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[Page 83]
During the Years of the First World War[1]
by Leah Bobrowski-Aloni (Tel Aviv)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Total Mobilization
I can still recall the day on which the First World War broke out in August 1914; and I remember the day they announced a total mobilization, throughout all of Russia, including, of course, our town Kamenetz-Litowsk and its vicinity.
A large number of wagons arrived from the surrounding villages to transport the men who had been mobilized to the train station in Žabinka, located about 20km from our town.
It was disturbing to watch so many people saying goodbye to each other in tears. Once the wagons began leaving to take the men away, those left behind wept much more loudly. Everyone was crying out: “God in Heaven—who knows if we will live to see our dear ones again when they return from the war”. And indeed, many did not come back, among them fathers of infants and small children.
Those not quite old enough to be drafted into the armed forces were taken away to labor at excavation and fortification construction, whether nearby or far away. Most of these did return home, glad to still be alive.
And in this way Kamenetz very slowly began to get used to a state of war.
Aid to the Refugees
When Jewish refugees from towns that were near the front began passing through Kamenetz-Litowsk on their way to the Russian interior, they stayed over in Kamenetz for a while. The Jews of Kamenetz rose to the challenge, to make sure these people found lodging and food during their stay in our town.
Our town Kamenetz was not blessed with restaurants, and the taverns of our town were meant for farmers from the surrounding villages. The Jews were not accustomed to eating in taverns that sold mostly liquor, whiskey, salted fish and similar items.
The caravans of refugees were directed to the hallways of the synagogues and the shtiblach [small prayer rooms] that adjoined them. No fund for refugee aid existed. The entire burden of arranging care for the refugees fell upon the townspeople who lived near the synagogue. In practice, this is what happened: every family that could prepared a hot meal with bread and vegetables on a daily basis, serving it to the refugees, wherever they were.
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One evening, when our father returned from the synagogue after the evening prayer, he told us that a group of refugees, including women and children, had just arrived in town, and had been put up in “Shepsil's Beit Midrash” [House of Study]. Our father urged us to quickly prepare a cooked dish with potatoes in the largest pots we had in the house. And he hurried out to purchase loaves of bread, salted fish and more.
Right away we all joined forces to help, and meanwhile our father returned with all the necessities he had bought. Everything was ready for a dinner meal. We added tea and hot cocoa for dessert. We brought along plates, spoons, forks and knives; and, bearing all this “cargo”, we set off to the place where the refugees were being housed—the Beit Midrash named after Shepsil.
Most of the families who lived nearby did the same, each according to its generosity, ability and available supplies. And in this way the Jews of Kamenetz welcomed all the refugees who had left their homes for a new haven, out there in the great Russian Steppes.
The Front Draws Near
In the first year of the war we did not experience any notable suffering in our town. Most of the Kamenetz residents were able to make a living in spite of the war. A few of the merchants were actually expanding their business and growing rich from their profits.
Starting July 1915, however, we began to notice that the front was approaching. Every night we would hear cannons thundering in the distance. And there were rumors going around in our town about atrocities committed by the Cossacks against the Jewish population.
Most of the Christians who lived in and around Kamenetz hurriedly left their homes, heading out on journeys to towns and villages in the interior of Russia. But when we Jews tried to leave the town to get farther away from the front, we came up against a great number of difficulties. The civil and military authorities did not grant us permission to leave, and even prohibited us from traveling by train. Meanwhile caravans of refugees from nearby towns and villages were reaching us. The fear of what lay ahead and the rumors about what the Cossacks were doing preyed on our minds.
Within the Front
The thundering sounds of cannons were getting louder. On the horizon we could see smoke rising from fires; every night it looked as if the glowing skies themselves were on fire (from the actions of the retreating army). Our trepidation intensified every day.
Those who owned horses and wagons loaded as much of their belongings on them as they could, in spite of the prohibition, and set out from their homes without a clear destination in mind. The streets and roads leading away from town filled up and became more and more crowded. Soon we were all stuck in a traffic jam, unable to move forward or to find a place that we could turn into, while behind us and in front of us were the two warring army encampments. When the shots that were reaching us from nearby became unbearably intense, we abandoned the wagons that were loaded with all our belongings, and we fled for shelter from the bullets buzzing overhead.
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Most of the day was spent in an atmosphere of miraculous incidents. Bullets rained down on us from all directions without hitting us. Some of the bullets came to their “final resting place” inside pots of cooked food. And a truly incredible miracle occurred: a bullet passed right near the head of a Jewish man, tearing only the brim of his cap and leaving the rest of it undamaged.
The men, fathers of our families, sat on the ground, reading chapters of Psalms and praying all day long: “…God, hear my prayer, and may my cry reach You…”[2].
The Occupation of Kamenetz
At dusk battalions of the Austro-Hungarian army entered our town. They occupied the town and all the surrounding villages. We were saved, and we breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that the war had not harmed us so very badly. The townspeople came out into the streets to welcome the occupiers.
As they shouted victoriously, the soldiers were offered bread and salt, as well as other foods: a royal reception, “as befits a king”[3]. There was great joy, for we had been spared from the terrible Cossacks, who had been prevented from carrying out their heinous acts.
But in the middle of that night a great and bitter cry rang out from many of the houses of the town. The cries continued, growing even louder. We were terrified, afraid to open a door, to go outside and find out what was happening. It had to mean that the Cossacks had returned and retaken the town, and were now avenging themselves against everyone…
At dawn we found out the truth: the Hungarian soldiers who had been welcomed so royally when they had marched into town—those very same soldiers had come out at midnight to make home visits, robbing and pillaging.
Although all of these soldiers were given the ultimate punishment by their officers—they were sent to the front on that very day—we did not calm down for quite some time, remaining anxious day and night.
Slowly but surely, we made our peace with our adverse fortune. And once things had quieted down, the refugees we had been housing returned to their former abodes. Only a few families from Brest-Litowsk remained in Kamenetz; as we knew, the Russians had expelled all the Jews of Brest from the fortified city.
What the Front Gave Us
A short while after the occupation began our Kamenetz was overcome by a great disaster. A cholera epidemic raged through the town, killing many of the townspeople within a few short weeks. The disease moved from one house to the next, making all family members ill; and there were no doctors or medications, none whatsoever. Everyone was terrified, thinking his hours were numbered. We had no idea how to protect ourselves from this choli ra, which was indeed bad, worse than anything.[4]
We did hear about a singular cure that had been “discovered” nearby: “In the cemetery conduct a wedding ceremony for a couple who were about to get married, and the plague will cease…”
Once the front moved away from our area, the epidemic slowly diminished, and then it went away completely.
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But we were all in shock when we found out about the calamity that had befallen the family of my student, Avraham Shudroff. His young parents, Esther and Moshe, had both been stricken with cholera, and both of them passed away overnight. They left behind five children, now orphans, and the children's elderly grandmother.[5]
During the Occupation Period
An Austrian battalion replaced the Hungarian fighting battalion. For about eight months the Austrians scrupulously observed the rules of war. Their attitude to us Jews was tolerable. But we were cut off from all of the world, and especially from the business centers from which we had always been getting our supply of various provisions and clothing. Traveling from one town to another without a special permit was now strictly prohibited, and whoever tried to break this law was severely punished.
With no alternative, we began to take advantage of the potato fields and vegetable gardens that the farmers who had lived nearby had abandoned when they fled to Russia. To feed their families, the Jews of Kamenetz began ploughing and sowing, cultivating sections of farmland in the town and around it.
Meanwhile the shortage of clothing grew daily, especially for families with many children. Our dear mother was forced to unstitch our mattresses and to replace the mattress covers with jute fabric. From the old, soft mattress covers she sewed shirts for the boys, while for the girls she sewed dresses from the bedsheets, after first dyeing them blue. I decorated my sisters' dresses with Stars of David embroidered in red, with the addition of the word “Zion”—decorations they took great pride in.
Those families that had been supporting themselves with money that used to be sent to them from their husbands and other relatives in the United States were not able to receive any help from them during the years of occupation. They suffered more than anyone else, cut off from their loved ones during all those years.
Our Youth
Our enterprising young people set up a community kitchen for the needy. All of them committed themselves to collecting food that had been contributed from our town's “farmers”, and to collecting the townspeople's generous monetary contributions to support the community kitchen. In addition, many of the young people rolled their sleeves up to do volunteer work in the kitchen.
Members of the Drama Club set aside all income from the shows they were performing to support this kitchen, which was our pride and joy.
A large number of families obtained meals and other food from the community kitchen for many months, getting it all delivered to their homes—as much as they needed.
I would like to point out something special about this activity: our young people took pains to help even those who preferred to silently remain hungry, rather than ask for charity. For those families the food they needed was delivered to them covertly, as anonymous giving[6].
Translator's Footnotes
Kamenetz-Litowsk During the First World War[1]
by Yehudit Koscikiewicz-Grunt (Petah Tikva)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I remember the outbreak of the First World War, when I was less than 9 years old. Very quickly we found ourselves under Austrian rule, which afterwards was replaced by German rule. We hadn't yet come round when the cholera outbreak took place. I recall the panic that ensued, with no physicians and no medications. There was one particular night on which many Jews suddenly died. I remember it well because some of them were relatives of ours. Our partner Guterman died that night, leaving behind 3 daughters, now orphans, with no mother; they stayed with us for a while. In the Shudrowitzki (Shudroff) family both parents died that night, leaving behind 5 young boys, the youngest of whom was less than a year old. Their grandmother Malka Szczupak took them in.[2] They were not the only ones; many others died during this terrible epidemic. In spite of the great danger, the Jews of Kamenetz helped one another at that time, even though they did not know what the morrow might bring. And because of that I remember the devotion of our forefathers to each other, a quality that contributed a great deal to our upbringing.
I remember how after the cholera epidemic we had a typhus epidemic. This one also spread like lightning. At that time the Germans had already reopened the only government hospital that existed in Kamenetz, and they ordered that everyone who was ill should be brought to the hospital. Of course, since each family was taking care of small children, people were happy about this help, hoping that they would be cured and that further spread of the illness would be avoided. But very quickly we found out from the nurses and aides working in the hospital at the time that they were not giving the patients any medical help, but rather were abandoning each to whatever lay in store for him. Naturally after people heard this news, they stopped sending those who were sick to the hospital, in spite of the Germans' search of homes for typhus patients. The ill were cared for at home without any medication and with no physician. The primitive treatment was laying on cold sheets in the winter and on ice in the summer, but obviously the dedicated care of parents and family members saved many patients. I, too, was ill then, and for a long time I lay in a dark room; they hid the door to the room behind a cupboard when the Germans came by to search for ill people.
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When the typhus epidemic was spreading like wildfire through the town, many people fell ill. In our home. my brother Meir and my sister Rachel were sick. Then one night a fire broke out, and initially no one actually noticed the fire, which was rapidly spreading in three directions, and so no one came out to help put it out. The reason was that in those days there was a curfew in town confining us to our homes from 9 PM until 6 AM. Among the Germans on duty during the curfew was a guard named Putermann, a real villain. Many a time Putermann had used various subterfuges to nab curfew violators. He would seize people he had tricked into leaving their homes, bring them to the police station, and beat them fiercely. More than once someone was sent away for hard labor without his family members even knowing for a long time where he was; and many a time such arrested people would return broken, crushed and ill. So given Putermann's reputation for such tricks, the town residents did not rush out immediately when calls for help first rang out. But on that night the fire was real, and by the time people came out to help it was too late. The houses were all constructed of wood; the fire spread in three directions, and half the town burned down. The next morning, there we were with two typhus patients in the fields outside town. We had with us a few belongings that we had managed to rescue, but we had no roof over our heads. Half the townspeople were in the same situation. After a while some of the Jews decided to leave for nearby villages whose residents had fled to Russia when the war came and left their homes unoccupied.
The Jews who remained in the town and those who had moved to the villages became concerned about how they would make a living. The Kamenetz Jews were shopkeepers, traders and craftsmen. There were also big businessmen who were involved in exporting goods out of the country: for example, they would ship wood to Germany, as well as shrimp, eggs and various forest seeds. There were also two breweries in town, one in Zastavya and the other in Kamenetz proper; there was an oil factory and flour mills. The war had taken away their livelihoods. At first people went out into the fields to gather the grain and potatoes that the Gentiles had not had a chance to harvest before they had fled; and after there was nothing left to gather in the fields they began to sow and plant in order to grow crops and have something to eat.
And then a new kind of trouble came. Kamenetz was located near the Bialowieza Forest, whose woods—and particularly all the villages that were in these woods—were well known throughout Russia. The soldiers who had deserted and were left behind from the war were hiding out there. Among them were Bilachowic and Patalor gangs, as well as all kinds of bandits. For the most part they would roam at night in search of food; and in this manner they began to loot and kill. Among those who were killed by these murderers were two of my aunts: my father's sister Chasha Leder, and my mother's sister Chaya Gerber, and there were many other victims. Once these bandits actually came into our town. This situation continued until 1919, when the Poles arrived in our town.
In 1920 (albeit for only a short time, perhaps two months), Kamenetz also experienced the lightning war between Poland and Russia. The Jews of Kamenetz suffered then, as well, especially the young people. Some of these young people fled to Russia, while others were jailed and mistreated, suspected by the Poles of being Bolsheviks.
After this period the Poles took over our region and began to impose order. Everyone began to go back to work and to conduct business.
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The Kamenetz Jews were very devoted to one another, and the mutual aid was remarkable. Seeing this devotion was a major influence on our upbringing. Those of us still left alive recall many of the good qualities of our parents and of the people around us who were so dear to us.
We who were adolescents during the war went through a very difficult period then. Aside from periods of school cancellation that took place during the war, we went through crises of a different kind: for 4 or 5 years, each time a regime was replaced by a new one, we were forced to adapt to a new language of study. Except for Jewish studies, we switched from Russian to German and then from German to Polish. It is obvious that these changes impeded our progress in learning. Yet many of these adolescents attained great achievements, some by studying at home, others with the help of private teachers, and still others outside the home.
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Footnotes
Some of My Memories[1]
by Rabbi Yaakov Bobrowski (New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
During the period in which I was a yeshiva student, before the new Kamenetz Yeshiva building had been built, we studied in the Beit Midrash [House of Study] HaChoma[2]. One summer day, at dusk, between the Mincha [afternoon] and Maariv [evening] prayer services, I was sitting near the window. As I gazed through it, I saw a crystal-clear sky merging with the forests and the river on the horizon. And I, so young, was completely captivated by the beauty of nature: Earth and Heaven “that You established”[3], God of Israel…
And so, although deeply engrossed in the world of the mind—pondering the profundities of the back-and-forth exchange of views within the section of Talmud I was studying—I now felt uplifted as I also contemplated the strength and power of the Creator of the Universe—“The heavens recount the glory of God, and the firmament tells of His deeds”[4];…But all at once Rabbi Baruch Ber[5], Head of the Yeshiva, was standing next to me. And when he perceived the depth of my contemplation and the inspiration I was feeling, he spoke to me with admiration: “Happy are you, Yaakov, and fortunate, that you were born in this charming little town. Now I understand why Kamenetz has so many scholars who are native to this place. It is because Nature and Torah become integrated here, elevating one another. 'Your very air's alive with souls'[6]. These clear skies, this fruitful earth—these are what produced all these prodigies: the author of Birkat Rosh[7]; Rabbi David Karlin[8], author of Yad David, a commentary on the Rambam[9]; and the Prodigy of Tavrik[10], who served as Rabbi and Head of the Yeshiva Mercaz HaRav[11].”
Indeed, it was in this atmosphere that my parents were born and raised, and it was within this aura that all the residents of Kamenetz-Litowsk, Zastavya and the Colonies lived.
My father, R. Avraham, of blessed memory, had not had any opportunity to complete his studies, in spite of his many talents. The economic situation of his family had prevented him from being “exiled to a place of Torah”. As a villager he was forced to engage in garden and field work. Yet all his life a love for Torah and for the wisdom of Israel was lodged within him. He found an outlet by ensuring his sons and daughters were well-versed in Torah. His sons he sent to yeshivas; and by hiring private teachers in Kamenetz he educated his daughters in both Hebrew and general studies.
When the yeshiva Knesset Beit Yitzhak moved from Vilna to Kamenetz, my father worked hard in support of the yeshiva. When Rabbi Baruch Ber and Rabbi Grozowski left on a mission to America, my father was given the task of overseeing building the rabbi's house. My father fulfilled this task with devotion and dedication—with no desire to benefit from it.
At that time, I was studying at the Beit Yosef Yeshiva[12] in Bialystok[13]. One day Rabbi Baruch Ber invited my father over to his house and suggested bringing me back to Kamenetz to study in the Knesset Beit Yitzhak yeshiva. Rabbi Baruch Ber proposed that he himself would guide and supervise me during my studies in the yeshiva, as a way of thanking my father for all he had done for the yeshiva. And thus, thanks to my father, I was destined to become one of the students of the prodigious Rabbi Baruch Ber.
My mother was a gentle person with lofty ideals. All her life she devoted herself to improving her children's lot. Her love for us reached the level of self-sacrifice. I still recall the following: when the Second World War broke out, I had been drafted into the Polish army, and I was near sites of battles against the accursed Nazis. In 1939, on the holiday of Hoshana Rabba[14], I went over to my parents' house in Kamenetz. We discussed the prevailing chaotic situation that was approaching us. And then we heard that all the yeshivas in the area were about to move and to converge on Vilna, the “Jerusalem of Lithuania”[15]. My mother begged me to leave Kamenetz immediately and to join up with the Mir[16] yeshiva students. “There you will be rescued from death and destruction,” she said. Since my mother was seriously ill at that time, I was reluctant to abandon her in the depressed state she was in (three months before her death). My mother realized this and said, “I am ordering you to fulfil the commandment of honoring your mother by obeying me when I tell you to leave here at once. Your father also agrees with me.”
The very next day I said goodbye to my mother and father, as well as everyone else. I left my home and family forever…
Footnotes
Memoirs from My Home
and from the Town Kamenetz–Litowsk[1]
by Pinḥas Ravid-Rudnicki, (Haifa, Kiryat Eliezer)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
The town of Kamenetz, known as Kamenetz–Litowsk, lies approximately 40km away from Brisk [Brest] on the Bug River, in Poland (presently in Russia [2]). Its name came from the large number of stones (kamień = stone in Polish) it was endowed with, and it is no wonder that all its inner roads were paved with stones. Standing gloriously within the town was a tall, circular brick tower, about which people had spun various yarns. One was that it had been built at the command of a nobleman who had invested his entire inheritance in it. This tower (which was called the Sloop in the local language), also served as a lookout and fortress for warring armies before the Polish state had been reestablished. From a different perspective, this tower served as a derogatory name for the Jewish populace of the town: if an outsider wanted to tease or insult a Kamenetz resident or to make fun of his vanity, all he had to do was to refer to him as a “Kamenetz sloop”.
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Standing: Mendel Szczytnitski, Baruch Ostron, Tuvia Savitzki, Chaim Zlotnik. Sitting: A Kotik, A.Y. Bleichbord, Shmaryahu Solnitza, Zelig Trestinitzer, Y. Greenblatt. |
[Page 93]
The population of the town, nearly all of which was Jewish, amounted to around 7000 residents (of which there were about 500 Jewish families). Its Christian residents lived on a particular street that we called die Goyeshe Gass–that is, Gentile Street. The relationship between the two communities was completely proper, and so the Jewish community lived in peace and quiet. Two rows of wooden buildings, all in the same style, stood out in the center of town. They included a haberdashery, a grocery, a merchandise store, a paint store, iron store and the like. The vast majority of the Jewish population made its living from trade, but a significant number were craftsmen: tailors, shoemakers, saddlers, tanners, etc. The residents looked forward to Thursday–the weekly market day–and especially to the yeridim [market fairs], during which farmers from nearby villages flocked into town to sell their wares and to make all their purchases at once. These were the days of “recovery” for the town residents. However, there was also a slow season during summer, when the farmers were busy harvesting their crop. During that period the shopkeepers would sit around at their market stalls yawning in boredom, with nothing to do.
Like every typical small town in Poland, Kamenetz had its wealthy, its poor and its middle class. In any event no one who lived there was starving, since the concern to provide for others was very well developed in the town. Collecting money and organizing various funds for philanthropic purposes were some of the virtues of the Jews of the town. More than once the Sabbath Torah reading was interrupted in the synagogue [3] until a committee was formed to provide for various needy people. Feelings of mutual care and concern about others were well developed among the residents. There was also an institution in the town, Linat Tzedek, whose purpose was to provide aid and medical equipment for ill people with limited means.
There were no modern schools in the town. Most of the boys were educated in cheders, talmud torah, and yeshiva [4]; and alternatively, by private teachers, some with no degree. By contrast, the girls were sent to the Polish public school (Powszechna) [5]. After some time had passed, steps were taken to establish a Tarbut Hebrew school and a kindergarten; and several boys and girls were sent to the nearby city of Brisk [Brest] to continue their studies in the Tarbut Gymnasia [6]. The thirst for knowledge awakened a desire among the young people of the town to obtain a higher education on their own; their self–development was helped substantially by a community library that was supervised by the local Zionist movement. In addition to the young people, adults who aspired to higher education in Hebrew, Yiddish, Polish and Russian also used the library.
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However, the highlight of the town's community life was undoubtedly the Zionist parties, especially the pioneer youth movements, which included the best of the local youth: those who were seeking an outlet for their secret desire, their yearning to free themselves from the narrow framework of their lives. They aspired to begin a new life–a creative life in the land of our forefathers. Among the parties the following stood out: Hitachdut Tz.S. [7], Poalei Tzion Yamin [8], and General Zionists [9]. And from among the youth movements: Gordonia [10], Freiheit [11], and Beitar [12]. Within the youth clubs you could have met on a daily basis groups that were preparing themselves for a pioneering life in the Land of Israel. More than a few of them went off to training camps, where they spent several years until they could immigrate to Israel. The fact that a sizable fraction of the young people, pressed for time, did immigrate to North and South America, cannot be denied. However, the great majority of the young people who obtained a Zionist and pioneer education preferred to immigrate to the Land of Israel. I recall that when someone was fortunate enough to obtain a certificate [entry visa] or a “request” from the Land of Israel, his joy was unbridled–and how his friends would be jealous of him, that he had managed to leave our secluded little town. The farewell parties that were held for these emigrants brought out the bond the young people had for the Land of Israel.
Since I was one of the founders and one of the instructors of the Gordonia movement, it is only natural that most of my memories are concentrated around this movement. It was preceded by HaPina HaIvrit [the Hebrew Corner], which was founded by a small group of young people with the goal of increasing use of the Hebrew language among its members in practice. HaPina did not last very long because it did not have the right atmosphere and because it lacked the older generation's communal support. The absence of a local Hebrew school was an additional factor that led to its collapse. In the year 1926, if I remember correctly, the Gordonia youth movement was established. From the time it was founded, this movement was viewed positively by most of the young people of the town, who found their way to it and joined as members. A wide range of cultural and social activities took place within it; and a sizeable fraction of its members went off for training and even immigrated to Israel by various routes. A visit to our branch by a representative of the head office always turned into a major town event: the branch leadership would make sure to arrange a public lecture on a timely subject, and this lecture would draw a large audience. Valid pioneer Zionist activities within this movement, and similarly in other youth movements, also made their mark in circles of the older generation, most of whom had initially looked on them unsympathetically and had some reservations about the Zionist movement altogether—fearing that the boys would, God forbid, want to move away from the path of righteousness. But with the decline of the economic situation of the Jewish population in the State of Poland in general, and in the smaller towns in particular—as a result of the official economic policy—the attitude toward the pioneer youth who “dared” to bring nearer the messianic–like time of Jewish salvation [13], became more favorable…
I will not forget the first time I left for training in the Volyn Region [14]. While I had been there for a while, I received a letter from home, in which they wrote that one of my closest friends, who had recently gone on aliya to the Land of Israel with the goal of settling there, had returned and was giving the Land a bad name in our town. This news got me so upset that when I returned home I refused to get together with the yored [15] and stayed away from him completely.
Innumerable difficulties piled up one after another when it came to my immigrating–the most problematic was the small number of available certificates. I stayed home, waiting, for a number of years, while my passport was renewed over and over again; and finally, I went out for hachshara [training] in Zaglębie [16], until I managed to immigrate to Israel in 1938, just one week after the Nazis entered Vienna. But I was still around long enough to see Polish students in Warsaw attacking Jews and plucking their beards out; and in Vienna, which we passed through on the way to Trieste, we saw the fluttering swastikas and experienced the refusal of the residents to serve us water to drink.
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After I had lived for half a year in the kvutza [communal agricultural village] Ma'ale HaḤamisha (then known as “Ma'ale”) [17], and afterwards in the moshava [agricultural village with private property] Karkur [18], bad news began arriving from home—then news of annihilation with the outbreak of World War II and the entry of the Germans into Poland. Our communications with home were cut off for a while, but were renewed with the entry of the Red Army into that area as a result of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Agreement [19]. The postcards and letters I received from there foretold how the previous life of the town was coming to an end, but it did not occur to us that they were about to be completely annihilated. These letters, which I still have in my possession, are a faithful testament to their lives at the end, before they were sent on their final journey to death. Communications with home were cut off completely once the Red Army retreated and Nazi Germany took over all parts of Poland. The fate of my family members was like that of the other Jewish residents of Kamenetz and of all of Poland, a fate dictated by the Nazi beast of prey—with the exception of one brother and one sister and their families, who had been in Argentina for some time. And miraculously my niece Dvora survived the Auschwitz concentration camp; she came to Israel first and is now with her family in the United States [20]; while her father—my brother Yoel, of blessed memory—perished in the Pruzhany Ghetto [21], according to what I have been told.
Kamenetz, My Town, I Will Surely Remember You
Like from within a nightmare, you spring forth and appear before my eyes—you, my serene little town. Days pass, years go by, and every now and then you come to mind again. It is indeed difficult to think back to that era. It is very much like picking at an old wound that has healed outwardly and gone away. In reality, however, it does not heal and never ever gets better. As the years go by, the years since the calamity that was visited upon you, my town, and upon the other Jewish habitations in the occupied countries—so does the magnitude of the heinous crime stand out even more before us, a crime that was inflicted on the myriads and millions of our people by a supposedly cultured, enlightened nation. This slaughter, perpetrated in cold blood and with thorough planning to commit genocide, will never be forgotten; and the mark of Cain on the brows of those guilty of the murder will not easily be removed, perhaps not ever.
I will surely remember your quiet, serene Jewish community life from before the Holocaust; is it even necessary to recapture each and every detail of the exuberant life of that era? When I think back upon you, I see you as if you are still alive: the life of the town, with all its lights and shadows, its organizations and institutions, its leaders and active members, all come back to me; a life of culture and educational institutions, parties and Zionist pioneer youth movements, a diverse rainbow of various types in the town, etc. All these were expressions of the Jewish community life in Kamenetz and Zastavya.
[Page 96]
Indeed, my little town, living in you was like being in a quiet river whose waters flow gently, with no concern about a coming storm. Under these conditions of serenity, whether imaginary or real, everything within you was normal. Merchants, shopkeepers and peddlers were bargaining–or sitting at their stands with nothing to do during the slow season, the time of sowing and reaping. Craftsmen and laborers were busy with their work. The young people were immersed in their studies: reading, composing literary sentences, and the like. The yeshiva students were immersed in the sea of Talmud; and you, my town, were completely enveloped, as if in your own secrets. Apparently, you were content and satisfied with the combination of Torah and labor, the sacred and secular that were integrated and interwoven within you.
You, my town, were blessed with Torah educational institutions and budding secular educational institutions. Within you were libraries and mutual–aid institutions such as a cooperative bank, Linat Hatzedek, and others. Various charity funds were set up in you for the purpose of raising money to distribute to those requiring assistance in their time of need. Charity was indeed a characteristic feature that your Jewish residents were blessed with. Their concern for others was foremost. Their hand was always ready to give to any charity, and they contributed significantly to national funds. Their commitment to the redemption of their people and their land was outstanding.
I will always remember your community volunteers, whose entire activities were provided gratis, with no thought of compensation. Among your leading personalities the following stood out: the local rabbi, Rabbi Reuven Burstein; R. [22] Yosef Vigutov; and R. Chaim Schmidt, of blessed memory. With respect to Rabbi Burstein, the Jews of Kamenetz were proud to have a modern rabbi, an affable man with an aristocratic bearing, the chief rabbi of the congregation who was tolerant of other people's opinions [23]. The second one [Vigutov] was a committed community volunteer and congregation head, graced with a warm heart, benevolent to all who turned to him with requests. The third one [Schmidt] was one of the representatives of the congregation in the town, a philanthropic person who led a progressive life. So, my town, you did not lack Torah–knowledgeable, active community volunteers. And in your last years your greatest crown was the yeshiva gedola [24] Knesset Beit Yitzhak with its rabbis, principals and students. The glory of the yeshiva was the rabbi who headed it, Rabbi Baruch–Ber Leibowitch, who was so diligently immersed in the study of Torah that he knew next to nothing about secular life.
You, my town, like other cities and towns, were blessed too with parties as well as Zionist and pioneer youth movements. Within you were General Zionists, the Tz.S. HitAchdut, Poalei–Tziyon Yamin, not to mention the Bund [25] and Communists. Among the youth movements were Gordonia, Freiheit and Beitar. Some of the active members of these movements managed to immigrate to the Land of Israel, but the vast majority died in the Holocaust. Among those, we recall the names of Binyamin Bogatin, Lipa Hurwitz, Moshe Biletzky, Freidl Winograd, Berl Welhandler and many, many others. With respect to the first two of these, that is Bogatin and Hurwitz, we had the opportunity to appear in public debates with them more than once, in mock trials and the like. Our differences of opinion, due to quarrels between parties, did not prevent us from respecting and valuing rivals who supported other viewpoints.
[Page 97]
I recall the last years before the Holocaust came. The economic situation in the town was worsening. The young people began to seek ways to emigrate to countries across the sea. Most were knocking at the gates—yearning to immigrate to the Land of Israel. Some went out for training to prepare themselves for lives of labor in the Land. Unfortunately, this period did not last very long. The first signs of the approaching Holocaust began to appear, however nebulously, and the ground literally began to burn under the young people's feet. When I returned from hachshara in the Zaglębie and Upper Silesia region, a short time before the Nazis invaded Austria in 1938, I came across Polish slogans written on walls and bulletin boards: “Have pity on a poor animal—have mercy on a living creature”; and next to it a vociferous slogan: “Beat the Jews—death to those who suck our blood!” In spite of the paradoxical inconsistency between these slogans, they did reflect the prevalent situation of that period. The groundwork had been laid for the Holocaust that was fast approaching.
Half a year after I immigrated to the Land of Israel, the Second World War broke out, and the spasms of death of our dear ones there began: first, as they were concentrated in the ghettos of Kamenetz and Pruzhany, and later when they were transported to the death camps and exterminated. At first, while they were under Soviet rule, we were still able to receive letters from them and to maintain a connection with them somehow. But reading between the lines we could discern the bad news of what lay in store for them. Afterwards our connection with them was completely cut off, and we found out about their ultimate, utter annihilation.
My town, I will surely remember you; and the images of our dear ones, the martyrs of Kamenetz–Litowsk and Zastavya, will remain engraved in our hearts for generations to come.
Footnotes
Shlomo Zelig and His Sons[1]
Translated by Allen Flusberg
It is true that the distinguished members of the community and its volunteer workers were the glory of each and every Jewish city and town in Poland before the Nazi Destruction. Yet we should not at all look down on the amcha [common folk], who were embedded in the background life of the town and stood out in the human landscape of the population.
In Kamenetz-Litowsk, Shlomo Zelig and his two sons were without any doubt part of the latter group. Shlomo Zelig was the town guard—or more precisely, the hired guard of the shopkeepers. His job was to monitor the two rows of shops located in the center of town—to prevent robberies and vandalism. More than once, when we came back late at night from a party or from an outing sponsored by a youth movement, we encountered him, curled up in a blanket and dozing—in either a standing or sitting position—on the steps of one of the shops. When we came by he would stir, make some small talk with us, and try to keep us there for a little while—to give him some entertainment and make his hours of boredom more pleasant. He was a simple man, uneducated, but he was a fount of folk wisdom; in spite of his age, he was aware of everything that was happening around him, and he would react to everything in his own unique way. Educated people his age were not close with him, and they treated him with some disapproval. So no wonder then that he was able to find some commonality with the young people, and he preferred to pour his heart out to them.
He used to get paid for his work directly by the owners of the shops. More than once one of the shopkeepers either held back or put off payment for some reason or other. Shlomo Zelig did not react immediately. However, on the very next morning, that shopkeeper would find the lock on his door smeared with tar or with cattle manure. The shopkeeper would hustle to pay his debt and make sure to never go through this experience again.
As part of his job as a guard, he had to check in at the local police station every night to prove that he was carrying out his job. One night he didn't show up at the station the way he usually did. The next day the police commander asked him for an explanation, and he answered, “Pan komendant velyky sobaka”[2], i.e., “The honorable commander a big dog.” He was trying to say that a big dog that had been lying next to the entrance had scared him away, and so he did not dare come near. It was no more than his poor command of Polish that was responsible for his wording, but all the same it gave rise to laughter and hilarity throughout the entire town.
[Page 99]
His two sons, Arye and Ḥaim, were very different from him, being somewhat adventurous characters. They had never received any education and were illiterate. They worked as porters—a profession that was not particularly popular among the young people. The two of them were sturdy, brawny fellows. Hardly anyone would dare start up with them, afraid of what those strong arms could do to them. Many a time we, who had been preparing for a life of labor in Israel, looked at them with admiration, watching them toil at loading or unloading sacks of salt and flour, barrels of salted fish, crowbars, oil barrels and the like. I recall that, for various jobs they carried out as contractors, they used to keep count by making chalk marks on one of the walls, so that they could confirm how many sacks or barrels they had unloaded from a wagon from the number of chalk lines they had drawn. Many a time, pranksters would quietly sneak up to the wall and erase some of these lines, sometimes even causing them to lose earnings.
The townspeople's attitude to them was polite. To some extent they viewed them as defenders of Jewish honor against Christian roughnecks, somewhat like the heroes of Zalman Shneur, typified by Noah Pandre[3]. It is no wonder that for any event in town that charged an admission fee—such as a play in a theatre or any kind of party—they were always allowed in for free. So after all was said and done they were treated like privileged characters—for among the young people, nearly all of whom were, in practice, complete loafers, they were the only ones toiling at hard labor.
And so a kind of indiscernible connection was forged between them and the pioneer youth. Their derision for the intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals, or even for notables and people with pedigree, always resonated with the young people, even though the “loafers who were pioneers” received saucy epithets from them, as well. Yet they did appreciate the difference in virtue between this type of young people and other types who distanced themselves completely—in both word and deed—from the concept of physical labor.
Recalling these toiling laborers and others like them gives us a sharp pain in our hearts, realizing that they were not fortunate enough to be among those who built up the Land—for our young State would have especially benefited from their broad shoulders.[4]
Footnotes
Alterke[1]
by Pinḥas Ravid-Rudnicki
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Like most Diaspora towns, our town had its very own eccentric, an odd person. His name was Alterke.[2]
The children of the town loved to start up with him and make fun of him. When they would see him passing by in the street, they would throw stones towards him: certainly not to hurt him, God forbid, but rather to provoke him a bit. But in fact this was something that actually pleased Alterke: it let him become the center of attention as he began shouting at and cursing the children who were provoking him.
No one knows how Alterke came to our town or where he came from, at least not any of the young people. The older people of the town must have known his “family pedigree”, but no one ever revealed the secret. Nor was his age known, and on that subject there were various guesses of all kinds. But how was it possible to estimate Alterke's age when his cruel fate did not provide him with any sign of a beard? Some said he was about fifty and even about 60, and others thought he was older or younger than that.
[Page 100]
Alterke had a unique position: seeing to it that the streets were clean. Whenever City Hall would assign him the job of town crier, to make public announcements—particularly when some distinguished delegation was expected in town—he would urge townspeople to sweep the parts of the streets that their houses were adjacent to. But there were also incidents in which Alterke would suddenly appear and convey an order to the community for an urgent cleanup campaign, as if the president himself, in all his glory, was about to make an immediate appearance. In the end it would turn out that there really was no truth to it: there was no such order, and no important personality was about to arrive in town. When the townsfolk gathered around Alterke and asked him for an explanation for the cleanup “order”, he answered with a grin: “Aren't you glad that I made you clean up the town a bit? Let it be in honor of the Sabbath that is coming soon…”
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But this was not Alterke's only job. He had “franchises” that he would not give up to anyone, not for all the riches in the world. It was Alterke's priority that the following items were in his possession: the keys to the shul (main synagogue); the four velvet-covered poles used in wedding ceremonies; and the two pillows that they would place the male infant on during the circumcision ritual. Still there was always some prankster who would sneak into the place where these articles were kept hidden and take them away. When Alterke would find out he would pace through the streets, crying like a baby, until the “stolen” objects were returned to him.
[Page 101]
With the beginning of the emigration of the young people overseas, and in particular with the increase in the pioneer aliya to the Land [of Israel], Alterke became more and more depressed. It was as if he foresaw that his job in the town would be coming to an end, and his loyal allies would be leaving him to his own devices. It was painful to look at him and see him stooped over, leaning on his cane. For the town this was the beginning of the end of the era of great fame, in which Alterke had played so distinguished a role.
Footnotes
by Yakov Kaminski
Translated by Allen Flusberg
With great reverence and with pain in my heart, I recall my native town Kamenetz-Litowsk and its people, my townspeople who once were and are no longer. Kamenetz was widely known as “Kamenetz Slup”, a nickname derived from the ancient, large fortress [the Slup] with a circular shape that stood in the middle of town. Then our town became famous throughout the Jewish world thanks to the renowned, preeminent yeshiva, with its hundreds of students, that was located in Kamenetz. It was headed by one of the greatest scholars of our generation, Rabbi Baruch Ber, may the memory of the righteous be a blessing.
Kamenetz was a typical Jewish town. Nearly all of its residents were shopkeepers and artisans, who labored from morning until evening to provide some bread for their children. But their greatest concern was providing their children with an education, which in those days was obtained in the Ḥeders, Talmud-Torahs and yeshivas[2]. Only a few of the children attended the Polish state school; and a very small number of children whose parents were affluent were sent to Brisk-Litowsk[3] to study in the Hebrew high school established by Tarbut[4].
As fresh winds of change blew through the Jewish streets of the cities and towns in Poland, the Zionist idea began winning over the young people. In our town the youth also started organizing branches of the various movements, like Gordonia[5] and Beitar[6], and began training for aliya [immigration] to the Land of Israel. Slowly but surely their parents were influenced by their children's actions and started supporting the national funds that the young people were managing. In the last year before the terrible Holocaust, dozens of these youths began to immigrate illegally (no immigration certificates) to the Land of Israel after receiving word from me and from my friend Beryl Miletski that we had reached Israel safely. Unfortunately, most were overtaken by the Nazi beast before they were able to fulfil their dream.
Thinking about lovely little Kamenetz arouses in me yearnings for and memories of my family members who were martyred in the Holocaust. I had left my father, mother, brother and three sisters behind, as well as my good friends Velvl Glezer and Raya Shostakowski, of blessed memory. I can still see them and all the other townspeople, and I cannot forget them. Human language is incapable of articulating my feelings about the terrible Holocaust that was visited upon our brothers and sisters: the men and women, the old people and young children, who were tormented and martyred for the sanctification of God's Name and the Jewish people, saturating the earth of Kamenetz with their blood. It is very difficult to come to terms with this awful reality, that all my cherished relatives and the other people of my town—the town where I was born, spent the years of my childhood and grew up—were exterminated and are no more.
Footnotes
Kamenetz, Where I Was Born[1]
by Penina Felayev-Bobrowski
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I remember our town Kamenetz as a place of Torah and wisdom, in which hundreds of young men, yeshiva students, were seated studying Torah in the Advanced Yeshiva that had been founded by Rabbi Baruch-Ber, of blessed memory.
I recall the Leshna River with its clear water, in which we used to bathe on the hot summer days, and in which the housewives would wash their laundry. In my mind's eye I can still see the Slup [medieval tower] standing upright on a hill and towering high, immersed in a sea of legends and mystery.
And the market with its shops all around it, in which many of the Kamenetz townspeople eked out a living from one another and from their Gentile neighbors who lived in the surrounding villages. And the library in which I spent many hours working as a librarian together with my friend Malya Greenblatt, of blessed memory. And during early evening hours, just after sunset, everyone would cease his labor, and the Kamenetz residents would go out to breath some fresh air and to enjoy some friendly conversation.
I left Kamenetz, the town where I was born, in the year 1939, about one month before the Second World War broke out. At that time we knew about the existence and organization of the Nazis and their leader Hitler, may his name be blotted out, and about their hatred for the Jewish people. But we did not imagine then that these beasts of prey might destroy a third of our people.
In Kamenetz anti-Semitism was intensifying from day to day. On the streets of the town we would many a time hear someone say “Żydzi do Palestyny (Jews, off to the Land of Israel); there is no place for you here.” Our young people were very depressed. Many times we gathered together, especially during evenings, to consult with each other, either in my parents' home or in the home of my uncle, R.[2] Yisrael Grunt, may their memories be a blessing. We would discuss what we might do in the event of a pogrom. Rumors were spreading that the Christians were getting ready to riot against the Jews during one of the monthly fairs that took place in the town.
We were all overcome with gloom as the days passed slowly. Rumors of the war that was coming shocked and upset us, but we could see no solution, and so we were consumed with despair.
I decided to immigrate to the Land of Israel, and I set out on my way. After many days of being tossed on the ocean waves in the rickety ship Parita, I arrived with many other olim [immigrants to Israel] like me on the beach of Tel Aviv[3], into the bosom of my sisters' families. Here I found out, to my great sorrow, that Chaya, the daughter of my uncle R. Alter Puczinki, who had set off on her way to the Land of Israel, had been sent back from the Romanian border; and thus she, too, perished at the hands of the accursed Nazis, together with all our other relatives.
All was annihilated without a trace—my Kamenetz was destroyed together with all its Jewish residents: women and children, the young and old, all were cut off and are no more.
I will never forget them.
Footnotes
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