[Page 154]

We would ride on sleighs and enjoy the ringing of the bells. The town was comprised of merchants who held an honourable place; retailers who sold their merchandise at the marketplace.

It was lively in town Friday evenings, when we led a bride to the wedding canopy, to the synagogue where we had to make a considerable path. Men on one side, women on the other, making a chain.

[Page 155]

The musicians played a happy tune accompanied by Zalmen Fandl on his bass. The bride was more dragged than led by the her mother and mother in law, pathetic, crying as the Badkhn (master of ceremonies) tugged at her soul singing “cry little bride, cry!” – and did not have the courage to adjust her veil which during all the pushing was moved. And this is how with luck she arrived at the synagogue where her betrothed was already waiting for her under the wedding canopy.

A celebration among the youth in Makow, accompanied by local musicians Shloimeh Modrikamien and Zalmen Podl[1] 1919

[Page 156]

The wailed and repeated: “and God said to Abraham. Have mercy children and chase out the goat!” later, they laughed about this in town.

Coming home from synagogue the tables were filled with chopped fish, cholent (Sabbath stew) and noodle pudding. When your stomach is full, your soul is happy…everyone sang Sabbath melodies which rang through the town.

My father did not leave out one song, especially when he learned a new one when he spent the Sabbath at the Radzimer Rebbe's, of blessed memory. In the evening when the sun set and reflected in the river like a red burning flame, and a cool breeze blew, everyone in town went for a walk in the forest. All strata of society met there, even the poorest of the poor – Naftali and his wife whose entire fortune lay in her jewellery: a watch hanging on a chain, which even in my grandmother's day did not tell time…

When Naftali would see a poor man from a distance he would say to his wife: “Shprintze, put it inside!” so no one would be jealous or cast an evil omen. She would put it in her bosom. When he the wealthiest man in town, the leader of the Zionist organization Yekhiel Meir Plateh, or the director of the Yiddish school Shmilke Piankeh appeared, he would order: “Shprintze, take it out!”…

For us, the kids, it was a pity the Sabbath ended so quickly because we had to go back to our school work, and who had the desire when the street was calling with its charm.

In school, Yudisl, the Rabbi's daughter sat beside me. She was a calm, pale dreamer with a kind Jewish heart. She never forgot to give the buttered bagel her mother gave her everyday to the town's blind cripple Shayne Rozhe, who sat and sang heart wrenching love songs to her Itche Binyominl…secretly, I would see the room where the Rabbi sat and studied Torah. The Divine Presence rested in every corner.

When Purim came around the Rabbi's wife asked us to wash our hands, put on aprons and kerchiefs and sat us down to pick through the wheat for matzah made under the strictest supervision starting with the harvest of the grain. We spread the wheat head to head in long rows and when the table was full, the Rabbi came in, inspected our work and put it in a snow white bag.

When our beloved Rabbi decided he did not want to die in the diaspora,

[Page 157]

and wanted to immigrate to our holy land, the entire town was on guard and prepared themselves not to miss out, God forbid, on saying goodbye. His wife, Khaya Beyle, pitifully went around for eight days applying vinegar to head kerchiefs. When the day arrived, shopkeepers closed their stores, artisans put down their work and everyone came out to the marketplace. Remarkably: That same day, Yisroel the water carrier threw down buckets and the pump stood orphaned. The Rabbi's wife and Yudisl sat on the horse drawn carriage smiling and happy that they lived to realize their dream of walking on the soil of our holy land.

Slowly, Hershke the wagon driver drove the horses and was happy he had the privilege of carrying out this important mission. Musicians played and the Hasidim danced and clapped their hands: you could barely see the Rabbi in the crowd. Their exaltation was so great it felt as if the whole world was dancing with them.

When we left town and stood on the hill, Zalmen Pandel (Translator's note: previously spelled Fandl) tugged at our souls when he sang the song: “Oy, oy, oy the Rabbi is leaving, let us say goodbye, the Rabbi is leaving!” The women's wailing could have torn your heart out. The Rabbi began to say his goodbyes, his wife and Yudisl as well. The Hasidim asked of him, for the sake of God, not to forget to put some earth from the Land of Israel into his letters. The Rabbi climbed onto the horse drawn carriage saying the blessing: “Next year in Jerusalem”, and left town. Hershke whipped the horses and shouted: “Giddyup horses, giddyup!” they left the town soon after.

Everyone returned home with their heads down and in bad moods: the Rabbi and his wife were both dear to us.

Oh, our beloved town Makow!

Translator's footnote

1. Previously spelled Fandl Return

[Page 158]

Khone Stolnitz, of blessed memory, the proletariat poet from Makow

[Page 159]

The days drag on slowly and pass quietly, like clouds of smoke, Hunger burns like a fire in the houses, bent to the ground, Those satisfied are smiling in brick walls with levels, tearing up high. The youth want to dunk the town in red, - the mold is not swept up… In the corners of my town destitution cries in the streets: Machines are silenced as if they are broken, The wheels covered by leather straps are not making noise, It is a holiday in town on a regular weekday…

Cover of the booklet “Light in the Night” by Khone Stolnitz, Makow, 1934 In memory of the poet of “Light in the Night”

Where should we go with our difficult suffering? Where should we go with our wounds? No one wants to hear us out, We walk lost, we are disappearing… Our youth has strayed away, They have thrown away the small prayer house and the lecterns, They left to carry bricks To transform lands… We, the fathers, the elderly, are leaving this world, As they are leaving piety and God's wonders. The loneliness is chasing us from God's dwelling, the Shul, We have lost our own children… Where should we go with this difficult pain? Where shall we go with our wounds? No one is ready to listen to us, We are walking lost, we are disappearing.

Jews of Makow digging trenches in 1939

[Page 161]

The bridge on the road to the forest

In the black of night with darkness mute and blind, When father with pain struggles with death, - And mother depressed cried like a child: That's when my little sisters asked for: A piece of bread!... In the darkness a flame flickered from the lamp in the kitchen. Mother saw how father was passing away, And my brothers on their beds were dreaming: That they were holding a piece of bread and bowls of food on their laps… Dawn broke cutting the stillness of the night, Father was already dead… We, the small children cried and thought: Who will feed us and bring us bread?...

Original footnote

1. From the book “Light in the Night”, Poems, Makow, 1934. The author wrote in the introduction: in these chaotic time, when such a juicy fruit like poetry calls out a weak quiet echo, I am even afraid to reveal with song, but the silence awakens the silent cry of my children – the poems, the want to enter this phase of life and torture me to show the world am now taking the first steps to attempt to begin. “The author” This booklet contains 30 pages and 26 poems. We are presenting a few here. Return

[Page 162]

Spring 1932. The bus from Orlik, which goes from Warsaw to Makow is approaching town. We can see the forests of Gzhanke. The Pultusker highway leads to town. The bus passes by the chestnut trees that line both sides of the highway. It groans up the wooden bridge which lies on the Orshitz River and panting, pulls into the marketplace. The marketplace is large, four cornered, built up with fenced two storied houses. All around are businesses, shops and stores.

Yakov – Moishe Skurnik's kiosk stands in the middle of the marketplace. There you can buy soda water, sweets and ice cream. The bus stops beside this hut where a large crowd is awaiting guests from Warsaw. They have come to greet friends and relatives and to hear news from the big city.

Menakhem, a young student who studied at Makow High School and is now a student at Warsaw University steps down with assured steps and heads to the home of Reb Dovidl Hertzberg. His son, Sender is a childhood friend. Walking through the market you must say hello to friends and acquaintances.

Reb Abba Berenboym is standing beside his store. He is a handsome honourable Jew. His wife Fraydele, daughter Shorusia and son Motke are inside running the business. Reb Abba himself is busy with communal work, mainly with the township. He is standing and discussing this with two good friends, also community workers, Ostri and Rekant, both left – the first his tavern and wine business, and the second – his pharmacy warehouse. When they see the student they welcome him warmly. Is that Abba's son Khaim, Menakhem's childhood friend? This same Ostri's daughter, married the young journalist from “Haynt”, Bernholtz (Selim). Rekant's children were students of Reb Menakhem's father Reb Anshl, who used to be a teacher and school director in Makow. Meanwhile, Menakhem was going from one shop to the next.

[Page 163]

First to Montshkovsky, a little further on to Sheynberg, and then Kleynhoyz – that was one part of the marketplace. Further on was the Christian section: Adamsky's book shop, Yazhvinsky's sausage shop, Shultz' pharmacy and other Christian businesses. The third section – Goldwasser, Student, as well as other Jewish businesses. The fourth section ended at Segal's warehouse and the last section was Blum's store, Tzukerman's store and other businesses. “Segal the Mayor” – this name dates back to the German occupation in 1915 when he was the mayor of the town.

Cinema “Shviatovid” in Makow

[Page 164]

to the young student. He was like a son coming in over the course of many years to his cobbler workshop – a friend of his eldest son, Sender.

Soon after Sender comes in. He is already married and lives upstairs – in a room that was added on. Soon the table is set: fresh black bread, butter, cheese, tomatoes and onion, milk and coffee. Menakhem is already sitting at the table surrounded by Reb Dovid's family, and everyone is asking, recounting and listening to news form the big city and telling the news of the town.

Menakhem observes the room. It seems to him it has become smaller. Under the beds are large pieces of leather from which Reb Dovid cuts out soles for nice boots which he makes for the peasants in the surrounding villages. Reb Dovid's boots have a great reputation. Even the young officers, Menakhem's friends from high school order their boots from Reb Dovid. The apprentices sit all around the workshop hammering wooden nails into the soles or sewing the borders with thick waxed thread.

Menakhem remembered how every day running home from school he would drop in to read the newspaper, the “Folks Tzeitung”. This was the organ of the Bund. Reb Dovid's apprentices belonged to the Bund. They often had discussions with Menakhem who was active in the Zionist movement. The words and slogans “Eretz Yisroel”, “Hebrew”, Yiddish”, “Significance of Exile”, “Fight to Remain” would echo in Dovid's workshop. Seated at the long low work table, Menakhem began to write his first poems and then read them to his friend Sender who was enraptured by them. He encouraged Menakhem to continue writing. “If the editors in Warsaw were as delighted with my poems as Sender, I would've been a great poet long ago” thought Menakhem. But he could not sit and think for long.

After breakfast Sender took his friend to see the town, to meet acquaintances, friends and comrades. Menakhem wants to be left alone in his small town, its streets and alleys, whereas a little boy he ran around barefoot. He wants to remain alone with his past childhood which he enjoyed in this town.

Finding an excuse, Menakhem remains alone. He walks until the end of Tchekhanover Street, to the large houses. These are wooden buildings where his father, Reb Anshl's school was situated. This is where his family lived. He approached the house. Now strangers are living there. He goes into the courtyard, looks at the well they had dug, greets the neighbours, who

[Page 165]

The Scout Organization in Makow, 1916

[Page 166]

remember him from his childhood. The old policeman Zbishensky approaches.

Beyond the houses lie the estates of Grokhovsky, Kishelevsky and others. It is mainly Grokhovsky's estate that attracts him. There used to be a well there with pure water. Menakhem used to go there often with buckets to draw water. The road and the path were very familiar to him. They run through the fields. The old peasants greet the young student and ask about his parents, sisters and brothers whom they knew and invite him in to their homes: however Menakhem continues on the Sloniyover Road. There stands a cross and a “holy” picture, surrounded by an iron fence. It is the same as all the other crosses and pictures on the roads which run through the Polish villages.

This is where Menakhem and his friends would run to during their long recess at school. This is where they would play, dream, lie in the soft grass, build and destroy worlds. Once again Manakhem lies on the grass, snuggles up to the ground and it seems to him he is a barefoot little boy again looking with his childlike eyes at the world. He is delighted by every flower, the blueness of the sky, with the bird's song. It is here that he jotted down these verses:

“Where is the beginning,
And where is the end
Of a humane day?
He comes from infinity
And departs with it…

Menakhem felt intoxicated by the scents and fresh greenery which spurted out from the black fields. A spring wind caresses his hair, kisses his hot forehead. It seems to him he wrote this poem just yesterday:

“A human hand did not want to caresses me,
I went to the winds…”

[Page 167]

He leased a garden from Christians and sold his fruits and vegetables in the market. His garden was near the large houses. Menakhem and his friends would occasionally steal an apple or pear from his garden. Later, when Menakhem joined Ha Shomer Ha Tzair and became friends with Reb Motiye's daughter Hadassah he would be invited to their house. It was then that he told Reb Motiye about the stolen fruit. Reb Motiye laughed and place a plate filled with fruit on the table. Menakhem claimed this fruit did not taste good as the stolen green and sour apples of his childhood…

Menakhem snuck through the marketplace to avoid meeting all the Jews he knew and would have to stop to chat with. He spent most of the day in the village and still wanted to visit a few places connected to his childhood. He walked through the meadows to the nearby forest. He was familiar with every corner, every tree. This is where he would go for walks and dream. This is where the groups of Ha Shomer HaTzair would meet. This is where they would sit until late at night singing Hebrew and Yiddish songs. This was a Jewish forest. You rarely saw a young or old gentile. Once in a while peasant women came to pick black and red berries. Menakhem can still sense the sour –sweet taste of the black and red berries which shine through the green grass. He returns from the forest to the water mill, and from there to the garden. This is where the former high school once stood where he studied from 1925 – 1928; he spent four years within those walls. Days of joy and sadness, sorrow and happiness. He goes to the paths of the garden where he would run during recess. He meets the old guard who used to ring the big bell during the breaks. He is already grey and bent over, old Antoni. He recognizes Menakhem and is happy to see him. “The good days are gone” he says, “the silence is a sign of looming death”. He presses Menakhem's hand and tears well up in the eyes of the old guard who has remained the only sign of the past.

His feet take him to the Orshitz River which twists through the meadows. This is where Menakhem and his friends swam in the summer and rowed boats. He finds himself at the turbine which had once been a sensation in town and was now the road from town into the forest. As he leaves this place the sun starts to set in the west. The sky turns red. Black clouds cover the sun as if with a black shawl and swaddle the sun before it goes to sleep.

[Page 168]

A branch of Ha Shomer Ha Tzair in Makow, 1928

[Page 169]

Everything in town has changed: the houses are now lower, the people, smaller. Only the sky remained the same. It is now sparkling with stars; darkness is slowly falling on the ground. Menakhem senses the taste of dusk, from the twilight which caresses and calms with its stillness. He recalls these verses from the past.

“I waited until deep in the night,
You did not come yesterday,
And I brought you from the street
Black bread and red flowers…”

When Menakhem returns to town the houses are lit. Tired merchants stand in their shops awaiting their last sale. The youth are out walking. A new generation has grown up. Not all remember Menakhem. After supper he meets many friends. That sit around like in old times on the steps of the shops and talk about everything that has transpired in town: who got married, who immigrated. What news have we heard from friends who are living in Eretz Yisrael. There is a mixture of talk, laughter, jokes, serious discussion and everything gets swallowed into the darkness of the night. It's late. They have to go to sleep. Tomorrow morning he will be returning to Warsaw. Menakhem wants to absorb as much of the town as possible. He feels connected by thousands of threads. He friends cling to him asking advice: some want to go to Eretz Yisrael, some want to move to the big city. The town has gotten smaller and the youth want to leave; there is no work in town, no future. However a new youth has emerged which is dreaming in town, walking through the alleys and going to the forests. “A generation leaves and a new one comes” – thought Menakhem. They said their good byes, shook hands, slapped each other on the back. At night it was difficult to fall asleep. Thousands of thoughts all mixed together, pictures and dreams. He fell asleep just before dawn. But soon after they woke him up. He wakes up quickly. He believes he will be late for school and would have to run there before eating breakfast. Then he's fully awake and realizes he must catch the bus that leaves at daybreak from Makow to Warsaw.

Menakhem says a warm goodbye to Reb Dovidl and his family and leaves for the bus. The bus departs from town. It is already on the Pultusker highway. When the last trees of the Makow forest have disappeared, Menakhem feels a big

[Page 170]

part of him has remained behind in town. The landscape of fields and forests is not longer familiar, this is no longer part of Makow. He closes his eyes wanting to keep the picture of Makow. Who knows when he will return, he thinks. He is overtaken by sorrow. Perhaps, already then he had the premonition that this would be his last visit to Jewish Makow. He turned his head wanting one more glance of the town – but it had already disappeared, disappeared forever.

36 years have past since I left my birthplace. However, with the publication of this memorial book I feel it necessary to provide short lines, memories of friends with whom I spent a large portion of my youth, and they, unfortunately were not privileged to see the fruits of their devotion to the Zionist movement, the establishment of the State of Israel, where we have the privilege to live.

Let these lines serve as a memorial for all our friends who were tragically murdered by Hitler's criminals (with active collaboration of our former Polish neighbours).

My childhood in Makow was no different that the other cities and towns in Poland. We studied in Heder (religious school) from early morning until late in the evening, summer and winter, rain or snow. More than once we wanted to enjoy the beautiful nature surrounding our town, the Ozshitz River, the nearby forest, but our Rebbe did not let. The fear was great. We sat with Leybl Bayger, Mendl Varshever and other teachers

[Page 171]

and learned the Torah portion of the week so that on the Sabbath, when father would test us, we knew it well.

Who among us does not remember the dark nights when we returned home from Heder and, trembling with fear, accompanied each other home with a lantern.

When we compare our childhood and the conditions in which we lived to the great opportunities and freedom of our Israeli children, it seems many generations have passed, not the short time in which radical changes have occurred since our youth.

Pilsudsky Street – on the right: the post office

After the Jewish high school closed, some students switched to the Polish gymnasia (high school) and continued their studies.

The city, and especially the youth, lost a lot with the closing of the Hebrew school.

In 1919 a large group of youngsters like: Notteh Vilenberg, Gedalyahu

[Page 172]

Raytshik, Puleh Perelberg, Grunia Segal and others, decide to become farmers in preparation to emigrate to the Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel). I remember the great impression they made when they returned to town after a day's work with their tools. Unfortunately, only a small portion of them emigrated.

At the same time the following organizations were founded in town: “Ha Shomer HaTzair”, (The Young Guard), “Prakhei Zion” (Flowers of Zion), and “Maccabi”. All of these youth movements held literary evenings, performances and discussions.

“Maccabi” formed a football (soccer) team which played

The water turbine for electrical power

In 1925 the Hebrew University opened in Jerusalem. We celebrated this event with a commemorative gathering in the big synagogue, organized by all the Zionist organizations.

[Page 173]

For the first time in the history of Zhetl a co–ed choir sang in the synagogue and Shoshana Kotziak of blessed memory, read a chapter from the bible.

We had many disruptions from opponents however, the well organized Zionist youth kept order and the commemoration was very successful. The participants were: Moishe – Yehuda Freshberg, Yosef Kantor, Yakov Yedvabnik of blessed memory, and others who contributed to this success.

In 1929 when we received news of attacks on Jewish colonies we organized a large portion of our youth, especially reservists from the Polish army. We sent a telegram to the Palestine Office in Warsaw to allow these members to go to Eretz Yisrael to fight the Arabs, however the gates of the country were locked.

Although the youth in town were in fact unemployed and the perspective of a future was unfavourable, emigration from Makow was negligible. Only a small group of members from “HeChalutz” (The Pioneer) and “HaSHomer HaTzair” made the effort to leave their old home and begin a new life in Eretz Yisrael. One of those who emigrated was Berko Hendel of blessed memory. Soon after he arrived he fell in battle on Kibbutz Ein – Shemer.

I remember my meetings with Berko, the joy in his work on the Kibbutz and his constant worry about all those who remained in Makow due to the difficulties of emigration.

After the great destruction that befell our people, after the downfall of Jewish youth in Poland and together with our townsfolk, we feel the great loss even more.

Those miraculously saved from Hitler's hell, who arrived here in Israel were helped with financial support, thanks to the interest free loan society which we created.

[Page 174]

In our city Maków, there was a magical mill, Jews and Goyim all flocked there, Since it had prominent merit: The flour grinded there was the kind no one ever saw, The best quality and beauty that was not to be found In any major cities or its surroundings. * Admirers abundant, from all over Poland, Whoever tasted it came back by all means Our mother, too, arrived punctually, Singing its praises time and again. Its beauty and brilliance, like the midday sun And its taste, like manna from heaven. Kneading the dough– in awe, How it rose, puffed up, up and up, Blessings came from within – she said: Using a bit, reaping plenty. Her lips whispered a warm prayer to God: There is no flour like Bezalel Flour in the whole wide world. * Finally, a legend was weaved around the mill, That Elijah the prophet visited at will. Since no one knew whose blessing this was, That made the flour so tasty and scrumptious. * And as pure as the flour, were Bezalel's deeds, Helping every needy and distressed person, Wagons full with sacks of flour were driven

[Page 175]

To every corner where Torah words were heard; To Ostrava and Łomża and back again – From Warsaw to Bialystok, to each community. Due to its support rabbis were ordained, Geniuses were raised, scholars proliferated, Their faces glowing with radiance, Since flour and Torah go hand in hand. * Each Shabbat evening the gate opened: Bezalel did not discriminate between old and young, He gave generously flour to all: All hungry and needy were welcome. Their backs bent under the burden, Lines and lines of paupers formed And across their shabby clothes – Glowed the white sack of flour. * And when a whip descended on the city's Jews, When Grabski inflicted heavy taxes; Squeezing their blood and peeling their skin, Emptying their cupboards and leaving them naked. The number of bankrupts grew and grew And beggars too – since hunger sprouted: The hand of evil reached the magical mill as well But to no avail – it was stronger. Despite the taxes cast upon it It never stopped working, its wheels turning on and on And Bezalel did not decrease the quotas he allocated, He gave even more and more. * And at midnight, during the second shift, The mill's sound broke the silence, And together with the voices of the Torah learners Became one great and beautiful harmony…

[Page 176]

Ours was a poor block. No wealthy or prosperous folks lived here. Plain and simple Jews, tailors, shoemakers populated the single story, ramshackle cottages. Here, from my childhood on, it seemed as if my block was the center of town. Every occasion, sad or joyous, eventually worked its way through my street.

There's a wedding in town with the bride and groom surrounded by well wishers at the Chupah by the synagogue. On wintry evenings, my street is covered in deep snow. Outside the ice cracks. Two long rows of women with lanterns in hand accompany the bride. Shloyme Klezmer with his sons, Zalman Fogel and his large bass play wedding songs outside. A bunch of kids run after the party with snowballs and heave them at the bride. I stand outside and a warm feeling overcomes me. Somehow my block is so radiant and joyful, as if all of us spectators are the proud in-laws.

And then there's a funeral procession moving down my street right by the synagogue. Beryl the Assistant Shamas (Synagogue Caretaker) follows the coffin, rhythmically shaking the pushke (charity box) and shouting “Charity wards off death”. Grieving relatives wail and a sea of stooped heads crosses the street. Doors fly open from every house on the block as folks run out quickly, lest they be left behind and not fulfill the mitzvah of escorting the dead.

I stand prepared with a litre of water by the window sill. When my mother returns, she washes her hands and lets out a deep groan, a sad look in her eyes.

Every Saturday morning, I get up and pray. The local streets are blanketed by snow. Everything is still. But (the snows) on our street are already criss- crossed with narrow trails like a chessboard. They all lead to the Beis Hamidrash

(study house), to the Alexanderer shtibel (small orthodox synagogue), and then to the (main) synagogue and to the “new” Beis Hamidrash. Folks stream in from all sides, from Reb Bezalel Willenburg's mill, to Meshulem Reitchik's mill, from the market and from all the side streets. All of them, resplendent in their Sabbath clothes, making their way through, big and small. A calming, Sabbath peace emanates along the block.

From all sides the melodious Sabbath tunes (negunim) resonate. In the middle of the (Sabbath) day my block is packed with kids from all parts of town. At Yudel's, the Shamas's house, there is a knoll that winds up to the synagogue. The knoll is capped with snow that turns to lustrous ice. The kids slide down from the crest of the knoll: standing, sitting, crouching, knees bent. And when they finally make it down they land in sooty snow.

Sabbath evening. A red sun sets on the Sloniver Road, a precursor to a major overnight frost. People reappear on our block, plodding heavily, recently awakened from their Sabbath naps. They are off to Mincha (afternoon prayer), as I head into the Alexanderer shtibl, where my father and grandfather always dahvened. A warm haze envelops me. The outside air seems dense, as all the windows are shuttered and sealed for the winter. The shtibl is dark--night falls fast. Hasidim are seated around the long table. Pieces of Challah and small chunks of herring are spread out. One can barely see a thing. Blue, shady silhouettes sway and sing a haunting niggun, from “Bnei Hayichleh D'chseyphun” (prayer).

I've heard many different tunes and musical pieces in my day, but none as awe inspiring and resonant as the “triple feast” (Sabbath prayer) zmiros (festive songs).

We children, sit in the dark regaling each other with silly tales of spirits, ghosts and clowns under the little bridge as folks wend their way to the synagogue on through the night, heeding the call of the Torah.

My heart pounding, I sidle up to the wall where the winter coats hang. I find a well-worn fur. I wrap myself up in the warm coat, shut my eyes anxiously, finally overhearing the familiar banging on the posts and then the familiar strains of “And the all merciful will forgive us our sins” (prayer).

It is the evening of Passover (“Erev Paysech”). The last of the winter snow has melted beneath the spring sun. On our block the ice still freezes over the gutters. Isolated sewerage and discharge impart different colors to the ice; blue from the laundry; reddish from dyes; and gray from plain dirt. From the Mikveh (ritual bath), the waters cascade onto the Canal Street and empty into the river; it's as if all the gutters and drainage lines agreed to converge on Canal Street. We (kids) keep on playing games and running around in the square near the Beis Hamidrash. From Moishe Babel's house our senses warm to the intoxicating aroma of the freshly baked matzohs, our mouths fairly drooling.

Summer days on the block. It's hot. At the dead-end street wagons pull out, stacked high with freshly cut bales of rye and wheat. Cows with swollen udders wander in from the pasture and fields near the bazaar. Doors and windows wide open. From Freidel Ashenmill's house you can hear the whir of the engraver's machine at work. In our courtyard Hirsh-Ber Glicksberg stands engraving stylized letters on stone blocks for grave monuments. At Shepsel Chaptko's and Eliezer Mechanik's you can hear the whirring of new machinery. The block is empty, the stillness occasionally broken up by a lone passerby on his way to the Beis Hamidrash for Mincha.

The women sit on the little benches gossiping amongst themselves. There goes Chaya-Etta walking slowly and deliberately in her black shawl draped across her shoulders, the kerchief on her head ringed with various crystals and gemstones looking like diamonds, her hand holding a rumpled handkerchief. She stops by each and every house to collect a few groshen (small change) for Tzedakah.

The High Holy Days are upon us. Yom Kippur Eve on my block. Grandmother and mother have just said the blessing over the candles and had a good cry. We are off to prayer. The block is jammed with activity. Men and women converge from all sides. They move deliberately, very somber.

There's Avram Skahla, dressed in his kittel (Hasidic holiday frock) covered by his tallis (prayer shawl). Now Tuvia Skahla, Nottke Kasten, Yechiel Rybbak, Dovid-Beryl Kurnik, Avram Gershon the Shamas. And up there--Arkeh Lichtenshtayn--in his tall boots. They glisten from the freshly applied boot polish. And then the rest of the townsfolk, all stopping and wishing

grandmother and aunt Rochelle Lilienthal a Happy New Year. Later on, the street will empty--everyone is in shul. I'm off to the “Great Synagogue”. Its huge center doors are wide open. I linger in amazement. I'll never forget that sight, just beyond the open portals; the synagogue all lit up and the congregants wrapped in their prayer shawls. My childish fantasies acting out. I'm certain that this is what Yom Kippur night was like in the Temple (“Beis Midrash”) in its heyday.

I'd just like to reflect about one particular house on our block.

On one side of the river there stood a large granary and on the other side a house that belonged to Shmuel Hufnagel. It was called the “Hufnagel house”. The building is ingrained in my memory; that where everyone congregated for major occasions. Just as the Orthodox Jews used to pass through our block on their way to all the Beis Midrashim and shtibels, that's how all the young people were drawn to the Hufnagel house. It's where the Zionist organization held meetings. There was a large library that became the home for (such organizations as) the Hashomer Hatzair (Young Guard), the Chalutz (Pioneer), the Young Chalutz, and the Mizrachi (Religious) Chalutz. A perpetual echo of young people's laughter and singing resounded through the windows of that house.

I grew older. In our town it was common to take evening strolls down to the central market and square. Often I overheard young people poke fun and deride our block, sarcastically calling it the “green market”. And then an inexplicable resentment came over me, as if my block had been stripped of its crown.

It was a gray dawn, in December, 1939, a back-pack drawn across my shoulders. I stand on the hilltop that leads to (the towns of) Ruzhan and Krasnochelz. At that hour the block was exposed in all its solitude; even the tall synagogue seemed somehow diminished, and a distant longing came over me. Far-off visions of my street flash before my eyes, images I've absorbed since birth and up through that very morning when I left home. My last look back made me wonder: would I ever see any and all of this again?

My home town Makow! Do you, can you still shed a tear for your decimated Jewish people?

[Page 181]

I heard this from old men 50 years ago. Not only old people told this story. Almost everyone from town knew about it. When we would meet fellow Jews from other towns, all of us from Makow felt proud when they asked us about the mystery connected to the building of our large, beautiful synagogue.

Makow was the oldest Jewish settlement of the surrounding communities. Old people said, according to legend, Makow belonged to Vengrov when it was still active in the Council of Four Lands.

When the old House of Study burned down in 1927, they claimed it had existed for 216 years. At the time when they began to build the synagogue there was no other prayer house other than the House of Study. Makow was inhabited almost exclusively by orthodox well–established Jews. They prayed in the Ashkenazi style. At the time the well–known preacher Reb Dovid of blessed memory lived in Makow. He was a great opponent of Hasidism. I saw with my own eyes in the record books of the Bible Society, which was founded by the preacher in 1769 his opening sermon, in his own handwriting. His grandchildren remembered a lot. I heard a lot from them. They were: Reb Dovid Refalkes, a teacher and Reb Yitzhak, a religious fringed garment maker, of blessed memory. The Magid's home was across from the House of Study, where in later years Reb Moishe Blum lived who was called Moishe Potatoes.

There was already the in our town the first sprouts of Hasidism. The genius scholar, the holy Reb Khaim Hamdurer of blessed memory, one of the great students of the preacher from Mezeritch, of blessed memory, was in Makow and this is where his son in law settled, Reb Nosn Notte Hiler, of blessed memory, one of the students of the Visionary of Lublin of blessed memory. Also living in Makow at the time was Reb Avrom Abli of blessed memory, a student of Khiam Khyake Hamdurer, the author of the book “The Blessing of Abraham”. There was also a certain Reb Akiva Altshuler who was a student of the Visionary of Lublin. According to legend, these were the first Hasidim in Makow. They began to pray in the Sephardic style and prayed apart from the others.

[Page 182]

This was on the corner of Synagogue Street, on Kanalov Lane where Reb Yudl Khever Shamash of blessed memory lived.

In those times an important guest arrived in Makow. This was Reb Levi Yitzkhak of Berdichev, of blessed memory. The Hasidim were triumphant with their guest. The Rebbe from Berdichev gave a passionate sermon in his holy fashion. The Magid and his students were not impressed. Seeing that people were being influenced and carried away by the holy passion of the Berdichever, his students decided, when the Berdichever will pray on the Sabbath according to the Sephardic style they will not allow anyone to go as this would be a big victory for the Hasidim. And that is exactly was happened. As soon as the Berdichever began his prayers there was such a commotion, the Berdichever had to escape through the window. They pointed out this was the window to the right of the Holy Ark.

The place where the synagogue was built had been an empty lot which ran from Synagogue Street until Grobave to the east and from Zelyoni Rynek until Franciscan Street to the north. The empty lot belonged to two gentiles. A cross stood on the lot which the gentiles erected as a memorial and “remedy” of an epidemic which broke out in olden times.

Looking out of the window from the House of Study you can see the cross. Of course this was very distressing. The Berdichever Rebbe told his audience: “This spot is appropriate for a Holy Place”.

It has been told that suddenly a storm wind broke out. It tore out the cross and slung it far, up to the river. It was also told the river did not flow then as it did in our day, but close to the sandy shores near the highway which they travelled on to Krasnosheltz. Recently, there have been swamps there. The gentiles called it “Stara Zheka”. The gentiles brought the cross back and planted it in the old spot and secured it with stones. A couple of days later there was another storm which ripped out the cross and again slung it to the river. When our ancestors saw this they felt the holiness of the Rebbe from Berdichev. Everyone, without exception, the Hasidim and the Orthodox, got together and began to think how to convince the gentiles to remove the cross and place it somewhere else. The owners of the property were no longer alive, but there were many inheritors,

[Page 183]

some of whom still lived in Makow, and others who had left. It cost a lot but they were convinced to move the cross to the other side of the river where they would travel to Ruzhan [Rozan] and Krasnosielc.

They began to dig the large foundation in order to build a luxurious building. It was to be built on the entire square which had been previously designated. However they had to withstand great difficulties brought upon by the anti -Semites. They incited the inheritors telling them not to allow the synagogue to be built on their land. As much as they gave them, was not sufficient. They tore down at night what was built during the day. Obviously, the excitement of the Jews was so great, none of these disturbances weakened them. Everyone who went to the House of Study to pray, stopped to help build. Some handed bricks to the masons while others helped mix the lime. Reb Avrom Gershon of blessed memory told me his grandmother organized the women to carry sand in their aprons every day from river to the building site where they mixed it with building materials. Everyone participated in the work. Everyone who had their own materials such as lumber, stones or bricks, donated it to the building. The synagogue was the largest building in town. When people arrived from neighbouring cities the first thing they saw was the Star of David on the top of the Makow synagogue which was built with devotion and exceptional effort from all segments of Makow's Jews. The great Rabbis of Makow bragged about praying there like Reb Leybish Kharif, Reb Feyvele Gritzer, Reb Elazar Sokhachover, Reb Fishele Salomon the Rabbi from Zagrov, Reb Yehuda Leyb Graubart, the Stachover Rabbi, Reb Yisroel Nisn Kupershtokh, my Rabbi Reb Mordkhai Dovid Eidelberg, the Rabbi from Plotzk, and the last Rabbi, Rabbi Adelberg, may all their memories be blessed. The holy places were destroyed. The holy people were murdered. May God seek revenge for their blood.

  Maków Mazowiecki, Poland     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2024 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 29 Dec 2020 by JH