[Page 108]
Alone in the Forests
by Moshe Hoffer (the man of Jaczysk)
In 1942 many Jews found refuge in the thick forest in the environs, and hid
there in groups. The forests around Lizhensk covered vast areas and were very
deep. Nevertheless, often a murdered Jew was found there, and it was obvious
that the residents of the area had their hands in the matter.
There were also occasions where the gentiles would run and put themselves out
to inform the Germans about hidden Jews. Until this day, I do not believe that
they received any form of reward for this. They did this solely for the
enjoyment of witnessing the death of Jews.
There was there a Christian dwarf woman who ran several kilometers in order to
inform the authorities that three Jewish girls were hiding in the forest. They
came to kill them that very day.
I hid with my wife and brother in a far off corner of the forest, and for some
reason, they did not find me. There were occasions when I ran into a farmer or
two, however since I was a healthy and powerful young man, they were apparently
afraid of me and were careful.
We three discussed and decided that if it would happen that they would follow
upon our heels, each of us would flee in a different direction, and a few days
later, when the ways become clear, we would all meet together in the home of
Lurisz the forester, an acquaintance who was compassionate to us.
That is what we did. When we felt that someone was stalking us, we separated
and went in different directions. We hid in tunnels or upon trees in the
forest. Once I ended up far away from my brother. Two days later I returned,
and I approached the house of Lurisz with extreme caution. I felt that
something was not proper there. I looked about and realized that my brother's
clothes were fluttering on the clothesline. I understood and suspected. It was
immediately obvious to me that they had murdered my brother, and that I must
move away from there.
The problem was with weapons. It was not prudent to be alone without weapons.
From where could I obtain these holy weapons? I lived for a number of days as a
pursued animal, however I did not want to go far away from that area. I knew
that in that area I would somehow find hidden weapons.
Once, one of the young men of the area, a friend of Julek Lurisz, the son of
forester, met me. He told me that Julek murdered my brother with live
ammunition. I searched for Julek, for I desired to find him, meet him and get
even with him. I was enchanted with the idea of finding the weapons with which
he had murdered my brother as well as taking revenge for the blood of my
brother.
I ambushed him near the house day and night. On one occasion, all the men went
out. Only the forester's daughters remained. I took the opportunity and
ascended onto the upper chamber of the roof. I searched in the scattered hay. I
found a revolver in one corner, and three bullets in another corner. I went
back out to the forest with my great find. When the two of them returned, the
father and son, they suspected something, and realized what had happened to
them. They began to search for me between the thickets of the trees. They did
not find me, however they did find the revolver that I had hid in the thickets.
In my heart, I decided to free myself of these friends. I suddenly realized
that if I would not take care of them first, my life would be in constant
danger. However, again from where would I obtain weapons?
I went out some distance from my hiding place and arrived at the edge of the
settlement in the forest. I knew that in the last house there could always be
found arms. I would take them, and what will be will be.
I found a lone gentile in the far off hut. I requested that he sell me arms. I
would give him the last fifteen dollars that I possessed. He did not agree. I
threatened to beat him. He apparently made a calculation that he would obtain
the money, and the weapons would eventually return to him if he would inform on
me to the people of his village, who would then take care of me,
since I only had a revolver without ammunition. I had thirty bullets. I showed
him them and told him that if left the hut before I would disappear, he would
forfeit his life. Only at that point did the gentile realize that, with me,
there were no games in my situation. I left. I left with one thought, to
liquidate Julek the son of the forester, lest he liquidate me.
We stalked each other for two days. Once my wife went out to the street to
search for me, and Julek captured her. This time, the young man was
intelligent. Rather than liquidating her immediately, he could turn her over to
the Gestapo and receive money for her. I met them on the route. I saw Julek and
my blood rushed to my head, the blood of my slain brother. I forgot that my
wife was next to him. I shot and killed him.
We fled. We traveled day and night until we reached Krajowice, twenty
kilometers away from Lurisz's house. I knew that they would conduct a search
for me, and I would have to get far away.
Now, the main problem was food. When my brother was alive we managed. Now that
I was alone, how could I leave my wife alone, forlorn. This was so difficult in
my eyes that I was disgusted with my life.
I decided to search out some means. There were farmers who sold me food, and
there were some who would give me without requesting payment. Michel Romanski
of Jadszywka fed us for free. There were nights when we hid with him, and he
endangered himself on our behalf. For the most part, I had to obtain my food
through my own powers. I broke into locked areas and stole chickens from
chicken coops. We subsisted. The situation became more serious, and we were
forced to leave the area. There were too many dangers. There was reason to
think that they would talk among themselves and chase after me. The ground
burned below me.
We again fled.
One night, I arrived with my wife in Brozie. Dogs barked. Farmers left their
houses, and suspected that strangers had arrived. I saw myself surrounded on
all sides, so I jumped onto the rooftop of Wolek Dzdzycz. They did not find me.
The captured my wife, and she stood alone. I peaked through the cracks in the
roof and saw in the darkness of the night several farmers taking her toward
town. I jumped from the rooftop, caught up with them, and shouted to them in
Polish to stop. They apparently thought that this was a matter involving the A.
K. and they fled.
We also fled.
Once we arrived to one of the fields of a gentile that we knew as a close
friend, tired and crushed from fear and travail. His son requested that we
immediately leave if we wish to remain alive. We were unable to leave the place
due to our great weariness, so we remained. At night, it became clear to us why
the gentile was afraid. We slept on the rooftop and suddenly the area below us
was lit up with flashlights. Shouts were heard: Jews, we have found you,
come down to us.
These were members of the A. K. He knew that they were waiting to come to him.
He was forced to expose us. I saw that there was no other means, and I said to
them: Okay, we will come down. However why are you only concerned about
us, for on the third road there are other Jews. They believed us. The
desire for murder, the bloodthirstiness for Jewish blood had blurred their
reasoning. They went with joy and shouts to the third street. There was only
one of them left to guard us. I seized the opportunity, came down from the
roof, put on my shoes and began to flee. The shegetz began to run after me, and
my wife also fled at that time.
In the interim, winter arrived again. The cold ate our bodies, which were
stripped down to rags. We were weary of the constant fear, from the suspicion
and persecution. The snow made our escapes very difficult. We always left
behind footprints, which made our tracks obvious. My life became wearisome to
me. Various thoughts came to my mind. If it were not for my responsibility to
my wife, I would have come to a terrible decision.
In the meantime, the news came that the war would be ending soon. People were
beginning to return to Lizhensk. The desire to live was reawakened. I decided
to return to my town.
I could not bear the destruction of Lizhensk, the terrifying scene. On the one
hand, there was sadness and loneliness, and on the other hand, joy over the
calamity of our enemies, the Christian residents of the town. All of this did
not permit us to remain in Lizhensk. I went with my wife to Krakow, and at the
first opportunity, I left Poland, which was saturated with Jewish blood.
[Page 111]
My Visit to Lizhensk in 1950
by M. Spergel
{photos, meetings, and lists}
When I arrived in the middle of the day to the market plaza of Lizhensk, my
former town, my beloved town, I froze like a stone. I was petrified.
Where was I? What business do I have here? What is my connection to this place?
When I regained my composure and began to think clearly again, I looked around
and saw nothing of what I had been used to seeing. The marketplace was empty
and desolate. This was the same marketplace that had always been familiar to
me. The same houses stood around the marketplace, everything remained as
before. The clock of the marketplace chimed, as it had done for years, but
nevertheless, it was not the same. Was I having a summer dream? What was going
on here? The desolate reality reminded me of a beloved past, which once was and
had turned into a dream.
I stood in the corner of the marketplace. I got off the truck, which served as
a bus. It had brought me here from Rzeszow. My eyes gazed on the second corner
of the marketplace. There I saw a beautiful decorative garden that was
surrounded by a lovely painted fence. I drew closer and saw stone monuments
inside the fence, marked by a five-pointed star. They were graves. Later I
found out that this was the burial place of the first Russian invaders, who
fought with the last Germans as they were retreating.
I looked ahead, and saw ghostly figures before my eyes. These human forms were
not known to me. They were strangers, not from here, they were superimposed,
apparently, onto Lizhensk
these people did not pay attention to me, as if
I was also one of them, a stranger among strangers.
I began to stroll slowly through the streets of the marketplace, between the
rows of empty houses. A few of them were occupied by people who moved to here
from Lemberg and its environs[3].
The rest of the houses had their windows boarded up by protruding planks, and a
few were destroyed.
As I walked near the houses I felt that these desolate houses were staring at
me like skeletons, staring out of their eye sockets and mourning to me:
Matityahu Spergel, look what has become of us. Do you remember the days
when we were bustling with people, and with Jewish life? With pining Jewish
youth, and singing and playing Jewish children?
Yes, I remembered with certainty who lived in each house, how everyone
conducting his life. Every house whispered to me about its history. A mournful
dirge was emerging from each window, over the generations of Jews that lied
their lives here and now are no more, about their joys and agonies, until the
terrible storm arrived that swept them far away from here. Some were persecuted
and exiled from their nest, and others were swept away with the broom of
murder, to be slaughtered next to communal graves that they had dug with their
own hands.
I reached my father's house. It was a ruin, a heap of old bricks. All the rows
of houses next to it were empty, and the stores were closed. From the other
side of the house of Reb Dovidel Rothman until the house of Yosef Kanner, there
were only two government stores open. One was in the inn of Reb Yosele Sobel,
which was now a cloth store. The daughter of Wladek Doganga occupied the office
of Reb Alter Anfang of blessed memory, and Leje the daughter of the shoemaker
was the cashier. The second store was in the workshop of Reb Shmelke Horowitz.
It was now a vegetable store. Of all the rows of houses, only the house of Reb
Bunim Zonenbilik was inhabited.
In the side of my uncle Kalman Kirshenblatt, the homes of Reb Zalman
Naritzienfeld, Ber Strauch, Wolf Wachs, and Meir Strauch had stood. Now there
is no memory of these houses. All of them had been destroyed. The ruins had
been cleared, and in its place there was a well-tended decorative garden. It
was now possible to easily see the Prosbita (church hall) and the house of the
priest from there.
A store had been opened in the house of Mendel Spergel. This was the only
leather store in town, and it was also government owned. The director was the
youngest of the Krawociks, the youngest of three brothers who lived in a house
next to the house of Reb Chaim Miller. I entered the store. Krawocik recognized
me immediately and asked me to sit down. He had enough time on his hands to
engage in a lengthy conversation. Purchasers did not pester him, for there were
none at all. When I asked him about why there are no purchasers in the store,
he answered me that the farmers do not come to town. Every village has its own
cooperatives that supplied all their needs. During the conversation he informed
me that the town library is now found in the upper level, which was the former
living quarters of Mendel Spergel. I decided to go to the library, as perhaps I
would still be able to find there some of the books from our Tarbut
library, or books from the Workers' Library, which was founded many years ago
by Leibush Reichenthal.
I found there a very well stocked library. The librarian politely answered all
my questions, however to my dismay I did not find any of the books that I was
seeking. When I asked her if she knew anything about the Tarbut
books, it became evident that she had no idea at all to what I was referring.
I came down from the library. I strolled through the marketplace. Suddenly,
someone called out my name. I saw someone whose head was looking down to the
ground like a captive. He was shouting Spergel! Spergel!. It was
Dzidek Heiwer, the shoemaker from old Ulszan. He had a wide smile on his face,
and his only eye twinkled. He pointed downward and asked me:
What do you see here? Who is this?
I looked downward. It was a gravestone with the engraved name of Shimon Mosler.
Next to it were other gravestones. The entire marketplace was paved with
gravestones, with their engraving facing downward and their backsides facing
up. On a few of them, the names that were engraved on the front were also
engraved on the back, so it was possible to read the names of the Jews. They
abused the Jews even after their deaths.
I attempted to walk toward the side, so that I would not trample on the holy
remnants of generations of Jews whose graves had been desecrated by the Nazis.
Next to the monument of Shimon Mosler was the monument of Chaim Shank. Both of
them were resting on the side of the road of the train. I went to the house of
Yosef Kanner, and I saw other stones whose engraving was exposed: Henia Kanner
of blessed memory and Rachel Berger of blessed memory. Next to the house of
Bunim Zonenbilik was a monument with the name Sheindel Zonenbilik of blessed
memory. I surmised that the beloved Jews of Lizhensk, the last of those to be
murdered in Lizhensk during the Nazi liquidation efforts were commanded to
uproot the gravestones from the cemetery and use them to pave the marketplace.
They attempted to place the stones near the homes of the deceased, so that they
would be near their former dwelling places.
This was very blatant, and emphasized the greatness of the tragedy. What was
transpiring with the uprooters of our holy monuments in the final moments of
their lives, what game were those on their way to their deaths playing with the
props of death and memory? Was this faith in the everlastingness of the soul,
or a trick to anger the murderers?
{Photo page 113 The storehouse that the Germans erected near the
gravesite of Rebbe Elimelech.}
I arrived at the street of the synagogue. More than half of the street was
completely destroyed. There was no remnant of the Great Synagogue, the Beis
Midrash, and the kloiz of Reb Chanan Elimelechs. The new synagogue, which was
built by Reb Berechel, stood intact. The Germans turned it into a flourmill.
The houses from between the Hebrew School until behind the Beis Midrash were
destroyed, and the empty field on that site, as well as the empty field that
extended to the house of Elia Metzger served as a parking lot for the wagons of
the farmers during the fairs.
The homes of Leibche Beril, Yankel Zales, and Falek Goldbrenner were completely
destroyed. The guesthouse was in top condition, and was inhabited by Poles who
had left Lemberg (Lvov) and the surrounding area, who were transplanted to
Lizhensk. The bathhouse was intact, however its windows were sealed and boarded
up, and its doors were locked.
As I returned along this road, I recognized that the on the wall of the house
of Moshe Neuman where the road sign used to say The Street of the Synagogue
(Ul. Boznica), it now says The Street of the Ruins (Ul. Ruina). I do not know
if this was meant to be a sign of the change that took place, or a testimony to
the abuse of our martyrs, which also exists in the progressive environment of
nationalist Poland.
On Reisha Street, death abounds as it does in the entire city. One does not see
a living being. Unexpectedly, Wladek Karaszinski and his wife appeared in front
of me. As soon as they spotted me, his wife broke out in weeping and choking
sobs.
Where is poor Akiva. He was such an observant, believing Jew. He lived
next door to me in neighborliness. If he had he paid, and if he did not
have he did not pay, and I never said anything to him. What were we
missing when there were Jews here?
Sincere tears flowed from her eyes. Her husband stood next to her without
uttering a word. He only shook his head in sorrow. There were the only
Christians of all those that I had met who participated in the mourning over
our calamity.
When I went down to Walawa Street, where Pinia Galler lived, I saw the valley.
It was there no more, for it had been sealed up with ruins and leveled with
earth. It was now level with the large field of the cemetery.
I the second home of Pinia Galler, the Christian Marguszka the large now lives.
She lives there with her son Manek and daughter Zuszka, who was a former friend
of Shrpintza Galler, the daughter of Pinia. I saw several children playing near
the house. I asked them who lives there, and they told me:
Our grandmother and mother.
I immediately knew who they were. I asked the children to call them. Marguszka
came out with her daughter. They immediately recognized me and began to tell of
frightful incidents, one similar to the other. I had already heard many of
these, and my head was full of them. My senses were becoming dulled to these,
and I was becoming indifferent. The tales were horrific, one more frightful
than the next, however for some reason I was becoming indifferent.
In the midst of their repetitive stories, they also related to me the following
incident:
They were both standing at the threshold of thee house and they saw nearby in
the cemetery a German arguing with two girls. One of them was Shrpintza, the
daughter of Galler, who brought out a bundle of gold and other valuables from
her bosom, in an attempt to redeem herself and her friend with this soul
ransom. The German returned the objects to her, as he did not want them. The
second girl was the granddaughter of Reb Shia Shiller, the daughter of the
Wacholdars who was making the sign of the cross continuously and did not admit
to her Jewishness. To their sorrow, this was to no avail for both of them. The
German murdered them both
murdered both of them. The lust for murder was
greater than the desire for a bribe and the fear of the cross.
I continued on to the Street of the Train. I saw that a saloon had been opened
in Potasher's house. I entered. Urbanski, from the pig market, was standing
near the food and drink area. He was pouring drinks for the farmers. He
recognized me and came to me, greeted me, invited me to sit down, and
immediately brought a bottle of drink and glasses. He requested that I drink
with him. I suspected that he wished to apologize for something, that he
thought that I suspected that he himself took the belongings of Potasher. He
immediately began to relate that Yechezkel Potasher leased the saloon to him,
and he pays monthly rent to the lawyer Jaszowci, who was appointed by Yechezkel
as a guardian of his property.
We continued to sit. He literally forced additional glasses of drink upon me,
and he continued to talk. He related that one time, late at night, someone
knocked on his door. He opened out, and two people who he barely knew entered.
They were Yusha Zeiwel and Dudenu, the son of Yoel Shaar. He was surprised, for
it would be very dangerous if this became known to the Germans. He gave them
enough food to fill them up, as well as provisions for the journey. When they
left, he requested that they not come back to him, for he was afraid. However
he promised them that he would place bread on his porch every evening, so that
they could come in the middle of the night to take it. Thus continued every
night he concluded until
until they were no longer in need
of bread.
{Photo page 115 One of the Potashers, Leibel Potasher of blessed memory,
who died of hunger in the expanses of Russia.}
I met with a school friend of mine. He told me that near the end of the war, he
saw a German bringing Yusha Zeiwel and Dudenu the son of Yoel Shaar to the
marketplace. Yusha had a long beard, and the son of Yoel Shaar was clasping a
loaf of bread in his hands.
On their final journey, Yusha said, so to speak, to his murderer: Today
you are taking us to be killed, tomorrow they will take you.
It became clear that they hid the entire time in the attic of Dzik Zawilski on
Reisha Street. They were able to withstand the Germans, however a small lack of
discretion caused them to be turned in. It was explained to me that they hung
out several rags to dry. A German noticed this and discovered them, captured
them, brought them to the rear of Berger's garden and murdered them by the gate.
Their grave can be found there until this day.
The Szadlanska
Two Christian women whom I knew met me in the marketplace. I have forgotten
their names. They informed me that they live on the Szadlanska in the house of
Yisrael Kastan (who was known as the sausage maker). A family grave was found
in the garden of this house, behind the window. They wished to participate in
our grief, the grief of the Jewish people, and they told me that they tend to
the grave and have planted flowers on it, and the flowers are growing
very nicely.
In the grave below the lovely flowers rests Reb Yisrael Kastan, his
wife, his eldest daughter and granddaughter. All of them were murdered by the
Nazis and buried on the spot.
Their second daughter, the wife of Feivel Wagner, and her two children, were
also murdered by the Germans and buried on that spot.
{Photo page 116 A storehouse for building materials, which the Germans
erected on the location of the synagogue and Beis Midrash.}
The Old Town
I heard the following from a farmer who is a resident of the old town. One day,
they gathered together all the Jews of the old town, men, women, and children,
and imprisoned them all in the garden of Melech Spiegel. They dug a large grave
near the stable, shot them all, and threw them into the communal grave.
After I had finished seeing our town that was now a monument, all that was left
for me to do was to go to see the cemetery.
As I neared it, I saw through the field the path and the outside of the
cemetery. The farmers travel to their place via the holy place. The place had
changed beyond recognition. There is not even a trace of graves, markers, and
monuments.
The gate had been destroyed and no longer exists. They thick trees, which used
to shade the monuments, had been uprooted. The entire area is desolate, without
shade from trees and without green grass.
Since I am a Cohen[4],
and I never before entered into the area of a cemetery, this time I also stood
a distance away. I was silent. In the eyes of my spirit I suddenly saw a Jewish
funeral in Lizhensk. The store shutters were closed. The shutters were lowered
with a rolling sound. The doors were slowly shut, one after another. People
dressed in black, with their heads looking downward, were all standing in small
circles in the middle of the street, extolling the virtues of the deceased who
was being brought to his rest.
Suddenly a heartrending scream broke forth, and people whispered: they
are already going out, they are walking. Immediately thereafter the
coffin covered in black was brought out, carried on the shoulders of four Jews.
Those attending the funeral also walked with the procession. In the meantime,
the old undertaker appeared with two black earthenware bowls, and his voice
hummed out in subdued agony: Charity saves from death .. charity saves
Those attending the funeral would stick their hands in their
pockets, take out coins and throw them into the bowls, convinced that they had
found the antidote to death.
Before the gate of the cemetery, Reb Gershon threw the bowls to the ground,
smashed them, and from the black shards took pieces to cover the eyes of the
deceased.
I was silent. All this was in the past. Here, Jews lived. Here they conducted
their lives, and whomever died had people to accompany him to his final resting
place
Now all the Jew of Lizhensk had disappeared without a funeral service, without
a burial, without a monument, without having been helped. The charity did not
save from death, and it did not even succeed in choosing a comfortable death
for those who donated.
{Photo page 117 Lizhensk in the memory of its children.}
I went to see the hilltop where the tent over the gravesite of Rebbe Elimelech
from Lizhensk was situated. This place was called the Holy Place. I
simply wanted to view the cave of the holy Rebbe, the famous holy tent, one
more time, one final time. I did not find any trace of it. The place looked
like the rest of the cemetery. There was no remnant or marker over the tent. In
its place I only saw the remnants of the foundation of the tent that had been
removed from their place.
Lizhensk my town, may your soul be bound in the bonds of everlasting life.
[Page 118]
A Visit to Lizhensk in 1959
by David Steinbach
To Reb Mendel Rothman of blessed memory, whom I visited
When I returned to Poland in 1959 from the Siberian tundra, I decided to visit
the town of Lizhensk, where I spent most of my youth, and from where I had fled
at the outbreak of the war in 1939.
I did not imagine that I would find an active Jewish community, as there was
prior to the war. I had already heard about what had happened to the town of my
youth. Nevertheless, hearing is not similar to seeing, and I wished to see my
town with my own eyes one more time in my life.
When I descended from the train, I looked around to find a Jewish wagon driver
who would bring me to the town. The technological era did not pass Lizhensk by.
Now a fine, spacious bus makes its way from Podklasztor to the Rynek. It stops
by the train station to transport those who arrived. I, nevertheless, decided
to forgo the comfort, and I preferred to make the journey by foot. I walked
around the town, including the suburbs, lengthwise and widthwise several times.
An internal impulse spurred me on to go, to walk, and to search for anybody. I
walked around aimlessly, without a specific plan or purpose. In a moment of
clarity I realized that all that I was searching for and wished to find had
passed from the world, never to return. In such moments, these facts seem more
cruel and tragic than the human mind can understand, and one cannot expect
clarity of mind.
Lizhensk appeared to me as a town of ghosts. I recognized the streets, houses,
and empty fields, not by name and number, but rather by memory. I tried to
imagine in my mind the Jewish people, families and children who lived there
until the great destruction, generation after generation, as if they still
lived and continued the Jewish traditions. Thus, step by step, I stopped in
front of a house, yard, ruin or a simple alley. I had personal connections to
many homes, such as my childhood home, the homes of my friends and relatives,
etc.
I quickly arrived at the Rynek, to the house of Reb Moshe Neuman of blessed
memory. On the way, I passed Boznica Street, the center of cultural, communal
and religious life of Lizhensk of the past. Most of the homes were destroyed,
the Jewish institutions had disappeared, and the synagogues, Beis Midrash,
Talmud Torah, and Yavneh Hebrew School were all no longer in existence. The
cemetery had also been ruined and destroyed. The Nazi monster and its helpers
had no mercy even upon the honor of the dead and the resting place of our dear
ones was abandoned and destroyed. Every empty house, or more accurately, every
empty lot, brought back memories. Here was the room of Reb Yossel the teacher
of blessed memory, where every child began his education by learning the alef
beis. Next to it was the room of Reb Moshe Chaim the teacher, who taught Bible
to the Jewish children. In its midst was the building of the Talmud Torah,
where the students reached the level of study of Talmud and Jewish law.
In my imagination, I recreated the images of those who would come to the
synagogues and study halls each morning and evening, some for study, some for
prayers, and others just to catch some conversation about some matter or
another.
{Photo page 119 The tent over the gravesite that the Jewish of Vienna
erected over the old location that had been destroyed.}
All this was and is no longer. All that is left is a silent and neglected
valley, the valley of the cemetery with the renovated tent of Rebbe Elimelech
of holy blessed memory, which stands lonely and desolate and reminds humanity
of the terrible holocaust which was perpetrated, and of the Jewish life which
was cut off with such great cruelty. Once in a while, a guest from among the
holocaust survivors comes to lament, to accuse, to plead, and to shed tears.
As I returned to the town, I stopped by the home that was known as the kloiz of
Reb Chana Reb Melechs of holy blessed memory. It was noontime, and I remembered
the noble and honorable personality who used to sit there in prayer and
supplication until late in the afternoon, with his voice being heard from
outside the kloiz. Mendel Rothman of blessed memory was the name of that
personality. For some reason, of all people, he appeared as if alive before my
eyes.
There are other people among us who certainly remember Mendel Rothman before
the First World War, when he was a rich man, a well-to-do merchant and building
owner. I knew him when he was already old, in the twilight of his years. He was
old, bent and broken, but he nevertheless maintained his image, and what great
Jewish nobility exuded from his wretched appearance. He lived a life of
deprivation, he fasted often, and he satisfied himself with little when his
means became constricted and impoverished. He was always prepared to do
charitable works, to lend money for supporting charity and helping the poor.
Not only was his hand always extended, but one had the feeling that this Jew
was always thankful for the opportunity to merit to do such a good deed, and
thankful to the person who presented him with such an opportunity.
During my youth in the Beis Midrash, we organized a charitable group. We would
collect money for the poor of our town and others who were in need of a loan. I
do not remember even one occasion when Reb Mendel Rothman refused to lend the
required amount for a set time. My father of blessed memory was one of his
closest friends, and daily when father returned from the synagogue he would go
for a short time to the kloiz to inquire about his well being. Reb Mendel would
always ask him Nu Meirish, perhaps today you need a bit of money for some
Jew.
He was a Belzer Hassid and never once neglected to send a set sum to his Rebbe
at the appointed time. I remember one occasion where my father of blessed
memory raised a significant sum for a Jew, a discrete poor person who had lost
his livelihood. Mendel Rothman took out of his pocket 50 zloty, which was such
a sum that even a very rich person in our town would not have been willing to
donate.
I stood as the image of Reb Mendel Rothman stood before the eyes of my
imagination, as an example of the high stature of the Jews of Lizhensk, and I
thought: The town is destroyed and cannot be saved, we cannot save any of
the dear people who have passed on and who are here no longer. How can I
preserve the value of such people, who lived and conducted their activities in
this town and brought it fruits of glory, in order to transmit this value to us
and our children.
We must relate the praises of such people of stature, and whoever relates more
shall be praised.
[Page 121]
Myself, Death, and Meirish Steinbach
by M. Spergel
My feelings upon taking leave of Lizhensk were the same as the feelings of us
all: pain, collapse, and the end of the world. I will relate what happened
after that. All of this is in honor of the spiritual greatness of Reb Meirish,
whom I will never forget whom we will never forget.
At first, I was exiled to the plains of Siberia. After fifteen months I was
freed, and permitted to travel to wherever I wished. I wished to travel to a
warm climate to warm up my spirit. I went to Samarkand.
In Samarkand, I found shelter near the train station for several days. I was
not able to find a place to live. The city was overflowing with Jewish refugees
from Ukraine and Poland. I found out that a group was going out to the kolkhoz
farms[5].
I did not know in which direction they were traveling, however I decided to
travel with them rather than roaming about day and night in the street.
We traveled for several days until the train tracks ended, and then we
descended from the train. At the station, I met with several people whom I
knew, who like me were traveling without a clear objective. Avraham Horn and
his wife were there. We lodged in the train for several days until we found
shelter. After several days Avraham returned without his wife. She died on the
train. Death began to visit us.
Khazakhs with camels arrived and began to load the people, alive
and dead, onto the simple saddles of the desert boats. They tied
everything with ropes, including the people, so that they would not fall off
the camels as they moved. The caravan set out for the far off kolkhozes.
I was lucky. They loaded me on a wagon together with my brother and sister. We
traveled through wide plains, until we arrived at a school where thousands of
people lodged in cramped conditions. We were also put in with them. This was a
mixture of all types of people: professors, doctors, lawyers, and simple folk.
There were many families with several members, and there were also a large
number of wanderers who had been freed from the famous Russian camps. They saw
themselves as privileged, and they placed themselves down anywhere.
They wore torn and tattered clothing, and spent their days in removing lice. If
they remained in our vicinity for even one night, they would infect all the
people with lice, without any recourse.
When I awoke the next morning I saw next to me people who had died in the
meantime, naked as on the day of their birth. The privileged ones
stripped their clothes and took them to the Kazakh town in order to use them to
purchase food.
The dead lied among the living, and the living moved away from them. Like
embezzlers, blind and lame, they had to always be on the move. In the afternoon
the Kazakh funeral workers arrived, loaded the dead onto wagons and brought
them to dog graves, away from human habitation, on the wide plain.
The first to die from hunger were the intellectuals. They died like flies. The
simple folk displayed greater strength and were able to withstand the
difficulties.
There, I met Avraham Horn again. I met him the public kitchen where they
distributed a plate of thin soup to us. Two days after we met I saw him again,
having become larger, bloated from hunger. By the morning he had also died.
That day we went to the kolkhoz and received proper accommodations
in a donkey trench next to the kolkhozes, which was known as
Zamlianka.
We immediately went out to the plain and plucked dried grass that was called
Dziosan in order to make bedding. We slept on the floor.
In the kolkhoz, we found about ten people from the camps. A few died of hunger
before our eyes, and the rest, with their legs covered with rags, left.
Reb Yisrael Feldstein, and elderly man from Przeworsk, was with us along with
his single daughter. His wife had died in the plains of Siberia. He was a
healthy Jew, full of life. He always roamed around the huts looking for some
job, but there was nothing to grasp on to. In a short time he fell into a state
of deep apathy. He lied on his dziosan and did not want to move
from his place, even to eat or drink. His daughter begged him to eat, to arise
and strengthen himself, and to walk a bit in the clear air. He did not complain
about pain, for he suffered from no ailments. To every question about what is
wrong he said: I have no problem, however I have nothing to get up
for. The man was stripped of all desire for life. He did not request
anything, he made no demands, he only continued to life down without movement.
He accepted the food that his daughter brought him after pleas and tears. The
food was bread roles that we baked in a pot with out own hands.
Thus did Reb Yisrael lie for a few weeks until he passed away.
After his funeral we removed his dziosan mattress in order to air it out, and
we discovered an additional detail that hastened his death. All of the roles
that his daughter brought him dropped out of the mattress. Apparently, he
placed them under his mattress and did not eat them.
There were two other families from Rozwadow there. One was Reb Leibel Halbital,
with his wife and six year old son. The two parents died of hunger shortly
after they arrived, and the child was placed in the children's house. I don't
know what became of him.
The second family was that of the son of the rabbi of Rozwadow, with his wife
and three children. They remained in the kolkhoz for a period of time and
decided to move to Turkestan. However, death caught up to t hem even there. The
parents and the eldest daughter died of hunger, and I do not know what became
of the other children.
This was a period of waiting for certain death. A miracle occurred to us, and
myself, my brother and my sister all remained alive.
The city was filled with Jews, primarily Polish Jews. All of them roamed about
the market place, looking for a bit of livelihood, however only a very few were
able to find such. Most of them roamed about the city with worn out clothes,
neglected, awaiting certain death. Every morning brought with it new names who
were erased from the book of life. Once it became known to me that Suzi the
daughter of Yaakov (Yankel) Horn and her husband Chaim Metzger of Rzeszow were
among the dead.
I also wandered around aimlessly, consumed by hunger and despair. I tired of
life. Every day was like a year. During the nights I asked for death. When I
awoke in the middle of a long winter night and it was still dark, I prayed that
the darkness would continue forever, for the days were particular despised by
me.
I was hungry, starving, dirty and forlorn. To my good fortune, I still had my
Polish army tunic that served me as clothing for the day and a blanket at
night. With it, I was able to sleep in any place that was available, at time on
a sidewalk on a side road, at times on the ground of an open corridor, and at
times resting against the wall of a house that was not known to me.
My future held only one possibility death from hunger. I decided to
continue along the way, it did not matter to where, but what could I do in that
I held no certificate which would have granted me the right to travel in the
breadth of Russia, and no money to purchase a train ticket. Whatever I would
do, I would be liable for imprisonment and exile.
It is interesting that the possibility of imprisonment appealed to me. I knew
that at least I would have a roof over my head, shelter from the cold, and food
which would enable me to protect my body from perishing.
It was February, 1944. I went covered with my trusty Polish captain's tunic. I
wandered through the snowy streets and arrived at the railway tracks via a back
route. A short time later, I heard the whistle. As the train was about to leave
I jumped on. I remained there hanging on the stairs of the wagon, grabbing on
to the door handle with my remaining strength in order not to fly off as the
train sped away.
This effort not to fly off instilled in me a desire to live. For some reason I
began to believe that there, far away, perhaps on the other side of the dark
mountains, good would begin. It will be good. It will be good. Thus
did the train tracks hum their tune into my ears and heart.
Day broke. I peered into the wagon and saw that it was full. It was full of
people who were traveling properly. Only I was outside, cast off from human
company. The doubt returned again to my heart. The door opened and a N.K.V.D.
man invited me in.
Please inform me: Why are you not in the train? Why are you traveling
like this outside?
I told him the entire truth.
He frisked my clothes, and inspected my body to see if anything would
contradict my story. When he or his companions did not find anything, they sat
me on a bench and guarded me.
In the meantime, I warmed up after a freezing night in the wake of the wind of
the speeding train. It was good for me.
We arrived at the station in the city of the Ariz region. I was taken off the
train and brought to the office of the director of the N.K.V.D.
From his glance I realized that he was not particularly happy to see me. My
skeletal face and poor man's clothing did not impress him. After an extremely
short interrogation he told me to go wherever I wanted, but that I was not to
travel on a train, because
If you are captured for a second time, you will not receive a reprieve
from punishment and imprisonment.
I left. The train was still on the tracks. I went to the other side of the
tracks, and as the whistle blew on the first train, I stood again on the steps
of the wagon ready to fly as I had done previously.
However fine minutes later I was brought in again, and that same man was beside
me:
You are returning he asked in the same
direction. Hey?
I promised him one hundred rubles and raveled as one of the honored passengers
in first class.
In that cabin traveled only profiteers and money smugglers. Jews were in
the same class as members of he famous Soviet intelligence agency.
They accepted me into their company with honor. One stop before Tashkent they
informed me that we must hurry and get off because in Tashkent there is a
full fledged inspection.
We got off and walked to Tashkent. There, members of my new group scattered,
and walked toward the center of the city, as if it was familiar ground to them.
I stood wondering what to do. I did not think about food. Even though I was
very hungry, my only thought was to find shelter for the night.
I reached the corner of a street, and I rested against a wall of a house and
stood there in a daze. Food did not interest me.
{Photo page 124 Meir Steinbach in Siberia.}
I was beyond the need for food. I thought only about a corner for myself. Night
began to fall. The cold penetrated to my bones and instilled in me a blinding
fear. I thought that it would not be the hunger, but rather the cold, that
would do me in. I knew that my end was near.
I apparently spent long moment in this daze. My strength drained, my sight
dimmed and my hearing dwindled. I stood as a stone, and these agents of death
approached me with a certain apathy. I was familiar with them from before. I
knew that this time there was no escape from them.
Suddenly, I heard someone call my name with a Lizhensk accent M.
why are you standing here?! I moved, and I thought that this was nothing
other than an additional deceitful image of being close to death. I opened my
eyes, looked around, and saw a man dressed in a fine suit. I did not recognize
him.
He did not abandon me. It became clear that this was Y. N. At his request, I
accompanied him home. Along the way I explained him that I am in a very bad
situation. He told me that his uncle Meirish Steinbach was here, and it would
be good for me to go to him.
The name Meirish Steinbach reminded me about something in Lizhensk. I knew that
if he was there I would be saved. It was known that Meirish does not make one
step if not for the purpose of saving lives, helping and supporting people.
Nevertheless, I still held me doubt, lest he no longer conduct the same
activities, and lest his position and outlook here was different than it was in
Lizhensk.
He greeted me on his porch with a hearty greeting, in accordance with Belzer
custom. He immediately said:
Sit down at my table, my dear one.
Immediately, bread and bread and butter were set on the table. Oh G-d, my eyes
were darkened, I did not believe that I would ever see these two foods again in
my life? How could I have ever thought that someone would have invited me to
eat in these days?
Reb Meirish noticed my perplexity. He cut me a large slice, buttered it, and
literally placed it into my hands, and he said:
Eat, eat.
I could not just eat. I gorged myself, and swallowed piece after piece until my
hunger had been sated.
After I was full, he approached me and asked me from where I had arrived, and
what had happened to my brother and sister. He spoke comforting words to me.
Don't worry. Stay here with me until you become well rested and return to
your strength, to your former self. Then you will travel to Yangiyul, an hour
from Tashkent. There, there are two factories. Jews from our area work there.
You will also become settled there and be like the other Jews.
My hope returned to me. All of my dreams came back: this house, the
cleanliness, the rest, and the camaraderie. I again believed in those
days.
To my poor fortune, I took ill the next day. The doctor that was called
diagnosed me with an intestinal inversion, and ordered me to come
immediately to the hospital for surgery. The changes of surviving such an
operation were very small, even though this was the only course of action. I
begged Meirish to let me die in his house, and to bring me to a Jewish burial.
He did not answer me. I remained with him. My pain grew, and I screamed out in
pain. I knew that I was stealing rest from my benefactor, and I requested that
he take me to the hospital.
His daughter Arna took me to the hospital. They did not find a place for me.
They then took me to a large hospital, which was directed by a Jewish doctor, a
well-respected professor. He was a typical Jew, small in stature, thin and
bearded.
H accepted me immediately. On account of my Jewishness he found me a place. He
was also of the opinion that I must be operated on as soon as possible.
I parted from Arna, took of my coat and asked her to give it to my sister so
that she would be able to protect herself with it, and also find out about my
death.
They put me in a clean and polished room. The professor arrived immediately
with another doctor. They conducted a lengthy examination, and gave the nurse a
syringe to inject me. They left.
The next day, the orderly came and brought me a loaf of fresh white bread with
a note from Arna. She informed me that she would come every day with a loaf of
bread, and that I should write my message and transmit it to this orderly.
I immediately answered her: I ate the bread with an appetite. I feel
well. After the injection, my pain subsided completely, and I await her
visit.
The next day, I heard nothing from Arna. Neither did I the day after. Two more
days passed without any message and without the loaf of bread that I eagerly
awaited. I eagerly awaited her visit.
In the meantime, the professor tended to me several times a day. He came to me
as if I was his only patient here. It was as if he was an angel sent from
heaven.
It was March, 1944. Myriads of people were burned daily in the furnaces of the
gas chambers. Thousands perished from hunger in the streets and died as flies.
The entire world was a battlefront. The darkness of despair fell upon the human
race, and man acted as a wild beast toward his fellow.
For me in the room, the sun shone as it did every day. Every day the door
opened, and the angel with the goatee entered accompanied by his
students, conducted a thorough examination on my body, and left.
On one occasion, a nurse came in when as they left the room, gave me a large
injection. After a sleep of several hours, I awoke healthy and completely cured.
At that time when I awoke free from all pain, and with a clear head, the door
opened half way, and the professor peeped in. When he saw that I was already
awake, he entered, sat down beside me and asked about how I feel. He added
Now you are back with us.
The hint was clear.
He stroked me for a moment and asked me suddenly: Do you speak
Hebrew?
After I answered him, he parted from me, and I never saw him again. Does anyone
know what became of him? I do not know! I do not know who he was!
I was promptly discharged from the hospital.
As I left, the cold air blew against me. The cold was still in its full
strength. I remembered the coat that I had given to Arna, and I remembered
Arna. I went to a barbershop to shave and get a haircut. From the mirror, a
long drawn face stared at me. I barely recognized myself. My appearance was
quite strange that day, as I was wearing a summery white shirt and sandals on
my feet.
I then decided to go to find out what was with Meirish and Arna. The minutes
were very long, and I was quite worried about them. I recalled her expected
visits that did not take place, and I could not imagine the reason.
When I opened the door of their house, they were all startled, and there was a
look of perplexity on their faces.
It now became clear.
The orderly did not give my letter to Arna, and they were sure that the
operation did not succeed. The recital of the Shema prayer almost came from
their lips as they saw me as an image of a corpse who had been resurrected.
I went to Yangiyul in accordance with Meirish's plan. I worked, and I
eventually made aliya. The details are not relevant here. However the important
thing is that I am recalling Reb Meirish of Lizhensk, who retained his humanity
during all the tribulations. I recall him here so that his memory should live
forever in the book of Lizhensk.
He lived as a tzadik and died as a tzadik. He merited to make aliya to Israel,
and to spend the last years of his life in Jerusalem the city of his dreams.
One morning, during the course of his customary studies, he put his head down
on his book and Reb Meirish went to sleep forever.
{Photo page 127 The Steinbach family.}
[Page 128]
One of the Righteous Gentiles
by Berta Perdover-Zaltz
Here it is appropriate to mention one of the righteous gentiles. This was the
teacher who hid and saved my sister's daughter. His roots were from a noble
family, and his wife was also a teacher. He was only 25 years old. His family
became poor. His mother and sister continued to live on their small estate near
Krakow, and the son studied education. He was a liberal and held a very
broadminded outlook. He was disgusted with his stale pedigree, he loved people,
and had no toleration for perversity. In particular, he did not pay attention
to differences of origin. He was a faithful patriot of his Polish people,
however he did not hide from its bad side, and knew that the Polish nation was
not tending toward good and kindness for reasons of religion, origin, or
pedigree. He was not like that. As a poor person, he contributed some of his
meager money toward our publications, to publish pamphlets etc. in
order to try to save us.
We knew him when we were in Grodzisk. He had an aunt there, the widow of a
doctor who was from Lizhensk. We would come to the aunt to request books for
the children.
In general, we had various Polish saviors. There were those who made promises
to us, took the property, and then
There were others who themselves
killed and buried us, or turned us over to the Gestapo.
A few were deeply religious. They feared their god and were full of pride if
they would help out once in a while. The third group was made up of those Poles
who had little faith, and lacked any sense of responsibility. Those did not
think deeply. They took the property and thought yes, yes, no, no. If they
would be successful, how good, and if not, they would find a way to free
themselves from he murder and bloodshed.
In my experience, there were saviors from all the types I mentioned. The woman
who saved my children was concerned only with money, and she had no interest in
winning over souls to her religion. I understood her intentions and fears. I
told her that one of her neighbors was following her actions on my command. She
was forced to act properly. However this teacher Zygmunt Sziliga displayed
simple proper actions. Even after we had been locked into the ghetto, he found
pretexts to enter there. He brought us the keys to his house near Krakow and
told us that if we feel danger approaching, we should flee from the ghetto,
make way to Krakow, enter his house and inform him.
During one "Aktion", his house actually saved my children and my
niece. He did an additional good deed for my niece. He took the food ration
card of his sister, who was the same age as her, and gave it to her without the
knowledge of his sister, so that she would be able to obtain food during the
time of siege.
Later, he made a plan to bring us to his nephew who owned estates and forests
in the area of Tarnopol. He told his relatives there that we were his relatives
from the other side who had been caught doing underground activities, and now
must flee and hide far away from home.
Since he knew that his nephew was a Polish patriot, he knew that this story
would convince him, and the plan would be successful. He had to prepare papers
for us and transport us to a secure location. He was so sure of his plan that
he himself covered all expenses. He even set out toward Tarnopol himself.
He wrote down various numbers that stood for our ages. He also wrote down an
address so we could write to our contacts. The address was Dolgasza St. 14 in
Lublin. He made all the accountings. To our dismay, he did not succeed in this.
They stopped him along the way. For quite some time we did not know what
happened to him. His wife who did not know anything of his plan to save us did
not know what to tell us. He did not take her in his confidence.
Later we found out that he was imprisoned in Lemberg. They tortured him for
several days, and knocked out his teeth. They wanted him to reveal the secret
behind the numbers, and what was on Dolgasza 14.
Regarding the numbers he told them that he was keeping track of his expenses.
He said that the address was that of former acquaintances whom he intended to
visit. They beat him terribly in order to extract from him the names of the
Jews whom he intended to save, or to find out if he was working for the
underground.
He held his silence. They freed him. He returned home as a broken man. His
greatest suffering was not from his torture or bodily pain. More than that, he
was dismayed that he did not succeed in helping us. He snuck back into our
ghetto. It was difficult to recognize him. We thanked him and comforted him.
He left us weakened and broken.
I met him after the war. He never forgave himself that he was not able to help
us and save us.
[Page 130]
Murder in Lizhensk and Grodzisk
by B. Zaltz
The morning was very sunny. I went to the marketplace, the place where horses
and wagons arrive from the entire region. I hoped to find there farmers from
Grodzisk, and that I would be able to go to that village.
It was still early. I entered an inn to buy a glass of tea and a roll. In the
meantime, many Poles arrived from the town and its environs and conducted
conversations between themselves. By eavesdropping upon them, I was able to
glean some information about what had taken place over the past few days.
During the course of their discussions, they described the murder of a number
of Jews who returned to their homes in their town of Lizhensk after the
holocaust.
Apparently, nine Jews returned to Lizhensk and lived together in one house.
Some people came at night and threw a bomb into the house. All of them were
killed. There was a debate among them. Some said that this was good, for what
more do Jews want to find here? Who needs them here? On the other hand, others
said that, even though there is no need for them, it was possible to have
warned them to leave, and if they would not have left we could have been able
to take appropriate measures. Both sides agreed that no crime or travesty was
committed here, for if there were still Jews alive, they would now know not to
come here again, for we will kill them like mice.
They did not suspect that I was a Jewess and that I was eavesdropping. I paid
and left. My plan to go to the cemetery or to search out Jews that had remained
alive was cancelled.
I passed by the new communal grave near the house that was bombed.
In that house, nine Jews were so cruelly murdered by their former neighbors,
and perhaps by their debtors. This was after they had survived the entire
inferno of the holocaust for so many long years and remained alive. My lips
moved with the prayer Yitgadal Veyitkadash
.
I boarded a wagon that was traveling to Grodzisk, and there I found myself in
the midst of new events.
In that small town, I spent twenty long months with my sister and my young
children. I became familiar with the lives of the few dozen families that lived
there, and became a living witness to their actions.
I neared the streets and homes of the Jews with a fearful and trembling heart.
Even though I knew the truth, I nevertheless expected that perhaps someone
would show up and the Judaism that I knew so well would be exposed. To my
sorrow, nothing happened.
The wagon driver returned me to reality. He asked where to take me, and where
my family whom I am visiting lives.
I told him that I was going to the schoolteacher (this was the wonderful soul
who was arrested and torture in his efforts to help us).
He brought me to the house of the teacher. I found him home, and his joy upon
seeing me was exceedingly great. His wife also was happy along with him,
however I was forced to present myself as a non-Jew to his older children, as a
distant relative whom they did not know.
I went in with him to a separate room. He informed me that not one of the local
Jews returned. He was certain that they had all perished. He did tell me that
one young boy from my family was saved and came here at the conclusion of the
war. However, as soon as they saw him on the street, someone shot him in the
neck and killed him.
I was extremely troubled by the story, the event, the fact. I came very close
to being able to find someone whom I had hoped to see, and lo, he was murdered
with such cruelty. This was 19-year-old Shimon, a relative of mine. He paid
with his life because his heirs did not want to return to him any
of the booty that they had stolen.
The teacher offered me his assistance if I wished to go anywhere. He informed
me that was dangerous to appear alone on the street.
I went with him to one of the rich and honorable people of the area with whom
my sister had left her valuable furs. These were valuable firs: nutria, beaver,
marten, etc.
I arrived at that gentile's house in the afternoon with my dear escort. My
friend the teacher explained to him that me and my two children were, thank
G-d, saved from the tragedy, and that the two sons of my sister also survived.
He told him that we were very poor and that we request that what belongs to us
should be returned to us. He added that one of my sister's children is
handicapped, since one left was cut off. He further explained to him that he
attests that I am the sister of the person who left the valuable goods to be
hidden with him.
The farmer told us several stories. He informed us that everything had been
pillaged. He kept us until the evening. My faithful redeeming angel of an
escort became very nervous. He suspected that something was about to happen,
that something was going on that I did not perceive.
We left his place. When were a few hundred meters away, my escort removed me
from the road and pushed me into the fields. With his other hand he pulled off
my bright kerchief from my head lest they detect it from afar even in the
darkness of the night and figure out where we were. He ordered me to bend down
and lie on the ground. He also did so.
Immediately, we heard several shots from the direction of the roadway. When the
shooting stopped, we snuck around to the other direction and arrived at his
home in a roundabout manner.
As we arrived at his home, he ordered me to wait for a while in the vestibule.
He went in himself, and turned off the lights in the house. He took extreme
precautions. He suspected that someone may have followed us and was stalking us
outside, and when they would recognize me with the lights of the house, they
would shoot and kill me.
I spent that night in pain and tribulation. The next morning was bright and
clear. We made all the preparations to that I could escape from that hell as
soon as possible.
Translator's Footnotes
:
-
Lemberg (Lvov) was part of Poland before the war, and was annexed to the
Ukrainian S.S.R. after the war. Apparently, some of the Polish population would
have moved to Poland proper.
Back
-
The Jewish people are divided into three groupings, Cohanim (Cohens or
Priests), Levites, and Yisraelim. The Levites are descendents of the tribe of
Levi, and the Cohanim are descendents of Aaron, the brother of Moses. In the
time of the temple, the Cohanim and Leviim had extensive ceremonial duties.
Very few of these remain today, however Cohanim are prohibited by Jewish law
from entering into a cemetery, except for the funeral of a close relative.
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Kolkhoz is a Soviet collective farm.
Back
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