As soon as the hour of Israel’s birth struck I knew that I was going to settle there. I had always been a Zionist, and there was very little to tie me down where I was. Ten years before, I had bade a tearless farewell to Europe and found friendly shelter in one of the smaller South American countries, where, nevertheless, the stranger was doomed to remain a stranger. During the previous two years I had had no place of permanent residence, for I had been traveling through South America trying to enlist political support for the principle of a Jewish state and the partition of Palestine. I was a bachelor with no responsibilities. My aliyah seemed to be imminent, natural, and logical. But before I could even start to think about it, I was sidetracked by a promotion. The head of the Jewish Agency department under whose direction I had worked in Latin America was drafted to a high position in the newly created Israeli Foreign Office, and I was called to New York to replace him. The acceptance of this assignment seemed no retreat from Israel. Rather, I considered it a bridge, and since my work brought me into close contact with the affairs of the new state and hundreds of its citizens, I had, for a long time, the feeling of living with one foot there.

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