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1. Rabbi Avrah'mel Einhorn

The Rav, Reb Avrah'mel Einhorn, in whose home I rented a room in Suchowola, became my equal, with time. He believed in what I did because he believed in what he still found in me:

Caption: Perets Hirshbein

A person who once swam in the ocean of Torah study, remains forever a little “salted” [seasoned].

Very often, he brought to me his novel ideas, which he proceeded to describe. He was as na?ve as a small child. Even though he was a man in his eighties, he perked up with youthful vigor when I wanted to convince him that King Solomon was right when he said “that which once was will be later again, because there is nothing new under the heavens.”

In that Torah teaching, all the secrets [of the world] exist. And swimming in the ocean of Torah study, you uncovered all the secrets and lived by them. After I translated my “Tekias Yad” [“striking of hands to conclude a bargain,” or a pledge by striking hands] into Hebrew, then Reb Einhorn came in and asked:

“Can you explain to me what is the connection here?”

“It is a connection of good and bad, of the crooked and straight of human behavior.”

“Can you explain to me what meaning you intend with this?”

“It's not complicated. Because good and bad, as it was understood in the time when we were given the Torah, is true now in the same way. Such as, for example, the Ten Commandments that still now are relevant for people.”

“So, so,” he smacked his lips. “It's really true. That one should not be a thief, lo signov [do not steal], is now, as before, necessary to remind the people. And lo sirtzach [do not murder], not to murder, for sure and for sure!”

“I think, Rebbe, that lo sinaf, that a person should not be a promiscuous good–for–nothing is now even more relevant than before.”

“So, so… So this, which you are writing, is really an explanation of the Ten Commandments. But even so, as it seems to me, your explanations are really veering off the right way. Those who have …

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… left the Torah, and with their thoughts having turned to only God knows where, they've gone off the right way.”

“Can you say that about everyone, Rebbe? Have your children gone off the proper way? You, Rebbe, should be proud of your children. Your children heal the sick, and they are all very talented, such as your son the silk merchant in Warsaw.”

“It's hard to understand God's ways and how He directs people.”

But with his great naivet?, that winter Reb Avrah'mel Einhorn made half the town sick when he dismissed a life question in his usual manner, and didn't even follow the intelligent directives of the strict Jewish law:

They were preparing for an important wedding in town. It was erev Shabbath [Friday afternoon]. Everyone in town was involved in preparing the wedding. One small thing: They had paired up the town lunatic with a girl – an eyesore. That Friday night, everyone in town got all dressed up as if for an important celebration, and went down the hill to the old shul [synagogue] where poverty thrived. They even brought down musicians. And in the circular marketplace, surrounded by small stores and important business people and towering ice – was the city well. From this very well, all those who lived around the marketplace would draw water. Closer to the market, the eastern people lived, better storekeepers, and just wealthier people.

While going down the hill, near the large shul, while the majority of people were occupied with the city's wedding ceremony, a girl went to collect a bucket of water in the marketplace. Suddenly, she began to scream – she had seen a man's hat swimming around among the pieces of ice, and when her bucket had moved around the pieces of ice, she saw the head of a dead man.

“Someone drowned himself in the well!” The girl spread out her hands and screamed into the empty marketplace.

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Like lightening, this terrible news spread from the Friday evening market to the side streets, then reached the wedding group at the shul at the bottom of the hill.

They left the bride and groom, let the wedding canopy drop, and everyone together went back up the hill to the marketplace. The Jewish firemen displayed their skill. From the firemen's cupboard, where they had the well–known fire buckets, ladders, and special boots, they took out a ladder. They let it down into the well, and a brave young man climbed down. The crowd held their collective breath for news.

“It's a drowned person – a male,” came the news from the well. He was already floating to the top, a sign that the man had drowned a long time ago.

“Who is it? Woe to us! No one is missing from Suchowola. Woe to me! It's a person nonetheless…!”

“He was a living human being. I'm afraid he was a Jew!”

“Let's get him out!”

They let down a rope, the hero in the well tied a rope around the drowned person, and with eyes closed the heroes at the top pulled the rope and got the drowned Jew out – with a thin beard and a bloated yellow face. The crowd released a fearful “Oy!” For some time they all remained frozen to the spot, with their eyes on the drowned man.

“Who can it be? Mother dear, a Jew! But no one is missing from here. Maybe it's not a Jew. But you can see this is a Jew. Oh! I recognize him!” A shocked Jew approached the drowned man. “That's him! Yesterday he came on foot from Bialystok, he had a yahrzeit [marks the anniversary of a death]. On Saturday night [after Shabbath] he came out of the Beis Medrash [study hall], and said good bye to everyone. There was a terrible storm, and it was very slippery, and he got lost. The well…

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… he did not see, and he must have fallen in. Yes, that's him. Let's take him into the fire station. Let him rest there until Sunday when we will bury him.”

So then there was a difficult question: What were they to do with the food that was prepared for this Friday night? And what would be with the cholent [Shabbos stew] that they had already put into the oven? They had used the water from the well for cooking! And what should they do with their dishes?

The pampered ones [those who were better off] did not ask any questions [of the rabbis, in terms of the kashrut of the food, dishes, etc., since the drowned man had been in the water they used for their food preparation]. They threw out the food and broke the pots that were breakable.

But the less pampered went to ask questions [of the rabbi]. They came to the dayan [religious leader who addresses questions of Jewish law], who was an absent–minded, red–bearded Jew, who tapped with his foot, waved his hand, and cautioned:

“It is forbidden because of repulsion … Throw it out, break everything. It is forbidden to touch any of the food!”

But Reb Avrah'mel Einhorn, who had a son who was a professor in America, and another son who was a silk merchant in Warsaw, one daughter who was a philosopher, and another daughter who was a doctor, he answered differently:

“Since the well is so large and so deep, and since there is more than 60 measurements of water, therefore the dead body is nullified within that measurement of water [bitul be'shishim – an impurity or non–kosher substance becomes nullified if it is within one sixtieth measurement of a kosher substance, according to Jewish law], so you can eat and drink, and the pots are kosher. Everything is as God commanded.”

Many people obeyed the dayan, and everything went as it should have. But those who obeyed the Rav, and ate that Friday night, had no more appetite for the cholent. The men and women almost threw up their insides. They even threw up what they had eaten on Thursday.

And Reb Avrah'mel couldn't understand why the food bothered the people.

He came to visit me on Sunday, as if to justify himself:

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“I found a real allowance for this [by Jewish law]. It doesn't matter if a dead body was lying in the water… It is a sin to break the dishes.”

I didn't have the strength to look into his childish eyes.

He felt that with his response he didn't really convince me. He looked at me pitifully, and then walked out of the room.

It was exactly at that time when my voice subsided in the youth's general literary choir, that I very much wanted to see my youth group friend Yitzchok Pribulski, who in the Beis Medrash days, was the strong force that drove me forward.

In my Kinder Yoren [“Childhood Years”] I tell about how in Orle I met Yitzchok, Reb Senderel's, and how he, older than I, more experienced than I, became my friend. There I tell how before, in Orle, when I was all of fifteen years old, and later in Brisk, Kuznica, he accompanied me everywhere. Together we studied Torah along with the Talmud in the summer at the open window, as we chanted into the sunny outdoors. In the winter, in the hours until the middle of the night, we would study the worldly books of Ha'osif [The Harvest], Asifas Chachamim [written in Lvov 1881, “A Meeting of Scholars”], and Moreh Nevuchim [Maimonides' Guide for the Perplexed]. He led me right unto the heretical Vilna. But hardship, hunger, and cold, the complete Vilna deprivation – he couldn't tolerate. He married in Suchowola, a muddy town in the province of Grodno, and there he became a Hebrew teacher. He opened a “proper school” and with his majestic handwriting, he tried to write songs, stories, and narratives. Even though we were separated, we were still connected in spirit. His wife, Yehudis, a real woman of valor, went around to fairs to sell her wares, and when she was home, as she stood near the chimney, she would pick up the Torah teachings that her husband stuffed into the heads of his students.

I was happy to receive a letter from my …

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… friend, as he invited me to Suchowola for the summer. I would live without worries, would be able to write, and at the same time, he wanted to read to me what he was writing. Once, really a while ago, about six years earlier, he showed me how you have to guide talent with your hands. Now, after some time, he was discussing my writing, and humbly discussing his own.

My friend was short in stature, reaching only to my shoulder. His broad, pink–white forehead that reached up to his blond hair, and his pale blue eyes, greeted me with his former youthfulness and open–minded intelligence. But the grooves on either side of his nose, down to his mouth, and his pale narrow lips, and the swollen blue vein that was stretched from the left side of his forehead, were a reminder of his profoundly difficult experiences in the small town, and his small stature became even smaller.

He and Yehudis both embraced me [in welcome]. Without words, they expressed their inner joy that my arrival evoked.

Caption: Perets Hirshbein's copy (an excerpt of a letter to Yehudis Pribulski)

Contents of letter: “All these two years I was on the road and was separated from you. I was busy with the traveling and with my literary work. I hope to be in Poland and maybe we can meet. From Bialystok I am going to Soviet Russia and then Poland after that. Be well, and regards to the children.
Yours forever,
Perets”

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He had two children, who took after him, but he sadly told me right away that since we had separated his health had failed. His heart had weakened, and he blamed his sickness on the winter in Vilna when he and I had suffered together from the cold and hunger.

He dismissed his students early, giving them a holiday in honor of the guest that had come to visit him. And when Yehudis went to busy herself with preparing a meal, Yitzchok took me out into the gardens behind the houses and told me all about his difficulties in the small town. I sensed in me the big city noises that I brought with me of the literary hoopla of those times in Vilna, with which I was over–sated. Everything here was blooming and verdant. Even the potato buds appeared as if I was seeing them for the first time. This was the beginning of the summer among gardens and fields behind the town. My friend was aware of everything that was going on in the literary world – both in Hebrew and in …

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… Yiddish literature. He himself was more attracted to Yiddish literature. He wondered greatly why I had not yet tried to write a larger piece in Yiddish. I found out that, even though he was a Hebrew teacher, he wrote a lot of Yiddish in his free time and had even tried to write in drama form. He was revived with my visit, even though his heartache was more intense.

“If you will write, then I will also try my hand. I don't envy the world you have chosen for your writing. Poverty has no life to it… Poverty is poverty.”

That summer, among other short pieces, Yitzchok Pribulski wrote the three–act play, “Children,” that was later published in the newspaper “Romanen Zeitung” [“Newspaper of Stories”]. Had he not died so young, he would certainly today belong to the esteemed group of writers. Even though he very early on joined up with the Haskalah [Enlightenment], it was too late by the time he felt the personal energy to create something. The growing vitality of the youth's Yiddish literature made a great impression on him, and prompted him forward. But it came too late, when his heart did not have the strength to help him in his later endeavors.

My friend went around holding his breath [in anticipation], walking around the gardens, and wanting to find out from me the nature of the writers that I had the opportunity to meet face–to–face. He never tired of speaking about Y.L. Peretz. For him, Y.L. Peretz was the only one that, of all those Torah scholars or brilliant minds of that time, [was there for] both of us [as we] were snatched from the sea of Torah learning.

“This is an honor, a great honor. I would have been resuscitated from such a meeting!” That's what he thought about Ch.N. Bialik.

That summer, I went together with Yehudis Pribulski to the fairs in the surrounding …

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… towns. I helped her pack her wares into the paltry, little wagon, and then helped her unpack and spread out the wares on the ground and watch the Jewish and non–Jewish world that was going by [and buying things]. Warsaw and Vilna seemed so far away to me. At times I couldn't even believe that I was in some way tied to those cities, and that I am the writer whose play “Holchim ve'Kavim” [“Slowly Extinguishing”] was printed that summer in the monthly journal “ Hazman” [“The Time”].

“Oh, how much does this pot cost? How much does this plate cost?” a farmer or a peasant woman ask me when I am sitting in the wagon in thought – about the vast world.

Horses are neighing. Cows and oxen are mooing. Sheep are bleating, and pigs, tied to the wagon wheels, are convulsively tearing themselves off. Chickens are cackling, hens are clucking, dogs are barking, and whips in the hands of the stablemen or the gypsies are crackling in the air.

“Oh, how much does this pot cost? How much does this pan cost?”

A fair is the whole world. You are also a noisemaker at the large, Jewish fair. Chickens are cackling, dogs barking, horses neighing, it's a life for which there is no language. It's a life that has spit you out and tossed you into the narrow and dirty streets of Vilna. And they know there is no comparison between this dirt and that dirt. You see the horse there at the wagon that's neighing? His dirt is fertilizing the earth, while the big city dirt does not fertilize anything.

That summer in Suchowola I write the four–act play “Die Neveila” [The Carcass].

Berszadski died. His death upset me. His death washed me out. Suchowola became constricting. But there was nowhere to go. I had no interest in writing. Winter stretched out and it seemed that it would never end.

Out of tedium, I thought of …

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… Caption: Yitzchok Pribulski's copy

… accompanying my friend's wife to the fairs where she would go from time to time with all kinds of cooking utensils and kitchenware. So I went around with her to a fair in the city of Goniadz not far from the German border. I helped her spread out the wares on the frozen ground and watched carefully as things were being sold.

I don't know how the Jewish youth noticed and recognized me, collected around the merchandise, randomly looked at the pots and pans, and then stole a side glance at me.

I received a letter of request from my friend Yitzchok Pribulski who was still a teacher in the town of Suchowola in the province of Grodno. Instead of containing his natural humor, the letter was filled with sadness and tragedy as if from someone who is living in a prison. In the letter he once again invited me to Suchowola. I …

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… accepted his invitation. My mood was broken when I saw him with a sick heart. He could barely stand on his feet, even though he was still involved with Hebrew students, in his usual manner. Truthfully, his wife Yehudis was the breadwinner, and he, with his last energies, tried to catch up in his writings what he had missed with time. He wrote in dramatic form, and hoped that sooner or later he would get out of that. At that time he had already completed a three–act play “Kinder” [“Children”] that was later published. I tried to give the impression that I did not notice his frail condition. I rented a place at Reb Avrah'mel Einhorn. And on a large Beis Medrash [study hall] table I organized my writing table. This Reb Avrah'mel was not just any Rav. He was an elderly Jew, sadly a very deformed person, with his long, white beard, and he had four children. The oldest son, a silk merchant in Warsaw. He had much nachas from him [was proud of him].

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The second son was a famous professor in America. Truly, he was the famous stomach expert Einhorn, of whom he did not know whether he should be proud or not. He had one daughter, an older girl, she was a doctor of philosophy. She lived with her parents. He had another daughter in Berlin, she was a medical doctor.

When I moved into his house, he visited me on the first night. He smoothed down his long, gray beard, and wanted to know what kind of things I wrote. I put my answer aside and described to him that we were God forbid not strangers to those ways in which he had led his life. I explained that for the material the writers were writing at that time, one did not have to say “le'havdil” [“to separate” – is a word one uses when mentioning something holy and something mundane in the same sentence] when one mentions in one breath the writings of the former Torah scholars and sages. In addition, all, all people had in mind and still do have in mind the words of the Living God – the words of Elokim Chaim. He then expressed to me his great insight that his son – actually the one who had a simple mind, became a professor in America. Barefoot, in the autumn, he ran to Bialystok – Reb Avrah'mel smoothed down and pondered the edges of his white beard – he did not want to learn about that which I had stuffed into his head. He was fourteen at the time. In a few years' time, he came down with a blue jacket and with shiny buttons. I didn't understand it. After that…

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… he sneaked across the border, went to Germany, and that's how he went off the right way. “Supposedly, my daughters were in Berlin, and my son, the professor, sent them money from America. They call him Professor Einhorn there. Have you ever heard of such a professor?”

“What's the difference, Rav? As long as you can be proud of the children [have nachas].”

“Nachas, what is nachas by the Jews, if you don't understand the source of the nachas. Do I know what they do?”

“Doctors heal the sick, Rebbi, according to what I know.”

Nonetheless, he wanted to have a look at the written pages on my writing table. He had a look, and then blinked with his eyes, tapped with his pale dry fingers, and then hunched with his shoulders.

“What's the matter Rebbe, don't you recognize the Yiddish handwriting?”

Upset, he walked out of my room. I looked at him and thought: “How necessary was it that I alone should now be a Rav in a small town, measure my steps, measure my speech, and search for God's word to bring it into the dismal, small town life?” Maybe, if not for my childhood friend, who in a time of discontent tore away the curtain that led to outside freedom, it is possible that I would not have come to him with my own doubts.

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Reb Shaime Moshe's (Gornostawski)

A handsome type from the older generation, a life dedicated to the holy Torah in the Suchowola schools, in the yeshivos [religious schools] in Minsk and Wolozhyn, and to this very day, he never let the sefer [religious book] leave his hand. Reb Shaime doesn't remember much about Suchowola. He left the town when he was young, just 17 years old. In the 58 years that have passed since then, those few memories of Suchowola have also been erased. He tells about Zalman the melamed [teacher]'s school. This was a “nusten” [a taste, a glimpse?] of over 60 years ago. Zalman's cheder was in the “Arop” [lower part of the hill] not far from the wooden shul.

Zalman the melamed had only eight students, boys who studied the gemara [Talmud]. And each student paid only ten rubles for the term. Understandably, there was a financial deficit. The melamed's wife helped out a little bit. She took care of the mikvah [ritual baths]. The mountain residents stubbornly held that the mikvah should be on the mountain. For that matter, why should the mountain women have to go so far [to use the mikvah]? For a while, the mikvah was on Karpowiczer Street, and how the issue moved on and the mikvah ended up staying in the “Arop,” that he cannot remember.

In Zalman's cheder, the main thing they learn was gemara. Tanach [the Book of Prophets] was next, and they studied from morning to night. They returned home with a lantern in hand. Thursday was “Judgement Day.” All week long they studied with the Rebbe, but on Thursdays everyone had to recite on his own. Reb Shaime said that for him it was actually not Judgement Day, since I did not have a quick grasp of things, but I did have the understanding…

Sometimes, Reb Shaime went for walks with his brother Chatzkel's eldest daughter – Shprintze. Zalman the melamed was angry. “So, a relative is not allowed?” “A relative is worse than a stranger.”

One of our dear Suchowola Jews, he merited leaving the town in time with his wife Chaya Yuchke's and their only son Shimon.

In truth, he was a capable person, and arrived in Suchowola in 1910. He was a Zionist idealist, loved the Holy Land with all his “248 limbs” [his whole being], was active in the Zionist movement and campaigned others to think about returning to Zion [moving to Israel].

Reb Shmuel remembers Nowinsk's demonstration supporting Zionist activities that was demonstrated only in selling shares and shekels for the Land of Israel.

Reb Shmuel remembers the location of the “Tzeirei Zion” [Zionist Youth]. He came there together with Moshe Putiel, may his memory be blessed. It was not completely according to their own interests, but one still heard a Jewish word, greetings from Zion… After Nisel Stucz's death and Smolar's leaving to America, Reb Shmuel and Putiel distanced themselves from the youth.

A few years later, when the Mizrachi was established, Reb Shmuel joined their ranks.

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Among the businessmen, Reb Shmuel remembers: Zalman Yofe, Dovid Glir, Reuven Cohen, Tanchum Sorozki.

Reb Shmuel remembers the founding of the school and the episode where they grabbed benches that remained from the German compulsory schools. In 1926, Reb Shmuel fulfilled his dream. He came to Israel, settled in Bnei Brak, and was one of its first builders.

He had a good word for everyone. Always with a smile on his face, both when happy and when sad. From his mother – Golde Merke's – and from his father – Chaim Leizer the miller – he inherited virtuous character traits.

Avrahamel loved to tell about the town. It seemed like he just left the town yesterday, that's how clearly he described all the Suchowoler. He remembered them as they were during the weekdays and on the Shabbath.

Moshe Pimper's cheder. During the Czar's times, you had to have permission to run a cheder. When the teacher found out that there was to be a “search,” he dismissed the students and the students went to play behind the cheder in the sand [yellow mountain]. Gedaliah the beadle of the large shul – was a policeman at that time – risked his life more than once and came to warn Pimper that the police commissioner was coming.

He remembers about Reb Avrahamtche, the Rav of Suchowola, that a Jewish woman came to ask him question [that involved religious law], and he immediately called in a neighbor so that he wouldn't be alone with the woman [as is forbidden by Jewish law]…

Reb Avrahamtche's eldest son did not want to come home so as not to bring shame to him because he was “studying” [secular studies]. But Reb Avrahamtche wanted to see him once in a while, so he met his son in Wajtakhe (a station near the city). The student [his son] is wearing a cloak, so his father asks him gingerly: “See here, my child, does this garment not require tzitzis [fringes worn for religious reasons at the end of a four cornered garment]?

When Reb Avrahamtche was leaving Suchowola to go to …

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… the Holy Land, mothers and children went to him to receive his blessings. Golde Merke's also asked for his blessing for her children. The Rebbe blessed her children, but did not give Bobok (one of her children) a blessing. When the child died young, Golde believed that the Rebbe did not give him a blessing because he knew that the boy did not have many years to live.

Each one of the older generation that remained alive from our town was a treasured rarity. After the devastation [Holocaust], not one older person from Suchowola was saved. It was a treasure to meet one of our mothers alive.

Bat–Sheva Shulzinger – Henne Rochel's sister – a wise woman of the older generation, she herself was from Holynka [or Golynka] (not far from Sapotkin), thanks to her sister, she had a connection to Suchowola.

The aunt Bat–Sheva narrates:

My most beautiful years – my childhood years – I spent in Suchowola. At the bottom of the hill, at the river, behind Reb Chaim Yankel's well, we would wash our laundry. From the yellow mountain, I carried sand in a sack from salt, in order to spread the sand on the floor in our house in honor of Shabbath. From Motke the wine seller, I bought a “quart” [perhaps less than that] of wine for Kiddush [the Shabbath blessing ceremony made over a cup of wine]. On Shabbath we played with nuts with Henne the widow's children.

After I was married, I came to visit Suchowola. We went – I and my “old man,” may he live and be well – both dressed up in our hats. Coming towards us was Reb Yonoson Rabinowycz (Shloime's father). He doffed his hat to us, and said: “Good day, to you.” It was rare that one should be so dressed up in the middle of the week. And this was “the olden days,” about 65 years ago. I still see before my eyes each house, each person of the town. I remember well the three Chatczes: Chatcze Reine's, Chatcze Chaya Sarah's, and Chatcze Shaja's.

Mariasha Chatcze's – her husband Bezhe …

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… never had any livelihood, but she always laughed.

Velvel Pitczes the baker. His children were chassidim. Chayinke and her husband Bezalel had several children and all were blind. Velvel Bezalel's – Tiszmenjok – a scholarly Jew, always sitting at his gemara. Gershon Tuvia's, Fradel and Faige Khanikhe's, Velke Moshe Aron's: Moshe the driver. He was always going off to Bialystok. In the winter, he would always harness on a third horse to his own two horses so that they could arrive back home on time for the Shabbath.

Avrohom Valenti was a dear man. Friday late afternoon, he would arrive with his few “cases.” It was already just before candle lighting time, but he still tried to go to shul and his two sons followed after him…

A large part of the townspeople dealt with trading goods, that means with Prussian smuggled goods. They were always in fear of the police.

I remember Reb Shepsel the dayan [judge in Jewish court] and his wife Esther who helped him with earning a livelihood.

But the best that I remember is Avraham'tche Einhorn. He was a true righteous man. His earnings were 10 gilden a week. The Rebbetzen [rabbi's wife] – a sister of Peshe Agge – also helped with some trading business. More than once the Rav distributed her coins to the needy. Their children were very gifted, but they were enlightened…

Alas, there were very dear Jews in Suchowola. Where does one see such Jews today?

I remember one Purim night in the town:

My sister Henne Rochel's Purim table was beautifully set. At the table were seated my brother–in–law Chatzkel, Yidel, Yehudis and Yitzchok, and their guest Perets Hirshbein. Henne Rochel provided all the delicious Purim treats and Perets brought a bottle of Bordeaux wine.

Guest arrived: Sima Daniel's, Shoshe Mindel, Moshe Shmuel's, Benyominke's children. We went to the snow hill, went on sleds, and threw snowballs. When we came back, Aunt Rivtche was still busy at the oven [chimney].

We went down the hill.

Chaikel the melamed [teacher] was still sitting with a sefer [religious text]. A feast was celebrated at Chaim Kara's; and at Noske the shochet's [ritual slaughterer] it was lively and joyous. When we came back up the mountain, we met Leibe the crazy man carrying a weight of water. When I said: “Leibe, so late?” he answered: “You non–Jew! Don't you know today is Purim?”

Purim night in Suchowola was beautiful and memorable.

Shushke Juchkes–Golub tells:

In my years, there were no ignorant people. Even the girls studied something. Hersh–Leib was my teacher, he taught me strong skills in Hebrew translation. With Reuven Meyer Neuman, Chana–Enne's son–in–law, I learned to write and a little arithmetic, as the studious one in my times, about 65 years ago.

From my childhood years, I remember how they built the church. I went there a few times to watch, and in my childish eyes, this seemed to be the largest building in the world.

There were many smart Jews in our town. Shmuel Kules has remained in my mind, along with his witty sayings. When they would ask him directly why he did not employ any Jews in his forests, he would answer: “What's the difference which Jew earns the few pennies? Am I not a Jew?”

Czipe Worosilski remembers from those times: her childhood years, when she and Yehudis studied with her uncle Chaikel the melamed, and went to the Russian government school. They were both smart students.

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Yehudis would do the accounting for the businessmen and write the letters for all her neighbors.

She remembers a time when a koret [regional measurement for weighing grains] of corn (eight pud) [one pud equals 40 Russian pounds] cost two gilden, a pair of shoes cost two gilden, and even though these were so cheap, there were still those who couldn't afford to buy these things. The poverty was great, but there was no shortage of compassionate people in the town. All year they would collect charity, but mostly the community workers collected for maos chitim [food for the Passover holiday]. One of the activities for maos chitim was the foundation of “Mechiras Yosef,” that went from Purim until Passover.

The youth would buy themselves out of Russian conscription, meaning they would get a deferral certificate. Understandably, for those who were wealthy, it was easier to buy themselves out. The poor were abused and because of that Moshe–Shmuel Swarcz (Zalkan's brother) married himself with a coin [according to Jewish law, one can take vows using a coin to seal the pledge] to Shaine Gitel, Fishel Rabinowycz's daughter. Later on, in Bialystok, Moshe–Shmuel divorced her, and he no longer had to go into the military. The entire town was buzzing about this event…

Babki Nisel's – Barelkowski writes a letter:

I was so pulled to writing a letter to you, just as the mare is pulled to the sack of oats when the wagon driver goes to empty it into the trough.

Truth be told, I've always wanted to write to you. The reason I haven't, honestly, is because I'm lazy. The real guilty ones are the head, the hands, and a few other silly limbs. Somehow they don't want to obey me. They have no respect for an elderly person.

Am I really that old? It seems like only yesterday that I was a child in the village of Brzewe where a squirrel was dancing about and singing:

“Chatzkele, Chatzkele, dance for me a kazatzkele [lively Russian dance]. It's not good to be poor, let me not embarrass anyone of my own blood.”

Or a real Purim song:

“Happy Purim, happy Purim, angel.
Wherever I go, I am falling.
My beard is long,
My wife is sick,
Today is Purim, tomorrow it's over,
Give me a hamantasch [three–cornered pastry made for Purim] and chase me out!”

Years later, when I came to Suchowola, I enjoyed making jokes about my hardest times, but today it is as appropriate for me to joke as it is absurd to throw peas against the wall [Yiddish idiom expressing nonsensical idea]… Really, please forgive my nonsense…

Soroh Rochel Bori:

What do I remember to tell about?

When the children were young, their father Itamar Niselkowski, would set them out on a bench, and give them ––– cabbage with honey and dried plums as a segulah [a special protection against illness or any bad thing].

Our neighbor, the old woman Gitel Kendes, was in awe of an automobile that she saw for the first time in her life when her grandson came from America. Gitel recounted with excitement: “My grandson came in a wagon without a horse!”

My father always dreamed of the Land of Israel and lectured in the synagogues about Zionism. When my father left the town, the entire new Beis Medrash [study hall] escorted him with candles. When we arrived in the Holy Land my father kissed the holy ground and recited the blessing of shehecheyanu [for a new experience] near the old age home in Jerusalem. “We will never leave here,” he said.

Dena Nisel's Barelkowski–Zaklukowski says about the “clinic”:

“For sure I am not lacking in things to say about Suchowola,” Dena said. “I live with the memories of the town until this very day…”

Dena tells how people acquired careers in her time in the town.

In Suchowola, there used to be a doctor from time to time. For example, Dr. Lipsycz who lived in the shoemaker's village in the home of Gitel Kendes, where later the police commissioner lived as well. Or Dr. Epstajn, who lived in Shoshke Kara's home …

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… and practiced in the brick house of Henne Rochel. There was also a Polish doctor who lived in the new house of Jermuskyn. And even these practicing doctors had assistants:

Faivel the assistant looked into throats, checked when one had a cold, gave smallpox vaccinations – in general, a total doctor!

The main one and most familiar was Miczon the assistant, a know–it–all. If one needed, he was also a dentist. If someone suffered from a toothache, Miczon would take a black chisel [pliers] and pull the tooth, and so quickly that there would be no significant bleeding.

At the edge of the long village lived the assistant Karbowski Y. On a market day, he would set himself up in the street, receive sick Christians, and attend to them in a primitive manner, at Yankel Hershel's or Leizer Tikocki's house. Sometimes Karbowski's clinic was more dangerous than therapeutic…

For myself – says Dena – this is what happened once. Karbowski once opened an abscess in my throat and created such terrible complications that I suffered for three days. In the end, Dr. Ostosewski operated on me in Warsaw.

When I returned to the town, it seemed as if Henne Rochel's brick house had become smaller during my absence.

If a child had a sore throat, there was no shortage of experts:

Chana Nisel's would look into the throat and squeeze out the “mumps.” The bookbinder – Hinde – would even make an ointment (salve) of goose fat with soda. This would be a cure for an abscess. You had to work very hard after this kind of a smearing to get your face clean.

A segulah [protection or remedy] for healing a wound used to be “patting it away” using the hand of a dead person. When Leybetchke died, Tema took me there, Yankel the foreman's wife, and used his hand to stroke my throat. To this day, I cannot forget the frightening feel of the dead, cold hand.

Dena also remembers a ceremony when they brought in a new Torah scroll into the Beis Medrash [study hall]:

When Chana Nisel's returned from the Land of Israel (the first time) she could not forgive her own sin of she and her husband having left the Holy Land. Chana promised herself to atone for this and decided to have a Torah scroll written.

Yochanan the scribe wrote the Torah scroll. Chana would go around every Friday to collect money for this task, but she would not take more than one kopek even if they wanted to give her more, so that the onus on her for this should be heavy and the atonement time should take longer.

When the scroll was completed, Chana made a great ceremony. They held a feast as if for a wedding. Elke the cook, cooked and baked; from Dubrowy they brought musicians and then escorted the canopy with the scroll [parade of people celebrating under the canopy and escorting it to its resting place] with music. The Rav went along under the canopy holding the Torah scroll, and the people followed with candles in hand.

Before taking the Torah scroll out of the house, they intentionally left a small piece of the scroll's velvet jacket unfinished, so that the mitzvah of finishing to sew the jacket could be divided among all the honorable women. Everyone would do one draw of their needle [one stitch].

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