“Going Up, Going Down ~ the Aliyah of an Ingénue”
Chapter 5 : Pass the Port - If you can
Having disembarked ourselves, Rosie and the caravan at the port of Haifa at 6am on the 18th May, 1973 we were greeted by Arni’s parents, Yisrael and Klara, with mother-in-law somewhat dismayed that our vehicle was such an old affair and not worth showing off. But Klara tried to put a brave face on it as she and Yis waited patiently for us to clear immigration and customs as the sun rose higher in the sky with a steady rise in the temperature. It was indeed the beginning of a very hot day, reaching 38º before noon. The children had hardly slept, what with the noisy mooring procedure and port activity in the early hours and were by now thirsty, over-heated and extremely tired and miserable. Being smothered by an exhibition of grandmotherly love just at that moment set them both howling which did not exactly please ‘grandma’.
Arni quickly found out that the container had arrived and was in store before we attached the caravan and all boarded Rosie to head for our new home a dozen miles away. On reaching our rented accommodation in the village of Ramat Yishai we were effusively greeted by our new landlady, Mrs Larish, a woman with a saccharine smile and less than frank manner. She was short and stocky, in her sixties, dressed like a townie and belonged, we felt, closer to the suburbs of Golders Green than a once pioneering outpost of HaEmeq, the Valley. Strangely, mother-in-law and Mrs Larish seemed to be speaking a common language, which I nevertheless found difficult to follow. It was more the essence of the conversation than the words which impacted on me.
The house, however, was a dream. Solidly built in stone and sitting within a fringe of tall pine trees with a fantastic garden at the rear full of fruit trees, I saw endless potential in this house which we had been promised before we left England we would be able to buy, if that was our wish. Of course at this point in time we had no furniture but we had the caravan and were able to boil a kettle and make a cup of tea before putting Yis and Klara on the bus home. Mrs Larish was a different kettle of fish and we could not get her out of the place. It was as though she was afraid we might walk off with her property if she left it with us. She had not rented it out before. At last we found ourselves on our own and whooped with joy as we danced around our empty home before taking a leisurely walk to the centre of the village. There we located the post office and general stores, buying fresh milk, groceries and other foodstuffs to keep us going for a couple of days. We naturally introduced ourselves and were introduced to everyone we came across. People were very friendly and helpful.
A phone call to the port of Haifa the next day evaporated our immediate enthusiasm with the news that Customs in Israel demanded that all household containers be emptied at the port for thorough inspection of the contents before being re-packed and delivered. We had paid through the English shipping company for a door-to-door delivery service and told the Port Customs Authority that we had those documents and would bring them to the port.
“It makes no difference” was the reply. “You come tomorrow at 9am and be here to witness the unloading, if you wish – those are the rules.” The man hung up.
We had employed a recommended and experienced firm of shippers to pack and load the container in London. Obviously no such experienced packers would be on hand to re-pack the container after our precious home contents would have been spilled onto the dockside by port authority workers, possibly causing damage in the process to fragile and well-wrapped objects. This was preposterous, I thought. We were hardly poor immigrants arriving with a few possessions bundled up in rags but, as I had been told, desirable, qualified persons, one of whom was a returning Israel citizen who had left a good life and high standard of living in the UK to start again in this young country crying out for this kind of immigration. I felt hot internally as well as externally and had not yet been in Israel for a full week.
We motored down to Haifa with the children and politely requested to see the Chief of Customs. Having been brusquely denied this privilege, Arni managed at least to find out where the office was of the Assistant Chief of the Port of Haifa. To ensure entry we fairly burst through his door to find a startled Mr. Braun with blunt face and spectacles staring at the four of us with some concern. I was holding Adam by the hand and Bubble was in the papoose, as usual.
“What are you doing in my office?” he asked. “I did not invite you .”
“No”, I answered in English, “but neither did we invite your men to unload a container shipped from the U.K for a door-to-door delivery, as per these papers.” I put them on his desk in front of him. He ignored our papers but stated that the procedure had been introduced to stop illicit goods being brought into the country. Arni then explained we had paid for the door-to-door service and that we wanted him to organise or give us a written authority to call off the unloading of our container shipped with a full Customs’ declaration, underwritten by reliable international shippers. Mr. Braun laughed. “You are joking”, he said, “leave my office I have work to do.” Arni then picked up the man’s phone and said he was phoning the police. At this Mr. Braun jumped up and down, furious that a stranger had not only invaded his office but had the audacity to use his phone. “Get out immediately”, he shouted “and if you do not I shall order the port police to throw you out.”
For the very first time in my life, through both shock and amazement at this unseemly behaviour, lack of common courtesy and civil treatment from a government official, I became hysterical. It may have been the heat as well. I shouted that I could not have imagined anything so shameful as this treatment of new immigrants and started metaphorically waving the union jack, suggesting that never in a month of Sundays would any British customs officials behave so badly towards members of the public as he was doing. “You are obliged,” I screamed, “to honour the international shipping agreement in place when we left the UK. If the rules are changed, you are responsible for informing the shipping companies accordingly.” I continued loudly to blather on.
Mr. Braun’s eyes were popping from his head by this time and he leapt up and left the room saying he was fetching the port police to have us thrown out. Arni looked out of the window and shortly afterwards saw two policemen on bikes turn up and park below the window. Their riders climbed the stairs and entered the room.
By this time the children were crying, I was exhausted and we were told that Mr. Braun would not be returning until we had left. Arni quietly explained the situation to the police and we understood that on no account did they wish to make an issue of the business and would certainly not arrest us. They spoke quietly and suggested we try some other channels. “Did we know someone” for example “who might be able to exert some influence.” We did not. We asked the police to inform Mr. Braun that Mr. Goren would be in the port tomorrow morning early and that the container must be left intact until he arrived. Any damage and we would go to the press. He also left a scribbled note to that effect on Braun’s desk stating ‘my wife is a journalist and works for the BBC’. Having just witnessed a screaming banshee, he might have had doubts about those credentials.
Arni got on the phone at home to the kibbutz and spoke to Klara who immediately said she had a friend whose cousin’s husband held an important post at the Port of Haifa. She would call us back. Fifteen minutes later we were given the name of the man to contact – Assistant Chief of the Port of Haifa, Mr. Braun, a very nice man, she told us.
Well, in spite of everything, I couldn’t help laughing. “Too late,” Arni told her, “we’ve already spoken to your nice Mr. Braun” and started to explain what exactly had taken place in Mr. Braun’s office.
“Oi vai voi” Klara replied “if only you had asked me first.”
“Well,” I added with my mouth close to the phone, “how could we possibly guess we would have to ask for such a favour?”
“Ttt, tt,” Klara clucked “in Israel you have to know somebody even before you blow your nose …have you forgotten that, my son?…(pause)… you have been away far too long!”
Early the next morning Arni went off to the Port and was there before the container was opened. He then told the two port workers assigned to the task of emptying the contents that he would be standing there examining their handling of every piece of our property and would be insisting that anything unpacked would be re-packed and stowed away carefully, exactly as it had been found before removal. The container was so full that anything less than very careful stacking back would mean they would probably not be able to return all the goods. Arni kept his foot on the tail of the container as they began the job and as each piece was removed shouted, “Slowly….Careful!” After ten minutes of this one of the port workers walked off. An hour later, with little of the contents removed, those items were replaced and the container sealed for despatch to the house. The remaining worker got the paperwork signed stating the inspection had been executed and all was in order. He too had had enough.
The following day the delivery took place and another two men began unloading and bringing the contents into the house. They were supposed to unpack and remove all the packing materials and return them with the container. This they refused to do, insisting they only had to bring the contents into the house. A further argument ensued but to little avail so we began feverishly tearing off all wrapping ourselves and depositing it and the tea-chests back into the container as fast as the men were emptying it. No-one was offered a cup of coffee! It was like Casey’s Court but happily, apart from a few small glass or china items that had got broken, there was no major damage to anything except my psyche.
One item alone had gone missing, how, where or when, we had no idea. That was a little nine inch portable television. Well, you might have guessed it and even if it had only cost us a few pounds it was disappointing as it was the only television we owned… an object irresistible to thieves then as now!
We climbed into bed totally exhausted that night, first checking out the baby Matti who’d been asleep on and off in the caravan all day with a high temperature. Following a visit early that morning to the village clinic, before the container arrived and the circus began, we’d been told Bubble was going down with the measles. The nurse was on hand next door if we needed her.
Well, I’d heard about the ‘breaking-in’ of horses. This filly was fast learning.