That Shabbat, at the end of the morning prayer, at the Salonikai synagogue in the heart of the Turkish market, in the lower city of Haifa, after I crossed Paris Square towards Shivat Zion, home, the thought took a free hand and settled in a faraway place. It wandered to the moshav, where most of my extended family had settled.
There are many settlements that have made the land of the land flourish. But this one is unlike any of them. Different and special. Pure. It suits them and they are for it. "The word of the Lord is pure," meaning refined. Clean, pure, like a goldsmith refining silver or gold. The founding generation came from all the diasporas of the Diaspora, or almost. A conglomerate of Jews from Turkey, Persia, Morocco, Algeria, Iraq and Tunisia. There was also one Greek, and perhaps there were other diasporas.
My parents, who immigrated from North Africa, left behind many assets in exile. They exchanged material assets for the air of the Land of Israel, because in 1947, the year they immigrated, the main asset of the Land of Israel was air. But they yearned for the purpose of the collection. God forbid, one should not take the atmosphere of the Holy Land lightly. But even the atmosphere of the land, the one they said was waiting for them, did not greet them as a gentle breeze. The British, who had occupied the country at that time, did not allow them to disembark from the ship. The name of the ship, "Yehuda HaLevi," after the famous rabbi, did not impress them, and they were deported to concentration camps in Cyprus. There they spent about two years in tents. As you can see, nothing valuable is easily obtained.
I listened to the old stories, in which love of the land was woven into them, in all of them. There, in the tents, they prepared for the migration, because a British Mandate, no matter how strong, would not prevent Jews from migrating to the Holy Land. And there, in Cyprus, they did not sit idle in a yeshiva, but between piyyutim and songs of love for the land, they sat around the fire and prepared themselves for war. As if they had just left Egypt, wandered for forty years in the desert and were now preparing to enter the Promised Land, with Joshua ben Nun at their head.
They learned face-to-face combat, they learned to fight with sticks, like someone going to chase away a stray dog that was bothering a flock of chickens. Some would say 'innocent,' and some would be more precise and say 'Zionists.' They would say whatever they wanted, I thought, 'refined love for the Land of Israel.' Every now and then they would go on a hunger strike to achieve something. My late father, told me with a wink, that during the strikes, they ate better.
It's close, you can swim.
One morning they noticed that one of their friends was missing. They searched and searched but couldn't find him. Only in the afternoon, when the lost man was found, did it become clear how far a Jew would go, provided he reached the Land of Israel. The young man, who was strong and trusted in his strength, dipped his body in oil and began to swim. To swim to the Land of Israel. He thought that the oil would help him float when he got tired. He thought. A fishing boat, which had never caught such a fish in its net, picked him up alive and breathing, but exhausted and exhausted, miles from shore. I thought, if this is not atonement for the sin of the spies, those who were fed up with the land, then what is? Some time ago I heard that he passed away in a good home. Is it possible that decent swimming has a virtue for longevity? Or is it what led to it, to that swimming.
And on the same subject, I heard this: In one of the towns in Europe, the Jews used to bathe in a mikveh, which was located behind a large mountain. In winter, when the road was slippery due to heavy snow and ice accumulation, those going there had to go around the mountain, as climbing the mountain path involved real risk. Rabbi Meir of Perm, who lived in that town, would always walk and climb up the mountain instead of going around it, and he never slipped. One winter day, a group of young people passed by and saw Rabbi Meir climbing up the mountain.
"If he does this, the path is probably safe enough," they declared resolutely and turned to climb the mountain. They soon discovered that they had made a terrible mistake. They slipped, fell, were injured, and required medical attention. After recovering, one of them mustered up the courage and asked Rabbi Meir: "Rabbi, people cannot climb the mountain, for they slip and fall. How do you walk without slipping?"
Rabbi Meir replied: "When connected to the top, we do not fall down." Sit next to them. Don't work, just sit while they are in Cyprus, and a country has risen from the dust. A few upheavals and finally - they settled in the moshav, the one at the foot of the ever-green mountain. This was a special generation. Some were righteous, some were saints, and some were both. Although the majority of the moshav is not defined as observant, all respected tradition and their friends. Connected to heaven.
Good friendship is also a kind of connection from above, and it was good and strong until it took root in the following generations. To this day, when you wake up in the morning in the moshav, you will always find a box by the doorstep. This one sends tomatoes and that one cucumbers, each according to their own cultivation, and the custom is passed down from generation to generation. The habit is hereditary. So it goes for the first and second generation and the one after that until the end of all generations. But making a living from agriculture is not easy. In early spring, the hard work begins. As usual, you wake up at first light, prepare the areas, disinfect, fertilize, spray. There is always something to do, and when the time comes – harvest. There are no Thais. You employ your cousins, even though it is difficult with them. You have to bring them from the village, you have to bring them back, and their output? Not something to brag about.
Grandma always said: "Go, sit in the field with the workers. Don't work, just sit." She knew that when the cat is away, the mice celebrate. Today there are Thais. Luxury.
Show him the order.
In winter, there is a calm at work. We breathe, drink coffee. Someone sits in his yard and puts a pinjan on the coals. The smell is attractive. The neighbor comes, brings some pretzels. Not to fill up, just to nibble between inhales of the hot drink. One sits down and another arrives and so they gather. One on his feet, one on his bike, and one hobbles along on an old tractor of an unknown model. A model that lost its original identity after being assembled from five of its ancient brothers, from which the necessary parts were dismantled and created a block of iron, a moving block that does the work.
And what are they talking about there, around Pinjan? About agricultural matters. About the oppressive price of laborers and the tomatoes that were damaged by the plague and maybe not worth picking, or they debate the feasibility of planting artichokes. Some say it is worth it and there are skeptics. There always is. And usually there is also some kind of story. "What do you say about that guy from the neighboring moshav? Unbelievable, unbelievable." That year, the price of peppers skyrocketed and the growers made a good profit. They rushed to pick and take advantage of the favorable price. But the guy from the neighboring moshav didn't pick. They told him, "Are you crazy? There won't be a price like that anymore, you're missing out." And he was ripe. He didn't pick. That's how time crawls by and his pepper steamed and the peppers on the market were already sold out. Everyone picked early to take advantage of the high price. And that guy, who didn't hurry to pick and was the only one left with a pepper, picked the red one at a price triple the price of the green one he had welcomed.
That same year, he renovated the house and also replaced the old tractor with a new one. "And did you hear about the inspector from the Tax Authority, who came to that moshav and asked to tour the farm, to look for construction irregularities?" Our farmer told him: "Please, just don't go into that fenced field," and pointed towards one of the plots. The inspector said: "I am a representative of the Treasury and the Income Tax and I have a warrant in my hand. And this warrant says that I can go in wherever I want, whenever I want and with whoever I want. Is that clear?"
"Of course," the farmer muttered in a weak voice and returned to his work. A few minutes later, the farmer heard screams from the same plot and saw the inspector running for his life like a madman from a huge, crazed bull chasing him. The bull was closing the gap very quickly and the inspector's chances were diminishing. Then, our farmer shouted to the inspector: "The order. The order, show him the order." The left part of the brain argued with its right partner: 'Is this the exact truth, or maybe just a word of David? Or is it inspired by a true story?' The right side replied: 'And what would it cost you to know? Either way, the Sabbath of brothers together, this is the pure truth.' And they agreed.
Why are you bothering me?
One day I was writing to my younger brother because I needed to bring a refrigerator from the city. A second-hand refrigerator, as a young couple would do.
"How will you get it?" he asked. "I don't know. Is there anyone who can help? For a fee, of course." "Don't worry, we'll come tomorrow evening. We'll follow you." "How much?" I inquired. He rubbed his head. "Well, you know what? Make coffee. But in the end." The next day, he arrived accompanied by two of the younger generation in the moshav, each with his own refrigerator. I wanted to lend a hand, to help. They said, "Why are you bothering me?"
They took a refrigerator down from the third floor without an elevator, like shaking a baby in a sling. That's how it is, second generation. Strong roots. My sister, for her own reasons, planned to go to the cemeteries of the righteous in the north. My uncle hugged her and said: "You don't have to go far. Go to your mother's grave, my sister, who is buried here in the moshav. I don't know many righteous people like her."
Later, one of that generation of Nephilim, seven days old, passed away in a moshav. An exceptionally quiet Jew. He would sit in his corner of the synagogue, his voice not heard, agreeing with everything, his only concern was prayer. One of those people who are not felt, who do not mingle. After his death, his wife said that he would get up every day in the middle of the night, sit on the floor, sprinkle ashes on his head and lament the destruction of the Temple.
The thought almost slipped away and continued into the synagogue in the moshav, and I had already reached the steps of the house at Shivat Zion 16 and didn't even remember that I was on the way. The thoughts obscure the road and now, when I arrived, the house obscured them.