THE FIRST YEAR

It was spring of 1948, and they left. Perhaps they left all of a sudden in a rush of packing and shouting on trucks which drove up at the last minute to take them. Perhaps they waited impatiently for days, having received orders weeks in advance. Maybe they left together, or maybe in groups of threes or fours in jeeps. But they left.. . .

Quite possibly, even they, the occupation troops, took leave a bit reluctantly of that hill in Western Galilee. Perhaps, as they drove down the road toward the sea, they looked sorrowfully upon the small camp of tents and cement-block buildings which stood amid a seventy year-old olive grove. But they left . . . and only the winds and the lizards and the jackals disturbed the quiet sands and the silver shimmer of olive leaves in the spring sun. The British had left their army camp overlooking the Arab village of Aziv.

The Arabs probably came over and scrounged in the orderly emptiness, perhaps finding a smashed pot, a picture half-buried in the sand, or a beer bottle. From that hill, the Arabs of Aziv could see, in those days, encircled Chanita, Metsuba, and Elon, and even harassed Yechiam. But, near the end of spring, the Arabs also left for a painful refuge in Lebanon. They had fled over the rock of Ras-el-Nakura in the wake of one of those inexplicable Hagana victories.

The spring days melted into summer—a hectic summer of semi-peace and of anticipation in Israel—and the fall settled in cool crispness over the hill. The fall became winter, and the rains began. The rains of that winter were said to be the coldest, hardest, and wettest rain in years. And, in the middle of that winter, the hill, with its surrounding orchards and weed-choked fields, was of special interest. It was to be our place of settlement.

On the twenty-seventh of January, 1949, we arrived; and, from that moment, the hill became "our" hill. It rained that day, and the sky was sullen and heavy. The stripped cement-block buildings stood roofless, windowless, and doorless. There were large streaks of gray from the rain. The ceremony was impressive and well attended, but the guests left before dark. We had covered one of the buildings half with flat tin and half with canvas. At an odd assortment of tables we ate our first supper. I don't remember exactly what it was, but I remember that it was good . . . and that we were wet and cold, and that the vapor issued from our mouths every time we opened them. The rain dripped continuously through the holes in the ceiling.

The two standard first-day bungalows stood like hollow shells against the night. They had no doors or windows as yet. There were huge pyramid tents pitched at random upon the abandoned platforms. After the first general meeting of our new group, we climbed into bed to spend the short night. Every tent leaked, and the wind blew the rain through the bungalows in huge gusts.

The next days were spent in exploring the quiet environs which were to be ours. Because of the weather, work was at a minimum. With intense wonderment, we made our first exploratory walks through the fields and groves. The groves were so numerous, and there were myriads of paths which wound among them. But the longer we walked and the more often we explored among the reaches of our settlement, the less complicated they became. After the first week or two, there were actually those who could boast of knowing where they were and how to get out. 

Slowly we began to work. From among the wet hunks of stone and beams of the Arab village, we began hauling up anything which looked as though it might be of use some day. As we climbed amid the ruins of Aziv, we wound tales to suit our imaginations. From the top of the mosque we could see the beautiful beach and patiently waited for summer. We walked along the ocean; and, at low tide, we stared at the carved stone in the water, a relic of the ancient port of Aziv in the days of Phoenicia.

In those early weeks, the initial branches of work were instituted. The machine shop was set up in a newly covered building; and, near the dining hall, we began to seed in cold frames for the vegetable garden in the spring. Near the other side of the dining hall, we set up a place for the cowshed. When the first three cows and a calf arrived, everyone went to visit them in their open shed. The oranges were picked in the vast orchards. Someone discovered a huge onion patch near the banks of the Wadi Keren, a half hour's walk away; and so, through the thick mud, we plodded and pulled onions. Our very first shipment to Tnuva was green scallions piled high in a queer assortment of Arab boxes.

At the beginning, the children were brought to Shavei Zion, a -moshav near Nahariya; and we began to build houses for them at home. We could not, unfortunately, boast a shower house among our very first buildings. All water had to be brought by truck from Nahariya. So, every Friday, we climbed onto the truck and huddled together for five kilometers until we reached Kibbutz Evron. There we would peel off the layers of clothing and stand for a few ecstatic moments under the hot water, not thinking of the trip back home in the rain.

The late winter and early spring covered the hills and the valley with a multitude of wild flowers—anemones and cyclamen, irises and poppies. Work was begun on abandoned Arab wells, and a shower house of tin was set up in anticipation of the day when we would have our own water. The first tomatoes and eggplants were set into the ground, and fuzzy green rows marked the first radishes and squash in the vegetable garden on top of the hill. The two houses for the children were well under way. Purim came with a wild night of hilarity . . . but it kept raining. We had our first showers at home. They were cold, but they were at home—and our own water spilled into the ditches to water the garden. Then, from Ein Charod came the first chicks which occupied the building we had dreamily called the "bet tarbut"' (cultural center) because of its wonderful view. A small generator, which ran on expensive, rationed gasoline was installed; and on Friday evening we had lights in the dining hall. On weekdays, however, we retired into the small circle of light from the kerosene lamps which penetrated the darkness.

The days became a bit warmer; and the rains, less frequent. But on Pesach we sat at our first Seder at Gesher Haziv, in the carpentry Workshop, with the rain pounding on the tin roof. Then came our famous Pesach trip, when seventy chaverim climbed into two trucks and visited Jerusalem and the Negev.

The rains stopped. The tractor broke through the heavy growth of the orange and apricot orchards to disc the groves. The Ford came, and the tender went. The kids came to stay in their new home, and they hung on the fence near the barn gazing at the cows and their calves. The calf born on the first night of Pesach was no longer small. The generator was installed, and our lights went on one night for keeps. From then on, the saws in the carpentry shop buzzed late into the night.

The flowers and the green among the tents began to turn brown, and we knew that spring had gone. Now the gardeners walked out every day to the "big garden." The "water project" had been completed, and water from the foothills of the mountains seven kilometers away irrigated our orchids and garden. We anxiously watched the steady progress of the work on the new dining hall. We began bathing at the beach by the Arab village, and the days were already hot. It became more difficult to walk around in the sand now that summer was here. And the flies settled in huge swarms on any surface.

The Israeli movement kids came from Tel Aviv for a month of work, their version of summer camp. But, before we knew it, they were playing their last rounds of volleyball with us and dancing at our last oneg Shabbat. Before they left we held a farewell party and witnessed an evening of characteristic Camp Kvutza humor and variety, sabra style. They returned to school with promises to return to Gesher Haziv next summer.

The first corn was cut in green fodder, and the garden expanded further into the valley. In the barn, one cow died and four new ones were added. Where the old vegetable garden had been on the top of the hill, the foundations were now being dug for sixteen bungalows. The nights were already growing cooler, and we felt the short summer make way for autumn. The carpentry shop was producing prefabricated houses for the Jewish Agency and furniture for the Haifa schools. The construction crew began to plaster and nail together the building next to the cobbler shop as a library and reading room.

At last we moved into our new dining hall and ate in style. The walls of the sixteen new homes were now visible from the road. The cabbages were sturdy in the coolness of early winter, and the first rains fell at last. The Habonim Institute kids worked and lived with us for two short weeks. The new homes were occupied; and, at night, small squares of light shone from the top of the hill. The new temporary barn was finished in the building that was formerly our first dining hall, and the dairymen waited for the arrival of the fifteen new cows.

The rains came in earnest, bringing all the fury of real winter— the coldest, hardest and wettest rain in years—at least a year. For it is already February, 1950—one year of Gesher Haziv. It was a year of plain work and living on a hill in Western Galilee; a year for which the Camp Kvutzot Kinneret and Moshava and Tel Meir were created; the year for which the hachshara farms near Smithville, Cream Ridge, and Colton came into being; the year for which the house at Seagate had been born.

It went so quickly for us . . . our first year.

KIEVE FINKELMAN, Gesher Haziv, 1950