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By Natan Heiman, z”l
Translated by Daniel Kochavi
Edited by Daniela Wellner
I want to describe a few memories of my small town, Zborow, where I was born and lived for a third of my life.
Zborow was small and most of her inhabitants were Jews who lived in the center of town. Others, Ukrainians and Poles, resided in the surrounding suburbs.
Historical records indicate that the town was about 1,000 years old and was founded by Jews.
Orthodox Jews have lived there for many generations. An intelligentsia class and dedicated public servants also resided there. Most residents were merchants and laborers. The difference in economic status notwithstanding, a common bond united this community bustling with Jewish life.
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Several Beit Midrashim [religious schools] existed in Zborow. There was a Kloyz [hall dedicated to Torah study] and a grand and beautiful synagogue. The great Synagogue sat on top of a hill and could be seen from every part of the town. Jews gathered daily in the synagogues and the midrashim for prayers and religious studies. The market square bustled daily. But I especially remember the market on Shabbat eve at dusk, when suddenly it emptied, the stores closed and the town dressed up to celebrate. Jews dressed up in their best streamed to the synagogues to greet the Shabbat or other holidays.
Our home was traditional and welcomed guests. I remember well our warm and loving family spirit on Shabbat and holidays. My father, Chaim Mordechai, z”l, was devoted to prayer and the congregation loved his warm voice. For many years, he served as the gabbai without expecting any reward. On secular days, he would get up at three
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in the morning and go to the Beth Midrash to study Torah. On Shabbat eve, father would always bring home a guest for the Shabbat meal. Once father invited a guest but had to leave with my mother, Mattel, z”l, before the meal to visit our sick aunt and bless her on Shabbat. Upon their return, the guest was gone. Mother felt sad and ashamed and burst in tears and refused to serve the meal until the guest had been found. I was told to go and find him in the cold winter night. I put on warm cloth and went from one Beit Midrash to the other until I found him. When I brought him home, there was great rejoicing, especially in my mother's face. Unless you saw her expression at that time, you have never seen such an expression of happiness. This was my mother, of blessed memory.
Shabbat songs accompanied the meal and of course father's voice stood out and attracted neighbors to listen to him.
Most of my childhood years passed during the First World War. The Russian army invaded Galicia in 1914. Father was drafted and mother who was raising six children was left alone to support the household. The Russians stole our property and we had to flee from Zborow to Vienna, where we remained until the end of the war in 1918. I went to school in Vienna, but I had to contribute to the family income. We did receive support from the government, but it was hard to find needed supplies during the war. We had to stand in line before dawn to get a loaf of bread or a kilo of cattle-beets and, by 8 a.m., I had to be in school.
Father was wounded while fighting in Italy [he was over 40 years old by this time]. After much effort, mother got him transferred to a hospital in Vienna where he was well taken care of. I would bring his daily meals prepared by mother.
After the war, we returned to Zborow. As mentioned all our property had been stolen but, fortunately, our house was left in good shape. Eventually, our financial situation improved.
In my youth, I belonged to Gordonia [a Zionist youth movement] and for several years I was a counselor until I was drafted. After my discharge from the Polish army in 1934, I immigrated to Eretz (Palestine).
There I belonged to a group that joined [Kibbutz] Chulda, where I live to this day. The conditions at that time were very hard. I was a driver for the farm and more than once found myself in most difficult situations. More than once, I was caught in a fight with Arabs or my vehicle was shot at. During the Independence War, I faced the same dangers that all Jewish drivers faced on the roads.
In 1966, I lost my only brother, Arye, z”l, who lived in Jerusalem. During the Six-Day War, I suffered a very heavy loss. My oldest son, Michah, z”l, was killed on June 6th 1967, in the fight on Ha-Tachmoshet Hill [Ammunition Hill] for the liberation of Jerusalem. May they be of blessed memory and may their souls be bound up in the bonds of eternal life.
Leaving my family, I could not imagine that I would never see them again. They were all exterminated by the Nazi beast with the active help of our Polish and Ukrainian neighbors. Aside from me, there is no one remaining from our large family. Their deaths left me with an unending sorrow.
By Meilech Diamond (New York)
Translated by Rena Berkowicz Borow
I recall those young years in our town, Zborow, those years that imbued us with the spirit and strength to withstand the times of hardship and horror. In our little town, we the Zionist youth, lived a life full of meaning and commitment to fulfill the ideal of Zion.
Just as in the song “My Shteteleh Belz” comes to my mind, my hometown, Zborow: the shul, the marketplace, the promenade where we used to stroll, the Saklani [?] mountain where we skated in the winters, the Baron Hirsch playground where we met up and played ball, the Targavitsa [?] [gymnasium?], where the Jewish sports club played its matches. I see before me the river where we swam, trails through the hills of the Zlata Gora, where, after the end of Sabbath meal, we would go for a walk or a hike with the Zborow youth groups.
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I remember what good times we had at those Zionist group meetings with their Hebrew singing and hora dancing. The conversations, the discussions, the Hebrew lessons, the outings, the summer camps–to this day it all fills me with joy.
When I meet with Americans on their return from a trip to Israel, I ask them how they liked Israel and did they travel the entire country from the northern Galilee to the Negev, the kibbutzim and the other settlements, especially the early outpost of Tel Chai, where Trumpeldor fell guarding the land? When they inquire when I had been in Israel, I proudly answer that I haven't been there yet, and that everything I know I learned in my little Polish town of Zborow. When I then ask them in Hebrew if they had learned a little Hebrew, they think that I'm fooling with them, that I must be a yored (derogatory term for one who leaves, “descends from” Israel) and am ashamed to admit it. Not without difficulty do I manage to convince them that I have never been to Israel, but that I had belonged to a Zionist group in the town of Zborow, where I got all my knowledge of the Land of Israel and the Hebrew language. And I am proud of my little hometown and grateful to the Zionist group organizers, who are all now in Israel, and to those of us who were fortunate enough to settle there. But I will never forget those in our group who perished at the hands of the Nazi murderers. Blessed be their memories.
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