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[Page 307]
by Shmuel Kokhalski, Tel Aviv
Translated by Miriam Leberstein
Outside the town, on a large lot right on the Narew, stood a house surrounded on three sides by trees and plantings. From the one side left open you could see the expanse of the Narew. All day you could hear the shouts of the fishermen and of the workers who dug gravel out of the river. And you could hear the Christian raftsmen who were transporting lumber and blocks of wood.
In the large courtyard of the house was a sawmill where the Zilbertal family lived. From their sawmill you could hear the saws cutting the logs into boards. The boards were used in making furniture and the left over pieces of wood were used by the bakeries to heat their ovens. It was my job to pick up the wood pieces for our bakery.
I would always see Herr Zilbertal, a tall man with a long beard, two fingers constantly in his vest pocket, ready to extract some money if someone asked for it for a specific purpose. I often made such a request of Herr Zilbertal on behalf of the Jewish National Fund or the workers in Eretz Yisroel and he would always pull out the money with those two fingers and give willingly and generously. He never counted the money and we could always rely on him.
In contrast to his quiet piety, you could always hear, from a distance, the shouts of his son Didek, the community activist and Bundist city council member. He didn't shout in anger, it was just his way.
There was also a mill in the courtyard, which belong to Herr Zilbertal's soninlaw, Nokhem Neufeld, the son of the Nowy Dwor rabbi. Jokers would say that Nokhem didn't run the mill; the mill ran him. There was also an electric generator there, which provided light for the town up until midnight.
We would go there to swim because we were sure the Christian boys wouldn't throw our clothes in the water there.
One of the rooms housed Nokhem Neufeld's large library. There was nothing you couldn't find there. You could find Rambam, Spinoza, the Shulchan Aruch, as well as the best of Yiddish and world literature. As soon as I knocked on the door I would hear the voice of Hanke Zilbertal, Nokhem Neufeld's wife, who would open the library for me. Nokhem would show up right away, and help pull out the treasures of Jewish literature, and Hanke would always serve me something to eat.
This was an unusual household where many witty people liked to visit and get together, among them the Warsaw writer Segalovitsh, Nakhman Mayzel, Alter Katsizne, Dr. Kruk, A.Sh. Yures, Ahron Zeitlin and Heftman. Dov Ber Malkin was a regular. That house and courtyard and their surroundings, with all their wealth and spirit, no longer exists.
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[Page 308]
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From right, standing: Gershon Fraymen, a relative of the Papiers from Vlotslavek, Mendl Papier, Shloyme Kartsovitsh Seated: Matis Papier, Malke Papier, Mendl Srebrenik, Dine Vaynshtok, Shmuel Shimkovitsh, Adele Papier, Dovid Papier, the wife of Khaim Kohen At left: the boy Zishe Papier (fell as a fighter in the Warsaw Ghetto) |
[Page 309]
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Standing, on right, Berish Mundlak; on left, Khaim Roznshteyn |
by Noekh Prilutski
Translated by Miriam Leberstein
In Noekh Prilutski's collection of Yiddish folkore, vol.1, p.49, a great many yikhes names are listed for the people of Nowy Dwor:
Nowy Dwor bandits
Nowy Dwor thieves
Nowy Dwor zemelekh [lit. rolls; probably slang for another designation]
Nowy Dwor beasts
Nowy Dwor tramps
Nowy Dwor gluttons
Nowy Dwor geniuses [ironic]
Nowy Dwor losers
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Translator's footnote
by Dovid Top
Translated by Miriam Leberstein
Do you know who the best tailor in town is? It's Mendl the Blacksmith. He can forge a pair of earrings that even Fayvish the Bookbinder would wear. But he wouldn't make as nice a fur coat as Borekh the Tailor.
A person is not a pig. If he eats as much as a horse, that's enough for him.
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Here's something you should know: When a dog chases a pig, it takes hold of the pig by its ear and shouts into it: Don't be a pig! Be a dog!
by A.B.
Translated by Miriam Leberstein
Many of the residents of our town were called by a nickname tagged on to their regular name, so that the nickname gradually became the usual name, so much so that if you did call them by their correct last name, no one would know who you meant.
This custom of using a nickname can only be explained by the intimacy of life in a town where everyone knew everyone else down to their bones, knew what was going on in their lives, down to the most intimate details. There were no skyscrapers there to hide behind, everything was out in the open. Every private, family or community event was immediately spread from ear to ear, and even from eye to eye, because even gestures were immediately understood.
The nicknames weren't arbitrary and most of them fit the person to a tee. There was a rationale, an aptness to them, and if the nickname didn't apply directly to the person, it applied to his ancestors from whom one often inherited the nickname, as one would inherit a royal crown. People were often quite willing to renounce such an inheritance, but if the nickname had already been accepted by the community and was in common use, it remained attached to whomever it maligned.
We print here only a portion of the entire bouquet of nicknames, and for each of the ones listed there are many similar ones.
It appears that they can be divided into six categories.
Translator's footnote
by Shloyme Vronski, Tel Aviv
Translated by Miriam Leberstein
My mother's tear has stayed with me wherever I have gone. Wherever I was, when I needed it, it would appear before me.
The tear scalded my cheek
And when I came home,
Again I set off on my wandering,
Spring comes with its gentle breath. |
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