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It was 1914, a few months before the war began, and I was still a small boy. I had just started to learn Torah with the melamed Efrayim, on Mistka Street. It was early spring, just before Purim. The snow was starting to melt, and the streets were full of mud and puddles trickling into the Brok River, which was filling fast and becoming a danger to people who lived nearby, especially on the Hintergas.^[1]

The days were becoming warmer, and a new world was appearing before my child's eyes, a world full of wonders. I look forward impatiently to the green fields, to the reviving plants, to the forest of Zelig the miller, to birdsong, to the landowner's Turf River where I liked to bathe, and to the Szepietowo Road with its summertime crowds of men, women, and children.

On these spring days, I am confined (along with dozens of other children like me) to the small, stifling room that is the kheyder of Efrayim the melamed. I am forced to sit in front of the Torah. Occasionally, when my imagination escapes outdoors, to nature, freedom, and liberty – I feel the rebbe's heavy slap on the back of my neck, and I must return to the gray, depressing reality of the kheyder.^[2]

On one of those days, as I was deep in thought, as usual, a strange noise suddenly comes from outside; it grows stronger and stronger, until it becomes a deafening roar. Through the kheyder window, I see men, women, and children running to the marketplace, shouting the exciting news: “Bears and monkeys are in town!”

As you might imagine, no power in the world could stop us, the pupils of Efrayim the melamed, from leaving the kheyder. The rebbe locked the door, but in vain: some jumped through the window, others sneaked out through the back door. One way or another, the kheyder was instantly emptied, and all of Efrayim's students rushed to the marketplace.

In the market square, near the Fire Brigade's building (called “the shed”), the whole town was gathered. I doubt that anyone, except the babies and old people, stayed at home. I made my way through the crowd to the center of the marketplace, where the wonders were.

And it was indeed a marvelous sight. It was the first time I had ever seen these strange creatures. I have no words to describe the wonderful scene: the monkeys and the bears, skipping and dancing, eating out of human hands, and drinking from bottles. However, I was enthralled not only by the animals; their owners also captivated me. They seemed completely unlike the people in our town, in looks or clothing. Their legs were in high boots, laced from top to bottom;

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they wore green coats with red buttons, and their heads were covered by hats decorated with multicolored feathers.

Unfortunately, I could not enjoy the scene for too long a time. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my right ear. The pain grew stronger. When I turned my head to see the source of the pain, I saw the face of the rebbe Efrayim, whose delicate hand was pulling my ear. I don't need to tell you how much I hated the rebbe at that moment, especially when his calm, cruel voice said into my ear, in Yiddish, “Get going, mamzer, into the kheyder!”^[3] Escaping Efrayim was impossible. Ashamed, I was dragged back into the kheyder.

What can I tell you? I'm not a tattle–tale, so I will say only that I was in so much pain that night that I couldn't sleep, but tossed from side to side. When I finally fell asleep out of exhaustion, I was terrified by a nightmare. I wanted to scream, but could not. I was tongue–tied, until I finally gave out a terrible yell. My mother, who had heard the yell, leaped out of bed, lit the lamp and came over. I saw her frightened eyes as she looked at the black and blue bruises that rebbe Efrayim's fists had left all over my body; she began weeping bitterly.

It was not easy to convince my mother that it had only been a dream, a dream about bears and monkeys.

Spring that year was over. At the height of summer, on the ninth day of Av – an ominous day – the war broke out.^[4] The town was overtaken by gloom. People gathered everywhere–on the street, in the synagogue–speaking of one thing only: the war. Although the Jews hated Fonye bitterly and prayed for the defeat of the Russian forces, no one was joyful; all were heavy–hearted.^[5]

The government announced a general conscription. There was weeping and wailing in the homes of conscripted husbands or sons. Before too long, the streets of Wysokie were filled with the first Russian troops, heading westward. An endless stream of infantry, cavalry, and horses pulling cannons, flowed through the town. Rumors soon began that the Germans were pushing the Russian army back and routing it. One major defeat occurred near Warsaw, and the Czarist forces began to retreat. The terrible news kept coming. Soon, the thundering of cannon could be heard in the town, indicating that the front was nearing Wysokie. One day, wagons loaded with

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wounded Russian soldiers, some with bandaged heads, came into the town. Heartrending moans came from the wagons. The Russian army was in full retreat.

Like other towns along the Bialystok–Warsaw route, Wysokie provided temporary lodgings for the retreating Russian army; the town was full of military personnel. Soldiers and officers were billeted in most homes. Our house, with its four rooms, housed stunned officers who were awaiting new retreat orders from the High Command. One evening, as we were sitting with them, tense and anxious about the future, a trumpet call sounded outside. By now, we knew that trumpet calls did not bode well for the Russian army. And indeed, the officers left their seats and hurried outside at the command of a senior officer. The last officer to leave instructed us to turn off the lights immediately and lie flat on the floor. He parted from us on friendly terms and thanked us for our generosity towards the “guests.” The door closed behind him as he left.

The house grew very silent. We turned off the lights and lay on the floor, trembling in fear. Outside, we could hear the rumble of wheels and the sound of the hooves of the horses that were pulling the heavy cannons of the retreating Russian army. The whistling of bullets and shells was heard from time to time; their flashes penetrated the closed shutters. We followed the events outside with bated breath. The noise and explosions increased, and the thundering of the cannons and other weapons grew deafening. We crept closer together and became a single living entity of flesh and blood, of frightened children and a devoted mother who was protecting her children with her body, like an eagle protecting its young.

We lay on the floor for many hours. Much later that night, certainly after midnight, we felt that the terrifying orchestra was becoming weaker. The cannon thunder grew more and more distant, and finally fell silent. Wysokie was enveloped in a stunning, deathly silence. The first light of day began to be seen through the chinks in the shutters. A new day was born.

We slowly went to the door and opened it a crack. The German advance forces appeared on Mistka Street. The first German rider sat his horse with complete calm, crossing the street carefully back and forth, like a night watchman not wanting to disturb the sleepers. He was followed by cavalry, and later the infantry.

The townspeople emerged from their hideouts to see these saviors who would liberate them from the tyrannical Czar; after all, during World War I the Germans were considered to be liberators from the despotic Czarist regime. With combined joy and fear, the Jews received the German army and gave them all the cakes and challahs that were ready for Shabbat (the Germans had entered the town on a Friday morning). However, they were very disappointed when the soldier and officer “saviors” rejected the Jewish presents and greeted the donors with the curse verfluchte Jude (damned Jew).

The cool, hostile attitude of the Germans cooled the Jews' enthusiasm; they soon discovered that these were not saviors. It is worth noting, however, that during World War I the German soldiers did not commit robbery and murder. Their attitude

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of these solders was restrained and proper. The authorities immediately started to establish a new order according to the German system. They started building a modern hospital, planted trees along the streets, opened a large bath–house; and the town began to change.

The new conditions, with its few positive, and many negative notes, lasted until the end of the war. When the enormous war machine of the German Reich was destroyed, the Germans left the soil of Poland, and were replaced by the Poles, who immediately instituted a policy of hostility towards the Jewish population.

Translator's Footnotes:

1. The Yiddish “Hintergas” means “Back Street.” Return
2. Rebbe is the term for a kheyder teacher; it is also used for a Hasidic leader. Return
3. The Hebraic mamzer (“bastard”) is used as a derogatory term for a difficult or unpleasant individual. Return
4. World War I broke out on August 1, 1914. It was also the ninth day of the Jewish month of Av, a fast day commemorating numerous historic national cataatrophes. Return
5. Original note: Fonye is a derogatory Jewish term for the Russian Czar. Return

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On the Death of My Father My father, you are no more. My father is dead. I am glad I told you, “My good father.” You were good, my father. So good. That is why my dreams were bright And my waking full of music. You taught me ethics through the sayings of Hillel, Through legends of Elisha Ben Avuya, Of Rabbi Elazar ben Arakh, Through the sayings of Rabbi Akiva And your sorrowful look.[1] My father is no more. He walked slowly, Cloaked in the majesty of his tall father, His eyes spread understanding And his brows express compassion. Now he is gone. Dead. The images of childhood mourn, Mourn. The vision of legends is orphaned From father's knee. Nissan 1932[2]

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To My Mother The meanwhiles are so long My mother! I send you this card With only a few words: “I don't know which world I am addressing.” It is very hard to write, Mother! Will the post bring letters again As before, saying that you are well And that nothing has changed at home? That you are very happy to receive My frequent letters. Let my words be calm and wise, But only one short phrase between the lines– About my father, who died. I am very sad without him. My heart is very anxious, Mother! 1941

Translator's Footnotes:

1. The names are of post–biblical Jewish sages. Return
2. The Jewish month of Nissan typically occurs in late March – early April. Return

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