In the mean time, we learnt about the wreck of the Pisces (Egoz) with forty-four emigrants. They all died this 11th day of January 1961. Everyone knows this tragedy. Incidentally, at this time, I had been in contact with a group of young men who had left Morocco. Their families and I were concerned about the fact that some of them might have been on the Pisces. Fortunately it was not the case.

The organization decided to publish a tract, the original of which is still in my possession, destined to be distributed in all the cities of Morocco. Ten thousand tracts were printed. Daphna was asked to go to Tanger to deliver the tracts to the group responsible of their distribution in the mail boxes of all the Jews of Tanger. This action was repeated in the principal cities of the kingdom. Some Haverim from other movements took part in this large operation.

11 - Tract of the Bazak Operation

Our comrades, ex-prisoners of Nador, called from their hotel in Tanger to tell us that they had found themselves face to face with the Nador’s judge who was staying at the same hotel in company of a mistress. The judge threatened to put them back in jail. We scrambled and managed to transfer them to another hotel in another part of town. We feared severe repercussions. The Harevim needed money and asked me to get them money as soon as possible. So, Daphna with her stack of tracts, and I with the money, in the same bus on the way to Tanger, transgressing the security measures, when we should have traveled separately. But, as you can appreciate, love was the winner!

In Tanger, Daphna met with the Haverim who were supposed to deliver the tracts and joined me with our comrades out of jail. Each of them told us their difficulties at this sad moment of their lives. A few weeks later, they left Morocco and arrived safe and sound at the Achshara of Agen.

Finally, one morning, Roger told us to prepare for an imminent departure and briefed us about the scenario to follow: Daphna would leave alone to Paris after a stop in Rabat. As for me, Roger would drive me to the Rabat airport where I would board the plane that would take us, Daphna and I, to Paris and freedom.

“D” day arrived on March 8th, 1961. We followed the scenario to a “t”. Daphna’s plane landed in Rabat. My heart beating, I presented my passport to the customs officer. He stamped it and put it aside among other passports. This situation worried me and I feared the moment when he would say: “Sir, you cannot leave!” The time of departure approached and still no passport. Against my will, I decided to go back to the officer to ask about my passport. To my surprise, the officer smiled at me and told me that, by mistake, he had put my passport with other passports belonging to a family of ten. I felt like kissing him. I passed the through the gate and met Daphna on the plane. We didn’t speak to each other. Security! Security!

We were happy to leave Morocco without trouble and to land in Paris. Our first move was to go to the Israeli Embassy and we met with a member who told us the circumstances with which I had been “burnt” and how the police had gone back to my father: a group of teenagers, clandestine emigrants, had been arrested at the border and their parents had been summoned for interrogation. The father of one of the girls – who, herself, didn’t know the identity of the man supposed to pick her up – was requested to divulge a name. Under pressure from the police and the fear that his daughter might be in trouble, he gave up and, knowing my family and knowing that I was already in Israel, he gave my name.

The Shaliach Simon Meller, having terminated his mandate in Morocco, we greeted his replacement without ever knowing his name. We used to call him Yves. We were used to greet Shlichim and I was in charge to make them visit Morocco. I did it for Yves. We also sent a Havera and a Haver to Machon le Madriche Houtz Laaretz, in Jerusalem. In fact, we were happy knowing that we would be released soon.

As I mentioned, I had already left the movement to work with the Makela. I was eager to make Aliya. Daphna’s parents, whom i had already met, hoped that we would marry in Morocco, to be more at ease. It was not inconvenient for us. The obstacle was only money. My salary hardly paid the rent and food. My mother and my brothers were already in Israel. My father, who was still in Morocco, was introduced to my future in-laws and, that day, they agreed on a date for our wedding on the 19th day of February, 1961. And I who didn’t even afford a ring! My in-laws organized the ceremony at their home, with the help of my father. He offered a bracelet to Daphna and paid for our wedding bands. Four days before the wedding, I received the order to lay low and renounce any activity. I was “burnt”! We were disappointed because everything was ready for the wedding, and no one in the family knew about my activities. Everyone thought I worked for an insurance company. These few days of incertitude were a difficult moment.

Today, I wonder which sentence could have happened: Go to jail, or live 43 years with the same woman? But the day of the wedding arrived without incident before fifteen guests.

The next day we visited my in-laws. Getting out of the car, I saw my father in law pacing nervously on the sidewalk. We rapidly understood that something was wrong. He told us that the police went to my father’s home this very morning searching a certain Claude Knafou, my real name! It was clear that, from this moment on, we had to say good-bye without knowing when we would meet again.

Daphna and I hid in our secret apartment. Then our union started in our golden prison. Roger B. became our guardian angel. He would pay us a visit almost every day and brought us food and newspapers. Going out was strictly forbidden, but Daphna would still go downstairs every day to the grocery store to call her parents and reassure them. She would tell them that our honeymoon across Morocco was great… In fact, we had no activities whatsoever, except listen to music, eat and the rest. It’s crazy, when I think back of this time. Being locked up with a beautiful girl? That would be my dream, today! At the time, I didn’t know how to enjoy that moment. Patience is not one of my virtues. The only fresh air coming from outside would be the daily visit of Roger.

Daphna had a valid Moroccan passport. As for me, the organization made me a fake French passport bearing a pseudonym. Then the eternal question to Roger: When do we leave?

On February 26, 1961, we learnt on the radio that Mohamed V was dead. The whole of Morocco was in tears. The Jewish community showed its respect by walking the streets of Casablanca. We could see the procession pass under our balcony. The radio played Arab prayers and, sometimes, classical music. We would listen to the only record in our possession: Jacques Brel and, particularly, our favorite songs “Ne me quitte pas” and “La valse à mille temps”. And Roger who came to see us everyday with his little basket!

After spending three weeks in Paris, we went to Agen to join our Garin. Three months later, we would leave the Achshara to finally reach Israel on June 30th, 1961.

Montreal, October 27th, 2004

I want to thank my wife for her legendary patience, and my friend, Jean-Patrick Krief, for his contribution to this story and for the translation.

Humbly, Dan Knafou

| Casablanca | Marrakech | Rabat | Essaouira | Fez |

|Meknes | Tanger | Oujda | The South | Mazagan | Agadir |

Today's Communities