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When I made aliyah in 1926, my father, of blessed memory, escorted me to the railroad station in the town of Zelva. At the time we parted, he blessed me, wishing me a successful journey, shed a tear, but whispered to himself: I am indeed fortunate to have been privileged to have a son making aliyah to the Land of Israel.

Forty years have gone by, and yet I can see him before me in that moment as if it happened just today.

My father was a wonderful man, handsome, intelligent and a Torah scholar. He was considered to be a well-off individual, although he was never rich by any measure. He treated everyone as an equal, whether the person was educated or simple, whether rich or poor. Everyone had respect for him, both Jew and gentile, and he was especially held in affection by the farmers of the area. His integrity became the talk of the town.

He was a Zionist heart and soul, and worked for the Holy Land on all fronts: KK”L, Keren HaYesod, and the HeHalutz movement. Accordingly, he was among the founders of and workers for the basic Hebrew school in the town.

He was an observant man, attending prayers daily, studying a page of the Gemara in the Bet HaMidrash, in front of a group of listeners, and with all this, he was both liberal and progressive.

My mother ז”ל, was a simple, yet clever woman, who conducted her household in an almost miraculous of necessity confined her to bed for extended periods of time. My father ז”ל, was also occupied with housework. I can remember a house full of little children, with my father feeding, dressing them for bed, helping them with their homework, all this – on top of his difficult work he did to provide for the household.

He always worked hard, from early morning until late at night, and worked at many different endeavors, everything according to the stormy era that prevailed in those days. Before the First World War, he operated a wine press, which he had taken over from his parents, who had made aliyah to live out their last days in the Holy Land. He was the overseer at the wine press. During the German occupation, when the wine press ceased operation, he switched over to farming. He bought a horse and cows, and worked a large parcel of land at a time when my brother and I were still quite young, and were still dependent on him.

After the period of the German occupation, the Poles took control, and my father ז”ל, switched over to being a forest products merchant. Together with the Mishkin, Blizniansky & Weinstein families, he bought un sections of the forest from the landowners of the area, cut down the trees, and floated the lumber down the Shchara River to the outside world. With great speed, he turned into a truly skillful forest products merchant. Much later, when the lumber business hit a crisis, he bought a hand-operated wool-combing machine. The farmers of the district would bring the wool of their sheep to him, and my father ז”ל, would put the wool through his machine. It was hard labor.

Before I made aliyah, my father attempted to reactivate the wine press business, and once again dealt in lumber, and at an even later date he even opened up a store. He was constantly busy, on the one hand with making a living, and on the other hand with work around the house. He never once complained, never raised his voice, and never lost his temper; he was totally devoted to my mother and the children without any measure.

In 1932, when I was in the Holy Land for six years already, He found out from my friend, David Rabinovich, who had gone to visit his parents, that

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I had fallen ill and was in hospital. He acted immediately, and sent me money, with the admonition that I should rest and not work. My situation was undoubtedly better than his, and my health was satisfactory, and when I took him to task for sending me money, and wanted to return it – he refused.

Together with my mother and father ז”ל, the following members of my family were killed on the 11^th Day of Ab: my sister Freda and her husband Leibl Beckenstein a townsman, and their daughter Chanaleh, my sister Leah and her husband, my brother Moshe, my sister Batsheva, and my sister Rivkah. The last three were still young children at the time I made aliyah. My older brother Menahem Mendel, apparently perished with his wife Genya of the Yafsha family, along with their little daughter Esther, in Bialystock.

To this day I do not know how they fell, or how they died; Holocaust survivors from our town either do not know, or are unwilling to relate how the members of my family met their end, and they keep their counsel to themselves.

May their memory be blessed.

Sometimes one feels the need to write pages and pages, but when confronting the challenge, each and every line is an effort. Thus, even writing these few lines was delayed for days and months. Thirty years have passed since I left my parents' home and established my own. To this very day, when I reminisce or talk about "home," it is the image of my parents' home which appears before my eyes. It is there that I spent my childhood and adolescence and there that we all lived together, bound up with bonds of love. There is no power on earth that can erase my feelings about my parents' home.

I will recount one episode, one that took place the last Sabbath I spent with my family: how I said farewell to my parents, my sisters, my friends, and to the community of Dereczin. Even this short tale brings choking tears to my eyes, as to everyone of us who remember our loved ones and what happened to them.

In the morning of this last Sabbath, when my father returned from prayers, we sat together around the table to the traditional warm cholent. In honor of my departure, mother prepared two kinds of kugel (pudding). I remember how, with difficulty, I sat at the table tasting my mother's delicacies. With all my strength, I held back from bursting into tears, lest I should darken even further the already depressing mood at home. I remained silent and sought an excuse to leave the table.

In the afternoon, I went to say good-bye to my friends. My mother ז”ל, accompanied me. Parting was not easy, for every house I went to triggered memories of friendship and my childhood. To this day, I vividly remember my farewell visits to acquaintances and friends, in each and every house individually. It seems as if I didn't skip a single house in Dereczin, for we had all been friends. Everyone was happy that I was making aliyah,

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emigrating to - the Land of Israel. They were even envious of me. They wished me all the best and bid me farewell, with their last words being an expression of hope that they would see me again or rejoin me in the land of our ancestors.

By the time evening arrived, people ceased coming to give their last farewell wishes. Father returned from synagogue and prolonged the recital of the Havdala, the blessings for the separation of the holy Sabbath from the mundane. It was apparent to me that all of us, and I no exception, wished to lengthen this Sabbath day ad infinitum.

The moment arrived. Mother's countenance was lime-white. Her hands were cold and trembling. She uttered not even one word. She merely pressed me against herself with all her might. She looked into my eyes and I into hers, signaling encouragement to each other, conversing in silence, like only a mother and a daughter can. This is the image of my mother that has remained with me. Refined and sensitive, she was able to bear her hardships without complaints.

I said good-bye to my younger sister, Zeldeleh, who remained at home with my mother. My two elder sisters, Chanaleh and Sarah, came along with Father to accompany me to the train station, as did many of our friends. It was particularly difficult to part with Chanaleh. She stood as if paralyzed, near the window of the train station. She didn't budge. She was immersed in a deep sadness. She didn't even utter a murmur. She was very attached to me and she loved me very dearly. When I used to come home in the evening, she used to find a sweet to give to me. Every Saturday morning on the Sabbath, I would open my eyes to see her standing quietly at my bedside ready to engage in conversation.

Father was never dismayed by the reality that he would have to part from his children and maybe not see them for a long period of time. He was not disturbed by the great geographic distance that would separate us.

When he learned that I was planning to leave for Israel, he protested not the slightest. He simply went to synagogue and immersed himself in prayer the entire night.

I know it was difficult for him to part with me. Moments before the train departed from the station, my father leapt onto the train and stayed with me until the train began to move.

I remember my father, wrapped in his prayer shawl, steeped in a Holy Book resting in his hands, with a constant smile on his lips.

A nightmare that pursues us, sons and daughters of Dereczin, took place the infamous 10th day of Ab. It is on that day that our dear ones died in agony and everything that we held dear went up in flames. Only with great effort, are we successful in preserving in our memories the image of the members of our family as we saw them last: the last day, the last hour, the last moment when we parted and were tom away from one another. In my case, I remember my family as they were that last Sabbath we spent together. This memory is the only monument that I am able to erect for their sake in the depths of my heart.

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Once, in the late afternoon on a winter's day, guests arrived at our home in Sinaiska. We were the first place people generally stopped off when they came to our settlement. My father-in-law, Simkha Dlugolansky was a sort of ‘Soltis’ or ‘Mukhtar’ (like a Mayor) of the settlement, and all of the issues of the place passed under his scrutiny.

We were sitting in the house, when suddenly we heard the rolling wheels of a horse-drawn wagon, which entered our courtyard, carrying two guests. “Reb Simkha,” cried the wagon driver cheerfully, “this time I have brought you two distinguished guests that are special,” – “Blessings of welcome upon you, please enter,” Reb Simkha said to them in greeting them by opening the door to his expansive home – “Where are these Jews from, and what is on their minds?”

“I come from the Land of Israel,” said Tzidkov, as he introduced himself and the friend who accompanied him. When we heard ‘the Land of Israel,’ our eyes opened wide with wonder, and it appeared to us that we were looking at an entirely different kind of Jew. He was tall, his face was tanned, and his bearing made a very strong impression on us.

After the initial introductions, it became clear to us that the man was an officer with a farm cooperative in the Land of Israel, and he had come to register candidates prepared to make aliyah to the Land, seeing that the British Mandate had authorized 400 entry certificates for farmers, to enable the import of laborers to do agricultural work. The news spread quickly among the populace, and in less than an hour our house was filled with most of the settlement residents. The news of the possibility of reaching the Holy Land ignited all hearts. All the young people, including family men and their children, were prepared and ready to leave the settlement, which their parents had established, and in which they had lived for decades.

At that time, it was already evident to us that there was no future for us in Poland. Each and every day we listened to the rising tide of anti-Semitism. From the time that Hitler rose to power in Germany, the hatred of the Jews began to intensify in Poland as well. Life became difficult, and the economic conditions worsened. Despite the fact that the people of the area distanced themselves from politics, and avoided where possible any form of conflict with their Christian neighbors in nearby villages, they would hear from the lips of the gentiles at every opportunity [the epithet] Zydy do Palestyny.^[1] It was for this reason that the news of a possibility to make aliyah to the Holy Land made such an impression, for the spark of zeal for the Holy Land was constant and basic, but we simply did not know at that time how we could approach the [apparently] sealed gates of entry. Only the organized Halutzim, who executed their preparations during a few short years, were privileged to singly gain entry on the basis of very, very few entry certificates. And now, an emissary comes from that magical land, with promises of taking us there collectively.

There was great excitement. Almost everyone registered, however we all understood that only a part of us would be selected to go. Everyone did their utmost to improve their standing with the emissaries. One would show his calloused hands, and another his muscles; one would demand aliyah for the sake of his children, and a second would demand it just for his own sake. I will not forget those minutes when the emissaries stood ready to depart from our house. We took our leave of them, and I held my little daughter in my arms, and my sole request of them was not to forget us, because it was my desire to see my daughter grow up in our Land. With a smile on their face, and a gentle

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pinch on my daughter's cheek, they gave me their promise in saying: ‘Don't worry – you will be among the first.’ From that day on, the great anticipation, for the sign of news concerning our destiny, began to grow. In everyone's heart was the hope that indeed he – he was precisely the right type of individual to be selected for aliyah, and would merit allocation of a certificate. Until one day, which I will never forget, when my father-in-law Simkha arrived from Dereczin carrying all the mail, which contained the hoped for approvals. Twelve families were selected from among the 25-30 that had registered. The entire settlement behaved as if drugged. The community divided into two parts – the happy ones, and the disappointed ones. It was as if their hearts told them that their lives hung on the possibility of aliyah, and those left behind would be condemned to destruction.

And these were the twelve families who made aliyah to the Holy Land:

• Shmuel Becker, Jacob Becker, Leiba Becker The three with their families.
• Natan Dlugolansky , Leibkeh Dlugolansky
  Together with their families
• Jacob Turetsky and his family
• Jacob Spector, Meir Spector
  Together with their families
• Michael Kresnovsky, Zelig Kresnovsky
  Together with their families
• Shimon Miller, Aryeh Miller
  And their families.

When we left the settlement, no person stayed behind at home, everyone came to escort us far, far to the distant outskirts of the place. Their only solace was in our commitment to do everything in our power to be reunited with them, this time in our own land. To our great and everlasting sorrow, this remained only a dream for all of us. This desire was never brought to fruition, Hitler's hand reached them, and all were wiped out in the gas chambers, apart from two people of that place who succeeded in surviving among the ranks of the partisans, and those were Alter Becker & Leah Becker with their two daughters.

When I think about our birthplace, I am reminded not only of every street and byway, not only of the pretty little nooks in and around Dereczin, where we whiled away our time as youngsters – I cannot forget the Jews of Dereczin and their daily way of life, the hard and bitter struggle for sustenance, the deprived and often primitive standard of living of most Dereczin families.

How can I forget the degree to which our parents undertook the strain and wore themselves out on behalf of their children, so that God forbid, they should not want for anything, in addition to their concern about the needy in the town!? One thing my

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parents understood: the future of the children, the youth, was not going to be in Dereczin, not among those who so often remind us that ‘our place is in Palestine.’ This, during those years when the Land of Israel was practically closed to us; how many tiring efforts and disappointments everyone had to put up with and survive until he reached the goal of being able to arrive in the Holy Land!

I remember to this day the conversation I had with my beloved parents. Their concept and orientation was first to enable the children to make aliyah to the Holy Land, and in time, they too, would come, and in this manner we would once again all be together.

When I received my orders to travel to the Holy Land, the news spread quickly throughout all of Dereczin. On the way to see my grandfathers, whom I visited frequently, both young and old congratulated me, and shook my hand.

The last day of February 1932 will always remain in my memory. It was a Sabbath day, my last Sabbath and my last day in Dereczin. I went to say good-bye from door-to-door, accompanied by my friends.

Here, before my eyes, is that last image, when practically the whole town of Dereczin turned out on Saturday night to escort me to the edge of town, to the road leading to Zelva, to the train, which I rode to Warsaw, and from there to the Land of Israel. That was my last encounter with Dereczin.

That is why the pain is so great when we gather for our annual memorial meeting. Together with that pain, our hearts are filled with solace from the knowledge that a few of our Dereczin brethren were saved, and lived long enough to be privileged to be in the Land of Israel.

My town of Halinka was tiny, but it was pretty and neat in my view, comprised of good people, good Jews, who lived and worked hard there for many long years.

Surrounding Halinka were the towns and cities of Slonim, Dereczin, Zelva, Baranovich – surrounding the town were green fields and forests, a quiet stream that flowed by the town, where children went to bathe, play and catch fish.

That is the way it was generation after generation, long, long years of quiet, work-filled Jewish existence.

As was the case in other towns, we in Halinka had people who worked in many walks of life: merchants, storekeepers, middlemen, and craftsmen. We made a living from our market days, and the Christian holidays, when the peasants from the surrounding villages would come to worship in their church, and in passing also make a variety of purchases. Among the Halinka Jews, there were a number who kept a cow for their own personal use, and always had fresh dairy produce in their homes. There were some who made a living from maintaining several cows, made a little bit of butter and some cheeses, and sold them in Slonim. For winter, they would buy a couple of wagon loads of hay, store it up in the attic, in order to have cattle fodder. During the summer, a number of these Jews engaged in dairy making, would jointly hire a cattle tender, who would take the animals out to pasture on land that was rented from a Christian.

Potatoes were stored in the cellars as part of

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preparation for winter, along with firewood for heating the house. Bread was baked by each family for its own use, once or twice a week.

Everything was good and satisfying when our hearts were not troubled. In a town like Halinka, you understand, there naturally was a synagogue and a rabbi, and even a cantor and choir. Our rabbi didn't exactly live in the lap of luxury, he lived in a small house, and had a number of children, no evil-eye intended. It was not permitted to sell candles and yeast for the Sabbath [Challah] – that had to be bought from the rabbi. Indeed, it was a little more expensive, but the rabbi needed this as a source of income. Jews with means would occasionally provide support by offering him ‘a gift.’

We had neither a Yiddish nor Hebrew school in Halinka, and therefore the children attended the local Polish school. A Hebrew teacher was retained on a separate basis. One well-to-do family retained such a teacher for their exclusive use, while others would pool their resources to hire a Hebrew teacher for their children, who otherwise were required to attend the Polish school. Others sent their children to study in the surrounding towns and cities. We were educated in Dereczin and Slonim. It was not so easy for our parents, until they reached a point where they had made something of their children.

Both we and the Polonskys had water mills. During the Christian holidays, the peasants would come to Halinka and the mill for several days, until they finished milling [their grain], packing it, and making flour, and these were days of hard labor both for the peasants and the millers.

One evening, my father went down to the mill to see how the work was coming along, and he heard a gentile say: ‘A day will come when we will slaughter all the Jews…’ When our father related this to us in an upset tone, it was the first time that the thought entered my mind to get out of Poland and go to the Holy Land, start a new life, and not be ashamed of any kind of work that we would have to do, even if we were ashamed to do it in Halinka.

It was not so easy to get from Halinka to the Land of Israel in those days. One needed to go through years of getting qualified. But anyone who approached this task in earnest, attained the goal. It is only a shame that so few managed to escape the tragic ending. I left home, harboring the expectation that I would yet again see those nearest and dearest to me. If I didn't think this way, I don't know if I would have had the strength to tear myself away from my family. There are times when I believe that I would have been better off had I stayed behind and shared in their bitter fate, and to this day it is not clear to me which alternative is right. The mind and heart do not always align in the directions they suggest.

Now I have only one alternative – to cherish the memory of my family. My good-hearted father was good to everyone. He would treat someone who was poor as if he were a close friend, in order that such a person not feel burdened by his misfortune. He would sit at the table with such a person, and engage him in conversation, in order to help the man feel better. During the selikhot season, he would get up before daybreak, and listen to the subdued incantations, mixed with tears. The trees would rustle, and the brook flowed – as if everything was reciting the prayer along with the supplicants, and I would lie in bed, with my eyes closed and a trembling heart.

The Eve of Yom Kippur is especially etched in my mind. Father would call all the children together, and place both his hands on our little heads and bless us. We stood frightened, and with tears in our eyes. The following morning, we would go to the synagogue to see how our fasting parents were faring. I looked at my father, wearing his white kittel and prayer shawl, with his good, bright and shining eyes, as if he were an angel. To this day, I cannot describe the feelings that overcame me then during my childhood.

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We could talk to our father about any subject, even about modern problems, he was a well-read man, was acquainted with worldly matters, and loved to discourse on any subject with anyone. Through this, he was able to help anyone he could at any time. Even my mother didn't always know the extent to which my father did things for others.

There were such good people in this little town. Such a person was Shimon Lusky. Many remember him. During the [Second World] War, he went off to the forests and joined the partisans.

Both Christians and Jews knew him very well, and appointed him to oversee provisioning. Not once did he put his own life in danger to help rescue women and children, who were unwanted in the ranks of the partisan groups.

The war destroyed my town, Halinka, and my entire family. Very few people from the Halinka Jewish populace survived the war. My family was also wiped out, and only my sister Leah's daughter, Esther, extricated herself from the bloody slaughter.

I remember when I was still a little girl, autobuses began to run between Dereczin and Slonim, and also between Dereczin and Zelva.

Toward evening the Slonim Bus would arrive, and when it was seen turning off of Slonim Gasse toward the marketplace – it was like a signal for everyone to start running – big and small, young and old alike – everyone ran for the station near the row stores in the market square. You would have thought the town was on fire!

The bus arrived, the door opened, and everyone waited impatiently to see who would get off. If a townsman was returning from Slonim, then everyone stared at the packages he carried in his hands;

look around for a familiar face, immediately everyone began to speculate as to whom a prospective groom was coming, and what would be the size of the wedding dowry he will get.

On the other hand, if this really was a prospective groom coming, then the prospective in-laws were very fearful, and protected him from strange young ladies, in the event someone says an untoward thing about him, and ruin the entire match.

The little kids would run after the driver and the conductor, looking upon them as great heroes. The bus was unloaded, and then re-loaded for its return journey, and once it had left, the town returned to its normal, quiet pace, everyone went home to wait until morning, when a bus from Slonim would again bring a little ‘enlivenment’ to town…

I know that our Yizkor Book is dedicated to the memory of our murdered brothers and sisters, and the destroyed [town of] Dereczin, and therefore, I thought a long time about whether this book was an appropriate place to record a very funny incident that took place at our house. But since we wish to recollect and tell about everything that we recall of our once, beloved Dereczin, I present this story to my landsleit. Many of them certainly remember this story, because all of Dereczin knew about it, and got more than a few laughs from it.

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Our house, the house of Shmuel-Zerakh & Sarah Bernicker, was in those years after the First World War, the only house at the head of Kamenitzer Gasse, near the Zelva highway. Every spring, we were afraid that the runoff from the melting snows which filled the canal at the side of the highway, would overflow, and flood our little house. There was no other house around us. Near our house was Der Vian^[1], and during the war years from 1914 to 1920, when cavalry and other divisions of various armies would stage themselves along the Vian, their horses, more than once would come off the road and nibble on the tasty straw on our roof thatching.

It was not only the horses that caused us damage, but also the soldiers in all of these divisions. From all the armies and horses, our miserable little shack was turned into a complete wreck, and we were left with no choice but to institute fundamental repairs.

The workers whom we hired to repair our house asked us to move all of our possessions out of doors, and they stayed outside for quite a number of days and nights. Understand that we had to keep a careful watch over these things, otherwise they would have quickly been stolen. So we alternated in standing watch outside, and everyone used to watch and was raw.

Longer time residents of Dereczin will recall, that anyone who needed to go from Kamenitzer Gasse to Zelver [Gasse], or back, needed to pass by our house. When they were working on our house, people literally would walk through our furniture, bedding, possessions and kitchen utensils, which we had put outside.

Well, everything would have gone well, were it not for the attitude of my brother, Yitzhhak Bernicker (known in Dereczin as Yitzhak der Kamenitzer). He did not feel like spending the whole night on watch. He went off to the butchers in the marketplace, where stray dogs used to hang out. He grabbed one of these dogs, about the size of a young calf, brought him home, and tied him to the leg of a table, in order that he serve as the night watch for the goods we had set outside the house. My brother himself, went off to get a restful night's sleep. The dog crawled underneath the table, and also went off into a deep sleep.

I remember quite well, how in the summertime, early in the morning, the shepherds would take out their herds of cattle to their early morning pasture, which was called ‘the early morning feeding.’ These herds also had to pass by our house. One such herd went out to pasture, and when it passed by our house, a young calf was curious as to what kind of four-footed animal was lying under a table. I appeared to be a calf. So, the young beast stuck its head under the table to better sniff what it was that was lying under there. At that precise moment, the dog awoke with a start, and was frightened by the horns of the young bullock. The bullock in turn, was frightened by the dog's barking. When the dog jumped up on its four legs, the young bullock wanted to run away, and then raised its head, causing the table to rest on its head and neck. Scared to death, the young bullock began to run with the table on its head, pursued by the dog, which is tied by its neck to one leg of the table.

The young bullock, with the table on its head, and the dog behind, ran right into the middle of the herd, and stampeded all the cows which scattered over all the area. The young bullock ran towards the river, constantly shaking its head in an attempt to dislodge the table and free itself. The dog also was constantly tugging, in order to disconnect itself from the table and from the fleeing animal.

My brother and the herder ran after them – my brother wanted to save the table, and the herder wanted to save the animal. But the beast had so shaken up the table that the table fell apart completely into a bunch of boards.

The unfamiliar stray dog ran off somewhere or another, together with one leg of the table to which he was tethered.

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My brother gathered up the boards and the three [remaining] table legs, and brought them home.

It took the herder the rest of the day to round up his scattered cows…

On those days, when we remind ourselves of our nearest and dearest, and in our ancestral home, there is a desire to remember the funny things from what was once a happy Dereczin. That is why I have brought once of those light episodes here.

Of all my teachers, Reb Moshe – my Tanach teacher – has etched himself into my memory to the greatest extent. He was taken for a good teacher in town. Apart from his appearance – proud in stance with a well-kept red beard, and penetrating eyes, he was an outstanding Tanach teacher, and a good explicator. His personality made a great impression on his students.

He had no children of his own; his family life was not peaceful. He and his wife constantly quarreled. She – his exact opposite – short, scrawny, and sharp-tongued – did not understand him. Being unfulfilled and by nature a brooder, he sublimated himself through his scholarship – putting his entire fiery energy into teaching young boys the Tanach.

A man with excellent diction, and a talent for weaving a good tale, he loved to relate at great length in Yiddish, the terse constructs of the Prophets. His spirited descriptions ignited boyish hearts and touched their imagination; the images from the Tanach became etched into their young minds – never to be forgotten.

Reb Moshe also had a talent for drawing; he loved drawing a complete picture of the Tabernacle and the Holy Temple for his class, with all the details included, and to cut out the paraphernalia of the High Priest from colored paper – just as it was described in the Pentateuch – and thereby elating his students.

Reb Moshe constantly inculcated grammar into his pupils: “Hebrew without its grammatical rules cannot be; it is like a garden with no boundaries – chaos,” that was how he would express himself. He would love, in the middle of a lesson, to stop at specific words, and then completely parse them. The students were not particularly fond of this discipline; grammar was for them a real letdown.

Once, when he was teaching masculine and feminine declensions, the door opens; in walks the father of one of the boys. Being a miller, the man was covered from head to toe in flour dust. It was not for nothing that he was nicknamed 'the corpse.' He really looked like he was dead: his clothes, the hair on his head, his beard and eyebrows, were as white as snow. When he walked into the room, the little children greeted him by crying out: “Here comes the corpse!” “The corpse” was not any sort of scholar. As he listened to the Rebbe teach, the entire issue didn't register with him. In a choked voice (his nostrils were caked with flour) he addresses the Rebbe: “Why is this necessary?” Reb Moshe answered that one could not properly address a man with the same language as one uses to address a woman. Seeing that the miller still doesn't understand the point, the Rebbe attempts to clarify it to him as follows: “Every week I buy a chicken from a peasant woman for the Sabbath meal. I speak to her in Russian – using masculine declension, when in fact I should be using feminine declension. Do you know why? Because I am ignorant of Russian grammar.”

The miller didn't grasp Reb Moshe's words. He bent over to Reb Moshe, and murmured: “When I went to Heder, we didn't know about such things.”

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“Where Did It Happen?”

Reb Moshe's Heder was in a wooden house which was divided by a wall. On one side, the owner lived, and in the second side – the Rebbe. The Heder itself – small and long – with two windows looking out on the yard, which was always busy with the sounds of all manner of barnyard fowl: chickens, ducks and geese.

In the summertime, the neighborhood women would stand underneath the open windows and listen in on the Rebbe's teachings – while sighing, whining and blowing their noses. The boys sat around a long table; the Rebbe – at the head, with his back to an oven, conducted the class.

A restless man, he taught while standing – sitting down only during recess, when he took a sip of hot tea from a glass, and then stood up again.

I am reminded of a winter's night – outside a major snowstorm was raging; the room was so heated up, that the warmth pervaded every appendage of the body. Teaching the verse from Ezekiel 16:6,

(And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee [when thou wast] in thy blood, Live!; yea, I said unto thee [when thou wast] in thy blood, Live!)

Reb Moshe waxed with ecstasy, and with great spirit, told a story to us at great length, portrayed to us in great detail: of an individual walking in the fields who finds an abandoned little girl – barefoot, naked and covered in blood. He picks her up from the wet field and brings her home, binds her wounds and dresses her regally, and in the end, she transgresses against him.

The Rebbe's storytelling was so animated and engaging, that the lady neighbor on the other side of the wall, hearing this story, ran into the Heder, and cried out:”Reb Moshe! Reb Moshe! I beg you, [tell me], where did this happen?”

Teaching The Song of Songs to children was no simple matter in those days. Apart from the literal translation of the words, students were required to have an understanding of the Commentaries of Rashi – to derive the explanation of the parable in the sentence – the role playing of the Lord and the Children of Israel.

It was the beginning of spring. The snow had begun to melt; the rivers began to flow with the runoff. The sun became warmer: young green sprouts began to poke out of the black earth.

It was before Passover, and everyone was a little more light-hearted. Reb Moshe was teaching his class The Song of Songs. Having a love for a well-turned phrase, he conveyed the beautiful imagery of the verses in The Song of Songs with a great deal of feeling and fire.

Finishing the first chapter, Reb Moshe declared a short recess, sat down and wiped the sweat off his brow, took a sip of tea, and signaled to me with his finger to approach: “Nu, Meir repeat – let me hear [what you know]!” I interpreted the verses for him, and with great intensity and pleasure, wove into my explanation the parable of the verses – in accordance with Rashi's explanation. The Rebbe was simply beside himself with satisfaction, and he gave me a cheek-pinch, saying: “May you be blessed!” The Rebbe's fingers were like a pair of pliers; my cheek hurt; tears welled up in my eyes.

On my way home, my cheek burned like fire. As I came into the house, my mother immediately saw the bruised cheek. Wringing her hands, she wanted to know if I had “once again gotten into a fight.” “No, mother! I haven't fought with anyone. The Rebbe did this by pinching me.”

My mother was beside herself with anger, grabbed me by the hand, and we ran off to the Rebbe so she could complain. Pointing to my cheek, she asked the Rebbe if it was true that he had indeed pinched me. The Rebbe, in an explanation, clarified for her that her son had earned a cheek-pinch because he had explained The Song of Songs so well.

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My mother, seeing no connection between proficiency in The Song of Songs and a swollen cheek, addressed the Rebbe as follows: “Reb Moshe, I implore you, please don't pinch anymore! But if you deem that he is deserving of a pinch, be so kind as to let me know; I will pinch him myself!”

I remember the Great Fire of 1924. In the middle of a perfectly clear day, the fire broke out in the middle of the Neuer Gasse. The wind got hold of the flames and blew them over all the neighboring houses.

The roofs, made of old shingles and thatch straw, caught fire quickly, and were lifted into the air, carrying the conflagration to the houses near and far.

People began to try and save their belongings by packing things in sacks and sheets that they found immediately at hand, dragging these parcels as far away from the fire that they could, and then returning on the run to see what else they could salvage – and then finding their houses engulfed by flames. There were those who barely managed to save their young children and emerged from this conflagration literally 'naked,' with no possessions whatsoever.

The town fire-fighters worked bitterly and hard to contain the blaze, but they lacked the proper equipment with which to do so. Everything worked against them: the streams, in the summertime were not full of water; water had to be drawn from them in pails on the end of a chain; the pails had to be carried from the stream to the fire by hand (a bucket brigade) – the fire-fighters did not have horses of

their own, and they were forced to ask for horses from the Jewish wagoners, who were not always around, or from the Christians, who were not inclined to provide them, and had driven them off during the fire to the Vian.

And by the time a pail of water reached a burning house, the flames had [consumed it and] moved on.

The cries of the fire-fighters, who were fighting the burgeoning flames literally with their bare hands, mixed with the wailing of little children and the womenfolk filled the air, but none of this was effective in putting out the fire...

The flames first began to die down when they reached an empty space.

And after the fire – ruins, smoldering pieces of lumber and blocks of wood from walls and roofs, blackened chimney stacks, and around the burned down houses, dazed little children wandering aimlessly, the fire victims poking through the remnants to see if there is something left to salvage from the blaze. They wander about with a sense of homelessness, as warm-hearted neighbors and relatives welcome them into their own homes.

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Mrs. Rukhamah Ziskind[-Abelovich] from the United States, the niece of Reb Leib Abelovich ז”ל, invited me to meet with my very first teacher, and I will never forget this boon!

We started out on our journey on Lag B'Omer of 1953 on an express train from New York [City] to Harvard in Connecticut.^[1] I will shamelessly admit, that on that morning I felt no less as moved than on the day that I found out that I would be counted among his pupils. During that ride of several hours, the street that led from the house of my parents in Dereczin to the very lane on which my teacher and Rebbe's house stood, on a high stone foundation, was before my eyes along with the appearance of that house, the way the rooms were laid out inside, with the Shtibl between them, in which my father and teacher, Reb Yosheh would give lessons to the beginning students in the afternoon hours of the day. I was reminded of that lane on which my teacher's house stood, along with the wondrous stories of the well of Henya “die Groiseh,” who inspired terror in me even before I had ever met her. These memories of my teacher's house and of the well named for Henya brought back the fragrance of the tanner's house which was nearby, and the mock fights with sharpened sticks that we carried on with the pupils of Reb Abraham Izaakovich. Fights of this nature inevitably caused me to get an extra hair shampoo during the week (an unpleasant prospect for a young lady with long locks), and to the protagonists as well, to prove to them that they could not vanquish me so easily.

I imagined what this imminent meeting would be like at my teacher's house, accompanied by a long silence – a typical silence of those people sunk into memories of the past, and regretting the passage of days that can no longer be retrieved. I was concerned that my appearance would emphasize his own advanced age, and impair his spirit.

How different it all turned out to be in reality!

I met my teacher outside his house. He had gone out for a swim on an early spring morning day. I recognized him without anyone identifying him to me. It looked to me that the years had hardly left their mark upon him. His stance had not diminished! His sallow complexion was, literally as it was in days gone by, when I sat at my desk by his side, as he organized his folders and notebooks on the table in front of him. His dress – not extravagant, his beard unkempt, and his voice soft.

He know I was coming, and when he saw me, he was hit with a wave of emotion. He was left speechless.

As we entered his daughter's house, where he lived, he began to pepper me with questions – about myself, my father's house, if it still existed, about pupils and people from all different neighborhoods.

How astonished I was at the precise knowledge he had of the character of all his students from then! It was as if he was reading from an open book on the days that I spent in his Heder, on the happenings of my childhood, and my academic accomplishments relative to my sister.

A look of grief covered his face, when he learned that my brother, David and my sister Masha and their families, were among the victims of the Holocaust.

From his memories of his two students, the Alper sisters, he moved to tell about the 'Alper House' which cast its influence on all its surroundings and set the character of an entire generation of our town. With a sense of yearning, he told of the evenings when he would come to our home after a hard

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twelve-hour day of work, in order to read [the paper] HaTzefira. With special emphasis, he recalled the boiling hot glass of tea that my mother ז”ל, would bring to him, and above all – the conversations with David! “Ay-ay!” – he would crinkle his eyes – “a conversation with David...!” And he added: “I never once let an opportunity for that pass by.”

Reb Leib was extremely proud of those of his students who achieved professional status as educators, but no less regarding the one who became a physician. And how great was his interest in everything going on in the field of education in Israel!

He was delighted to hear me praise the folders and notebooks that he used to inculcate reading skills into his students, and the animal pictures drawn on them. “Don't forget,” – he emphasized – “I learned the art of teaching reading from Dr. Moshe Cahanstam ,ז”ל.

He let out a sigh and continued: “I did not complete the course work in Grodno. I didn't have the physical strength to complete these studies under conditions bordering on starvation. I wasn't the only one in these circumstances.”

I described to him the appearance of the classroom, in which we sat and listened attentively to Torah teachings, the black board and the white chalk, whose boards caused us so much concern. I recalled to him the dictionary with the yellow cover that stood next to the coat closet, and how he our teacher, would consult it from time to time.

He was full of wonder at the way I was able to describe to him those winter days when we were in his Heder, when the cold became intense, and the snow covered the face of the earth, and we didn't have a noon recess. And how our parents were in the habit of providing us with a cooked meal in a special pot, especially for Heder. The teacher's wife, Chaykeh ז”ל, would keep these prepared dishes in her oven, and when the hour arrived (usually close to sunset!) Our teacher would sit at the head of the table and we [his students] around him, with our meals before us.

It appears to me today, if my memory does not deceive me, that the teacher's portion was the most meager of all, but I shall never forget the white napkin spread before him, and his care in assuring that we properly made the blessing for washing our hands before we ate.

My teacher asked me to read some Hebrew for him in the Sephardic accent. I read to him from the second chapter of Psalms:

“Why are the Nations Moved...”

He had a great deal to ask about the institutions of culture and Haskalah in Israel, and he suddenly remembered that he had sent a book to the international library in Jerusalem.

Had they received it? – I promised him I would search for the book. A long day, filled with interest and emotion passed by quickly.

Towards evening, he went up to his room, and then returned. With a trembling hand, he gave me a memento of my visit to him that day: a mezuzah for the wall, about 20-25 cm. long, encased in metal, hand wrought by Reb Yudel the Scribe of Dereczin.

* * *

The following day, I had to justify my meeting to the Professor Charlotte Windsor of the university. Her conclusion was that “Your visit was a good deed for your teacher.”

But there were “deeds” without number that I uncovered in my teacher, “deeds” in which one can revel in the goodness of all teachers, and Jewish teachers [especially].

It was not for nothing that I was motivated to see him after a hiatus of decades. I will always carry his memory with me, and pass it along to those that I teach.

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Many years have gone by since those years of the Holocaust, in which all the members of my extensive family were killed, the family of Hanan-Yaakov Nozhnitsky, his wife, sons, daughters, and my grandmother along with them. Two sons, four daughters, my brothers and sisters, were all married, and they fell at the hands of their pursuers along with their children.

The pain will not be forgotten, just as the home of my mother and father will never be forgotten. My father was a man of many means, engaged in commerce and community affairs, providing his support in any activity that was for the public good. He was especially concerned with providing medical help to those in need, as a member of the Linat Tzedek. My mother assisted him in this regard, by the decoction of summer fruits into medicinal preparations, for distribution to those needing such preparations when they were sick, to help them revive themselves. Our house was always full of jars of these preparations.

My father was also a Gabbai of the Neuer Mauer Synagogue and was active in its burial society, out of consideration to show respect for the deceased of our congregation.

When I was ready to make aliyah in 1935, my parents objected strenuously, as did many other Jewish parents of that time. I was stubborn, and stood my ground, and it was then that my father said to my mother: “Let's let her go, apparently that is where her fortune awaits her. Who is to know, but we might yet meet again. At the very least, she will save her own future...”

My father did not realize the prophetic nature of his words. The clouds of the Nazis already hung in the skies of Europe, and in a few short years, my entire family fell at the hands of the German murderers.

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My dear and warm-hearted Dereczin, you are no more. All that remains are those sweet memories of my childhood, and of my early youth, and they are so fresh in my memory that they will remain there for my entire life.

Dereczin, like hundreds of other towns and villages in Poland, Lithuania, and Byelorussia, was destroyed, and its Jews systematically killed by Hitler's murderers. My dear parents, Samson & Adela Rothstein, my brother Yosheh, and little sister Masheleh, were cut down together with thousands of other Jews, on that black, bloody Sabbath day in Slonim – the city to which Dereczin was bound like to an older sister. The same fate overtook both these neighboring towns, and more that one citizen of Dereczin lies in the graves of our brethren surrounding Slonim.

Our town, Dereczin, was small, but it was so precious and dear to me, that I see all of its virtues, its grace and Jewish good-heartedness, when I stop to think about it. My family was always involved with Dereczin, even during the time when we lived in Slonim.

I fear that there are indeed very few Dereczin residents still alive who remember my grandfather, Meir-Yehoshua Wolfowitz, and my grandmother, Chana-Chayeh. My grandfather was the feldscher of Dereczin. My mother Adela, was a midwife.

Each street and byway in Dereczin remains yet so fresh in my memory, the green fields, gardens and pastures that surrounded the houses of the town, with the large, many-branched fruit trees and the clean fresh air, suffused with the odors of greenery and fruit. And I cannot forget the Derecziners themselves, close and distant, known and unfamiliar to me – each a special good-hearted person, each working at their own trade or business, in order to make a living, and often not a particularly easy living, but peaceful and tranquil, full of hope for a better outcome in life.

I see the big marketplace in the middle of town before me now, diagonally opposite our wall, where the peasants from the surrounding villages would come for market days and fairs, to sell their produce and buy those things that they needed for their homes and work. Also, on certain days, the marketplace was full of peasant wagons, with people who were sick, who had come to my grandfather for medicinal help. My grandfather inherited this profession from his father and grandfather, going back many generations, and he was an accomplished professional in his field, both loved and trusted by Jews and Christians of Dereczin, and the area far and wide. He was committed heart and soul to his patients, he helped everyone whether rich or poor, day and night, whenever his help was required.

My mother, the midwife, also followed in the footsteps of her father, She was also dedicated to her profession, and very strongly attached to those families whose children she helped bring into the world, she fully comprehended the circumstances in each and every household and each family, guarded and cared for her patients, and in turn was valued and appreciated by them. She was the closest friend to those who were giving birth in many Dereczin families.

There was another midwife in Dereczin, Nekhama Manikov. While she and my mother competed with each other, the children of both were good friends, and to this day I am friendly with Nekhama's daughter, Sonia Manikov, who today lives in Israel with her husband, Dr. Rockover.

Diagonally opposite our wall, on the second side of the marketplace, were the large, beautiful houses of the large Dereczin families, the Rabinoviches & Alpers, who over the course of [many] years, had a great influence on the cultural and community life

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of the Dereczin Jewish populace. The Rabinoviches, and especially Chaim Rabinovich, were active, specifically up to the end of the First World War. Afterwards, they transferred their community activities to Slonim, and were also well-known there for their activities in community institutions and municipal government. The influence of the Alpers was especially felt in the areas of education, and Zionist and Halutz activities. They were the founders of the Tarbut School, from which I also graduated. I remember well to this day, how our teacher, Malka Alper took leave of us, her pupils, and how we escorted her to the train for her subsequent trip to the Land of Israel. I cried at the time, and for weeks and months afterwards was lonesome for my good-hearted teacher. We felt precisely the same when David Alper, and his wife Shoshana left Dereczin to go to Pinsk, where accept a broader mandate for the national development of Jewish youth. And I cannot forget all the other teachers, who enriched our understanding, and implanted in our young hearts and minds the love of our people, the concepts of justice, and the hope for a national rebirth in our historic homeland, the Land of Israel.

These are memories from the far, distant past. They return me to my childhood, and years of early youth. I would so very much like to show respect for the memories of all Dereczin families, especially those from which neither a trace nor survivor remains, and for whom there is no one to mourn them, or to revere their memory. I cannot forget my happy childhood years, those times when I learned and played together with the sons and daughters of Dereczin families. Later, each of us went off in their own direction, but we remained good friends and associates, and with many of them, we used to meet during the summer months in Dereczin, [while] others emigrated to America, Argentina, or made aliyah to the Land of Israel.

Also, when together with my brother, Yosheh, we studied at the gymnasium in Slonim, after our father had become the director of the Cantor's choir and as a music and song teacher at the gymnasium, and in other Slonim schools, – were still remained attached to Dereczin and spent our summers vacations there. Those were beautiful years of our youth, and I don't forget those summer get-togethers with our friends who came together from all manner of cities, from gymnasiums and universities, in order to take recreation in our tranquil, green hometown. And I can recall those sweet evenings, when we would all get together, sojourning on our large porch, talking and joking, singing and playing on mandolins, pianos, and listening to my brother Yosheh play the violin. The beautiful strains of the music would waft through our open windows, across the streets and byways of Dereczin, and lull the citizenry into a sweet sleep.

Later, after my grandfather passed away, my mother and grandmother also moved to Slonim, where my mother also worked as a midwife, both privately, and together with the well-known Slonim midwife, Yocheh, in the newly established maternity clinic. It was much easier for us this way, and Yosheh also worked as a secretary, and in time, I left to go to Warsaw for two and a half years, where I completed studies to become a midwife. After completing my studies, I took a position in Zelva, a town neighboring on Dereczin, and worked there with great intensity until 1941. I married Chaim Pasmanik from Kosovo, and we had a baby daughter, Bella, we opened a nice shoe store, “Bata,” and we lived happily and in contentment.

That is how our life proceeded, quietly and beautifully, until Hitler's deluge flooded the entire Polish country with blood and destruction, annihilated cities and towns, among which was our beloved Dereczin.

From my entire, large family, I am the sole survivor, literally as if by a miracle, tossed about in ghettoes and partisan camps, losing my own little family, and built from the start my [current] family and house, with my husband Adek Birnbaum, with whom we survived the seven circles of Hell, until we managed to come to America, with the help of my aunt, Rachel Rabinovich from San Francisco.

My husband also comes from a musically gifted

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family, and was together with his brothers in the choir of his father, a well-known Cantor in Cracow up to the Second World War. My husband was a graduate of the Cracow [Musical] Conservatory. It is for this reason, that my new life is also bound up with the musical tradition that so dominated the lives of the family of my parents.

The music lives again in our family, our two sons, who carry the names of both our fathers, also inherited the talents of their grandparents. They are studying music, and hope to attain their ambitions as concert pianists.

Despite the fact that our home rings with the sound of joyous music, the great tragedy that befell our

fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, lives within our hearts along with the terrifying memories of life in the ghettoes and forests. I bow my head in honor of my dearest, for my dear hometown of Dereczin, and for those sacrificial victims and heroes.

With a warm feeling for my hometown Dereczin, I would like to relate certain specific events that have remained etched in my memory. I left my hometown while I was still young, but like everyone, there are memories that one carries around for one's entire life.

I am reminded of my very first days in school. It was an elementary level Heder which was founded by my father, Yitzhak-Avraham ע”ה, who was a very intelligent Jew. When he was young, he dreamed of traveling to study at the Vilna Teachers Institute, but his father, that is my grandfather, Reb Yosheh, ע”ה, opposed the idea. He argued that it would be necessary to write on the Sabbath there...

My father was also active in the town's community life, he was a Gabbai in the Alter Mauer [Synagogue], and involved in the Bikur Kholim Society (Care & visitation to the Sick). I can still remember to this day, how those who were ill would come to him for a note to take to the doctor or the pharmacist. These were people from poorer life circumstances, who lacked the means to heal themselves. My father would do everything for them, to anticipate them, and to provide them with needed medical help.

Between the afternoon Mincha and evening Maariv service, my father would study a page from the Gemara with other balebatim.

My first teacher was a young man from Slonim, Pinkhas Itzkowitz. After him, we were transferred to study with Abraham Izaakovich, known by the nickname, Der Mikhoisker.

The classroom was equipped with desks and a blackboard on which one wrote in chalk. We would come to class early on a Sabbath morning. The teacher's son, Motkeh, who was a student at the Vilna Teachers Institute, would read to us from the works of Sholom Aleichem, and from the works of Russian authors.

I remember well both my boy and girl friends with whom I studied. I think none of them is still alive – whether they died a natural death, or were martyred [in the Holocaust].

After having lived in America for many years, I

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came back for a visit to my hometown in 1927. This was a great experience for both me and my family. I found many changes among my family and also in Dereczin. My brother Shmuel came to Warsaw to meet me, and I traveled home together with him. From America, I was accompanied by Berel the Hatmaker's son, who was visiting Velvel Walitsky.

As our auto got closer to Dereczin, I could see from a distance a group of young boys running ahead of us. I then asked my brother why they were running this way, and he said to me, that my [other] brother Hanan was running on ahead with his friends, to tell everyone that the auto with the American guests was arriving. We drove into town early in the morning, and found all the stores [still] closed, with almost the entire town of Dereczin come to the marketplace, to see how the visiting American would greet her mother and brothers. It is difficult to describe the [ensuing] scene.

When things did quiet down, everyone went off to their respective work or business. Then relatives, friends and acquaintances began to arrive to greet me. The first to come was Boma, that is, Abraham-Shlomo Grachuk, who became the head of his family after his father's death. Among the others, Henokh Alper also came, a long-standing good friend of many years. Mendel Feldman, a good family friend also came to see me.

I found much change in the town itself. Not withstanding the difficult economic circumstances of the Jewish populace, or the pressure from the Polish regime, a young intelligentsia had developed in Dereczin, which was active on many fronts of Jewish cultural life. At that time, there was a very good library in Dereczin, which also served as a youth center, and a place to gather for discussions about all manner of issues. One was torn to go into the larger world, but there was an absence of understanding as to how this could be done, or where to go. At that time there was also a drama theater in Dereczin, which that same summer put on the play, 'The Duke' by Alter Katsizna. The performance was held on Saturday night in the barracks. Everyone large and small came to the performance, because everyone had someone who had a part in the play. My brother, Issachar was also among the artists, and I sat with our family members and worried that he perform his role well. Everything came off as intended.

I felt particularly close to my brother Shmuel. He was at that time already married to Bashkeh Plotkin, and we would sit up talking all night. From time to time, my mother would also sit and talk with us, but we would send her off to bed, since we didn't want her to stay up all night.

For me, these were very special days, weeks and months. My younger brothers would go off to spend time with their friends, and in the evening, would return home to tell us what was going on in town. Once again, I went for walks to the Puster Barg, to the fields and parks that were the pride of Dereczin. I met with a large number of townspeople, because almost everyone had a relative in America, and wanted to know what life was like there. I spent quite a bit of time with the Alpers. Malka was already in the Land of Israel, and the other sisters would come home for summer vacations. We would meet often and keep company.

I spent six months in Dereczin, until it came time for me to return to America. I stayed for my father's Yahrzeit, which comes out on the 19^th Day of Heshvan.

We rented a sleigh, and on a cold snowy morning, rode out to my father's grave site. In the evening, my brothers went to the Synagogue to recite the Kaddish. I left a few days later.

The parting was very difficult. My brother Shmuel again accompanied me to Warsaw, from which I departed for America.

Let these recollections serve as a monument to my town, Dereczin, which vanished with the smoke, along with my nearest and dearest who were martyred in God's holy Name.

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After my aunt Elka Savisky became a widow, it became difficult for her to manage her store, which was a distance from where she lived. She eventually made the decision to move the store to her place of domicile. On one occasion before the Christian Easter holiday, a gentile came into the store whom she had never before seen, and asked for some flour on credit, adding that her husband would give him such without cash. When she refused, he asked to purchase grain ready for milling. She took some newspaper that was on her counter top, and used it to wrap the grain for him, and he went away.

After this, he returned again, saying that he had obtained some money, and asked her whether she had any Challah that she had baked from this flour. When she left the room to get the Challah, the gentile surreptitiously hid a package of saccharine on top of a shelf, which was illegal to sell, subject to a severe penalty. When my aunt returned, this reprobate told her that he didn't like the Challah, and he left.

A short time later, a constable appeared and asked her if she sells any saccharine. When she answered in the negative, he went directly to the very spot on the shelf, and took out a box of saccharine wrapped in newspaper. She immediately grasped that this was a setup by the gentile customer. She [also] recognized the piece of newspaper as the one in which she had wrapped the grain. The piece of newspaper matched the piece that was still on her counter top.

A trial took place in the district court in Slonim, I, together with Resha Kulakowski, the daughter of Abraham Herschel gave testimony: while we were standing in the doorway of the store, we saw the gentile reach out with his hand to the shelf, as if he was looking at something.

And he, from his side, brought witnesses who testified, as it were, that they had actually purchased saccharine from her, but the judges were not satisfied with their testimony.

As evidence before the judge, the piece of newspaper was presented, together with the newspaper from which it was torn. My aunt was acquitted, and the gentile was obligated to pay all court costs.

In a second trial against him, which was conducted in Dereczin, he was asked from where he had obtained the saccharine. He continued to claim that he had bought it from my aunt. Here, as well, his witnesses were not seen to be credible.

This judgement roused considerable interest among the Jewish populace in Dereczin, that is to say that on the day of the trial, which was on Friday, the courtroom was filled.

At the end, the perpetrator was sentenced to several years imprisonment. The, [finally], we breathed a little easier.

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We had a very difficult childhood. As refugees from the First World War, relocated along with the other Jews from the war zone, we arrived in Dereczin. Shortly thereafter, our father died, and our mother was left a widow with three orphaned children, whom she had to support and raise during those harsh war years. Our bitter lot in life consisted of hunger, need, cold, and being tossed around from place to place.

Firstly after the end of the war, when contact with America was resumed, our relatives located us, and they began to provide us with assistance, and for the first time began to eat full meals to satisfaction.

My brothers Leibeh & Chaim studied at a Talmud Torah. The rabbi of Kolonia^[1] arranged for them to say Kaddish for their father. I remember how Leibeh, who was yet a small boy, would recite the Kaddish, under the oversight of the rabbi of Kolonia, while standing on a bench.

Shortly after he completed studies at the Talmud Torah, my mother ע”ה, sent him to the Yeshivah in Slonim. He was a diligent student there, and the Head of the Yeshivah was very pleased with him.

Quite suddenly, Leibeh joined up with the Halutz organization. He said that he no longer wanted to eat 'the bread of charity' as a Yeshivah student, but rather to work, and support himself by working, and make aliyah as a Halutz to the Land of Israel. My mother was absolutely beside herself, wept, and begged him – but he no longer wanted to attend the Yeshivah.

Leibeh was a well-informed Halutz, and active in the labor movement for the Land of Israel. In those years there was already a strong Betar movement in Dereczin, to which I also belonged. Leibeh and I often had violent arguments over ideological matters. At that time, being still a very young girl, I had little understanding, and Leibeh would argue that as working people, we should belong to the Halutz movement and not to Betar, whom he would even go so far as to characterize as 'fascists.'

The conflicts between Betar and the left-wing Zionist organizations became even sharper because of the competition between these two organizing forces in Dereczin, one driven by Betar and the other by HeHalutz. I remember the Betar leadership having a house on the Slonim Gasse. There wasn't enough work even for one such organization. The leadership would undertake to hew wood, carry water, and in the wintertime, chop ice from the [frozen] streams.

At the Betar meetings, my brother Leibeh would create disruptions by interrupting speakers, and asking all sorts of questions, which would often leave the speakers at a loss for a reply.

My friends and I would take sides against my brother, and not once I would come home in tears.

In the meantime, the Second World War broke out. My brothers ran off to the forests, fought with the partisans, and thanks to their brotherly concern for me, I survived, and came to the Land of Israel.

My brother Leibeh was an effective partisan. He was among those who attacked Dereczin, Ruda Jatkova, together with other Dereczin partisans, burned down the mill at Kozlovshchina, and carried out many other campaigns.

He fell, a victim of anti-Semitism which was not in short supply even in the partisan ranks. From being almost superhumanly tired one night, he fell asleep at his watch, with gun in hand. The Christian command of the unit decreed the death penalty for him, as they were wont to do with Jews.

It was in this way that my brother Leibeh, the heroic partisan, met his end in the forest.

[Page 199]

My father's unforgettable house stands before my eyes, along side the memories of those years that I passed in Dereczin during my beautiful childhood. It seems to me that the house stands there yet as I left it, before I left for the Holy Land, in the courtyard of the Synagogue, the Schulhof.

Our home was built with 'high windows.' I understood this in its simplest terms, namely, that the windows were inserted high, in order to prevent people from the outside from looking in, as opposed to the other small houses in town.

The courtyard of the Synagogue was surrounded with all of the Bet Midrash buildings, and on side, the pretty house of the Rabbi also stood out prominently. What else could be missing from this lovely courtyard?

The old cemetery bordered it as well on one side. With effort, protruding past the gate, when we peeked in sometimes out of curiosity, were old gravestones, overgrown with weeds and plants from the passages of days and years. We would occasionally hear stories about the old cemetery from the elders of the town, stories that they in turn had heard from their fathers before them, there grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Stories would circulate among us about demons and spirits that wandered among the graves, and these stories were enough to instill fear and terror in us. As we matured, we came to understand that this was only a place to be treated with sacred respect.

Most of our years were spent in play in this courtyard. Everything centered on my father's house. When the students would assemble to march with their flags, they would first gather in our large yard. The older folks would come out for the blessing of the new moon, with song and prayer, understandably only in this large courtyard adjacent to the Synagogue itself. And in contrast, a funeral procession taking the deceased to his final resting place would come through here, with the exclamation, 'charity will avert death' communicating something bad and frightening.

And how our happiness waxed when we learned that a wedding would be celebrated in our town! We didn't have to go look for things to do. From every nook and cranny of the town, celebrants would approach us, the people with the large yard: the young couple, their parents, and the entire town following after them, from the very young to the very old, accompanied by a band of musicians, playing traditional Jewish wedding music. The town of Dereczin was effusive with happiness and gaiety.

Now, we have obtained eye witness accounts from those who survived the Holocaust, that the Nazi murderers, may their names be forever erased, selected this beautiful courtyard specifically as the center of a ghetto for our unfortunate parents and family in order to facilitate their cruel and inhuman deeds.

Thus, the ground of the Schulhof was sanctified by the blood of our dear, martyred parents. And that pure blood will never cease to cry out from the depth of that earth.

According to the witnesses, my father was among the last of the victims of the slaughter of the 12^th of Ab, and he was buried – in a mass grave near his house. My mother died two weeks before the slaughter took place, and was one of the martyrs of the ghetto that was privileged to receive a Jewish burial.

[Page 200]

It is hard for me to write about the home of my father and mother, which I left while still a young girl, especially as their beloved picture accompanies me, and is literally a lamp unto my feet.

We had a simple and modest home, and we were not often fortunate when it came to matters of business, but we had a warm home, and an open door to anyone who was pressured or had a need. I was still a little girl at the time of the First World War. My parents were left penniless, because the 'Nobleman' from whom my father leased work, fled to Russia out of fear of the Germans. My two younger brothers went to gather potatoes from the abandoned fields. I remember that our mother, at that time, took in an orphan who had no parents, covered in sores and infested with vermin. With her own hands, she cut off his hair and burned all his clothing, bathed and dressed him, situated him in a Talmud Torah, and after the Rabbi investigated his background, discovered that he had a father in America. Menashkeh (that was his name) spent two years with us. We had any number of refugee families in town, among them noted and respected scholars, but without any means. My mother would draft me and my sister into preparation of food bundles, and on Thursdays, with great discretion, would send us to their homes. If a poor bride was lacking adequate dowry, my mother would approach the better off families in town who respected her, and helped her obtain bedding, some money, and our big room served as the wedding hall.

We had a simple home characterized by respect for parents. My brothers secretly supported the house for many years, with love and understanding. When I approached my brother Jacob, in 1933 during a visit, to come to the Holy Land, he asked me to whom could he entrust the “old trees.” “I will not uproot them from their home” – my brother said. And, as a consequence, he paid with his young life for his loyalty. On the night of the slaughter, he sent my mother and sister-in-law along with the children to be among the first to flee, while he was in the rear guard, and it was in this fashion that he was killed beside the river. My mother who remained, suffered in her misery in the forests for six months, and when she was already half-frozen in body, she begged people at the time when they were fleeing the forest for fear of German attacks, “take me with you, I have good children who will reward you!” Those were her last words that were conveyed to me by witnesses who were close with her in the forest.

And this is my consolation, that in her final hours she thought well of us. Two days later, the people returned to the place where she was hidden, but did not find her.

May the souls of my father and mother and my brothers be bound up in the bond of life.

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