Word: ben-gurion
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Last week, in a refinement that included names, time and places, Nasser's Voice of the Arabs began broadcasting a story that Jordan's Foreign Minister Samir Rifai had met secretly last September with Israel's Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion and Foreign Minister Golda Meir near the Jordanian town of Nablus, and with King Hussein's full approval arranged to resettle Jordan's 500,000 refugees in return for $30 million that the U.S. would make available through Israel. "They will annihilate him," shrilled the Voice of the Arabs, and Cairo's newspaper...
Colonel Nehemia Argov, 43, was Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion's shadow. He was the only military aide the old man ever had-a gentle, universally loved man who himself loved only his chief. Unmarried, he lived only for Ben-Gurion, issued orders in his name that Cabinet officers accepted unquestioningly. "There are only two people who matter in the state-Ben-Gurion and me," he said, not in arrogance, but in devotion so great that it amounted to identification. One day last fortnight, as he drove into Jerusalem, a wasp flew in the window of Argov...
...peril that faced his nation exactly a year before, when its troops stood ready to launch their attack on the Sinai Peninsula. A small object flew through the air from the direction of the visitors' gallery. Like the well-trained old soldier that he is, Prime Minister Ben-Gurion ducked to the floor as the missile hurtled past his snowy, hair, but nobody else moved. A second later, the tossed hand grenade exploded...
Wounded in foot and arms by the blast, Ben-Gurion tried to still panic. "Sit down, everybody, don't leave your seats," he cried. But the Parliament floor was already alive with activity. "Get an ambulance!", "Call a doctor!", "Don't crowd!" shouted some of the members, as others rushed for first-aid equipment. In the midst of the commotion, two doctor-parliamentarians found their way to Minister of Religious Affairs and Social Welfare Moshe Shapiro, whose blood was gushing from bad wounds in the stomach and head...
That night police grilled the cowering, neurotic youth, Moshe ben Yaacov Dueg, who had thrown the bomb. "Why did you do it?" they asked. "Because," he answered in sullen, resentful tones, "the Jewish Agency robbed me." He was a worrying, ailing, ne'er-do-well full of fancied grievances against all officialdom; his grudge was a private one, unconnected with the seething political turmoil of the Middle East. "I know," Ben-Gurion wrote his parents, "that you regret, as does all Israel, the dastardly and foolish crime your son perpetrated. But you are not to blame. You are living...