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Background

My friend, the reader! I want to describe my native city to you. May I share my intention upfront? It is essential to state that I am not aiming to write a novel, which is a creation of imagination and the work of an artist. I wish to provide an accurate depiction of reality.

While a novel narrates situations and characters in a structured way, I intend to present fragments of figures and snippets of situations^[1] as they truly are, without the aid of a painter's brush. A novel contains a background, a plot, and a resolution, but here, I will present photographs of various events arranged one near the other. While multiple figures would certainly be depicted—since it is impossible to accurately describe a city without them—the emphasis will not rest on those figures alone. They will be mentioned not so much for their own sake but to enhance the overall description.

Every image does not testify only about itself; it also tells a story about its context. For example, consider the image of Yom Kippur by [Maurice] Gottlieb. This artwork does not delve into each individual face but rather captures a general appearance. Even the autobiographer “me,” who absorbs and reports, is not the focal point. Instead, I am merely a necessary component, like a medium, in this depiction.

The “me” wants to introduce a character and describe a city, community, or public space somewhere in Eastern Galicia from 50 years ago^[2], during a time of calm and idyllic conditions. That period without wars, which was a transitional phase, felt distinctly different from what preceded it. Yet, it served as a prelude to what was to come. This transitory and passing phenomenon is the subject of the following notes.

We read about cities — “Polis” [in ancient Greek], in ancient or modern times. Every city is built on its generational foundations, which form a single entity, an actual organism. an organism comprises an assembly of organs. I wish to capture and describe the organism of my childhood and youth.

Many engaging books, novels, and memorials have already been written about Eastern European cities. However, I have yet to find a book that focuses on living organisms. Imagine the world of a mischievous child, a friend to playful children like him, fighting with rascals like him. Or consider the public in the city compete in various elections, appointments, and honorary positions from that time. These were different shades and nuances in the social life of the era. Where is the book that would bring all of this to life?

I want to describe my little native town, located somewhere in Eastern Galicia, in those days. Zborow, as I recall it, climbs and rises in my memory, echoing in my ears, disturbing my peace. Can I do it? Can I place her within the flora, fauna, and desert landscape surrounding her? within her climate and nature? Oh! I know how fragile my memory is and how clumsily I am trying to articulate it. Nevertheless, I will attempt to do it. For whom? Not for her, as she is mute today. Like hundreds of her sisters, she is now held in the arms of Soviet Russia. It is as if she had been erased from the Book of Life. My description would not reach her; she is only a legend today. Even the “me,” the one who absorbs and tells would be a legend tomorrow—a fleeting dream, an imagination that has come and gone. However, between today and tomorrow, a desire remains to absorb, capture, and describe it, even with a fragile memory and clumsy words. So be it.

Vienna, Austria's capital, significantly changed over the last 50 years [Author's Note #1]. It is no longer the cheerful city often referred to as “the city of the Great King” [Psalms 48:3] as the flaunting people would say. Once known for its refined culture, it now finds itself angry and Prussian-style buttoned-up under the oppressive shadow of the Nazis, serving as a base for their mischiefs. Despite these changes, some aspects of the city remain reminiscent of the past.

When you board a train in Vienna, traveling west, day and night, you move through breathtaking landscapes, including mountains and valleys, forests and fields, making stops in cities such as Krakow, Lvov [Lviv], Zlotzov [Zolochiv]. About an hour before reaching Tarnopol [Ternopil], the city of [Rabbi Yosef BABa”D] the author of Minchat Chinuch [Offering of Education] and Yosef Perl, you hear the voice of the conductor announcing: “Zborow!” That means that the Zborow of 50 years ago was a reality, not just a legend. Zborow is located on the railroad that connects Vienna to Tarnopol and further yet to Podwoloczyska [Pidvolochysk], a town on the Russian border in those days. It is important to note that the train station is not situated in the city itself but a few miles away. To reach the town, you must take your bags and hop onto one of the carriages owned by our fellow Israelites, who wait near the station to transport travelers into the city. It is not a challenging job, but it is also not a mere amusement either. Depending on the season, you may encounter hot sunny days, freezing cold, heavy rains, or deep snow. There are also dark nights and stormy winds that seem to arise somewhere from distant deserts, causing the winds to howl wildly across the Podolia Plain, a stark reminder of nature's power over humanity.

The train is not affected by all that. It runs and races to the station both day and night, with trains arriving from other points of departure. Throughout most of the year, however, the journey is characterized by a sense of pleasantness. The decency of the townspeople also seems to rub off on the waggoners. They are neither overly eager nor impatient. They are not taking each other's turn. They stand quietly at the corner, waiting for a valued customer.

The tallest and sturdiest individual among them stands out; he is highborn and behaves like a gentleman, embodying the qualities of someone in a responsible public role. When you travel with him to town, try not to focus on his tattered clothes. Instead, pay attention to his sparse words, whispers, and hints, through which you can gain insight into the delicate affairs of the city.

Another notable figure in the group is a stocky, courageous man who harbors a particular fondness for beautiful Hebrew tropes and elegant handwriting. In his home, he keeps a collection of letters written in figurative language and an exquisite script tucked away in a drawer. The inlaid letters are small and rounded as if they recite poems. We have never seen anything so beautiful as these letters. Why does he keep and preserve them? Most likely, it is for his children. As they grow up, he hopes they will be able to imitate them. This is the stocky man's dream.

The train station was built long before either of us was born. Since the railroad line veers away from the city, beyond the mountain on the northern side of the Strypa [River], the noise of the train does not reach the town, and the steam smoke does not rise over it.

In contrast, the main road, which begins in Vienna and ends in the town on the border with Russia—Podwoloczyska, crosses through Zborow dividing it into two parts: South and North. This road also passes through the square-shaped market square around which the rest of the streets are arranged. Despite being close to the center, these streets are predominantly populated by our brothers, the Bnei Israel, making it a Jewish town. In the suburbs, you will find the descendants of Noah, mostly Ruthenians (Ukrainians) and a small number of Poles. The villages around the city are all Ruthenians. Only on the way to Zlotzov are some German villages established by Emperor Maria Theresa or her son, Emperor Joseph II.

The soil around the city is rich and dark. When you dig into it, it appears as though vapor rises from the ground. The soil feels moist, almost oily. Its color is as dark as coal or the hair of a Bedouin. There are no forests or mountains nearby, except the one situated by the lake.

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Upon leaving the city, you only see fields stretched out, fading to the horizon. Walking through these fields was a joy for a child, youth, and young man who lived in the area for the first 20 years of his life. He usually walked alone, sometimes accompanied by a friend, or with the old teacher, Reb Tzvi, whom we will discuss later. However, walking through the fields was not an option during snowy and cold winters,. Even the most mischievous child prefers to skate on the frozen Strypa [River], which borders the town on the northern side.

When the Holy Days arrive, though, the young legs are once again drawn to the fields and the trails between the villages. It is delightful to observe the work of plowing and loosening the soil. Horses pull the plow, turning over the clods to create furrows, while the harrow follows, smoothing out the earth. A descendant of Noah, the farmer, appears between the plow and the harrow. He spreads the seeds among the clods and furrows from a bag hanging at his side. The scene consists of a plow, a harrow, a descendant of Noah, rich, black soil below, a sunny or cloudy sky above, or days of sunny sky or gentle rain. This is the panorama. All around, there is silence and stillness that evokes the serenity of the six days of Genesis—a moment that feels timeless. That is the essence of the feeling.

The spring days of plowing and sowing are brief. Upon completing the work in the field, the horses are assigned to other tasks, and the farmer no longer ventures into the fields. Only you, alone, walk around among the fields, holding your book in your hands, engrossed in its pages. But at times, you pause to reflect on the beauty and diversity of the fields cultivated around you.

At first glance, the fields appear to be sown solely with grain—wheat, oats, and barley. However, over a century ago, Albrecht Thaer, a physician turned agronomist, advocated and taught about the need for crop rotation through the three-field system. Perhaps the farmers in our area adopted that approach. Along with crop rotation, they also introduced new crops, such as potatoes and legumes, as part of a crop rotation system.

Look how beautiful these growing crops are! They adorn and embellish the fields, with each plot showcasing its flowers and colors. It's a delightful sight for the eyes.

The crops are flourishing. Just a few months have passed, and they now stand tall with their spikes reaching upward. The vibrant orange color replaces the earlier green. The crops now stand erect, swaying gently from side to side. A sense of heavenly calmness envelopes the fields and the villages—the eye feasts on the beautiful surrounding scenery. When you encounter a farmer or their companion, their faces are bright, and they gaze affectionately at their crops.

No forests or groves grow in the area, and no spectacular nature views either. There are also no mountains, but it is not the plain of a prairie. There are ups and downs—gentle hills. And sometimes, during sunny days, clouds climb and rise, floating across the sky, at times, casting shadows on these hills and fields. These alternates of lights and shades induce the spirit of poetry in a dry soul. At times, a young boy wanders through this landscape, absorbed in the poems of Michal [Micha Yosef Lebensohn] or Avraham Mapu. He often reads verses about Zion and Jerusalem, even before the advent of the Zionist movement. In his mind, the fields and their tall, swaying crops intertwine with the hills of Zion and Jerusalem. There are moments when the human spirit transcends distances of thousands of miles and spans countless years, uniting the distant past with the present and bringing together the scattered fragments of history.

There are no forests or groves in the area, nor are there any spectacular views of nature. No mountains rise in the landscape; instead, the landscape is characterized by gentle hills. On sunny days, clouds drift lazily across the sky, occasionally casting shadows on the hills and fields below. This interplay of light and shade stirs the spirit of poetry in even the driest of souls.

In the book of Genesis, a verse about Cain mentions that, “he built a city” [Genesis 4:17]. This implies that building a city is a significant and complex endeavor. It requires careful planning, foresight, and consideration of immediate and long-term needs. A city encompasses a central area and surrounding regions, with an internal focus and outer spaces.

However, the storyteller “me” witnessed the remarkable growth of a large city in our land, Tel Aviv, the splendor of the Yeshuv^[3], which developed without a clear plan or foresight. It stands as a symbol of the revival of the Jewish nation in its homeland. Originally, Tel Aviv started as a suburb, later evolving into an entire city and ultimately transforming into a bustling metropolis. This development is truly astonishing!

A vision of the future drove the early settlers and builders of Tel Aviv. Yet, they did not fully understand the implications of their task of city-building. Their creation was largely unintentional. They began by constructing a neighborhood, eventually becoming a major city. This reflects a common aspect of human nature: sometimes, creation. They built a neighborhood, a suburb, and transformed it into a big metropolis. That is the way of the humans: in the search for something simple, we end up discovering something more significant, or as the story of King Saul goes, he was looking for asses and found the kingdom's gold^[4].

How different is the history of Zborow? Although my native town has existed for a thousand years, it does not compare to Tel Aviv. Over the years, generations have added new houses to the city, while other generations have removed from it. During my lifetime, the city has grown from a small town to a District City. This means that the city and its surroundings have experienced growth, but that growth has not altered or obscured its original shape. It seems that the town was constructed with careful planning, intention, and a purpose. When was it built? That remains unclear and often overlooked by historians. Nobody thoroughly researched the age of the city. However, it has been established that it was built by Jews and for Jews. It is inconceivable that Gentiles lived in it first, only to be uprooted by Jews from the center of town. From the day they arrived, our ancestors were city dwellers, in contrast to the descendants of Noah, who were people of the villages and farmyards. The Jews were the people who built cities in Poland. They were the urban element comprising merchants, store owners, craftsmen, and more.

The Jews built Zborow. They selected the area and determined to build a city there. They came on the road from Vienna to Podwoloczyska, which was likely an ancient roadway that had been upgraded to a highway by the authorities. The Strypa River flows in a straight line along the entire length of the area, turning sharply southeastward behind a bridge, where it cascades into a narrow ditch. The ditch continues through many miles, reaching as far as Buczacz, referred to as Szibucz in the story of Shai Agnon^[5]. Our ancestors chose that area, encircled by water in the shape of the letter “L,” because the Strypa River and the lake were appealing. The women used to wash their clothes in the lake, and everybody bathed there in the summer. Men bathed in one corner and the women in another, more distant corner. They built the mikveh [ritual bath] and a public bath on the east side, where the river says farewell to the lake. However, they built the synagogue on a southwestern hill near the city center and the “Beit HaMidrash HaGadol,” a few minutes' walk from the synagogue. In summary, they laid out a plan for the new city in Poland's Eastern Galicia, named Zborow, which means “Congregation” in Polish.

Look! A Jewish city emerged on this Slavic plain of proud Poles and oppressed Ruthenians, holding all the Christian faith of two kinds, Roman Catholic and Greek Catholic. Not a ghetto, not a Jewish street, nor a neighborhood or a suburb. Not a community but a real town. The wandering Jews from afar—what is here for you that you built your city here? Where are the walls to protect you from daylight robbers? And where is the army corps who would defend you from the anger of the masses? There are no walls in Zborow, nor any army corps. Perhaps some promises were made by the Poles, but those have become lost in the mysteries of oblivion. Zborow's people live without a touch of a single author's pen. They do not record their experiences or explore the events around them—the Creator, the world leader, who keeps an enormous memorial book. Everything from small details to the grandest events is recorded in that book. Why should a man bother to write a book? People interested in history would find that during the days of Khmelnytskyi, two armies fought against each other not far from Zborow, behind the eastern suburb, where Khmelnytskyi suffered a defeat.

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However, Gaon Rabbi Yechezkel Landau from Prague writes in his acclaimed book, Nodah B'Yehuda [Known in Judah], that Zborow is a city of wise people and writers. In the Jewish cemetery, located in the southwest corner, far away from the city but not far from the Christian one, some gravestones are 200 years old. We do not know and did not ask whether the Christians have gravestones that old. Additionally, the Jews have an old ohel [literally—“a tent,” a structure built over a grave to honor the deceased and indicate their prominence] of a Rabbi. Women visit it and weep on the grave. They do not recite Tachnun^[6] on 12 Tevet because it is considered a minor Purim miracle. On that day, the town's Jews were saved from a blood libel that threatened to lead to a massacre. It was on this day that the truth about the libel was revealed, leading to the release of the unjustly imprisoned Jewish individuals. The “me” storyteller received only a distant echo of this event. It is said that a folklore song recounts the story of the libel. That song begins with these humble words:

“At the time of Minister Adil—
Zenin di yiden geshtanen oifen shpitz Nadil”

[“As for the Jews, they stood on top of the needle”]

And that was how the story went:

Grandmother Halki, a Christian beggar, was found murdered one day. She was severely beaten, and the suspicion fell on the Jews who were sentenced to die. Gallows were even erected in a city square for the execution. However, at the last moment, two Christian beggars stepped forward and confessed to murdering their friend and stealing her money. They were hanged, and the Jews were released. That is the end of the story. Interestingly, the author found the names of 13 martyrs in the Chevreh Kadisha book. What is the meaning of that? No further details or explanations regarding this matter are provided in the book.

Another story occurred at the beginning of the author's generation—a gloomy tale that ended well. One day, broken and dirtied statues and signs of theft were found in the Christian church. The blame fell on the Jews, inciting public outrage. Eventually, it was revealed that a Christian clerk was responsible for the vandalism, allowing the Jews to breathe a sigh of relief. The story was published in Bloch's newspaper volume 14, issue 32.

These are all the shades of the past, both far and near. A past that has dimmed and faded, and its essence diminished. Zborow and its surroundings are quiet today, reflecting on what transpired 50 years ago [Author's Note #1]. We turn our clock backwards and what was 50 years ago is now considered the present. Calmness prevails; there are no signs of revolt or revolution. There is a fixed world order, and each person settles into their own camp, complete distinct classes and neighborhoods.

The boy-youth hears no whisper or echoes of any past revolts within the community. They say that in the past, when people encountered wealthy people in the street, they pulled down their pants and publicly flogged them in the place on the body designated for that purpose. The storyteller cannot find any details about that obscure rumor. The property owners remain silent on that topic. Only those who are somewhat eccentric or lost in their own thoughts mention it. Did it happen in 1848, the year of the Revolution, resonating with the events unfolding in Europe? Who knows?

The present is calm and pleasant. There is no dispute within and no conflicts outside. The Poles seem to be content with the situation. You do not hear any derogatory or contemptuous remarks about His Majesty Emperor Franz Joseph, who presides over a benevolent kingdom. On the anniversary of Poland's statehood, they sing a song of the kingdom along with verses from the Polish hymn, and there are no barriers between the two songs.

The Ruthenians are happy to be freed from the [Polish] oppression. They work in the fields and sing while they labor. On Sundays and during fairs, they come to town, flock to the prayer houses and taverns, purchase whatever they buy, and enjoy themselves in their own way, reveling in the splendor of life. The Jewish community seeks nothing more than a kingdom characterized by kindness, health, means to support their families, good sons, and a life free from disgrace and shame.

The atmosphere is conducive to assimilation. The kingdom-established schools demand that schools conduct “uniform education.” The descendants of Noah send their sons to these schools, while the Jews tend to send their daughters there, but most of them send their sons to Cheders to study the Torah. Each household pays tuition except for the poor, who cannot afford it. Only a small number of Jews send their sons to state schools often because they worry about their future and wish to prepare them for government jobs or just to become global. Even the children of the Haredi [Orthodox] study the state languages, Hebrew grammar, and some arithmetic alongside their traditional studies of Gemara and Tosafot [medieval commentaries on the Talmud]. Once they graduate from the Cheder, they can handle life's challenges. However, Baron Hirsch later changed his mind about his earlier decision. He deposited millions of francs in Vienna, the capital of Austria, to establish special schools for Jews in Galicia. One such school was established in Zborow. In these schools, students primarily learn in Polish, but also some Torah in pure Ashkenazi [Yiddish] translation. For example, “In the beginning, created…” is translated as “Am Anfange schuf.”

There is no open hatred toward Jews. The Pole's face lights up, and he talks to them, treating them as equals. He asks only that they speak Polish and support Polish candidates in the election. An insurance company in the country is represented by old Rechiborski, who is noble and honest. He escaped an expulsion to Siberia and came here to Zborow to capture the market in the city, especially among the Ruthenians and the Jews, for the Polish company.

Rather than using intimidation, he prefers to win people over with kindness—“a Gracious club” as opposed to “a Whipping club” [Zechariah 11:7 –“I took two staffs and called one Graciousness and the other Whipping”]. Is this old noble, who tasted the taste of Siberia, a liberal at heart, or perhaps even a philosopher? The glow on his face seems to suggest so, although it may simply be a display of tact and good manners. In any case, he presents a pleasant demeanor in his dealings. There is no hint of hatred in his behavior, nor is he consumed by national fanaticism. He has successfully secured insurance for most of the households in the city for the Polish insurance company.

However, one might wonder if the loss to the company was greater than the profit. A massive fire broke out in Zborow on 11 Tamuz 5,651 [17 July 1891], resulting in the destruction of nearly all the houses. That event, referred to as “the Great Fire” left many families homeless. One such family stopped paying their premium a few months before the fires. According to the policy, they had no grounds for a claim. However, Mother Bracha took the woman of that family and her children, lining them up before the company's official, and spoke earnestly from her heart. The company, showing mercy, chose to act beyond the confines of justice. They compensated the family as if the father continued to pay the insurance premiums. With that kind of act, they honored the name of the Polish nation and won the townspeople's hearts.

Zborow is situated on a flat plain with a few hills and slopes. It appears to be an isolated unit, seemingly disconnected from outside cultures or propaganda. These influences have yet to penetrate its walls. In the past, the political situation was different; the Poles ruled Zborow, and the Ruthenians surrendered and were subjugated. They found protection under the sponsorship of the Jews. However, that past has faded, and the current generation has not retained its memory.

Far, far away, in Vienna, His Majesty Emperor Franz Joseph sits with his charming wife, Elisheva [Elizabeth], and their remarkable son, Rudolf. The Emperor rules Vienna. He is viewed as the father of all, and all are his children: the few proud Poles, the many and simple Ruthenians, and the Jews. Everyone obeys the Emperor—rich and the poor, officials and citizens alike. Every person wakes up for work, tending to their own affairs, whether worrying about themselves, helping others, or attempting to take advantage of them. There is a culture of hard work, and labor yields comparable wages. Awful poverty does not exist. The enjoyment derived from life is on the rise. Older people note that there was no such prosperity in their childhood. Although excessive wealth remains absent, life is indeed easier now than it was back then. This prosperity brings with it both pleasure and free time. For some, it means a retreat to study the Torah, while others choose to be idle. When you enter Kloiz Stratyn, you will find about 30 Avrechim [yeshiva students], both young men, and the elderly immersed in their Torah studies

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Each person has their own desk and candle. One student studies a Gemara page and Tosafot. At the same time, another delves into the Ramba”m, and yet others concentrate on a Gemara page, “Orach Chaim,” or Alshich or Abarbanel. Their eyes sparkle with spiritual delight, and their lips mumble as they engage in their studies. Occasionally, groups of two or three debate about an intricate sugiya [A passage of the Talmud]. Sitting there in the corner, teaching and learning is truly gratifying. Blessed is the generation that can afford to do so.

Zborow has slipped into obscurity—into the ocean of the past. It once existed, but now it does not exist anymore. It is reminiscent of Pompei in Italy. Excavating its layers reveals streets, tools, furniture, and pictures on the wall paintings—evidence of human achievements and failures. However, without excavation, nothing can be found. We enter through the opened gates, much like a probe delves beneath the surface, eager to explore the layers of Zborow and its rich history.

Throughout its existence, Zborow remained small and did not produce any notable names in the world of literacy. A Pole named Barzcz published a book or pamphlet titled “Misato Zborow” (The City of Zborow) in 1868. But where is the book today? What insights could it provide us? Our focus is on uncovering the layers of Jewish Zborow, a task no other historian seems to undertake. We are dedicated to discovering everything that can be unearthed.

Reb Israel Radler [the author's father]

My father, of blessed memory, was not famous; His presence in Zborow was quite understated. Even though he was recognized as one of the respected property owners in the city, his reputation was something other than boasting or seeking attention, unlike some of his descendants. Instead, he was honored for his character: A Jew who studied the Torah, a God-fearing man, and someone who was honest–one who never sought glory or attempted to benefit from public funds.

Those of us who knew him in middle age can still picture him as he was then: a Jew of short to medium stature, somewhat bony. He had the appearance of a farmer or a peddler beneath his long coat, almost resembling a strong man, especially in winter when he wore his long white fur coat. He effortlessly lifted heavy flour sacks in his store and could walk tens of kilometers alongside the waggoner, Jankil, whose wagon transported the flour sacks from Tarnopol to Zborów. This was all due to the abundant and vibrant physical strength of his body.

It was natural and simple for him to awaken each morning, summer and winter, at 4 am to continue his structured study of the six orders of the Mishnah at Beit HaMidrash. This was his way of life at a time when we were beginning to climb the ladder of our own lives, silently absorbing his sights and experiences. People said that during his youthful days of Torah study, he would go to bed early and wake up at 1 am, studying until morning. Some reported that while he studied, his face would shine with the light of the Torah as if he were radiating it outwardly. He was completely unaware of this being radiated outwardly. He did not know anything about it.

We are facing an issue here, a crucial unexplained question that we may mention later. That Jew, Reb Israel, son of Rabbi Chaim, whom we are discussing here–12 years after his passing in Jerusalem during the “The Disturbances of August 1929”–knew about many things, but he did not know himself. He was sharp in his knowledge of the Torah and penetrating intricate sugiyot [Talmud passages] but not the one about himself. It was not intentional modesty; it was subconscious. For him, life was a flat plain, without any ups and downs and no hesitations or doubts. As far as he was concerned, humans were given a trustworthy guide that guides like a craftsman guides an apprentice. Everything is written in Shulchan Aruch, which fits every person's needs everywhere and anytime. That book is the essence of the sages' wisdom, broader than the sea, the epitome of the Torah, the only daughter of the Creator, probably created before the world was created. Why should a human doubt something more wondrous? It is enough to know the book and behave according to it.

Chassidim and people of action strive and then climb the stairs–glorious souls craving the honor of the throne's perks. They are on top of the world, even in this lower world. He tells his family: “Rabbi Elimelech [Weisblum] of Lizhensk, or perhaps his brother, R' Zusia, prayed once in the winter, putting his hands on the burning stove to warm up. He suffered burns on his hand, and his skin peeled off his fingers from the heat of the heater. He did not feel this happening due to his immense inner excitement and devotion to the King of the Universe. It is both pleasant and satisfying to appreciate and have faith in the sages, knowing that there are such righteous people in the world—who like angels—rise above the level of ordinary people.” So why should Reb Israel, son of Rabbi Chaim, need to ascend or climb higher? He simply wishes to be safe in his small corner. He is a humble soldier in the army of Israel, a vast army, thank God, as numerous as the sands of the sea. Why should he stand out from the line? What is the point of soaring in the sky if he has not yet developed wings here on earth?

Reb Israel rarely talked about himself or even his father, Rabbi Chaim. In general, he was not one for conversation. However, during holidays and Shabbat—“when the sun shines in the gardens”^[7] —he sometimes felt inspired to engage with his family and share his insights about the world and its wonders. During these moments, his conversations were both pleasing and captivating. He would discuss both the secular world, familiar to people from various nations, and the Jewish world, which remained unknown to Gentiles. One particularly beautiful story he shared was about the Baal Shem Tov (referred to as B” Ch)^[8]. When it was his time to leave this world and stand before the heavenly court, it was discovered that the holy Baal Shem Tov had a trace of a sin related to the desecration of the Sabbath—albeit one committed unknowingly and without intent. For anyone else, such a sin would not hold any weight; no angel, no matter how strict, would register it for an ordinary person. It would not even be considered in the heavenly court's deliberations.

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Not so with the Baal Shem Tov (B” Ch). With righteous individuals like him, the expectations are strict, down to the smallest detail. They demand that such people maintain a standard of perfection. He had to control his senses to avoid making any mistakes, even unintentionally. This is the standard by which this type of person is judged. As a result, the consequences are severe—he must pass through hell. The verdict remains, but a measure of mercy accompanies it. It was agreed that hell would need to be cooled two months in advance for the brief moments during which the Baal Shem Tov would pass through. When Mother humbly asked how one can discover such things in this world, the answer was that there are several methods. One of these methods is through the Tzadik's dreams.

These discussions, during Shabbat and holidays, could have been more frequent. For most of his life, Reb Israel, the son of Rabbi Chaim, focused on studying, trading, and managing various responsibilities that required careful attention and precision. These pursuits captured his senses so completely that they often left him breathless or caused him to withdraw into a world filled with confusion, deep thoughts, and endless reflections without a clear direction.

He did not strive to ascend in status or embrace the practices of virtuous people. Instead, he prayed in a whisper, methodically chanting word by word from the Siddur, appearing like someone unfamiliar with prayer—someone who counted his pennies and lacked any physical expressions of devotion. He accepted no public positions except for the role of gabbai [administrator] for Rabbi Meir Ba'al HaNes's fund. During the “Days of Awe” and on Seder night, he did not wear a kittel ^[9]. Unlike the wealthy residents of Zborow, he did not purchase a lulav and etrog for the holiday of Sukkot; instead, he only blessed them at the House of Prayer. On the surface, he appeared to be a Chassid, like his father, Rabbi Chaim, and his father-in-law, Reb Bunem. He contributed to the “Ma'amadot ^[10],” participated in Chassidic meals on the anniversary of a Tzaddik's death, and welcomed kind-hearted, wandering Chassidim who passed through Zborow. However, deep down, he was a Jew steeped in the teachings of the Shulchan Aruch. He never experienced the Chassidic ecstasy that warms the soul, not even during “Simchat Torah.” In fact, we never saw him dance with the other Chassidim; on the contrary, he sometimes felt a sense of sadness and an awareness of divine judgment, especially on that very day.

If he had remained in Radikhov, near Belz, he would likely have become a Chassid and a follower, like many of the Chassidim in that region; the influence of the environment would have overshadowed his personal virtues. However, Zborow is not Belz. In Zborow, the Mitnagdim [those who oppose Chassidism] are more influential, and the enlightened individuals also hold some power. The environment does have an effect on individuals. One day, Reb Israel realized he needed to write an address on an envelope sent through the state mail. He taught himself to write in Polish. However, when he penned the first address, he still doubted whether he had written it correctly and whether the letter would reach its destination. To alleviate his uncertainty, he turned to someone who could read and asked them to verify the address. Only then did he feel confident that it was correct. This achievement felt like a conquest or a victory. This experience influenced the type of education his children received, as he did not prevent them from learning the state language and its writing. This was part of the broader influence of Zborow. Similarly, Reb Israel did not shy away from reading Kalman Schulman's Divrie Yemei Olam^[11], especially the volume that discusses Bismarck's war against Napoleon III. He also engaged with the journal HaTzfira, particularly the chapter “Divrei HaYamim” (“Chronicles”) by N. S. [Nachum Sokolov]. Recently, he even read Mendele Mocher Sfarim's story “Lo Nachat BiYaakov” [“There Is No Good in Jacob,” 1892]. This story illustrates the unwavering nature of a Parnas [community-elected activist] and depicts a fool who rushed into situations that wise individuals would avoid; this Parnas shared many characteristics, including a similar name, with the then-current Parnas of the Zborow community. Despite these influences, Reb Israel led his daily life strictly according to the Shulchan Aruch.

What should we talk about? What should we reveal, and what do we need to conceal? He was a merchant most of his life, and most of that time, he was an idler—the truth must be duly told. He was a merchant by profession, shaped by his social standing, his interaction with the Jewish community and others, and, more accurately, by the façade he maintained throughout his life and the role he accepted. Indeed, he was an idler and a dreamer, consumed by his imagination, lacking order and discipline. This idler and dreamer aspect was inherent to his soul, essence, and spiritual structure. Even when he sat in Beit HaMidrash early at dawn, studying “Eruvin Tractate,” he would frequently pause to immerse himself in thought, studying for half an hour, then contemplating for half an hour, and so on. After paying his dues to God, the harsh judge, while diligently comparing the Gemara page to the honest and accurate bills, he felt an overwhelming need to address the chaotic world of his disorganized thoughts.

At times, deep contemplation and reflection are essential for creative expression; Yet, he was unaware of this and found no solace in such pursuits. He was not skilled in Hebrew poetry, even though he appreciated refined poetic language in printed works or in letters from his educated brother-in-law. His collection of phases and half phrases was limited, but he carried this repertoire with him and used it as needed. For instance, he employed phrases from the Bible like: “And it came to pass after the year was expired” [2 Samuel 11:1], “I was instructed to bless, and He has blessed, and I cannot retract it” [Numbers 23:20], “And the archers bore a grudge against Him, bitterly attacked him and shot at Him” [Genesis 49:23], “May God do so to you and more also”[1 Samuel 3:17]. He was content with little.

Based on his tendencies and nature, Reb Israel was not meant to be a merchant. He was engaged in trade not because he wanted to, or God forbid, because he sought the wealth that came with it, nor because he had the skills necessary for bargaining and managing a business^[12]. Deep down, Reb Israel wished to embrace a life of poverty, dedicating himself to study in Beit HaMidrash, sitting at the feet of an esteemed Tzadik, or learning under a Gaon, like Rabbi Shlomo Kruger, whom he knew personally. However, he became a merchant because his wife insisted. Being an energetic woman, she told him: “Go and become a merchant.” In the family being described, women held the power; This feminine tradition was well established.

Today, the call for equal rights for women sounds like a crude joke. However, women were the ancient rulers here long before they became prominent in other nations. The men here pay close attention to their wives, who give orders from below, just as they do to Shulchan Aruch, which is an order from above. In other words, the Holy One, blessed be He, in all of his boundless wisdom, made women here who were not only lovely and endearing, as is customary, but also endowed with an abundance of wisdom that was a part of His, as well as the qualities of vigor, agility, and diligence. The women here dominate their environment because of those traits.

First of all, they are obeyed by their husbands, who follow their orders. By claiming that a Jew with a wife is in a “diaspora,” the sneers make fun of them. The men here, however, do not feel the shackles of their “diaspora” nor seek redemption from them; though the clever among them pretend to be enslaved, they actually manage well by establishing a small sphere of independence for themselves. That is the way of the crafty everywhere and at any time. They resist giving in to outside pressures. They are always able to find a way out of trouble when they are caught. The innocent, however, are not. Without any twists or complexities, they listen and are listened to straightforwardly. Their attitude (not to be compared otherwise) toward their wives is the same as their attitude toward their Creator. Until the end of time, until the coming of the Messiah, the justice-redeemer, that is what it was and will remain.

Reb Israel Radler, may his soul rest peacefully in the heavenly realms, was one of the honest innocents. He was a Jew without diplomacy. In the synagogue, he was known as Reb Israel, son of Rabbi Chaim. However, in daily life in the city, he was referred to as “Israel Bracha,” named after his wife, the Eshet Chayil” [woman of valor]. This name was used because his wife, Bracha, hailed from Zborow and was well-known as the elder daughter of the benefactor, Reb Bunem Feldman.

Reb Israel originally came from a small town called Radichov, near Belz. His surname, “Radler,” was somewhat unusual.

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It was a rare name among the Jews and other nations. People in Zborow could not get used to the name. Therefore, they used the name of his wife, whom everyone had known from the beginning of time. That is the simple and plain reason. But in any case, a hint joined the plain and simple reason. Everybody knew about his wife's vigor and wisdom, which helped in coining the nickname.

So far, we have utilized both regular and general description tools. Our [son] Alon, who read some of these pages, pointed out that our description falls short of captivating or attracting the reader. He emphasized , first and foremost, that a plot (fabula in foreign languages) is needed. Second, we need to include elements of excitement like hot pepper and other stimulating components. Alon believes that without those, there will be no interest in the story. However, we face a dilemma: on the one hand, we want to use a truthful approach to depict that story, but on the other hand, there seem to be no plots, or exciting elements in the life of that Jew? The only “plot” that lingered in the memory of the storyteller is the “vexation” between Father and Mother, Eshet Chayil, which lasted about a month. The tension was manifested by their silence towards each other and Father spending his days in Beit HaMidrash instead of going to the store.

The reason for Father's anger was likely provoked by a significant mistake Mother made in the store. It ended with a reconciliation talk at the table illuminated by the glow of Shabbat candles. Shulchan Aruch teaches that anger and resentment should not prevail. That episode (which can serve as a “plot”), accompanied by half shouting, reproaches, and heated exchanges, passed without leaving any lasting impression.

Woe unto us if we claim that the only significant events in his life were two serious illnesses. One such illness was a severe case of typhus that lasted for many weeks. The entire city was concerned for the life of the modest property owner, Reb Israel. People stood guard at the door, day and night. The storyteller, who was a “young lamb” at the time, remembers people saying: “Look at Bracha's face; it darkened like the rim of the pot! [an expression in Hebrew].” They showed more sympathy for her than him. She demonstrated her complete devotion to her husband this time, neglecting everything else to take care of him: the business—the source of income and livelihood, her only daughter, and her two little toddlers.

She baked a whole sack of flour and distributed it to the poor, believing that the power of charity was greater than the power of tears. She lit the Shabbat fire and cooked for her sick husband. When somebody told her she could ask a Gentile to light the fire, she responded: “They said! They said! So what? Believing in the fulfillment of commandments also meant believing in the commandment of doing whatever was possible in the cases of Pikuach Nefesh [“saving a soul” or “saving a life”]. Yes, the person's fever was very high, and he then lost his composure saying unpleasant things. He admonished the synagogue's gabbai for using scissors to cut his beard. He also spoke unpleasantly to the city rabbi, causing the rabbi to leave out of fear that the sick person would continue to insult him. However, even as the fever rose, he continued to worry about the proper religious behavior of his children: “The doctor will be here soon, and you will need to take off your hats, so you need to put on the Kippahs. God forbid you will be without a head cover. Rest easy, sick Father; your sons would keep the kippahs on their heads even as they grow up.”

That time, the “plot” ended well. The sick person fought his illness and ultimately triumphed. Dr. Nagler demonstrated his expertise. Once the person recovered, he returned to carry the flour sacks and walking again along with Jankil's wagon.

The second “plot” was much more tragic. It involved poisoning the family with coal vapors that accumulated in the furnace after it was mistakenly closed. This incident was reminiscent of the tragedy that befell Émile Zola, who was not so fortunate and ultimately lost his life. There was a fatal victim in Father's home as well: the amiable boy who worked in the store. Fortunately, the maid woke up in time and returned to her normal routine unharmed.

In contrast, Reb Israel suffered greatly. For three days and nights, he hovered between life and death, leaving us uncertain of his fate. The city was once again in a state of anxiety, with hundreds gathering around the small house. The windows were left open to ensure proper air circulation. Messengers were sent urgently to Lvov and Tarnopol to fetch costly oxygen. Though Dr. Nagler, the good doctor, was no longer alive, other physicians did their utmost to assist. A miracle occurred, and Reb Israel survived, but he did not return to his previous way of life. He paid dearly for the consequences of the second “plot.”

Once again, the Beit HaMidrash became his focus, though he did so reluctantly. He could not remember the way to the Beit HaMidrash, but he retained a deep understanding of its essence, including the content of a Gemara page and the intricacies of a Sugiya. He remembered clearly and continued to comprehend. The Talmudic Sugiya was his first experience, and the coal vapors could not erase that understanding.

We spoke critically of Father here, revealing secrets of his life and the shame of his idleness. While he possessed wisdom and sharpness, he did not apply them to the pursuits of this world, even during his time in business. He drew knowledge from books and returned to them in his old age. Approaching 80, he considered giving up on studying the Tosafot and limiting himself to the Gemara and simple Rashi. However, he could not resist his inner urge. “What can I do?” he would say, almost apologetically. “The Tosafot are too enticing.”

He was not without vigor, purpose, and deliberation. These qualities were evident in his fulfillment of commandments, his trips to Husiatyn to visit the Rabbi (which were certainly not easy!), and during the Grand Wedding in Sadigura^[13], where old-generation Tzadikim gathered from distant lands. It required careful planning to secure a satisfactory spot from which to observe the proceedings.

Great vigor and stubbornness were required to arrive early and secure a seat before the start of the tische^[14]. This effort was necessary to ensure nothing was missed during the event. However, what was the point of exerting oneself to purchase another railcar full of flour, only to sell it for profit in wholesale and retail, or to take control of the coal trade? If there had been a clause in the Shulchan Aruch suggesting that all Jews strive for wealth, Reb Israel would have adhered to it just as he did with all other provisions. He certainly had the means to pursue riches. However, such a clause does not exist. While some prophets and notable figures viewed wealth positively, many pious texts condemn it. These texts even criticize the desire to become rich. No, Reb Israel did not strive to attain wealth. He preferred to sit back and do nothing. For him, it was sufficient to earn enough money to feed his family and cover his elder son's tuition, which was more than what most others in the city could afford.

Yes, he traded these goods: grains, flour, and coal. While the trade of flour and grain was different from the trade of coal, they all share a commonality in how they align with Reb Israel's character. People tend to adapt to circumstances or alter them to suit their needs. Reb Israel was not among the grain bargain hunters. They often set traps for a descendant of Noah, purchasing half a sack of grain at the opportune moment for the right price. This kind of trade involved tedious and often dull negotiations, which could sometimes result in weight cheating or substandard products. In contrast, Reb Israel bought grains from traders at a fixed price without haggling, simply responding with a yes or no—quick and straightforward. Similarly, the flour trade did not involve negotiations over cost. He sourced flour from the large mills in Tarnopol, receiving shipments twice a week in the wagon of Jankil, the waggoner. He typically sold it to store owners, bakers, and individual customers on Thursdays, when Jewish women would buy flour for baking beautiful challahs for Shabbat and other bread for the week.

As a flour merchant, Reb Israel received printed price lists in the mail several times a week. The prices were generally stable and consistent, eliminating lengthy negotiations. Coal, on the other hand, was transported from the mines in Silesia in railcars. Although coal was black and produced a significant amount of dust that soiled the clothing and hands of those who handled it, the process of dealing with coal had its own appeal.

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The trip to the train station, located a few kilometers outside Zborow, the unloading of the train car, the loading onto the wagon. The looming threat of rain added to the anxiety. All these elements were reminiscent of connecting to a distant mine and the fundamental work of mining itself. The sons eagerly took on this responsibility often neglecting their Torah obligations in the process. Reb Israel, on the other hand, primarily managed the business affairs, overseeing financial matters, and moving from one place to another. He was not stationary like a nail. His mobility as a living being gave him the advantage over plants, allowing him to walk, carry his belongings, and freely navigate his surroundings. Through his movement, he could also spend time engaging with the chaotic world of disordered thoughts and reflections.

He did not manage the three trade fields simultaneously. Only when grain shipments left would he welcome coals to take their place. However, all three trades suited him and his character well. He reliably found sustenance for his family in each trade, usually turning a profit, without too many concerns and never with excessive distress, at least until the madness of that World War began. This was true as long as the whole world behaved logically and before he became prey for the upheaval of the revolutions and the tumultuous attempts at redemption.

“By day, may the Lord command His kindness….” [Psalms 42:9]. During the day, Reb Israel from the holy community of Zborow worked in his business as his wife told him, “… and at night, may His resting place be with me” [Psalms 42:9]. Each morning, before dawn, he dedicated himself to studying Torah and engaging in prayer. That was the rhythm and order of his life.

Mrs. Bracha Feldman, z”l [the mother of the author]

Like my father, we came to know her in the middle of her life. She was a notably tall woman with a thin, sturdy, and even flexible body. A modern woman who takes pride in her appearance would not be dissatisfied with such a stature. And just as her height contrasted with that of her husband, who was shorter than average, so too—was the color of her hair. While his hair and long beard had a yellowish-reddish hue, her strikingly beautiful hair, which she kept long and uncut, was shiny black as coal, reminiscent of Bedouin heritage.

She embodied a typical Semitic figure, with beautiful glistening penetrating eyes (if Y. Ch. Brenner was impressed with his visit to that household after some years, it was undoubtedly due to her presence). Was she considered a beautiful woman? That question was never raised in her presence. Her life unfolded at a rhythm, transcending notions of beauty, fashion, or ostentation. It is likely that if all Zborow's women shared her style, no woman's tailor could have made a living there. Despite the author's efforts to recall his memories, he could not remember a single visit to a tailor of women's clothing to have a dress made for her. Therefore, it is evident that her approach was logical.

For a devout Jew, life is divided into Shabbat and holidays on one side and the ordinary days of the week on the other. Ordinary days are workdays for Mrs. Bracha. From early morning until late at night, her hands are busy in the kitchen, at home, and in the flour shop (where not all visitors are clean). She does not shy away from activities like sewing and knitting. In these settings, does she need a refined dress? A simple and clean dress that she sewed herself is sufficient.

However, this changes on Shabbat and holidays. It is customary to wear nice clothing during these times. Mrs. Bracha certainly had special clothing prepared for Shabbat and holidays. She kept her wedding clothing for these occasions, which were likely never worn out or faded. After all, Shabbat [and holidays] are the only days of the week when she has no work in the kitchen, home, or shop. On these days, there is only praying in the synagogue, reading “Tzenna U'Re'enah”^[15], “Nachlat Tzvi”^[16], some Psalms, and Pirkei Avot^[17]. Therefore, there is no reason for the wedding clothing to wear out or fade during these activities, or for new clothing to be sewn according to the latest fashion trend.

Mrs. Bracha's life followed a unique rhythm, defined by action and hard work. If she lived in our time, she would surely have been regarded as a pioneer. Her efforts spanned three areas: The first was her devotion to worshipping the Creator, which formed the root and purpose of her life. The second area involved her work for a livelihood, providing for her, contributing to the sustenance of the world created by God. The third area focused on charitable work for those in need. These three pursuits were the foundations of her entire life, from childhood through adulthood into old age. It was undoubtedly a privilege to be the eldest daughter of the Chassid Tzadik, Reb Bunem, may his memory be blessed.

However, we have to mention a few comments in the margins. We must note that Reb Bunem was an expert in spending money. He helped the poor, hosted them at his home, and provided them with food and drink. He was always on a mission to discover new people in need, including pregnant women who required support. He always knew how to enjoy himself with Chassidic dances and feasts. He excelled in all that and acquired a good name and fame, even in faraway places. However, it should be said that he did not excel in acquiring Torah knowledge or wealth. This is true for him, may he rest in peace in Zborow, as well for his only son Reb Alter, whose honorable place of rest is the Mountain of Olives in Jerusalem.

The two men did not strap themselves like mules for labor or donkeys for carrying heavy loads. They walked this earth as free men, liberated from the burden of making a living. They immersed themselves in the heavenly worlds of the Creator, filled with psalms, stories, and tales about Tzadikim (inspiring narratives such as the one about a wagon carrying honest Jews who lost their way on Shabbat Eve. They stumbled upon a cave where Tzadikim were sitting and studying the Torah, etc.). Their main “work” involved fulfilling commandments and performing good deeds.

Just as in simple life, “a verse cannot depart from its plain meaning,”^[18] there can be no expenditure, even for charity, without income. Since they did not keep sacks of golden dinars in their drawers, earning income was necessary. As we all know, this requires work, sweat, careful accounting, and persistence. With the men freeing themselves from responsibilities, the burden fell on the women: Mrs. Tsherna, the wife of the kind-hearted Reb Bunem, and Bracha, Reb Bunem's elder daughter. Though she was still a young child, perhaps not yet ten years old, she had already helped her mother and shared in the family's struggles. The family operated an inn outside Zborow, located along the road from the train station. This large, long house was where the storyteller was born. I visited that inn again a few years ago during a trip to my hometown. It was a place where some of the great figures of the generation occasionally stayed, including Mr. [Azriel] Hildesheimer, z”l, Rabbi Tzadik [Yaakov Friedman] from Husiatyn, may his memory be blessed,

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and Dr. Yosef Shmuel Bloch—may he rest in peace. The house is blessed with abundance for several reasons. However, it required work, care, agility, and dedication. Little Bracha was well-versed in all of these tasks. She carried a double burden: the demand of the work and the discipline it required. This became her education and training. She learned through experiences—her hands engaging in housework, her eyes observing the manners of her father and brothers, and her ears absorbing the conversations of the Chassidim and distinguished people.

She was 16 when she married her spouse, who was also 16, under the canopy. Her husband was the son of Rabbi Chaim Radler, z”l, from Radichov. The family genealogy does not explain how the marriage came about. It probably was not because they followed their hearts, what we call today–love–as that period was not conducive to such feelings. Radichov and Zborow were quite far apart. Therefore, we can conclude that the union is divinely ordained. Some even said that the match was made from the heavens, just like grapes go together with grapes [or oranges go together with oranges].

The son of a Chassid rabbi is marrying the daughter of a charitable Chassid, both prominent figures, thanks God! The rabbi is respected for his knowledge of the Torah, and the charitable man is known for his generosity. The groom is a devoted man of the Torah and Chassidism, nearly becoming a rabbi himself. He occasionally receives a pitka [a note]^[19] and prays in a manner he has observed from the rabbis in Belz or Olesko.

When the 16-year-old Bracha arrives at her parents-in-law's home, she is introduced to a new world. There is not as much work as was at her father's house. The home is small, with only a few rooms, but simplicity and quietness prevail. Passers-by do not disturb the rabbi, and the waggoners do not bother him. Gentiles from the surrounding villages do not visit his house. Her husband's father does very little work other than waking up early every morning to diligently sit at the head of a narrow and long table, where he reads the Torah and whispers throughout the day. Yet, as the saying goes, “bread is being supplied, and water does not fail him.” [Isaiah 33:16]. There is no wealth in their house, but there is also no tumult. When someone approaches the rabbi with a Halachic question, he momentarily halts his reading and provides his Halachic ruling, after which the tranquility returns. The mother finishes her light tasks after a few hours. There is also honor and respect for her; after all, she is the rabbi's wife–the Rebbetzin.

Was that not also her world? Bracha, Reb Bunem's daughter, wonders. Is her husband talented enough to become a rabbi? He is only 16 years old, but people praise his knowledge of the Torah. He is learning quickly, has a good memory, and is diligent. He does not waste time idling; he goes to bed early and wakes up early. By one in the morning, he is already studying a Gemara page or Choshen Mishpat [the fourth of the four volumes of the Shulchan Aruch]. Listening to his melodic chanting at night is a delight, a sound that penetrates the soul. He will undoubtedly become a rabbi. Was that not why the reason she left Zborow and her parents' home to follow him to Radichov?

Everything proceeds logically and orderly. However, what do logic and order mean when people face life's challenges? After a few months, Bracha's rabbinical dream faded as if it had never existed. It vanished not from the outside, but from within her. Bracha began to realize that the rest and calm she experienced were not meant for her. She was not accustomed to sitting idle; she grew up being active from early morning until nightfall. She could not go against her inner spirit. Bracha was the daughter of a benefactor and a charitable man whose home was always open to those in need and who found joy in feeding his guests.

She could not envision herself becoming a rebbetzin, nor could she accept the idea that her husband would follow his family tradition of becoming a rabbi. During the Purim holiday, she was shocked to see Jews bringing gifts for the rabbi; in her father's home, they gave and did not receive. She then told her husband: “Go and trade.” She explained that she was not interested in money, nor did she want him to stop studying the Torah. Instead, she wanted their livelihood to come directly from God, with daily gifts rather than relying on human handouts. He considered her request and agreed as in their family, as previously mentioned, men listened to the women just as it is written in the Bible: “…Whatever Sara tells you, do as she says…” [Genesis 21:12]. Consequently, as mentioned, she connected him to the trading of grains, flour, and coal.

Bracha did not regret her decision for most of the years. Her husband would wake up early to study the Torah and pray in public, as was customary among his ancestors. He devoted his days to business and various activities. However, years later, the trading experienced a significant decline. The good manners that once characterized the merchants, such as those displayed by prominent traders like Reb Israel Radler, Reb Nuta Zimmer, and Reb Nathan Lichter, disappeared. Competition became fierce and ruthless. The situation worsened when Chaim Eliya, a wagon owner, grew dissatisfied with the waggoner's wages and transitioned to becoming a flour merchant, effectively competing with the others.

During such challenging times, Bracha occasionally felt a sense of remorse. She wondered if she was too hasty in pulling her husband away from Beit HaMidrash. At one point, she even entertained the thought: “Would it be worthwhile for him to return to Beit HaMidrash and the rabbinical world?” When she was still a young girl in the home of her parents-in-law, she decided that her husband should be a merchant like others. Yet now, with her “Srul” competing against Chaim-Elya, would she disallow him to continue trading? It was a puzzling thought—one that seemed futile.

Many people fail to appreciate the level of commitment and concentration needed to become a rabbi. Those values had been lost, and it was not easy to reclaim them. No! This time, her husband did not obey her wishes. He listened to her but did not respond. Despite the harsh and depressing conditions, he continued to trade until the incident with the coal vapors, as recounted in the previous chapter.

Despite the initial fading of the rabbinical dream, it ultimately re-emerged, reconnecting the threads of its influence, though only for a limited time. Unfortunately, this revival ended in sorrow and tragedy. The reason lies in the fact that the generations did not remain stagnant; they moved forward continuously, tirelessly, and without pause.

We find Mrs. Bracha in her childhood in the large, long inn located about a kilometer before Zborow. When its wide gates opened, several wagons, along with their horses, loads, and passengers, could come inside to find shelter from the sun, snow, or cold. It was in that house where Bracha's life began to take shape. There, she received her first lessons in the science of life, listened to folklore stories, learned Ruthenian phrases, and engaged in Polish discussions. There, she learned to read and write Hebrew and Ivrei Taytesh [Yiddish written with Hebrew letters].

Her Yiddish writings were vibrant and filled with insights about life. She only spoke Polish and Ruthenian-Russian, as she never learned to read and write in these languages. That was her education—the school of life—from which she drew wisdom from the dawn of her childhood until her last day in Warsaw in her son's home, where she lived during her old age. Her son, a representative to the Polish Sejm, traveled frequently for work. Although she was not feeling well, she requested that no telegram be sent to him asking him to return, as she did not want to disturb him in his public Zionist activities. In contrast, her only daughter, tender Bat-Sheva grew up in Zborow, within the city [not in the inn], studied with private tutors, and attended a state school, where she learned the state languages quite well.

Bat-Sheva now stays late to immerse herself in the visions of [Friedrich] Schiller, of which she is very knowledgeable, Heinrich Zschokke's captivating stories, which speak to her soul, and the narratives created by their colleagues in drama and storytelling. Alas, Amnon and Tamar! Alas, the pure love novels of that time! Is there anything better for the young soul of a youth? Woe to the love that is a child of heaven filled with longing and torments! Both the male and female lovers are charming, dear, tender, lucid, and pure like the sky. But Satan interferes, accuses, and initiates strange adventures. However, in the end, common sense prevails, happiness triumphs, and there is a future filled with hope. Bat-Sheva reads and dazzles—reads and enjoys.

But lo and behold!

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Reading is one thing, but action is another! She reads novels. It is nice to read about foreign, faraway, and amusing places. It could be seven-fold more interesting because she lives in her old world, her old tradition. However, when the time to get married is upon her, the Chassidim sit down again in the court of the Rabbi from Husiatyn, z”l, and decide: Reb Israel's daughter will marry Reb Tzvi's son. Who is Reb Tzvi? He is the brother of Reb Elimelech, the father of Yehuda Leib Fishman. Both brothers have wonderful sons. Some say that the son of Reb Elimelech is more wonderful, and others say that the son of Reb Tzvi is more outstanding. In any case, the Chassidim decided that Bat-Sheva would get engaged to Aaron-Leib, the son of Reb Tzvi. Grapes with grapes [or oranges with oranges]. When Reb Israel returns from Husiatyn and asks Bat-Sheva if she agrees, she answers: “Of course. What is good for you is also good for me.” She has not met Aaron-Leib, and her father has not even brought his picture to show her, perhaps because they did not appreciate photography then, because it has not reached our towns. But what does that have to do with our affair? They arrange for a celebration on Shabbat. Many elegantly dressed women bless the mother and the daughter for the engagement. The daughter is 17, and the groom is 18. It is still early to talk about marriage. This generation is not like the previous ones. His Majesty the Emperor orders all Jewish youths to serve in the army. Three times a year, when a military committee examines all young men, fear takes hold of the Jewish youths. All the Ruthenians and the Poles young men, weak or strong, are recruited to the army. Not so among the Jewish youths. Most of them, whether weak or strong, are examined by the committee and released. Only a few strong and poor boys who cannot afford to pay for their release and those who want to serve are recruited. Therefore, Chassidic boys wait at least until the first selection, which occurs at the age of 20 or 21, to marry.

So, the engagement years of Aaron-Leib and Bat-Sheva lasted three years. When this passed, a sizeable and fabulous wedding was held. In this case, the made-up stories and lies of the novels did not materialize. That young couple lived like a loving pigeon couplet, even after not seeing each other during their engagement. Aaron-Leib charmed not only his wife but also all other family members. Why were his wife and others charmed? They, particularly his wife, were captivated by everything; by his talk, gaze, skilled hands, which could do all kinds of crafts, self-retrained Husiatyn Chassidism, calm outside but burning inside, but first and most of all, by his diligence in the Torah studying. The sweet and luscious Gemara melody could be heard again in that house, pouring delightful sadness into the bones. Aaron-Leib was endowed with a phenomenal memory and quick perception like an eagle. Every small Shulchan Aruch paragraph–is organized in his head with all its minute details. Delightful Shabbat eves returned to that small Zborow home, particularly during the winter–nights of lightness and brightness.

Here, Reb Israel, his two sons, and his son-in-law are returning home from the synagogue with a guest–half a minyan of Torah people, “without the evil eye.” Here, one of the sons opens the book to the weekly portion in Genesis and asks: “How long is this portion? Who can read such a long portion?” “We can go over it in no time,” says Aaron-Leib. He looks carefully at the weekly portion for seven minutes and then condenses clearly the entire content.

Why should I focus on the details? They do not reflect the spirit of that generation, nor do they pertain to sports or even physics. Instead, they belong in the pages of “Or Chaim” and the tractates “VaYetzeh” or “VaYishlach.”

Aaron-Leib sat down at home and received rabbinical ordination from the esteemed scholars of his time. He then traveled to Radichov with Bat-Sheva to visit the elderly Rabbi Chaim. Half a year later, Rabbi Chaim passed away, having felt unwell just the day before. On that day, he had invited the Chevra Kadisha to arrange his burial and prepaid them for the plot and funeral expenses. He died after sending a telegram to his son, asking him to visit. He insisted on waiting for Reb Israel to come, blessed him, and received blessings in return, following tradition.

Aaron-Leib ascended the rabbinical throne at just 22 years old, taking over his grandfather's position. The legacy continued, but it was short-lived. Half a year later, Aaron-Leib died at the young age of 23. He, too, had felt unwell just a day prior but chose not to inform the Chevra Kadisha to avoid alarming his wife, who was also his friend. However, he did compose a long allegorical poem that described his fading life as akin to a candle. The following day, his light was extinguished. It was likely due to untreated tuberculosis, which had been neglected. Fifty years have passed, but Bat-Sheva still mourns the premature death of her beloved friend in one of Jerusalem's neighborhoods.

Immense was the innocent and tender Bat-Sheva's agony, but her mother's agony was even more remarkable because Bracha was made of a different material and was more active. No, she was not at all ready for such a blow. She went out of line, hurling harsh and bitter grievances toward the heavens as she cried her heart out. However, that bitter state passed quickly, making way for a new awakening and fresh activity in her familiar manner. The intensity of her pain became a driving force for Bracha, serving as a source of renewed vigor, even in the later years of her life, to create a secure environment for her daughter. She wanted Bat-Sheva to be independent, without having to rely on the help of others, just as Naomi said to Ruth in the Bible [Ruth 3:1]: “My daughter, I must find a home for you, where you will be well provided for.”

Concerned about Bat-Sheva's future and eager to keep her busy, comforted, and encouraged, Bracha opened a textile shop for her. This shop sold fabrics, covers, and gala dresses for all those mentioned in the third chapter of Yeshayahu the Prophet, as well as for those who were neither mentioned nor subscribed to it. The store offered a variety of fabrics for shirts and dresses that the women of Zborow and the surrounding villages would wear to cover their bodies and heads.

A new and unexpected period commenced, not so much in the life of Bat-Sheva as in the life of Bracha. Although Bat-Sheva had experienced the life of a Rebbetzin, she could not entirely shake it off. She found it difficult to pray every day and refrain from chanting the seventh part of Psalms. In essence, she remained spiritually connected to her role as a Rebbetzin even though she was now a shop owner. Her tender heart remained loyal to her beloved, who ascended to heaven before his time. Even her thoughts were still devoted to him, and the matters of the shop did not consume her inner self. However, the same could not be said for poor Bracha. Her business affairs seized control of her life, marking the start of a new page for her.

For those who know a thing or two about business, it is clear that trading in textiles is fundamentally different from trading in commodities such as grains, flour, and coal. These trades are not comparable in any meaningful way; The trading of textiles is unique. Most of the customers would not come back after their first purchase. The textile market has its own pace, rhythm, and creativity, unlike the flour trade, which is primitive and lacks room for imagination.

Consider a character like Reb Israel—somebody who embodies the essence of a flour merchant. He is typically unambitious and unimaginative. Have you ever seen a flour merchant who has truly prospered in this line of work? In any case, we have not seen or heard about one, and our ancestors have given us no tales of such success. For a flour merchant, it is often considered sufficient to be buried in a simple shroud and to settle debts, knowing that what is owed to him may rarely be paid in full.

The flour trade relies on minimal profit margins and numerous credit sales. All those trips to Tarnopol, buying and selling flour to retailers, bakers and individuals add up to a rudimentary affair. There is no excitement to be found, nor any sense of spiritual uplifting.

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If you own a flour shop, you could easily fall asleep at noon over your book or newspaper, but not seeing your competitor in your dream. Even a thief is often too lazy to steal from you. When a customer enters your shop, waking you up reluctantly, you ask what they are looking for. There is no need to convince them to be kind to you, the shopkeeper, and make a purchase. You provide them with the information they need in a dry voice and in a brief and straightforward manner, much like a post office clerk would: “The price of Numero 1 flour is such, of Numero 2 is so much,” one zloty and one cent to be precise, and so on. You explain the difference between the three Numero's, and the customer makes a choice. Even the nagging customer knows from experience that they will find the same dull and monotonous sleepy voice elsewhere. As a result, they do not bargain; they frown and buy. Both the buyer and the seller seem half-asleep, and the transaction itself feels automatic. That is how the flour trade operates, like at a pharmacy. The only difference is that the pharmacist accepts only cash. However, no matter how much the flour man tries to replicate his pharmacy counterpart, they often fail. The shop is compelled to sell on credit, bringing about numerous challenges and uncertainties.

You are in a completely different world when trading in textiles. Those of us who have closely observed this environment, albeit reluctantly, can appreciate how and why Emile Zola crafted his remarkable novel, The Ladies' Paradise, which depicts such a shop. Similarly, we can understand how and why George Hermann, who had a delicate lyrical style, chose to explore this theme in his book Heinrich Shan.

However, in this discussion, we do not need to invoke Zola's mighty narrative to describe the modest shop of Bat-Sheva in Zborow. We are not dealing here with a department store in Paris from 50 years ago when such establishments flourished in Paris and the New World. Instead, we focus on a simple store owned by a young widow in Zborow. Nevertheless, even in a modest store like this—lacking a window display and other alluring features of modern retail, an element of grace and charm connects to the essence of this trade. For instance, consider what seems to be a straightforward task–purchasing merchandise in Tarnopol or Lvov. That is essential because there is no selling without making these trips, even in this trade.

Some traveling agents, acting as the emissaries of the factories or the large trade stores, make the journey to Zborow from distant places. They often enter Bat-Sheva's shop. These agents are well-dressed individuals with charming personalities. Their conversations are filled with compliments and engaging anecdotes, free from harsh or unpleasant words. However, these agents only sell appetizers and not the main dish, items like bread or meat–in other words, they do not offer the essential textile merchandise.

To buy the core merchandise, you must go to either Tarnopol or Lvov. Upon entering the lavish stores filled to the brim with dazzling merchandise, you can expect a warm reception. The staff will greet you with a smile thanks to their extensive experience and keen sense of customer service. If they believe you have a lot of money and perceive you as “safe” and “good” (honest and fair), they will be eager to trade with you. They will support you like brothers from birth and will not let you go. Their wish to bestow merchandise upon you is immense, offered at a price more than what you have initially set for yourself before entering that palace. “Take, take,” the merchant or his clerk says you, full of sweetness, like a wafer in honey. “Take, take, and God will bless you so that all your customers will pay on time.” He adds: “This merchandise sells as quickly as Mayim Shelanu [literally–Our water]^[20] during the kneading of the Matzahs.”

Indeed, this is a pivotal hour when a person is tested. She must learn to control her senses and her urges. The eye perceives all the allure in the goods, recognizing all the possibilities they hold, and is tempted to buy more and more. The soul yearns for growth and expansion. In these moments, the power of the “Evil Inclination” intensifies. It seeks to consume everything, tempting, seducing, and provoking, akin to the saying—“Sheol is insatiable.” But what does the modest and innocent “Good Inclination” say at that moment? What advice does it offer to Bat-Sheva's mother, who is acting to benefit the new merchant in Zborow? 'The Good Inclination” whispers in her ear: “Be careful, Bracha—very careful. Do not follow your eyes and your heart.

Throughout your life, you have been an honest woman. From childhood, you acted as expected of you as Reb Bunem's daughter and Reb Israel's wife. Continue down that path of integrity, Bracha—stay true to the straight and honest way. Only purchase what is absolutely necessary. Do not aim too high, and do not rush to strike it rich. Carefully inspect the goods and examine every piece of merchandise multiple times. Keep in mind the tastes and needs of the women from the villages surrounding Zborow, villages you have known since childhood—Presovtse, Pogrebtse, and others. Avoid seeking help from the store owners, whom you may think of as “wizards.” Do not rely on the so-called “experts”–the store owners' servants and clerks–because they are primarily driven by their own greed.

They seek to benefit only themselves and earn commissions from the sale. Be cautious and avoid overindulging in purchases. Understand and observe what is in front of you. It is easy to purchase goods in Tarnopol and Lvov; however, it is ten times more difficult to pay the debt notes in Zborow on the due date (Pera'on in Hebrew), a date that brings misfortune (Pur'an in Hebrew) [The author cleverly plays with these two similar words here]. There are many hardships in Zborow, so you should not be overly optimistic. Proceed slowly and carefully. Avoid rushing to get rich; you were not born for that and do not have extensive education in this area. This path is not the one you followed in the past, nor is it the right one for today. Be cautious! There are risks in the textile trade, as well. Even though it is more profitable than the flour trade, it also carries the potential for significant losses. Be careful! I am warning you!” That is what the “Good Inclination”—the loyal, modest, and honest acquaintance, whispers in her ears. Its whispers make the right impression. Indeed, this is a critical time of testing and excitement and a moment of conflict between the “Evil Inclination” and the “Good Inclination,” unlike the mundane and tedious world of the flour trade.

Buying the merchandise is the first step in the textile trade and it carries significant responsibility. This process evolves over time and is influenced by different circumstances and changing fashions. For example, a buyer who buys merchandise for 100 Reinish [golden Zlotys] behaves differently from one who buys for 1,000. Some buyers might invest 1,000 only to end up with unsellable or worthless goods. In contrast, another buyer could spend just 100, only to find that their merchandise sells out quickly—everyone wants it and it moves quickly off the shelves. In this case, a larger investment might have been more appropriate. It is important to remember that buying is not a goal in itself; it needs to be followed by selling. The ultimate success is determined only after the merchandise is sold. At that point, the merchant faces their final test. This is where a natural-born merchant distinguishes himself from a merchant who is merely skilled. Remember, “Last made, but first planned”^[21].

The flour shop is also unpleasant to the senses. Whenever you stretch your arm or turn around for a moment, you find yourself immediately covered with dust and flour. A damp smell wafts up from the flour sacks, and it is a wonder that the mice do not multiply even more than they already do. The store's overall appearance is monotonous, gray, and dreary.

In contrast, the textile shop is much more appealing. The very arrangement of the goods is not merely a chore. The most needed items are placed on the nearby lower shelves, while the less essential ones are located on the far and upper shelves. Placing the goods requires wisdom, taste, variation, psychology, and a touch of artistry. Everything is arranged to attract attention, evoke emotions, and create a pleasant shopping experience, almost as if the customers are “captured” and taken “prisoners.” Cleanliness, along with vibrant colors, and with complementary shades abound in any direction. That is the beginning of the marketing campaign, where alertness prevails.

In this place, there is no room for restful or deep sleep. Here, everything is ready for the battle and there is a tense anticipation of facing the buyer, whether Jewish or Gentile. Most of the customers in Bat-Shava's new store are not Jewish. Jewish buyers represent only a minority. Unintentionally, without any forethought, the restoration of honest and straightforward relations between Reb Bunem, z”l, and his daughter and the neighboring villages is achieved here.

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The brave and joyful village women and their daughters flock willingly and trustingly to the new shop. Although the profit belongs to the young widow, the work and the effort burden the entire family. They sympathize with her for the loss she suffered at a young age, a mental and material calamity. The whole family participates except for Reb Israel, the family patriarch. He does not step over the threshold of the new store. It seems as though he resents it, as if it goes against his character, and he cannot tolerate or support this initiative and the collaborative efforts of the others. Why are the family members so raucous and so passionate? What accounts for this deviation from the ordinary way of life? Indeed, the tender Bat-Sheva, his gentle only daughter, has endured a calamity as vast as the sea. Woe to the family who lost such a precious vessel—a dear treasure such as her wonderful genius husband—at such a young age. Who would not feel the sorrow for that young widow?

However, “What does the matter of Shmita have to do with Mount Sinai?” [What does one matter have to do with the other, Safra chapter A, about Leviticus 26,27 Torah Portion]^[22]. What remedy can be found for a vibrant and disturbing sorrow in a textile shop? God has judged with His trait of strict justice, and He will provide healing and comfort. We should not sin with our words. Does she, God forbid, not have enough food, clothes, or shelter? When did Jews become impatient, reject God's justice and the suffering that arises from it, aspiring to challenge God's decree? What paragraph in Shulchan Aruch suggests that? No. Reb Israel does not understand the new world and its direction. It seems he is increasingly fortifying himself in his own domain—the flour store—which he increasingly governs. From this point forward, there appears to be a growing separation between Reb Israel and Bracha. Two separate branches operate in the market. Reb Israel rules in his store, the flour store, and Bracha rules in her daughter's shop, the textile shop. However, this is not a complete separation as the two stores are located directly across each other. The flour store occupies a central position in the line of stores at the center of the squared-shape market square, while the textile shop is located on the opposite side inside the home of the honorable Reb Eliyahu Auerbach, the synagogue gabbai.

When there are no customers in the shop, Bracha often stands at the door, her eyes fixed on the flour shop across the way. She is aware of everything happening there. Although she is physically in the south, her gaze is directed northward. However, her heart and soul are with the new shop.

With its opening, it felt as if Bracha had been renewed—the wind from the four directions combined, filling her sails with newfound energy. A spring of new vitality, one she had not known existed for many years, surged within her. Admittedly, she harbored a sense of humility toward the world of Reb Israel, sensing that his soul was carved out from a pure source. Through his studies and remarkable self-discipline, he further polished and elevated his spirit. Even a short while before the end of their life together, when he made Aliyah to Jerusalem and devoted himself to the Torah and worship of God, she wrote him words of affection and reconciliation, asking him to remember her and carry her name in his spirit while studying the holy works. Unfortunately, as she battled her illness, she was forced to stay in the Diaspora. During the time before their separation, she could not adjust her life rhythm to his, devoting most of her energy to the new shop. A paradoxical phenomenon took place: The enormous family disaster that threatened to overwhelm her became instead the most powerful driving force of her life, allowing her to grow new wings. Another paradox was that Bracha, who was never keen on clothing embellishments and decorations, became involved with a trade primarily focused on that very desire.

This phenomenon may stem from the burden of responsibility she carried in her childhood. In this context, her sense of responsibility is tied to the well-being and faith of her only daughter, who fell from a high and respectable status to a much lower one, described as “Maigra Rama Lavira Amikata”^[23] [Literally translated from Aramaic “from a high roof to the bottom of a deep hole”]. It seems that she feels accountable for the misfortunes that befell her daughter. The deep sense of responsibility has left a significant mark on her life. She grapples with the questions of responsibility: Responsibility for what? For the existence of the world, for humanity, or for the presence of goodness and honesty within it? Responsibility to whom? To the Creator of the world and humanity, before whose justice she knows she will eventually stand.

She did not speak the name of God in vain [as stated in the Third Commandment] and did not often discuss humanity's duty toward the Creator. However, she understood the main principle and remained focused on it. She knew that one day, she would stand before the throne of justice and be asked: “Bracha, the daughter of Reb Yechiel Simcha Bunem from Zborow! How did you conduct your life, and what did you do to improve life in the lower world—the world of action?” She knew that flowery words would hold no weight at that moment. Instead, everything would be weighted and determined by her actions. If she were fortunate and the overall total would be in her favor, she could reunite with her father and mother and witness whatever they could see. If not… then not. She remained steadfast in her purpose. That was how we always saw her: tall, focused, serious, and careful not to waste a moment. She was a hard worker embodying the sentiment of a poem written in those days:

To tomorrow; to tomorrow
Do not postpone work and labor;
Work hard, and your reward will come
And then you can rest.

She hated idle talk, ostentation, and flowery language and carried a heavy burden on her shoulders. She was aware of her lineage and the responsibilities that came with it. Although she never mentioned her heritage or flaunted it, she understood what it meant to be who she was. She knew that there was a democracy in the world and that God loved all His creatures, from the smallest ant to the withered leaf in autumn, without distinction. However, God chose Israel out of all nations. He also selected the Cohanim [priests], Levi'im [who were designated to serve in the Temple], Tzadikim [righteous], and the Chassidim [followers], as well as people of action from the entire nation of Israel. These are the roles humans play in the realm of action. [Why all this?] These are the secrets of the Holy One; blessed be He.

…And He chose Reb Yechiel Simcha Bunem as one of these virtuous individuals, and she is his daughter. This is a fact. In her view, she feels the need to be different: She does not want to enjoy life as other people do, does not want to feel envy, and does not want to spend her Shabbat and other holidays like everyone else. She must sanctify herself through the actions permitted to her. This process of self-examination is internal and delicate, reflecting the idea expressed by the phrase, “Liba Lefuma La Gali” [Literally translated from Aramaic–“the heart does not tell the mouth.” It means–“The hidden and deepest secrets are kept within the ( literary ) heart”].

Talking about it is not an act of praise; rather, it can be seen as desecration. This is a play on words in Hebrew since praising is LeHalel and desecrating is LeChalel, which are two similar words]. First and foremost, she believes that she must help others more than others help them. This is where the idea of “carrying the burden” comes from. She also carries within her thoughts and reflections she has tucked away in the hidden corners of her soul, refusing to let them control her life.

She begins her day in the early hours of the morning. Her prayers on regular days, even when conducted in public, are quick and succinct. This was also how she approached work at home, in the shop, and wherever she went. She always made up her mind in advance and proceeded to take action.

She does not share her descendants' spark of public service, nor does she have the inclination for writing and authorship. While she rarely talks about the commandment of charity, when a poor person enters her home during a meal, the first thing she does is offer that person her own portion. Though she did not mention the commandment of visiting the sick, she does take the time to visit and care for them. She cleans the house, puts a pot with a dish on the fire, calls Dr. Nagler, and fetches the medicine or ice as needed. She never heard the term “public social assistance,” but when her maid fell ill, she took the maid into her own bed and cared for her like she was her own daughter. In essence, she radiated warmth from within, even if it did not show outwardly. Wise men who speak in poetic language say: “Bracha [which means blessing in Hebrew] is her name, and she is a blessing for everyone. She cared for all, whether healthy and the sick, Jews and Gentiles alike. The village women were also aware of her kindness. Some opened their hearts to her, placed their trust in her, and sought her counsel. Should we also acknowledge how she cared for her own people in this respect?

The storyteller closes his eyes briefly, and a picture appears before him: He sees a little lamb, sick and lying in bed. She stands not far away from him, bending a bit and kneading the weekly bread dough. Meir'chi Katz, who has ridden from the village to consult with “the aunt,” as he calls her, stands beside her. He speaks slowly, as if addressing a judge, carefully dissecting the subject and its nuances, waiting for her response. It is her decision, whatever she says will be done.

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Should we be surprised that her descendants, even thousands of miles away from Zborow, always envisioned her penetrating eyes—a gaze that reaches deep into their hearts and souls, always subjecting them to her scrutiny?

That was the power of Zborow and the power of one woman's eyes in Zborow.

The Jewish physician in the town then was an entity unto himself. He emerged from the Enlightenment Movement that originated in Berlin and took root in Brody and Tarnopol. This Movement blended a passion for science with a desire for practical usefulness in life. Many of its first followers were poor young men who studied in Batei HaMidrash, where intellectual pursuits were both a daily routine and a source of spiritual joy. For some, teaching the Torah and abstract philosophical concepts was not enough. They sought to connect the principles of goodness with the practical application found in medicine. Only a few pursued this path, each driven by their own ambitions. Once they completed their study and settled somewhere in one of the towns, the communities generally welcomed them. However, they often remained outside the close-knit social life, being well-known and prominent figures yet somewhat peripheral.

A physician is typically involved in the lives of families, accompanying them from birth to death, and ideally becoming a friend to all. In modern terms, the physician occupies a “key position” like a rabbi among his congregants. However, despite this critical role, the physician often finds himself on the sidelines, living his own life and facing his own challenges and his own fate.

Among the three Jewish physicians known to the storyteller, he encountered two: Kroinish and Brust. For the storyteller, these were abstract names, dark and intangible, since he did not meet them in person. They likely lived and worked in Zborow before he was born. However, since their name and legacies were part of his surroundings, he came across them in various other ways.

Kronish's relatives in Zborow inherited a bookcase of remarkable books. It is surprising that he also left behind works with Jewish themes. The storyteller owes him a debt of gratitude for the astonishing illustrated bilingual Hebrew-German Bible by [Ludwig] Phillipson, which includes commentaries by [Rabbi Ovadia] Bartinoro and [Rabbi Gershon Yom Tov Lipman], the author of the book, Tosafot Yom Tov. The Hebrew text, printed with striking letters, occupies the distinguished upper right corner, “like a king of the battalion.” The German translation stands alongside on the left, serving as a loyal guard in its steadfast position. Phillipson's commentary extends across a broad area beneath both the Hebrew source and the translation. Tastefully scattered throughout this expanse are the classic illustrations by the French artist [Gustave]Doré (which was cherished by [Artist] Aima Palyer in his childhood).

Where did the storyteller discover that precious treasure? In the lovely Jewish home of Reb Mordechai Katz, an inquisitive and honorable man who was one of the wealthiest people in town. He had a bright face and pure voice, and he enjoyed walking around in his room while engaging in pleasant conversations and sharing his opinions with his young guest and his family.

His wife, Richil, Eshet Cha'il [“a woman of valor”], serves transparent tea with her delicious handmade cookies. Their only son, Yitzchak-Yehuda, tosses strange and paradoxical phrases into the air, filling the room with intrigue. Their only daughter, Sara Leah'chi, with her shiny wise eyes, delights her audience with her pleasant voice, singing German songs, primarily those of Friedrich Schiller. Schiller is the beloved poet of that room, much like in many others across Zborow and other Galician towns. In Zborow, a handful of people are proficient in French, reading the books of France's illustrious writers, while only a few know English. The Polish literature has just begun to capture the hearts of the youth. Nevertheless, German remains the language of the Enlightenment Movement, with Schiller standing out as the most popular poet. His poems, rich in idealism and philosophical pathos, resonate deeply with the Israelites.

Some, like the astute Reb Pinchas-Leib Katz, are exploring Schiller's aesthetics and philosophy. In their research, they sometimes combine the works of Schiller and those of Kant. However, everyone is familiar with chapters from his plays and poems. While other poems may be read, Schiller's songs are considered essential, and all the other poems are merely optional. Schiller's songs have been translated into Hebrew, and his poems are both loved and studied. People seek to understand them deeply and uncover the intentions behind them. Occasionally, when the young guest comes to that small room, he might be asked to explain one of the poems and provide a critique. He would even write a commentary for Schiller's poem “Resignation” at the request of Sara-Leah'chi. Schiller songs are being sung. Only God knows how those melodies made their way from faraway Germany to that room in Zborow. Who still remembers those melodies today? The storyteller seems to hear, even now, Sara-Leah'chi singing the beginning of the song “The Mother Who Murdered her Nurtured Son:”

Horch! Die Glocken hallen Dampf zusammen	Listen! The bells ring dully together
Und der Zeiger hat vollbracht den Lauf	and the hand has completed its journey.

Or the ending of the famous song “The Youth by the Spring:”

Raum ist in der kleinsten Hütte	There is room in the smallest hut
Für ein glücklich liebend Paar.	for a happily loving couple.

The storyteller enjoyed visiting that room in his youth, where he would drink a cup of tea, savor the delicacies handmade by Richil, listen to the father's curiosities, hear the son's “clever” nonsense, and enjoy the daughter's singing. More than anything, though, the storyteller loved approaching the book cabinet, pulling out one book after another, forgetting about the father and son, mother and daughter, and immersing himself in each book. In a mystical way, he delved into the intricacies of the German language, as the cabinet held a superb selection of German literature.

One book in particular captivated him: the book of Iyov [Job] in Phillipson's Bible. As known, Iyov recounts suffering and torments; it is a testament to crises and hardships, a vessel of tears, and a repository of calamities and storms. Even God Himself finds no satisfactory and sufficient answer to Iyov's predicament and ultimately ends the debate with a decisive divine argument as if cutting it with a chisel. Yet, Iyov of Phillipson's Bible is an enchanting read. It not only allows the storyteller to forget the troubles at the flour and textile shops but also makes him briefly forget Iyov's own trials, thanks to the exquisite paper, print, and the harmony and calm emanating from the book illustrations.

The father's curious remarks, the son's jokes, the daughter's singing, and the mother's culinary delights all enhance the atmosphere of the delightful scene. It seems impossible to fully exhaust the cup of sorrows and grief as long as these charming books were nestled in that quiet and pleasant room.

At times, the boy-guest reached out and pulled a charming German booklet from Kronish's cabinet. This booklet was a 78 literary collection dedicated to the memory of the “Tre Tzantry Ddehava” ]Aramaic for “two honorable people”], two admired prominent figures, Moshe Mendelssohn and Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. You only pronounce their names, and the dawn's light breaks out and rises around you. The Jewish philosopher and the German dramaturge, the author of “Nathan the Wise!” The lovely and the pleasant! The good, modest, innocent, charming philosopher and the combative, critic, fighting poet! It seems that both of them brought salvation to the world and to “The Worm of Jacob” [a term referring to the nation of Israel]^[24]. Even the people of Israel will experience eternal salvation, a belief inspired by that book.

Silence! Egypt's diaspora lasted only a few hundred years, while the European diaspora extended for several thousand. Yet, the end also came to the European diaspora, though not with the parting of the Red Sea or the harrowing ten plagues.

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Two extraordinary individuals accomplished this remarkable transformation: Rabbi Moshe^[25], the humpback from Dessau, and “our dear son Ephraim” [Jeremiah 31:2], the son of the Protestant priest from Saxony.

What did they use to achieve this wonder? The power of wisdom, literary works, and poems. In that parable of the three rings in that play, Nathan the Wise beautifully illustrates their contribution.^[26] How wonderful is this play! How extraordinary were these two people! How admirable was their love for each other? They both enjoyed playing the game of chess and engaging in conversations about literature and philosophy. The Jew and Gentile cherished and loved each other. Their love was pure, reminiscent of the love between David and Jonathan—a love of brothers, a love of the wise that transcended barriers, much like the love between two angels.

[The following paragraph appears to lack coherence]

That was the era when Liberalism was firmly established in Germany before dark clouds began overshadowing it. It was a time filled with fresh ideas that guided the nation, like winds that filled a ship's sails.

One story remained in the storyteller's memory, not grand but illuminating and warm: “The Patience” by Moshe [Moritz] Lazarus. It was the first time the storyteller had heard of this wonderful storyteller. He read the article numerous times in his youth. For some reason, it seemed to him that heavenly wisdom emanated from it. He dreamt that one day he would leave Zborow to visit the author and tell him: “You are Moshe, and I am Yehoshua, and I want to serve you like Yehoshua served Moshe. I only ask you to let me listen to your words of wisdom…” It is a youthful dream—an innocent desire from childhood! The storyteller did not know then that even earthly rulers visited Prophet Moshe to hear his words of wisdom.

Dr. Kronish, may he rest in peace, left behind his good name and his books. In contrast, his successor, Dr. Brust, left two sons, two houses, and two gardens. As you arrive at the city from the train station, you will first see the two houses and two gardens. You cannot miss them, since that is where the city begins. The small house and garden are on the right, and the big house with its large garden is on the left. An ignorant, peculiar, old bachelor son lived in the small house. The big house stands mostly empty. It likely belongs to the other son, a lawyer in Mödling located between Baden and Vienna. He settled there so well that they had elected him mayor. His Catholic wife reminds him about the Days of Awe and the Yahrzeit. Consequently, he visits the “Temple” to recite “Kaddish,” helping the souls of his parents ascend to heaven.

Who said that a Jew, native of Zborow, is forbidden from marrying a Catholic woman and becoming the mayor of Mödling? It is important to note that we are dealing with a period of 60 years ago [before the date this article was published—1950], the days of Liberalism and assimilation, when mixed marriages were widely accepted. A lawyer, the son of a physician, was permitted to do it. On the anniversary of his parents' death, Dr. Brust donated a substantial sum of money to support the poor in Zborow, particularly to his teacher and rabbi, the venerable old man, Rabbi Tzvi Tzverdling, the oldest Enlightened scholar and the great [Hebrew] grammarian. Even Meir HaLevi Letteris himself testified that he was an expert in the Hebrew language. What did our student learn from him, and how much is a separate question.

The important thing was that Dr. Brust treated his teacher with respect throughout his life. When his teacher got older, the student awarded him a generous monthly stipend so that the teacher could enjoy a comfortable retirement in his advanced years. The teacher educated generations of students during his long life. Still, unfortunately, many neglected him in his old age, treating him like a useless tool. So finally, when the teacher passed away at the age of probably more than 90, a telegram was sent from Zborow to Dr. Brust in Mödling, who requested to delay the funeral for him. He made an effort to travel by fast train from Vienna, through Krakow and Lvov to reach Zborow on time. Dr. Bust followed the teacher's body to the cemetery, where he immediately distributed 400 krones to the town's poor to aid in his teacher's soul ascending to heaven.

The storyteller received his teacher's Hebrew writings with the request to try to publish them in print. When Dr. Brust was still alive, about 20 years ago, the storyteller traveled several times to Mödling to talk to him about this matter. However, he was not able to connect with Dr. Brust. By then, the man was older and weaker, surrounded by others who guarded his money. Only a large dog and a lawyer, one of Dr. Brust's relatives, would welcome the storyteller there. Dr. Brust did not have children, and passed alone. His writings are still orphaned, lying in the storyteller's saddlebag, waiting for a miracle. When the storyteller stayed in Mödling, he stopped by a bookstore. He looked at a book, turning his back to other people. At the same time, a woman entered the store and asked the owner whom to consult on a specific matter. The store owner called a name, and she answered him empathetically in a loud voice: “No, this is a Jew (ein Jude)!” The storyteller turned around, looked at her face, and said nothing. A heavy silence settled in the store. The storyteller understood that not only the physician and former mayor, Dr. Brust, had grown old, weak, and sick, but that Liberalism in that city and state, and perhaps in other states had also got old, weak, and sick…

We received no information about Dr. Kronish's abilities as a physician; however, we heard that Dr. Brust was a successful doctor whom people sought out from various places. Evidence of his success includes the houses he built, gardens he planted, and the fact that he educated one of his sons to be a lawyer—a profession known to consume fortunes to study.

It is interesting to note that Dr. Brust was a homeopath who practiced according to that specific method. What exactly does this method entail? It can be difficult to explain. It is not the method of the official medical science, but it is not naturalism-vegetarianism either. It is a method revived 150 years ago that stands on its own. The individual who brought it back attempted to articulate it using elaborate language. He argued that traditional medicine operates on the “principle of opposites” or contraria contrariis curantur (Opposites cure—for example, the cold cures heat, and the heat cures cold). In contrast, Homeopathy is based on the principle of similar means or Similia similibus curantur (Similar means cure—for example, cold cures cold, and heat cures heat).

For simple people, such matters are beyond their understanding. The main thing about it was that, at that time, the new method was proven successful. The state authority permitted physicians to practice it. Dr. Brust also utilized it successfully. What did Dr. Brust use to cure his patients? He used poppies in varying quantities, often mixing them with other ingredients.

When little Bat-Sheva fell ill with diphtheria, a dangerous disease, before the availability of a vaccine, Dr. Brust mixed poppies in water and had her drink it intermittently. He also soaked a bandage in a concoction of poppies and placed it around her neck. Remarkably, she recovered a day and a half later. Tragically, Bat Sheva's younger sister fell ill with the same disease. Still, she did not recover and sadly passed away. The family records do not specify which physician treated that four-year-old girl…

The storyteller is grateful to Dr. Kronish for the collection of books and to Dr. Brust for the expansive garden. In that garden, the storyteller spent his most enjoyable hours. The garden is open to anyone without restrictions. However, during the season, visitors are not allowed to touch the fruit trees, including apple, pear, and plum trees. During that season, the trees are leased to a Jewish fruit merchant, who would be unhappy if people helped themselves to the fruits without paying for them. However, honest visitors who come to enjoy the large garden—breathing in the fresh air, walking in the shades of the trees, and lying on the lovely and caressing grass are not disturbed. However, Zborow's Jews are lazy, excuse my language, and they do not go there. They claim that the air in their house is fresh enough. Who comes to the garden often? The storyteller.

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He found solace in the garden as a child of the Cheder, as a youth among the Kloiz's youths, and as a young man among the young men of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol. That garden seemed to nurture his tendency for daydreaming, which he believed was a gift from God. Lying flat on his back, on the tall and delicate grass, looking at the sky and its changing colors, in the tall, delicate grass, he would gaze at the ever-changing colors of the sky, allowing himself to be immersed in a variety of reflections and thoughts. He always carried one of his beloved books in his pocket. In that garden, he would read powerful verses from Ben Amotz [prophet Isaiah, son of Amotz]. The heroic spirit captivated. The storyteller also enjoyed studying and memorizing the profound verses from Ecclesiastes. When he began to learn Polish, he dedicated himself to memorizing pages from Pan Tadeusz by Adam Mickiewicz: itwo, ojczyzno moja… [Lithuania, my homeland…].

Perhaps the proximity of Rzeczikowski's garden, the old Pole who escaped from Siberia, which was adjacent to Brust's garden, had an influence. The clouds in the sky and the grass merge and unite with the heavy and passionate verses and rhymes. It is pleasurable to walk among the trees and memorize those verses. Occasionally, perhaps once or twice a year, Sara Leah'chi and her friend and relative, Dina'chi Perlmutter—the daughter of the preacher R' Yakov Perlmutter—visit the garden. Sara-Leah'chi's eyes are shiny, sparkling, and ready for a challenge. Dina'chi Perlmutter's eyes are deep black, focused, and covered with a veil of Jewish modesty. When they arrive, they engage in a lengthy discussion with the storyteller about lofty and sublime themes inspired by the latest book they have read. They stand by a large tree, while he stands on the opposite side of the tree. The sun's rays pleasantly illuminate both them and him, filtering through the branches and the green leaves. However, when they leave, he is left embarrassed and somewhat regretful.

He recalls some passages from Pirkei Avot [the tractate “Ethics of our Fathers” in Seder Nezikin] about a tree and a woman. He remembers some moral phrases from Sefer Yere'im [by Eliezer Ben Shmuel, 12th century]. He returns to memorizing Prophet Isaiah along with verses and Ecclesiastes with a mix of awakening thoughts of awakening and regret. He also contemplates continuing with the first rhyme from Pan Tadeusz:”Ty jestes jak zdrowie” [“You are like health].

The physicians Kronish and Brust, are nothing more than a fable to us. We have not seen them with our own eyes; we do not know where they came from, what spirit motivated them, what they aspired to in their youth, and what they accomplished. We are unaware of their hopes and what they may have given up on. These physicians were born and grew up 120 years ago and were swept away with the first rays of light. They left the Beit HaMidrash, studied medicine, graduated (or perhaps not), and became physicians. During that time, the authorities made it relatively easy for those who studied medicine to become licensed due to the shortage of physicians. The authorities were satisfied with just three years of study, and it is doubtful they even obtained a doctoral degree. The authorities applied the same leniency to Dr. Nagler who came after Kronish and Brust and whom we knew for many years.

While walking around Jerusalem, the author sometimes spots a well-known rabbi, the National Committee's Rabbi. He is tempted to call Tzfara Tavah [good morning in Aramaic]. He wonders if this rabbi is Dr. Nagler. The resemblance between the two is striking. Dr. Nagler had a slightly below-average stature, slender-built, sparkling and intense eyes, and a bushy black beard. Their mannerisms are similar, and both spent their childhood and youth at a Cheder, Kloiz, or Beit HaMidrash.

Despite his seclusion, Dr. Nagler sometimes finds himself opening a Siddur at a patient's home. By chance, he comes across the article in Pirkei Avot [order Nezikin 1:10]: “Love your work and hate the rabbinate.” This inspires to speak enthusiastically about the beauty of the text.

It is winter, and the snow is falling peacefully, as Friday noon approaches. Students from the Cheder are returning home, carrying the Gemaras under their arms. When Dr. Nagler encounters them in one of the alleys, the spirit of good humor and playfulness envelopes him, too. He feels a connection to the children of the Cheder, reminiscent of his own childhood friends. With a sense of nostalgia he begins quoting from the Gemara about the four forms of executions by the court (the Sanhedrin): stoning, burning, killing, choking” …

He is a world unto himself, residing somewhere in the city's center. Each morning, he wakes up early to go to his patients. He does not rush; Instead, he walks calmly, unhurried by the world around him. He refrains from conversing with the passersby, avoids getting involved, and remains composed without getting angry. When he enters the patient's home, it is evident that he genuinely cares for the sick. He may not be considered a genius, and people do not travel from distant places to seek his services. Nevertheless, he is a dedicated physician who thoroughly examines his patients, ensuring he does not leave until he uncovers the source of the ailments.

He indeed studied only for three years; however, he does not neglect his extensive medical books and periodicals. He knows everyone in the city well and keeps track of their lives. He is also aware of each person's mental state. Sometimes, Dr. Nagler is required to stay at a patient's home, where he engages in conversation with the family members. Sitting on a chair with his legs crossed his eyes lit up, expressing eagerness to listen. Gradually, he is transformed from a physician into the role of a rabbi. The mental barrier is removed, and the family members begin to share what is in their minds and hearts.

Dr. Nagler speaks to them in a heartfelt and refreshing Yiddish. However, he says little, primarily listening to their concerns. He presents himself as a family friend, genuinely worried about the health of each family member. He assures them that the sick do not face grave danger if they follow all his instructions and take the few medicines, as prescribed. He observes everything within each family and understands their worries and concerns. He absorbs their information like a sponge and keeps it private. Whatever he witnesses and hears in one family remains with him forever; he does not disclose it to another family much like a rabbi.

Dr. Nagler is a world unto itself—a man of secrets, almost like a monk. He had no dealings with women, cards, or feasting with the esteemed. After completing his rounds, he returns home slowly with restraint, never looking to the sides. Once he reaches home, he locks the door and pulls down the curtains. He lives there with his wife and two daughters (his only son studies somewhere in Lvov). He leads a closed and concealed life with his books and journals as if he were on an island. Though he is in Zborow, it is as if he is not truly present.

He is a world unto itself. There are intelligent people in Zborow, both Jews and Gentiles. However, we never saw him socializing with any of them, paying friendly visits to their homes, and none of them ever visited his home. A neighbor has never entered his home. There are only two brothers-in-law—his wife's brothers, members of the Tierhaus family. They lease a large estate in one of the villages between Zborow and Pomarin [Pomorzany]. They are enlightened individuals with a deep affection for Eretz Yisrael. Their box of Rabbi Meir Ba'al HaNes is always full and is renowned throughout the entire region. They are skilled agriculturalists dedicated to managing their farm. Their horses are notable for their height and beauty. Once or twice a year, a wagon pulled by their fast-galloping sweaty brown horses, driven by the brothers-in-law, arrives in front of Dr. Nagler's door. This visit is a tradition, and it is heartwarming to see that even Dr. Nagler is not completely isolated from the company of people, their relations, and affairs. It is comforting to think that people's hearts are beating even in this apartment with the locked door and drawn-down curtains. It means that there is at least one additional hour each year when the barrier between him and other people breaks down: Yom Kippur Eve. For the ”Kol Nidrei” prayer on Yom Kippur, he will also come to the Great Synagogue to the place reserved for him by the Eastern Wall. Just before the traditional song is sung, the honorable gabbai —Eliyahu Auerbach, the esteemed flour merchant—

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Reb Nute Zimmer, along with several other sentimental Jews, approaches him. They shake his hand excitedly and wish him a happy year. This hour may evoke some emotions in him as well. However, as the hours pass, the doors close again (not only the physical door), and the curtains are drawn down (not only the literal curtains). Each person turns to his own corner.

Ultimately, what do we know about him from his beginning, and his growth? What can we discern about his inner mental life? Not much. He studied at Cheder as a child, and later, immersed himself in the Sanhedrin and other tractates. He was a friend, part of a group—essentially a cell within a larger body. However, what he was is no longer important. He was carried on the wing of the Enlightenment Movement and chose not to become a rabbi in Israel but instead became a physician. He was a pioneer. He left the well-trodden paths and blazed a new trail for himself.

He is now cut off from his people. He is not trying to attract followers for the Enlightenment Movement or anything else. He is not a friend of Jews or Gentiles. He seems to have a sense of humor and possesses a treasure trove of experience and knowledge. If he were to speak, everyone would likely listen, repeat, and memorize his words. Yet, he remains silent. He hears but does not talk; nobody remembers any phrase he has said in Zborow. What is the reason for his silence? Is it deliberate, the result of a thoughtful decision? Does he write down his thoughts in the innermost hidden corners of his mind? Is he a proponent of the occult, or perhaps he is just a fraud? Dr. Nagler may be content with small achievements and disapproves of those who are ignorant. Maybe he finds that modest culture—Polish or “Shund”^[27] novel, sufficient? His wife may dislike hosting others because she is obligated to provide tea, sugar, and biscuits. There are many possibilities, and none of us truly knows.

One day, Dr. Nagler's apartment door was wide open. The curtains were raised, and the windows were opened. Simple Jews from the street, wives, and children filled the room. What and how it happened? One simple thing happened. Dr. Nagler went on his regular round during the morning hours among the city's sick. He took care of every patient as he was used to. He heard what he heard, commented what he commented, and then returned to his home. Bat-Sheva, who was sitting at her textile shop, saw him slowly returning to his home. A quarter of an hour later, a scream encircled the street: “Dr. Nagler is dead.” The people in the street filled the apartment within a minute. Bat-Sheva was among these people.

One antipathetic butcher, an expert in blood-letting, opened an artery, and the blood flowed out robustly. Dr. Nagler managed to open his eyes, wondering about the tumult around him. The Christian Polish physician, Dr. Skurski, arrived running, but it was in vain. Dr. Nagler passed away, leaving the Jewish community in Zborow Jews in deep sorrow. About an hour later, the Tierhaus brothers-in-law's wagon arrived, pulled by the galloping, sweaty brown horses. Groups of Jews gathered in the marketplace, sadly discussing the event. They reminisced about times when God's emissary, the beloved physician, had come to save seriously sick patients. However, none of this could change the situation. Dr. Nagler, the city's physician and a friend to its people, was gone.

The generations continuously progress without a pause or rest. They move forward non-stop and without rest. Dr. Brust's son is a lawyer in Mödling near Vienna. The only son of Dr. Nagler is a lawyer in Zborow, but he does not match the success of Mar bar Rav Ashi^[28] [not as successful as his father]. He is not a “first.” He is an “heir.” His thinking is narrow and limited. He struggled with exams and failed many of them. The expenses of his education at a Polish high school and university have cost his father and may have contributed to his father's heart attack.

The education of Zborow's and Galicia's Jews is increasingly becoming Polish. Vienna feels far away, and Lvov is much closer. German literature, represented by Schiller, is fading away, and Sinkevich is stepping into the spotlight. The younger generation is now being educated in Polish literature. We coexist with the Poles and must shape our life among them. Surrounding us are Ruthenians-Ukrainians, who constitute a majority but have not yet awakened nationally. Although German is still being studied in Galicia, it feels like a barren landscape, while Polish become our sustenance. For example, the son of a pharmacist, who studies in a Polish high school in Lvov, was tasked with writing a commentary in German about the play Clavigo by Goethe during his school break. Instead of tackling the assignment by himself, he went to Beit HaMidrash and asked the author of this article, who was then one of the young men there, to write the composition for him.

Dr. Nagler's son, who has finally become a lawyer, still speaks German, reflecting ties to the earlier generation. However, he does not recognize any letters in Hebrew. He is not a “first,” but rather an “heir.” He cannot quote a verse from the Sanhedrin tractate for the children of the Cheder. He would never open the Siddur and feel inspired by the verse: “Love your work and hate the rabbinate.” He may have visited the Great Synagogue on Yom Kippur and remembered accompanying his father as a young child. However, he does not know the prayer and will not be moved by the melody of “Kol Nidrei.” He is not a bad person, God forbid. While some of his father's attributes were passed down to him, the light of wisdom does not shine on his face; he has a slow comprehension. He feels uprooted and detached, lacking the assets of the Jewish spirit or knowledge of the Jewish way of life.

In Lvov, the Jewish national consciousness begins to take shape. One young man, Adolf Stand his name, stands up in a gathering of assimilators and voices controversial opinions that grate on the ears of some. Meanwhile, in Lvov, a youth from Zborow, Chaim'ke Katz, is sending articles about Jewish nationalism to the [Jewish Enlightenment newspaper] HaMelitz in Petersburg. However, Dr. Nagler remains unaware of this development. He is a Pole born into Moshe's faith but does not stay silent like his father. He often gives speeches. He aspires to live well, earn a good living, and be appointed to a respectable position.

At the same time, the mayor of Zborow—elderly Poznechovski, passed away. He was a wealthy Polish farmer known for his honesty, kindness, and generosity. Zborow is facing an election with two candidates. The first is Rechiburski, a very old man, who escaped from exile in Siberia many years ago. He has a lifelong passion for his nation. The second candidate is Dr. Nagler. There is no Ruthenian candidate as there is a lack of Ruthenian intelligentsia, and their community has yet to awaken from its slumber. An uprooted Jew against a Catholic Christian Pole? Time has changed. Isn't the Jewish history filled with stories about oppressions, killings, and slaughtering? Is he unaware of the Bible verse: “Even among those nations you shall find no peace, nor shall your foot find a place to rest [Deuteronomy 28:65]!?” You, the wandering people from far away, what is it for you here that you wish to elect one of you to be the head of the citizens? The history is forgotten. The Jews are forgetting the calamities of the past generations. Indeed, the history, like the experienced grandmother, tries to share her story but there are no listeners. As we all know, the grandchildren believe they are seven-fold wiser than their grandmother.

The night has faded, and dawn has arrived. Calm and security reign in the area. Jews are traveling safely between cities, towns, and villages without any incidents. We live in Austria during the reign of His Majesty Emperor Franz Joseph, decades after the implementation of the equal-rights constitution. This Constitution granted Jews the same rights as other nations in the empire, including the right to vote without distinction. The Jews constitute a majority in Zborow, so why shouldn't they exercise their advantage and right to elect their own mayor?

Currently, there is no national terminology or organization in place. Communication with communities in other cities is lacking, and Jewish leaders in Lvov or Vienna are not being consulted. Zborow operates almost like an independent republic. It has a somewhat idyllic atmosphere, as there are no heated gatherings and no community council since the regulations for such councils have not yet been established in Galicia. There are only three Parnasim [community administration officers/leaders], but since one passed away, only two remain: the wealthy man Reb Yakov Katz and Reb Israel Moshe Leizers [?], the disciple of the esteemed Rabbi Avraham Te'omim, z”l, a Zborow Gaon.

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These parnasim invite people to informal meetings without protocols or decision-making procedures.

Public opinion among the Jewish community tends to support Dr. Nagler. This support does not stem from any suspicion that old Raciborski harbors animosity toward Jews; In fact, no one can speak ill of him. On the Emperor's birthday, he attends the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, listens intently to the rabbi's sermon delivered in Yiddish, and his face lights up as if he has just enjoyed a sweet, even though he does not understand a single word. People also remember that the late Poznechovski, a Christian Pole and a devout Catholic, was charitable and did not provoke any outrage in the community. As for Dr. Nagler's Jewish identity, it raises the question: whether he knows a single Hebrew letter. He does not. He is considered a Jewish Gentile, yet the Jewish community tends to rally behind him.

There is no specific terminology or ideology; instead, it is all about sentiment. The sentiment exists because Dr. Nagler has not converted and remains Jewish. He is not intentionally evil, so for the Jewish community, Dr. Nagler is one of their own. He is the son of the late Dr. Nagler RIP, who has lived among us all his life and was known in the community. As a Jewish native of Zborow, Dr. Nagler holds a certain priority over a Pole, even if the Pole comes from far away. He is different from the late Poznechovski, even though the latter was also a Zborow native. If Nagler were elected mayor, Jewish residents would feel comfortable approaching him, sharing their concerns and discussing their issues. The Jewish artisans, who also have friends on the city council, support Nagler. One of these artisans is Yoel Weinstein, a well-regarded women's tailor known for his modern approach, who works for prominent Polish households. While Weinstein supports Nagler, he hesitates to advocate openly for him in front of the Polish community.

Who, then, is feeling uncertain and unsure? The homeowners, merchants, and property owners. They may lean towards Nagler, but their instinct tells them that time is not right for that decision. As the proverb says: “You caught a lot, you did not catch anything.” Although the regime of Franz Joseph (may he live long) is a one of charity, he sits in Vienna. In contrast, the State Governor, who sits in Lvov, is a Polish noble. The district minister in Zlotzov [Zolochiv] is also Polish, as are most judges in the courts, the tax officers, the post office manager, and the Supervisor of Weights. They all support Raciborski. Every one of them has the power to cause harm and create difficulties.

The Constitution is very liberal; however, a few days before the election, the Tax Commissioner summons the merchants and property owners. He does not mention the election but warns them about potential tax increases. Additionally, the Supervisor of Weights arrives to inspect compliance. He converses with the shopkeepers, frowns, and expresses his dissatisfaction. The merchants and property owners are feeling anxious and uncertain. Who can stand up to someone more powerful? Is it worth sacrificing themselves for Dr. Nagler?

Election Day arrives, and the 30 municipal council members take their seats. Among them are Rechiburski and Nagler, also members of the council. The voters are called to cast their ballots in an alphabetic order, and each voter must vote openly for one of the candidates. Despite their concerns, Yoel, the women's tailor, and his fellow artisans decided to vote for Nagler. Some property owners join them in voting for Nagler, while others, along with Christians, Poles, and Ruthenians, cast their votes for Rechiburski. Since Nagler's name comes first in the alphabetical order, he is called to vote first. He rises, bows, and clearly and loudly votes for Rechiburski. When Rechiburski's turn, he also rises, bows, and clearly and loudly votes for Nagler. This exchange reflects their mutual respect. Throughout the campaign and election, not a single insulting word is exchanged. The majority of the votes go for the old Rachiborski. Dr. Nagler then rises up and warmly congratulates his rival. The tension dissipates.

The tax and weight supervisors forget the visits from before the election. There are no oppressions or revenge acts. The Poles are uncomfortable about the deceptive measures they take to sustain their regime. But they consider them necessity, are patient, and do not lose their temper. The new head of the citizens is also charitable. With God's help, Zborow's Jews have nothing to complain about him. Yoel, the tailor, is a little ashamed to look at the eyes of his Polish customers. However, both sides tactfully pass the election season. Zborow returns to its routine after the election, and life goes on as before.

One of Zborow's poets, R' Zeinvel Ratte, wrote on the gravestone of Dr. Kronish, among other things:

Look down here in the ground—this grave,
The man dug for himself a resting place,
His soul was filled with God's majesty and wisdom;
The spirits of knowledge and fear of God united in him,
Science and the light of the Torah are paired like sisters,
A way of life was paved by learning.

And on the gravestone of Dr. Nagler, he wrote, among other things:

The heart is too narrow to accommodate his ray of light!
Where else would a physician heal our sick free of charge?
Material support he also provides out of the goodness of his heart;
Without tire, he visits our home every day,
Until the sick are healed and the disease passes;
Words cannot express his goodness;

The poet noted in Dr. Kronish the blending between religion and science, which he excelled in, while only emphasizing Dr. Nagler's kindness. That fits the description in this chapter. The two poems appear in Kvutzat Shirim [Assemblage of Poems], 5,660 [1900], Drohobycz.

Dr. Nagler died in year 5,652 [1891/2] when I was 12. Naturally, we only met a few times. I do not remember people discussing his life, nor did I think about him often. Therefore, when I was tasked to describe his image, I relied more on childhood impressions and feelings than factual knowledge. I worried that my description constituted more of a product of my imagination than a reflection of reality. I was so surprised to find out that the younger brother of Dr. Nagler lives in Jerusalem, from all places, 50 years after the death of his brother. This brother was an honorable man and a scholar. He read my description, confirmed all its details and lines of thought, and found no faults. The brothers shared the same father in Zalizts near Zborow but had different mothers. Dr. Avraham Nagler, whose Hebrew name was mentioned in the poem of Z. Ratte, was the oldest son of their father from his first marriage. His younger brother from Jerusalem, Reb Yakov Nagler, was Ben Zkunim [the youngest son of his old] father. Reb Yakov Nagler in Jerusalem shared additional interesting details during my conversation with him. He mentioned that when Yakov grew up, Dr. Nagler was already a physician in Zborow. Yakov traveled to him to ask for his support in learning a profession. Dr. Nagler agreed and fulfilled his request, which aligns with his enthusiasm for the phrase: “Love your work and hate the rabbinate” described in the article.

A few words about Reb Yakov: he learned tin smithing in his youth and became an expert craftsman. He lived in Zlotsov [Zolochiv], where he was known for his majestic appearance and earned the respect of both Christian and Jewish communities. Throughout many years, he served honorably as a representative in both the local community and municipality.

At the age of 70, he made Aliyah. Despite his advanced age, he dedicated himself to his work, not out of necessity, but out of a desire to contribute his skills to the building of the homeland. He passed away in Jerusalem in 5,709 (1948) at the age of 82. Both Chassidim and Enlightened individuals attended his funereal. (Refer to the article about him in the monthly journal the Hed [Echo], Kislev [December], 1948).

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The First Zionist in Zborow

Summer. Late afternoon on Shabbat. Three women, friends for many years, are strolling a stroll of Shabbat. Following and around them, three girls and one little lamb–the storyteller.

When you observe these three women, you gain insight into their lives. All three have already set aside the dreams of their youth and the indulgence of early marriage. They may have likely already experienced the bitterness life can bring. Having navigated various challenges, they emerged victorious, reaching a significant milestone. They are in the middle years, carrying a great deal of responsibility. The potential for personal growth has already been realized, but the inevitable decline and challenges lie ahead. Their focus is not on themselves but on their children. Although life is not ideal, work is available, allowing them to earn enough to provide food for their families and even nice clothing. They embrace the right and duty to raise children—God willing, adorable boys and girls—fulfilling the timeless role of a nurturing mother.

Observe these three women scrolling slowly and measured, engaging in friendly conversation with each other. There is no hint of envy, competition, or the bitterness of gossip or slander among them. Look how Rachel Zlatkes on the left and Slova Katz on the right speak to Mother Bracha in the middle, intently listening to her friends' veiled conversation. How exalted these women appear in the eyes of the little lamb? Notice how the setting sun's red rays reflect and sparkle in their eyes. If there are angles shaped like women—these are surely the ones.

Surrounding them are the three daughters of Rachel Zlatkes: Rivka, Feiga, and Fridel, and with them, the young son of Mother Bracha.

This stroll of Shabbat with the three girls is a unique experience for our little lamb. Years later, he would recall that experience. Throughout his childhood, he may have never before strolled with three girls. He usually spends his time with boys—studying, socializing, going on trips, playing, and listening to stories. However, during this stroll, he unintentionally notices the vast difference between the worlds of the boys and the girls. It is like the difference between two climates and between mountains and plains. Boys engage in heroism, study, joke, jump, and run. Even at a young age, girls embody something soft and nurturing. He observes how these three girls direct their eyes, the corners of their lips, and even the tips of their noses. He notices how they walk, how they talk, and how they interact with him. There are no significant differences among the girls: Rivka, the older girl; Feiga, the middle; and Fridel, the youngest. Rivka is unpretentious, kind, and motherly. Feiga is composed and emotional as if she is already aware of her beauty and clout. Fridel takes care of him with endless attention, as if she is responsible for his well-being and mood. She is full of energy and agility, moving swiftly—one moment in front of him and the next on his left or behind him. She treats him like a doll, all the while explaining the sights around them.

Surprisingly, the stroll turns into an alley on the way to the cemetery where only a few Jews reside. They pass near Mayor Poznechovski's home, who is still alive—a small three-by-three garden in front of his house, surrounded by a fence on all four sides. The garden is planted with grass and flowers. In the middle, on the trunk of a tall tree, the figure of the crucified on a cross–a human figure. Fridel tells her companion: “Since Poznechovski is a pious man, he positions that figure near his home.”

The little lamb struggles to understand a complex idea. He has already grasped what piety means, as it is the environment he experiences at his father's home. He also has a basic concept of what a human figure is, but he can combine the two ideas^[29]. Unintentionally, he thinks in a Talmudic way: if piety exists here, then a human figure cannot be present, and if there is a human figure is present, then piety cannot exist. Are these two concepts, not two opposing concepts? In his innocence, he remains unaware that there is a form of Gentile piety that embraces the presence of human figures.

Little Fridel is not a very good explainer, and she may remain that way as she grows up. We also learn about the character of the little lamb. He possesses a certain sharpness, but at times, when facing small or more complicated problems, he just stands there, dumbfounded, unsure of what to think.

The stroll lasted one or two hours as the three women returned, with their entourage, from the Christian section. They made their way back to the city and gathered at the city square near the main road, situated between the line of shops and Slova's home. However, they found it difficult to part ways. The moon has already risen, appearing like a large, fiery ball in the sky, casting a light so bright that it resembled daylight. Under this bright light, the dust in the square took on a golden hue reminiscent of shiny snowflakes during a heavy winter or the white dust in Israel's Sharon area on a cactus trail under the moonlight.

That stroll had a sense of magic, making it difficult to return to daily life and religious obligations. This unusual outing had brought the women and their babies closer, and they became accustomed to one another's company. As the conversation among the women drew to a close, they still hesitated to say goodbye, as they were bonded. Ultimately, they took pity on the tired babies and decided to part ways.

Slova Katz is the widow of her late husband, Reb Reuven Katz. He was a good Jew who often coughed. Reb Reuven left behind two daughters, a son from his first wife, and a little son named Chaim'ke from Slova. He also left a large house in the city center by the “wall.” This house has the potential to generate income, and Slova, known as “Eshet Cha'il” [“woman of valor”], willingly accepted the entire inheritance.

Slova's hands are steady, and her spirit is positive and calm. She loves the children of Reb Reuven from his first wife just as she loves her own, Chaim'ke. It is well known that often, a stepmother harbors resentment toward her stepchildren, especially after the death of the father. However, Slova is an exception to the rule. Her behavior should serve as a model for all stepmothers. She especially cherishes the older daughter, Kokya, the most beautiful and gracious girl in Zborow. Kokya feels like her own daughter, akin to a younger sister. Their souls are forever intertwined.

Slova obviously loves her only son, Chaim'ke, and it is truly hard not to adore him. He is adorable and committed to his studies at the Cheder. Additionally, he diligently studies with private tutors, and Slova spares no expense when hiring high-quality teachers. On Shabbat, she sends Chaim'ke to Reb Israel Radler, Bracha's husband, to test what he learned at the Cheder during the week. Chaim'ke often feels nervous during these tests but knows his material well. Reb Israel praises him for his efforts.

Chaim'ke is growing and developing. He is the youngest enlightened in Zborow. People say that he knows Hebrew very well and that he already reads Hebrew periodicals in those days 60 years ago. He also read books by Naphtali Hirtz Wessely [Vizel], a friend of Mendelssohn. He also owns the author's works, Shirei Tiferet [Poems of Glory] and Divrei Shalom VeEmet [Words of Peace and Truth].

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He also possesses the writings by Yitzchak Arter from Brody and Avraham Mapu from Kovno [Kaunas]. Mother Slova was generous when it came to buying books for Chaim'ke. Indeed, it is difficult not to like him. He is also good-looking, and his voice is pleasant. It is impossible to remain indifferent when listening to him; his voice truly touches the heart.

On summer Shabbats, when the heat intensifies and the idea of drinking something cold becomes quite appealing, Bracha's two sons, Simcha-Bunem and Yehoshua, go to Slova's house to enjoy cold mead. In all of Zborow, there is no more flavorful cold mead than what Slova serves. While drinking, they observe Chaim'ke sitting at the head of the table, engrossed in reading “HaMagid” from Lyck or “HaIvri.” He reads these magazines with the maturity of an adult. Simcha-Bunem, the older brother, is drawn to the table and tries to read the magazine but finds it difficult. Chaim'ke encourages him by saying: “Do not be discouraged. If you contribute to the subscription fee for 'HaMagid,' I will read it to you every week for free.” Simcha-Bunem agrees. However, there was no need to continue with the shared reading for a long time since Simcha-Bunem was a prodigy and fluent in reading the Bible. He quickly learns the nuances of the language in “HaMagid” and can describe the current affairs, including the news about Bismarck in Berlin using the verses of [the prophet] Isaiah Ben Amotz from Jerusalem. For instance: “And Reichskanzler Bismarck in Ashkenaz [Germany], uttered a word, and it resonated across Europe” [drawing from Isaiah 9:7]. He might also reference “His outspread wings will cover the breadth of the land [based on Isaiah 8:8].”

Life is not ideal, but it is not an unbearable burden. There are moments of happiness and hope, and a sense of calm prevails. Thank God there are enough to make a living. The boys and girls grow up, study Torah and heritage, and taste and gain knowledge from the world around them. However, at that particular moment, the Holy One, Blessed be He, chose to unleash a great calamity upon Slova's home.

We would not elaborate further, as this is not meant to be a novel. Instead, we aim to paint small pictures and provide brief sketches of scenes from life.

One night, the beautiful and gentle Kokya went down to the cellar to bring something up. Unfortunately, she was seized by flames and burned. The tragic question [from the Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur Unetanah Tokef prayer] lingers: “[Who will perish by water] and who by fire?” I cannot recall if she was burned on the spot or if she died a few days later, but I do remember the deep sadness that enveloped several families in Zborow. The sorrow that struck Stepmother Slova was particularly bitter and overwhelming, leaving her melancholy. She did not accept consolations.

Mother Bracha and Rachel Zlatkes, the sister of the late Reb Reuven Katz, also a widow, visit Slova daily. They neglect their shops during the day and go to Slova with heavy hearts, hoping to alleviate her immense grief. Leaning on their life experience and the faith's treasures, they remind her about her obligations to Chaim'ke and urge her to wake up and attend to her duties. However, all of that effort is in vain. She does not answer and does not speak. She is being consumed by her grief. She ceases to function and drifts away from life. A few weeks later, she passed away and went to Kokya.

Alas, Slova's home dealt a decisive blow.

Life does not remain frozen in a single moment. It moves forward tirelessly without pause on the wave of eternal time.

Chaim'ke Katz is like a firebrand snatched from the flame. He moves to Lvov, Galicia's metropolis. Perhaps he has relatives there who take pity on him and care for him. Rumor says that he studies accounting while working in a trade business. After saving enough money, he plans to attend a teachers' seminary. After all, he is a man of letters with the characteristics of teachers and educators. In his free time, Chaim'ke sometimes attends the meetings of Tzion [Zion], a brand-new organization in Lvov. Lvov's community existed for a thousand years without such an organization, but similar groups have been established in Berlin, Vienna, Moscow, Glatz [Kłodzko], and Iasi. Nechemia Perlmutter, Chaim'ke's friend from the Cheder, and Chaim'ke invites him to the hall of the Tzion organization.

Chaim'ke whispers to his friend the names of the prominent people in the hall. That chubby person over there, who blinks his eyes like R' Meir'l, is Adolf Stand, a speaker par excellence. That tall and thin person over there is Gershon Zipper, a popular speaker who captivates the masses. This one over here is Shlomo Schiller, a scholar who came here from Bialystok. His actual name is not Schiller but Blankstein; he changed his name because of his love of the great poet. That delicate and pale young man is Avraham Korkis, the editor of the Polish language magazine “HaAtid” [“The Future”]. Over there is David Meltz, a speaker and author, who is also trying his hand at writing theater plays. These two, over here, are the editor, Gersom Bader, and the brilliant critic, Mordechai Aharonfreiz. That short man in the opposite corner is the outstanding Hebrew teacher, Yitzchak Ben Avraham Schwartz. He is the first one in Galicia that insisted on speaking and teaching Hebrew with a Sephardic accent. “All these young men,” summarizes Chaim'ke with reverence and respect, “are the generals of the future.” Nechemia reflects on that last statement and repeats it to his friends upon his return to Zborow from Lvov.

Chaim'ke, the owner of the statement, is known for his modesty and humility. He does not consider his place among the “generals,” nor does he seek attention among them. He is not one of the speakers and tends to blend in with the crowd. Many who recognize him by sight do not even know his name. However, he is among the serious individuals—the thinkers and those who explore ideas. The Zionist cause captivates his soul, and he dedicates much of his free time to it. With his keen insight, he can distinguish between the various currents and directions beginning to take shape on the horizon. He digs deep to uncover the roots of the new concepts.

One day, he decided to put his thoughts and reflections down on paper, and they were published in the magazine HaMelitz in St. Petersburg. Is it not the HaMelitz a gathering place for scholars, authors, esteemed figures, rabbis, and national leaders? In this esteemed venue, the thoughts of Chaim'ke Katz from Zborow-Lvov are highlighted. They received his work enthusiastically and placed it at the forefront of the issue—remarkable for someone so young. When the issue arrived in Lvov, he likely felt a sense of shame and embarrassment, shrinking further into his corner of the Tzion organization's hall. Is he truly among the authors of this generation?

Oh, if only Mother Slova were alive…

Chaim'ke Katz arrives in Zborow for several days or possibly weeks.

The news of his arrival is positively accepted by the youth in Zborow.

He is no longer the child that left Zborow; He has grown up. A soft black mustache now adorns his lips, and he has become a handsome young man. Had it not been for the paralysis in one arm—a result of a severe accidental hit—he would be readily accepted as a soldier, or even an officer, in the army of His Majesty the Emperor. However, nobody notices his impairment when he walks in the streets of Zborow. He carries himself elegantly, presenting a clean-shaven, “Deutsch” style, dressed finely, fashionably, and even slightly fancy, without a spot on his clothes.

Despite this, Zborow's social style insecurities, and perhaps some nervousness still linger with him. He does not mingle with the crowd and tends to avoid speaking in public. He is not friendly with everyone, likely due to his “inner restraints.” He is “mighty in his ascension” [as expressed in a line from a poem in the Shacharit prayer]. He is firm in his opinions when conversing but tends to speak with only one person or a small group at a time).

At the home of his aunt, Rachel Zlatkes,

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where he is lodged, he spends time talking with her three daughters and her son Reuven. He often visits his relative, R' Mordechai Katz, where he converses with Sara-Leah'chi and her brother Yitzchak-Yehuda. He spends considerable time with and talks to his friend, Nechemia Perlmutter, and has had some discussions with a young man from the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol—the storyteller.

He came to Zborow to have a gravestone erected for his beloved late mother, Slova. The gravestone was made by Reb Nute Zimmer, the flour merchant who also worked as a stonemason when needed. Accompanying on his journey to the cemetery was a young man from Beit HaMidrash. During the walk, he received a lesson from his friend.

Even though important ideas and outlines of the ideologies essentials are presented in the magazines HaMelitz [The Advocate] in St. Petersburg and HaTsfira [The Siren] in Warsaw, the written teachings differ from those taught orally. Oral lessons offer a vividness and clarity that written formats lack. When issues are explained verbally, their essence becomes much clearer than in a silent written copy, which can only reflect the living source.

The sun shines on them as they take their walk. These are still tranquil days in the world, reminiscent of the era of the old Franz Joseph; may God prolong his days and years. He lives in harmony with the rest of the world. After some bitter initial experiences in Italy [in the Italian War of 1859] and Königgrätz [1866 Austro-Prussian War], he lost any desire to go to war. He even has a favorite view of Bismarck, who defeated him in battle. He is neither radical nor an extremist. Instead, he prefers to grant significant concessions to foreign countries and nations within his empire as long as he does not need to draw his sword. Indeed, fortune seems to smile upon him. Peace prevails.

Bismarck is now a trusted friend, and the kingdom is developing and flourishing. The kingdom's nations are loyal; everyone praises and honors his name. People are optimistic. Calm has returned to Zborow, a local as small as a lentil in the sack of towns in the Austro-Hungarian kingdom, after the completion of this business of electing a new mayor. The losing candidate, Dr. Nagler, a Jewish doctor, was the first to congratulate the winner, Raciborski. He blessed him so warmly that one could genuinely believe the sincerity of his words. Dr. Nagler stated that Zborow is happy to have received such a dear, honest, and experienced mayor. He remarked that the election was merely a formality to fulfill the election duty. Nevertheless, everyone is satisfied with the outcome. A good spirit prevails in the city. Jews and non-Jews view each other favorably.

The only young son of Raciborski is courting a beautiful young Polish post office clerk named Idylia. He and his big dog settled in the post office, taking up a significant portion of the small room. While they do not directly interfere with the work process, their presence may not be appropriate. Perhaps the Polish editor, Ernest Breiter, will find out about this and mention it unfavorably in his Monitor newspaper. However, the truth can be said that the Polish clerk is exceptionally diligent. Her graceful fingers move swiftly as she continuously attends to her customers and consistently responds to their inquiries. She speaks in a refined and pure Polish, which resonates like music. She also uses that language to reply to the compliments of the tall and charming young Raciborski.

This is a youthful romance. Why should not the mayor's son pursue a young clerk during work hours? Who should object to that? Thankfully, Zborow is not in Russia or Preisen [Prussia in Yiddish] but in Austrian Galicia.

Even though the business of electing a mayor has seemingly concluded with the congratulatory speech of Dr. Nagler, it continued to be the subject of discussion among the philosophizes—humorously referred to by some as the “free club”—at the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol. These individuals, accustomed to over-analyzing the Torah and Talmud since their youth, engaged in debate and contention with ease. They know how to navigate among the “rumors” found in a Sugiya [The basic unit of Talmudic argument], specifically the “Three Rumors” [Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashana Tractate 20: b]. Rather than letting go of such an intriguing topic simply because it has transitioned from the realm of reality to the abstract, these philosophical thinkers find comfort in exploring abstract subjects that do not require immediate action, decision-making, or personal involvement. That allows ample opportunity for investigation and study.

Therefore, when Chaim'ke Katz came to the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol to recite Kaddish in memory of his late mother, people were eager to hear his thoughts on the election. Although the issue seemed off the agenda, one might question whether it indeed was. Understanding that it could be challenging for him to engage in conversations with many people, they surround him with a lively group. The animated discussion around him encouraged him to share his opinion, whether he wanted or not.

One person opened and said: “Hurray to our craftsmen who were not deterred and voted unanimously for Dr. Nagler.” A second person replied: “Perhaps by praising the craftsmen, you admonish the property owners? Did the latter have a choice after being threatened with heavy taxation if they voted for Dr. Nagler?” The third responded: “Not so. These were merely just threats.” The fourth person commented:” Why is a Jew from Zborow, like our Dr. Brust, allowed to be a mayor in Mödling near Vienna while our Dr. Nagler cannot do the same here?” The fifth person responded: “They say that even Pope's Rome has a Jewish mayor, and his name is Nathan. He is undoubtedly one of the sons of Reb Nathan, the author of the book HaAruch, who taught the Torah in Rome and was the head of Rome's Yeshiva.” “Not so,” replied the sixth person. The Holy Rome of the Pope is not Nathan's Rome, which is the secular city outside of Holy Rome. However, we should not expand and delve into more details,” he added, concluding, “After all, we have Chaim'ke with us. He has seen the metropolis and lived there and knows something about the way of the world and its history. It would be wise for us to be silent and listen to what he has to say.

” Everyone fell silent and kept their eyes on Chaim Katz, eagerly anticipating his words. The hunters surrounded him and spread their net under his feet, and he felt caught. Realizing this, Chaim'ke realized that, he opened his mouth and began to talk:

“My dear friends, you may not view the question you have been discussing as important. To you, it seems like a mere amusement, a puzzle to solve, a minor local issue—an affair involving little Zborow, a matter of honor between old Raciborski and our Dr. Nagler, and an issue of the differing behavior of the craftsmen, on one side versus the actions by the property owners on the other. There is some justification for that perspective, but only to an extent. For me, this local and personal issue weighs as heavily as the beam in an olive-press plant. It is a pressing question that delves deep into the very essence of our existence. It is inextricably linked to our lives in the diaspora. Do not be deceived by the calm and idyllic conditions that have existed in the world over the last few years. These are transitional years, the calm before the storm—days of deep breaths, or perhaps just a brief pause. The anti-Semitic movement is gaining momentum, spreading rapidly throughout the world. It has sparked significant interest, attracting many individuals from both the nation's elite and the less fortunate. We remain uncertain what the future holds for our nation. Surely, you have heard about the contentious meetings where anti-Semitism is being discussed, including those at the local council, at the state council, and at the parliament in Vienna. And what about here in Galicia? Although Eastern Galicia is settled by the Ruthenians, they still do not pose a threat to us. However, we must consider the general situation. In a debate with Dr. Byk, the assimilators' leader in Lviv, I stated in HaMelitz from 24 Nissan 5,656 (March 22, 1896):

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'There is no organized and formal party here that has on its platform the eternal hatred of the Jews and whose goal is to fight the Jews until the last drop of blood. However, the animosity toward the Jews is not limited to one political party or one region, permeating both the general populace and the elite. To support this assertion, letters by Shlomo Markus from Krakow recount significant encounters between the Jews and Christians in Western Galicia, which were published in the HaMeltiz.

I want to address the issue of electing a Jewish mayor for Zborow, considering both the constitution and the reality faced by the Jewish community of Zborow. While the current constitution supports our cause, can we genuinely guarantee that we will remain steadfast in times of adversity?

The comparison with Brust in Mödling and Nathan in Rome reveals some contradictions. One of you has mentioned Reb Nathan, the author of HaArukh. However, this comment contains a misunderstanding. Rabbi Nathan, the scholar, was undoubtedly a complete and innocent Jew, deeply connected to both ancient Jerusalem and Jerusalem that was yet to be built. In contrast, the Nathan we are discussing here, views himself as entirely Italian, just as Brust from Zborow considers himself altogether German. Though both are of Jewish descent, they lack any genuine connection and reverence for the synagogue or our Jewish cemetery. They are both “pious” assimilators, identifying more as Gentiles. Their accomplishments and elections have come not through their Jewish identity but as Italian and German.

It is still doubtful whether the Germans and the Italians will consider them as “Gentiles” for a long time to come. It is possible that one day, they will vomit them up as unwanted objects. If 'the right of a citizen also to blossom like a rose' [Torah Portion Nitzavim Vayelech]—as those who use a flowery language would say—it would come at the expense of our Jewish soul. Our Nagler, also considers himself a Pole, as he was raised in that culture; However, The Polish community does not perceived him as a “true” Pole. You witnessed firsthand how they have unanimously defended Raciborski while rejecting Nagler, disregarding his claim to Polish identity. They did this because they were unwilling to part with Zborow, a town where half its population is Jewish and the other half Ruthenian.

In our view, Zborow is Jewish. Jewish artisans built its first houses, streets, and the row of shops. Today, I discovered a partially buried 200-year-old gravestone at the cemetery, alongside much older gravestones wholly buried in the ground. This serves as evidence that Jews were here first. Who knows? If our ancestors had requested from the Polish noble who granted them the permit to establish the city the exclusive right to elect their own mayor, perhaps he would have obliged; it would have become an undeniable tradition. Since this was not pursued or could not be accomplished, the current tradition in Zborow is to have a Polish mayor. Now, we want to change that tradition.

We adhere to the Talmudic principle: 'The plaintiff claiming his friend's property must provide the evidence.' Let us assume that all the Jews voted in favor of Dr. Nagler and that the old Raciborski congratulated him warmly on his election. Nonetheless, we must consider whether changing this tradition would deeply hurt the feelings of the Polish community. Zborow is viewed as part of the Polish identity, and in their eyes, Nagler is seen as a Jewish Pole, but not a true Pole. Although we have equal rights enshrined in the constitution—rights that do not depend on tradition—the emotional bonds in the lives of nations are often stronger than the power of the law. Still, the Polish community values tradition and holds it in high regard.

Unfortunately, this is not the end of the story. At present, we are only addressing the situation with the Poles, because the Ruthenians are still slumbering. However, the day will come when they awaken, and a national Ruthenian intelligentsia will emerge. We have already seen the first signs of this in Lvov. God forbid, Jewish Zborow might then find itself, like many of its sister towns, caught 'between the rock and the hard place.'

We, the members of the Tzion organization in Lvov, struggle with these questions day and night. Although we have publicly announced our Jewish Nationality, and indeed, our Adolf Stand announced, to the dismay of the assimilators, that he identifies more with the impoverished Jewish peddler who travels through the villages than with the Polish nobleman living in the palace, with all of his nobility and pedigree, our eyes are directed toward Zion. However, we do not force the issue, nor do we seek immediate salvation; instead, we leave the implementation to the next generation or even the generations that follow. However, this approach does not resolve the challenging problems we currently face. Can we afford to give up our civil rights, general education, role in the economy and judicatory system, or our opinions about budgets and taxation issues? Should we relinquish our public political rights here in the diaspora? Should we stop voting for our representatives to the municipal council, state council, parliament, and commerce bureaus? Should we give up principally the nomination of a Jewish mayor or senator? Would we be willing to forgo the nomination of a Jewish mayor or senator? Would making such concessions actually benefit us? What are the limitations of such concessions? What is permitted, what is forbidden, and what constitutes a right or a duty? If we choose not to give up, will we not appear hypocritical? Will we not appear as people sitting on two chairs—those who proclaim the glory of Zion while secretly seeking fertile pasture in the diaspora?

The members of the Tzion were debating that issue at the state conference in Lvov, which I reported in my article “Ot LeTova” [“A Good Sign”] published in the HaMelitz newspaper on 23 Cheshvan this year (5,657) [30 October 1896]. In that article, I noted that the attendees at that conference were divided into two groups. One group argued that we should prioritize the settlement in Eretz Yisrael and view the work in the diaspora only as a means to achieve that goal. The other group contended that settling in Eretz Yisrael was still a distant objective, and we could not realistically attain it at that moment. They pointed out that the state of the Jews was dire and getting worse by the day. Thus, they advocated establishing a national party to fight for our national rights and improve our lives.

I want to be clear that I wholeheartedly support the first group. I believe that we must unite all our efforts toward a singular goal of settling Eretz Yisrael. If we do this, the seeds we sow now will bear the fruits, and our efforts will not be in vain.

These contrasting views highlight our ongoing confusion and distance from a viable solution. That is why I remained silent when you began to speak, allowing you to express your thoughts at length. [Regardless, the prospect of settling Eretz Yisrael implies that sons and daughters may need to leave their homes]. Woe to the father who exiled his sons, and sevenfold woe to sons who have been forced to exile from their father's home.”

A complete silence fell over the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol. Nobody moved or interrupted the speaker with comments or silly jokes. Not everyone fully understood his lecture, but everybody observed his serious and focused expression as if he were conveying something profound to himself that he wanted to share with others. His voice was pleasant and captivating, resonating within the audience like that cold mead they used to drink on Shabbat at his late mother's table. When he spoke, it felt like a metallic uvula was hanging in his throat, accompanying every word with a delicate festive sound—like a divine echo. Someone leaned back in thought during the speech and wondered: “Is this really Chaim'ke?” However, almost everyone else focused more on the content of the speech than on the personal aspects. They were affected by it to varying degrees.

Their audience barely listened to the sounds of faith and redemption that burned within his soul, particularly when he quoted

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from his article “Ot LeTova.” It seemed as if they could visualize the destruction of the diaspora he had envisioned—a fiery judgment as if flame would suddenly descend from the sky upon Zborow and the surrounding towns, leaving no escape. To them, Chaim'ke, with his curly hair and slightly flamboyant demeanor, resembled a prophet akin to the one who was cast ashore by a fish and proclaimed: “Nineveh will be ruined in 40 days!” Old sounds and familiar memories appeared from the depths of their consciousness, climbing the walls of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol. It felt as if somebody had taken the stage and unlocked an old, worn-out notebook containing the names of Zborow's martyrs who died for the sanctification of God in one of the past generations. The people began chanting the verses from the Selichot in their mind [prayers for Divine forgiveness, recited during the Days of Awe], which were composed during times of calamity.

However, didn't the Revolution of 1848 in Austria and the award of equal rights to all take place? As the group around the speaker dispersed and stepped outside, they were greeted by the shining sun and the calm, quiet streets. They spotted Raciborski's son walking along the main road with his large dog. The boy and his dog had taken a break from the company of the charming clerk in the post office to stroll leisurely with the student, Moshe Zimmer, the clever son of Reb Nute Zimmer. The two youths engaged in an amiable discussion about friendship, using polished Polish and youthful enthusiasm. People also recalled with gratitude that old Franz Joseph was still firmly occupying the throne of the 1,000-year-old Habsburg empire, holding the reins of power in his hands. They remembered the latest issue of the weekly Israelit, printed in German and Hebrew, which had just arrived from Vienna for its subscriber, Reb Moshe-Meir Grunseid. The articles in that weekly magazine exuded a sense of liberal confidence. They could almost hear Reb Moshe-Meir's distinctive cough, resonating as if half of Zborow belonged to him personally. Seeing and hearing all these restored their self-assured confidence and freed them from the nightmare that Chaim'ke's logical thinking and pleasant speech had brought to them. They felt that he greatly exaggerated and was essentially a pessimistic dreamer who viewed the world in a dark light. After all, time moves forward, not backward, and who could possibly turn it back?

Blessed are those who hope and trust; they do not succumb to the seething and nagging sorrow.

The summer night descended upon Zborow once again, and the full moon hung brightly in the mid-month sky.

Tomorrow, Chaim'ke Katz will leave Zborow to return to Lvov. Perhaps he has to take his matriculation exams, or maybe he has already passed them and is accepting a teaching position, or preparing to marry his fiancé. It is said that an honest young wife, a teacher who supported him during his studies, was found for him. Who knows?

As Chaim'ke strolls under the moonlight in the late hours, he is accompanied by the youngster from Beit HaMidrash. The conversation revolves around general topics rather than personal matters. They stand on the main road, between the line of shops and the “wall” house—exactly where the three women, Bracha, Rachel, and Slova, stood many years ago. Although it seems they have finished their conversation, saying goodbye is just as difficult for them as it was for their mothers many years ago.

Chaim'ke says to the youngster:

“Look at this town, Zborow. If I were a painter or a storyteller, I would want to stay here a long time, capturing its essence in writing or on the canvas. Just observe the tranquility and calm of the place. Even though there are no guards at night and very few policemen patrolling the streets, residents still feel a sense of security in these one-story homes without shutters. Zborow is primarily Jewish. There are also no oppressors, and the regime is not oppressive. People are fundamentally good, simple, modest, and honest, with a healthy sense of humor. You know that I sometimes feel fear of the Zionist idea, which is the air I breathe and the light in my life. How will we uproot Zborow and thousands of its sisters from these plains and plant them on Israel's mountains?

You should notice something remarkable about Zborow: When I stand here on the main road that begins in Vienna and ends in Podwoloczyska, the border town adjacent to Russia, this road divides the city into nearly two equal parts. It feels that there are actually two towns here. Whether someone resides on one side or the other appears to be a matter of chance. While no one has ever claimed there is a significant difference between the city's two halves, I can sense that difference. What is the significance of Zborow? How does it differ from nearby towns like Pomorzany [Pomoryany], Jezierna [Ozerna], and Założce [Zaliztsi]? How is it somewhat similar to more favorably renowned cities like Brody and Buczacz [Buchach]? One key reason is the presence of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, where the esteemed Rabbi Avraham Teomim, known as Gaon^[30], who had served here for only a few years. It is also because Zborow has been blessed with only about a dozen individuals who excel in Jewish wisdom, moral behavior, or music, including Reb Gershon Bogner and his friends. Remarkedly—you would find all of them at the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, on the right side of the road. Even those who resided on the left side bothered to go there, rather than the old Beit HaMidrash or the two Kloizes on the left side. This led to a unique phenomenon originating in the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, which has extended into other aspects of life, not just the male community.

If you were to tease me, I might mention that even Rabbi Meir'l, known for his piousness and isolation, who resides on the right side, is influenced by this. His wife, the distinguished native of Iasi, is even more so. In summary, I can confidently say: 'Tell me what side of the road you live, and I will tell you who you are.' The number of children per family also varies between the two sides. If you keep teasing me, I will add that even I, the youngest among the Jewish youths, would not have achieved the little that I did if my father's home had not been located on the right side.”

The youth from the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol listened but did not believe what he was hearing. Once again, he faced a minor issue, a polished statement that he perceived to be a significant problem. He never considered his town, nor did it ever cross his mind that it was divided into two distinct topographic and cultural parts. To him, it was a single unit. Zborow was simply Zborow!

A few silent minutes later, he asks Chaim'ke: “You mentioned there were a dozen prominent people in Zborow. Who are they? You only named R' Gerson Bogner.”

“Open your eye and see,” answers Chaim'ke. “Look for yourself, and you will find them. In general, I repeat and say to you: Zborow of today is unique. It is different from the Zborow in the past and certainly different from the one in the future. In addition to the dozen prominent people, I should highlight Yoel Weinstein, the women's tailor, and his neighbor, Noah, the tinsmith.” After a short break, he adds with some regret: “It is a pity that during my youth days here, I did not know how to approach these classes and these people and learn to know them.” He concludes his remarks in a tone that is both slightly comedic and, at the same time, serious: “Young man. I tell you as if delivering a “Halachic discourse,”

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now, at the time of our farewell: Keep and guard Zborow, as it is now, with the left and right united. Who knows? Perhaps you will be privileged to give it an eternal name and remembrance.”

They fell silent again and stood there quietly, sharing a moment of understanding that required no words. In the distance, three figures appeared on the road, which had been empty until that moment: Sara-Leah'chi, the group's chief talker; Dina'chi, the quiet, modest, and beautiful; and Feiga, the youngest one. Sara-Leah'chi began to sing:

“Horch! die Glocken hallen dumpf zusammen”[Listen! The bells echo dully in unison]

Chaim'ke bid farewell to the young man with a handshake and followed the sound of Sara-Leah'chi's voice.

The young man, too, turned on to go his way, reflecting on the past: Mother Bracha, Rachel Zlatkes, and Slova, z”l, represented the previous generation. In contrast, these three girls embody the current new generation. A verse from Jacob's blessing to his young son flashed in his mind: “…Daughters tread on the wall.” Rashi offers an interpretation of this verse: “The daughters of Egypt used to climb up to gaze at Joseph's beauty and be seen by him.

Chami'ke, too, continues to reflect on his situation. Perhaps he feels bitter because leaving his native city is difficult for him. The memories of that place are likely etched in his mind forever, despite the misfortunes he faced in his youth. Who knows? Maybe his heart is already telling him he will never return. Fortunately, he was able to join this small group of girls from Zborow to ease his sorrow and lift his spirits. In a way, it feels like an unintentional farewell party for those leaving a place for an extended time.

The following day, at noon, Chaime'ke, the excited, optimistic pessimist, left Zborow, placid in its summer calm.

Alas, his life story ended tragically. A few years later, he was placed in a mental institution in the Steinhoff area in Vienna, from where he never returned, His fate was different from the fates of his sister Kokya and his mother Slova, but not less tragic. We did not learn about the source of his illness, perhaps a little inheritance from his mother who sunk into her sorrow. [Like in the Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur prayer]—who [shall perish] by fire and who by his spirit.

Chaim'ke Katz was not the only Zborow native who contributed to the Political Zionist Movement before Herzl's time. We should also mention at least one more person: The Yiddish Poet Yitzchak Auerbach, who was known as Kvilitch in Zborow for reasons unknown (another local figure, the diligent learner-scholar from Kloiz Stratyn, Reb Benyamin [not to be confused with the author] was also known by Kvilitch). Auerbach wrote lyrical songs in the spirit of his era, as well as theater plays that were published and performed in Lvov and possibly in other places. I recall two of his plays: “Bustan'ai” [“Orchardist”] and “Churban Yerushalaim” [“Destruction of Jerusalem”], though I hope I am not mistaken in those titles^[31]. I have known these plays only by their names.

I also remember the name of the musician [Chole] Wolfstahl, who composed songs for Auerbach's plays. I once read a handwritten play about a local event in Zborow. It was never published, probably because it offended some respected individuals whose names were mentioned in connection with that unfortunate event. I was quite young when I read that play, and its literary value was probably insignificant.

	The writing on the gravestone: God's friend, modest and good-hearted, Charitable and honest Dear spirited who contributed To the impoverished and the needy Engulfed by joy and happiness When m' [Hebrew letter mem?] R' Yechiel Simcha Bunem opened his doors to guests bm' [Hebrew letters beit mem?] Eliezer Liber Died 15 Iyar 5,631 May his soul be bound up in the bonds of the living
The Gravestone of R' Simcha Bunem Feldman, Grandfather of [the author] Reb Benyamin

The New Synagogue never held a central role in the heart of Yehoshua [the author], neither during his childhood nor his youth—and it hardly influenced his education and development. The truth is that, despite being raised up in a home steeped in the spirit of the Torah and Chassidism, and later enlightenment and wisdom, he could not be moved by the prayers of that synagogue. Even though the congregation consisted of dear Jews, the best among Our Father Avraham's descendants, they were simple people, without the knowledge of Torah argumentation [Pilpul D'Oriata]^[32] or the levels of understanding [PaRDe”S]^[33].

Nevertheless, the synagogue was etched in Yehoshua's memory as a unique, honorable, and beloved entity. As a child, he and his friends understood that the deceased came only to that synagogue to pray before returning to their graves. However, that synagogue lacked the intimacy found in the Beit HaMidrash and the Kloiz. There was no drinking of brandy for Tikkun Neshama after the prayer [Literally, “The repair of the soul”] after the prayer, and even a Mitzvah Meal was not arranged there. It was undoubtfully a “holy place akin to “a little Temple.” The height of the building itself invoked a sense of reverence.

The entrance gate where the wedding chupahs were held was on the northern side. Invitees and non-invitees alike accompanied the bride and groom through the marketplace. The women among them held lit candles, and the orchestra played joyful songs such as the following:

Bride and groom, Mazal Tov!
You won a gem.

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They march until they reach the synagogue's gate, where the solemn atmosphere fits the occasion. The honorable guests encircle the Chuppah, while the young people cast curious and even a bit audacious glances at the bride and groom. The rabbi and the cantor solemnly say the blessing. The groom then breaks the glass with his foot, prompting the crowd to call out, “Mazal Tov!” Everyone leaves joyful and lively, looking forward to the meal.

Conducting marriages under the sky at the entrance to the synagogue represents just one aspect of life—the joyful side. This celebration serves as a reward for the previous generation and offers hope and legacy for the future generation. Eyes are focused on fruitfulness—offspring, lineage continuation, peace and the joy of significant milestones in a Jewish man's life.

The first joyous occasion in a Jewish man's life—Brit Milah [B”M—circumcision], which often takes place at the synagogue. Thirteen years later—the time for the second B”M in a Jewish man's life—Bar Mitzvah, usually celebrated at the synagogue. However, after a long life, the final milestone occurs, referred to as—Bar Minan [B”M—the deceased]. Those who were once celebrated with an orchestra, lit candles, and rejoiced in splendor are now parting from life. Death, a loyal companion to the living, is the ultimate finisher, the end of life's verse. With the last breath, every vibrant being, filled with will and passion, is reduced to a lifeless body, which requires burial.

The burial takes place in that sacred plot of land, situated southwest of Zborow. The cemetery is blessed with dark, fertile soil, laid in rows and furrows, and adorned with trees. This stage in a person's life is beautifully depicted in Chaim Hazaz's story:

“When little, a person walks on all fours. When he grows up, he walks on two, and when he becomes old, he says: “I can no longer walk. You must carry me.” The people agree, responding: “We will carry you, only to the cemetery and not back.” “So be it,” the elderly person replies.

They carry him to the cemetery, where a deep and cold pit has been dug. The fertile soil sparkles on either side of the grave. Emotionally, they lower the body into the pit, cover it, say a prayer, ask the “here buried” for forgiveness, and return home mournful and sad.

The path to the cemetery passes near the synagogue's gate. The mourners stop there to recite Kaddish and Av HaRachamim [Merciful Father]. Sometimes, they also deliver a eulogy praising the deceased. Then, the men encircle the deathbed while the women stand a little farther away. The eulogizer speaks softly, ensuring that only the deceased and the people around the deathbed can hear him while the women weep after the departed.

“A cry is heard on the heights—wailing, bitter weeping” [Jeremiah 31:14]

The women's cries overpower the voice of the eulogizer, blending with the men's sighs. The synagogue gate silently absorbs the sound of the mourning, just as it does the joyful sounds of the Chuppah. The gate symbolizes the connection to God, who unifies our understanding of life and death.

Only a few steps separated the new synagogue from R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash. While we have already described the new synagogue's exterior, this account will primarily focus on the interior of R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash. When you came down on the south side from the synagogue hill, you found yourself in front of R' Meir'l's home, yard, and garden. Rabbi Meir'l came to Zborow 20 years ago before Yehoshua [the author] was born. The arrival was shrouded in mystery. Yehoshua discovered it as a fait accompli, just like Zborow itself. Interestingly, Zborow did not send any emissaries to R' Meir'l to invite R' Meir'l to settle there. The town, predominantly composed of Mitnagdim [those who oppose Chassidism], Enlightened individuals, and simple folk—with only a few Chassidim—was not keen on adding more rabbis to their community. However, Zborow did not object to his presence in the town.

The Hitnagdut [resistance to Chassidism] in Zborow was primarily practical rather than ideological. It was less stubborn and militant compared to other places. The implicit undeclared motto was “Live and let live.” This was a generation characterized by liberalism, tolerance, and a positive spirit. Perhaps R' Meir'l's lineage contributed to that sense of tolerance and good nature.

It was well-known that R' Meir'l's grandfather, Rabbi Meir'l, z”l, of Peremyshl, was somewhat unconventional compared to other rabbis. It is possible to categorize the hundreds of prominent rabbis into about a dozen categories by combining individuals and dynasties. However, R' Meir'l of Peremyshl stands apart as a unique figure. He does not fit neatly into any of the established categories. While some of his attributes can be traced back to the Baal Shem Tov (the BESH”T), z”l, the founder of Chassidism, the BESH”T exhibited this line of virtues infrequently and did not pass them to his students. In contrast R' Meir”l of Peremyshl embodied these traits as the core of his character.

There are claims that he was not the dynasty's founder but a grandchild of a renowned figure known as “the Greatest R' Meir'l.” Despite being an exceptional man, accepted by both the Mitnagdim and the Enlighted, they found it challenging to define him. He was a rabbi who was difficult to criticize due to his kind nature and apparent lack of faults. He was a grounded and humorous individual who often used proverbs, even in the language of Noah's descendants [Ukrainians]. He was well-known for his charitable acts, never keeping a penny in his home. He regularly sent substantial donations to Eretz Yisrael, at least 702 (Shabbat in Gematria) gold coins annually. This tradition was carried on by his grandson, R' Betzalel from Glyniani [Hlyniani], who was the brother of R' Meir'l from Zborow. Rabbi Meir'l of Peremyshl was probably also a Ba'al Mofet [a Miracle Worker].

We, the generation of knowledge, are neither obligated to be amazed at these Moftim [miracles] nor to deny their existence altogether. Many rebbes [Chassidic rabbis] and other prominent Chassidic figures often speak of Moftim with a smile and a dismissive tone. They say that Moftim are discussed “under the table.” Some say that Moftim belong only in the land of Noah's descendants. Here, we simply say that some Miracle Workers who possess a unique insight see what others cannot. Unfortunately, some of these individuals exploit their gifts for personal gain, accumulating wealth and honor through deception. These scoundrels suck from the impurity of Satan's springs. The pure among them, like our rabbis, draw from holiness and prophecy. R' Meir'l of Peremyshl was one of the pure individuals. He had a profound love for the creation and the Creator, embracing both nature and humanity, including Jews and non-Jews alike. He rose above his achievements and virtues, and when he knocked on the door that was not answered, he did not fall into the pitfalls of sadness but dispelled his confusion with a joke about himself and others. He was a unique figure in his generation.

Our Rabbi Meir'l, the grandson of the Rabbi from Peremyshl, is entirely different from his grandfather. He tells no jokes, lacks the folk attributes associated with his lineage, and does not perform wondrous acts of charity. Instead, he embodies poverty, modesty, and subservience. His generation and himself are burdened by a profound sense of spiritual distress. He fails to repay his debt to his Creator through studying the Torah, praying, or performing good deeds. His actions do not meet the expectations set by his ancestors, leading him to isolate himself in response to this oppressive feeling. He yearns to rise above his circumstances, fill in the gaps, and correct his deficiencies.

Adding to his distress is the challenge of making a living. Thankfully, he has a not-so-small family: three sons and a daughter. His second wife, who hails from Iasi, is good-looking, refined, good-hearted, and possesses excellent taste. They also have a devoted gabbai, who serves as a dedicated Melamed for their sons. The household includes a large Beit Midrash. Even if you are not driven by wealth and embrace a frugal life, like the early Chassidim, substantial financial resources are needed to maintain such an endeavor. However, their earnings are meager—rather than a generous downpour it is more akin to a thin drizzle with money coming in drop by drop. There are days when nobody inquiries about the rabbi's well-being, as if, he does not exist.

Sometimes, someone comes—

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a miserable man or a bitter woman, and they offer a small Pidion [“redemption” contribution], which is an effective means of ensuring salvation. It is similar to asking: “Was the universe created from nothing?” [King] Saul asked the boy who advised him to go to the man of God, Prophet Samuel: “If we go, what can we bring the man?... “We have no gift to take to the man of God. What do we have?” [I Samuel 9:7].

The Pidions given to Rabbi Meir'l in Zborow are minimal. Are there any other sources of income? Each week, Mrs. Bracha, Yehoshua's mother, and other righteous women in Zborow buy yeast to bake bread at home. The income derived from selling the bread was devoted to the benefit of the rabbi. This source of income is also quite small, amounting to only one and a half gold coins each week. The core issue is that Zborow is a city of Mitnagdim and Enlightened people, making it an unfavorable environment for Chassidism—essentially a barren landscape for the movement. The small Chassidic community in town is divided among the different Chassidic dynasties, each following its own Rebbe: Belz, Stratyn, and Husiatyn. Chassidim generally do not exchange their revered Rebbe for a small local rabbi, regardless of the rabbi's stature. While some property owners attend R' Meir'l's small Beit HaMidrash on Shabbat, the community does not develop the enthusiasm and folklore surrounding that place, nor does it mention any miracle associated with it. However, it does not speak negatively about him either; in fact, the city holds even a favorable view of him.

When he marries his oldest son, a joyful atmosphere fills the air. Nearly all the wealthy residents of Zborow, as well as prominent figures from Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, come to congratulate him, bringing generous monetary gifts. While free of hatred, the atmosphere is also not filled with deep affection. It reflects a general decency.

Occasionally, miracles occur when Chassidim from neighboring villages and towns come to visit. Then, R' Meir'l sets the table by the Holy Ark for a Shabbat meal, inviting some of Zborow's residents to join him. The Chassidim gather to sing and serve beer and wine to celebrate the occasion. On other Shabbats, he only prepares for the Third Meal. He does not set the table in the Beit HaMidrash, does not recite verses from the Torah, does not share stories about the deeds of the First Tzadikim, and does not sing. It is not in his nature or character.

The child-youth [the author] used to shake off the disgrace and absurdity of the weekdays and drift upon the peaceful river of Erev Shabbats. R' Meir'l's praying hall is large and open on both sides. Only a few people visit on Erev Shabbat,, when the townsfolk tend to relax their observance of the commandments, acting freely, and joining a Minyan at one of the wealthier households. R' Meir'l stands in the southeastern corner, praying alone in a whisper. He stands the southeastern corner, praying softly by himself. He carries his suffering and toil without any enthusiasm. However, God's candle burns intensely in the soul of the child-youth. He forgets his fights, adventures, and plots of the weekdays; his feet carry him forward, and he defiantly follows their path. They guide him diagonally on a line drawn from the northwestern to the southeastern corner, and then back again, and again.

He walks and prays seemingly like the others, singing the same melody typical of the Chassidim from Poland and Ukraine during Erev Shabbats. At that time, they enthusiastically begin the Mincha prayer, which includes the notable thanksgiving proclamation:

“Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them…” (Psalms 107:5).

However, his head feels heavy, and his soul seems to wrap around him. He struggles to engage in the prayer and thinks: “When I grow up, I will correct this… I will try to remedy it…”

“Because they rebelled against the words of God, and contemned the counsel of the Most High...” [Psalms 107:11]

Twelve books in Yiddish must be written…

“They reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man and are at their wits' end…” [Psalms 107:27]

A book preaching against luxury must be authored…”

“And sow the fields and plant vineyards, which may yield fruits of increase...” [Psalms 107:37]

I will have to travel from city to city, village to village, to preach on Shabbat in Synagogues and distribute the books on regular days…

“Who so is wise and will observe these things…” [Psalms 107:43]

His thoughts and the prayer feed his words… his legs carry him, his mouth whispers, curled black Pe'ahs [sidelocks] swing and sway. The mind of the little creature toils, and his whole being is unsteady…

In the year 5,658 [1897/8], an officer who was also a Baron arrived from southern Austria at the army barracks in Zborow. He was a millionaire and owner of mines. Poor Baron! He found himself very bored there. He would come to me and spend an hour conversing with me. Sometimes, he wanted me to enjoy some of his vast wealth, but I politely refused and was only interested in our conversation.

One day, the grandson of rabbi Nisan Bak^[34] from Jerusalem arrived. He was on a mission on behalf of Carmel, a wine distribution company in Eretz Yisrael. He was advised when he inquired about whom to approach for assistance: “Go talk to that young man, Yehoshua Radler, in the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol.” He will help you.”

I told him: “The Jews in Zborow do not consume much wine; It seems a waste of time. However, I have a rich German acquaintance whom I can approach. Come with me.”

That was the only time I visited the Baron at the Barracks.

The Baron said: “Why would I need your wine when I own vineyards and produce my own wines? However, as a tribute to you, I will place a large order. At that time, I also agreed to receive a gift from him: the book Sevastopol by Tolstoi in a simple edition.

In the same year, I wrote to the Ahavat Tzion^[35] organization in Ternov:

“Dear friends! Please have compassion and allow me to join the Machana'im colony you are establishing!” Rafael Soferman responded (today [in 1975, at the time of this book's publication] he is a veteran teacher at Hertzelia Gymnasium in Tel Aviv) that it was impossible. However, [judging by your letter] you are destined to become an author.

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The “Days of Awe” Campaign in R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash, which is a Fort of Double Struggle, but the World and the Jewish Constitution Remain

The most important days at Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash are the “Days of Awe.” During this time, many Chassidim gather from near and far, including some elderly men who huddle around Rabbi Meir'l's grandfather. Residents of Zborow also come, making the Beit HaMidrash quite crowded. To alleviate congestion, the large door to the corridor is opened, allowing people to pray there as well. The prayers during this time are powerful, fervent, and enthusiastic. Yehoshua [the author] cannot recall experiencing anything like it anywhere else. Rabbi Meir'l never leads the service during a memorial or the “Days of Awe.” Instead, he stands in the southeastern corner, near his adjacent room, deeply engaged in his inner mental struggle, which intensified during this time of the year. The responsibility of leading the main prayers in front of the Ark belongs to Reb Nachman, one of the elderly Chassidim who has traveled from afar. The latter has a beard as white as the snow and a voice that resonates powerfully like the voice of a lion. His cries during prayers are genuinely moving. However, the question of who would lead the singing of the piyyut [liturgical poem] Unetanah Tokef^[36] is a subject of fierce debate. Everybody is involved: the old, the very old, and even young boys like Yehoshua. Women are likely secretly vying for this honor.

“You who put the Lord in remembrance, take no rest…” [Isaiah 62:6]. “On this day, the world came into being. This day stand all the world's creations stand in judgment…”^[37]. On this day, on this day…

We previously referred to the “Days of Awe” as a fierce campaign. This expression seems to use poetic language to describe a concept that might be unclear, presenting it in more understandable terms.

Years later, during the First World War in the era of Hindenburg and Ludendorff, we find Yehoshua in an inner room of the German central command center in Nazareth amidst a real military campaign, the focus of clashing armies. On that occasion, Yehoshua meets General Von Ludloif, the deputy of [General Otto Viktor Karl] Liman von Sanders^[38]. The general is seated at a simple table (similar to the one in R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash) covered with military maps. He is accompanied by several silent officers while additional quiet officers stand against the walls.

Yehoshua is present for a “Malchuta Dear'ah” mission [Blessing of a Gentile king or high-ranking official]. He delivers a request on behalf of his people. His request is granted, preventing the evacuation of Petach Tikva^[39]. A few hours later, Turkish officers will arrive at Yehoshua's hotel and take him to jail. However, at the time of the meeting, Yehoshua sensed the unique atmosphere of the central command center: concentration, alertness, and a strong commitment to the mission.

Hence, the commonality between mental forces and the holy congregation in Beit HaMidrash, R' Meir'l, z”l. Our sages already said: “The intention of your heart is what counts.”

We view Yom Kippur as a monumental campaign in the Republic of Zborow, with R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash serving as a formidable stronghold. As the defenders of this stronghold, we find ourselves in a favorable position. Unlike the 300 Greeks [led by Leonidas of Sparta] who defended to death the pass at Thermopylae [against the Persian army], or the 180 soldiers who valiantly fought to the death at the Alamo in 1836 during the US-Mexican War, and not like the defendants of Kfar Etzion, situated between Jerusalem and Hebron [during Israel War of Independence War], who saw only a few survive, our situation is different. These fighters and many others like them face battles without a viable retreat. It was as if their lives were sacrificed in advance and by design.

However, this does not apply to people praying at Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash. Even though we are alone in that building and yard, we are not entirely isolated and do not lack lines of retreat. Just a few steps to the northwest is the large and tall New Synagogue, serving as an excellent protective wall. To the east lies the house of the community Parnas's [leader, activist]. All is not well in that house…we will not discuss it here…but we do not even see the house due to the large park containing a dense grove that creates a buffer between us and it. To the west live simple and good-hearted Jews like us, while to the south, there is an open space. We feel safe from all directions.

We also feel safe within. As is well-known, we confront challenges before the King of the Universe. The devil, his legions, and vast armies attack us, and that is the essence of our struggle. We have some magnificent advocates and experienced attorneys, as well as auxiliary support from Archangel Micheal. We are equipped with special packages–packages of commandments and good deeds. There are no better packages from God anywhere else on earth. We are a holy congregation. Since last night, we have not eaten or drank, nor have we been told or entertained by any joke. Our minds have not been occupied by harmful thoughts. We experience concentration, readiness, seriousness, purpose, devotion, and repentance without distraction. We also confront the King of the Universe Himself. While it may be difficult to say, it is the truth. He is seemingly omnipotent, an unrestricted ruler, a dictator (though a thousand times different), who is not obligated to provide a report to anyone superior. However, that is not the case. Thank God, there is a constitution in the world, a framework of laws in heaven and earth, to which everything in the universe must adhere [as stated in Isaiah 45:18]:

“…Who created the heavens, he is God;
he who fashioned and made the earth, he founded it;
he did not create it to be empty, but formed it to be inhabited…”

Thank God, there is a constitution for the people of Israel—the Torah. It is written and sealed even before the creation of the universe. It is eternal and resembles the Creator of the Universe Himself. He cannot change the Torah, not even a single word or the smallest detail, such as the edge of a letter. His hands seem to be bound by it just as ours are. Justice, honesty, grace, charity, and holiness are virtues once bestowed, came into the universe, legislated by Him; He cannot retract them from us or alter them.

The Sephardic piyyut states: “…God will not change and will not convert his religion to a foreign one, according to our friend [the Israeli Jewish scholar] R' Yehuda Even Shmuel. This belief is the foundation of our self-confidence and guarantees us final victory. Even [prophet] Bil'am knew and recognized this truth:

“God is not human to be capricious,
nor mortal to have a change of heart.”

This is why we endlessly and limitlessly sanctify and adore the Creator. Internally, we do not fear Him. We are all His children. The accusing Satan and his many soldiers will bow down and fall, and we will rise and strengthen.

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In the previous chapter, we compared Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash to an isolated citadel. At times, we liken it to a ship sailing in a vast, calm ocean. However, rather than rely on comparisons, let us describe things as they truly were. In reality, Yom Kippur, when little Yehoshua prayed with R' Meir'l, was remarkably pleasant.

As Yehoshua grew older, he prayed at the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, the home of the Mitnagdim and the Enlightened. One Yom Kippur evening, a significant amount of snow fell, covering the streets and causing mud to accumulate in the corridor of Beit HaMidrash. It created a peculiar scene—white snow on Yom Kippur! This has never occurred during the years when Yehoshua prayed with Rabbi Meir'l. At that time, the “Days of Awe” were clear, pure, bright, and glorious.

Even the few solitary descendants of Noah who walked outside seemed different that day. Their demeanor and behavior changed, and they looked different compared to the rest of the year. Rabbi Akiva used to say: “Every person is beloved because they were created BeTzelm Elokim [in the image of God] (“For the image of God He made man”) [Genesis 9:6]. Something of the Jewish radiance rested upon those individuals and purified them. It seemed that they absorbed the brightness of those days and acquired a feeling of respect toward the Jewish people.

(The following is a parenthetical clause. We allow the reader to skip it in a first read, particularly the females among the readers):

We previously discussed a struggle, a fort, and various other allegories that populate this world. However, educated people will understand that all of this, as weighty as it may seem, is merely the first stage in comprehending God's kingdom. It serves as a corridor, a practice, and an exercise field. In the second and third stages, all of these elements are removed like the peel of a fruit. The peels fall away, and the precious fruit is revealed in the splendor of its glory. We assert that livelihood, health, and even life are not of primary importance.

You may wonder how this is possible, thinking it sounds delusional and nonsensical. Scholars and wise people tried to explain this, but they did not possess the whole truth. We understand that the earth's cliffs are interconnected through trails, pipes, and bridges that lead to the Almighty. The world was not created in vain. God did not make it for mere amusement. We know that those who were created in the image of God, who believe in eternal life, follow the Torah and commandments, choose justice and truth prophets, support the generation's righteous individuals, and stand by anybody in need—“have part of the world to come,” the most joyful world as stated [Isaiah 64;4]:

“For since the beginning of the world, men have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen, O God, beside thee, what he hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him.”

Nevertheless, the purpose is “up there.” Indeed, on a single special day, on Yom Kippur, we are experiencing being “up there” while still being “down here.” It is by His grace, may his name be blessed, that He elevates us on a single day of the year, allowing us to enter His palace. We are aware of this and appreciate this gift's significance. Consequentially, our prayers are directed towards that objective. Allegorically, this can be likened to a clever baby who asks his father for a gift but actually desires to enjoy a conversation with him rather than the gift. Jewish souls are, so to speak, quarried from the Divine spirit, a branch of its roots, much like the daughter of a queen who finds herself lost in a foreign land, yearning for her parents' home but unable to return because the desert has closed around her.

There are a few moments when the soul can peek through, but then the curtain closes, and the world of the harsh reality of deceit returns, leaving the soul wretched and anguished. When Yom Kippur comes, the curtain is removed for the entire 24-hour period, from “Kol Nidrei” [A declaration prayer which starts the Yom Kippur services], when the curtain is opened, until the conclusion at the end of “Neilah” [The concluding Yom Kippur service]. Throughout this sacred day, the soul is permitted to immerse itself in the well of its origin. The joy during this time is limitless.

This is echoed by King Shlomo in the Song of Songs [8:5]: “Who is she rising from the wilderness?” meaning from the desert of life and the wilderness of illusions, “clinging on to her beloved,” embracing her beloved King of Kings. This sentiment resonates with the verse [from Isiah 33:17]: “Your eyes will see the king in his beauty.” On Yom Kippur, we sing a heartfelt declaration: “For we are Your people, and You are our God. We are Your children, and You are our Father,” as if the Shechinah [Divine presence] is protecting her chicks—her souls…

(That is the end of the parenthetical clause.)

Little Yehoshua did not fully understand these concepts at that time; he could not analyze and explain them, but he felt he had experienced them unconsciously. At that point, Yehoshua was an eight, nine, ten, or eleven-year-old child.

During the “Days of Awe,” Yehoshua often sat in the middle of Beit HaMidrash, close to the table where the Torah is read. His spot was in the northwestern corner of the table, directly opposite the Holy Ark and R' Meir'l. He held a large and thick Machzor [Jewish High Holiday prayer book] in his hands. He did not need to search for anything in the prayer book; the words seemed to come to him effortlessly. Yet, he also received supervision, guidance, support, and encouragement from his elder brother, who sat to his right at the northwestern corner of the table.

Everything appeared emotional and celebratory to him. While observing the twilights of Erev Yom Kippur before the prayers, he eagerly awaited the entrance of R' Meir'l, and listened to the reciting of the “Tefilla Zakah” [a prayer recited to remove barriers to atonement]^[40] authored by [Rabbi Avraham Danzig,] the author of “The Life of Man:”

“Rabbi Shimon arose and began to speak words before the Divine Presence:
Master of the Universe, act for the sake of Your Shechinah, which is languishing in exile…”

In the meantime, Yehoshua looks around the room. Large memorial candles are lit on all the tables. People wearing their shawls and kittels [white robes], walk bare foot with socks on a bed of straw. The faces of the attended shine like the sun and moon, filled with a sense of exalted happiness. Yehoshua, too, feels this exalted happiness.

R' Meir'l enters the Beit HaMidrash, and he looks like an angel of the Almighty. They take the Torah scroll and begin chanting “Kol Nidrei.” The evening ceremony commences, and the following verses are chanted [Numbers 15:26]:

“The whole Israelite community
and the stranger residing among them shall be forgiven,
for it happened to the entire people through error…”

“The Lord replied, “I have forgiven them, as you asked.”

The beginning of the prayer is quite puzzling:

“With the consent of the Almighty, and consent of this congregation…we hereby grant permission to pray with transgressors.”

What a beginning! Who are the transgressors? Isn't the whole community holy? And the home of the Parnas…We do not reflect on that now…And what about that repented old man over there, who is soaked with tears? He has already repented. Isn't he one of the holy congregants? Or perhaps the transgressors are the Anusim [people who were forced to convert]? Not on us…

After the night time prayer is over, people feel reluctant to return home, unlike any other night of the year. They read the first four chapters of Psalms, chant the “Hymn of Unity”^[41], and return to Psalms once more. Many visit the nearby Great Synagogue before heading back to R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash for a nap on one of the benches. Meanwhile, Yehoshua goes home to sleep in his own bed.

This marks the beginning, serving as an introduction to the following day's service, rich in clarity and drama. “Yemin HaShem Romema” [“God's right hand is exalted”] [Psalms 118:16].

In our detailed description of Yom Kippur, we have have unintentionally—or perhaps intentionally—neglected to mention Rosh HaShana.

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When he attended Beit HaMidrash of R' Meir'l's z”l, Rosh HaShana did not bring him much joy. It required a significant effort, resulting in more frustration than calmness. The experience felt chaotic, akin to panicked sailors paddling to reach the shore rather than a calm ship that sails peacefully at sea. Unlike the other places of worship (the New Synagogue, the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, and the Old Beit Hamidrash), where Rosh HaShana service concludes by no later than 1 pm following the opinion that holidays are divided “half for God and half for you,” the service at R' Meir'l extends until 3 pm. This creates a conflicted atmosphere. While it is not truly a fast since people drink broth during the break and enjoy a holiday meal after the service, there is still a sense of fasting since people avoid thinking about food for most of the day. After the break, people rush to listen to the Teki'ot [shofar blasts], hurry to eat at R' Meir'l's table, flee to participate in Tashlich, and then rush to enthusiastically and passionately dance following Tashlich. There is a constant sense of urgency throughout the entire holiday.

Yes. Little Yehoshua feels dissatisfied with Rosh HaShana. Unlike others, he is not one to rush; he prefers to take his time and enjoys daydreaming and contemplation. To maintain his mental balance during this time of the year, he has established a personal custom that he would follow throughout the rest of his life: Every second day of Rosh HaShana, he attentively reads at least one chapter (or gate) from the book Chovot HaLevavot [Duties of the Heart] (except for the “Yechud Gate,” which does align with the themes of the holiday). This reading brings peace to his soul and calms his mind. It is akin to arriving on a miraculous island where there is no rush, speed, or panic—just a wise person sharing bits of knowledge, lessons of wisdom, truth, and peace with his audience. Unlike the mundane material he usually studies, such as the legal discussion [in the Baba Kama tractate] “A bull hit a cow”^[42], this book provides a serene escape. It keeps him away from the chaos of the bull that gores, the tame bull, and the unfortunate gored cow…

Yehoshua is dispirited by these Sugiyot [passages of the Talmud]. They do not satisfy the yearnings of his weary soul. Then came the renowned Spanish sage Bachye, who imparted him wisdom, peace, and harmony. Yehoshua remains devoted to Bachye for the rest of his life.

Incidentally, another miracle occurred: Just a few years back, when Yehoshua often prayed at the beautiful synagogue of Rozhin Chassidim, Tif'ereth Israel, in the Old City of Jerusalem. One day, he arrived early and was the only person present. As was his custom, he wanted to read a chapter from the book Chovot HaLevavot. However, he wondered how he would find that particular book among the many volumes in the large bookcases. Nevertheless, he approached one of the bookcases, extended his hand, and randomly selected a book. Remarkably, the first book he picked up was Chovot HaLevavot. He saw this as a wonder and a miracle, almost a sign from the Heavens. To him, it resonated with the saying of the sages: “He who makes an effort to purify himself is (Divinely( aided in his efforts “[Yoma Tractate 38b]. He felt the Heavens had assisted him by presenting him with his beloved book.

We have previously hinted about the painful conflict within the child Yehoshua, who struggles between the study of the Halacha and Aggadah^[43]. It is well known to people who know that Mendele Mocher Sforim had a different perspective on this matter. He preferred learning from the Halacha-based material and valued its realistic aspect. In his beautiful writings from 5,649 [1888/9] during his old age, in the memorial book for [Nachum] Sokolov, he says:

“…My teacher, the ancient giant and the King of Bashan of the world's literature, took me to the limit of the Talmud. When I came there, I was like a person stepping into a bustling marketplace for the first time. Buyers and sellers are running around in as state of panic, each person jostling against the others, some carrying jugs and others barrels. Loud voices echoed throughout the camp!

With the power of fulfillment deep within me, I began to shape all things and form those who come through the gates of the Talmud… Two claimants were clinging to a Tallit, the bull that gores the cow, the habitual bull, and the innocent bull stood out vividly in my imagination, each in its own unique shape and strange behavior. Although I understood the language of all these concepts from the start, thanks to my studies since childhood, many of the words exchanged in their conversation remained unclear to me at first. However, this was merely the beginning of my journey through the gates of the Talmud. In time, I became accustomed to it and grew to cherish it in my heart.”

Mendele Mocher Sforim clearly becomes ecstatic with pleasure when he reminisces about these things. However, our conversation concerns poor Yehoshua, a character entirely different from R' Mendele. He was tormented by these Halachic laws. They caused him mental distress. Conflicts and litigants' quarrels and squabbles saddened his spirit. The sharp casuistry, in-depth analysis, and in-depth logical study methods, such as the “Roof Over Roof”^[44], and his later engagement in mathematics overwhelmed him. His true source of joy is found in the Aggadah. After an hour of working with math, he often finds himself daydreaming. Perhaps that tendency is hereditary. However, in contrast, for his brother mathematics is a source of pride and joy; engaging with math feels like reading a fascinating novel to him.

Nevertheless, in his childhood, under pressure from R' Yudeli, the loyal Melamed, Yehoshua did not succumb to the allure of his imagination. Instead, he absorbed all the Halachic rules and their commentaries, missing none. He was able to answer questions about them correctly. R' Yudeli, whose heart and soul were about teaching, would enjoy hearing Yehoshua's responses. His constant emotional strain, stemming from his deep sense of responsibility, would ease for a few moments, and he would whisper words of praise about “that small kid.”

However, the Melamed and others were unaware of how challenging it was for “that small kid” to focus and step away from his world of the Aggadah and daydreaming, where his silent soul existed, into the concrete reality world of the Talmud passages.

Yehoshua's challenges did not stem from the fact that the Talmud wasn't authored as suitable material for teaching children. Moreover, these difficulties did not result from the mundane Halacha rules about a goring bull and its friends and allies. Unfortunately, the bulls existed in the real world since then and until today, and now, goring even more intensely and boldly. Yehoshua was not harmed by his efforts to reluctantly transition from the imaginary world of the Aggadah to the reality-based realm of Halacha; instead, these efforts may have been beneficial. Without them, Yehoshua could have descended into the abyss of hallucinations, potentially becoming unsuccessful and helpless. As Yehoshua grew up, surrounding himself with wise and clever people, he began thinking about education and teaching matters. He even dared to express his opinion about these matters. He proposed creating two kinds of curricula to be taught to children. One such curriculum was for children of R' Mendeli's type, who are alert, open, and possess cheerful senses. The other was for children with a character like his, with an introverted, ruminating soul. Not that the second group would not study Halacha at all and vice versa, but they would concentrate mainly on the Aggadah, learning all of its outlets and gates, delving into its content and forms. They would study the Halacha according to their ability to absorb it. However, this is not the place to elaborate further on this topic.

In his youth, Yehoshua attended R' Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash “in two rounds,” as we say today.

(The following parenthetical clause is recommended for everybody to read.

All of those things are not relevant to history but they are relevant to the righteous account of Zborow-Yehoshua, which is our topic in this article.

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What can this be compared to? Strypa Lake, which surrounds Zborow on its north side, is reminiscent of the Kinneret [Sea of Galilee] that surrounds Tiberias from its east side. The lake has been standing there perhaps since the six days of creation and until the end of Yehoshua's 20 year residency in Zborow. If Yehoshua were indeed a great author, as both fans and rivals accused, he would have written a small book, or even a lovely book about that lake because it occupies a significant place in his soul. However, “visionary” economists—who some may describe as robbers—arrived when Yehoshua left Zborow, disrupted the beautiful natural landscape and condemned Strypa Lake to cease to exist. Their financial calculations led them to believe it would be “beneficial” to convert that stunning lake, which added splendor to the area into grain and hay fields. They calculated and acted without mercy or remorse without Kaddish Yatom [Mourner's Kaddish recited by mourners] or “Kaddish D'Rabbanan” [recited after a public lecture in the Oral Torah].

And the waters shall fail from the sea,
and the river shall be wasted and dried up.
… and the reeds and flags shall wither. [Isaiah 19:5-7]

In terms of history, this may seem minor; this case is rarely noticed or remembered. However, for Strypa Lake itself, which lays there calmly, most of the time, from the time of creation, occasionally churning and roaring, this event was more than minor. For the lake, it is a tragedy. Perhaps it held a greater significance for Yehoshua as well).

[This is the end of the parenthetical clause].

The first round was a festive experience of prayers for the child on Friday nights, Shabbat, and holidays celebrated among a crowd of honest and devoted Chassidim. We have already described all of these. Reb Radler and his sons did not bother to come here [to Beit HaMidrash] on regular days. Over time, only Reb Israel came here alone while his sons colonized the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol.

A few years later—exact dates cannot be determined today—Yehoshua returned to Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash on regular days and Shabbat. He joined Rabbi Meir'l's sons and studied under their unique Melamed. The learning took place at the Beit HaMidrash. Yehoshua fully immersed himself into that environment. These were not only festive hours dedicated any way to spiritual elevation; they also included simple regular days that were calm, almost idyllic, revolving around the axis of learning, without excessive enthusiasm and devotion. New experiences were woven into Yehoshua's second round.

The experiences I want to discuss were not unique to the small republic of Zborow or its Beit HaMidrash. In fact, Zborow is not considered very original; it merely reflects countless similar republics. Every routine occurrence or exception in these places teaches us something about ourselves and the whole. With that in mind, I would like to share two specific experiences.

To do this, we are taking a step back in time, placing ourselves between the years 1889 and 1891, almost before the emergence of Zionism. We wander through Zborow, moving from one Beit Midrash to another and from one Kloiz to the next. Sometimes, we find a few people in attendance, while other places are completely empty—devoid of any souls. Even the sun seems to have turned and gone off to its own business.

The stillness in a Beit Midrash has a unique quality; it speaks to one's soul and brings to mind the rustling of angels' footsteps. Regardless, one thing we consistently find in these Batei Midrash is open closets filled with books. These include various editions of the Mishnah, the Laws of Rabbi Alfas, chapters of the Mishnah, the works of Rambam, the Four Columns, Responsa, and the Mikraot Gedolot edition of the Bible, whether with commentary by Malbim (Rabbi Meir Leibush son of Yechiel Michel Weizer), Rashi, or Metzudot (a commentary on all the books of the Prophets and the Writings). Additionally, there are various editions of Midrashim and even books on wisdom and scholarly research. There are new, old, and ancient books, some with good bindings and some without. Rare books are available within these houses of prayer, which remain open day and night without supervision. The book cabinets are accessible to everyone—city residents and visitors alike—at all hours. They are also open to those in need, including the poor who wander from city to city, begging door to door and extending their hands for donations.

In these houses of prayer, there are no librarians, no catalogs, and no one to ask for permission. There is no administration or formality involved. Anyone can take a book without any objections, and is expected to return it promptly. However, all books must be returned before candle lighting on Shabbat Eve.

Where did all these books come from? Who purchased them? Who paid for the binding? Who was responsible for organizing the libraries? After all, books were not cheap back then. The Mishnah and even Maimonides' works were quite expensive. There were no committees, and the concept of a “budget” had not yet been established. So, where did all the books originate?

Yehoshua lacks information about other republics, as well as the history of the Zborow republic. In Zborow, people tend not to engage with the past, just as they show little interest in politics. They also did not inform Yehoshua about the purchase of books in earlier times. However, he was both an eyewitness and a participant in acquiring books at these houses of prayer. This practice was a custom passed down through the years and, therefore, did not evoke any surprise or reaction, much like any other longstanding tradition. This custom relates to Yehoshua's second visit to Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash and the month of Elul. Elul is known as a time of repentance and mercy, which is the focus of what we want to discuss.^[45]

When Elul begins, it does not eradicate nations under it right away, and it is not quick to instill too much fear in people. Thank God Zborow is not a city filled with Chassidim. Zborow is mainly a city of property owners and simple Jews; a typical resident honestly and faithfully fulfilled his obligations toward the Creator, he does appreciate the weather in Elul. Still, he is not amazed or becomes fearful, does not append another dance to his praying, does not add enthusiasm, rousing, or devotion to the Creator in Elul. The property owner keeps his typical routine the same. Whoever prays at home on regular days, does not harness himself to public praying even in Elul. Nevertheless, in the depth of one's soul, a commotion of awakening is pulsating: “For a mortal who is only a worm [Job 25:6], these days are not like the rest of days. These are days of preparations. The eye of the world is watching you more carefully. Don't you hear the shofar blasts Tru'ah, Teki'ah, and Shvarim emanating from the houses of prayers every morning after the prayer, and during the day from the young men learning the art of blowing the shofar?” Such a whisper pinches the heart for a moment. Still, its traces disappear quickly, leaving behind a sad but pleasant feeling that actually contributes to life's enjoyment.

The atmosphere is actually light and pleasurable toward the end of the summer. The world lights up for its people. The heat of Tamuz and Av is over. In the morning, a fresh air breeze soothes the soul. The sun spreads a pleasant light; the fruit trees ripen their red apples, pears, and cherries. The trees in Dr. Brust's garden are covered with plums. Juicy plums arrive from Hungary. Grapes come from Hungary and Italy. The vegetable garden also yields its welcomed fruitage. People eat from the season's fruits, bless and enjoy. Strolling then and drinking warm, fresh milk from the cows' udders is pleasing. A folklore jingle says: “When Elul comes, the mouth will not rest, a pear, plum, or apple–the best.”

As Elul begins, a common practice for many people is to awaken their souls by visiting the graves of their ancestors. Residents and natives of Zborow regardless of whether they live in other countries or overseas take the time to visit the graves of their loved ones during this month of repentance and mercy.

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They come from afar to fulfill this commandment; there is something profound in the act that goes beyond mere obligation. This visit connects the living with those who have passed away—those whom His Majesty the Death Angel has summoned and who were carried to their graves amidst sorrow and pain.

…for man goes to his everlasting home,
and the mourners go about in the street…
…And the dust returns to the earth as it was,
and the spirit returns to God. [Ecclesiastes 12:5 and 7]

Deep within one's soul, there is a belief that the dead are not truly gone; they remain alive in a different realm. In some mysterious way, they exist in their graves, surrounded by trees, bushes, and greenery. They know that during the month of Elul—a time of arousal and awakening (“I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine” [Song of Songs 6:3])—their son, daughter, or a beloved relative will come to visit them at their grave, renewing the connection between the living and the departed. People will pour out their hearts, sharing their troubles and revealing secrets they did not share with their friends and neighbors or perhaps with the deceased when he was alive. The deceased would listen, understanding every nuance, and capturing every sound. He would pass all the requests and pleas to the appropriate places, becoming an advocate for the living. Their power would grow with each prayer. They would awaken the righteous from their stillness and stir the angels from their calmness. The deceased could be a dear, loyal, and merciful father [as described in Psalms 103:13] (“As a father has compassion for his children”) or a loving, agonizing, devoted mother, unmatched in the whole world. Would she listen and stay silent? However, the feelings of distress and anguish are not the only reason why people visit the graves of their ancestors. Those who are happy in their lives also make these visits. The visits evoke a cocoon of emotions and hidden moods that prying into is not appropriate.^[46]

And so, a Zborow native visits the grave of his ancestors during the morning hours in the month of Elul. The man is content with whispering traditional prayers, standing still, with the feeling of reverence in his heart. The woman, however, has a different approach. Since the time of Hanna, the wife of Elkanah [and the mother of Prophet Samuel] from Ramathaim-Zophim, she has expressed her heart in words, speech, and verses. While there are moments when only her lips are moving, and her voice is silent, she usually throws herself on the grave, pours out her soul, crying profusely, at the graves of her beloved, sobbing, and wailing. [This reflects the sentiment found in Jeremiah 31:15:]

“A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children,
and refusing to be comforted—because they are no more.”

Dreadful and horrific lamentation marked by a bitter cry or shocking quivering hushed, restrained. Zborow's women do not come here all at once. Today, it is Hanna, and tomorrow, it will be Pnina. If they were to arrive on the same day, no one could withstand the intensity of their mourning. In this cemetery, curtains are drawn, windows are opened, and calamities are laid bare.

Life and death are intertwined; they cling together and will not let go. In this graveyard, the final resting place for the living, the living come and talk about their troubles.

A peculiar tiny economic market has developed in Zborow focusing on purchasing books for Batei Midrash and kloizes, which gives a new life to a new generation.

Another exciting initiative that has developed here in Zborow, resembles an activity of a youth movement, but without the revolt and insolent language often associated with such groups. The youths in Zborow initiated a constructive activity that is moral, ideological, enthusiastic, and responsible. They serve as both the officers and the foot soldiers for that effort, demonstrating both self-discipline and respect, free of insults and mutual defamation.

The route from Zborow's center to the cemetery is long. After passing through Jewish-populated neighborhood alleys and Christian suburbs, the path opens into a straight line that cuts through grain fields. In the end, it makes a right turn, which Yehoshua later remembered when he found himself near a turn into the “Western Wall” in Jerusalem. A short trail leads from that turn to the cemetery.

The people of Zborow usually visit their relatives' graves in the morning. They also tend to fulfill this practice alone, walking slowly and quietly. Each person is immersed in his own memories, thoughts, introspections, and feelings. Zborow's residents are not accustomed to strolling for the sake of strolling, especially not on ordinary days or during the morning hours, and all the more so among the grain fields outside of the city. This annual journey takes place in the early hours of the day and is done in solitude. Therefore, it takes them out of their routine. Those who are typically tough become soft, and those who are gentle become even more compassionate.

But here, about a kilometer before the graveyard, some youngsters suddenly appear. Each youth holds a bowl in his hand with an hand-printed name of a charity for which he solicits contributions. The names include “Assistance for the Poor,” “Charity for the Destitute,” “Honest Poor,” “Hospitality,” “Hachnast Kalah” [dowery for poor brides], “Talmud Torah” [Assistance for poor yeshiva students], “Secret Almsgiving,” “Tikun Sfarim” [fixing holy books], and others like them. The youths are spread out over that kilometer, each standing alone in his own “strategic position.” As someone approaches to visit his relative's grave, each youth humbly offers a note with the charity name and presents the bowl he is holding, without saying anything. That person throws a coin into the bowl without looking at the note, and continues silently on his way.

When the mourner arrives at the cemetery's gate, he passes through a hut where a large table is set up. It is covered with donation bowls. The finest youths are seated there, forming a scene of a “unified appeal.” These boys, sporting young black moustaches that curl at the edges of their mouths have the vibrance of their youth and the dew of their adolescence on their delicate faces. The visitor is touched by that commotion he encounters once every year. He senses this is not a mundane “business;” these dear youths have awakened early, dedicating themselves to a noble cause and the act of giving. Although he stands at the last stop before reuniting with his loved ones, he pauses to examine the charity signs, reflecting on his thoughts, and deciding to contribute more to one charity than another. After making his choice, he turns to meet with those who are waiting for him.

A miracle is happening! Even the sky has paused its rains and allows the visitors to attend to their visit and the youths to do their job without interruption. The air is filled with incredibly pleasant aromas. Each day brings its share of donations. Occasionally, a “whale” arrives—an estate owner from the surrounding areas, such as Mr. Tierhaus, Dr. Nagler's relative, who is known for his generosity. A word spreads that John Doe is approaching. A whispering rustle runs along the last kilometer and inside the hut. The youths signal to one another, feeling a sense of tension as they prepare for his arrival. They are determined to succeed; after all, why else would they come here if not to achieve success?

Indeed, such a hustle-bustle that accompanies certain special days is quite remarkable.

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This is especially true on the eve of Rosh Chodesh Elul [the first day of the Hebrew month], the first day of Slichot [the Sunday before Rosh HaShana], Erev Rosh HaShana, and the days when the “Thirteen Attributes of Mercy” are chanted. On these days, the number of visitors and the resulting donations are significant. Every Beit Midrash and kloiz makes a concerted effort to mobilize all of their human resources, as the number of participating youths is reflected in the total donations collected.

However, there are some days when activity is minimal; the number of mourning visitors is small, and the collecting youths are idle. On such days, the youths unconsciously forget the purpose for which they came. The pleasant smells wafting from the grain fields and the light and the cool breezes caress their hair, creating as sense of distraction. Unconsciously, they slip into daydreaming or pick up a book to read. While the lure of newspapers and the appetite for the news have not yet captivated people, some read moralistic literature appropriate for the month of Elul. Others, caught up in the winds of the Enlightenment retreat to a corner, open their bag, and take out a poetry book such as Shirei Tif'eret [Songs of Glory by Naphtali Herz Weisel] or the poems by Miche”l [Micha Yosef Lebenzon]—YLG [Yehudah Leib Gordon] has not yet gained popularity in Zborow—and so they allow the rhymes to flow and amuse their spirits.

Either way, in the quiet corners of the grain fields, nestled between the graves and the city, “[in the land of Canaan on the way,] when there was still a stretch of land to come to Ephrath” [Genesis 48:7], the young heart is humming poetry.———

“Today we are allowed to reveal” that with all the innocent that enveloped that activity, we have not told the whole truth. The whole story was a ploy and deceit as it is written [Ecclesiastes 1:7]:

All the rivers flow into the sea,
yet the sea is not full…

All these bowls with the beautiful soul-filled epitaphs that cover them are not but one bowl, fulfilling one purpose: Books, books, and more books—collecting funds for purchasing new books for Beit HaMidrash or the kloiz and fixing the old used books. This is then the fruit of the urge nestling in the heart of every Jew to own treasured books, bookcases, books rich in content and glory, nicely printed and bound books, preferably leather-bound books with golden letters, and if possible, books in special cases. The term “library” has not yet been coined, and even the “book collection” concept was new. However, the love of books existed since ancient times, and it demanded to be fulfilled. People bought books and found joy by writing on their backs to whom the book belonged. Some noted the yahrzeits of their beloved, birthdays of their children, and alike. However, full satisfaction was obtained with the books in Beit HaMidrash or the kloiz.

In the tiny republic of Zborow, the best satisfying feeling for books was at Stratyn kloiz. That kloiz was small and impoverished. Stratyn Chassidim are poor and impoverished. They work to earn their living. Their Chassidism is for refining of the soul but not for economic exaltation. They were probably at the bottom step of the economic ladder in Zborow.

(We can reveal today that when new youths arrived to study there were not enough benches to accommodate everyone, and there was no money to purchase new ones. The new students eager to solve the issue, ventured out under the moonlight and sparkling snow from the Stratyn kloiz on the north side of town. We quietly “borrowed” a long bench that was sitting unused in the corridor of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, and festively and silently brought it to the kloiz.

Once we returned, we saw the long bench in half, and using a hammer and nails, transformed it into two sturdy benches for two tables). Additionally, we repaired the kloize's wooden floor, which had needed attention for a long time, using leftover boards. You might call it expropriation or Communism, but it filled us with joy, as if we were performing a commandment. It seemed to Yehoshua, that on that night, the kloiz was brighter than it had ever been before.

During that period of sleepless nights, Yehoshua would often browse the Torah commentaries by [Rabbi Moshe Alshich, also known as] Alshich HaKadosh [Alshich “the Holy”]. It seemed to the storyteller that the letters of the commentaries were brighter than ever during that night.

The following morning, the old, short, and irritable caretaker of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, Reb Uri Wolf, z”l, arrived in Beit HaMidrash, sensed that something was amiss, and followed his nose to the Kloiz, hoping to recover the loot. Casting sour resentful glares at the boys, who were deeply engrossed in the books in front of them, as if they did not know what brought him over to the kloiz; they remained silent, and he did as well. Without saying a word, he returned silently to his Beit HaMidrash.

The people of Zborow's Stratyn Kloiz were, indeed, impoverished, yet, when it came to books, they possessed an enormous luxury, richness and wealth, extreme beauty and their collection was ordered and organized. Not a single degrading word could be said about the Kloiz. In that respect, the Kloiz stood out from any other house of prayer in the Republic of Zborow. All the books were nicely bound, well organized, and clean from the usual dust. Amazingly, such a small and impoverished kloiz houses so many volumes! It seems that no book is missing from their collection. It included research books and even Yiddish books of the scholar Rabbi Hillel Lichtenstein of Kolomea, z”l, (the father-in-law of the zealous Zionist Rabbi Akiva Yosef). Yehoshua loved to read Rabbi Hillel's books, printed elegantly on incredibly beautiful paper and features full and bright dotting. He appreciated the author's vivacious Yiddish language and his fierce criticism of Moshe Mendelssohn and his enlightened ideals. However, when Yehoshua left the Kloiz, he never saw those books again.

Later on, Yehoshua's father, Rabbi Israel Radler of blessed memory, donated his treasured collections of books along with the books of his son-in-law who passed away at a young age: Three volumes of the Mishnah, works of various Poskim, hundreds of rare Chassidic books, and many others that Yehoshua has not seen anywhere else. Reb Israel was not a Stratyn Chasid but believed that his family books would find no better place than in the Stratyn Kloiz. The books were housed there alongside the Kloiz's own collection, a testament to the diligent annual efforts of the dear Kloiz's boys throughout the month of repentance and mercy—industrious tradition passed down many generations, along the road from the city to the cemetery. This effort continued until the First World War when the Republic of Zborow became a frontline for eight long months. The fire that engulfed the world consumed that beloved collection of books, leaving not a single volume behind.

Considered the “OperationElul” for purchasing books, as a youth movement phenomenon: An idealistic act in its essence that provides satisfaction to the activists, an expression of independence, diligence, and citizenship of the youth. The term, as “youth movement” has not been coined yet. It was initiated later on the outside, penetrated in, and received various formats. However, a youth movement of sort existed in Zborow, following an original Jewish form. That activity expressed itself in the area of purchasing books for the Kloiz, and in area of comradeship and aid to the poor [as expressed in Proverbs 20:11].

“A child may be dissembling in his behavior
Even though his actions are blameless and proper.”

The child-youth Yehoshua participated in those activities alongside his friends, and his actions were blameless and proper, just like theirs. They all believed they were behaving properly, and the seal of innocence was imprinted on each of them. Yehoshua was among the most enthusiastic, diligent, and serious of the group. Today, we call it “a model soldier.” That reflects the positive aspect of the situation. The negative aspect was the lack of persistence by some.

[Page 243]

“…they made me the keeper of the vineyards;
—but mine own vineyard have I not kept.”

[Song of Songs 1:6]

Those who persisted were elated in their work, and no one could criticize them. By the time of the “Operation Elul” described above, Yehoshua had already been an active participant for years, sometimes at Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash, other times at the Stratyn Kloiz, but most of the time at the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol. A place where one studies is also the place where he serves in the “Elul Army,” which embodies the verse from Ecclesiastes 11:3:

“…If a tree rests in the south or in the north,
the place where the tree rests, there it will be.”

(Theodore Roosevelt used that verse to justify burying his son, who was killed in the First World War in France, and not bringing him back to his family's cemetery in the USA. [The Zionist activist] Shmaryahu Levin used the verse in his memoirs, which he wrote in Yiddish. When the time came to translate them into Hebrew, he did not do it himself; he hired a professional translator. We, too, apply this verse for our purposes, as mentioned above.)

However, Yehoshua experienced most of the excitement of “Operation Elul” at Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash. That's where the water overflowed and the fierce wind propelled the sails. In that Beit HaMidrash, the Evil Inclination required a special effort. Michili, the older son of Rabbi Meir'l, a stubborn studious student, one of the half dozen in Zborow, a scholar in the Mishnah and Poskim, wished to get hold of the Vilna [Vilnius] Mishnah, manufactured at the print house of the “The Widow and Two brothers Romm”^[47]. Today, that edition is very common, however we are dealing with the period circa 5,650 [1890/91], when only a few people had heard about that edition. There was another difference in that period. Galicia was ruled by the Austro Hungarian Empire, and not Russia.

“They chose new gods; then was war in the gates:
Was there a shield or spear seen among 40,000 in Israel?”

As stated, only a few have heard of that edition of the Mishnah, but none have seen it with their own eyes. In Zborow, that particular edition was legendary, while the refined edition of the Mishnah from Lvov was more commonly found in the city. A few copies of the older editions printed in Vienna, Berlin, Dyhernfurth [Brzeg Dolny], Lvov, and Slavita [the printing house of Shapira Brothers]^[48] have also survived. Each edition claimed to improve upon the earlier versions.

Micheli heard about the Vilna edition, and it filled him with longing. Why should he be deprived of it and lose his chance to possess it? He decided he would obtain it no matter the cost and effort. However, that edition came with a hefty price tag. How would he find the money needed? Additionally, there are also transportation and logistics obstacles to consider, as Vilna was under the Tzarist rule and not a part of the Habsburg Empire. Still, nothing could deter Micheli from pursuing his desires. With that determination, the tidal waves rose, a strong wind filled the sails, and we set out on an “Operation Elul.”

The operation succeeded in all its aspects.

Not long after, the most esteemed volumes of the Sh”s [Six volumes of the Babylonian Talmud] from the days of Gutenberg to the present, arrived in Zborow. This was a momentous day! Volume after volume was taken out from its sheath and packing material. Each Gemara volume emerged in its entirety and was positioned in its splendor and beauty on the table, much to the amazement of the onlookers. Each Gemara was more beautiful than the last. Its treasures have never before seen by human eyes before, and you would never be able to absorb it whole. Observe now! In contrast to previous editions, Chananel's commentary is included in addition to the one by Rash”I that came after that, following Ecclesiastes [4:9]:

Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their labor.

Whatever is missing in one of them, the other completes.

That commentary was hidden for hundreds of years. The “Widow and the Brothers” print house [the publishers of Vilna Sh” S] uncovered and published it. This was only one of the many noteworthy aspects of the edition. The [Menkish?] Sh” S edition from Lvov was also impressive and delighted its readers. However, one cannot compare that Galician edition to the Vilna Sh” S. It required the masses and the ability of Russian Jewry to produce an edition of comparable quality.

The Vilna publishers conducted extensive research in libraries, searching for ancient Jewish treasures in forgotten corners of the archives. Their pursuit even led them to the Vatican collection. This took place in the era of the Russian autocracy under the rule of the Tzar. Despite his authority, he, too, could not withstand their determination, and their efforts were carried out on a national scale.

Today, the reign of Tzarism has ended, and Marxism has taken its place. Fortunately, there is a “people's democracy” in the former kingdom. The attitude toward the Russian Orthodox Church has improved. Seminaries for training new priests have been re-established, and new hegumen and priests have been appointed. Additionally, the newspaper The News of the Patriarch in Moscow now even reaches reaches all the way to Jerusalem. They even renovated the Russian Church in Jerusalem, spending thousands of Liras and reorganizing the Christmas pilgrimage to Jerusalem. However, the reform did not materialize for the Jews. It is not possible to print even a tiny Jewish calendar, containing just a few pages in the entire vast country, and the Jewish intellectuals are suspected, Heaven forbid, of antigovernment views. What foolishness, what a world [In Hebrew, this is a play on words, as the words for “foolish” and “world” have a similar sound), [as stated in the phrase from Deuteronomy 32:27]:

“…but I dreaded the taunt of the enemy,
lest the adversary misunderstand…”

If it weren't for the fear that gripped us, we would have mustered our courage and whispered in Aramaic that this world is one of falsehood. The angels do not acknowledge the kingdoms of Marxism or Capitalism. The Angel of Death asked: “What do Capitalism and Communism mean to me?” However, ultimately, none of this truly matters to us here.

It does matter to us to state that the boy-Yehoshua enjoyed the flurry around the acquisition of the Vilna Sh”S, which he participated in. A great thing fell into his hands. He gulped Chananel's commentaries and swallowed the interesting introductions and extensive additions.

Several decades later, Yehoshua was fortunate to stroll Jerusalem trails with Chaim-Nachman Bialik, z”l. During their conversation, they discussed the significance of the Vilna Sh”S. The renown poet elaborated on what that edition of the Talmud meant for the the Jewish community in Russia and beyond after each volume was published. He also described how the people of that generation celebrated the completion of the publishing process, feeling that this was a monumental achievement for the Jewish culture. Bialik spoke with great admiration about this significant enterprise and the immense effort that went into it.

Unintentionally, Yehoshua began to reflect on his own memories. He recalled his dear friend, Michili, the older son of Rabbi Meir”l, who grew up to become a rabbi in Kozlov [Kosliv], near Zborow. He was a man of one profession but pursued that skillfully and honestly. Yehoshua also remembered that modest acquisition activity in Zborow, as well as the life events in general, the glorified and the sorrowful ones. These days have gone forever. They would never return.

Indeed, he recalled the events of those days, and not necessarily the sensational ones that turned life upside down.

It was an ordinary summer night following a regular day. The few worshippers had already completed the routine evening prayers, and a few people sat down at the long table on the east side. No one suspected that this evening would be different from past evenings.

[Page 244]

On that night, two guests happened to stop by. One was from Galicia, and the other was from Jerusalem. Both were dressed like the other Jews, with no apparent differences. Nobody greeted them with a special blessing as such customs were not widespread at the time.

The Galicia's native began to tell a story about the Baal Shem Tov [Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer –BeSh”T], z”l. While stories about the BeSh”T were common among guests, this particular guest had a unique talent; he loved telling stories and was very good at that. He did not use rhetorical effects—he did not raise his voice, use musical intonations, whisper, or emphasize points with his hands. His face remained calm, and he looked straight into his listeners' eyes. His story was straightforward and fluid, like the “gently flowing waters of the Shiloah” [Isaiah 8:6]. However, the audience found his story fascinating thanks to its rich and engaging multi-plot content.

The story centered around a Jew who risked his own life to ensure that another righteous Jew received a proper burial in accordance with Jewish tradition. The BeSh”T blessed him for his dedication, and the blessing occurred under unusual circumstances, accompanied by some miracles on land and sea. The tail unfolded over several hours, with every link in the narrative more captivating than the last and every stage more wonderous than the one before. Yehoshua had never heard such a long and enchanting story. He became so absorbed that he forgot to go home for dinner and overlooked the fact that the fair in the Republic of Zborow would take place in the following days. The fair was a significant and sizeable monthly event, drawing vendors from other cities, and it required early rising to attend.

The audience listened to the story with rapt attention, completely engaged and silent. But when the storyteller finally finished, everyone looked at him with bright faces, their expressions filled with gratitude for the enjoyment he had provided.

The guest from Jerusalem, who likely had a sense of humor and a cynical attitude, woke up and remarked: “People who bring a single Jew to burial according to Jewish tradition are rewarded greatly. What, then, is the reward for someone who buries many Jews according to Jewish tradition?”

Yehoshua found it difficult to detach himself from the world of poetry, legends, and stories and return to the harsh reality of prose and everyday life. He reluctantly went home and encountered this reality in the market square filled with merchants and hagglers from neighboring cities. Overnight, they parked their carts, laden with goods, throughout the market square. As he navigated the hustle and bustle, Yehoshua recalled the humorous comment made by the Eretz Yisraeli from Jerusalem. It struck him as out of place and jarring like cold water poured over his hot soul… This interaction with an Eretz Yisraeli was the first of its kind for him, but it would not be the last one.

When he arrived home, he found his family fast asleep. He dined alone, having his evening porridge while reflecting on the charms of the story he had heard and the contrast between the two guests. One was a storyteller, par excellence, providing his audience an enjoyable experience, asking nothing more than a willing ear to listen. The other, was a slanderer who destroyed with just his words what his friend had built with great imagination.

With these sad and pleasant thoughts, he went to sleep, unaware that he was about to face a new chapter in his life: Departing from Rabbi Meir'l's Beit HaMidrash and joining the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol.

The New Synagogue, the most magnificent Jewish building in Zborow, was not constructed by just a few individuals; instead, it represents the collective efforts of the entire community. The wealthy contributed generously, while the poor offered what little they could spare. The nation's soul built it, with everyone contributing according to his means. A story from Yehoshua's childhood remained etched in his memory: The porters in Zborow reflected and asked themselves: “Why would not our share be included? Why should not we donate to God's house?” They recognized they were not wealthy and worked hard to earn a living; their contributions—however modest—would be viewed by God as equally significant as the gold dinars of the rich.

There were fewer than a dozen porters in Zborow and its surroundings, but they were united and all men of valor. As we know, a porter's work is hard and takes a toll on the body; however, it is not all labor. Skills were also required in that work, which demands learning and practice. That job can vary, resulting from experience and tradition. For instance, carrying a 100-kilogram flour sack from the store in the town center to the bakery at the edge of town—no hand carts were available then in the Republic of Zborow—was clearly a task for a single porter. Little Yehoshua watched the porter on his way with apprehension and marveled at the scene. However, unloading a dozen of the flour sacks from waggoner Jankil's cart upon his arrival from Tarnopol required a group effort (sometimes some by the porters, and other times, all the porters). That work was almost joyful. The same applied to loading wheat sacks onto a wagon for transport by train or unloading several train cars filled with anthracite coal arriving from Silesia. The earnings were typically divided equally among the porters. However, there were times when the earnings were so minimal that they could not be split, leading to grudges and conflicts. Such disputes harmed the collaborating spirit and harmony that were essential in their line of work.

Therefore, when the Zborow porters felt inspired to contribute their share to the improvement of that house of God, they decided to gather their modest earnings and entrust Mrs. Bracha, Yehoshua's mother, for safekeeping. After some discussions, they concluded that the collected funds should be used to build a beautiful large chandelier, named “Heng-Leichter,” for the synagogue. They hoped that their hard work and dedication would shine brightly, bringing light to their fellow community members on Shabbat Eves and holidays.”

They followed their plan with action.

In those days, electricity or gas were not available in the country. Kerosene was used on regular days, but it lacked the celebratory feeling one desires. To brighten Shabbat Eves, they lit many candles placed on candlesticks on the table. There are larger candlesticks that contain a dozen candles or even more. These are known as “Heng-Leichters,” hung from the ceiling at a specific height, spreading a very bright light. For Shabbat Eve, people would light about 100 candles in the New Synagogue and the Beit HaMidrash Hagadol. They could not simply press a button to light the candles; they had to do it one candle at a time. They moved from table to table and climbed onto benches to reach the chandelier candles.

Years later, when Yehoshua grew up, he became a member of the Beit HaMidrash HaGadol, where he served as the “light caretaker.” Every Saturday Eve he delighted in fulfilling the verse: “Lighting a candle is fulfilling a commandment.” He would enthusiastically leap over benches, jump on the tables, light a candle, and skip to the next one, reciting the rhymes from the Song of Songs about Shulamith. In this context, Shulamith represents the Jewish people “leaning over her beloved” [Song of Songs 8:5]—referring to God, described [in ]Song of Songs 1:16] as “handsome and charming,” and “pure, radiant, and [in Song of Songs 5:1] ruddy, preeminent among 10,000.”

It is doubtful that Yehoshua fully understood the profound meaning of the verses. Nevertheless, he instinctively felt their beauty as he lit the candles one by one, each reflecting the pure, radiant, and ruddy

light within the Jewish souls. Assisting him in that task was the old, weak, and somewhat grumpy caretaker, R' Uri Wolf, z”l. Despite his gruff demeanor, he was dedicated to his work and utilized the last of his energy for as long as he lived. For Yehoshua, working as a volunteer this time became one of his pleasures in life.

Author's Note

1. This chapter was probably written before the First World War and was reviewed by Y. Ch. Brenner. It was printed with slight changes in the [author's book from 1923] Al HaGvulin. Return

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