Such a chapter for us was the creation of the youth movement, Hashomer Hatzair in Kurenets. Until today I cannot explain rationally how and why it happened, but we felt a miracle of the creation of something splendid. A feeling that maybe a tree feels during early spring days when his branches fill with flowers, perfume-like smells, and freshness.

The reason that I repeat the images of the miracle and try to explain it with different words is that I don't know the simple, basic way to do it, so I will try now to tell the story as it was.

A family came to our town, the Zukovsky family, mother Pesia, son and daughter. The son, Chaim Zukovsky, was once in Eretz Israel but he returned and built a home in Kurenets, where he owned a mill. The daughter finished her studies in the Hebrew gymnasium in Vilna and came to Kurenets during her holiday to visit her mother and brother. Her name was Dvushel, and in Vilna she belonged to the youth movement Hashomer Hatzair, and she was a troop leader. She was petite, with reddish-brown hair, and big brown eyes. There was something brave about the expression on her face, and when she smiled, her self-confident countenance turned into a appearance of charm and intelligence. In her appearance there was something that pulled you to her, and at the same time there was a calming effect about her. It was very enjoyable to be with her.

Dvushel was very different from the other girls in town. She always wore a green or yellow shirt, and a khaki skirt. On her waist she had a belt, and her shoes were simple, but all her clothing was very clean and pristine. It was simple and not fancy, but still quite charming.

It took a few days until the young girls dared to approach her and asked her why she wore the wide belt, and she explained she belonged to the youth movement Hashomer Hatzair.

Her voice was very special. She had confidence but at the same time it was soft. It was deep and calm. Clearly, because of her we immediately liked the youth movement Hashomer Hatzair…

To tell you the truth, it wouldn't be true to say it was only because of her that we liked the youth movement. The youths felt a need to do something new and different. Our young hearts were already trained by the branch of Ha'chalutz movement that was in town, and also by the Hebrew school, but when Dvushel arrived there was a period of decline, and she awoke a new interest in us.

It wasn't only the very young girls like us who were influenced by her. Also, the teenagers were attracted to her, and all of a sudden it seemed that there was vigor among the youth in town. In the evening there were many who would stroll along Dolhinov Street. People would argue and debate politics, and you would hear voices singing. Soon a few people decided to establish a branch of Hashomer Hatzair in town.

Shortly after, we were told that Dvushel decided to stay in town until she was ready to go to the Haksherah, which was training to become a pioneer in Israel. She also took a job as a teacher in the Tarbut School. This was the autumn of 1928, and in my memory, this autumn felt like springtime.

Looking at it now, our cultural and educational mission was not yet momentous for us 9the very young), but there was earnest enlightening and cultural involvement. Children of all backgrounds, amongst them even the neglected kids, were introduced to new horizons. How happy, for example, was Dov Reidel, who lived at the end of Kosita Street. He came from a destitute family. How excited he was when he wore the tie of his unit. For the residents of the town, it was a little revolution in the social life, as the rules of Hashomer Hatzair, which stressed equality, simplicity, and love for other human beings, became values that we all held proudly.

During that time, together with Dvushel, Aharon Meirovich became a leader of Hashomer Hatzair. Aharon Meirovich was known in town as Aharonchik. In Kurenets, people predicted that he would be very successful. They said that he wrote poetry, and some of it was published in Vilna. We knew that he was not from a well-to-do family, but he excelled in school.

Some of the older people in town thought that the excitement of the youths was strange. They saw it as regression. They looked at our excitement as childish and without purpose. In their sober and grim world it didn't make sense.

Autumn passed and winter came. There was much more to do and more members enlisted. Dvushel was busy with both teaching and leading activities in our branch. Leaders of the movement came from Vilna and Warsaw. They made speeches, we sang songs, had conversations, discussions, played games, and went on journeys… Aharon was sent to Vilna to one of the conventions of the movement. People became very impressed with him and our branch in Kurenets became well known.

The spring of 1929 was a very special spring amongst all the springs of my life. For hours we sat together, singing with all our souls, with deep yearning. We walked through the fields to the forest of Sabina, to the big rock, and there we would sing songs in harmony, and we sounded even better than the choir of the village Pokken.

The sound of singing could be heard from the town, and the old Jews who saw themselves as very serious and rational would now listen to our Hasidic songs that were heard from afar, and it awoke something in their hearts. Deep down they wanted to join us. Still, we were strange to them and some of them said mockingly that we were “a Baptist cult”. But there core feeling of suspicion begun to shift.

I remember our first journey to Narutz Lake. We passed through thick forests, new vista. We slept on hay in the barn, and we met with the youths of Myadel, an isolated town. We danced the horah in the central market to a crowd of people from Myadel. The ties between the youths of Myadel and the youths of Kurenets were established.

Later on we went to a meeting of the entire region of Vilna in the village Rivacki, near Smorgon. Kurenets received many awards for excellence, and Aharon received a high award from Hashomer Hatzair, and I cannot describe how proud we all felt.

There were also comical moments. I remember that once in a meeting 30 km from Kurenets in the village Tzivalki, we stayed in the house of the mill owner. He lived in an isolated home. His son, a large Christian man, would not leave us alone and he demanded that Aharonchik wrestle with him. We were very worried, but a miracle occurred and Aharon brought him to the ground. From then on he treated us very respectfully.

In that same meeting, one of the girls fainted. Ironically, it was during first aid training. Everyone became confused and ran to help her, looking at the pamphlet that explained what to do. While they were looking at the pamphlet, the Christian woman that owned the house entered and took a pail filled with cold water and used the old system to wake the girl up.

One day, one of the guys went to Kurenets to get some bread. He wore short pants, a fashion that had never before been seen in Kurenets, and the entire town became very frightened. “Who knows what is happening in that retreat?” Some traveling [itinerant] Jewish merchants were sent to the retreat to see what we were doing there. They found us living in a camp, in a perfectly organized way, very content. So they returned to town and told wonderful tales, and everyone was very happy.

I remember that one time we went to get donations for the Keren Keyemet, funds for Eretz Israel. We entered one of the houses and explained what the donations were for. The woman of the household didn't understand us. She thought that Keren Keyemet was a specific poor Jew, so she gave a nice donation and with a deep sigh said, “My dear ones, may I always be able to give you donations, but hopefully there will be a time when he would not need any more.”

Sometime later, we performed a play that Aharon had written, and Alter Zimmerman was the director. The day before the play opened, two of our friends came riding on horses, dressed as Cossacks. They held big pamphlets and the entire town came running after them, especially all the young children. In the evening there was a huge crowd for the play. All the tickets were sold, but still there were many that looked through the door and windows.

Members of the movement went to training, the first was Dov Benes, and later Dvushel. But when she returned it seemed like she had a different spirit, now filled with depression and disappointment. Days passed and others left for the Hachsharah (training for agricultural Socialist life in Israel). Some members were able to get certificates to go to Eretz Israel, and we would have big parties for their departure.

The branch had periods of blossoming and periods of decline. New generations grew. The ones who were small children when the branch began now became its leaders. During the Holocaust, some of the core members established connections with the partisans in the forest, and a few of them became renowned for their bravery.

For us, the first members, the beginning of this branch would always be like the miracle of spring. A wonderful blossoms by itself, but also a life-changing occurrence for many of the youths…

“Tarbut School”, 1933		Hashomer Hatzair Center, 1934

Members of Hashomer Hatzair in Kurenets

Every time I close my eyes to see you in my spirit, for some reason your eastern hills appear first, and from there, the full vista of your manifold various details is exposed – every time I seek to see you… I do not know the explanation for this, but I can only surmise: This is possibly because the windows of my house looked over the hill that is over the village of Pukan. Perhaps it is because the wonderful sunrises over that hill that I saw in bountiful fashion during my childhood – sunrises of gold and purple. The colorful images come with thoughts of the heart.

Even now, when I wish to fly over your face, I don't see you first without that hill, from which the sun shone upon me every day, and from which I sail over you southward, westward, and northward – over your fields and pathways, plots of land and plots of dust – changes of times and preparations of the heart.

You had a hill. I saw it through the window – sometimes with the greenery of the fields and sometimes with the gold of the grain, sometimes with the black ploughed fields, and sometimes covered in white snow. On its side a small village spread out, with a strange name – Pukan. Above the village, the place where the skies and the earth joined together, the godly sunrise took place every morning – the creation of the world in miniature. Between the place of the noble sunrise and the holy chambers of my heart, as a stain that has a sort of hole in it, the small village with the strange name of Pukan appeared as dark. In its houses lived gentiles with watery eyes, without depth and without Jewish agony. Their hair was like flax, and there were brazen dogs with strong tongues in their yards…

This is none other than the greatness of the trait of mercy that was in our hearts. Therefore, we did not toughen it up, and we connected the name Pukan with the most precious of all names – the Land of Israel:

“Through Pukan one travels to the Land of Israel,” the people of my city would say. This should be light in our eyes, even though it was said with a bit of sarcasm.

The hill of sunrises. It imparted its influence and went westward – over the gardens of cabbageheads, onions, and other vegetables, and finished up over the banks of a small river, over which the willow branches spread their splendor. From the river and onward there was a wide meadow. It became a large pond of water during the days of Nisan on account of the melting snow. During the months of Iyar and Sivan it enthused the heart and eye with a bounty of flowers, of which we only knew their colors, and not their names…

The river flowed southward, crossed Dolhinov Road, and passed over Kosita Street. At times it flowed swiftly, and at times slowly. It moved the wheels of five flourmills along its path, until it reached

[Page 132]

the town of Vileyka, and flowed into the open arms of the Viliya. There were large bogs and springs of water around the river. The knowers of secrets amongst us thought that the name Kurenets undoubtedly comes from the word Krynica (a spring); whereas the jokers amongst us felt it source was from the word Kurit (to smoke): i.e. through the smoke of the fires that took place in you, my town from time to time.

You had six streets, all stemming from your market square. The most heartwarming of them was Dolhinov Road – the street of youths and hopes. However, we never called it by such a rhetorical name, even though we thought about its essence in our hearts… This street continued until the depths of the east, to the horizon adorned with stripes of cloudy purple – the outlines of the forests that spread out afar. These horizons were also a valley of visions for your sunrises every morning.

To this day, many colors and melodies come to me when I close my eyes and recall this street. I see the bridge below which the river hums its constant hymn. Here are the willow and poplar trees, and birds singing songs – trees and trees – but not all of them enthused our hearts. Some of them instilled fear upon us children. These were the trees of the Christian house of worship – a white building, with a long neck, tall, and piercing the holy heavens with it sharp crosses, with great might, broad shoulders, and full of white, open hatred. Their house of worship stood above the trees, and we young cheder children could only secretly take revenge for its fear, only in whispers and by reciting verses. We would pass by it in haste – pale, thin, and small, and recite:

“Thou shalt utterly detest it, and thou shalt utterly abhor it; for it is a devoted thing…”^[1] This was the sole weapon of disparagement and attack that we ourselves took part in – we pale children, from the seed of Israel… However, it was a childhood accompanied by portents and fears, and many of our dark fears were aroused specifically by that white, lofty building.

To this day, even if I close my eyes and dig deep into my memory, I wonder who it was who revealed to use the terrible secret that with the ringing of the bells of the house of worship in Kurenets, the frightful verse that resonated in the ringing sound: “Golda, Golda, give your son to me! Golda, Golda, give your son to me.”^[2] During many mornings of my childhood, when I was lying half asleep in the silence of the early morning, and the sound of the bells filled the space of you, o my town, I would inadvertently count the rings, and hear within it the verse that I imagined was connected to a frightening event – a situation where the large house of the cross kidnapped the precious only child of a Jewish mother

In my imagination, I saw the woman Golda spreading her hands over her only child to protect him. However, the sound of the copper did not tire, and it continued to peal out from then and forever: “Golda, Golda, give your son to me.” – – Until I would jump out of my bed, wash my hands, recite Modeh Ani^[3], and overcome the sound of the impure ringing with the power of the holy verses.

This was in the past, in my long-ago childhood. With time, as we grew up, we remembered this with a forgiving smile to ourselves, as a vain illusion from our innocent childhood. Now, the white building does not frighten us.

[Page 133]

We were already pioneers of Israel, and we had with us melodies that were brought from overseas, from the banks of the Jordan and the Kinneret, and they were equal to the ringing and the crosses. Their power was greater than the whispered verse with which we mocked when we were young and pale.

The street of the sunrises now completed the sunrises in our hearts. We came in groups or alone to the large gardens of Kulik, under the shade of his pear and apple trees. We would go on excursions in the boulevards of “The Pathways of Ekaterina the Great” – which are white and ancient, or we would go far out, on the wings of our songs that reached us from the chosen land.

During the spring, the gentiles of Dolhinov Road would go out to the ancient white fields^[4], place buckets at their feet, strike the roots with their axes, until the sap would flow into the buckets. The white [pines], the axes, and even the sap of the trees belonged to the gentiles – it was their sap. However, we already knew in those days that the trees were pleasant, that their canopies were pleasant, that their sap was good to drink and had medicinal qualities… Among the white pines of Dolhinov Road, we wove the dream of our own trees, the dream of their canopies and sap.

From the boulevard, some of us would continue along the narrow path to a pond that was called Ungerman's Pond. It was not that Ungerman was a real person. For us, his name was only the name of a pond of water, with thick treetops closing it in like a green wall, with bulrushes padding its canopy, and all together playing in the frothy bubbles in its waters.

Ungerman's pond also belonged to Dolhinov Road, the street of wonders. Indeed, there were also wonders in the pond. There, we learned to swim and to skip small rocks over the surface of its waters. Years later, when our hearts began to feel love, the small bridge next to the pond guarded our secret. The sound of song poured over it pleasantly, until we believed that the wonders only occurred for us, to deepen the glory of our feelings. On spring nights, we would go on this path to the estate of the Paritzte [female landowner] to secretly cut bundles of white and purple lilac branches, and place them net to the windows of the house of the girl we loved.

It was the end of the summer or the beginning of autumn. The wagon wheel that a Polish gentile had attached to the top branches of one of the trees to be a nesting place for a family of storks was now empty of its residents. The storks were celebrating very high above the pond, preparing for their journey to warm lands. The storks in flying formation arouse pleasant longings in us, with a sense of melancholy.

Indeed, the longings are many. I recall that you had another street on the border of the street of longings, arousing only melancholy and gloomy soul searching. That is Kosita Street. The turbulent river was on Dolhinov Road. When it reached there, it was like it lost its splendor, its restraint was removed, its turbulence disappeared, and all that was left was gloomy silence. It seemed to me that it whispered a verse from the book of Kohelet [Ecclesiastes]: “All of the river flow to the sea, and the sea is not full – Therefore why do I have to hurry and bustle, for vanity of vanities said Kohelet, everything is vanity…”

At the edge of Kosita Street, a grove of trees casts its shadow – this is the Jewish cemetery. It too confirmed the soul-searching that the river was whispering to itself, the thoughts of hopelessness.

The elders in you, my city, would relate that not far from this cemetery, years earlier,

[Page 134]

there was an old cemetery that was abandoned with the passage of time, to the point where there is no trace of its monuments and graves. Indeed, the wheel turns – there was once a cemetery and now it is no more…

At the edge of the river, on Kosita Street, there were large bogs. There, the houses were stooped, and sunk into the ground. No strollers were found in this place. Only horses went out to pasture in the bogs, and if a horse sunk in the quicksand, curious people and experienced people would gather around to save it. It was as if one literally feels the uncertainty, of our lives and of the ground sinking under your feet…

This road was the final journey of your dead, my city. Gloomy, mournful funerals would pass through it. Those participating in the funeral would place the coffin beyond the river to separate it from the town. Those returning from the funeral would wash their hands in the river, and it was if its waters would bear their gloominess and mourning.

Two neighboring roads with different purposes. Each road, with its life experiences. Each road with the emotions of its life.

There was another road in you, my small town. It also led out from the market square. If it had a mouth to speak like a person, it would certainly claim and say:

“It was only for naught that you granted Dolhinov Road importance for glory and splendor, and for naught did you tie crowns to it. Come and let us discuss, if not I will prove, that you have no advantage over me” … -- That is what Vileyka Road would claim were it to have a mouth. Indeed, that street had its own virtues, similar to the virtues of Dolhinov Road. It also went out in a broad path with ancient stones on both sides. A river with points of charm for bathers also passed by it. Only the sun did not rise upon it, and it was never called the street of sunrise. It also attracted the hearts of the strollers. Those who would walk along it for a distance would reach the Jewish town of Vileyka, beautiful and charming, in about an hour. It sparkled from afar with the reflections of the Viliya, and was beautiful with its new houses, its straight roads, and the windows of its houses covered with splendid shutters and decorated with flowerpots.

We loved Vileyka. As we walked, we would dream that if a house was added on the street across the path, we would see in the eyes of our spirit how one house joins the next. From your midst, Kurenets my city, and also from the city of Vileyka, houses on both sides, to the point where they would meet, and you would become one large Jewish city in the future… – – –

If you do not want to walk along the broad path, and you choose the path that extends not far from the river, there too enchantments would await you. At first you would come to Mendel Dinerstein's flourmill – between the trees and the reeds, and a large pond of water, to the place where the frogs croak and grasshoppers rustle, with the sound of the waterfall, the workings of the wheels, and the fresh aroma of freshly ground flour. The pond is large and sparing from that side. However, if you look across from there, it would seem that the mill swallows up the entire abundance of water, with only a trickle remaining through a miracle, flowing between the crags of rocks, evading the place of danger – to the point where you could barely see it. However, your heart should not grieve. The soldiers will overcome. The wellsprings will spread into the river, and would again take up an area of land by the flourmill of the village of Ivontsavichy. It would sprawl out around it to turn into a large pool, and to move other wheels and other mills.

[Page 135]

There are no enchantments around the pond in Ivontsavichy, no tall trees, and no charming corners. The mill is also very old. If you go there and stand to look out, like someone enchanted by the surrounding splendor, it would only be to catch the eyes of the people who will not recognize you, for a different charm is there, a charm that is not to be exposed in public. That is the charm of the daughters of Mordechai the miller. Mordechai the miller had three daughters. Their eyes were blue, their hair was golden, their manner of speaking would attract the heart, and their laugh was heartwarming – Teibl, Sonka, and Henia. They would invite you to enter the house. They would treat you to a cup of tea, and if you were a person of many words, you could sit there for a long time engaged in pleasant conversation. Even as you returned home, you would carry with you the youthful charm of the daughters of the miller.

If you wish to go further, you would go with the river to the village of Volkovshchina. There lived the daughter of Eliyahu Cohen of Kurenets with her family. When you came, she would greet you with true joy, and say, “O, what guests, what guests!” She would give us cold cream with red raspberries, and thin, pleasant cucumbers. Shortly, a wagon would set out from there to Kholopy, the last stop on the Kurenets River. The Kholopy miller was also a Jew… However, it was appropriate to regain one's strength and rest after leaving the wagon. We were free people there, as if we were members of the household. Next to the window stood a large tree, and the sun played between its branches, glancing curiously into the house, as if it wished to see those who were entering. A bird chirps and bounces. O lovely, chirpy bird, please enthusiastically tell the secret to the other birds: Lads from Kurenets came, and they are sitting and eating cold cream with red raspberries…

Next to Vileyka Road, from the place where it leaves the marketplaces, another road spreads out literally westward. That is Smargon Road. There was nothing special about this road other than its name, which is the name of a town that became known as a big city. Aside from your name, you had no other charm – no river and no trees. In the distant horizon there is only the Svina Forest. Smargon is very far, and even if you were to walk for two or three hours, you would not reach its border…

O Smargon Road, this is nothing other than the mercies of Heaven that have come upon you, to also grant you their bounties, the summer rains, for the fell upon you; whereas on other roads, they only hit the roofs and windows. Upon you it is like they desired to play pranks, as a heavy vortex passed over you, with a flood of water flowing from you to the marketplace, and from there on its way to the entire land… The river on Kosita Street, o how we rejoiced, we children, at this flood of water. We rejoiced and even knew that it was from your kind hands, you poor, remote street.

Perhaps from Heaven they saw your poverty, and this was from you that specifically our musician lived in one of your houses. Reb Itzi-Noach the wise-hearted jester came to remove the boredom from your midst and to broaden the hearts of the few passers-by with the melodies of the violin and flute, with shofar blasts and witty words from the veteran fiddler. Even as I walked by you during the day, many years ago, my heart, my heart is to you, to you, and only to you. I will grant you the merit of precedence, and I will walk with you to the large rock, without other people, to Myadzyel Road. Only with you, forlorn Smargon Road, for you are already wiped off the face of the earth, and you only still live in my heart.

Who did not grant honor to the large rock? Those who loved it adorned it with charming legends. It is therefore clear to me that in addition to the legend of the accursed innkeeper, the official, known legend

[Page 136]

among the masses, private thoughts sparkled in the hearts of everyone regarding your appearance – who could imagine how many hidden ideas came up and were quenched, and nobody ever knew about them.

I recall one spring day, while I was still a child, and I was walking with my friend Baruch Gedalya's to you, the large rock. Baruch was reliable in my eyes. He was a full year older than me, and therefore I would listen attentively to everything that he told. The spring had only just begun in the land – a swallow was frolicking in the air, going up and down in a rhythm. The fields were plowed, and they had black clods and small stones. Baruch was walking with me and telling me so that I will know and remember that all the small stones in the entire world once belonged to the large rock. We both walked and wondered how large and immense the rock had once been.

When I got older, a new thought entered my heart, that this black rock – the one and only in the midst of the large plain – was not an inn that curses, but rather a shooting star that fell in the midst of the fields many, many years ago, before the Savina Forest and Smargon Road were in the world – a star from amongst the stars of the heavens.

I loved your stars, o my city, the edges and breadth of our streets, even though your market square was round and closed, without an exit to the horizons. I did not like the bustling, noisy market days, full of foreign bounty and grains from outside. The market was clear and sharp, practical, cunning, and calculated. I was a visionary child – and therefore I was not attracted to you.

In your belly, o market, stood a block of shops enclosing a small field, from the midst of which sprouted a tender tree. Its canopy grew year by year until it overshadowed the roof of the shops to see the wide world. In my eyes, the tree was like a prisoner – a bright, green tree surrounded by walls and gloomy partitions.

O market square, you were only open to the sky but not to the breadths. In those days, the sky was not high. Over the chimneys on the rooftops and over the house of Lea-Itka – a two-story wooden house – we measured the distance from the heavens to the earth… O, how moved I was when my sister took me by the hand and brought me to the house of Lea-Itka, to bring me to the second floor – to the gates of heaven…

Your synagogues were also two stories high. They stood adjacent to the square, and hidden in the valley. We wished that they would be tall and high, but we took comfort and said that it was deliberate, to fulfil the verse: From the depths I call out to You o L-rd. [Psalms 130:1]. Therefore, you were low and stood in the valley…

Much taller than them was the white church, which peered out from its green platform with pride and a huge heart. It was on Dolhinov Road, and it sought to fill the entire area around with its essence and awe. Its roof sparkled to the heights of the heaven, but we, the children of my town, believed that they were fleeing from it. It would extend and add on, but would never reach those heavens – which descended like a cloud upon our synagogues.

O my town, you had two more streets. One of them was the alleyway It was also closed off

[Page 137]

without a continuation, without horizons. It only left the marketplace and touched Myadzyel Road. It was melancholy in my eyes, as if it was pushed off to a corner.

I lived in one of the houses on the alleyway during my childhood, for a brief time, but it is etched in my heart. That was the first time that I saw death face to face. I saw my mother faint in her calamity, and my father silent in his mourning, with only his eyes weeping quietly. Suddenly, it was revealed to me that I was an abandoned child, without a protector or shelter, for my father and mother were so weak, my house was shaky and broken, and death was sitting in its shadow.

The tragedies of Israel and the exile of Israel – the concept of which would be revealed to me from the breadths of the world ant the times – I also knew first from you, o alleyway. The concept came from a very far-back snowy day: a winter sled stood next to one of your houses, and in the wagon was a Jew who was murdered. His eyes were closed and tormented. His black beard was like a framework of mourning. The name of the Jew was Itche-Michael. He was murdered on his way to a market day. A bloody man named Vasyl came from the village of Litvinki, next to you, o my town.

I knew another case of bloodshed on the alleyway, in which the details were also obscure. My mother of blessed memory told me the terrible story that one night in the past, gentiles entered the house of Gedalyahu the blacksmith and beat him and his wife Freda with fetters, but passers-by interfered and thereby thwarted the efforts of the murderers. After my mother's story, it became completely clear to me why Gedalyahu the blacksmith walked around as if tormented, and there was never a smile on his face.

Nevertheless, aside from the tragedies, the alleyway also had its wonders – that is the new well with fresh water from which everyone came to draw – youth and elderly. For a long time, I was jealous of the lads who had already grown up, and whose strength was already sufficient to be drawers, bearers of the buckets and pole from the well to their houses. This was for many days, until my time came, and I also traversed the entire street with a pole and two full buckets over my shoulders. I secretly bit my lips from the magnitude of the effort. I walked and counted my steps to take my mind off the pain in my hands and shoulders. Your living windows, o alleyway, from the right and left, accompanied my burden of victory. It was a far-back day when I felt that not only had I crossed the street, but I had also crossed the era of my pallid, shaky childhood.

Behold I now reach your last road, the last and the longest – Myadzyel Road. It left the market square, and also turned northward. The sun never shone on it, and never set on it. It led to mysterious forests and to a town situated on a large body of water, called Myadzyel. I traversed it very slowly, and my heart accompanies each and every step. Behold, I am approaching our house. However, now I will not enter its door. I will only stand for one moment and bow. You, o the rest of the houses, do not look begrudgingly at this, for it is my house. My parents built it with toil. Within its walls, one Kislev night, my mother left me; From there my father wrote me his final letter, and with pure Biblical verses, albeit sad and mournful, informed me of the death of my dear parent… I will only bow for a moment, and I will continue on. – – –

Myadzyel Road is very long. Soon I will reach its end. The end of this road was questionably the town and questionably

[Page 138]

a village. Jews who were people of the land, with fields and furrows, lived there. Here and there, next to their houses, they cleared large bricks. On giant ladders, exactly like in villages, they would dry peas that the Jews had harvested from their fields.

One day, I stood there in a field and learned the job of harvesting with a sickle. Children gathered about to see me. The children knew that my harvesting was not for an ordinary harvest, but I was rather learning this holy craft for the fields of the Land of Israel. Therefore, the children whispered around me, and they watched my harvesting as if during a silent prayer and as dreamers.

From here, you can see the village of Litvinki very well, and nearby the house of Feishka. This was the only Jewish house, and I looked upon this house in a gloomy fashion during my long-ago childhood years, for it stood next to Vasyl's house.

O, how I wished then to divert my thoughts from Litvinki and Vasyl, to uproot them from my heart… But it was for naught… Their fear pursued me in every place, and even stuck to me on the pages of the Chumash:

“And it was when they were in the field, and Cain rose up against his brother Abel and killed him.” [Genesis 4:8]

In cheder, with all the children, I read the preceding verse with its trope. The trope did not sweeten the judgement, and it was as if to vex that the image of the murderer from the village of Litvinki pushed its way into our holy book. Instead of Cain, I saw Vasyl, and instead of east of Eden, the location of the first murder, I saw the broad field at the end of Myadzyel Road – between the town of Kurenets and the village of Litvinki. – – –

Behold, I have already traversed you, o my town, and my eyes are closed so that I can see you well. You sat alone in the valley, a weak Jewish town, with Pukan on one site and the village of Litvinki on the other side of you. The church is above you, and its bells disturb your spirit… And you were loaded with great mercy, greater and more numerous than I was able to imagine…

Translator's Footnotes

1. Deuteronomy 7:26. Translation from Mechon Mamre: https://mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt0507.htm Return
2. Seemingly, an imaginative onomatopoeia from the words Golda, Golda, teni et bneich li. Return
3. The first prayer upon arising in the morning. Return
4. From the context of collecting sap, I believe this is referring to groves of white pine trees. Return

My hometown, the nest of the spring of my life, how has your good voice become silenced, That resonated, and aroused healing longing when pain came? There is no more a letter from father in his refined holy language, not the thought of a letter Only the worry of the heart regarding what is to come. Nothing had yet been told to me, my tragedy was still marching in the shadows, But my heart sensed the echo of its footsteps, which could already be heard. Shortly he would come, a survivor with singed clothing from my father's house, Protect me, o L-rd, from the new that he would bring. My hometown, a sort of hidden world, among silent forests; Quiet and merciful, but it was not always quiet within you, and not always merciful. Where peace pervades, and the gift of hidden lights from generation to generation, And your heart thirsts for every small mercy, and for every caress of light. I said I would yet return to your source, and compose a great verse of praise to you, Seeing you strewn with lights and covered with flourishing and strength, Light up a face of love to every baby within you, and enwrapping innocent childhood; Stand guard at the top of the slope of graves, shed a tear over them. Guard the paths that have grown moss, in which I knew sunrise during my youth, But days have stopped their good, with a song of memory – a song of much apology. But, alas, suddenly I have seen darkness fall over you, Covering your surroundings, every path that comes and goes. Woe, I see you trampled, bowed low and clipped by the enemy, Broken , with great mercy spread over the elderly and children. I see you having collapsed, I listen to your cries from afar. There is nobody who will tell you that you are the head, that your spirit will be returned. To you, next of my childhood, my path may yet bring me, After the days of darkness and crisis; However, who knows whether I will still find a surviving child in you And whether I will still find a gravestone over a grave?… 5701 [1941]

  Kurenets, Belarus     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2024 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 21 Sep 2022 by JH