At Mrs. Ziv’s Palace
(Inspired by Letters to Tzvika)
When the Scud missiles fell on the city of Ramat Gan during the Gulf War, one of them collapsed the roof of Hella’s house - Hila was our kindergarten teacher and a close neighbor in the early days of Moshav Herut. Kind neighbors gathered up all the papers and documents that had scattered across the street and returned them to her family.
Years later, when the family opened the bundle, they discovered, among other things, several letters written by me, Asa, a ten-year-old boy, to his friend Tzvika. Who was Tzvika, and what was the friendship between us?
The Batko family, among the first settlers of Moshav Herut, built their house next to ours. Tzvika lost his father when he was only two years old. His mother took on various jobs to support them, until eventually becoming the kindergarten teacher at Herut. Tzvika was a nature-loving child, wandering around the area looking for things to do. One day, he saw a baby carriage with a two-month-old baby lying inside at a neighbor’s house. He climbed into the carriage and rode on top of the baby, enjoying himself. Had it not been for my mother - who wondered how a two-month-old could be moving the carriage so wildly - and came to peek inside, it might have ended very differently… That story might never have been written.
But rather than ruin our relationship, the incident made us soulmates. Tzvika was a year older than me, but we spent most of our time together, as his mother didn’t always have time to care for him. Our home became his home. I was fully involved in his secrets, his pains, and his troubles.
To slightly improve their financial situation, his mother would rent out a room in their home. That’s how we came to know all sorts of colorful characters - a violent field guard on horseback with a terrifying dog, and a strange couple named Marek and Shzipina.
Marek and Shzipina worked at Gan Ziv (Ziv’s Estate). He was the gardener and groundskeeper; she was the housekeeper - a kind German couple who barely spoke a word of Hebrew.
Back then, Gan Ziv was like a magical castle to us local children, surrounded by a pine grove and flower gardens. Rumor had it there was even a private swimming pool inside. A tall, thorny fence surrounded the estate, and a mustachioed guard with a menacing dog chased away anyone who dared try to enter. In winter, mushrooms grew in the grove and we coveted them. In summer, we picked passion fruit that grew along the fence. From time to time, fancy cars would pull up to the estate, carrying people who seemed important to us - polished British army officers and distinguished guests.
In the orchards surrounding the estate wound a railway track, on which flat carts rolled along carrying boxes of oranges to the packing house. When no one was looking, we’d hop on and race the carts through the orchard paths. One day, guards arrived, drove us away, and warned us not to return. We later learned that beneath the packing house, a secret underground weapons factory had been built by the Haganah. Above ground, they packed oranges in the winter and supposedly made jam or juice in the summer - but underground, a different world was unfolding. We children knew - but kept silent.
The British officers who came to sip tea or whisky at Villa Ziv had no idea what was happening beneath their noses. To enter such places was just a dream for us.
And then one day, Marek and Shzipina offered us a tour of Villa Ziv - on the condition, of course, that no one from the “palace” would be there, that we tell no one, and that we behave - no making a mess, no breaking anything, and no touching.
I’ve been to many castles and palaces in my life, but the experience of that visit will stay with me forever. Two village boys in sandals and shorts wandering through a fairy-tale world. Heavy furniture, carpets, paintings, a kitchen full of fancy utensils we didn’t even recognize - we were used to a kitchen with a kerosene stove and a Primus burner. And then… Mrs. Ziv’s bedroom - straight out of a picture book. A closed garage with a shiny black car. And yes, we even saw what a real private swimming pool looked like - not just a water reservoir for orchards. For us, this visit was the equivalent of visiting the Queen of England’s palace.
Years passed. Marek and Shzipina - who barely knew a word of Hebrew - disappeared to faraway lands to continue serving lords and nobles, for that was their trade. The guard with his horse and fearsome dogs vanished beyond the horizon. Tzvika and I had many more childhood adventures.
One day, Tzvika and his mother left for the city, seeking a better future. I kept writing him letters about everything going on in the village - what the chickens were doing, what was new in the orchard, and how we were pestering our teachers…
These are the letters that flew out of his mother’s attic and made their way back to me more than fifty years later, bringing me back to that beautiful, fascinating childhood we shared.
And now, as I walk past Villa Ziv, the dense groves are gone - replaced by wide roads, sidewalks, and homes. Around the villa remains only a sparse grove, like the thinning hair on my head, and the “palace” looks just like any other ordinary house.
And I ask myself - did all this really happen, or did I dream it?
Written by Assa Bartov, Moshav Herut, 2004.