by Yehuda Tzachor
From my childhood until I reached adulthood, I remember characters who left their mark on the daily life of our moshav in the old days. We were a rather small moshav (before the War of Independence). The big city was far away; the Egged bus would go to Tel Aviv only once a day, and the trip felt endless. The bus driver knew all the gossip in the moshav and chatted with the passengers all the way, and the stories were juicy.
Another memorable figure was the bread distributor. Here’s how it worked: every day, at fixed hours, he would pass through the moshav with a horse and a closed wagon, with a back door and a special whistle. He would stand near each house and whistle and whistle, and then someone from the household would slowly come out and buy a loaf of bread or half a loaf (only dark bread was available).
There was also the kerosene distributor (no one had gas for cooking back then). He had a handbell like those used in old schoolhouses. He would stand outside each house and ring and ring, and then a member of the household would come out with a can or jug and buy kerosene by measure.
And then there was the fish seller, yes, the fish seller. He had a scale that looked like the Scales of Justice in a courtroom. The fish had long since passed on, and the smell… but people still bought them.
There was the ice delivery man (who had an electric refrigerator back then?). By the time the ice reached the “fridge,” it had melted and melted. Every block of ice that left the factory arrived as just a quarter of a block. But what choice did we have?
Then there was the shoemaker, nicknamed “Kalinikta” (which means “Good night” in Greek), who lived in a shack behind the general store.
And the Eskimo seller - a man from the big city who came with a wooden box full of Eskimo (popsicles). He would wander the moshav in the scorching heat shouting, “Eskimo! Eskimo!” - and usually went back to the city with half his stock.
And there was the unforgettable “Dankeshein-Bitteshein” lady. This needs some explanation: she was an older Jewish woman who would come once a week to our small moshav with two very large suitcases full of the “latest fashion” - from shoelaces to dresses and pants. She would go slowly and steadily from house to house, trying - and usually succeeding - to sell her goods. Everything was bought on credit and written in her little notebook. Every other word out of her mouth was “Dankeshein-Bitteshein” (German for “Thank you-Please”), and thus the name stuck with her forever.
There was also the ritual slaughterer who slaughtered our chickens, and the woman in charge of the chick hatchery, and so many others.
Ein Vered celebrates today seventy years since its founding. The children of those days have grown up, most of the moshav’s founders are no longer with us, and most of those “mythical” figures have also disappeared.
From: “Ein Vered Stories – Seventy Years of the Moshav, 1930–2000,” edited by Bella Nachman, published by Moshav Ein Vered, 2000