Dumbrăveni, Moldova
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My town was lucky and it had rabbis who excelled in the Torah and were people of good qualities, thanks to whom its name was well-known all-over Bessarabia: Rabbi Mendele Davidson (died in Israel), the elderly father of Reb Sheftil (the slaughterer and Kashrut checker), the first rabbi of the town, immigrated to Jerusalem in the year 5642 (~1882), and died here; Rabbi Moshe Sternberg and his son Levi, the heir to his place, served as the last rabbi of the town. “Der Dumbravaner reb”, that is, Rabbi Levi Sternberg from Dumbrăveni, was well known in all of Bessarabia and the districts of old Romania. Scholars and common people, religious and secular, Zionists and non-Zionists, the officials of the Authority and the Gentiles in the surrounding villages, all of them liked him, respected him and admired him. His personality always expressed grace and beauty - a scholar who was never found a speckle on his clothes. He was always careful and meticulous in his clothing and all his elegant appearance expressed festivity that alleviated the surrounding filth and ugliness. His height was above average, his face was broad and covered with a black beard embedded with white hair, his forehead was high and seemed always hoovered with a cloud of thought, and his eyes were like two burning coals - black and hot, deep and wise eyes. He was a diligent Torah scholar and had a wonderful memory, a smart-hearted and an intellectual, who spoke eloquently, a silver-tongued man. Conversation was the basis of his life. His pleasant and active conversation, whether about everyday matters or about questions on very important matters, was always warm and serious and accompanied by a pleasant sense of good humor. His main weapon was his voice - a soft, silky, melodious voice, which the ear could not get enough of hearing. His fluent and pleasant conversations, like his vibrating and excited prayers, his shrewd sermons about.
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sharp and on-the mark moral sayings and in enthusiastic proverbs and above all - his Zionist speeches, which were an abundant source of Torah, life wisdom and love for the Land of Israel, made people love him.
The rabbi's home was a pilgrimage site; everyone came there, some for advice and resourcefulness, some for a friendly conversation over a cup of tea and some to talk about their concerns. The best people of the town and the heartbroken, wealthy landowners and impoverished merchants, God fearing and well educated, “beautiful Jews” and “simple people”, all consulted him. A cart owner whose horse died and as a consequence lost his living; ”an eternal high school student” who wanted to immigrate to the Land of Israel and has no profession and he is not physically strong, and it is doubtful whether he will be able to work the land as he desired; a respectable householder who has lost his property and can't give a dowry to his daughter who has reached the marriage age, and other matters of quarrels and disputes and Torah law between one another, to whom would they turn and to whom would they submit their requests if not to the rabbi? And he would accept them with a warm welcome and with a lot of patience, he guided, encouraged them and strengthened their hearts, taught them and cultivated them as a faithful shepherd and as a pedagogue with a wise heart and a sensitivity. But in secret his soul wept that he was condemned to spend his days in the “trifles” of a small town, when his whole being aspired to greatness and yearned for Zion.
His conduct with the common people and his conversations with them were imbued with a special grace. His blessing and words of encouragement have always served as support, strengthening and comfort in their poverty and loneliness. Reb Aharon, the shamash,[22] a Jew of short stature, lean and thin, emaciated and shriveled, with a weak and hoarse voice accompanied by incessant gurgling, with a goatee beard and his whole appearance was like an emaciated spike; he came to the rabbi and recounted in his ears the things that made him happy or caused him sorrow: “His wife, may she live a long life, after she gave birth to about half a dozen daughters, she finally gave birth to a male child for luck and blessing, “Kaddish”, but the Gentile doctor lost his mind.
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and commanded her a prolonged rest of several months of pitaniyeh (recovery). What did he think, that “wise guy”, that Reb Aharon, the shamash in the “Deutsche Schule”, is Rothschild? And who will be of help with his work as the shamash, when he is engaged in his second job of binding books? And in general, why is this pampering needed? Upon hearing these words and at the sight of his wretched and pitiful figure and his slopy walk, the rabbi smiled kindly, a twinkle of sadness flashed in his alert and enlightened eyes, and in his soft voice he commented: “Reb Aharon, you may decide not to obey the words of the rabbi, but the doctor's words, even if he is a Gentile, are a command.” And by that, he made sure, of course, that the doctor's advice was fully followed!.
Those who came into close contact with him and listened to his conversations, sermons and speeches, must have thought more than once: - This handsome and harmonious figure, was he born and raised in one of the forgotten and gray towns of Bessarabia? Did he really grow out of this monotonous and frightened life, this cute man who had an abundance of self- respect and self- confidence, external and internal grace and good and gifted humor? Indeed, the rabbi himself, like many others like him, was one of the victims of that poor, destitute, spaceless and unimaginative life. He aspired to greatness and had no choice but to accept the judgment upon him, and he had to suffocate the poetry within him. He was an ardent Zionist, one of the pillars of the “Mizrachi” movement in Bessarabia and a delegate to two Zionist congresses; Zion was his life's dream and he also visited the Land of Israel, but did not find the right time to make Aliyah[23] and perhaps he did not have the courage to uproot everything and sever his ties with his community that he had guided for over forty years. And when he was on the verge of realizing his dream, the Holocaust happened. His speeches educated, encouraged and inspired hundreds and thousands of immigrants; his blessing accompanied multitudes on their way to Zion but he himself died in the exile,
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on the steppes of Russia, lonely and bitter, orphaned from the members of his community to whom he was attached with every fiber of his soul, far from his family members, most of whom took root in the Land of Israel, and against this stood the coveted land for which he longed all his days with love and holy fear. All his days revolved around Zion but he never reached it! In his life, as in the rabbi's death, there was something of sorrow and a symbol not only for the Jews of the town, to whom he served as their captain, their advocate and their faithful speaker, but also for the Jewry of Bessarabia as a whole, a powerful, vital and branched Jewry, which once existed.
And you will forever miss your homeland, your small town,
the days of your childhood, the days of your hunger, the
moss on the wall of your Father's house, the sins of your
youth; These longings will support you in times of trouble
and cleanse your soul of every flaw and defect.(H.N. Bialik, Letters, II, page 7)
A Jewish home in all its details was my Father's house, full of Jewish grace, warmth and cordiality. The music was the foundation of the house and it did not cease neither on weekdays and especially nor on Shabbats and holidays. Besides mother, all the members of the house, and father at the head, were “people of poetry”
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and you could not find a tune from the prayers of the year and the folk songs of all kinds, which was not heard in the house. Already in the early hours of the morning, father's lips were murmuring an evening tune, while he was dealing with the large and corrosive copper samovar, which had been passed down by inheritance for several generations. And I cannot bring up the memory of my father in my heart without a heart- piercing melody rising in my ears, just as I cannot remember the image of my mother, without seeing her small and nimble hands, engaged in the household chores with marvelous diligence and an absolute silence, as a smile hovers over her thin and pale lips and adds grace to the shapely and delicate features of her face.
Cleanliness and order were the core of the house on its spacious rooms, its large barns full of variety, the stone- paved yard, the spacious cellar, where three types of wine were kept in special barrels: for the Kiddush[24] and Havdalah,[25] for the holidays and for the weekdays; The attic, where a respectable and beautifully fenced corner was set aside for Passover dishes, and the sukkah,[26] which was an integral part of the rear portico; The carved furniture made by an artisan, the beautiful and valuable tools, the cabinet that was full of holy books and a selection of Yiddish and Russian literature in fancy brown leather covers; The colorful carpets that were spread on the floors and served as covers for the sofas; The polished lanterns attached to the ceiling with thick copper cables; The white curtains with embroidery, and last but not least the candlestick with the five arms and the perfume saucer, work of art, which were placed on top of the glazed sideboard, everything expressed affluence and comfort, a tradition of generations and rootedness. However, the shrill shouts of the Gentile customers, who came from the textile shop, which served as a sort of entrance to the house, their harassing discussions and bargaining with loud voices, put in our hearts, the hearts of young children
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a great, hidden and unconscious fear. Later on, we even understood father's sighs upon his entrance to the house from the store, with the transition from one surrounding that is all secular, full of fear, panic and worry, to a second surrounding, which was full of peace, well- being and expansion of the mind.
My father was a pure and honest Jew, God- fearing, observant and philanthropic. He was not a great scholar, but he was well versed in the Torah, the Aggadah[27] and Sifrei Yereim (the books of the God-fearing) and he diligently read Yiddish literature. The writings of Peretz and Shalom Aleichem were his favorite and he read them with taste and emotion. The long winter nights, and especially Shabbat nights, became real evenings of literature. As the children grew up, they also took a significant part in reading, acting and telling stories.
The excessive piety was to his displeasure and he gave us, the children (three daughters and I - his only son), complete freedom and he did not stand in the way of our lifestyles and ways of education. However, he guarded the sanctity of the Shabbat like the apple of his eye, and if it was imposed on him, due to his business, to be far from home on Shabbat, he was very gloomy and sad. During the winter we often had to endure the cold, when there was no Goy Shel Shabbat[28] to turn on the stove. And if one of the children dared to point out, even as a joke, that because of the work of lighting a match it is not worthwhile to suffer in the cold and moss, father scolded him severely. He used to say: “My heart aches for all the heretics and the unbelievers of all kinds, who have not tasted the taste of the Shabbat in their lives”!
Mom told us: it was in the first year of their marriage and she was about to give birth. Father often wandered with his goods at the fairs, across far and remote towns and villages, going on his way with dawn and returning in the evening and sometimes even after midnight. In one of the autumn days, he went on his travels in order to return, as usual, on Shabbat evening. In Friday morning,
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the sky darkened with heavy clouds and a heavy rain fell to the ground. It was the time to light the candles and dad was late. Distraught, labor pains struck her and she began to give birth. The aunts and neighbors who were rushed to the house tried to persuade and reconcile her, that because of the heavy rain that disrupted the roads, father decided to park in one of the nearby villages. But mother did not calm down, her heart told her that he did not rest and set off. And indeed, in the middle of the night, a little while after the eldest daughter was born, he knocked on the door tired and weary and shivering from the cold, bathed in sweat and dirty from head to toe. He told simply and in good faith: When the evening arrived, he got off the cart, greeted the Shabbat with a short prayer and ordered the Gentile, the owner of the cart, to slow down, so that he could catch up with him on foot. In vain were the pleas and entreaties of the Gentile, who urged him to sit in the cart in order to arrive as soon as possible to their destination. About half of the night, father followed the cart, breathing heavily, his feet trampling in mud and bodies of water above his knees and his heart anxious for mother's safety, but he did not desecrate the Shabbat.
Dad fulfilled two mitzvahs with all his soul and with all his heart: keeping the Shabbat and gmilut chasadim (charity). And if keeping the Shabbat was considered for him as the holy of holies, then he considered acts of gmilut chasadim as a daily act. A large notebook was kept with him and on it were drawn three large and enlightening letters: G.M.C (gmilut chasadim), and just as he was willing to help to every needy and poor and those who had difficulties in earning a living, he wrote in his notebook a list of the debtors. When a Jew came and asked him for a G.M.C., he did not inquire about the purpose of the loan. And when the day of payment came and the debt was not repaid, dad marked a small circle on the side of the name and if Rosh Hashanah took place in the meantime, he added the letter “C” on the side of the circle which meant – charity.
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That is because if the debtor one day repaid him his debt, dad considered the money as if it was deposited in his hand and therefore, he distributed it to charity, without being careful about the amount.
One of the townspeople, one of the few survivors who were privileged to immigrate to Israel, told me that one winter day a fire broke out and his house caught fire, he and his family were left naked and destitute, without a roof over their heads. The disaster happened at the beginning of the week, and on Saturday night, dad gathered in our house about ten Jews, from the town's affluents, spread out before them a large sheet of paper with a written commitment for the sum, which was needed to rebuild the ruins of the burnt house. Those present saw the considerable amount, which father had pledged, and without saying anything, each of them donated according to his abilities and his kindness. Less than three months later, the rebuilding of the house was completed.
There was in our town a tailor for simple women's clothes, and he had a sick woman and about half a dozen small, pale and weak children. Their main food on all the weekdays was cold mamaliga, onions and potatoes, and even those in small quantities. When Friday evening came, mother would send there one of her children with a package of food full of good things: challah, stuffed fish, boiled chicken, noodle pie, etc. This charity, given in secret and almost out of sight, did not stop until the children grew up and became tailors themselves. Once, that tailor wanted to return a favor to my father and offered him to sew a garment for me for the holiday. Father dismissed him with a smile – “to saw clothes for such a smack child? - I can't afford it! Ready- made clothes, which I bring him from the city, are enough for him.” Indeed, father did not lie, the works of the town's tailors did not put his mind at ease and did not satisfy his taste. For his only son, he brought ready- made clothes, some of the best and most luxurious, “royal clothes” as mother called them.
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The voices of the Gentiles, which made noise and scared us children, grew louder day by day. Little by little, my parents felt that the ground, on which they built and erected their beautiful home, was shaking and collapsing. The day-to-day negotiations with the Gentiles, even though many of them expressed friendship and signs of loyalty, so to speak, aroused disgust and irritation among them. The decrees of the authority, which were imposed on them very often, and many of which were annulled by the power of bribes and bribes, as was customary among the people in power in Romania, made their lives miserable and the fear of tomorrow brought with it a great worry in the heart. If a scuffle broke out on market day, the doors were locked and the shutters were drawn; And although the strong people in the town appeared immediately ready and prepared for any trouble that might come, most of the townspeople were frightened. The people in power oppressed and harassed at every step with malice and with a clear intention for evil. It was a horrifying sight to see the “keepers of law and order” abusing, and imposing a severe fine, or slapping the cheek of a Jewish craftsman, a poor man with a large family, for the sin that he committed when he worked on Sunday, which was declared as a statutory holiday.
I remember, on one of the Shabbats, when my father returned from the morning prayer in the synagogue and he had not yet had time to bless the wine, a man from the authorities appeared at our house and asked to be sold fabric for a suit. He stood at the door of the house with a malicious smile hovering on his lips at the sight of father's pale face. Without saying a word and with trembling hands, father measured the fabric for him, and asked the customer very politely to cut it himself while completely renouncing the money for it due to the fear of desecrating the Shabbat. Those who have not seen father's face in that position, have not seen a person with his insults and depression. That Shabbat the chants were sang in our house with sad voices, full of sorrow and dejection. But at the blessing of the food
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father raised his voice and, in a chant, saturated with longing and yearnings begged: “And build Jerusalem the holy city quickly in our days. Blessed are you, O Lord, who builds Jerusalem with His mercy, Amen!”
Since the Balfour Declaration, father considered seriously immigrating to the Land of Israel and often told us about the small house we would build for ourselves in one of its settlements, when we would work our land, enjoy the fruits of our labor and sit “a man under our vine and under his fig tree”. His healthy sense whispered to him that he must get up and pack his bundles, leave the “goldmine” and run away. At every opportunity, with the arrival of emissaries and with the immigration to the Land of Israel of the Halutzim (pioneers), father mourned them his stress and his longing for the land of his ancestors, but reality came and slapped him in the face, as if he was hindered by heaven. While he was making preparations for the immigration to the Land of Israel, a horrific disaster befell him in its suddenness and cruelty, which shook all the foundations of the house, the death of my eldest sister, about two years after her marriage, leaving behind a nine-month-old baby. My parents did not take off their mourning clothes for entire year and all the affairs of the house and the store and the uprooting from the place were neglected and forgotten from the heart. And before they recovered from this terrible blow, a new calamity was stirred and came upon them, the second sister openly declared that she would not immigrate to the Land of Israel, because she was heading to Russia… and when she married a young man, an educated man and a distinguished Hebrew teacher, who adhered to this idea, he was discouraged and he almost gave up everything. He did not want to leave the children behind neither could he do it.
Some consolation for his sadness and despair, was brought by me, when I told him my heart's desire to continue my studies not in France or Belgium, like the rest of my friends, but rather at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Despite the sorrow that filled his heart that I am going to leave the household, there was no end to his joy and pride. My immigration to the Land of Israel rekindled the flame of his longing and breathed in him a spirit of hope.
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He visited the country twice, visited every place in it, researched and studied the conditions of the country, balanced and planned plans for the immigration. Father returned home full of admiration for everything he saw and made a determined decision to liquidate his business and immigrate to the Land of Israel, and suddenly the Holocaust came and put an end to all his dreams. The beautiful and well- kept house of my family became a desolate mound and of our large and extensive family only a few remained.
Not all the Jews of the town were of the type of Doodle and Reb Shimon, neither in their courage nor in their ignorance. The truth is that the town, like the whole of Bessarabia, was not blessed with smart and talented people and the fingers of one hand were enough to count those. However, there were some intellectuals, people who loved to read as well as smart homeowners, and people of intelligence, knowledgeable in the Bible and who had the Agada, knowledgeable in all the sections of the Torah and studied the book of Mishnayot and Ein Ya'akov.[29]
I knew very well: many of them approached me and asked to be mentioned in this book! But unfortunately, I left the town on the verge of my Bar Mitzvah, when I went to study at the high school and did not return to it except during the vacation, in the summer months. And upon graduating from high school, I immigrated to Eretz Israel. Therefore, I can only describe only a few figures, which have been engraved in my heart in my childhood and youth and have been preserved in my memory.
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One by one, they appear before my eyes - scholars, with beards and sidelocks and wearing long capotes,[30] and by contrast, those wearing short ones and wearing hard hats, even on weekdays. Those like those, most of them kosher Jews, complete in their souls, observed a light as well as a severe mitzvah[31] and besides their work and business in the field and vineyard, in the grain barns and in the shop, they spent their nights in engagement in the Torah.
Who would not remember Reb Sheftil Davidson, who served for forty consecutive years as a shochet, a bodek[32] and a mohel[33] in the town and as a chazan[34] at the “Kloise” synagogue. His father, Rabbi Reb Shmuel Ze'ev, who also served as a shochet and a bodek in the town for forty years, called his son Sheftil, because on the day he was circumcised, he finished his studies in the book “Shefa Tal” of Rabbi Shabbtai Sheftil and Reb Akiva Halevi Horowitz, the uncle of the Shelah HaKaddosh. Reb Sheftil was a Torah scholar; he authored several pamphlets in the laws of Brit Milah and Pidyon HaBen[35] and his house was an exemplary Zionist house.
Reb Sheftil's house was characterized by the “rule of emotion” - here the woman, Mrs. Idel of the Hochberg family, was the ruler. She was a woman of valor, beautiful and wise, who managed the affairs of the house, including the livelihood very rationally and with wisdom and grace. And she was the one who influenced the house with her kind smile that expressed lightness, cheerfulness and fun. Without her, the house was like a ship without a captain, like a sailboat without wind. She determined the way of life in the house, its habits and customs. When the homeowners in the synagogue, where Reb Sheftil served as a public messenger, complained and grumbled that his voice was weak and only the dignitaries sitting at the Eastern Wall could hear it, the jokesters commented: “Surely Mrs. Idel has decreed for him, that he should not raise his voice excessively, lest he heat up and catch a cold, God forbid”. And there is reason to speculate that it was this wise woman who tipped the scales
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for displacement from the town and immigration to the Land of Israel (in 5687, ca. 1927), many years before the coming of the Holocaust.
When the rumor spread that Reb Sheftil was selling his house and immigrating to the Land of Israel, everyone stood and wondered. Why? A Jew who has a livelihood, although not abundant but not limited either, whose sons were scattered, some to the American countries and some to the Land of Israel, for what reason and why did a couple of elders decide to “destroy” such a beautiful and well-kept house and leave the town where they were born, in which they built their house and educated their sons to the Torah and the Chuppah and the good deeds? None of the town's residents, most of whom were good Zionists, whose sons immigrated to the Land of Israel, could not understand how it was possible to “uproot” an entire house and plant it in a land of sand, rocks and heat.
When I immigrated to Israel, I went to visit them. I toiled a lot until I found the neighborhood, one of the poor neighborhoods in Jerusalem, until I discovered their house, which was a modest house with one narrow room, which was astonishing in its cleanliness and the restful silence in it. It was the afternoon of a beautiful autumn day. Reb Sheftil was sitting at the table and reading a book and the lady, Mrs. Idel, whose stature was slightly bent, was bent over her work, mending underwear and socks. At first, they did not recognize me, but when I told them who I was, there was no end to their joy. Both of them started asking tons of questions about each of the town's people, from big to small, about their lives, actions and businesses. When Reb Sheftil heard that the purpose of my coming to the Land of Israel was to study at the university, he opened a long sermon, combined with geometry and acronym to explain to me how beautiful was the saying of our sages that “there is no Torah like the Torah of the Land of Israel, nor wisdom like the wisdom of the Land of Israel”, until Mrs. Idel stopped him: - “A dear guest sits in our house and we welcome
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him with words and fill him with philosophy, and what about some refreshments?” And she immediately turned and went to the kitchen, which was in the yard.
We sat and drank tea with cherry jam and crispy and delicious poppy seed cookies, which melted in the mouth, made by Mrs. Idel. Reb Sheftil rubbed his glasses, which were covered in steam from the tea, and once again began with a witty sermon about “Eshet chayil mi imtza” (who can find a wife of excellence), and he wanted to prove that a woman in the image and likeness of Mrs. Idol, may she live long life, stood in front of the wisest of all people, when he sang that wonderful chapter in the book of Proverbs. And she, Mrs. Idel, sat in front of us, her eyes downcast, she listened to his words with enthusiasm and was flushed and shining of happiness. Since he arrived to the end of the chapter “And let her deeds laud her at the gates” (veyehaleluha bashe'arim ma'aseha), I thought it was a good opportunity for a light “intermezzo” and I asked: “Is it just her husband who will laud her? What about the sons?” With a clear intention, that by doing so, Mrs. Idol will also speak. And indeed, I was not wrong. She spoke daintily and shortly, about their lives, actions and the permutations of the boys and their sons and ended by saying: - “Unsere Kinder, Baruch Hashem! Einer veint, der Enderer Lacht un der Mizinik Zinget” (in Yiddish, meaning: Our children, Blessed be God! One cries, one laughs and the elder son sings). By this striking statement, she referred to her eldest son, Menachem Mendel, who was a public activist and an emissary, who often wandered through the cities of Bessarabia and, with many cries and sighs, inspired the Jews to get up and flee from the exile and immigrate to Eretz Israel; to the son Efraim, who loved to laugh and was good at making the many laugh, wrote dozens of feuilleton and humoresques and compiled two anthologies for humor, folklore and satire, and to the youngest son, Eliyahu, who studied in an agricultural school in Israel, engaged in agriculture and wrote “Those that sow in tears shall reap in joy”.
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As mentioned, Reb Sheftil immigrated to the Land of Israel in the year 5687 (ca. 1927) and here he died on the 7th of Tevet 5702 (27 December 1941), at the age of 87.
Reb Baruch Davidson, a family relative of Reb Sheftil, had a sharp and witty mind and a retentive memory, who filled his stomach with G.P.T (Gemara, Perush (commentaries), Tosafot (annotations of the Talmud)) and did not avoid himself from external wisdom, he was a diligent farmer and yet - poor and destitute all his days. Reb Baruch was very talented and had many sources of livelihood, and yet he did not consider them as a sign of blessing. He was a farmer, a vineyard owner and a winery owner, Ba'al Kore (reader of the Torah in the synagogue) and, in times of need, also a bookkeeper at the bank, a kind of a loan bank, and above all – he was a known “idler”, imaginative and absent-minded to the point of ridiculousness. He read in the Torah book with a tune and emphasis and with half-closed eyes, but he never failed to make an error in the reading or in the tune. He managed the bank accounts based on memory. And when important homeowners came before him, from the community's dignitaries and the rabbi among them, and complained: “Would it be possible, Reb Baruch, to manage accounts based on memory?” Reb Baruch sneered at them while detailing to each of those present the amount of the loan he had received on such and such a day, the amounts he had repaid and those he must repay on such and such a day… When a decree was issued on behalf of the authority, that bookkeepers must take a government exam, Reb Baruch was not alarmed. Without much hesitation, he went to the district city, appeared in the exam hall, glanced at the question sheet, and before his fellow professionals could turn around, he solved the questions brilliantly and perfectly. It was said from word of mouth that the examiners, who did not excel in excessive love of Israel, were astonished by this strange and odd Jew with the sloppy walk and shabby clothes, who amazed them with his quick perception and his sharp wit. As mentioned, he had an exemplary memory, nevertheless, he never remembered
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To wear his casket properly, his visor was always slanted either to the right or to the left, but not in a straight line with the nose. He never remembered to brush his shoes, comb his beard or brush his capote. And when family members and friends rebuked him about his sloppy clothes, he replied, as was his custom, wittily: ”The sages, among whom I spend the nights, in order to maintain “lo ivri siara ela legirsa” (when there is some light from the moon and can read a book), are not strict with me about my manners and my clothes. And if these are contented of me, why should you complain about me?”
Reb Yechiel Pintchevsky, an educated Jew, owner of many assets, a respectable homeowner, who was well involved with the people, had a pleasant temper and characteristics. His house, which ran on the purity of the Russian language, expressed open opposition to Zionism and all the actions and aspirations of the Zionists.
It was said by word of mouth that Reb Yechiel's daughter rejected a very respectable and fair marriage proposal because that “candidate”, who spent his days studying Shas and Poskim,[36] did not speak Russian and Russian literature was unknown to him. Idel, Reb Yehiel's son, was seen at the synagogue very rarely. And when Idel married the beautiful and gentle Rachlke, and on the first Shabbat after the marriage, he had to stand for the entire prayer time next to his father-in-law, Reb Haim Kornblit, at the east wall of the “Kloise”, he felt like he was in confinement. After the prayer, Idel told his friends: “I left there drained, tired and exhausted as if I had loaded a hundred grain carts.”
Reb Avrehmel Axenfeld, an esteemed Jew, tall and strong, a landowner and property owner. His impressive appearance, his long falling beard and all the manners in his home expressed wealth.
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He was an educated man and a passionate Zionist, and in this spirit, he educated his son and daughter who took root in our country. His house, a beautiful and well- kept mansion, with its large and tall rooms (according to his size!), the spacious yard and the water well in the center, gave the impression of a small kingdom in the heart of town. When I went to the well to draw fresh water to refresh my soul, during the hot summer days, he would start a conversation with me about politics in general and the Land of Israel in particular. It seems to me that the affairs of the distant Land of Israel were dearer to him and closer to his heart than the affairs of the country where he lived and where his ancestors and their ancestors lived. When he spoke about the Land of Israel, his face wore an expression of innocence and a dream, and he looked like a child telling himself with a heart-warming fable. One day, when I studied in the cheder, he turned to me and said: - “Haimel, you will go to Eretz Israel and study Torah at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, which has just opened on Mount Scopus” and while speaking, he rolled the letter “reish”, which was sometimes heard as a long and prolonged gurgling. I'll be honest, at that time I didn't know what he was talking about…
Later, when I visited Father's house, when I was already a student at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, Reb Avrehmel reminded me his prophecy and added, with a smile of kindness and cheerfulness on his face: - “Well, what I predicted did happen, because what is better, to study here or in one of the nearby foreign countries among the Gentiles”? And he asked me to tell him about my studies, my teachers and the most about Jerusalem. When I finished, he added and asked: - “So from the window of the lecture hall, where you listen to classes at the University on Mount Scopus, you can see the Anatot village, the birthplace of the prophet Jeremiah. Is that really what you told me?” And from his words arose a pleasant feeling of yearning, an endless dream and longings…
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Reb Naftali Axenfeld, the Reb Avrehmel's brother, was also a tall man, with a black beard, a face that expressed kindness, with smiling and fatherly eyes. His house, which stood next to the “Kloise” Synagogue, was not as spacious as his brother's house, but it had a homely spirit, a good and comfortable atmosphere and family warmth. Like many of the town's residents, he did not have a single profession, and in practice, he fulfilled the words of our sages: “When a person does business, he should invest one third in real estate, one third in business and one third will be left free in his hands” (Baba Metzia 42).[37] The truth can be said that the last third, “free in his hands” did not always exist, for one simple reason of his economic stress. He was an honest and decent man and gave full trust in everyone, an ally and a non-ally, and therefore he was often deprived and cheated. And indeed, the management of the business (A shop for fabrics and all kinds of shoes and overshoes etc.), was mainly done by his wife, a woman of valor! It was said that a buyer never left her store empty-handed. The buyer asked for fabric that she did not have, but he bought a pair of shoes or a pair of overshoes, which he did not ask for, because the same goods were available in abundance in her store…
Reb Naftali was a dynamic man, always busy and occupied, rushing to his business as if he was one of the richest people in town, and in fact lived all his days in hardship and poverty. The expression on his face testified that if it weren't for the necessity of earning a living to maintain his home, if he had been given the choice, he would have preferred to sit in the Beit Midrash[38] and study the Torah. Whoever did not see him during prayer, not only on Shabbats and holidays but also on weekdays, morning, noon and evening, did not see a calm, complete and peaceful person in his life. In these blessed hours it was as if he “found himself”, discovered his true personality. In the spirit world he felt himself firm, safe and extremely happy. Out of love for the Torah he gave his children (two daughters
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and a son who took root in our country) proper education and instilled in them the love of work and longing for Zion.
Reb Shalom Algurt (“Shalom der Poilisher”, “Shalom the Polish guy”). A tall Jew with a well- kept long white beard. His place was in the “East” of the “Kloise”. When he went to the synagogue, on Shabbats and holidays, when he was walking at the head, followed by his wife Ginandil (an expert in “bone release” and all kinds of sprains and fractures) and their seven sons, tall like upright cypresses, you felt that in front of you was not only a family, but an entire tribe, all of whom were full of God-fear and rootedness. Until the end of his days, Reb Shalom Algurt had an upright stature, with excellent qualities, and Ginandil, as described by S. Y. Agnon:[39] “A fertile, tough and wise woman.”
Reb Shalom Algurt passed away a few years before Ginandil. Every day, in the afternoons, Ginandil would “visit” him at the cemetery. And when she was once asked: - “Where do you come from and where are you going Ginandil?” she replied with natural simplicity and good humor: - I visited Shalom's and I told him about today's events.”
During one of my visits to my father's house, when I was already a student at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, I once saw Ginandil, in the twilight hours of a hot summer day, running in the street, breathing heavily, looking worried. What happened? Ginandil said with her last strengths: - “I'm looking for my child! He disappeared from the house since lunch time. And now it's dinner time and the child is still missing.” The “child”, who was a young engineer who had just finished his studies at the Technion and was over one meter eighty tall, the youngest son of Ginandil, was sitting at that time in the house of the pharmacist Sarah Laver, in the company of Yechezkel Komarov, Berl Rashkovski, Motel Shmukler, Perla Kornblit and others, drinking tea from the “samovar”
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and listening to the radio - the only radio receiver in the town!
When she finally found the “child”, Ginandil clapped her hands and said: - “it was no wonder that you are so thin, slim and lean, if instead of eating “Vachera” (dinner), you sit here, drink tea and listen to chants”…
Reb Meir Weinberg – his entire appearance expressed consideration and moderation. The way he walked with slow and determined steps, his modest clothing and his quiet conversation, almost in a whisper, testified that he was a farmer with all his might. He was extremely secretive, and his secretiveness almost bordered on shyness. His home, a peasant's house for all its manners and appearance, breathed manual labor 24 hours a day, hard and arduous labor and the love of the land, whereas inside the house, in its dark and tastefully arranged rooms, with grace and simplicity, and in its library rich in holy books and the best Hebrew and Russian literature, there was an atmosphere of peace and tranquility, contentment and security.
Reb Yosel Weinberg – a relative of Reb Meir, also a farmer, but not a successful one. Nevertheless, his house was full of tunes! The father and two of his sons played the violin and the guitar, by hearing only and without knowing the notes. The tunes that emanated from this house, in particular on summer nights, went from one edge of the town to the other edge and vibrated hearts. One of the sons, Meir, one of the survivors of the Holocaust, now living somewhere in Russia, who taught me how to play the violin, would say: “The violin is neither bread nor water. When you eat bread, you fill full; when you drink water, you are no longer thirsty, whereas there is no end to training in playing the violin and the more it is, the better it is.” Needless to say, no ball was held in the town without Meir's participation, sometimes even
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with the help of some of his students and myself among them. While playing, Meir would half-close his eyes, bow his big body, stick the violin to his chin with all his might, and his whole appearance testified that he was floating far away at that time, in a world of dreams and hallucinations, where he felt better and more comfortable than in the gray reality that surrounded him…
Reb Yitzchak (Itzik) “the politician”, that's how we, the children, called him, and in fact he was nothing more than a tiny grain merchant, one-eyed and dark-skinned, who liked to read newspapers, in Yiddish of course, and add his own interpretations about the situation in the world in general and in the country in particular. He never subscribed to a newspaper and never bought a newspaper with his own money. My late father was subscribed to “Unzer Zeit”, the only daily newspaper in Bessarabia that was published in Kishinev and arrived in the town, via the mail, after three or four days. Reb Yitzchak would go straight to the post office, bring the newspaper, sit in the balcony in front of the house in the summer days or inside the house during the winter days, and read it with pleasure and in a loud voice. His reading was at a fast pace and with such a twang melody that no one was able to understand what he was reading. While reading, he would add his own interpretations and give “scores” to the main articles, the feuilleton, etc. He mainly enjoyed the feuilleton of “Idel Melamed”, who was the sharp-penned and witty journalist Y. Weinstein, who was good at shedding light on matters and commenting on events based on scriptures from the weekly Parasha, proverbs and legends of Chazal[40] from the Talmud and from the Midrashim. Reb Yitzchak read these feuilletons with great pleasure, he read them and reread them again, and as usual, Reb “Idel Melamad” always received an excellent score with him. Indeed, these feuilletons were a wonderful combination of Jewish sharpness, natural cleverness and an easy and captivating folk style. While reading them, he was sipping
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a few cups of tea, which my mother served him, and for this “reward” he would recite the summary of the news in front of her plus his own interpretations, guesses and conjectures, which were always the product of his imagination that barely fitted. And if someone dared to disagree with his opinion, he would condemn him fiercely and clearly proved to him that he was not man of the world. Reb Yitzchak was gifted with a unique voice - a voice that came from the chest and not from the throat. In our ears, the children, it was a scary voice even when he tried, so to speak, to pamper us with sweet things. Even during the Shmone Esre prayer, which is said in a whisper, his voice could be heard far and wide, even outside the walls of the synagogue. The jokesters in the town, who strolled around for pleasure, would ask each other: “Is Reb Itzik blessing the worshipers or is he scolding them?”…
Reb Pesach Frumerman, a respected grain merchant, and his house, a small, low house, with small square windows, stood in front of the “Kloise”. A semi-dark entrance led into the house where the family lived and a side room, all four by four with a narrow kitchenette, was rented to distant relatives of our family, to Reb Sani (Nathanael) who was one-eyed and his wife, who were childless. Reb Sani was a kind of “everyman” - a small grain merchant, a broker and a contractor, so to speak, for the threading of fresh tobacco leaves, which had just been picked. In these jobs, which were managed by his wife, he usually employed children and me among them. And when I came to collect my “salary”, he dismissed me with an evasive and sly answer: “I will settle the account with your father.” Upon hearing this answer, I completely waived the salary, because the working hours with him were instead of being at the cheder from which I escaped…
In the small and narrow rooms of that house there was an atmosphere of silence, calmness and exemplary cleanliness. Reb Pesach's wife would tell
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my mother, whose sons - she had no daughters - helped her with all the housework as real daughters and her only prayer is that her daughters-in-law will appreciate what good and orderly husbands, she raised for them.
Reb Pesach, a short Jew with a bushy beard, was one of the first to worship in the “Kloise” synagogue and his permanent place was in front of the Holy Ark. It seems that of all the prayers of the year, Birkat HaChodesh (Blessing of the Month) was his favorite. When they reached “Halel”, his voice would be heard from one side of the synagogue to the other side. “The heavens are for God,” he would curl in his voice, hugging each word, and it was obvious that it was a pity for him to finish it, he was sad to say goodbye to this prayer in which, apparently, he found a relief for himself. And when the chazan sang Em HaBanim Smecha (The boys' mother is happy), Reb Pesach repeated after him with all his power and in a loud voice. At that time, Reb Baruch Davidson was joking, as was his custom, and said: “Reb Pesach curls and glorifies this prayer especially because he was blessed with sons, if he had been blessed with daughters, I doubt if he would have been so happy”…
My uncle Reb Yoel
Short, with a yellowish beard, always wearing silk clothes and very secretive was my uncle Reb Yoel, my grandfather's brother on my mother's side. We never heard him speak, except for making a brief remark, smile kindly and utter a Chazal saying or a common and catchy folk saying, as if he wanted to teach us how to speak: to be short, to speak briskly, sparingly, and straight to the point. More than all he was tired of long conversations and gossip; slanderers, in his eyes, were thieves and swindlers, and God forbid that a decent person should be among them, certainty not to live with them in the same house. He gave up his place on the Eastern Wall of the synagogue because next to him was sitting someone who was known in the city as hot-tempered and extremely talkative.
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A decent and honest man, kind hearted and straightforward person, doing the will of his Father in heaven and a Chasid in all his actions - this is how he was outwardly and towards the members of his household. His eldest son came before him and talked to him for a long time about the matters of livelihood, about the hardships of his life and his wanderings across the villages every day of the week and about his desire to get out of the strait of the town, for his sake and for the sake of the sons who are growing up - my uncle listened quietly to his words, looked at him with a long and compassionate look, and finally dismissed him by saying, which would always be accompanied by two words: “Well, yes - a man's sustenance is as hard as the tearing of the Red Sea”, and the son knew that the conversation was over and there was nothing to add. One of his daughters came and poured out her heart to him: she has girls, and the eldest daughter has already reached the marriage age and her husband lost his livelihood, overnight new mills sprung up and there is no longer need in his small and poor windmill. The father looked at her with a loving look and dismissed her by saying: “Well, yes - God is blessed every day. The main thing is confidence, God will have mercy.” Although he did not assist his sons and daughters in their time of need, because he was poor and destitute all his days, they always left their conversations with him strengthened and comforted; his mild and few words instilled faith and confidence in their hearts and expelled the sorrow and sigh away, even if was only for a little while.
“Ya'a aniyuta leIsrael” (Poverty is not a disgrace) – he would repeat this Chazal's saying on different occasions and even fulfilled it in practice; the oppression did not leave its mark in his home, because he knew how to be satisfied with little, practically “bekav charuvin me'erev shabbat le'erev Shabbat”. The cleanliness and order in his house and his clothes led many to think that he was one of the richest people in the town, but in fact he was nothing more than a small grain merchant. Indeed, the engagement in his trade did not fulfill his entire life, but rather as a kind of addition, as a kind of trifle. And what was the main thing? The main thing for him was the book of Psalms. This book was the secret of his life and the essence of his life, in which his whole being was folded, and all the vanities
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of this world seemed to him nothing but luxuries and idle things, for which a man toiled and exhausted his strength in vain.
The order of his day was like the movement of an accurate clock with persistence, regularity and meticulousness to every last moment. He woke up early, washed his hands and started dealing with the needs of the house: boiled milk, poured tea, gave food to the poultry, spent a short time in the grain store next to his house, put in wood to heat the stove in the winter, and drew a few buckets of water from the nearby well, all while constantly reciting chapters of the Psalms. He finished his craft, washed his hands again, replaced his work clothes with silk clothes, which were always clean and ironed, as if they had just come out from under the tailor's hand, and walked to the synagogue with measured and rhythmic steps, happy and peaceful. He was one of the first to come and one of the last to leave the synagogue, but not for idle conversations or business matters, but for reciting psalms in the silence of the synagogue, when he was entirely withdrawn and isolated and did not interfere with the people, as if he made a circle for himself and stood inside it protected from all the harm of the world. His pleasant voice spilled out and filled the entire space of the synagogue and reached our ears, the children of the adjacent cheder, and merged with the chirping of the birds and the rustling of the trees into one heart-warming melody. Glory and pride filled my young heart when I glanced through the cracks of the empty synagogue, from which the voice of my uncle Reb Yoel was heard; And suddenly, this squat, simple and shy Jew seemed to me like an ancient cedar, that no wind in the world would shake him or uproot him from his roots…
He returned from Shacharit (morning prayer), ate and went to his daily work, buying and selling some grain. And all in silence, in a few words, almost in complete silence. He never bargained and never exaggerated in negotiations - if the seller or buyer agreed to the price
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he offered or asked–he would make the deal, and if not–he would leave. Experienced traders testified to his knowledge of grain matters, and even wondered at the fact that he never failed in buying bad or spoiled goods. The excessive trust he placed in the Jewish merchants, as opposed to the Gentiles, served as material for all kinds of legends and jokes. My uncle would hear his “shame” and continue to smile, as if saying: “Nevertheless, as you can see, am I not richer than all of you? Who is rich? The man who is contented with his lot.”
When they saw him eating lunch, everyone knew that it was exactly twelve, even though there was no clock in the house, and the time was determined by the course of the sun and from a hidden inner feeling. The afternoon hours were sacred for studying Ein Ya'akov and more chapters of the Psalms; But this time he was interrupted by the visits of the grandchildren and the conversations of the neighbors and friends, who gathered on the spacious balcony in front of the house. This balcony was used as a kind of committee house for the sages; There all the affairs of the state, the town and the family were determined. And he, my uncle, was sitting among them and he was not there in his mind, he was sometimes listening and participating in the conversations and sometimes not. From time to time his voice was heard: “Lamenatze'ach mizmor leDavid” (For the conductor, a psalm by David), and his mind was floating in faraway worlds. At that time, the town's shochet, a wise and shrewd Jewish scholar, used to joke: “Reb Yoel walks all his days in the company of King David, and what does he have to do with simple people like us?”
He used to arrive early for the Mincha prayer and remained in the synagogue until after the Arvit prayer. Between Mincha and Ma'ariv, when the evening shadows cast a lot of sadness, a special charm was added to his cuddling and pleading voice, as if he wanted to overcome the noise and commotion created around him by the worshipers in their small talk. At that hour, all his
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sight expressed suffering, because they were dealing in daily matters and uprooted themselves from a world full of glory.
Reb Lazer (Eliezer) Weizman, timber merchant, grain merchant, mediator and above all poor and destitute. He had an impressive appearance - tall, handsome, with a well-kept beard (Herzl type) and his eyes were the eyes of a child, kind, soft and smiling. He was a friendly man, the symbol of moderation. His calm walk, his quiet and moderated speech, in calmness and contentment, amazed the near and the distanced alike. Apparently, he was poor and destitute all his days, and took care of his weak wife and children, and yet there was always a good and soothing smile floating on his lips and his face lit up and brightened. He was never seen irritated, sad, discouraged and at a loss. He was never seen in a hurry, rushing and speeding up for his business and not out of abundance, but simply out of some stoic wisdom of life with which he was blessed, which was embedded in him. He would say: - “I've never missed a train. How is it related? If I won't catch the 8 am train, God willing, I'll catch the one at 5 pm, what's the rush?” There was always an impression of softness and kindness on his face. He was a good conversationalist and knew how to spice up his stories with amusing jokes and sharp sayings.
He was a close relative, the son-in-law of my uncle Reb Yoel, and I loved him deeply, whether because of the fact that he always stood up for me, when I was caught in a “failure” or because of his virtue of speaking positively about anyone, of discovering the good and the beautiful in every place and in every situation. In my eyes, the eyes of a child, Reb Lazer seemed to me as the image of “Nahum Ish Gamzu”.[41] At all times he managed to control his spirit and showed bravery and peace of mind. When he succeeded in his business – he was happy; When he lost money–he did not lose hope
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and didn't despair. Whether he ate a feast of kings, accompanied by wine and the best kinds of pastries, or whether his feast was that of the poor, his face expressed the same kindness and contentment. Most of all, he hated people who were dejected, bitter and felt melancholy. It seems that throughout his life, the witty saying of the Frenchman Le Briard, born in the 17th century (that Reb Lazer never heard of and did not know his name, of course), served as his guideline: “Get used to laughing until you have reached happiness, lest you would leave the world without having laughed” … The jokesters of the town would say: “His name is Weizmann, while his appearance indicates that he is actually Herzl” …
Reb Meir Moshe Levental, Meir Moshe the doctor and the medic. A short Jew, with a slightly bent back, a pointed “Trotsky”-style beard and a good and a fatherly expression. His walk was always pleasant (I knew him at the end of his days) and his speech was in a whisper, as if he was counting and considering every word he uttered. When speaking, it always seemed to me as if he was whispering a secret, or dictating to schoolchildren and making sure that every word sounded nice and was spelled correctly. He did not learn medicine, of course, and he acquired the “wisdom of medicine” over the years from experience and from popular medical books in Russian that decorated his study room. When he was called to a patient, he would first take the temperature, feel the pulse, listen carefully to the heartbeat and the lungs, ask details about the appetite, the general feeling, etc., and if he did not discover any alarming signs of illness, he would almost always prescribe the same medicine: - swallow aspirin powder , smear the body with vinegar, put a band of mustard around the neck or on the nape of the neck, drink a few cups of hot tea with cherry jam, cover yourself with a blanket and sweat well!
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In the time of need, he ordered to set up cupping glasses. And if he noticed that the illness was serious, he asked to invite the doctor, a magic word which he expressed with excessive emphasis and reverence, or even a consilium of doctors from the provincial town. And magically, very often these people supported his diagnosis and the healing methods he offered. His long experience as a doctor and medic in the town allowed him to diagnose diseases, prepare medicines and read doctors' prescriptions in a wonderful way. His very peaceful appearance, his quiet and always encouraging conversation at the patient's bed and his good, soft and warm hand, had a positive effect on the patient and the family members alike.
In my childhood, I heard a nice story from him: on a Shabbat, he was called to the house of a seriously ill person. He didn't hesitate much and came. Entering the house, he found an old couple having lunch. - Where is the patient? Reb Meir Moshe asked innocently. The woman pointed to her husband, an extremely old man of about eighty years old, who was engrossed in eating hot and fragrant cholent, which had just been taken out of the oven, and finished with a dessert a noodle pie and plum turnip. At the end of the meal, the old man blessed Birkat Hamazon,[42] got up from the table and submitted himself to the doctor's examination. Reb Meir Moshe wore his glasses, which were always tied to his neck with a black thread, and measured the patient's temperature. Suddenly the doctor jumped from his place as if bitten by a snake and was astounded by the sight of his eyes - the old man's temperature reached 40 degrees Celsius… After a few days Reb Meir Moshe met the same old man when he was healthy and well. He was happy to meet him and asked: - “Did you do as I was instructed and take the medicine I prescribed for you? Surely it was less tasty than the delicacies that your wife prepares for you!” The old man did not understand what the doctor was saying. It turns out that the old man and his wife, both “understood” that
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the very writing of prescription by Reb Meir Moshe was the one that cured him and they didn't go to the pharmacy at all…
That old man, I heard years later, was a farmer most of his days, worked the land, and in his old age - a shepherd. Every morning, with sunrise, he would go out with his flock to the pasture and return to his home in the evening. He had never left the area of the town, never seen a train and never traveled by bus. He died a painless death in his ninetieth year and left behind a wife, who lived to the age of ninety- five, and about thirty children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In the last year of his life, he once complained to Reb Meir Moshe that his sight weakened somewhat. Reb Meir Moshe advised him to wear glasses. Upon hearing this advice, the old man laughed and replied: “Glasses? - God forbid, am I a doctor?”…
And there were also “extraordinaries”:
Let us remember Lazerel Hariton, a tall and handsome man, who captured hearts with his personal style, his elegant clothes and his unreserved belief in his power to achieve whatever his heart desires. After divorcing his first wife, Sabina, he lived without a chuppah and kiddushin[43] with Esterika, the only daughter of Reb Y.R., arousing the wrath of all the people of the town. Nevertheless, they refrained from coming to an open quarrel with him, whether out of fear of his strength or because of his connections with the people of the Authority. By his very nature he had a heart of gold and he supported the poor, but his arrogance, his ambition and his desire to demonstrate his power and the dignity of his wealth, drove him crazy. Lazerel led a lifestyle of luxury and waste and did not stop renovating, luxuriating and decorating his home, which stood in front of the Yar. It didn't take long until he lost all his possessions. His end was bitter and fast - he died lonely and miserable
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in one of the Latin American countries after both of his legs were amputated as a result of a malignant disease.
Daniel Sotsky, Gordovoy (policeman) of the town, government representative, official of the authority during the days of Russian rule. With the coming of the Romanian government, he lost his greatness and retired, but he often still wore his uniform and, on his head, he wore a hat with a golden button, a reminder of his “glorious” past. Ostensibly, he was in charge of law and order on behalf of the government, but in fact he dismantled the yoke and was a great lawbreaker, starting with his willingness to receive bribes from anyone, regardless of religion or nationality, and ending with his lifestyle - a habitual drunk, a chaser of women and with a language full of profanity and rudeness. In his old age, he lost his sight and became a “repentant”. He felt a great pleasure when someone addressed him, whether out of pity or because of his age, not in the derogatory name Danil'ke, but in the name Reb Daniel.
I was a child, but I remember well. In the twilight time of a hot summer day, he went for a walk accompanied by one of his sons and sat down on the wooden bench that stood in front of our house. At my mother's request, I served him a refreshing glass of cold water with a fresh and fragrant red currant jam. Daniel sipped from the glass, finished praising the jam, the handiwork of the good Rachel'a (she is my mother), and invited me to sit next to him. Daniel suddenly embraced me with both his arms, and said: - “Here sits before you an old man, broken, blind and full of sins like a pomegranate. Oh, how much I have sinned in my lifetime, but good deeds must also be credited to my account. How many times have I endangered my life and saved children from the hooves of raging horses and may God add me a few good years of living for all those times when I took money out of my pocket to buy medicine or firewood for old, sick and lonely people. Do you think that
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these deeds will stand up for me in the next world and lighten the punishment of hell? Last Shabbat, I listened to the rabbi's sermon about the expected punishment for the wicked in the world to come, and fear took hold of me”. After a short pause, he finished with a crying voice: “You are a good boy and surely you pray every day, please pray in my favor”…
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