palestinian and inter-
national scenes, the plan was as naive as it was idealistic. But Magnes persisted.
He preferred, he observed, to renounce a Jewish national home and return Jews
to the ghetto than to compromise Jewish spiritual integrity. Magnes may not
have aimed to prove the democratic American-like features of Zionism, but that
consideration was precisely what captivated his supporters in the United States.
Magnes’s pronouncements brought on a fierce attack from loyal American
Zionists—periodicals, individuals, and organizations. The plan and Magnes’s
“Jesus-like” homilies were at best untimely; the irresponsibility of the man, in
no way a representative of the Agency, was appalling. The militants went fur-
ther. Shouting treason, the American veterans of the Jewish Legion (those who
had fought on the side of England during the war) called for his resignation
from the chancellorship of the Hebrew University; the Revisionists asked the
university and the WZO for disciplinary action. Prominent non-Zionists fa-
vored his ideas, but Warburg, now an Agency official, faulted the chancellor for
bypassing Weizmann and the Agency. For its part, the Brandeis group dis-
missed the ill-advised plan. One friend candidly wrote Magnes: “There has
been such a barrage of criticism that I would require the lamp of a Diogenes to
find people—excepting certain Reform rabbis and anti-Zionists—who would
speak with enthusiastic approval of your [program].”
Magnes put the Zionists even more on the defensive. To prove that they, like
him, aimed to neither fight nor exploit their fellow countrymen in Palestine,
they felt impelled to reiterate time and again how the yishuv shared its educa-
tional and welfare institutions with the Arabs. With respect to Arab-Jewish re-
lations, however, they failed to come up with a unified opinion. Some said to
negotiate “in time”; others said to wait until the Arabs were better prepared for
democracy or the Jews equalled the Arabs numerically. On the deeper issue of
Magnes’s challenge to their long-voiced protestations of the democratic char-
acter of Zionism, they kept silent. Meantime, outright defections to the
Magnes side as well as various approaches on how to handle him sapped the
ZOA of energy and concerted direction. Communal solidarity appeared ever
more elusive.
The Jewish reactions laid bare the underlying chasm between Zionists and
non-Zionists. Despite representation in the enlarged Agency, the latter were

acutely apprehensive about anything more than a vague, nonpolitical Zionism.

Magnes, a respected rabbi, social reformer, and friend, articulated their under-
lying fears; so long as Jews engaged in political nationalist activity that contra-
dicted America’s liberal ideology, their security was tenuous. More important,
Magnes backed up his words with a seemingly reasonable program. Moralistic
and universalistic, it promised a democratic Palestine under majority rule and
a safe Palestine where Jews and Arabs would live in harmony. The plan repudi-
ated European imperialism and militarism, concepts that disillusioned Ameri-
cans in the 1920s found particularly odious. One of Felix Warburg’s sons con-
fided that Magnes was “the one person who has expressed the ideal which the
forward-looking youth of America can follow.” Admittedly, the result would
not be an autonomous Jewish homeland, but that was a small price to pay if
Jews, living in accordance with their own as well as America’s ethical tradition,
would find peace and security.
.     
In the first short-lived round of public reaction to the riots, non-Jewish sympa-
thy for the yishuv ran high. Leading newspapers expressed their horror over the
bloodshed and demanded that England safeguard the rights of Jews in Pales-
tine. Congressmen, governors, and public figures of all persuasions and geo-
graphical sections joined the Zionist chorus. In messages relayed to the British
Colonial Office they added their concern for American lives and property and
demanded reparations for the losses. Louis Lipsky reported that the “almost
unanimous expression of sympathy”—and in particular the messages from
Hoover and Senator William Borah, chairman of the Foreign Relations Com-
mittee—had made a profound impression in London.43
As the diplomatic correspondence reveals, the Zionists wrongly assessed
London’s reaction. England shuddered at neither Hoover’s nor Borah’s words.
Within a few weeks, more ominous signals were heard: accounts of Jewish cul-
pability for the riots, reports that Arab violence had been exaggerated, descrip-
tions of the scandalous conditions in Palestinian Jewish relief operations. One
contemporary analysis noted early on that the American press revealed “a
strong undercurrent of feeling . . . against the Jewish nationalist aims in the
Holy Land, and a tendency in some circles ordinarily favorable to Jews to regard
the Arab as the true underdog.”44
Coolness in the press toward political Zionism showed that attention had
shifted to the deeper issue underlying the riots: “Should the bloodshed be
viewed as just another pogrom, or as the genesis of a national uprising, with
Jews as the victims merely because they had planted themselves in the Arab
path to freedom?” By the end of September Lipsky reluctantly changed his
mind, admitting that “there is a tremendous amount of public opinion against

us.”45 Almost overnight the American Jewish task was transformed. Instead of
merely collecting statements that would prove to England the depth of Ameri-
ca’s commitment to the Zionist movement, the Jews first had to convince the
public of the justice of their cause.
The critiques of Zionism and Zionists in secular periodicals came mostly
from journalists and interested scholars. Many claimed an expertise based on
visits to Palestine. One influential critic, whose reportage of events for the New
York Times coincided with the anti-Zionist views of publisher Adolph Ochs,
was Joseph Levy. A man who worked closely with Magnes, Levy faulted the Jews
as much as the Arabs for provoking the riots.46 Another reporter who made a
personal crusade out of anti-Zionism was Vincent Sheean. Falling under the
influence of Arab sympathizers in Palestine, the antisemitic Sheean viciously
attacked the Zionists and their animus toward the Arabs. The Zionist mind
typified, he said, “how idealism goes hand in hand with the most terrific cyni-
cism. . . . how they are Fascists in their own affairs, with regard to Palestine, and
internationalists in everything else.” Sheean cooperated with the anti-Zionist
American consul in Jerusalem, and when he returned to the United States he
spread his anti-Zionist views while on an extensive lecture tour.47
Since modern Jews had traditionally looked for liberal allies after Emancipa-
tion, the loss of liberal support in 1929–30, or betrayal as the Zionists called it,
was especially troubling. In the United States two prestigious liberal periodi-
cals, the Nation and the New Republic, had responded positively to the Balfour
Declaration in 1917. After the riots, however, they adopted the Arab cause and
judged the Palestine situation through the lenses of anti-imperialism, pacifism,
and a majority’s right to self-rule. Zionism tied to British imperialism and ig-
noring the wishes of the majority was out of place. Predicated on the use of
force at a time when the Western world was riding the crest of naval disarma-
ment and the Kellogg-Briand Peace Pact, Zionism contradicted the spirit of the
times. The Nation concluded that Zionists, imbued with “war-time psychol-
ogy,” wrongly looked to the “Joshua” instead of the “Isaiah” method of prog-
ress. The periodical latched on to Magnes’s plan, saying that it exemplified the
best in Jewish tradition.48
Individual Zionists wrote letters to the Nation and the New Republic, but ed-
itorial policy remained fixed. The managing editor of the Nation explained pri-
vately to Magnes that the journal’s opinion reflected no lack of sympathy for
Jews and for the apolitical Zionist work in Palestine:
With entire approval of the great cultural and economic task on which you and
your [Zionist] associates have so finely embarked, we have felt . . . that the politi-
cal exaggeration of the Balfour Declaration was likely to lead into a very difficult
and dangerous situation. . . . If, in trying to express that judgment . . . we have
failed to do justice to the reasonable hopes and aspirations of our Zionist friends,
it has not been from any lack of desire to see full justice done to the Jews and to

see full opportunity given them for making their contributions to that interna-
tional life in which they have already played so large and honorable a part.49
Other American liberals and pacifists joined in congratulations to Magnes

on his quasi-prophetic utterances. They failed to see why he aroused Zionist
antagonism. John Haynes Holmes, a liberal minister in New York who thought
of himself as a Zionist supporter, declaimed that “once again as in ancient
times, the prophets are stoned and slain,” and Roger Baldwin of the American
Civil Liberties Union commented, “Tolerance seems to be a stony road even for
Jews.” The Nation’s editor reported directly to Magnes: “We have certainly been
having a hot time with our Jewish friends . . . and I have been greatly distressed
to see the apparent failure to understand your position which seemed to me so
nobly and characteristically taken.” But, “those of us who went through the
fires of 1917 and 1918 do not need popular approval for the positions that we
have become honestly convinced are right.”50
Editorials and articles the New Palestine attempted to rebut the liberal crit-
ics.51 Since its readership was limited primarily to the faithful, it doubtless
feared that the opinions of liberals might lead Zionists themselves to defect. In-
deed, Jews could reasonably argue that a breach with American liberals over
Palestine could be hazardous if it left the Jewish community isolated and bereft
of allies on other issues. An article in the New Palestine by non-Zionist James
Marshall assumed that Jews had no choice but to yield to liberal pressure. Mar-
shall urged Zionists to correct the misguided behavior that had alienated the
liberals and led them to back the Magnes plan. To swim with the current, which
ultimately would decide the fate of the Balfour Declaration and the mandate,
Zionists had to backtrack. “The picture of British guns forcing foreign rule
upon the majority of the population so that a minority may achieve political,
economic and cultural privileges,” Marshall wrote, “does not accord with the
conscience of people bred in America and western Europe to the principles of
free self-government.” It behooved Zionists to show the world that their move-
ment was only cultural and spiritual and that it harbored no aggressive inten-
tions toward the Arabs. “We neither need nor want a Judenstaat” (a reference to
Herzl’s book but in its Germanic form a hint of hated Prussianism). Since the
mandate looked forward to the establishment of self-rule for Palestine, it was
incumbent upon the Jews, and not England or the League, to come up with a
workable scheme. “For our own spiritual sake, for our own chance to grow, as
well as to earn the support of the impartial people of the world . . . , we must
present a plan for self-government in Palestine.” Jewish rights under an Arab
majority could be guaranteed under League supervision, but in any event that
issue was not a valid reason for denying the Arabs self-government.
Tackling Marshall’s premise that liberals were right, writer Maurice Samuel
published a stinging reply that simultaneously defended the Jewish right to a
normal existence. Why did the Jews, as Marshall and Magnes thought, have to

prove their good intentions and assure the world that they were “nicer” than any
other nation? Their right to Palestine transcended international promises: “We
are made sick, distorted, unnatural; we are stunted in our natural spiritual de-
velopment; we are made the heir of a genuine national inferiority complex—all
for the reason that organically Palestine and we are one; and physically Palestine
has been taken from us. This is the foundation of our right to a Homeland in Pal-
estine.” To rectify that condition, liberals had applied the formula “Give the peo-
ple its rights” twelve years earlier and supported the Balfour Declaration. Now,
after the riots and independently of Jewish behavior, the liberals found another
cause, the rights of the Arabs, and they promptly forgot the Jews. “Liberals,”
Samuel sneered, “do not seem to be capable of carrying two principles simulta-
neously in their heads.” He said that the worst error in Marshall’s article was the
implication that Zionists harbored thoughts about Arab displacement or sub-
ordination. From such misassumptions liberals deduced that Jews should be
deprived of justice lest they abuse it! “Of no other people in the world would we
dare to speak thus.”52 The Marshall-Samuel interchange proved the inability of
the non-Zionists to plumb the depths of Jewish ethnic yearning for a Jewish
homeland. Yet, Marshall’s basic premise was irrefutable. Fair or not, public
opinion could well decide the resolution of the Palestine impasse.
In London Chaim Weizmann worried about the failure of American Jews to
effectively rebut the liberal arguments. He turned to Wise, Brandeis, and
Frankfurter, the Jews most closely identified with liberal circles, requesting that
they attack the “sentimental nonsense” being aired about Arab self-
determination. Weizmann claimed that in England even left-wing Socialists
knew that Arab democracy was “a mere farce and fake.” Unfortunately, how-
ever, the popular formulas were “against us.” The Zionist leader could only con-
clude from the absence of Zionist counterpropaganda that “the Jews in Amer-
ica are getting cold feet.”53
As the months went by, a composite54 and highly unflattering picture of
Zionism emerged from the nation’s leading journals. Incorporating the liberal
argument and adding others, it eclipsed the few pro-Zionist articles that found
their way into print. It drew sustenance from the bogeys that haunted the na-
tion in the postwar decade. Americans who now spurned foreign entanglement
and militarism, superpatriots who feared immigration and the specter of athe-
istic communism, and average citizens who may have been impressed by the
“revelations” of Henry Ford and the Protocols of the Elders of Zion could well re-
late to the following anti-Zionist charges:
1. Zionism was undemocratic. Zionists had settled in an Arab land and al-
though overwhelmingly outnumbered by the native population demanded po-
litical domination. The Balfour Declaration never promised a Jewish state, and
Chaim Weizmann’s phrase about making Palestine as Jewish as England was
English was both unwarranted and unattainable. A Jewish home in Palestine
under Arab benevolent rule was acceptable, but to press for more was undemo-

cratic and hence un-American. True, the Zionists had modernized the country
and raised the Arab standard of living, but irrigation and health clinics did not
allay Arab fear or invalidate Arab rights. Writer H. W. Nevinson put it this way:
“The Arab is a camel; the Jew is a motorcar, bumping him off the road.”55
2. Zionism spawned by British imperialism depended for its existence on
military force. Since Arabs were prepared to fight a holy war in defense of their
just rights, only a garrison state could prevent further bloodshed. Zionists,
however, refused to yield. “Jews have been massacred by the best people in his-
tory for centuries, and Arab pogroms are hardly big-time stuff,” one Zionist al-
legedly told reporter John Gunther.56 Violence in turn would doubtless draw in
other nations, including the United States.
3. Zionism was a disruptive social force. Modernization had destroyed the
natural primitive charm of Palestine’s landscape and the harmony of a rural
economy. Zionist settlers on the land had dispossessed the Arabs (although ad-
mittedly the latter had been paid well), and the majority of Jews, drawn to the
cities, had captured the country’s wholesale and retail trade. On the land and in
the cities, the new Jews lived according to social standards unseen before in Pal-
estine and certainly incomprehensible to the average Arab. They spoke Hebrew,
their women wore trousers, and their theater testified to Slavic antecedents and
behavior. Their center, Tel Aviv, was “vulgarly” Levantine after the common-
place fashion of Beirut and Alexandria; in comportment, the place might be a
seaside resort on the Black Sea.” In the experimental “communistic” kibbutz,
the Zionists were secularists or agnostics whose principles involved “the break-
ing down of the ordinarily accepted standards of family life.” As a result, the
harmony of Arab-Jewish relations in the pre-Zionist era had been permanently
destroyed.57
4. Zionism was an artificial contrivance of international Jewry. Sustained by
an “unholy alliance” between Western military power and limitless “Jewish
gold,” Zionism was unable to succeed on its own. The influx of Jewish immi-
grants into Palestine had overtaxed the country’s economic absorptive capac-
ity; there was neither sufficient land for cultivation nor proper outlets for urban
employment. Economically and politically Zionism was a failure: “God prom-
ised . . . Moses, and Balfour promised . . . Weizmann; and all four have failed to
make [Zionism] work.”58 However, the stream of Jewish money and a “world-
wide Jewish organization and its access to the press” kept the movement alive
and underwrote an aggressively nationalistic propaganda. The powerful inter-
national network closed ranks on Palestine and prevented a full hearing of the
Arab side. Anytime Zionists imagined an infringement of their rights, “imme-
diately there is a mass meeting in Chicago, a deputation waits upon the Prime
Minister in London, and a letter is written to the Melbourne Times.”59
Not all journalists and essayists leveled every charge, nor were they all
equally vindictive. They pointed out the faults of the Zionists in Palestine—ar-
rogant, pushy, irreligious, short on idealism—but in different terms. Some, to

avoid the charge of antisemitism, took pains to distinguish between “good” in-
digenous Palestinian Jews and the “bad” Zionists. Most correlated Zionism
with outside financial resources, but only the jurist Pierre Crabites was so ob-
sessed that he could hardly write the word Jew without immediately linking it
to an image of money. Overall, however, the major charges were repeated time
and again.
From the least biased to the most vicious, the critiques revealed how closely
the anti-Zionist vocabulary conformed to antisemitic stereotypes. Whether de-
liberate or not, allusions could trigger automatic responses, and Americans
who may not have understood the Palestine situation could more easily grasp
the equivalencies: the Zionist settler who dispossessed the Arabs was the Jewish
Shylock; the Zionist who cornered business and commerce was the Jew as eco-
nomic parasite; the kibbutz dweller was the Jew as Bolshevik; Zionist financial
resources validated the image “as rich as a Jew”; world Jewish support proved
that Jews were a clannish and separate international enclave; Zionists who dis-
rupted the social order in Palestine were the alien race unassimilable to its sur-
roundings. One critic also used the antisemitic image of the physically stunted
Jew, who left the fighting to others, to prophesy the inevitable collapse of Zion-
ism.60 In the fusion of anti-Zionism with antisemitism, each of the two com-
ponents was strengthened.
Virtually all of the solutions advanced to solve the Palestinian impasse
claimed that their objective was an Arab-Jewish peace. Toward that end some
called for limiting Zionist ambitions to a cultural and spiritual center in Pales-
tine, or the internationalization of the Holy Land, or the adoption of Magnes’s
scheme for a binational state. Others recommended the rescission of the Bal-
four Declaration or that Zionists cut their ties to British imperialism. None of
those ideas involved concessions from the Arabs.
The nagging questions persist. Why, if the choice was between the funda-
mental rights of the Jews and the fundamental rights of the Arabs, did the Jews
have to yield? Why, as Maurice Samuel asked, did the Jews have to be “nicer”
than other peoples even when some anti-Zionists admitted the Jewish historic
and organic right to a homeland in Palestine? As Jews observed even then, anti-
Jewish sentiment explained a good deal, and Jews were always a convenient
scapegoat. But more than general dislike of the Jew was involved. In the 1920s a
double standard of behavior still prevailed in America; in manners and con-
duct a Jew had to be better than a Gentile to be as good. The code still held fast
in universities, professions, and corporate executive suites. Just as harsher re-
quirements were imposed on the individual Jew, so could they be demanded of
the collective group.
A variant of that theme was the argument that Jews, because of their noble
tradition, were morally obligated to abide by their ethical values and deal more
than evenly with the less advanced Arabs. Those who were wronged should not
seek vengeance, the Nation piously intoned. In the Atlantic Monthly, Hallen

Viney wrote that on the Jew rested the responsibility to love his enemies: “Can
he rise to the spiritual vision of Deutero-Isaiah, or will he keep to the national-
ism of [the prophet] Haggai? Can he build up the character of the Arab by ex-
ample?”61 The possible eventualities were left unsaid. If in the process Jewish
interests were crushed, well, that was the fate of the “suffering people.” In any
event, Jews would have had the satisfaction of self-sacrifice!
Articles and editorials in the most prominent Protestant and Catholic journals
repeated many of the arguments that appeared in the secular press. Writers em-
phasized the rights of the Arabs and blamed the Balfour Declaration and polit-
ical Zionism for Arab-Jewish friction; they too agreed that Zionism was sus-
tained by world Jewish gold and that it depended on the use of British force for
its existence. Again like the secular journals, leading Christian papers propa-
gated an image of Zionism and Zionists—conniving, arrogant, separatist,
communistic, atheistic—that was tinted by antisemitic imagery. In a letter to
the Christian Century one Jewish writer called a particularly vicious article
“worthy of [Henry Ford’s] Dearborn Independent of five years ago, not of a lib-
eral Christian journal.”62
The roots of religious anti-Zionism, however, were different. The strong ties
forged by the missionaries with the Arabs and the long-standing Christian con-
versionary efforts in the Near East contributed to a pro-Arab and anti-Zionist
position. Visits by Christian Americans to Palestine, where they were exposed
to the influence of missionaries, Christian Arabs, and the anti-Zionist Ameri-
can Colony, also turned them against Zionism. In October 1929 the editor of
the National Methodist Press, reporting on his visit to Palestine, explained his
pro-Arab sympathies to both the State Department and Prime Minister Mac-
Donald. To the latter he said that the Grand Mufti, a man of culture and an in-
spiration to the Arabs, held liberal principles much like those of MacDonald
himself.63
Mixing religious with practical objections, the Christian press raised two
points different from the secular critique. They charged that the Jews were plot-
ting to seize control of Christian as well as Muslim holy sites and to found a
theocratic state in Palestine. They also raised the theme of the universal Jew, the
Jew whose religious development was stunted by the forces of reaction and
who longed to be absorbed within society. Once emancipated, the Jew did not
and should not want a separate land but should again apply his religious talents
to all mankind. The possession of Palestine, the Christian Century concluded,
was unnecessary to “any . . . moral and religious leadership.” Heeding the Chris-
tian theological view of the Jew in history, the Christian press flatly rejected
Jewish nationalism. The issue was not nationalism per se, as the defense of Arab
national rights proved, but rather the fact that Jews had forfeited their right to
a normal national existence. They had lost control over their destiny—“the
scepter had departed from Judah”—and be it as converts, or heralds of the

Second Coming, or pioneers in religion and ethics, their fate ultimately rested
on the purposes of the Christian world.64
Small wonder that religious Christians enthusiastically supported Magnes’s
ideas. Zionism purely as a cultural or spiritual force was quite palatable, and,
after all, Magnes thought also of Christians when he spoke for the internation-
alization of religious sites. Moreover, the rabbi supplied the means for cloaking
opposition to political Zionism in moral and religious terms that could in no
way evoke charges of antisemitism. “Magnes’s word,” Stephen Wise bitterly
commented, “made it possible for Jews and Christians alike to speak up for the
Arabs and against the Jewish position as they would not have dared to do but
for that word.” Even John Haynes Holmes, despite his personal ties to Zionists,
congratulated Magnes for “one of the noblest utterances that I have ever read”
and confided that he, Holmes, had tried to say the same thing in his book on
Palestine.65
A warmer response to the objectives of the yishuv and Zionism, especially in
the immediate aftermath of the riots, came from a few Christian quarters. The
Federal Council of the Churches of Christ was sympathetic, and so was the
Good Will Union, an organization that worked to foster greater understanding
between Christians and Jews. Samuel Cavert, general secretary of the Federal
Council, lavishly praised the revival of Jewish culture and other accomplish-
ments of the Zionists in Palestine, and the Good Will Union convened a mass
meeting of Catholics and Protestants at which it endorsed the Balfour Declara-
tion and called on England to fulfill the provisions of the mandate. Zionist
journals played up those sympathetic statements, but they failed to see that the
Christian friends ascribed a purpose to Zionism that transcended Jewish yearn-
ings for self-fulfillment. Palestine would become a laboratory, the Christians
hoped, for resolving interreligious antipathies and creating “a model to all the
nations of good will in action.” It would restore Jewish consciousness of their
prophetic mission to draw the world in the paths of peace.66
.   
The Zionists and their partners understood the importance of American pub-
lic opinion, both Jewish and non-Jewish, in any attempt to influence negotia-
tions between England and the Jewish Agency. As one important official in the
ZOA stated, “In the last analysis American public opinion is almost our last
card and the strongest weapon that the Jewish people have today.”67 Winning
that opinion, however, grew increasingly elusive. It may have been impossible
to convert those whose opinions rested on religious doctrine or blatant anti-
semitism, but no sustained strategy was followed to counter the general skepti-
cism and hostility that Zionism evoked.
The obstacles to changing the tenor of public criticism were formidable.

The followers of the Agency could point neither to a united Jewish point of
view with which to impress Christians nor to significant Christian support for
influencing uncommitted or antipathetic Jews. Having failed with the liberals
and Christians, they witnessed the use of articles from the Nation and the
Christian Century by Arab lobbyists. Even Gentile friends of long standing re-
quired special persuasion. Julian Mack confided that if not for modifications
that he and Stephen Wise had urged upon John Haynes Holmes, and the fact
that Holmes was “such a fine fellow,” his book would have been highly critical
of Zionism. Another attempt by the Brandeis group, this time to brief Eliza-
beth MacCallum of the Foreign Policy Association (FPA), who was planning a
pamphlet on the Palestine conflict, ended in total failure. Despite the time in-
vested, her pamphlet turned out to be only a detached account of the interests
of the Jews, Arabs, and British.68
The MacCallum episode, which involved only the Brandeis faction, typified
the Zionists’ unsuccessful forays into the field of public relations. Crippled by
interorganizational disunity, none of the three groups, acting separately, had
the means or desire to assume the tasks of an ongoing campaign. Brandeis and
his associates enjoyed valuable contacts in the world of opinion-molders—the
FPA, Walter Lippmann, the New Republic, Survey magazine, the Scripps-
Howard newspaper chain. In recognition of the urgent need to sway public
opinion, they toyed with various ideas. Brandeis talked vaguely of a corps of
writers to answer critiques of Zionism as they appeared in the press, and he and
Frankfurter recommended the publicization of the welfare measures of the
yishuv that benefited Arabs. For the legal aspects of the situation, Frankfurter
advocated a pamphlet or sourcebook that would contain, among other things,
the Faisal-Frankfurter correspondence of 1919. The interchange between the
Arab prince, later king of Iraq, and the American Jew contained a warm wel-
come and an offer of cooperation with the Zionists in Palestine.69
Nevertheless, Brandeis and his chief lieutenants preferred to use their influ-
ence behind the scenes and not to work openly in a public relations campaign.
They rationalized that should they be called for high-level consultations, they
needed to abstain from public statements that could prejudice their position
with American and British policymakers and the Jewish Agency. Brandeis
broke his silence only once, when he felt the need to counter Magnes. Frank-
furter similarly declined to argue the Zionist case in the Nation or the New Re-
public or in a debate with an Arab spokesman. He was by far the most capable
person to discuss the correspondence with Faisal, but he left the task to others.
Not until the Passfield White Paper in October 1930 did Frankfurter enter the
public arena.70
Waiting to be tapped for diplomatic negotiations may have been an honest
motive, but it betrayed an arrogance and unwillingness to debate with “com-
moners” at a time when the Zionist cause desperately needed the talents of as-
tute public defenders. In the case of Frankfurter, who had those talents and

who had insisted that how demands were couched was as important as the de-
mands themselves,71 nonparticipation in the public discussion of Zionism was
a clear abdication of responsibility. Only when the Brandeis group recaptured
leadership of the ZOA in the summer of 1930 did they become more out-
spoken, but by that time public opinion had been lost.72
The second group, Felix Warburg and the non-Zionists, had the money to
mount a public relations campaign, but they lacked the machinery and the
willingness. Their customary inclination to shy away from publicity was mani-
fested in their opposition to Jewish rallies and to open controversy with non-
Jews. The non-Zionist leader suggested the formation of a committee on pub-
lic relations but only with the limited function of issuing statements to the
government or to other bodies that were deemed necessary by the Agency’s
London committee on diplomatic relations. Moreover, Warburg’s distaste for
Louis Lipsky led him to dismiss the Zionists’ plea for funds to underwrite the
public relations work of the ZOA. Semiticist Cyrus Adler, the most knowledge-
able of the non-Zionists, also refused to get involved. He could have well an-
swered the accounts of Jewish atrocities that appeared in Arabic newspapers
but he refused, and he also turned down a request from Current History to
comment on an article by the venomous anti-Zionist Pierre Crabites. The
American Hebrew, traditionally the mouthpiece of the non-Zionists, was of no
help at all. It had turned to anti-Zionism under the editorship of Rabbi Isaac
Landman and preferred to find fault with political Zionism rather than to de-
fend the Jewish Agency.73
Of the three American Jewish groups only the ZOA laid plans for a
systematic campaign to earn non-Jewish as well as Jewish support. The exec-
utive appointed a Committee on Public Information (CPI), which came up
with elaborate suggestions: formation of a Pro-Palestine Committee of lead-
ing Christians; a series of pamphlets summarizing all angles of the Jewish po-
sition in Palestine, to be distributed to government officials, editors of all news-
papers and journals, and public figures in every important community; articles
signed by prominent Jews for the most important periodicals; several radio
broadcasts by eminent Jewish and non-Jewish speakers; a special conference of
newspaper reporters and other representatives of the press to answer anti-
Zionist charges on an informal basis.74 Ambitious and costly, the plans were
carefully conceived. They covered all nerve centers of public opinion, and by
focusing on Christian allies they were designed to prove that Zionists were not
an isolated and friendless minority. Unfortunately for the cause, most of the
plans fell through before they could be implemented. The Zionists had access
to competent writers and organizational machinery through its chapters, but
Zionist headquarters in London provided neither money nor cooperation.75
Time was another major hurdle. The unexpected attacks from the liberals had
caught the Zionists unprepared and had given their critics a crucial six-week
advantage. A concentrated, high-pressure counterattack might have permitted

the ZOA to catch up, but in light of the interfactional rivalry, the likelihood of
capturing the initiative was unreal.
Although the combined assets of the three factions with respect to talent,
contacts, organizational network, and money could have permitted a respect-
able Jewish campaign, none of the groups was prepared to consolidate forces.
Left on its own, the ZOA watched helplessly as its initial blueprint disinte-
grated. All that was salvaged from the drawing board were plans to distribute
an article by Meyer Weisgal of the ZOA from Current History, MacCallum’s re-
port for the FPA, and Maurice Samuel’s book, What Happened in Palestine. Of
the three only Weisgal’s was an in-house product.76
To be sure, those pieces, like the occasional sympathetic articles that ap-
peared in the national press,77 outlined the major themes for the defense: 1) the
elemental need of Jews and the Jewish people for a national homeland; 2) the
Jews’ historic right to Palestine, which was recognized in the Balfour Declara-
tion and mandate and approved even by the Arabs (i.e., in the Faisal-
Frankfurter correspondence); 3) Zionist accomplishments in Palestine that
raised the Arab standard of living; 4) the absorptive capacity of the land, which
could support continued Jewish immigration; 5) no intention on the part of
the Zionists to violate Arab rights but rather a desire to live together amicably.
Some elaborated on the theme of Arab-Jewish friendship, distinguishing
between the Arab peasant and his real oppressor, the effendi, and Maurice
Samuel stressed instances of Arab help to Jews during the riots. Most of the
writers, however, shied away from the two questions of paramount importance
to Americans: How could the democratic principle of majority rule be dis-
missed in the case of Palestine? And, in light of an intransigent Arab national-
ism, could a Zionist state be sustained without the use of force?78
Too few and far between, the handful of articles made no perceptible dent in
American public opinion. Nor did speeches by foreign dignitaries—General
Jan Smuts of South Africa and Major Daniel Hopkin of the British Parlia-
ment—who were hosted by the ZOA. Their remarks were featured in the Jew-
ish press, but the Zionists never packaged them for use as propaganda weapons
within the larger community. The New Palestine also garnered statements of
support from prominent Englishmen, including Winston Churchill, but since
the journal spoke to a limited audience that needed little convincing, such am-
munition was wasted.79
The inadequacies of the Zionist public relations efforts cannot be attributed
solely to outside obstacles. The ZOA almost as much as the Warburg and Bran-
deis groups hardly put up a fight. They failed to call upon experts in public re-
lations, they devoted more time and energy to partisan issues, they never
tapped their regional chapters for help in reaching the public, and the CPI pre-
ferred to talk about diplomacy and politics. An aura of drift and an inability to
persevere overlay their activity. After a few months of planning and discussion
the CPI discontinued its meetings. At the beginning of 1930, when the Lipsky

administration locked horns with the Brandeis-Mack faction in anticipation of

the upcoming ZOA convention, any semblance of an ongoing public relations
campaign was abandoned.
The poor showing of the Jews in the public debate was of inestimable help to
the Arab-American lobbyists. The Arab nationalist movement in the United
States had emerged in 1918 in response to the Balfour Declaration and the
preparations for the Paris Peace Conference. In a religious and cultural as well
as political sense anti-Zionism united Christian and Muslim Arabs. Wilson’s
support of national self-determination became their leitmotif and Christian
missionaries and anti-Zionist Reform Jews their respected allies. In 1929, fol-
lowing the enlargement of the Agency and the riots, Arab-American national-
ist forces were reinvigorated. Now an active lobby, they sent letters to states-
men and delegations to the State Department, in which they indicted British
imperialism and wealthy American Jewish supporters of the Agency and put
forth their demands for scrapping the Balfour Declaration and revising the
mandate. Enjoying two advantages their Jewish opponents lacked, unity and
the support of the liberals, they spread their message through their news-
papers and in free lectures for clubs, college groups, the YMCA, and the FPA.
They courted uncommitted Jews by talk of cultural Zionism and by playing
up the Magnes plan.80
An Arab delegation despatched by the Arab Executive Committee in April
1930 sounded a more bellicose note. Only the outright repeal of the Balfour
Declaration could lead to an understanding between Jews and Arabs; Zionists
were a “foreign political power” in Palestine, and no fundamental difference
separated the militant anti-Arab Revisionists from Weizmann; even the Ortho-
dox Jews whose settlement in Palestine antedated the Zionists were suspect.
The proper solution for Palestine was a parliamentary government represent-
ing both Arabs and Jews, but without faith in the Zionists, the Arabs were not
prepared to open direct negotiations.81
The most prominent of the Arab propagandists during the year after the
riots was Ameen Rihani, a Lebanese-born poet and man of letters who pro-
jected the romantic image of a moderate working for the spiritual union of
Western and Arab cultures. Tireless in his efforts to generate sympathy for Arab
nationalism, he met with Secretary of State Henry Stimson, lectured across the
country, and wrote articles for the national press on the dangers of Zionism to
the Arabs and the entire world. Meyer Weisgal of the ZOA, who met Rihani
privately, reported that the Arab was a pacifist as well as a strong nationalist.
Weisgal suggested a public discussion between Zionist representatives and Ri-
hani. It would indicate, Weisgal thought, the sincerity of Zionist intentions to
resolve the impasse with the Arabs.82
The ZOA steered clear of any organizational contact with Rihani, but in pri-
one line short

vate capacity, leading Zionists crossed swords with him in debates sponsored by
the FPA. At several debates Jacob De Haas represented the Zionists. Unofficial
accounts of one such contest dwelt on Rihani’s skills; he was “fluent, persuasive
and . . . unscrupulous.” Playing to the emotions of the crowd, the Arab called
for the burning of the Balfour Declaration. If the Palestine stalemate was not
broken, he warned of pan-Islamic uprisings in the Middle East and India. Be-
cause his audience included missionaries as well as Arabs and their sympathiz-
ers, even a brilliant Zionist performance, which DeHaas did not give, would
not have defeated him. Observers also commented on the palpable antagonism
and antisemitism of the audience. “Never before in my life,” one said, “have I
felt or seen antisemitism in mass.” At several debates the British point of view
was also represented, and where the Englishman sided with the Arabs, the
Zionist case was totally crushed.83
Bested on all fronts in the contest for public support, Zionist and non-
Zionist activities grew less and less impressive. In May 1930 they protested En-
gland’s ban on Jewish immigration into Palestine, but again they failed to direct
or channel the local wildcat outbursts of American Jewish communities.
Shortly thereafter, when Jews and Arabs all over the world lobbied the Perma-
nent Mandates Commission of the League of Nations during its deliberations
on the Palestine question, the voice of organized American Jewry was con-
spicuously silent.84 As a result of factors that had been operating since Septem-
ber 1929, the debate over Zionism was never much of a debate at all, and the
wherewithal to pressure the British and American governments on behalf of
Zionism failed to materialize.
Failure in the 1929 debate underscored the fact that the Jewish nationalist
movement in the United States had reached an extremely low point. Although
American Zionists had been ever-ready to accommodate to American opinions
and Americanize their movement, the debate focused on Arab rights and had
comparatively little to do with the compatibility of Zionism and loyalty to
America. Indeed, since Zionism had faded by then into philanthropic Palestin-
ianism, there wasn’t very much left in its ideology to Americanize. True, the
Zionists persisted and did what they could. They abandoned talk of a state, and
they denied that the yishuv’s behavior was either immoral or undemocratic.
Such denials, however, often redounded merely to a “they said/we said” inter-
change and had little effect. The sad truth was that Zionism, regardless of how
much it had been Americanized, was still unacceptable to many Americans.
Only a crisis of the magnitude of the Holocaust would effectively silence the
majority of vocal anti-Zionists.
Exactly a year after the riots and less than three years before Hitler assumed of-
fice, Zionist sympathizer Pierre Van Paassen lamented American Jewish neglect
of public opinion. He wrote: “We saw before our very eyes how the great wave
one line short

of moral indignation which swept America . . . was not seized and held and that
instead public opinion was dangerously allowed to swing . . . in a totally differ-
ent direction.” He predicted more accurately than he knew: “Other storms may
arise for Israel some day somewhere in the world. In that day there must also be
non-Jewish voices heard in defense of Israel.”85

CHAPTER 4
A Modern Synagogue in Jerusalem 1
T hroughout the ages Western visitors to Jerusalem found a city whose very
streets and stones bore the weight of Jewish history. The presence of
Christians, Muslims, and their holy places was, moreover, a constant reminder
of the centuries-old interplay among the three major faiths. Visitors in the early
1920s also saw a city of contrasts, in Rabbi Judah Magnes’s words “a country of
extremes,” “the contact of old and new civilizations,” “frontier life and dress-
suit life.” Specific contrasts were blatant: narrow streets where donkeys and
camels competed for right of way with the occasional automobile; abject pov-
erty and disease among the natives, many of whom were homeless and depen-
dent on the alms they received from well-fed, well-clad tourists; nuns and
monks in religious garb rubbing shoulders with chasidic rabbis dressed in caf-
tans and streimels (fur hats adapted from eighteenth-century Polish garb);
yeshiva students with long coats and ear locks alongside male and female cha-
lutzim in shorts and blouses; a cacaphony of sounds—municipal bells, chimes
of churches and monasteries, and calls to prayer from Arab minarets.2
The city, however, was on a path of modernization. Although the popula-
tion, around eighty thousand on the eve of World War I, had declined signifi-
cantly during the war years, immigration and urbanization were raising the
number once again. Jerusalem was fast spreading into newly built neighbor-
hoods with modern residences, stores, hospitals, and cultural facilities. But in
that city of contrasts traditional Jewish religious services went unchallenged.
The city abounded with synagogues, both Sephardic and Ashkenazic, as well as
those of various chasidic sects, but all camps were light years away from the
“liberalization” of Judaism in the Western sense.3 Dr. David Yellin, a prominent
educator in the yishuv who was then deputy mayor of Jerusalem, summed it up
in an interview with the United Synagogue Recorder: “Jerusalem has 300 Syn-
agogues and yet has no Synagogue. That sounds paradoxical, but this is what I
mean: it has no Synagogue which is inspiring—no Synagogue where the service
is decorous and dignified.”4
During the mandate period, religiously observant Americans who visited
95
Jerusalem were sharply critical of the religious condition in Palestine, where

the Jewish population was polarized between the old-fashioned Orthodox and
the modern secularists. Some reasoned that by planting a modern religious
movement between the two antithetical poles, they could best provide a needed
alternative. Since political wrangling over the future of a Jewish state had
reached a plateau with the Balfour Declaration and the mandate, the time
seemed right for concentrating on internal matters. Vast sums were still re-
quired for building the physical infrastructure of the yishuv, and American
Zionists continued to contribute a goodly share, but the more they gave the
more they believed that they had earned the right of direct intervention. In this
instance they planned to export an American product for use in the yishuv. Al-
though their focus was on religion, they were in effect setting the Americaniza-
tion of Zionism on a new course. Zionism in the United States had been tail-
ored to meet American standards, and now the object was to impose an
American feature on the developing society in Palestine, i.e., to shape religion
in the yishuv in the mold of American Judaism.
For a short time during the 1920s an attempt was made to establish a mod-
ern Western-like synagogue in Jerusalem. Given Reform’s rejection of Zion-
ism, a Reform synagogue at that time was unthinkable, but some thought that
there might be a chance for traditionalism in modern dress, or what we today
would call Conservatism.* The push came from a few Americans Jews in Pal-
estine who were joined by several others from England and Canada. Although
this group of “Anglos” was small in number, it included people of influence
and distinction—Rabbi Judah Magnes, soon to be appointed first chancellor
of Hebrew University; Henrietta Szold, the founder of Hadassah, and her
friends, Norman Bentwich, the attorney general of the mandatory govern-
ment in Palestine, and noted academicians. A common language drew these
people together, and so did a similarity of cultural and intellectual back-
grounds; all were familiar with the modern religious movements of Reform
and Conservatism. An informal and fluid group, the members were brought
together in various social and recreational activities of the yishuv. They ex-
plored the country together, entertained and were entertained together, and
*I use the word Conservative to denote a middle-of-the-road position between tradi-

tional Orthodoxy and Reform. In the United States of the 1920s a Conservative union of
congregations did exist, but the movement itself was amorphous, including congre-
gants who preferred traditional Orthodox worship as well as those whose tastes were
closer to Reform. All agreed that religious services required modernization, but as Jona-
than Sarna convincingly shows,5 the boundaries between denominations at that time
were permeable rather than rigid, and overall guidelines for Conservative beliefs and
practices had yet to be fixed. The same range of opinions applied to the group I discuss
here, and although they didn’t refer to themselves as Conservative, I use the term for the
group for want of a more precise label.

together attended the same lectures and concerts. Age made little difference
where commonalities of background obtained, and young Western students
mixed comfortably with their socially prominent elders. Not all of the group
were committed to settling permanently in Palestine, but since they hoped for
Jewish creativity in a Jewish national home and for means to satisfy their per-
sonal religious needs, they labored even as noncitizens to break the Orthodox
monopoly over Jewish worship.
The following pages trace the first steps toward Conservative-like services in
Jerusalem. It discusses the Chevra (group) led by Magnes, who designed an al-
tered ritual for traditional synagogue services. The story continues with the in-
volvement of the Chevra with another attempt at Westernization, that by the
founders of the Yeshurun congregation. Within a very short time the Magnes
group failed, both as an independent force and as a determining influence on
Yeshurun. The essay concludes with an account of the “adoption” of Yeshurun
by the United Synagogue of America (the organization of Conservative syn-
agogues). A seemingly insignificant episode in and of itself, the failure of a
modernized Judaism to take root in Jerusalem between the two world wars re-
flected problems that continue even today to militate against attempts at estab-
lishing a meaningful Conservative presence in Israel.
Magnes and the Chevra
The master planner of a modern form of worship was Judah Magnes (1877–
1948).6 A native of California, Magnes was ordained at Hebrew Union College
in Cincinnati. Despite his Reform training, he soon emerged as an ardent Zion-
ist, and, earning a reputation as a gifted orator, he preached Jewish political and
cultural nationalism in the two Reform pulpits he filled in New York. Falling
under the influence of Solomon Schechter, president of the Jewish Theological
Seminary, he became an ardent disciple of the Conservative leader, who taught
spiritual Zionism and “historic Judaism,” i.e., a Judaism that sought to blend
traditionalism with modernity. At Temple Emanu-El, the prestigious Reform
“cathedral” in New York, Magnes’s Zionism as well as his attempts to instill tra-
dition into synagogue practices alienated his elitist congregation, and he was
forced to resign. A year at New York City’s leading Conservative synagogue,
B’nai Jeshurun, where he labored to build a synagogue-center along more tra-
ditional lines, also ended in failure.
Meantime, the rabbi had developed a strong following among the newly ar-
rived immigrants. His behavior abounded with contradictions—a sympa-
thetic biographer called him a dissenter and nonconformist. He was at one and
the same time a close friend of the Jewish patrician leaders and a champion of
the masses who fought for democratic organization of the community, a
spokesman for cultural pluralism in an age when the melting-pot philosophy

predominated, a rabbi constantly wrestling internally with questions of theol-

ogy who nevertheless worked with secularist radicals and Socialists, and a paci-
fist when America entered World War I. During the war Magnes recoiled from
political Zionism—he called the Balfour Declaration a product of British im-
perialism—and at odds with Zionist leaders Chaim Weizmann and Louis Bran-
deis, he soon became an ardent supporter of a binational state in Palestine.
Ultimately distanced from both “uptown” and “downtown” New York Jews,
Magnes left the active rabbinate and his native land in 1922 when he, his wife,
and his three young sons set sail for Palestine. Jerusalem held out the promise of
intellectual growth and spiritual fulfillment, but without a position awaiting
him in Jerusalem (he was first tapped to head the newly created Hebrew Uni-
versity in 1924), he was unsure whether he would stay. Adjustment was difficult,
but it was eased by his association with scholars and planners for the university,
government officials, and especially two other disciples of Schechter, Henrietta
Szold and Norman Bentwich.7
Among other topics that Magnes and his friends discussed was the organiza-
tion of a modern religious service. Like other Westerners, they probably re-
garded the Sephardic style as a curiosity and chasidic services as interesting dis-
plays of fervent piety, but neither one could fulfill their personal needs. On the
other hand, the Ashkenazic style as it existed was also unpalatable. To be sure, it
was familiar to them; it was the Judaism of their ancestors in central and eastern
Europe, which their fathers and they, the first generations of Reform and Con-
servative Jews in the Western world, had labored to alter along Western lines.
Moreover, precisely because of its familiarity, it exuded neither the charm nor
the emotional pull of the Sephardic or chasidic practices. In Jerusalem in the
1920s the same features of Ashkenazic services to which the original devotees of
change had objected—squalid premises, a lack of decorum, raucous prayers, lit-
tle if no congregational participation in the service, and what was regarded as a
total lack of dignity—aroused the Westerners’ distaste. (Henrietta Szold said
that the situation created a “spiritual homesickness.”)8 Unlike the vast majority
in Jerusalem, the Westerners were comfortable only with a modernized form of
prayers. But theirs was a Judaism that spoke to neither wing in the yishuv, the
Orthodox or the secularists. Those secularists who had come directly to Pales-
tine from eastern Europe were not drawn to the Westernized style. Discarding
the one type of Judaism that they knew, Orthodoxy, they had no understanding
of or use for Conservatism or Reform. Strange as it seems, the Orthodoxy they
had abandoned remained in their eyes the one authentic Judaism. Magnes and
his friends could count, therefore, on the support of only a very small number.
Some two years before Magnes came on the scene, an informal Conservative-
like Shabbat service had been instituted by Henrietta Szold. One of her biogra-
phers explained: “Finding the available ultra-orthodox synagogue services, in
which women were completely segregated, not to her taste, she gathered a
one line short

group who held their own services which were conducted along the conserva-
tive lines of her father’s [Rabbi Benjamin Szold’s] service in Oheb Shalom
Synagogue in Baltimore. They were held in the home of Jessie Sampter, the
poetess and Henrietta’s dear friend.”9 One of the participants, Professor Alex-
ander Dushkin, a prominent educator trained in the United States, recalled that
the core group consisted of himself and his future wife, Szold and several of
her friends, and Bentwich and his two sisters. Dushkin recounted that “the ser-
vice was not traditionally complete—but it did include a d’var Torah [lesson on
the Torah reading] and discussion on the portion of the week or some current
problem, given by a member of the group.” Szold herself told a little about the
service in a letter to a friend: “At present we are reading the Mosaic lesson, the
prophetical portion, and we are studying Jeremiah.” But she was not optimistic
about the group’s progress: “We are still holding on. . . . But we are not creating
even the smallest germ of anything vital.”10 Upon those modest beginnings
Magnes endeavored to build a new congregation.
Barely four months after his arrival, the American rabbi was giving serious
thought to the creation of a modern synagogue. At first he considered building
a synagogue via a Jewish center. His scheme, far more ambitious than Szold’s,
required financial assistance unavailable in Jerusalem. Magnes therefore turned
first to several non-Zionist Jewish patricians in New York. Not only had he
mixed with them socially, but he had frequently been their link to Palestinian
affairs. In Jerusalem he served as their guide when they visited the country, and
he labored to cultivate a sympathy on their part for the yishuv and for projects
relating to the upbuilding of the land. When banker and philanthropist Arthur
Lehman, for example, spent a week in Palestine, the Magneses were the ones
who awakened his enthusiasm for the country.11 Since political Zionism was no
longer a real issue after the Balfour Declaration, Zionists and non-Zionists (like
Lehman) were able to cooperate in the physical and cultural development of
the country.
A short time later the rabbi acted upon his idea of a center in Jerusalem. He
wrote to Arthur Lehman’s brother Irving, a justice of the New York Supreme
Court, asking whether the Jewish Welfare Board, of which Lehman was direc-
tor, had any funds for the erection of a Jewish center. Not only did a center de-
rive from Magnes’s belief that Judaism pervaded all Jewish activity, extra-
synagogal as well as synagogal, but as he explained in a similar appeal to Louis
Marshall, the influential president of the American Jewish Committee, Jerusa-
lem needed a center before a synagogue: “Here, if anywhere, the Temple will
have to be approached through many a vestibule, and a Jewish Center might do
great things for the religious life.” Hoping that a center might serve as the means
of attracting those alienated from traditional Judaism back to religion, he ex-
plained his ideas more fully in a long letter to the powerful American Jewish
banker and non-Zionist Felix Warburg:
one line short

Every group and community here has a central building with the exception of the
Jews. Some of the structures are very beautiful. . . . If you see a fine building you
can be sure it is not Jewish. This has a peculiar effect upon visitors and tourists,
who either despise the Jews for their neglect of the Holy City or pass through in
blissful ignorance of what the Jews are trying to do here. Whatever be my views of
Palestine, it is not possible to forget that Jerusalem is the Holy City of three great
religions and that thousands come here every year. What is done or not done here
by the Jews must reflect upon the whole Jewish people one way or another.
But what is of the utmost importance is that the Jews of Jerusalem, particu-
larly the young men and women, have no place where they can gather for reli-
gious, educational and social work. A Jewish Center here would be the first step
towards attaching to the Synagogue many who are unable to go to the existing old
[synagogues]. This is true of the increasing number of Americans and Europeans
of education and spiritual refinement. A Jewish Center here would also serve as a
place—the only place in the whole community Jew or Gentile—where lectures,
concerts, conferences, congresses could be held under proper auspices. . . . This is
a project about which everyone could unite, whatever his political or religious
views. . . . This is an opportunity for many persons who are not Zionists to do
something of value not only for Jerusalem, but for Judaism generally.
Magnes chose his words carefully. His appeal to Warburg was calculated to
jibe with the religious and universalist sentiments of the non-Zionist. He
talked about a center, not exclusively for Zionist activities but one that would
do credit to “the Holy City of three great religions.” His emphasis was on the
spiritual and religious—“centers of spiritual life,” a place for people of “spiri-
tual refinement,” a project that could unite every Jew “whatever his political or
religious views.”12 Finally, Magnes’s stress on the need to enhance the image of
Jews and Judaism was a consideration that always aroused the sensitivities of
American Jewish leaders.
Magnes’s plan for a Jewish center, in which a synagogue would be just one
component, was not new. While serving in the rabbinate he had toyed with the
idea of a “People’s Synagogue” that could appeal to the masses. He had also
hoped to create a center out of B’nai Jeshurun. Other leading rabbis, like Mor-
decai Kaplan and Stephen Wise, were on a similar track. The center idea be-
came increasingly popular with Conservative rabbis after the war, when their
synagogues were spreading into new suburban areas. Although some believed
that a center failed to augment synagogue attendance, or that a center’s extra-
synagogal activities were in fact secularizing the synagogue, the concept of in-
tegrating Jewish activities under the all-encompassing umbrella of a
synagogue-center held sway in the 1920s.13
Warburg visited Jerusalem for a few days in the winter of 1923–24, and under
the influence of Magnes and Chaim Weizmann his attitude toward Palestine
grew more positive. A major donor to the Hebrew University, he sounded very

much like Magnes when he said that “while Christian and Moslem institutions
abounded, Jerusalem, the spiritual center of the three main religions, had few
institutions to inspire the Jews.” He also told Cyrus Adler, Schechter’s successor
at the Seminary, that Jerusalem lacked any dignified synagogue. Adler sug-
gested that the Conservative congregations in America under the aegis of the
United Synagogue might provide for such a synagogue, but nothing immediate
resulted.14
The Szold-Magnes group now turned exclusively to the idea of a synagogue.
In 1923 they held their own services on the High Holy Days. On Rosh Hasha-
nah, in what he called “lively” services, Magnes was the Torah reader, and Bent-
wich read the haftarah (portion from the Prophets). At the Yom Kippur ser-
vices, which Sir Herbert Samuel, British high commissioner for Palestine, also
attended, Magnes and Bentwich both preached. Bentwich publicly announced
that the group was preparing for regular Sabbath services after the holiday sea-
son and that Magnes “has promised his assistance.” Indeed, the rabbi devoted
many hours to thought and discussions with the other group members on the
form and organization of a congregation. Given the influence of the Orthodox
rabbinate and the pervasiveness of popular loyalty to Orthodox ideas, if not
Orthodox practices, he came to realize that any significant change regarding
prayer or ritual would require a long and arduous struggle.15
A few days after the holidays Magnes formulated the “General Principles”
and “Regulations for the Services” for organizing the Chevra.16 The statements
drew from the input of the entire group, but Magnes was the dominant influ-
ence. The “democratization” of the services and the emphasis on universal
brotherhood and social justice (see text below) were clearly his contributions.
Nor did Magnes the nonconformist hesitate to suggest practices that American
Conservative synagogues, or for that matter Reform temples, had not yet
adopted. Seemingly inoffensive to the casual reader, the proposed innovations
were quite radical in the eyes of the traditionalists.
The text of the “General Principles,” as edited and amended by the group,
enumerated the objectives:
1. Respect for, and as far as possible, adherence to the Jewish tradition as to reli-
gious services. The Chevra will, however, give its own emphasis to this or that part
of the Service. [In his first draft Magnes was more extreme, stipulating that “the
Chevra will, however, when occasion arises, use the traditional material and re-
fashion it, or give it an emphasis acceptable to modern men and women.”]
2. The complete conduct of the Services is to be in the hands of members of
the Chevra, and is not to be entrusted to professional readers, singers, or preachers.
3. The active participation of the whole congregation in the Services is to be
sought, i.e. in the congregational singing, in alternate responses, and in their free-
dom to say prayers with complete devotion and enthusiasm.
4. Fostering among the members a love of Torah, by encouraging the members

to read their own Torah portions, by discourses on the Sedra [Torah portion] of
the day, and perhaps through study groups.
5. The complete equality of the sexes. This is to be expressed as far as possible
within the tradition, but also in ways that the tradition has not provided for.
6. The Hebrew language shall be the language of the Services and of the dis-
courses. Exceptions may be made by the Chevra. . . . The general rule shall be:
Better a poor Hebrew than none.
7. The Chevra will endeavor to point out the present day implications of the
teachings of social justice and human brotherhood as inculcated by the Torah,
the Prophets and the history of the Jewish People.
8. In order to emphasize the brotherhood of Israel with all of humankind, ap-
propriate selections (in harmony with the Jewish spirit) from the religious litera-
ture of other peoples and religions shall find an appropriate place in a Hebrew
translation either before or during or after the discourse.
“Regulations for the Service” elaborated on or amended the “General Prin-

ciples.” The most interesting for a so-called Conservative congregation at that
time concerned the shacharit (first section of morning prayers),Torah reading,
and the place of women. The provision on shacharit stated: “The Shacharit is to
be emphasized as the main part of the service and not the Musaf [second sec-
tion of morning prayers], as is the present custom. At the end of the Shacharit
. . . there is to be a pause, to enable the Congregation to leave either for the Kotel
Maaravi [Western Wall] or for home. Those wishing to remain for Musaf may;
but the Musaf is not to be a chief element of the service. It is merely a Musaf—
an appendage, an addendum.”
With respect to Torah reading, the “Regulations” fleshed out the “Princi-
ples”: “Each person [with certain exceptions] called to the Torah is to read his
own portion, with or without the Niggun [special chant].” As for the rights of
women, which apparently raised most discussion within the group, the follow-
ing modification was made: “Women shall be eligible for participation in all
parts of the service on the same conditions as men. Men shall sit on one side
and women on the other side of the congregation.” Equal participation, contra-
dicted immediately by the provision for separate seating (albeit without the
physical barrier employed by the Orthodox), was not defined. This “Regula-
tion” was a far cry from Magnes’s original “Principles,” which had hinted at a
more sweeping change of tradition. At the end of the “Regulations,” Magnes
appended a note designed to protect the independence of the group, perhaps
from the Orthodox rabbinate. It read: “A Chevra is a membership society orga-
nized primarily to meet the needs of the membership. . . . [It]organizes for a
specific purpose, gets a membership, and goes ahead without asking too many
questions of persons outside the membership.”
The “Principles” and “Regulations” bore the stamp of a Reform rabbi
turned Conservative who ventured beyond the typically moderate Conserva-

tive practices. Magnes did not hesitate to change either the order of the
prayers or the accepted roles of women and of the cantor and preacher. He ex-
plained in his journal that “the Western Synagogue must be in the tradition,
and in Hebrew, but it must above all things seek to accommodate itself in
thought to the best Western mind.” Eastern customs and traditions could re-
main, but “ideas must be the first consideration.” His Reform background
underlay his explanation of the Musaf prayer: “The Musaf is a substitute for
the sacrifices. But Westerners do not really believe in the restoration of sacri-
fices. So why pray for them? Something, ancient or modern in its wording, on
sacrifice can be substituted.”17
The input of Magnes’s associates, far less radical than the American rabbi’s,
was also discernible. It seems clear, for example, that Bentwich worked closely
with Magnes on the drafts of the statements. Others were also consulted, and,
as in the United States, differences of opinion obtained. At no point does the
evidence suggest that Magnes resisted amendments offered by the group; he
even accepted changes that distinctly curbed his crusading bent. Nevertheless,
he soon realized that his advanced ideas stood little chance of acceptance: “Tell
Bentwich,” he wrote in his journal, that “I think we must give up all ideas of any
‘reforms’ in Prayer Book and Service, because neither he nor I will stay to fight
for them, and it will not do to quarrel over little things.”18
The Chevra and Yeshurun
At this point the story of the Chevra took a decided turn. Apparently, there
was another small group in Jerusalem that was seeking a “modern” synagogue.
The organizer was one Louis Lober, a young American then residing in Jerusa-
lem, who worked as a clerk for the government. Arriving in Jerusalem in the
fall of 1920, he recalled more than fifty years later: “I . . . felt keenly the absence
of a modern traditional central synagogue outside the walls of the[Old] City,
which would be especially appealing to youth. I discussed my idea with other
residents and friends, who agreed that there was a crying need for a synagogue
in Jerusalem with true decorum and congregational singing. While all people
I talked to thought it was a great idea, most of them tried to discourage me,
saying Jerusalem was not ready for this so called ‘revolutionary’ idea and it was
doomed to failure. With much persistence I finally succeeded in getting a
small group of young men interested in this project, all between the ages of 20
to 26. The action was slow and no urgency was felt; a real impetus to get
started was lacking.”19
Shortly after the High Holy Days of 1923, Lober’s group learned of the
Chevra and its plans “to start a Reform Service.” (Like the average American Jew
of the day, Lober apparently thought that any deviation from Orthodox cus-
tom was Reform.) Magnes explained the Chevra ‘s purpose to Lober, and the

latter suggested that perhaps the two groups could organize “a traditional ser-
vice and pray together in an atmosphere of reverence and decorum, which
would preclude the need of a Reform service.” Indeed, an agreement with the
Chevra would have been a feather in Lober’s cap, for his group could not boast
of members with equal social status and prestige. Bentwich for one was amen-
able to Lober’s idea. He told Magnes privately that Lober and his associates
were “almost pathetically anxious to combine with us.” He advised that if the
Chevra won the necessary endorsement of the rabbinate, it would be well to
join with Lober. If the rabbis did not approve, “then we can take amore inde-
pendent line, but let us make an effort to keep within the tzibur [commu-
nity].”20
When the two groups met, the Chevra proposed the adoption of the “Regu-
lations.” Both sides had thought that a merger might be possible, but because of
the Chevra’s stand on women’s rights there was no agreement. Just as that
group insisted on equal participation, so Lober’s group refused to accept it. The
Chevra promised to think over Lober’s suggestion that the matter be referred to
chief rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook for a decision, but in the end, without further
consultations either with the other group or with the chief rabbi, the Chevra
decided against compromise and to go its own way. On the first Shabbat of the
Hebrew new year, the group held its first formal service.21
Lober responded by calling a meeting of his group, and he convinced them
that in light of the new “Reform” Chevra, the need to begin their own service
was of the utmost urgency. Organization proceeded rapidly; space was secured
for religious services at a school, and one member contributed a Torah scroll. A
second scroll presented a bit of a problem until Lober turned directly to the
chief rabbi. Lober recalled that “Chief Rabbi Kook was very much impressed
with our plans, which also had a special goal of attracting the youth. Appreciat-
ing our dilemma, the Chief Rabbi unceremoniously went to his aron kodesh
[holy ark] and took out his own Sefer Torah, wrapped it in a silk cloth and
handed it to me with his blessing.” Thus equipped, weekly services of Lober’s
group were inaugurated shortly after those of the Chevra.22
Ironically, they—those who according to Bentwich were “pathetically anx-
ious” to join the Chevra—succeeded while the latter failed. Lober recounted the
sequence of events in a piece that he wrote fifty years later:
We started our [services] on Shabbat, parashat Noah [chapter Noah in Genesis],

5624 [1923]. As our membership consisted of both Ashkenazim and Sephardim,
and even though the form of prayer was to be essentially nussach Ashkenaz [Ash-
kenazic rite], we introduced the revolutionary innovation of reading all the
prayers and the Torah in the Sephardic pronunciation, or as it is now universally
accepted, as the “mifta Israeli” [Israeli pronunciation]. We introduced congrega-
tional singing from the start, with melodies from various Sephardic and Ashke-
nazic communities in different parts of the world. Many of those tunes are being

sung by the members of our congregation to this day. There was no professional
hazzan [cantor], and members officiated each Sabbath in turn. . . .
As the congregational singing in the synagogue was heard by passers-by, it at-
tracted many people who came in to see, and many of them joined us. Our repu-
tation spread so rapidly, that it also brought a visit of a committee from the Re-
form group. They too enjoyed the service and were so impressed that, within two
months the Reform group disbanded and most of their members joined us,
which proved that there was no need for a Reform Service in Jerusalem. Dr.
Magnes immediately became an active member, and said that his sons would be
Bar Mitzvah in our synagogue. Among the first women from this group to join
us, was Miss Henrietta Szold . . . with her secretary Emma Ehrlich. Miss Szold at-
tended services regularly, although she protested against being seated behind a
mechitzah [a divider between the men’s and women’s sections]. Other prominent
women who prayed in our synagogue were the famous Miss Annie Landau, the
Head Mistress of the Evelina de Rothschild School for Girls and her deputy, Mrs.
Moss Levy. [Both women were English and had had connections with the Chevra.
Landau, as opposed to Szold, supported separate seating.] The Sabbath atten-
dance grew so rapidly that within one month of its existence we had over one
hundred worshipers, which proved the crying need for this type of synagogue in
the new developing section of Jerusalem. . . .
It is interesting to note that our synagogue was the only one that had the bless-
ing of both Chief Rabbi Kook and Rabbi Sonnenfeld of the [right-wing] Agudat
Israel. . . .
The group formally organized a congregation—which American Jews would

have called modern Orthodox—and came up with the name Yeshurun. Ac-
cording to Lober, “a constitution was drawn up with a preamble stating that
‘the purpose of Yeshurun is to foster unity among Jerusalem Jewry in accor-
dance with Traditional Judaism and National Aspirations,’ by means of: a. well
organized religious services with congregational singing; b. study circles and a
library; c. cultural and social activities; d. youth activities; e. social service. . . .”
Lober concluded his account with the claim that Yeshurun had served as the
model for other synagogues in the yishuv that introduced congregational sing-
ing and adopted Sephardic pronunciation in an Ashkenazic ritual.23
Because of the dearth of documents, details of the Chevra’s last days remain
unknown. Why did the group give up after a short existence of two months?
Did it vote as a unit to affiliate with Yeshurun? Did Magnes continue to call the
signals? One source, the diary of Simon Greenberg for 1924, a year after the
Chevra began, ignored the Chevra entirely but mentioned Magnes’s presence in
Yeshurun. Greenberg, who was then a young rabbinical student at the Jewish
Theological Seminary spending his last year of study in Jerusalem, told how he
struck up a close friendship with Lober. Greenberg wrote that on Yom Kippur
eve, “I . . . went to pray at the synagogue of which Lober is president. It is the

‘modern’ synagogue of Jerusalem, because they don’t shout at will during the
prayers, and because decorum is preserved. In Jerusalem that is considered
modernity in religion. All of the high officials of the government pray here.”
Greenberg said about Magnes, “It was interesting to watch Magnes, the one
time Temple Emanu-El Rabbi—praying now as the most Orthodox of Jews.”24
In retrospect it is not difficult to understand why the Chevra failed and
Yeshurun succeeded. The two groups replicated each other in some ways; both
emphasized congregational participation and decorum, and neither employed
a professional cantor or rabbi. But the differences transcended the similarities.
For Yeshurun, and also for Jerusalem at that time, other changes in the services
were too radical. Most observant Jews did not reason as Magnes did that musaf
was merely an appendage. They neither saw any reason to change the order of
prayers nor, above all, were they prepared to accept equal rights for women. If
American Conservative congregations had made little progress on those issues,
it was totally unrealistic to expect more in Jerusalem. Worshipers at Yeshurun,
unconcerned by what their neighbors thought of their synagogue and its
style—which for Conservatism in the United States was a weighty considera-
tion—found the services sufficiently modern and attractive by the inclusion of
congregational singing, Palestinian pronunciation, and decorum.
Nor was it politic for the Chevra to compete with Yeshurun. The chief rabbi
had given Yeshurun his approval along with his Torah, but without rabbinical
acceptance, the Chevra and its members individually were beyond the pale of
respectability. Furthermore, Yeshurun had attracted the younger element in Je-
rusalem or the same group desired by the Chevra. Lacking that, the Chevra
would be left merely with a handful of “Anglos,” some of whom were not plan-
ning on permanent residence. Magnes, who as noted above had despaired of
serious change early on, may have felt that it was wiser to join Yeshurun and at-
tempt to influence policy from within. But any effort along those lines also
failed. According to Bentwich’s biography of Magnes: “The ‘Yeshurun’ Congre-
gation . . . belied his [Magnes’s] and others’ hopes as regards the form of ser-
vice; and he did not remain for long on its Board.”25
On a deeper level, the Chevra’s program was doubtless too cerebral for the
average layman in the yishuv, who like Lober probably didn’t know the ideology
of Reform or Conservatism. Perhaps if Magnes and his associates had started
first with small study groups for teaching principles of Conservatism, they
might have scored greater success. They who had enjoyed some connection
with the Jewish Theological Seminary or Solomon Schechter rationally ac-
cepted “tradition and change,” but they failed to raise and answer questions on
Conservatism and halakhah (Jewish law), particularly on matters of individual
beliefs and praxis for the modern Jew.
At bottom, precisely because it was an American product, Conservatism was
too alien for the yishuv. Born of the desires of the eastern European immi-
grants and their children to acculturate rapidly to American modernity and

non-Jewish tastes, it mirrored a society where the conditions for popular accep-
tance were totally different from those of the Jewish homeland. Whereas
American Jews strove for a “respectable” religious style that discarded “out-
landish” Orthodox practices but yet permitted the retention of ethnic loyalties,
Jews in a Jewish homeland never felt the same pressures. The early olim to Pal-
estine and the eastern Europeans in America may have shared the same grand-
parents, but the country to which each group immigrated determined how they
shaped their religion.
The United Synagogue and Yeshurun
During the 1920s, when Zionism in America became Palestinianism, concen-

tration shifted from the political aims of the movement to the economic needs
of a Jewish Palestine. On those grounds non-Zionists united with Zionists in
working for a Jewish home rather than a Jewish state. Conservative leaders in
America concentrated specifically on yet another element, the need to develop
the cultural and religious resources of the yishuv. President Cyrus Adler of the
Jewish Theological Seminary had suggested to Felix Warburg that the United
Synagogue might provide for an “appropriate synagogue” in Jerusalem, and the
project appealed as well to the two arms of the Conservative movement, the
United Synagogue and the Rabbinical Assembly. “We must not forget,” an early
editorial in the United Synagogue Recorder declared, “that the soul of the Jew is
his religion. Whether in Palestine or in the Diaspora; therein lies his inspira-
tion, his strength, his hope.”26 Insisting that contributions to Palestine did not
end with planting trees or building hydroelectric sites, Conservative spokesmen
said that Jews in the United States could and should contribute to the building
of institutions like synagogues, community centers, and the Hebrew Univer-
sity. More than before the rabbis preached about a Jewish Palestine, not one of
secular Zionism, but one that would serve as the spiritual and cultural center of
Jews throughout the Diaspora. Not only did the cause of spiritual Zionism fit
their very raison d’être as ministers of religion, but it aimed to forge an
American-yishuv partnership whereby each center would contribute meaning-
fully to the other. Just as Jewish life in America was strengthened by a Jewish
home in Palestine, so could the yishuv benefit by American input on religious
and cultural matters.
An emphasis on the religious and cultural also enriched American Zionism,
by injecting a new enthusiasm, at least for the religious minded, into a move-
ment that had lost much of the glamour and attractiveness of the Brandeis era.
In the pursuit of their goal, none of the Conservative leaders disputed the right
of American Jews to meddle in the affairs of the yishuv or attempt to influence
its religious character. Rabbi Max Drob, president of the Rabbinical Assembly
in 1927, stated bluntly: Since our men bear the brunt of the United Palestine

Appeal (an American national fund-raising agency for Palestine), “we are
therefore justified in demanding that the upbuilding of Palestine should be
spiritual as well as economic.”27
The idea of a cultural-religious enterprise undertaken by their movement
was pushed by Conservative Jews who visited Palestine. For example, Sarah
Kussy, a member of the Women’s League of the United Synagogue, recorded
her impressions of religious life in Palestine in 1923 for the express purpose of
having the United Synagogue undertake its own project in Jerusalem. After de-
scribing the abominable features, especially for female worshipers, of the city’s
Orthodox synagogues, she stressed the importance of modern religious ser-
vices and religious education for adults and children. A modernized form of
worship, she said, might even appeal to the secularist and agnostic olim from
eastern Europe. At least as important were the needs of the Western “Anglos.”
Referring specifically to the Szold-Magnes group, she saw the members as “the
nucleus for what will probably become a modern congregation, the first in Je-
rusalem,” and she advised the United Synagogue to stay in touch with them.
Kussy also pressed strongly for a YMHA or a community center in Jerusalem
that would attract “modern young people” and would protect them from the
blandishments of the active Christian proselytizers. At present, she concluded,
no organization except the United Synagogue was in a position to make a reli-
gious contribution to the yishuv.28
Kussy’s essay touched several important themes, which were picked up and
developed by those who followed. First, unlike the Szold-Magnes group and
more like Magnes’s original notion, the focus shifted to something larger than a
synagogue—i.e., to a community center or a synagogue-center. Second, the
concerned American Jews stressed the needs of the “Anglos,” especially their
fellow Jews who had left the United States for Palestine. (However understand-
able, that reason stemmed from the mistaken belief that a significant American
aliyah was under way. Actually, at the end of the decade there were only some
two thousand Americans residing in all of Palestine.)29 Third, the desire to pro-
tect Jewish youth in Jerusalem from the missionaries also found a receptive au-
dience. Kussy herself warned of the danger a few years later. The YM/YWCA
didn’t discriminate against Jews, she said, but “neither do the missionaries.” Fi-
nally, the idea of building on the Yeshurun congregation, which had swallowed
up the Szold-Magnes group by the time Kussy wrote, had taken root.30
The theme of underwriting the Yeshurun congregation seemed eminently
logical. (It was understood from the beginning that the contribution of the
United Synagogue would be a gift to the yishuv and hardly an effort to establish
its own synagogue.) The United Synagogue could not easily run a synagogue-
center from New York,31 and Yeshurun appeared to be a successful and ongoing
venture, albeit without its own building. Its modernized style and plans for ex-
panding into a social and cultural center made it very much akin to an Ameri-
can Conservative synagogue-center of the 1920s. Furthermore, in light of the

traditionalist bent of most Conservative synagogues in the United States at that

time, worshipers at those synagogues would find little distasteful in Yeshurun’s
traditionally Orthodox services.
But in effect, the decision to cooperate with Yeshurun was an admission of
the weakness of Conservatism and the United Synagogue. The Conservative
union was organized in 1913, but no consensus had emerged on what Conserva-
tism meant. Yeshurun was entrenching itself as an Orthodox synagogue—
modern perhaps in style but nonetheless Orthodox—and one that, as Magnes
had learned through personal experience, was resistant to further innovations.
The Americans doubtless knew of the Chevra’s unsuccessful endeavors to
launch a less-traditional prayer group, but that failure did not motivate them to
try again. What is most striking about the United Synagogue’s venture was the
fact that Conservatism as a viable or desirable alternative to any form of Ortho-
dox worship in Jerusalem never even figured in the American discussions. The
Americans stressed the benefits for the “Anglos” and for Jerusalem youth, but
other than an insistence on modernization, which was never really defined,
nothing in the records indicates any attention to the matter of planting the
Conservative movement in Palestine. Nor did the United Synagogue plan on
“converting” Yeshurun. It may have decided on the basis of Magnes’s attempts
that it was wiser to proceed slowly, but that too was never debated. Just as the
Chevra had bowed out in favor of Yeshurun, the very decision to adopt Yeshu-
run meant a further capitulation to Orthodoxy.
In the summer of 1924 Rabbi Samuel Cohen, executive director of the
United Synagogue, visited Palestine. He interviewed numerous civic, religious,
and educational leaders in Palestine, as well as Magnes, for the purpose of as-
certaining what the United Synagogue could do to further the “spiritual devel-
opment of our Homeland.” He concluded that the first step toward developing
a vibrant religious life in Palestine was to strengthen Yeshurun. That modern
congregation needed a synagogue-center, and proper physical facilities would
enable it to expand as well as to serve as a model for other congregations.32
A second visitor to Palestine the following spring was Israel Levinthal, the
Conservative rabbi of the Brooklyn Jewish Center. Committed to the United
Synagogue’s project, he stated that the Jews who had settled in Palestine sought
a “spiritual” as well as secure life. Although they faced the same religious prob-
lems that American Jews faced, “the youth . . . want to do something to keep
themselves and their younger brothers and sisters within the influence of their
ancient faith.” The rabbi gathered enthusiastic endorsements from Chaim
Weizmann and from prominent Jews in the yishuv, including Chief Rabbi
Kook, for the synagogue-center idea, and he undertook negotiations with
Yeshurun. Louis Lober of Yeshurun reported that Levinthal had come to Jeru-
salem to investigate the advisability of “presenting” Yeshurun with a building
along the lines of an American Jewish center. Lober also arranged for the rabbi
to meet Sir Herbert Samuel, and the latter added his warm approval. Yeshurun

impressed Levinthal personally: “No finer or more inspiring picture can greet
the visitor in Jerusalem than the religious services conducted by the Yeshurun
Organization. . . . Never shall I forget the fervor and devotion of their service,
the dignity, the decorum, the sanctity with which these young people partici-
pated in it.” The rabbi later told how, on the eve of his departure from Jerusa-
lem, a group of young men, including some from the United States, gave him a
message for American Jews: We ask them for “an understanding of our spiri-
tual needs. They have helped to give new life to the soil of Palestine. Will they
not do something to keep alive the soul of the Palestinian Jew?” Nothing in
Levinthal’s words revealed that he was a Conservative rather than an Orthodox
rabbi, and like Samuel Cohen he never talked of exporting Conservatism.33
Meantime, the United Synagogue had appointed a Committee on Palestine.
At its first meeting in December 1924, the committee considered Cohen’s report
and recommended that a movement be launched for the erection of a
synagogue-center, which they called the immediate need of Jerusalem youth.
For the present, some wanted to postpone the idea of a synagogue; in due
course, they said, an appeal “will go forth to the Jewry of the world for the
greater and more imposing task of building the Great Synagogue of Catholic
Israel.” Nevertheless, the idea of a synagogue along with a center became the
formal objective, and the Committee on Palestine went on record in support of
a “Recreational and Religious Building” to be located in Rechavia, a new section
of Jerusalem.34
Under the sponsorship of prominent Conservative rabbis, a national cam-
paign for the synagogue-center was launched in October 1925.35 Endorsed by the
Rabbinical Assembly, the undertaking was also welcomed by leaders of the
yishuv. Dr. David Yellin, who was then in the United States, sounded much like
Sarah Kussy when he too emphasized the need of a synagogue appropriate for
the thousands of visitors from America and other places and for those Ameri-
cans and British who had settled in Jerusalem. Since the United Synagogue had
announced that the synagogue was to serve world Jewry as well as the yishuv, in-
dividual Jews in Holland, Egypt, and South Africa also expressed their support.36
The campaign itself was directed by a committee under the chairmanship of
Levinthal and the vice-chairmanship of Henrietta Szold.37 A second commit-
tee, on which an American representative served, was set up in Jerusalem to as-
sist in planning and administration. The initial plans divided the major tasks
among the United Synagogue and its two branches, the Women’s League and
the Young People’s League; the men would pay for the site and construction,
the women were to furnish the synagogue, and the young people were respon-
sible for furnishing the center. The funds required for building the center—es-
timated first at $150,000 but soon revised upward to $300,000—were to come
from the member synagogues affiliated with the United Synagogue. (The coop-
eration of Orthodox synagogues was not solicited.) It was assumed that contri-
butions from Jerusalem would help defray the costs.38

Levinthal summed up the ambitious plans, on which both committees

agreed, while the United Synagogue was negotiating with architects. Filling the
spiritual, cultural, and social aspirations of the yishuv, the rabbi reported, the
synagogue-center would provide classrooms, conference rooms, stage facilities,
a dance hall, a gymnasium, and a restaurant. But, “the central feature of this
building is to be a Synagogue of such dignity and character as would be worthy
of the city in which it will stand and the people whom it would serve.”39 As the
plans took shape, the American committee yielded to Orthodox sentiments
without any reservations. For one thing, it was agreed that the United Syna-
gogue would not dictate the form of the services. Secondly, they adopted the
idea of several buildings, because they realized that the Orthodox in Palestine
would oppose combining secular and religious activities under the same roof.
Clearly, the fear of alienating Jerusalem’s Orthodox took precedence over any
desire to service Conservatism.40
The campaign took off auspiciously. Within a few months the United Syna-
gogue raised more than $86,000 in pledges, and the Women’s League raised al-
most $25,000. In 1926 the Americans purchased a site on King George V Ave-
nue, a block reputed at that time to have “one of the most beautiful views over
Jerusalem.” Construction was begun, but until its completion the Yeshurun
congregation was permitted to erect temporary huts on the land for its activi-
ties.42 The momentum of the first year, however, could not be sustained. De-
spite genuine enthusiasm at the beginning, the passing years brought no signif-
icant progress; building was at best sporadic, and in the next decade the project
slowly petered out.42
Many factors contributed to the failure of the venture. The separate vested
interests of the various participants compounded by poor coordination
doomed hopes for speedy results. Serious controversy, for example, divided the
United Synagogue and the Women’s League. The bulk of the women’s fund was
loaned to the men for the purchase of the site, but the men, who had promised
full recognition of the women’s efforts, ignored the fact that the money was a
loan that they had promised to repay. The two groups also quarreled on when
to send payments to Jerusalem, even as costs were escalating annually. Differ-
ences arose too between Jerusalem and New York on monies promised by the
former as well as on debts that the Jerusalem committee had incurred. Finally,
a proper relationship with Yeshurun, whose cooperation was the keystone of
the whole plan, was at best only casually established. (When Cyrus Adler visited
Palestine in 1929, he was asked to confer with Yeshurun, but nothing further de-
veloped from that interchange.)43 Meanwhile, external conditions—the Great
Depression in the United States, Arab riots in Palestine in 1929 and the ’30s, and
the worsening of the Jewish condition under Nazi Germany—deflected atten-
tion and resources from the synagogue-center.
In the end the United Synagogue, forced to admit that it could proceed no
further, ceded the land and the unfinished synagogue to the yishuv. Dashing the

hopes of its supporters, its record was far from impressive. One Conservative
rabbi who visited Yeshurun in 1948 was shocked by the yet-unfinished building
and the ignominious end of a noble effort. “Is this the best . . . the United Syna-
gogue could do?” he asked bitterly. The United Synagogue’s contribution to re-
ligious life in the Jewish homeland amounted merely to another, in this case
unfinished, gift from American Jews. Yeshurun lived on as an Orthodox con-
gregation, and any hope of a more Conservative-like synagogue in prestate Je-
rusalem rapidly faded.44 For all intents and purposes, the experience of the
original Chevra, now but a dim memory, became a relic in the annals of history.

CHAPTER 5
The Social Worker and the Diplomat:

Maurice B. Hexter and
Sir John Hope Simpson
F rom its formative years to the 1920s American Zionism had consistently la-
bored to fashion a product acceptable to Americans. Zionists heeded the
cues of public opinion, but the actual Americanization of their message was
their own work: they downplayed the relevance of Herzlian ideology for
American Jews, they latched onto cultural and religious Zionism in place of
Jewish statism, they were content after the war with a watered-down Palestin-
ianism, and they unhesitatingly followed the guidelines of American foreign
policy. By the time of the 1929 riots, there was very little left in the Zionist de-
sign to Americanize.
In 1929, however, the American non-Zionists, now recognized as equal part-
ners in the enlarged Jewish Agency, attempted to sharpen still further the
American features of the Zionist program. Major differences still separated
them from mainstream Zionism, and, influenced by the anti-Zionism of re-
spected liberals and by Judah Magnes’s plan for a binational Arab-Jewish state,
they openly expressed their opposition to Jewish political nationalism. Like the
liberals and Magnes, they questioned the rectitude of a Jewish Palestine where
the population was predominantly Arab. They too held that a Palestine without
Arab rights was undemocratic and hence un-American. Were they to sway the
Agency to their side on the Arab question, they could perhaps impress their fel-
low Americans by underscoring how American the Jewish interest in Palestine
really was. Increased non-Zionist input into Agency policy would also be a step
toward the Americanization of Zionism worldwide.
The leader of the American non-Zionists and chairman of the Agency’s
Administrative Committee was banker Felix Warburg. Warburg, who sought
a larger role for himself in Zionist policymaking, bypassed the Agency and
his partners in the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA) by appointing a
113
personal emissary, social worker Maurice Hexter, to represent him and the
non-Zionist position on all issues before the Agency after the 1929 riots. When
Hexter’s duties were expanded to include direct negotiations with the British
on the Palestine impasse, he became the first American Jew to negotiate unoffi-
cially over a period of many months with a representative of a foreign power.
Warburg vs. Weizmann
The death of Louis Marshall only days after the riots of 1929 made Warburg the
predominant American non-Zionist in the enlarged Jewish Agency. Unfortu-
nately for the Agency, the new alliance of Zionists and non-Zionists began to
unravel almost immediately. The close friendship between the Warburgs and
Chaim Weizmann notwithstanding, Felix was jealous of the powers exercised
by Weizmann, president of the Agency, and the Zionist members of its execu-
tive. As chairman of the Administrative Committee, he claimed that Weiz-
mann and his associates kept him uninformed about developments in the
yishuv and about Anglo-Zionist relations. According to Warburg, they did not
consult him about policies and strategy that they devised, thus usurping pow-
ers that rightfully belonged to him and his committee. The banker also found
fault with Weizmann for his “inept” leadership of the numerous Zionist fac-
tions and for his inability, or lack of desire, to control the ZOA.1 Warburg’s
wealth, his easy access to American officials, including the president, and his
ties to other monied non-Zionists assured him the right to criticize even as they
forced Weizmann, despite his resentment, to preserve a show of amity. Louis
Marshall, far more astute than either Warburg or Weizmann, might have been
able to reconcile the personal differences between the two, but in his absence
the rift between the American and the European reached a critical point soon
after the riots.
Deeper issues underlay the tension. The banker and his close associates—
important figures in American Jewish public life like Cyrus Adler, James Mar-
shall, and James Rosenberg—had little patience for Zionists and Zionism. They
regarded the ZOA as a troublesome lot; loud and quarrelsome, its aggressive
nationalist propaganda endangered the welfare of American Jews. Nor did
Warburg’s men understand the ethnic sentiments that explained Jewish sup-
port of Zionism. True, a Jewish center in Palestine could serve as the refuge for
persecuted European Jews—and they as good philanthropists contributed to
the physical growth of the yishuv—but, like the negative assessment of Zion-
ism by the press and the liberals, they held that a Jewish state was undesirable
and impractical. Not all went so far as to urge the scrapping of the Balfour Dec-
laration, but they focused not on England’s promise of a homeland but on a
qualifying clause in the declaration that read: “it being clearly understood that
nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of exist-

ing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.” If the British promise clashed with

Arab rights, the American non-Zionists preferred to whittle down Zionist
goals. In short, they prescribed the same behavior for the Agency that they ex-
pected of American Jews: accommodationist toward the government and ma-
jority opinion, and unswerving in loyalty to political democracy.
Warburg’s circle wanted the Agency to concentrate on economic and cul-
tural projects of benefit to both Jews and non-Jews. Warburg for one saw Pales-
tine as the spiritual center of Muslims and Christians as well as Jews, and he
talked of interreligious committees to bridge the gaps that separated the differ-
ent faiths. In light of such views as well as the social prominence of the non-
Zionists, England carefully cultivated their friendship. For example, when
Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald visited the United States in the fall of 1929,
he spent a weekend with the Warburgs on their summer estate.2
Differences over ideology and tactics made the Warburg-Weizmann rift vir-
tually impossible to heal. Both men tried to ignore ideology while they quar-
reled, understanding that the modus vivendi between Zionists and non-
Zionists that had been hammered out in the summer of 1929 was at stake, but
tempers grew short. More than ever, Warburg wanted an American representa-
tive of his own choosing in Jerusalem, who would also be in close contact with
the Agency’s headquarters in London. His first appointments for posts in Jeru-
salem went to social worker Maurice Hexter and Tammany lawyer Jonah Gold-
stein. Goldstein, who arrived first, was assigned the task of bringing order into
the chaotic relief program for the victims of the riots.3
Acting under Warburg’s directive to keep the banker informed on all mat-
ters, Goldstein was inevitably drawn into the politics of the yishuv and its rela-
tions with England. He made his opinions known to prominent Zionists and to
British officials in Jerusalem, but his arrogant and pushy manner alienated im-
portant people. He was discredited further when a story circulated about his al-
leged remark to the high commissioner that bribery of the Arabs was more ef-
fective than an English commission of inquiry.4 Goldstein left Palestine before
he had a chance to work alongside Hexter, but his performance made Hexter’s
task more difficult.
Meantime, Warburg attempted to build up his influence in other ways. Since
non-Zionists did not constitute an organized group, he cultivated individual
European and American non-Zionists, and he brought a few men with whom
he was working on the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) into his camp. He
also corresponded over Weizmann’s head with prominent Europeans engaged
in Palestine affairs, such as England’s Alfred Mond (Lord Melchett) and Sir Os-
mond d’Avigdor-Goldsmid and France’s Baron Edmond de Rothschild.
Whether Zionist or non-Zionist, such men were bound by the ties of wealth or
banking, a relationship that often transcended loyalty to Weizmann and the
Agency. To all whose support he desired, Warburg confided the same com-
plaints about Weizmann, the Agency (whose middle management, he said, was
The Social Worker and the Diplomat 115

made up of “little people” who talked too much5), and the ZOA. More daring
were his independent forays into diplomacy, again made possible by his wealth
and international connections and by the contacts he established with Prime
Minister Ramsay MacDonald and other British officials. Indeed, he liked to
think of himself as the “liaison officer” between the Agency and the British Co-
lonial Office.6
Warburg found a representative more suitable than Goldstein in Maurice
Hexter. Born in Cincinnati to lower-middle-class German parents, Hexter was
ambitious and resourceful even as a young boy. Upon his completion of a doc-
torate in statistics at Harvard, he chose the field of social work, in which he rap-
idly advanced. As director of several large federations, he developed adminis-
trative skills as well as the ability to draw up budgets, allocate resources, and
raise funds. Federation work and important service in the JDC after the First
World War opened up a wider world. His cleverness, diligence, and fine sense of
humor earned Hexter the recognition and respect of the lay leaders of the
American Jewish community, wealthy men who sat on the boards of federa-
tions and devoted time and money to the needs of their fellow Jews. Among
them was Felix Warburg, whose friendship Hexter enjoyed from 1924 until the
banker’s death in 1937. Many years later Hexter wrote that Warburg had been
one of the two “most fascinating and shrewdest men of my time” (the other
was David Ben-Gurion).7
Hexter’s contacts led to an appointment in 1927 to the Joint Palestine Survey
Commission, a group of experts despatched to Palestine shortly before the en-
largement of the Jewish Agency to assess the economic needs of the land. The
work of the commission taught Hexter much about the different Zionist or-
ganizations, and, at the same time, widened his acquaintanceship with leading
Jews from England and the Continent. Warburg and Louis Marshall then sent
him to Zurich, where, in 1929, he was nominated to be one of the American
non-Zionists on the Agency’s executive. Now drawn into Palestinian and
Agency affairs, he kept in very close touch with Warburg, and in the aftermath
of the riots it was quite natural for the banker to tap him for a Palestine post.
Warburg’s offer was enticing. Hexter would become the secretary of the
Agency’s Administrative Committee as well as Warburg’s “mouthpiece and ear-
phone” in Jerusalem. The thirty-eight-year-old social worker was eager to set
forth on what he called this “high adventure.” Although the abrupt change in ca-
reer was a gamble, Hexter doubtless calculated that he had little to lose. The job
could only add to his professional experience and sophistication, and service for
Warburg, especially if it proved successful, virtually guaranteed him any desir-
able post in the American Jewish world upon his return from Jerusalem. Well
aware of the difficulties awaiting him in Jerusalem in the fall of 1929, Hexter
commented, “I was an outsider—a non-Zionist—in a world of true believers.”8
For his part, Warburg spoke glowingly about Hexter to Chaim Weizmann:
“He is so delightfully orderly in his thinking apparatus that I really hope I will

get a fuller picture, after he has seen you and after he has reached Palestine, than
I am getting now.” Warburg wanted Hexter to take charge of the distribution of
relief funds, but with complete trust in his choice, he gave Hexter the open-
ended power of committing him, Warburg, on any matter. Within a matter of
weeks Hexter was relaying significant news to Warburg about Weizmann,
Judah Magnes, and British and Arab opinion. Despite his efforts, however, he
failed to resolve the impasse between Warburg and Weizmann on the distribu-
tion of powers within the Agency.9
To ensure Zionist respect for his representative, the banker made Hexter a
non-Zionist member of the Agency’s executive. Weizmann had suggested that
Hexter first serve at least temporarily as secretary of the executive, but Warburg
objected. He said that Hexter deserved the position because he had held admin-
istrative jobs superior to other Agency executives. Weizmann accepted the deci-
sion with good grace, reasoning that since Hexter was Warburg’s alter ego, he
could function “as a very valuable liaison between the PZE [Palestine Zionist
Executive] and America.” Although some Zionists justifiably complained that
Warburg showed his suspicions of the executive by his special relationship with
Hexter, Europeans and Americans in Warburg’s circle soon corresponded di-
rectly with Hexter.10 Nor did it take long before Weizmann, appreciative of
Hexter’s cooperation, confided in him too.
Goldstein had made little progress on the relief situation, but using his training
and experience in Jewish social work, Hexter handled the job with despatch
and efficiency. Under his direction a relief committee, the Emergency Fund,
was organized to examine claims and decide on disbursements. In his new
Packard, a gift from Warburg, he drove around the country three days weekly,
assessing the havoc wrought by the riots and visiting settlements and sites that
needed rebuilding or new facilities. When the immediate relief tasks ended, his
committee went on to devise plans for overall reconstruction. In detailed cables
(mostly in code) to a satisfied Warburg, Hexter kept the banker well informed
about the work and the costs of various projects.11
Hexter had not yet entered the world of diplomacy, but his diplomatic abil-
ities were already evident. His work with the boards of federations had de-
manded such skills, which, over the years, he had honed to a fine art. Before he
reached Palestine, Warburg added to his experience, despatching him to Wash-
ington to consult with Justice Louis Brandeis on Palestinian affairs, to London,
where he worked out details of the Emergency Fund with Melchett and
Avigdor-Goldsmid, and to Berlin to establish communication with Felix’s
brother Max.12 Once in Jerusalem, Hexter’s abilities were again apparent in the
way he placated relief applicants.
The very task of working so closely with Warburg also called for diplomacy.
Hexter never fawned upon the banker, but he scrupulously asked for instruc-
tions, even when not absolutely necessary, and he generally was quick to identify

with Warburg’s opinions. For the most part such reactions came easily, be-
cause the non-Zionist Hexter shared his chief ’s views—support of England,
sympathy for the plight of the Arabs, and opposition to Jewish statehood. If
he differed with Warburg or suggested something that the latter had over-
looked, he made it seem as if he had taken his cue from what the banker had
intimated or had meant to say. The fact that Hexter became the confidential
messenger between Warburg and Weizmann, implicitly entrusted by each
with information for the other, proved his skill at handling two sensitive men
so often at loggerheads.
Hexter was quickly drawn into myriad subjects other than relief. The condi-
tions he coped with, however, had grown more grim—a deepening world de-
pression that cut off funds for Palestine, divisiveness in Jewish ranks caused by
Magnes, an animosity between Zionists and anti-Zionists that appeared to in-
tensify by the week. He made frequent trips to London and the Continent for
visits to prominent men and to attend Agency committee meetings. As his role
expanded, he became a well-known figure in the yishuv. On a visit to Palestine,
American Zionist leader Julian Mack heard that Hexter had made himself be-
loved and respected by all Jews; for his part, Warburg told an Agency commit-
tee that Hexter, “a perfect soldier in our camp,” had brought commitment and
enthusiasm to yishuv affairs.13
Warburg felt more in control by the beginning of 1930. His handpicked team
was in place and functioning well. He was in close contact with Agency officials
Oskar Wassermann and Bernard Flexner,14 and he developed an ongoing and
satisfying correspondence with Melchett and Avigdor-Goldsmid of England.
He also appointed Werner Senator, formerly of the European JDC, to be treas-
urer of the Jewish Agency and his personal representative in Jerusalem along-
side Hexter. Another former executive of the JDC, Joseph Hyman, became his
assistant in New York, dealing largely with Palestinian affairs. The appoint-
ments of Senator and Hyman were not for lack of confidence in Hexter—in-
deed, the Warburg/Hexter connection was growing stronger. Although no
sharp division of functions was formulated, Senator’s concentration was on the
economic affairs of the Agency other than relief.
To be sure, Warburg’s complaints against the Agency and the fractious Zion-
ists continued, and so did the divisiveness caused by Judah Magnes, but his net-
work compensated at least partially. It permitted his representatives to dissemi-
nate his opinions more widely as well as to activate non-Zionists in both
Europe and the United States with an eye toward achieving a more equitable
balance with the Zionists in Agency affairs. The banker’s quarrels with the ZOA
persisted, but he was building up a countervailing force by efforts at coopera-
tion with the Brandeis group. If he still was unable to move Weizmann to his
point of view, at least he made sure that the Zionist leader was taking the non-
Zionists, and the funds they controlled, more seriously. In all these efforts War-
burg enjoyed Hexter’s unqualified support.

Hexter too had rapidly grown in self-confidence. His achievements with re-
spect to the organization of relief activities, as well as his style, had won recog-
nition and praise from his associates, from British officials and the American
consul general, and from the yishuv at large. Speaking softly and treading
circumspectly with the leaders of the Agency, he gained the confidence of
Weizmann and leading Zionists. His natural astuteness and a readiness to
cooperate gained their respect and blunted their criticism of “Warburg’s boy.”
His frequent shuttles to and from London and the Continent further enhanced
his reputation as a trustworthy conduit of information. The more he was relied
on, both by Warburg’s circle and by the Zionists, the more independent and se-
cure he felt. At the end of December 1929 he told Warburg that he had con-
structed a “suitable apparatus” for handling relief problems and that only the
details needed to be hammered out. A few days later he wrote, unsolicitedly,
that it was “essential” that Warburg consult him, Hexter, before making ap-
pointments to the Agency executive.15 All signs indicated that Hexter felt ready
for more delicate assignments.
Hope Simpson Prepares a Report
His opportunity came in the spring and summer of 1930, when the troubled re-
lations between the British and the Agency cast him into the tangled diplomatic
web. Tension had been mounting steadily in the yishuv since the appearance in
March of the Shaw Commission’s report.16 The report had exposed England’s
pro-Arab bias and had generated acrimonious debate in London and Jerusa-
lem. At a secret meeting with Weizmann, Warburg, and Lord Reading, Prime
Minister MacDonald also admitted that the report was “bad and unpleasant.”
“No one who had not Palestine in his bones could grasp the whole breadth of
the problem,” he reportedly said. It was agreed that England would send an-
other investigator to Palestine to reexamine the situation, and the prime minis-
ter promised to appoint General Jan Christian Smuts of South Africa, a Zionist
supporter who was the choice of the Jews. A few days later, however, at a private
luncheon with the prime minister, Warburg and Hexter learned that the ap-
pointment had gone to Sir John Hope Simpson, a man whose experience lay
not in Middle Eastern but in Indian and Turco-Greek affairs, and who was a
friend of Lord Passfield (Sidney Webb), the secretary of state for the colonies.
His assignment was to assess the economic conditions and potentials of Pales-
tine, a task that included the matters of Jewish immigration and Jewish land
purchase. MacDonald reassured his visitors about Hope Simpson, but he of-
fered no explanation as to why Smuts had not been chosen. When Weizmann
approached Passfield, who was known to the Jews as a confirmed anti-Zionist,
the latter agreed to arrange a meeting between Weizmann and Hope Simpson,
but that promise was also broken.17

It became evident that Hope Simpson’s appointment did not augur well for
the Zionists. The Englishman knew virtually nothing about Palestine and
understood less about the Zionist cause. In Jerusalem he lived with the high
commissioner, Sir John Chancellor, and quickly identified with his anti-Jewish
point of view. He liked the Arab fellah, with whom he could sympathize, but he
found the Zionist attitude “repellent.” The Zionist argument that cultivable
land in Palestine could absorb many more settlers in addition to the Arab own-
ers drew the following response: “I have a house in Wales with ten rooms in
which I only occupy two; do you suggest that other people have a right to enter
the eight empty rooms?”18
Nor did the yishuv welcome the Englishman. Still smarting under the Shaw
report, it had grown increasingly resentful of London and the British adminis-
tration in Palestine. The weak position of the Jews was compounded by a lack
of unity. Magnes and his followers kept up their attack on the Agency and its
policies with respect to the Arabs, and the American non-Zionists were leaning
toward the rabbi’s plan. To make matters worse, only days before Hope
Simpson’s scheduled arrival, England chose to suspend Jewish immigration
into Palestine at least temporarily. Weizmann, who believed that the situation
had reached a critical low and was barely on speaking terms with the prime
minister, shared his pessimistic views with a convenient go-between,
MacDonald’s son. “It seems to me a terrible tragedy,” Weizmann wrote, “that
the whole fate of the Jewish National Home should in a measure depend upon
what Hope Simpson may or may not say.” The Englishman knew very little
about the “moral and political implications” of London’s policy. “After we have
worked there for fifty years,” Weizmann expostulated, “he is to tell us whether
we can go on with our work or not. It seems a grotesque position, and is cer-
tainly intolerable to us.”
On the matter of immigration, even the American non-Zionists were
shaken. Indeed, the ban on immigration more than anything else drew the
non-Zionists closer to their Zionist partners. Joining the latter, Warburg also
protested, albeit mildly, to the British ambassador in Washington. Hexter too
was indignant. To be sure, as a non-Zionist and like Warburg a critic of Agency
policy, he was interested in peace with the Arabs and a revamped Agency struc-
ture in which the non-Zionists commanded a greater say. But, he declared, nine
months had passed since the riots, and no progress at all had been made toward
peace. Nevertheless, both he and Warburg confidently believed that Hope
Simpson might yet be reached by a friendly attitude, and they urged coopera-
tion with the Englishman.19
When Hope Simpson reached Jerusalem at the beginning of June, he met
with the Agency’s executive, but he sought out Hexter for private one-on-one
discussions. He knew that Hexter was Warburg’s close associate and that the
former social worker agreed with the major points of Warburg’s position: com-
mutation of the death sentence for the Arab rioters, support of the Magnes

plan, immediate bilateral negotiations between the Arabs and the Jews, and a
comprehensive peace that joined the Agency, the British, and the Arabs. Those
opinions, he realized, were closer to the British than to the Zionist position. For
his part, Hexter optimistically awaited his meetings with Hope Simpson. Even
the yishuv, he cabled Warburg, was reacting more positively: “Yishuv fears but
hopeful. [Hope Simpson] has favourably impressed those he has already met
with knowledge and capacity though [they] may suspect has secret instruc-
tion.”20 (The matter of Hope Simpson’s secret instructions is discussed below.)
Reporting to Warburg once or twice daily, Hexter recorded his impressions of
the Englishman and the range of subjects they addressed. The accounts show
that he did more than listen; he offered suggestions to Hope Simpson, and, at
least so he thought, he successfully influenced the Englishman.
The following are excerpts from Hexter’s cables and letters in the Warburg and
Hexter Papers that detail developments. For the most part the tone is upbeat:
From a letter of June 5: “After a very interesting session with Sir John Hope
Simpson which the Executive as a whole had, I got the impression of eminent
fairness and a desire to serve the situation. . . . After I had presented the non-
Zionist viewpoint, especially yours, he asked me to come and see him . . . at an
early date.”
From a second cable of June 5: “Successful conference with special commis-
sioner. Convinced we shall get square deal.”
From a cable of June 6: “Long satisfactory private conversation special com-
missioner. Inform you confidential information—think succeeded convincing
him high desirability lifting restriction immigration when protests cease.”
From a letter of June 7: “[Hope Simpson] is a very astute man and I am quite
sure an honest one. I am, moreover, absolutely certain that a man of his capac-
ity and stature would never have accepted a mission with any secret instruc-
tions. . . . He is greatly disturbed over the acquisition of land by the Keren Kay-
emeth [Jewish National Fund] removing it permanently from sale, and fears
the re-creation of the old danger of mortmain. I told him in the first place that
the proportion of the land held by the Keren Kayemeth is small as compared
with the private Jewish holdings and certainly extremely modest when com-
pared with the total tillable area. In the second place I told him that certainly as
far as one can calculate, these lands would always be cultivated by small land
owners so that the medieval danger of latifundia does not exist. . . . Another
question which is going through his mind is that the Keren Kayemeth already
has a reserve of land which should be used for colonization purposes before ac-
quiring additional land. I am quite certain that this will be one of his recom-
mendations, although I told him that the delays in acquiring lands in Palestine
made it necessary to have a reserve of land; and secondly a reserve of land was
necessary in order to keep the prices of land down. This point I believe he saw.
“He then asked me what I though about the advisability of providing agricul-
tural education for the Fellaheen. I told him that this in my opinion was greatly

to be desired and constituted only one of the things which we, as Jews, would
like to be seen done for the entire population. I assured him that not alone were
we desirous of having this done but that within our powers we would be pre-
pared to cooperate because we were most anxious to build up the entire country
with fairness to all. This statement I believe impressed him very much. . . .
“Concerning immigration, . . . I believe that when the furor subsides, he is
prepared to make a preliminary recommendation along these lines.” [See cable
of June 6.]
From a letter of June 9: “Hope Simpson’s plan is, and I write it to you in
strictest confidence, to prepare two reports; one a private report for Lord Pass-
field and another, a report which probably will be published. . . .
“[On] the cessation of immigration . . . I told him that a grave psychological
blunder had been made and that the Government might find it desirable in
connection with whatever measures they felt impelled to make, to consider the
method of communicating it to us and the impact which it would occasion; I
told him that I thought this had not been done in most instances. He quite
agreed . . . , [blaming] the shifting policy of the Government. . . . I believe that
if the hue and cry subsides, he is prepared to do something [i.e., toward a res-
cission of the ban on immigration]. If all goes well, towards the 10th of July we
might reasonably anticipate some action. . . .
“Sir John was quite frank in telling me that he believed Sir Herbert Samuel
and Lord Plumer [two former high commissioners] had paid no attention
whatsoever to the oppressed [Arabs] who, he said, suffer from the unequal
competition of the Jewish colonists who have at their disposal a relatively large
sum of money, expert advice, and Western knowledge. I replied that this was an
inevitable consequence of people who are entering Palestine with a Western
culture; but that I believed, with the ebb and flow of time, the differing stan-
dards of living . . . would inevitably approximate each other somewhere in
between the present points; that I hoped that the Jewish standard would not
need to fall very far but that rather the Arab standard would rise. To this he re-
plied that he was quite in agreement.”
Hexter summarized the gist of his conversations with Hope Simpson two
weeks later in a report to the Agency’s Political Committee. There he added that
according to the Englishman, the cessation of immigration had been done
without his knowledge and “had embarrassed him a great deal.” Hexter also
claimed that Hope Simpson seemed to have accepted, at least in part, the Zion-
ist emphasis on the need for immigration and labor. In conclusion Hexter said
that it was difficult to predict the content of Hope Simpson’s report. “One
thing was clear: he did not see the Palestine problem as they saw it, but the re-
port would be that of a man who tried to see his task honestly.”21
The talks with Hope Simpson were supplemented with meetings between
Hexter and High Commissioner Chancellor, who worked closely with the spe-

cial envoy. Hexter never mentioned any instance when his opinions were spe-
cifically contradicted, and he claimed that he enjoyed a good rapport with both
men. As he cabled Warburg after the first joint meeting, “Extremely successful
with both last night.” No doubt it was eminently gratifying that in the course of
the meetings he became less Warburg’s mouthpiece and more an independent
strategist who just happened to be the banker’s appointee to the Jerusalem ex-
ecutive. He boasted in particular of the “entente cordiale” he had established
with Hope Simpson, and he was pleased that the latter had invited him to Ath-
ens to help finalize the report two months later. In his opinion, his personal
foray into diplomatic negotiations with the British had been successful.22 Had
Warburg been in Hexter’s place, he might not have done as well. Hexter’s style
differed from Warburg’s and was more suited to diplomatic negotiations.
Whereas the banker was highly emotional, politically naive, and prone to fawn-
ing on and identifying with government leaders, Hexter was calmer, more
knowledgeable, more skillful at logical analysis, and better able to express his
views in hardheaded fashion.
Hexter would have been less sanguine had he taken seriously the rumors fly-
ing around Jerusalem of Hope Simpson’s secret agenda. The Zionists were
hinting darkly that England had compromised the emissary’s mission from the
start. They charged that London was out to make use of the factional rifts
within the yishuv and the Agency, specifically to drive a wedge between the
Zionists and non-Zionists. Under the influence of the anti-Zionist high com-
missioner, Hope Simpson would, they said, write a pro-Arab report that would
appease the Arabs and capitalize on the disaffection of the non-Zionists. Since
the scheme held out the chance of weaning the latter away from the policies of
Weizmann and the Zionists, England anticipated the likely collapse of the en-
larged Agency.23
The story has since been verified by a study of British manuscript sources.24
It shows that the Colonial Office, swayed by an earlier anti-Zionist memoran-
dum from Sir John Chancellor, had decided on the lines of Hope Simpson’s re-
port even before he set foot in Palestine. The strategy called for him to investi-
gate the questions of immigration and land settlement with the aim of helping
the Arabs. Since the non-Zionists were not overly disturbed at the prospect of
whittling down Zionist political goals, the British would involve them in the ac-
tual formulation of Hope Simpson’s conclusions. Sensitive to Diaspora Jewish
opinion, they hoped thereby to ward off a united Jewish protest against the re-
port and, more important, to cut off the economic aid from wealthy American
non-Zionists to the yishuv. Hexter, who wrote Warburg on June 7 that he
doubted the existence of secret instructions to Hope Simpson, was pivotal to
the plan. How better to begin the wedge-driving process than by working on
Warburg’s confidant and through him on the American circle?
The Hexter–Hope Simpson talks appeared to have closely followed the Brit-
ish scenario; both Chancellor and Hope Simpson played their assigned roles

with consummate skill. Nor did Hope Simpson conceal the two major points
that concerned him, aid for the fellaheen and the inequities of Jewish land pur-
chases. Although Hexter was neither stupid nor naive, he seems to have been
taken in by the Englishman’s “fairness.” He also erred badly by believing that
the final report drawn up by Hope Simpson could change England’s predeter-
mined policy. But even though his associates in the Agency suspected him of
“intrigues,” Hexter was less tractable than London expected. True, he gave
Hope Simpson a secret document on the Histadrut (labor federation of the
yishuv),25 but at least according to his written accounts, he made no special case
for the non-Zionists, nor did he criticize Weizmann and the Zionists. Sounding
rather as if he spoke for the entire yishuv, Hexter reported regularly to Weiz-
mann and the Agency.
Despite the suspicions, Hexter and Warburg persisted. The conspiracy
charge was as yet unproved, and if there was the slightest chance of influencing
Hope Simpson, it should not be dismissed. Warburg confidently wrote Weiz-
mann a few days after the Hexter/Hope Simpson talks: “I do not think that the
sending of Sir John was anything else but the carrying out of the plans which
we discussed with the Prime Minister and I regret exceedingly that an excitable
Jewish public has been, in this case as in other cases, too ready to put the most
unfavorable construction upon every step which was taken.” Since Brandeis
also commended Hexter’s efforts, Weizmann dared not repudiate the social
worker or openly attack his venture into diplomacy.26
During the summer of 1930 the mood of the Jewish Agency was one of disap-
pointment and despair. The Agency feared a disastrous report by Hope Simp-
son, and repeated meetings between leading Zionists and a consistently hostile
Lord Passfield added to the gloom. As one Zionist official put it,” The forces now
working against us are of such a magnitude [and] our resources to combat them
[are] so hopelessly inadequate.” Weizmann, who hinted to associates that he
might resign, found no cause for optimism in Hexter’s talks with Hope Simp-
son. The latter met once with Werner Senator, another Warburg appointee, but
that proved even less promising. Senator reported that he too thought the En-
glishman was honest, but that he was misinformed about Jewish work in Pales-
tine.27 Meantime, Hexter was spending the summer in the United States. In
preparation for the next round of talks with Hope Simpson, he met with Bran-
deis and two of the justice’s coworkers, Julian Mack and Felix Frankfurter.28
Hexter was called to Athens to meet Hope Simpson in mid-August. Despite
his rapport with the Englishman, the American seemed more on his guard and
more defensive of the yishuv than he had been in June. He still did not believe
that England was trying to drive a wedge between the Zionists and non-Zionists,
but those charges had made him more cautious. He made it clear at the outset to
Hope Simpson that he was no one’s representative: “I think it is due you to say,
what I am sure you already know, that I have no mandate, official or otherwise,

to negotiate any part of the recommendations you are going to make. I came in
a personal capacity because all of us are interested in securing a genuine con-
structive report for Palestine.” Both he and Hope Simpson understood, how-
ever, that Hexter would relay a full report to the Agency and to Warburg, which
in turn would influence Jewish negotiations with the His Majesty’s Govern-
ment (HMG).
In the course of thirteen hours of discussion, Hexter listened to Hope
Simpson’s conclusions and was quick to criticize where he disagreed.29 The
heart of the draft report was Hope Simpson’s idea of a development commis-
sion, a three-man body (one Jew, one Arab, and a British national as chairman)
appointed by the League of Nations that would undertake intensive agricultu-
ral cultivation of Palestine and thereby make more land available for settle-
ment. Although intensive agriculture could benefit the Jews too, the English-
man was out primarily to improve the conditions of the Arab fellaheen. Hence,
he recommended that the commission control the transfer of all land. In effect,
that would have put an end to private Jewish purchases from the Arabs as well
as the ownership of land by the Jewish National Fund. Sounding more like a
representative of the Zionist-dominated Agency than of Warburg, Hexter
called the plan discriminatory; if Jewish land purchases were so drastically lim-
ited, the very survival and growth of the yishuv was threatened. Didn’t the ex-
press terms of the mandate call for the “close settlement” of Jews on the land?
The yishuv was not opposed to raising the Arab standard of living, but, in
Hexter’s words: “The Mandate never contemplated improving [the fellah’s] lot
before and at the expense of doing something under the ‘close settlement’
clause.” Implying that strict control by England over land transfers was unnec-
essary, Hexter said that Jewish settlers on their own were able to workout a
modus vivendi with the fellaheen.
Hexter also questioned Hope Simpson’s assumption that Jewish settlement
caused Arab unemployment. Well prepared with relevant facts and figures, he
contended rather that Jewish immigration, capital, and economic progress also
benefited the Arabs. Furthermore, as he told Warburg, “I repeated Brandeis’
statement ‘we did not come to Palestine to lift up the Fellah but to save our-
selves,’ but if I know anything of economics, the development of a country
helps all within it.” Hope Simpson said he agreed, and he promised to rewrite
the section on unemployment in his report.
When the American charged that Hope Simpson’s estimates of the Arab and
Jewish portions of land or financial aid were based on political rather than eco-
nomic considerations—and hence beyond his jurisdiction—the Englishman
again said he agreed. (The criticism, however, made no difference in his written
report.) He also accepted minor modifications of the development plan along
lines suggested by Hexter. If Hope Simpson had no intention of changing the
report but was merely placating Hexter to avoid a major rift with the Agency, he
succeeded very well.

The new round of talks dashed Hexter’s hopes for lifting the ban on immi-
gration. When the Englishman said that the high number of unemployed war-
ranted restriction, Hexter countered that since the ban affected the image of
the government, vacillation on England’s part would interrupt the flow of cap-
ital from abroad on which the yishuv depended. Hope Simpson “was con-
vinced,” he said, but he refused to recommend a change. He shifted the blame
to the prime minister, explaining that the immigration order had been insti-
tuted because MacDonald, “who wants popularity and is vain,” had nothing
else to give the Arabs.
The Englishman did not divulge the text of his report, but he maintained
that he wrote it free of political pressure. At the talks he seemed open to reason
and counterarguments, and it appeared that he genuinely liked Hexter. Per-
haps to allay the American’s suspicions and to prove his own good intentions,
he freely criticized both MacDonald and the British administration in Pales-
tine. He concluded his report, he told Hexter, with a challenge to London—
adopt the plan for a development commission or renounce the mandate. Ac-
cording to Hexter, Hope Simpson injected another radically new note: “H.S.
threw out the hint and I inferred it was to see how far we would go [i.e.,
whether the Jews would agree], that the Mandate might be dropped and Italy
or France take it.” Hexter answered merely that England would permit neither
of those two powers to assume control. The talks ended with Hope Simpson’s
statement that he had persuaded Passfield to meet with Warburg and Hexter.
A week later in Geneva, Hexter talked with Hope Simpson again, but nothing
new was discussed.30
Despite the defeats on land transfers and immigration, Hexter saw certain
advantages in Hope Simpson’s report. As he told Weizmann four days later, in-
tensive agriculture to be underwritten by HMG was one, and the strong criti-
cism of MacDonald’s administration was another. Nor were all the Zionists pre-
pared to denounce Hexter or his diplomatic efforts. Weizmann was still
suspicious of British moves but was reserving judgment; Brandeis believed that
“distinct progress” had been made. To one Agency official who again raised the
charge that London was playing up to the non-Zionists, Hexter gave a curt reply:
“I told him that Americans were not entirely stupid and that there was a differ-
ent interpretation possible with respect to the British flirtation with us; namely,
they merely wanted to try a different telephone line and we should give them the
chance. . . . I also told him we should as far as possible make a fresh start with the
government and that I believed his profound distrust, hatred and contempt of
the administration did not permit him to view proposals on their merit.”31
The American, however, was far less optimistic than he had been in June.
Even if Hope Simpson was truly independent, and even if Hexter had suc-
ceeded in convincing him of the yishuv’s needs, the Colonial Office still had the
final say. A week after the talks in Athens, Hexter accompanied Warburg to a
meeting with Passfield. The invitation, which Hope Simpson had promised

them, showed that in London’s eyes Hexter was a key player in negotiations.
Since the colonial secretary was on his best behavior with the banker, the tone
of the conversation, so different from that of the Zionists with the Colonial Of-
fice, was amicable. Nevertheless, the Americans scored no positive gain. Sound-
ing much like Hope Simpson on the subjects of land development, labor and
unemployment, and immigration, Passfield divulged neither Hope Simpson’s
report nor the government’s reaction to his findings. He too was interested pri-
marily in the fellah, and he too looked askance upon the practices of the Jewish
National Fund and the Histadrut. Warburg and Hexter repeated the arguments
that the latter had raised with Hope Simpson, but Passfield resorted to plati-
tudes and refused to indicate whether he agreed. When Warburg asked for a
positive message on immigration that he could deliver at the upcoming meet-
ing of the Agency’s Administrative Committee, Passfield sidestepped the ques-
tion. More discouraging even than Hope Simpson, he answered vaguely that he
anticipated only a slow trickle of immigrants in the future. Hinting that the
government was prepared to allocate money for Palestine development, the co-
lonial secretary promised that “we are going to put our back into the job.” War-
burg had come to the meeting wanting to be reassured, and despite the lack of
substantive progress, those few words did reassure him. Still trusting in Hope
Simpson and in Hexter’s negotiations, he appeared optimistic a short time later
at a meeting of the Administrative Committee.32
The Agency wasn’t shown Hope Simpson’s report, but Weizmann knew that
it dealt with land purchases, immigration, and Arab settlements—all slanted
against the Jews. During September he and other top Zionists had meeting after
meeting with government officials and with leading British Jews. The purpose
was to ascertain the contents of Hope Simpson’s report and the government’s
statement of policy to be embodied in a white paper; where possible they
hoped to do some last-minute lobbying. At the brink of despair, Weizmann re-
ported that Passfield was playing for time, that he changed his mind from
meeting to meeting, and that he turned down Weizmann’s suggestion for a
roundtable conference before the white paper was issued. At this time the Zion-
ist leader observed that what he heard in London did not accord with Hexter’s
reports on the Hope Simpson talks.33
Still in the diplomatic loop, Hexter met briefly with Sir T. Drummond Shiels,
a high official in the Colonial Office, and with High Commissioner Chancellor.
From the latter he learned that the government had adopted Hope Simpson’s
report in principle but that it would reduce the amount of funds the English-
man had proposed for Palestine. Hexter spoke again with Hope Simpson, who
told him that neither Arabs nor Jews would be consulted before the white paper
was issued. The American gave no indication either of his own impressions or
of his part in those conversations. Meantime, he continued to enjoy easy access
to British officials. When Julian Mack, now the president of the ZOA, desired to
meet Chancellor, he turned to Hexter to arrange the meeting.

Despite his doubts, Weizmann too expanded Hexter’s diplomatic role. He

gave the American permission to meet informally with Arab leaders, provided
they knew that Hexter had no power to negotiate for the Agency. Excited at the
prospect, Hexter visited the Bedouin tribes in the Jordan Valley in October
1930, and he planned additional “study trips” for the winter.34 The social worker
had become a seasoned observer and negotiator within a year.
The Passfield White Paper
The simultaneous appearance of the Hope Simpson report and the Passfield
White Paper in October confirmed the yishuv’s fears. On the subject of eco-
nomic development the White Paper closely followed Hope Simpson’s conclu-
sions; it put limits on Jewish land purchases and settlement, it restricted Jew-
ish immigration by linking it to the question of Arab unemployment, and it
recommended a government policy of agricultural improvement for the al-
most exclusive benefit of the Arabs. It did not specifically provide for a devel-
opment commission, a project that Hexter and Hope Simpson discussed in
detail and one that might have been of benefit to Jews too. That omission
along with continued restrictions on immigration as well as a biased and hos-
tile tone made the White Paper the more objectionable of the two documents.
Even Weizmann said that at least Hope Simpson’s report had suggested pos-
sibilities on which to build.
The Jewish Agency rose up in protest against HMG’s repudiation of the
promises of the Balfour Declaration and the mandate. Any expectation that
London may have had of dividing the non-Zionists from the Zionists had failed
miserably, for the two factions were now united as never before. Charges were
hurled against England’s breach of faith, deceit, and betrayal, and three leaders
of the Agency—Weizmann, Warburg, and Melchett—immediately resigned.
Melchett summed up the prevailing bitterness over England’s “detrimental”
policies: “We can no longer pursue our objectives or spend our money on the
quicksands of compromise.”35 Warburg too was angered. He received a long,
handwritten letter from Passfield in defense of his actions, but the banker, usu-
ally an easy mark for attention and flattery, was unmoved. At the same time,
Prime Minister MacDonald attempted to shrug off the belief that England was
purposely undercutting a Jewish national home by insisting to one American
Jew that the policy statement did not signify any change in the country’s objec-
tives. Nevertheless, in response to public opposition and to criticism from
Labor’s political opponents, he invited Weizmann and others of the Agency to
confer with a special cabinet committee.36
Hexter had personal reasons to feel betrayed. First, Hope Simpson’s report
omitted several of his suggestions that the Englishman had promised to in-
clude, and second, on the surface at least, the report vindicated those critics

who claimed that England had used Hexter in an attempt to wreak chaos
within the ranks of the Agency. But although he insisted that he hadn’t ac-
cepted all of Hope Simpson’s arguments, Hexter refused to admit that he had
been duped. He told Warburg that he wasn’t at all embarrassed. Yet, in a letter
to the banker, he sounded a defensive note when he dissected the report, point-
ing out the good points as well as the bad. There he argued that “we” (i.e., the
non-Zionists) could indeed sympathize with some of Hope Simpson’s criti-
cisms of the yishuv’s practices. Emphasizing the need to distinguish between
the good and bad in the report and the totally negative White Paper, he also
cautioned against a blanket condemnation of the report or its author. Hope
Simpson enjoyed a good reputation in diplomatic circles, and Hexter believed
that he would probably advise London on future policy in Palestine.37
Still persona grata with the English, Hexter repeated some of his objections
to the White Paper in two meetings with Sir John Chancellor. There he sounded
harsher than he had before: “I stated that did the White Paper contain anything
genuinely constructive we would have perhaps been in position, despite its gen-
eral critical and cynical tone, to persuade people to accept the whole. I pointed
out that the document almost studiedly avoided the good parts of Hope
Simpson’s report and had included the bad points.” He went on to criticize the
White Paper’s interpretation of the labor market as well as the proposal for a
development department. Doubtless to pacify the non-Zionists, Chancellor
told the American to see Passfield, but Hexter answered that he first had to con-
sult with Weizmann.38 Clearly, London had missed its chance to drive a wedge
between the Zionists and non-Zionists. Hexter was prepared to continue as a
go-between, but the English realized that he, and Warburg as well, were more
pro-yishuv than they had anticipated.
Sixty years later, when he wrote his autobiography, Hexter was convinced of
England’s duplicity. The story of his negotiations with Hope Simpson in Ath-
ens is far different from his original report:
I had to try to reason with a man who had already made up his mind. As far as he
was concerned there just was “no room to swing a cat” in Palestine. I had facts
and figures ready to show how every investment by world Jewry in Palestine
served to provide new jobs for immigrants; how we had successfully uncovered
and drilled for new water sources that made more agricultural colonies possible
. . . and on and on. He wouldn’t be budged. Worse, he now began arguing that in
all justice the Jewish money should go to unemployed Arabs. I said we had Jewish
unemployed to care for, and added with emphasis that a number were unem-
ployed because of the Arab rioting, looting, and burning. He was anxious for my
approval of his document, but . . . I told him with some severity that we were
miles apart. That in no way could I approve his report. . . . Obviously Sir John had
hoped to inveigle me, a non-Zionist, into accepting his report, which might lull

the Jewish community into accepting it. His obstinate mind set, his inability to
see that it couldn’t be acceptable, made it all too clear that we were in for a lengthy
battle with the British government.39
In defense of Hexter we can add that he wasn’t the only one to be taken in by
Hope Simpson; Weizmann and Brandeis had been hopeful too. The American
had set out to salvage what he could for the yishuv’s benefit, and in pursuance
of that objective he overrated Hope Simpson’s fairness and his influence with
HMG.
Attempts at Compromise
Despite their resignations Weizmann and Warburg continued to work at their

usual tasks. Hexter too was occupied with issues that he had faced before—the
unfinished work of the Emergency Fund, the internal problems of the Agency,
visits to members and supporters of the Agency on the Continent. But in cer-
tain ways the earlier picture was significantly altered. New difficulties in fund-
raising had arisen; the worldwide depression and, as Warburg put it, “disgust”
with England because of the White Paper40 were drying up the necessary flow
of monies from Jews outside Palestine. On a personal level relationships too
had changed. The problems with the mandatory had ended much of the bick-
ering between Warburg and Weizmann, and the two men enjoyed a warmer
rapport. Hexter also benefited thereby, since he was now able to draw much
closer to the Zionist leader.41
The White Paper had upset England’s customary juggling act between the
demands of the yishuv and those of the Arabs, and after handing the Arabs a
major victory in the Passfield White Paper, the government felt obliged to re-
store a more equitable balance. A few days after the appearance of the White
Paper, England suggested negotiations between the government and the Jewish
Agency for resolving the differences caused by the new statement of policy.
Troubled by the American Jewish outcry against the White Paper, particularly
the charge that the document was incompatible with British obligations under
the mandate, London also desired to avoid criticism by the League of Nations.
(The Permanent Mandates Commission of the League had only recently found
fault with England’s handling of Palestine.)42 Its strategy of wedge-driving had
failed, and despite rumblings from radical Zionists against Weizmann’s Anglo-
phile leanings, it now confronted a more united Agency.
Prime Minister MacDonald proceeded to set up a special cabinet committee
to handle the matter, one in which Passfield was only an observer. Although the
government would not rescind the White Paper, it was prepared to “interpret”
it after hearing the Agency’s objections. Weizmann liked the idea of negotia-
tions, and Warburg also approved.43 The Jews were well aware of England’s

discomfort, and since the invitation for bilateral negotiations came from the
government and not from them, the Agency was in a stronger position vis-à-vis
England than it had been at any time after the riots.
The meetings of several Agency representatives with a small cabinet com-
mittee began in November and lasted for three months. Warburg was unable to
attend, but he insisted that Hexter participate.44 The latter, who had long
pressed for the Magnes/Warburg idea of roundtable conferences involving the
three parties—the Agency, the Arabs, and England—loyally complied. He lived
in London for a good deal of the time, where he actively contributed to deliber-
ations and helped to draft opinions that the Agency prepared for submission to
the other side. In the course of the sessions he established close working rela-
tionships with one participant, Professor Harold Laski, the intellectual mentor
of the Labor party, as well as with Malcolm MacDonald, the prime minister’s
son, who acted as an intermediary between the Agency and the government
and as a willing source of information on government opinion. Aside from
their pragmatic value, those associations enhanced Hexter’s reputation in offi-
cial circles.45 The American still called himself a non-Zionist, but his year in
Palestine appears to have made him more sympathetic to the yishuv and its de-
velopment. Since Weizmann some months earlier had termed a Jewish state
“unrealizable” at least for the present, and had denounced Zionist propaganda
for a state as “foolish and harmful,”46 Hexter felt quite at ease with Zionist strat-
egy and its defense of a Jewish national home. Enjoying the full confidence and
trust of both Warburg and Weizmann, he increasingly relied on his own initia-
tive, and although he often asked for Warburg’s advice, in many instances he no
longer waited for explicit instructions.
Sessions with the cabinet committee were closed and participants were obli-
gated to keep deliberations under wraps, but a steady stream of phone calls,
cables, and special messengers flowed back and forth between Agency men in
London and New York. It was a circuitous route that started and ended with
Hexter: 1) He informed Warburg of each step in the deliberations and added
his own suggestions. 2) Warburg circulated the information among Brandeis
and the ZOA as well as the non-Zionists. 3) They in turn reviewed the draft ar-
ticles sentence by sentence and comma by comma. 4) Warburg reported their
conclusions back to Hexter, who then labored to incorporate the American
opinions into the Agency’s position. Breaking the seal of confidentiality might
have been improper, but the government well knew that the Agency representa-
tives would not commit themselves to any decision without prior consultation
with the Americans.47
In an atmosphere markedly different from the hostility of Chancellor’s ad-
ministration in Palestine and Passfield’s Colonial Office in London, the Agency
boldly put forth its grievances and demands. The same issues that had been
raised by the Shaw and the Hope Simpson reports—the obligations of the
mandatory towards the Jews, land acquisition and settlement, immigration and

the labor market—were uppermost. The Agency’s agenda also included the de-
sirability of a new British administration in Palestine and the use of Transjor-
dan for the resettlement of landless Arabs and/or the settlement of Jews.
From the written sources, it is impossible to define precisely what part Hex-
ter played at the meetings. Behind the scenes at least, his task of incorporating
the American suggestions was critical in the formulation of the Agency’s posi-
tion. He did report that Weizmann had left the issues of the labor market and
unemployment for him to present. It is evident too that he pressed the matter
of “tone,” i.e., the need of a document in which a Jewish national home in Pal-
estine was reaffirmed without the bias and hostility that suffused the White
Paper. As he cabled to New York, “Since they obviously want to do right thing
they should do it in right manner.” Hexter and Laski also insisted that the last
paragraph of the new document, which would take the form of a letter of
interpretation by the prime minister, specifically state that the letter was as le-
gally binding as the White Paper. For his part Weizmann had only praise for the
American: “His presence here is of the greatest possible use. He is efficient, has
excellent judgment, is devoted and pleasant.”48
The cabinet committee concluded its business at the beginning of February,
and MacDonald’s letter of interpretation of the White Paper appeared a few
days later. It began by protesting the loyalty of the government to the obliga-
tions imposed by the mandate. Written in a considerate tone (almost “ingra-
tiating,” one journal commented), it appeared to recant, if not apologize for, all
the criticisms brought by the Agency. England still stressed its duties to the
Arabs and its need to maintain a balance until the two sides themselves reached
an agreement, but it disclaimed any intention of permanently ending Jewish
immigration, freezing Jewish settlements, giving Arabs preference over Jews in
land resettlement, or insulting Jewish labor institutions. In a positive vein it
promised to consider the establishment of a development agency to facilitate
both Jewish and Arab land settlement.49
Hexter was pleased with the substance of the letter,50 and he defended the
work of the cabinet committee to the high commissioner. When Chancellor
said that the negotiations had been unwise, Hexter sharply retorted that it was
difficult for the Jews to take the White Paper lying down. Much like a Zionist,
he said that the Jews were in Palestine by right and not sufferance, and they
“could not always be expected to swallow things of this sort.” At the same time,
Hexter continued to stress recognition of the rights of the Arabs and the need
for roundtable conferences. Warning the Jews of the dangers inherent in ignor-
ing the Arabs, he cautioned against “putting in the foreground only those obli-
gations of the Mandate which are in our favour and neglecting the others.
Some day these ‘others’ come to life and become very nasty realities.”51
In March 1931 the government announced the establishment of a develop-
ment department. Zionist acceptance of the scheme, which was mentioned in
the White Paper and the MacDonald letter, was debated in another series of

meetings between the Agency and the government in the spring of that year.
Participants considered allocation of lands to Jews and Arabs for intensive cul-
tivation, payments for such projects, and the personnel to head the depart-
ment. Although England aimed primarily at land benefits for the Arabs, War-
burg and Hexter were most concerned that Jews receive an equal share. Fully
immersed in the deliberations, Hexter hoped for a short while that Hope Simp-
son himself might yet influence the government to return to his more palatable
version of a development commission.52
Meanwhile, during the fall of 1930, Hexter and Sir John Hope Simpson had
renewed their ties. Hexter explained that “all of us” (i.e., leaders of the Jewish
Agency in London) “are convinced that he will exert great influence, not alone
in the present administration in the Colonial Office, but in successive Govern-
ments as well. And, his influence in Geneva [seat of the League of Nations] is
very strong.” Banking on Hope Simpson’s “honesty” and his readiness to accept
demonstrable facts, as well as on his criticism of the MacDonald administra-
tion, Hexter thought the Englishman might yet become an ally of the Agency
or at least a strong protagonist of an evenhanded development commission. He
may also have hoped that if he succeeded in convincing Hope Simpson of the
justice of the Agency’s case, prior judgments of how he, Hexter, had been
duped would be erased. Hope Simpson stood to benefit too. Angling for a post
in Palestine, either as head of the development commission or as high commis-
sioner, he may have thought of bolstering his chances by gaining the support of
the American non-Zionists and even of the yishuv.53
In this, the third round of Hexter’s personal diplomacy with Hope Simpson,
both men spoke more frankly. This time no Zionist whispers of a British con-
spiracy or wedge-driving were heard; rather, it was Cyrus Adler, a prominent
American non-Zionist and close associate of Warburg, who cautioned Hexter
to be wary of committing himself to Hope Simpson’s personal ambitions.54
Weizmann agreed to Hexter’s strategy, and although the choice of subjects and
the formulation were Hexter’s, he was shown the exchange of letters.
It was a new Hope Simpson who met with Hexter. At first he defended the
White Paper; he regretted that his concept of a development commission was
not adopted, but he did not agree that the document, or Passfield himself,
meant to express hostility on the part of London. More defensive of his own
report, he claimed that it had aroused less criticism than the White Paper, and
that no one had impugned his impartiality. When Hexter stressed the points in
the report that had been criticized, such as its treatment of the land question
and unemployment, Hope Simpson was not convinced. No longer the accred-
ited representative of the Colonial Office, he made no effort to sound impartial
or for that matter even diplomatic. He repeated his criticisms of Zionist exclu-
sion of Arab labor and of Jewish land practices that displaced the Arabs; again
and again he found fault with the Jews for ignoring Arab needs and interests.
The deliberations of the cabinet committee were useless and unwise so long as

Arab representatives were excluded. If he, Hope Simpson, had been invited to
participate, he could have spoken on their behalf.
Overall, Hexter was far less eager to come to a meeting of minds with the
Englishman than before. He maintained that roundtable conferences were nec-
essary to settle the friction in Palestine, and indeed the Agency had told that to
the government. The Jews had shown “a strong consideration for the Arab
side,” he added. “The Government could have gotten us to agree to any reason-
able approach to this problem if they had sat down and reasoned the thing out
with us, taking into account our own needs and position as well as the needs
and interests of the Arabs.” Hexter remained calm and softspoken despite Hope
Simpson’s impassioned words. His only positive request of the Englishman, on
a matter that Hope Simpson had hinted at during the summer, was to help
make Transjordan available for Palestinian settlement.
On at least two subjects Hope Simpson sounded downright antisemitic. One
time he hinted broadly at Jewish international power. Whereas Arabs lacked the
ability to present their case effectively, “the Jewish side is powerfully represented
everywhere. I suppose there is no more complete and efficient system of propa-
ganda in the world than the Zionist system.” Another time he picked up the
myth of Jew = Communist. On the subject of the kibbutz he asserted that con-
trol of the land by the Jewish National Fund was bad enough, but the use of the
land for collectives was even worse. “It is intolerable that under the aegis of the
Mandate and the funds provided in large measure by American Jews who I am
sure do not approve . . . a revolutionary system of social organization should be
set up in Palestine. The [ kibbutzim ] seem to me to be little nuclei of the Russian
social and political system transported into Palestine.”
Hexter made no comment on “Jewish power,” but he rallied to the defense of
the kibbutzim. All Jews did not agree on the wisdom of collectives, he coun-
tered, but the Agency believed that only time would prove or disprove their
underlying philosophy. “One thing, however, is certain, that is, that they have
nothing in common with the Bolsheviks.” Moreover, their existence had noth-
ing to do with the mandate. “You and I probably see eye to eye with respect to
the capitalist system and yet, I do not go with you to the extent of saying that
the system that we think is right must be created in Palestine. In addition, don’t
you think it is an interesting commentary on the genuine liberality of outlook
on the part of the Jews who contribute to the upbuilding of Palestine, to pro-
mote the subsidy of forms of social organization with which they are utterly
out of sympathy?” Neither man would have spoken so candidly before, nor did
either pretend that he was convinced by the other’s opinions.55
When Hope Simpson returned from his post in Athens, he met with Hexter
in London in January 1931. At that time the Englishman distinctly tried to dis-
tance himself from Passfield and the White Paper, but Hexter’s prodding kept
him on the defensive with respect to his own report. According to Hexter’s ac-
count of the meeting:

H.S. stated that he and a large number of the C.O. [Colonial Office] felt that Pass-
field had bungled the job. . . . He stated that Passfield was tired of his job and
never wanted it, and wanted to get out. . . . He told me that he regretted that the
C.O. had not carried out his original suggestion, namely to publish his report as a
feeler to determine where the attacks would most likely be made. . . . But this is in
line with their usual stupidity, and they are unusually weak in the Near East Divi-
sion. . . . He . . . realized, as I had written to him, that the relative silence of Jews
[on] certain of his findings was the result of the focussing of all attention upon
the White Paper. I told him that I was disappointed in a number of places, . . . that
I had the feeling that either the C.O. had cut out a good deal of what he sent, or he
had cut out much before sending. He told me that two days before transmitting it
he had received . . . a letter from Passfield asking him not to embarrass the
Government with his report or his recommendations. He stated that he had sent
a hot letter in exchange, and said he would not consent to this at all.
His grumbling notwithstanding, Hope Simpson did not dare publicly to criti-
cize Passfield or the White Paper.
The Englishman and the American talked in general terms about the devel-
opment commission, but they came to no agreement on the major issues—
who would finance it and to whom it would be responsible. Hope Simpson was
prepared to accept the chairmanship, but only if he were given independent
power free of the high commissioner’s jurisdiction. When he asked Hexter if
the Agency had any ideas about the development commission, Hexter said that
they couldn’t discuss it without knowing the details. He made clear, however,
that “the commission had potentialities for either good or evil from our point
of view; that we would have to pay dearly for it in money [a reference to the
idea that the yishuv would be taxed to help cover the commission’s expenses]
and in liberty of action.” Again suggesting Transjordan as an outlet for reset-
tling Arabs, Hexter added that “the obligation to the fellahin was governmental
in origin and nature, while the obligation to the Jews was mandatory in origin;
that certainly to put the case mildly, the latter was not inferior to the former,
and the Jews had a right to expect the . . . Government . . . to seek an alternative
way [i.e., Transjordan] of discharging its obligations.”56
Hexter reported the gist of the conversation to Chaim Weizmann, admitting
that he didn’t totally support Hope Simpson’s candidacy as chairman of devel-
opment, but that he had no better alternative. Weizmann, however, had finally
met Hope Simpson and had taken a liking to him. Noting the Englishman’s
overriding concern for the Arabs (as well as Hexter’s importance in the negoti-
ations), he said: “You [Hexter] will have to put him right.” Discussions on the
development commission, including another talk between Hexter and Hope
Simpson, dragged on, and Hexter continued to press for Transjordan. In May it
became apparent that Hope Simpson’s influence with the government on Pales-
tine was rapidly fading. Nonetheless, he and Hexter corresponded sporadically

until the former left England on another assignment. By mid-1931, however,

Hexter had become convinced that Hope Simpson harbored an anti-Jewish bias
of which, in light of his contradictory statements over the year, the Englishman
was genuinely unconscious.57 In the end, neither of the two men emerged victo-
rious. Hope Simpson failed to incite the non-Zionists through Hexter, and Hex-
ter failed to influence the Colonial Office through Hope Simpson.
Despite England’s desire to appease the Arabs after the riots of 1929, the
yishuv refused to yield to a new interpretation of the Balfour Declaration. To be
sure, MacDonald’s letter “explaining” the White Paper enraged the Arabs and
presaged renewed violence in the immediate years to come. But Zionism had
scored at least one lasting gain. Just as non-Zionists had joined Zionists in pro-
testing restrictions on Jewish immigration during the year after the riots, so did
they line up in the 1930s. When German Jews hounded by the Nazis turned
their eyes to Palestine, non-Zionists too were untroubled by the fact that in-
creased Jewish immigration was contributing to the infrastructure of an even-
tual Jewish state.
Hexter remained in Palestine as a member of the Jewish Agency and for sev-
eral years as head of its colonization department. (One friend explained that
Hexter had been infected with “Palestinitis or Zionitis.”58) The most able repre-
sentative of the non-Zionists in Agency affairs during the mandate era, he re-
turned to the United States shortly after Warburg’s death in 1937. From then
until 1948 the influence of the American non-Zionists in Palestine grew weaker.
Hexter resumed his successful career in social work, and he served in the pre-
stigious post of co-executive vice president of the New York Federation from
1948 to 1967. His reputation in Israel was assured too, and a chair in international
relations was established in his name at the Hebrew University. A more telling
tribute to his abilities came when Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion offered
Hexter, despite his non-Zionism, the cabinet post of minister of welfare.59

CHAPTER 6
Jewish Immigration to Palestine:

The Zionists and the State Department
D uring the 1930s, when the Nazis embarked on their anti-Jewish crusade,
the right of unrestricted Jewish immigration into British-ruled Palestine
assumed a critical urgency. Since the United States and other Western countries
had closed their doors to new immigrants, Palestine was considered the most
likely haven for refugees. As the need intensified, free immigration loomed as
the irreconcilable issue dividing Jews and Arabs and laying bare the deeper con-
flict over the legitimacy of the Balfour Declaration’s promise of a Jewish na-
tional home. The two issues, immigration and a national home, were in reality
one and the same—free immigration flowed from the right to a Jewish home-
land, and a Jewish homeland could not be developed without free immigration.
American Zionists worked to enlist the support of their country in the
three-way dispute, which involved the Arabs, the Jews, and England. In so
doing, they focused on what increasingly became the major point of their brief
for immigration, the right of America to intervene in the Palestine mandate.
Positing the country’s commitment to Zionism since the days of Woodrow
Wilson, the Zionists reasoned that if their attempts failed to keep England from
reneging on the Balfour Declaration, the United States could and should lend
them its support. In the 1930s, while tension and violence in the mandate
reached new heights, the American Zionists fought an uphill battle for an active
American role on behalf of Jewish claims.
It was quite natural for Zionists to seek America’s aid. The League of Na-
tions, the official guardian of the mandates, was but a caricature of Wilson’s
grand design. During those same years it chalked up repeated failures: it could
neither protect the minority rights written into the peace treaties with the
eastern European states, nor could it halt the aggression of Japan, Italy, and
Germany. The United States, a longtime ally of England, was the only major
power in a position to impress upon His Majesty’s Government (HMG) its re-
sponsibilities toward the Jews. The United States too had accepted the idea of
137
a Jewish homeland in Palestine in the Lodge-Fish congressional resolution of

1922 and the Anglo-American treaty of 1924. Furthermore, the Zionists had
proved their good faith as Americans by Americanizing their movement. They
had tailored their ideology to suit American tastes, and they followed the broad
guidelines of American foreign policy. Claiming after World War I that they
were building an American-like democracy in Palestine, they were now pro-
pelled by concern over immigration. Were they to successfully engage the
United States on their side during the 1930s, a Jewish homeland in Palestine
would become—much like the Wilsonian wartime aim of a free Poland—an
American goal. What could be a more glorious climax to the process of
Americanizing Zionism! Nevertheless, the Zionists were handicapped from the
start. Since Jewish love for Franklin Roosevelt was paramount, they never used
the threat of the Jewish vote against the president and his administration.
The State Department’s position on Zionist demands in the years leading up
to World War II traces the interaction of the department and the Zionists with
respect to the entry of refugees into Palestine, the Arab riots of 1936, the Peel
Commission and the British proposal of partition, and the immediate events
culminating in the White Paper of 1939. Based exclusively on the unpublished
and published records of the State Department, the following analysis reveals
two fixed mind sets, that of the Zionists and that of the State Department. On
one side it shows how the Jews, a frightened and vulnerable minority in a pe-
riod of economic depression and ugly antisemitism, attempted to pressure the
government. It also shows how Zionists were slowly learning the ways of
American pressure groups—in effect they were Americanizing their tactics as
they had their ideology—and lobbying in Washington more intensely than ever
before. On the other side it considers the actions of the State Department, iso-
lationist, Anglophile, and anti-Jewish, which, despite the condition of the Jews
under Hitler, kept it on the same anti-Zionist track that it had followed before
the 1930s. Not until 1938, a grim year for the Jews of Europe and the yishuv, did
the department give serious consideration to Jewish pressure.
The Issue
Control of Jewish immigration to Palestine had shifted after the World War
from Turkey to England. As the mandatory power over Palestine, England was
pledged to the goal of a Jewish national home by the text of the mandate,
which incorporated the Balfour Declaration. But since England’s expectation
of a large influx of Jews into Palestine immediately after the war never materi-
alized, it had few compunctions about tilting toward the Arab side. Arab re-
sentment of Zionist settlement flared up in the riots of 1920 and 1921, and
among other things the Arabs called for a cessation to Jewish immigration. The
colonial secretary, Winston Churchill, reaffirmed the Balfour Declaration and

its implicit guarantee of unrestricted immigration, but nonetheless the Colo-

nial Office adopted the principle of “economic absorptive capacity” to regu-
late Jewish immigration. The number of immigrant certificates doled out
through the Jewish Agency was to be limited thereby to the ability of the land
to absorb new arrivals. Since the Zionist response to that emendation was too
mild to alarm England, the latter continued comfortably on the road of Arab
appeasement.
As the decade wore on, agitation by the Arabs, invoking the wartime prom-
ises they too had received from England, persisted. Immigration was again a
key issue in the bloody riots of 1929, and again England’s recommendations,
resulting in the Passfield White Paper of 1930, whittled down the mandatory’s
commitments to the Jews. This time Zionists and their friends protested loudly.
To quiet the opposition Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald reassured Chaim
Weizmann, head of the Jewish Agency, in February 1931 that England recog-
nized its obligation to facilitate Jewish immigration. MacDonald’s letter, which
was declared to be the official interpretation of the White Paper and which the
Arabs called the “Black Paper,” temporarily halted total repudiation of the Bal-
four Declaration.1 Nevertheless, in light of Nazi persecution, immigration re-
mained a serious point of contention.
The American State Department was little more than an observer of these
events. Its hostility toward Zionism carried on a tradition fixed by Secretary of
State Robert Lansing during Wilson’s administration. In the 1920s the depart-
ment supported England’s rule of the mandate, and in Arab-Jewish clashes it
sided with the Arabs. Internal files reveal that its officials both in Washington
and Jerusalem were antisemitic to boot. Adhering to a noninterventionist posi-
tion, the department limited its concern to the rights of America and American
nationals. Under the Anglo-American treaty of 1924 the mandatory guaranteed
the protection of American citizens and their rights—a category that encom-
passed the investments and institutions of non-Jewish businessmen and Chris-
tian missionaries as well as American Zionist holdings—but the State Depart-
ment interpreted those clauses narrowly. Zionism, called a “private enterprise”
by Secretary of State Frank Kellogg in 1926, was in no way an American interest.
The department turned a deaf ear to American Zionist appeals in the immedi-
ate aftermath of the 1929 riots for government support, especially since com-
paratively few Americans had settled in Palestine. As it said then, it had no rea-
son to urge unrestricted Jewish immigration on England. At all times, however,
Zionist activities bearing on American foreign relations were closely moni-
tored. The chief of the Near Eastern division acknowledged in 1932 that the
“Jewish aspect of Anglo-American relations is a delicate one which merits care-
ful watching.”2
It may have been unrealistic to expect a change in departmental policy, but
Zionists worked toward that end. The path was a familiar one. Ever since the
Damascus affair of 1840 American Jews had turned to Washington on behalf of
Jewish Immigration to Palestine 139

persecuted or needy Jews abroad, and on some occasions the administration

complied, but those precedents failed to sway the postwar American govern-
ment from its path of nonintervention. It proved equally futile to couch Jewish
appeals in terms of the country’s tradition of humanitarian diplomacy, the
base on which American Jews had rested most of their earlier requests, since
the State Department had quietly buried humanitarian diplomacy with World
War I. The situation of German Jewry offered a most opportune moment to
resurrect that cardinal tenet of the American creed, but the department turned
a deaf ear. (When Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes asked the department
in 1936 to read a speech he had prepared for a Jewish audience, he was advised
to delete his examples of humanitarian diplomacy.)3 Although neither the
United States nor England responded seriously to the plight of the Jews under
Hitler, the Zionists did. Self-interest, or an awareness that increased settlement
in Palestine would aid the nationalist cause, doubtless contributed to Zionist
thinking, but it led to the same result, namely the publicization of the Euro-
pean Jewish plight. Claiming now that they were speaking in the name of all
American Jews on behalf of the refugees, the Zionists clamored repeatedly for
government intervention on the immigration issue. But only when non-
Zionists added their voice did the department feel obliged to give serious atten-
tion to Jewish pressure.
An unfriendly department and its refusal to forward Jewish requests to
London drove the Zionists to a variety of methods, including direct protests to
England and efforts to bypass the executive by appeals to congressmen. Addi-
tional obstacles impeded their action. The problems spawned by the Great De-
pression left little time or energy for extra-American affairs, and a rash of
Nazi-inspired antisemitic organizations inhibited both Jews and Christians
from lending their names to activities under Zionist sponsorship. America’s
Jews were fast becoming the largest, wealthiest, and most influential commu-
nity in Jewish history, but the decade of the 1930s dictated that Jews maintain
a low profile.
The consuls in Jerusalem fed the State Department frequent reports of devel-
opments within the Zionist and Arab communities after the MacDonald let-
ter. They felt that they, like the State Department, were under constant scru-
tiny because of worldwide Jewish interest in Zionism. As one member of the
consular staff put it, Zionism, an example of an international Jewish network,
had a “megaphonelike” quality: “The slightest whisper is heard from Shanghai
to New York. The least incident can set telephone wires buzzing from London
to San Francisco.”4 American officials were most concerned about the animos-
ity toward England and the resultant political agitation from both the Arab
and Jewish sides. Paul Knabenshue, the consul general during the 1929 riots
and a firm anti-Zionist, continued to prophesy doom and destruction from
his posts in the Near East. Nor had his animosity toward “our Jewish friends,”

who, he said, wielded extraordinary power in the United States, abated. Kna-
benshue’s successors in Jerusalem were usually less vitriolic, but none sided
with the Jews.5
Early in the 1930s the department asked the consulate to report on the issue
of communism in Palestine. In response, despatches from Jerusalem assigned
Jewish Communists a major part in causing the 1929 riots and in fomenting
continued unrest. They said that Palestine was important to the Communist
mission and that settlers from Russia were potential Bolsheviks. Jews, bearers of
the “revolutionary germ” and builders of secret international organizations,
were actively or passively spreading Communist propaganda under directives
from Moscow. Admittedly, many Russian Jews opposed Bolshevism, but the
“prominent Bolsheviks . . . are preponderantly Jewish,” and “Jewry as a whole
has consciously or unconsciously worked for and promoted an international
economic, material despotism which . . . has tended in an ever-increasing de-
gree to crush national and spiritual values out of existence.”6
The reports had serious implications. They reinforced familiar stereotypes
of the international Bolshevik Jew feared and hated by all proper Americans.
Evidence from the yishuv, be it the Socialist kibbutzim or the threat of a “class
war” provoked by powerful Jewish labor unions, confirmed the department’s
image of “Jew = Communist” and compounded their distaste for Zionist activ-
ities. Moreover, although communism contradicted Jewish nationalism, Rus-
sian Jews appeared to be among the most dedicated supporters of each move-
ment. Hence, it was difficult to separate Zionists from Communists, would-be
Communists, or Communist sympathizers in the yishuv. Whether or not a firm
distinction was made, both the words “Zionist” and “Bolshevik” suggested a
Jewish conspiracy to undercut Western values. It followed that Jewish immigra-
tion in general was hardly desirable.
Despatches from Jerusalem to Washington focused increasingly on immigra-
tion after Hitler came to power. Pushed by persecution and pulled by a country
that was one of the few enjoying economic prosperity,7 the flow of Jewish immi-
grants intensified. In 1933 Jews from Germany and Poland accounted for more
than 50 percent of new arrivals and with other immigrants raised the number of
Jews to 20 percent of the Palestinian population. By the end of 1938 the ratio of
Jews to Arabs was estimated at 30 to 70.8 Not only did the new immigrants make
important contributions to the economy of the yishuv, but the potential inher-
ent in their numbers compounded Arab suspicions.
In 1933 Jewish officials in Jerusalem and London claimed that some 600,000
German Jews could be settled in Palestine in the next fifteen years. While the
Jewish National Council, the executive body in Palestine that administered
Jewish affairs under the mandate, called on Jews to support immigration and
build up the yishuv as a refuge for the persecuted, American Consul Alexander
Sloan reported on Arab dissatisfaction with “excessive” numbers of Jews. He
charged that the Jewish Agency, determined to increase the Jewish population

dramatically, played on the sympathy for the German Jews and inflated the
need for immigration certificates. According to Sloan, British officials agreed
with the Arabs. One said that in light of the formation of several large compa-
nies by German Jews who were out to make Palestine a world center of capital-
ism, the Arabs deserved protection against the Jews. But as Sloan explained, of-
ficials in the region were not heeded by London, because the Colonial Office
“bows” to Jewish capitalists.9
The number of German Jews who entered Palestine in 1933 was put at 6805,
and roughly one-half of those were counted as capitalists. Another survey esti-
mated that half of those new arrivals were potential birds of passage, anti- or
non-Zionists who were prepared to return to Germany if circumstances per-
mitted.10 The numbers of refugees continued to rise, but the State Department
refused to act on Jewish appeals for a permanent or temporary refuge in Pales-
tine. It held fast to the position taken by Secretary of State Charles Evans
Hughes. An opponent of American intervention in the matter of Palestinian
immigration, Hughes had said in 1923 that since Americans constituted but a
very small fraction of that immigration, and since Congress was then busily
writing America’s own restrictive immigration laws, the United States was
hardly in a position to challenge England. Ironically, one early report from Je-
rusalem favored German Jewish immigration as a defense against communism.
It said that the “steady stream of Jewish immigrants and capital is the best pos-
sible insurance against Communism in Palestine Jewry.”11 The department,
however, was won over neither to the side of unrestricted immigration nor to
the side of “capitalist” immigration.
In 1934 illegal Jewish immigration from Europe began to complicate the al-
ready thorny problem. Consul General Ely Palmer reported that illegal entries
numbered about one hundred weekly; one consular report counted some
twelve hundred illegal immigrants from the United States as well. England im-
mediately cracked down—police raids and arrests, tighter security on the bor-
ders, and, most painful to the Jews, reduction of the number of immigration
certificates—and the Arabs demanded restrictions harsher than the British
principle of economic absorptive capacity. Not even a plan financed by Ameri-
cans Mary Fels and Louis Brandeis to settle Arab villagers on household plots in
the Jewish city of Netanya assuaged Arab wrath. Illegal immigration contin-
ued. Palmer reported that some two thousand Jews who had entered Palestine
for the 1935 Maccabiah (international sports events) stayed on as illegal immi-
grants, and he blamed the yishuv: “Concealing ‘illegals’ is an activity in which
Jewish colonists excel.” By the summer of 1934 he predicted darkly that immi-
gration would be the catalyst for another round of Arab violence.12 In succeed-
ing years the numbers of illegal immigrants multiplied despite British efforts
until 1948 to stamp out the traffic.
Palmer’s animus against the Zionists and Jewish immigration was reflected
in his despatches. He lumped the c halutzim together with “other irresponsible

elements,” and he charged that Jews who faulted Arabs for unrest in Palestine
either “whine[d] their lamentations” or reacted with blatantly false “injured in-
nocence.” The haganah, the Jewish defense force, operated clandestinely and, as
one British policeman said, would soon constitute an “attack” group. Claiming
that Jews arbitrarily wanted a population equal to that of the Arabs, Palmer
and the State Department doubted that England could resolve the matter in a
manner satisfactory to both sides.13
Immigration both legal and illegal continued to swell the Jewish population.
The consul in 1934 put the number of Jews in Palestine at 250,000; a year and a
half later, Wallace Murray, chief of the State Department’s Near Eastern divi-
sion, claimed that the influx from Germany had raised the figure to 350,000.
Since the yishuv had been strengthened thereby, the British became more favor-
ably disposed to the Arabs, but when the Arabs demanded a total stoppage to
Jewish immigration, the colonial secretary turned them down. Meantime, the
American consul in Jerusalem reported that the Jews had grown more bellicose
toward both the Arabs and England and were prepared to fight any suspension
of immigration.14
Arab Riots, British Commissions, and Zionist Lobbying
In April 1936 the powder keg that was the mandate finally exploded. Angry
Arabs expressed their grievances in riots and in a general strike that lasted six
months. Their primary demand was a ban on immigration; as one Arab
spokesman said, let England find room for the immigrants elsewhere, perhaps
in the United States. A consular report blamed “Jewish intrigue” for inciting the
Arabs, but bias notwithstanding, the State Department immediately urged full
protection of American nationals in Palestine by both the consulate and En-
gland.15 The number of Americans in Palestine was then put at eight to twelve
thousand and the amount of American investments at $40 million. Doubtless
because of the influx of European refugees, the proportion of Americans in the
population had dropped from 3 percent in 1922–35 to 1 percent in 1936.16 Unlike
the situation in 1929, no Americans were killed and American property suffered
only slight damage, thus enabling the department to adhere to its policy of
nonintervention.17
In May 1936, a month after the riots and general strike began, Rabbi Stephen S.
Wise, chairman of the United Palestine Appeal, sent a personal letter to Roose-
velt. Ardent Zionist and loyal follower of FDR, Wise asked the president to call
for a report on the Palestinian situation from the British ambassador. On the
surface the request looked insignificant, but if the ambassador were summoned
to the White House, England would understand that Roosevelt had an interest
in Zionist affairs. Wise’s letter reminded the president of Wilson’s support of

the Balfour Declaration and of sympathetic comments by Roosevelt himself

on Zionism. In addition to those American Jews who had settled or invested in
Palestine, the rabbi emphasized American Jewish emotional support for the
yishuv. Wise’s suggestion, however, was ignored. His letter went from Roose-
velt to Secretary of State Cordell Hull to Wallace Murray. Murray, a confirmed
anti-Zionist, drafted a reply to Wise that mentioned merely the steps taken for
the protection of American nationals. But the request had some effect. A day
later the department saw fit to remind the consul general in Jerusalem to act
“vigorously and promptly” with local British authorities for the protection of
Americans: “You are, of course, aware of the widespread interest in Jewish cir-
cles in this country in the Palestine situation.” Hull also instructed the ambas-
sador to England to ask the Foreign Office for any information on the safety of
Americans.18
In that episode the department set a pattern that was often repeated. A Zion-
ist request was first rejected, but the State Department was moved to act on re-
lated matters—for example, the protection of American citizens in Palestine,
or the American Jewish mood, or departmental reexamination of the Ameri-
can interpretation of the Anglo-American treaty of 1924.
American Christians became involved too. The Palestine Post of June 1
printed a petition to the State Department from the Pro-Palestine Federation of
Americans, a group of prominent clergymen and other public figures culti-
vated by American Zionist Emanuel Neumann. The latter hoped that the
Christian group would generate sympathy for Zionism on the part of Ameri-
can officials abroad. (Murray, however, sneered at the group’s importance, say-
ing that it did not reflect any spontaneous expression of Christian sentiment.)
Asking for free immigration and for the removal of obstacles to the establish-
ment of a Jewish national home, the petition called forth a counterstatement
against immigration from heads of Christian denominations and churches in
Palestine, who candidly warned against Jewish domination of the Arabs.19
When England announced plans for a Royal Commission of Inquiry on the
Palestine situation, rumors circulated that immigration would be suspended at
least temporarily while the commission conducted its investigation. American
Zionists, now supported by non-Zionists, again turned to Roosevelt. Word
from London, where Wise and Felix Frankfurter, both friends of the president,
were working with Weizmann, urged that FDR be alerted. Stressing the critical
needs of German Jewry, the message asked that Roosevelt, who was “much
more warm-hearted than . . . some of his official family,” inform England that
suspension of immigration would hurt Anglo-American relations. The mes-
sage reached Samuel Rosenman, a close associate of the president, and he for-
warded it to the White House with the comment “Naturally a great deal seems
to be involved, . . . so that I am much interested.” Roosevelt, however, refused to
bypass the State Department. Murray formulated a reply in the form of in-
structions from Hull to Ambassador Robert Bingham in London that reflected

Murray’s position rather than the Zionists’ plea. Bingham was told to apprise
Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden of the request on immigration from “influen-
tial Jewish groups.” Any strength in that message was immediately undercut,
however, by the directive that Bingham make clear that neither was he speaking
for the American government nor would he presume to interfere in England’s
affairs. In sum, he was to say only that he thought England would want the in-
formation. The ambassador followed orders, reporting that Eden had thanked
him but had revealed nothing of England’s intentions. Nor was Eden’s office
more forthcoming when it was questioned in the House of Commons. Stating
that the cabinet still had not reached a decision on the temporary suspension of
immigration, the Foreign Office added that it would not be swayed by force or
intimidation.20
The Royal Commission of Inquiry, headed by Lord Robert Peel, was ap-
pointed at the end of July 1936, and Arabs and Jews squared off on the matter of
immigration. American Jews—Zionist organizations, fraternal orders, lands-
manshaftn, rabbinical groups, labor unions—registered their concern in letters
to Hull or their congressmen. (Only a few reached the secretary of state; Mur-
ray and associates Paul Alling and R. Walton Moore handled most.) All mus-
tered the same arguments on behalf of Jewish immigration—England’s obliga-
tions under the Balfour Declaration and the terms of the mandate, and the
needs of persecuted Jews in Europe. Some warned against yielding to Arab ter-
rorism, and a few mentioned American Jewish financial investments. Junior
Hadassah told how its services benefited both Arabs and Jews, and the Order
Sons of Zion claimed that were England to close “the gates of Zion in face of
the return of her children,” it would constitute a crime against civilization. The
State Department gave its standard reply: England would act on immigration
only after the Royal Commission submitted its report. It reassured the more
powerful organizations that HMG was aware of American Jewish opinion, but
it refused to transmit the messages to London. Like the petitioners, it under-
stood that transmission alone indicated some degree of concern.21
Pressure on the department increased when three members of the Senate
planned a two-week visit to Palestine to investigate the situation. George Wads-
worth, now consul general in Jerusalem and the least outspoken of the consuls
against Zionism, learned that the junket was organized and funded by news-
paper mogul William Randolph Hearst. Some speculated that in anticipation
of the presidential elections in November, Hearst sought to appeal to Jewish
voters by neutralizing his former “Naziphilia”; others explained that the circu-
lation of Hearst papers had declined because of their weak stand on the mur-
der of Jews by Arabs. Wadsworth went on to report that prominent American
Jews in the yishuv, like Rabbi Judah Magnes, now president of the Hebrew Uni-
versity, were actively cooperating with the visitors and that “propaganda visits”
to Jewish colonies had been arranged. That same week, the ZOA forwarded a
message to the State Department from the three senators that very possibly was

drafted by the organization. Dismayed at events in Palestine that threatened to

destroy Zionist achievements, and mindful of American Jewish contributions
to Palestine, the senators called on England to fulfill its obligations. They said
that they, like Congress and the president, sympathized with efforts to find a
haven for the refugees, and therefore they protested any restriction of immigra-
tion. On their arrival in Palestine the senators stated publicly that they as well as
Hearst were unbiased. Nevertheless, since Hearst was now pro-Zionist, and
knowing that he was no friend of England, the department faced a challenge to
its own anti-Zionist and Anglophile leanings.22
As the months passed the Zionists and their friends were shifting their
concentration from immigration to the more inclusive issue of American
intervention. They claimed that under the Anglo-American convention of
1924 the United States had the right to review changes by England concerning
the mandate. When one of the senators who had visited Palestine, Royal
Copeland of New York, met with Hull to report on his trip, he harshly criti-
cized England’s administration of Palestine, and he said that Hull would be
justified in “reminding” England of its duties as mandatory. At that meeting
Hull, who had been fully briefed by Murray, had the upper hand. He an-
nounced categorically that he was pleased with British policy and that Ameri-
can intervention was ill advised. Avoiding the technicalities of the 1924 treaty,
he cited the congressional resolution of 1922 in favor of a Jewish national
home in Palestine. He reminded Copeland that on the advice of Secretary of
State Hughes, Congress then had purposely watered down any American
commitment to the Zionist goal.23
The anti-British and pro-Jewish statements by the three senators gathered
support on Capitol Hill, and from the White House came FDR’s warm endorse-
ment of “the rebuilding of the ancient Jewish homeland.” Officially, however,
the government kept silent.24 The United States had done enough, Murray in-
sisted, by demanding the protection of American nationals in Palestine.25 To be
sure, the department could not discount the influence of Jews and their allies at
the polls. Murray’s staff, therefore, reminded the Foreign Office in London
more than once of American Jewish interests in Palestine, but it refused to as-
sert the right of formal intervention.
As soon as the Peel Commission took up its work in the fall of 1936, England
acted on immigration. Although claiming to adhere to the principle of eco-
nomic absorptive capacity, it curtailed the monthly certificates for Jewish la-
borers from eight thousand to 1850. (Quotas did not apply to nonlaborers.) It
also deducted the number of illegal arrivals from the allotted certificates. The
State Department, which considered the move a fair compromise between
Arabs and Jews, prepared for heavy pressure from dissatisfied Jews. The Arabs
kept up their demands too. One Arab reportedly said, “If 65,000,000 Germans
could not stomach 600,000 Jews,” why expect 900,000 Arabs to accept 400,000
Jews? An internal memorandum of the department concluded: “Under the

circumstances it would seem desirable for us to refrain from intervening in any

way. . . . Since we ourselves strictly limit our own immigration we are scarcely in
a strong position to insist that other countries adjust their immigration laws
and regulations to suit the desires of . . . a portion of our population.”26
A few days later another letter came to Roosevelt from Wise. It told of a
document that Wise, then president of the ZOA, and other representative
American Jews planned to send to England through the State Department.
Having failed to elicit America’s commitment to the right of intervention
should the mandatory change the rules of governance, the Zionists hoped to
reach the same end by pressuring England to recognize that right. The signers
were not asking for Roosevelt’s endorsement but only for his help in transmit-
ting their message. Wise counted on the president’s friendship and sympathy,
but the message was referred to the State Department without ever reaching
Roosevelt. Even for the president’s friend the standard answer—that the de-
partment did not function as a channel of communication—applied. Murray
countered that the Zionists had their own machinery, the Jewish Agency, to
deal with immigration and the transmission of messages.
Wise tried again when he and a fellow Zionist leader, Robert Szold, met with
Acting Secretary of State R. Walton Moore. The rabbi brought with him the
document in question, but now behaving more obsequiously, he raised no ob-
jection when Moore again refused to transmit it to England. Szold, however,
seemed less easily cowed. Positing that the United States could act if England
limited immigration for any political motive, he warned that the Zionists would
renew their pressure.27 The document itself was a 36-page printed booklet ad-
dressed to the Royal Commission and signed by seven American Zionist organ-
izations.28 Its purpose, it stated, was to ensure the continuity of mutual confi-
dence between England and the United States. Called a “Memorandum . . . on
American Interest in the Administration of the Palestine Mandate,” it gave a
well-researched and mildly worded account of Anglo-American relations with
respect to Palestine since 1917. It showed how England had desired and ob-
tained American approval of the Balfour Declaration and the terms of the
mandate, and how the United States insisted on and received England’s pledges
on the recognition of American rights and privileges within Palestine. Arguing
that America had shown its interest in a Jewish national home, it quoted sym-
pathetic statements on Zionism by all presidents from Wilson to Roosevelt. It
also claimed, and this became central to subsequent appeals, that England was
enjoined by diplomatic notes exchanged with America and by Article 7 of the
Anglo-American convention of 1924 from altering the administration of the
mandate without American consent.
The document recalled how American Jews, now called upon to lead in the
development of Palestine and in providing thereby a haven for persecuted
European Jews, had supported the choice of England as mandatory and how
they had cooperated with England during World War I. The Zionists did not

elaborate on the plight of Jews under the Nazis, but they did present detailed
information on the money American Jews had poured into Palestine. Their in-
vestments in the mandate came to some $42 million and their gifts to $35.5 mil-
lion—i.e., significant American interests that England cavalierly disregarded.
The Zionists concluded that since England and the United States were both
committed to the establishment of a Jewish national home, they were required
to cooperate with appropriate Jewish agencies on matters of Jewish immigra-
tion and settlement.
The State Department summarily dismissed the Zionist brief. Murray
wrote a detailed critique for circulation within the department. Citing chapter
and verse, he maintained that the Zionists had misused or omitted relevant
material and that their statement was utterly deceptive. Nevertheless, the State
Department made three moves in response. First, it again instructed Bingham
in London to inform the foreign minister unofficially of American Jewish
concern. Second and more important to the department’s anti-Zionist calcu-
lations, it began collecting anti-Zionist statements by influential American
Jews to prove that many in the community agreed neither with Wise nor with
the Zionists. Third, it felt constrained to consider anew the government’s offi-
cial commitment to the Balfour Declaration and a Jewish national home, and
to American rights and obligations under the treaty of 1924. Repeatedly reas-
suring England that it had no intention of intervening,29 the department wor-
ried, however, lest Zionist insistence on American intervention force it into an
“untenable” position.30
While the Arabs and their sympathizers lobbied in Washington against Jew-
ish immigration and the “imperialist and materialist” aims of the Zionists, the
Peel Commission in Jerusalem heard testimony on the Palestine situation. A
statement by one witness, Chaim Weizmann, who spoke impassionedly of the
plight of six million European Jews facing persecution and death, was called
brilliant even by the American consul. In Washington the State Department
closely monitored the hearings, and to stay on top of new developments it de-
spatched Paul Alling, assistant chief of the Near Eastern division, to London to
serve as its special emissary.31
Partition and Divisiveness
From the time that the Peel Commission finished its work in January 1937 until
the publication of its report in July, rumors circulated about the conclusions it
had reached. In the yishuv the mood was one of anxiety, as Jews gloomily ex-
pected further curtailment of immigration. Meanwhile, the Arabs feared the
success of Jewish efforts for American intervention against the Arabs’ “right-
ful” demands. Although the department turned down a Zionist suggestion that
it ascertain the contents of the report before publication and discuss them with

American Zionist leaders, it seriously weighed the speculations of allegedly

knowledgeable parties. Murray reported that Jewish circles in London pre-
dicted intense Jewish pressure in both England and the United States, but that
at the same time heavy pressure in either country could trigger an antisemitic
backlash. He was also told that American Jewish organizations had demanded
of their British counterparts the right to participate in the formulation of any
Palestinian solution. Finally, the department heard—and this rumor turned
out to be true—that the Peel Commission would recommend the partition of
Palestine, a decision that both Arabs and Jews would very likely oppose.32
Talk of partition had been heard before in Palestine. Advanced by a Jewish
newspaper editor in 1930, it became a serious topic of conversation for a while
in 1933–34.33 In 1937 the talk grew louder, and before the appearance of the Peel
report, the State Department learned of Zionist and anti-Zionist opposition to
such a plan. Consul General Wadsworth reported that Jews in Palestine consid-
ered a truncated area of settlement to be a return to the ghetto or a new Pale of
Settlement. The Jewish Agency in London came out against partition and any
alteration of the mandate; the annual convention of American Zionists fol-
lowed suit, voting unanimously against partition or cantonization; and the
Christian Pro-Palestine Federation also registered its disapproval. For their
part, Arab leaders brooked no compromise with the Zionists.34
The idea of partition, tantamount to an admission of England’s failure to
balance the claims of Arabs and Jews satisfactorily, worried the State Depart-
ment. Until then the Palestine situation had a quality of déjà vu. From the riots
of 1929 until the Passfield White Paper of 1930 the department had also been
subjected to American Jewish requests that it “do something.” Then too, in re-
sponse to Jewish pressure, it had considered at length whether the Anglo-
American convention of 1924 committed the government to intervention if
England altered the terms of the mandate.35 But partition differed qualitatively
from the usual issues of immigration and land settlement. Now the question
was: Did England unilaterally have the right to make structural changes in a
mandate it had received from the League of Nations? For all practical purposes
the League in 1937 counted for little, and the United States was not even a mem-
ber, but American action could have been crucial.
The arguments of American Jews in 1937 were also different because of the
Nazi menace. Hull, who seemed more sympathetic to the refugee problem than
did the Near Eastern division, informed the British Foreign Office that Ameri-
can Jewish groups feared a solution to the Palestine problem that would stymie
the possible exodus of persecuted Jews from Europe. Jewish thinking was quite
reasonable, the secretary admitted: “In the opinion of large sections of the Jews
of this country, the Jews of the world as a whole, by reason of their experience
at the hands of certain European governments, have come to be the logical sup-
porters of democratic institutions and naturally look to the democratic
governments of the world to accord them fair and equitable treatment.”36

Publicly the department remained impassive to most Zionist protests, but it

was sufficiently concerned to keep London abreast of the substance of Jewish
demands. Ambassador Bingham and special envoy Alling, as well as depart-
ment officials in Washington, repeatedly albeit informally raised the matter of
Jewish protests with their British counterparts. When stripped of diplomatic
jargon the Anglo-American exchange was straightforward:
The American concerns: 1. Financial and sentimental interests of influential
American Jews might make it necessary for the State Department to register a
protest upon publication of the Peel report. 2. How exactly did England inter-
pret American rights under the 1924 treaty?37
The British response: 1. Jews in England were similarly concerned. 2. Because
of Arab claims England could not permit unlimited numbers into Palestine:
“To turn the country entirely over to the Jews would be much like asking the
present inhabitants of Long Island to withdraw from their homes in order that
another population might move in.” 3. In the interest of finding a compromise
fair to both Arabs and Jews, England was considering a “radical solution.” 4. Al-
though the consent of the League of Nations would be required for any change
in the mandate, England was not obligated to consult the United States. When
the House of Commons had asked whether, because of the 1924 treaty, the
United States would be consulted on modifications in mandate policy, the colo-
nial secretary admitted only that England would keep American interests in
mind. Like the United States, it interpreted the 1924 convention narrowly and
considered American rights limited to those largely economic in nature.38
The American conclusions: 1. “Radical solution” most likely meant partition.
2. The department would need to weigh the reaction to partition in British cir-
cles, including Parliament and England’s Jews. Either the information would
confirm the noninvolvement stand of the department, or, less likely, it would
force the department to reconsider its stand. The tenor of the despatches indi-
cated, however, that Washington was prepared to yield the initiative for the
maintenance of cordial relations with England.39
England’s narrow interpretation of the 1924 convention bolstered the
department’s rejection of the Zionist argument. Simultaneously, however, it
sought to arm itself with proof that it hadn’t entirely ignored Jewish demands.
Hours before the Peel report was to be released, it submitted a memorandum to
Foreign Secretary Eden that sounded very much like a Zionist brief. It showed
with specific examples how both the presidents and Congress, as well as Ameri-
can Jews (and even a British statesman), had manifested ongoing support of a
Jewish national home. The statement made no demand that England consult the
United States, but it insisted yet again that the British pay close attention to
American interests.40 Too little and too late to change England’s mind, the docu-
ment nevertheless protected Washington. Should American public opinion ever
question its handling (or mishandling) of the Palestine situation, the depart-
ment could show that it had in fact fully apprised England of the Zionists’ case.

The Peel report was published in July 1937, and as expected the proposal of
partition satisfied neither Arabs nor Jews. The former rejected the idea of any
Jewish state and began new rounds of attacks—the State Department called
them “political disturbances”—that lasted until World War II, and the latter
opposed the suggested boundaries that severely constricted the desired Jewish
state. England left room for negotiations with both sides before partition took
effect, and it delegated the task of working out the technical matters to the
newly appointed Woodhead Commission.
On the sensitive issue of Jewish immigration, the British government acted
on a recommendation of the Peel Commission. Since the yishuv had proved
that economic developments could support increased immigration, England
jettisoned the principle of “economic absorptive capacity” (fixed in 1922) for
that of “political high level.” The numbers of new Jewish immigrants now de-
pended on British determination to placate the Arabs by keeping the ratio of
Jews to Arabs at about 30 to 70. Despite loud protests from Jews against the de-
parture from the earlier guideline, England set a maximum of twelve thou-
sand immigrants annually to apply at least through March 1938; subsequent
action extended the restrictive policy, with only slight modifications, through-
out that year.41
Consul General Wadsworth in Jerusalem approved the new guidelines, and
he warned that if England yielded to Jewish pressure on behalf of the refu-
gees, political problems in the mandate would be further complicated. The
State Department agreed, fully aware that England could point to America’s
own policy of restricted immigration to counter any American insistence on
lifting the barriers.42 But the need of a haven was underscored in 1938 by the
Nazi Anschluss of Austria and by Kristallnacht in Germany. Appeals to the de-
partment multiplied. One, a resolution by the House of Representatives,
called on Hull to urge the relaxation of British policy. Observers pessimisti-
cally believed that the quotas would be slashed still further. Even Murray was
forced to admit that “the situation in Palestine is not an encouraging one in re-
lation to the refugee problem.”43
The State Department carefully monitored reactions to the partition plan
from American and other sources—Palestine and the rest of the Near East, the
House of Commons and the British press, European capitals and the League of
Nations. It also studied the economic conditions in Palestine and the impact of
Arab-Jewish clashes on the economy. International developments—Nazi ex-
pansionism, Mussolini’s activity in the Mediterranean, England’s long-range
policy in the Near East, and the worsening condition of European Jews-now
colored assessments of the Palestine situation. Worrisome too was Arab
“Americanophobia,” generated by the belief that since Jews controlled the
American press and government, the United States very likely would intervene
in their favor. The department knew that if partition took effect, treaties safe-
guarding American interests would be required with the new Arab and Jewish

states and with England, which would remain in control of certain areas.44 But
for the time being it saw no reason to become involved.
The department paid careful attention to the responses of American Jews as
well. To be sure, as Murray told his superiors, the small number of American
Zionists, only 207,000 shekel payers out of a Jewish population of some
4,500,000, didn’t seem to warrant any concern,45 but despite its biases the Near
Eastern division could not ignore pressure that might arouse Congress or the
White House to suggest intervention.
A few days after the appearance of the Peel report, Stephen Wise sent Hull a
long Zionist memorandum against partition. It rehashed the usual points on
American interests in Palestine and on the right of the United States to inter-
vene if changes were made in the mandate. But this time, without any other op-
tions, it invoked humanitarianism. Stating that the partition plan, with many
built-in flaws, would only increase Arab-Jewish tension and require additional
armed force by the British, the Zionists demanded justice for the Jews. Human-
itarian concern for the targets of Nazism dictated the need for American sym-
pathy, and Palestine as a Jewish national home would remedy in some measure
the persecution suffered by European Jews. Although Wise mentioned that the
memorandum was approved by Justice Brandeis, an adviser to the president,
the Zionist plea went unheeded.46
When Wise requested Hull to arrange an appointment for him with Foreign
Secretary Eden through the embassy in London, the department reluctantly
agreed. Bingham, however, was instructed to assure the Foreign Office that
Wise’s views were not necessarily those of the American government. An ap-
pointment was set, but Eden, claiming that he was too busy to intervene in a
matter that rightly belonged to the Colonial Office, passed Wise on to a subor-
dinate. The rabbi returned the snub with one of his own. He neither appeared
for the appointment nor gave notice of a cancellation.47
At the World Zionist Congress that convened in mid-August 1937, the pro-
ceedings were marked by divisiveness within Zionist ranks. All factions
agreed that the Peel report was unacceptable with respect to boundaries, but
the Weizmann-led majority, mindful of the desperate need for a refuge, au-
thorized negotiations with England that might lead to a Jewish state. Passions
ran high, and Wise, a leading dissenter, challenged Weizmann. The rabbi ob-
jected to any dealings with England on the idea of partition, but he failed to
carry the American delegates. The tally was: ZOA, sixteen in favor of parti-
tion and six, including Wise, opposed; Hadassah, three in favor and six op-
posed; Mizrachi (Religious Zionists), eighteen opposed; Labor Zionists, fifty-
two in favor.48 Meanwhile, a poll conducted in July by the New York Yiddish
daily Jewish Morning Journal revealed that 4631 of 6774 respondents approved
partition, if the proposed area of a Jewish state were enlarged, and that 1945
were opposed.49

A week later the vote in the council of the Jewish Agency, which included
non-Zionists as well as Zionists, was also divided. Consul General Wadsworth
reported that Maurice Hexter, an American non-Zionist on the council whom
Wadsworth respected, had told him privately that “Western Jewry envisages
with no little foreboding the setting-up of a Jewish State in which the prepon-
derant majority must necessarily bear the stamp of long-persecuted, less
culturally-developed Eastern European Jewry.” A similar position was taken by
the non-Zionist American Jewish Committee, and at a conference of the
United Palestine Appeal one non-Zionist delegate enumerated twelve reasons
for opposition to partition.50 Although the department preferred the more as-
similated non-Zionists over the Zionists, it was still not swayed to an antiparti-
tion stand.
The lack of unity among the Jews eased the government’s problem. How
realistic was it to expect the department to side with a subgroup of a small mi-
nority? In Murray’s words: “In view of this clear division of opinion among
the representatives of American Jews it seems to me that we are in a strong po-
sition to request that they come to some agreement among themselves before
they approach us with a view to our taking any particular line of action.” But
Jewish pressure continued to be an annoyance. Since the embassy in London
was also bombarded with letters from America, Murray suggested that a mem-
ber of the embassy staff, when in America, handle the petitioners. Not only
would that lighten the ambassador’s burden, but it would keep him better in-
formed about the American scene. Furthermore, since the League of Nations
had agreed to receive petitions from individuals and organizations, the Near
Eastern division hoped that Jews and their friends would turn to Geneva in-
stead of Washington.51
Murray was particularly pleased that Wise, the ever troublesome Zionist
bent on forcing the government to intervene, and one who tried to circumvent
the department by appeals to the White House, had suffered a major defeat.
The chief of the Near Eastern division told his superiors that the votes in the
Zionist Congress and the Jewish Agency proved that Wise spoke neither for the
American Zionists nor for the non-Zionists: “We seem to be in a good position
to ask Rabbi Wise to produce some proof that he speaks on behalf of all of
American Jewry before we comply with any specific requests that he may
make.” Murray preferred the Jewish Agency to the ZOA if only because its
makeup belied the Zionists’ claim that they represented all Jews. His views were
corroborated by a prominent Zionist and opponent of Wise who confided to
Murray that the rabbi had prevented a debate on partition by the ZOA in order
to conceal any dissension that might embarrass him. Murray concluded as well
from the Morning Journal’s poll that the Jewish rank and file did not support
Wise or other “extreme” leaders. Noting European opposition to Wise, he hap-
pily announced that “the Rabbi’s position is an extreme attitude which is out of
harmony with that of World Jewry.”52

Alert as well to non-Jewish American opinion, the department tabulated

newspaper editorials on partition, those favoring the Jews and those favoring
the Arabs. It also noted the concerns of Arab Americans, pro-Arab missionary
and educational institutions, and businessmen. The head of an oil company
operating in Saudi Arabia, for example, warned that if the government sup-
ported Jewish claims on partition, American oil interests in the Persian Gulf
would suffer. Members of Congress added their opinions, and the Senate
passed a resolution asking the department for material on the situation. Roose-
velt too showed an interest. Talk to me about the Palestine issue, he told Hull.
Was it true that modification of the mandate required American approval? The
department dutifully prepared a long report for the president; reviewing the
evidence, it reasserted that the government was not obligated to support a Jew-
ish national home.53
In October 1937 Murray and two associates conferred with Dr. Benjamin
Akzin. A different type of Zionist, Akzin was a political scientist and constitu-
tional lawyer who had received his academic training in Europe. Serving in 1937
as a professor of international law in the United States, he was a prominent
member of the New Zionist Organization (NZO), the right-wing Revisionist
party. Doubtless because of his cosmopolitan background and demeanor, his
academic credentials, and his seemingly easy entrée into various European
ministries, Akzin impressed Murray. Moreover, in opposition to Chaim Weiz-
mann, his organization asked far less of the United States than mainstream
Zionists. To be sure, Akzin like the American Zionists called for unrestricted
Jewish immigration into Palestine, but his case rested not on the Balfour Dec-
laration and the mandate but on the broader issue of world peace.
Akzin spoke confidently of 100,000 European Jews who could emigrate an-
nually and reach Palestine. He said that the NZO looked to young men and
women in their twenties, who would reduce the pressure of Jewish competition
in the eastern European labor markets and simultaneously build up the yishuv.
If Transjordan as well as Palestine were part of a Jewish national home, and this
was a primary plank of the NZO platform, room would be had for about six
million Jews. He added that the NZO, after inquiries in influential diplomatic
circles, doubted that the Arab reaction would be as hostile as expected. Given
the NZO’s goals, partition was out of the question.
Different from the usual treatment accorded to Zionist petitioners, Murray
himself brought Akzin’s views to the attention of the British. The latter, how-
ever, contradicted the major points of the plan. More than ever before the Brit-
ish were resentful of American interference. The embassy in London reported
that “it has been implied that the British Government would dislike and might
even resent receiving from the United States or any country such informal com-
ments as [Dr. Akzin] proposed.” Hoping that the State Department would ap-
preciate England’s position, the Foreign Office asked that it “not press the Brit-
one line short

ish Government further.” Murray was also told that the Jewish question was a
world problem and one that England alone should not have to solve. A more
reasonable approach, the British thought, would be for the United States to in-
crease its own immigration quotas!54
Murray showed a keen interest in the plan of another Zionist, American-
born Judah Magnes of Jerusalem. Early in 1938 the chief of the Near Eastern di-
vision learned that Magnes had met with Nuri Said Pasha, a prominent Iraqi
official, and discussed a possible Arab-Jewish settlement for Palestine. Follow-
ing attempts by a few non-Zionists in the Jewish Agency to dismiss partition
and seek a rapprochement with the Arabs, Magnes revived his proposal for a
binational state that had first appeared in 1929, and he urged Zionists to initiate
policies of compromise. He personally was ready to accept an annual limit on
Jewish immigration that would consign the Jews to minority status in Palestine.
(He later stated that he hadn’t suggested permanent minority status but rather a
temporary arrangement for ten years that would bring the number of Jews to
40 percent of the population.) Although Zionist leaders denounced the negoti-
ations, and although the colonial secretary was harshly critical, Magnes an-
nounced that he and his Iraqi acquaintance spoke for the Jews of the United
States, England, and Germany.
The claim was grossly exaggerated; at best it included some non-Zionists. In
principle Magnes had the support of Felix Warburg, influential leader of the
American non-Zionists in the Jewish Agency. But, after the riots of 1929, when
Magnes had put forth a similar solution, Warburg had sided against him and
with Weizmann. With Warburg’s death, shortly before the negotiations with
Nuri began, Magnes was handicapped from the start. The Magnes-Nuri talks
collapsed, and the vast majority of Zionists remained committed, albeit condi-
tionally, to partition. Since Murray, however, seemed impressed with Magnes,
the Near Eastern division directed Wadsworth to stay in touch with the Ameri-
can rabbi on efforts for an Arab-Jewish compromise.55
On a trip to Palestine in October 1938 Murray met Magnes. The American
official had great respect for the president of the Hebrew University—“Dr.
Magnes is admitted, even by those Jewish leaders who differ with him, to be one
of the most distinguished intellectuals in American, as well as international
Jewry”—and he approved of Magnes’ criticism of the Zionists. By then, how-
ever, Magnes admitted regretfully that a negotiated settlement like the one he
had proposed was no longer possible.56
The Woodhead Commission on the implementation of partition gathered
information from April until August 1938, five months marked by Arab vio-
lence. Informed of the commission’s activity, the State Department also stud-
ied the threat of the Arab revolt to American citizens and property. But it kept
silent on partition even when, for the first time during the disturbances that
had escalated since 1936, an American was killed in an Arab massacre.57
one line short

Palestine for the Refugees
The furor over partition steadily gave way in 1938 to concentration on the im-
migration issue. In Jewish calculations the plight of the refugees now
transcended the aim of preserving the Balfour Declaration and the mandate.
Nevertheless, the department studiously avoided any discussion of Palestine
for the refugees. Although the yishuv applauded Roosevelt’s suggestion in
March 1938 for an international conference in Evian on the refugee problem,
American delegates were instructed to resist any effort to put Palestine on the
agenda. Fearing that the subject might wreck the conference’s deliberations, the
United States also promised that no country was expected to receive more im-
migrants than permitted by its existing legislation. When the conference
created an Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees, the State De-
partment resisted public attempts to press that committee on immigration to
Palestine. It prepared a bland reply to such appeals, saying merely that both the
committee and the department were considering all pertinent matters.58
In June 1938, Stephen Wise and four others, Zionists and non-Zionists, tried
a new approach with the department. They raised what was seemingly an eco-
nomic matter, but their underlying concern was immigration. Acting very pos-
sibly on a suggestion by British Jews, they asked Hull’s cooperation in an at-
tempt to obtain special trading privileges from England for Palestinian citrus
growers. Such privileges would increase opportunities for labor, thereby en-
larging the economic absorptive capacity of the land, which in turn, according
to the guideline laid down by England in 1922, would permit additional immi-
grants. (They ignored the Peel Commission’s “political high level” principle.)
Citing the major American Jewish investments in Palestine, they explained that
only the “appalling situation” of European Jews forced them to seek help with
their burden. The delegation added that the plan accorded with American
interests, but the department, now more fearful of compounding political is-
sues, tabled the request.59
Under the shadow of the Munich Pact (September 1938), the situation of
European Jews grew ever more desperate. The yishuv feared that HMG’s policy
of appeasing Hitler would be replicated in its approach to the Arabs; apprehen-
sive Jews thought that the betrayal of Czechoslovakia “was a poignant augury
of what Jewry might expect from . . . London.” In the United States Rabbi Solo-
mon Goldman, then president of the ZOA, told Hull: “The anxiety of Ameri-
can Jewry with respect to Palestine far surpasses that which has been exhibited
. . . in this generation with regard to any other Jewish problem.” Eyes trained on
Washington, and the State Department, barraged by appeals for admitting ref-
ugees into Palestine, considered anew how far it could and should maneuver
within the boundaries of nonintervention. It noted with surprise that twenty-
two out of twenty-five newspaper editorials said that the United States had the
duty and the right to intervene.60

The refugee problem, now linked inseverably with the Palestinian settle-
ment, compounded the mounting tension in anticipation of the Woodhead re-
port. In October the British were seriously considering the adoption of Arab
proposals amounting to the virtual nullification of the Balfour Declaration and
the end to more than token Jewish immigration. Murray, who was then in the
Near East, heard from British officials that the Arabs refused to discuss a per-
manent settlement for Palestine unless Jewish immigration was first drastically
curtailed. The implication was clear; British strategic interests left no choice
but to appease the Arabs.61
Alerted by Chaim Weizmann, American Zionists set up an emergency com-
mittee, which organized a national letter-writing campaign to the State Depart-
ment and White House. A new Zionist lobbying tactic, the campaign suc-
ceeded. By the middle of the month Western Union had handled thirty-four
thousand telegrams from Jews and their sympathizers—with more still coming
in—and the Postal Telegraph Company some 30,500. (Only at the time of
Roosevelt’s plan to revamp the Supreme Court in 1937 were those numbers sur-
passed.) The bulk of the mail protested the alleged intention of England “to
curtail or eliminate Jewish immigration” by altering the terms of the mandate
and repudiating the Balfour Declaration. Several congressmen took up that ar-
gument, as did a resolution from Pennsylvania’s state legislature and a wire
from American Federation of Labor chief William Green to labor leaders in
London. European Jewish leaders, often at odds with American Zionists, com-
mended the campaign and said that the Americans were doing their utmost.62
Meantime in Tel Aviv, three hundred representatives of the eight to nine
thousand permanent American Jewish settlers added their protests. They con-
tended that their faith in the Anglo-American treaty of 1924 had led them to in-
vest their resources in the yishuv. Nevertheless, the department ruled that the
argument didn’t change the legal picture, because the United States had not as-
sumed responsibility for the establishment of a Jewish national home and the
treaty was not meant to encourage American settlement in Palestine.63
To counteract Jewish activity the Arabs intensified their own lobbying in
Washington. As did the British authorities in Palestine, Arabs still suspected
that America, under pressure from the Jews, was pressing England to a pro-
Jewish settlement. Their charges incorporated anti-Jewish imagery; Jewish in-
fluence and wealth, one Arab said, “enslave America.” In a rare show of unity
they argued primarily against any American interference. A wave of intense
anti-Americanism, the likes of which had not been seen before, swept Arab
communities throughout the Near East. Denouncing the president and Ameri-
can Christian churches for succumbing to the Zionists, the Arabs were particu-
larly incensed over a speech by New York’s Senator Robert Wagner. The latter
had stated that Roosevelt was doing all he could to prevent the curtailment of
Jewish immigration, and that in sympathy with a Jewish national home in Pal-
estine he was prepared to take more than “normal” action.64

Like England, the State Department was forced to juggle Arab and Jewish ar-
guments. Both sides now appeared more formidable; the department was im-
pressed by the degree of American Jewish solidarity and by Arab threats. More
ominous were the international ramifications of the Palestinian situation. Hit-
ler and Mussolini sided with the Arabs, and along with Muslim activism in the
Near East and India, they posed a grave threat to England. Were the latter to
yield to Jewish pressure on the refugee issue, it would exacerbate the situation.
The department continued to speculate about the Woodhead report and to de-
bate the question of whether the United States had ever assumed obligations
for a Jewish national home. It found some relief in the thought that any policy
announced by England would require time to be implemented, thereby allow-
ing the United States to maintain its neutrality, at least for a period of transi-
tion. In response to public criticism and petitions, Hull directed Ambassador
Joseph Kennedy in London to tell the foreign secretary informally of the reac-
tion in the United States. Like Bingham before him, Kennedy was instructed to
deny that the department harbored any desires to interfere in British policy.65
The sheer volume of public pressure forced the department to break its si-
lence. In mid-October it issued a press release that cited examples of America’s
interest in a Jewish national home since the World War: “It is in light of this
interest that the American Government and people have watched with the
keenest sympathy the development in Palestine of the National Home, a pro-
ject in which American intellect and capital have played a leading role.” The
statement told how the department had alerted England several times to the
rights of America and its nationals. Those “rights” comprised “non-
discriminatory treatment in matters of commerce, non-impairment of vested
American property rights, permission for American nationals to establish and
maintain educational, philanthropic and religious institutions in Palestine,
safeguards with respect to the judiciary, and, in general, equality of treatment
with all other foreign nationals.” On the key point at issue with the Zionists and
their sympathizers—the right of the United States, according to Article 7 of the
1924 treaty, to intervene if the terms of the mandate were changed—the de-
partment said that the government was not empowered “to prevent the modifi-
cation of the terms of any of the mandates.” It could only “decline to recognize
the validity of the application to American interests of any modification . . .
unless such modification has been assented to by the . . . United States.” Since
“interests” had been defined narrowly and limited for the most part to eco-
nomic concerns, it was abundantly clear that changes in immigration regula-
tions did not legitimate American intervention.66
At best an expression of neutrality, the news release was seen by some offi-
cials as a pro-Jewish gesture. Paul Alling of the Near Eastern division suggested
that an advance copy be sent to England to “appease” American Jews. But, the
statement had no or little impact on the Arabs. American officials in Jerusalem,
Baghdad, and Cairo continued to report Arab fear of American support of the

Jews, and from a few cities came threats of anti-American reprisals if the “jus-
tice” of the Arab cause was ignored.67
The same day that the press release appeared, sixteen American Jewish lead-
ers of national Jewish organizations, Zionist and non-Zionist, waited on Hull.
Their written presentation elaborated the usual arguments, but more than be-
fore, the appeal was to American humanitarianism. If England defaulted on its
obligations and limited or stopped immigration, the harm to refugees would be
incalculable: “Such a situation would constitute . . . a cruel blow that would ag-
gravate the indescribable plight of the refugees from lands of oppression. . . .
Are they to be barred, in the hour of their most desperate need, from asylum in
their ancient homeland, the historic connection with which is hallowed by a
continuous tradition of thousands of years and which was made a keystone of
the mandate for Palestine?” Although the department learned from the Zionist
press that the ZOA also planned mass meetings and a mass petition to Roose-
velt, it saw no reason to add to its press release. The assistant chief of the Near
Eastern division cynically observed that the focus on humanitarianism showed
that the Jews themselves recognized the weakness of their legal argument.68
Some weeks later, upon his return from a trip to the Near East, Wallace Mur-
ray prepared a long, confidential memorandum that aimed at justifying an
anti-Zionist stand. His message to his superiors was twofold: Don’t change
course and don’t be swayed by Zionist propaganda. Murray thought that
American Zionist sentiment was overrated. Even if 100,000 Jews were Zionists,
that amounted to fewer than 10 percent of Jewish families in the United States.
It was beyond doubt, he maintained, that “many . . . hundreds of thousands of
American Jews” disapproved of Zionism but feared to speak out because of
Zionist power. Murray cited statements from Jews themselves on the sharp di-
vision between Zionists and non- or anti-Zionists. The latter accused Zion-
ism—a “filthy racket,” one critic charged—of intimidating the community.
Powerful, well organized, and vociferous, the Zionists were responsible for the
pressure brought on Congress and the state legislatures.
Murray also charged that Zionists were using the refugee crisis for their
own advantage; they had sabotaged both the Evian conference as well as at-
tempts to settle Jews in havens other than Palestine. Since the Roosevelt ad-
ministration had proved its concern for refugees, whose needs in any case
could not be met by Palestine, “it should be possible for this Government to
give less [emphasis added] support than it has in the past to Zionist insistence
[on] large-scale immigration.” In light of the department’s consistently nega-
tive record, one can only wonder what “less” support, other than an open alli-
ance with the Arabs, meant!
On the basis of evidence gleaned since 1936, Murray explained why American
national interests could not permit pressure on England. First, support of En-
gland meant support of democracy in the Near East, and England, poised
against the Axis, could not afford to arouse Arab enmity. Second, both American

oilmen and leaders of Christian philanthropic and educational institutions

maintained that their operations would be jeopardized were the government to
adopt a pro-Zionist position. Third, why undermine American prestige in an
area that had developed since the World War? Finally, Palestine was not “our”
problem, and the government had no cause to assume any responsibility for a
resolution of the Arab-Jewish controversy.69
From the Woodhead Report to “Palestine’s Munich”
Not surprisingly the report of the Woodhead Commission in November 1938

concluded that partition of Palestine would be impracticable and unworkable.
Thereupon England invited the Jewish Agency and Arabs from Palestine and
neighboring states to send representatives to London for conferences. If the
two sides did not agree, the British would unilaterally determine a settlement.
Mindful of Jewish pressure in England and the United States, London tempo-
rarily shelved the idea of an Arab state. That month in Germany the horrors of
Kristallnacht (the night of the broken glass, when Nazis went on an anti-Jewish
rampage) also dictated temporary silence on the issues of refugees and immi-
gration. Observers thought that ultimately, if the conferences failed, England’s
declared policy would jibe with Arab demands.70
Chaim Weizmann called the Woodhead report “the most unjust report in
twenty years.” The yishuv was relieved that England had not announced its repu-
diation of the Balfour Declaration or alteration of the mandate, but Zionist ap-
prehension deepened. The report was but a temporary holding device, and they
despaired of the inattention to refugee needs. Again the State Department was
deluged by petitions in various languages from Jews worldwide. Some officials
in British and American diplomatic circles likened unyielding Jewish insistence
on a national home in accordance with the Balfour Declaration to Shylock’s de-
mand for a pound of flesh. (The analogy came easily to those who equated Jews
generally with Shylock.) They posited that the Jewish demand, as in The Mer-
chant of Venice, would necessarily lead to Christian as well as Arab bloodshed.71
Arab arguments, now better developed and more polished, continued too.
Insisting on noninterference, or that America live up to its own principles of
self-determination and international justice, Arabs brandished the threat of
anti-American reprisals. As for the refugees, well, Arabs were sympathetic, but
the problem justified neither Jewish oppression of the Arabs nor the idea that
they alone bore responsibility for the solution. Since the State Department
agreed that Palestine, even with unrestricted immigration, could not solve the
refugee crisis, the Near Eastern division recommended that the government
take steps to allay Arab fears.72
Murray played the “oil card” when King Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia sent a let-
ter to Roosevelt. Calling the monarch the most outstanding Arab ruler and a

friend of America and American oil interests, Murray counseled his superiors
to treat Ibn Saud seriously. But in a short reply drafted by Undersecretary Sum-
ner Welles and signed “Your Good Friend,” Roosevelt merely assured the king
of America’s neutral position as expressed in the October news release.73
Until the London conferences opened in February 1939, the State Depart-
ment monitored opinion on the chances of a settlement. To the numerous
messages it received linking Palestine to the refugee problem, the department
gave a stock reply: It was on top of the situation. Unmoved by reports that pre-
dicted a pro-Arab settlement, Murray privately agreed with the British high
commissioner in Palestine that the Jews’ incessant pleading about their rights
and the needs of their persecuted brethren threatened an antisemitic backlash.
As he had in the fall of 1938, he maintained to Hull and Welles that American
national interests, including the country’s identification with England’s defense
of democracy, dictated a policy of nonintervention. Now he added that if En-
gland collapsed under attack by the Axis allied with the Arabs, the Jews in Pal-
estine would be massacred. Hence, involvement meant “a disservice to our-
selves, to the British, to the cause of democracy, and in the end to the Zionist
Jews themselves.”74
During the winter and early spring of 1939, Wadsworth in Jerusalem re-
ported several times on the yishuv’s affection for the president. His statements
after Kristallnacht and his expressed hope that increased numbers of refugees,
especially children, would be allowed into Palestine lifted their spirits. The Near
Eastern division worried, however, lest the president, on whom Jews were
building their hopes, become a loose cannon and utter rash comments that
could inflame anti-Americanism in Arab circles. Thus, even if the president’s
sympathy for the refugees was genuine, the State Department would have to re-
strain his impulses.75
Once the London negotiations began, Arabs grew more anxious lest Zionists
lead the United States to intervene. A request for American inaction was made
directly to the department by the Egyptian government. Since British officials
in the Near East were saying that American pressure prevented a just settle-
ment, the department believed that England had instigated Cairo’s move. Nev-
ertheless, Murray didn’t question the equation of “just” with pro-Arab, and the
department assured Cairo of the government’s nonintervention.76
The American Zionists at the London conferences included three from the
ZOA, Stephen Wise, Robert Szold, and Louis Lipsky, and one, Rose Jacobs, of
Hadassah. Wise—who had seen Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain—and
Szold reported in mid-February to the American embassy in London on a plan
suggested by the Colonial Office to end Jewish immigration after a fixed num-
ber of years. By this time the Jewish representatives had exhausted their
counterarguments. They could only maintain that a cessation of immigration
contradicted the mandate and that they were opposed to any proposal making
the Jews a permanent minority in Palestine. At the conferences the right of the

Americans to speak for the yishuv and the WZO was questioned by an Arab del-
egate. After all, he pointedly asked Wise, how many American Jews had settled
in Palestine since the war?77
A few days later the Foreign Secretary confirmed the essence of the Wise-
Szold report in a talk with Ambassador Kennedy. England planned to terminate
the mandate, and by limiting Jewish immigration over five years to 100,000 to
150,000, create an Arab-dominated state. Shortly thereafter a British official de-
posited a copy of the plan at the State Department. If unacceptable to both
sides, it would be imposed by England on the two peoples. At a time when
many American Jews were pleading that England not abandon European Jewry
to “moral extermination,” the foreign secretary had decided that ethical consid-
erations or justice for the Jews took second place to England’s diplomatic
agenda.78 The as yet unannounced policy had the outspoken support of British
officials in Palestine. Haven’t we already met our obligations under the Balfour
Declaration and the mandate, they asked? Clearly, as Chaim Weizmann put it
to an American diplomat, “zero hour” for the yishuv had arrived. Meanwhile, at
the State Department Murray admitted that the British plan jibed with the ex-
tremist Arab position, but he thought that the five-year grace period for immi-
gration would do much to solve the refugee problem. The Near Eastern divi-
sion took note of public indignation voiced in the press over England’s move at
a time when Nazi persecution was running rampant—“Haman to Hitler—and
Chamberlain,” one article read—but Murray’s staff was surprised that editori-
als put hardly any blame on the Jews, who, the department added, were as ob-
stinate as the Arabs.79 Nevertheless, those who called for American interven-
tion lacked the strength to influence official policy.
The conferences ended in failure in mid-March, and again waiting began,
this time for official announcement of England’s decision. The Arabs grew in-
creasingly convinced of American sympathy with the Jewish cause. Doubtless
they heard of the rising tide of support in Congress for the Balfour Declaration
and for American interests in Palestine. They also believed the story that Am-
bassador Kennedy (who personally denied the report) had told Lord Halifax,
the foreign secretary, that American public opinion would be outraged were
England to modify the mandate or reduce immigration. Very possibly they
were impressed too by a news release in Palestine that Zionist leaders Wise and
Solomon Goldman met with FDR in March and elicited strong expressions of
presidential sympathy. On this “evidence,” some Arabs blamed the United
States outright for the failure of the conferences. Washington, however, hardly
ever replied to Arab criticism. Hull advised Kennedy confidentially that the de-
partment would resist efforts to embroil the United States in the Palestine
problem at least until England published its final plans.80
Mixed signals emanated from London. Stories of Whitehall’s intention to
scrap the mandate and prepare for an independent (= Arab) state—in sub-
stance the same plan that had been conveyed to Washington in mid-March—

continued to circulate, and so did a report that American Jewish influence re-
strained the British from completely ignoring the Jews.81 A few weeks before
the appearance of the White Paper in May 1939, Wadsworth described the bit-
terness of the yishuv over the expected “betrayal” by England. He also re-
counted at length his meeting with Chaim Weizmann. The troubled Zionist
leader had considered a visit to America and a direct appeal to Roosevelt, but in
light of the international situation and his fear that Jews would be charged with
undermining Anglo-American friendship, he rejected the idea. A confirmed
Anglophile, Weizmann felt personally betrayed. To argue as Halifax did that
practical necessities transcended ethical values was, Weizmann said, “to place
onesself [sic] on the same plane with Hitler.” He warned that drastic action by
England would alienate five million American Jews. Wadsworth reported fur-
ther on a more bellicose mood in the yishuv. A leading American Zionist had
told him: “One thing you can be sure of is that if the British let us down, we are
d[amned] well not going to take it lying down.”82
Weizmann, who had pleaded since March that England delay a final settle-
ment, was supported on that point by Louis Brandeis. The two men were
hardly close friends, but at this juncture they cooperated. The Supreme Court
justice suggested to Roosevelt on May 4 that he request a postponement from
England. Five days later he forwarded a cable from Weizmann asking the presi-
dent to denounce as a “breach of international trust” any move by England that
“liquidated” its commitment to a Jewish national home. Roosevelt, who kept
Brandeis informed of developments, sought to reassure his friend that every-
thing possible was being done. He wrote to Welles: “I still believe that any an-
nouncement about Palestine at this time by the British Government is a mis-
take, and I think we should tell them that. What can I say to Justice Brandeis?”
Welles, however, balked at American interference. He advised that Brandeis be
told only that “our point of view is put before England whenever possible.”83
What that point of view explicitly was, or whether it had changed since the
news release of the previous October, he didn’t say. The president may have
been eager to do Brandeis a favor, but he didn’t override his State Department.
Roosevelt read an advance copy of the White Paper two days before it was
published. The statement called for an independent Palestine within ten years.
Aiming to keep the Jews at no more than one-third of the population, it also
provided for the immigration of seventy-five thousand for five years—ten
thousand annually plus twenty-five thousand refugees. After five years no addi-
tional Jewish immigrants would be allowed without Arab consent. In addition,
new measures against illegal immigrants were also promised. Expressing his
dismay, the president termed the statement “deceptive,” because, as he said, the
whole world had thought that the intent of the Balfour Declaration was to con-
vert Palestine into a Jewish home. Nor were limitations on Jewish immigration
in accord with the mandate. In sum, Roosevelt doubted that the United States
could approve the British policy. His own rather mild suggestion was to keep

the figure of seventy-five thousand for five years and to renew discussions. If
the question of immigration was not resolved then, the provisions of the White
Paper would be extended temporarily for another five years. The State Depart-
ment, however, disagreed. Murray called England’s new policy as reasonable a
compromise as could be expected, and he saw no necessity for an official
American response.84
The White Paper, or “Palestine’s Munich” as Senator Robert Taft termed it, was
issued on May 17. A crippling blow to Zionism and to the cause of the refugees,
it marked a permanent parting of the ways between England and the yishuv.
What had heretofore been a three-way struggle among Jews, Arabs, and En-
gland became essentially two conflicts, one a Jewish-British impasse and one a
Jewish-Arab struggle. The outbreak of the Second World War some three and a
half months later made Jews worldwide the captive allies of the powers fighting
Hitler. England grew less sensitive to Jewish pressure, and Jews were forced to
blunt their anti-British animosity. Where it could, the yishuv took matters into
its own hands—resorting to violence, smuggling in illegal immigrants, and
building up the haganah, the nucleus of its future army.
Nor did the United States budge from its decade-long policy on Palestine.
Roosevelt’s campaign against the isolationists from 1939 until Pearl Harbor
gave his pro-British administration another powerful reason for maintaining
silence. Why risk isolationist ill will by interference in a comparatively minor
matter when the cultivation of an anti-Nazi consensus was the first priority?
Not until the defeat of the Axis some three years later did the United States sup-
port the Zionist goal of Jewish statehood. And then, in 1948, it was an eleventh-
hour move by Roosevelt’s successor, Harry Truman, against the better judg-
ment of the State Department.
Events during the war years spurred on American Zionists, like the yishuv, to
develop an assertiveness of their own. Their experience with immigration in
the 1930s taught them that appeals based on American precedents or American
principles, like humanitarian diplomacy, were insufficient. They never forgot
the need to defend, and indeed to parade, the American-like characteristics of
their movement, but World War II and the desire to prevent the total extermi-
nation of European Jewry at the hands of the Nazis rapidly broadened their
focus. Within a very short time, the Zionist drive for American Jewish solidar-
ity on behalf of Jewish survival by means of a Jewish state became at least as im-
portant as the need for complete identification with America. The era of Pales-
tinianism drew to a close, and American Zionism with all its Americanized
features reverted to the Herzlian goal of Jewish statehood.

CHAPTER 7
The American Jewish Conference: A Zionist

Experiment at Unity and Leadership
O n August 29, 1943, forty-six years to the day that Theodor Herzl opened
the first Zionist congress, the American Jewish Conference, an organiza-
tion of national Jewish organizations, was launched. The announced purpose
of the Zionist-inspired, democratically elected, and communitywide confer-
ence was threefold: it would work for free immigration to Palestine, the rescue
of European Jews, and the postwar resettlement of Jews in the war-ravaged
countries.
Two paramount objectives underlay the Zionist plan, the mobilization of
public sentiment on behalf of a Jewish state in Palestine and the unity of
American Jews under Zionist leadership. Each of those goals, if reached, would
radically change existing patterns of communal behavior. A Jewish state pres-
aged the end of a long period of Palestinianism and a return to the first princi-
ples of political Zionism. A unified community under Zionist control meant
first, that the old established organizations would accept a reduction of their
powers, and second, that Zionists would replace the stewards of the entrenched
and oligarchical Jewish Establishment. The obstacles to be overcome appeared
virtually insurmountable, but Zionist determination to create a conference
won out. Since the Anglo-Jewish and Yiddish press had discussed a conference
for several months during the spring and summer, a mood of excitement and
anticipation gripped the Jewish community.
The hour appeared right for major communal changes. After the Arab riots
of 1929, the Zionists realized that their fight both for unrestricted immigration
and America’s lasting commitment to the Balfour Declaration required Ameri-
can Jewish solidarity and unremitting Jewish pressure on public opinion and
on Washington. Zionist lobbying became more serious in 1938, and it contin-
ued to expand during the war years. Resembling other American pressure
groups, Zionists Americanized their tactics as they had their ideology. Now, in-
tensified Zionist resolve in light of the bleak situation of European Jewry set
165
the stage for what historian Evyatar Friesel has termed an “extra-ordinary” pe-
riod of American Zionist expansion.1
Yet, despite a dramatic shift in tactics, Zionists continued to insist on the
compatibility of their aims with Americanism. They applauded the democratic
and hence American-like character of the conference. At the same time they
sought to impress upon the public that their purposes were equivalent to
American wartime aims. Although the conference can be studied as a manifes-
tation of Jewish particularism, the Zionists preferred to insist that they were
acting as loyal Americans.
The achievements of the American Jewish Conference and its very viability
were tested during the first year of its existence. All understood that the future
of the conference would be decided at the second meeting of the elected dele-
gates in the fall of 1944; either the organization would correct the shortcom-
ings that had become apparent after it began and win the renewed confidence
of the Jewish public, or it would admit failure and close up shop. At stake was
the future of the American Zionist movement and American support of a
Jewish state.
Preliminaries and Initial Victories
The immediate event that started the wheels turning for an American Jewish
Conference was the special Zionist congress in the spring of 1942. At New
York’s Biltmore Hotel in May, close to six hundred delegates under a new and
more militant leadership unanimously demanded unrestricted immigration
into Palestine. They further resolved that “Palestine be established as a Jewish
Commonwealth integrated in the structure of the new democratic world.”
Adding that “then and only then will the age-old wrong to the Jewish people be
righted,” the resolution resurrected Herzl’s goal of a Jewish state.2 (The words
“Jewish commonwealth,” originally used by Woodrow Wilson in 1919, became
the popular term after Biltmore. Although many equated it with a state, it also
signified an autonomous Jewish territory, like Canada and Australia, with a
place in the British empire.) The fact that many different Zionist factions
united in passing the resolution was a victory in itself, but the leaders wanted
more than a firm endorsement by the delegates. They aimed rather at the mo-
bilization of all American Jews who identified as Jews, or at least a majority of
them, in support of statehood. In the immediate aftermath of Biltmore, the de-
sign of a conference for achieving that aim took shape.
Written accounts usually attribute the idea of a representative body of
American Jews that would ratify the Biltmore program to Henry Monsky, the
national president of B’nai B’rith. But a confidential memorandum in the
conference’s files indicates that Monsky was acting under instructions from
Chaim Weizmann. On trips to the United States in 1941–42, Weizmann nego-

tiated unofficially with the American Jewish Committee (AJC) in efforts to

undo its antinationalist stand. Since attempts at compromise with the AJC
failed, he turned to Monsky and suggested the organization of a democratic
body to ascertain the attitude of American Jews as a whole toward Zionism. Al-
though Monsky personally was a Zionist, B’nai B’rith was officially neutral on
the issue of statehood. Weizmann believed, therefore, that a scheme broached
by Monsky would not be dismissed merely as a tool of Zionist propaganda.
Without the mandate of his organization, and under the seal of strict confiden-
tiality, Monsky agreed.3
Leadership as well as Zionism was involved in those first tentative steps.
Monsky had resented the Weizmann/AJC negotiations, and now Weizmann
was giving him the opportunity to recoup B’nai B’rith’s importance at the ex-
pense of the AJC. It is plausible too that Weizmann, frustrated by the unsuc-
cessful negotiations, was ready to discredit the leadership of the stewards by an
appeal for a democratic group. He had worked with two former AJC leaders,
Louis Marshall and Felix Warburg, but he stood little chance with the organiza-
tion dominated by the autocratic Joseph M. Proskauer, an anti-Zionist or at
best a non-Zionist. Weizmann had never crusaded against elitist leadership per
se, but his only recourse was to turn to the larger Jewish public. All three
players—Monsky, Weizmann, and the AJC—understood that the vague sug-
gestion of a forum to sound out American Jews on Zionism could well lead to
an attempt at mobilizing widespread support for a Jewish state.
Monsky called for a conference of organizations to be held in Pittsburgh in
January 1943. Its purpose was to initiate a communitywide forum, but it was
fortuitously timed to throw a wrench into the workings of the newly launched
and rabidly antinationalist American Council for Judaism. (L. B. Namier, En-
glish historian and Zionist member of the Jewish Agency, referred to the prom-
inent assimilationist, anti-Zionist supporters of the council as “trembling am-
ateur gentiles.”4) Without the participation of the AJC, the delegates in
Pittsburgh resolved to convene a larger conference (initially called an “assem-
bly”) of individuals and organizations to recommend action on the rescue of
European Jewry, Jewish rights to Palestine, and Jewish status in the postwar
world.5 Nothing yet was decided about statehood, but with Biltmore in mind,
an endorsement of a Jewish commonwealth appeared imminent.
Before the day-to-day operations of the new organization had begun, Zion-
ists had emerged victorious on the issue of leadership. By merely organizing a
conference under their auspices, they had taken a major step toward the perma-
nent repudiation of elitist control over communal policy. The AJC, the elitist
agency par excellence and the most powerful bastion of the Jewish Establish-
ment, as well as other anti- or non-Zionist groups, were not shorn of their im-
portance, but as discussed below in full, the establishment of a Zionist confer-
ence severely jolted and permanently scarred the AJC. Its virtual monopoly
over the direction of communal policy was finally broken.
The American Jewish Conference 167

The struggle over leadership, long antedating the conference, was woven
into the history of American Zionism ever since the Maccabaean had railed
against the Jewish stewards. Logically the two matters, Zionism and communal
leadership, were quite distinct, but in fact the American Zionist movement
from its very inception stood for a Jewish community led by democratically
elected representatives and against the largely self-selected and anti-Zionist
leaders of the Establishment. Meanwhile, the growth and maturation of the
newer immigrants, the eastern Europeans who constituted the rank and file of
the Zionist movement, had bred a legacy of keen resentment. Time and again
rifts over leadership colored events in the early decades of the twentieth cen-
tury—the relief drives for the pogrom-stricken Russian Jews, the organization
of the AJC, and the drive for an American Jewish Congress in 1918. In those in-
stances the Zionists and other opponents of steward rule were usually one and
the same.
The Zionist stand on leadership stood to gain popularity in democratic
America just because it was harnessed to the democratic idea. As mentioned
above, the sentiment was in keeping with the teachings of Herzl, the founder of
political Zionism, who called for a democratic movement after he failed to se-
cure the patronage of Barons Edmond de Rothschild and Maurice de Hirsch.
The Zionist leader claimed that the masses, in opposition to the upper-class
leaders, favored Zionism, and that by democratic procedures they had to as-
sume communal leadership and mobilize public support for a Jewish and dem-
ocratic state. American Zionists developed the argument further. They insisted
that merely replacing the stewards with men of their own choice was not the
point; they were battling rather for the principle of a democratically organized
community led by democratically chosen representatives. Precisely because
they stood for democratic leadership, the Zionists maintained that they and not
the assimilationist anti-Zionists (who had the gall to charge them with un-
Americanism!) were the better Americans.6 In 1943, Zionists again challenged
the established leaders, and seizing upon the conference as their American-like
democratic instrument, they successfully fought the battle for the leadership of
American Jewry.
Another major Zionist victory came during the opening sessions of the con-
ference. In a dramatic and unanticipated episode, a resolution was passed in
favor of a Jewish commonwealth in Palestine—in effect a ratification of the
Biltmore program.7 To be sure, differences of opinion among the Zionists still
divided the statists, who sought an immediate commitment by the Allies to
Jewish statehood, and the moderates, who relied on “quiet pressure” for wrest-
ing promises from London and Washington on eventual Jewish autonomy.
Moreover, the conference had initially agreed to omit a clause on statehood in
order not to alienate the non-Zionist groups whose very affiliation with the
new organization and whose support of free immigration to Palestine were
deemed crucial. Nevertheless, an unscheduled appeal for a Jewish state by the

charismatic rabbi and gifted orator from Cleveland, Abba Hillel Silver, upset
the plans. Silver’s “electrifying” remarks captivated the entire assembly; in an
emotional frenzy the delegates cheered and rose to their feet to sing the Zionist
anthem, Hatikvah. When the resolution was presented to the plenum, only four
of some five hundred delegates opposed the demand for a state.
The resolution on Palestine now included two parts, one calling for the con-
trol of immigration by the Jewish Agency and the abrogation of the White
Paper of 1939, and the second demanding the “recreation of the Jewish com-
monwealth.” Passage of the resolution brought the American Zionist dream to
a climax. For the first time since Herzl, the majority of American Jews who
identified as members of the Jewish community endorsed a Jewish state. De-
spite pockets of lingering dissent, the consensus they forged in 1943 set a lasting
precedent. Recognized and deferred to by government officials and political
candidates ever since, it proclaimed an indestructible bond between American
Jewry and the Jewish state.
Silver, the man responsible for the statists’ coup, had urged the Zionists a few
months earlier to reshuffle priorities and to change tactics in order to break
what was called the “conspiracy of silence” in Washington with respect to the
Holocaust as well as to the status of the Jews in the postwar world. His overrid-
ing aim, however, was Jewish statehood. Instead of meek accommodationism
he counseled forceful demands on the government to speak out in support of
Jewish political rights in Palestine. Like David Ben-Gurion in yishuv, Silver rep-
resented the new breed of nationalist leaders who agitated for a return to Herz-
lian principles. Enjoining his fellow Zionists to fight their own battles, he
scorned reliance on the oft-broken promises of England and America. Impli-
citly questioning Jewish adoration of FDR, he advised dramatically, “Put not
your trust in princes” (Psalms 146.3).8
Even the new breed of Zionist leaders never suggested that their followers
mount the barricades. Despite the brave talk and despite the moral injunctions
unleashed by the Holocaust, Zionists never forgot that they were Americans
first, and that the cause of America at war transcended all others. They couldn’t
very well do without the approval of Washington and London, especially if
those governments based their opposition on strategic and military wartime
needs. Conditioned by a tradition of accommodationism and by a rise of pop-
ular antisemitism in the 1930s and early 1940s both at home and abroad, they
believed that the very small and vulnerable Jewish minority dared not challenge
or defy American inaction. They understood, therefore, that appeals to the
public for support had to be based not on Zionist ideology but on American
patriotism. Despite Hitler’s death camps and the urgent need of Palestine as a
haven if not a state, they Americanized their objectives and depicted the Jewish
nationalist cause as a wartime aim. A Zionist circular made it clear: “American
Zionists are first, last, and all the time American citizens eager to spend all they
have and all they are to insure the victory of America against her enemies. No

other consideration can diminish by one iota their devotion to this goal.
American Zionists continue to be interested in Palestine because Palestine is an
important outpost in this indivisible war.” Silver’s sincerity notwithstanding,
his assertive approach also kept to the limits imposed by the customary re-
straints—principally the Zionist reading of government and public opinion.
When he talked of Jewish political activity instead of moral exhortations, he
meant little more than use of the Jewish vote.9
Leaders of the yishuv also commented on how the war had heightened the
American Jewish mood of accommodationism. One veteran Zionist observed:
“The American Jew thinks of himself first and foremost as an American citi-
zen. This is a fact whether we like it or not. When the . . . Zionist goes to vote in
American elections, it is not the candidate’s attitude to Zionism which will de-
termine his choice. . . . Loyalty to America is now the supreme watchword.”10
Obstacles to Unity
The times desperately called for unified action. European Jews were being
systematically annihilated according to Hitler’s Final Solution; the British
White Paper of 1939 that drastically restricted immigration into Palestine was
still operative, barring even the small number who slipped through the clutches
of the Nazis in an eleventh-hour search for a refuge; the State Department, like
the British, appeared intent on paring down Zionist requests. Only sustained
Jewish pressure on the governments of the United States and England and on
the newly created United Nations held out any hope for the rescue and survival
of a remnant of Jews in postwar Europe. The European Jewish defense organ-
izations and the World Jewish Congress (WJC),weakened or torn apart by the
war, were unable to meet the demands of the situation; neither were the Ameri-
can Zionists, acting alone and focused primarily on a Jewish state.11 Far weaker
than they had been during World War I, when they had a chance to bargain
with both England and Germany, Jews in 1943 were the captive allies of the na-
tions fighting the Axis. Zionists could rely only on their moral position, and as
a memorandum of the American Jewish Conference bluntly put it, “Morality
in political affairs is not a very marketable commodity.”12
The outlook for effective responses from a united American Jewry was
gloomy. The major organizations, frightened and inhibited by antisemitism in
the United States, quarreled over policy and tactics more than they cooperated.
True, leaders of communal agencies met frequently and pooled information,
but attempts by major defense agencies to forge a common strategy through ad
hoc bodies such as the Joint Consultative Council, the Committee on Coopera-
tion, and the General Jewish Council failed miserably.13 Concerned Jews grew
impatient with the established organizations; wasting energy and resources in
needless duplication of effort, they put the enhancement of their respective

images above Jewish survival. A flurry of new organizations—often just names

and post office boxes—committed to different aspects of the same problems
only compounded the overall confusion and paralysis. Zionist leaders confi-
dently referred to the short-lived American Jewish Congress of 1918 as a prece-
dent for effective unity, but even that had failed to prove a resounding Zionist
success.14
In preparation for the first meeting of the conference, organizers called upon
the community at large to hold elections for delegates. The latter were chosen
indirectly; local membership organizations in various regions that were en-
gaged in Jewish activities, or branches of national organizations, voted accord-
ing to prearranged ratios for electors, who in turn chose the delegates. Provi-
sion was made for a very small representation of federations and welfare funds,
usually under elitist control, and for some unaffiliated persons as well. All told,
at least 2,235,000 Jews were represented; of some five hundred seats to be allo-
cated, 379 went to delegates chosen by elections and 125 to appointees of the
participating national organizations. The Zionists campaigned strenuously for
their side, and results showed that most elected delegates were affiliated with
the ZOA or other Zionist groups. In control of the majority of votes, the Zion-
ists set the procedures and formulated the platform for the first plenary session.
From their midst came the luminaries of the conference—Monsky of B’nai
B’rith, Louis Lipsky and Israel Goldstein of the ZOA, Stephen Wise of the
American Jewish Congress, and Abba Hillel Silver of the American Zionist
Emergency Council. The episode of the commonwealth resolution under-
scored the Zionists’ overwhelming victory.15
Critics later charged that the conference was merely a Zionist front and that
the “same old leaders” were interested primarily in their own organizations.
Proskauer of the AJC explained to an American senator that Zionist control
was the result of “an enormous propaganda, stemming from a zealotry that
knows no bounds,” and the president of Hebrew Union College described
Zionist methods for assumimg power as “piratical.” But none could deny that
the Zionists had successfully engineered a shift of power.16
The euphoria that greeted the establishment of the conference dissipated
rapidly. The Jewish press in particular was quick to find fault with the new or-
ganization. One question, “how democratic in fact was the conference,” aroused
comment throughout the first year. Some thought that true democracy was elu-
sive as long as certain organizations were excluded, and a few suggested greater
participatory democracy by making the conference an open forum. Most critics,
however, challenged the leadership on other grounds. They charged that despite
the procedures adopted by the founders for the airing of multiple points of
view, the delegates were largely silent partners. Since they and the local constitu-
encies they represented were uninformed about policy planning, and since im-
portant decisions and directives came from the unrepresentative Executive,

Administrative, and Interim Committees, the elected delegates had little input
in the formulation of policy. As a result, minority opinions were often ignored.17
On the eve of the second annual meeting, an executive memorandum ac-
knowledged the shortcomings of the organization: “The Conference was
created as a people’s instrumentality, and the people have a right to demand
from its leaders an account of their action or inaction. A major error of the
Interim Committee was its failure to keep in close personal contact with the
delegates and the communities throughout the country, and to take the prob-
lems of the Conference to the people at frequent intervals.” As a corrective, the
conference amended the structure of the committees in 1944. It promised im-
proved communication with the delegates and it urged the latter to meet regu-
larly with their constituents.18
If the conference’s claims of a democratic structure were exaggerated, its
boasts of overall unity were even more unreal. To begin with, the absence of the
prestigious AJC, which left the conference after two and a half months, was
keenly felt. Other organizations had not appeared at all. Some, such as the Or-
thodox Agudath Israel and Agudas Harabbonim, which objected to the secular-
ist nature of the major participants, refused to join. Others, including the Re-
constructionist Foundation, the Federation of Palestinian Jews in America, and
philanthropies like ORT and the Joint Distribution Committee, were not invited
because they were not national membership organizations. Nor did invitations
go to the militant New Zionist Organization (Revisionist) and other right-wing
splinter groups; more than once the conference denounced the right-wingers
for their “irresponsible” ideas, and for their plan for a Jewish army in particular.
Certain Communist labor unions were similarly consigned at first to the ranks
of the “unacceptables,” groups whose ideologies sharply contradicted the views
and practices of mainstream Zionism and Jewish labor.19
Two numerically strong organizations, the Union of American Hebrew
Congregations (Reform) and the fraternal order B’nai B’rith, affiliated but
qualified their participation. The union said that since their members included
both Zionists and anti-Zionists, they could not be bound by the common-
wealth resolution. Monsky, expaining why B’nai B’rith hadn’t voted in favor of
a state, insisted that each member had the right to determine his own stand. A
similar position was taken by the Central Conference of American Rabbis (Re-
form) as well as by the National Council of Jewish Women. Finally, the influen-
tial Jewish Labor Committee, uncomfortable with the Communists and with
nationalist objectives, flitted in and out of the conference.20
Although the conference, during its first year and with mixed results, wooed
the AJC and other “tolerable” agencies—the anti-Zionist American Council for
Judaism was totally intolerable—its unity was never absolute. Collaboration
with unaffiliated groups, such as the Orthodox rabbis, the Joint Distribution
Committee, and even the AJC, in matters pertaining to rescue and postwar
planning compensated to some small degree for inadequacies in membership.

In other instances the conference insisted that joint action be taken under its
name, but despite an awareness that greater strength lay in unity, the agencies
concerned rarely acceded. Forced to comply, the conference often became
merely one of several equal organizations, and its claim that it spoke for a
united American Jewry was inaccurate.21 Further complicating the lack of
unity was the practical matter of funding. Even if the conference represented
all American Zionists and their sympathizers, and even if all of the affiliates
paid the amounts levied upon them, it was virtually unable to meet its budget
without the financial support of the elitist federations—miffed because they
were given only token representation—and the wealthy stewards of the AJC.22
Of all the reasons that bred disunity, the knottiest problem concerned the
distribution of power between the conference and its affiliates. Which powers
belonged exclusively to the central body and which to its member organiza-
tions? Was it reasonable to expect the old established defense agencies and fed-
erations, which had carved out roles for themselves in areas relating to foreign
Jews—thereby duplicating or conflicting with the work of the conference on
rescue, Palestine, and postwar problems—to permit the conference to preempt
their independent activities? It was difficult enough for the national organiza-
tions to cope with power sharing within their own ranks. Meanwhile, the press
kept up a steady commentary on the rivalries and jealousies among the agen-
cies. As one rabbi commented, “The measure of [the conference’s] failure is the
measure of individualism run riot on the part of our national organizations.”
Questions of sovereignty were debated at length during the first year of the
conference. The issue posed a no-win situation. Were the conference to take
strong action that antagonized its affiliates, it would put at risk the degree of
unity that had been won. On the other hand, the same or different affiliates
could be similarly alienated by a show of weakness. Either way the conference
stood to lose. No wonder that an officer of the organization likened it to the in-
effectual League of Nations.23
The conference admitted the problem time and again, but it blamed outside
factors: “Precisely because of the tragic circumstances of Jewish life, the estab-
lished organizations were facing greater demands, laboring under greater ex-
citement and strain, and more jealous than ever before of their . . . traditions
and prestige.” At the same time, it denied that it expected those agencies to sus-
pend their activities or that it ever intended to supersede them: “On the
contrary, the Conference is intended as a coordinating and unifying instru-
ment, responsible and responsive to the whole of the Jewish people in Amer-
ica.” What exactly that meant was not elaborated.24
The conflict over jurisdiction was well illustrated in connection with Jewish
appeals to government officials and agencies. In some cases, individual or-
ganizations, including several of the conference’s own affiliates, duplicated pe-
titions or statements of the central body. The conference deplored such efforts,
saying that duplication confused the public and weakened Jewish clout: “The

spectacle of one delegation after another swooping down in Washington makes

us not only ludicrous in the eyes of the public at large, but becomes positively
harmful to the interest which these delegations are presumed to serve.” Adding
to the loss of prestige, members of the three important commissions estab-
lished by the conference occasionally performed the work of those commis-
sions through their individual agencies. Here too the claim to leadership of one
united Jewry was undercut.25
The problem dragged on. Although the conference promised not to usurp
the functions of the affiliates, it asked them in turn not to act independently. To
be sure, it was easy for one group to tell another to yield its rights and position,
but, to be effective, all groups had to yield at the same time. The conference
took a firmer stand at the second annual meeting. Acknowledging the need to
curtail the absolute sovereignty of the organizations, it resolved not to delegate
its own rightful functions to them. It also insisted that a program of an affiliate
that fell within the jurisdiction of the conference required the latter’s consent.26
This show of assertiveness did not generate any strong opposition, a fact that
doubtless owed more to a sense of urgency pervading the community than to
an abdication of rights on the part of the powerful national agencies.
Other divisions within the conference surfaced after the actual work had
begun. One involved the duties of the three separate commissions to handle
each area of concentration: Palestine, rescue of European Jewry, and postwar
rehabilitation and reconstruction. The lines that divided the commissions
often seemed arbitrary. For example, as Silver, the chairman of the Palestine
Commission, explained, since free immigration into Palestine meant life or
death for the refugees, the subjects of rescue and Palestine were “logically one
and inseparable.” A second and deeper issue was whether the conference was
merely a deliberative and consultative forum, i.e., a sounding board and clear-
inghouse for ascertaining the consensus of the community, or whether it had
the power to set policy as well. Since the conference never formally resolved the
matter, criticism was heard from both sides. The Reconstructionist magazine put
it bluntly: Either the conference was organized only to obtain a vote of confi-
dence for certain national organizations, or it should have been authorized to
replace those organizations.27
Still a third divisive question, and one that had become a crucial issue by the
time the plenum met again in 1944, was whether the agency should concern it-
self with Jewish problems in the United States, particularly that of antisemit-
ism. Wise, for example, was among those who demanded the inclusion of the
American scene within the conference’s jurisdiction, and only when Monsky
explained that the organizers never had that in mind did he change his mind.
Despite a strong popular current in favor of a more inclusive agenda, the sec-
ond meeting of delegates (1944) decided not to broaden the scope of the con-
ference. The Jewish press for the most part endorsed the decision, but some
commentators added that it was only a matter of time until the conference

would be ready for additional functions.28 The decision was strategically sound.
Since the central body had still not ironed out a satisfactory relationship with
the affiliates, why add to its problems? Moreover, any effort to broaden its pow-
ers could well generate more active resentment on the part of both the affiliated
and unaffiliated agencies. In that event, the Zionists’ campaign for a shift in
leadership would again be in jeopardy.
How far the conference could go in cooperating with foreign Jewish or-
ganizations and the WJC, with Christian groups, and with the government
further complicated matters of jurisdiction. With regard to rescue, the confer-
ence worked with Christians, the War Refugee Board, and foreign Jewish agen-
cies; on postwar reconstruction it turned to UNRRA and to the international
meetings at Dumbarton Oaks. With respect to the WJC, it reached an arrange-
ment whereby the two bodies would exchange information and cooperate on
a joint planning commission for postwar affairs. The WJC retained the right
to approach foreign governments on behalf of Jews, and the conference was
designated to be the spokesman to the United States. The Americans hoped
that the arrangement would be the first step in attaining “a Jewish representa-
tion which shall speak for the whole of world Jewry before the United Nations
on post-war Jewish rehabilitation.” On most other issues the conference
plowed ahead on its own.29
Doubtless unified action was also made more difficult by the hyperbole that
attended the organization of the conference. The initial enthusiasm that
greeted it fostered the belief that it would resolve the problems of a divided
community at one fell swoop. When the conference failed to live up to expecta-
tions, serious doubts were raised about its overall efficacy. Toward the end of its
first year the young organization publicly discussed the lack of total unity: “It
may not be representative of every segment of American Jewry,” its newsletter
stated, but it did represent “the over-whelming majority of Jews in this country.”
Reaching the goal of unity was a slow process, but the conference stuck by its
principles. We well understand that we have no governmental power to enforse
our decisions on our affiliates, one officer wrote: “We have to operate through
moral enforcement, through persuasion, and this kind of operation . . . does
not always yield the desired results.” Some found comfort in the fact that the
conference was still the closest thing to unity that American Jews had produced,
but one Yiddish columnist was more pessimistic: “As far as unity of the Ameri-
can Jews is concerned, one may as well leave it quietly for the time when the
Messiah will come.”30
The Palestine Commission
Although the conference appointed separate commissions to deal with the

three areas of concentration it had blocked out, all were informed by the

commonwealth resolution. The critical issue of rescue worked in tandem with

the Zionist hope that Jews able to escape the death camps would have the right
of free entry into Palestine; postwar planning, dealing largely with the interests
of the displaced persons of European nations, also banked on a Jewish state. As
long as the leading democracies restricted the immigration of the war victims,
Palestine was the surest option for survivors and for those stripped of their
rights. At the same time, the immediate tasks of persuading the government
and the United Nations of the legitimacy and merits of the Zionist objectives
devolved upon the Palestine Commission (PC).
Statehood aside, Zionist leaders knew the obstacles they faced in winning
government support on lifting the restrictions of the White Paper. Some con-
gressmen were sympathetic, but the State Department was an implacable foe. A
month before the conference convened Congressman Emanuel Celler of New
York made public a long letter to the president accusing the department of pur-
posely working to “nullify and destroy” the international promises that had
been made regarding Jewish immigration to Palestine. Men in the department,
Celler said, were guilty of “the betrayal of Palestine,” and he specifically named
Patrick Hurley and Halford Hoskins, pro-Arab envoys to the Middle East, and
Wallace Murray, longtime chief of the department’s Near Eastern division. A
“cabal” was afoot, he charged: “There are those in the State Department with
axes to grind, and they have been abetting this movement together with the
Arab appeasers.” Threatening a congressional inquiry into the department, he
called for Roosevelt’s immediate help. But the president, who had given verbal
assurances to both the Zionists and the Arabs, took no action.31
The PC under the chairmanship of Abba Hillel Silver never budged from the
end goals spelled out in the conference’s resolution on the White Paper and
statehood. Nor, like its parent body, did it serve as a forum for the deliberation
of policy. Some pointed out that the Palestine resolution contradicted the
avowed purpose of the conference to formulate a program acceptable to all—
including those who were neutral or opposed—but the PC ignored the criti-
cism. Ninety percent of the delegates had endorsed the resolution, and, as
Zionist leaders candidly admitted, Zionism was the “motor” that drove the
conference: “The American Jewish Conference was created as an instrument of
Zionist policy. As [such] it must be activized [sic] and in course of time be-
come the most potent body in American Jewish life. Any other course of action
. . . would render us guilty of a crime against the movement, against Palestine
and against all the things for which we have labored these many years.” Were the
conference to fail, the effort to win over American Jewry to Zionism would
have to begin all over again.32
In a lengthy report of the PC’s activities for 1943–44, Silver began by justify-
ing the commonwealth resolution. Implicit in the resolution, he said, was the
recognition that the conciliatory tactics of the past were ineffectual and that a
more aggressive political approach to England and the United Nations was

required. His views put him at odds with the leading moderate Zionists, men
like Chaim Weizmann and Stephen Wise, but he was not deterred. Proud of the
commonwealth resolution, which he said “marked the end of the[Zionist] re-
treat,” he boasted that despite some dissent, the resolution drew “nation-wide
affirmations of approval.”33
The conference submitted the text of the resolution to Secretary Cordell
Hull, and Silver, who spent much of his time lobbying in Washington, opened
the fight for the abrogation of the White Paper. Along with the American Zion-
ist Emergency Council (AZEC), the PC refused to separate the issue of state-
hood from that of immigration and the White Paper. It argued that whereas a
commonwealth would in reality follow Jewish immigration, the right of Jewish
immigration came first, since it was tantamount to acceptance of Palestine as
the “Jewish National Home.” In pursuance of its overall mandate to engage in
“political and educational” work to mobilize American Jews on behalf of the
resolution, and to press England to rescind the White Paper, the PC became the
focal point of American Zionist public relations and lobbying.34
Silver’s report discussed the highlights of the PC’s operations. The bulk of
its work went into propaganda, or efforts to sway the government and both
Jewish and non-Jewish public opinion to the side of statehood. Meant for pub-
lic consumption, it was understandably incomplete. It made no mention of the
personal lobbying that was carried on simultaneously by Rabbis Silver and
Wise. Silver had access to Republican officials after he left the Democrats in
1940, and Wise was a friend of Roosevelt and the Democratic administration.
But even in the less sensitive area of public relations the report’s account of
day-to-day activities can be misleading. In reality, much of what the PC
claimed to have achieved was done by or in tandem with the AZEC and the
hundreds of local emergency committees under its control. The AZEC scored
well in the campaign for public support, particularly in mobilizing Christian
leaders and university professors, as well as the giant labor unions. Since it was
in place and functioning efficiently before the establishment of the conference,
a parallel apparatus constructed by the PC was needless. Moreover, Silver and
Wise, despite a strong mutual dislike, served as cochairmen of the AZEC. Given
their expertise and, especially in the case of Wise, long experience in presenting
Zionist demands to the government, the conference saw no reason to substitute
others to represent it in Washington. It was only natural, therefore, for the PC
to urge the delegates of the conference to cooperate closely with the AZEC’s
local committees and any other agencies similarly involved.35
Although the conference never thought of the older Zionist organizations as
competitors, it repeatedly denounced the Hebrew Committee of National Lib-
eration, or what it called an “irresponsible adventurer.” One of the right-wing
Revisionist splinter groups and an offshoot of the Irgun Zvai Leumi (military
organization) in the yishuv, the Hebrew Committee enjoyed a degree of popu-
larity just because it appeared more aggressive and determined than mainstream

Zionists. Resentful of this flamboyant rival, the conference was especially irked
by its proposal for emergency shelters for refugees in Palestine. Since the shel-
ters were to be only temporary, the conference charged that the proposal weak-
ened efforts for the rescission of the White Paper and insistence on the right of
Jews to settle permanently in Palestine.36 Doubtless to some observers, Jews and
non-Jews, the rejection of temporary shelters suggested, however, that Zionists
were sacrificing the immediate rescue of Jews for the sake of their own partisan
purposes.
The high point of Zionist political activity centered on the bipartisan pro-
Zionist congressional resolutions sponsored by the AZEC in January 1944.
Given the attitude of the anti-Zionist State Department and its constant re-
frains about the danger of inciting the Arabs or compounding wartime prob-
lems for England, passage of the resolutions would have been a radical depar-
ture from the government’s official silence on the White Paper. To some degree
the resolution reflected a change in Washington. Historian Ben Halpern has
written: “The atmosphere had . . . changed. Not only had Jewish anger been
made widely and powerfully evident, and brought effectively to the attention of
the public and of political officials, but the conscience of men in power was
moved.” The fact that 1944 was an election year helped too. Whatever the con-
tributing factors, congressional action vindicated the pressure tactics of Zion-
ist groups. Affirming America’s endorsement of Zionist aims, the last words of
the Wright-Compton resolutions were almost identical to the conference’s res-
olution: “The United States shall use its good offices and take appropriate
measures to the end that the doors of Palestine shall be opened for free entry of
Jews . . . and that there shall be full opportunity for colonization so that the Jew-
ish people may ultimately reconstitute Palestine as a free and democratic Jewish
commonwealth.”37
Before the hearings on the resolutions by the House Committee on Foreign
Affairs, the PC swung into high gear. It worked on individuals, the press, and
organizations, both Jewish and Christian, to express their support to commit-
tee members. The effort succeeded. Committee chairman Sol Bloom reported
that letters and telegrams speaking for thousands of Jews favored the resolu-
tions and only ten disapproved. Led by Silver, six officers of the conference,
armed with reams of documents, spoke at the hearings. Among them they cov-
ered the major points of the Zionist brief: the history of modern Zionism;
American Jewish interest and investments in Palestine; the legal obligations to
Zionism spelled out in the Balfour Declaration and mandate; the pro-Zionist
congressional resolution of 1922; and England’s betrayal of the Zionists. Two
points were repeatedly made: first, the primary loyalty of the speakers and of
American Jews in general to the United States—Reform Rabbi James Heller
casually mentioned that he was a member of the Sons of the American Revolu-
tion!—and second, the overwhelming support of Zionism on the part of the
Jewish community. In response to testimony from members of the American

Council for Judaism, who yet again raised the charge of dual allegiance, the
Zionist representatives said that the council spoke only for very few Jews.38
The Zionists could not have testified before a more sympathetic audience.
Although the members listened politely to the views of the American Council
for Judaism and the Arab sympathizers, their warmth and encouragement
were reserved for the Zionists. According to an AZEC report, had Congress
voted at that moment, the Wright-Compton resolutions would have garnered
four hundred votes. In the end, however, after the War and State Departments
indicated their opposition for reasons of military expediency, the resolutions
were buried at least temporarily. Silver and others blamed political motives,
i.e., the administration’s desire not to alienate the Arab states that had pro-
tested to the American government. The episode further strained relations
between Silver, who advocated a continued attack by the Zionists, and Wise,
the moderate who preferred to play down the failure of the Roosevelt admin-
istration. Silver and his cohorts deplored the ongoing silence on the part of
the government. “Silence itself,” the Zionist leader said, “would become a po-
litical act and the forces which were urging it in the name of military expe-
diency were, perhaps unwittingly, forging political policy.” To be sure, the
Zionists themselves were not totally blameless; a confidential memorandum in
the conference’s files faulted the organization for mishandling the political
side of the campaign, doubtless a reference to the absence of sustained pres-
sure on key officials immediately after the objections of the executive depart-
ments. A few weeks later, however, and to the delight of the conference,
Roosevelt voiced his support of the Zionist objectives.39
At a meeting with Wise and Silver on March 9, 1944, the president author-
ized them to issue a statement expressing American “non-concurrence” with
the White Paper as well as his own desire to see Palestine open to Jewish immi-
gration. When peace settlements were reached, he hoped that “full justice will
be done to those who seek a Jewish National Home, for which our Government
and the American people have always had the deepest sympathy and today
more than ever, in view of the tragic plight of hundreds of thousands of home-
less Jewish refugees.” The presidential message stopped short of backing a Jew-
ish commonwealth; a Jewish National Home was a far cry from a state. It sug-
gested, however, that even if Roosevelt had held negative feelings about
Zionism, the facts of the Holocaust may have altered his thinking. Despite its
shortcomings, and despite Silver’s misgivings about Roosevelt’s sincerity in an
election year, the message injected a note of cheer into the otherwise gloomy
situation. The official silence had been broken, and for the first time the Ameri-
can executive objected to the White Paper of 1939. Roosevelt’s words also dis-
pelled the notion spread by Arab propagandists that the United States had re-
pudiated the congressional resolution of 1922. The president, however, had by
no means become a supporter of Zionism, and before his death he continued
to weigh various options on the future of Palestine.40

At a press conference that same month, the president denied that his mes-
sage to Wise and Silver conflicted with the views of the War and State Depart-
ments. As if on cue, Secretary of War Henry Stimson stated a few months later
that his department’s objections to the Wright-Compton resolutions “are not
as strong a factor now as they were.” Nevertheless, the administration contin-
ued to find fault with congressional action. Although the two major political
parties had adopted pro-Zionist planks in their platforms, and although Roose-
velt finally pledged his aid for securing Palestine as a “free and democratic
Commonwealth,” a second attempt at congressional action in 1944 was stymied
again by the president and the State Department. The conference resolved to
continue its struggle for a favorable congressional statement, but not until De-
cember 1945, months after the war ended and almost three years after the
Wright-Compton resolutions, did Congress by a concurrent resolution(not re-
quiring presidential consent) endorse the Zionist objectives.41
During its first year of existence the PC chalked up failures as well as victories.
First, it had neither coordinated all Zionist activity under its aegis nor func-
tioned as the sole voice of American Zionism, and second, the lines of author-
ity between the conference and other Zionist agencies, especially the AZEC,
were still very blurred. At the hearings on Wright-Compton, not only did the
speakers for the conference prefer to be identified with other organizations, but
Zionists in addition to men from the conference also testified.42 Clearly, the PC
had failed thus far to unite American Zionists or put an end to the duplication
of effort.
On the plus side, however, the PC’s endorsement of the AZEC, or what in
reality amounted to a quasi-merger with that organization, worked to bolster
Zionism’s appeal to the community. In the name of the conference the PC
choreographed overall tactics with the AZEC, and it contributed important re-
sources to the joint public relations campaign. Above all, the PC had changed
the tone of American Zionism. Now more assertive than ever before, Zionists
sent a message loud and clear that American Jewry was overwhelmingly com-
mitted to the establishment and protection of a Jewish state.
The AJC and the Conference
A major obstacle to unity and to the overall efficacy of the conference was the
absence of the AJC. The latter’s abrupt withdrawal from the new organization
deprived the conference of an invaluable asset. The AJC may have had far fewer
members than other national Jewish organizations, but the power that its self-
selected officers wielded in the Jewish and non-Jewish worlds—a product of
wealth and social status, close contacts with government officials, and almost
forty years of experience in Jewish communal affairs—more than compensated

for what it lacked in numbers. Proud of its position as the steward of American
Jewish interests, the committee believed that precisely because of its elitist
character and conservative behavior it was best fit to lead the community. Any
populist challenge to its leadership, even if explained in democratic terms,
would not be easily tolerated.
The AJC’s rivalry with the conference was more than a Jewish communal
squabble. In a larger sense its nonparticipation could even cast doubt on how
American the Zionists and their new organization really were. Within non-
Jewish society the committee had earned a name as a spokesman for American-
ism. Since its inception in 1906 it had labored for the rapid acculturation of
new immigrants and for full Jewish participation in the peacetime and wartime
duties of American citizens. On the issue of Zionism the leaders of the AJC
were at best non-Zionists if not anti-Zionists; members contributed to the
yishuv but not to a state in the making. Since the members were all conservative
men, the opinions, activities, and style of the AJC blended well with govern-
ment policy and public tastes, and its reputation gave it a decided advantage
over the Zionists and the conference. To the average American acquainted with
Jewish matters, if the AJC opposed other American Jews, the former undoubt-
edly was correct.
In the preliminaries leading up to the conference, the AJC found many ex-
cuses for opposing the scheme. It objected among other things to the plans on
representation, allocation of votes, and methods for electing delegates; those
plans, it charged, worked for the benefit of the Zionists and thus belied the
claim that the conference was a democratic forum. The committee learned too
that the anti-Zionist State Department, attempting to prevent embarrassing
public attacks on the administration and England during wartime, advised that
the conference be postponed. Since the AJC, as was its customary behavior, also
deplored diplomacy by popular agitation, it feared that the conference was
likely to antagonize the government.43
Publicly the committee raised neither its claim to leadership nor its stand
against political Zionism, the two reasons that underlay its opposition to the
conference. It recalled its experience with the American Jewish Congress dur-
ing World War I, when the Zionist-controlled congress aimed at destroying
the elitist and antinationalist AJC.44 In 1943 the threat appeared identical. If
the conference of 1943 captured overall communal leadership, it would usurp
the committee’s long-established role as the representative of American Jews
in foreign affairs. The intense power struggle with the Zionists was renewed,
and again the prize at stake was the leadership of American Jewry. For that
reason Morris Waldman, the executive vice president of the AJC, argued
strongly from the start against the committee’s participation in the confer-
ence. He called Monsky a Zionist “stooge” and the plan for a conference a
Zionist ploy. Acting out of resentment against the self-assumed power of the
“plutocrats” (= AJC), the Zionists had designed a conference to be a “tail” to

the Zionist “kite.” If the committee stayed out of the conference, he pre-
dicted that it would be able to build up an independent national following:
“We would be afforded a grand opportunity to assert the leadership in Jew-
ish life.”45
During weeks of serious negotiations with Monsky and other conference
sponsors, Proskauer insisted that he too favored unity but not according to the
Zionist design, which trampled on the freedoms of non-Zionist minorities.
Non-Zionists could cooperate with Zionists, he told Stephen Wise, but unity
“cannot be achieved by majority vote.” He preferred a strictly deliberative body
that allowed all opinions to be aired and that guaranteed the right of dissent
from majority decisions. Nevertheless, the committee realized that it could not
very well fly in the face of an aroused Jewish public and isolate itself from the
rest of the community. Thus, when the Zionists yielded on certain minor is-
sues, the AJC agreed to join.46
The Zionists too were focused on the struggle over leadership even though
they, like the AJC, did not debate the issue publicly. It was well understood,
however, that their defense of a democratic, Zionist-controlled body was si-
multaneously an indictment of the AJC. In the bitter contest between the two,
the conference had less to lose. Its existence did not depend solely on the dis-
placement of the committee, whereas the future of the committee did depend
on its retention of communal leadership. In the end, Proskauer advised his col-
leagues to agree to the conference but to keep to their convictions. He said with
typical arrogance: “We are willing to collaborate but we must retain our full
freedom of action. Otherwise the Committee will be sunk and Proskauer will
be the follower—not the leader.”47
With respect to the specific Zionist issues, the AJC distinguished between
support of immigration to Palestine and statehood, a position consonant with
its “Americanist” emphasis. Statehood was anathema; Jews were a religious
group only, and Zionism conjured up the bogey that American Jews were a na-
tional group whose primary political allegiance was to a Jewish state. Moreover,
statehood was undemocratic and hence also un-American just because it con-
cerned a land where the majority of inhabitants were Arabs. Finally, if state-
hood conflicted in any way with Allied wartime aims, as some officials in Wash-
ington and London thought, it was beyond consideration. On the other hand,
support of Jewish immigration into Palestine and other forms of nonpolitical
aid to the yishuv did not contradict American values. The committee called the
White Paper illegal because it violated the terms of the mandate and because it
“constitutes an act of discrimination against one particular religious group.”
Much like the Zionists the AJC believed that the American commitment to hu-
manitarian principles condoned immigration as the solution to the problem
of war victims. Unlike the conference, however, it did not push for immediate
abrogation of the White Paper, again on the grounds that it might interfere
with the war effort, nor did it adopt Silver’s reasoning on the indivisibility of

immigration and statehood. Conviction as well as fear of public reaction led

the AJC to retain the now-anachronistic label of “non-Zionist.” In effect, its po-
sition gave the anti-Zionist State Department and British an edge for under-
mining the Jewish statists.48
Addressing the first plenary session of the conference, Proskauer again
spoke of unity. The entire community yearned for unity, he said, but not at the
expense of the individual’s or the minority group’s principles. He advised,
therefore, that the conference concentrate not on competing ideologies but on
areas of agreement, like the demand for a postwar world in which Jews were
guaranteed their fundamental rights or the physical upbuilding of the yishuv.
Proskauer sounded more conciliatory than usual, and he avoided all divisive is-
sues. He stressed rather the “fundamental passion” that all shared: “the preser-
vation of Jewry, and the preservation of the democratic way of life.”49 The Pal-
estine resolution, however, shattered any hopes of keeping the AJC in the new
organization. Since the Zionists had violated the preconference agreement not
to raise the issue of statehood, Proskauer had no qualms about casting a dis-
senting vote.
The committee moved immediately to the question of withdrawing from
the conference, and for seven weeks it debated the pros and cons. Proskauer,
who led the case for withdrawal, received the overwhelming support of the
committee’s leaders. When the AJC’s Adminstrative Committee voted in favor
of withdrawal, only one member dissented. Shortly thereafter the organization
submitted its formal resignation.50
The AJC’s statement on withdrawal offered several reasons by way of expla-
nation—the exclusion of some agencies from the conference and the precon-
ference instructions from the Zionists to the delegates on how to vote. As for
the Palestine resolution, they charged that it was railroaded through without
prior attempts to work out a compromise with the non-Zionists. Moreover, the
resolution contradicted the AJC’s program, adopted in January 1943, on the
agency’s war and postwar aims. In that Statement of Views the committee had
defined its own objectives, including postwar rehabilitation and full equality
for Jews throughout the world. As for Palestine, although the committee took
pride in the achievements of the yishuv—after all, its own leaders had worked
with the Zionists in the Jewish Agency and in projects like the Hebrew Univer-
sity—it insisted that Diaspora Jews must not identify politically with any Jew-
ish government established there. Instead the AJC advocated an international
trusteeship to guard Jewish immigration into Palestine, which was to be limited
only by the economic absorptive capacity of the land and Jewish settlement.
The trustees would also safeguard the rights of all inhabitants and protect the
holy places of all religions. Thereby guaranteeing the growth and development
of the land, Palestine would be ready within “a reasonable period of years” to
become a “self-governing Commonwealth.” Note: a “Commonwealth,” yes, but
not necessarily a Jewish one.51

The statement on withdrawal was carefully constructed. To deflect critics in

the Jewish community, it explained that the AJC was non-Zionist and not anti-
Zionist like the much-abhorred American Council for Judaism. To win the sup-
port of the government and non-Jewish public, its message echoed American
sentiments. Its emphasis on universalism rather than parochial Jewish nation-
alism, its patriotic concern for the Allied war effort (not to be disturbed by agi-
tation for a Jewish state), its idea of a trusteeship that absolved the United
States from responsibility for Palestine, and its insistence on fundamental
human rights for all religions and peoples made it seemingly more patriotic
than the conference’s statist position.
The committee’s statement did not even hint at the issue of leadership, but
Proskauer admitted informally that it was an overriding concern: “It is just a
simple fact to say that if we had not withdrawn, there would not have been any
American Jewish Committee left.” He refused to explain his motives to his nu-
merous critics. Despite the abuse that was heaped upon him and the AJC, he
said he would not wash Jewish dirty linen publicly. Nor did he want to leave the
impression that he personally was playing for power.52
The AJC could not totally ignore the storm of protests that greeted its with-
drawal from the conference. To be sure, it had some powerful defenders, like
the heads of the Reform and Conservative rabbinical seminaries and the anti-
Zionist New York Times, but statements by those supporters were vastly out-
numbered by letters of protest and resignations of members. The Anglo-
Jewish and Yiddish press for the most part bitterly condemned the AJC,
accusing it primarily of destroying Jewish unity. Some critics brought up the
issue of leadership, and they usually dismissed the claim of achievements by
the elitist committee. The ZOA termed the withdrawal a “willful sin against the
Jewish people here and abroad,” and the AZEC charged that the committee’s
philosophy was “rule or ruin.”
A scathing rejoinder by the conference to what it called the AJC’s “morally
indefensible” action blamed the AJC for acting on considerations of leadership.
Its decision to withdraw was “dictated by its determination to maintain an in-
dependent course of action without public responsibility to the organized Jew-
ish community.” The conference rejected out of hand the committee’s intima-
tion that the conference had shown by its resolutions that it was less than loyal
to the United States. Abba Hillel Silver said that the committee believed in
“domination or secession.” Veteran Zionist B. G. Richards called Proskauer a
“hoary-minded, die-hard reactionary and isolationist,” and he recalled nostal-
gically how Louis Marshall had led the AJC into the congress of 1918. (Those
like Richards who praised Marshall did not, or did not choose to, remember
that the congress of 1918 had not converted Marshall into a Zionist or a believer
in democratic leadership. Rather, his strategy, which ultimately succeeded, was
to capture control of the congress by first agreeing to participate.)53
The committee quickly realized that it needed to mend its fences. Reporting

on a trip around the country for precisely that purpose, Waldman noted the
widespread Jewish view of the AJC as the archopponent of Jewish unity and
democracy. The indictment of the AJC also emphasized the issue of leadership.
The agency was charged, Waldman said, with being “oligarchic, dictatorial, and
callous to the will of the masses, manifesting the superciliousness and arro-
gance of wealth”; in short, it was “a handful of self-appointed, self-anointed
leaders.” The prevalent notion held that the AJC was not only “out of sympathy
with Jewish aspirations, but is actually consciously undermining these aspira-
tions.” Among the Zionists, Waldman added, he found “a general hatred of our
group. . . . “I get the sense that they would rather see the Committee completely
destroyed than have us re-enter the Conference.” Waldman did not mince
words. He called political Zionism a virtual religion that at times became a fa-
naticism. So despicable were the Zionists that he likened the implications of
their extreme Jewish nationalism to the “race state” idea of the Nazis!54
In addition to talks by Waldman and others, the AJC sought various ways of
improving public relations. Most significant were its plans to restructure the
organization and expand its membership by the creation of chapters in various
cities. It seems obvious that the popular groundswell for democratic leadership
embodied in the design for a conference contributed to those plans. Thus, de-
spite its withdrawal, the elitist committee was changed permanently by the new
organization it opposed.55
Because of the Holocaust, the committee lost control of the community to
the conference. Zionists too always paraded their Americanism, but in 1943,
with a focus on the Jewish condition in Europe, they elevated Jewish particular-
ism to a higher level than ever before. The AJC shared their concern about Jew-
ish survival, but they saw no reason as yet to support political Zionism and a
Jewish state. Whereas the Zionists felt secure enough in their Americanism to
campaign publicly for statehood, the AJC remained frozen in the time warp of
Palestinianism.
The AJC continued its independent work on the rescue of European Jewry and
on the rights of Jews in the postwar world. In some instances it cooperated with
the conference, especially on postwar work, and in many others it did not. In-
evitably there were glaring instances of duplication. (One example was the
international declaration of human rights that both organizations formu-
lated.) The committee never yielded its advantages in the non-Jewish world,
which gave it a decided edge over the conference. Keeping the government in-
formed of its major activities, it maintained its close contacts with officials in
the State Department and the Roosevelt circle and with members of Congress.
Shortly after it withdrew from the conference, Waldman proudly wrote Pro-
skauer: “The State Department hailed our dissent and withdrawal from the
Conference with the deepest satisfaction. Even though the Committee’s posi-
tion is not as anti-Zionist as the Department would like it to be, our separation

from the Zionists, as reflected in our withdrawal from the Conference, gives us
a preferred position in the Department.” He neglected to add that the AJC’s
withdrawal helped the State Department’s anti-Zionists, enabling them to re-
sist Zionist pressure on the grounds that the Jewish community was hopelessly
divided on the issue of statehood.56
Its “preferred position” notwithstanding, the AJC’s influence with the State
Department was less than significant. One official commented that it was easier
to deal with the Zionists because their stand was clear. As for the committee, it
was “always straddling the fence,” making it “impossible to tell what their posi-
tion is on any problem.”57
During the first year of the conference, the AJC contributed little to the
Zionist cause. Determined above all to remain in the good graces of the State
Department, it paraded its “reasonable” opinions (as opposed to the “unrea-
sonable” ones of the Zionists) to the government. In the episode of the Wright-
Compton resolutions, the committee’s determination to follow an independent
course of action faced a dilemma. Proskauer told Congressman Sol Bloom of
the House Committee that his organization thought it inappropriate to press
the Zionist demands during wartime. But the primary reason for the AJC’s dis-
approval was a partisan one. It realized that sending any non- or antinationalist
witnesses might alienate the community still further and lead Jews to believe
that the committee was in league with the American Council for Judaism. Still
justifying a non-Zionist stand, Proskauer bemoaned the fact that members of
Congress did not recognize “the distinction between being friendly to the Jews
and advocating a political state in Palestine.” The AJC would have preferred no
hearings at all, but simply not to appear would have further tarnished its repu-
tation as the spokesman of American Jewry. In the end, instead of testifying,
the committee submitted a written memorandum of its views with only mod-
erate criticisms of Zionist goals. Privately, however, it impugned the loyalty of
the Zionists when it told the State Department that the commonwealth resolu-
tions would harm the war effort and would lend credence to the antisemitic
charge of dual allegiance.58
Summing Up
Historian David Wyman has written that except for the progress made toward
winning popular and congressional support for Jewish statehood, the Ameri-
can Jewish Conference scored no substantive gains. The all-important need to
concentrate resources on rescue attempts was totally eclipsed, he maintains, by
the Zionist focus on Palestine. But although he brings evidence of the steady
disintegration of the conference during its first year, the leaders of the organ-
ization were determined to persist.59
At the end of 1944 the conference convened the second meeting of the ple-

num. Less dramatic than the first sessions of August–September 1943, it was
nonetheless at least as important. By their actions the assembled delegates were
to decide whether the new organization had a viable future. Their answer was
positive. Despite its flaws and unfulfilled promises, the continuation of the
conference was endorsed by the delegates and affiliated agencies. With renewed
determination the leaders of the conference drew up plans for correcting its
weaknesses and intensifying its three-pronged program of rescue, postwar
rights, and Jewish statehood. The organization may not have been (in the
words of the Zionist periodical New Palestine) “a genuine and powerful and
permanent expression of the will and temper of American Jewry,” but it still
filled a need of the Jewish community. When, a few months later, the AJC and
the American Jewish Conference were the only Jewish organizations invited to
serve as consultants to the American delegation at the international conference
in San Francisco, the legitimacy of the conference was acknowledged by the
American government.60
The reasons for perpetuating the conference were basically the same that
had led to its creation in the first place. One reason, as the Reconstructionist
pointed out, was the enduring “spirit of revolt” against the ineffectiveness of
the major national organizations. Popular impatience with the narrow and self-
ish concerns of those agencies had not evaporated after the founding of the
conference, and at least for the moment American Jews continued to support a
centralized, and they hoped more successful, way of communitywide action.
Nor, despite the progress made toward a Jewish state, could they deny that the
problems of world Jewry were of a magnitude that still cried for a united re-
sponse. As the war in Europe wound down, the state of the displaced persons
and homeless survivors captured greater attention. The fight for statehood be-
fore the United Nations was still to come, but the needs of the refugees who
successfully reached Palestine, legally or illegally, and who required aid for set-
tlement and rehabilitation added to the responsibilities of their American
brethren. Concerned American Jews may have also thought that through the
conference they could vent their own feelings of frustration and rage over the
Holocaust in a constructive fashion.
The first and most crucial year of the conference had set the lines along which
the organization continued to operate, but the sense of urgency that had ener-
gized its program petered out after the collapse of the Axis powers. Interna-
tional committees and agencies handled the issues of displaced persons and
postwar rights, and in November 1947 the United Nations voted the partition of
Palestine into Arab and Jewish states. Accordingly, two main objectives of the
conference were realized. The organization held annual conventions in 1946
and 1947, but early in 1949 the major affiliated agencies voted for dissolution.61
The legacy of the conference lasted longer, for it planted seeds that
sprouted only later. On the subject of Palestine, for example, it had succeeded

in stamping the vast majority of American Jews with the Zionist label, a crucial
step that laid the foundation for American support of a Jewish state in 1948. In
an entirely different area, the influence of the conference was significant in the
revamping of the AJC. Not only did the committee become a warm supporter
of the Jewish state within a few years, but it was forced both to adopt a more
democratic structure and to relinquish its claim to the exclusive leadership of
American Jewry. Elitism within the community lingered on, especially in the
powerful philanthropic federations and in Jewish social clubs, but the confer-
ence had given the process of social levelling a significant boost.
More subtle but perhaps more important, the conference changed the tone
of American Zionist activity. Instead of the customary timid approach, it sub-
stituted a confident and assertive posture that became entrenched in the post-
war era. Like other American pressure groups after the war, the Zionist lobby of
today openly presses its demands without apology as it works on the public and
on political candidates and officeholders. It is therefore fair to say, as one jour-
nal did after the convention of 1944, that the conference marked “the political
coming of age of the Jewish people of the United States.”62
An equally important contribution of the conference was the impetus it
gave for overall communal unity in the area of Zionism and Israel. Although
the self-interest of the major national organizations brought the conference to
a relatively quick end, the establishment within a few years of two organiza-
tions, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) in 1954 and the
Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations in 1955,
unifed Jewish policymaking with respect to the Jewish state. AIPAC, which be-
came one of the most effective lobbies on Capitol Hill, took over the defense of
Israel’s political interests and the maintenance of a strong American-Israeli
connection. The Conference of Presidents, which speaks today for more than
fifty member agencies, represents the opinion of Jewish organizations to the
American government on Israel and other international issues. Duplication of
organizational operations has not been entirely eliminated, but, in the path
marked out by the conference, the two postwar organizations have centralized
American Jewish pro-Zionist and pro-Israel activities. They have thereby un-
done much of the rampant disunity of the preconference period.
For our purposes it is also important to note that aside from continuing
Zionist pressure after the state of Israel was created, both AIPAC and the Con-
ference of Presidents followed the long-established precedent of Americaniz-
ing their Zionism. Just as the Zionists of 1943 had called their cause an Ameri-
can wartime aim, so did the new organizations justify their postwar programs
on the premise that a strong and secure Israel was in the interests of the United
States. Whether as a bulwark against Soviet expansionism during the Cold War
or as a democratic outpost in the troubled Near East of today, the interests of
the Jewish state have been equated by Zionists with those of America.63

CHAPTER 8
Out of Step with the Times:

Rabbi Louis Finkelstein
of the Jewish Theological Seminary
The Setting
F or eight years preceding the establishment of the Jewish state (1940–48) the
Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS), the fountainhead of the American
Conservative movement, was headed by Rabbi Louis Finkelstein. The story of
those years is that of a religious institution whose students and faculty had fully
accepted an Americanized Zionism but who by the time of World War II were
prepared without further debate to broaden their nationalist commitment to
include the demand for a Jewish state. It is also an account of the fourth presi-
dent of the institution, who turned his back on statehood at a time when the
survival of world Jewry was in jeopardy. The result of conflicting pressures
during the war and its immediate aftermath, Finkelstein’s opposition to politi-
cal Zionism was out of step with the growing conviction among his Conserva-
tive constituents and American Jewry at large that only a Jewish state would
solve the problem of Jewish refugees and displaced persons.
The account of Finkelstein and the JTS continues the discussion of the war
years and the American Jewish Conference. As shown in previous chapters, the
Zionists had revived Herzlian Zionism and had energized an organized Jewish
community in support of a Jewish state. The AJC was a notable exception to
the agencies allied in the Zionist-led conference, and Finkelstein too was
among the last holdouts. The Reform movement, except for the small Ameri-
can Council for Judaism, was by then on the side of the Zionists; the AJC first
fell into line in 1946. By then the subcategories of Zionism—religious Zionism,
cultural Zionism, and even non-Zionism—had lost their meaning. A person
who contributed in any fashion to the building of the yishuv, which as most
now understood was the preparation for a Jewish state, was ipso facto a Zionist.
189
But Finkelstein, although a card-carrying Zionist, lagged behind. The Conser-

vative leader was guided by his emphasis on religious Zionism to the exclusion
of political aims, and his determination to develop a meaningful Judeo-
Christian program in the United States. Those fixed principles in tandem with
the financial needs of the Seminary distanced him from the political, and now
mainstream, Zionist movement.
The Finkelstein era is testimony to the overwhelming public acceptance,
non-Jewish as well as Jewish, of a Jewish home/center/state in Palestine. Within
the Jewish community Zionist successes were particularly dramatic. Member-
ship in the ZOA climbed from 43,000 in 1940 to more than 250,000 in 1948;
American Jews raised less than $3 million for Palestine in 1940 but more than
$70 million in 1948. The records of the United Jewish Appeal (UJA) also show
that the UJA raised $14 million in 1941 and $148 million in 1948.1 Except for
small pockets of opponents (Arab sympathizers, antisemites, the American
Council for Judaism), the war years and their immediate aftermath made talk
of dual allegiance or the compatibility of Zionism and Americanism secondary
at best. In terms of the sheer number of supporters, American Zionism had
succeeded.
If only tangentially, the war years furthered the Americanization of Zion-
ism. This time, however, conditions in Europe rather than Zionist efforts were
the cause. Precisely because wartime Zionism was bound up with the rescue
and survival of European Jews, it tapped into American humanitarian in-
stincts. As a giant wartime humanitarian crusade, Zionism could be inter-
preted as a noble, American-like cause. Many Jews and Christians who had held
serious reservations about the prospect of a Jewish homeland or state were
moved by the needs of the survivors. True, the State Department still kept hu-
manitarianism out of diplomacy, but concerned Americans allowed its impor-
tance. The changed climate of opinion made the approach of the Zionists less
defensive. More than before, they boldly injected themselves into the political
arena, and, under strong leadership and with the help of influential Christian
organizations, effectively disseminated their propaganda. No longer peddling
an alien or outlandish product, they presented a Zionism acceptable to Ameri-
cans and suited to American endorsement. In that setting, Finkelstein’s voice
was conspicuously silent.
Finkelstein’s spiritual Zionism replicated that of one of his predecessors, Solo-

mon Schechter, whose views on a Jewish center in Palestine had encouraged the
development of a distinctly American Zionism. Schechter’s religious and cul-
tural Zionism satisfied the ethnic needs of America’s Jews. Positing an uncon-
ditional commitment to the United States alongside a devotion to Eretz Yisrael,
it demanded neither a shift in political loyalties nor personal sacrifices like
aliyah. Schechter affiliated with the Federation of American Zionists in 1905
even though he opposed the political nationalism of the secular Zionists. He

bequeathed to his students a belief that a vibrant Jewish center in Palestine,

even without a state, would nurture Judaism throughout the world. After his
death his views continued to inspire the graduates of the Seminary and
through them hundreds of Conservative synagogues. Schechter’s successor,
American-born Cyrus Adler, was a non-Zionist whose traditionalism underlay
his belief in divinely ordained roles for Judaism and Palestine in the messianic
scheme of restoration. More concerned about Judaism than about Jews, Adler
opposed political Zionism or any form of Jewish nationalism in the Diaspora.
Like Schechter, he never discussed or advocated aliyah from America.2 Louis
Finkelstein, who followed Adler, sounded at times much like his predecessors.
He too dreamed of a Jewish spiritual and religious center, and like most Ameri-
can Zionists of his generation he assumed consciously or unconsciously that
the values taught by that center would mirror those of post–World War I
American liberalism.
On a more profound level, however, Finkelstein’s communal agenda broke
new ground in the linkage between Americanism and Zionism. The rabbi
stood for the regeneration of religious values in America at the same time that
he worked to reinvigorate the vibrancy of Judaism both in Palestine and in the
United States. He believed that an America sensitive to values embodied in the
Judeo-Christian tradition would be no different in kind from an Eretz Yisrael
acting in accordance with Jewish religio-ethical values. Positing a religious
core in Americanism and Judaism, he stressed the resultant commonality. If
the two countries shared the same religious consciousness and moral commit-
ment, not only would each exemplify the highest form of living, be it Ameri-
can or Jewish, but each would closely resemble the other. By adding the
American connection to the religious-cultural Zionism of Schechter, Finkel-
stein Americanized Zionism in a way that had not been done before. Never-
theless, the onrush of world events, particularly the Nazi threat to Jewish sur-
vival, called for a different response.
The JTS and Zionism Before the War
It has long been commonplace in scholarly accounts to note the special bond
between Conservative Judaism and Zionism. In The Political World of American
Zionism, for example, Samuel Halperin wrote some forty years ago: “The
American Zionist movement derived its most unanimously enthusiastic and
dedicated supporters from the ranks of Conservative Judaism.”3 Yet the role
played by the JTS, the acknowledged head of the movement, in forging the
Conservative-Zionist nexus is less obvious. A study of the Seminary and Zion-
ism until the establishment of the state of Israel reveals neither unanimity nor
ongoing consensus. Among the components that made up the school—admin-
istration, faculty and students, board of directors—different views of Zionism,
Out of Step with the Times 191

reflecting a variety of backgrounds, religious beliefs, and political values, pre-

vailed. At times the subject of Zionism exposed serious differences between the
Seminary’s administration and the affiliated arms of the Conservative move-
ment—the Rabbinical Assembly (RA), the organization of Conservative rabbis
and the United Synagogue, the organization of Conservative congregations—
which usually outpaced the school in support of Jewish nationalist activities.
The overall picture differed markedly from that at the Seminary’s older
counterpart, Reform’s Hebrew Union College (HUC). There, despite sporadic
manifestations of Zionist sympathies from students and faculty, a tighter insti-
tutional structure (HUC was directly controlled by Reform’s Union of Ameri-
can Hebrew Congregations) allowed the first presidents to steer the college
along an official anti-Zionist course in tandem with Reform’s rabbinical and
congregational organizations.4
Before 1948 the Seminary never sought or mandated conformity on Zionism.
Sabato Morais, who headed the school from its inception in 1886 until his death
in 1897, broke with his fellow rabbis by speaking out against a manmade resto-
ration of Jews to Eretz Yisrael. In his case, an upbringing in a home of fervent
Italian nationalists dedicated to Italian unification failed to elicit his support for
modern Jewish nationalism.5 Unconstrained by those views, Solomon Schech-
ter, who followed Morais, allied himself with the Zionist movement. Neverthe-
less, he insisted that his action in no way bound the Seminary: “I should like it
to be distinctly understood that this allegiance [to the Zionist movement] can-
not be predicated of the Institution over which I have the honor to preside, and
which has never committed itself to the Movement, leaving this to the individ-
ual inclination of the students and Faculty, composed of Zionists, anti-
Zionists, and indifferentists.” Since the chairman of Schechter’s board of direc-
tors agreed that each director as well as student and faculty member was free to
take his own stand, Zionism early on became an extra-institutional matter and,
within the walls of the Seminary, a subject that rarely aroused heated debate.6
In large measure differences over Zionism stemmed from variant readings
of the Seminary’s mission. The religious founding fathers, the generations of
Morais and Schechter, envisioned a school for the propagation of historical Ju-
daism in accommodation with modernity. With an emphasis on scholarship,
the Seminary would train rabbis committed to halakhah, or Jewish religious
law, but conversant and comfortable with modern intellectual trends and
scholarly methods. Aiming for “conservative progress” that would safeguard
the future of Judaism against the inroads of Reform and assimilation, the
Seminary was pledged to defend the cardinal principles of normative Judaism:
the synagogue, kashrut (dietary laws), the Sabbath, and Eretz Yisrael. Jewish
peoplehood was axiomatic, and a divinely sanctioned return to Palestine was
nonnegotiable. All of the Seminary’s academic heads before 1948—Morais,
Schechter, Cyrus Adler, Finkelstein—subscribed to that mission despite differ-
ences in interpretation and differences over political Zionism.

Unlike the religionists, the laymen, who reorganized the Seminary at the
turn of the century and set the pattern for the first and for succeeding boards of
directors, stressed an American agenda. The patrician circle led in 1902 by Jacob
H. Schiff and Louis Marshall were not averse to Jewish tradition in modern
dress, but most refused to countenance the idea of a discrete Jewish nationality.
They saw the Seminary primarily as an Americanizing agency, one that would
produce modern rabbis and teachers to hasten the acculturation of the eastern
European immigrant masses and, equally important, to guard them against the
nefarious “un-American” doctrines of secularism and radicalism. More than
another philanthropic organization created by the German Jewish Establish-
ment, the Seminary took on a practical urgency. It would teach the eastern Eu-
ropeans how to retain their religion in a form both respectable and acceptable
to Americans. Zionists sat alongside non-Zionists and anti-Zionists on the first
boards, but all agreed that Zionism as well as Palestine, a land significant chiefly
as a possible haven for persecuted European Jews, was extraneous to the
Seminary’s program.
Although one vision emphasized the preservation of Judaism and the other
focused on shoring up the security of Jews, the two converged on a critical
point: neither one negated the American Diaspora. Until 1948 the lay leaders
for the most part summarily rejected the notion that America was galut. The
one homeland for America’s Jews, the United States alone held out the promise
of permanent Jewish survival, and it alone demanded undivided Jewish loyalty.
The religionists followed a two-centered approach. Nationalists at least in the
traditional religious sense, they prayed for a return to Zion, but they deemed
the ongoing exilic experience essential to the unfolding of modern Zionism.7
At the same time, they dedicated themselves to service the religious needs of an
American Jewry and to perpetuate the Jewish heritage in the United States. A
genuine love of the country also underlay their insistence that Judaism and
Americanism were eminently compatible. Thus, however justified, acceptance
of Diaspora survivalism united both groups and allowed each to invest in the
future of the Seminary.
The outlook of the students reinforced the two-centered vision. They took
pride in their Americanism and were grateful for the country’s bounties. More-
over, their education and professional ambitions were predicated on an Ameri-
can future. Like the lay founders of the institution, and like American Jews in
general, including Zionists, they emended Herzl’s laws with respect to the
United States. The virulent antisemitism that menaced European Jewish well-
being and physical security, the base on which Herzl rested his case, did not
obtain in America. But although the students agreed that America was differ-
ent, their highly developed sense of Jewish ethnicity was virtually ineradi-
cable. Overwhelmingly of eastern European origin, they bore a cultural bag-
gage steeped in both traditional religious and modern secular concepts of
Jewish peoplehood and nationality. A few of the early ones recalled the Zionist

influences that touched them as youngsters in the Old World or in American

immigrant homes.8 Since Zionism was neither taught nor officially sanctioned
in the rabbinical school, it became a popular extracurricular activity. Not every
rabbi ordained by the Seminary was an ardent Zionist—a member of the class
of 1904 preached rabid anti-Zionist views when he went on to edit the Chicago-
based Reform Advocate—but in a pattern set by the first graduate, England’s
Chief Rabbi Joseph Hertz,9 Seminary men developed their Zionist leanings
more fully during their pulpit careers.
Actual clashes within the Seminary between defenders of the one-centered
and two-centered approaches were avoided so long as Zionism was little more
than a pious dream or exercise in philanthropy. Tensions mounted, however,
whenever Zionism as a secular political movement appeared to threaten the
directors’ image of American Jews, which the Jewish Establishment had so as-
siduously cultivated. What in each instance determined the administration’s
position, or its response to conflicting Zionist and anti-Zionist pressures from
within the Seminary and from the larger Jewish and American communities,
depended on diverse factors ranging from the needs of American and Euro-
pean Jewry to the school’s financial state. During Finkelstein’s administration
the balance between the one-centered and two-centered visions collapsed.
Forced by his priorities to choose between the two, the president opted to focus
his attention primarily on the American center. Controversy ended only with
the establishment of Israel in 1948. Then, the Seminary and the organizational
affiliates of the Conservative movement united in forging ever closer ties with
the Jewish state.
A Spiritual Zionist
The succession of Louis Finkelstein to the presidency upon the death of Adler
came as no surprise to the Seminary family. Finkelstein had risen through the
ranks; ordained in 1919, he left his congregation in 1931 to teach at the Semi-
nary and to serve as Cyrus Adler’s assistant and provost. Recognized unoffi-
cially as heir apparent, he enjoyed a warm and congenial relationship with his
chief. The two men shared a commitment to scientific scholarship and to tra-
ditional observance both as a personal and as an institutional norm.10 Even the
sensitive issue of Zionism, which had aroused considerable anti-Adler senti-
ment among Finkelstein’s rabbinical colleagues, did not strain the bonds of
mutual trust and respect. Unlike the non-Zionist Adler, Finkelstein was a
dues-paying member of the Zionist Organization, but, since he was a staunch
opponent of political as well as secular nationalism, his Zionism was purely of
a spiritual nature. An early statement of his—“We want to see Palestine re-
built; we have for it . . . an intuitional, unreasoning, and mystic love”11—could
very well have been made by any religious Zionist or the non-Zionist Adler.

Finkelstein’s stand on a Jewish Palestine presaged no significant change in

Seminary policy, and, had critical events between 1940 and 1948 not inter-
vened, it would hardly have aroused debate.
The new president had a passion for study and scholarship. By 1940 he had
produced major works on the Pharisees and Rabbi Akiba, but, so different from
his oldest friend, Rabbi Solomon Goldman of Chicago, he took little interest in
the politics or strategy of modern Jewish state-building. Unlike Schechter and
Adler, Finkelstein neither engaged in public polemics on Zionist policies and
personalities nor did he campaign actively, the way Adler had, for building up
the yishuv. He followed Adler into the executive councils of the AJC but not into
the Jewish Agency. His popular writings that touched on Zionism reveal how he
concentrated on fitting modern Zionism into the religious chain welded by his
heroes, the Prophets and the spiritual leaders of the Second Commonwealth.
Seeking to apply his scholarship to this-worldly activities, he viewed the estab-
lishment of a Jewish Palestine through an historical-religious lens.12
Finkelstein began with two premises. One affirmed the need of Palestine for
the religious Jew: “I believe that every Jew has a religious duty to strive to live in
Palestine as the Holy Land of Israel; that because of the association of prayer
and ceremonial with the Holy Land, he can worship God in Palestine in a man-
ner in which he cannot worship Him anywhere else in the world.” The second
underscored the place of Palestine in a vibrant Judaism, in his words, “Judaism
without Palestine is spiritually retarded.” The land, he maintained, was neces-
sary for the development of the prophetic teachings of peace, equality, and so-
cial justice. His objective was a Jewish community in Palestine dedicated to the
observance of the Torah, the living word of God, and one that would, as the
spiritual center of Israel, spark Jewish cultural creativity. He spoke vaguely at
times of a predominantly Jewish Palestine,13 or of an autonomous community,
but religious content always took precedence over political form.
A religious community in Palestine had a larger purpose as well. Citing the
views of Rabbi Akiba, Finkelstein insisted that nationhood had meaning only if
Israel existed for an ideal outside itself. Upon a Jewish Palestine lay the respon-
sibility of contributing to the survival of civilization by making God’s reality
manifest to the world and by transmitting the message of the fatherhood of
God and brotherhood of man. He liked to think of a restored Palestine as the
“third commonwealth,” infused with the same spiritual vitality that inspired
the deeds of the leaders of the Second Commonwealth—Ezra, the Chasideans,
and the Pharisees—and that molded the spiritual life of both Israelites and
non-Israelites. If the world cherished the prophetic ideals taught by the Jews, it
would help in the rebuilding of Palestine.
Finkelstein’s form of spiritual Zionism emphasized the universalist role of
Judaism but did not delimit it, as classical Reform had, to religious contribu-
tions. Israel as the kingdom of priests had more to impart than a message of
monotheism. Positing the ongoing creativity of Israel, he affirmed in an early

talk that the people’s historical contributions to civilization through prophecy,

religious law, philosophy, and poetry had not exhausted their potential: “What
future creations lie latent in the still growing mind of Israel we do not know.”
All attempts at creativity deserved encouragement, be they in “Jewish art, Jew-
ish music, the renaissance of the Hebrew language as the medium of daily
intercourse, and above all the rebuilding of the Jewish homeland.” The Hebrew
University, for example, to which he promised Seminary support early on, il-
lustrated his point.14 Zionism was therefore a good; itself a product of Jewish
creativity, it held out the promise of ongoing creativity for the benefit of man-
kind through a religion-based Jewish center.
Finkelstein’s emphasis on universalism and on spiritual rather than political
Zionism bore distinct traces of the American liberal creed. Coming to maturity
during the Great War, his generation repudiated the militarism and hyperna-
tionalism that in their opinion had precipitated the world conflict. Their faith
in a new postwar world was rudely shaken by the failure of the League of Na-
tions and the rise of totalitarianism, but they held fast to the twin beliefs of
universalism and pacifism. In the case of Finkelstein, who found reinforcement
for those precepts in rabbinic teachings, they assumed even greater signifi-
cance.15 They fed his aversion to power politics in general and to the politics of
Jewish state-building in particular.
Palestine as the spiritual hub of Judaism—and Finkelstein usually used the
term “Judaism” in preference to “Jews”—never negated the viability or desir-
ability of the American Diaspora. Like the earlier religious and cultural Zion-
ists, he neither challenged the validity of a “comfortable” or “Americanized”
Zionism nor did he urge American Jews to plan on aliyah. Jews had found spir-
itual as well as material well-being in America, he said, for the ethical values of
the Founding Fathers of the United States were identical to those of the Phari-
sees. American Jews too were called upon to render service to God, Torah, and
mankind, and the Seminary in particular, which Finkelstein likened to the
academy at Yavneh of Roman times, had a universal mission. Just as the spiri-
tual influence of Yavneh had transcended the material glories of the Hellenistic
world, so might the Seminary similarly serve mankind. Finkelstein may have
agonized privately that he, an observant Jew, could not live a full religious life
outside Eretz Yisrael,16 but he chose to build up the primacy of Judaism’s spiri-
tual mission in America.
The president’s refusal to make Jewish political sovereignty a Seminary objec-
tive never seriously undermined his control over the students and faculty. The
more nationalistically minded grumbled, but since the Seminary did not man-
date conformity, they were free to act out their Zionist sentiments indepen-
dently. Besides, Finkelstein had a singular ability to keep his institution in line. A
forceful and charismatic leader, charming and hospitable, worldly but unassum-
ing, he could reason, cajole, conciliate, and, above all, inspire loyalty. Unlike his
immediate predecessor he was a “hands-on” president, a respected teacher as

well as astute administrator, whose single-minded dedication to the Seminary

was exemplary and whose scholarship earned universal admiration. Students
and faculty neither rebelled against his determination to keep the Seminary
more traditionalist than Conservative, nor force his hand on Zionism.
The RA and United Synagogue, despite disaffection with Finkelstein’s ap-
proach to Zionism as well as some of his administrative policies, were similarly
captivated by the personality and achievements of their classmate and col-
league. When the Seminary launched a fund-raising campaign with the RA and
the United Synagogue, which gave the school the power to allocate funds to the
arms of the movement, their submission to the president and the Seminary was
virtually total.17 In fact as well as in theory the school now spoke for a central-
ized movement. And, just as the Seminary was the fount of Conservative Juda-
ism, Louis Finkelstein was the Seminary.
The board of directors of the Seminary also accepted Finkelstein’s religious
Zionism. No more representative of Conservative Judaism than their predeces-
sors, the non-Zionist and anti-Zionist members, however, lacked the deep Jew-
ish attachments of a Schiff or a Marshall. Although they opposed any sign of
Jewish nationalism within the school, they could empathize with the principles
of universalism and mission that suffused the president’s ideology and rheto-
ric. They genuinely revered Finkelstein for his piety and his learning,18 and (his
New York accent notwithstanding!) they too were captivated by his charm. To
this author’s knowledge, he functioned for some as personal counselor and
spiritual guide.
Zionism became a disruptive force in the smooth administration of the
Seminary only when demands for an independent Palestine resurfaced in the
1940s. British intransigence with respect to Jewish immigration to Palestine,
compounding the horrors of Hitler’s war against the Jews, testified to the inad-
equacies of a passive Palestinianism or gradualist Zionism. The crisis de-
manded an immediate refuge for European Jewish survivors. Since refugees
had long been a drug on the international market, Zionists fixed on Jewish po-
litical autonomy as the one solution for keeping open the doors of Palestine.
Under the leadership of a new generation, David Ben-Gurion in Palestine and
Reform Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver in the United States, they assumed a more mil-
itant approach. At a Zionist conference at New York’s Biltmore Hotel in May
1942, more than six hundred delegates, calling for unity within the movement,
demanded free entry into Palestine, control over immigration and land devel-
opment by the Jewish Agency, and the establishment of Palestine as a “Jewish
commonwealth.” To make support of a commonwealth coextensive with the
Jewish community, the Zionists orchestrated the organization of an American
Jewish Conference, where, in September 1943, the delegates endorsed the Bilt-
more program. One Seminary professor predicted that the action of the con-
ference “will probably figure prominently in the annals of the modern Jewish
renaissance.”19

Herzlian Zionism was thus resurrected, forcing Finkelstein to confront the

issue of Jewish political nationalism and somehow to reconcile four factors: his
personal convictions, his American agenda, his dependence on anti-Zionist
board members, and the Zionist loyalties of the students, faculty, and Conser-
vative movement at large. He soon learned that spiritual Zionism was no longer
a viable category. According to the new rules of the game, one was either for a
Jewish state in Palestine or against it. As President Maurice Wertheim of the
AJC explained at the beginning of the war, there were only Zionists and anti-
Zionists. Predicting that the yishuv, with its own agenda for independence,
would take matters into its own hands, he claimed that any financial help to
Palestine, heretofore condoned by the non-Zionists, only strengthened the po-
litical position and aspirations of the yishuv.20 Since Wertheim’s conclusions
were correct, Finkelstein’s options were constricted; he had to decide whether
to join the movement for a political state or to wear the label of anti-Zionist.
For a fuller understanding of the pressures on Finkelstein, a recognition of

what one scholar has called his “central vision” is critical. The pet project of the
Seminary’s president throughout his administration was the development of
interreligious and intergroup activities under the aegis of the JTS. Through
various types of academic programs—lectures, seminars, institutes, and con-
ferences—scholars from different disciplines and of different faiths would
hammer out a “synthesis of traditional religious truth with modern scientific
knowledge” and arrive at “inclusive universal ethics that would incorporate the
best of the various religious and philosophical traditions.”21
The idea sprouted with the outbreak of World War II. Then, in response to
totalitarianism, Americans took a greater interest in religion, reasoning that a
healthy democracy was sustained by religion. Finkelstein was in full accord:
“The real difficulty we must face . . . is the . . . heathenization or paganization of
such a large part of the population both Jewish and Christian. . . . I do not
know of anything we can do more important than to make some contribution
to the preservation of religion as a vital force in America.”22 Many Christians as
well as Jews agreed. For their part, rabbis welcomed the opportunity to reassert
the centrality of faith within the Jewish community—to emphasize the role of
religion in the prosecution of the war and in the blueprints for peace. They saw
an opportunity to teach the essential compatibility of Judaism with democracy
and of Jewish with American values.23
Finkelstein wanted more. Besides disseminating an overall framework of
morality forged by an ongoing intergroup dialogue of committed scholars, he
sought to raise the status of Judaism within the United States to that of
American Protestantism and Catholicism. Jews constituted only a small mi-
nority, but their religion, he taught, ranked on a par with Christianity. Both
lay at the core of the American faith, and both were joined in the religious
one line short

struggle against totalitarianism. By his efforts for the proper recognition of Ju-
daism, Finkelstein stamped the importance of the Jewish faith on the religious
map of the United States, and he was the one who did the most to gain re-
spectability among Christian leaders for the “Judeo” component of the “Judeo-
Christian tradition.”
By positing the foundations of Americanism on a Judeo-Christian tradition,
Finkelstein injected a radically new dimension into the Americanization of Ju-
daism. Zionism fit his central vision of an aroused religious consciousness in
America but only in an indirect fashion: if the ancient religious center in Pales-
tine had been responsible for shaping the nation’s moral values and ethical tra-
dition, a restored Jewish center—enriching Judaism, Christianity, and the very
ethos of America—promised to nurture that tradition. Since a center like that
could well appeal to Americans by showing them the untapped value of a Jew-
ish Palestine, he was unwittingly adding to the Americanization of Zionism.
But whether the implications of his vision could ultimately benefit the Zionist
goal of statehood remained a moot point. Publicly the Conservative leader pre-
ferred neither to endorse nor reject a Jewish state, and he maintained his purist
spiritual stance during the era of the Holocaust.
It is more than likely that Finkelstein’s commitment to the intergroup pro-
gram constrained him further on the subject of political Zionism. If for no
other reason he faulted Zionist appeals for aid to the yishuv, since they drained
financial resources away from religious institutions.24 In no way could he afford
to lose Christian goodwill or to alienate those affluent Jews, like the members of
his board, who funded his projects. The board cheered on Finkelstein’s inter-
group activities, and they supported his major plans to broaden the
institution’s outreach to Christians, principally intellectuals, as well as to Jews.
Their cooperation enabled him in turn to withstand the criticism of Jewish
skeptics. In 1937 when Finkelstein, then provost, coordinated the Seminary’s
semicentennial celebration, which featured prominent Christian academics, he
was chided by Solomon Goldman for “constantly running after the goyim.” In
response Finkelstein said that American Jews were obliged to educate others in
Jewish values, for without a relationship with American Christians Judaism
would survive only as a reaction to antisemitism. Nor did he find it inappropri-
ate, the way Goldman had, for board member Lewis L. Strauss, a Reform Jew
and anti-Zionist, to serve as chairman of the celebration.25
As his outreach program developed further, Finkelstein strengthened the
board’s pride in the JTS. Doubtless in their eyes he was transforming the insti-
tution from a parochial yeshivah geared to service eastern European immi-
grants into a creative intellectual center harnessed to the needs of the entire na-
tion.26 He may have felt impelled to yield on Zionism in order not to alienate
the board, but that seemed a small price to pay when the effort to strengthen
the Seminary and Judaism within American society was on the line.
one line short

Above the Contending Factions
Finkelstein’s views of Zionism did not arouse public comment before he be-
came president. His interest after the riots of 1929 in Jewish negotiations with
the Palestinian Arabs was a topic of conversation only among Seminary stu-
dents; his opposition to England’s suggestion in 1937 of partitioning Palestine
was voiced privately and merely to show his support of Cyrus Adler’s antistatist
stand.27 Less than a year after he assumed office, however, Zionists pounced
upon the man who now spoke for the Conservative movement.
In March 1941 Lord Halifax, British ambassador to the United States, invited
three rabbis—David de Sola Pool, Louis Finkelstein, and Israel Goldstein—to a
private conference on the issues facing American Jews. (Pool was Orthodox,
Goldstein like Finkelstein was Conservative.) Halifax raised the subject of
Zionism, and the rabbis assured him that although they differed on minor
points they were all Zionists. In the course of the conversation and without any
prompting, Finkelstein commented on the irreligiosity of the yishuv, a condi-
tion that shocked Christian leaders but that he, Finkelstein, was confident
would change. Immediately after the meeting, when Pool and Goldstein re-
buked him for those gratuitous remarks, he replied that he believed in being
honest about such matters, and besides, Halifax, a religious man, was probably
well aware of the facts. Finkelstein may have felt that an emphasis on religion in
the yishuv rather than on political Zionism would appeal to the ambassador,
but in Zionist eyes he had tarnished the image of a united Jewry in support of
the Jews in Palestine.
Although the proceedings of the conference were supposed to remain confi-
dential, Goldstein leaked the substance to several leading Zionists, including
Chaim Weizmann and Stephen Wise, and Finkelstein became fair game for the
nationalists. A Zionist smear campaign ensued: Finkelstein had maligned the
yishuv, and, at a time when the British White Paper had cut the sole remaining
lifeline for Jews trapped by the Nazis, he was no better than a moser (informer
against the Jews to the non-Jews). Chaim Weizmann did not return
Finkelstein’s call; Wise refused to shake Finkelstein’s hand on a social occasion.
Furious with a now contrite Goldstein, who at once attempted to defend Fin-
kelstein to Weizmann, the Seminary’s president told his colleague that the “poi-
son” was rapidly spreading: “If unchecked, the trouble will spread to Palestine
. . . and will be told to Chief Rabbi [Isaac] Herzog.” Claiming to be concerned
more for his institution than for his own good name, Finkelstein wanted to be,
and was, judged as the leader of the Seminary and the Conservative movement.
His office gave him public recognition and clout, but, as this episode taught, it
put constraints upon his speech and behavior.28
The new militancy on the part of the Zionists after the Biltmore conference
revitalized the diehard anti-Zionists. In the summer of 1942 a small group of
Reform rabbis initiated what shortly became the American Council for Judaism.

Embittered by the Zionist commitment to statehood and by the action of

Reform’s Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR) endorsing the crea-
tion of a Jewish army in Palestine to fight alongside the Allies, the dissidents
published a statement in condemnation of political Zionism. It denied neither
the plight of the refugees nor the admirable achievements of the yishuv, but it
contended that a nationalistic and secularistic movement contradicted the car-
dinal tenets of Judaism. Still frightened by the charge of dual allegiance, the
council worried lest Zionist demands cast doubts anew on the primary loyalty
to America that Jews had so long protested. Since some Seminary board mem-
bers sympathized with the council, Finkelstein was dragged into the Zionist/
anti-Zionist dispute.29
A few months later Rabbi Philip Bernstein, a Reform rabbi and an active
Zionist, consulted with several prominent rabbis, including the presidents of
the RA, CCAR, and Rabbinical Council of America (Orthodox), and pro-
ceeded to draft a counterstatement to the council’s. Arguing that Zionism was
fully compatible with Judaism and its universalistic teachings, and that Jews
like other peoples enjoyed the right to political self-determination, the state-
ment lashed out at the anti-Zionists for their disservice to beleaguered Jews and
for providing aid to the enemies of a Jewish homeland. Not to be outdone by
the council’s claims to unalloyed Americanism, the statement included a separ-
ate paragraph reaffirming Zionist loyalty to the country:
We have not the least fear that our fellow Americans will be led to misconstrue
the attitudes of American Jews to America because of their interest in Zionism.
Every fair-minded American knows that American Jews have only one political
allegiance—and that is to America. There is nothing in Zionism to impair this
loyalty. Zionism has been endorsed in our generation by every President from
Woodrow Wilson to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and has been approved by the
Congress of the United States.
Bernstein then called upon Finkelstein, along with twenty other leading rab-
bis, to sponsor a letter soliciting endorsement of the statement from fellow rab-
bis from all branches of American Judaism. Although members of the RA
signed that letter, Finkelstein refused. He said that the statement was open to
misinterpretation and that it could trigger a major controversy that might actu-
ally harm the Zionist cause. Disturbed, however, that his refusal was construed
by some as anti-Zionist, he wrote Bernstein that he, as president of the JTS, had
been advised not to sign. Since the advice came from a Zionist, indeed a spon-
sor of the counterstatement, he labored to prove that his decision in no way re-
flected any personal opposition to Zionism.30
Caught between Zionist pressure on the one hand and an unwillingness to
ally himself with the statehood movement on the other, Finkelstein wrote Bern-
stein yet again, stating that he was well aware of the “whispering campaign”

against him, even though no American Jew had cause to presume “that I am
not deeply concerned about the future of our homeland in Palestine.” He reit-
erated his fear of communal disunity generated by the statement and its ad-
verse effect on a Jewish restoration to Palestine. He added that perhaps the
American Council for Judaism was not totally in error, noting its influence on
some of his Christian friends. Calling for Zionist patience and soul-searching,
he urged above all the need to square Zionist thought with religious principles.
Only a Zionism grounded fully in religion stood a chance of achieving unity
among American Jews and of furthering Jewish aspirations in Palestine.31 In no
way did Finkelstein condone the council’s activities, but clearly the principal
culprit in his analysis was the Zionist movement.
The letters to Bernstein reveal how Finkelstein groped for a way out of the
conflicting pressures that beset him. His validation of Zionism solely on reli-
gious grounds, now largely ignoring the themes of Jewish peoplehood and
creativity, became the most expedient way for him to operate publicly. It in-
volved no compromise of principle on his part, and neither Zionists nor anti-
Zionists could very well dispute his vision of a Torah-true community in Pales-
tine. Perhaps too, as he suggested, Jewish consensus on a religious homeland
would more readily evoke a positive response in Christian circles, doubtless the
same circles to which he turned in his outreach programs. As the spiritual guide
who tried to stand above the contending factions and judge them according to
religious norms, Finkelstein donned the mantle of arbiter, pleading for Jewish
unity and chiding those whose communal in-fighting injured the cause of a le-
gitimate, i.e., religious, Jewish homeland.
Zionists, however, were persuaded neither by appeals for a transcendent
Jewish unity nor by what they regarded as pious platitudes. World Jewry in cri-
sis could not afford the luxury of religious visions alone, and after Biltmore a
true Zionist did not equivocate about statehood. In the flareup over the Coun-
cil for Judaism, Bernstein never even acknowledged receipt of Finkelstein’s let-
ters. Although the Seminary’s president genuinely believed that Zionist attacks
on him were totally unwarranted, his attempts to appear as a principled reli-
gious Zionist ended in failure. Historian Moshe Davis, who for many years
worked closely with Finkelstein, once explained: “He tried to straddle, . . . to
stick to both sides of the issue. And . . . that’s why there is to this day the recol-
lection on the part of many students at the time . . . of his non-Zionism and
anti-Zionism.”32
The counterstatement of the Bernstein group eventually garnered more
than eight hundred signatures. The RA soon followed, calling on Conservative
rabbis to sign a statement repudiating the purposes of the American Council
for Judaism. Rabbinical students at the JTS acted too; along with students from
Orthodox and Reform seminaries, they unanimously endorsed a program ad-
vocating Jewish membership in the United Nations, a Jewish army, and the es-
tablishment of a Jewish state in Palestine.33 Publicly, however, the Seminary’s

administration kept silent. Virtually the lone Conservative rabbi who refused to
sign the RA statement, Finkelstein attempted to placate both sides. He ex-
plained to a Zionist colleague: “I, of course, agreed with my colleagues in their
basic strictures against the Council. . . . On the other hand, I simply could not
sign a statement which equated Judaism with American, British and French na-
tionalism.”34 At the same time, when board member Arthur Hays Sulzberger of
the New York Times, a rabid anti-Zionist, wondered suspiciously what the con-
nection of the RA was to the Seminary, Finkelstein assured him that, although
the RA “as a whole is very much under the influence of the Zionist Organiza-
tion,” it had no control over the policy of the school. He added that the state-
ment of the students, who were caught up in a Zionist-fomented wave of hys-
teria, had been considerably stronger and “more foolish” before he convinced
them that they had misunderstood the situation. Sulzberger’s sympathies with
the council notwithstanding, Finkelstein mildly criticized the anti-Zionists for
their “injudicious” behavior, but conforming to his role as arbiter, he preferred
to stay above the controversy. For resolving the impasse he suggested only re-
newed “educational effort.”35
Where the Seminary stood on the fight between the Zionists and the Ameri-
can Council for Judaism became a public issue when the Independent Jewish
News Service reported that several board members were associated with the
council. Finkelstein called the report “unscrupulous propaganda,” charging
that it contained “misinterpretations” if not “actual falsities.” He explained to
the faculty that none of the board members under attack was, or intended to
become, associated with the council. Moreover, the Seminary was not obligated
to defend the statements of any individuals connected with it.36
The issue was not whether Finkelstein lied. That he felt impelled to offer an
explanation suggests first, a widespread awareness of the positive interest in the
council on the part of several Seminary directors (notably Sulzberger, Strauss,
and Alan Stroock), and second, a fear on the part of the faculty that the council
sympathizers would attempt to impose an anti-Zionist policy upon the Semi-
nary. At this juncture the Seminary’s respected Talmudist, Professor Louis
Ginzberg, intervened. He called the incident “much ado about nothing”; he
hoped at least that the Seminary’s laissez-faire policy on Zionism would prevail
and “that the members of the Board will . . . not object to any pro-Zionistic
declarations by members of the Faculty expressed by them as individuals.” He
reminded Finkelstein of the public exchange of letters between Jacob Schiff
and Solomon Schechter in 1907 on the dangers of Zionism to American Jewry.
Schechter had not yielded to his most important board member, and Ginzberg
hoped that Finkelstein would take similar action with respect to his board.37
A few months after that uproar, another crisis erupted, this one concerning
the withdrawal of the AJC from the American Jewish Conference. The non-
Zionist committee, a reluctant participant from the beginning, suffered a major
defeat when the conference dismissed its pleas to defer the issue of Jewish

statehood and proceeded to endorse the Biltmore program. The committee’s

executive voted in October 1943 to leave the conference, thereby damaging the
impressive show of Jewish unity on the Palestine issue. The action called forth
torrents of abuse, and 10 percent of the AJC’s membership resigned in
protest.38 The arms of the Conservative movement stood in the forefront of the
opposition; the RA, United Synagogue, and Women’s League(affiliated with the
United Synagogue) all dissociated themselves from the AJC. Cries came from
Conservative rabbis and congregations for Louis Finkelstein, a member of the
committee’s executive, to follow suit. Milton Steinberg, rabbi of New York’s
prestigious Park Avenue Synagogue, called the committee’s withdrawal “an ex-
pression of the most dejudaized and detraditionalized elements in American
Jewish life”—which fed into the hands of the anti-Zionists. The president of a
congregation in Pottsville, Pennsylvania, similarly inveighed against the AJC’s
action, “which flouts those very religious principles and democratic ideals to
which we in our small way are dedicated.” Both the prominent rabbi and the
obscure layman, allied in the Conservative movement that had since
Schechter’s days linked Zionism with Judaism, asked Finkelstein to resign from
the committee. As Steinberg diplomatically put it: “You do serve as spokesman
for Conservative Judaism in this country. And, ideally, there ought not to be a
sharp dichotomy between the leadership of a movement and the overwhelming
sentiment of its following.”39
Again Finkelstein was forced to balance institutional pressures and personal
beliefs. He participated in the committee’s debate on quitting the conference,
and there too his guarded remarks revealed his distance from political Zionism.
Like the AJC, he faulted the British White Paper of 1939, which drastically cur-
tailed immigration to Palestine, but although he favored a refuge for Jews in
Palestine, he spoke against statehood. For one thing, if the commonwealth res-
olution meant a less-than-equal political status for Christians and Muslims in
Palestine (which he seemed to assume), it was unacceptable. Furthermore, it
was bad statesmanship to ask for the unattainable: “There isn’t one possibility
in five hundred that there will be established in the course of the next twenty-
five years what is called a Jewish state in Palestine.” Age-old Jewish prayers did
not ask for a Jewish president in Palestine: “What the Jews have been praying
for two thousand years is that the Kingdom of God shall be restored in Pales-
tine.” The rabbi abstained on the committee’s vote to withdraw from the con-
ference, and for the sake of communal unity he called for further negotiations
with the Zionists. If they refused to change the statehood resolution, only then
was withdrawal in order.40 Except for that qualification, which again put him
above the contending parties, his spiritual Zionism and vague ecumenicism led
to a conclusion identical to the committee’s.
Seminary tradition also worked to keep Finkelstein loyal to the AJC. The
school and the defense agency had been closely linked throughout their histo-
ries. In the days of Schechter and Adler the same prominent few who ran the

committee sat on the Seminary’s board; Cyrus Adler was a lynchpin of the
committee while he headed the Seminary. During Finkelstein’s administration
traces of the interlocking directorate persisted. Finkelstein himself served on
various committees of the AJC, and the AJC in turn helped fund the
Seminary’s intergroup Conference on Science, Philosophy, and Religion.41
Were Finkelstein to sever the long-standing relationship, he could have trig-
gered a major crisis with the board or forfeited funds for his outreach program.
Dissent within the Ranks
The president, however, could not ignore the pressures from the Seminary’s
rank and file. Milton Steinberg for one probed beyond the conference episode
and asked for answers to a series of pointed questions: Did Finkelstein envision
a Jewish Palestine solely as “a community of Saints such as that of Safed in the
sixteenth century” or as a home for “many Jews even if not all of them are
saints and scholars” (a takeoff on Scholar, Saint and Martyr, the subtitle of
Finkelstein’s biography of Rabbi Akiba)? On what basis did Jews have the right
to demand free entry into Palestine? Was the Western world still bound by the
promises of the Balfour Declaration and mandate? Did Finkelstein deny Jewish
nationhood? Would he favor Jewish political self-determination if Jews consti-
tuted a majority in Palestine?
Finkelstein answered forthrightly: Palestine was not only for saints and
scholars; the Balfour Declaration and mandate were permanent covenants; the
right to enter Palestine stemmed primarily from the right of any Jew to fulfill a
religious obligation: “The question of whether the Jew who comes to Palestine
is himself religious in other respects, is not a relevant issue. . . . His desire to
come to Palestine is a desire to perform a religious act.” Yes, he believed in Jew-
ish peoplehood—“nation” was too loose a term—but he did not regard Jews as
a political group. Nor did present circumstances warrant statehood:
I believe the interest of Palestine and the world requires that for the time being,
it should remain under international control. If, at sometime in the future, the
Jews constitute a majority of the land, and as such a majority desire that the land
be reconstituted as the Republic of Eretz Israel (with guarantees of full and
equal rights to all individuals and groups), I would regard it as the duty of the
world to grant that request, insofar as it will grant similar requests to other small
countries.
Although Steinberg the Zionist concluded that at least for the moment
Finkelstein’s response “leaves little to be desired,” the question of why the pres-
ident opposed the conference resolution and sided with the AJC remained. Fin-
kelstein explained at length to the rabbi that since the committee’s attempts at

unity had been rebuffed, the fault for the rupture lay with the Zionists. He per-
sonally was dismayed by Zionist tactics at the conference, but more important
he thought the Palestine resolution was intrinsically flawed. The word “com-
monwealth,” which connoted an arrogation of political power on the part of
Jews at the expense of non-Jews in Palestine, was morally and religiously inde-
fensible as well as potentially harmful to Diaspora Jews. Long the universalist,
he was also concerned lest the resolution, drawn along lines of narrow nation-
alism, cause Jews to forget their mission to the world at large. He, Finkelstein,
had suggested that the word “homeland” be substituted for “commonwealth,”
but the Zionists had turned him down.42
Finkelstein’s explanations jibed with his remarks at the AJC meeting and his
most recent article for the New Palestine. But a private letter to Steinberg illu-
minated more clearly than before the essential distinction he drew between his
spiritual Zionism and political Zionism: “The primary question is not one of
political control of the land, but whether the Jews are given the opportunity to
perform their religious duty, and to develop their spiritual and cultural life in
the Holy Land, and whether they are there in such numbers and preponderance
as to make the development of their religious and spiritual life basic elements
in the civilization of the country.” A Jewish majority in Palestine might be de-
sirable, but the concept of a majority in a political sense carried no special
merit.43 Finkelstein held fast to his principles, but his dismissal of “political
control” hardly endeared him in 1943 to American Zionists.
The Seminary’s president discussed the AJC/conference rupture with a
handpicked committee that consisted of four board members, four alumni,
and four faculty members. The group, of which he said “virtually everyone . . .
is an ardent Zionist,” agreed that he should remain in the AJC with a view to-
ward achieving collaboration between the committee and the Zionists. There
the matter was dropped, and a letter of resignation from the AJC, which Fin-
kelstein had drafted earlier, was never sent. Nevertheless, disaffection with his
close ties to the committee lingered.44
By 1943, as thoughts turned to plans for a postwar world, Finkelstein’s uni-
versalist and antinationalist leanings grew more pronounced. In articles that
appeared in the New Palestine he ranked national sovereignty well below inter-
nationalism: “The creation of an enduring peace presupposes an active cooper-
ative relationship among nations and peoples, which makes the question of
statehood less and less relevant; while emphasis on national sovereignty any-
where must be fatal to civilization.” He spoke on the need for a restored Jewish
homeland—never did he use the word “state” or “commonwealth”—but again
he depicted a center through which a revitalized Judaism (not Jews)would ef-
fectively disseminate the spiritual values required for the survival of civiliza-
tion. The political contours of that center remained fuzzy. In favor of a postwar
association of nations committed to the prophetic ideals of peace and justice,
he envisioned a Jewish homeland under the supervision of the United Nations.

A restored Palestine and a new world order were interlocked. The former was
both “indispensable to a reformation of world culture as well as one of the
major expressions of that reformation itself.” Since he decried secular Jewish
nationalism, the editor of the New Palestine pressed him for a similar denunci-
ation of anti-Zionism. All Finkelstein agreed to, however, was one narrowly
worded sentence in keeping with his religious focus: “To oppose this effort to
restore the Jewish settlement of the Holy Land,” he added, “is to repudiate a
cardinal tradition of Judaism.”45
Zionists who looked for a positive endorsement from the leader of Conser-
vative Jewry remained dissatisfied. They had drawn the line between Zionist
and anti-Zionist on the issue of Jewish political autonomy, and a “homeland”
or “settlement” under international control fell short of that objective. Yet, out
of principle as well as a healthy fear of antagonizing his board, Finkelstein
would venture no further. Sulzberger’s behavior, for example, proved that anti-
nationalists were at least as uncompromising as the political Zionists. Moving
from non-Zionism to anti-Zionism in response to nationalist militancy,46 the
publisher aired his bias publicly through the New York Times. Privately he nee-
dled Finkelstein repeatedly whenever he suspected Seminary identification
with Jewish nationalism. On one occasion he mistakenly detected a Jewish flag
in a Times photograph of a Seminary convocation, and he protested that the
display of a flag “which is not my national emblem again raises the issue which
has so much disturbed me.”47
The president trod warily with the board. As early as 1941 he began to clear
with them any matter—even as inconsequential as signing a statement in sup-
port of the Hebrew University—that smacked of Seminary involvement with
Palestine or Zionism.48 At one faculty meeting he described his difficulties with
individual board members and the countless hours he was forced to spend on
placating them. Since financial pressures fostered a dependence on the goodwill
of Sulzberger and Lewis Strauss, the two most likely to expand the Seminary’s
circle of large donors, it was politic to keep Zionist sentiments in check. Profes-
sor Mordecai Kaplan reported that the president agreed to certain conditions
that Sulzberger thought would help the chances of reaching the “big money”:
The Seminary would not limit itself to servicing Conservative Judaism; the
Seminary would continue its interfaith work; and the Seminary would not
commit itself to political Zionism. The cynical Kaplan suspected that Finkel-
stein himself and not Sulzberger or Strauss had formulated those conditions.49
Finkelstein loyally sprang to Sulzberger’s defense in a dispute between the
publisher and Abba Hillel Silver. In the wake of the American Jewish Confer-
ence, the Reform rabbi, now the recognized voice of an aggressive Zionism,
publicly denounced “the spirit of Arthur Hays Sulzberger,” which had turned
the Times into “the channel for anti-Zionist propaganda.” Finkelstein, who
claimed both men as his friends but deplored the injurious effect of such
quarrels on the causes of both Jews and Judaism, blamed the Zionist leader.

He told Sulzberger that Silver had chosen a path of “violence and vehemence.”
Perhaps recalling that Silver was most responsible for the passage of the Pales-
tine resolution at the American Jewish Conference, and hence for Finkelstein’s
own difficulties after the AJC/conference rupture, he may have unconsciously
identified with him: “It is obviously the fate of the men who try to civilize the
world to be misinterpreted and maligned by their contemporaries who resist
being civilized.” Nothing from “our hysterical friends,” he assured his board
member, could undermine “your place in American religious life and in Juda-
ism, and your magnificent contributions to civilization in our time.” Finkel-
stein wrote Silver at the same time, calling Sulzberger “a loyal and devout Jew
trying to serve his faith and his people” whose outlook on Jewish life was, in-
deed, not that different from Silver’s. He didn’t neglect, however, to lavish
equally high praise on the Zionist leader; there were few whose abilities he ad-
mired more and whose devotion “to the service of God and the Jewish faith, I
have greater certainty.”50
Again, as in the episodes of the Bernstein letter and the AJC’s withdrawal
from the American Jewish Conference, the Seminary’s president attempted to
juggle conflicting pressures—in this case his own principles, his dependence on
the board, and the need to appease his Conservative constituency. Professing si-
multaneously a loyalty to both Zionists and anti-Zionists, he sought a way out
of the maze by shifting the focus from political Zionism to Jewish unity. Finkel-
stein failed, however, to defuse the Sulzberger/Silver controversy, and the pub-
lisher and the rabbi exchanged heated letters replete with ad hominem attacks.
A near-hysterical Sulzberger even charged that the Zionists, who perverted and
distorted facts, were employing “Goebbels’ tactics.”51
When in 1945 the board officially considered the president’s views on Zion-
ism, it showed how sensitive all members, and not just Sulzberger and Strauss,
were on the subject. A frank statement of his position, drafted by Finkelstein
himself, appeared in the minutes of the board:
He [Finkelstein] described his attitude toward the reestablishment of a Jewish

settlement in Palestine as being precisely that of Doctor Schechter, and wholly
within the Jewish tradition. He stated that it was his conviction that in this sense,
every member of the Faculty, every alumnus of the Seminary, and he believed
also, every member of the Board, was a Zionist. On the other hand, while he did
not wish to make a public statement on the subject, . . . he wished the Board to
know what he had believed had been made obvious from all his writings over
many years, . . . namely, that he does not regard the Jews of the world as a politi-
cal unit. He considers that the effort to describe them that way is extremely dan-
gerous, not only to the Jews, but to democracy, generally, and that, though he
hopes that events will prove him wrong, the concentration of the Zionist effort
on the conception of Palestine as a “Jewish Commonwealth,” rather than on
widespread immigration will have a harmful effect on the future of the [yishuv].

The board accepted the president’s statement. They may have thought that his
spiritual Zionism posed no immediate challenge, or they may well have as-
sumed, as did some faculty members, that he was not a Zionist.52
Meanwhile, Conservative Jews waited in vain for Finkelstein to endorse the

Zionist demand for statehood. A cover story featuring Finkelstein that appeared
in Time a few years later reported that at least one large contributor to the Semi-
nary “tore up his usual check.” Within the RA rumblings of discontent with
Finkelstein’s attempts to keep one foot in both the Zionist and anti-Zionist
camps were also heard. As Milton Steinberg put it, “I want Dr. Finkelstein . . . to
stop pussyfooting on Zionism.”53 The opposition came to a head in 1944–45
when several prominent Conservative rabbis, led by Steinberg and Solomon
Goldman, prepared a list of grievances against the Seminary’s president.54 Their
lengthy indictment criticized Finkelstein for initiating new programs of an
interfaith or public relations nature that had little relevance to the Seminary as
a seat of learning, for ignoring the need to formulate a Conservative theology,
and for wielding too much power over the RA and United Synagogue. Further-
more, and this was the heart of their complaint, they charged that Finkelstein’s
board was a body unrepresentative of, and unsympathetic to, Conservative Ju-
daism. Although Finkelstein’s stand on Zionism was not specifically included as
a grievance, it was implicit in the bill of particulars. One could well deduce
from the rabbis’ brief that if the Seminary stayed on a proper course—commit-
ted to the interests and spirit of Conservative Judaism, and heedful of its rabbis
and congregations—it would emerge as an active supporter of the Zionist pro-
gram. Finkelstein understood the linkage between the rabbis’ complaints, which
simultaneously fueled student resentment, and Zionism.
Steinberg and Goldman presented harsh criticisms to Finkelstein privately.
Steinberg, who cancelled the annual appeal for the Seminary at his wealthy
congregation, also aired the charges publicly in three sermons titled “Crises in
Conservative Judaism.” Not only did he pointedly question Finkelstein’s power,
but he lashed out against the board, men “who are anti-traditionalist, anti-
Zionist, even assimilationist” and “flagrantly out of harmony with everything
the Seminary represents.” Finkelstein handled the dissidents with consummate
skill. He patiently answered them individually; he arranged meetings where he,
flanked by senior members of the faculty, entertained their complaints; and he
flattered them with friendly invitations. In the end, his strategy wore them
down. That plus a genuine loyalty to their teacher and friend on the part of the
rabbis broke the back of the “Steinberg-Goldman revolt.” In the long run not
all was lost. The administrative organization of the Seminary was modified to
include a larger board of overseers, representative of Conservative Jewry, that
would share some authority with the board of directors. Finkelstein also prom-
ised that as long as he was president no one would be appointed a director
without the endorsement of the RA’s executive.

For the time being, however, the president and the board of directors
reigned supreme with respect to political Zionism. At the very moment that he
was negotiating with the rabbis, Finkelstein again refused to sign a Zionist
statement responding to charges from the American Council for Judaism. This
time he explained that if the text of the statement were properly altered, he
might be able to induce Lessing Rosenwald, president and strong financial
backer of the council, to withdraw his support of that organization. He did
meet with Rosenwald, but his attempt at peacemaking between Zionists and
anti-Zionists failed.55 Whether in the interest of Jewish unity, or merely “pussy-
footing” as Steinberg had called it, Finkelstein refused to burn his bridges to ei-
ther group.
Within the walls of the Seminary, faculty and student anger also smoldered.
Finkelstein’s approach to Zionism was never debated publicly; in Moshe Davis’s
words, it generated only “corridor, cafeteria and house talk.”56 Much like Stein-
berg and Goldman, students linked their support of Zionism with scorn for the
interfaith program. According to one quip that circulated at the time, Dr. Fin-
kelstein even signed his letters “Interfaithfully yours!”
On several occasions, however, the opposition surfaced. In 1944 the Semi-
nary awarded an honorary degree to Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann,57 but to
the consternation of the students the citation made no mention of Zionism. It
referred only to Weizmann’s scientific contributions to the cause of the Allies in
World War I and his lifelong struggle to alleviate the sufferings of Jews and the
world at large. A mirror of Finkelstein’s own views, the citation commended
Weizmann’s efforts through the founding of the Hebrew University to further
the “development of the spiritual values of Israel.” “His pursuit of the pro-
phetic vision,” the text concluded, “is motivated by an earnest conviction that a
Jewish community, reestablished in the Holy Land, can once more be a source
of inspiration and moral strength to all mankind.” In the eyes of the students,
“spiritual values,” “prophetic vision,” and “Jewish community” ignored
Weizmann’s herculean tasks on behalf of Jewish nationhood. More important,
the citation could hardly be construed as a message of encouragement to a
yishuv bent on political independence. Several students complained jointly to
the administration, but Finkelstein offered no explanation. Student bitterness
mounted when the class of 1945 requested and was denied permission to sing
the Zionist anthem, Hatikvah, at their commencement.58
Aside from his sensitivity to the board’s outlook, Finkelstein’s own opposi-
tion to Jewish statehood had not changed as the war wound down. He confided
to board member Frieda Warburg in October 1944 that “I sympathize greatly”
with the scheme to make Palestine a binationalist state. (Binationalism at that
time would have meant permanent minority status for the Jews.) Moreover, he
thought that the “temporary difficulties” in Palestine were overshadowed by
larger issues—such as “seeing that the Jews shall be the best kind of people pos-
sible”—to which the Seminary was committed.59 The letter coincided in time

with student reaction to the Weizmann degree and the onset of the confronta-
tion with Goldman and Steinberg. In spite of, or perhaps in answer to, the chal-
lenges from colleagues and students, Finkelstein stiffened both his resistance to
a Jewish state and his determination to launch projects beyond the conven-
tional parameters of a rabbinical school.
Nor did Finkelstein amend his position in the final months before the state
of Israel came into being. The UN had voted for partition in November 1947,
but diplomatic shifts until the very last days threatened to jettison international
approval of a Jewish state. Meanwhile the yishuv was caught in a stranglehold
between Arab guerrilla warfare and British restrictions on Jewish self-defense.
On all levels—political, material, and moral—it desperately needed American
Jewish support. Finkelstein, the confirmed pacifist, recoiled, however, at the
thought of a Jewish-Arab war. Like others, he believed the warnings from high
American officials that the establishment of a state might actually lead to the
military destruction of a Jewish Palestine.60 If a state was not viable at that
time, he saw no imperative for altering his course.
On the eve of Israel’s independence in 1948 Zionist members of the faculty
stood up to the president. A dispute over a seemingly trivial issue, an honorary
degree to be awarded at commencement, captured the bitterness that had built
up over the years between the Zionists and Finkelstein. At a meeting in January,
the president’s nomination of Joseph Proskauer, president of the AJC, drew
opposition because of the latter’s opposition to statehood, and a compromise
was reached whereby an award would also go to Moshe Shertok, head of the
political department of the Jewish Agency and a leading force for a Jewish state.
Unhappy with Shertok, Finkelstein tried a month later to substitute Paul Baer-
wald of the Joint Distribution Committee, also an antinationalist. Although
the president promised a special convocation to honor Zionist leaders if and
when partition was favorably resolved, Professors Hillel Bavli and Shalom Spie-
gel argued that it was the Seminary’s duty to take an immediate public stand on
the side of the yishuv. Mordecai Kaplan’s diary provides a detailed description
of the stormy meeting: “Both Bavli and Spiegel spoke sharply and bitterly of
the ivory tower attitude of the Seminary, an attitude that is responsible for the
tendency on the part of the Jewish masses to ignore the Seminary. At one point
Finkelstein screamed at Bavli, and Bavli paled with anger.” When Shertok’s
name was brought up once more in April, Finkelstein again lost his temper.
Maintaining that it was a matter of conscience, he said that “he had no faith in
the Zionist leaders who have made the issue of Jewish statehood paramount.”
In the end, honorary degrees went to both Zionists and anti-Zionists but not to
Shertok.61
Barely a month after the birth of Israel, the Seminary held its graduation.
On that day the students rebelled. As one popular story goes, they draped an Is-
raeli flag on the Seminary tower only to have it whisked away by the adminis-
tration before the ceremonies began. Since their request for Hatikvah, in which

Professor Bavli joined, was also turned down (a foreign anthem, nonreligious
to boot!), they arranged with the carillonist at neighboring Union Theological
Seminary to play the melody during commencement. Elated and triumphant,
the students heard the bells formally announce the Seminary’s identification
with the new Jewish state.62
The birth of Israel brought a dramatic shift in Finkelstein’s policy. Like its affili-
ated branches, the JTS now stood proudly behind the Jewish state. In 1952 the
Seminary in conjunction with the Jewish Agency launched the Seminary Israel
Institute, and that same year it awarded an honorary degree to Israel’s prime
minister, David Ben-Gurion. Ten years later the Seminary opened a student dor-
mitory in Jerusalem, thereby establishing a permanent presence in the land.63
Finkelstein, still very much the spiritual Zionist, warmly endorsed the ties of
active cooperation. The very existence of a state recharged his vision of a third
commonwealth committed to the universal ideals and mission of Judaism, a vi-
sion in which American Jews also played a part. The latter, he said, like Babylo-
nian Jewry of old (those who had been exiled when the first temple was de-
stroyed), “who brought the vision of Judaism to bear upon the practical affairs
of the world,” were fully prepared to help their Israeli brethren in the service of
God: “If we can labor with them toward a solution of the vast human problem,
that in itself will be a privilege.”64 At Finkelstein’s suggestion Chaim Weizmann,
then Israel’s first president, presented President Truman with a Torah scroll as a
token of gratitude from the people of Israel for his efforts on behalf of an in-
dependent Jewish state.65 No other object could have better conveyed
Finkelstein’s unchanged view of Israel’s raison d’être.
Finkelstein openly altered his position after 1948 in one significant respect.
Now, for the first time, he articulated a belief in a special bonding between
Conservative Judaism and Zionism. Reverting to the theme of Jewish creativity,
which he had raised before the RA in 1927, he explained that a common basis of
self-confidence generated by that creativity underlay both ideologies. The self-
confidence born of Zionism, he said, had allowed Conservative Judaism to take
root and flourish in the United States: “That enormous faith in ourselves and in
our tradition—which has enabled us, like our predecessors, to assert that . . . we
can participate fully in the life of America and yet hold fast to the traditions of
our fathers; the faith that convinced Solomon Schechter that the Seminary . . .
was at once a Jewish Seminary and an American Seminary. . . . This faith and
self-confidence were, in my opinion, by-products of the vast effort which had
already begun to lay the foundations of a resurrected Jewish commonwealth in
Eretz Yisrael.” He concluded: “In a certain sense, it may be said that Conserva-
tive Judaism is itself the first-born child of the marriage of Zionism and
Americanism.”66 By “marrying” Zionism to Americanism, Finkelstein was also
showing how American-like the Zionist movement in the United States had
been all along.

Afterword
W ithout the Americanization of its ideology and politics, Zionism in the

United States would have made little headway. The many ways in which
Herzl’s teachings were tailored to conform to American beliefs and public be-
havior may have watered down the classical Zionist definitions of galut and
aliyah, but they ensured a hearing on the part of American Jews. Jews believed
in American exceptionalism, and their Zionism followed suit.
The American factor continued to figure in American Jewish support of the
new state of Israel. Only a few days after the birth of the Jewish state, the New
Palestine, the newspaper of the ZOA, confidently declared: “We American
Zionists know that Zionism is good Americanism.”1 When, almost immedi-
ately after the conclusion of World War II, the United States became entangled
in the Cold War, Zionists argued that Israel, precisely because it held the same
ideals and diplomatic objectives as the United States, deserved American
friendship. Although American government officials resisted Zionist pressure
by citing the nation’s need of oil and strategic bases, the Zionists fought ap-
peasement of the Arab states. Their answer emphasized the American-like
character of the new state and the coincidence of Israeli and American inter-
ests: Both countries supported collective security and the United Nations; un-
like the Arabs who had sided with the Axis during the war, Jewish loyalty to the
United States and its allies was indisputable; Israel, different from despotic
Arab emirates or monarchies, boasted a Western-like democratic government
that would resist Soviet expansion in the Near East. Thus, just as American Jews
were ever an accommodationist minority, so were American Zionists bent on
accommodating Israel’s policies to America’s international image.
The emphasis on the identical objectives of the United States and Israel was
echoed in the Jewish state by leaders like David Ben-Gurion. In 1950, Israel’s
first prime minister stated that the secret of his country’s success was its vision.
He added: “That was the secret of America’s greatness. The oppressed of the
Old World fled there, but they brought a vision with them, as do our immi-
grants today—a vision of a new life in freedom. They did wonderful things,
213
and so can we.”2 That theme, invoked repeatedly to justify extensive American
aid to its young partner, has persisted. It is hardly surprising, for example, that
today Israel equates its struggle against Arab terrorism with America’s war on
Osama bin Laden. Differences between the two states on matters of foreign
policy may and do arise, but in the end, since American goals and directives
generally prevail, Israel’s course of action is Americanized still further.
Yet, statehood raised new questions about the American Jewish–Israeli
nexus. First, Israel was now a foreign state, a fact that automatically delimited
the right of either side to interfere in the affairs of the other even in the name of
protection. Was it appropriate, therefore, for Americans, supporters of the Jew-
ish state or not, to demand an active role in shaping Israel’s foreign policy or to
agitate publicly on the internal problems of Israeli politics? On the other hand,
was it proper for Israel’s government to pass judgment on antisemitic incidents
in the United States or to propagandize for aliyah from America?
Some American Jews worried that unless distinct boundaries were drawn
between the two communities, the charge of dual allegiance might again arise.
The AJC, for example, began studying the impact of a Jewish state on the posi-
tion of American Jewry as early as 1947. To ward off any popular criticism Jo-
seph Proskauer wrote in a letter to the press on the eve of Israel’s independence:
“We are told by the antisemite . . . and by some small small sections of American
Jewry that [the UN’s decision for a Jewish state] has created a problem of pos-
sible inconsistency between our obligations as Americans and as Jews. There is
no such problem. . . . The Jews in America suffer from no political schizophre-
nia. . . . In faith and in conduct we shall continue to demonstrate . . . that we are
bone of the bone and flesh of the flesh of America.” Under pressure from the
committee, Prime Minister Ben-Gurion was compelled to promise that Israel
would not presume to speak for Jews of other countries. Recognizing American
exceptionalism, he undercut the case for aliyah by agreeing that American Jews
were not in exile. Israel sorely needed a strong Jewish community in the United
States, Ben-Gurion said, and it would neither say nor do anything that might
“undermine the sense of security and stability of American Jewry.”3 Given
Israel’s subordinate position in the alliance, the obverse of the coin, or the limits
on American Jewish interference in Israeli affairs, was largely ignored.
Israel was more troubled by a second question of the post-1948 period.
Could the country count on American Jews to come to its aid in times of crisis?
Would the intensity of their response match that of 1943–48? Despite the out-
pouring of support during the Six-Day War (1967), recent decades have wit-
nessed signs of slippage. The stand of the liberal churches, whose support of
the Palestinian Arabs intensified after 1967, has troubled American Jewish lead-
ers. Jewish communal agencies, fearing the loss of major Christian groups who
had been their usual postwar allies on domestic matters, had to choose between
their Christian friends and Israel. At the same time, those agencies were shifting
their focus to American Jewish concerns such as intermarriage and Jewish con-

tinuity, and Israel was increasingly dislodged from center stage. Moreover, as
analysts of the contemporary American Jewish scene point out, Jews like other
Americans now forge their ties to religion and community on the basis of indi-
vidual rather than collective needs. In the case of the Jews, that has meant less
of a commitment to communal philanthropic causes or struggles against anti-
semitism, and more of a separation from Israel and Israelis.4
A third question concerned the relevance of American Zionist organiza-
tions after the goal of Jewish statehood was reached. To be sure, from the estab-
lishment of Israel in 1948 until the present, American Zionists have continued
to fill two essential tasks on behalf of Israel, fund-raising and diplomatic lob-
bying. Never losing sight of the limits set by non-Jewish public opinion and the
stand of the American government, they have contributed to the economic de-
velopment of Israel, its ability to absorb Jewish refugees from Europe and other
continents, and its military might. As long as Israel continues to seek a secure
peace, its dependence on American agencies will not diminish. But, since most
concerned American Jews took on those tasks through their synagogues or
their defense and fraternal organizations, one could well ask if there was any-
thing left to justify the continued existence of the prestate Zionist movement.
Although some leaders considered a reorientation of their priorities, none
could deny that American Zionism had failed to reach several of its goals. Their
boasts notwithstanding, Zionists had not created meaningful forms of Jewish
education in America, and only belatedly did they admit the importance of
“cultural bridges,” or the essential need to foster mutual understanding
between American Jews and Israelis. Nor had they constructed an effective
public relations network. They had lost liberal support in two public debates
before Israel’s independence, and after 1948 the need to win American public
opinion steadily increased. If only to work on those matters, to which they are
presently dedicated, Zionist organizations still have much to do.5
An exclusive focus on how Americanization nurtured a belief in the Jewish na-

tionalist idea and sustained its growth within the community tells only part of
the story. From its inception in 1897, American Zionism developed into a recip-
rocal relationship. More than the recipient of American Jewish largesse, Zion-
ism and then the Jewish state have given to, while they simultaneously have
taken from, American Jewry. The benefits of Zionism, although often under-
stated or totally ignored, took various forms. One example: The concern that
the community at large consistently exhibited for the persecuted Jews in foreign
lands became less burdensome precisely because Zionism provided for a real
refuge. England’s control of the Palestine mandate during the 1930s and the
war had blocked Jewish immigration, but once Israel declared its indepen-
dence, oppressed Jews in the Soviet Union, Middle East, and South Africa had
an avenue of escape. For those American Jews who took seriously the tradi-
tional obligation to “redeem the captives,” a Zionist state lightened the task.
Afterword 215
Another benefit of Zionism was to American Judaism. Whether active

Zionists or not, American Jews cannot deny that Zionism added content to
their religion. For those affiliated with synagogues, Zionism came to occupy a
major place in their houses of worship, enriching prayer and ritual as well as
extrareligious synagogal activities. Judaism as well as Zionism were strength-
ened thereby. The design of the religious and cultural Zionists for a center in
Palestine that would revitalize Judaism in the Diaspora fell short of its mark,
but it was never discarded. Today it takes the modified form of bringing syna-
gogue youth, grandchildren of the Holocaust generation, to Israel to awaken
and stimulate their commitment to the ethos of a Jewish state and to a living
and creative Jewry. Although Zionism without religion preserved the ties of
secularist and unaffiliated Jews to the Jewish past and present, the history of
American Zionism proves that it worked more effectively in tandem with the
synagogues.
Perhaps Zionism best served American Jewish interests because it offered a
meaning to Jewish “groupness” or a reason for a Jewish collectivity. Built on
the philosophy of cultural pluralism as expounded by Kallen, Brandeis, and
others, it confronted and eased the tensions of the individual Jew caught
between the pulls of the larger society and his feelings, often unconscious or
visceral, of belonging to a Jewish people. Modern Jews—Reform as well as Or-
thodox, religious as well as secular—carried a cultural baggage of peoplehood
over and above the bonds of religion even after Emancipation. Zionism reviv-
ified that baggage and provided emancipated Jews with links to the premodern
culture of the Jews and ties to the scattered Jewish people of the present. Even
before cultural pluralism was popularly acclaimed, American Zionism offered
a new dimension to Jewish ethnicity at the same time that it strove for popular
acceptance.
Admittedly, American Jews were content to enjoy the yishuv vicariously;
only a very few contributed to the new Jewish normality by embarking on
aliyah. But influenced in part by Zionism and by Israel—which has long dis-
paraged the timid and insecure Diaspora Jew—Jews in the United States have
slowly grown more comfortable with their Jewishness. Some random exam-
ples: a non-Orthodox undergraduate student who explains that he wears a kip-
pah (skullcap) on campus not out of religious reasons but because it identifies
him as a member of the Jewish people; Jewish lobbyists on Capitol Hill who ap-
proach the American government on behalf of Israel without fear of being
charged with dual loyalty; American Jews and their children who sing Israeli
songs, dance Israeli dances, and march in the Israel Day parades.
Zionism in action, i.e., the very evolution of the yishuv and the state of Is-
rael, enhanced the Jewish self-image. Although American Jews greatly feared
eruptions of antisemitism, particularly in the 1920s and 1930s, Zionism fed a
counter force that redounded to their benefit. Its very goal, the creation of a
restored Jewish state wherein Jews independently wielded the power to carve

out their destiny, boosted their pride. Zionist idealists, both workers and even
small businessmen and capitalists, also took pleasure in the Zionist dream of a
democratic socialist or welfare state that would eliminate the category of
have-nots. On a more tangible level, since the development of the yishuv
proved that Jews could be farmers and pilots, American Jews could readily
adopt the images of the pioneers in Palestine, which contradicted the age-old
negative stereotypes consigning Jews to the class of “old-clothes men” and
petty traders. Before and after 1948, Zionism also disproved the popular opin-
ions that Jews were unsuited for self-government or for armed service. Ameri-
can Jews in turn basked in the light of Israel’s military exploits. (The story
goes that Diaspora Jews held their heads a bit higher when, after the Suez cam-
paign of 1956, Israel offered to exchange fifty-eight hundred Egyptian prison-
ers for four captured Israelis.) Creating the counterimages of “the Jew as goy”6
and the Jewish state like “all the nations,” Zionism imbued American Jews with
greater self-confidence and optimism.
The results of Zionist activity in the United States ultimately served to modify
the identity of the Jewish community. No longer merely another religious de-
nomination, Judaism enriched by Zionism made Jews, synagogue affiliated or
not, into a recognizable ethnic group. When a wave of ethnicity swept America
in the last third of the twentieth century, early Zionist efforts at instilling a na-
tional consciousness laid the groundwork that permitted Jewish ethnic loyalties
to emerge full blown, now recognized as perfectly legitimate, in their American
setting. What Zionism had always taught, that Jews worldwide constituted a
distinct people who shared a common destiny as well as a common past, has
become a strong belief of American Jews.
All told, American Jews made use of Zionism to balance their identities as
Americans and Jews. There would have been an American Jewry without Zion-
ism, doubtless one smaller in number and one where the divide between the
synagogue affiliated and unaffiliated would have been more pronounced. But
Zionism even in a secularist form contributed to the cohesiveness of the com-
munity and put American Jews squarely within the larger frame of modern
Jewish history.
Afterword 217
Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page 218 blank
Notes
Introduction (Pages 1–14)
1. Quoted in the Maccabaean 7 (Nov. 1904): 292.

2. Saul Bellow, Ravelstein (New York, 2000), p. 23.
3. Professor Allon Gal, for one, emphasizes the mission motif, or the belief of Ameri-
can Zionism that its mission was to propagate universal, and distinctly American, values
like democracy and social justice. For example, Allon Gal, “The Mission Motif in
American Zionism,” American Jewish History 75 (June 1986): 363–85. Other scholars who
analyzed the American dimension of American Zionism include Melvin Urofsky, Ben
Halpern, and Evyatar Friesel.
4. Hans Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism (New York, 1946), pp. 35, 47.
5. For a brief examination of the two sources feeding American Zionism, one immi-
grant and one native, see Ben Halpern, “The Americanization of Zionism,” American
Jewish History 69 (Sept. 1979): 15–33.
6. Quotations from Brandeis in Arthur Hertzberg, ed., The Zionist Idea (New York
and Philadelphia, 1960), pp. 519–20.
7. It has been shown elsewhere that even Jewish liberals in Palestine were then seri-
ously questioning the tenets of political Zionism. Yoram Hazony, The Jewish State (New
York, 2000), part III.
8. Melvin I. Urofsky, American Zionism from Herzl to the Holocaust (Garden City, NY,
1975), p. 426.
9. Doreen Bierbrier, “The American Zionist Emergency Council,” American Jewish
Historical Quarterly 60 (Sept. 1970): 83–84.
10. J. Proskauer to B. Crum, 14 Oct. 1946, AJC archives—Proskauer.
1. Forging an American Zionism: The Maccabaean (Pages 15–38)
1. Encyclopedia of Zionism and Israel, 2:913–14, 1087, 1265.

2. Maccabaean 1 (Oct. 1901, supplement): xv; 14 (Feb. 1908): 66, 75. Unless otherwise
noted, all references are to the Maccabaean, henceforth designated simply as “M.”
3. Eric F. Goldman, Rendezvous with Destiny (New York, 1952), p. 185.
4. M 22 (Nov. 1912): 135.
5. M 16 (Mar. 1909): 113.
6. M 1 (Dec. 1901): 134.
7. M 1 (Oct. 1901): 9–11.
219
8. M 2 (Feb., Apr. 1902): 93, 206; 4 (May 1903): 288; 6 (Jan. 1904): 41; 8 (Mar. 1905): 118;
11 (Aug. 1906): 70; 15 (Dec. 1908): 252; 23 (Aug. 1913): 229.
9. M 14 (Feb. 1908): 64.
10. M 1 (Nov. 1901): 76; 11 (Aug. 1906): 61–71; 13 (Sept. 1907): 113; 14 (Jan. 1908): 31; 20
(June 1911): 181–82.
11. M 1 (Oct. 1901): 3–4; 2 (Jan. 1902): 2, 21; 6 (Apr. 1904): 185f.; 23 (June 1913): 161.
12. M 1 (Nov. 1901): 57–61; 6 (Feb. 1904): 85; 18 (Apr. 1910): 135; 21 (May 1912): 293; 22
(Aug. 1912): 39–40.
13. M 12 (Mar. 1907): 100–102.
14. M 23 (Aug., Nov. 1913): 230, 326.
15. M 3 (Aug. 1902): 104; 8 (Feb. 1905): 62f.; 12 (Mar., May 1907): 108, 191–92; 17 (Nov.
1909): 177; 21 (Mar. 1912): 236; 23 (Mar., May 1913): 67, 132.
16. M 23 (Feb. 1913): 34.
17. M 2 (May 1902): 262; 6 (Apr. 1904): 185; 19 (July 1910): 38.
18. M 7 (Dec. 1904): 271; 16 (May 1909): 228; 23 (Nov. 1913): 308.
19. M 2 (May 1902): 243; 5 (July 1903): 51–53; 21 (Jan. 1912): 195; 23 (Aug. 1913): 228.
20. For this and the next paragraph see M 7 (July 1904): 27; 8 (Mar. 1905): 112–15; 9
(July 1905): 29; 11 (July 1906): 11–12; 13 (Aug., Sept. 1907): 80, 121; 15 (July 1908): 64–65; 19
(Aug. 1910): 38; 22 (July 1912): 1–3.
21. M 12 (June 1907): 207–11.
22. M 15 (Nov. 1908): 187; 18 (Mar., June 1910): 79, 208; 19 (Dec. 1910): 195–98; 23 (Jan.
1913): 12–15; 25 (Nov.–Dec. 1914), 180–81.
23. M 15 (Aug. 1908): 64–65; 16 (Feb., May 1909): 45, 50ff., 160; 18 (June 1910): 200.
24. M 2 (Jan. 1902): 4; 14 (June 1908): 239; 17 (Nov. 1909): 101; 21 (June 1912): 322; 22
(July 1912): 6; 25 (Sept. 1914): 101.
25. M 9 (Nov. 1905): 243.
26. M 6 (Feb., Mar. 1904): 83–84, 133; 8 (May 1905): 198–204.
27. M 6 (Apr., June 1904): 185–87, 291.
28. For example, M 6 (Jan. 1904): 20; 10 (June 1906): 214–21.
29. M 16 (Mar. 1909): 113.
30. M 4 (Jan., Mar. 1903): 38, 177; 5 (July 1903): 11, 35; 9 (July 1905): 29; 16 (Jan., Feb.
1909): 3, 41–46.
31. M 4 (Feb. 1903): 102; 23 (Apr. 1913): 100.
32. M 2 (June 1902): 310; 14 (June 1908): 239; 15 (Dec. 1908): 254.
33. M 3 (Sept. 1902): 153; 4 (Jan. 1903): 46; 7 (Oct. 1904): 174; 23 (Mar. 1913): 66–67.
34. See, for example, Michael A. Meyer, “American Reform Judaism and Zionism,” in
Studies in Zionism No. 7 (Spring 1983), pp. 49–64; Jonathan D. Sarna, “Converts to Zion-
ism in the American Reform Movement,” in Zionism and Religion, ed. Shmuel Almog,
Jehuda Reinharz, and Anita Shapira (Hanover, N.H., 1998) pp. 188–203.
35. M 2 (Jan., May 1902): 21, 243; 3 (Aug. 1902): 104; 4 (Mar. 1903): 131–38; 5 (Sept.
1903): 188; 20 (Jan. 1911): 255.
36. M 2 (Jan. 1902): 3; 3 (Dec. 1902): 324; 14 (Feb. 1908): 75; 15 (Dec. 1908): 230; 17
(Dec. 1909): 210–11; 19 (Jan. 1911): 255; 22 (Dec. 1912): 183.
37. M 13 (Oct. 1907): 168; 18 (Jan. 1910): 31–32; 25 (July 1914): 37–38.
38. M 6 (June 1904): 239; 15 (Oct. 1908): 139–40, 150; 16 (Mar. 1909): 111–12.
39. For example, M 23 (Apr. 1913): 98.
220 Notes
one line short

40. M 3 (Aug., Oct. 1902): 103–4, 216; 4 (Feb., June 1903): 100, 327–28, 339; 5 (July–Oct.
1903): 40, 51–52, 79, 120, 186; 9 (Aug., Sept. 1905): 70, 161–62.
41. For example, M 9 (Dec. 1905): 318.
42. M 16 (Jan. 1909): 14; 19 (Oct. 1910): 175; 20 (1911): 74; 21 (Aug., Oct., Dec. 1911): 44–
45, 139, 166; 23 (Jan. 1913): 20.
43. M 12 (June 1907): 239; 13 (Dec. 1907): 254.
44. M 2 (Feb., Apr. 1902): 89, 212; 3 (Nov., Dec. 1902), 275, 325; 4 (Feb., May 1903): 100,
283; 13 (Dec. 1907): 254; 21 (Apr. 1912): 264.
45. M 2 (Jan. 1902): 16, 23–24; 13 (Dec. 1907): 253–54; 15 (Sept., Oct. 1908): 111–12, 171;
16 (June 1909): 228.
46. M 1 (Dec. 1901): 127.
47. M 1 (Mar. 1912): 236; 22 (Dec. 1912): 182; 30 (Mar. 1917): 170.
48. For example, M 8 (Feb. 1905): 69.
49. M 17 (July 1909): 42; 18 (Jan. 1910): 1–7; 23 (Nov. 1913): 306; 24 (June 1914): 168; 25
(Sept. 1914): 83. Most issues of the journal in 1908–1909 discuss the Young Turk revolt.
50. M 1 (Nov. 1901): 57ff.; 16 (Apr. 1909): 122; 24 (Feb. 1914): 37.
51. M 2 (June 1902): 307ff.
52. The book was printed in Leipzig in the fall of 1902 and was immediately trans-
lated into English by Jacob De Haas. Copyrighted by the FAZ, installments began in the
Maccabaean in October 1902. I used the edition that was published in Haifa in 1960. See
also Alex Bein, Theodore Herzl (New York, 1970), ch. 12, p. 532.
53. M 25 (Aug., Nov.–Dec. 1914): 54, 154–55; 26 (Feb. 1915): 29.
54. M 28 (Jan. 1916): 4–5; 30 (Mar., May, Sept., Nov. 1917): 169, 221–22, 336–37, 385.
55. M 25 (Sept. 1914): 83; 28 (June 1916): 121; 29 (Oct. 1916): 59–61.
56. Melvin I. Urofsky, American Zionism from Herzl to the Holocaust (Garden City,
N.Y., 1975), p. 158; M 25 (Nov.–Dec. 1905): 156–57; 26 (Feb., Mar., May, June 1915.): 26, 29–
31, 49, 93–94, 102; 27 (Oct. 1915): 92–96; 28 (Apr. 1916): 74; 29 (Sept. 1916): 25–26.
57. M 29 (Nov. 1916): 74, 86–88.
58. M 27 (July 1915): 9.
59. See, for example, Naomi W. Cohen, Not Free to Desist (Philadelphia, 1972),
pp. 90–98; Urofsky, American Zionism, ch. 5.
60. M 26 (Apr., May, June 1915): 58, 81, 89, 101 103, 107–8.
61. M 29 (Aug. 1916): 1–2.
62. M 28 (Jan., Feb., Apr. 1916): 1–2, 4–5, 26, 73; 30 (May, Sept. 1917): 221, 335.
63. M 30, entire issue of Dec. 1917.
64. M 18 (Mar. 1910): 97.
65. Urofsky, American Zionism, p. 118; M 21 (Sept., Nov. 1911): 70, 138, 140–43; 22 (Nov.
1912): 135.
66. M 20 (Mar.–Apr. 1911): 102.
2. A Clash of Ideologies: Reform Judaism vs. Zionism (Pages 39–63)
The following abbreviations have been used in the Notes:

AH American Hebrew
AI American Israelite
Notes 221
one line short

CCARY Central Conference of American Rabbis Yearbook

UAHCP Proceedings of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations
1. On the significance of the Reform Zionists, see Michael A. Meyer, “American Re-
form Judaism and Zionism,” Studies in Zionism No. 7 (Spring 1983), pp. 49–64; Jonathan
D. Sarna, “Converts to Zionism in the American Reform Movement,” in Zionism and
Religion, ed. Shmuel Almog, Jehuda Reinharz, and Anita Shapira (Hanover, N.H., 1998),
pp. 188–203.
2. Solomon B. Freehof, “Reform Judaism and Zionism,” Menorah Journal 32 (Apr.–
June 1944): 37–38; see, for example, Howard R. Greenstein, Turning Point (Brown Uni-
versity Judaic Studies No. 12, 1981), ch. 3.
3. Michael A. Meyer, Response to Modernity (New York, 1988), chs. 1–3; David Philip-
son, The Reform Movement in Judaism (New York, 1967), pp. xv, 19–20, 37, 77, 81–84, 151,
173–80, ch. 7.
4. Meyer, Response to Modernity, esp. pp. 240, 248.
5. For this and the next paragraph see Meyer, Response to Modernity, ch. 6 and Phil-
ipson, Reform Movement, ch. 12.
6. Philipson, Reform Movement, pp. 354–57.
7. Meyer, Response to Modernity, pp. 320–21; CCARY 1 (1891): 80–125.
8. Meyer, Response to Modernity, p. 282; Uriah Z. Engelman, “Jewish Statistics in the
U.S. Census of Religious Bodies,” Jewish Social Studies 9 (Apr. 1947): 136.
9. CCARY 8 (1897): xii; 16 (1906): 213; 27 (1917): 137, 139–40; AI, 16 Sept. 1897, 20 Oct.
1898, 22 Sept. 1904, 13 May 1909, 9 Sept. 1915, 27 June 1918; AH, 6 Dec. 1901, 28 Oct. 1904,
10 Dec. 1915, 26 Sept. 1919; Kaufmann Kohler, Studies, Addresses, and Personal Papers
(New York, 1936), p. 454.
10. CCARY 8 (1897): 41.
11. Philipson, Reform Movement, p. 61. For explanations of the mission idea by Re-
form leaders, see, for example, Kaufmann Kohler, Jewish Theology (New York, 1918), p. 8;
Kohler, Studies, p. 458; Emil G. Hirsch, “Reform Judaism from the Point of View of the
Reform Jew,” Jewish Encyclopedia 10: 348; David Philipson, Centenary Papers and Others
(Cincinnati, 1919), pp. 58–59; AI, 17 Mar., 3 Nov. 1898, 16 Mar. 1916. For a brief study of
the differences between the traditional and modern views of mission see Max Wiener,
“The Conception of Mission in Traditional and Modern Judaism,” YIVO Annual of Jew-
ish Social Science 2–3 (1947–48): 9–24.
12. Kaufmann Kohler, “The Faith of Reform Judaism,” Menorah Journal 2 (Feb. 1916):
12; Kohler, Studies, p. 461; CCARY 13 (1903): 371; 27 (1917): 137, 140–41; UAHCP, 1919,
p. 8476; AI, 27 Dec. 1900, 23 Mar. 1916.
13. CCARY 1 (1891): 118; Emil G. Hirsch, Reform Judaism (Philadelphia, 1885), p. 9.
14. See, for example, UAHCP, 1909, p. 6347; 1919, p. 8470; Hirsch, “Reform Judaism,”
p. 345; Emil G. Hirsch, “The Reform Prayer Book,” Journal of Jewish Lore and Philosophy
1 (Jan.–Apr. 1919): 216–17; Philipson, Reform Movement, pp. 84, 174, 179; David Philip-
son, My Life as an American Jew (Cincinnati, 1941), pp. 125–26; AI, 13 May 1909; Beryl H.
Levy, Reform Judaism in America (New York, 1933), pp. 55–56; Reform Advocate, 18 July
1896; Kaufmann Kohler, “A Biographical Essay,” David Einhorn Memorial Volume (New
York, 1911), pp. 437–38.
15. Philipson, Reform Movement, p. 331; see debates at rabbinical conferences in Ger-
many in CCARY 1.
222 Notes
16. Philipson, Reform Movement, p. 5; CCARY 12 (1902): 236; 17 (1907): 183; UAHCP,
1898, p. 4002; AI, 13 May 1909; Philipson, Centenary Papers, p. 171; Kohler, “Faith of Re-
form Judaism,” p. 15; Kohler, Studies, pp. 229–30; AI, 23 Jan. 1913; AH, 14 May 1897.
17. Philipson, Centenary Papers, pp. 75–76.
18. Kohler, Studies, p. 232; Jerold S. Auerbach, Rabbis and Lawyers (Bloomington,
1990), ch. 1; Oscar S. Straus, The Origin of Republican Form of Government in the United
States of America (New York, 1885).
19. Franklin quoted in Halvdan Koht, The American Spirit in Europe (Philadelphia,
1949), p. 14; AH, 21 Sept. 1900; Kohler, Studies, p. 230.
20. UAHCP 1898, p. 4002.
21. AI, 13 Jan. 1898, 19 Oct. 1899, 7 July 1904, 10 Aug. 1905, 29 Aug. 1909, 27 June 1918;
Lee M. Franklin, “A Danger and a Duty Suggested by the Zionistic Agitation,” Hebrew
Union College Journal 2 (Mar. 1898): 147; CCARY 14 (1904): 183; Isaac M. Wise, Reminis-
cences (Cincinnati, 1901), pp. 49, 85–86, 331.
22. Adams quoted in Moses Rischin, ed., Immigration and the American Tradition
(Indianapolis, 1976), p. 47; Kohler, Studies, pp. 455–57.
23. CCARY 8 (1897): 174; Kohler, “Faith of Reform Judaism,” p. 15; Kohler, Studies,
p. 232; Reform Advocate, 18 July 1896; AI, 16 Sept. 1915.
24. UAHCP, 1905, pp. 5314–15; 1909, p. 6548; Franklin, “A Danger and a Duty,” pp. 144–
45; Kohler, “Faith of Reform Judaism,” p. 13; Kohler, Studies, pp. 458–59; CCARY 11 (1901):
82; 25 (1915): 166; AI, 11 Sept. 1902, 17 Jan. 1907, 9 Mar. 1916; Reform Advocate, 15 Dec. 1917.
25. AI, 10 Feb. 1898, 18 June 1903, 5 Mar. 1908, 28 July 1910, 27 Feb. 1913, 23 Mar., 4 May
1916; AH, 14 May 1897.
26. AI, 8 May 1897, 31 Dec. 1903, 25 Aug. 1898, 20 Apr. 1911, 27 Feb. 1913, 4 May 1918;
CCARY 16 (1906): 231; 25 (1915): 166; AH, 14 May 1897, 20 Nov. 1903, 10 Dec. 1915, 23 Nov.
1917; Reform Advocate, 8 May, 25 Sept. 1897; Isaac M. Wise, “Zionism,” Hebrew Union Col-
lege Journal 4 (Dec. 1899): 47.
27. Wise, “Zionism,” pp. 46–47; Samuel Schulman, “The Searching of the Jewish
Heart,” Menorah Journal 4 (Apr. 1918): 90; Philipson, Centenary Papers, p. 178.
28. Naomi W. Cohen, Not Free to Desist (Philadelphia, 1972), p. 315.
29. For example, Nathan Glazer, American Judaism (Chicago, 1957), pp. 53–54.
30. For this and the next three paragraphs see Naomi W. Cohen, “The Challenges of
Darwinism and Biblical Criticism to American Judaism,” Modern Judaism 4 (May 1984):
121–51.
31. Emma Felsenthal, Bernhard Felsenthal (New York, 1924), ch. 6; Bernhard Felsen-
thal, Fundamental Principles of Judaism (New York, 1918), pp. 3–5; Felsenthal in Macca-
baean 4 (Mar. 1903): 131–38.
32. Gottheil quoted in Melvin I. Urofsky, American Zionism from Herzl to the Holo-
caust (Garden City, N.Y., 1975), p. 92.
33. The paragraphs on Gottheil are drawn from Richard Gottheil, The Aims of Zion-
ism (New York, 1899), Gottheil, Zionism (Philadelphia, 1914), esp. pp. 200 and seq. Ex-
cerpts from The Aims of Zionism are reprinted in Arthur Hertzberg, ed., The Zionist Idea
(New York, 1960), pp. 495–500. See also Jewish Criterion, 27 Nov. 1903.
34. Gottheil, “Aims,” p. 19; Marnin Feinstein, American Zionism, 1884–1904 (New
York, 1965), pp. 172–73.
35. Stephen S. Wise, “The Beginnings of American Zionism,” Jewish Frontier 14 (Aug.
1947): 7.
Notes 223
36. Melvin I. Urofsky, A Voice That Spoke for Justice (Albany, 1984), ch. 4; Carl Her-
mann Voss, ed., Stephen S. Wise (Philadelphia, 1969), pp. 25–34.
37. Unless otherwise noted, the section on HUC is reworked from my article “The Re-
action of Reform Judaism in America to Political Zionism,” Publications of the American
Jewish Historical Society 40 (June 1951): pp. 372–82. Full citations are given there; manu-
script material used for that article (unless otherwise indicated) is from the files of the
American Jewish Archives. See also Herbert Parzen, “The Purge of the Dissidents,” Jewish
Social Studies 37 (Summer–Fall 1975): 291–322. An echo of the 1907 affair was heard at
HUC in 1915 when a student was denied permission to deliver a sermon on Zionism.
38. An attempt, albeit unconvincing, to “revise” Kohler is Yaakov Ariel, “Kaufmann
Kohler and His Attitude Towards Zionism,” American Jewish Archives 43 (Fall–Winter 1991).
39. Naomi W. Cohen, Encounters with Emancipation (Philadelphia, 1984), pp. 295– 96.
40. AI 9 May 1907; Maccabaean 12 (May, June 1907): 193–94, 240, 243.
41. Moshe Davis, The Emergence of Conservative Judaism (Philadelphia, 1963), pp. 87–
88, 212ff., 268–74.
42. For this and the next two paragraphs see Hertzberg, The Zionist Idea, pp. 503–13
and Naomi W. Cohen, “ ‘Diaspora Plus Palestine, Religion Plus Nationalism,’ ” in Jack
Wertheimer, ed., Tradition Renewed (New York, 1997), 2: 118–27; Norman Bentwich, Sol-
omon Schechter (New York, 1938), ch. 12.
43. Jonathan D. Sarna, “A Projection of America as It Ought to Be,” in Allon Gal, ed.,
Envisioning Israel (Jerusalem and Detroit, 1996), pp. 41–42.
44. Allon Gal, Brandeis of Boston (Cambridge, Mass., 1980), passim.
45. Hertzberg, The Zionist Idea, pp. 517–23.
46. Urofsky, American Zionism, ch. 4; Melvin I. Urofsky, “Zionism: An American Ex-
perience,” Publication of the American Jewish Historical Society 63 (Mar. 1974): 215–230,
and “The Enduring Brandeis,” Midstream 33 (Aug.–Sept. 1987): 28–31. Urofsky notes
(p. 145 in American Zionism) that the number of members in the FAZ rose from some
12,000 in 1914 to 176,000 in 1919.
47. CCARY 28 (1918): 133–34.
48. UAHCP, 1919, pp. 8520–21.
49. CCARY 28 (1918): 141–44; Isaac W. Bernheim, The Reform Church of American Is-
raelites (Buffalo, 1921); Conference on the Advisability of Calling a Conference for the Pur-
pose of Combating Zionism (New York, 1918), p. 3. In another plan similar to Bernheim’s,
some Reformers refused to be associated with Zionists even as coworshipers. They were
prepared, therefore, to drop the very label “Jew.” American Hebrew, 24 Jan., 28 Mar. 1919.
50. CCARY 28 (1918): 133–34; 33 (1923): 92; 34 (1924): 106; AI, 6 May, 10 June 1920, 17
Feb. 1921; AH, 25 Oct., 1 Nov. 1918.
51. CCARY 45 (1935): 103; 47 (1937): 98; 52 (1942): 250–51; UAHCP, 1922, pp. 9129, 9333.
3. Zionism in the Public Square (Pages 64–94)

AAJ Cong Archives of the American Jewish Congress
AAJC Archives of the American Jewish Committee
CWP Chaim Weizmann Papers (Rechoboth, Israel)
CZA Central Zionist Archives (Jerusalem, Israel)
224 Notes
FWP Felix Warburg Papers, American Jewish Archives

JDB Jewish Daily Bulletin
JMP Judah Magnes Papers (Central Archives for the History of the Jewish
People, Jerusalem, Israel)
NP New Palestine
NYT New York Times
ZAL Zionist Archives and Library (I used this collection when it was located
in New York. It is now part of the CZA.)
Page numbers are not given for articles that appeared in daily or weekly newspapers.
1. Antisemitic bigots from the radical fringe, like Henry Ford and his journal, the De-
aborn Independent, joined the anti-Zionists. But Ford aimed primarily at exposing the
conspiracy of the “international Jew” bent on destroying Christian civilization, and
Zionism was only part of his overall crusade. Naomi W. Cohen, “The Specter of Zion-
ism,” in Essays in American Zionism, ed. Melvin I. Urofsky, Herzl Year Book, vol. 8 (New
York, 1978): 107–11.
2. See, for example, Jewish Messenger, 9 Feb. 1877, 13 Mar. 1891, 24 July 1896, 18 Aug.
1899; Joseph Krauskopf, Prejudice, Its Genesis and Exodus (New York, 1909), p. 86.
3. Morris Jastrow, Jr., “The Objections to a Jewish State,” Menorah Journal 4 (June
1918): 136; Morris Jastrow, Jr., Zionism and the Future of Palestine (New York, 1919),
pp. 120–21; American Hebrew, 15 Nov. 1918, 7 Feb. 1919.
4. NYT, 6, 16 Feb. 1919.
5. Morgenthau reprinted the article in his autobiography, All in a Life-Time (Garden
City, N.Y., 1925), ch. 12; Charles Goldblatt, “The Impact of the Balfour Declaration in
America,” American Jewish Historical Quarterly 57 (June 1968): 467.
6. Morris Raphael Cohen, “Zionism: Tribalism or Liberalism,” New Republic, 8 Mar.
1919, 182–83; Stuart Knee, “Vision and Judgment” (Ph.D. diss., New York University,
1974), p. 105.
7. The text of the petition is found in Jastrow, Zionism, appendix; see also NYT, 5
Mar. 1919. When Wilson endorsed the Balfour Declaration, he received numerous letters
from Reform Jews begging him not to deprive American Jews of their true homeland,
the United States. Selig Adler, “The Palestine Question in the Wilson Era,” Jewish Social
Studies 10 (Oct. 1948): 312.
8. Establishment of a National Home in Palestine, 67 Cong. 2 Sess., Hearings before
the Committee on Foreign Affairs on H. Con. Res. 52, pp. 85–87, 99–116; American He-
brew, 28 Apr., 5, 12 May 1922.
9. Morgenthau, All in a Life-Time, p. 392.
10. American Hebrew, 1 Feb. 1918.
11. Thomas Nixon Carver, “The Choice Before Jewry,” Menorah Journal 5 (Feb. 1919):
10–11.
12. Paul Mowrer, “The Assimilation of Israel,” Atlantic Monthly 128 (July 1921): 103–10.
13. Philip Marshall Brown, “Zionism and Antisemitism,” North American Review 210
(Nov. 1919): 656–62.
14. For example, Philip Cowen, Prejudice Against the Jew (New York, 1928), pp. 46, 75,
83, 86, 93, 97, 104–5, 116, 117, 127, 132.
15. For example, H. N. MacCracken, “A University Problem,” Menorah Journal 9
Notes 225
(Oct. 1921): 128; Reuben Fink, The American War Congress and Zionism (New York,
1919), p. 165.
16. John P. Peters, “Zionism and the Jewish Problem,” Sewanee Review 19 (July 1921):
268, 294; Horace J. Bridges, Jew-Baiting (New York, 1923), pp. 5–6, 73–75.
17. Herbert Adams Gibbons, “The Jewish Problem—Its Relation to American Ideals
and Interests,” Century Magazine 102 (Sept. 1921): 787–92.
18. Independent, 19 Apr. 1919, p. 85.
19. Herbert Adams Gibbons, “Zionism and the World Peace,” Century Magazine 92
(Jan. 1919): 370–78; Edward Bliss Reed, “The Injustice of Zionism,” Yale Review 9 (Apr.
1920): 522–28; Albert T. Clay, “Political Zionism,” Atlantic Monthly 127 (Feb. 1921): 268–
79; Anstruther Mackay, “Zionist Aspirations in Palestine,” Atlantic Monthly 126 (July
1920): 123–27; Peters, “Zionism and the Jewish Problem,” pp. 282–93; Brown, “Zionism
and Antisemitism,” pp. 660–61.
20. See n. 19 for references to Reed, Clay, Gibbons, Mackay, and Peters; Establishment
of a National Home in Palestine, pp. 21–35, 42, 69–74, 80, 83; Goldblatt, “Impact of the
Balfour Declaration,” pp. 473–74; Literary Digest, July 31, 1920, pp. 30–31; Selig Adler,
“Backgrounds of American Policy Toward Zion,” in Moshe Davis, ed., Israel: Its Role in
Civilization (New York, 1956), p. 276; Frank E. Manuel, The Realities of American-
Palestine Relations (Washington, 1949), pp. 199–200, 222, 291–93.
21. Clay, “Political Zionism,” p. 272; Mackay, “Zionist Aspirations,” pp. 125, 127; Gib-
bons, “Zionism and the World Peace,” pp. 375–78; Establishment of a National Home in
Palestine, pp. 22–34, 70, 83; letter of Reed to NYT, 16 Apr. 1922.
22. Rabbi Stephen S. Wise spoke bitterly of “the most tragic symptom of Jewish life
in the world today—a panicky, sickening, tragi-comic nervousness of Jews in the light of
any attempt to bring Jews together.” Jewish Antisemitism—A Tragi-Comedy, address be-
fore the Free Synagogue, 1 Jan. 1928.
23. Some Zionists tried. Professor Israel Friedlaender answered Gibbons’s articles in
“Zionism and the World Peace—A Rejoinder,” Century Magazine 97 (Apr. 1919): 803–10,
and the NP (Apr. 28, 1922) responded to Reed’s pro-Arab arguments. For Gottheil see
American Hebrew, 2 Feb. 1906.
24. Maccabaean 31 (June, Oct. 1918): 143, 287–88; 32 (Feb., Mar. 1919): 31–32, 66–67,
69–70; American Hebrew, 14, 21 Feb. 1919; NP, 1 July, 5 Aug., 21 Oct. 1921, 13 Jan., 28 Apr.,
5, 12 May, 2 June, 14 July, 1922; Samuel Untermyer, “Zionism—A Just Cause,” Forum 66
(Sept. 1921): 214–27; David Amram, “Answering Professor Jastrow,” Menorah Journal 4
(June 1918): 147–48.
25. Julian W. Mack, “Jewish Hopes at the Peace Table,” Menorah Journal 5 (Feb. 1919):
1–7; Felix Frankfurter, “The Statesmanship of the Balfour Declaration,” Menorah Jour-
nal 4 (Aug. 1918): 201–2.
26. Elisha M. Friedman, “In the Wake of Zionism,” Menorah Journal 4 (Apr. 1918):
100–10; Horace M. Kallen, “The Issues of War and the Jewish Position,” Nation, 29 Nov.
1917; “Democracy, Nationality and Zionism,” Maccabaean 31 (July 1918): 175; Friedman
in American Hebrew, 29 June 1917, 4 Jan. 1918; Naomi W. Cohen, Jacob H. Schiff (Han-
over, N.H., 1999), pp. 226, 238, 232.
27. Amram in Menorah Journal 4 (June 1918); Untermyer in NP, 5 Aug. 1921; Lipsky in
Establishment of a National Home in Palestine; Goldblatt, “Impact of the Balfour Declar-
ation,” pp. 498–99.
226 Notes
one line short

28. Cohen, “Zionism: Tribalism or Liberalism”; Horace M. Kallen, “Zionism: De-

mocracy or Prussianism,” New Republic, 5 Apr. 1919.
29. NP, 2 Sept. 1921, 14 Apr., 12 May, 2 June 1922; NYT, 28 May 1922.
30. Cf. Yonathan Shapiro, Leadership of the American Zionist Organization (Urbana,
1971), pp. 118, 127, 129, 131–32, 185–86, 251. For other Zionist arguments see Amram in
Menorah Journal 4 (June 1918): 147–48; Maccabaean 34 (July 1920): 21–23; H. Dannen-
baum in NP, 23 Dec. 1921; Friedman, “In the Wake of Zionism,” p. 107, and “Anti-
semitism,” Menorah Journal 8 (Feb. 1922): 1–6.
31. Goldblatt, “Impact of the Balfour Declaration,” passim; Samuel Halperin, The
Political World of American Zionism (Detroit, 1961), p. 327.
32. Naomi W. Cohen, The Year after the Riots (Detroit, 1988), pp. 11–49.
33. On the makeup of the three groups and their inability to cooperate see Cohen,
Riots, ch. 2.
34. L. Namier to T. Jones, 30 Aug. 1929, CWP; JDB, 29 Aug. 1929; The Letters and Papers
of Chaim Weizmann, v. 14, ed. Camillo Dresner (New Brunswick, N.J., and Jerusalem,
1978), pp. 7–8, 15. On Weizmann’s relations with England see Leonard Stein, Weizmann
and England (London, 1964); N. A. Rose, The Gentile Zionists (London, 1973), pp. 223–27.
35. Minutes of ZOA National Executive Committee meeting, 15 Sept. 1929, CZA-
A243/21; Simha Berkowitz, “Felix Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities” (D.H.L. diss., Jewish
Theological Seminary, 1971), pp. 360–62; JDB, 30 Aug. 1929; M. Waldman to H. Lehman,
29 Aug. 1929, AAJC-Palestine/Disturbances 1929; for Louis Lipsky’s initial opposition
see JDB, 3 Sept. 1929, NP, 20 Sept. 1929.
36. How England compromised its honor was a central theme of a book by Stephen
S. Wise and Jacob De Haas, The Great Betrayal (New York, 1930).
37. JDB, 30 Aug. 1929; Louis Berg, “American Public Opinion on Palestine,” Menorah
Journal 17 (Oct. 1929): 78–79; Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” pp. 365–66; A.
Tulin to S. Wise, 27 Aug. 1929, Stephen S. Wise Papers-Box 121, American Jewish Histor-
ical Society; Herbert Solow, “The Realities of Zionism,” Menorah Journal 19 (Nov.–Dec.
1930): 92–127; Elinor Grumet, “The Apprenticeship of Lionel Trilling,” Prooftexts 4 (May
1984): 163.
38. Berg, “American Public Opinion,” pp. 71, 74–75; Judd L. Teller, Strangers and Na-
tives (New York, 1968), p. 108; Julius Haber, The Odyssey of an American Zionist (New
York, 1956), p. 224; JDB, 29 Oct. 1929.
39. Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 159–60; Stuart E. Knee, The
Concept of Zionist Dissent in the American Mind (New York, 1979), p. 163; NP, 27 Sept., 4
Oct. 1929.
40. New Leader, 31 Aug., 14 Sept. 1929.
41. B. Deutsch to F. Warburg, 19, 27 Sept. 1929, F. Warburg to B. Deutsch, 20 Sept.
1929, AAJCong-Box 2; C. Weizmann to S. Wise, 24 Sept. 1929, CWP.
42. A fuller annotated discussion of the Magnes plan and the reaction it triggered,
which is considered in this and the next five paragraphs, is found in Cohen, Riots,
pp. 72–83, 97–98.
43. NP, 6, 20 Sept. 1929; Berg, “American Public Opinion,” p. 70; JDB, 5, 6,8, 9 Sept.
1929; minutes of ZOA National Executive Committee meeting, 15 Sept. 1929, CZA-A243/21.
44. Literary Digest, 5 Oct. 1929; Current History 31 (Nov. 1929): 406; Berg, “American
Public Opinion,” p. 68; Louis Berg, “The American Press on Palestine,” NP, 15 Nov. 1929.
Notes 227
one line short

45. Berg, “American Public Opinion,” p. 67; minutes of ZOA National Executive
Committee meeting, 29 Sept. 1929, ZAL.
46. J. Levy to Grand Mufti, 3 Nov. 1929, Joseph Levy Papers, Israel State Archives;
NYT, 4, 24 Nov. 1929; G. Agronsky to J. Magnes, 10 Dec. 1929, JMP-2106.
47. Vincent Sheean, Personal History (Boston, 1969), pp. 337–41, 354–57, 374–75, 381–
82; Meyer W. Weisgal, So Far (New York, 1971), pp. 65–66; JDB, 15, 19 Nov. 1929, 5 Jan.
1930; V. Sheean to G. Antonius, 21 Jan., 2 Apr. 1930, to M. Weisgal, 15 Jan. 1930, George
Antonius Papers, Israel State Archives.
48. Goldblatt, “Impact of the Balfour Declaration,” pp. 465–66; Nation, 11 Sept., 16
Oct., 4 Dec. 1929, 8 Jan., 30 July 1930; New Republic, 11 Sept., 23 Oct. 1929, 30 July 1930;
NP, 11–18 Oct. 1929.
49. Nation, 11 Sept., 2, 23 Oct. 1929, 8 Jan. 1930; New Republic, 7 May 1930; S. Wise to J.
Klausner, 3 Jan. 1930, J. Magnes to S. Wise, 6 Feb. 1930, JMP-2407; H. Mussey to J.
Magnes, 4 Dec. 1929, JMP-2403.
50. J. Holmes to H. Kohn, 3 Dec. 1929, JMP-2408; R. Baldwin to J. Magnes, 4 Dec.
1920, C. Pickett to J. Magnes, 29 Nov. 1929, H. Mussey to J. Magnes, 24 Jan. 1930, JMP-
2403.
51. NP 11–18 Oct., 13 Dec. 1929, 7 Feb., 11 Apr. 1930.
52. NP, 10 Jan. 1930.
53. Letters and Papers of Weizmann, pp. 181–82.
54. Except for quotations, which are documented separately, the composite of arti-
cles discussed in the next eight paragraphs is drawn from the following sources: William
E. Hocking, “Palestine—An Impasse?” Atlantic Monthly 146 (July 1930): 121–32; Hallen
Viney, “Jerusalem in Ferment,” Atlantic Monthly 144 (Dec. 1929): 829–38; Owen Tweedy,
“Zionism in Palestine,” Atlantic Monthly 146 (Oct. 1930): 548–56; Pierre Crabites, “A Jew-
ish Political State in Palestine,” Current History 31 (Jan. 1930): 749–54; H. N. Brailsford,
“British Policy in Palestine,” Current History 31 (Jan. 1930): 754–57; H. N. Brailsford,
“The Future in Palestine,” New Republic, 30 July 1930; John Gunther, “The Realities of
Zionism,” Harper’s Magazine 161 (July 1930): 202–12; William Martin, “The Position in
Palestine,” Living Age, 1 Feb. 1930; George C. Young, “The Labor Government and the
Near East,” New Republic, 23 Oct. 1929; Marion Weinstein, “The Paradox in Palestine,”
Outlook, 2 Oct. 1929; William Zukerman, “Myths in Palestine,” Nation, 16 Oct. 1929; Vic-
tor Yarros, “What Next in Palestine?” Nation, 7 July 1929; John P. Gavit, “Parliaments of
Persuasion,” Survey, 1 Jan. 1930; Vincent Sheean, “The Palestine Report,” Commonweal,
30 Apr. 1930; other articles by Sheean in Asia : 29 (Dec. 1929), 30 (Jan., Aug. 1930); Na-
tion, 4 Dec. 1929; New Republic, 11 Sept. 1929; excerpts from New York Herald-Tribune in
Berg, “American Public Opinion,” p. 79, and Berg, “American Press on Palestine,” p. 410.
55. Cited in Gunther, “Realities of Zionism,” p. 204.
56. Gunther, “Realities of Zionism,” p. 211.
57. Tweedy, “Zionism in Palestine,” pp. 550, 554. William Hocking, professor of phi-
losophy at Harvard, wrote that Christians too took offense at Zionist modernization
and secularization of the Holy Land. They preferred a primitive Palestine, closer in
spirit to the days of Jesus, where no motorcar would bump the camel. Hocking, “Pales-
tine—An Impasse?” p. 131.
58. Gunther, “Realities of Zionism,” p. 212.
59. Viney, “Jerusalem in Ferment,” p. 837.
60. Viney, “Jerusalem in Ferment,” p. 837.
228 Notes
61. Nation, 8 Jan. 1930; Viney, “Jerusalem in Ferment,” p. 837.

62. Clare Kohavi-Finkelman, “The Eternal Jew in the American Christian Mind” (tu-
torial paper, Hunter College, 1984), pp. 16–17, 20–21, 24–27, 29–30; material from the
Christian Century: W. Dewood David, “Whose ‘Home’ Is Palestine?” 23 Oct. 1929; letter
from J. Wise, 13 Nov. 1929; Al Ghazali, “Human Nature in Palestine,” 27 Nov. 1929; edito-
rial, 11 Dec. 1929; Sherwood Eddy, “The Grand Mufti on Palestine’s Problems,” 18 Dec.
1929; Berg, “American Press on Palestine,” p. 410; Esther Y. Feldblum, The American
Catholic Press and the Jewish State (New York, 1977), pp. 39–43.
63. Kohavi-Finkelman, “Eternal Jew,” pp. 10–12, 19–22; Hertzel Fishman, American
Protestantism and a Jewish State (Detroit, 1973), ch. 1; memo by assistant chief of treaty
division of State Department, 30 Oct. 1929, Records of the Department of State Relating
to the Internal Affairs of Turkey, 1910–1929 (RDST), National Archives.
64. Kohavi-Finkelman, “Eternal Jew,” pp. 14–17, 20, 31; Feldblum, American Catholic
Press, p. 42; Christian Century, 11 Dec. 1929; David, “Whose ‘Home’ Is Palestine?” Chris-
tian Century, 23 Oct. 1929.
65. Kohavi-Finkelman, “Eternal Jew,” pp. 28, 38–39; S. Wise to G. Agronsky, 30 Dec.
1929, CZA-A243/21; John Haynes Holmes, Palestine Today and To-Morrow (New York,
1929), pp. xiv, 81–83; J. Holmes to J. Magnes, 20 Nov. 1929, JMP-2408.
66. NP, 6, 20 Sept., 11–18 Oct. 1929; JDB, 16, 20 Sept. 1929.
67. Minutes of ZOA National Executive Committee meeting, 15 Sept. 1929, CZA-
A243/21.
68. JDB, 30 Dec. 1929; Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” pp. 368–69, 392;
memo from J. Mack, 9 Sept. 1929, CZA-A342/79; minutes of CPI meeting, 20 Sept. 1929,
ZAL; J. Mack to L. Brandeis, 5, 19, 21 Oct. 1929, ZAL-Brandeis Papers; J. De Haas to J.
Mack, n.d., ZAL-Brandeis Papers; Elizabeth P. MacCallum, The Palestine Conflict, FPA
Information Service 5, no. 16, 16 Oct. 1929.
69. Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” pp. 367–69; memo of Mack-
Lippmann telephone conversation, 23 Oct. 1929, ZAL-Brandeis Papers; L. Brandeis to J.
Mack, 4 Oct. 1929, CZA-A342/82; Melvin I. Urofsky and David W. Levy, eds., Letters of
Louis D. Brandeis (Albany, 1978), 5: 397–98, 408; Faisal-Frankfurter correspondence re-
printed in NP, 17 Jan. 1930.
70. Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” pp. 358, 363, 367; Letters of Brandeis, 5:
413, 425; reprint of Faisal-Frankfurter correspondence in NP, 17 Jan. 1930. The authentic-
ity of the correspondence was challenged by American Arabs in the same issue of the NP.
Felix Frankfurter, “The Palestine Situation Restated,” Foreign Affairs 9 (Apr. 1931): 409–34.
71. Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” p. 360.
72. Frankfurter rebutted one item in Hocking’s article in a letter to the Atlantic
Monthly 146 (Dec. 1930): 50.
73. Editorials in American Hebrew, 1929–30; I. Landman to F. Warburg, 14 Sept. 1929,
FWP-Box 251; Jerome M. Kutnick, “Non-Zionist Leadership: Felix M. Warburg, 1929–
37” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1983), pp. 193–94.
74. Minutes of CPI meeting, 20, 25 Sept., 2 Oct. 1929, ZAL.
75. H. Montor to L. Barth, 21 Oct. 1929, ZOA General Correspondence, ZAL.
76. Minutes of CPI meeting, 2 Oct. 1929, ZAL; J. Mack to L. Brandeis, 13 Sept. 1929,
ZAL-Brandeis Papers; L. Lipsky to S. Brodetsky, 16 Oct. 1929, CZA-S25/357; L. Lipsky to
F. Warburg, 30 Oct. 1929, FWP-Box 259; Meyer W. Weisgal, “Zionism as a Spiritual Ideal
and a Blessing to Palestine,” Current History 31 (Nov. 1929): 279–85.
Notes 229
77. For example, Bernard Flexner, “The Rights to a Jewish Home Land,” Nation, 2
Oct. 1929; Harold Loeb, “The Future of Zion,” New Republic, 10 Sept. 1930; John Haynes
Holmes, “New Pilgrims in Israel,” Survey, 1 Oct. 1929.
78. Christopher Sykes, Crossroads to Israel (Cleveland, 1965), pp. 94–95; Bernard Was-
serstein, The British in Palestine (London, 1978), ch. 6.
79. JDB, 3, 12, 19, 20 Jan. 1930; NYT, 10, 18, 22 Jan. 1930; NP, 6, 20 Sept., 11–18 Oct., 15
Nov., 6 Dec. 1929, 17, 24 Jan., 11 Apr., 6, 20 June 1930.
80. Knee, Zionist Dissent, pp. 198–214; JDB, 8 Sept., 30 Dec. 1929; letters to State De-
partment from Arab committees, RDST-867 n.404 WW/Alphabetical File. Lipsky sug-
gested that the American partners in the Agency launch an Arabic newspaper, friendly
to the Jews, that would counteract the influence of the American Arabic press. Minutes
of American members of Administrative Committee meeting, 26 Sept. 1929, CWP.
81. JDB, 30 Apr. 1930.
82. MacCallum, “An Arab Voice,” pp. 130–34; Knee, Zionist Dissent, pp. 211–12; min-
utes of CPI meeting, 7 Oct. 1929, ZAL; articles by Rihani: “Zionism and the Peace of the
World,” Nation, 2 Oct. 1929, “Palestine Arabs Claim to Be Fighting for National Exis-
tence,” Current History 31 (Nov. 1929): 272–28.
83. JDB, 30 Oct., 5, 30 Dec. 1930; Berkowitz, “Frankfurter’s Zionist Activities,” pp. 369–
70; Knee, Zionist Dissent, p. 213; J. Hyman to F. Warburg, 21 Jan. 1930, FWP-Box 272.
84. A. Tulin to S. Wise, 9 Sept. 1930, Wise Papers-Box 121.
85. P. Van Paassen to S. Wise, 29 Aug. 1930, CZA-A243/92.
4. A Modern Synagogue in Jerusalem (Pages 95–112)
1. This essay is dedicated to the memory of Rabbi Moshe Davis, a pioneer in the
study and teaching of American Jewish history. About thirty years ago Professor Davis
collected some materials on the subject of an early attempt to establish a modern syna-
gogue in Jerusalem, and after his death his notes were given to me by his wife, Mrs. Lot-
tie K. Davis. I am grateful to Mrs. Davis for her interest. I alone, however, am responsible
for the enlarged scope of the research and for the writing. The material from the Moshe
Davis Papers is designated by the abbreviation MDP.
2. Arthur A. Goren, ed., Dissenter in Zion (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), p. 206; unpub-
lished “Diary of Simon Greenberg, Trip to Palestine, Sept. 10, 1924–May 15, 1925,” p. 2
(courtesy of Professor Moshe Greenberg). Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook for Palestine
and Syria, written for Christian visitors, offers a full description of Jerusalem in its 1924
edition.
3. “Jerusalem,” Encyclopaedia Judaica, 9: 1461–74.
4. United Synagogue Recorder, 5 (Oct. 1925): 6.
5. I am grateful to Professor Jonathan Sarna for letting me read a draft of his latest
book on the history of American Judaism.
6. For this and the next two paragraphs I used Goren, Dissenter in Zion, and Norman
Bentwich, For Zion’s Sake (Philadelphia, 1954).
7. On the Szold-Magnes friendship in Jerusalem see Joan Dash, Summoned to Jerusa-
lem (New York and Philadelphia, 1979), pp. 181–82.
8. Michael Brown, The Israeli-American Connection (Detroit, 1996), p. 138.
9. Irving Fineman, Woman of Valor (New York, 1961), p. 311.
230 Notes
10. M. Davis, Conversations with A. Dushkin, 11, 26 Nov. 1973, MDP; Marvin Lowen-
thal, Henrietta Szold (Westport, Conn., 1975), p. 160.
11. J. Magnes to F. Warburg, 14 Mar. 1923, MDP.
12. See n.11 and Bentwich, For Zion’s Sake, p. 133.
13. Goren, Dissenter in Zion, p. 62; Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly, 1928, p. 53;
1929, p. 97.
14. Jerome M. Kutnick, “Non-Zionist Leadership: Felix M. Warburg” (Ph.D. diss.,
Brandeis University, 1983), pp. 147–49; C. Adler to F. Warburg, 13 May, 1924, Cyrus Adler
Papers, Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS).
15. Magnes journal for Sept. 12, 13, 15, 19, 20, 1923, MDP; Goren, Dissenter in Zion, p. 219.
16. A first draft of the documents in Magnes’s handwriting and a second typed draft
with amendments are in MDP.
17. Goren, Dissenter in Zion, pp. 219–20.
18. Magnes journal for Sept. 15, 1923, N. Bentwich to J. Magnes, 2 Oct. 1923, MDP;
Goren, Dissenter in Zion, p. 219.
19. Lober returned to the United States in 1926 and was appointed a director for MGM
in Egypt, where he worked for ten years. On the young Lober, see Greenberg “Diary,”
pp. 88–89; M. Davis, lists of people in the yishuv connected to Magnes and the Chevra,
MDP; M. Davis, Conversations with Lober, 18 and 22 Nov. 1973, MDP; Louis Lober,
“Yeshurun” (memoir), MDP.
20. Lober, “Yeshurun,” MDP; N. Bentwich to J. Magnes, 2 Oct. 1923, MDP.
21. M. Davis, Conversations with Lober, 18 and 22 Nov. 1973, MDP; Lober, “Yeshurun,”
MDP.
22. Lober, “Yeshurun,” MDP.
23. Lober, “Yeshurun,” MDP.
24. Greenberg, “Diary,” pp. 34, 38–39, 60, 97.
25. Magnes journal for Sept. 15, 1923, MDP; Bentwich, For Zion’s Sake, p. 134.
26. United Synagogue Recorder, 3 (Oct. 1923): 1.
27. Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly of America, 1927, p. 22.
28. Sarah Kussy, “Religious Life in Palestine,” United Synagogue Recorder, 4 (Apr. 1924):
11.
29. The number 2000 was calculated by the State Department in 1929, Naomi W.
Cohen, The Year After the Riots (Detroit, 1988), p. 24.
30. Women’s League Outlook, 2 (Dec. 1931): 1; see also Jewish Daily Bulletin, 19 Oct. 1925;
United Synagogue Recorder, 6 (Jan. 1926): 29; 7 (July 1927): 6.
31. Cyrus Adler, I Have Considered the Days (Philadelphia, 1941), p. 378.
32. The Herald of the United Synagogue Recorder, 1 Mar. 1925, p. 4, 1 May 1925, pp. 4–5.
33. United Synagogue Recorder, 5 (July 1925): 16; 5 (Oct. 1925): 7–8; Greenberg, “Diary,”
p. 174.
34. United Synagogue Recorder, 5 (Oct. 1925): 6; 7 (July 1927): 5 (“The Site of United
Synagogue Centre in Jerusalem,” by Elias Epstein).
35. Jewish Daily Bulletin, 19 Oct. 1925; New Palestine, 20 Nov. 1925.
36. United Synagogue Recorder, 5 (Oct. 1925): 6–8; Minutes of the Executive Council, 25
Nov. 1936, Women’s League Archives (WLA).
37. Minutes of the Executive Council, 27 Sept. 1933, WLA.
38. Jewish Daily Bulletin, 19 Oct. 1925; United Synagogue of America and Women’s
League of the United Synagogue, Annual Reports, 1926, p. 35; United Synagogue
Notes 231
Recorder, 6 (Jan. 1926): 7–9, 28–29; 6 (June 1926): 15; Minutes of the Women’s League Ex-
ecutive Council, 21 Sept. 1925, WLA.
39. I. Levinthal to N. Hecker and E. Yellin, 8 July 1925, WLA; United Synagogue Re-
corder, 6 (Mar. 1926): 6.
40. Minutes of the Women’s League Executive Council, 16 Nov. 1925, WLA; United
Synagogue Recorder, 6 (Mar. 1926): 8.
41. United Synagogue, Annual Reports, 1926, p. 35.
42. One piece of encouraging news about the synagogue-center momentarily re-
lieved the gloomy outlook of the 1930s. In October 1935 a member of the Women’s
League received a personal letter reporting on the High Holiday services that were held
in the yet unfinished building. Despite makeshift provisions compensating for the lack
of flooring, pulpit, chairs, and permanent lighting, three hundred tickets were sold. Ser-
vices on Rosh ha-Shanah were so impressive that the demand for seats on Yom Kippur
soared. Every seat was filled for Yom Kippur eve, and between five to six hundred people
stood in the back. Minutes of the Women’s League Executive Council, 23 Oct. 1935,
WLA; Women’s League Outlook, 6 (Dec. 1935): 6.
43. Minutes of the Women’s League Executive Council, especially 9 Oct., 27 Nov.
1929, 27 Sept., 25 Oct., 22 Nov. 1933, 21 Apr., 17 June, 25 Nov. 1936, 27 Dec. 1937, WLA; A.
Neuman to Mrs. Kass, 4 June 1936, D. Spiegel to S. Cohen, 11 June 1936, to A. Neuman, 11
June 1938, to I. Levinthal, 11 June 1936, to L. Hoffman, 12 Apr. 1937, WLA Correspon-
dence; Meeting of the Executive Council of the United Synagogue, 1 Apr., 21 May, 18
June 1936, JTS-General Files, Box 27, Series A; Adler, I Have Considered the Days, p. 378.
44. Abraham J. Karp, A History of the United Synagogue of America (New York, 1964),
pp. 63, 73; Proceedings of the Rabbinical Assembly of America, 1948, p. 257. Negotiations
on the cession of the land to the Jewish National Fund were carried on since the mid-
1930s. Meeting of the Executive Council of the United Synagogue, 21 May 1936, JTS-
General Files, Box 27, Series A. A popular article on Yeshurun entitled “Air of Distinc-
tion,” with no mention of United Synagogue sponsorship in the interwar period,
appeared in the supplementary section of the Jerusalem Post, 12 Jan. 2001.
5. The Social Worker and the Diplomat: Maurice B. Hexter and Sir John Hope
Simpson (Pages 113–136)

CWP Chaim Weizmann Papers (Rechoboth, Israel)
CZA Central Zionist Archives (Jerusalem, Israel)
FWP Felix Warburg Papers, American Jewish Archives
JMP Judah Magnes Papers (Central Archives for the History of the Jewish
People, Jerusalem, Israel)
MHP Maurice Hexter Papers, American Jewish Archives
RDS-JCC Records of the Department of State, Consular Post Records (Jerusalem
[National Archives], Israel)
RDST Records of the Department of State Relating to the Internal Affairs of
Turkey (National Archives)
ZAL Zionist Archives and Library (I used this collection when it was located
in New York. It is now part of the CZA.)
232 Notes
1. Naomi W. Cohen, “An Uneasy Alliance,” in Bertram W. Korn, ed., A Bicentennial

Festschrift for Jacob Rader Marcus (Waltham, Mass., and New York), pp. 114–18. Criti-
cism of Weizmann, the Agency, and the ZOA pervades most of Warburg’s correspon-
dence on the Palestinian question for 1929–30.
2. Jerome M. Kutnick, “Non-Zionist Leadership: Felix M. Warburg, 1929–1937”
(Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1983), pp. 149, 184, 189, 193–94; F. Warburg to C. Weiz-
mann, 11 Oct. 1929, FWP-Box 256.
3. See especially Warburg-Goldstein letters for September–October in FWP-Box 258;
Maurice B. Hexter, Life Size (West Kennebunk, Maine, 1990), pp. 60, 75–76.
4. P. Knabenshue to G. H. Shaw, 6 Nov. 1929, RDS-JCC, pt. 5, to H. Stimson, 26 Oct.
1929, RDST-867n.404 WW/250; H. Stimson to P. Knabenshue, 19 Sept. 1929, RDS-JCC,
pt. 8; J. Magnes to F. Warburg, 21 Sept. 1929, FWP-256; F. Warburg to J. Goldstein, 15, 16
Oct. 1929, J. Goldstein to F. Warburg, 16, 18 Oct. 1929, E. Mohl to B. Flexner, 15 Oct. 1929,
FWP-Box 258; B. Flexner to F. Warburg, 25 Sept., 28 Oct. 1929, FWP-253; F. Kisch to F.
Warburg, 26 Oct. 1929, FWP-Box256; J. Magnes to F. Warburg, 29 Sept. 1929, JMP-2396;
F. Warburg to D. Brown, 23 Oct. 1929, MHP.
5. F. Warburg to J. Magnes, 9 Oct. 1929, FWP-Box 252; to O. d’Avigdor-Goldsmid, 26
Dec. 1929, FWP-258.
6. F. Warburg to Passfield, 18 Nov. 1930, FWP-Box 270.
7. The information for this and the next paragraph comes from Hexter’s autobiogra-
phy, Life Size.
8. Hexter, Life Size, pp. 2, 64, 81; see for example F. Warburg to J. de Rothschild, 8 Nov.
1929, MHP.
9. F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 4 Nov. 1929, to M. Hexter, 13 Feb. 1930, MHP; Hexter,
Life Size, pp. 64–65; The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, v. 14, ed. Camillo Dres-
ner (New Brunswick, N.J., and Jerusalem, 1978), p. 103n.
10. F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 28 Oct. 1929, MHP; Letters and Papers of Weizmann,
pp. 87, 228n.
11. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 13, 20 Dec. 1929, FWP-Box 258; Hexter, Life Size, pp. 65,
72–76, 87, 90.
12. Hexter’s memorandum of a conference with Justice Brandeis, 3 Nov. 1929, FWP-
Box 253; Hexter, Life Size, pp. 61–62, 65.
13. J. Mack to F. Frankfurter, 28 Aug. 1930, ZAL-Julian W. Mack 1930 trip, ZOA Per-
sonal Files; report by F. Warburg to Administrative Committee, Aug. 1930, FWP-Box 271.
14. Flexner, an American lawyer, served on the council of the Agency; Wasserman, a
German banker, chaired the Agency’s Finance and Budget Committee.
15. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 27 Dec. 1929, MHP; M. Hexter to J. Hyman, 7 Jan. 1930,
CWP.
16. The Shaw Commission, which had been sent to Palestine with the purpose of in-
vestigating the causes of the riots, had gone beyond its instructions and had dealt with
matters of policy like immigration and land acquisitions.
17. Minutes of Meeting of Political Committee, June 23 and 24, 1930 in London,
CZA-Z4/10073; Memorandum of our talk with the Prime Minister, 6 Apr. 1930, FWP-
Box 270; C. Weizmann to F. Warburg, 15 May 1930, MHP; Hexter, Life Size, p. 78.
18. Kenneth W. Stein, The Land Question in Palestine (Chapel Hill, 1984), pp. 90, 104–
5; F. H. Kisch, Palestine Diary (London, 1938), p. 300.
19. F. Warburg to R. Lindsay, 21 May 1930, FWP-Box 271, to C. Weizmann, 15,21, 28
Notes 233
May 1930, FWP-Box 268; J. Magnes to F. Warburg, 16 May 1930, FWP-Box 263; M. Hex-
ter to F. Warburg, 6, 15, 20, 21 May 1930, C. Weizmann to M. MacDonald, 21 May 1930,
MHP; Minutes of Meeting of Political Committee, June 23–24 1930, CZA-Z4/10073.
20. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 4, 5 June 1930, FWP-Box 272; Stein, Land Question in
Palestine, pp. 103–5.
21. Minutes of Meeting of Political Committee, June 23–24, 1930, CZA-Z4/10073.
22. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 6, 7, 9 June 1930, FWP-Box 272.
23. Minutes of Meeting of Political Committee, June 23–24, 1930, CZA-Z4/10073; P.
Rutenberg to L. Brandeis, 26 June 1930, CZA-S25/357; F. Warburg to J. Magnes, 28 July
1930, to B. Flexner, 1 Aug. 1930, FWP-Box 263.
24. Pinchas Ofer, “The Hope Simpson Report, Its Foundation and the Objectives of
Its Framers to Influence the Internal Jewish Arena” (Hebrew), in Proceedings of the Sixth
World Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem, 1975),2:383–90.
25. Ofer, “Hope Simpson Report,” n.19.
26. F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 12 June 1930, CWP; M. Hexter to Admin Comm, un-
dated [Sept. or Oct. 1930], MHP.
27. C. Weizmann to F. Warburg, 27 June 1930, MHP; F. Warburg to Admin Comm, 25
July 1930, FWP-Box 268; W. Senator to F. Warburg, 13 July 1930, P. Rutenberg to F. War-
burg, 21 Aug. 1930, FWP-Box 270.
28. M. Hexter to L. Brandeis, 5 Aug. 1930, J. Hyman to M. Hexter, 18 July 1930, MHP.
29. Hexter’s report on Hope Simpson meetings, 15–16 Aug. 1930, in MHP and FWP-
Box 272; see also Stein, Land Question in Palestine, pp. 111–12.
30. J. Hope Simpson to F. Warburg, 16 Sept. 1930, M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 7 Sept.
1930, MHP; Letters and Papers of Weizmann, p. 377n.
31. M. Hexter to C. Weizmann, 20 Aug. 1930, CWP; Letters and Papers of Weizmann,
p. 376; L. Brandeis to M. Hexter 29 Aug. 1930, M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 7 Sept. 1930, MHP.
32. Report of the Chairman of the Administrative Committee of the Jewish Agency (Ber-
lin, 1929), p. 12, CZA-A264/70; memorandum by Warburg on meeting with Passfield, 25
Aug. 1930, ZAL-Julian W. Mack 1930 trip, ZOA Personal Files; Verbatim Notes of Meet-
ing of Administrative Committee in New York, 18 Sept. 1930, J. Hope Simpson to F. War-
burg, 3 Oct. 1930, FWP-Box 272.
33. C. Weizmann to F. Warburg, 6, 17, 24 Oct. 1930, to Passfield, 13 Oct. 1930, memo of
conversation at Colonial Office, 15 Oct. 1930, MHP; Letters and Papers of Weizmann,
p. 376.
34. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 7 Sept., 14 Oct. 1930, MHP.
35. Melchett to F. Warburg, 1 Nov. 1930, MHP.
36. ESCO Foundation, Palestine, 2 vols. (New Haven, 1947), 2: 636–59; Passfield to F.
Warburg, 30 Oct. 1930, FWP-Box 270; C. Weizmann to F. Warburg, 24 Oct. 1930, F. War-
burg to C. Weizmann, 31 Oct. 1930, memo of 15 Nov. 1930: Differences between the
White Paper and the Hope Simpson Document, MHP.
37. M. Hexter to J. de Rothschild, 13 Nov. 1930, to F. Warburg, 1 Nov. 1930, MHP;
Stein, Land Question in Palestine, pp. 113–14.
38. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 1 Nov. 1930, MHP.
39. Hexter, Life Size, pp. 81–83.
40. F. Warburg to F. Kisch, 5 Dec. 1930, MHP.
41. For example, F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 22 Dec. 1930, MHP.
42. League of Nations Permanent Mandates Commission, Minutes of the Seventeenth
234 Notes
(Extraordinary) Session (Geneva, 1930); a summary of the Commission’s report ap-

peared in the New Palestine, 5 Sept. 1930; M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 7 Sept. 1930, to
Admin Comm, 26 Nov. 1930, MHP.
43. F. Warburg to M. Hexter, 15 Dec. 1930, MHP; Kutnick, “Non-Zionist Leadership,”
pp. 303–9.
44. The general account in this paragraph has been pieced together from many letters
and cables too numerous to cite in the Warburg and Hexter Papers.
45. F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 23 Oct. 1930, M. Hexter to Admin Comm, 9 Jan. 1931,
MHP; O. d’Avigdor-Goldsmid to F. Warburg, 25 June 1930, M. MacDonald to M. Hexter,
21 Jan. 1931, F. Warburg to C. Weizmann, 2 Jan. 1931, FWP-Box 272.
46. C. Weizmann to F. Warburg, 16 Jan. 1930, CZA-S25/1422.
47. Kutnick, “Non-Zionist Leadership,” p. 312; book of cables from M. Hexter to F.
Warburg, p. 29 (undated), p. 30 (22 Nov. 1930), cables from F. Warburg to M. Hexter,
p. 22, #97, MHP.
48. H. Laski to Admin Comm, undated, M. Hexter to J. Hyman, 22 Nov., 1 Dec. 1930,
12 Jan. 1931, cables from Hexter to Admin Comm, 2 Dec. 1930 and #121(undated), to J.
Hyman, 22 Nov. 1930, cable from J. Hyman to M. Hexter #97, MHP; Stein, Land Ques-
tion in Palestine, p. 128; The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, v. 15, ed. Camillo
Dresner (New Brunswick, N.J., and Jerusalem, 1978), p. 63.
49. ESCO Foundation, Palestine, 2: 656–60.
50. For example, M. Hexter cable to Admin Comm, 8 Jan. 1931, MHP.
51. Memo of conversation with the High Commissioner, 6 Feb. 1931, MHP; M. Hex-
ter to J. Hyman, 22 Apr. 1931, FWP-Box 272.
52. See numerous cables between Hexter and Warburg’s office for April and May 1931,
MHP; ESCO Foundation, Palestine, 2:658; Stein, Land Question in Palestine, pp. 134–41;
Letters and Papers of Weizmann, v. 15, pp. 165–69; editorial in New Palestine, 22 May 1931.
53. M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 27 Nov. 1930, MHP; Stein, Land Question in Palestine,
pp. 111–14.
54. C. Adler to M. Hexter, 30 Jan. 1931, FWP-Box 272.
55. J. Hope Simpson to M. Hexter, 6, 18, 26 Nov. 1930, M. Hexter to J. Hope Simpson,
20, 26 Nov., 2 Dec. 1930, MHP; M. Hexter to J. Hyman, 2 Jan. 1931, FWP-Box 272.
56. Note of conversation with Sir John Hope Simpson, London, 10 Jan. 1931, FWP-
Box 272.
57. M. Hexter to C. Weizmann, 21 Jan. 1931, C. Weizmann to M. Hexter, 27 Feb. 1931,
note of conversation with Hope Simpson, 10 Mar. 1931, J. Hope Simpson to M. Hexter, 9
May 1931, M. Hexter to J. Hope Simpson, 11 May 1931, MHP; M. Hexter to F. Warburg, 22
June 1931, FWP-Box 272.
58. Address by I. B. Berkson at Philadelphia, 13 May 1932, Berkson Papers, CZA-A348/9.
59. American Jewish Year Book 92 (1992): 597–98; Hexter, Life Size, p. 133.
6. Jewish Immigration to Palestine: The Zionists and the State Department

(Pages 137–164)
Unless otherwise indicated all references are to the Records of the Department of State
Relating to the Internal Affairs of Palestine, 1930–1944. The documents cited often in-
clude enclosures and replies to letters received.
Notes 235
1. 867n.00/124, P. Knabenshue to H. Stimson, 2 Oct. 1931; 867n.55/38, R.Atherton to

H. Stimson, 16 Feb. 1931.
2. 867n.01/522, W. Murray to solicitor, 19 Mar. 1930; /524, memorandum by P. Alling,
10 Mar. 1930; /525, P. Alling to solicitor, 19 Mar. 1930; /526, solicitor to W. Murray, 15 Apr.
1930; /616, W. Murray to J. Rogers, 5 Feb. 1932; /674 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 8 Sept.
1933; /727 1/2, W. Murray to R. Moore, 18 Nov. 1936.
3. 867n.01/709, W. Phillips to H. Ickes, 18 May 1936.
4. 867.n00B/25, report by J. Simon, 14 July 1932.
5. On Paul Knabenshue see Naomi W. Cohen, The Year After the Riots (Detroit, 1988),
ch. 1.
6. 867n.00B/5–27, especially /7, report by R. McGregor, 5 July 1930 and /25, report by
J. Simon, 14 July 1932.
7. See, for example, the survey by Vice-Consul H. Minnigerode, 867n.50/3, 15 July
1932.
8. 867n.55/66, report by A. Richards, 27 Oct. 1934; Foreign Relations of the United
States (FRUS), 1938, II, 991.
9. 867n.55/51, A. Sloan to C. Hull, 26 Apr. 1933, /54, 28 Oct. 1933, /56, 7 Nov. 1933, /70,
14 Dec. 1934; 867n.00/164, A. Sloan to C. Hull, 1 Mar. 1933,/180, 4 Oct. 1933, /183, 16 Oct.
1933.
10. 867n.00/217, E. Palmer to C. Hull, 26 Sept. 1934, /227, 9 Jan. 1935.
11. 867n.55/27, W. Murray to J. Cotton, 20 June 1930; 867n.00B/25, report by J. Simon,
14 July 1932.
12. 867n.55/49, A. Sloan to C. Hull, 22 Apr. 1933, /51, 26 Apr. 1933; /66, report by A.
Richards, 27 Oct. 1934; 867n.00/174, A. Sloan to C. Hull, 1 May 1933; /205, E. Palmer to C.
Hull, 15 Aug. 1934, /213, 21 Sept. 1934, /214, 21 Sept. 1934, /230, 5 Jan. 1935, /251, 3 Aug. 1935.
13. 867n.00/237, E. Palmer to C. Hull, 9 Mar. 1935, /256, 7 Sept. 1935, /263, 25 Nov. 1935;
/241, W. Murray to E. Palmer, 7 May 1935.
14. 867n.00/217, E. Palmer to C. Hull, 26 Sept. 1934, /263, 25 Nov. 1935; /273, L. Morris
to C. Hull, 6 Mar. 1936, /311, 6 June 1936.
15. 867n.00/276, L. Morris to C. Hull, 20 Apr. 1936, /311, 6 June 1936; /305,A. Kirk to C.
Hull, 4 June 1936; /316, R. Atherton to C. Hull, 22 June 1936; FRUS, 1936, III, 434–41.
16. 867n.00/338, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 13 July 1936; 867n.55/100, report by H.
Minor, 5 May 1937. The figures for the number of American Jews were little more than
estimates. Despite that small number, Jews in America contributed one-half to two-
thirds of the monies collected worldwide 1920–32 by the Jewish National Fund and the
Palestine Foundation Fund. 867n.01/633, report by T. Hickok, 10 June 1932.
17. 867n.00/334, W. Murray to C. Hull, 25 July 1936; /338, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 13
July 1936. Wallace Murray added that were England to adopt a course of action suggested
by the United States, it could then disclaim any responsibility for American interests.
18. 867n.00/288, S. Wise to F. Roosevelt, 18 May 1936; FRUS, 1936, II, 442–43.
19. 867n.00/154, W. Murray to J. Rogers, 6 May 1932; /331, L. Morris to C. Hull, 23 July
1936; 867n.01/616, E. Neumann to J. Rogers, 29 Jan. 1932; /622, R. Atherton to J. Rogers,
10 Mar. 1932.
20. 867n.00/334, S. Rosenman to F. Roosevelt, 16 July 1936; /337, R. Bingham to C.
Hull, 5 Aug. 1936; FRUS, 1936, II, 444–45, 453.
21. For example, 867n.00/352, P. Englander to C. Hull, 20 Aug. 1936; /353, J. Kraemer
to C. Hull, 20 Aug. 1936. Most of the letters arrived in August.
236 Notes
22. 867n.00/362, Washington Herald of 26 Aug. 1936; /369, ZOA to C. Hull, 28 Aug.
1936; /370, C. DuBois to C. Hull, 18 Aug. 1936; /473, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 15 May
1937; FRUS, 1936, III, 446–47.
23. 867n.00/392, W. Murray to C. Hull, 19 Sept. 1936; FRUS, 1936, III, 450–51.
24. 867n.00/376, A. Lonergan to C. Hull, 2 Sept. 1936; /378, W. King to C. Hull, 1 Sept.
1936; /379, W. Hocking to C. Hull, 7 Sept. 1936; /383, G. Kheirallah to F. Roosevelt, 8 Sept.
1936; newspaper clipping probably enclosed in /383.
25. 867n.01/744 1/2, W. Murray to R. Moore, 26 Mar. 1937.
26. 867n.00/488, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 12 June 1937; FRUS, 1936, III, 452–54.
27. 867n.00/420, memo of conversation (and copy of Zionist document), 2 Dec.
1936; 867n.01/725 1/2, S. Wise to M. McIntyre, 13 Nov. 1936; /727 1/2, W. Murray to R.
Moore, 18 Nov. 1936; FRUS, 1936, III, 454–59.
28. See /420 cited in n.27 and memo added to the Zionist document, W. Murray to R.
Moore, 2 Dec. 1936; FRUS, 1936, III, 455–58.
29. For example, 867n.01/742, State Department’s wire to embassy in London, 27 Apr.
1937.
30. 867n.01/744, W. Murray to R. Moore, 23 Jan. 1937, /469 1/2 (original number of
document is inaccurate), 28 May 1937; /743 1/2, W. Murray to S. Welles, 30 Apr. 1937. The
department prepared several substantive memoranda that defended the narrow inter-
pretation of the 1924 treaty against the Zionist brief. 867n.01/744, memo by F. Ward;
memos by J. Cotton, /758, 9 June 1937, on “The American Government and the Balfour
Declaration,” /760, 14 June 1937, on American public opinion and the Balfour Declara-
tion (with an emphasis on anti-Zionist opinion), /779, 8 July 1937; /758 1/2, memo by W.
Murray, 22 June 1937.
31. 867n.00/431, memo of conversation of Arabs with C. Hull, 1 Feb. 1937; /438, G. Wads-
worth to C. Hull, 4 Feb. 1937, /439, 5 Feb. 1937; /458, W. Murray to W. Carr, 12 May 1937.
32. 867n.00/438, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 4 Feb. 1937; /445, S. Wise to R. Moore, 5
Apr. 1937; /453, memo by W. Murray, 3 May 1937; /465–/466, S. Wise to C. Hull, 4, 18 June
1937 (Wise, who also spoke for Louis Brandeis, noted the “warm interest” of both
Roosevelt and Hull); /471, wire from Arabs to F. Roosevelt, 21 June 1937.
33. 867n.00/189, C. Thiel to C. Hull, 20 Jan. 1934.
34. 867n.00/434, memo by W. Murray, 27 Jan. 1937; /457 G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 17
Apr. 1937, /461, 30 Apr. 1937; /480, S. Wise to C. Hull, 2 July 1937; 867n.01/769, A. Elias to
R. Wagner, 2 July 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 881.
35. For example, 867n.01/524, report by W. Murray, 10 Mar. 1930; /539 1/2, W. Murray
to H. Stimson, 23 Oct. 1930.
36. 1937, II, 882.
37. 1937, II, 887–89.
38. 1937, II, 884–87.
39. 1937, II, 884–93.
40. 867n.01/769, C. Hull to R. Wagner, 14 July 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 888–90.
41. 867n.01/962, H. Johnson to C. Hull, 5 Nov. 1937; /1076, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 2
May 1938; 867n.55/100, report by H. Minor, 5 May 1937; /109, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, /
109, 10 Nov. 1937, /110, 17 Nov. 1937, /111, 30 Oct. 1937, /137, 14 July 1938, /154, 14 Dec. 1937;
/149, memo by P. Alling, 22 Nov. 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 914–20, 1938, II, 991–92.
42. 867n.55/109, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 10 Nov. 1937, /129, 28 May 1938; /113, H.
Johnson to C. Hull, 24 Nov. 1937; /122, W. Murray to C. Hull, 13 Apr. 1938.
Notes 237
43. 867n.55/122, W. Murray to C. Hull, 13 Apr. 1938; 867n.01/1077, 75 Cong. 3 Sess., H.

Con. Res. 50, 12 May 1938; /1092, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 14 May 1938; FRUS, 1938, II,
918, 993–94.
44. 867n.01/919, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 31 Aug. 1937; /1048, W. Murray to A. Berle,
2 Apr. 1938; /1085, G. Wadsworth to W. Murray, 16 May 1938; 867n.50/17, A. Scott to C.
Hull, 17 Sept. 1937; /19, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 10 July 1939.
45. 867n.01/907 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 11 Aug. 1937.
46. 867n.01/806, S. Wise to C. Hull, 21 July 1937.
47. 867n.01/791A, W. Murray to London embassy, 12 July 1937; /851, H. Johnson to C.
Hull, 5 Aug. 1937.
48. 867n.01/873, A. Frost to C. Hull, 13 Aug. 1937; /904, G. Wadsworth to C.Hull, 20
Aug. 1937, /928, 17 Sept. 1937; /907 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 11 Aug. 1937; FRUS, 1937, II,
904.
49. 867n.01/750 1/2, P. Alling to C. Hull, 7 Aug. 1937; /813, W. Murray to C. Hull, 19 July
1937, /946, W. Murray to C. Hull et al., 24 July 1937.
50. 867n.01/751 1/2, P. Alling to C. Hull, 17 Aug. 1937; /752 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 20
Aug. 1937; /920, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 3 Sept. 1937, /1068,19 Feb. 1938; /1012, C. Adler
to C. Hull, 21 Jan. 1938; FRUS, 1938, II, 899–901.
51. 867n.01/809, W. Murray to C. Hull, 23 July 1937; /826, memo by W. Murray on
London despatch of 30 July 1937; /959, memo of conversation, 27 Oct. 1937; FRUS, 1937,
II, 909.
52. 867n.01/743 1/2, W. Murray to S. Welles, 20 Apr. 1937; /469 1/2 (original number of
document is inaccurate), W. Murray to R. Moore, 28 May 1937; /825, memo by W. Mur-
ray, 20 July 1937, /982, 2 Dec. 1937; /907 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 11 Aug. 1937, /946, 24
July 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 908–9, 921–22.
53. 867n.01/780 1/2, F. Roosevelt to C. Hull, 7 July 1937; /807, W. Murray to C. Hull, 19
July 1937, /811, 23 July 1937, /814, 19 July 1937, /947, 28 July 1937; /812, Near Eastern Affairs
memo, 17 July 1937; /847, K. Pittman to C. Hull, 17 Aug. 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 893–94.
54. 867n.01/958, W. Murray to B. Akzin, 28 Oct. 1937; /959, W. Murray to C. Hull, 16
Nov. 1937, /988, 14 Dec. 1937; /981, H. Johnson to C. Hull, 7 Dec. 1937; FRUS, 1937, II, 921–
22. Murray learned shortly thereafter that Akzin had spoken to the American minister in
Prague on the situation of American Jewry. He thought that a “latent antipathy” to Jews
in the United States might well be converted into active antisemitism. 867n.01/1015 1/2,
B. Akzin to W. Murray, 19 Jan. 1938; /1026, P. Alling to C. Hull and S. Welles, 25 Aug. 1938;
/1048, W. Murray to A. Berle, 2 Apr. 1938; /1132, H. Johnson to W. Murray, 6 Aug. 1938;
FRUS, 1938, II, 889, 896–99.
55. 867n.01/752 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull, 20 Aug. 1937; /1076, G. Wadsworthto C.
Hull, 2 May 1938; /1113, G. Wadsworth to W. Murray, 9 June 1938, and W. Murray to G.
Wadsworth, 18 July 1938; FRUS, 1938, II, 903–13, 916–17, 920–27.
56. FRUS, 1938, II, 989–90.
57. FRUS, 1938, II, 929, 934, 943–50; 867n.01/1105, J. Epstein to W. Murray, 9 June 1938;
/1113, G. Wadsworth to W. Murray, 9 June 1938.
58. 867n.01/1089, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 28 May 1938; /1106, W. Murray to G.
Wadsworth, 2 July 1938; 867n.55/122, W. Murray to C. Hull, 13 Apr. 1938; /124 W. Murray
to E. Khourie, 14 May 1938; FRUS, 1938, II, 928.
59. 867n.01/1094, S. Wise to C. Hull, 24 June 1938. That same month Hull met with a
delegation from the (Christian) Pro-Palestine Federation which now pressed for in-
238 Notes
creased immigration. The delegates subsequently reported that Hull had “heartily
endorsed” their position, but the secretary denied the claim. He had not yet read their
written statement, but in customary fashion he said that all matters relating to foreign
affairs received the government’s attention. FRUS, 1938, II, 927–29.
60. 867n.01/1172, S. Goldman to C. Hull, 11 Oct. 1938; /1208 1/2, Near Eastern division
memo, 22 Oct. 1938; /1257, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 17 Oct. 1938.
61. 867n.01/1156, W. Green to C. Hull, 7 Oct. 1938; /1185, P. Alling to J. Morlock, 24
Oct. 1938; /1219, P. Alling to C. Hull, 24 Oct. 1938; FRUS, 1938, II, 960, 965–66; 1939, IV,
699.
62. 867n.01/1257, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 17 Oct. 1938, /1296, 29 Oct. 1938; /1296, P.
Alling to G. Messersmith, 22 Nov. 1938.
63. 867n.01/1321, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 31 Oct. 1938, /1371, 25 Oct. 1938; memo by
F. Ward, 6 Mar. 1939 (incorrectly filed); FRUS, 1938, II, 966–68;1939, IV, 725–29.
64. 867n.01/893, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 5 Aug. 1937, /1296, 29 Oct. 1938, /1297, 1
Nov. 1938; /1252, G. Merriam to C. Hull, 25 Oct. 1938; /1287, memo by P. Alling, 2 Nov.
1938; /1304, E. Palmer to C. Hull, 9 Nov. 1938; /1346, W. Murray to S. Welles, 23 Nov.
1938; /1426, W. Murray to C. Hull, 27 Jan. 1939; FRUS, 1938, II, 962, 964, 966–69, 975–
76, 981.
65. FRUS, 1938, II, 952–53, 962–63, 988; P. Alling to C. Hull, 5 Nov. 1938, /1329,
867n.01/1265, 21 Oct. 1938; /1270, P. Alling to P. Knabenshue, 7 Nov. 1938; 867n.55/129, G.
Wadsworth to C. Hull, 28 May 1938. The department noted with some satisfaction that
American editorial opinion was less insistent than it had been on the country’s duty to
intervene. 867n.01/1267, P. Alling to C.Hull, 7 Nov. 1938.
66. FRUS, 1938, II, 954–55.
67. 867n.01/1220, P. Alling to C. Hull, 14 Oct. 1938; FRUS, 1938, II, 968–70,975–76,
980–84, 994–98.
68. FRUS, 1938, II, 956–59; 867n.01/1219, P. Alling to C. Hull, 24 Oct. 1938.
69. 867n.01/1560 1/2, W. Murray to R. Moore, 19 May 1939.
70. FRUS, 1938, II, 982–83, 985, 988.
71. FRUS, 1938, II, 984; 867n.01/1321, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 14 Nov. 1938,/1421, 21
Jan. 1939 (with report of the Jewish Agency council meeting, 11–16 Nov. 1938); /1334, P.
Knabenshue to W. Murray, 13 Nov. 1938.
72. 867n.01/1252, G. Merriam to C. Hull, 25 Oct. 1938; /1297, P. Alling to C. Hull, 22
Nov. 1938; /1298, J. Erwin to C. Hull, 15 Nov. 1938; /1349, E. Palmer to C. Hull, 17 Dec.
1938; /1353, W. Murray to S. Welles and G. Messersmith, 1 Dec. 1938; /1378, W. Murray to
S. Welles, 16 Jan. 1939; /1402, State Dept. memo of conversation, 20 Jan. 1939; /1560 1/2,
W. Murray to R. Moore, 19 May 1939; FRUS, 1938, II, 981–82; 1939, IV, 702.
73. FRUS, 1938, II, 994–98; 1939, IV, 694–96; 867n.01/1333, G. Merriam to C. Hull, 8
Dec. 1939.
74. See, for example, 867n.01/1373, W. Murray to S. Welles, 16 Jan. 1939, and /1399, W.
Murray to H. Montor, 3 Feb. 1939; /1397, W. Murray to C. Hull and S. Welles, 28 Jan. 1939,
/1431 1/2, 9 Feb. 1939.
75. 867n.01/1317, P. Alling to S. Welles, 23 Nov. 1938; /1380, W. Murray to S. Welles, 6
Jan. 1939; /1400, W. Murray to A. Ordman, 3 Feb. 1939; /1415, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 28
Nov. 1938.
76. 867n.01/1431 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull and S. Welles, 9 Feb. 1939, /14461/2, 25 Feb.
1939; FRUS, 1939, IV, 713–14, 717, 719–20.
Notes 239
77. 867n.01/1450, J. Kennedy to C. Hull, 28 Feb. 1939; /1518, P. Knabenshue to C. Hull,

16 Mar. 1939; FRUS, 1939, IV, 714–16.
78. FRUS, 1939, IV, 718, 732–37; 867n.01/1452, W. Murray to C. Hull and S. Welles, 28
Feb. 1939; /1455, J. Schlossberg to C. Hull, 3 Mar. 1939; /1457, J. Kennedy to C. Hull, 3 Mar.
1939.
79. FRUS, 1939, IV, 731; 867n.01/1472 1/2, W. Murray to C. Hull and S. Welles, 2 Mar.
1939; /1474, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 25 Feb. 1939; /1507 1/2, Near Eastern division
memo, 13 Mar. 1939.
80. 867n.01/1529, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 3 Apr. 1939; /1534, W. Murray to A. Berle, 22
Apr. 1939; /1545, W. Murray to S. Welles and C. Hull, 12 May 1939; FRUS, 1939, IV, 718, 722.
81. 867n.01/1535, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 19 Apr. 1939; FRUS, 1939, IV 742.
82. 867n.01/1550, G. Wadsworth to C. Hull, 3 May 1939; 867n.55/163, [P.Alling] to J.
Kennedy, 4 Apr. 1939.
83. 867n.01/1542A, S. Welles to G. Tully, 10 May 1939; /1542B, F. Roosevelt to C. Hull
and S. Welles, 10 May 1939; /1548, S. Welles to W. Murray, 6 May 1939; FRUS, 1939, IV,
731–32, 748–50.
84. FRUS, 1939, IV, 751–58.
7. The American Jewish Conference: A Zionist Experiment at Unity and Leader-

ship (Pages 165–184)
1. Evyatar Friesel, “The Influence of Zionism on the American Jewish Community,”

American Jewish History 75 (Dec. 1985): 140–42.
2. Melvin I. Urofsky, American Zionism from Herzl to the Holocaust (Garden City,
N.Y., 1975), pp. 422–25.
3. Central Zionist Archives (CZA)-Z 5/774, undated confidential memorandum by
M. Weisgal; Samuel Halperin, The Political World of American Zionism (Detroit, 1981),
pp. 121–27, 223–24; cf. Isaac Neustadt-Noy, “Toward Unity: Zionist and Non-Zionist
Cooperation,” Essays in American Zionism (= Herzl Year Book, vol.8. New York, 1978),
pp. 149–65.
4. On the council see Thomas A. Kolsky, Jews Against Zionism (Philadelphia,1990);
Namier is quoted in Michael Ignatieff, Isaiah Berlin (London, 2000), p. 105.
5. Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 223–25.
7. For this and the following two paragraphs see Urofsky, American Zionism, pp. 421–
27; American Jewish Conference (AJ Conf ), A Statement of the Organization of the Con-
ference and a Summary of Resolutions, . . . Aug. 29-Sept.2 (New York, 1943), pp. 22–24;
Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 233–42; Menahem Kaufman, An Am-
biguous Partnership (Jerusalem, 1991), pp. 139–45; Vision and Victory: A Collection of Ad-
dresses by Dr. Abba Hillel Silver (New York, 1949), pp. 13–21; Marc L. Raphael, Abba Hil-
lel Silver (New York, 1989), pp. 87–89.
8. Vision and Victory, pp. 1–13; Kaufman, Ambiguous Partnership, pp. 139–45.
9. Doreen Bierbrier, “The American Zionist Emergency Council,” American Jewish
Historical Quarterly 60 (Sept. 1970): 83–84; Raphael, Silver, pp. 97–98.
10. Quoted in Urofsky, American Zionism, p. 420.
240 Notes
one line short

11. Professor David Wyman has harshly criticized the conference for its concentra-
tion on statehood at the expense of rescue efforts. David S. Wyman, The Abandonment
of the Jews (New York, 1984), ch. 9.
12. Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, p. 221; Ben Halpern, Introduction
to The Jewish National Home in Palestine, Hearings before the Committee on Foreign Af-
fairs, House of Representatives, 78th Congress 2nd Session on H. Res. 418 and H. Res. 419,
Feb. 1944 (Reprinted in New York, 1970); AJ Conf, American Zionist Political Tactics
[1944], CZA-Z 5/772.
13. Memo by M. Waldman, 4 Dec. 1940, American Jewish Committee Archives and
Library (AJCA)—Records of the General Jewish Council.
14. Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 220–21; Henry Monsky, To-
ward a Common Program of Action (Washington, 1943), p. 9; AJ Conf, Bulletin, 16 June
1944, CZA-Z 5/774; on the congress episode see Urofsky, American Zionism, ch. 5, and
Naomi W. Cohen, Not Free to Desist (Philadelphia, 1972), pp. 90–98.
16. AJ Conf, Bulletin, 23 June (Forward), 1 Aug. (Jewish Press Service), 22 Sept. (Jewish
Review), 29 Sept. 1944 (Forward), CZA-Z 5/773; J. Proskauer to R. Brewster, 1 Aug. 1944,
J. Morgenstern to J. Proskauer, 11 May 1944, AJCA-Proskauer Papers (PP) Box 5.
17. For example, AJ Conf, Minutes of Executive Committee, 31 Oct. 1943, Bulletin, 20
Oct. 1944 (Day), CZA-Z 5/763; Minutes of Interim Committee, 1 Aug. 1944, CZA-Z5/773.
18. AJ Conf, AJ Conf in Retrospect and Prospect [1944], Memorandum on Future Ac-
tivities [1944], CZA-Z 5/772; Minutes of Interim Committee, 21 Mar. 1944, CZA-Z 5/747;
Minutes of Executive Committee, 31 Oct. 1943, CZA-Z 5/763; Bulletin, 4 Aug., 12 Oct., 20
Oct. 1944, Minutes of Interim Committee, 29 June 1944, CZA-Z 5/773; Bulletin, 23 June
1944, Memorandum on the Functions of the Conference [1944], CZA-Z 5/774. Where
local meetings were convened, the participants urged a more democratic structure.
19. AJ Conf, Minutes of Interim Committee, 12 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/774; for com-
ments on Revisionists, see for example, draft of statement denouncing Emergency
Committee to Save Jewish People, 10 Dec. 1943, I. Kenen to delegates, 27 Mar. 1944, CZA-
Z 5/747; Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, p. 228.
20. AJ Conf, Minutes of Interim Committee, 25 Jan. 1944, CZA-Z 5/747; Maurice N.
Eisendrath, “The Union of American Hebrew Congregations,” American Jewish Histori-
cal Quarterly 63 (Dec. 1973): 143–44; Conference Record 1 (June 1944); Report of the Com-
mission on Palestine, in AJ Conf, Report of the Interim Committee, Nov. 1944, p. 65, AJCA-
AJ Conf/Report; Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 166–67.
21. AJ Conf, Minutes of Interim Committee, 25 Jan., 21 Mar. 1944, I. Kenen to dele-
gates, 27 Mar. 1944, CZA-Z 5/747; Minutes of Special Meeting of Rescue Actions Com-
mittee, 4 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/772; Bulletin, 25 Aug., 29 Sept. 1944, Minutes of Interim
Committee, 1 Aug., 12 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773.
22. AJ Conf, Report of the Budget Committee, 20 Mar. 1944, CZA-Z 5/761.
23. AJ Conf, AJ Conf in Retrospect and Prospect [1944], Bulletin, 6 Oct. 1944, CZA-
Z5/772; press comments in Bulletin, 21 July, 11 Aug., 25 Aug., 1 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773.
24. AJ Conf, Undated memorandum, draft of statement denouncing Emergency
Committee to Save Jewish People, CZA-Z 5/747; address by L. Lipsky in Conference
Record 1(June 1944), CZA-Z 5/773; undated confidential memorandum by M. Weisgal on
the AJC, CZA-Z 5/774.
Notes 241
one line short

25. See, for example, AJ Conf, Bulletin, 29 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773; Memorandum on
AJ Conf, Bulletin, 6 Oct. 1944 (Reconstructionist), Memorandum on Future Activities,
CZA-Z 5/772.
26. AJ Conf, Bulletin, 29 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773; AJ Conf in Retrospect and Pros-
pect [1944], Bulletin, 8 Dec. 1944, CZA-Z 5/772.
27. AJ Conf, Minutes of the Interim Committee, 23 Nov. 1943, Bulletin, 1 Sept., 6 Oct.
1944 (Reconstructionist), CZA-Z 5/772.
28. AJ Conf, undated memorandum, CZA-Z 5/747; report of Budget Committee, 20
Mar. 1944, CZA-Z 5/761; Bulletin, 16 June (Jewish Morning Journal), 23 June (with digest
of press), 21 July 1944, CZA-Z 5/774; Bulletin, 21 July 1944 (Jewish Post), CZA-Z 5/773;
Bulletin, 8, 22, 29 Dec. 1944, 12 Jan. 1945 (digest of press), CZA-Z 5/772.
29. For instances of contact with UNRRA see, for example, AJ Conf, Bulletin, 29
Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773; on WJC see Bulletin, 27 Oct. 1944, Proposal for Collaboration
with WJC, 11 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/772.
30. AJ Conf, Bulletin, 27 Oct. 1944 (also Day, Forward), AJ Conf in Retrospect and
Prospect, CZA-Z 5/772; Conference Record 1 (Jan. 1944): Morning Freiheit, CZA-Z 5/774.
31. E. Celler to F. Roosevelt, 18 Aug. 1943, AJCA-unsorted files; Raphael, Silver, pp. 97–
98, 101; Melvin I. Urofsky, We Are One! (Garden City, N.Y., 1978), pp. 59–63.
32. AJ Conf, Bulletin, 16 June (Jewish Morning Journal), 23 June 1944 (Recontruction-
ist), undated confidential memorandum by M. Weisgal, CZA-Z5/774.
33. AJ Conf, Report of Commission on Palestine (full citation in n. 20), p. 64; Confer-
ence Record 1 (Mar. 1944).
34. AJ Conf, Conference Record 1 (Jan., Oct. 1944); memorandum of 23 Jan. 1944, CZA-
Z5/file 1945–46; Report of PC, pp. 66–67, 71. The Conference Record for October 1944 con-
tains the text of an appeal to the British ambassador, Lord Halifax, on immigration.
35. AJ Conf, Report of PC, pp. 75–77; Memorandum on the Functions of the Confer-
ence [1943], CZA-Z 5/774; Conference Record 1 (Jan. 1944); Bierbrier, “American Zionist
Emergency Council,” passim.
36. AJ Conf, Report of PC, pp. 77–79; Minutes of the Interim Committee, 12 Sept.
1944, CZA-Z 5/773; Conference Record 1 (Oct. 1944).
37. Edward E. Grusd, “What the Conference Has Done,” from B’nai B’rith’s National
Jewish Monthly, CZA-Z 5/772; Halpern, Introduction to The Jewish National Home, p.
xxii; Joseph B. Schechtman, The United States and the Jewish State Movement (New York,
1966), pp. 64–80.
38. AJ Conf, Report of PC, pp. 68–69; The Jewish National Home, Hearings, pp. 24–95,
110–47, 159–71, 197–230, 271–75, 327–43, 356–88.
39. AJ Conf, Report of PC, pp. 72–73, 75; draft of report of PC, pp. 13–15, American
Zionist Political Tactics [1944], CZA-Z 5/772; Halpern, Introduction to The Jewish Na-
tional Home, pp. xxiv–xxv; J. Slawson to Executive Committee, 19 Jan. 1945, AJCA-
unsorted files; Schechtman, The US and the Jewish State Movement, pp. 84–89; Urofsky,
We Are One!, pp. 89–93.
40. AJ Conf, Conference Record 1 (Oct. 1944); Raphael, Silver, p. 101; Schechtman, US
and the Jewish State Movement, ch. 4. Early in 1945 Roosevelt told the AJC that he had
changed his mind about a Jewish state and that extremist Zionist propaganda was ill ad-
vised. Cohen, Not Free to Desist, pp. 295–96.
41. AJ Conf, Report of PC, pp. 73–75, 84–85; Bulletin, 22 Dec. 1945, CZA-Z 5/772;
Schechtman, US and the Jewish State Movement, pp. 80–92.
242 Notes
42. See references in n. 38 to The Jewish National Home, Hearings.

43. Minutes of AJC Administrative Committee, 4 Oct. 1943, J. Proskauer to H. Mon-
sky, 26 Mar. 1943 (same file), AJCA; J. Proskauer to R. Goldman, 28 July 1943, M. Wald-
man to J. Proskauer, 13 July 1943, Third Suggested Draft of Statement—13 Oct. 1943,
AJCA-PP Box 1; Kaufman, Ambiguous Partnership, pp. 131–33; Nathan Schachner, The
Price of Liberty (New York, 1946), pp. 143–48.
44. Cohen, Not Free to Desist, pp. 90–98.
45. Morris D. Waldman, Nor By Power (New York, 1953), p. 276, chs. 19–23; M. Wald-
man to J. Proskauer, 30 June 1943, AJCA-Waldman Papers.
46. Minutes of AJC Administrative Committee, Resolution Authorizing Participation
in the American Jewish Conference—9 Apr. 1943, Proskauer-Monsky correspondence of
1943, AJCA-Admin Comm; Third Suggested Draft of Statement, 11 Oct. 1943, J. Proskauer
to S. Wise, 28 July 1943, to M. Edelbaum, 20 May 1943, to E. Kaufman, 20 May 1943, I. Leh-
man and others to H. Monsky, 31 Mar. 1943, AJCA-PP Box 1; Kaufman, Ambiguous Part-
nership, p. 122; Waldman, Nor By Power, chs. 22–23.
47. Waldman, Nor By Power, p. 254.
48. The organization outlined its position on Zionism in a long letter from Pro-
skauer to Roosevelt that called again for an international trusteeship. On the issue of
the White Paper, see Kaufman, Ambiguous Partnership, p. 149. Waldman maintained
publicly, however, that the AJC did support the abrogation of the White Paper. J. Pro-
skauer to F. Roosevelt, 8 Nov. 1943, speech by M. Waldman, 28 Jan. 1944, AJCA-
unsorted files; J. Proskauer to G. Cohen, 14 Apr. 1944, AJCA-PP Box 5; J. Proskauer to
S. Bloom, 2 Dec. 1943, AJCA-PP Box 6. On the committee’s protest to Lord Halifax on
the White Paper see Joseph M. Proskauer, A Segment of My Times (New York, 1950),
pp. 233–36.
49. Address by Proskauer at Meeting of American Jewish Conference, 29 Aug. 1943,
AJCA-PP Box 1.
50. Minutes of AJC Administrative Committee, 4 Oct. 1943, AJCA; Waldman wrote
later that withdrawal was largely “in response to pressure conveyed from the White
House and the State Department.” Nor By Power, p. 275.
51. Cohen, Not Free to Desist, pp. 253–55; Statement of the American Jewish Commit-
tee on Withdrawal from the American Jewish Conference (printed), AJCA-Resolutions
and Statements.
52. J. Proskauer to R. Goldman, 13 Mar. 1944, to P. Haber, 28 Mar. 1944, AJCA-PP
Box 6.
53. For example, see AJCA-Pamphlet Collection, press comments on withdrawal
from conference—including statements by conference, ZOA, AZEC, and article by B.
G. Richards, “American Committee Deserts Marshall”; letters in support of with-
drawal, AJCA-PP Box 1; J. Proskauer–J. Morgenstern correspondence, AJCA-PP Box 5;
AJ Conf, press conference, 17 Nov. 1943, CZA-Z 5/747; editorial in Jewish Morning
Journal, 26 Oct. 1943, CZA-Z 5/766; digests of press in Bulletin, Oct.–Nov. 1943, CZA-
Z 5/772; address by A. Silver, CZA-Z 5/773; undated confidential memorandum by M.
Weisgal on AJC, CZA-Z 5/774; Cohen, Not Free to Desist, pp. 112–16.
54. Minutes of AJC Adminstrative Committee, 13 Oct., 9, 24 Nov., 8 Dec. 1943, AJCA;
speech by M. Waldman, 28 Jan. 1944, AJCA-unsorted files.
55. Jewish Morning Journal, 23 July 1944, AJCA-PP Box 5; Minutes of AJC Adminis-
trative Committee, 13 Oct. 1943, AJCA.
Notes 243
56. On the two bills of rights, see AJ Conf, Bulletin, 25 Aug. (digest of press), 15 Sept.
1944, Minutes of Interim Committee, 12 Sept. 1944, CZA-Z 5/773; M. Waldman to J. Pro-
skauer, 9 Nov. 1943, AJCA-unsorted files.
57. Cohen, Not Free to Desist, p. 296.
58. J. Proskauer to J. Slawson, 18 May 1944, AJCA-PP Box 5; J. Proskauer to S. Bloom,
3 Dec. 1943, AJCA-PP Box 6; The Jewish National Home, Hearings, pp. 276–77; Kaufman,
Ambiguous Partnership, pp. 168–69.
59. Wyman, Abandonment of the Jews, pp. 172–77.
60. AJ Conf, Memorandum on Future Activities, Bulletins for Dec. 1944 and Jan.
1945, CZA-Z 5/772; Confidential Minutes of Executive Committee, 10 Apr. 1945, CZA-
Z5/1945–46.
61. Encyclopedia of Zionism and Israel, 1:30–31.
62. AJ Conf, Bulletin, 29 Dec. 1944 (New Palestine), CZA-Z 5/772.
63. For brief notes on AIPAC and the Conference of Presidents see annual American
Jewish Year Book and Jerome A. Chanes, A Primer on the American Jewish Community
(New York, 1999).
8. Out of Step with the Times: Rabbi Louis Finkelstein of the Jewish Theological
Seminary (Pages 189–212)
Unless otherwise noted, all manuscript material is in the archives of the JTS. The abbre-
viation NP is used for New Palestine.
1. Samuel Halperin, The Political World of American Zionism (Detroit, 1961),p. 212;
Melvin I. Urofsky, We Are One! (Garden City, N.Y., 1978), p. 125.
2. For brief summaries of the opinions of Schechter and Adler see Abraham J. Karp,
“Reaction to Zionism and to the State of Israel in the American Jewish Religious Com-
munity,” Jewish Journal of Sociology 8 (Sept. 1966): 118–47.
3. P. 101.
4. Michael A. Meyer, “A Centennial History,” in Hebrew Union College—Jewish Insti-
tute of Religion at One Hundred Years, ed. Samuel E. Karff (Cincinnati, 1976), pp. 44–46,
62–69.
5. Moshe Davis, The Emergence of Conservative Judaism (Philadelphia, 1963), pp. 214–
16, 271, 354; David G. Dalin, “Cyrus Adler, Non-Zionism, and the Zionist Movement,”
AJS Review 10 (Spring 1985): 68.
6. Solomon Schechter, Seminary Addresses and Other Papers (New York, 1959), pp.
xxiii–xxiv; American Hebrew, 30 Sept. 1907.
7. For a recent analysis see Allon Gal, “The Historical Continuity Motif in Conservative
Judaism’s Concept of Israel,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 2 (1993): 157–83.
8. See, for example, Herman H. and Mignon L. Rubenovitz, The Waking Heart
(Cambridge, 1967), pp. 1–7; Israel Goldstein, My World As a Jew, 2 vols. (New York,
1984), 1:32; Jacob Kohn, Memoirs, Kohn Papers.
9. Karp, “Reaction to Zionism,” p. 153.
10. Herbert Parzen, Architects of Conservative Judaism (New York, 1964), pp. 207–9.
11. Louis Finkelstein, “The Things that Unite Us,” Proceedings of the Rabbinical As-
sembly, 1927, p. 51.
244 Notes
12. Unless otherwise noted, the material in the next five paragraphs has been culled
from the following pre-1948 articles and speeches by Finkelstein: “The Things that Unite
Us”; “Jewish Nationalism and the Hebrew Language,” Avukah Annual (1925–1930); “Some
Aspects of Rabbinic Nationalism,” Brandeis Avukah Annual, ed. J. S. Shubow (Boston,
1932); “Need for Land to Develop Teachings,” NP, 25 Jan. 1935; “Address,” NP, 17 July 1936;
“A Program for Positive Judaism,” American Hebrew, 11 Mar. 1938; “Tradition in the Mak-
ing,” in Jewish Theological Seminary of American Semi-Centennial Volume; “The Duty of
the Jew,” Jewish Exponent, 4 Oct. 1940; “Reflections on Judaism, Zionism and Enduring
Peace,” NP, 21 May 1943; “Zionism and World Culture,” NP, 15 Sept. 1944; draft of radio ad-
dress, 17 June 1938, RG 1A-Zionist Organization of America. See also Menahem
Schmelzer’s sensitive analysis in “Rabbi Louis Finkelstein” (Hebrew) Mada’ei ha-Yahadut
32 (1992); Moshe Davis, “To Our Teacher, Rabbi Louis Finkelstein, on the First Anniversary
of His Death,”(Hebrew) Hadoar, 1 Jan. 1993.
13. L. Finkelstein to M. Steinberg, 9 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-AJC.
14. L. Finkelstein to J. Kahn, 28 Dec. 1931, to J. Magnes, 17 June 1940, RG 1A-Hebrew
University.
15. In 1937, in reference to the heated disputes generated by the Arab riots and the Pal-
estine partition proposal, Finkelstein recalled the words of Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah
urging his brethren to always resolve their problems peaceably. L. Finkelstein to Felix War-
burg, 3 Sept. 1937, RG 1A-Warburg.
16. M. Davis to author, 27 Sept. 1992.
17. Pamela S. Nadell, Conservative Judaism in America (New York, 1988), pp. 86, 279–80.
18. Moshe Davis oral history interview, 15 Apr. 1990, Davis Papers—Ratner Archives.
19. Urofsky, We Are One! pp. 3–30; Mordecai M. Kaplan, Diary, 2 Sept. 1943.
20. Naomi W. Cohen, Not Free to Desist (Philadelphia, 1972), p. 251.
21. Unless otherwise noted, all material on Finkelstein’s intergroup activities is from
Fred W. Beuttler, “For the World at Large,” in Jack Wertheimer, ed., Tradition Renewed, 2
vols. (New York, 1997), 2:669–730.
22. Michael Greenbaum, “The Finkelstein Era,” in Wertheimer, Tradition Renewed, 1:
165–70.
23. Naomi W. Cohen, Jews in Christian America (New York, 1992), p. 120.
24. Baila R. Shargel, “The Texture of Seminary Life during the Finkelstein Era,” in Wer-
theimer, Tradition Renewed, 1:534.
25. Cyrus Adler, I Have Considered the Days (Philadelphia, 1945), pp. 422–24; S. Goldman
to L. Finkelstein, 12 Nov. 1936, L. Finkelstein to S. Goldman, 27 Nov. 1936, RG 1A-Goldman.
26. See, for example, American Jewish Year Book 43 (1941–42): 29, 45 (1943–44):138–39;
Louis Finkelstein, “Hope as Well as Despair,” American Hebrew, 27 Sept. 1940, “The Duty
of the Jew,” Jewish Exponent, 4 Oct. 1940, “For a Complete Democracy,” Atlantic Monthly
168 (Sept. 1941), “America and a World of Darkness,” Jewish Forum 24 (Sept. 1941). Finkel-
stein spoke of the Judeo-Christian tradition as early as the semicentennial. Finkelstein,
“Tradition in the Making,” p. 27; Schmelzer, “Rabbi Louis Finkelstein,” p. 41.
27. Kaplan, Diary, 14 Sept. 1929; L. Finkelstein to Frieda Warburg, 1 Sept. 1937, RG 1A-
Warburg.
28. Memorandum of conference with Lord Halifax, 27 Mar. 1941, L. Finkelstein’s
memorandum of telephone conversation with I. Goldstein, 9 Apr. 1941, I. Goldstein to S.
Wise, 11 Apr. 1941, to C. Weizmann, 11 Apr. 1941, RG 1A-Goldstein; Finkelstein memoran-
dum, 27 Mar. 1941, RG 1A-Minutes of a Meeting.
Notes 245
29. Thomas A. Kolsky, Jews Against Zionism (Philadelphia, 1990), ch. 2.

30. Halperin, Political World of American Zionism, pp. 333–34; P. Bernstein to L. Fin-
kelstein, 6, 8 Oct. 1942, L. Finkelstein to P. Bernstein, 9, 16 Oct. 1942, RG 1A-Bernstein; L.
Finkelstein to L. Levinthal, 22 Oct. 1942, RG 1A-Levinthal; NP, 20 Nov. 1942; Howard R.
Greenstein, Turning Point (Brown Judaic Studies 12, 1981), p. 144.
31. L. Finkelstein to P. Bernstein, 30 Dec. 1942, RG 1A-Bernstein; L. Finkelstein to A.
Lelyveld, 24 Apr. 1946, RG 1B-responses to Finkelstein’s RA address.
32. Moshe Davis oral history interview, 15 Apr. 1990, Davis Papers, Ratner archives.
33. Urofsky, We Are One!, p. 67; New York Times, 23 Jan. 1943; Reconstructionist, 5 Feb.
1943; NP, 19 Feb. 1943.
34. L. Finkelstein to M. Steinberg, 9 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-Steinberg.
35. A. Sulzberger to L. Finkelstein, 25 Jan. 1943, L. Finkelstein to A.Sulzberger, 27 Jan.
1943, RG 1B-Sulzberger. On Sulzberger’s anti-Zionism see NP, 20 Nov. 1942, 7 Jan. 1944;
Kolsky, Jews Against Zionism, pp. 55, 58; Gay Talese, The Kingdom and the Power (New
York, 1969), pp. 90–91.
36. NP, 8 Jan. 1943; L. Finkelstein to H. Bavli, 20 Jan. 1943, RG 1A-Bavli; L. Finkelstein
to A. Sulzberger, 27 Jan. 1943, RG 1B-Sulzberger.
37. Kolsky, Jews Against Zionism, pp. 42, 46, 58, 79; L. Ginzberg to L. Finkelstein, 2
Feb. 1943, RG 1A-Ginzberg.
38. Cohen, Not Free to Desist, pp. 249–60; Morris D. Waldman, Nor by Power (New
York, 1953), ch. 22.
39. American Jewish Year Book 46 (1944–45): 557; M. Steinberg to L. Finkelstein, 29
Oct. 1943, RG 1B-Steinberg; M. Hanin to L. Finkelstein, 5 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-AJC.
40. Waldman, Nor by Power, pp. 280–81; S. Schulman to L. Finkelstein, 28 Oct. 1943,
L. Finkelstein to S. Schulman, 1 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-Schulman; L. Finkelstein to M. Stein-
berg, 9 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-AJC.
41. S. Wallach to L. Finkelstein, 15 Aug. 1941, RG 1A-AJC; for a view of Finkelstein’s
participation in the AJC see AJC files in RG 1.
42. M. Steinberg to L. Finkelstein, 11, 18 Nov. 1943, L. Finkelstein to M. Steinberg, 12,
24 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-Steinberg; L. Finkelstein to M. Steinberg, 9 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-AJC.
43. Louis Finkelstein, “Reflections on Judaism, Zionism and Enduring Peace,” NP, 21
May 1943; L. Finkelstein to M. Steinberg, 9 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-AJC.
44. L. Finkelstein to “Dear Colleague,” 28 Dec. 1943, RG 1B-AJC; L. Finkelstein to J.
Proskauer, 20 Oct. 1943, RG 1B-Proskauer; Jacob J.Weinstein, Solomon Goldman (New
York, 1973), p. 44.
45. Articles by Finkelstein: “Reflections on Judaism, Zionism and Enduring Peace”;
“Zionism and World Culture,” NP, 15 Sept. 1944; see also C. Alpert to L. Finkelstein, 22
Apr. 1943, L. Finkelstein to C. Alpert,30 Apr. 1943, RG-1B NP.
46. Talk by Sulzberger to a Baltimore temple group, 5 Nov. 1942, RG 1A-Sulzberger; A.
Sulzberger to L. Finkelstein, 21 May 1945, 12 Aug. 1946, RG 1C-Sulzberger; Kaplan, Diary,
17 Mar. 1948; Sulzberger’s letter to Abba Hillel Silver, NP, 7 Jan. 1944. On Milton
Steinberg’s interchange with Sulzberger, see Simon Noveck, Milton Steinberg (New York,
1978), pp. 134–36.
47. A. Sulzberger to L. Finkelstein, 16 Sept, 1946, RG 1C-Sulzberger.
48. L. Finkelstein to S. Stroock, 1 July 1941, RG 1A-Stroock; note on C. Weizmann to
L. Finkelstein, 2 May 1941, RG 1A-Weizmann.
246 Notes
49. Kaplan, Diary, 26 Mar., 24 Sept. 1945.

50. New York Times, 29 Oct. 1943; L. Finkelstein to A. Silver, 3 Nov. 1945, RG 1B-Silver;
L. Finkelstein to A. Sulzberger, 5 Nov. 1943, RG 1B-Sulzberger.
51. NP, 7 Jan. 1944.
52. Minutes, JTS Board of Directors, 17 Apr. [1945]; Kaplan, Diary, 17 Apr. 1945.
53. Time, 15 Oct. 1951; Weinstein, Solomon Goldman, p. 44.
54. For this and the next paragraph see Steinberg’s sermons, “Crises in Conservative
Judaism,” in RG 1B-Steinberg; Weinstein, Solomon Goldman, pp. 42–49, 259–70; Noveck,
Milton Steinberg, pp. 171–79; Kaplan, Diary, 20 Nov. 1944, 23 Jan., 17 June 1945; unsorted
Steinberg papers: Finkelstein-Steinberg correspondence for January–July 1945; Shargel,
“Texture of Seminary Life,” p. 534.
55. Kaplan, Diary, 29 June 1945.
56. M. Davis to author, 28 Oct. 1992.
57. A degree was first considered in 1942. At that time the only one to question it, on
the grounds that Weizmann was a secularist, was Zionist Simon Greenberg. Kaplan,
Diary, 23 Oct. 1942.
58. Copy of citation and JTS news release 8 Dec. 1944, RG 11C-Communications; A.
Karp to author, 4 Dec. 1992; Arthur Hertzberg, “The Changing Rabbinate,” Proceedings
of the Rabbinical Assembly, 1975, p. 67.
59. L. Finkelstein to Frieda Warburg, 27 Oct. 1944, RG 1B-Warburg; L.Finkelstein to J.
Magnes, 31 Mar. 1947, RG 1D-Magnes; Arthur A. Goren, ed., Dissenter in Zion (Cam-
bridge, 1982), p. 483.
60. S. Greenberg to author, 18 Aug. 1992.
61. Kaplan, Diary, 7 Jan., 22, 28 Feb., 17 Mar., 27 Apr. 1948; New York Times, 7 June
1948. In protest against the Seminary’s attitude, Bavli published a bitter poem, “Gayim
v’Aririm,” that appeared in his Aderet Ha-shanim (Hebrew; Jerusalem, 1955), pp. 72–73.
My thanks to Professor Alan Mintz for calling the poem to my attention.
62. M. Leifman to author, 30 Aug. 1992; Y. Rosenberg to author, 7 Nov. 1992. Moshe
Davis disputes the story of Hatikvah at the 1948 graduation, claiming that the carillonist
played a melody that only sounded like the Jewish anthem. Moshe Davis oral history
interview, 20 Nov. 1990, Davis Papers, Ratner archives.
63. Moshe Davis, ed., Israel: Its Role in Civilization (New York, 1956),introduction;
Moshe Davis, ed., “Our Share in Eretz Yisrael,” symposium in Conservative Judaism 11
(Spring 1957): 26–36; New York Times, 29 Apr. 1952.
64. Finkelstein’s address at a dinner in honor of Maxwell Abbell, 31 Oct. 1948, RG 1E-
Abbell; Louis Finkelstein, “The State of Israel as a Spiritual Force,” in Israel: Its Role in
Civilization, p. 16.
65. Board of Directors Newsletter, 17 June 1948, RG 1E-JTS Board of Directors.
66. Finkelstein, “State of Israel as a Spiritual Force,” p. 6.
Afterword (Pages 213–217)
1. New Palestine, 18 May 1948.

2. David Ben-Gurion, Rebirth and Destiny of Israel, edited and translated from the
Hebrew under the supervision of M. Nurock (New York, 1954), p. 539.
Notes 247
3. Naomi W. Cohen, Not Free to Desist (Philadelphia, 1972), pp. 305–6, 312.
4. See, for example, Steven M. Cohen and Arnold M. Eisen, The Jew Within (Bloom-
ington, 2000), esp. pp. 142–52.
5. The impact of statehood on organized American Zionism and the search for a re-
definition of Zionism in the decade after 1948 are treated in Melvin I. Urofsky, “A Cause
in Search of Itself,” American Jewish History 69 (Sept. 1979): 79–91.
6. Robert Alter, “Israel and the Intellectuals,” A Commentary Report (New York,
1967), p. 7.
248 Notes
Index
Aaronsohn, Aaron, 60 Americanism: intensity of post-WWI,

Abbott, Lyman, 16 65– 66; vs. Jewish state, 21; of Reform
academic freedom and Reform heretics at Judaism, 39– 40, 45– 49; and Zionism,
HUC, 55– 58 23–25, 31–32, 60, 166
acculturation: AJC support for, 181; Con- American Israelite, 47, 62
servative version, 193; eastern Euro- American Israel Public Affairs Committee
pean desire for, 4, 15; and Reform Ju- (AIPAC), 188
daism, 27; Zionism as measure of, 2; Americanization of Zionism: and aban-
vs. Zionist message, 15–16. See also donment by State Department, 138;
assimilation and America as Jewish cultural center,
Adler, Cyrus: contributions to AJC, 205; 26; in American Jewish Conference,
and Finkelstein, 194; and Hexter, 133; in 188; and Finkelstein, 199; Gottheil’s
leadership struggles with Zionists, 36; contribution, 54; and humanitarian-
and non-Zionists’ lack of initiative, 90; ism, 190; international role of, 34; as
spiritual-cultural Zionism of, 191; and key to survival and progress, 213–17;
synagogue plans for Palestine, 101, 107 lack of synagogue fit in Jerusalem, 96;
agricultural development in Palestine, Maccabaean’s contribution, 18, 38;
121–22, 126 and public response to Balfour, 64;
The Aims of Zionism (Gottheil, R.), 53, 54 reduction of Zionism to
AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs philanthropy, 75; and spiritual-cul-
Committee), 188 tural Zionism, 191; support of WWII
AJC (American Jewish Committee). See aims, 169– 70; tactical application of,
American Jewish Committee (AJC) 165– 66; tailoring of to American val-
Akzin, Benjamin, 154 ues, 18–23, 28–32, 113
aliyah and American Jews, 6, 24, 139, 162, American Jewish Committee (AJC): and
216. See also immigration into Palestine American Jewish Conference, 170, 172,
Alling, Paul, 148, 150, 158 180– 86, 203– 4; Finkelstein’s loyalty to,
Altneuland (Herzl), 33–34 204– 6; and focus of Zionism on poli-
America as permanent home for most tics, 198; post-WWII loss of influence,
Jews, 6, 18, 20, 193, 214 13; Zionist attempt to convert, 167; vs.
American Council for Judaism: as anti- Zionist campaign for democratic con-
Zionist holdout, 13, 63, 167, 179, 189; gress, 36; Zionist criticism of, 28–30
exclusion from American Jewish Con- American Jewish Conference: conflicts
ference, 172; Zionist pressure for repu- with AJC, 180– 86, 203– 4; establish-
diation of, 200–201, 202, 210 ment of, 165– 66; legacy of, 186– 88;
American Hebrew, 90 obstacles to unity, 170– 75; Palestine
249
American Jewish Conference (cont’d.) 66– 68, 78– 81; in State Department, 10,
Commission activities, 175– 80; plan- 138– 43, 159– 60, 176, 178; in UAHC, 61;
ning and development, 166– 70; and Zionist response to, 26, 53– 54, 90– 92.
statehood struggle, 12 See also American Council for Judaism
American Jewish Congress, 7, 35–36, 170, Arabs, Palestinian: agricultural training
181 for, 121–22; and backlash against Zion-
American Jews: assimilation preferences, ism, 65, 67, 70– 71; and binational state
23; dispersion to countryside, 31; in- thesis, 79– 81; Britain’s bias toward, 10,
vestment in Palestine, 6, 143, 148, 190, 119, 120, 127, 128, 136, 150, 157; Christian
236n16; lack of immigration to Pales- support for, 65, 92, 154; Congress vs.
tine, 6, 24, 139, 162, 216; rise of secular- administration on, 179; demand for
ism among, 50– 51; wealth and influ- halt to immigration, 143; fear and dis-
ence of, 140; Zionism as confidence like of Americans, 151, 157, 158– 59, 162;
booster, 216–17. See also Americaniza- fears of Jewish capitalist hegemony,
tion of Zionism 142; fears of Jewish influence on
American Zionist Emergency Council Britain, 8, 148; and land distribution,
(AZEC), 177– 78, 180, 184 125; lobbying efforts in America, 92,
Amram, David, 73 157, 160, 161; need for Jews to deal with,
Anglo-American convention of 1924, 146, 132; non-Zionist view, 113; press sup-
149, 150, 157, 158 port for, 81– 88; public opinion on
anti-Americanism of Arabs, 157, 158– 59, Zionist treatment of, 75– 78, 122, 124;
162 State Department sympathies for, 10,
Antin, Mary, 20 139; Transjordan as settlement loca-
antisemitism: in America, 140, 174, 225n1; tion, 132, 134, 135; violent opposition to
and anti-Zionism, 71, 72, 86, 93; and Jewish settlement, 10, 11, 75, 138–39,
Christian criticism of Zionism, 69, 87; 143, 155; Zionist support for, 89, 91
and dual allegiance problem, 49; Euro- Ashkenazic vs. Sephardic style in services,
pean vs. American, 193; and fears of 95, 98, 104– 5
Bolsheviks, 65; and Herzlian philoso- assimilation: and American Jewry, 1; and
phy, 1–2, 20–21; Hope Simpson’s atti- anti-Zionism, 16; Christian desire for
tudes, 134–35, 136; and inner-city Jewish, 69– 70; criticism of Zionists as
crime and congestion, 31; in press crit- Bolsheviks, 65; dangers for Jewish sur-
icism of Zionism, 82; and reaction to vival, 20, 52, 58; and Jewish Establish-
Arab unrest, 11; Reform’s downplaying ment, 5; vs. nationalism, 17, 38; ques-
of, 47, 48; in State Department, 10, 139; tion of inevitability, 2; as Reform goal,
Zionism as target for, 8. See also Nazi 47; Zionism as bulwark against, 22–23;
persecution of Jews; refugees, Jewish Zionism as threat to, 67, 68, 71– 72
anti-Zionists: and Americanism vs. Zion- AZEC (American Zionist Emergency
ism, 23; and antisemitism, 71, 72, 86, Council), 177– 78, 180, 184
93; and Arab rights, 76; and assimila-
tion, 16; Brandeis group, 89; and Baerwald, Paul, 211
Christians, 70, 87– 88; criticism of Baldwin, Roger, 83
Jewish Agency, 77; last stand after Bilt- Balfour Declaration: American commit-
more conference, 200–201; major ar- ment to, 147; English repudiation of,
guments of, 84– 85; overview, 5; in 157; and international Jewry conspiracy
Reform Jewry, 26–28, 42– 43, 46, theories, 71; interwar adjustments to,
47– 48, 49– 58; response to Balfour, 7–8; issuing of, 37; modification of
250 Index
Reform opposition, 61– 62; public re- Celler, Emanuel, 176

sponse to, 64–75, 78–81; State Depart- Central Conference of American Rabbis
ment neglect of, 10; vs. statehood, 84 (CCAR), 39– 40, 42– 43, 61, 62– 63, 172,
Bavli, Hillel, 211 201
Beilis, Mendel, 20 Chancellor, Sir John, 120, 123, 127, 129, 132
Bellow, Saul, 2 charities, Jewish, 29–31, 38
Ben-Gurion, David, 12, 49, 136, 169, 213–14 chasidic sects, 95, 98
Bentwich, Norman, 96, 103, 104 Chevra group in Jerusalem, 97–107
Berkowitz, Henry, 67 Christians: and biblical roots of Zionism,
Bernheim, Isaac W., 61 2–3; and Finkelstein’s ecumenism, 191,
Bernstein, Philip, 201, 202 199; loss of support for Israel after
Biltmore program, 166, 168, 200 1967, 214; opposition to political Zion-
binational state thesis, 79– 81, 83, 86, 88, 98 ism, 8, 68– 71, 72, 87– 88, 160, 228n57;
Bingham, Robert, 144, 150 on partition of Palestine, 149; pro-
Blaustein, Jacob, 49 Zionist groups, 144; Reform concerns
Bloom, Sol, 178 about alienation of, 27; response to
B’nai B’rith, 167, 172 Balfour, 67; and spiritual-cultural
Boas, Ralph, 66 Zionism, 202; support for Arabs in
Bolsheviks, accusation of Jews as, 65, 71, Palestine, 65, 92, 154; support for Jew-
134 ish refugees, 190
Borah, William, 81 Churchill, Winston, 138
Brandeis, Louis: Arab village settlement class issues among Jews, 16, 30, 54– 55
plan, 142; and British policy in Pales- Cohen, Morris Raphael, 67, 73
tine, 126; championing of Zionism, Cold War, Israel’s role in, 213
59– 61; and Establishment vs. Zionists, collectivism in kibbutzim, 85, 134
36; leadership role, 6– 7, 34, 37; support commonwealth, Palestine as Jewish, 166,
for Weizmann’s efforts, 163; Zionist 168– 69, 177, 178, 206
sharing of American ideals, 35 communal leadership: democratic cam-
Brandeis group, 77, 80, 89 paign, 35–36; Establishment vs. Zion-
Britain, Great: and American right to ists, 68; Maccabaean’s contribution, 38;
intervene in mandate, 138– 48, 156– 64; Zionist role in struggle, 1, 5– 6, 28–32.
conflicting promises in Palestine, 8, See also American Jewish Conference;
75– 76; cultivation of non-Zionists, unity vs. disunity of American Jewry
115; Hope Simpson report, 119–28; and Communists: accusation of Jews as, 65,
imperialist impressions of Zionism, 71, 134, 141; anti-Zionism of Jewish,
83; Jewish Agency attempts at compro- 78– 79; Cold War role of Israel, 213;
mise, 130–36; Jewish refugees and im- and labor movement, 172
migration issue, 11–12, 137–38, 156– 64; Congress, U.S., sympathy for Zionist
partition proposal and Peel Commis- cause, 145– 46, 176, 178, 179, 180, 186
sion, 148– 55; Passfield White Paper, Conservative Jewry: Finkelstein and JTS,
128–30; Socialist support for, 79; Zion- 189–212; support for Zionism, 58– 59;
ist reluctance to criticize, 77– 78. See synagogue project in Jerusalem,
also Balfour Declaration 95– 97, 106, 107–12, 232n42. See also
Brown, Philip Marshall, 69 American Jewish Committee (AJC)
Copeland, Royal, 146
Carver, Thomas Nixon, 68 cultural pluralism, 7, 23–25, 53– 54, 74, 97,
Cavert, Samuel, 88 216
Index 251
cultural Zionism. See spiritual-cultural eastern European Jews: acculturation of,

Zionism 4, 15, 192; appeal of Conservative Ju-
daism for, 58; increased influence in
d’Avigdor-Goldsmid, Sir Osmond, 115 America, 62; nationalism of, 49,
Davis, Moshe, 202, 210, 230n1 193– 94; and Reform Jews, 42, 47; re-
defense force, Jewish, 143, 164 sentment of Establishment by, 168;
De Haas, Jacob, 18, 93 support for Zionism, 27; WWI relief
democracy: ability of Arabs to participate efforts, 35; Zionist targeting of, 6, 17
in, 84; and American Jewish Confer- economic considerations in Palestine: ab-
ence, 170– 71, 188; and American Jew- sorptive capacity for immigration, 138,
ish Congress, 35–36; Arab Palestinian 156; British economic betrayal, 128; co-
rights vs. Zionists, 67; and changes in operativism in utopian Jewish state, 34;
AJC, 185; and criticism of Zionists as employment situation, 125, 126, 133; land
imperialistic, 70, 71, 82, 83, 84– 85, 87; transfer issue, 121–22, 124, 125, 128,
and Israel’s position in Middle East, 132–33; needs and plans, 107, 119, 121–22,
213; Jewish leadership structures, 5– 6, 125; State Department study of, 151
7, 13, 167, 168; Maccabaean’s contribu- Eden, Anthony, 145, 152
tion, 38; Magnes’s support for, 97; ma- education, Jewish, 25–26, 38
jority rule vs. Jewish hegemony in Ehrlich, Emma, 105
Palestine, 91; non-Zionist loyalty to, elitist Jewish leadership structure. See
115; preservation as goal of WWI, 34; Establishment, Jewish
Zionist commitment to, 24–25, 28–32, employment situation in Palestine, 125,
60 126, 133
Depression, Great, 8, 140 Enlightenment basis for Reform Judaism,
development commission for Palestine, 40, 45
125, 128, 132–33, 135 Establishment, Jewish: accusations of
Diaspora: as abnormality for Jews, 19–20; unreasonable power, 85; and Ameri-
Conservative support for, 193, 196; can Jewish Congress, 36; assimilation-
legitimate functions of, 22; in partner- ist attitude, 5; and Conservative Ju-
ship with Palestine, 9; Reform’s sup- daism, 193; loss of power for, 13, 62;
port for, 43– 44; and survival dangers Reform domination of, 42; as threat-
for Jews, 53 ened by political Zionism, 68; WWI
discrimination against Jews. See relief efforts, 35; Zionism as opposed
antisemitism to, 7, 28–32, 168, 194; Zionists within,
disunity vs. unity of American Jewry. See 54. See also American Jewish Commit-
unity vs. disunity of American Jewry tee (AJC)
Drob, Max, 107– 8 ethical leaders, Jews as, 59– 60, 79– 80, 170
dual allegiance problem: and American ethnic identity: and criticism of Zionism,
relations to Israel, 214; Brandeis’s dis- 69; cultural pluralism, 7, 23–25, 53– 54,
missal of, 60– 61; Conservative 74, 216; dangers in post-WWI Amer-
Judaism’s avoidance of, 59; and oppo- ica, 66; and Zionism as unifying force,
sition to Zionism, 5, 48– 49, 67– 68, 19, 23, 52. See also nationalism
186, 201; and public response to Bal- European Jews. See eastern European
four, 66; Zionist avoidance of, 9, 13, 23, Jews; German Jewry; refugees, Jewish
53– 54, 73 exile, America as refuge rather than, 193,
Dushkin, Alexander, 99 214. See also Diaspora
252 Index
Faisal-Frankfurter correspondence, 89 haganah, build-up of, 143, 164

Federal Council of the Churches of ha-Levi, Yehudah, 25
Christ, 88 Halifax, Lord, 163, 200
Federation of American Zionists (FAZ), Halperin, Samuel, 191
4– 5, 15–16, 18, 22, 35, 190. See also Halpern, Ben, 178
Zionist Organization of America Harby, Isaac, 41
(ZOA) Hart, Albert Bushnell, 68
Fels, Mary, 142 Hay, John, 29
Felsenthal, Bernhard, 52 Hearst, William Randolph, 145
financial support for Palestine as Ameri- Hebrew Committee of National Libera-
can Jewish mission, 6, 143, 148, 190, tion, 177– 78
236n16 Hebrew Union College (HUC), 55– 58,
Finkelstein, Louis, 189–212 170, 192
Foreign Policy Association (FPA), 89 Hebrew University, 8, 196
Frankfurter, Felix, 73, 89– 90 Heller, James, 178
Franklin, Benjamin, 46 Hertz, Joseph, 194
Freehof, Solomon, 39– 40 Hertzberg, Arthur, 54
Friedenwald, Harry, 22–23, 24 Herzl, Theodor: and American Zionist
Friedman, Elisha, 73 neglect of statehood, 28; founding of
Friesel, Evyatar, 166 modern Zionism, 42; and nature of
Jewish state, 33–34; political vs. religio-
galut, America as refuge rather than, 193, cultural objectives, 22; and politiciza-
214. See also Diaspora tion of Zionist ideal, 3; return to prin-
German Jewry: as capitalist threat to ciples of, 169; stature of, 62; support
Palestine, 142; desperate situation of, for democratic institutions, 168; Zion-
140, 144, 151; immigrants as leaders of ism and patriotism, 24
American Jewry, 6, 28; as source of Hexter, Maurice B.: betrayal by Passfield
Reform Judaism, 41. See also Nazi per- White Paper, 128–30; and Hope Simp-
secution of Jews son’s report, 119–28; initial appoint-
Gibbons, Herbert Adams, 69 ment to Palestine, 116–19; post-White
Ginzberg, Louis, 203 Paper compromise attempts, 130–36;
Goldman, Eric, 16 and Zionist debate on partition, 153
Goldman, Solomon, 156, 162, 199, 209 Hirsch, Emil, 44, 51– 52
Goldstein, Israel, 200 Histadrut, 127
Goldstein, Jonah, 115 Holmes, John Haynes, 83, 88, 89
Good Will Union, 88 Holocaust: and changes in Jewish leader-
Gottheil, Gustav, 22, 52 ship, 185; and immigration
Gottheil, Richard, 19, 27, 32, 53– 54, 72 restrictions, 11–12; impact on Zionist
government, U.S. See Congress, U.S.; successes, 179; as inspiration for state-
Roosevelt, Franklin D.; State Depart- hood struggle, 12, 13–14, 187; and pres-
ment, U.S. sure for Zionist action, 169, 170
Greenberg, Simon, 105 holy sites in Palestine, 87, 183
Gunther, John, 85 homeland, Jewish, 20–21, 33, 91. See also
non-Zionists; Palestine; state, Jewish
Ha’am, Ahad, 18 Hope Simpson, Sir John, 78, 119–36
Hadassah, Junior, 145 Hoskins, Halford, 176
Index 253
HUC (Hebrew Union College), 55– 58, Jastrow, Morris, 66, 67, 73
170, 192 Jerusalem, 95–112, 232n42
Hughes, Charles Evans, 142 Jewish Agency: anti-Zionist criticism of,
Hull, Cordell, 144, 146, 162, 177, 238–39n59 77; and Hope Simpson’s report, 119–28;
humanitarianism, 35, 140, 152, 159, 182. See immigration to Palestine issues, 11, 12,
also refugees, Jewish 141– 42, 169; loyalty of British members
Hurley, Patrick, 176 to Britain, 77–78; non-Zionists vs.
Hyman, Joseph, 118 Zionists in, 80–81; on partition, 149;
Passfield White Paper, 128–36; refusal
Ibn Saud, King of Saudi Arabia, 160– 61 to support ZOA, 90; Warburg vs. Weiz-
illegal immigration to Palestine, 14, 142, 143 mann in, 113–19; Zionist/non-Zionist
immigrants to America: American barri- collaboration in, 8– 9
ers against, 72; drive to assimilate, 66; Jewish center: Conservative support for,
restrictions on, 31, 32, 146– 47, 151, 155, 191, 195– 96; projects for Jerusalem,
170; Zionism as bridge to, 55. See also 99–100, 107, 108, 110–11
eastern European Jews; German Jewish Labor Committee, 172
Jewry Jewish National Fund, 125, 127
immigration into Palestine: American Jewish Relief Committee, 35
Jewish Conference initiatives, 176; Jewish Self-Defense Association, 29
American Jews’ lack of, 6, 24, 139, 162, Jewish Territorial Organization (ITO), 15
216; Arab-Jewish population balance, Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS), 22,
150, 161– 62; British restrictions on, 58– 59, 189–212
10, 11, 120, 122, 126, 132, 146– 47, 151, Jewish Welfare Board, 99
155, 170; call for Jewish control of, 169; Joseph, Jacob, 20
Christian groups’ support for, 144; Judaism. See Conservative Jewry; Ortho-
and outsiders’ fears of power of Jews, dox Jewry; Reform Jewry
141– 43; and Peel Commission, 145; Der Judenstaat (Herzl), 33, 42
refugee issue in 1930s, 11–12, 137–38, Judeo-Christian tradition, Finkelstein’s
156– 64; Roosevelt’s support for, 179; focus on, 191, 199
State Department policies, 138–39, jurisdiction issues among Jewish national
143, 164; vs. statehood for AJC, organizations, 173– 74, 180
182– 83; Zionist demand for, 12, 166,
177 Kahn, Julius, 66
imperialists, Zionists portrayed as, 70, 71, Kallen, Horace, 18, 73– 74
82, 83, 84– 85, 87 Kaplan, Mordecai, 207, 211
Independent, 70 Kellogg, Frank, 139
individual freedom and criticism of Kennedy, Joseph, 158, 162
Zionists in Palestine, 67 kibbutzim, 85, 134
international Jewry concept, 70– 71, 85, Kishinev petition, 29
140– 41 Knabenshue, Paul, 140
international organizations’ takeover of Kohler, Kaufmann, 43, 46, 51– 52, 55– 58
postwar resolution, 187. See also Jewish Kohn, Hans, 3
Agency Kook, Abraham Isaac, 104
international supervision of Palestine, Kussy, Sarah, 108
183, 184, 205, 206
Irgun Zvai Leumi, 177 labor organizations, 5, 8– 9, 60, 79, 172
Israel, state of, 212–17. See also state, Jewish Landman, Isaac, 68, 90
254 Index
land transfers and cultivation in Palestine, MacCallum, Elizabeth, 89

121–22, 124, 125, 128, 132–33 MacDonald, Malcolm, 131
Lansing, Robert, 10, 139 MacDonald, Ramsay, 78, 126, 128, 139
Laski, Harold, 131, 132 MacDonald White Paper, 10, 12. See also
Lazarus, Josephine, 24–25 Passfield White Paper
Lazarus, Moritz, 51 Mack, Julian, 73, 89, 127
leadership. See communal leadership Magnes, Judah: binational state thesis,
League of Nations, 130, 137, 150, 153 79– 81, 83; as divisive influence on
left, Jewish political: anti-Zionism in, Zionism, 118, 120; and Jewish-Arab
78– 79; Socialists, 5, 79, 85, 134. See also rapprochement attempt, 155; modern
liberals synagogue project for Jerusalem, 96,
Lehman, Arthur, 99 97–107; and political nature of Jewish
Levias, Caspar, 55 homeland, 33; preservation of Jewish
Levinthal, Israel, 109, 110–11 identity in America, 24; and senatorial
Levy, Joseph, 82 visit to Palestine, 145– 46; Zionism as
liberals: opposition to Zionism from, 8, bridge to new immigrants, 55
82, 84, 89; as original leaders of Jewish Malter, Henry, 55, 56
mission, 59– 60; and origins of Zion- mandate of Palestine. See Palestine
ism, 74; pro-Arab tendencies of, 11; Margolis, Max, 55, 56– 57
response to Balfour, 66– 68; support Marshall, James, 83
for binational state thesis, 83; sympa- Marshall, Louis, 36, 55, 99, 114, 184, 192
thy for minority nationalism, 16. See Melchett, Lord (Alfred Mond), 115
also Reform Jewry melting-pot theory vs. cultural pluralism,
Lipsky, Louis: commitment to political 15, 23
Zionism, 18; on education, 25; and Menorah Journal, 73
galut as doom of Jewry, 20; as head of military force as necessity in Palestine, 85,
ZOA, 77; on Maccabaean contribu- 91
tions, 37–38; and public opinion on military service and Jews, 34, 35
Zionists in Palestine, 81– 82; rebuttal of minority nationalism, liberal sympathy
anti-Zionist critics, 73; Warburg’s dis- for, 16. See also cultural pluralism
like of, 90 missionaries, Christian, 65, 87, 108, 109
Littauer, Lucius, 29 mission of Israel: criticism of Reform
lobbying: Arab efforts for Palestine, 92, view, 52– 53; moral nature of, 59– 60,
157, 160, 161; Jewish vs. Arab for U.S. 79– 80, 170; as national consciousness,
support, 157– 58; Zionist techniques, 51; Reform view of, 43, 44, 45; and
138, 188 Zionism as proponent of American
Lober, Louis, 103– 4, 109–10 values, 219n3
Lodge-Fish resolution, 68, 70– 71, 72– 73, Mond, Alfred, Lord Melchett, 115
74, 138 Monsky, Henry, 166– 67
Moore, R. Walton, 147
Maccabaean: contributions of, 37–38; Morais, Sabato, 192
founding of, 15–17; national conscious- moral leaders, Jews as, 59– 60, 79– 80, 170
ness project of, 17–23; political Zion- Morgenthau, Henry, 33, 66, 73
ism for America, 28–32; religious/cul- Mowrer, Paul, 68– 69
tural issues, 25–28; WWI shift to Murray, Wallace: advantages of Zionist
international focus, 32–37; Zionist ac- disunity for, 153; anti-Zionist stance,
commodations to Americanism, 23–25 159– 60; on immigration levels in
Index 255
Murray, Wallace (cont’d.) modation of, 7– 8. See also Christians;

Palestine, 143, 164; nonintervention public opinion
position on Palestine, 144– 45, 146, 147, non-Zionists: in AJC, 184; on Arabs, 113;
148; and oil interests in Arab coun- Britain’s cultivation of, 115; differences
tries, 160– 61; placation of Wise, 144; with Zionists, 77– 78, 80– 81; Finkel-
press accusations of anti-Jewish senti- stein, 189–212; in Jewish Agency, 77;
ment, 176; support for Magnes, 155; opposition to Jewish state, 114, 153;
treatment of Revisionists, 154 overview, 5; reluctance to counter
musaf, 102, 103, 106 anti-Zionism, 90; State Department’s
preference for, 140; support for Zion-
Nation, 82– 83 ists, 8– 9, 11; traditional American Jew-
national consciousness, 17–23, 51 ish organizations as, 167; unity vs. dis-
National Council of Jewish Women, 172 unity in American Jewry, 77– 78, 120,
nationalism: vs. assimilation, 17, 38; of 123, 128, 129, 130, 136; WWII loss of
eastern European Jews, 49, 193– 94; distinction, 183; Zionist conversion
Holocaust as fuel for, 185; liberal sym- attempts, 73. See also Hexter, Maurice
pathy for minority, 16; Reform’s re- B.; Magnes, Judah; Warburg, Felix
sponse to, 40, 43, 46, 53; vs. universal- Nordau, Max, 1, 17, 33
ism, 19, 27; and Zionism’s origins, 3; NZO (New Zionist Organization), 154, 172
Zionist modification for American
Jews, 7–10. See also dual allegiance Ochs, Adolph, 74
problem; ethnic identity oil interests in Arab countries, 160– 61
nationalities, rights of, 74 The Origin of Republican Form of Govern-
national Jewish organizations. See indi- ment in the United States of America
vidual organizations (Straus), 45
Nazi persecution of Jews: dramatic in- Orthodox Jewry: and American Jewish
creases in, 151; Final Solution and Conference, 172; entrenchment in
Zionist urgency, 170; increasingly des- Jerusalem, 101, 109, 111; vs. Magnes’s
perate plight of Jews, 152, 156, 162; and attempt at modern synagogue, 95– 97;
partition issue in Palestine, 149; Zion- opposition to secularized Zionism, 5,
ist call for British/U.S. intervention, 26, 96; unequal treatment of women,
140. See also Holocaust 108; and Yeshurun’s success, 103–12;
Neumann, Emanuel, 144 Zionism in, 201
Nevinson, H. W., 85
New Palestine, 74, 83 Paassen, Pierre Van, 93– 94
New York Times, 74, 184, 207 Palestine: American Jewish Conference’s
New Zionist Organization (NZO), 154, 172 initiatives, 174; American Jewish in-
nonintervention in Palestine, U.S. See vestment in, 6, 143, 148, 190, 236n16;
State Department, U.S. Arab and British interests against Jews
non-Jews: and AJC, 181, 184; AZEC’s work in, 143– 48; Christian criticism of
in mobilizing, 177; fears about dual Zionists in, 70– 71; and Hope Simp-
allegiance issue, 49; Finkelstein’s need son’s report, 119–28; international su-
for goodwill from, 199; Holocaust ef- pervision of, 183, 184, 205, 206; mod-
fect on, 13–14; indifference to Zionist ern synagogue project in Jerusalem,
cause, 16; initial sympathy after Arab 95–112, 232n42; partition proposal for,
riots, 81; religion as protection from 148– 55, 160, 187; Passfield White Paper,
totalitarianism, 198; Zionist accom- 76, 128–36, 177, 179, 182, 204; post-Arab
256 Index
unrest debate on, 75– 94; Reform’s overview of development, 3– 4; pub-

rejection of restoration to, 41, 44– 45; lic’s apprehensions about, 65; Reform’s
refugee crisis of 1930s, 11–12, 137–38, opposition to, 44– 45; WWII era resur-
156– 64; relief work in, 116–19; as spiri- rection of, 4, 165, 176– 77, 188. See also
tual-cultural center, 9, 22, 26, 53, 191, Americanization of Zionism; nation-
195– 96; State Department policies, 10, alism; state
138– 43, 159– 60, 176, 178; Zionist sup- Pool, David de Sola, 200
port for WWII Allied goals, 170. See practical building of Palestine: American
also Arabs; Balfour Declaration; im- Zionist role, 34; Conservative support
migration; practical building of Pales- for, 58; and disunity within Zionist
tine; state; yishuv camp, 77; economic issues, 107, 119,
Palestine Commission (PC) of American 121–22, 125, 128; and modern
Jewish Conference, 175– 80 synagogue project, 96; post-Passfield
Palestinianism: American Jewish support White Paper funding problems, 130;
for, 5; Reform acceptance of, 62; as vs. statehood, 15, 22, 182, 183. See also
response to Arab unrest in Palestine, Palestinianism; yishuv
75; Zionism’s shift to, 4, 7–10, 93. See press role in Zionism, 74, 81– 88, 156, 173,
also practical building of Palestine; 184. See also individual periodicals
spiritual-cultural Zionism Progressive movement, 7, 16, 38, 60– 61
Palmer, Ely, 142– 43 The Promised Land (Antin), 20
partition of Palestine, 148– 55, 160, 187 Pro-Palestinian Federation of Americans,
Pasha, Nuri Said, 155 144, 149
Passfield, Lord (Sidney Webb), 119, 124, Proskauer, Joseph M.: on dual allegiance
126–27, 135 problem, 214; and Finkelstein’s non-
Passfield White Paper, 76, 128–30, 177, 179, Zionist position, 211; role in American
182, 204 Jewish Conference, 167, 170, 182, 183,
patriotism: Jewish claim of American, 185– 86
169– 70, 184; and post-WWI America, Protocols of the Elders of Zion, 8, 65
65– 66, 67; and Reform’s criticism of Provisional Zionist Committee (PZC),
Zionism, 48– 49; during WWI, 34; and 34–35
Zionism, 24, 168, 178 public opinion: Arab riots and Arab
Peel Commission, 144– 45, 146, 148– 49, 151 rights issue, 75– 78, 122, 124; Christian
Perry, Ralph Barton, 23 criticism of political Zionism, 68– 71;
persecution of Jews. See antisemitism Holocaust effect on, 13–14; indiffer-
philanthropy and Zionism’s evolution, 9, ence to Zionist cause, 16; issues in
18, 75, 93 post-Balfour debate, 64– 66; Jewish
Philipson, David, 44– 45, 62, 68, 73 opponents of political Zionism,
The Political World of American Zionism 66– 68, 78– 81; press response to Jewish
(Halperin), 191 presence in Palestine, 74, 81– 88; State
political Zionism: AJC stand against, 181; Department’s consideration of,
and Balfour Declaration, 37, 72– 75; 150– 51, 154, 158; Zionist response to,
Christian opposition to, 8, 68– 71, 72, 7– 8, 71– 75, 88– 94, 165
87– 88, 160, 228n57; elements of post- PZC (Provisional Zionist Committee),
WWI opposition to, 71– 75; FAZ com- 34–35
mitment to, 15; Finkelstein’s opposi-
tion to, 189–212; Jewish criticism of, Rabbinical Assembly (RA), 192, 197, 202,
66– 68, 78– 81; last stand against, 201; 203, 204, 209
Index 257
Rabbinical Council of America, 201 loyalty to State Department, 144,

The Reconstructionist, 174 163– 64; open support for Zionism,
Red Scare, 66 179– 80
Reed, Edward, 70 Rosenman, Samuel, 144
Reformed Society of Israelites, 41 Rosenwald, Lessing, 210
Reform Jewry: Americanism of, 39– 40, Rothschild, Baron Edmund de, 18, 115
45– 49; in American Jewish Confer- Rothschild, Baron Lionel, 37
ence, 172; challenges to anti-Zionism Royal Commission of Inquiry on Pales-
of, 49– 58, 61– 63; Hebrew Union Col- tine, 144– 45, 146, 148– 49, 151
lege, 55– 58, 170, 192; post-Balfour loss Russia, 29–30, 141
of influence, 37; religious principles
and development, 40– 45; response to Sampter, Jessie, 99
Balfour, 67– 68; support for Jewish Samuel, Sir Herbert, 101, 109–10
state, 201; Zionist criticism of, 26–28; Samuel, Maurice, 83– 84, 91
Zionist infiltration of, 59– 61. See also Sarna, Jonathan, 60, 96n
American Council for Judaism Schechter, Solomon, 6, 58– 59, 97, 190– 91,
refugees, Jewish: and American Jewish 192
Conference, 175, 185, 187; American Schiff, Jacob, 26, 29, 58, 73, 192
Jewish support for, 139– 40; Christian Schloessinger, Max, 55, 56
support for, 190; desperate plight of secularism: appeal for youthful Jews, 38;
German Jewry, 140, 144, 151; and im- and Conservative Judaism, 193; criti-
migration issues, 11–12, 137–38, cism of Zionist, 5, 26, 59, 82– 87, 85, 96,
156– 64; and partition issue, 149; and 202; and Reform Judaism, 42, 50– 51; in
pressure for Jewish state, 176, 197; and yishuv, 98, 200; and Zionism’s origins,
sympathy for Zionism, 190; Zionist 3
opposition to elitist rescue of, 29 Seldes, Gilbert, 66
relief efforts for oppressed Jews, 35, 50, 79, self-determination, 71, 80, 82, 92, 160
116–19, 156– 60 Seminary Israel Institute, 212
religion: Conservative vs. Reform, 58– 59; Senator, Werner, 118, 124
criticism of Zionism as secular, 5, 26, Senior, Max, 67
59, 96, 202; as individual rather than Sephardic vs. Ashkenazic style services,
collective choice, 215; Reform’s focus 95, 98, 104– 5
on, 27, 39, 40– 45, 51; and Zionism as settlements, Jewish, effects on Arabs,
fanaticism, 185; Zionism’s links to, 2–3, 121–22, 124, 125, 128, 132–33
216. See also Christians; Orthodox shacharit, 102
Jewry; spiritual-cultural Zionism Shaw, Sir Walter, 78
restoration to Palestine, Reform’s rejec- Shaw Commission report, 119, 233n16
tion of, 41, 44– 45. See also immigra- Sheean, Vincent, 82
tion into Palestine; state, Jewish Shertok, Moshe, 211
Revisionists, 78, 80, 154, 172, 177 Shiels, Sir T. Drummond, 127
Richards, B. G., 184 Silver, Abba Hillel, 12, 169, 176– 77, 178,
rights of Jews in post-WWII order, 187 179, 184, 207– 8
Rihani, Ameen, 92– 93 Sloan, Alexander, 141– 42
Romanian persecutions, 29 Smuts, Jan Christian, 119
Roosevelt, Franklin D.: American Jewish social acceptance/status, 40, 46– 47, 107.
love for, 138; informal support for See also assimilation
Zionist cause, 146, 157, 161, 162, 176; Socialists, 5, 79, 85, 134
258 Index
social justice as part of Jewish universal Steinberg, Milton, 204, 205– 6, 209
mission, 21, 46, 50, 60 stewardship, Jewish, decline of, 30. See
Spiegel, Shalom, 211 also American Jewish Committee
spiritual-cultural Zionism: in American (AJC)
Zionist agenda, 22; Conservative Stimson, Henry, 180
championing of, 9, 58– 59; develop- Stolz, Joseph, 48
ment of, 6; Diaspora as loss of unify- Straus, Oscar, 29, 45
ing culture, 20; and Finkelstein, Strauss, Lewis L., 199, 207
189–212; Maccabaean’s contribution, Sulzberger, Arthur Hays, 203, 207– 8
38; modern synagogue projects in synagogue, modern-style in Jerusalem,
Jerusalem, 95–112; as more acceptable 95–112, 232n42
to public opinion, 86; non-Zionist synthetic Zionism, 15
support for, 115; Palestine as center for Szold, Henrietta, 96, 98– 99, 105, 110
Jewish faith, 22, 26, 53, 191, 195– 96; vs. Szold, Robert, 147, 161
political, 15, 18; as preference of Amer-
ican Jews, 21; Reform criticism of, Taft, Robert, 164
47– 48; Zionist acceptance of, 25–28 theocracy in Palestine and criticism of
state, Jewish: AJC opposition to, 182– 83; Zionism, 70
binational state thesis, 79– 81, 83, 86, Thomas, Norman, 79
88, 98; commonwealth idea, 166, Transfer Department, 35
168– 69, 177, 178, 206; conservative Transjordan, 132, 134, 135, 154
Jewish agencies’ neutrality on, 167; Trilling, Lionel, 78
criticism of sole focus on, 186– 87; Truman, Harry, 14
establishment of, 187, 212–17; Finkel- trusteeship for Palestine, 184
stein’s opposition to, 201, 209, 210–11; Turkey, 10, 33
lack of focus prior to WWII, 19, 21, 28;
and misinterpretations of Balfour, 65; Union of American Hebrew Congrega-
non-Zionist fear of, 114, 153; obligations (UAHC), 46, 61, 172
tions of American Jews to, 60, 73, United Jewish Appeal (UJA), 190
202–3; overview of struggle for, 12–14; United Nations, 170, 187, 206
vs. practical building of Palestine, 15, United States government. See Congress,
22, 182, 183; pre-WWI ambivalence U.S.; Roosevelt, Franklin D.; State De-
about, 33–34; pre-WWII leanings to- partment, U.S.
ward, 152– 53, 164; setting aside of goal, United Synagogue, 107–12, 192, 197, 204.
107, 131; as solution to refugee prob- See also Conservative Jewry
lem, 176, 197 unity vs. disunity of American Jewry:
State Department, U.S.: anti-Zionism of, anti-Zionist disunity, 72; fragmenta-
10, 12, 14, 138– 43, 159– 64, 176, 178; fears tion over Zionism, 30, 36, 78, 79,
of American Jewish Conference, 181; 226n22; and loose federation in Zion-
need for intervention to save refugees, ism, 37; Magnes’s divisive influence,
137–38; opposition to humanitarian 118; non-Zionists and Zionists, 77–78,
diplomacy, 190; overview of role, 120, 123, 128, 129, 130, 136; and spiritual-
9–10; and Palestine as refuge for Euro- cultural Zionism, 22, 189–212; and
pean Jews, 156– 60; on partition pro- statehood, 13, 15, 152–53; Zionism as
posal by British, 148– 55; response to unifying force, 19, 53; Zionist disunity
Arab riots and Royal Commission, in response to critics, 79, 80, 88– 94. See
143– 48; support for AJC, 185– 86 also American Jewish Conference
Index 259
universalism, Jewish: AJC support for, Wilson, Woodrow, 34, 60

184; and binational state thesis, 81; Wise, Isaac Mayer, 47, 55
Christian support for, 87; and Finkel- Wise, Stephen S.: and antisemitism in
stein’s Zionism, 195– 96, 198, 206– 7; America, 174; on binational state the-
and Magnes’s call for Jewish center in sis, 88; campaign for U.S. government
Jerusalem, 100; vs. nationalism, 19, 27; support, 143– 44, 147, 156, 161; hostility
Reform’s commitment to, 42– 43, 51 toward Finkelstein, 200; influence in
Untermyer, Samuel, 73 government, 177, 179; and Jewish fears
Urofsky, Melvin, 35, 61 of unified action, 226n22; on need for
Jewish state, 152; on partition, 152, 153;
values, American: of Reform Judaism, response to Christian criticism, 89;
39– 40, 45– 49; Zionism’s sharing of, 7, Zionism as bridge to new immigrants,
24–25, 35, 191 55
Viney, Hallen, 87 Witte, Sergius, 29
WJC (World Jewish Congress), 170, 175
Wadsworth, George, 145, 149, 151, 153, 161, women, equal treatment in synagogues,
163 102, 104, 108
Wagner, Robert, 157 Women’s League, 111, 204
Waldman, Morris, 181, 185 Woodhead Commission, 151, 155, 157
Warburg, Felix: death of, 136; financial World Jewish Congress (WJC), 170, 175
support for yishuv, 8; Jewish Agency World War I, 32–37
relationships, 113–19; as leader of non- World War II: AJC’s claims to patriotism
Zionist group, 77; meeting with Pass- in, 184; Jewish support of war aims,
field, 126; post-White Paper negotia- 169– 70; and resurrection of Zionism,
tions, 130; reluctance to counter 4, 165, 176– 77, 188
anti-Zionism, 90; response to British World Zionist Organization (WZO), 4, 15,
betrayal, 128; support for Magnes, 34
100–101, 155 Wright-Compton resolutions, 178, 179,
Webb, Sidney, Lord Passfield, 119, 124, 180, 186
126–27, 135 Wyman, David, 186
Weisgal, Meyer, 92
Weizmann, Chaim: and American Jewish Yellin, David, 95
Conference, 166– 67; betrayal by Yeshurun congregation in Jerusalem,
Britain, 139, 163; and Finkelstein, 200, 103–12
210; and Hexter, 117, 124, 128, 132; on yishuv: affection for Roosevelt, 161; AJC’s
Hope Simpson, 128, 135–36; immigra- support of, 183; and American Jewish
tion to Palestine campaign, 11, 130, 148, patriotism in WWII, 170; Brandeis’s
157, 160, 162; as Israel’s first president, view of, 60; British plan to undermine,
212; on Jewish state, 131, 152; and liberal 123–24; contributions to Arabs in
criticism of Zionism, 84; loyalty to Palestine, 80; haganah, 143, 164; hostil-
Britain, 77– 78; suspicions about ity toward British, 120; internal inde-
British motives, 126; vs. Warburg, pendence agenda, 198; need for Amer-
113–19 ican institutional support, 23; outside
Wertheim, Maurice, 198 fears of communism in, 141; radical
western European Jews, 5, 17–18. See also military groups in, 177; rejection of
German Jewry Conservatism, 106– 7; secularism in,
260 Index
98, 200; violence during transition to numbers in America, 152. See also
statehood, 211; WWI relief efforts, 35. Americanization of Zionism; political
See also Palestine Zionism; spiritual-cultural Zionism
Zionist Organization of America (ZOA),
Zangwill, Israel, 23 77, 90– 92, 145– 46, 184, 190. See also
Zionism: overview of American, 1–14; Federation of American Zionists
post-statehood role of, 215; pre-WWII (FAZ)
Index 261

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Cohen: The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948 page i

The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

Brandeis University Press

Brandeis University Press

Published by University Press of New England,

37 Lafayette Street, Lebanon, NH 03766

© 2003 by Brandeis University

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Jonathan D. Sarna, 

 . , 

  , , 

 , 

 , , 

  , 

  , 

 , , 

  , 

 , , 

 , , 

 , 

 .    , , 

 , 

     . , , 

    . , , 

 . , 

 . , 

 , 

 .     , , 

 . , 

  .    . , , 

 ,       , 

     , , 

 -, 

 . , 

 , 

 .     , , 

 . , 

 .  , , 

 . , 

 , 

 .    , 

To the memory of G.D.C.

xiv The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

W riting a few years after the organization of the Zionist movement in

questions: Could or should Zionists mouth Herzlian rhetoric, predicated on

2 The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

Palestine was a precondition of the second coming of Jesus. In both synagogue

The Formative Years of American Zionism

4 The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

issue reﬂected the process of Americanization. Earlier German Jewish immi-

6 The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948

contributed signiﬁcantly to the process of Americanization. Not only did he

Palestinianism, the substitute for Herzl’s program, was a modiﬁed version of

8 The Americanization of Zionism, 1897–1948