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My wife and I have visited Israel nearly ten times, and each time we had fresh impressions of the Jewish land. Although we would each time meet the same dear landslayt [townspeople] and would review the same memories of the past, we would always experience anew the closeness of a shared past.

We would recall the bygone days of our youth, the streets where our parents lived. We recalled our hometown–the marketplace, the Brik Gas [Bridge Street], the rude [a ridge near the river], the granitshe [border]. We remembered the shoemaker, the boot maker, the wagon drivers, the miller, the blacksmiths, the hardware and textile merchants, the haberdashery shops, the grain dealers, the melamdim [teachers of young children] and other teachers, the cantors, the ritual slaughterers, the fish sellers, the butchers, the simple unlearned Jews, the Zionists, the Bundists, the Hebraicists, the Yiddishists, the Hasidim, the misnagdim [opponents of Hasidism].

We recalled the shops where you could buy sugar for a penny, the amateur “diplomats” who squabbled over world politics, the brew houses and taverns where the Christians got drunk, the architect Yankev Pesakh, who had no equal in the world – all of these Jews with their varied personalities – stingy and generous, stubborn and pliant–were our own, our dear ones, blood of our blood, bone of our bone.

I see before me: Hershl Gotyes in the shtibl [small prayer house] of the Alexander Hasidim; Yosef Sores, in the old besmedresh [study house/synagogue]; Moyshe Shimen the cantor in the old synagogue – these dear prayer leaders who would awaken a thrill in the hearts of their congregations.

None of these dear Jews any longer exist. The town is still there, with its streets, river, fields and woods, but there are no Jews, the hardworking, kind, pious, wonderful Jews.

The following true story shows how deeply rooted were the piety and nobility of the Jews in our town:

My Aunt Etke (Avraham Tsodek's wife) was brought to America by her children

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Y.M.Niborski (standing) during a reception for him and his family in Israel in 1963

He, his wife, daughter, son–in–law and grandchild

and arrived by ship in New York on a Saturday. She was the only one of the passengers who refused to disembark on the Sabbath. The ship's captain had to argue with her for more than an hour until she agreed to leave. But she sat by the ship until nightfall.

When I visited her in 1950, she told me a secret. Before she emigrated to America, Itshe Meyer Rikhter lent her $5 and she had hoped to have the opportunity to repay the debt. When she learned of the murder of the town's Jews, her grief was doubled; not only had she lost her townsmen, she was also burdened with a private debt forever.

During one of my visits to Israel, I looked up Itshe Meyer's son Yehoyesh Rikhter and brought back to my Aunt Etke a written receipt from him stating that the debt had been paid. Her face lit up with joy as she pressed to her heart the tear–drenched receipt and quietly whispered, “Now I can die in peace.” That was an example of the kind of Jews we had in our town, and we must remember them as long as we live.

Before World War I there lived in our town a Jew named Yosl Monkarzh, who was called, as they did in those days, by his father's name –Yosl Meyer Leybs [i.e. Leyb's son]. Yosl was an intelligent man, a religious scholar, and an able and honest merchant. He had a large prosperous store where you could buy anything from a needle to the heaviest metal–working tools for construction and farm work. Peasants and noblemen from the entire region were his customers, and treated him with great trust and respect.

Yosl Meyer Leybs ran a fine well–ordered household,

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donated to charity, invited poor guests into his home. His wife Silke would prepare rich broths and other dishes for poor sick people and women who had just given birth.

The couple had three children –– Rashke, Yitshak and Henye–Rokhl. Rashke married a young man from another town who (if I'm not mistaken) became a rabbi in Zamosc. The son [Yitshak] also went to live in his wife's hometown. So only Henye–Rokhl remained in Chorzele. She married a young man from Kolne named Kalman Ayznshtadt. He was a refined person, a religious scholar, but had no practical sense for business. Nevertheless he had a weakness for taking on various businesses, believing every person who promised him great fortune.

So it happened that he ran several businesses into the ground, and each time his father–in–law bailed him out. He never got rich

Leyzer Niborski and his family, wife Henye, children Yosef, Itamar and Yitshak

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but he had a fine home, invited poor guests for the Sabbath, and had a full house of respectful, well brought up children – 7 sons and 2 daughters. When the children got older, they all worked in their grandfather Reb Yosl's business. He married them all off and set up nice households for them. Two of the sons (Binyomen and Shmuel) emigrated to America even before the first World War and there married two sisters from Chorzele.

By the time the First World War broke out, Kalman Ayznshtadt's wife Henye Rokhl and his mother–in–law Silke had already died. Like all Jews the remaining members of the Ayznshtadt family and the old man, Yosl Meyer Leybs, had to evacuate the town, which was located on the very border with East Prussia.

Yosl Meyer Leybs' granddaughter Sore stayed by his side; she was the only one to remain in her grandfather's business. Her younger and exceptionally handsome husband, Yisroel Yosef Beylovitsh (from Mlawa) was sent to the front. Sore, her 6 month–old child and her aged grandfather were together during the years of wandering. When they returned to the town, Reb Yosef's beautiful house, along with his business and his full warehouse, had become a mountain of ash. What the flames had not destroyed the Christian neighbors had plundered.

They had to begin from scratch, with almost nothing. They managed to rent a small shop with a small room that had to serve as kitchen, dining room and bedroom. They furnished it with borrowed beds, an old table and a cradle, several chairs and a few chests that served as cupboards for their measly few dairy and meat dishes. With their last bit of cash, as well as loans freely granted by some peasants when they learned that old “Yosek” had returned, they bought some merchandise and began to make a living.

In the meantime, letters had begun to arrive from Sore's husband, who was imprisoned by the Germans. Sore began to send packages and did everything possible to alleviate his situation, hoping for the day when he would return. But he did not return. Yisroel Yosef fell ill and died in a German prison camp.

Sore began a different life as a widow. But she bore her fate with dignity, effort and hard work,

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and provided for her family, which her old grandfather could no longer help to do. Sore took care of him with respect and love until his last day. And she also raised her only child with great care, devotion, respect and love.

In 1938, Sore's daughter went to Argentina, sure that she would soon be able to bring over her mother. But the law in Argentina provided that newcomers could not bring in another person until they had lived in the country for two years. The murderer Hitler didn't wait that long; Sore remained in Poland and was killed along with our 6 million martyrs.

In addition to Sore, the following family members also died in Poland: Kalman Ayznshtadt's oldest daughter, Miryem, with her husband Avrom Sher and their five children –– Hentshe, a manicurist; Royzke, the only bookkeeper and the real head of the town's loan society; Malke, who had completed a course at the ORT [vocational training] school in Warsaw; Yankl, who worked with his father as a shipping agent – an intelligent, humorous, extremely friendly man, the permanent shofar blower in the synagogue; Meyer, the youngest, a student in the Jewish gymnazie [academic high school] in Mlawa.

Also killed were Moyshe Ayznshtadt and his second wife Feygl Triumkowski (from Bialystok) who was very active in the community and always willing to provide help anyone who needed it. Moyshe's three sons from his first wife had worked and lived in Warsaw and died there.

Kalman Ayznshtadt's oldest son, Avrom Hirsh, a fanatically religious and quiet person, with a good head, who without the benefit of book learning or teachers was able to keep the business accounts, who required nothing for himself and made do with anything and never bothered anyone – he, his wife and children were also all killed.

Naftali and Dovid, of the same family , their wives and children, also died.

These families all perished in the same manner as hundreds of thousands of Jewish families in the age of horror, our greatest destruction.

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The five daughters of Avrom Sher (second from the right, Rivke Katz)

A group of young people (1923). Sheyne–Leye Sher, Malke Koval, Aron Leyb Gzhebialka, Yosef Safran, Eli–Leyb Fater, Shepsl Frenkel, Rivke Herzog, Avrom Katz, Beyltshe Gliksberg.

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A group of girlfriends (from right) Leye Frenkel, Khane Sakolower,Feyge Frenkel, Malke Bayshvayger, Rivke Katz

At a farewell banquet for men leaving for military service (1934)

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I: Leyzer's “Bude”

“Leyzer's bude” was what they called the narrow, cramped hut that served as Leyzer's workshop and store and most important, the place where our gang of idle, scruffy and rebellious children of well–off families would gather daily for hours. Leyzer himself had chosen the bitterly sarcastic name (in Poland a buda is a small wooden shelter for dogs), mercilessly making himself the butt of ironic barbs, just as he made fun of everyone at the slightest opportunity, whether they were his friends or not.

The person who conceived, planned and built the bude was a distant relative of Leyzer, Yankl the Bookbinder. Yankl the Budovnik [builder of budes], as they also called him, was the eternal engineer who, in addition to binding holy and secular books, would spend sleepless nights exhausting his brain over construction projects to enlarge his fortune.

Leyzer's bude came about through strange circumstances. The place where it stood had been for many years a simple gate, 3 meters square, with a small door that let in the autumn winds. Yankl the Budovnik would open the gate only once a month on fair days and the peasants would pay a small sum to drive their wagons through it to the market place.

One evening, when Yankl the Bookbinder was on his way to evening prayers, it began to rain and he had to quickly

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take shelter under the eaves of a neighboring house that sloped over his gate. In this way, he protected himself from the rain, standing patiently between the neighbor's wall and the rain that flowed from its jutting roof. Standing there an idea occurred to him: if he could fit through the opening of 50 centimeters between the wall and the water flowing from the roof, why did he need the gate? What did he need the few zlotys he earned on fair days, one day a month, when he could build a little shop of 2 ½ meters right in the middle of the market and leave quite a good passageway for those who didn't want to go the long way around but wanted to enter directly into the market. It was so simple, how come he hadn't thought of it years ago, he thought regretfully. And in Yankl the Budovnik's engineer's brain the bude was already a done deal. Before long two carpenters were sawing and chiseling blocks and boards and the bude began to grow.

They erected the bude on a flimsy foundation of four oak blocks that stood about half a meter above the ground so that rain and the waste water of the countless neighbors could flow under the bude to the gutters of the market place. Almost five meters long, 2 ½ meters wide, a step in the front, a step in the back, a small window like that in a prison bracketed between the front door and the wall and the shop was complete. Another triumph for Yankl the Budovnik!

Leyzer's mother didn't have to bargain hard with her relative Yankl – a zloty [unit of currency] more, a zloty less, and they had a deal. Yankl was understanding – the widow, Leyzer's mother, badly needed a means of livelihood and her son Leyzer had “golden hands.” From the smallest remnant, the tiniest strip of fabric, Leyzer could make a hat, whether one with a visor, a winter hat with earlaps or a sailor hat, he'd manage to make something. With his golden hands he always found a way.

Because of Leyzer the few town tailors had to put up with a lot from the housewives who vigorously demanded a remnant, even a strip of fabric

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so that Leyzer could cobble together a hat. And he did cobble together a living for himself, his mother, his sister Ita, and his little brother. And he didn't need anyone to help him; he did it all himself – cutting, sewing, ironing. He could take apart his sewing machine, repair it and reassemble it by himself like the best mechanic.

But when it came to the monthly fair, Leyzer's golden hands were of no avail. For a few days before the fair he would work like the devil to make the navy blue caps with shiny black visors. He would carry the boxes of merchandise to the stall, lay out the hats, arrange the display, doing this all quickly and enthusiastically. But as soon as a customer approached, Leyzer was lost. When it came to bargaining, to making a deal, it was his mother, assisted by his sister, who had to do it, because Leyzer hated doing business. It just wasn't in his blood. “Commerce is theft and swindle,” he would say, and so he wouldn't engage in business.

Leyzer's stall was the poorest among the hat makers' stalls, which were all grouped together. He had the rights to the last stall in the row, at the end of the market, near Rikhter's hardware business, and the most difficult customers found their way to him. The peasants who reached his stall had already spent time bargaining with all the other hat makers without having obtained the bargain they wanted.

But at midday, when Leyzer's mother had to leave the stall to go home for a quick bite to eat, Leyzer became the salesman. He carelessly sat down on his three–legged stool with a book in his hand and prayed to God that no customer would come and disturb his reading.

We, his pals, would take advantage of the midday hour to drop in on Leyzer to at least have a chat. A day when his buda was closed or when Leyzer wasn't there somehow seemed unnatural, because we loved him so. His native intelligence, his naturally sharp sense of justice and righteousness, his cheerfulness and willingness to share his last bite of food drew us to him.

One day at the fair, Leyzer was immersed in [Maurice] Maeterlink's “The Life of the Bee,” and recommended that everyone read it. “This is a splendid work,” he said, “and if you read it closely, we will discuss it later.” And Leyzer

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engaged in discussion his whole life. Debating was a painful necessity for him. Leyzer never agreed with anybody, he had his own way of thinking and his own interpretation of every event and every person. When he was unable to convince his opponent with his Leyzerish eloquence, he would revert to personal attacks, mercilessly annihilating his opponent with his sharp irony and bitter sarcasm. This would often lead to anger and conflict, but you always had to make up with Leyzer.

But the apparently ironic and pugnacious Leyzer wasn't the real Leyzer. Those who knew him well knew that behind his bitter, sarcastic armor there lay a dreamy, tender soul, and this young man was haunted by a vague, eternal yearning.

One day, he yearned for a mandolin, so he could strum the loveliest melody. His golden hands quickly got used to the instrument and he was happy when he squeezed out some heartfelt folksongs or romantic songs.

But before long, Leyzer would reject the mandolin, and begin to sculpt figures. The clay and plaster and ordinary dough would yield to his long fingers and there came to life beautiful miniatures, little dogs, ducks, horses, the head of an old man masterfully executed. There was nothing Leyzer couldn't sketch or paint.

Then, again, before long, he would grow sick of painting and sculpture and he would return to his books. He read continuously, spent every free minute with a book in hand, ready to discuss it with everyone.

His keenest arguments were with God, and he bitterly mocked the representatives of religion – the rabbis and other religious figures. His persistent blasphemy and his mockery of the Zionist big shots led to serious quarrels and his stubborn refusal to wear a hat [as required by religious law] caused a scandal. But none of this affected our friendship with him. We supported him without reservation even though we didn't always agree with him. We loved Leyzer for his integrity, and his deep belief in humanity.

Leyzer's excessively violent impulses would sometimes be restrained by Aron–Yitzhak's intelligent grey eyes. When Leyzer would lose control during an argument, or, as was his habit, would launch

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a bitter attack on a comrade or opponent, Aron–Yitshak had only to fix his persuasive eyes on Leyzer and he would restrain himself, sometimes even withdraw from the attack. Aron–Yitzhak's deep intellect, his mature wisdom and knowledge had great influence on all of us, but to overcome Leyzer's rebellious nature and definitively change him was a difficult task even for Aron–Yitshak, because Leyzer went his own way, moving impulsively forward, dreaming his eternally vague dreams.

The center of our group was Leyzer's bude. “Let's go to the birzhe [stock exchange],” we would pun. There, in the tiny structure that Yankl Budovnik had built we'd get together day in, day out –– 4, 6, 8 or even more friends –– and Leyzer was always the initiator of our passionate discussions. But when Leyzer's mother appeared at the back door, we would magically disappear.

She was doing right as his mother. In our presence, Leyzer would forget about his work. The unfinished visors would lie about. During our “invasions' there was no room in the buda for even half a customer, we took up all the room and they still had to make a living.

But for that reason, Friday (not to mention the Sabbath) was “our day.” Leyzer didn't have to work in the bude. On Friday, Sabbath eve, Leyzer was no longer a hat maker. Early in the morning he would put on his white coat and start to prepare his cutting instruments, clean the machines, polish the scissors and sharpen the razors. Then he would go off to the attic room that housed the Jewish barber.

In the middle of the room was an upholstered chair, opposite the wall where there hung the usual mirror. And all day, until it was time to light the Sabbath candles, Leyzer would cut, trim and shave Jewish heads. Young and old came to beautify themselves for the Sabbath, some for haircuts, some for a shave.

Religious Jews would come with their children and ask him to be careful of their peyes [side locks] , because the Christian barber was not so particular about the matter and would purposely dip into the peyes with their instrument while winking amusedly at the Christian customers. But Leyzer's golden hands wielded the instruments deftly over the Jewish heads.

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Everyone knew that even though Leyzer was a non–believer, a real apostate, he still had a Jewish heart, and he wouldn't harm their peyes.

The bude was known in town as a center for the leftists. Even though none of us belonged to a political party, the bude was the only place where you would hear the names Bakunin, Lenin, Trotsky, Marx and Engels, and Plekhanov, for us almost living characters who influenced our naïve imaginations. The socialist works and manifestos we stuffed ourselves with without method and order, gradually affected us, under Leyzer's influence. With his hatred (who knows where it came from) of everything religious and bourgeois, we turned into a naive deeply–believing socialist–anarchist group.

None of us knew who he was or what we actually wanted. It was a strange mixture of Bundist–socialist and anarcho–communist ideas that were never expressed with clarity or consciousness. We were ruled by a chaos of modern ideas and revolutionary slogans all cobbled together. And with the help of our deep belief in a better world and the constant stubborn influence of Leyzer we turned into a militant romantic group that changed the monotonous life of the town.

With his sharp tongue, nimble mind and innate intellect, Leyzer unwillingly became our leader. This leader of the left never rested. We held “box evenings,” [where social and political questions were drawn at random from a box], lectures, debates, dramatic groups. The library began to bring in speakers and the town was topsy–turvey.

Here was Leyzer, preparing the chairs [for a play], doing the makeup, prompting, directing and performing the leading role. There was nothing Leyzer couldn't do; he was indefatigable, stubborn to the point of madness. He wanted to bring light to the dark, medieval world.

And there was Leyzer, sitting at his work in the bude, running his machine at high speed, pushing on the pedal with both feet and with his long nimble fingers weaving the cardboard strip through the navy blue fabric, while singing a Yiddish song. Suddenly, he stopped the machine, and his eyes fixed on the sad, empty, rainy marketplace, he said to me: “You know, Zelig, I've decided to leave this town.

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I'm going to Argentina. I'm suffocating here, I can't breathe, I can't stay here and rot. This is no life, we're just living corpses here, we're being extinguished before our time, we have to escape, the sooner the better.”

That's what Leyzer said and we knew that once Leyzer got an idea in his head, he would act on it. His mother's pleas didn't help, nor could friends or family change his mind. Within a couple of days, Leyzer was already poring over a Spanish–Yiddish dictionary and we would listen to him reading in Spanish. Soon we were accompanying our dear beloved comrade to his departure for the long voyage, together with another friend, Yankev Vayngartn.

A few weeks ago, I received the sad news that Leyzer Niborski, the tireless dreamer, loyal comrade and simple honorable idealist had died. A close relative and landsman of his, a good friend of mine, told me how Leyzer, the once modern small town Don Quixote, left the world with a sarcastic smile and a scornful witticism. And as a religious Jew I say: Blessed is the true judge. I will never forget my dear Leyzer.

The Ozhits was a Jewish river flowing though Polish land. It is very hard to find this little river on a map. You can barely see this sinuous little vessel as it winds its way like a worm through the rich black, green and red stripes of the landscape.

But anyone who had the privilege of bathing in its quiet clean waters, which flowed through verdant meadows and plains, had to ignore the insignificant impression that the Ozhits made on the map. For the town Chorzele, which had pitched its tents on the very banks of the river, the Ozhits was a would–be Volga or at least a Nile. It is hard to imagine how Chorzele could have lived without its river.

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First of all, where would the town have gotten its water? You might think that the big well in the middle of the market place was an adequate source of water, but then what would we have done with our dead cats? Because no matter how many cats died in Chorzele, that's how many turned up in the market place well. And what about the peasants? No one threw them in the well, whether dead or alive, but on market days and especially on fair days, they –– young and old alike – would make a “donation” to enrich the waters of the big well. And the well would be actually barricaded by horses and wagons, and go and find someone in charge in the midst of the fair when the police were all drunk and in a tizzy. People didn't even use the water from the market well to water the horses.

Others might have suggested using the small well on the sands [an area of town]. In the first place, how big could it be if a few Christian women would make a single pass of a bucket over the surface, and that would be it for the day. If another few peasant women did the same thing, there would be no water left. The remaining women would have to wait until the white sand at the bottom of the well let in a fresh flow of water and allow them to dip the bucket again, or they would take home a bucket that was half water, half sand.

And on the days before holidays and of the Sabbath, the little well on the sands had to endure all sorts of commotion –– pushing and fighting and cursing that resounded in both Polish and Yiddish. And it was the little well itself that was responsible. Because no matter how meager and pitiful it looked, no matter that it was so small it could be filled in with one shovel, it was renowned for its water “as soft as butter,” that was the best for washing the women's and girls' hair. So don't ask what went on there on the day before a holiday!

So it remained that the Ozhits and no other was the main source, and did not begrudge its clean water, which the water carrier would carry to and through town and make sure that the barrels in Jewish homes would not go dry.

Then, the question arises, what would Chorzele have done if it had had to carry out the tashlikh ceremony [of symbolically discarding sins on Rosh Hashonah] without its beloved river. It would have looked very bad if they had had to resort to the market well. And in the lovely fall evenings

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when the half–summery sun would still warm with its last powers, the Ozhits took on a holiday charm. The river looked different, as there appeared rows of Jewish men and women, girls and boys of all ages, old people and households, filling the green meadow. They bent over the river with prayer books in hand and finally pulled breadcrumbs from their pockets and threw them in the waters of the patient river.

Year in, year out, the Christians passing by would shrug their shoulders and wonder at the Jewish crowds that foolishly came to pray at the river. And the quiet and compliant Ozhits didn't make a peep and unquestioningly accepted into its waves the sins of the Chorzeler Jews and carried them far away to the sea.

But no one bullied and abused the river more than the washerwomen, who would array themselves along the river from dawn until late at night, washing, rinsing, wringing, pounding and smacking on their washboards and ceaselessly dirtying the clean sparkling water of the river. The Ozhits could never answer the question, how could such small town accumulate so much dirty laundry. Nor could the river stand the idle chatter, gossip and fantastical stories that the women would engage in every day from morning to night. So the poor Ozhits had to accept into its water the poison of evil tongues and swallow it into its depths.

In winter, when the clear waters of the river would darken and grow cloudy and flow more quickly, it did not long enjoy any rest. As soon as the first dry frosts came, the Ozhits was covered with a thin layer of ice. At Hanukkah, the river still struggled and in places broke through the icy crust with its dark flow. But the struggle was in vain. No matter how bravely the river fought, it had to surrender to the strong pressure of the freezing weather and before long the sparkling river was frozen for months.

You might think that the river was resting during these winter months,

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as it should have, because who would have the heart to bother and annoy such a fine river, when it lay alone under the ice, unable to see the light? But no, Chorzele Jews were cruel. The river was theirs in summer and in winter, and if the river didn't like it, it could pick itself up and leave town.

So as soon as the experts gave the signal that it was time, the Chorzelers set off with their crowbars and saws, axes and hammers and mercilessly began tearing pieces of ice from the surface. Then they carried away the living limbs of the martyred river on sleds and stored them in cellars –– huge stacks of ice, pressed together, sprinkled with sawdust and straw –– so that they could cool themselves off in the summer.

Chorzelers needed a bit of ice in summer so they could refresh themselves with a soda water mixed with sour cherry juice. Ice was also used as a remedy for an overheated head, to cool off a schav [sorrel soup] or red beet borsht, not to mention a piece of melted butter in Tammuz [Hebrew month usually occurring in July]. No matter what, the Chorzele Jews needed their bit of ice in summer. So they wouldn't consider whether the Ozhits liked it or not. They extracted ice all winter long.

But there would come a time, only once a year between Purim and Passover, when the oppressed and exploited river rebelled. At the beginning of spring you could not contain the Ozhits. The Jews were frightened by its current, once so mild and humble. You couldn't recognize it. The Ozhits was in revolt, furious, and began to show what it was capable of. With its stubborn actions it tried to take revenge on the town, to get even with it for the many sins and injustices inflicted on it the entire year.

First, the agitated river attacked the bridge with all its power. The Ozhits knew that the beloved bridge was the weakest spot of its opponents – the Jews who abused the river all year. And it was obvious that the bridge was worthy of their love. It was an old ruin, riddled with holes like a used up sieve, a bunch of boards, a patch on a patch. And when Bertsak [the wagon driver] travelled on it with his loaded wagon on his way back from Proshnits, and took his “eagles” [i.e.horses] over

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the bridge, it shook like a lulav [palm branch used in religious rite during Sukkot] in the hands of an old dayan [religious judge]. But the oak poles deeply buried in supports along the sides endured the pressure of the heavy wagon as well as the peasants' lighter loads and the carriages of the landowners.

And it was the poles at which the Ozhits aimed its attack. Rapidly and angrily, as if driven by demons, the rushing waves continuously hammered at the pillars of the bridge. Gathering force from miles around, from all the fields and meadows, the raging Ozhits concentrated its powerful artillery and mercilessly aimed itself against the bridge. The usually quiet river grew impressively from hour to hour and turned into a mighty Sambatyon [mythical turbulent river that was said to rest only the Sabbath].

In the town, the alarm grew. The river had soon reached the Shiltser Highway, then the mill was in danger, and worried and upset, the town's householders and proprietors ran around, each with his own prediction on whether the bridge would survive the attack of the rebellious river.

No greater misfortune could befall the town than for the bridge to give way to the determined river. Chorzele would be finished. Because two kilometers to the east was the East Prussian border, the geo–political belt that connected all communication. To the north, there was the old sand road that led through villages and pathways to Mlawa, but traffic on it was negligible because it was muddy and impassable. To the south lay the distant train station at Rashoyke, and it was not easy to get to the train, you could do it only by going through Budek, with the Vietrak road,which took 3 hours to go a mere 3 viorsts [about 3 kilometers].

So only the bridge remained to connect the town with the Prushnits Highway, the only convenient link to deliver anything.

When it came to rescuing the bridge, all religious and racial differences disappeared. The navy blue caps and short jackets of the Poles mixed with the Jews' black fabric hats and long caftans, and they all worked to protect the bridge. All kinds of tools were brought in and they set to work.

The task was to break up the ice floes into smaller pieces

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before they could reach the bridge supports. This dangerous job fell to the volunteer fire brigade, made up of the strong men of the town, both Christian and Jewish, although the Christians, of course, were in control. In their able hands the crowbars and axes moved more quickly, and the saws didn't rest. But it wouldn't be appropriate to quote the [Biblical] passage [Genesis 27:22], “… [T]he hands are the hands of Esau [i.e., non–Jewish]”. The Jews did not lag behind in their efforts. Whoever could, lent a hand, participated in the fight, and when it was all over and the bridge had been saved, the whole town talked exaggeratedly about the young people who sacrificed themselves for the holy work.

The Jews never said it out loud, never complained, but among themselves they were secretly resentful that the Christians had to take part in the bridge drama. After all, the Christians of the town didn't have much to do with the Ozhits. The river was almost Jewish. In the summer the Christians would water their horses there, and sometimes bathe them, but so what? And if the [Christian] doctor sometimes brought his dog down there and forced him to swim and retrieve a stick from the waters, was that such a big deal?

If on a summer day a Christian would sit by the river with his fishing rod, burning up in the sun, in the hopes of pulling out a couple of skinny fish, was that such an achievement? Especially since everyone in town and in the surrounding villages had known for years that while the Ozhits wasn't stingy with its water, it was very miserly with its fish. If Chorzele householders wanted fish, they were better off going to one of the fishermen who fished the Prussian lakes and buying as many fish as their hearts desired. The Jews followed the river's advice, left it alone and bought their fish from the fishermen.

Although the Jews of Chorzele could buy fish from the Prussian lakes, they couldn't bathe or swim in those lakes, so for those purposes they had to resort to their own trusty river. Don't ask what the Ozhits had to put up with all summer from its Jews! Magically, people lost their fear of the tragic legend that someone must fall victim on the cool altar of the quiet river and every evening young and old flooded the “rude.”

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The rude [ridge] was a place far from town where the river made a turn and its banks there were watched over by a row of willows, which dipped their branches in the quiet stream and cast delightful shade.

Jews [i.e. Jewish males] would lie down by the shore on the fine sand near the willows. Little heaps of clothing, mixed in with tales kotons [fringed ritual undergarments] lay about abandoned on the ground. Chorzele Jews didn't know about bathing suits or any other such scandalous things. Stark naked they would enjoy God's beautiful world and refresh their bodies in the sweet stream.

Especially on Sabbath eve, on the stifling Friday afternoons when the sun shot out fire from the sky, the ridge would be mobbed. It swarmed with old Jews with wet beards and peyes, with children, and especially kheder boys and pranksters.

Liberated from the stuffy besmedroshim [houses of study] and shtibls, from the poor kheders and talmud torahs [religious schools for children], Jews big and little breathed freely near the quiet river and with pleasure inhaled the fresh meadow air and refreshed themselves in the cool river. They would immerse themselves countless times, just like in the mikve [ritual bath]. Others would do the crawl against the stream. The daring would swim off to the opposite bank, the expert swimmers would show off their strokes, do the backstroke or dead man's float on the surface or underwater until they reached the middle.

No one was the subject of more stories and tall tales than Yankl. His full Jewish name was Yankl Frenkel, but the Christians called him Frenkliak [a Polishized version of the name]. Yankl was the best swimmer in Chozele. Frenkliak knew the Ozhits like his own hand. As long and wide as the river was, Yankl was ready to take it on. He was a giant of a boy and as shy as a young girl.

Yankl came from a strict Hasidic family. His father, “Shmuel der Rebe [Hasidic rabbi],” as he was called, was an ardent Gerer Hasid, a religious scholar well versed in Talmud. He was an outstanding arbitrator [in the religious courts], always engaged in debates with rabbis and dayans and always had complaints about

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shoykhtim [ritual slaughterers.] He was a firm Agudnik [adherent of the religious organization Agudath Israel] and would zealously persecute the Zionists and go out of his way to annoy the “enlightened.”

And even though Yankl had to behave in a dignified manner, dress like a Hasid in a long coat, and never fail to attend the afternoon and evening prayers, the lad had already gotten caught up in the modern movements. He considered Hillel Zeitlin and [Chaim] Zhitlowski to be the greatest geniuses and he knew [Simon] Dubnov practically by heart.

Because of his modest, simple and goodhearted nature everyone – Jews and Christians alike – loved Yankl. And when they whole town learned what a strong and good swimmer he was, his popularity among the children and young people was unequaled.

The tailor was the only person who suffered because of Yankl. No matter how wide and long the craftsman fashioned Yankl's caftans and coats, his broad athletic shoulders would somehow manage to bulge out. And the sleeves were a big problem. Every piece of clothing that Frenkliak wore looked like it had been turned inside out or else belonged to someone else, because his arms would stick out of the sleeves. His sleeves were never long enough to cover his long and powerful arms. And his Jewish cloth cap with its little visor never seemed to sit properly on his big square head.

But when Frenkliak rid himself of this clothing, his arms and shoulders seemed to grow, spread out, as if his athletic physique had been stripped of its armor, and his muscular limbs would twitch nervously with every movement. The naked Frenkliak was somehow not the same person. The Frenkl who dressed in traditional Jewish garb bore hardly any resemblance to the nude giant who appeared at the Ozhits every evening.

The people on the ridge would be entranced by Frenkliak as he did the crawl, stayed underwater for long periods, and demonstrated his amazing ability to swim against the current. It looked as if he was waving his sturdy arms in the air rather than fighting a current, and the crowd would remark that only Yankl swam with almost half of his body out of the water.

The fellows would envy Frenkliak, but at the same time they were proud of him, and would endlessly recount his feats

[Page 231]

and heroic acts, many of them exaggerating in their childish naivete.

That summer a tragedy occurred – the Ozhits claimed a victim. And the death of a young Christian boy caused the name Frenkliak to turn into a legend.

A well–off Christian from a nearby village owned by a nobleman approached the Ozhits and decided to test his strength against the river by swimming across at a secluded spot that was heavily overgrown with shrubbery. Carefree, he jumped in, but he never came out.

The voices of peasants who ran up with scythes and sickles in their hands reached all the way to the ridge. All along the river on that summer evening you could hear their unearthly screams “Help! Help!” Little boys and shepherds pointed to the place where the victim had disappeared among the thick grown water plants.

The sad news spread like lightening along both banks of the river and quickly reached the ridge, the place where the Jews had a monopoly. And all the Jews who were near the river ran off, half naked, toward the grassy area where the tragedy had occurred. When the few dozen children and young people arrived, out of breath, at the place where they were searching for the drowned man, they found quite a few Christian peasants, men, women and children, who had run over from nearby village and fields.

On the river was a lone canoe with two men who were wielding long poles to poke through the thickly tangled plants, barely able to reach the bottom. On the banks, elderly people helplessly ran around, giving advice, shouting loudly and trying to show they knew more about drowning victims than anyone else. Old and young, men and women, quietly wiped away tears and ceaselessly told horrifying stories about drowned people caught up in the water plants who had never been retrieved from the unyielding river and given a Christian burial, these wandering souls

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who could never be released from sin and remained forever in the depths of swamps and rivers, taking revenge by dragging down innocent victims.

Old peasants fearfully crossed themselves and prayed to Jesus that the drowned man would at least rise to the surface somewhere after three days, as sometimes happened, because to find him in the river would be impossible. The Ozhits, they well knew, would not readily give up its victim.

When Frenkliak began asking questions in his garbled Polish, trying to find out exactly where and how the drowning had occurred, the assembled Christians answered evasively and looked at the tall youth with distrust and scorn. “Who sent for him and who needs him?” asked the town manager, who had suddenly joined the group. “What gall for a Jew to come and confuse things with foolish questions when such a tragedy has happened among the Christians.”

Among the Christians there awoke a feeling of distaste for the Jews who had run over from the rude. “Who needs them, the zhidkes [disparaging Polish term for Jews], what did they come here for?” and several of them were ready to sic their dogs on the frightened boys and young men, who were already preparing to flee.

But Frenkliak had already begun to undress, calmly and with determination tossing off his clothes. It didn't bother him that the Christians were murmuring and that women were standing around. In the wink of eye, he was naked, and slowly made his way to the river. Yankl's determination and the fact that a drowned man was lying in the river's depths affected the Christians and a mysterious silence suddenly fell upon the river bank.

A strange smile appeared on Yankl's face as he slowly approached the water. He didn't give a hoot for the Christians, even the weeping women. He was going to drag the drowned man out of the river and show what he could do; that was what he had decided and no one would change his mind.

Before Frenkliak managed to reach the water, an old peasant holding a long string approached the young giant and insisted that he put on the peasant's belt and tie it to the string, so that if he got caught somewhere, they would be able to pull him out onto the bank.

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But Frenkliak refused to put on the belt.

The boy instantly disappeared from the surface of the water. His naked athletic body shone in the last rays of the setting sun as he nimbly sank into the dark blue water. At that moment, the setting sun turned red and twilight slowly began to cover the meadows with its grayness and the river began to reflect the leaden glow of night.

But no one noticed that night was already falling. Hundreds of eyes were staring at the surface of the water, and Jews and Christians with bated breath quietly counted the seconds – seconds that felt like hours – as they anxiously waited for a miracle, or God forbid, another catastrophe. A painful mood reigned over all. From the distance, the croaks of a pair of frogs interrupted the fearful silence; then they too became mute.

Christian women murmured prayers and nervously crossed themselves. Off to the side, young Jewish boys who had come over from the ridge huddled together fearfully waiting for Yankl to appear on the surface of the river. The Christian boys from the canoe had long ago taken their poles out of the water and let their boat float with the current, hunching over as they kept their eyes glued to the river.

And Frenkliak did appear. His square head with its closely cropped hair sprouted out of the dark water quite a distance from the shore and his open mouth hastily and greedily swallowed streams of air. With his right hand he wiped his face and rubbed his eyes. This lasted several seconds. Then, in the blink of an eye, the young man turned over and dove down again, disappearing into the now almost black water.

Frenkliak's appearance had lasted only a moment and the crowd could not figure out what was happening. Only when

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he disappeared for the second time, did every one exclaim a collective “ah!” And again it grew deathly quiet in the dark night and everyone's hearts beat faster in astonishment.

But this time it did not take long. Off to the side, from the very midst of the thickest growth of water plants, where the current was the strongest, Frenkliak swam with one hand and boldly headed for the shore, and you could clearly hear his voice shouting in Polish – “I'm holding him by his foot.”

As if electrified the crowd ran to the river. Frenkliak's daring act made them forget that the dead body of a young man that he had just dragged out of the river lay before them, half submerged between the sand and the river, his deathly pale face shining in the dark. The lamenting parents and family of the drowned man ran to him but most of the crowd respectfully surrounded the naked giant.

Yankl smiled oddly at the people surrounding him, shook himself several times to dry himself off and slowly went to his bundle of clothes, lying on the dewy grass, to get dressed. He slowly began pulling his shirt and underwear onto his half wet body, patiently pulled his tales koton over his square head and said not a word. How long had he been underwater, how did he find the body, where did it lie, and other many such questions remained unanswered.

When Frenkliak had put on his coat, he picked up his shoes and socks and set off barefoot on the path that lead to Chorzele, accompanied at a distance with the gang from the ridge. The hero of the Ozhits was late that night for prayers.

[Page 235]

Reb Yosef Shoykhet

[Page 236]

You were too short, my childhood dream You disappeared as quickly as a soap bubble I remember the day my grandmother took me to kheder She told everyone, “I'm bringing you a bright one” but I did not make a fuss. I remember my uncle Moyshe Mendl Koheyn; he played an important role in town, but only trouble came of it. I remember when they would not let us walk outside after 10 o'clock at night. I was still a child then. You could walk only to the border, and no further I remember Fat Ostashewski; everything was crushed under his heavy tread. everyone trembled when he appeared. The sight of him meant misery for all.

It happened in 1942, in faraway Russian Uzbekistan, in Bukhara. There was a place there, where all the Polish Jews [war refugees] gathered and I stood there every day, hoping to meet someone I knew, a friend or relative.

So it was that after many days of standing there one day I saw hundreds of people vying to obtain some kind of white drink. I heard something about some Polish Jew with an Uzbeki son–in–law who had produced the drink himself and called it “pianke.”

I thought to myself, how lucky were the people who were drinking it, and

[Page 237]

I was impelled toward the kiosk where it was being sold. I pushed my way through, even though I had no money, and suddenly my blood froze: In the kiosk I saw Yosef Tik. “Herr Tik,” I shouted, but he did not hear me because of all the people trying to get a drink. “Herr Tik” I shouted again, with all my strength. He noticed me and leapt to my side. He embraced me like a father and we both burst into tears.

“Come,” he said to me. “I'll introduce you to my son–in–law, my Yehudes” husband. And Yosef Tik led me into the kiosk introduced me a tall Uzbek and handed me a glass of “pianke.” After the second glass, he boasted that this was his own creation and his son–in–law (an NKVDist [member of the secret police]) smiled. He already understood a little Yiddish; Yehudes was teaching him. Yosef said, “Come tomorrow morning and you'll see Yehudes.” The next morning I ran to the kiosk, where Yehudes was already waiting for me, holding a pretty little blonde girl in her arms. It was odd, because all the Uzbeki children were dark and dirty and here was such a pretty child with Jewish blue eyes.

We rejoiced and cried and rejoiced again, and week and months went by. One day I came to the square and found no sign of the kiosk. I was greatly surprised, but I had no way of finding out what had happened.

Some time later, I happened across a man lying face down on the ground in the town park, groaning. Such sights were common at that time, but my instincts drove me to approach the man to get a closer look. It turned out to be Yosef Tik, bloodied and beaten.

Before I left Bukhara, I managed to find Yehudes. I asked her what had happened with her father. She said that he had left Bukhara, intending to go to Poland. “And you, Yehudes, what are you planning to do?” I asked. “My husband won't let me leave,” she answered. “Even now, I had to sneak out of the house, he loves me so much. He promises me that we will go to Persia.”

That was the end of my encounter with Yosef Tik and his daughter Yehudes.

[Page 238]

Chorzele was as small as a yawn. Near the German border stood our town With its narrow little streets And its little Jewish shops. You could count everyone on your fingers But its youth accomplished wonders Turned themselves into artists And made fun of young lovers. Nor did we girls limit our chatter –– Feyge, Rivka, Leah and I, with Khantshe our leader–– We met every Friday for the blessing of the candles And began talking about everyone we knew. But our joy was short–lived, for Shmuel soon arrived And when we heard him coming, we fled the kitchen. For we were afraid of Shmuel Frenkl If we had stayed, he'd scream at us, “You girls are acting like shikses.” [1] I remember one winter night, when there was a ball. We all went there to dance, What harm was there in that? But the boys rebelled, springing up in anger “We won't let our girls behave this way.” It wasn't because they wanted to defend us, But they begrudged us our freedom, they just couldn't stand it. They ran off and came back, bringing Hodes Kats with them In the middle of the best dance, she dragged Rivka away

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The rest of us just stood there, didn't move from our places Our blood rushing up, flooding our faces. And there constantly hover before my eyes Images of those bygone Chorzele lives May they never be forgotten As long as we shall live.

Translator's Footnotes

1. Shiksas – non–Jewish women Return

My dear childhood was full of beauty and honor The Sabbath table in all its splendor My father making the kiddush blessing My face aglow like the candles Mother lit. For my mother, God decreed That her body would rest in the earth of Kfar Saba[1] Standing at her grave, as if lulled by a dream, I remember the life that once blossomed When I come and stand here, A prayer arises, of its own accord. A twig moved by a gentle breeze Quickly awakens memories My eyes glitter and a tear falls. Who, oh who, can comfort me? There once was home, a town All that remains is a sorrowful leaf. * The bright window of my grandmother's house Looks charmingly out upon the little street Grandmother's house is full of spirit and warmth She herself a woman of honor. On every Rosh Khodesh Sabbath [2] Grandmother prepared a feast and invited guests Like the seven days of the week, Seven candles stood in their holders. Grandmother lit them and shed a tear. When the Sabbath ended, and stars sparkled in the sky Grandmother said the prayer, God of Abraham Her sorrowful prayers in those days Are eternally etched in my memory. * My brother Nakhman left home during the First World War And went across the border with his dreams and shining vision His heart was drawn to the land where he longed To renew his life in any way that he could. But the hand of fate ruled otherwise My brother, I honor your memory. * There was a home, there was a town All that remains is a sorrowful leaf.

Translator's Footnotes

1. Town in Israel Return
2. Rosh Khoydesh – first day of the month Return

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Alter – a female soldier, daughter of Chaim Beishwinger, Nathan the son of Esther Gorman, Nachman the son of Shmuel Weingort, Avraham the son of Meir–Yaakov Cygenbojk, Avraham the son of Moshe Sniadower, David the son of Shimon

Elisha Shmueli the son of Frimet (Kaszeniak)

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