Son of Bracha and Moshe. He was born in Tel Aviv on July 17, 1923. He began his elementary studies at the “Geula” school and later moved to the school for working children, and when he was in elementary school he joined the founders of the Gordonia youth movement’s local branch. From those days: “I met Reuven at the beginning of the Gordonia movement in Eretz Israel; It would be correct to say that this movement began its existence. In the sea of indifference of masses of young people in the city, for all intents and purposes, between uncircumcised hearts and clenched ears, he was one of the few individuals who listened attentively and constituted a small, primary circle around which the movement was united. “After completing his elementary studies, He went to the agricultural school in Son of Shemen with a group of friends to the movement and graduated from a group of members of the movement with whom he studied for training at the Ginegar group, and spent three years studying self to expand Education and knowledge At the end of the training he was sent to the Gordonia youth center in Haifa In May 1945 he sent his parents a letter from Italy, in which he wrote: “I have the courage to tell you about my new place of residence, which was recently planted. Where our seat was set. Although my possessions did not exist, and I did not find the men of the corps here, I found here something invaluable and other virtues. I found here a reality of an old childhood dream. The same romantic illusion and imaginary adventure that in those days offered me a gift of happiness and satisfaction, rolled here and there dressed in tangible clothing whose name is reality. And the reality is so similar and so close to that that has been revealed in the visions of delusion and delusions I used to play with as a child. On a steep black rock on the slope of the slope is a rock-hewn castle, thick with thick brown walls, with its turrets rising above it like black and dark figures, casting their images to a valley of ghosts at the bottom of the mountain. With the spread of darkness it seems to be a night Daughter of, so its name is called the “black Daughter of”. In another letter he sent to his parents in July 1945, he wrote: “Today is the day of my 360 days in the army of His Majesty. I say three hundred and sixty days, not a year, because the word “year” represents a long, lazy, long period … Three hundred and sixty days is a shorter period, with the frequency of its vertebrae as rapid snatching moments. This is how I spent my life in the army: many transformations and suits and hasty dating, some of which were digested in the cognitive system, and their generosity was pushed into a corner somewhere in the foreground of thought, and it would be a long time before I pondered them again … We serve as a light and rescue division for war refugees who survived the inferno, Starving and pounding, and being thrown out as a tool that is not desired. From hand to hand and from the border to the border, who lack shelter and a source of salvation. The nations of democracy bearing liberation in Europe do not yet know that one must distinguish between human beings who have just fled to the cult of slavery and the seal of tyrants on their faces, and among the human carcasses who have just left the gas chambers and the ravages of killing. From this you can learn the great burden that has been loaded on our backs and how much devotion is required for our job …. Boys aged 15-16, cartoons moving, lumps on the back and back legs. The worst of all is that you see in their small bodies and broken limbs a dead desire to go beyond skeletal skeletons,Blow up the bone and develop. It is unbearable to see the face of the 15-year-olds, old and wrinkled and bony, lying strangely on their baby-sized bodies. Indeed, the artists of the caricature were those Germans in their “Batei Hayotzer” houses, after which he joined the Beit Keshet group and lived there for about a year, working most of the time in Ein Harod, Kfar Hahoresh and Maoz Haim. My letter bitterly and sadly. But what would I do, and this time a glass of poison on my head became distressed. More precisely – on my neck. Indeed, see what my fate has done to me: Seven furlongs, thick and tall, gathered together to pay their respects to my meekness. Their appearance is a reward and a suit; Once upon a time, their snow-white peaks were on the Alps, and once their appearance was hard and smoky. From their hot indignation they went and roared and boiled them up with a roar to heaven. I lie in bed with a big bandage on my head. About half an hour ago, friends and girlfriends were circling records on the turntable “Fugue” to Bach, quiet and turbulent sounds. And outside, it’s dusk and sweet and sweet, the tabor rises right out the window and I and my thoughts wander and join the world of fantasy. “In October 1947, he wrote to his girlfriend Ziva:” It’s 4 AM. A cool wind loops from west to east, and the ridge lines that lie to Gilad are visible. I have just returned from the night shift. And so it is good to lie down on the wet grass to the edge of the day and write to you about the beams of the night … I will return, therefore, to my night, to the peaceful walks on the shores of the Jordan, full of wild smells, To the sight of his winding path like a silver snake between the mountains of Betar. It will not happen otherwise, because the distance between the image and the reality will be shortened until I have to attach to the rocky breezes, well the turnip so that I will not drop water, as one of the idle stones. All this is still good and Yaffa, because the path is blurred, it turns out to be different. But when it is completely gone, I have no choice but to probe and feel my paths between water and sky, between thorns and stones rolling down the outskirts of nowhere to nothing but tangles or mud. But do not be mistaken to think that I will find my way in my ways. There is one place on the edge of the water, where the Jordan rotates at a sharp angle and breaks its flow on crumbling stones with constant noise and confusion. And there, on the pebbles, it is good to sit and listen, to listen to the rustle of the waterfall, to listen to the approaching and distant walker. I have a strong desire to hear your voice, too, broken into the stones of the waterfall. Yours, ReuSon of. “In another letter he sent to her, he wrote:” One evening suddenly burst, my work was like a spring that stretched out as it ought to. My head was heavy on me and my uniform read all the letters glittered before my eyes like needles. Nausea gripped me. In the early evening I went out of my mind and gave up Maoz and her fields for the first time, in order to break my father’s body with his tummy. I climbed up to the water tower, above which the water pools were visible among the green cushions. I was once an ardent fan of swimming, and just now, here on the top of the tower, above it glistened in gray watery, flood-flooded, sudden attack, as if by the gust of wind, I had no desire to throw myself back into the arms of my amusement. But at the end of the meal I managed to find a nice place to wash and throw myself into the water. Immediately the same passionate sense of life, the touch of wind and water in my nude, returned to my body, and for half an hour I gave the frantic choice of competition to abandon his life for some idiot mischief. Maybe thirty times I jumped from the springboard to the water to give vent to a thrilling surplus. Vibrating and trembling with all my muscles, I looked around for a new test to try my strength. And here came the sound of Maoz’s faltering springboard creaking, heartI felt a shock in the air from the force of momentum, and at that moment I saw the body of a fine, handsome girl bent by the curve of the springboard in half a bow as he dived and dived in the water. For a moment the water stirred and frosted with white foam, and from it rose the girl who had stood erect and proud and laughing, calling to compete. She strode quickly toward the beach. The sport created through all my muscles and sprang up in a fast tempo. And despite the advantage of her condition, I came closer to her territory, and with a triumphant laugh, I felt the look of a wife. I have just given up on the weakness of such a great world and you are so far away that you can support me and encourage me … “On October 10, 1947, while guarding the fish ponds in Degania Bet, he found himself ambushed by He was laid to rest at Beit Keshet, the kibbutz’s first grave, and Kibbutz Beit Keshet published a memorial booklet – “Facing the Tabor” – which included the chapters of his life
