By Moshe Pikarsky
It was in the month of Adar. Spring was wrestling with winter-who would win? At times winter clung on with its claws-gray and rainy days. At times spring overcame it-the sun would shine gloriously and warm the world. On such a day, Grandpa Moshe went out to visit his old hut, his former dwelling from the days when he came to settle in Moshav Herut. He walked toward the abandoned hut standing in the corner of the yard, muttering to himself:
“Let’s go into the old hut to see what the winter has done to it. Should I reattach the board that the winter winds tore off? Has the shutter fallen from its hinges?”
The grandchildren, who lived near Grandpa’s farm, were playing in the yard. It was a special pleasure for them to play there-they could rummage through the old tool shed and find among the junk all sorts of outdated tools, or old coins in a drawer in the shed. When they saw Grandpa, they called out to him:
“Grandpa, why are you fixing that run-down old hut?”
“Children,” replied Grandpa, “this is no ordinary hut-it’s a magical one. The hut can speak.”
“You hear that, Yossi? A talking hut?”
“It doesn’t babble nonsense,” said Grandpa. “It tells marvelous stories from the old days.”
“What does it tell you, Grandpa?”
“Come, I’ll tell you a story I just heard.”
“It was back then, when all the grandparents of the moshav were still young-like your father, Yossi, and your mother, Tzipi. Back then, we were all still just friends-not yet living in Herut.
“One holiday, we went on a hike. We reached one of the hills near the Arab village of Tira. There wasn’t a tree, shrub, or house in sight. Barren land. But the landscape was beautiful-sandy hills, deep-rooted hilfa grass. Oh yes, and one ancient oak tree stood out on a hill, maybe a sign there was once a forest here.
“We sat to rest under the oak and began to talk: we are people without land, and here is land without people. Let’s settle here and make the soil fruitful with our sweat-and the land will answer us with its yield.
“We formed a committee and the next day went to Jerusalem, to the Jewish National Fund (JNF). We presented our request-that they help us settle the land. The JNF bought the land from the people of Tira, who had no need for it. We brought planks and boards and built huts-one small hut for each family, with a kerosene lantern in each one-there was no electricity then. From those early days, the hut began to absorb marvelous stories.
“Today, when I entered the hut to visit it, it whispered in my ear: ‘Do you remember those days?’
I smiled to myself: ‘Oh yes, I remember-how well I remember!’”
“What did it tell you?” Yossi jumped into Grandpa’s words.
“Please tell us, Grandpa!” pleaded Tzipi.
“Well, it was during those days when we divided the land-each member received a plot, and each moved his hut to his own lot. The villagers of Tira worked their land around us, and we lived in peace. But then, hostile Arabs came from Qalqilya and Tulkarm and incited the villagers of Tira to harm us.
“You know the road connecting Herut to Tel Mond? Back then, it was just a dirt path that belonged to the Arabs. The Tira villagers, listening to the agitators, dug a deep trench across the path, fenced it off with barbed wire-and there was no way in or out. No way to bring kerosene or supplies, neither for man nor beast.
“We approached them kindly, asking to buy the land. Their answer: ‘We won’t sell!’
“We gathered-all the members of the moshav-to figure out what to do. We thought long and hard and decided that one night, we would all go out and pave a stone road. And so it was. Men, women, and children-we hauled stones and gravel, and even rented a road roller. We worked night and day until the road was finished.
“When the villagers of Tira heard, they came en masse to destroy it. We stood up to them with sticks and boards and didn’t let them approach. They turned to the British authorities, who ruled the land at the time. Policemen came, saw the finished road, and ruled: ‘What is done shall not be undone.’ And the road remains to this day.
“Today, when I entered the hut, it smiled at me and said: ‘People drive this road as if it has always been here. But you? You remember its making?’
I was ashamed to admit that, indeed, I had almost forgotten.”
“Why don’t we hear the stories of the hut?” asked Yossi.
“Ah!” said Grandpa. “Whoever has a sensitive heart and a listening ear can enter the hut and hear the wind whispering between the cracks in the old planks, hear the creaking of the shutter turning on its hinge-and hear, so clearly, its stories.”
Grandpa fell silent, lost in thought. The children understood that now they should leave him and not disturb him-so he could listen to the stories of the old hut.
From: “Our Sharon Plain – The Tel Mond Bloc,” published by the Hefer Valley Regional Council, 1972