<<< back to student roster
HARRY LANGSAM
My Stories:
TWO DAYS OF INFAMY THAT HAVE REMAINED ENSHRINED IN MY MEMORY FOREVER
A LOVE STORY ABOUT LOVE LETTERS
MY LAST SIMCHAT TORAH IN MY SHTETL
THE ALTE REBETZIN - THE RABBI'S WIFE
FOR THE SIN COMMITTED RUNNING TO DO EVIL - FROM THE CONFESSION PRAYER ON THE DAY OF ATONEMENT
I was born in 1921 in a little town in Poland. At the outbreak of World War II, I escaped the Nazi onslaught and spent the war years in the Soviet Union detained in a forced labor camp. After the war, I settled in a Displaced Person Camp in Germany. Following the establishment of the state of Israel we immigrated, thinking things would improve there. However the economic situation forced me to look for greener pastures and the Land of Opportunity came to my mind. I became a citizen of the USA in 1957. I worked as an accountant in a commercial bank for the last 20 years before my retirement. Lately, I've become busy, writing my life story, and enjoying the teacher¹s instructions to my writing class. She is steering me in the right direction to be a better writer.
<<< back to top
In the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, surrounded by forests, in a valley of lush greenery, on the banks of the Visloka River there was a charming little shtetl, Strzyzow. People born in Strzyzow have never gained worldwide fame; nonetheless each individual was an important member in the community. The people in Strzyzow participated in every national and religious activity, as a part of the Polish Jewry.
The Jewish youth in Strzyzow was a group of highly intelligent, nationally conscious boys and girls, who were active members of every national and religious organization, beginning with the Agudat Israel and ending with the extreme leftist Hashomer Hatzair. To the surprise of the Zionist leadership, for the first time during the last election to the Zionist Congress, there were five votes for the Hashomer Hatzair, an extreme leftist organization.
Jews owned all the houses around the four sides of the market place. The marketplace was the hub of the city. On the southwestern corner of the marketplace, further into an alley, there was the Catholic Church, which was the tallest building in town. The church with its steeple resembled a watchtower guarding the city from intruders.
Regrettably, it was exactly the opposite. The church did not prevent trouble; on the contrary, it was the main source of Jewish hatred, intolerance and animosity. The southeastern corner of the marketplace resembled an exit gate to the nearby villages. It also led to the Jewish communal bathhouse, and to the city slaughterhouse, which were located at the banks of the Visloka River.
The river flowed quiet and serene, protected by weeping willows on both sides of the water. The Jewish people used the tender willow twigs for ritual ceremonies, such as Hoshanot for the Sukkoth holiday and for staffs for the Simchat Torah flags displayed in the synagogues on that holiday. For generations, the river absorbed not only the happiness and childish laughter of bathers in the cool refreshing water, but also the pain and tragedy when the river flooded the adjacent area, destroying property during heavy rains.
Still, it was paradise on earth for me to stroll on a Sabbath afternoon along the well-trodden path alongside the river. To cross the river, there was a single plank laid across and a metal cable stretched across to hold on to it. The plank allowed only one person at a time to cross. Walking on the narrow plank was an adventure in itself. While holding onto the trembling cable, my heart trembled with fear of falling into the water. It was fear mixed with joy.
On many occasions a bunch of boys, I among them, would wait till the girls reached the middle point and then we began to shake the cable, making the girl scream at the top of her lungs for fear of falling into the water. The water wasn't deep; what terrified the girls was the fear of ruining their Sabbath dresses.
In wintertime, the hill going down from the market place to the bathhouse was used for sledding. As a child it was my greatest pleasure to speed down the hill, each time forgetting that I would have to pull the sleigh back uphill to the starting point.
Every Thursday evening and Friday afternoon the same hilly road witnessed another, more pleasant feat when men and women trudged downhill to the public bathhouse. Thursday evening was mikvah time for women who observed family purity, and Friday, was the men's turn to come and cleanse their bodies for the Sabbath. The men waited anxiously to hear the calling of the bathhouse attendant who came out to the marketplace, joyfully announcing that the bathhouse was ready for the pleasurable service. The announcement was made in two ways: by blowing a horn and by loudly calling out: "Come ye all to the bathhouse and have pleasure enjoying the hot steam bath."
The northeastern comer of the marketplace was like an entrance gate into the center of the town. It was the main road that brought the peasants from several villages on Market Day, carrying with them their products for sale. To reach the center of the town, the peasants had to travel down a steep hill. The hill was called the "Zharnovo Hill." During rainy weather the peasants were forced to help the horses pull their carts out of the mud puddles. I distinctly remember the perennial puddles at the entrance to the marketplace, puddles that never dried out except when they froze in the wintertime. The alley that led to the city's two prayer houses cut through the east side of the Market Square. One prayer house belonged to Rabbi Nehemiah Shapiro, and the other was the general communal study and prayer house.
A few houses down on the same side, there was the big, fortress- like synagogue built four centuries ago. In front of the synagogue there was a huge green lawn where children spent many hours playing games.
Charming mountains and wooded hills surrounded the entire city. At the foothills of these mountains there were many green meadows and wheat fields that belonged to local farmers. The air was always fresh, enhanced with the fragrance of wild flowers that grew in abundance and the smell of the pine trees. The natural scenery in Strzyzow was simply divine; it was like paradise on earth.
Strzyzow was a religious shtetl with a big Hasidic segment. The Hasidim were admirers of many famous rabbis, such as the Rabbi of Munkach, and the Rabbi from Belz. There was a large group of Sadigora Hasidim too, which was a very organized brotherly group. Strzyzow was tiny and poor, but was rich with many educational and charitable institutions.
The children received their religious education beginning at the age of three. Parents raised their offspring in a most religious and traditional way. There was a kindergarten under the auspices of the Zionist Organization and a Bais Yaacov school for girls from strictly religious homes under the leadership of the Agudat Israel. There was also a small Yeshiva for boys free of tuition that was taught voluntarily by local Talmudic scholars. There was also a secular elementary school where all the children were required to attend by law.
There were several charitable institutions such as a loan society that provided interest free loans, and a "Help the Sick Society," which helped pay for prescriptions. And of course the "Burial Society," who appeared in time of need.
Many young people from the Zionist Organizations prepared themselves physically and spiritually to immigrate to Palestine. Young people who could not immigrate to Palestine, were forced to immigrate to other countries, mainly to the United States, because there was no future for them in their hometown. There was no industry or commerce that could provide them with a livelihood.
After the Holocaust tragedy that befell the European Jewry, and particularly the Polish Jewry, our shtetl, which had been established centuries ago ceased to exist. The Jewish Community was wiped off the map, the rich and the poor, the scholars the pious and the simple folks. With their disappearance, all the lovely traditions and the customs have also disappeared forever.
At present, the prayer houses are in ruins except the big fortress-like synagogue that was turned into a library. Not a trace of Yiddishkeit is left in Strzyzow, even the dead were disturbed in their graves, by destroying all three cemeteries that disappeared together with the living.
A few natives of Strzyzow survived the inferno and several families came back from the Soviet Gulags. They are the ones who took upon themselves to perpetuate the memories of our beloved shtetl, and they promised to do till the last days of their lives.
<<< back to top
I vaguely remember the time, when I was three and a half years old, that my father wrapped me in his talit, (prayer shall) and carried me to the cheyder (a one-classroom religious school). A black-bearded teacher taught me the Jewish alphabet on a cardboard upon which raisins had been laid on each of the printed letters. After that first lesson the teacher pinched my cheeks and told me to eat all the raisins. From that day on I attended the school every day even in the summer and winter, whether the weather was good or bad. The teacher taught us how to say a prayer with a special intonation, for when we first woke up each day, after we had washed our hands and faces. He also thought us the blessings over food.
The teacher had a pointer made from an old toothbrush, which he used to point to the letters. And with a sing-song voice heíd ask, "What letter is this?" "What letter is that?" Some days I liked the teacher and some days I did not. Come to think of it, a lot depended on the teacher's mood. One day he was angry; another day he was like melted butter. There were certain letters that I couldn't remember; then he yelled at me and made me cry. When I was five years old I distinctly remember the family celebration, marking when I began studying the Bible, and the chapter of the week. It was on a Sabbath afternoon when a few neighbors were invited, mostly women, to hear me make a speech. I stood on a table; I was decorated with women's jewelry and together with another classmate we exchanged a dialogue in Yiddish about why a little boy is supposed to learn the Torah. The teacher smiled at us, enjoying the fruit of his labor. Wonder of wonders, I still remember the dialogue to this day. The women who were present shed some tears, and I heard them say, "What a pity that Fruma Ryvka did not live to enjoy her youngestís performance." They meant my mother who had died when I was six months old.
Gradually I progressed in my religious education, willingly or unwillingly until I was seven and had to advance to another teacher, where I began studying the Talmud. At the same time I had to enroll in the secular elementary school which was required by law. Attending a Polish school with a yarmulke on your head and long ear-locks was no picnic. The Gentile boys took vengeance on my attire. Frankly, my clothing was not first class either. There was very little protection to be expected from the teachers; they openly showed anti-Jewish hatred. Attending elementary school shortened the hours of studying in the religious school.
Whenever I was depressed and mad at the entire world I went to my favorite hiding place where I felt secure. There was a big wheat field near the Visloka River, and in the middle of the field there was a lonely, huge willow tree. The tree was hollow. A lightning bolt caused the hollowness, but the outside core remained alive and green during summertime. There was a small opening at the bottom of the trunk that allowed my lean body to crawl inside and spend many hours humming songs to myself and dreaming of a better world. Actually it wasn't the world that I was worrying about, I worried more about a getting a good meal and decent clothes like other children around me had. In summertime, when the sun was mercilessly hot, I used to escape to my favorite hiding place. A cool breeze from the river caressed my face as I sat beneath the tree and watched how the swelling wheat sheaves were moving back and forth like sea waves. These were moments when all my worries disappeared.
But I had plenty to worry about upon my return to reality. I would meet the scourge of my teacher in school, and the punishment of my father for my absence from studying the holy Torah. But sitting under my favorite willow tree, I felt good and didnít worry about the consequences. I played hooky many times for which I was later punished, but it was worth it. I felt a special affinity to that tree because it was a lonely tree in the middle of a wheat-field. I felt exactly the same. There were days when I was bored with the repetitious Bible stories that we studied every year at the same time and the same place. I never told anyone about my boredom or about my secret hideaway. My advancement to study the Talmud was more interesting and more challenging.
Being motherless, I was filled with jealousy for other children who had parents and multiple siblings. For that reason I sometimes did things that wasn't fitting for a nice Jewish boy to do. In cheyder I would swipe someone's bagel with butter and swallow it rapidly, one two three, and it was gone. In the rebetzin's (the rabbi's wife) house where my father and I spent a lot of time, I dipped my fingers into her charity box and took a few groshen, to buy a candy. From that box she distributed alms to the poor. She once caught me red-handed but instead of chastising me, she told me with motherly love, that the coins do not belong to me; they belong to the poor. "Is anyone poorer than I am?" I thought to myself. I have no mother, and my father is a poor man. Notwithstanding my sinful behavior, my father was very good to me. When the first cherries appeared on the market he would bring a dozen cherries to me at religious school and say, "Here! Taste the cherries, see how sweet the are." Despite his poverty, he used to give me a nickel each day to buy a candy. Other children used to get a shiny silver dime. One time I rebelled and demanded a shiny dime like the other children were getting. My father became angry, slapped my face and sent me to school without anything. My dear father! Where are you now? How hurt you must have been not to be able to give your child the same coin that other parents gave their offspring. I wish I could beg your forgiveness for all my transgressions. Unfortunately, the Nazis did not give me a chance to do so. They mercilessly cut short your life.
<<< back to top
Ask someone from the younger generation how is laundry done and he will look at you in a funny way, "What do you mean, how I do the laundry? I put the dirty laundry into the washing machine, then I put it the dryer and the laundry is washed and dry. Many would say that they take the laundry to the coin-operated Laundromat. There, they wash and dry their laundry and bring it home clean.
Now let us go back a generation, or two, back to the Old Country. There, you would hear an entirely different answer. When I was a child, I was very observant and liked to watch what the older people did in their daily life. The phrase, "Curiosity killed the cat" was not in my vocabulary then.
My favorite pastime was watching how housewives did the laundry. As a motherless child, I spent a lot of time in my neighbor's house, the Yezersky family. They were friendly people and didn't seem to be bothered by my presence, though in my adult life I often wondered if I wasn't too bothersome or naggy. Unfortunately, they are not around to ask so I will never know.
The Yezersky family had a special so-called, "Laundry Day," which occurred once a month or every six weeks. When the laundry day was near, there was a feeling in that house that an important event was about to take place. Every household had a big wooden barrel kept in front of the house to catch rainwater coming down from the roof and through the gutter. There was a common belief that rainwater is softer and therefore better to do the laundry with. Rainwater also saved many trips to the public water pump because proper laundering consumed a lot of water.
I don't know if the wooden barrel making trade is still around, but in the olden days it was a very reputable profession. During the weekly Market Days, barrel makers displayed a variety of different sized wooden vessels for sale, from the huge rainwater barrels to the small wooden buckets used by farmers to milk their cows or for other household chores. Years, later, galvanized sheet metal replaced the wooden material for barrel making.
On the eve of the "Special Laundry Day," the windows in my neighbors¹ house felt bare because the curtains had been taken down along with many decorative embroidered towels that had hung on the walls. Inside the kitchen, in the center of the wooden floor, the pile of dirty laundry kept growing as family members kept adding to it. There were four children in the family, ages 8 to 16; and sometimes the pile included a few dirty garments that belonged to me, to be washed without my father's knowledge. He was busy peddling in the villages.
The laundry was deposited in a big, round, wooden vat filled with warm water. Caustic soda was added to the water to help loosen up the dirt, which was supposed to make it easier for Maria, the laundry lady the next day. Putting the laundry in for the soaking was the exclusive job of the housewife, Mrs. Yezersky because according her, she was the only one who knew how to spread the garments for soaking. When adding the caustic soda, Mrs. Yezersky always mentioned Maria the lady who was hired to do the washing. "With more soda it will be easier for Maria to take the dirt out."
Next day, early in the morning, Maria showed up and greeted everyone with a smiling face and a loud, "Good Morning." Maria was a plump woman with an ample chest, blue eyes, and grayish hair mixed with black strands, a sign that she was once young. She wore a blouse that was white a long time ago, and was double skirted. Once she took off her top skirt she remained dressed in a raggedy skirt, her work clothes. Maria's cheeks were flaming red, a sign of good health, according to the lady of the house, Mrs. Yezersky. "Oh my!" Maria lamented, pointing to the vat of the soaking laundry. "I hope we will managed to finish all of this in one day."
The first thing that Maria did was to put a huge pot with water on the stove for heating. She slowly emptied the vat with the soaking laundry by wringing out the water from the wet laundry. The dirty water was poured outside with buckets and the vat was raised on two chairs to the height of Maria's waistline. Maria had a habit of humming a tune when she was rubbing the laundry on the washboard. The humming was in harmony with the noise of the washboard while she was soaping and twisting the laundry.
After the laundry was properly soaped and rubbed on the washboard by Maria's coarse hands, the laundry was ready for the boiling-a laundry process unknown nowadays. Boiling the laundry was a must. It was boiled in a large, tall, metal pot either on the stove or sometimes outdoors using a campfire. For me as a child, laundry day in the Yezersky house was always adventurous, especially when the boiling was done outdoors.
It was my favorite job to supply fuel for the fire, firewood, and brushwood from the neighbor's backyards. I was always standing near dangerous places, where I might get burned by the fire or by the boiling hot water.
One look at Maria's angry face was enough for me to make myself scarce. Sometimes I was given the job of watching when the boiling began. Outdoors, this was simple; but indoors, I had to stand on a chair to be able to see when the bubbling began. It was fun watching Maria remove the steamy, hot, boiled garments from the pot. She did it with a broom handle, lifting each garment high so the water dripped back into the vessel.
After boiling, the laundry was rinsed in cold water. In places where a creek or a river was flowing nearby, the laundry was rinsed in it. Let's remember in those days, water in the creeks and rivers was still crystal clear. Next step was the starching. The laundry was starched with a mixture made from rice flour and hot water. Most housewives added a blue concoction to the starched water for a better shine of the washed laundry. The Yezersky family was Orthodox, so for a month before Passover, the laundry was not starched because of the flour ingredient, which is strictly forbidden on Passover.
Drying the laundry was a separate chapter by itself. If the weather was nice and sunny, there was no problem. However, in the rainy season or during wintertime the laundry had to be carried upstairs to the attic where it was hung to dry on ropes that often tore and then the wet laundry was soiled. Every woman considered herself blessed if the sun dried the laundry. In wintertime, the laundry that hung in the attic froze and turned into pieces of boards of different shapes depending on the type of the garment it was. It had to be taken down into the living quarters and spread out for additional drying.
Ironing the laundry was the most painful and tedious job for women. There were no electrical irons, and in most places there wasn't even electricity. The iron was a heavy metal container filled with smoldering coals that gave the women a headache from the emanating fumes. A common scene was a woman standing at an iron board ironing laundry, with her head wrapped with a cold compress. But it was a job that had to be done. To summarizeŠthere are many people who do not appreciate the rich comfortable life we live nowadays, especially the younger generation.
<<< back to top
TWO DAYS OF INFAMY THAT HAVE REMAINED ENSHRINED IN MY MEMORY FOREVER.
The days that I have in mind are August 30 and September 1, 1939. On August 30, 1939, Stalin ratified the friendship pact with Hitler. This ratification was the last nail in the coffin of close to fifty million people in Europe, among which were six million Jewish People.
The entire world was shocked with disbelief from such a treacherous step taken by the Communist Soviet Union who was supposedly the standard bearers of freedom and democracy for the working people throughout the world. Freedom loving nations could not believe that Communism could join hands with Fascism and give Hitler the green light to attack Poland. The above agreement permitted the Soviet Union to stab Poland in the back and occupy Eastern Poland.
On September 1, 1939 the Nazis invaded Poland. Within days almost all of Poland was occupied by the Nazi hordes. During the first few nights the Germans rained incendiary bombs throughout Tarnow, the city I had moved to for work. These bombs set the entire city on fire. I was alone in a big city, not knowing what to do. I had no one to ask for advice. Frankly, no one could give me any advice.
An avalanche of refugees flooded the city. Some were heading east, and some were already returning home after the German troops had caught up with them. There was no transportation to get out or to get in. The railroads were in shambles.
I had two choices: to go home to my birthplace and be with my father, or join my brother who was working in a bakery about 15 kilometers from the city. I decided to go and see my brother and together decide what to do next. I left my belongings in the place where I was staying, thinking that after we decided what to do I would return to pick them up. I left town on Monday afternoon, September 3rd, joining the people who were leaving town.
There were thousands of refugees heading in both directions; it was total pandemonium. Most refugees were Jews. Even though the roads were unpaved, they were off limit to civilians. They were cleared for the retreating Polish Army. We had to use the soft edges of the roads or the ditches on both sides of the road.
Every few minutes, German planes flew low and strafed people with machineguns, killing and injuring soldiers and civilians. Every time we heard the oncoming planes we jumped into the wheat or potato fields. The Angel of Death was constantly hovering over our heads. One time when we got up after the strafing, we saw a German paratroop military unit that had just landed in front of us. A nearby ammunition factory was their target; luckily, they did not bother the civilians.
When I arrived at my brother's bakery the doors and windows were ajar and a hungry crowd of refugees had just stripped the bakery of everything edible. I found my brother's employer and asked him about my brother's whereabouts. He told me that in all probability he left in the direction of the city where my married sister was living, a distance of 25 kilometers.
Now I was confused again and did not know what to do next. In my stupidity or confusion, I decided to go back to where my belongings were and planned from there to join my brother and sister. My brother's boss fed me some bread that he had managed to save and some hot tea. I was stupefied. What a fool I was to think about my belongings - I hadn¹t learned anything from what I had just seen with my own eyes on the road to my brother¹s bakery - how people threw their belongings away, being too tired to carry them on their backs.
Before the day was over I turned around and went back to Tarnow to pick up my miserable belongings and immediately began marching again towards Dombrowa where my married sister was living. I walked all night and arrived in Dombrowa early in the morning. I had never walked so many kilometers without rest and barely made it to my destination. My feet were covered with blisters. My sister was glad to see me and so was my brother. They could hardly withhold their tears, since I was the youngest sibling. For a while we were happy to be together and hoped to come up with a plan what to do next.
The city was overcrowded with refugees. The retreating Polish Army, even though on the run, did not forget to pilfer Jewish stores, and the cavalry men, while riding horses, whipped every Jew they came across with their riding crops. There was a serious food shortage, mainly bread.
My sister¹s in-laws owned a bakery that had been requisitioned by the army and she was forced to bake bread for the retreating soldiers. Fortunately, I was able to sneak into the bakery through a secret entrance and carried out a few loaves of bread for our family and also helped some hungry refugees with their children.
There was panic all around us. We were stunned from the sudden onslaught of the Germans, and from the influx of the refugees who told us horror stories about their mistreatment from the retreating Polish soldiers and by the occupying German soldiers.
And the Jewish tragedy was growing by the hour. At first we thought about going east, believing the rumors that there was still a possibility that by heading southeast we might avoid the German Army. Older people, who remembered the Germans from World War I, insisted on staying put. They claimed that as soon as the occupation was completed the situation would improve. They claimed that after all, the Germans are not animals, they are a cultured nation. How wrong they were.
In any case, we got ready to move as soon as the situation was clear, because there were rumors that the Polish Army was concentrating along the Visloka River and would try to stop the German forces there. These rumors made us worry again because the Visloka River flowed through our beloved birthplace and our father was there. There was no means of communication.
We stashed away a few loaves of bread, packed our knapsacks and waited. Tuesday and Wednesday, September 5th and 6th we spent waiting. On Thursday the army cleared out from the bakery; they could not risk being captured by the advancing German Army.
Announcements were pasted on bulletin boards all over the city that on Friday morning all residents would have to evacuate the city to the immediate outskirts because explosives would be placed in a few strategic locations to stop the German advance troops from entering the city.
The Polish army was lagging behind in their escape and was afraid of becoming war prisoners. In the meantime, local non-Jewish neighbors were gloating and waiting for the arrival of the Germans. The hatred for their neighbors was so strong that it did not bother them that they were losing their own freedom.
The Jewish Cemetery was located on the outskirts of the city and there, the Jewish population sought shelter Friday morning. Silently, the families gathered together in separate groups. Their mouths were paralyzed, and no one was able to exchange any words.
I was there with my brother, my sister with her husband and three little darling boys. Her elderly in-laws and my brother-in-law's great-grandpa, who was almost a hundred years old, were with them too.
Around eight o'clock in the morning we heard the explosions, one after another one. One strong explosion was heard from a nearby bridge. Rubble from the bridge came flying upon us, but no one was hurt. Brokenheartedly, everyone sat behind gravestones immersed in his or her own thoughts. I was lying on the grass protected by a huge gravestone, and my whole young life story passed by me like a movie. With deep regret and disappointment I thought about how unlucky I was: Finally when I had just begun living a decent life, socially and even romantically, with a fine girl, such tragedy has befallen not only me but also the entire Jewry. My instinct bode ill; I knew that the Nazi onslaught would be very tragic for mankind in general and particularly for the Jews.
I felt abandoned by the mankind and by God. Friday, September the 8th in the early afternoon hours, a local water carrier brought us the "good tidings" that the first German patrol had arrived and was parked in the central square. Who can describe the faces of the people around me? I couldn't. Marching back into town with everyone, each carrying a bundle of valuables that was brought to save it from pilfering, it felt like we were going to our own funerals. All that could be heard was sighing and little children crying about being hungry.
Coming home, the women immediately began preparing for the oncoming Sabbath Day and the men started to bake some bread in a hurry from the leftover flour the Polish soldiers did not use. We happened to live across the street from Rabbi Weidenfeld who, by the way, was one of the famous Talmudic Scholars and Torah authorities in Poland. We went there for the Sabbath evening services.
It was a pity to look at the gloomy faces that had gathered in that room to praise God for his greatness, having given us such a precious gift as the Day of the Sabbath Rest. We looked in the Rabbi's direction, expecting to hear some words of wisdom. All that he said was that we have nobody to rely on but the Master of the world, and to pray to Him for help. On that day the Nazis had occupied the entire Galician District including my beloved shtetl, Strzyzow.
<<< back to top
A LOVE STORY ABOUT LOVE LETTERS
Deep in the forests of the Siberian wastelands, in a little enclave, I found my companion for life. In the darkest days of exile, I was fortunate to meet a girl named Anna with whom I fell madly in love. It wasn't an easy task to break through the barrier that divided the two of us in order to became one entity.
I was a refugee from Poland, born in a small Hasidic shtetl and Anna, an evacuee from Kiev, was a product of Communist upbringing, constantly being told that everything Western is rotten and corrupt. Anna believed what she was told until she later found out that it was exactly the other way around.
Nevertheless, love is stronger than any ideology. Our friendship turned into courtship and love followed. Anna and I became inseparable, hoping never to be asunder; at least I thought so.
When Kiev was liberated by the heroic Red Army, Anna was overcome with home sickness and insisted upon returning home, a home that in reality did not exist anymore. I wasn't strong enough to stop her.
Being mobilized in the railroad industry, I couldn't join her, and was forced to succumb to a long-distance love affair with the hope that our separation would not last forever.
And that's how our correspondence begun. The shortage of paper and a proper writing tool like a simple pen and ink or a pencil for that matter, couldn't prevent us from writing each other love letters at least once a week. Every letter that I received increased the spark of hope that we would soon be reunited, but in the meantime, a distance of at least five thousand kilometers separated the two lovebirds.
I cherished every letter I received from Anna and read it several times. I saved them like a dear treasure. Unknowingly, my beloved did the same. My only solace during our separation was receiving letters from Anna.
When the horrible war was about to end, good news reached the refugees: As soon as Poland was freed we would be repatriated back to our homeland. To be eligible for repatriation, Anna had to be married to a Polish citizen. I had managed to marry her by proxy by bribing a clerk, but to be repatriated, Anna had to physically be with me.
In summary, Anna had no choice but pack up, leave Kiev, and return to Siberia. Among her meager belongings was a bundle of my love letters tied with a pink ribbon. Soon after her arrival, we decided to get married in a traditional way and in our treasure chest there was a pile of love letters, his and hers.
Our modern-day Exodus arrived, and one nice April day in 1946, which coincided with the first day of Passover, our train packed with refugees left on its journey to our so-called "Homeland Poland."
Our itinerary called for traveling across Russian wastelands; first north through the Ural Mountains past Moscow, and then the transport would turn westwards towards the Polish border. While leaving the Soviet Union, we were forbidden to take currency, jewelry, diamonds, and handwritten material. Soviet currency was not worth anything in the West.
As to jewelry and diamonds - we had nothing to worry about, the only problem remaining was how to get the handwritten love letters out of the country. We were determined not to relinquish our cherished treasure.
When we approached the Soviet-Polish border, two problems were tormenting my mind: The first and main worry was whether Anna would encounter any problems at the border. From our past experience we knew that in the Soviet Union the rulers have always the last word, by saying "Da," or "Nyet," which means yes or no.
Sometimes the fate of a person depended on the disposition of the border guard. There were plenty of stories of people who were taken off the train and never heard from again. The second worry: Though it might seem frivolous now, then it was for us newlyweds, a very important problem‹how to get these letters out. I always imagined that in later years, in case of a lover's squabble, I would pull out one of the letters and confront Anna, showing her how she swore love and devotion in her own handwriting.
When we reached the last Soviet border town we had to change trains and then cross the border. Taking advantage of the transfer commotion, I took the package of letters wrapped in a piece of cloth and hid it in the underbelly of our car on the axle between the wheels. I relied on my Guardian Angel that they would pass unnoticed.
Luckily, both problems had a positive outcome. Anna had no trouble with the border guard and neither did the letters. However, the odyssey of our love letters was not complete. Poland was not our country anymore, the Nazis were beaten, but the hostility to the returning refugees continued. We were not safe, and were soon forced to take our wander staff in our hands and head west.
With the help of an underground organization, we were smuggled to a Displaced Persons Camp in Germany via Czechoslovakia and Austria. Crossing the border under the darkness of the night, we were not permitted to have any personal identification-no heavy luggage, nothing except one knapsack. In case we were apprehended, we were told to claim that we were Greek refugees returning home from slave labor camps.
Before leaving Poland, I packed the letters and pictures and a few important documents in several packages and mailed them to my uncle in Israel, then Palestine. The pictures and the documents were lost in the mail but the Guardian Angel took care of the love letters: They arrived safely to their destination.
<<< back to top
MY LAST SIMCHAT TORAH IN MY SHTETL
The High Holidays are called Yamim Noraim, Hebrew for "The Days of Awe." As we recently celebrated the Simchat Torah holiday, the rejoicing for the Torah, I couldn't help but remember those Yamim Noraim days in October of 1939. At that time the holidays were literally, "Days of Awe."
I remembered my last Simchat Torah in my home town. On September 1, 1939, the Nazis attacked Poland. They were lucky that the weather was favorable all throughout the offensive. Personally I challenged God's wisdom, why was He so accommodating?
If it had rained, the Nazi hordes would have become immobile with their motorized army. Poland had no paved roads, and the roads regularly turned into mud puddles after each rain.
After the Nazis completed the occupation of Poland, they immediately dropped their human mask and brutally began ruling the conquered territories that they had won in their Blitzkrieg.
A few days into the war, my brother and I met at our married sister's house who lived close to the cities where my brother and I worked. When the occupation settled down, my brother and I became very worried about our father who lived at home by himself. We decided that we must find a way to find out how he was faring.
Our shtetl was 60 kilometers from where we were. Jews were already forbidden to travel. For the love for our father we decided to ignore the dangers, and that one of us should go there by foot. Since I was younger and stronger and looked less Jewish than my brother, I undertook the mission, even though it was dangerous for a Jewish boy to wander through villages void of Jews.
Dressed as a peasant boy, I left my sister's house and hoped to reach a Jewish farmhouse, halfway through my journey before curfew hour. However it took me longer than I expected and I arrived there at dusk.
The Jewish farmer couldn't let me in because he was forbidden by the Gestapo to shelter strangers. In the conversation behind his closed doors he hinted to me that he feared more from his neighbors than from the Gestapo.
At his suggestion I crawled into a haystack and slept there through the night. At daybreak, the farmer woke me up, gave me some food and with a sad face and heavy sigh he gave me a warm send off, wishing me a safe journey.
I was familiar with the route because I had traveled that route by horse and buggy many times before the war. I continued my march in the direction of a small city, a distance of a bout 20 kilometers. The weather was warm, perfect fall weather for this part of Poland.
I was young and healthy, and was well rested. Therefore, my walk was brisk without being disturbed by anyone. In my peasant clothes I did not look too Jewish. For a Jewish boy to dare to travel amidst villagers was inconceivable.
Only once did a young fellow approach me, asking for cigarettes. I gladly obliged with a few extras for later, and that put his mind at ease and he didn't ask questions.
There was silence all around, disturbed only by noises of domestic animals which that at that particular time, were less dangerous than human noises.
Once in a while, a German military truck or a motorcycle passed by without bothering me. For a while I forgot about the war and the Jewish tragedy as I admired the scenery with its serenity.
The orchards were loaded with ripe fruit, and the pastures were still lush green-to me it looked like a picture of perfection. I reached a little enclave a bit after eight in the morning. I knew the place from my previous visits.
Like many other little shtetls in Galicia, Brzostek was a tiny Jewish town of about fifty families surrounded by many villages. The people that lived here served as middlemen. They bought products from the peasants and shipped them out to bigger cities. Small stores supplied the peasants with merchandise that did not grow on the farm. There were also a few artisans, like tailors, cobblers, hat makers and a blacksmith.
There was certain interdependence between the Jews and non-Jews. Their relationship was based on necessity and not on friendship. There were two families that I knew from before because the heads of the families were natives of my shtetl.
One of them was Mendele Grosskopf. His father was my father's friend so that's where I decided to stop and rest, and later resume my journey. When I approached the Groskopf house I heard subdued voices from inside, voices familiar to my ears, which were from holiday morning prayers.
It was Hoshana Rabbah, the seventh day of the Sukkoth Holiday. At my first knock on the door, the sounds abruptly stopped and there was complete silence.
After I loudly identified myself, I was quickly ushered in and the door was closed behind me. I took one look at those pale scared faces and saw the entire tragedy that had befallen the Jewish People.
The people had been conducting the holiday services and thought that they had been discovered by their neighbors, or worse yet by the Nazis. Before I entered the room they had hastily removed their prayer shawls but now the put them on again and continued the services.
They did not have a Torah Scroll, nor a fresh Etrog and Lulav. They did have a shofar. There was a dry lulav from yesteryear, which was symbolically resting on a table.
I joined the prayers, and when we reached the verse: "Out of the depth I call Thee," (Psalms 130:1) everyone had tears in his eyes. They cried like little children. It broke my heart into pieces.
We all realized the serious situation that we were in, but did not know then how the tragedy would end. During the Hoshanot the lulav passed from hand to hand, and when it reached the last person it was soaked wet from tears.
Why was Jewish suffering endless? I asked myself. Rebellious thoughts kept paining my mind; Why? Why are we the Chosen People? At that moment I was ready to surrender the high sounding title of, Chosen people to anyone who would be willing to accept it. Chosen for what, I thought.
For murder, pogroms and all the other troubles? I continued my chain of thoughts, telling myself: "Do I have a choice?"
I suddenly remembered a quote from the Ethics of Our Fathers, 5:29: "Perforce you were born, perforce you live, perforce you shall die." After the gathered had departed I was treated with a nice breakfast. During the meal I told my host about the situation of the Jews in the town from where I had come from, and about the uncertainty that lie ahead for all of us.
Mr. Grosskopf did not foresee that his life was destined would be cut short soon, and that he would die a hero's death. Being a respectful citizen in the community, the Nazis made him the head of the Jewish Ghetto Council. After his fatal nomination, he was ordered to supply a list of all able-bodied people for forced labor.
The next day he was handed a list with his name only. He was shot on the spot. Mendel Grosskopf was a Talmudic scholar, a God fearing humble man, discreetly charitable. He returned his righteous body and soul to his Maker.
In the late afternoon I reached the outskirts of my birthplace. My first depressing welcome came when I encountered a group of Jewish people doing forced labor. They were forced to repair the roads leading into town with their bare hands.
The irony of it, was, that their oppressor was a Ukrainian who after participating in the pogroms in the Ukraine with the Petlura bands, escaped justice by settling in our shtetl.
For many years the Jews employed him as a janitor in the prayer houses. Now he again had a chance to show his true colors. He was one of the first collaborators in our town.
Fortunately, his career as oppressor did not last long. In a dispute with a friend he was reported to the Gestapo as a troublemaker and was promptly sent away to a place of no return.
Arriving home, I found my father of blessed memory in good stead. It was a tearful reunion well received by my father. He appreciated the risk I had taken to come home to see him and tell him about my sister's family and my brother.
The house was empty of food and other necessities. Nothing was prepared for the holiday that was beginning tonight. There was some bread supplied by our good friend, Mordechai the baker. He remembered my father during our absence. He provided my father with bread all throughout the bad times until the expulsion to a larger ghetto. We remember his goodness forever.
After sunset, my father and I went to a neighbor's house to participate in the holiday service. The holiday Shemini Atseret is described in the Bible as a time of rejoicing. During regular times, before the outbreak of the war it was customary in our town to conduct Hakafot, as a preview for Simchat Torah, (the dancing with the Torah.)
People sang and danced endlessly. On this night however, barely anyone raised his voice. The words of the prayers were stuck in the worshippers' throats. The service resembled a service in a mourner's house, or the reading of the lamentations on Tisha b'Av.
Everyone was visibly heartbroken. During the services I reminisced about the joyous celebrations of previous years: the colorful flags that the children carried topped with red apples and a lit candle (which was stuck in the apples).
The children pushed each other trying to kiss Rabbi Shapiro's little Torah. It was a special small sized scroll that the rabbi carried with him when he traveled abroad. With love and devotion the rabbi bent down to each child, so he could reach and kiss his Torah Tonight, the worshippers felt in their hearts that under the brutality of the Nazis that flooded us with a sea of hatred our lives were fraught with mortal danger.
We were not tolerated much before, but now God and mankind had abandoned us. Despite my pessimistic outlook, like a good Jew, a ray of hope was still nestling in my heart. Jews are known for their stiff-neckedness, not in vain. The thrust and belief in the Almighty never diminished, even in the most tragic moments.
That Simchat Torah night I made up my mind, come what it may, my brother and I had to get out from this hopeless situation. The only way out, was to escape to the Soviet Union, across the newly established borders near our town.
On October 25, 1939, my brother and I left our birthplace Strzyzow with the hope that we would be able to come home for the Passover holiday. By the grace of God we both survived. To our sorrow, we never saw our father, sister and her family again. God shall avenge their innocent blood.
<<< back to top
THE ALTE REBETZIN, (THE RABBI'S WIFE.)
The Alte Rebetzin was the wife of Rabbi Moshe Leib Shapiro, who was known for his controversial personality. He didn't get along well with his congregation in our shtetl, despite the fact that he was a very pious and godly person. He was a Talmudic scholar and well versed in the holy books, scriptures of earlier and later centuries.
The general understanding of his odd personality was that he was upset about the Haskalah (enlightenment) movement that was spreading throughout Galicia. He was troubled about how this modernization had intruded into the Orthodox, Hasidic world. He also noticed how the Haskalah movement had influenced the Hasidic youth in the Galician shtetlach, and felt powerless to do anything about it.
Rabbi Moshe Leib kept a keen eye on his congregation and tried very hard to persuade the young people not to stray from the Orthodox-Hasidic way of life. The Rabbi considered young people reading secular books or even a Yiddish newspaper a breach of faith.
Chana Shapiro, the Rabbi's wife, who was endearingly called, "The Alte Rebetzin," was the granddaughter of the famous Rabbi from Sandz, the founder of a rabbinical dynasty. Her personality was entirely different than her husband's. She was a soft spoken, motherly person who looked at things from a different perspective. She also opposed any deviation from basic religious behavior, but her approach was more realistic, more understanding, and also more forgiving.
Her insight prevented her from becoming angry at the entire world. She realized that the younger generation was thirsty for secular knowledge. She knew that no one could stop the young peoples' curiosity about the rest of the world, especially by force or threat.
The young synagogue dwellers habitually kept an open secular book under the table while sitting in front of an open Talmudic tractate studying old-fashioned rules and strictures. From secular books they thirstily drew their knowledge about a different world.
At the outbreak of World War I, when the army of the Czarist Russia broke through the Galician frontline, many of the residents in our shtetl were forced to evacuate. They were afraid of the unfriendly Russian Cossacks, the would-be occupiers of the area. Many of the evacuees from our shtetl, including Rabbi Moshe Leib Shapiro, wound up in Vienna, the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
In the fourth year of the war, Rabbi Moshe Leib became mortally ill and passed away. Because of his sudden death, the authorities wanted to perform an autopsy which is against Jewish religion.
The family turned to Baron Rothchild to intervene. As a result of the intervention the authorities relented and released the body for burial. After the war ended, the widowed Rabbi's wife returned home, and took up residency in the big house that her husband built years ago before the outbreak of the war.
Her son, Rabbi Nechemiah remained in Vienna. The Rebetzin's apartment was adjacent to the big sanctuary that was part of the building. The three-story brick building was one of the nicest buildings in town. The front of the building faced the market-square, and had two stores that she rented out. She also rented the two upper flats. The rental income partially helped her with the upkeep of her household.
The sanctuary, that was called in Yiddish, "The Kloiz," had a rich collection of many ancient books, Scriptures, and Talmudic tractates that occupied an entire wall. The Holy Ark was a masterwork of woodcraft by an unknown artist. After the Rebetzin's return from Vienna, a special team of painters imported from another city refurbished the interior.
Natives of Strzyzow who had immigrated to the United States funded the restoration of the House of God. There was an upper gallery for women, where the Rebetzin worshiped, but in the later years, when women began wearing hats instead of wigs, the Rebetzin was unhappy with their headgear.
To demonstrate her dissatisfaction, she stopped worshipping in the gallery. At her request, a little cabin was built in a corner of the main sanctuary where she prayed for the rest of her life. The cabin had a little curtained window through which the sound of the prayers was heard to the delight of the Rebetzin.
In her will she requested that her casket be built from the boards of the cabin. Despite the Rebetzin's old age, there were no wrinkles on her gentle, finely chiseled facial features. She was a heavy-set woman, and her face expressed love and reverence for everyone who came in touch with her.
For household help, she hired orphan girls only. She personally saved their earnings for the girls' dowries. When there was enough money she married them off and another orphan took her place. As children who have lost a father cling to their mother, the same thing happened to the bereaved Hasidim of Rabbi Moshe Leib.
After his departure they clung to the old widowed Rebetzin, considering her the rightful inheritor of the Rabbi's wisdom and piousness. Although customarily, women are not versed in the holy books, the Hasidim continued to conduct their Torah discourses in her presence.
Every Friday night, Sabbaths and holidays, as soon as they had eaten their meals at home, they gathered around the Rebetzin's table. They discussed the chapter of the week, sang Hasidic songs and told tales about ancient rabbinical sages. The Rebetzin always prepared for the Hasidim a tasty, "Tzimes" (desert) from carrots with raisins, or a special chicken liver concoction that they ate with a lusty appetite, smacking their lips loudly.
The Hasidim showered the Rebetzin with compliments, telling her each time that she had outdone herself. The lavish compliments addressed to the Rebetzin were a part of the ritual during each gathering. The Rebetzin's face shone with radiance like a mother hen listening to the Hasidim's remarks, watching the happy faces of her admirers.
Following the treat, the Hasidim's spirit rose and they began singing traditional Hasidic melodies. The Rebetzin was a full sized woman who occupied a wide armchair at the head of the table. There was always a heavy prayer book and a Psalter in front of this dear lady. From these books she beseeched the Almighty and supplicated for the well being of the community.
On weekdays there was a cup of small change on the table for alms for the poor. The Hasidim revered the Rebetzin and considered her as their leader, believing that the Rabbi's spirit hovered over her body. She was in her seventies during my boyhood when I spent many of my childhood days in the aura of her spiritual being. She spoke softly, with a smile on her gentle face, to the delight of her admirers.
My father and I spent many evenings in the Rebetzin's house because we did not have a regular family household. I had no mother. There was only my father and I, therefore, the Rebetzin's house was like a second home to us, especially in wintertime, where we felt warm and cozy.
My father of blessed memory, besides being a distant relative, was her confidant and her official representative. He paid her taxes to the authorities when they were due, and he also collected the weekly contributions for the upkeep of the sanctuary.
After the Rebetzin's departure to a better world, my father told me that she had a premonition about the timing of her death. My father was privy to her will. In the will she expressed her wish that local women should not participate in the preparation of her body for the burial, because she considered them not pious enough.
Seventeen kilometers from our shtetl, there was an extremely Hasidic little town, and that's where she had joined the Burial Society. She requested that upon her death, those women be immediately notified to come and prepare her body according the Jewish custom.
One time during a routine visit by my father on a cold wintry day, when the days were very short, he noticed some sadness on her face. "Why such a sad face?" My father asked. "Don't you feel well?" In response, the Rebetzin spilled out her worries to my father: "You know, Reb Yankel," she said. "It worries me that I might die on a Friday, during the shortest days of the year and the women from the nearby town would not be able to come and do what they are supposed to do with my body.
In the event they do come, I'm afraid that they will not be able to return home before the beginning of the Sabbath." "Rebetzin! What are you talking about? You have a long life before you, and you shouldn't be talking about death and funerals," my father reprimanded her.
Shortly after this conversation took place, on a wintry Friday, the Rebetzin fell ill and lapsed into a coma. She was in a coma for a whole week till the next Friday, when she expired. It seemed as if she had prolonged her comatose state to provide a chance for all her children to be summoned to her deathbed. Once they had all arrived, she returned her noble soul to the Creator.
It was on a Friday, at the beginning of the Jewish month "Shevat," on the shortest day of the year, when the women from the nearby town were summoned. They washed and purified the body according to the Jewish custom, while a pair of horses hitched to a carriage was standing by. As soon as the women finished their job they left and arrived home just in time to light the Sabbath candles. Everyone believed that the worrisome problem that the Rebetzin shared with my father was a prophecy. She foresaw that her end was near, and it would be on a short Friday.
She was buried near another Rebetzin, her cousin from Lancut. Our town was proud that two great Rebetzins were interned in our cemetery. Unfortunately, the cemetery that was located in the center of town was wiped off the face of the earth during the Holocaust. No sign of the cemetery is left, except the memories of the Alte Rebetzin that linger in the memories of the few people that survived.
<<< back to top
FOR THE SIN COMMITTED RUNNING TO DO EVIL
(FROM THE CONFESSION PRAYER ON THE DAY OF ATTONEMENT)After three years apprenticeship filled with hardship and struggle, my 16 year-old brother finally became a qualified baker. Soon after, he found a job in a small bakery in Rzeszow, a big commercial city in our region, 30 kilometers from our birthplace Strzyzow.
During my childhood I was smitten with a wanderlust nerve by which I was constantly bugged. In fact, I grew into adulthood with the wanderlust bug that is still in me to this day. I always dreamed about going places and exploring new horizons.
The first time that I began materializing my wanderlust was when I was eight-years-old. I decided to visit my brother in the big city.
It happened on one summertime day during the longest days of the year. It was a warm Sabbath afternoon when the entire shtetl was having their afternoon nap, including my father. My wanderlust bug overtook my logical thinking. On that afternoon I decided that it would be a good time to travel to the big city and visit my brother.
While writing this story I reminisced my youthful sins.
I began my adventure by helping myself to my father's wallet when he was deeply immersed in his dreams. I knew where he put his wallet away for the Sabbath. Taking the money out from my father's wallet was my first transgression after which many more followed. I wondered, why didn't the money burn my fingers? It is well known that according to the Jewish laws, touching money on the Sabbath is strictly forbidden. A surprising atheistic thought for an eight-year-old, wouldn't you say? The next transgression was traveling by train to see my brother.
The train to the big city passed our shtetl thrice daily. In the morning, midday, and in the evening. In summertime, the evening train passed our city before the end of the Sabbath.
In the days when this episode occurred, everyone, especially in a little place like ours, strictly observed the Sabbath. One could seldom find a Jewish soul riding a train on the Sabbath and holidays unless for a medical emergency.
Nonchalantly I went to the train station, bought a ticket and boarded the train to Rzeszow. I was thinking that by the time the train arrived in the big city the Sabbath would be over.
My cousin Hersh was a skinny little boy, and taller than I was. We were the same age. He was my trusted confidant and only he knew about my train trip. I made him promise that he would not tell my father about my devilish plan. He was with me at the station when I boarded the train, looking at me with envious eyes.
Needless to say, my adventure was poorly planned and foolish indeed.
On the train, the conductor mocked me with anti-Semitic remarks, which did not bother me because we were used to living in a mocking atmosphere. After a while the conductor realized that I was traveling solo. He began asking where I was going and with whom. I lied and told him that my brother would be waiting for me in Rzeszow at the station.
When I arrived in Rzeszow I was stunned. It was the first time in my life that I had seen such a huge station with so many passengers and trains coming and going. The platforms were brightly lit with electrical lights which was also a first for me. We did not have electricity in our town. When I stepped off the train and went into the waiting room, I suddenly realized that I did not have my brother's address. All what I remembered was the name of my brother's employer, Mr. Shteinmetz. There were many bakeries in that city, and many people with the same name.
I felt lost. What does a little boy do when he is lost? He cries. So did I.
Luckily, there were a few Jewish young men at the station and one young man saw me standing in a corner crying. I wore the round, velvet hasidic cap with curled ear-locks on both sides of my face. They came over to ask me why I was crying. Instead of responding I broke out in such a crying spasm that I couldn't talk. They told me to relax and to stop crying.
Sobbingly I told that I was looking for my brother who works in a bakery, and the employer's name is Shteinmetz. The young men looked at each other and no one seemed to know any baker by that name. I found out later that it was a very small, unknown bakery located in a basement. The young men discussed among themselves what to do with the little boy. They were determined not to me leave in the station. Subsequently, one young man recalled that not far from the station was a little candy store, and the owner's name was Shteinmetz.
With the thought that one Shteinmetz might know another Shteinmetz, a baker, they decided to take me there. After I was taken to the candy store they told the storeowner my tragic story. The owner's wife, a red-faced heavy set woman, began to interrogate me asking where I came from, and what was my father's name. Hearing that my father's name was Yankel Langsam, she began screaming:
Oy vey! I know your father, and I knew your stepmother, may she rest in peace. She lived in the same building before she married your father.
Obviously, knowing my father, she knew where my brother was working. The woman immediately summoned her teenage daughter and told her to take me to my brother. The girl took my hand and off we went to see my brother. In my childish mind, the girl seemed to be a beauty, and her hand was so warm that it gave me a pleasant feeling, that lingers in my mind to this day.
On the way to the bakery, my eyes were popping out, not knowing where to look first. I was overwhelmed with the sights of the big city, especially the showcases and window displays. I was sure that this was the biggest city in the world, though there were only fifty thousand people living in that city.
When we arrived in the bakery, my brother was standing bent over a big vat filled with dough. His face was powdered with flour, and so were his clothes. When he saw me enter the basement, he met me with a smile and approached me to kiss my cheeks without being able to shake my hand because they were plastered with dough. He soon realized that I came alone except for the girl that brought me to him. He glanced at the clock on the wall and immediately realized that I left Strzyzow before the end of the Sabbath.
"Does father know where you are?"
With my eyes down to the floor I shamefacedly answered, "No."
Even though he loved me very much, he became angry and said:
"Is this another one of your shticks? Don't you think that it is time for you to grow up and stop causing aggravation to our father? Don't you realize how hard it is for him to take care of you?"
From his questions it occurred to me that my father had complained that he could not control my behavior, having to bring me up without a mother. My father was never home, he was peddling in the villages to eke out a living.
Then my brother continued his reproach.
"Do you at least realize what Father is going through right now, not knowing your whereabouts?"
I solemnly swear that after he ended his painful questioning, I was so ashamed that I wished that the earth would open and swallow me forever. I honestly regretted my thoughtless adventure, but it was too late. What is done is done.
And, if my brother's scolding was not enough, there was this lady, the baker's wife who was standing nearby, she was rubbing it in by telling me:
"Do you know the punishment for desecrating the Sabbath? Was this a proper behavior of a nice little Jewish boy who wears a hasidic cap and curly ear-locks?
I had no answer to her questions. I stood there and said nothing. In addition, I was hungry and sleepy.
Consequently, my brother had to wash up, get dressed and take me to his place where he was living. He fed me and put me to bed. Instead of bidding me goodnight he said:
"If you would have written me a note, letting me know that you want to come to see me, I would have gladly sent you the money for a ticket."
How did he know that I took my father's money without permission, I wondered?
"Then you could have spent a few days and seen the city lights at night, and the showcases during daytime. But…" he said angrily:
"Since you acted so irresponsibly, I am sending you home tomorrow morning."
Next thing I knew, he woke me up at daybreak, took me to the train station and handed me over to a friend of his, Samuel Schreiber. Mr. Schreiber was returning home after spending the Sabbath with his favorite Rabbi. My brother told him about me and asked him to watch me on the train and hand me over to my father who would surely be waiting for the train's arrival.
Back at home in Strzyzow, on that unfortunate Sabbath afternoon, my father had wakened up from his nap, went to the synagogue as usual, and did not suspect anything. He expected to find me there with the other kids, and after the service to take me home for the customary Sabbath third meal. When he did not see me at the services he began asking the boys if anybody saw me. No one seemed to know anything. My father began to worry. He searched in all my favorite places but there was no sign of me.
The day was coming to an end, and the darkness moved in after the sun disappeared behind the horizon. He went to Aunt Tova to interrogate my cousin Hersh. My father knew that he was my confidant and a silent partner to all my mischievous deeds. Even though Hersh was sworn to secrecy, when my father threatened him with a spanking he broke down and told my father that I had left by train to see my brother in Rzeszow. My father regretted that he had not thought to ask Hersh about my whereabouts sooner.
Hersh was a much better behaved child than I was. He studied better in cheyder and was more obedient to his widowed mother. The truth was-I was a bad influence on him.
Hersh told my father that he was at the station and saw me board the train. My father, hearing the story, felt the sky fell upon his head. Most dreadful thoughts came to his mind. He was thinking:
"An eight-year-old child, at night in a big city, God knows what could happen to him."
This feeling that my father experienced I understood only when I became a father myself. This episode took place in 1929, when inter-city communication barely existed during daytime. The few private telephone subscribers were connected to the local post office that closed at six o'clock
My father spent a sleepless night, and in the early morning he went to the train station to meet the train from Rzeszow. The trains going to and from Rzeszow met in Strzyzow. My father waited to see if the morning train would bring me back; if not he was ready to board the train to Rzeszow.
In the meantime, the hero of the story sat in train, pale faced with sleepy eyes looking out the window, which I loved to do whenever I traveled by train. I always admired the beautiful countryside, the green meadows, the rivers and brooks. The plowed fields intermingled with green stripes of growing agricultural products. They looked like chessboards. In Poland the land was divided into little parcels among the poor peasants who hardly eked out a living. The big landowners were much more prosperous.
This time however, my thoughts were somewhere else; they were in Strzyzow, where I would soon meet the scourge of my father who would probably be waiting for me with the belt in his hand. I knew that this time I would not escape scot-free without punishment for committing several cardinal sins. I had desecrated the Sabbath; I had taken money from his valet and had caused him so much aggravation. My chaperon, Mr. Schreiber, a devoted Hasid noticed my sad face filled with fear and agony.
"Don't be afraid," Mr. Schreiber said. "Fathers are merciful and forgiving. As soon as the train reaches the station and you see your father, approach him tenderly, grab his hand and plant a hot kiss. Such action will soften his heart."
As soon as the train reached the station and we disembarked I followed Mr. Schreiber's advice and kissed my father's hands. He stood there in silence. He couldn't talk. Tears rolled down his cheeks. I was convinced that since I'd seen him yesterday a few gray hairs were added to his beard. To this day I've never forgiven myself for causing the addition of the gray hairs. He sighed deeply; he lifted his eyes heavenward, expressing thanks to God for returning me safely. My chaperon conveyed my brother's message in a whisper, which probably was a plea to go easy with me.
"Let's go home," my father said. "Yesterday's supper is still waiting for you."
When we got home, the table was still covered with the Sabbath tablecloth, the candlesticks were still on the table, and his prayer shawl was unfolded. Things that he used to do on Saturday nights. The bed showed no sign of being slept in it. After breakfast, my father said to me:
"This time I will not punish you for your despicable behavior, but beware. If you do something again, your punishment will double. Then I will repay you for your trip to Rzeszow."
What can I say? It did not take too long to commit another transgression that sparked my father's ire:
My father of blessed memory had inherited a fine leather bound set of the Bible that he forbade me to touch. Well, I did not heed his command and took one book with me to school to show to my friends. It didn't take long and a page was torn in the book. Then my father kept his promise and paid off what he owed me. I received a spanking for the torn page and for my trip to see my brother.It was a punishment that I remembered for a long time. However, deep inside I knew that he loved me, but was forced to do it. I could see in his face that he regretted causing me pain.
<<< back to top