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[Page 429]
by Avrohom Shudroff (New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Note from translator: A translation of this Yiddish article appears in the English-language section of this Yizkor Book, pp. 43-45 (“Yearning and Mourning for My Home Town”, by Abraham Shudroff).
Translator's Footnote
[Page 431]
by Simcha Dubiner (Petah Tikva)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
My shtetl [little town] Kamenetz-Litowsk, whose population was mostly Jewish, bubbled with vitality. The Gentiles lived on three streets—separately from the Jews. The Jews, who were mostly shopowners and craftsmen, supported themselves from customers who lived in the nearby poor villages. The majority of the Jews in the shtetl toiled away incessantly to make a living; only a small number of them were affluent.
During my childhood, the standard places of learning in the shtetl were the ḥayder [religious school for very young boys] and the lower yeshiva [school for somewhat older boys]. If anyone wanted to give his son a more advanced education, he would send him to a higher-level yeshiva in Brisk[2], Bialystok[3] or Baranowicze[4]; the graduates of those advanced yeshivas became the intelligentsia and culturally active people of Kamenetz.
For as long as I can remember, our shtetl had a tradition of mutual material support. There were different types of volunteer societies that the shtetl relied on. Someone who was seriously ill would be visited by members of the Bikur Ḥoilim Society to take care of him all night. An indigent older girl who needed to celebrate her marriage—particularly if she was an orphan—was not left in the lurch; she would receive help from a Hachnosas-Kala Fund, created for the purpose, to provide her with a wedding.
I cannot forget the days of Sabbath Eve in our little Kamenetz. The Sabbath-Eve atmosphere used to begin by Thursday. The housewives would go shopping to buy strings of fish from the Gentiles. To honor the Sabbath, each woman would get the very best she could afford.
Friday mornings they would bake dough with grated potatoes; and many homes would open their doors to yeshiva students, offering them a portion of dough and sour cream that would revitalize them.
[Page 432]
The diligent housewives would be preparing all kinds of Sabbath dishes, tastefully cooked; and sweet fragrances of the cooking food would waft through the air.
The homes were cleaned and spruced up. The children were washed and combed with motherly charm, all in honor of the Sabbath.
During the Friday afternoon hours, the sweet sound of little boys chanting rang out in the Sabbath-Eve silence. Each boy would be going over the weekly Torah portion, as well as the page of Talmud that he had learned that week—all out loud.
Jews were winding down their work, about to leave it behind. The weekday noise was subsiding, the shops were being closed, and the town square was clearing out. An atmosphere of spirituality was taking hold in the shtetl, from one end to another. A neshomo yesayro[5] [additional soul] was awakening in everyone, whether young or old.
And then—along all the streets and lanes, Jews were slowly walking to the synagogue. As each person entered the synagogue, his eyes would be dazzled by the figure of the town rabbi, Rabbi Reuven Burstein, of blessed memory, with his luminous, stately appearance. Soon the soft, rhythmic sounds of heartfelt prayers were carried throughout the town on the evening air.
And afterwards Jewish families, whether large or small, were gathering in their well-lit homes around tables that had been set for the occasion, joined in camaraderie with their invited guests, the yeshiva students and others in need of a meal.
After the Friday-evening meal, the older people would relax, perhaps perusing religious books; and the young people would go out to take walks and have a good time carrying on; others would spend the time conversing about public matters. Those who belonged to political parties would gather in groups, while others would get together at the library and devote themselves to reading books or newspapers. And later at night many of us would go over to Zelig the bookbinder[6], who used to take us outside, into the open air, and give talks on astronomy as he pointed to the stars above. Other times he would passionately tell us the latest news from the Land of Israel—something that would revitalize us and intensify our longing.
That is what Friday nights were like in Kamenetz.
[Page 433]
Right after the rise of Polish independence, the economic situation in Kamenetz, just as in the other poor little towns, took a turn for the worse. And when the time of Grabski[7] came—when we Jews practically lost our ability to make a living from luft parnosos [trading in intangibles]—at that time, from among all the parties that were active in our town, the HeḤalutz organization split up. Meanwhile, the dozens of unemployed young men no longer wanted to, nor were able to, tolerate the hardships they were experiencing and the angry looks their non-Jewish neighbors were giving them. And so they began to prepare themselves to immigrate to the Land of Israel. Soon a hachshara [training] program was established, and the Jewish youth took up learning to become productive laborers. Some of them taught themselves farm work, while others were sent to work in sawmills and other such places outside Kamenetz.
It was not only through physical labor that the Jewish youth of Kamenetz were preparing themselves to immigrate—they were adapting themselves mentally and intellectually, as well. They were studying the Hebrew language diligently; and they were familiarizing themselves with the geography, history and literature of the Land of Israel. These young people were now walking around with earnest and dreamy looks on their faces, constantly absorbed in the books they were reading. They were being influenced by Yehuda HaLevi, Bialik, Aḥad Haam and other Hebrew authors.
Translator's Footnotes
[Pages 435-443]
by Dvora Dolinski-Panski, New York
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Who will remember Father's sigh
Who will remember Mother's last moan!
(from the poem Mir Kumen Um [We Are Perishing] by Chava Rosenfarb[2], Lodz)Note from translator: The above poem introduced the Yiddish article beginning on p. 435, but was not translated in the English section. The remainder of this article appears in English translation on pp. 46-55 of the English section of this Yizkor Book. One uncaptioned photograph that appears on p. 436 is reproduced here, together with the translation of the paragraphs preceding it and following it to provide context for it; the translation of those paragraphs has been copied directly from the English section.
I find in my memory materials for a family chronicle, memoirs and in the main, recollections of a little town that was alive, a townlet with its images and human types. I remember bright and shady figures, a gallery of portraits of tailors, cobblers, smiths and other craftsmen; religious teachers, school teachers, cantors; the water-carrier, the bath-house 'attendant, the beadle. A popular saying, which stated that “every town has its madman” applied also to Kamenetz. We had our Alterke though it must be said that he was not completely crazy. In other words, he was harmless to the inhabitants of the town. Alterke was short, skinny and his face deathly pale; his eyes were dull; he always wore a stained, sweaty cap and a long coat; he used to hang out near the municipality building where he swept the rooms. He also performed another function in the town: whenever a circumcision ceremony took place he had to set the pillow on which the boy rested.
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Each one of these types and figures had his own specific charm; each one of them cherished the traditional folklore and possessed hidden talents. There were religious Jews, though some of them had been tinged by the “Has kala” (Enlightenment) movement and were also partly interested in worldly affairs. And there were free-thinkers who derived their pleasure from reading the works of modern Jewish authors and dreamed about better days to come. Kamenetz was just one of the many towns and townlets spread all over White Russia and Poland where the majority of the Jewish population lived in hard and painful conditions; it embodied, in miniature, the whole Jewish national existence with all its shades – from the extreme right to the extreme left. Tradition and a profound Jewish religious feeling reigned supremely at home and in the sphere of social life. The synagogue was a meeting place for young and old. All problems, including the political, were solved there. On the other hand, it is a fact that the strict and fanatical adherence to tradition brought in its wake some petrifaction of Jewish life. In spite of it, Kamenetz was not an ignorant town belonging to the dark ages but adjusted itself to the modern world. There were parties and circles striving toward other aims; they had their own vision of a better future for the Jewish people and the working masses. All this added color and warmth to our existence.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 444]
by Malka Kurtchanski-Polyakevitch
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I was born and grew up in Kamenetz, located 25 kilometers away from the train station Zhabinka[2]. As small as this shtetle [little shtetl] was, it had an even tinier suburb, Zastavya, connected to Kamenetz proper by a wooden bridge. The entire shtetl and its suburb were enveloped by meadows, fields, woods and gardens. And that bridge brings back a memory of the early days of my youth, when on moonlit nights (this was before electric lighting came to the town) the young people would congregate on the bridge, enjoying each other's company as the panoramic views beckoned and teased.
The rows of shops around the town square met all the vital needs of the peasant farmers who lived in the surrounding villages. These farmers came once a month, with their horse-drawn wagons carrying all their village produce; and from this trade the shtetl drew its living.
The shtetl was able to support bays-medroshim[3], as well as a yeshiva where young bachelors, both local and outsiders, studied. Wagon-drivers also spent time studying there late into the night. Everyone helped support the students who were outsiders by taking turns providing them with meals on a fixed weekly schedule[4].
There were no schools in the shtetl except for a narodnaya uczylieszcze (state school), where Jews were not permitted to study. Nonetheless the young people were culturally advanced, and we had a library of Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian books. People would study languages privately with tutors who came from other towns. The parents, especially mothers, strenuously saw to it that their children also learned the national language.
When I was very young the Haskala[5] movement arrived and spread through the town, arousing nostalgic feelings for the Land of Israel. And so we studied modern Hebrew, as well, with private tutors.
[Page 445]
Then in 1914 the First World War broke out. The Germans occupied our area for almost a full three years. The local population that had fled began returning to their homes. During the state of war the situation was oppressive. Everything was suppressed. Ill children were roaming around aimlessly in the streets, hungry and filthy. When packages sent by the JOINT[6] began arriving this situation eased up somewhat. The Germans, working with the Jewish community, decided to open a school, where the children could spend several hours a day under the supervision of the teachers-educators. There they were taught Yiddish, Hebrew and German.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 446]
by Sarah Hurwitz
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I remember how the Jews lived a quiet, sheltered life there so many years ago. I can still recall the Friday evenings with the Sabbath candles that had been lit at the proper time in the Jewish homes, and the Jews hurrying so as not to be late for Kabbolas Shabbes [the service to welcome the Sabbath]. Through the doors and windows of the Houses of Study one could hear them singing Lechu Neranena and Lecha Dodi[2]. Everyone felt transformed by the Sabbath spirit: all the worries and concerns were gone, since it was forbidden to talk about business matters on the Sabbath.
Most of our landsleit[3] were shopkeepers, as well as laborers and merchants, whether on a small or large scale. I remember how we had a fair on the fifth of every month. Merchants from other towns would arrive to buy and sell horses, cows, etc. They would bring along various merchandise to sell: the Pruzhin antshares brought hand-made clay pots, which were displayed near the shops; the used-clothing dealers brought garments; the blacksmiths brought carts; the furriers brought their Gentile-style fur caps; and various other merchandise, as well. Blind beggars would be sitting around between the shops, on their knees, singing and begging the passersby to throw a few pennies into their caps.
Aside from the fair we had a market day every Thursday. On this day the village peasants would bring various products to the town to sell: dried-out sponges, grains, potatoes, wood, young calves, geese, ducks, blackberries from the forest, sheep's wool, linen that had been fashioned by hand from hand-planted flax, pig-hair bristles, all kinds of fruits and many other products. After taking payment for their merchandise, they would use the money to buy items from the shopkeepers, who would make their living selling to them. Most of the peasants would then go into the taverns and spend all of their money on liquor. After that they would arrive inebriated in the store to get a pound of sugar and a small bottle of oil on credit, and then go home to their village.
[Page 447]
It was interesting that the Gentiles knew the timetable of Jewish holidays.[4] On the eve of Yom Kippur they would bring chickens to the town to sell for Kappores[5]; on the eve of Sukkes[6] they would bring wagons of s'chach[7] to cover the sukka[8]; and on the eve of Hoshanna Rabba[9] they would bring hoshanes[10].
In the freezing weather and blizzards of winter, when the peasants could not set out on the roads to town, we shopkeepers would not have any sales nor anything to do. Instead we used to get together to hear the latest news: had the car already arrived from Zhabinka[11] or from Brisk[12], and what news they had brought. Much later, when I was already in America, we heard that Kamenetz now had sidewalks and electricity.
The peasants trusted us; they used to ask us for remedies for the ill. The women peasants who had husbands in America or sons serving in the army would have us write letters for them in Russian, and in return they would bring us valuable gifts.
The shopkeepers had to endure indescribable misery from uriadniks[13] and from the strazhnikes[14]. When we saw them coming from far away, we signaled to each other that a “button” was coming ([referring to] the brass buttons). They would give us a ticket, with a fine of several rubles, for any minor infraction.
The shops were closed all day on Sundays. When the Gentiles came out of church and wanted to purchase something, we would go into the shop to bring the merchandise out. We would arrange for the door of the shop to be locked from the outside by a neighbor while we were inside. Once a strazhnik observed someone being locked up inside a shop, and he didn't let the shopkeeper out of there all day; but then two peasants got into a fight, and when the strazhnik went away to impose order, the shopkeeper hurriedly left his store.
When the license inspector arrived in Kamenetz, a panic ensued. Every storeowner ran out of his shop, as if from a fire, carrying with him the small amount of merchandise he had. None of the shopkeepers actually knew what his license allowed him to be selling. And so we cleared the shelves off so well that the inspector would nearly faint when he had a look.
Even the schoolteachers were required to have licenses, and they would abandon the cheder[15] until the inspector left.
[Page 448]
Just as suddenly the excise-tax collector would show up, and he would search the taverns and the snuff stores to find anyone with merchandise that was missing excise bands. He frightened all the shopkeepers; for who among them was completely aboveboard?
The young people had a place to go, with a library, where they could have a pleasant time. Although the town was quite small, the majority were educated and intelligent.
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The First World War broke out. All the young men of Kamenetz were mobilized, bachelors and married men, and they were immediately sent to the front. Those who had horses rode on them, drafted into forced labor. Many of them never came back, probably starving to death there. They left behind widows, agunes[16] and orphans. The town stopped getting mail and the telegraph lines were down. Then there was shooting, and bullets whizzed over our heads; when the shooting stopped the Germans entered our town. By then we did not have enough food to give our children, and we were living in a perpetual state of fear for what the morrow might bring. By 6 PM every day we were all afraid to even go outside into the street. When someone was seized for forced labor, he would believe his life was over. There was a German named Putermann that everyone was afraid of, like fire. Whoever had a hidden stash of potatoes or some food supplies in his house or cellar was considered the wealthiest person. Several shopkeepers buried some salt, soap or sugar in pits. With great trepidation they used to trade it to the village Gentiles for a little food.
The Germans took every family out of their house for disinfection and also brought them to bathe in the bathhouses. At that time typhus and cholera were going around and spreading. People were dropping like flies. During the epidemic a young couple also perished on the very same day: Moshe and Esther Shedrowitzki (parents of Avrohom Shudroff), who left behind 5 little children, all boys, ranging in age from 2 to 10.
The provisions that had been depleted during the war returned little by little.
[Page 449]
After that Kamenetz endured another war. The Polish police arrived, and again men were being rounded up for forced labor. Everyone was seized with fear, as there was nowhere to hide: they were searching even the attics and the cellars. We had gone from one war to another. The arriving soldiers, Russian, Polish and others, cleaned everything out. People were afraid to go out into the street. Money no longer had any value. First there was the Kerensky[17] currency notes and afterwards zlotys. When America opened its doors and everyone began emigrating, American dollars started coming in: and from America they sent packages of clothing and food to Yosef Vigutov, of blessed memory, to distribute to the poor. The majority of the people were barefoot and without clothing; their feet were swollen from hunger. The young women and adolescent girls were wearing Gentile andrakas [andaraks, peasant skirts] with wooden shoes.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 450]
by Chaya Gurvitz-Goldberg (New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
The first and only general Polish school in Kamenetz after Polish sovereignty was instituted consisted of 7 grades.
During the first few years of its existence the school did not have the most essential sanitary facilities available, not even drinking water. For this reason we had to go to the neighbors of the Hoif[2] during recess. All the Jews of the area exhibited a great deal of patience and kindness. Mostly we utilized the generosity of the family Chaim Polyakevitch, who lived near the school.
Whoever wanted to continue studying Polish after completing the seven Powszechna grades would have to move to one of the larger cities. For economic reasons very few could manage this.
The teaching staff consisted of Christian teachers only; the relationship between the students and teachers was always strained, a mixture of respect and fear. There was no shortage of a feeling of anti-Semitism.
Since the last scheduled session was set aside for the subject “religion”, we were fortunate enough to have a Jewish teacher in the school once a week, Rivka Gevirtzman (a sister of Yitzchok Gevirtzman). For a while she was also my private Hebrew tutor, and she was the first to acquaint us with modern Hebrew.
[Page 451]
At this opportunity I would like to cite a statement that I am extracting from my graduation album. Written by a Kamenetz intellectual, Binyomin Bogatin (the brother of Chana Bogatin), it ends with the following words: “…and a longing for all that is gone and will never be again.” A sort of prophecy that has become a frightening reality, though at the time it was not meant that way; and certainly the destruction was not foreseen, a destruction that lay in wait for those near and dear to us in the tranquil and modest little town of Kamenetz.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 452]
By Hatzkel Kagan
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Note from translator: This Yiddish article is identical with an English version, with the same title and by the same author, appearing on pp. 73-84 of the English section of this Yizkor Book. The following three photographs were in the Yiddish version:
[Page 453]
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| Members of the Town Council of Kamenetz |
[Page 458]
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| The first bus that changed the way people traveled Right to left: the proprietors Mendel Reznik and Asher Stempnitzki; and their driver |
[Page 460]
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| A yerid [fair] day in Kamenetz |
Translator's Footnote
[Page 462]
by F. Zolf[2], of Blessed Memory
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Falek Zolf, who was born September 18, 1896 in Zastavya, founded the first Yiddish folkschul [public school] there. In 1927 he immigrated to Canada, and became a teacher in the Winnipeg folkschule [Yiddish school]. He was also active as a Yiddish writer. In his books, “Oif Fremder Erd” [On Foreign Soil] (Premiered by YIVO, (1945)), and “Die Letste Fun A Dor” [Last of a Generation] (1952), he describes characters and personalities from the destroyed little towns of Poland and Lithuania. He also published a book on Jewish writers (1946), as well as a play for children that was performed in Jewish schools of America and Canada.[3]Every summer, as soon as the muddy roads that led to our little town dried up, and all nature bloomed and grew, flooded with golden rays of the sun—it was then that my parents began to be fearful of the Russian Czar. As soon as we heard from afar the faintest sound of a jingling bell—which indicated that a notable was riding nearby, a Russian natchalnik [official]—at that point my father would turn white as a sheet, and every hair of his thick blond beard would begin to quiver. Right away he would dismiss the chayder [boys' religious school]; the students would scatter in all directions, like a flock of frightened birds. My mother would be standing at the chimney, holding her wooden cooking spoon, frozen in place with anxiety, unable to move a muscle. Until—with God's help—the natchalnik passed by peacefully, and the sound of the jingling bell died away; only then did they recover.
[Page 463]
It was the revisor [auditor] that they were so afraid of. Every single year he would come down from the provincial capital, or “all the way from St. Petersburg”, to demand from my father “the three-hundred-ruble penalty” for not delivering his eldest son, Layzer, to military conscription. And when his second son, Moishe-Ber, also thumbed his nose at the Russian Czar, making a run for it all the way to America—then my father's debt to the kazna [royal treasury] increased to a sum of around six hundred rubles[4]. At that point the Czar became quite insistent on demanding this large payment from my father the melamed [schoolteacher].
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| The author, Falek Zolf, of blessed memory |
So when lovely summer came around, you could count on it—that one day the assessor, or the auditor, would suddenly come by, and would inventory all our household possessions: the bedding, the inherited copper pans, the brass candlesticks, the mortar-and-pestle, and all the other items…so as soon as people heard that a “button” was coming from the big city, everyone was seized with fear, there being a large number of such “debts owed the Czar” in our little town. Only when, with God's help, the lovely summer faded away, and the cool, wet autumn came along with its rains, inundating all the byways and trails with a thick, sticky mud—only then did my parents sigh with relief; then we little children could also sleep securely, with our heads on our mother's pillow.
[Page 464]
But it was not only on account of the deep, sticky mud that my father's meager, hard-earned belongings were rescued from falling into Gentile hands: for the most part we could thank the town's Jewish tchlen (member) of the meshtchonsker uprave (tribunal), Yudl Kotik. He was a scion of the well-known Kotik family of Kamenetz, which had high-handedly held sway over the entire town for many generations. The korobka [box] was always in their hands, the taxes and other state revenues. Whatever they said had to be taken into account, and so for that reason people in Kamenetz referred to them as “the Czar's gvordia [guards]” (see Yechezkel Kotik, “My Memories”).
Yudl Kotik was also—like his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, who were the naborshchtikes, the parnosim [community leaders]—well-connected with the Russian natshalstude [authorities]. With several of them he was a close friend. Every natchalnik, every important person who came from the district or from the government on government business, first stopped off for a visit to Yudl Kotik's home, which was located at the very center of the market square. This particular house took on the character of a Russian salon. Often the important people of the town would gather there, the Russian intelligentsia, such as: the Russian priest, the Jewish doctor, the Polish apothecary, the police chief, the postmaster, the sudya (judge), as well as others. They would play cards and chess; they would drink whiskey and wine, as well as tea from the large samovar—followed by tasty Jewish dishes, which Yudl's wife, Matke, the renowned ayshes chayil [active, resourceful wife], had prepared for them in advance for the occasion. Yudl Kotik's children were also the first in the town to attend the Brisk gymnasia [high school]; they wore uniforms with silver buttons, spoke Russian and whistled Russian melodies. So whatever the issue was—whether it was trouble for the community, or a personal disaster, or a government decree—people ran to Kotik, the intercessor, to ask him to write a “petition to the Czar”. When a ruling against a Jew was passed, a “protocol”—they would run to Kotik as well. In some cases he would hear people out in a dignified manner, with esteem, as if he himself was actually the governor.
[Page 465]
So this Yudl Kotik—like a person of great wealth, who philanthropically supports certain community institutions—took it upon himself to protect my father's meager belongings—to keep them from falling into the Czar's hands. As soon as he would sense that a revisor was coming to town to demand “the three hundred rubles” from the Jews, he would immediately send a special messenger over to Zastavya to tell us to “clear out the chometz”[5] as soon as possible.
Right away our entire home would undergo a commotion, an upheaval. My father's older students and neighbors who had come running over were grabbing things—one a quilt, another a pillow, a third a kneading trough, a fourth a set of books—and taking them away to their own houses. The only things they left behind were: the large table with the big flaps hanging from it; the teetering wooden bed, one of whose legs was held up by a block of wood; and the sleeper benches, stuffed with bags of straw, known as “senikes”. After such a “chometz inspection”, our tiny little apartment looked like it had just been ransacked, undergone a pogrom…And to give the picture a realistic, finishing touch, our father would take a religious book in hand, sit down at the table, and make it look like he was studying it. My mother would grab a pot and pluck feathers; and as for us little children, she would hand us hard pieces of bread, which we then chewed with particular relish…
With Yudl Kotik accompanying him, the revisor would appear, with his thick briefcase under his arm; he was quite certain that he was about to enrich the royal Russian treasury. But as soon as he observed the extent of our father's poverty, which now lay before him naked and uncovered, he would remain standing at the threshold, afraid to step in any further…and in order to fulfil his obligation to the Czar, he would ask my father:
“How do you support yourself and your semeistava (household)?”Yudl Kotik, who by nature was a jokester—and who, in addition, was now quite pleased that his trick on the Russian revisor was working so well—would on his part add the following:“From a city allowance,” my father would answer without raising his head up.
“And where are your sons?”
“I don't know, scattered about somewhere in the world, seeking food…,” my father would reply with a deep sigh.
“Certainly, for such an utchani Yevdeii [learned Jew], which is what this Srul Zholf is, it would be a great act of rectitude if his Royal Highness the Czar would provide him with a few rubles for the Sabbath…”[Page 466]
The revisor would sit down on a small stool, and tell a couple of respectable homeowners to write down that—as for the abovementioned Srul Zholf—he regretfully did not find anything of value in his home, since he is—forgive the expression—a full-fledged pauper[6]. And therefore he [the revisor] is now compelled to go away empty-handed…And so it went, year in and year out.
But as soon as my father became the owner of his own property, a cottage my mother inherited—which was moved into town from the village of Luskele—the following question came up: what will happen now? If, God forbid, the Czar in St. Petersburg finds out that my father has suddenly come up in the world and now has a house of his own, will he come and take it away? All right, when it comes to movable objects—the few items he had in his household—you can, as always, find a way out. But when it comes to a house, you can't stash it away with a neighbor!
After a long deliberation with my mother, my father ran off to R.[7] Meir Pasternak, a very respectable householder of the town—so respectable that more than one house was registered in his name. My father set up a kinyan [property transfer agreement] with him, stating that this house also belongs to him [Pasternak]. And so as soon as the revisor came around to my father, a panting R. Meir Pasternak came running over with the kuptche (sales agreement) in his hand, in which it was written explicitly in black on white, and signed by witnesses, that this particular house is his imushtchestva, his own property—and as an indication, he was paying even the nalogen, the taxes, on this property; so that my father was nothing more than his bidner kamernik, his tenant…
Then one time an incident took place, one that for years afterwards people were talking about in the town of Kamenetz and in the village of Zastavya—incidentally heaping unending praise on Yudl Kotik's wisdom and his sharp mind. The incident was as follows:
Suddenly, one bright summer day, a revisor arrived in Kamenetz, one who was completely different from all the previous revisors. He was still a young pup with a pair of thin, blond, moustaches—the son of a wealthy, corpulent villager. He had graduated from a Russian school, but did not succeed in becoming a tchinovnik [functionary]. With great gratitude to his Czar the Father, who did him so great a kindness [appointing him as revisor], he took it upon himself to serve him body and soul. So now on his first mission he wanted to show that—never mind that all the previous revisors who came before him had furnished reports stating that my father “Srul Zholf” is, may it not befall us, a true bednyak [pauper], who does not possess even a broken clay vessel of his own—he was actually going to manage to collect from him, in one fell swoop, the entire six hundred rubles, to make up for those two absconded sons of his who had avoided military service.
[Page 467]
He had come to our town after having made this decision, but he was careful not to tell anyone; he was afraid that the town's khitry Zhides [crafty Jews] might somehow pull a fast one. It was almost as if he had a premonition of what was going to happen...
By mistake he wound up staying in a poor inn. He went about gloomily, angrily—not speaking to anyone at all. From time to time he took a quick walk through the streets, around the town market square, and past the shops. He was looking around, searching—probing with those bitter, angry eyes that cast a pall of terror on everyone.
And as much as the clever, crafty Yudl Kotik utilized every novel method under the sun to extract the revisor's secret—why he had come here—he did not succeed. More than once he tried to hint to him, that, just the opposite, may the esteemed gentleman say what it is he desires, what is going on with his staying over in the town—that he, as a member of the town tribunal, can meet him halfway, help him out with all that he needs, as he has always done with all the revisors who came before him…But none of it did any good: the Gentile remained obstinate, like a young horse the first time it is hitched to a wagon.
Meanwhile, within town, people were now panicking: who knows what sort of troubles this non-Jew[8], may his name be blotted out, will bring upon the town? This is what the Jewish shopkeepers and tavernkeepers were whispering to one another.
Right away some of them began to get rid of their treifene s'choira [illicit merchandise]: one his packets of cheap tobacco with no license labels; a second his flasks of kvass and whiskey; a third the packages of matches and similar types of goods that Jews used to make their living from. Schoolteachers, who according to the law also had to have licenses, dismissed the chayders [schools]. Jews didn't know if they were coming or going[9]. They were frightened by every rustling sound, scared of their own shadows. Everywhere clusters of people were standing around whispering, while others listened attentively, hanging on every word. They were giving each other advice—how to outsmart this particular new revisor, the melech chodosh [new king][10]…
The town was quaking. Some people were loitering around the inn the revisor was staying at. They were spying, probing—perhaps they would find something out over there…For surely this gentleman was not going to be able to stay here another day while the town still didn't know what he was up to and what he wanted…And hours and days were passing—lasting, it seemed, as long as the Jewish exile had endured…
[Page 468]
But then, completely unexpectedly, the deliverance finally came. It was during dusk, between the mincha [afternoon] and maariv [evening] prayer services, when the shepherds were already leading their flocks back from pasture. The adon hakol [His Eminence] suddenly sent for Yudl Kotik, asking him to go for a stroll with him “to the bridge”—the most beautiful walk through the town. Yudl Kotik was very pleased with this invitation. Understandably, it gave him great pleasure that finally the young, angry gentleman was, after all, coming to him—the influential man of the town.
And when the town saw that these two great men—on one side, Kotik the Jew, with his cane in his hand and his fat cigar in his mouth; and on the other side, the Gentile natchalnik with the thick briefcase under his arm—had set out for a walk, they all breathed a sigh of relief. They realized this was a sign that everything, God willing, was about to resolve itself for the good…
And so the two of them were ambling along, with measured steps, following the path that led to the suburb of Zastavya[11]. As they got to the bridge, the revisor began to reveal his secret, that he now intended to go to “Zamosty” [Zastavya], to the “Yevrei [Jew] Srul Zholf”, for an inventory…
When Yudl Kotik heard this, the poor man became very upset—he hadn't counted on something like this happening. But what should he do now? He couldn't leave the revisor there and run over to the schoolteacher, Yisroel Luskeler, to tell him that they were about to make an inventory of his ragged bedding! It didn't bother him so much that a misfortune was about to befall a poor Jew; but rather, more importantly, he was concerned that his entire reputation as the protector of his little Jews was now completely at stake…
[Page 469]
But all at once—like a miracle from Heaven—Shaya the carpenter, with his stork-like long legs, came hurrying by. He had his tool bag slung over his shoulder and his little saw and plane in his hand; he was on his way home to Zastavya, after working in town. An idea suddenly occurred to Yudl Kotik. He very humbly begged pardon of his exalted guest, with whom he was walking, that he was about to leave him alone for a moment; and with rapid strides he caught up with Shaya the carpenter. Grabbing him by his coat, he began to shake him angrily, yelling at him, half in Yiddish and half in the Holy Tongue [Hebrew]:
“Hey, you rascal! You are not too choileh [ill] to take your raglayim [legs] with your shoulders and moidiya zein [inform] the Yehudi [Jew], the gemora melamed [Talmud teacher], that right now the adon hakol is coming over to inspect for chometz! Remember, if you don't do it, I'll have you thrown into chad-gadya [jail]!
Although he was not so sharp, Shaya the carpenter quickly understood what was expected of him. In his fright, he tried to mumble something, but then right away he took off running.
And when the revisor asked Yudl Kotik what he had been shouting at the Jewish workman, the clever Yudl Kotik quickly, on the spot, came up with an explanation that went as follows:
“A while back,” he said, “I hired him to come by and raise the uprave (magistrate) balcony, but he hasn't shown up. And, in addition, he owes a considerable amount of nalogen (tax), so I wanted him to pay it off with his labor. He's been hiding out from me. Now I've caught him, so I gave him a piece of my mind, that paskudnyak [rascal]!”
Meanwhile the carpenter Shaya was walking fast, and whoever he happened to meet along the way he instructed to run as fast as possible to let our family know. Each of these messengers ran ahead of the other; and immediately my father came running from the Bays-Medresh [House of Study][12] with a bunch of young men, drafted for the occasion. Quickly they grabbed all of our meager household furnishings and carried them off to our neighbors. Before long, almost nothing was left in our little house but four empty walls.
[Page 470]
And so the new young, proud revisor—who was so haughty and so certain that this time he would surely succeed in coming up with my father's real motnya [assets]—wound up, poor soul, leaving empty-handed.
For a long time Kamenetz, Zastavya and other nearby little towns laughed and joked about how the clever, sharp-witted member of the tribunal, Yudl Kotik, had led the new, proud revisor down the garden path.
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