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[Page 193]
by Shmuel Meiri–Minivski
Translated by Allen Flusberg
At times history favors us with multi–talented individuals who are also men of action; in spite of their many nuances and the richness of their spirit they are consistently true to their own ideals. And they are thus able to project their strength and light upon everything around them.
Perhaps this was the true meaning of the words “the man Moses”[2]: Moses the leader, the lawgiver who battled and struggled to fulfil a lofty ideal—an individual who was multi–faceted yet was true to his own ideals, and was therefore “unique in his generation”.
Adolf Riesenfeld (Avraham son of Pesach) was such a person. He was born in the year 1878 in Silesia[3]. He grew up in a village among Gentiles and achieved his successes among Gentiles, but remarkably he never forgot his brethren, his people.
The love for his people, the persecuted Jews, lit a spark in his warm heart. The glow of the flame that it ignited radiated out beyond him, illuminating everything around him. The German expression he constantly used, “mein Volk”, i.e. my people, had a profound significance, attesting to an unbreakable bond with his brethren and with their glorious humane and universal history.
Jewish Destiny endowed him with many treasured talents, virtues of the Treasured People.[4] By viewing him from many different perspectives, one can appreciate how numerous his qualities were. He could have been noteworthy and made a name for himself in any single one of them.
Thus Riesenfeld was: the pharmacist; the Zionist; the intellectual; the leader; the man with unique Jewish rootedness; the tutor who coached others in his hobbies, particularly the game of chess; the humorist; the community activist; the benefactor of the needy; the “physician” who had no diploma; the writer; the gifted speaker; the dedicated father and faithful husband; the paragon who served as an inspirational model for everyone…
I can still see him: his tall, imposing figure, the ever–present laugh that he retained even in difficult moments of struggles within the community; for indeed he had many critics and enemies who did not properly understand him.
His primary activity was his enthusiastic, tireless labor in the Zionist Movement, which was his crowning achievement. It is this work that I will endeavor to describe with the greatest of reverence and awe, as is deserved by one who dedicated himself entirely to the Zionist cause, devoting days and nights to bring about a radical change in the exilic views of his brethren, his people.
His path was not easy, no bed of roses. The very opposite: on a daily, even hourly basis he had to wrestle tempestuously with fierce opponents and commit himself completely to convincing and influencing them, whether with pleasant words or with passion and rage.
He did not isolate himself in an ivory tower, nor did he view himself as being on a higher plane than everyone else. On the contrary, he dedicated a good deal of his time and energy to small details and day–to–day issues, knowing full well that sometimes the supposedly minor matters determine the fate of great issues.
He was ready to help every single person; not only with advice, but also with his own money—albeit with great delicacy. I recall how once, in my presence, he provided some medication to an elderly woman. After she had paid him, he returned her money with a warm blessing and words of encouragement for a speedy recovery. He did not forget to invite her to come back if she needed more.
His pharmacy was called Apteka Pod Orlem, Polish for “The Pharmacy Under the Eagle”. But the truth was that the eagle was located not above the pharmacy, but rather inside it: an eagle that watched over its wretched, deprived chicks with its sharp “claws”, defending them against their enemies, German and Polish alike. With his “beak” he gnawed and scratched to find “breadcrumbs” for the poor among his people, so that they would not starve from hunger…Within the pharmacy the blue charity box of the Jewish National Fund was located in a prominent, conspicuous place. All were asked to place their generous contributions into this box. Indeed, Riesenfeld collected respectable sums for the redemption of the Land.
His home was a meeting place for those active in the community and for the youth, whether to consider community matters or to debate political and party issues. It was as if it was a mini–parliament, where people discussed and debated, with Riesenfeld conducting with a baton, his magic wand.
Agents of the Jewish National Fund and Keren HaYesod[5], as well as various envoys from the Land of Israel, frequented his home, where they always found a sympathetic ear and a readiness to help them do their job.
Nor did he ignore the impoverished of his town, doing as much as he could for them, trying to rehabilitate them. For this purpose he used his own money and funds he collected from affluent fellow–townsmen, who put their trust in him. Any families that had gone bankrupt when their fortunes dwindled were helped by him clandestinely and anonymously, so as not to humiliate them.
He helped many families pass between Dobrzyn and Golub and vice–versa, when the two towns were under the rule of two different regimes, being on opposite sides of the border between Germany and Russia.[6]
His concern for the poor knew no bounds, as is evident from the letter he sent in 1939 to his fellow townsman, Jacob Foge [sic][7], who was living in the United States. In emotional language he asked him not to forget the people of Dobrzyn. He demanded that he should support them generously, since they were facing economic collapse and were on the verge of perishing.
For this reason Riesenfeld could not bring himself to abandon the town when it was still possible for him to do so. For how can the shepherd leave behind the flock that follows him around with faith, affection and hope…
In the above–mentioned letter he grumbled that because of the hard times the townsmen had no sources of livelihood, and only 200 shekel–payers purchased shekels.[8] Indeed, I can say that the Dobrzyn townspeople were similar to Mendele Mocher Sforim's poor, hungry, emaciated horse[9]. Like that horse they were pitifully wretched and emaciated, but nonetheless they had a strong sense of conscience and morality, and so their impoverishment never made them lose their way.
Riesenfeld's favorite hobby was chess, which he indulged in during his leisure time—at home and even in his pharmacy. Many times I had the opportunity to play against him and to observe from up close his great acuity and the strength of his perseverance, which were reflected by his use of classical “openings”. His openings had the potential to surprise and crush his opponent.
While playing he was always cheerful. He would joke around a great deal as he explained his moves. He used to enjoy the game itself, rather than the anticipated victory. Usually he would gain the upper hand, since he tended to be inventive and his moves were surprising; but when he did lose he knew how to take it in stride. The occasions that I spent with him, listening to him talk as we played, gave me great pleasure and were imprinted deeply within my heart.
At times he left his home and travelled to give lectures on Zionism and to collect contributions for the [Zionist] funds. On these trips he reached as far as Danzig[10]. He succeeded in influencing his audiences with his attractive appearance, his well–considered words, and the cultured German that he was fluent in.
He participated in several [Zionist] Congresses—the fifth, the eighth, and the twelfth, which took place in Basel and Vienna. His family accompanied him: his wife, and his daughter Ruth (may she live long[11]). At these Congresses he was able to make contact with many of the Zionist leaders and thinkers. And indeed he corresponded with many of them, including: Nordau[12], Gruenbaum[13] Rytov, Rosenbaum[14], Ussishkin[15], Motzkin[16], and others.
He was good at writing, and in his letters one can find his principal sentiments, which mostly concerned the fate of his people. His faith in Zionism was complete, and he saw in it the only solution for his people, whom he loved so dearly.
Several times he visited the Land of Israel. He aspired to go on Aliya and settle in Jerusalem, where he would establish a pharmacy. However, he did not manage to fulfil his dream. Bound to his townsmen with every fiber of his being, he could not leave them behind. In addition, he did not believe that a war would break out. He remained there with his flock until the bitter end, and he perished together with them in the horrific Holocaust.[17]
How he aroused his listeners when he returned to the town in 1925 after a visit to the Land to commemorate laying the cornerstone of the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus![18] He was very strongly impressed by this lofty event, and when he spoke about it his eyes sparkled and there was a thrill in his voice. Tears welled in many of the listeners' eyes when he described to them all that he had seen and heard. Many were influenced by his account and some even immigrated to the Land.
His exciting accounts that were expressed so intensely lit a spark in many a heart; they were like a breath of fresh air for their confused, wavering hearts. Members of all the factions respected him greatly, starting from the Hassidim who were waiting idly for the Messiah to come, and ending with the various leftists who were swept up in their multitude of denominations with alien ideals. His great sincerity, integrity and enthusiasm won over even his foes.
He was a paragon for many with the truth that burned in his very being and his relentless devotion to the Zionist cause. He saw Zionism not as an abstract entity but rather as an attainable vision—something that one should arise and act upon, rather than waiting for the End of Days.
It was difficult to be around him without binding to the passion of his vision and to his great love for his people and his land. These are the things he thought about constantly and dedicated all his time to. Everyone sensed that he was good not only at preaching, but also at practicing—prepared to make any sacrifice…
He was chairman of the Zionist Federation of the town. He did not hold this title in vain, but rather he demanded more from himself than from others. He carried out deeds and made others do them, inspiring them to arise and act for the sake of their people.
Riesenfeld the person—he who loved all human beings, especially children—could not imagine the depth to which the Teutonic–German hatred was liable to degenerate, nor that of their Polish collaborators. For this reason he did not anticipate the Holocaust that was coming…
He had a religious consciousness, even though he was forced by the law to open his pharmacy on Sabbaths and holidays. On Rosh Hashana[19] and Yom Kippur[20] he would attend the synagogue located near the bridge connecting Dobrzyn to Golub. For it was among his people that he dwelled[21], and it was to them that he devoted all of his life and his thinking.
His enthusiastic, uncompromising Zionism was a riddle to his contemporaries. Even his closest friends were puzzled, not knowing where he drew this faith from. For some unknown reason he did not strive to integrate into the Gentile society around him; yet he had not been brought up in the bosom of Jewish, national–religious culture or in Hebrew literature. For what reason did he did not aspire to the respectable positions that he turned down when they were offered to him? Why did he prefer to live in a remote, impoverished town, struggling together with his brethren until the end of his life? And from where did he draw that endless inspiration for his strong faith in Zionism and the Land of Israel?
The answers to these questions lie within the remarkable personality, full of inspiration, that was granted to him like the charm of the treasured additional soul[22]—a soul devoid of any selfish motives, dedicated completely to Zion.
His childhood and youth were spent in a village, in the company of Gentiles, but he distanced himself from them, always proclaiming to them, proudly and vehemently: “I am a Hebrew!” Herzl's writings had a profound influence on him. When he contemplated them it was as if he were listening to the beating of angels' wings.
The Dreyfus trial shocked him, too, and served as a turning point in his perspective. He came to the realization that there was only a single path for him—dedicating his life to the Zionist idea and to the Zionist movement.
As a student of pharmacology—for a period of seven years, until he received his degree—he excelled in the sciences, while the humanities were not to his liking and had no influence on him. Nor did he get any Jewish education in his parents' home. That is why it seemed that his Jewish awareness and his Zionist consciousness penetrated into his heart from some hidden, higher Power that shook him out of his tranquility.
It is difficult to analyze his personality dispassionately, for there was much of the irrational in his shift to Zionism and to his people. There were factors that were essentially emotional, unknown even to him and difficult for everyone else to comprehend.
It is a sacred duty for us to immortalize this man, who more than many others sacrificed his entire life on the altar of Zionism and the Land into which he himself did not live to enter. His life should be an instructive example to the younger generation, for it was the life of a noble spirit who was devoted to his people.
May his name be engraved in the annals of our people, among the names of those who paved the way for the establishment of the State of Israel.
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Below: the pharmacy[25] |
Translator's Footnotes
Yaakov Rimon
Translated by Allen Flusberg
My father and teacher[2], Rebbe[3] Ephraim Eliezer Granat z.tz.l.[4], who was a writer and poet, worked as a teacher. One time he was staying at a large estate to teach the owner's children Talmud[5]. He had taken along my brother, Yosef Tzvi, so that he could study with him. The adolescent Yosef Tzvi became very impressed by the natural beauty of the estate. The house he used to study in stood at the edge of the forest. The youth took many walks on the estate, looking at the fauna and flora; and that was when he began to write his first poems.
After my father returned from the estate to his permanent residence in Dobrzyn on the Dreventz River in Poland, he established and ran a Hebrew-language library, with the purpose of disseminating the Hebrew language in the Diaspora. It was then that the gates of Hebrew literature were opened to my brother Yosef Tzvi; he read a great deal and became proficient in our literature.
When he was 17 years old, my father sent him to study in the Yeshiva of Lida[6], which had been established by Rabbi Reines[7] z.tz.l., the founder of Mizrachi, the Religious Zionist movement. My father, who was an ardent follower of Chovevei Tzion[8], was one of the first to join him and stand at his side. At that time my brother Yosef Tzvi published his first poem in Perachim, a monthly publication for young people, edited by Y.B. Levner[9].
From Lida my brother traveled to Warsaw, where he first met the well-known writer and thinker R.[10] Hillel Zeitlin[11] h.y.d.[12] In one of his letters to me, the poet Aaron Zeitlin[13], who now lives in New York, has described the very first meeting between my brother and his father. One day a shy young lad, a dreamer, comes up to R. Hillel Zeitlin, h.y.d., holding a notebook of poems in his hand. With great modesty and humility, the lad hands the notebook to R. Hillel, who reads it and is impressed with my brother's writings, and from that time onward he kept close with him. The poet Aaron Zeitlin establishes in his letter that that particular meeting became deeply engraved in his heart.
From Warsaw my brother the poet came on Aliya in 1908 to the Land of Israel, where he was appointed to the position of secretary of “Kollel Varsha”[14] in Jerusalem. Mrs. Leah Zeliger, the wife of Rabbi Yosef Zeliger z.l.[15], helped my brother publish his first collection of poems, “Leket”, which made a great impression at that time; and Eliezer ben Yehuda[16], who had brought the Hebrew language back to life, praised it and devoted several enthusiastic lines to my brother in his newspaper.
Being a secretary did not satisfy my brother; the poetry within him burst out of its confines and demanded more space. He moved from the capital city to Yafo and was given a position as a teacher in the religious elementary school “Tachkemoni”. In the publications of the school library two booklets appear: one is the first booklet of his poems; and the second, “Chalomot Hayaldut”[17], contains stories by Hermann Schwab[18], translated by him [my brother] from German.
One day he was called to Haifa to administer the municipal Hebrew library there, and during this period my father sent him letters concerning the ethics of Judaism and the essence of faith and religion. These letters later served as the first book by my father z.tz.l., “Nachalat Ephraim”, which was published by Pinchas Ben-Tzvi Grayevsky in Jerusalem. This book by my father received a special citation, including the reprinting of several of its chapters, in the book “Sefer Hamaalot” by Eliezer Steinman.
These letters strengthened religious sentiments in my brother's heart, deepening and reinforcing them. At that time my brother published his poem “Echad” in “Hatarbut Hayisraelit”, which was edited by the writer A.Z. Rabinowitz[19], who liked him and became very close with him. This poem, which incorporated a poem of praise to the Oneness of the Holy One, Blessed be He, is reminiscent, in its expressive power and its religious-intellectual perception, of Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Gabirol, the author of the poem “Keter Malchut”[20]. Yosef Chaim Brenner[21] was very moved and impressed by this powerful work; he asked my brother over and they collaborated on “Achdut”, which he edited. My brother wrote a second poem, “Halevana Hameta”, which was published in the literary collection “Jezreel”, edited by A.Z. Rabinowitz. Readers of Hebrew poetry were impressed by this one, as well, and my brother became famous as a poet of mysticism.
From Haifa my brother moved to Petah-Tikva, where he was given a position as a teacher in the school “Netzach Yisrael”, under the administration of Rabbi Dr. Auerbach. It was then that he published his third booklet of poems, “Bamachazeh”.
During the Incidents of 5681[22] he was gravely wounded by Arab rioters while he was traveling on foot from Petah-Tikva to Tel-Aviv. Since then he remained disabled, suffering in tremendous pain. He began roaming around the country, going from one end of the Land to the other. He wandered from kibbutz to kibbutz and from one agricultural settlement to another, communing along the way with beautiful vistas of the Land, the land of his life. And it was then that he wrote and published his marvelous poems on the sights of the Land, with much descriptiveness and with a feeling of unbounded love for the homeland.
During that period he told me the following story: On one of his hikes in the mountains of Upper Galilee, while he was lost in contemplation of the ancient poet's feelings, “Hadur Naeh, Ziv Haolam, Nafshi Cholat Ahavatecha”[23]—and he was utterly elevated by the towering splendor of the Living God, Fashioner of Creation—he came upon an Arab horseman[24] along the way. The sun was setting, and there was no one there except for the two of them. My brother Yosef understood the precariousness of his situation, and this is what he told me: “I thought I would end up like Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, who was trampled by an Arab horseman, and I prepared to die. I raised my hands and waved them towards Heaven. My lips did not cease praying to my Father in Heaven. As my heart burnt with love of Heaven I became immune and strengthened, and I cried out from the depths of my heart, 'Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One!' And wonder of wonders: the Arab horseman remained where he was, not approaching me, and called out 'Allah Akbar' (Great God), 'Nabi' (prophet). Off he went, into the mountain ranges, and in this manner I was saved from death.”
In his wanderings he reached Safed, city of the kabbalists, where he secluded himself in the “Ari” synagogue[25] for three years, not once stepping outside into daylight. During this period he went through the entire Zohar and the Talmud, and he published mystical poems under an additional name “Eliyahu” [Elijah], signing them “Yosef Tzvi-Eliyahu”. And at the end of the three years he stopped using this added name.
Like an ancient poet he traveled through the country; like the author of “Yedid nefesh, av harachaman, meshoch avdach el retzonach”[26] he fulfilled, with awe and deep meditation, the concept of “yarutz avdach kemo ayal, yishtachave el mul hadarach”[27]; like a hart he ran through the expanses of the country, living within the panoramas of the Land of Israel, and all for a single intended purpose: to bow before the Splendor of God, before the Majesty and Name of the world's Creator.
The poems that my brother published, after his tragic calamity, in the magazine “Hedim”, edited by Asher Barash and Yaakov Rabinowitz, are the inalienable assets, with unalterable value, of lyrical Hebrew poetry and intellectual-religious philosophy. He weeps over his fate, but without any complaints against God Above. He accepts his destiny—all the evil and suffering that has been visited upon him—with love, with the fervor of faith and the strength of trust in God, from Whom all things originate.
In his longing for Zion, in his poems that are filled with messianic yearnings, my brother was, in our generation, like Rabbi Yehuda Halevi[28] in his generation; in his intellectual-religious outlook he was like Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Gabirol[29]; and in his mysticism, solitude and seclusion, he was like a spark of Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto[30].
Within the choir of Hebrew poets, he stands alone and apart with a tone that is unique. His poetry is ardent in its intense, pure faith in the God of Israel, and in devotion to the world's Creator.
As fate would have it, my brother's religious poems were adopted by the secular and not by the religious community, which is mainly concerned with Torah literature and has not yet felt free to adopt religious poetry of our times. It was “Am Oved”[31] that published my brother's poems, arranged and concentrated in a single volume, under the name “Ketarim”; the introduction was written by the deceased writer Yaakov Rabinowitz and the poet Avraham Kariv.
When my brother left the Ari Synagogue in Safed, after he ended his three years of seclusion, he headed for Jerusalem and frequented the house and Yeshiva of Rabbi Kook z.tz.l., Chief Rabbi of the Land of Israel. Rabbi Kook, who greatly esteemed my brother for his poetry and his persona, induced him to write about the Bible; and as a result of this influence, my brother wrote his Biblical commentaries, which have appeared in several published booklets.
Already during his youth I was fortunate enough to observe him on many occasions during his moments of creativity. When he was a young man he would come to my room and seclude himself there. He would compose his poem while the paper was in place on the table and the pen was in his hand, as he walked back and forth in the room, humming an original tune that had been fashioned on the spot for the purpose of writing down the poem; the tune was filled with fervor and utmost devotion. Every now and then, as he was pacing and humming, he would go over to the table and write down another poetic line, until he completed the entire poem. I would sit in a corner, observing and listening. During the moments of composition my brother's face would radiate with happiness; his eyes, glowing like lamps, were illuminated by a fervent heart and flooded with a brilliant galaxy of poetic emotion. And then he would read the poem back to himself, and once he saw that what he had constructed was good, his face radiated with the joy of creation. At that time the spectacle would give me intense spiritual pleasure, and the glow of my brother's image during his moments of composition have remained engraved on my heart. My brother composed many tunes for his poems, the work of an anonymous, improvising musical composer—tunes that came and went, never to return, yet had generated lofty creations that will endure for generations.
My brother Yosef Tzvi was taciturn: all closed up within himself, completely bound up under the wings of the Divine Presence, absorbed in thought, shut up within the sanctuary of his vision. He hardly ever spoke, as if he had taken a vow of silence. When someone asked him a question, he would answer it directly; and then he would enclose himself once more in his silence.
In the last few years my brother returned to his family nest: to his wife, his daughter and his only son; and since then he found rest for his spirit that had been wearied by his extensive wanderings. He moved in with them in the Yad-Eliyahu neighborhood of Tel Aviv, where he was appointed a Bible lecturer in the “Ateret Zekenim” Yeshiva, located in the largest synagogue of the area. His grandchildren gave him great pleasure and were a source of encouragement.
When I would open the door to his room and he would notice me, he would greet me by calling out my name with an inner joy; he would ask how my family and I were doing, and then he would sink back into silence. And when I succeeded in eliciting a response, his words were balanced and gentle, spoken with pleasure and graceful humility, with simplicity and purity of heart. His words would touch my heart like the dew of life as I sat before him like a student before his rabbi, with veneration and reverence.
In his life and deeds he was a hidden saint. His agony purified him and made him holy. His poetry—filled with holiness, sanctified completely to God—elevated him to the highest Spheres of Heaven, in the ladders of the Zohar and mysticism; for he was indeed one of the most remarkable individuals of our times. May the memory of the righteous be a blessing.
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| The poet R. Yosef Tzvi Rimon[32] |
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| The President Y. Ben Tzvi Prize is awarded to the poet Yosef Tzvi Rimon[33] |
Translator's Footnotes
by Yosef Tzvi Rimon)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
| 1 |
| Why do you weep, my heart, for your sanctuary's ruins? The tempest was great—did the tempest enrage you? The Shekhina[2] sheared the hair of Her head from sorrow, Calling you too for rebuke as Her anointed.[3] She took hold of you like a thief on Her mountains, She tormented you, saying, I too am tormented. She raved when you looked and shouted From anger, from pain; and did you not know how to betray? Woe! Darkness from day to day, and under God's wings; where can I find refuge from the storm?...
He casts reproach upon his angels[4], and I in his bosom |
| 2 |
| Did You fall ill like a human, O God, That You fashioned Your creations of Genesis slowly? You designated the days: good, And one of them: very good,—[6] And Man betrayed… Wisdom, which is a song, was violated, And chaos surrounded life![7] The Woman's cherubic image, violated; No water and no ark, And the world is weary… No redemption for the light, Nor does the world enter wisdom's gates: There is no measure for the evil in it, And God's curse in Satan's apparel Walks about wearily… Desire, Man, and betray! Or please desire and love!... Discipline not to be spurned[8] Is surely spurned, Even the land is not to be built— Evil, evil, evil… |
| 3 |
| In vain heaven's blue was poured out, My agony is mute, The prophetic hummingbird[9] foretold falsely— My day accursed! Trees bewildered by the tempest— My soul weary. Who will give me light, console me— I am faint.
Play, my harp, play, musician!
The moon concealed in me its venom, |
Translator's Footnotes
by Shmuel Meiri (Minivski)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
My mother, Beila, who was the daughter of: R. Ber Kristal, a torah scribe from Dobrzyn[3], was married to my father, Meir Minivski z.l. of Rypin. Together they established a faithful household in the spirit of Jewish-Zionist tradition. My father, who excelled with the industriousness of a working man, established a flourishing household for his four daughters: Fradl, Sarah Leah, Esther Devora z.l., and Ruhama; and for his only son Shmuel Avraham, may he live a long life[4]. My father was a visionary who viewed religious Zionism as paramount, and it was in this spirit that he educated the members of his family.
I can still recall that day when members of the community gathered together in the synagogue of Rypin[5], during the massacres of 1921[6], how my father cried bitterly, moaning and speaking broken-heartedly…and how he read the Scroll of Destruction[7] at home, sitting on an overturned mourning stool, as I listened to his reading with misty eyes…
My father's house was open to many guests, to lecturers and speakers of the Religious-Zionist “Mizrachi”[8] of those days: the rabbis Kowalsky from Wloclawek[9] and Broida from Lipno[10], z.l., who ceremoniously assembled a large crowd in our house, to work for the success of Zionist fundraising and to encourage Aliya to the Land [of Israel]. My father, in whose heart there burned a fire of love for his homeland and people, lit the flame of longing for the Land in the souls of his household members, as well. And our hearts did indeed languish for a Zionist-Pioneer fulfillment.
With all his might, my father passionately dedicated himself to organizing a Hebrew school, in the spirit of the Jewish-Zionist tradition. His entire ideal was to educate us in the bosom of the pure spirit of the Jewish people: Torah and Destiny.
He was a hard worker, imbued with the recognition of the value of labor; a person of great inspiration and national vision, who had the courage to send his only son, when he reached the age of 13, to the Rabbinical Seminary in Warsaw, and later to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He did not live to see me become an educator and principal of a mamlachti[11] school in Israel, the fulfillment of his ideal.
I remember how my mother Beila z.l. would wave her gentle, pure hands while she lit the candles on Sabbath Eve. She would move her hands in circles around the flames and reverently insert pennies into the blue charity box of the Jewish National Fund.
How fervently and with what trepidation did she study Tze'ena Ur'ena[12], immersing herself completely in the legendary stories and the homilies, encompassed by a spirit of holiness. It was a legacy from her father, the scribe.
My sisters: Fradl the eldest, with her two little children and her husband; and also Sarah Leah and Esther Devora, trainees in the Shomer Hatzair[13], z.l., all perished in the Holocaust…
…For this reason does my soul grieve with sorrow, and there is no one to comfort me. Let these pages therefore be a selflessly established monument, preserved for future times:
“And I shall give them a memorial in My house and within My walls…an everlasting name shall I give them that shall not be cut off.”[14]
[Page 210]
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| The Meiri (Miniwski) family: his parents and sisters[15] |
Translator's Footnotes
by his Nephew, Avraham Dor (Dobroszklanka)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
R.[3] Yeshayahu “the Great” (the Great R. Shaya [in Yiddish]), or “the Nistar”—this was his nickname in our town. He was known by this name even in the surrounding areas near and far. He owned a store for buying and selling metal; it was managed by his sons, but he himself sat day and night studying Torah. He submerged himself in the Talmud and the Poskim[4]. He was writing emendations and comments, as we later discovered in the margins of his various volumes of Talmud. He was an avid Hassid in the court of Warka[5]. He would spend much of his time near the Rebbe[6], in his court for months at a time, discussing the foremost religious issues of the day with him.
Accepted as he was by the people of Dobrzyn as the local rabbinic authority, he had set up a kind of rabbinical seat; many of the townspeople would come to him frequently [for religious advice]. When Rabbi Yehuda Leib Sonabend[7] was appointed Rabbi of Dobrzyn, he [Yeshayahu] was also appointed a member of the religious court; and there was no din-Torah[8] or religious meeting that he did not participate in.
He was very concerned about proper family life. When a case of a family quarrel was brought before him, he would invite the two sides over to him, not letting them leave until he had made peace between them. And under his influence they put an end to the town card game that had had an especially damaging effect on family life.
He had a wide following of admirers among the townspeople, particularly from among the various groups of Hassidim. They used to come to listen to the religious talks and Talmud classes that he gave on a weekly basis in his shtibl[9].
To this very day the memory of R. Yeshayahu “the Great” accompanies his descendants, who recall him with pride and veneration. His image is bound up with the town of Dobrzyn, whose best and finest have been wiped out.
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| The son of R. Yeshayahu “the Great”, R. Zalman Dobroszklanka[10] |
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| The daughter-in-law of R. Yeshayahu “the Great”, Malka Dobroszklanka[11] |
Translator's Footnotes
Yaakov Rimon
Translated by Allen Flusberg
One of the distinguished Jews of Dobrzyn, a lover of Zion, active in Zionism and community affairs. The administration head of the charity funding of Dobrzyn; the gabbai[2] of the synagogue of the Hassidim of Warka-Otwock[3]; a dauntless warrior for the Zionist funds. Every Yom Kippur Eve he fought to put up a donation bowl to benefit the Jewish National Fund. An honest man, modest and humble. All his life he yearned to go on Aliya to the Land of Israel, and after the events of 1921[4] he went on Aliya with his daughter. For several weeks he was a guest at the apartment of Yechiel Bunim Granat-Rimon, and afterwards he moved into a large house that he bought, located on Gedud Haivri Street in Tel Aviv. One of his sons, who is now abroad [outside Israel], ran his household. May his memory be a blessing!
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| R.[5] Laks, Hirsh Wolff, one of the founders of the “Mizrachi”[6] in Dobrzyn[7] |
Translator's Footnotes
Rivka Shapira (Horowitz)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I will never forget the friends that I grew up with in our town, and how we spent time together dreaming about aliya[2] to the Land of Israel. I will never forget how we girls would gather together every evening in the “Beit Yaakov” building, in the presence of Pesya Gutmorgen, our lovely, modest teacher, whom everyone in the town was fond of. How we enjoyed those meetings—whether it was a Bible class, an open discussion, or a game. And sometimes we would sit around, singing late into the night; or we would carry on, the way young girls do.
Every Sabbath we would gather before evening for “Shalosh Seudot”[3]. We would sit around a table, set appropriately with an abundance of delicacies and treats. Pesya Gutmorgen sat at the head of the table, giving a talk on “Parshat Hashavua”[4], while we girls lapped up her words with relish. We felt engulfed with peace and serenity. We would start singing as soon as her talk ended, and then we would finish by dancing. It was a kind of harbinger of a good week to come.
Whenever my thoughts turn to my childhood I recall these friends of mine, envisioning them before my eyes. One in particular stands out, a close friend whose image has been with me all these years since I left Dobrzyn—Chana Kadecki.
She was the daughter of wealthy parents. We were bound together in a very close, devoted friendship. When they began distributing aliya certificates to the Agudat Yisrael[5] girls, they set up hachsharot[6] for girls in Warsaw and Lodz. Chana Kadecki also wanted to go on hachshara[7], but only if we would be together. And indeed in the end we did go to Lodz together. However, when it actually came to immigrating, I wound up going to Israel by myself; it was not possible to obtain two travel visas, nor were her parents in a hurry to agree to let her go.
After that she wrote me a great deal, letters abounding with love for the Land of Israel. To prepare for aliya she went to learn needlework, wishing to find means to support herself by working. She believed that she would join me in a matter of a few months. She believed it, but did not merit it…How unhappy I was! For together the two of us had dreamed about aliya to Israel as we strolled through the streets of the town, our thoughts taking us far, far away…
I left Dobryn in 1936, on a Sunday in the month of Tammuz[8]. Very early that morning we strode towards the Golub train station, a distance of several kilometers. I was accompanied by my dear family members and by my many girlfriends, tears in their eyes. The tears were tears of joy that I was going up to the Holy Land, and tears of sadness that they were remaining in the Exile. We parted, using the word lehitraot[9] to say goodbye; it did not occur to any of us that we would not see each other ever again…
May these words constitute an everlasting testimony for my family members and for my friends:
| Family members | Friends | |
| Altyna, Bina | ||
| My mother, Bayla Frumit | Groner, Tultza | |
| My brother, Yaakov | Grosman, Sara | |
| My brother, Avraham Yosef | Goldbruch, Hinda | |
| My sister, Hinda | Goldbruch, Yente | |
| My brother, Baruch Mendel | Kadecki, Chana[10] | |
| My sister, Hinda[11] | Frajlich, Esther | |
| My aunt, Chana | Rosenwaks, Gela | |
| My uncle, Mendel Gurfinkel | Szlecka, Henye |
Translator's Footnotes
by Their Son, Yaakov Kohn
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I recall that I was a small child when the First World War broke out. At that time we were staying in the summer home that was on my grandfather's property, Kwaśno, which is near Sierpc[2]. By disposition my father was fond of fields and trees, and so we would usually spend the summer months in Nature's bosom.
It was a time of war, and the information we were getting was frightening. The battle lines, which continued to move around, were approaching our vicinity. Several Jews from Dobrzyn were then staying with us on the farm: Isaac Shochet and his son-in-law Daniel; R. Yisrael Karpa the melamed[3] and his son Yosef Chaim; Januar and his wife; as well as others. Grandfather Meir'l and Grandmother Michle also joined us. Grandfather was a distinguished farmer; he had transferred his shops for construction materials and farming equipment to his sons, Mendel and Avraham Hirsh, while he himself was managing the Kwaśno and Kowiziniec farms.
What we were dreading came to pass! The war came closer, disturbing the bucolic serenity with terrifying reverberations of shots and explosions. We were frightened for our lives. To avoid being hit by bullets we stretched out on the floor, eating just the small portions of food that one of the workers was risking his life to bring us.
The farm passed back and forth between the two sides: first the Russians seized the area, but very quickly they retreated and the Germans took their place. We tried to maintain good relations with each of them, making sure to provide food to the hungry soldiers.
But one cannot maintain immunity indefinitely! In the end my father was accused of espionage. This took place during a seudat mitzvah[4] that my father gave, as he usually did, on the Yahrzeit[5] date of Rebbe Yismach Yisrael[6], an Aleksander Hassid; for our family also belonged to this group. Suddenly Russian soldiers, headed by an officer, came in. They accused my father of spying for the Germans, which was a wicked slander. Our miller, Shevikowski, who wanted to get back at my father, was the one who had slandered us. After a great deal of effort we were able to get my father released. And once the Germans returned and conquered the entire area, we all went back to our town, Dobrzyn.
Translator's Footnotes
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