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When I remember Shloime Hersh Spodek's cheder now, a chill runs through me. At the same time, I am reminded of how strong our parents' conviction was that, by virtue of learning Torah, no harm would befall us.

The “cheder” on the dyke street was a multi-storied building, crooked on each side so that no matter from which angle you viewed it, it looked like it was about to fall down. Yet it remained standing for years and years, as if it was really only by virtue of the schoolchildren. In order to get to the entrance of the cheder, you first had to go through an alley that

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led from the dyke to a large courtyard that belonged to a lot of neighbors. The courtyard served as a garbage dump as well as a place where people did their business. Children would go wherever they felt like going. The adults to whom the courtyard belonged used to go where they would not be seen. They sat with their faces to the wall, and since they took care to cover themselves, you could never be sure if they were doing something, or whether they were trying to close up the mouse holes in the walls. In a corner of the court, there was a ladder that led to the cheder. Always exposed to rain and snow in the open court, the ladder was good and rotten. It was so slippery in winter that you took your life in your hands climbing up. In addition, the shaky ladder was missing a rail, so that you would have to climb up a few stairs first before grasping the rail, and, often, you ended up with bruised ribs after falling on the way up or down.

The cheder consisted of a large room containing a bed against one wall, and a bunk-bed on the other wall. In the middle, there was a long table with long benches on each side where the children sat. There was also a little room off to the side where the kitchen was found, and which also served as the bedroom for the rebbe's young daughter. I can't recall ever seeing a rebbetsin. The cheder also had two glass doors, one that led to a balcony overlooking the dyke street and was always nailed shut so that the children would not go out on the rotting balcony, and the other door, exactly opposite, led to the courtyard where the ladder was. None of the glass panels was intact. In summer, we had enough light. In winter, however, when all the gaps were stuffed with rags, it was not overly bright. As previously mentioned, people did their business in the yard, but the little kids didn't go down—the door that led to the ladder was opened and we stood on the little bit of balcony that was found there. Kids would go in groups, and a game developed over who had the dexterity to make a “bow-and-arrow” over the ladder. Whoever was able do it, was greatly admired, and everyone tried hard to do it. The smells going up were therefore not pleasant.

The kitchen was used mostly in winter to heat up the room, and rarely for cooking. The rebbe ate only bread and garlic most days.

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He could not afford anything better. It satisfied his hunger, and served as a remedy for toothache, which he always suffered from. That's why I remember him with a red flowered kerchief covering half his beard, and with a fat knot on the top of his head. He wore a big, tall velvet hat, and you never knew if it was originally green and was now blue, or vice versa. And because of this big, tall hat, he was known by the nickname, “Spodek.”
He had a mild face covered with a grey beard. He was of average height, broad-shouldered, and with a significant belly. How he got such a belly, I don't know, because it seems he never had much to eat. In my time, he didn't use a kanchik^[2] in the classroom. But he had his methods of punishment which involved pinching the soft spot on the bottom parts of the body. But I was always the lucky one who not only got pinched on the rear end, but also received blue bruises all over my body. It happened like this: I used to like to write printed letters, or as it was called, geksiveteh^[3] characters. So one time, while the rebbe was out davening, I printed on the table the words from the Chumash, “Va'yidaber adonai el Moshe l'aimor.”” Adonai,” I wrote with all four letters like it is written in the Chumash. And when the rebbe came in and saw it, he was stunned, because it was forbidden to erase it. He made me a present of a few good pinches, and told the kids not to approach the table in case the word, God forbid, got accidentally erased. And he went off to the rabbi to ask for a solution. The rabbi and the dayanim decided that we had to saw out the whole phrase, and remove it it to the attic in the shul. And if it should not be possible to saw it out, then we would have to cover up the whole phrase with a piece of tin, and that's what was done.

All the Tishevitsers who studied with R' Shloime Hersh Spodek after me, will certainly remember the table with the tin nailed to it. But the blue bruises over my entire body I can still feel and see before my eyes.

It was a four-sided, large plaza. In truth, it was not as square as believed, because streets issued from there every which way. It only appeared like a square at first glance. This place, it seems, had been called “the market” for generations.

The strategic focus of this place was the pump in the middle of the market that served as a source of fresh water. In the old days, it was said that the mud was so great that a carriage and a pair of horses would get stuck for good. And at night, on moonlit nights I should say, the moon was reflected and shone so brightly on the mud, that it seemed there was no earth and no sky, but two skies, and two moons.

But that was in the old days, in our grandfathers' time. In our time, it already looked different. “Pshekupkes,”^[1] were no longer sitting around, not even in the market. The muddy ground in the center had been paved. There were houses and shops with dry-goods, food, iron, and whatever you wanted, around the market. And from a corner, the red brick “shkole” that was built in the times of the Czar, peered. How beautiful it was. The market was opened every day by the water-carriers. They greeted each other with handshakes. The pump understood no other language. You simply gave the handle a pump and it responded with a full mouth, and everyone left happy. No one was insulted.

The men would hurry to shul early in the morning, most crossing and crisscrossing the market.

The first stores would open up. The storekeepers waited in anticipation of a “pachontek,” (a first sale).

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This is how it used to be both summer and winter. In heat, or rain, or snow and cold, they would sit in their stores, warming themselves by a firepot, and wait for the first customer, and after that, a second, a third, and so on.

It wasn't always so sad. God gave a Wednesday in the middle of the week, and that was the market, the market day. Then the market awoke from its sleep, and became lively. It was packed with wagons, horses and goyim who came from the villages to sell their produce. The whole market seethed like a boiling kettle.

Human noise mixed with the cackling of hens and roosters, the quacking of ducks, and the shouts of children. It was a happy day. There were buyers and sellers, and people just looking around. All the stores were full. People like ants. But there was one thing, I couldn't stand—the pig slaughter. The smell would choke every Jew who passed by. This is how the noisy market day passed until night fell.

Then the market emptied of people and all the things that had been set up. It breathed easier. It was a market after all. It had to support everyone…The quiet night fell. Everything rested, including the market.

The dawn brought the first birds back to the market. And the old pump again satisfied anyone who stretched out a hand to its open mouth.

Extract from a longer letter written July 4, 1968.

Regarding the plan for a pinkas, I can answer you with the little I remember of the following:

I, personally, was not a Tishivitser. I just married R' Nathan Dovid Zuker's daughter, Chanaleh, my rebbetsin. I boarded at my in-laws as a student for 7 whole years. However, I only knew several families–I can only remember a few friends like Shloime Kreiner, Moishe Itzchak Dorenfeld–your brothers Yechiel and Shloime Stern, Yekele Naster, Moishe Motl Shalier, etc. There were several people I liked to talk to and spend time with (although I was younger than them) like R' Binyomin Marder, R' Leib Ber Kalinberg, and last but not least, R' Abraham Stern, z”l. His name really suited him; he was truly a bright star, a “Gadol b'Israel.” It is truly unfortunate that this bright star was extinguished. When I was close to becoming ordained, I always consulted him, and he was like a father to me. Other than that, I did not know any local people. But in the Chasidic shul of Trisk-Kuzmir, where I prayed, along with my father-in-law, z”l, I knew the people very well, and I will mention a few, like R' Shabatil Hodes's (Ginsberg). I heard him recite the musofim and the Shemoneh Esrei full of heart and soul. I remember a certain R' Zalman Yasheh,

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dancing and clapping, and laughing for joy in the middle of the market, his blue, feline, eyes glinting when the Kielce rebbe was being led from the shul on Shabbes Kodesh. Also R' Izik Eng and his lively dances. R' Chaim Reiz and his loose coat-belt slipping down on Simchat Torah, dancing and singing in the market, and clapping his hands. R' Israel Leibish Grober shouting in his hoarse voice the L'David Mizmor until Hirhur Tshuvah. R' Hirshl Neimark and his sweet tenor that echoed like beautiful music. My father-in-law, R' Nathan David, z”l, who in the holy days was considered all soul. And similarly, many more from the Trisk-Kuzmir prayer hall. But other than those in the city, I knew very few. “For that reason, I can't describe any more of them.”

I will take this opportunity to relate a part of my biography. I was rabbi in two small shtetlach, in Volhyn near Kovel for seven years. But I was a reader of Jewish newspapers especially “ Hatsfira.” Nachum Sokolow was once the editor. He and Dr. Yehoshua Ton from Krakow warned and lectured in their articles that Polish Jewry must pack up and get out of Poland, because very dark clouds were gathering, and would arrive in Europe, and fall hardest on the Jews of Poland. I was, luckily, a good student, and I was always attentive, and paid attention to the words of diplomatic prophecy from Nachum Sokolow. And luck was really with me. I thought about it and acted, and with God's help, I escaped with my family from the Nazi hell in good time. And after, being in South America, in Lima, Peru, in my modest rabbinical post, when we read and heard in the daily newspapers what kind of hell the German people unleashed on Europe, especially on the Jewish people, we were very sad, but we also reasoned that we, the survivors of the Nazi conflagration must be the ones to rebuild Jewish existence, and that we must join with the She'erit Hapletah^[1] to weave once more the glorious “Goldeneh Yiddishe Keit^[2] “ that should, God forbid, not be severed again, and that we, the survivors, are responsible for its continuation, and must once again unravel the scrolls of Jewish culture, and continue an authentic life. This holy debt lies not only on the Jewish public alone, but on each individual. As our holy Kotsker grandfather, rebbe Mendl, z”tsl, said and warned, “Why does a person need two pockets in one coat? One pocket should be filled with “V'anochi afar v'efer^[3], and the second pocket with “Lo nivrah ha'olam eleh bishvili,^[4]” meaning that everyone is responsible for the survival of the world. I committed these words to memory, and will not forget them. And I took my three sons, may they live long…took them to work…and I was a father and a teacher to them. I was strongly committed, even though in America, to make of my children that which I had always dreamed about whether awake or in dreams, and by the grace of God, my sweet dreams came true. I have three sons of whom it can be said that they are shlosha kinei menorah, in a word, three jewels.

My oldest son, the biggest of all, is a Torah scholar, keeps the Sabbath, and leads a strictly kosher home. In addition, he is a medical doctor. Three years ago, he received from the American government in Washington a grant of $50,000 for searching for a cure for throat cancer. He was paid in three installments. His last installment has been paid in order for him to buy more appropriate instruments to be able to continue the medical mission he undertook.

My second son also became a rabbi with the title of doctor of history. He had a rabbinical position in New York for 7 years, and for the last two years as a rabbi in Los Angeles.

My third son also finished his rabbinical studies like the second one, and also at Yeshiva University and Columbia in New York, and is a rabbi in Queens, N.Y. for the last 10 years, the spiritual leader in his community, and they won't let him go. They're always giving him raises, and he is very respected by them. And because his doctorate is in mathematical statistics, he is also a professor at a university in Manhattan, N.Y. They are all married and have children. The oldest son, the doctor, is the son-in-law of a Hungarian rabbi, from Washington, Rabbi Weiss, shlit”a. And that is the fruit of my labor. My rebbetsin had a heart attack on July 9^th of this year which she barely survived…The doctor [son] came for us when she started to feel better and took us to the States, and thank God, she is better.

If there is any cost to the memorial for the Tishevits martyrs you all will be making as many others have, I will also gladly contribute…

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Who in Tishevits did not know my grandfather, Chaimtche Chazzan? His high forehead, his always disheveled beard and payess, his spattered coat, and his forever laughing eyes lent a special quality to the shtetl.

He was the city-cantor, and davened Saturdays and holidays in the cold synagogue. When he sang in the shul, the women in the women's section did not have to search through their siddurs or machzors. “Pearls flow from his mouth,” Leah-Henig used to say to the women who were standing by the window grates wiping tears that fell like rain from their eyes.

I don't know if anyone in town knew my grandfather's family name. It was enough to say, Chaimtche. There were no other Chaimtches in Tishevits. That's why they called my father, a”h, Meir Chaimtche's, and I was called, Hersh Meir Chaimtche's, and when my oldest daughter began promenading on the sidewalk of the dyke, they called her Malkeleh Hersh Meir Chaimtche's. It seems my grandfather was a central figure, a creator of a dynasty. How old he was, no one knew. He was always the same. Hardly anyone knew him from his childhood. All the years I knew him, he was the same, his disheveled dark grey, but never white, beard. His voice was a lion's roar. He never walked bent over. At weddings he would do the Cossack dances, while shouting, “Hoo, ha,” or “ Let's have some more bitter water,” (beer) so the whole house trembled.

During the Days of Awe, he would visit the cemetery and go around the moss-covered tombstones and chant El Malei Rachamim with eyes shut, knowing all the Po Nitmans. But his best was his weepy Barchu. The first Saturday night in Elul during Maariv, almost the whole city turned out to hear his tearful Barchu. It was the prologue to

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the approaching Days of Awe. He drew out the Barchu with various embellishments, and tears fell from all those gathered. The Barchu was a portent that the day of judgment was coming.

In the Days of Awe, he wore a patched, Turkish taliss, kitl, and white socks. He looked like a holy man, perhaps like the Cohen Gadol at work in the temple.

In his younger days, he was a shochet in the Radziner court. But something happened that made him leave them and come to Tishevits and join the Biskwitzer chasidim, and daven in the Ryewitzer shtibl. He travelled to see the rebbe R' Moishe Haimon, born in Tishevits, and brother of Henoch Sachaczewski. He never explained the reason he left Radzin, but in the last years of his life, he became closer to it, and even began again to wear t'cheyles.^[1] He would spend hours in the shtibls telling stories from Orchot Chaim, or from Mei HaShiloach, about the land of Sicily where the snail was found,^[2] and Shmuel Motl's with his blond beard would nod agreement.

My grandfather had five sons. The oldest, Moishe, was the only wealthy uncle in my family. He was already called Moshe Zwillich. He lived in Lodz. He was a big merchant with a groomed beard. His son, Mendl, had graduated from Krinsky's gymnasium in Warsaw. The other, Mordechai, also lived in Lodz, but was very poor. The third was my father, Meir. Meir Chaimtche's was already reading “Heint.” He was a bookkeeper at Moishe Dutche Friedlender. He would read Ahavat Zion from Mapo, and was dozor in the community for many years, but Saturday mornings, he would study a page of Gemara with me. The fourth one was Shloime, the pursemaker, who lived in Laszczow and was poverty stricken. The youngest son, Yankele Zwillich, lived in Lodz, worked in a factory, and became a Socialist, took part in the attack on the governor-general of Lodz in 1905, and was shot by the Cossacks. It was whispered that that was the reason our grandfather was estranged from the Radziner.

When my grandfather neared his 80^th year, he became a widower, but at he end of a year, he married a woman in her fifties. He used to go around with a sac and collect a few potatoes, kasha, and flour from the business owners, and his wife would cook it up for the homeless who used to come to the city. This, he used to say, he would take with him to the other world…Everyone in Tishevits liked him, but he had one enemy,

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and that was Yasheh, the shammes, because my grandfather would loudly claim that Yasheh Shammes could not be a mohel, because he was a gravedigger. Burying the dead, and circumcising children with the same hands was dangerous. The only time my grandfather combed his beard and cleaned his filthy kapoteh was when he was required to make a special ceremony and recite the Hanoten Tshuah L'Malachim for the Tsar or Pilsudski. At those times, the voyt, and the secretary of the gemineh would come to shul, and in their honor, he would get dressed up and give the Hanoten Tshuah his best efforts. At the end, the voyt, would shake his hand and shout, “Niech Zie, Chaimtche,” and my grandfather would answer, “ Niecza, Nieczo,” the only 2 Polish words he knew.

1933, my last Shabbes in Tishevits before returning to Peru. It was the month of Elul. I felt, deep inside, that it was the last time I would see my shtetl. I wandered from one bridge to another—got a last glimpse of the besmedresh, the shul, the Husiatyn shtibl, the creek near the bath—to the meadows, and back to the market with its pump dripping drops of water, drop after drop. I passed the alley where Berl Gabil lived, caught a glimpse on the other side where Moishe Zalman, who sold soda water, lived, and farther down to Itzye Bombe's river to the klentwes where many cows were pastured. Then after, back up to the dyke where couples were walking. I met Moishe Motl Shalier biting his nails, and Raizel Nachman Yidl's dressed up in a white blouse. I began to make my farewells. I felt that everyone envied me for travelling out to the wider world. The truth is, I was envious of them for not having to travel to Peru, to be homeless.

Peretz Krant was standing on his balcony in his white shirtsleeves, combing his beard with his fingers. My father-in-law, Leibish Shtuden, was pacing nervously back and forth, lost in thought, and across the way, at the inn, the only accommodation in Tishevits, Miriam, Itzchak Yechiel's, her hair disheveled, was looking out the window with envy at the couples promenading by.

After havdalah, I went to say goodbye to my grandfather. He lived at Mordechai Itzieh's near the Radziner shtibl, in a room with a kitchen. He was sitting bare-armed, only in his tallit-katan, and reading a religious book. A naphtha lamp illuminated the filthy walls, and his wife

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was occupied in the kitchen, getting something ready for Melava Malka. “Zayde, gut voch,” I said. “I have come to say goodbye, because I'm leaving at dawn.” Where are you going, Hershl?” he asked me. “I'm going to Peru.” “To Peru? Where is that? Overseas?” “Yes, zayde, overseas, far away in America.” My grandfather closed his book, fingers in his beard, “So you're really travelling overseas, nu, and your wife? Your children? And is there even a rabbi there? A shoichet? A besmedresh? Well, maybe you younger people know better than me. Take my advice, Hershl. If you're in Warsaw, go to the Radziner rebbe and consult him. Maybe it's not worth it. God is everywhere. If God wills it, you can make a living in Tishevits. You see that Getzl Kuperstein, and Mendele Finger are wealthy here in Tishevits, and what about Leib Kolnberg who also lacks for nothing. Your father-in-law, Leibish Shtuden? Nu, if you're really going, eat Melave Malke with me.” Grandmother set two plates of fresh grits on the table. The steam from the hot grits enveloped his beard, and drops of perspiration appeared on his wrinkled brow, but he did not eat. I saw tears starting in his eyes. “Travel safely, Hershl. You won't see me again. I'll tell you a secret. I'm almost 100. But what good did it do me? I had five sons. Two died young, three went away, now you, my only grandchild, are also leaving. How can one be alone?”

I left my grandfather's house and came out to a darkened street. Flickering lamps peered from the houses. A black cat was meowing on Mendele Finger's roof. At the pump, Yechiel Asher was filling a bucket of water. A sad singing was coming out of Ozer Blechervanik's floor where the library was. Itzye Chazer was singing Slushei by Ansky. Bright mantle light was issuing only from Peretz Krank's, and Perl was looking down from the balcony at the nighttime darkness.

After a year in Peru, I received a letter informing me my grandfather, Chaimtche, had died.

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There were a lot of prayer houses in Tishevits. There was a city-shul that was over three hundred years old, where prayers were held mostly on Shabbes and holidays in the Ashkenazi style. There was also a large besmedresh where most of the city davened and studied the whole week long, and Chasidic shtibls where they davened in the Sephardic style. On the sides of the old shul, in the corridors, there were anterooms where bosses davened and held small feasts.

There was a Husiatyn shtibl, a Radziner, a Belzer, a Trisker-Kuzmirer, and once, also, a Biskewitz-Ryewitzer. These were shtibls where the congregants were affiliated with a rebbe's court. There was also a shtibl that had no connection to a rebbe's court. It was named after its founder and supporter, “Yankel Bashister's Shtibl.” These were led by grandchildren of Chasidic courts who had no permanent Chasidic members. The members were mostly ordinary Jews who had not been able to find a place in the other shtibls. Later it became the shtibl for the Zhukover chasidim. There were also a number of private family minyans, and some from groups and organizations like Mizrachi and Shas.

In general, the arrival of a rebbe in town was a big deal not only for the shtibl, but also for the whole shtetl, especially if the rebbe had his own shtibl. On such a Saturday, people finished their davening and eating quickly in order to attend the “tish^[1]” the rebbe held, usually in the besmedresh, because the shtibls could not accommodate such a large crowd. It was a special experience when a rebbe arrived. Even chasidim from other rebbes came to check it out and listen to some Torah. Chasidim from nearby shtetls and villages came and stayed with other chasidim. The rebbe's chasidim went around with shining faces as in Chol Hamoed, and stopped all other work.

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They were just busy with the rebbe: going out to greet him with a parade, providing a place for the rebbe and the gabais to stay, and receiving everyone who came to celebrate, or ask for a consultation. The result was little feasts with singing and dancing every day from morning until late at night

A lot could be written about each shtibl. I want to focus on memories of the Trisker-Kuzmirer shtibl in which I spent my young years, and from which I drew my spiritual and material gratification. My father, Izek Eng, a”h davened there. The Trisk-Kuzmir shtibl was renowned for its excellent prayer leaders, and good singers. For the Days of Awe, delegations came from the anterooms, besmedresh and minyans, even from the big shul to ask for prayer leaders to be sent to them. Usually they sent the younger ones. The older respected ones remained in the shtibl. The holidays were celebrated solemnly and happily. Rosh Hashanah for example, they would return from Tashlich singing, with youngsters leading the way and doing somersaults...Simchat Torah the whole shtetl came out to the hakofes in the Trisker-Kuzmir shtibl. The dancing and singing at the hakofes was an extraordinary pleasure. Simchat Torah during the day was celebrated with a parade at the market with young and old dancing. Purim, they went from the shtibl out to the street dressed in the crazy clothes appropriate for Purim.

Rebbes from the Czarnobyl-Trisk lineage, all great singers and musicians, used to come to the Trisker-Kuzmirer shtibl. No one could listen unaffected to R' Nachumtche's tearful recitation of the “long V'Hu Rachum” on a Monday or Thursday. Their melodies were later sung everywhere. They used to come very often, and it was always a big event. Friday evening, since the rebbe went to daven at dusk, the tardy storekeepers stood on the thresholds of their stores in order to catch a glimpse of the rebbe, and immediately shut the store. Shabbes came to the whole shtetl. Friday evening and Shabbes, the rebbe held his “tish” in the besmedresh, and weekdays in the shtibl. He taught Torah and handed out the shiraim^[2]. He did the honors himself, the gabai calling out the names loudly one after the other, the perennial musicians: Nathan David, Yehoshua Hodeses, Israel Leibish, and in the same tone: honor us with a song, with a nign! Thus we were also honored with the blessings, with the wine, the beer and with the start of the circle dance with hands on backs, some on tables and benches until it was good and dark, and time to daven Maariv, and Melava Malka until dawn. This happened almost every few weeks. All the daily worries

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disappeared.

Unfortunately, it has all disappeared. Hitler, the oppressor, may his name be erased, destroyed everything. It only lives on in the memory of those who survived, and who can never forget.

A Morning shines through my windows. I sing the shepherd David's songs of praise. The words murmur consolation and belief. God, raise me up from the dust. Prayerful songs in a dark diaspora Accompanied us. Pious, purified and stricken hearts arose In Godfearing Jewish shtetlach in Poland: Chtsos[1], the stars are burning Over fearful, sinking houses. Jews are reciting psalms. All with one heart, one plea: God, do not send help too late. And I too pour out my prayer in streams of tears For my despondent spirit, for my father's household, For the entire frightened, holy community. O', me'ayin yavo ezri?[2] Where to turn to? Merciful God of the peaceful heavens pay heed. The stars are singing. A congregation of Jews shouts out against the evil decrees Their hands reaching out from tongues of fire. B In all the sorrow, in all the distress, in all the disasters, you ran to God with pleading psalms alone.

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All the fears in the valley of shadows fled. The faithful, Jewish heart could by no one Be broken. Our psalms broke through the cold, sealed heavens. God alone carried the words, the pleading melodyv into the flask of tears. King David, without a sword, without a crown, An old, wandering Jew weeps over his psalms In the sad evening, on the burning plain. For Germany found us Weak, bruised, dejected In our fleeing, wandering way. The murderer, the lurking neighbor Captured us in the south, in the north. And all the psalm singers under the trembling wings Of the Shechina[3] call for revenge--- C O tearful psalms, consoling and holy, From all the broken Jewish hearts the purest weeping, Lessen my sorrow, and through agonies purify my heart. O psalms, your old pages whisper in grief, The letters wash themselves in a sea of tears: Yes, me'ayin yavo ezri? Where shall I go Where to turn to and towards? I see them now the singers, the reciters, the quiet murmurs: Shmerl Balegoleh, Ephraim Shuster, Itchke Koval and Gedalieh Shindler. God, do not hide your face! Take in the tearful words of the common, pious stutterer Leibtche Blecher is hammering out his tin. Ephraim Shuster makes squeaky stitches in the soles. The sky above them–a deeper, bluish goblet. The chimneys, the roofs sing psalms---

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D Shabbes mornings. The gardens, the orchards are blooming. Bright tranquility veils the windows, Father by the open window Translates every hymn with a sad melody. The pleading song trembles On the weeping strings of the shepherd David's violin. Childish, warm tears in morning's dawn. Dewy-silver the skin of the leaves. The singer David in Bethlehem valley. On the golden sandy shore are The fresh tracks of thirst-quenched lambs. O, psalms consoling and holy, Because all Israel has in you a share!

Elul. Jews become quieter, more thoughtful, more pious. Jews pour out their troubled feelings to the Creator. In shtiblach, in besmedresh, in shul the shofar is blown. Autumnal, pensive lonesome meadows. In the orchards apple tress are shaken, Secretive, family-close the shtetl becomes. More serious, humbler become even Peisi Sherer, Berl Roifeh, Avishal Trifniak and Hershke Kozak. In fear, in trembling Shayele Zoifer slinks around. Nachuml Soifer breaks out in tears at every dawn. Quietly, in God-fearing piety Every Jew pleads with God: One year with no evil decrees, no pogroms, For health and prosperity, and calm and peace. Because grace is in the hands of the eternal judge–

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In white, cold dawns The shtetl weeps during sliches. Women weep engrossed over tchines[1] In the gentile street, cows moo, dogs complain. R' Abraham Shoichet sits absorbed in thought after tvileh[2]. His prayer must Break through the gates of mercy. From his black, dense beard and payess[3] Drops of water drip. The broken, tested spirit groans: Jews need mercy. Need a R' Levi Itzchak Berdichever[4] Who knows how to stand before God and argue. Who should have the innocence and the strength To dictate to God. And I myself have few chasidim, I might heaven forbid give in to the yeytser hore[5] And beg for pleasure and fine clothing: I have to pray for all Israel, For the entire holy community. For myself, father in heaven, I therefore need Something to exchange. From your eyes nothing is refused I don't beg for riches, On silver spoons. It is enough for me and my household Rye bread and potatoes. R'Avreml Shoichet stands before the congregation: Father of mercy, your people Israel sanctified in suffering. You alone know, how between nations, We are persecuted for your name's sake. Then why do you allow your favored son to be destroyed?! And if I am poor and lowly in your eyes, I am but a little screw in your Creation. For our holy father's merit For the people of Israel, open the gate of mercy! Midat harachamim aleinu hitgalgali U'vead ameich rachamim sha'ali[6]

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Woe the sobbing cries. The face shines against the burning light: Father in Heaven, you alone Build Jerusalem, renew our days. Sow compassion in the world! The early morning, autumn surroundings are still. The hay meadows spread quiet gloom. The shtetl gapes in God-fearing piety. Avreml Shoichet enveloped in his taliss glides to open gates… And the Shechina pours hot tears on the spattered congregation.

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I was still very young in the middle of WWI. I was studying in Moishe Mendl's, z”l, cheder. When the battles got closer to our shtetl, trade was interrupted, people stopped travelling to the villages, and we stopped going to cheder. I greeted this happily. No small matter being free of cheder...and to have the opportunity to hang out with other boys in the street, and watch the constant traffic of the army passing day and night without interruption. Or going out to the gentry's' fields, and bringing home things to eat that were not available because the farmers brought nothing into town to sell.

I accepted everything with a childish outlook, until things became scary. The Cossacks arrived. The men hid. The women smeared their faces with soot, and donned old torn clothes in order to look old and ugly. The Cossacks went around the houses looking for gold and women...At night, my mother would take us to the Christian neighbors.

Sitting on the ground, huddled together, we would spend the night there. The Christians would hang large crucifixes from the windows

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as a sign that Christians lived there. The Cossacks would avoid these houses. Father and the older brothers would hide in stalls or attics. When the Russian army began to leave and retreat, and we heard that the Germans were approaching, the military authority gave the order that all residents had to leave the city, and go over the bridge at the “courtyard,” because they were going to burn down the bridge before the Germans arrived. The whole population of the city began to leave, some on foot, others with horses and wagons loaded with bedding and other necessities. I remember we also tied a cow to our wagon.

The whole population left the city and went across the bridge to the courtyard. Night fell. It became dark, and we, the children, fell asleep next to our mothers...Loud wailing cries interrupted our sleep. The Cossacks, under cover of darkness, surrounded the courtyard and wanted to abduct the women. I remember the first one to begin screaming, “Shema Israel!” And then the others began to scream without interruption, “Shema Israel!” This went on so long that the Cossacks started to run away. Whether they fled because of the cries of a whole shtetl, or whether they had to leave, my childish understanding couldn't determine...In the meantime, things quieted down, people calmed down a little, and soon an officer appeared to advise us to find a more secure place. The best option would be the forest. With half the night gone, we came to the forest exhausted, and scared, and some “occupied” a place in the darkness and went to sleep...When it became lighter, people began to move, make fires and cook food for the children.

Quiet reigned, and the people decided to send somebody to find out what was happening in town. A delegation went off, and returned before long, and happily informed us that we could return to the city. The Germans were there.

In memory of my father, Itzchak, z”l, killed by the Nazis

This took place in 1921. I was studying at my last cheder with Leizer Walkerman, z”l. One afternoon, when the rebbe

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was studying with us as usual, we suddenly saw through the window people running to their houses. The rebbe went outside to find out what was happening, and quickly returned with the news that the “Halterchikes” had entered town. They were beating Jews, cutting their beards off. He told us to go straight home. When we got out to the street, it was empty of people. Running by the pig stalls which led to my house, I saw signs of blood on the bridge. As I got closer to our house, I saw a lot of people gathered around our house. I understood that something had happened, because the trail of blood led to our house. I pushed through the mass of people, and entered the house that was also full of people. I saw my father lying in bed. Next to him was the city feldsher^[1], and blood everywhere. After inquiring about what happened, I learned that a group of Jews had been standing in the city and talking. Suddenly, they were surrounded by a group of Hallerchiks with scissors in their hands, and began to cut the beards of those standing there. When they approached my father, he grabbed the scissors from one of them and threw it away. So they began to beat him with the butt of their rifles, and at the same time, cut away his beard with a piece of his flesh. My father fell covered in blood. Several Jews carried him home.

There was a Jewish community in Tishevits, as there was in all the Polish cities and shtetls.

The community administrators (dozors) were elected by the Jewish population of the town. The representatives were elected from all the strata of society, and were also required to represent the interests of those who elected them. One of the representatives was the well-known figure of Paiseh (Pesach) Sherer.

For 14 years, that is until the last day of the existence of the Jewish community, until WWII, Paiseh Sherer fought for the handworkers of Tishevits.

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He fought like a lion for the interests of this poorer class, the artisans. He was known for his keen mind, his honesty, and his dedication to the welfare of the poorer classes of the shtetl.

Pesach Sherer and his wife Tsipeleh

Thanks to him, the influence of the artisans' union in the Jewish community was strengthened, and during the last elections, four others from the handworkers union were added, 50% of the votes.

Paiseh Sherer the person was deeply embedded in the hearts of all Tishevitsers, not just the artisans for whose welfare he fought all his life, but also in his opponents, because of his integrity, objectivity and sharp intellect.

After the war, he came to Israel, and died here in 1962 in Haifa.

I doubt if any of the former residents of Tyszowce who survived the Nazi holocaust know that in our city there was once a family from which there came a world-renowned artist named Adolphe Milich who lived and painted in Italy, Switzerland and France, and whose paintings once reached a price of half a million dollars.

It was only by chance that I got to know this painter two years before his death in 1965. As is well known, there is a painting school in Bat-Yam, Israel, under the patronage of the former mayor. As a painting enthusiast, he occasionally invited world-renowned painters to visit this school. Once, he invited the painter Adolphe Milich and hosted him at his home. When this painter visited the aforementioned school, my cousin (a descendant of the Ginzburg family and a native of the city of Lodz, Poland), who was the school's secretary, was present there. When he heard that this painter was a native of Poland, he dared to ask him from which city in Poland? When he told him that he was born in Tyszowce, he came and told me about it, and also arranged a meeting for me with the painter Adolphe Milich.

At this meeting, I saw before me a man who was semi-paralyzed and had difficulty speaking, so that I couldn't talk to him much, and yet, when I introduced myself as a native of Tyszowce, he hugged and kissed me. Tears of hoy flowed from his eyes and he called out – A Tishevitser – a Tishevitser! To his question: are there many Tishevitsers in Israel? I said about 250 people, and he asked me to arrange a meeting between him and all the Tishevitsers in Israel. He wanted to see them all. After his wife saw his excitement at meeting me, how he entered such a spiritual uplifting that he started singing Shabbat eve hymns, Kol Meqadesh… (that he still remembered from his childhood at his family home), she asked me not to arrange this meeting since it could harm his poor health. I understood that, and did not arrange the meeting.

As mentioned, I couldn't talk a lot with him because of his paralysis. With a stutter, he reminded me of a few places in Tyszowce that he still remembered, such as the synagogues, Beit HaMidrash to differentiate from the Council House, the Huczwa River bombe [bomb], the water mill and the steam mill, in his language - die vasser miel un die pareh miel. He did not remember people's names because he left Tyszowce in 1894 when he was still a young boy.

His wife, who managed his business, used to write down everything he said and told about himself, in a diary, even about the period before she met him in Paris. And she told me as follows:

When he was a young boy he started to draw all kinds of pictures. When he did not have a pencil and paper

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he painted on the walls of their apartment in Tyszowce with charcoal and coal. When they didn't let him “dirty” the apartment walls, he started to paint on the outside walls of the house, or on the walls of the houses close to his place of residence. When his parents saw that their child did not want to “study,” only to paint, and couldn't tolerate the neighbors' complaints that their son was dirtying the walls of their houses, they decided to send him to his uncle (his father's brother) who lived in the city of Lodz, so that he would make a mentsh [man] out of him and teach him a profession, something they couldn't do then in Tyszowce. It didn't occur to his parents that they should teach him painting, that their son would one day be a world-renowned artist.

When his uncle in Lodz saw that the boy had a predilection for colors, he sent him to study the profession of house painting. After the great fire that broke out in Tyszowce in 1897, which destroyed all the Jewish homes in Tyszowce, his parents also moved to live in Lodz. They made a living from their son's work as a house painter and sign painter.

At the age of 18, he began to study painting. He studied in Warsaw, Italy, Germany, Switzerland (where he met his wife who accompanied him to the end of his life), until he came to Paris for the completion of his studies. More than once he suffered from hunger. Only thanks to his wife, who worked and supported him, was he able to continue his painting until he became known in the painting world.

In 1951, he fell ill with paralysis. His arms were mostly damaged, and he couldn't extend them to a distance of 20-30 centimeters, and yet I saw him painting (a picture he painted as a keepsake for his host, the mayor of Bat-Yam). He was sitting by the easel in a wheelchair and next to him stood an assistant who put into his hand the color he requested.

When I parted from him, he expressed his hope that on his next visit to Israel he would try to see all the natives of Tyszowce in Israel. He passed away in 1965 in Lugano, Switzerland.

After WWI and Polish freedom, various parties and libraries were established in Tishevits as in all other shtetls in Poland. But the greater part of the working youth remained outside the parties. They mostly came from poor families, and went to work at a very young age for the “old clothes” tailors. They could not read or write. There were also many construction workers,

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purse makers who were very backward in general knowledge.

At that time there was a group of us who came from petty bourgeois homes. After the war, we were quickly enrolled in private schools. Geniuses we were not. Nevertheless, we could read and write Yiddish and some Polish. We went on to learn trades. One became a boot-maker, another a carpenter, a third a tailor, or shoemaker. And since we had begun to think of ourselves as workers, we came up with the idea of organizing a trade union in Tishevits. We reached an understanding with the central committee in Warsaw and received all the information. In the beginning, we rented a locale in the “courtyard,” and called for all young workers to a founding meeting. Thus the first trade union in Tishevits was founded.

We would get together every evening. We organized readings from the classics like Peretz, Sholom Aleichem, and others. It did not last long. There were some bosses who could not tolerate the idea that “workers could be seen as bettering themselves,” and they applied pressure on the owner for so long that our locale was taken from us, and we were out on the street. So I asked my parents, and they agreed to give us the use of one of the unused rooms in our house. Here we really went to work. First, we initiated classes in reading and writing. We hired a teacher. He was called Shloimeleh, and many of us helped him. Classes were held each evening. We organized a choir, established various evenings where we dealt with different questions. Soon the Tishevits police became interested in us and began to demand various formalities for the starostva in Tomaszow. We were forced to hire a secretary with good Polish skills in order to carry out the correspondence properly. We used comrade Shmuel Erlich. He was a high school student then, and he carried out the correspondence for a modest fee.

I was then the elected secretary. I was involved with the Yiddish correspondence. In a very short time, we succeeded in eliminating illiteracy. Our young people started to visit the library, and became readers along with the rest of the city youth. Then the time came to improve our economic situation.

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At the time, the young people were held at work until late at night, and they were also used for house work. And the wages were inadequate. We decided to issue demands to the bosses, and if the demands were not met, to go on strike.

When they heard our demands, they laughed at us, and we declared a strike. We, the leaders of the strike, were young and without experience. We went out on strike with no money to help us during the strike. And from the very first days, mothers, really poor, came to me and yelled at my window, “What have you done to our children, getting them involved in a strike? You stuff yourself at your father's and they have nothing to eat.”

I would like to mention an episode here. One evening, sitting at the union with Sh. Ehrlich, news came that there were workers sitting and working at Aharon Mashele's, a tailor. They were breaking the strike. I took with me two other workers. Sh. Ehrlich had a cane with a silver handle. So I took it along with me. The tailor lived in a new house with a high flight of stairs. I was the first to get to the top, and I entered with the stick in hand, and informed them that the workers have no right to be working, there is a strike. In the blink of an eye, the tailor pushed me up against the door, and threw us all down all the stairs. It was dark outside. We barely got out alive. The stick disappeared somewhere. When we got back, and Sh. Ehrlich saw the stick was gone he almost broke into tears, because his late father had left it to him.

The strike situation got worse from day to day. We were unable to continue to strike, but did not know how to end it. The bosses refused to talk to us. Then we turned to the older trade unions in Zamosc, and they sent us an older comrade, and we invited every tailor separately. They were willing to speak to this representative. And so we ended the unsuccessful strike with very small achievements. It appears that it was not yet the appropriate time to strike.

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I was born in Tishevits. My father was Binyomin Diamant, mother, Breine. I worked at house construction from an early age. I served in the Tsarist army for seven and a half years until the end of WWI. I was a prisoner of the Germans for 10 months until the revolution. I was married in 1920, and lived the whole time in Tishevits employed in the building industry. From 18 years of age on, I became active in the community. I became a member of Chevra Kadisha, was gabai in the Husiatyn shtibl, and during that time, rebuilt the house. I was a member and one of the founders of the gemiles chasodim bank, and an active participant. I was elected as dozor to the Jewish community, one of the 4 artisan dozors. I was saved from death by fleeing to Soviet Russia. After the end of the war, I came to Poland with my family, and from there to Germany, and after quite a while, to Israel. I settled down, and here too I was elected gabai in the Netzach Israel synagogue in Haifa.

I want to describe the activities of the artisans' gemiles chasodim bank in Tishevits soon after WWI. The merchants union had its bank where merchants, as well as well-to-do artisans, could get loans. But the poorer artisans had nowhere to turn for help, and no one was concerned about them. I remember, at that time, going into the besmedresh and there were two melamdim there, Hena Melamed, and Kalman Dovid's son-in-law, Isrulik, and they asked me, “Why are they so determined not to let us found the bank? Are there no decent artisans who are in need, and who want to save themselves, and lend a few Zlotys?” I replied, “They will not succeed. The artisans have determined to found a bank, and they will do it.” I was not alone in this view, all our comrade artisans believed this. It was not long after that all the artisans united, and we

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soon began to collect money for this goal. It's worth noting that the first to give the first 5 Zl was the poorest of all. He had practically nothing more. We got the first 150 Zl like that. After that, the Joint contributed two times as much — 300 Zl, and with this the bank was founded. Leading the whole initiative, and working on its behalf, was Paisey Ben Binyomin HaCohen Sherer, z”l. The first secretary, Moishe Bergman, who is now here in Israel, worked for a year or two, and after went to Warsaw. Also among the first managers were H' Pinchas Hershman, and Berl Hasser who also left for Warsaw. Others were then elected to take their place.

The managers up until the end — other than the chairman, Yechiel Asher Gelber, who died before the war — were the following: Yosef Mazer, tailor; Chaim Zuker, tailor; Paisey Sherer; Moti Pelz, tailor; Hershl Diamant, architect, the author of these lines; Elkanah Bitterman, architect; Israel Shalat, hatmaker; Abraham Pelz, tailor; Dovid-Leib Oifer, tailor; Yakov Moishe Gelber, kasha maker; Shloime Kreiner, secretary. Review commission: Gershon Shtuden, lumber merchant; Abish Firsht; Paisy Sherer who resigned from the management, but was convinced to join the review commission. There were also artisans co-opted to the management who were invited to special meetings. Abraham Loifer, baker; Moishe Chaim Kleiner, architect, Nuteh Loifer, tailor.

The first loans were 25 Zl after 2 endorsers were found. But seeing that the loans were too small, and not of use to everyone, the management decided to give 2 loans to one home, including 25 Zl for the wife with 2 endorsers. If there was an exceptional circumstance, they loaned 75 Zl per house. Since the founding capital was so small, in order to provide loans for everyone, more capital was needed.

First a tea evening, and a small lottery were established, and took place Saturday night at Yantche Diamant's house. And so that you can have an idea of how faithfully, and dedicatedly people worked,

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here is an example. Chaim Zucker and Yoisef Mazer were not young men anymore. They went off to Moishe Lagrotzki Shliafrik and borrowed his large samovar. Chaim Zuker rolled up his long Sabbath kapoteh, got charcoal from the baker and brought it with joy. Then the samovar was set up and a pound of sugar purchased. Everyone was given a glass of tea and a sugar cube. And people donated whatever they could. And, with the lottery, 70 Zl were taken in that Saturday night. That same evening, it was discussed what methods to use to bring in more money for the fund. The following suggestions were submitted:

1. To perform the play “Mechirot Yosef” in our shtetl and in Laszczow and Komarow.
2. We should initiate a “plate,” i.e., at every simcha in the shtetl, a “plate” for donations should be present.
3. Purim evening, members of the board should go around seeking donations
4. Approach the Joint for a larger loan.

All four suggestions were accepted. We began to prepare for the performance of Mechirot Yosef. We rehearsed and when we were ready, the whole board went to Laszczow. Even Raphael Shammas came along. There were no lack of mountains on the way to Laszczow. We were travelling with Tevl-Itche the baal hagoleh, and while descending a hill, one of the back wheels fell off, and the wagon overturned. No one was injured however. We just got to groan and get dirty.

A plate was acquired, and the words gemiles chasodim was painted on it, and for every simcha a member of the board brought the plate, and along with one of the guests they would gather the money, and at the end they would count the money, and record it on a piece of paper. Until the counting, the board member did not take part in the wedding. The money was then given to the cashier through the secretary.

Purim evening, the shtetl was divided into 4 quarters, and in each quarter, two chaverim from the board went door-to-door collecting donations.

A letter was sent to the Joint with a copy of the activity of the bank, and the signatures of all the board members and with the seal of

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the bank and a request for a larger sum for the bank. Based on the letter, we received a further 800 Zl from the Joint.

After receiving the 800 Zl from the Joint, we were able to increase the loans. Instead of 25 Zl, we gave out 50 Zl, and increased to 100 Zl for needy cases based on the evaluation of the board. But even after getting the 800 Zl and other sums, it was still extremely difficult to provide for everyone.

The loans were distributed like this: Every Saturday evening, there was a meeting of the board. There was a list of those requesting money, and they had to be approved. There were those who had to have it right away on Sunday, and others who needed it Wednesday evening after the market. After it was approved, and the secretary calculated the total amount needed for the neediest, and there was not enough in the bank, a couple of board members would get up and go to see some richer businessmen who used to help out, and get a loan for a week or two, a few hundred Zlotys, and then distributed to those in need. The following Saturday night, the scene was repeated. The first order of business was to pay back the freely given businessmen's loans. And the remainder was divided. This was how things had to be manipulated in order to satisfy everyone's needs.

Things advanced to where 150 and 200 Zl were given out per loan. Then small businessmen began to approach the bank with requests for loans. So it was decided to bring together members of the artisans. A meeting was held and it was decided to include small businesses in the loans.

At that time, the women's shul began to deteriorate on the side of Chanesh and Motl Presfer, and it had to be demolished. Since the rabbi said that it was forbidden to use the wood to build a private residence, it was decided to build a community house from the lumber on the place of the old rabbi, R' Shimsheleh, z”l. With the help of the rabbi we got the use of a large locale for the bank. From the bank, we gave them 1000 Zl and a loan. In return, we got a big place in the community building. When the bank moved over to the new building, it was decided that every Shabbes

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a minyan should be established there for the board to daven. Every week 5 or 6 businessmen were invited to the Shabbes minyan and they each gave as much as they wanted. These donations went to the fund.

Eventually, we came to the point where we could lend out 300 Zl. The hardest season was from Pesach until after the holidays when people came and asked for loans to lease orchards, and it was hard to provide for everyone. Aside from that, we had to give them a loan to buy a horse and wagon to transport the fruit to the city. The sadovniks^[2] who had summer fruit were able to repay the loans earlier. But those who had winter fruits could not repay until after the holidays.

Here in Israel we know the meaning of “protecsyeh.” In the shtetl, a certain measure of protecsyeh existed, but in a different manner. A man could come and ask for a loan of 200 Zl for another person. He wanted to use his protectsyeh because he had occasionally deposited money in the bank. He was told that, at the moment there was no money in the bank, but if he was so interested in getting a loan for the other person, he could give him a loan of 200 Zl for two months, then we could loan the money. If he agreed to that, the second person immediately got the money.

There were also cases like these: Certain retailers would get a loan of 300 Zl, and punctually pay installments every week, but under no circumstances could they pay off the entire loan. Instead, they would pay 150 Zl. They then went to an acquaintance and asked him for a loan of 150 Zl to pay off the entire loan, and get a new loan. Binyomtche Marder was a stable guarantor like this. On Friday, he would lend someone as much as he needed, and used to come to us for a loan for the other, because he had given him a loan in order for him to repay the 150 Zl and get a new loan and use only 150 Zl because he had to pay him back.

There were others like that who helped others. There were those who voluntarily deposited money in the bank for a given amount of time in order to allow more loans to be given out. These were: Mendeleh Finger, a wheat merchant; Motl Hersh Diker, a shteper^[3]; Yankeleh Glick, a shenker^[4]; Yankl Bashister; Paisy Bashister; Kalman Shteper. There were many

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others whose names I don't remember. Eliyahu Schwindler-Neuman was a frequent endorser for the carriage drivers of Tomaszow. He used to come every Monday-Tuesday to the bank and do many favors for the drivers.

With the passage of time, the activities of the bank were not just concerned with loans. We began to think about other ways to lighten the load of the handworkers. Flour for Pesach was purchased and sold cheaper to the artisans who needed a cheap pood^[5] of flour. But every year, we had to deal with the montchares (flour sellers). There were many who were sympathetic to us, and bought flour for Pesach at the same price as at the montchares. They wanted to help us in our necessary work. If I had to describe all the difficulties everyone had for Pesach, there would not be enough paper. I will try just to describe events from 1938 onward. From this, you can get an idea of how things were in earlier years.

Before Pesach 1938, the flour sellers demanded that we should send a delegation, and they would reach an agreement with us. They would sell us the flour at the same price we sold it for, but with one condition, that we should not send anyone not a handworker, and deposit 100 Zl. as security, and the flour to be delivered 3 days before Purim. When the time came to receive the flour, and nothing was seen or heard, we went to them to find out what was happening. They replied, “Have patience, you'll get it.” But seeing that they were stalling, we called a meeting, including members not on the board, and it was immediately decided to travel to Zamosc for flour. For several years, we used to buy flour from Fuchs. This year, when we came to Fuchs for flour, he said he didn't have any. After this, we found out that the mantcheres had asked the merchants in Zamosc, Tomaszow, and Hrubieszow not to sell us any flour.

We saw that the situation was bad, so we set out to find sources of flour. Suddenly we discovered that there was a merchant and farmer mill in the village of Madienec. There was a bookkeeper from Tishevits there, Ephraim Shlit (Asher Kuperstock's son-in-law). It was snowing and there was deep mud outside. One of the most loyal comrades, Mattis Gelber, spoke up and said that if one other person came along, he would go find out if there was flour there. I volunteered to be the second. I had my own horse and wagon,

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got some money and drove off. We got there in the evening. I went directly to Ephraim Shlit and asked him if he had any Pesach flour. He replied that two Jews from Hrubieszow had koshered the farmers' flour, and have some left, but he didn't know if it had been sold already. They were due at 8:00 o'clock in the morning. “If there is any, I will buy it for you.” There was no place to spend the night, so we stayed in the stable. We guarded our money all night. We couldn't sleep and we waited impatiently for day. Ephraim told us not to hang around the courtyard. He would do the buying for us, if it had not been sold yet. At precisely 8:15, Ephraim comes to the stable and says, “Come in, Yidden, and let's see the money. I have bought the flour for you.” I do not have the words to describe the joy we felt hearing that we had our flour. Frozen, we danced for joy. After paying the money, we harnessed 3 horses, loaded the flour and set off for home. Because of our elation, we forgot that we needed a hechsher for the flour. When we got home that evening, people were already going to hear the Megilla. They were waiting for us in the polish. On seeing us, joy broke out among all the chaverim in true Purim fashion. Men and women awaited our arrival. They even came out to the road to meet us. We quickly found a store at Naphtali Nuteh Hinde's, and still wearing their holiday clothing, the flour was unloaded. Everyone rejoiced.

When the flour had been stored, a tailor, Itche Zuker, “Krumer Kop” said, “Yidden, we have to assign two guards to guard the flour overnight, because the montchartes can sneak in and pour naphtha on the flour.” So two men were assigned to guard the store all night.

But the joy only lasted until the morning. In the morning, the rabbi sent for me, Hershl Diamant, and Mattes Gelber, and asked us, “Did you get a hechsher for the flour for Pesach?” We replied that if Ephraim Shlit was the broker, then it must be kosher. But the rabbi required a written certificate, and we did not have one. We did not know the addresses of the two Jews we had bought it from. There were no telephones and phone books like today to search for names and addresses. Meanwhile, the montchares agitated and shouted, “What kind of flour did you bring for Pesach? There was never any Passover flour there.”

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They also convinced some of our members who were saying, “What kind of flour did they bring?” So I had no choice but to drive to Hrubieszow, but no one wanted to accompany me because of the snow and mud. So we called on Abraham Moishenitzky and asked him to go to Hrubieszow for the hechsher. So he said, “How can anyone travel now? Who would want to set out now in such weather? You could lose your life.“ But he was nevertheless forced to go, and I had to go with him. We left in the morning, drove all day, and arrived in the evening, asked the way to the two Jews from the mill, and they immediately brought us the hechsher. Because the horses were very tired, and us as well, we stayed the night, and left the following morning. When we got home and the chaverim saw the hechsher, everyone cheered up, and we sold the flour for Pesach.

The bank also occupied itself with charitable issues. We brought in machinery to knit socks, and brought down an instructor to teach the work. The machines were installed in the bank locale, and the daughters of the artisans were called on to learn the work and help their parents earn a living. They took the work home and earned money. In order to have an idea of how popular and respected the handworkers' bank was, it is worthwhile remembering that in the elections for the Jewish community, for the first and second time, only one member of the handworkers was elected, Paisey Sherer. But by the third round, four handworkers were elected as dozor along with four from the town.

In concluding, I would like to add that in 1937 there was a meeting in town that included the secretary of the Joint. After he got a report on the work of the bank, he said that there were 660 such banks in Poland, “But your bank is in 6th place in terms of activity.”

In 1939 we began to hear talk of war, and we called a meeting because people had stopped depositing money. A question was being discussed and argued: How to describe the activities and the balance of the bank. It was decided to prepare a report: 1. How much money the bank has. 2. What are the debts?

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3. How many voluntary loans are there? The report was to be made in several copies. The report was compiled and distributed to several members not on the board. There was no accumulation of cash, and it was decided that in the case of war, some floorboards in the bank should be removed, a hole dug, and all the documents should be buried there. This was done, but later events led to the destruction of everything.

At the beginning of the war, a German plane was seen flying around Aharon Berish Liak's mill. When the goyim in the mill went outside to look at the plane, a bomb fell and killed several people. A panic arose in town. At the same time, a unit of Russians and Germans engaged and shooting broke out. Mordechai Gottes's daughter was killed by a bullet entering her window. The panic grew. People had already buried their valuables. All the Jews locked up their houses and fled to the forest, hoping to return at night. That day, the goyim set the whole city on fire. They were seen pouring naphtha on the houses after they robbed them. When we got back from the forest, there was nothing left to save. Everything had burned, even our documents. The only things left were some copies in the hands of people who are no longer with us either.

I, the writer of these sentences, fled to Russia with my wife, Chaya, two sons, Binyomin, and Yakov, daughter Bronieh, father-in-law, Nuteh, z”l, and mother-in-law, Feige, who now lives with me.

My oldest brother, Yontche Diamant, who was one of the founders of the bank, died before the war. Killed by the Germans were his son-in-law and daughter, his son, Peretz and his wife, and three children, my older sister, Shaindl, and her husband and two children, my sister, Risheh, her husband and one child.

My dearest friends have disappeared, their lives tragically ended, and I am left alone and lonely. The lives of dear brothers and sisters, institutions and establishments are no more. Honor to their memory!

1. Interest-free loans Return
2. Jews who rented orchards from the gentry Return
3. Cuts out and sews shoe leather Return
4. Tavern keeper Return
5. Russian unit of weight equal to 16.38 kg Return

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