During World War I, the overcoat or seigneur became a mandatory item for soldiers in most armies. The coat was long, made of wool and very heavy, especially after being soaked in rainwater. It appeared in military khaki or black and was decorated with gold buttons for those holding ranks. It was also used by the IDF until it was replaced by a short 'battledress' coat and then the teddy bear.
'Simcha' lived in the house across the street, on Emek-Hazeitim Street in Haifa. A fighter and hero who participated in many pre-state operations, he returned home crazy. I knew Simcha when he returned from the battles for vacations. This happened rarely. We neighborhood children always received words of greeting and a warm, heartfelt smile. Sometimes we received an empty rifle holster accompanied by a heroic story as a backdrop. Simcha faked his age and went to the front before he turned seventeen.
On one of the last vacations, Simcha arrived wearing a worn-out overcoat decorated with black gold buttons. A large overcoat that wrapped around his body. With one like that, you could spend a winter in Alaska and still suffer from the heat. There was one problem: the days were long summer days and Simcha walked around with his overcoat buttoned up and not taken off. We kids realized that something was wrong and didn't know what to do. His beard was growing wild, his hair was disheveled, and his cheerful smiles had disappeared.
We children, who didn't understand what happened to Simcha and didn't know how to act, developed a game that almost turned into a terrible disaster in the neighborhood.
Simcha came out of his house and when we discovered him we shouted: "Simcha, Simcha." In fact, to my regret, even "Simcha the Crazy One." He stamped his feet as if starting to chase us and turned on his way. Our job was, of course,
To run while our souls are still alive. You could never know for sure that Simcha really doesn't intend to chase you.
One day I was standing on the sidewalk near his yard. Alone and defenseless. Simha came out and then, according to the rules of our game, I called his name. He also followed the rules of the game, turned to me and stamped his feet. I, who was supposed to run away, did not hesitate for a second and started running wildly into the road. At that moment, a truck climbed up and a driver who was unfamiliar with the games of our neighborhood was not careful. The truck partially passed me and I crashed into it while running. His last brake treatment was probably performed correctly. Otherwise, the truck would have stopped a few centimeters ahead and ruined my hairstyle while crushing my head.
I was lying on the road, under the truck with the back wheel touching my head. The frightened driver got out and tried to lift me. I got to my feet in fear, panic and above all shame and ran home. The yard was filled with children and curious people from all over the neighborhood who had gathered to hear what had happened to me. The driver left the truck and followed me to make sure
That I'm okay. When we got home, there was great astonishment. It turned out that the stunned driver was a friend of my father's.
In a trembling voice, he told my father about the incident, and those present, knowing that I was safe and sound, drank to life, without me of course, and said goodbye. The driver hurried to his car because a huge traffic jam had already formed of two cars, waiting patiently for him to move the truck from the center of the road. No one cursed or honked. Perhaps the horn hadn't been invented yet, or patience was a common commodity.
We never saw Simha again. To this day, I regret that it was because of me that he was hospitalized in a closed institution because they thought he almost caused a disaster. We children called the cute boy "Crazy Simha" who volunteered, as mentioned, early for his age, and the position he was sitting in took a direct hit, the neighbors said, and all his friends were hurt, so he returned home with doubts that he would ever smile again in his life.
I lived in the Olive Valley 7 until I was 15. Your brother may remember more.
You were probably two or three years old when trucks came up the street.
B 7a Proud Esther Sadovnik. Remember?
1. I lived there until I was 6. I'll check with my 81-year-old brother if he happens to remember.
2. The Sadovnik family lives in No. 7, while I live in No. 7A – the same building with 2 entrances. Esther studied with my brother at "Hillel" / "Leo Buck".
What year were you a child?
Born in 1946. We lived in 7 A. until 1952.
"At that moment a truck is climbing up..." I may be wrong, but as a native of the Valley of Olives, I don't remember cars going up from Haneviim Street to Ben Yehuda Street, but rather the opposite, going down from Ben Yehuda to Haneviim.