In a close-knit Israeli farming community, wintering into the early 1950s, a group of orphans and Holocaust survivors forge fragile bonds as they navigate memory, loss, and the small hopes that keep them grounded. At the center is Aviya Kaipu Cohen Aleksandrowicz, a resilient sabra whose father was killed in 1939 and whose mother, Henya Gila Almagor Aleksandrowicz, struggles with serious mental illness. The village’s routines mask a deeper ache, and the children lean on each other to survive the weight of the past.
The opening winter scene plunges the viewer into a haunting search: a large group of adults and teenagers combs the surrounding landscape for Misha, a boy from the boarding house who is eventually found dead, his body a stark symbol of the hidden traumas carried by those who survived the war. The mystery unfolds with the realization that Misha, along with Yurek and Ze'evik, had hidden for years in the forest during their wartime fugue. The aftermath of their experiences continues to echo through the halls of the boarding house as Yurek Ohad Knoller and Ze'evik return to their patterns of roaming at night, despite the headmasters’ cautious efforts to curb the behavior. The fragile peace is always on the edge of cracking, and the adults weigh whether to intervene or let the boys endure their bond, which has become both lifeline and flashpoint.
Into this tense atmosphere comes a new arrival, Miriam “Mira” Segal Riki Blich, a girl whose hostility and stubborn independence immediately set her apart from the other residents. She resists the social norms of the boarding house and unsettles the routine, stirring friction but also hinting at untapped resilience that will shape the group’s dynamics in surprising ways.
Meanwhile Aviya’s world remains tethered to the hospital where her mother, Henya, lives. Aviya clings to the hope that Henya can recover, visiting her mother with a mixture of tenderness, worry, and quiet resolve. Henya’s own memories, colored by the belief she might have spent the war years in Europe, clash with the harsh reality of her current life, and her evolving relationship with Yurek adds another layer of complexity to the youths’ communal life. The three youths—Aviya, Henya, and Yurek—often seek solace beneath the domim, the crab apple tree near the boarding house, a symbol of endurance and continuity in a place marked by upheaval.
As weeks pass, the village envisions brighter days: a plan to plant hundreds of tulip bulbs around the domim tree; Yola [Orli Perl] slug: orli-perl, another resident, learns that her father might still be alive in Warsaw, a discovery that fills the house with a surge of mixed emotions. The small triumphs feel monumental to a community that has waited so long for signs of life and possibility. The news about Yola’s father brings both celebration and sorrow, because he dies suddenly before the reunion can happen, underscoring how fragile every step forward can be in a place haunted by history.
Aviya receives a letter from an aunt bearing a photograph and the name of a cemetery, enabling her to locate her father’s grave in Haifa. The discovery brings a quiet sense of closure for Aviya, a personal beacon amid shared storms, reinforcing the theme that finding one’s roots can be a source of renewed strength for the entire group.
Yet challenges persist. Ariel Juliano Mer-Khamis, the boarding school’s headmaster, faces mounting pressure from a psychologist to separate Yurek and Ze'evik to prevent another tragedy like Misha’s. In a moment of desperate solidarity, the two boys retreat to the woods and return with a resolute vow: "We stay together or we die." The moment tests Ariel’s authority and ethics, but he ultimately agrees that the boys must remain together, choosing empathy over coercion and reinforcing the power of their bond.
A turning point arrives when a couple arrives at the youth village, claiming to be Mira’s parents. Mira herself does not recall any family before she was placed in an Italian orphanage after the war, and she rejects the claim, insisting that the couple found her and merely told her they were her parents. Her story holds a kernel of truth that she cannot fully verify, and the ensuing legal confrontation shifts the mood of the entire community. The youths rally around Mira, offering unwavering support and refusing to let her face the doubt alone. Through their kindness, Mira begins to trust again, gradually reweaving the fragile threads of belief about family, belonging, and memory.
In the courtroom and in the days that follow, the collective action of the youths—standing as a united front—demonstrates the strength of chosen family over blood ties when the past threatens to fracture the present. The story remains grounded in the intimate details of daily life: the comfort of shared spaces under the domim tree, the careful acts of care for Henya, the simple yet profound gestures that help Mira remember a mother’s face, and the quiet rituals that keep hope alive in a community built from survivors’ scars. Throughout, the film treats its characters with a patient, compassionate eye, never rushing to tidy away the pain, but always illuminating the resilience that allows them to endure.
> We stay together or we die.
In the end, the youths’ willingness to support Mira in her moment of doubt, to search for family histories, and to hold fast to their friendships demonstrates a hopeful fullness. The film closes on a note of quiet continuity, with the community continuing to plant tulips and tend the domim tree, a living reminder that memory and connection can sustain a people even after the deepest wounds of history.
