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May, 1912. The spring sun no longer has to melt the icicles, shimmering like diamonds, that appeared after Passover and hung from the windows. The absorbent cotton has already been removed from the space between the windows, and through the wide-open windows you can already hear the cheerful chirping of birds fluttering about on the thin, bare branches with their young buds.

My mother is busy at work, walking around the room, looking in the drawers and talking to me with great joy. And while her beautiful face is radiant with the joy of life, her eyes are wet with tears, for as usual, my mother laughs in times of sadness and cries in moments of joy.

“You see, Yankele, you got to have family! Blood is thicker than water. My brother is going away... and you, Yankele, are going to perk up! I'm sick of Khanaykes! No, God forbid, may God not punish me for my words, because we have good neighbors here. They are simple people, workers, but good, warm people. But what is the result? You won't learn good manners from them. Khanaykes and Gumienna Street, where all the merchants live - it's quite a difference! Once I get a foothold there, I'll never want to leave!”

I already know the reason for my mother's joy. Her brother, my uncle Meylekh Darshin, is going to his summer house in Tsertl's Forest. He asked my mother to move to his apartment for the summer, which is located in Gonyonzki's yard on Gumienna Street. So my mother “floats” around the room, packs the laundry, talks half to me and half to herself, and finally infects me with her enthusiasm. I'm already curious to get to know the new area, Gumienna Street and the people and neighbors of Gonyondzki's Hof.

The carriage, with its [three] iron wheels, drives over the edged pavement of Lipowa Street, bumps into my childish buttocks, tosses me up like a ball from underneath, and each time throws me into the arms of my mother, who holds the big sack with the blankets, sheets, and linen in one hand, and pulls me to her with the other hand each time [when I am hurled up].

Now we are in my uncle Meylekh's big, bright apartment. It has five rooms with beautifully carved tan furniture, armchairs with white antimacassars, and floors covered with red furs.

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In the office room there is a desk with an iron box. Next to it is a large front room with opaque floral curtains in the color of yellowed autumn leaves. They cover a large, white-painted iron balcony facing Gumienna Street. The apartment has another balcony facing “Rokhe the Shvartser's” Alley, and on this balcony I discovered a treasure, a small keg of Hungarian red wine with a tap.

I can't resist my curiosity, so I tiptoe over to the keg with a glass in my hand. I open the tap and drink half a glass of sour Hungarian red wine in one go. Immediately the wine has such an effect on my childish head that I begin to stammer drunkenly. And the ceiling blurs with the floor and begins to spin before my eyes. My mother is wringing her hands and speaking to me, angrily and softly, as if she were telling me a secret in my ear:

“You are not to touch this, do you hear me? This is not Khanaykes. The neighbors will soon be gossiping about it. ....

What were you thinking? Aunt Yakhe is strict, and we should behave accordingly in view of her kindness. You've done quite a foolish thing, the measure is full...”.

Mother continued to speak for a long time, and she seemed to float in the air in front of me. My face twists into a foolish grin in a state of intoxication, and I am so content, so satisfied....

I like the new apartment.

My favorite place is the balcony overlooking Gumienna Street. I sit there for hours and watch the life on the street. To the right I can see the semicircle of the market. The sounds can actually be heard all the way to me: A jumble of human voices, the clatter of horseshoes on Lipowa Street, the whistle of the police and the clang of the Białystok horse-drawn tram, all melting into one sound.

Small-town “drongove” wagons [broad, flat, horse-drawn wagons that carried loads and people], loaded with Jews and Jewesses, their feet pointing up or down, roll down Gumienna Street. The drivers crack their whips and take their passengers to Khoroshtsh or Vashlikove.

In the market you can see peasant women with their carts. Barefoot and wearing colorful headscarves, they peer over the hustle and bustle of the big city market. In their arms, they carry a straw basket with some silver money tied to it wrapped in a handkerchief.

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Market thieves hover around them, watching them closely, and suddenly a loud, high-pitched scream is heard from a gentile woman from the village. She is pushed aside, wringing her hands and wailing, almost crying, in a kind of monastic chant:

“Matko a boska, shvyenta Maria! Zlodzhey mi obrokali!” [Mother of God, Holy Mary! The thieves have stolen from me!]

A policeman turns to her, yells angrily to the bystanders, trills on his pipe, wipes his moustache vigorously, and the curious people around the goy bombard her with advice and “wise sayings”.

In the midst of the market, the women sellers of fruit, pears, apples, and plums, which they have laid out in wooden crates and straw baskets, bustle about squealing and trying to shout over one another:

“Unique apples, Madameshi, you shall have a long life! You real 'Antonover', 'Citrinover', 'Pergamatn', [here are] sweet pears, flavorful as from the Garden of Eden, here are grapes like Passover wine and fresh plums, a meal for the Tsar!”

In the center of the market, the tall, shapelessly fat, heavy-set Kheylutshke, the fruit merchant, stands out. She is a warm Jewish woman and known for her benevolence and goodness. She lets her thunderous, masculine bass voice ring out. Next to her in support is a tall, strikingly elegantly dressed man, with a small black mustache and patent leather boots. He is a well-known figure in Khanaykes, called “Khayim Puter”. He feels out of place there, in the market, and looks down on the Jewish women from above, as if the trade is not appropriate for him.

A small, thin Jewish woman with a large headscarf pulled low over her forehead waves a kosher slaughtered goose with bloody hands and shouts angrily at a “madame,” who bashfully slips away:

“Madameshi, since when do you eat geese? Did you get sick from eating such cheap stuff? How can you eat geese when you are used to eating meat from fattened animals?” And turning to the women around her, she says, “She can kiss my ass, that rich social climber! I guess my geese offend her dignity!”

From afar you can see the whitewashed “Bremlekh” [the houses that stood on the “Breml”, the square near the clock tower] built in rows, with the proud, cocky city clock at its center. At the top, on its tower, walks a fireman in a brass cap, a faithful sentry protecting the city from fire.

In the market, next to the “Bremlekh”, you can see the tall, strong figure of Yashke. His tall, broad-shouldered body with a red neck and the appearance of a Russian gentile, dressed in a rustic fur coat and high boots, gives the impression of a metropolitan “goy”. A remnant [of cloth] is hanging over

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her cheeks burned blood-red by the sun, her high bosom heaving under her fringed blouse.

Yashke approaches her. He pats her good-naturedly on the shoulder, shows her the rest of his cloth, and whispers something in her ear. Suddenly a second person appears, giving the impression that he wants to buy the goods. He fingers it and purses his lips in amazement at the quality of the fabric.

But Yashke snatches the goods from his hands and shouts:

“Pashal, parkati! [Get lost, you idiot!] I don't deal with Jews!” And he whispers in the ear of the gentile woman, whom the patriotic Christian “goy” pleases very much:

“Well, my dear, I don't deal with the Jews and the infidels, only with the people of my faith, the children of Jesus!”

And the “goye” is all carried away with Christian pride and the “bargain”. She counts out the silver coins for Yashke, and he measures out the goods so skillfully that with him 4 “arshin” [yard] becomes 5 ½ “arshin”, and after receiving the money he stands for a while looking into the eyes of the “goye” with his kosher, honest, innocent eyes of a “tzadik” [honorary title for a particularly righteous, pious, wise man].

Then he leisurely walks off to meet his Jewish partner, the supposedly interested person, at the corner of the street and laughs out loud: “There, we have fooled the goye, let the cholera strike her. See how she melted away when I ranted about Jews!” Yashke, however, quickly disappears, knowing that the goye will soon be screaming for help and looking for a policeman, even though they are all bribed and get cash in their hands.

On the corner of Gumienna Street, the small, lively Bishke the “Gazhetnik” [newspaper vendor] whirls, clamors and shouts:

“A 'Haynt,' a 'Moment,' a 'Togblat,' a 'Sinai Zhurnal,' an 'Ogonyok,' a 'Bizhevye Vyedomosty!”

He pulls the newspapers out of his large leather bag, which reaches up to little Bishke's neck, and searches with his hand for remnants in a large leather wallet.

A carrier with an emaciated, bony face, dressed in a yellowed caftan, with a singed rope tied around him, short boots greased with blue blubber, gazes around in all directions, looking for customers.

A small, shriveled Jewish woman with a kerchief around her ears walks around with a large, rectangular, black-burnt tin on which she carries the goods from her shop:

Brown baked buckwheat-potato pancakes.

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Groups of merchants stand on the corner of Gumienna Street and talk about textile goods, long journeys in the Great Russia and bankruptcy, about the nouveau riche and and about world politics.

A big “drongove” wagon with a harnessed poor worn out horse carries highly loaded bales of cloth goods: “kastor”, “karelekh”, “drap” [see page 38] and flowered “montanyak” blankets.

The cart driver sits on the bales, purses his lips, pulls the reins and drives the laboriously moving broken-down horse.

Next to the famous bakery of “Grek” [Greek] in the market street, where the famous “tshastes” [pastries], “pirozhines” [pirozhki] and “kislos-ladkes” [sour potato pancakes] are sold, a few idlers stand and anxiously and amusedly watch a little titmouse, which has lost its way among the pastries in the shop window. Excited by all the curious onlookers, it ran back and forth in search of an escape route.

A Jewish woman with a woven straw basket over her arm, filled with “Avnet's” pastries, Striezeln, Haman bags, “rogalyes” [rugelach] and pastries, rejoices at the scene and speaks in a loud voice for all to hear:

“It serves them right, after all, they are not supposed to eat Grek's pastries. Look at the chickadees hopping around on the pastries. Ugh, those gluttons!”

A Jewish woman carries a basket from Tanchum's Bakery full of baked bagels and small bagels tied together on string to form a wreath. She shakes her head and cheerfully agrees: “It serves them right, the little gluttons! They really want to eat pastries!”

Next to the “Grek” is the “tshayne” [tearoom], where I go every Shabbat afternoon with a receipt to buy a jug of [hot] water for tea. From far away I can see the clothing store of “Varat the Gotovoplatnik”, where there is a balcony on the second floor facing the front. There lives “Mr. Shuster the Khazn” [cantor], where as a choirboy I would sing to “Yomim-neroim” and accompany him, the cantor, for one silver ruble.

I look at the shops on Gumienna Street from my vantage point on the balcony. There is Inditski's bookstore with newspapers and books displayed in the wide window. There is Ferder's fur shop with fur collars hanging down like ponytails. In the middle is a musk collar that the women of Białystok wear proudly on their shoulders when they go to the Bes-Medresh on Shabbat.

In Shoshke's Tobacco Store, you can see colorful boxes and cardboard men in the display. Cigarette packs are stacked in a high “barricade” shape, forming

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a pyramid of decorated boxes.

In the far corner, a sign with a top hat painted on it swings in the air. This is Tal's little hat shop.

Below my balcony is Khashe Goldshteyn's fabric shop, with a large door and two windows. Early every morning, when I am still wandering in my unfinished dreams, I hear the sound of the iron blinds she opens in her cloth shop.

The sharp, grating “clang” would ring in my ears for a long time and wake me from my childlike sleep.

Next door is Shtupler's soap store, where boxes of blue-green soap are hauled out all day. But the most festive shop is Khazan's women's clothing store. There are always women walking in front of his shop window and inside. They go in and out, staring with avaricious eyes at the colorful floral fabrics, in a never-ending hunt to show off their feminine beauty and physical charms.

Friday evening. The sounds fade. The hustle and bustle disappears more and more. The air has become quiet.

The group of traders has dispersed. The market becomes quieter. A last fruit seller picks out the rotten apples, throws them away and packs her baskets.

A coachman on his rubber-wheeled cart lazily pushes his tired horse, which can only drag along after a day of hard work.

A last late carter, powdered with white flour, passionately encourages his horse, which noisily pulls his floured “drongove” cart over the sharp pavement, its noise fading into the almost silent street.

Opposite the market is Grudki's wine shop. The owner himself serves there, a Jew with an intelligent face and a strawberry-blond goatee. He sells wine for kiddush to his late customers. His two daughters, rosy-white skinned with red-blonde fiery hair, assist their father.

A Jew with an unbuttoned kaftan and wide coattails sticks his red, sweaty, combed head out of the bathhouse and shouts angrily:

“Reb Yid, hurry up, Shabbat is about to begin, only a quarter of an hour until the blessing of light!”

The shutters of the shops on Gumienna Street begin to close. Khashe Goldshteyn's shutters close with a loud, noble and powerful sound.

[The shutter] of Shoshkes'es tobacco shop slides down with a quiet, respectful “swish,” and that of Tal's hat shop with a small, modest, rusty “squeak.

A fat Jewish woman in a floral headscarf pokes her head into Shtupler's soap shop through a half-closed door. But the other door closes unceremoniously,

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right in front of the Jewish woman's nose.

A “goy” with a red nose and an unbuttoned jacket sweeps the asphalt with a long broom, pushing the dirt into the gutter.

A young woman with tangled hair hurriedly walks past with small steps. In her hand she holds candles wrapped in white paper with white hanging wicks.

Blue streaks cover the sky. A gray darkness spreads over the empty streets. The footsteps of individual pedestrians echo loudly on the asphalt sidewalks. From the windows, the small flames of Shabbat candles, swaying and submerged in God-fearing silence, shine solemnly on the bright-white, opened out tablecloth.

In Gonyondzki's courtyard, across from our balcony, two large, rectangular, brightly colored flower windows shine from “Salye Oge's” Bes-Medresh.

The large hanging chandelier plays with its flickering flames, making them shine brightly over the full height of the windows, indicating that the “kaboles-shabes”[ קבלת-שבֿת, the prayers to welcome the Shabbat] are being prepared to celebrate the sweet, blessed Shabbat with the delicate sounding “lekhu- neraneno”[ לכו-נרננה =“Come, let us sing”, first words and name of a chapter of the Psalms sung on Friday evenings]. Its melody swings in time to the swaying flames of the large, proud, snow-white candles placed at the top of the “omed” [podium].

A summer morning. Birds are chirping, jumping from one roof to another below my window. The street is quiet. It's “kanikul” [summer vacation] and that's why I'm lying in bed so early with my eyes wide open. And strangely, I can't fall asleep. I feel that every minute of my life is too good to sleep. I dress quietly so as not to wake my mother and go out into the street.

Gonyondzkis's yard awakens, shakes off its nightly sleep, and the gray dawn opens a new day of life.

The door of a little house stands wide open. Vinograd the upholsterer, a tall, stately, broad-shouldered Jew with rosy cheeks, is carrying a large mattress that is very stubborn and refuses to go through the narrow door. As soon as he manages to maneuver it through, the springs of the mattress make an unpleasant noise.

A cloud of dust escapes from its innards, and with a bang the mattress is placed on a small, sturdily built cart with massive iron wheels.

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On the mattress are large, blurry marks, like oceans on a map, and in its corners are brown, spreading stains, the signs of a bitter struggle between a Białystoker jewess and her red, uninvited guests. [I assume that bed bugs are meant]

The wind has fun shaking a metal sign in the courtyard above the stairs to the first floor, where the tailor Vilentshik lives. His window proudly looks out onto Lipowa Street, where you can see wooden fashion dolls and heads that look like frightening ghosts.

Deep in the courtyard, the iron bars of the Noviks' small shoe shop fall down [to open it].

A brother and sister are talking in a “squeaky” tone of voice. Both are runtish, energetic and agile, with round faces. Brother Novik looks like a little boy in a man's suit that's too big. The doors of their shop are open wide, and shoes and galoshes hang from the doorposts.

Inside is a tall, fat Jewish woman sitting on a wooden stool. She has one leg half rolled up, and little Novik, squatting on one knee, puts on a durable linen shoe and quickly “squeaks” the words:

“The shoe fits like a glove! As if it was tailor-made just for you! I'll give you a very good price right off the bat!”

The Jewish woman gets up, tries to walk a few steps, limping on one leg, and then croaks:

“It hurts! Here, and there, and on the big toe too!”

From his apartment, which is connected to his mechanical workshop, comes the locksmith Kalman Meler. He is a medium-sized Jew with yellowish skin, a slightly bent head, and a thoughtful, absent-minded face.

He takes a few steps, but then he realizes that he has forgotten something. So he turns around and comes right back out with some tools in his pockets. He searches for something with his brown, hard, calloused fingers that look like they've been burned, feels through his clothes, and finds a folded tape measure in the top pocket. Then he disappears through the exit of the narrow courtyard into “Rokhe the Shvartser's” Alley.

With an annoying bell-like sound, the large lock and metal bars of Feygele Kirzhner's glass shop move, which she, the owner, opens herself. Feygele is a small, portly woman with an apple-red, warty face. Full of confidence and energy, she looks around proudly as she opens her large glass shop. A little later, her two daughters join her, looking just like their mother: lively, confident,

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and with red cheeks as if they had been dyed with red paper. Gorondzki's yard begins a day of its usual life.

The hustle and bustle of everyday life drives me away. Too many people. I look for a corner to be alone. I climb the iron staircase that connects the balconies and floors inside the courtyard. Now I'm standing next to a door in the attic, I open it, go in, and warm air and silence surround me.

Old suitcases, iron beds, boxes stacked on top of each other. From above, the skylight laughs at me. On one side I discover a mountain of books, newspapers and notebooks. A real treasure! I lie down on my stomach on the floor and am happily surprised by the Russian books, newspapers and textbooks stacked there.

I pull out fully written notebooks wrapped in shiny blue “obyortkes” (covers) with red labels that read: “G. Gonyondzki.” I realize that I have come across the former schoolbooks of the son of the yard owner.

There is a geometry book with drawings and parallelograms, cones, trapezoids, and there is a physics book. I open the page about “Archimedes' principle”, which says that a body placed in water loses as much [its own weight] as the weight of the water it displaces.

This makes me think of a connection with the wonderful legend of Rabbeinu Reb Gershom [Ben Judah], who constructed a golden throne for his royal monarch and was sentenced to prison because of the intrigues of the court ministers and the denunciation of his second, young wife. Therefore, Rabbeinu Gershom proclaimed a ban on polygamy among the Jews forever.

There are newspapers that are barely touched: “Ogoniok” with the humoresques of the famous Russian writer Arkady Averchenko and [Nadezhda] Teffi. The “Sinai Zhurnal”, even with blue paper cuttings. Additional books to the newspaper “Birzhevyie Vedomosti”, whose famous editor Proper turned away from Judaism.

And there, tied with a rope, are books of Russian classics:

Tolstoy, Gogol, Nyekrasov, Tshekhov, Dostoevsky, Mikhailov, Alexander Kuprin, Leonid Andreyev, Maxim Gorky, and others.

I'm drunk with happiness over all these books, and I don't even know which one to pick up first. I open, read, shuffle some pages.

Then I hear a pigeon cooing. I raise my head and see a gray spotted

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dove coming out of her nest in the corner, pitter-pattering, raising and lowering her head. It approaches me. Gently and tenderly, I reached out my hand to stroke it. But her trust in me doesn't go that far. She quickly runs back, raises her wings and disappears into her nest. Yes! Poor little pigeon, you're right! You can't trust anyone!

Who knows what the evil man will come up with in his wild, evil, twisted brain?

Shabbat morning. I lie with my head tucked under a blanket so as not to see the gray morning light that keeps me from my sweet night dreams. But it doesn't help. My mother's voice already reaches me. She is scolding our neighbor's daughter, Sorele Grodzki, a 12-year-old girl, hot-blooded, with a full, round, lively face. She is already physically developed. She wants to provoke me and wake me up, but my mother asks her to be quiet because “Yankele is still asleep”.

But Sorele is wild and boisterous, she immediately runs into my room and, laughing loudly, pulls at my blanket, which I hold on to with one hand.

But she pulls the blanket down and I get angry and run out in my short shirt, which barely covers half of my lower body (there were no pajamas in Białystok at that time). I chase after Sorele with a long broom.

Sorele squeals, runs through all the rooms, is happy about the game and screams, supposedly desperately: “Teme, Yakov is beating me!”

My mother holds me and gets angry: “It's Shabbat! It's time to go to Bes Medresh, your father left long ago, and you're still running around naked!”

I sluggishly get dressed, drink a glass of tea, eat a small pancake with it, and while I still have some left in my mouth, I take my prayer book and crawl sleepily down the stairs, wiping my eyes. If you walk through the small courtyard opposite Kalmen Meler, the doors are opposite, you can already see the small entrance with the narrow staircase on the second floor that leads to Salye Oge's Bey-Medresh.

From the windows on the east side of the Bes-Medresh, you can see the wide, iron, rusty balconies of Gonyondzki's house. The women's section above, which requires a stairway up one floor, makes the Bes-Medresh seem even smaller.

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The large hanging chandelier with electric candles takes up part of the ceiling, yet there is a contemplative, pleasant intimacy over the Bes-Medresh, as if an extended family were praying there. You know everything about each other, you know each other's joys and sorrows, concerns and joys.

The “Shakhres” [Shakharit, morning prayer] is prayed by the tall Ofenbakh, the glove-maker from Lipowa Street. Calm and serene, he ponders every word. My father sat pensively over his prayer book, and with a silent wave he called me to him.

Father, absorbed in his thoughts, prays little. Most of the time, he turns the pages and wrinkles his forehead - a sign that he's absorbed in a thought that torments him and won't leave him alone.

But when it comes to “Shokhen Ad” [“He Who Dwells in Eternity”], some prayers urge my father to say the “Musef” [additional prayer].

Especially Vilentshik, the tailor, coaxes him. He thinks very highly of my father's education and politics, but also of the clarity of his prayers and his clear explanations of the words:

“Now, Reb Gershon! Now... show what you can do!”

I love my father's recitation when he prays simply, without cantorial ornamentation. And when Father gets to his “Naaritskha Venakdishkha” [“We will worship You and sanctify You”] in the additional prayer, “Sh'mone-Esre” [Eighteen Petitions, Amida], there is silence in the Bes-Medresh, and those praying are filled with the Białystoker version of my father's recitation - with so much trembling of heart and soul, as if my father had finally found an opportunity to argue with the Lord of the world and to proudly and gracefully demand justice from Him for His people Israel - and thus for himself.

His voice trembled with tears and protest.

At the reading of the Torah or at “Aleynu”, before the end of the prayer, he is already restless. Groups of Jews are already standing on the threshold of the Bes-Medresh or in the vestibule next to the stairs, discussing politics. Above all, Leybl Faynsod is upset about the mirror business, and so we actually call his son, Yisrolke, “the High School student”, the student of Aleksandrov's Gymnasium, called “Shpigele” [little mirror].

Leybl Faynsod is a Jew with sunken cheeks and reddish, half-closed eyes. He is quick to shout, his voice hoarse:

“Jews shouldn't get involved in politics...making revolutions. Nothing good comes of it. They want to bring order to the Tsar's land. They want to take care of the Russian workers. They should take better care of their own fathers and mothers, who live in terror because of their strikes and proclamations, because - what are we here? Foreigners! Foreigners!”

Standing next to Leybl Feynsod is his son, Yisrolke, a High School student, who smiles mockingly at his father's speech and winks at me.

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Kalmen Meler, the mechanic, stands still, serious and thoughtful, listening conscientiously as always and remaining silent. Next to him are his sons, Avroheml, who jumps around and can't stay in one place, and Yakev (now in New York), a quiet one, with a strong, rosy, round face and a full body, calm and thoughtful, like his father.

Except for the fact that he is still a boy, he is already like a fully developed human being.

Veydenboym, the colonial merchant from “Rokhke der Shvartsers Gesl” [Rochke the Black's Alley], a short, hot-tempered man, and his two short sons are full-bodied, restless and temperamental.

Medovnik, a Jew with a pointed beard, always knocks on the table to stop the commotion in the vestibule next to the stairs by the open door.

Vilentshik, the tailor, with a round, fresh face, narrow at the bottom and wide at the top, turns his ears and listens. His tall, scrawny, lively son, with his skinny neck and squeaky voice, runs from one friend to another, squealing rapidly in his sharp-sounding girl's voice.

In the middle of the crowd is Yerokham Levin, a fair-skinned blond boy, sturdily built, his hair well coiffed in the back but not cut at the sides. Yerokham is holding his prayer book with both hands behind him, and he lets his voice be heard with a deliberate calm and poise.

The older Jews listen to him with interest, but do not have the patience to listen to the end, interrupting him in the middle. But Yerokham Levin is rarely surprised, does not lose his composure, and tries to enlighten them.

At the end of the prayer, when the mourners say the Kaddish, it is quiet for a moment, but at the “Ve'Imru Omeyn” [And say Amen], the Jews already begin to quietly discuss or finish discussions that began at the reading, while putting their prayer shawls in their little bags.

The Jewish temperament and restlessness roars. Going out and standing in the yard, worried Jews are already talking about Russian politics and world affairs. They are predicting many prospects for the future of the world, prophecies that are now being confirmed before my eyes, for which great diplomats of world renown had found no justification at the time.

Białystok had wise, far-sighted Jews.

One Shabbat afternoon, my brother David did me a “favor” and took me, accompanied by his friend Potokski, to Tsertl's Forest, to Roskosh Park. In the evening hours, when the music

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was playing in Roskosh Park, my brother David went to the cash register three times, but each time he was supposed to take out ten kopecks, but he could not decide to spend such a capital.

So the two friends decided to try their luck with a “free ticket”.

My brother took me on his shoulder and lifted me onto the fence in a dark corner to see if it was possible to crawl over to the other side.

As I stood on my brother's shoulder with my hands on the fence, observing the strategic position, a guard had hidden from the inside and struck my hand with the full force of his lead-tipped whip.

A fingertip of my childish hand turned to a bloody pulp.

I fell to the ground at my brother's feet, screaming terribly. My brother turned pale with shock when he saw my bloody finger, knowing that as the older brother, he was entrusted with the fate of his younger brother, who was his father's favorite child.

So it was decided that I should say at home that I had fallen on a broken beer bottle in the woods and cut my finger.

My brother wrapped a piece of cloth around my finger to stop the blood, put me on the tramway and took me home.

When my father saw my bloody finger, he wrung his hands and took me to our neighbor, Antokolski den Feldsher, on Shabbat evening.

Antokolski the Feldsher, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders and thick, slightly silvery, tousled hair, a quiet, philosophical, intelligent Jew, used to ride around in his own two-wheeled carriage. He was the only passenger and driver, and he enjoyed it. I knew the children of his family well: Bashke, an intelligent young woman with manners; Pinye, my brother David's classmate, with whom he was good friends and went to Yafe's School together; and Vinye, the youngest daughter, a boisterous and slender girl with a narrow, long neck, a student at the Commercial School.

At home we joked that the Antokolski children were a “holy trinity”: Pinye, Vinye and Bashke, the “grafinye” [countess] - because of her stiff posture.

I had deeper feelings for Vinye: the first trembling awakened in a young boy because of a girl who was several years older than him and who probably looked down on him like a “snotty nose” - a “smarkatsh” (the well-known Białystok expression of that time).

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After the “drama” with my finger, I became a patient of our neighbor Antokolski and a frequent visitor - not only because of the “perevyazkes” (bandages), but also because of Vinye, with whom I recited from Russian poetry, from the works of Nadson, Lermontov, Pushkin. And to be honest, I looked at her more than I spoke.

I was deeply grateful to Pinye, my brother's friend, for lending me detective stories to read.

The whole of Białystok was drunk on detective stories, erotic-romantic books and sensational novels with sequels, which flooded the youth. The most famous were the detective stories of Nat Pinkerton, Nick Carter, Sherlock Holmes, Lord Lister, “The Gentleman-Thief”, as well as general novels such as Giuseppe Garibaldi, “The Cave of Leichtweiß”, “The Beggar Countess”, for which the women and girls of Białystok shed rivers of tears when they followed the dark fate of the countess, who became a street beggar, in the sequels.

When two boys from Białystok met on the street, they would say to each other a quote from the detective stories by Nat Pinkerton and Nick Carter:

“Stop right there, you criminal! One more move and you're dead!”

Or:

“Stop right there, scoundrel! I've finally got you! You're arrested in the name of the law!”

Fortunately, the standard of education in the Jewish homes was morally and ethically so high that the cheap trash books did not cause any drama.

The years passed. Vinye Antokolski became a slender, graceful merchantess with dreamy eyes and delicate looks.

But political events did not stand still either. The First World War began.

The Germans entered Białystok.

The war lasted four years and in 1919 the Poles occupied Białystok. In 1920 the Polish-Bolshevik [Soviet] War started. The Bolsheviks entered Białystok, but the Poles took advantage of the military help and strategy of the French General Weygand and the Bolsheviks were defeated.

The Poles retook Białystok in August 1920 and carried out a terrible massacre of Jews on the streets, highways and behind the city, accusing them of Bolshevism. They carried out pogroms, robbed and murdered.

As soon as the Polish government had restored order in the city, I was informed of the terrible news:

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The proud Vinye Antokolski was no longer among the living. She had bravely stood up to the Polish pogromists when they stormed into her apartment to loot, and they brutally shot her on the spot.

Thus ended the young, tender life of my childhood friend Vinye, the daughter of Antokolski the Feldsher, who lived next door to us on Gonyondzki's yard.

Summer is fading, it is dying. Occasionally, a warm wind blows on a mild September evening. Young couples rush in, pour into the night shadows of the Białystok forest, into Tsertl's weekend houses, nestle in hidden corners under tall, chummy, old, dark trees, lose themselves in the green of the grass. They are protected and concealed by green young trees that sway exuberantly and good-naturedly, hiding the kissing couples from prying eyes.

Yellow and red leaves, brick-colored like the sunset or withered, lie wearily beside the trees, kissing the earth in their final passing, reminding us that everything is doomed to die.

In the morning the schoolchildren from Khanaykes [Chanajki], Surazer [Suraska], Lipove [Lipowa], Gumyener [Gumienna] and Vashlikover Streets run with their leather satchels on their backs. As they walk, they shake their satchels happily and they begin to slip off the leather straps. The satchels are full of books - grammar, chrestomathies, notebooks with “sotshinyenyes” [essays] and, in one corner, mom's breakfast: a Białystok cake with sausage or fried herring with a piece of dark peasant bread, and all this is happily dangling in the satchels of the Białystok students from Fridman's, Menakhovki's, Babitski's or Yafe's Schools.

Students from High Schools, Commercial Schools and Real Schools are more deliberate and stately in their movements. With neatly pressed suits, like people who have made it big. They are young lads with serious intentions who already have one foot in adult society. They learn for themselves and teach others to help pay the tuition that weighs so heavily on their father: Take the Białystoker shopkeeper, who

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already has to support a grown-up boy, get him through the interest norm with the special Jewish tax, buy him books and clothes, and put an extra half a ruble in his pocket for a concert, an event or a date.

Even the smaller private schools open after “kanikl” [summer vacation], when children's voices and songs fill the air and echo in the alleys with their childish squeals. Full of life and the curiosity of youth, they hop on one leg as if to have one last fun before they have to get out their exercise books.

My father's school is also ready for the new semester. The room is freshly wallpapered. It still smells of the sticky paper, of the big green flowers on the cheap wallpaper.

The “skameykes” (school desks) have been polished. The inkwells are freshly wiped and filled with fresh ink. The floor is freshly scrubbed, wiped clean - the drudgery of my exhausted mother.

There is a new mezuzah on the door, quietly replaced by my mother; perhaps it will bring good luck.

The large hanging chandelier is painted with glossy black lacquer on the chains and decorated with a large “bomb” of blue-green-red paper attached from below.

The soot-blackened glass of the lamp has been carefully wiped clean, and a new wick sits slightly out of place in the lamp, which is filled to the top with bluish kerosene. White curtains adorn the whitewashed windows of my father's school, covering a half-broken pane of glass skillfully glued together with rye flour.

The freshly scrubbed spittoon in the corner stings the eyes with its rusty stains and looks like an old girl cleaning her face.

Next to the threshold is a thick green doormat made of woven straw so the children can wipe Khanayke's mud off their shoes.

The mat lies there like a privileged person who must be the first to receive my father's breadwinners as soon as they enter - the schoolchildren, the daughters of Białystok's craftsmen. A new term has begun at my father's school.

On a cool September morning, my father's female students began to arrive:

Peshke Farbshteyn a slender, skinny girl, a quiet, serene one. She was the daughter of Itshe Farbshteyn, a Jew with a paralyzed leg and arm, who had a grocery store and four beautiful daughters.

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The two older ones, Dobtshe and Shoshke, helped their mother in the shop. They would help sell a herring, kerosene, or sugar, and turn on the faucet to draw a bucket of water from under the window outside. Payment was made with a penny inserted through the opening in the window pane. The water was then turned off from the inside.

Rivke Faktor was a girl with black pigtails, red cheeks, and lively, inquisitive black eyes. Her father, a milk merchant, tried to give his children a little education and Jewish upbringing out of his meager income.

Poznyak, the coachman's daughter, was a girl with a full, fleshy face, a broad nose, and juicy, thick lips. Poznyak was a broad-shouldered, strongly built Jew with a ruddy, tanned face who liked to drink his fill. He was a brave, hard-working man with a coarse wagoner's tongue but a good Jewish heart.

The two “Gerbergolts” sisters had lean, sunken cheeks, black frizzy hair, and slightly crossed eyes, and spoke Polish Yiddish, having come to Białystok from Lodz. The children called them “the Poylishe”.

The daughter of Videlets the cobbler, with the Russian-sounding name of Manye, a plump girl, very mature for her age, with a pair of boiling, passionate eyes in her broad, slightly Mongolian face. She was very talented and the consummate leader of her comrades. Her father, a poor cobbler from Shayes Street, was strict with her.

Manye Goldberg was a small, slender, graceful girl, shy and with a delicate, noble face. She was the daughter of Shloymke the Feldsher and the sister of my childhood friend, Dovtshe Goldberg.

Each girl comes in with the same words, one sad, one happy, depending on how she feels:

“Good morning, teacher! Good morning, teacher!” and sits down at the wide, brown-polished desk that holds five students, with an inkwell next to each one. My mother greets each student warmly and lovingly and asks if their parents are doing well.

My father, calm and serious, looks at the prepared notebooks and books.

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Father's eyes are lost in the air. They are far away from the school and the students who slowly run their fingers over Krylov's fable “The Monkey and the Glasses”. Father often stands at the window in the middle of class and looks up at the blue sky, as if he would find an answer there to the questions he has never been able to answer.

The small, poor, cramped life of an insignificant teacher with a limited livelihood and a hard struggle for every ruble had deeply depressed my father. Looking at my mother's hard life and his own shattered dreams, my father focused all the enthusiasm of his intelligent mind on reading books that led him into a wide world of fantasy, distancing him even further from harsh reality and making him even more awkward.

He tried to escape the merciless reality with the help of fantasies and false hopes, and paid a high price for not wanting to conform to the law of a sober view in the daily struggle for his existence and the continuation of his life.

Evening time. At home it feels like a storm is brewing. I sit with my hands rested under my ears, absorbed in a Hebrew children's book. In the kitchen, my mother is busy fiddling with the cast-iron pots on the stove, her cheeks glowing as she tosses wood chips into the oven. The aroma of my favorite dish wafted through the apartment: lentils with dumplings, with greaves in the middle. As he does when he's excited, my father is tapping a Bessarabian regimental march on the windowpane.

Mama's speech echoes from the kitchen. She doesn't have the courage to tell it to his face, so she yells from the kitchen while she's obviously busy with the pots:

“Gershon, what are you complaining about? Did not many students come? Then it's your own fault. Do you even think about studying with the girls? You're always absent-minded. Children can sense that. During class you're lost in thought, in other worlds. The kids ask you the same question several times in a row, and you don't even listen. Do you think they won't tell their parents? So how do you expect to have many students? What good is it to me that you know many tongues but can’t make any funds?”, my mother wants to express it in a rhyme.

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“Look at the teachers you know! They can't do half as much as you, but they have full classes and a good life. Gershon, what are you dreaming about? Don't fly in the air, but look at what's going on around you on the earth. See how the teachers Ilivitsky, Babitsky and Menakhovsky have worked their way up. And others too - your good acquaintances. Withdraw from Khanaykes - you can't make a living from hobos. You're only drawn to poor people. You are infatuated with Khanaykes and don't want to leave the place”.

Father presses his lips together and bites them until they are bloody. His face is stiff and frozen. Sparks fly from his eyes. He pulls himself together not to answer rudely, weighing and measuring every word. Mother's speech hurts him even more. He feels that some of what she says is true. But it seems to him that it would be a betrayal to give up his dreams and flee the poor neighborhood and his respect and affection for his neighbors.

“What do you want, Teme? It takes time to teach poor people to let their children learn. Besides, it is hard for them to earn a ruble. When they earn, they will pay me. What do you know about the joys of Gumienna and Lipowa Streets? You don't know how ashamed you are vis-à-vis the rich and powerful when you have to beg them to send a child to your school. Do you think, Teme, that Triling, Gubinski and Novik will send their children to my school? The rich cloth manufacturers are looking down on us. I'd rather have half a ruble from a wagoner, a bricklayer or a cobbler! At least they still have respect for me!”

Mother comes out of the kitchen, flushed from the stove. She stands by the table, hands at her sides, grimly dragging out each word:

“Gershon, your pride is killing you! You won't die of poverty, but of shame, if you're ashamed to do many things out of pride. Remember, Gershon, I'm warning you. Such things don't end well. I'm warning you.”

Mother's prediction came true. It did not end well.

The last “gulyanye” of the season takes place in the City Garden. Dense crowds of schoolchildren move along the avenues. The gray dust hangs in the air as white, flying splashes in the glow of electric lights and settles on their shoes. Lively, ringing conversations, loud laughter, and flirtatious eyes sparkle from heated faces. Colorful confetti is scattered among the walking feet. I wander around alone, a little boy, lonely and

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awkward, like someone who has wandered into someone else's wedding.

I walk hastily through Lipowa and Popovshtshinzne Streets, which are bathed in semi-darkness, illuminated by gas lanterns. The little red flames behind their square panes flicker like sad “yortsayt” [memorial] candles.

I walk along the stone wall of the old Białystoker cemetery, through which the pale moon, which accompanies and follows me, illuminates the “oyholim” [Jewish monumental tombs] of the Białystoker rabbis and “good Jews” [miracle workers], against which small childlike graves nestle. The trees sway in prayer to the Almighty, and pale moon shadows float in mysterious silence.

I approach my home, which is adjacent to the cemetery. From a distance, I see groups of people next to the gate of our yard. With soft whispering voices, teary eyes and hand-wringing, their faces full of pain and pity, they clear the way in front of me, whispering to each other, accompanying me with heartfelt sympathy, pointing to the other in my direction, sighing and shaking their heads.

I immediately realize that something has happened at home. I push my way through, past a group of neighbors who hadn't noticed me in the darkness next to the door to our apartment. Heart pounding, I open the door and see strange Jews in our bedroom and someone covered in a white linen sheet lying on the brown-polished wooden bed.

In the blink of an eye, years are thrust upon me. Minutes turn into years. Time flies and ends my childhood. A little boy with a big yoke and worries about the future. I become stiff, masculine, hardened and responsible. I go to the linen sheet. I pull it down and my father's glassy eyes look out. His face is stern and calm, as if he were paying his last debt, settling his last score with his life.

With the life he left voluntarily.

Mother's soft, convulsive wail from the next room echoed as if from afar, like a lament hanging in the air, repeating countless times the same phrase her hot, parched lips muttered heartbreakingly:

“I have brought you to your grave, Gershon! I have brought you to your grave!”

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But it wasn't my mother's fault. It was the dark fate of an intelligent man who, living on the gray earth, wanted to roll up to heaven. The poverty of Białystok had crushed the noble man. The misery of the Khanaykes hardened and embittered the driven inhabitants with every terrible groan before the next morning: “Where and how shall I earn my living today?”

It was hard for a delicate, quiet, intelligent man to elbow his way through the worried, impoverished, melancholy faces. A young life was uprooted. A teacher from Białystok closed his eyes early and sought shelter under the calm but cold wings of death.

On June 28, 1914, the world was thrown into turmoil by the sensational news that a Serbian terrorist, Gavrilo Princip, with the help of 23 other terrorists, had carried out an assassination in Sarajevo, killing the Grand Duke of Austria, the heir to the throne, Franz-Ferdinand.

Born in 1863, Grand Duke Franz-Ferdinand was the eldest son of Grand Duke Karl-Louis, the third brother of Emperor Franz-Joseph, who had completely retired from political life to make way for his son Franz-Ferdinand on the Habsburg throne.

Franz-Ferdinand was an energetic man of determined character, but simple and modest. Despite the protests of the Austrian imperial court, he married a poor Czech noblewoman on July 1, 1900, promising that their children would not claim the Austrian throne.

For the Serbs, the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, which had absorbed and oppressed many millions of Slavs, was the embodiment of imperialism. It also threatened the very existence of Slavic Serbia. The murder of his popular, talented and energetic nephew Franz-Ferdinand

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was a great blow to old Franz Joseph, who was still deeply wounded by the tragic suicide (in January 1889) of his only son, Crown Prince Rudolph, involving a 17-year-old beauty, Maria Vetschera, under mysterious circumstances. The suicide still serves as dramatic material for playwrights and dramatists today, known as the “Tragedy of Mayerling”.

On July 23, 1914, Austria sends an ultimatum to Serbia, giving it 48 hours to comply with Austria's demands. On July 25, Serbia replies that it is impossible for it to meet Austria's demands. At the same time, Germany officially warns the other states not to interfere in Austria's actions against Serbia. British, French, and Russian diplomats begin efforts to prevent war, but on July 28, Austria declares war on Serbia. The Austrian military bombed Belgrade and Russia began a partial mobilization.

On July 30, Germany demands that Russia stop mobilizing. Meanwhile, on July 30, the famous socialist leader Jean Jaurès is assassinated in France for his pacifist speeches.

On August 1, Germany declares war on Russia and France mobilizes. Italy informs Germany that it will remain neutral.

On August 2, the Germans invaded the Principality of Luxembourg and the German military marched into Liege [Belgium]. Belgium protests the German military marching through its territory. On August 3, the German ambassador is recalled from Paris and the French ambassador from Berlin, and war breaks out between France and Germany. Germany invades Belgium, and Belgium asks England for help. On August 4, England declares war on Germany. Meanwhile, the United States declares neutrality.

On August 6, Austria-Hungary declares war on Russia. On August 8, the British military arrives in Belgium. Portugal declares itself an ally of Britain. On August 11, France declares war on Austria-Hungary, and on August 21, England declares war on Austria-Hungary.

On August 20, the Germans march into Brussels and meet no resistance. The number of allied nations grows. Even the Chinese emperor declares war on Germany on August 23.

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On September 1, in protest against German aggression, Russia changes the German-sounding name of Petersburg to the Russian name of Petrograd.

On December 6, after a three-week battle, Lodz is occupied by the Germans. On August 23, the Turkish army begins to approach the Suez Canal, a strategically important base for traffic and transportation, but England has already made a strategic move: it declares Egypt its protectorate, deposing Sultan Kedive [Viceroy] Abbas Hilmi and replacing him with the pro-Allied Prince Hussein Kamal.

On February 10, 1915, Russia suffers a terrible defeat in East Prussia, and it is said that it happened because of treason. Meanwhile, on May 7, 1915, the great transatlantic liner “Lusitania” is sunk by the Germans. In the process, 1150 passengers lost their lives, including hundreds of American citizens. The American government sends a strong protest to Germany. On July 21, America sends a third note of protest to Germany about the rights of passengers from neutral countries to travel on ships of belligerent countries.

It is a pleasant surprise when Italy declares war on Austria-Hungary on May 23rd. The German and Austrian armies, which had already penetrated deep into Poland, march into Warsaw on August 5, 1915 and approach Białystok. On August 26, at 9 o'clock in the morning, our dear, beloved hometown of Białystok is occupied by the German army.

Białystok, August 1914, it's the sweet “kanikul” [summer vacation]. The pleasant idleness of not having to bother one's mind with “zadatshes” [homework], grammar, geography and history. My leather satchel lies in the polished closet, and I avoid the corner as if I'm afraid it will ensnare me. It seems to me that the satchel is speaking to me through the door of the closet, beckoning to me:

“Just one look, just one look at me. Take history, for example. When they ask you later in the exams when Ivan the Cruel was born? Will you know the answer? Who knows? Come, my child, give me just one look, just one look.”

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I know the sweet, seductive language of the satchel. I'm drawn to it, and I'm scared. I leave the corner of the closet and hear Mom's voice, who doesn't like me hanging around doing nothing.

“What are you doing pointlessly? A boy your age should be making himself useful to his mother. Well, go downstairs and bring me half a pound of sugar loaves, a “lot” [unit of weight] of tea, and half a herring from the grocery store. And for God's sake, ask for some lyak [herring sauce]. There's a jar for you. And make your way downstairs to get some fresh cookies. You hear - for God's sake, fresh, not yesterday's stale. Yes - if the shopkeepers see there's only a child, they'll deceive him from head to toe!”

My mother puts the glass in a woven straw basket, opens the door for me, and calls after me:

“For God's sake, don't dawdle!”

We live on Gumienna Street, in Shmuel Tsitrin's [Citrin's] yard, in the upstairs room that has a window facing the street. Our neighbor in the upstairs room is the Jew Yisroel Dunyets, a “maskel” [enlightened person], a teacher and scribe. A small, thin, stooped man with a round, shaved beard, he is constantly lost in thought, either sitting in the upstairs room writing or thinking. His door is always open because he is sickly and needs some air.

And when I pass by, I sneak by quietly to see if Minyele is there.

Yisroel Dunyets has two daughters and a son, all beautiful, quiet and calm people, except for the fiery Minyel. Khave is the older daughter and already a real lady. She's too old for me. I'm attracted to the younger Minyel. She's a little joker who giggles all the time, and she has a shapely face and a nose like a carving, with two shapely nostrils that open symmetrically when she bursts in with a bratty laugh, and her voice trills like a little bird.

But I pretend not to be interested in her, look indifferently into her eyes, which are narrowed with laughter, and ask her coldly, “What are you laughing at? You're just laughing. Isn't Khavele there?”

It cuts to her heart when I mention Khavele and she stops laughing:

“What makes you think of Khavele? She's already a lady and you're just a little boy!”

So Minye pays me back for mentioning Khavele and gives me the needle at my age.

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I go down to the street. Gumienna Street is boiling and bubbling. Something is different than usual. Packers, tied with ropes and wearing heavy boots smeared with blue tan, walk with sacks of flour on their backs, white as demons, and sacks of potatoes peeking out of the few holes. They also carry sacks of rice and peas and tons of herring, surrounded by rusty tires and smeared with “lyok”.

Transport wagons with small-town passengers pass quickly, rumbling over the sharp cobblestones on wooden wheels covered with iron tires.

Young people, well-groomed and dressed like dandies, drift around in groups, discussing political news, the war, and conscription into the Russian army. Mothers with worried faces look into each other's eyes, share the latest news they've picked up, and, with their hands hidden under their aprons, consult with their neighbors and share their maternal concerns.

The stern-faced Russian policemen are often seen, suddenly emerging from the ground at the slightest disturbance, tapping their white nickel sabers and barking angrily:

“Nothing to see here, move along!”

The newspaper sellers, hurried and breathless, run around every few hours with bundles of newspapers, ringing with their leather satchels slung over their shoulders, quickly handing out peanuts as change, shouting:

“Extra, extra, extra, telegrams! Austria has declared war on Serbia!”

The gloomy, sad, worried faces of the parents mingle with the cheerful, joking expressions of the young conscript boys, feigning expertise. A little curiosity gleams from their eyes. They may be facing troubled times, but there is also something new and interesting in it - and with youthful optimism and a thirst for adventure, they welcome the news with a sweet heartbeat.

Next to Bulkovshteyn's Bes-Medresh, between afternoon and evening prayers, a group of Jews stand and talk politics until they are called. And between the quiet, level-headed, God-fearing “Sh'mone-Esre” [Eighteen Petitions, Amida] and the noisy “Aleynu”, people exchange opinions and remarks.

They are already divided into groups. One group is quiet and composed, another is already discussing details and singing a Talmud-nign. I stagger between the feet of each group, picking up on the words, the tone of voice, the gestures and facial expressions. I completely forget about the errand for Mom, the quarter [sic] pound of sugar loaves, and the half herring. After all, I am also a part of the events taking place in my city, Białystok.

A strong curiosity is aroused in me.

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What is happening? And what will happen next? Something is stirring and rumbling in my city! What will come of it? And what will happen to my brother David, to my mother, and to me?

August 1914: The tense war atmosphere and the warm summer weather drove the inhabitants of Białystok into the streets. The hurried, nervous steps, the excited, restless faces of the passers-by made the atmosphere even more tense. The shops looked sad because half of their shelves were empty. In a few weeks, the goods had been bought up by the richer inhabitants, and some of the goods had been kept by the shopkeepers, who were afraid that they would not receive new goods from the wholesalers and factories, or would have to pay exorbitant prices for them themselves.

The “pasek” was in full swing. This term, “pasek”, was used to describe the sharp rise in prices. There were people who became rich and powerful in a few weeks, speculation had taken hold of all commercial circles, and not only goods were affected, but also [foreign] currency. Especially English pounds and American dollars, which were secretly called “lokshn” or “hard and soft,” meaning gold pieces and paper money.

The people followed the porters with feverish eyes, running after them and inquiring from whom they had received the “dray-nulike” (flour), “montshke” (sugar), or “a blekh oylye” (a tin of oil).

The prices increased from day to day. Flour, oil, light, pearl barley, cloth, leather, honey, coffee, kerosene, and even chocolate and “landrynka” sweets became desirable goods for which high prices were paid. Hardest hit were the poor Jews of Białystok, the craftsmen who had to live on their weekly income and had no savings. Poverty and hardship began to knock on the windows of the better-off families and increased the fear and anxiety about the coming events, which were war, hunger, and the loss of young sons, brothers, and sons-in-law who had been mobilized in the “fonyes” [Russian] military.

In the evening, my mother sat anxiously in our small room and consulted with our neighbor:

“Rashe, what are we going to do? The prices are rising like yeast dough.

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With my miserable few rubles, I can buy only a third of what I could a month ago. And what will happen next?”

Rashe, our neighbor, smiled mildly and well as always, held her hands under her apron and shook her head. Rashe Dunyets was a grocery store owner herself and knew the situation better than my mother. She sighed and said:

“Teme, why doesn't your David go to a small shtetl? It's cheaper to buy from the millers, grocers, or bakers there, not like here in Białystok. He should go to Khoroshtsh [Choroszcz] or Knishin [Knyszyn], as long as you can get something there”.

When my brother David came home late at night from his work at the Rafalovski-Zeligzon factory, where he was a loom master, my mother immediately told him: “We have to stock up!”

And three days later, a sack of flour, a sack of pearl barley, and a tin of oil made from real linseed stood proudly in our kitchen.

Only now did the great worries begin. My mother paced, wringing her hands, her lovely, shining face covered in clouds. Premature wrinkles creased her forehead, and she sighed softly, secretly wiping her eyes with her apron. Mom was worried about the draft. My brother David was liable for military service, and Mom racked her brains to see how he could be exempted from “sluzhbe” [military service]. My brother David was angry with our mother:

“You're carrying all the worries of the world with you, don't worry, I'm not going to serve. It will be “komilfo”. (“Komilfo” is a French term meaning “as it should be” [comme il faut]. It made the rounds in Białystok for a while, and many people actually didn't know what it meant).

“Mama, I've already arranged something with my friend Potokskin. We met at the 'Tshotshen' (Tyotye's Kavyarne, a famous square in Białystok). And we, a whole group, agreed: A 'ma-ke fonyen', that is, we won't go to the Russian military service. We're going to 'moren'!”

The word “moren” became the most popular word in Białystok. All the young boys who had to do their military service had to “moren” (starve) themselves in order not to gain the required weight and be drafted as a soldier.

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Large groups of young men used to stay out all night, playing billiards at “Mets” on Nikolayevske Street, eating “latkes” [potato pancakes] fried with castor oil, drinking Epsom salts, and starving. Some of the boys from wealthier backgrounds sent crippled boys with disabilities, called “malokhim” [angels], in their place and name to be exempted from military service and receive a “blue certificate”.

The poorer ones, however, inflicted disabilities on themselves.

Some inflicted a “kile” [hernia] on themselves, others had fluid running out of their ears. Some imitated “scabies” and others became deaf or dumb.

You really had to be a good actor to play this role, and it wasn't just one boy who pretended to be deaf who fell for a trick. When, after the interrogation, he was quietly told “You're free,” and the boy ran joyfully to the door, the doctor of the “prisustve” [draft board] would call him back with a wily smile and shout:

“Fit for military service, you bastard! Fit for military service, you son of a bitch!”

Those who had family members in America would only appear pro forma at the “priziv” [draft board] so that their parents wouldn't have to pay a fine of 300 rubles. But later, when they were already in the barracks, they managed to get out with a false “governor's pass” and smuggled themselves across the border into Germany at [the town of] Prostkin. And from there they went to America to forget the Tsar, the pogroms, and the revolutions forever.

One Shabbat afternoon, my brother David came limping into our living room, dragging a foot that looked like it was made of wood. And as Mom, pale as death, stared at it with frightened eyes, my brother exclaimed heroically with laughter and feigned joy:

“You see, Mama, this foot will set me free. And as he rolled up his pants above the ankle, he revealed a shiny, smooth, blue-stained, swollen foot that looked like a foreign, “grafted” foot. And he ended triumphantly:

“Don't worry, Mom! After the deliverance, my foot will be as it was in three days. I told you, Mom, not to worry. We'll do the “komilfo.”

September. I carry my satchel to the “Remeslenoye” (Artisans’ School) and wait with palpitations and youthful curiosity to see how the war atmosphere has affected my school.

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I approach the courtyard where the large buildings of Visotski's [Wissotzky‘s] “Talmetoyre” [Community School for the poor] and the “Remeslenoye” stand, built in 1905 by the handouts of the tea magnate Wolf Wissotzky the foundation stone of which was laid by the Grodno governor, Stolipin. He later gained sad fame as a bloody, anti-Semitic minister of the Tsar. Stolipin was shot by the Jewish provocateur, Bogrov.

My studies at the school begin as usual. Later, during the “peremenes” [breaks], I meet the “zavyedoyuzhtsh” [administrator] of the “Talmetoyre”, Samson Yakovlevitsh Grosman, with his thick, well-styled hair.

He is a medium-sized, energetic, proud Jew who looks like a goy.

I also meet the short, always serious Pesach Kaplan, with his deep, sharp, penetrating eyes; the red-blond Rakovski, the Hebrew teacher, as always sad and gloomy; Druskin with the half-round beard, who looks like a deputy of the “Gosudarstvener dume” [Russian Parliament].

And there are our teachers from “Remeslenoye”:

Samuil Yulyanovitsh Kaletski, our director, who liked to chat with me while holding his hand on my head, and put his private home library at my disposal. He has a pair of lively, laughing eyes and a fresh, cheerful face.

The “risovanye” [drawing] teacher Abukov with his blond pointed beard, betraying his affiliation to the world of painters- and indeed he is our teacher of drawing and painting. The stiff, pompous Lyusternik in his uniform with shiny brass buttons, and Belenki, a tall, muscular man who speaks Russian with a sharp, Russian “r” and looks like a gladiator carved out of stone from the Roman era.

He is the teacher of “mechanics” and the best declaimer of Russian poetry at our school's ceremonial balls, which are held twice a year: Purim and Chanukah.

Studies are progressing idly. The teachers are upset. They can't concentrate on their lessons. And my classmates - grown-up boys - feel the restlessness of the teachers and are themselves unbalanced, melancholy and cheerful, wavering between fear and youthful curiosity.

In the textile department of the steam loom, the new teacher, Master Grabovski, who has taken the place of the former Master Mayrem Frankfurt, is demonstrating before us. The students do not have much respect for the new teacher, who himself was a student of “Remeslenoye” not long ago.

[Page 134]

Somehow the subject doesn't stick. The great events that are about to unfold cause anxiety, palpitations, and also great curiosity. And they have made us little men, responsible for our parents, brothers and sisters in the cruel hours to come.

Early one morning, as I was walking down Lipowa Street, curiously observing the agitated minds of my usually quiet Białystok, which now resembled a city of people just released from a lunatic asylum, I stopped to politely greet and flirt with Eva Topolski next to the [family's] glass shop.

The plump, shapely Eva sparkled with life, and her full, rosy cheeks breathed the spring of youth. But our conversation was interrupted by people running to the Breml, and my ever-thirsty curiosity to observe street life overcame my desire to flirt, and after saying goodbye with a polite “Do Svidanye,” I made my way to the Breml.

And there before my eyes unfolded a scene characteristic of that time.

Next to the “Bremlekh”, across from Sorin's wooden toy stall and my aunt Rutshke's herring shop, a crowd was swaying. In the center right, a group of recruited “tsherevnikes” could be seen surrounding a Russian policeman, the well-known officer Reshute in Białystok, who was whistling incessantly on his pipe to call for help and firing his revolver in the air. He saw the angry faces and wild eyes of the recruits, who approached him threateningly.

Some of the recruits ran to the corner of Rutshke's herring and lime shop, grabbed a barrel, ran up behind Officer Reshute, dropped the barrel on his head, and strangled him to the ground. The wild, bloodshot eyes of the recruits expressed the elemental force of the rage and indignation of the raw crowd when it awakens to savage hatred. They showed what they could do to the representative of Tsarist power - and even to the entire Tsarist government.

This was the first herald of the roaring wave of revolt which had already begun in Russia, and which later swept aside the Tsarist government with merciless cruelty.

[Page 135]

It flooded Russia with terror and blood and led to the execution of the entire Russian royal family, the last of the Romanov dynasty, in a dank, dark cellar in Yekaterinburg, in the house of the Russian merchant Ipatyev.

Białystok was in turmoil. Normal life had been completely destroyed. Events were changing like in the movies. Yesterday's rich and powerful people were now impoverished, shamefully suppressing their poverty so that no one would see it, and yesterday's poor people had become rich and powerful, running a state with servants and driving a carriage with rubber tires and two horses in a row.

Lodz was occupied by the Germans (fallen on November 26, 1914), cut off from Great Russia, and all orders for textiles went to Białystok. The textile industry in Białystok expanded rapidly. The factories ran in shifts at full speed. The main manufacturers, who had no care in the world and who controlled the textile industry, were:

Triling, Novik, Tsitron [Citron], Yakobi, Kamikhov, Gubinski, Moes, Preysman, Markus, Slonimski, Moreyn, Vetshorek, Sokol, Zilberfenig, Khone Zilberblat, Poretski-Govinski, Knishinski, Nyemtsovitsh, Kanel, Makhai, Polak, Pines, Bril, Beker (plush factory), Yudl Kronenberg and Efraim Linski (Horodok), Amdurski (in Peshtshaniki), Bukhholts (in Supraśl). New manufacturers emerged who had previously been merchant's clerks:

Gotlib Seletski and others.

The city is full of Russian military. Osovyets [Osowiec] is occupied. The German artillery bombardment, like a distant, silent thunder, cruelly penetrates the quiet Białystok nights...

The city is full of “bezeshentses” [refugees] from the area of Grodno and Łomża, from Brisk and Grajewo, Jedwabne and Rajgród. They were victims of the decrees of the oppressor of the Jews, the Tsar's uncle Nicholas Nikolayevich, who suspected the Jewish population of spying for the Germans and expelled them from the border towns.

The buildings of the “Linas-Hatzedek” shelter the poor refugees wandering around in confusion. Millers, textile and leather manufacturers have become rich and powerful in a short time. Prices have almost doubled in one year. Speculation is in full swing. Poverty and despair on the one hand, and a brilliant period of golden business and quick riches on the other, alternate at a rapid pace.

The factories of Białystok are noisy day and night.

[Page 136]

The main products of the Białystok factories were “karelekh” [cheap woollen cloth] made of torn cloth nets, cotton “kastor” [cheap suit cloth], simple blankets for soldiers, scouring cloths for cleaning cannons, and the most beautiful flowered “montanyak” blankets: heavily loaded carts with bales of cloth dragged themselves over the cobblestones of Białystok. The mechanical looms of Groseneyner, Shvaber, Sheyner and Zhakard did not rest, they clattered day and night. Large orders from the Russian government came in, creating a new class of wealthy Jews who began to play a role as donors and activists in society.

My brother became a “big earner”.

He is a loom master at the “loynketnikes” [piecework/piece rate] company “Zeligzon-Rafalovski” on Nadretshne Street, opposite the city baths. There are two partners.

Sholem [Shalom] Mordekhay, as everyone calls him, is a fresh, lively Jew, dressed like a cart driver, always cheerful, with bright, laughing eyes. And no matter what he earns, he behaves in a companionable manner, always joking, pinching the “nuperkes” [female workers who look for and repair flaws in the fabric], and driving a horse and cart, whip in hand, to Gubinski's big blanket factory and back.

He carries packages of yarn and ribbons of different colors and brings finished pieces of fabric to Gubinski, free of defects.

The second partner, Nokhem [Nachum] Leyzer, is a Jew with a small paunch and a gold chain dangling from his waistcoat. He is finely dressed, with a fat, contented, stiff face, drooping cheeks, and a nose crowned by a golden pince-nez.

Nokhem-Leyzer is a man who meticulously calculates every kopeck, behaves with dignity, and speaks with the typical Grajewo “l” [that is, the Polish ł ]. He has just said angrily to Sholem-Mordekhay:

„Sho‘em Mordekhay, far vos kłaybstu nisht tsuzamen di kontses fun di pekłakh garn?...Far vos?...Es kost dokh gełt…”. [“Sholem Mordekhay, why don't you collect the end pieces from the yarn packets? Why? After all, it costs money!”]

My brother David works hard, and he earns a lot of money, between 20 and 25 rubles a week. He works during the day and sometimes also the night shifts. But he can't handle the money. He's like all poor children who suddenly get a lot of money and want to quench their thirst for the nice clothes they dreamed of as children. He constantly has new suits made for him, with a narrow waist and protruding chest, according to the fashion of the time.

[Page 137]

He wears elegant shoes with holes and big toe caps, a dandyish hat like a pimp's, and walking sticks made of bone with silver handles, and leads a dissolute life with his comrades.

My mother is annoyed: “David, remember - you don't always have a job and earn a living! You have to be able to put a penny back! Circumstances change. You have to think about tomorrow!”

But I already know. How can my brother David think about tomorrow when there are so many desirable things today? And today is so nice.

So he hangs out with friends who smell money on him: in the cafe “Tyotye” [Aunt] on Lipowa Street. He plays billiards at “Mets” on Nikolayevske [Mikołajewska] Street, dances with girls at “Keymers” on Lipowa Street, goes to “German's” cinema “Modern”, disappears for whole nights in Roskosh Park, and comes home from the forest in a modern carriage with rubber tires and songs of chanson singers.

Once he came home bruised and blue-eyed. He defended the honor of the Jews, fought in Roskosh Park with non-Jewish louts and officers who insulted the Jewish people.

My brother David always had to be the one to stand up for the people of Israel and take a beating for it. And once my brother was almost stabbed in the side with a knife when he stood up for a barefoot gentile woman who was amazed to see the Białystok clock tower “reaching to heaven” and raised her head to the top of the tower where a fire-warden was doing his rounds on the circular balcony. That's why she didn't see the Białystok pickpockets reaching into her woven straw basket - they were after her handkerchief with the wrapped silver coins!

My brother went and took care of her, warning her of the thieves. But if my brother hadn't happened to meet some of his sturdy comrades, the “blote yatn” [dirty bastards] would have stabbed him in the stomach.

But my brother David also worked hard, and my mother often sent me to him with food to take some refreshment. She sighed that unfortunately he worked hard and bitterly and wasted his money. Once my brother bought me a present, a blue, sleeveless cape with holes in the side for the arms to stick out, which was very fashionable for boys at that time, and which the famous conductor of the school choir, Jakow Berman, wore for a long time, although he was no longer a boy.

[Page 138]

I was happy with the blue cloth pelerine, which matched my white round face and the blond hair of the gentile peasant boys, and I swung with special pride on the Białystoker “konkes” [horse trams] to go to my friends: Sheymke Zak, Sheymke Plovski and Khayim Kruglyanski, who lived in the street “Behind the Prison”.

On one of those evenings, when I was visiting my comrades and walking down Vashlikover Street towards the “Lakhankos” High School, I saw large vehicles and Red Cross medics.

There was a smell of blood and war, although it was still a long way from Białystok. I approached the “Lakhankos” High School, which served temporarily as a hospital, and stood next to the people who had gathered to see the wounded and dead being taken out of the vehicles.

But suddenly everyone's eyes widened in wild terror:

People began to carry out the Russian soldiers who had been the first victims of the German gas war. They looked terrible: Bloated bellies and yellow swollen faces, like yellow-blue death masks. A small plaque with the name and address of each gassed man dangled from his foot. They were lined up in the hospital hall and sprinkled with lime to prevent epidemics. In the twilight they looked like shadows of the dead in strange colors - in a cemetery on a moonlit night.

This was the first herald of what the German culture was capable of, the first announcement of the future gas victims. Of Majdanek, Auschwitz and Treblinka, in the German extermination orgy of blood and tears.

On a beautiful blue morning on April 20, 1915, when I was still sleeping contentedly, rosy and blossoming, covered in my duvet, I noticed that Mama was waking me cautiously, as if she was still hesitating whether to wake me or not.

I opened my eyes and snapped out of a faraway dream.

Mom looked lovingly into my eyes and repeated softly a few times:

“Yankele! David is working through the night. Unfortunately, he's extremely exhausted, he needs something to bring him so he can regain his strength.”

Sluggishly I got dressed, put the food in a straw basket and walked sleepily down to Gumienna Street.

[Page 139]

There I pass a corner of Gumienna Street, the house of Gutman the Teacher, to whom I sometimes come up, because his daughter, who calls me “Zhabkele” [“little frog”], belongs to our group. There, in teacher Gutman's living room, I once met the Białystoker Maggid Rapoport, a cheerful, humorous and witty man who surprised me because I compared him to Yosef HaTsadik, given his rosy cheeks, beautiful face and blond beard.

I often listened to his sermons in the Bes-Medresh next to the large City’s Synagogue [the Wielka Synagogue].

He used to shake me with his quick, sudden tearing open of the Holy Ark during his sermon, along with a wailing prayer and lament to the Lord of the world, which he would link with a frightening wailing cry from the women's section, whereupon even the men would quietly sob and stand there with tears in their eyes.

There's the house of my aunt Khaye'tshe Shustitski, where two worlds lived in one home: The pious, bearded, God-fearing, quiet Benyamin-Fayvl and his modern daughters Tsilye and Soshe, who read Russian novels, walked in the City Garden on Shabbat for amusement - they had bought tickets on Shabbat - and dreamed of Eugene Onegin and Sanin, the heroes and men of pleasure of Pushkin and Artsybashev.

From a distance, in Yatke Alley, I can see the “Lines-Khoylem” [Charity Hospital] and the famous ice cellar near the outpatient clinic, which supplied hundreds of Jews with ice during the summer days and nights for various illnesses, when cold ice was the primary remedy.

I enter Nikolayevska [Mikolajewska] Street and approach the “Polkovoyen” Bes-Hamedresh, but suddenly I see people running from all sides to the gates and courtyards, curiously looking up to the sky, where my young eyes clearly see formations of airplanes, three flying in a row, like black storks approaching.

I assume that they are German planes. They arouse in me feelings of admiration for the human genius that created such incredible things.

I remember the first flight demonstrations, on the way to Vashlikove, by the Italian pilot “Kampo di Stsipyo” [Scipio del Campo]. All of Białystok ran to see the miracle of people flying like birds! What a comparison with the majestic German birds that flew so beautifully, symmetrically in the air, as if in a performance.

I raise my head to the steel birds, cross the small bridge on Nikolayevske Street and follow the German planes with my eyes, forgetting that I should actually turn into Nadretshne Street, opposite the bath.

[Page 140]

After all, I'm supposed to take food to my brother.

As if hypnotized, I follow the planes, forming a small roof over my eyes with my hands, and I am not far from Aleksandrovske Street when suddenly I hear a terrible, shattering explosion. Four or five houses away, thunder rattles the windows in the morning silence. Then followed a series of bomb explosions.

From a distance I see a schoolgirl, a girl in a brown dress, lying with her books on the corner of Aleksandrovske Street next to the bank. Thin rivulets of blood flow around her head, like long, red, bloody legs of a bloody spider.

On the other side, a bank clerk lies with his arm torn off, his blood-soaked sleeve hanging somehow shapelessly down.

My eyes were blinded by all this, by blood and death, by the aimless killing and brutality of grown-up people, of whom I - a small, dreamy boy - had to become one. I am overwhelmed by the fear of my future, an elementary fear of what lies ahead, of the unknown, of what the grown-ups, the adults, the omniscient elders are preparing for me.

I was afraid of life for the first time, I turned pale and trembled like a young leaf torn off by an evil, cold storm wind.

Among the victims of those beautifully flying airplanes - moving across the blue sky like a public display of human genius, which I had stopped admiring and which filled my childish heart with hatred and suspicion - were six young children, among them Jewish schoolboys and schoolgirls.

One of them was the sister of my close friend Podrabinik, whom I used to visit at his home to discuss poetry, romance, the beauty of the human soul, and the greatness of the human race.

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