Juliana was born in the Netherlands in the autumn of 1935. Her childhood passed in happiness and peace among the green pastures, crisscrossed with many canals. In the winter, when snow and frost blanketed everything, she spent many days with her friends huddled together in a closed, crowded shelter, waiting for sunny, bright days.
Thus passed her first year - plenty of rain, plenty of green - Dutch tranquility.
One day, strangers appeared at the farm. People she didn’t know examined her, poked and prodded her, stroked her skin, looked into her eyes, and separated her from her mother. Along with several of her age group, she was loaded onto a train car. It was her first time leaving her native village, and everything was so strange, noisy, and unknown.
When the train stopped, she saw a sight she had never seen before - a vast, endless blue sea. One by one, she and her companions were brought aboard a ship docked at the port and tied up in a dark, closed storage hold.
She endured a long, exhausting journey that lasted about two weeks. There was not a moment of peace - hot, crowded, foul-smelling, and worst of all, constant swaying with the waves.
One day, the floor of the ship beneath her finally became still. The large doors opened, bright sunlight shone in, and the air was hot like an oven.
As they disembarked onto the dock, they saw a high mountain - Mount Carmel - and those who had come from the flatlands of Holland couldn’t comprehend who had built something so tall. Once again, they were loaded onto a train car, but this time the ride was shorter, ending at the Qalqilya train station. There they were received by people whose language she didn’t understand and began a journey on foot to a new place.
Everything was strange - empty brown fields, almost no greenery or shade, and a hot, dry wind that parched the mouth.
After a long and tiring journey, they arrived at a small settlement named Herut. There were already a few buildings standing, and young trees added green to the surrounding brown. There she was separated from her companions, each going to her permanent home.
Juliana was received by Luba and Shlomo Gutman, who brought her into a stone building. She was surprised to be placed in a built house while the family themselves lived in a wooden shack. Apparently, this was the custom in the new land, she thought - here, they give honor to a cow arriving from Holland who bears the royal name of Queen Juliana, whom they affectionately called Julianika.
In her new home, there was already one cow - black-skinned with an angry gaze. She was a Damascus cow named Chaya, and she truly lived up to her name - a wild and irritable beast who gave a kick or two with every bucket of milk. There was no love lost between them. Chaya, who had been an only “daughter” until Julianika’s arrival, was not thrilled by the new neighbor. One had a fiery, Middle Eastern temper, while the other brought the calm, steady demeanor of European meadows. We children were forbidden from going near Chaya - a meeting with her could end in disaster. But we loved Julianika. There was nothing to fear from her. When she poked her head out from the fence, asking for some greenery or a little treat, she always welcomed us with affection.
It wasn’t easy for her to acclimate to the country. The hot weather, unfamiliar food - it was hard for her to adjust. But slowly, with loving and devoted care, she adapted. In time, she gave birth to a calf, named Oshra (“Joy”), who surely brought her happiness and delight. The days passed peacefully. Three times a day, Luba came to milk them - milking Julianika was always smooth and pleasant, while with Chaya, you never knew how it would end.
These were days of unrest. Arab rioters from neighboring villages would shoot at the moshav’s houses at night and occasionally attempt theft and vandalism.
In April 1938, thieves broke into the Gutmans’ cowshed and took Julianika. The wild, kicking Chaya they left behind - clearly they had quickly judged her nature or tasted the strength of her hooves.
The guards stationed at the water tower saw a white figure moving among the orchards. One of them suspected that his white horse had been stolen and ran to check the stable. When he saw that his horse was still there, he calmed down and went back to his nap.
In the morning, when Luba came to milk the cows, her world collapsed - Julianika had been stolen. The British police were called, and mounted officers arrived. With the help of a tracker, they followed the trail of the cow and her thieves to the nearby village of Tira. But they returned in shame, reporting that they would not enter Tira for fear of their lives.
We mourned her - not only because she was a milk-giving cow and part of the farm’s future, but because we had grown attached to her and loved her. And she was lost to us forever.
Asa Bartov, Moshav Herut, 2004