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Although the frozen fields shimmered after a heavy snowfall, the shtetl [town] breathed the arrival of spring.

Facing the rising sun, icicles dripped from the green, mossy, shingled roofs like dripping wax from burning candles. Nocturnal frosts still drew ice pictures on the frozen-shut double windows that daytime rays of sun began to dissipate – branches, trunks, leaves, creating the impression of a “winter garden” on the frozen windowpanes.

Jews in belted, quilted jackets, Jewish women wrapped in thick shawls, adult women of marriageable age in patched bast [tree bark fiber] shoes – all stood around the besieged bakeries and waited in the line for hours for the rationed black, bran bread that was distributed a half a pound to a person.

One of the small synagogues for tailors had a large iron kettle placed near its wall by the community, which was filled with food from American

Jewish families in Krasnik during the First World War

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tin cans, from which middleclass young women invited by the city dozores [members of the synagogue council] distributed the tasty food to the hungry people. Poor people came with tin cans, iron pots, tin bowls that were filled by the aristocratic distributors with pious faces and a confident certainty that warm houses and a krupnik [barley soup] with fat p'tcha [jellied calves' feet] awaited them.

At the city's watchmaker's house, there had not been a single drop of supper on the frozen oven. Preoccupied in the chaos of war fears, no one thought about repairing broken watches. Therefore, for a long time they languished with [only] a piece of stale bread, a hard onion, black radishes. Quietly, well-manneredly, they were hungry. However, the watchmaker's middle daughter, Mirele [diminutive of Mirl], was invited among the unmarried, rich frauleins [unmarried women] to help distribute the American-donated cooked food.

Mirl, in the first bloom of youth, stood at the boiling food kettle, with her thick, black, curly hair, like braided Havdalah [ceremony ending the Sabbath] candles – thrown around her slender neck like velvet ribbons. Her dark, olive skin, a little dried and crumpled from the difficult fight against exhausting hunger; her bright amber eyes, her weakened mouth, her starving nostrils secretly absorbed with the steaming pot; her pale hands and trembling body – everything in her deeply inhaled the tasty aromas of the fried mushrooms, sweet beets and, mainly, the well-browned small, round noodles with beans. This aromatic food really enchanted Mirl's parched gums. At every scoop that Mirl took from the cooking pot, she cleverly maneuvered the large spoon so that she would snatch a little bit of food on her small finger which she quickly brought to her dry lips, licked, swallowed, breathed in the tasty aromas.

Thus, she distributed warm food to others for days, weeks and months and herself lived on dry pieces of bread rations…

The majority of those in the shtetl were nourished through smuggling. [They] brought flour, saccharin to Galicia and brought back inferior tobacco, cigarettes and old things from there. Whoever could take chances, traveled to smuggle. Although the majority of goods were taken before the train reached Rozwadów, those who succeeded in crossing the border guard safely ate butter cookies on a regular weekday.

At the [house of the] watchmaker, they looked around among the dusty items for a long time for something to sell, to pawn. If only to put together enough for a few pounds of flour, a little saccharin; let there be just enough with which to begin. There remained Mirele a maiden, a dynamic person, shprecht Deutsch [spoke German] fluently. The Austrian “rag dolls” (nickname for the soldiers) went wild over her petite steps, with her long legs, elastic figure. The rest – is God the father… It was a little difficult to obtain a przepustka (permission to travel by train) for her. Mirl was still a minor and like all 14-year-old children, she was not recorded at the city hall. Her parents did not remember exactly in what year and what month [she was born]. Her father thought that Mirl was born before Yekl; her mother thought that Mirl fell to earth after Dwoyra and her grandmother was almost sure that she was right after Chayala – the eleventh one. Mirl completed the clan. However, no one knew exactly. But as Mirele was tall in stature, had wide shoulders, full cheeks, her father went to the city hall and estimated her age.

The sturdy little scribe did not cause any delays; one eye frowning, the other looking around mildly, like one looks at a heifer at the market, smacking a little with his passionate, full lips, he quickly registered her as 16 years old. And although they did not remember if she was born before Yekl or after Chayala, the watchmaker, however, was sure that [she was younger] and blessed

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the scribe: “So many pimples on his tongue, how many fewer than 16.” However, Mirl received permission to travel by train. Now, only a few groshn were lacking to pay. Pawn the father's worn sheepskin coat? It looks worse than a dead cat. The mother's satin crinoline? It crumbled like powder. The girls' well-worn petticoats? Not worth a three-piece coin. Everyone's gaze fell on an inherited object – the glass serwantke [tea cart] that stood on two and a half legs, shook like a Jew reciting Shemone Esrei [central Jewish prayer]. However, a crushed kiddush cup [cup used for saying the blessing on wine] with a perforated bottom and a twisted front glittered through a cracked windowpane, yet was “real” silver, with the evaluation on the very bottom that even in melting provided several pounds of flour, a few grams of saccharine and, at daybreak, when the baggage carts brought smugglers to the station, a person arrived, Mirele, in her older sister's long petticoat, her mother's wide, long cape, disheveled locks of hair twisted into small bells, looking poised. The little bit of saccharin, sewn into her bodice, the flour hidden in a straw cushion, covered on top with an old thing, a broken mirror, a cracked comb; it would blind the eyes of the Austrian customs official. Her mother in a worn-out bonnet accompanied Mirl with blessings; her father in a long talis-katan [small prayer shawl worn under the clothing] spread his pious hands over Mirl's head, blessed her as before Kol-Nidre [opening prayer of Yom Kippur]. Her sisters blew their noses, wiped their eyes… And the people of the town watched with pitying faces: “A pity, just a child – a [female] smuggler.”

For the first time in her life, Mirl traveled on a train. The wheels made noise; the smokestacks whistled; her heart beat like bellows. The millstones turned in front of her eyes; the blue sky kneeled in reverence; the rising sun – on fire, dazzled and the short road – an eternity.

At the customs office, a cross-eyed soldier in a long great coat, feet wrapped in cloth, lightly tapped Mirl's little pillow, caught a glimpse in the broken mirror, dug a little in the rags and then said: “March!”

Stunned, Mirl did not believe her ears that she already was in Rozwadow. The sun was not shining as usual but gleaming like barrels of gold; Mirl hopped, danced, passed the first guard. She carried the straw basket so securely, as if there were diamonds in it. A tall Galicianer with a small goatee, short sidelocks and a long fur-lined coat was the first to stop Mirl:

– “Fraulein, do you have something good in the basket?” Mirl replied with pride: “A question?” “What is it? Soft, hard?” (indicating flour, saccharin.) Mirl answered aristocratically: “I have both.” The Galicianer held her firmly by the basket: “Come in, Fraulein.” Mirl pulled herself away: “I have no time.”

Several hours later, in the same small basket, in place of flour there were packs of tobacco, inferior tobacco. In her bodice, there were two rows sewn together. The border “guard” already knew that in the maiden's purse lay a broken mirror and old rags; therefore, he only patted her skin: “Cute creature – go please.”

At dusk, the most beautiful that Mirl remembered, the setting sun, lit her father's shingle roof, changing colors, sparkling as if covered with polished diamonds… The entire shtetl seemed enveloped in a rose, silk tunic, the pot-holed highway as if straightened, even the Jame alleyway purified for a holiday as when they waited for the arrival of the bishop.

Mirl sat at the prepared table, treated with respect, a provider of income, proudly double-chinned and ate her longed-for dish – potato dumplings and beans – great pleasure…

After her “debut” as a smuggler, Mirl crossed through the border guards peacefully several times a week. And so that the officials at the customs office would die an unnatural death, would become a little blind, smugglers would furtively provide a bottle of mead, a

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package of cigars, a kilo of flour. Yet, every day there was a victim. Sometimes, there was a gentile denunciation, sometimes a disappointed Russian official; the majority, even the bribed gendarme himself, broke several small baskets. However, smugglers were not disillusioned. Every day – new tricks, delusions. These men dressed up in Shabbos [Sabbath] clothing, the women were veiled in wide hats with high felt boots, elegant bags and using first class tickets, several passengers were let through without inspections…

Mirl's new shoes squeaked in the distance. Her new flowered dress was round like an open fan, her white hat had a green veil that her mother called “a personal injury” for her face, which shone. And on the sunny sidewalk, the stone sang along with her dancing gait…

However, the authorities quickly began to wonder about the too-empty third class and even more, about the fully seated first class, with the elegant women, men dressed in holiday clothing. They needed to sniff their leather valises – and the balloon burst.

People on baggage carts entered the shtetl with crumpled hats pushed back, “injuries” in the middle of their heads, faces as if after a fire. The cut-open satchels, like stomachs split open, looking as if mourning hearses had brought the dead from a slaughter. Even the pitiful sky darkened the sad “spectacle.”

But the smugglers found new ways. Simple bandages sewn one to the other, quilted with wide strips, filled like kishkes [intestines], with flour, sugar, tightened on the bare body; all kinds of corsets – the thinner the person, the fatter the corset on the bodies.

Mirl also sewed on two such “false corsets,” going filled with flour, returning with tobacco. And she again ate round noodles with beans.

In Krakow a fresh invention appeared unexpectedly – soft chrome leather with several pockets and over the packets would be worn the tobacco corset. The people called this: Moshe Zikhmekh [a nonsense name meaning Moshe look for me] And this Moshe Zikhmekh lasted for a long time.

This happened before Rosh Hashanah; the days were still sunny and warm, the nights already windy and cold. Smugglers provided flour and sugar for all of Austria, shod and clothed Congress Poland and the guards at the border received wine, mead, making sure that the “guards” were always tipsy, deaf, blind and silent…

Mirl was taller, fuller, womanly, her hair in a short brush cut with cunning-looking bangs thrown across her forehead. Her two black eyes were fevered with blossoming youth.

It was two days before the fearful Day of Judgement.

Mirl traveled home from Krakow. Soft leather squeezed to her body as if with hoops from above her false tobacco corset and she was like a brick in a walled-in fortress. Several kilos of sugar were placed in the elegant satchel. Would she be caught? She was choked with fear by this, but at least the “fortress” was secured.

The express train arrived with a whistle and noise. It was dark on the station platform; conductors moved illuminated red lanterns up and down, shining them on the faces, hands, feet, heads of people. The twinkling lamps on the empty station increased the disturbing darkness. The disembarking passengers looked like dark shadows running away, pushing, hurrying to the baggage carts…

Mirl, with her walled-in body stretched out as if it were a taut string, walked easily, turned with her blue suitcase, ostensibly flirted as if on a Shabbos [Sabbath] stroll. Suddenly, a thin lyrical voice pierced the darkness: “Fraulein [miss], your bag is so big, show me what is in it?”

Mirl only saw the outline of a tall man. It seemed that she felt a burning gaze on her, that the ribbons of her restricting corset were suddenly

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looser, melted; now the taut “small shop” turned to dust and fell to her feet. A sharp wind began to lift her pleated dress, exposing her hot skin above the knees. Her white hat moved to the middle of her head; her mop of disheveled hair spread over her entire face. Mirl's heart felt as if someone had struck it with their fists. There were murmurs in her head and in her imagination, she saw her mother wringing her hands, her sisters moaning aloud and her pious father murmuring: “A disturbed yom-tov [holiday].”

– Why are you standing so dumb, Miss? – the sharp, thin small voice cut the air – You follow me – and Mirl felt as if someone was holding her by her arm.

Tiny clouds were drawn in the red sky; a large shooting star cut through a bit of sky making an arc. The horizon was as dark as tar. Mirl saw the smoke of the train from afar; her heart was drawn there. However, the dark shadows drew her where there was a pitch-dark forest. “No!” – Mirl shouted and did not recognize her own voice. An electric lamp shone in her eyes, blinding her vision completely. The light lit, went out, and silver epaulets, an officer's buttons, a wide cap with a small buckle under a well-shaven chin began to emerge. Mirl recognized the wachtmeister [sergeant] from the “customs office.” He drilled through her with his murderous eyes. These lustful looks burned into her well-developed body, into her young, girlish breast and they [the eyes] sparkled, prickled, undressed her. He usually sat at his station, spread out in a soft armchair, and sent smaller, subordinate gendarmes to “touch the pure one.” But today, he, himself, personally, not anyone else, lay in wait for her. Mirl felt as if her skin trembled – “The disaster was near.” She let herself be led. Her young mind thinking, seeking advice, refuge: perhaps, throwing the satchel of sugar disdainfully? Or just leaving a few krone? Mainly, to save the leather, the tobacco. But worse would be the shame. They would try to uncover her young body, look at her chaste body, draw a large penalty and kill the secrets of earning a living. No, she would not let them undress her, not reveal her maiden's body to the eyes of men… No, never…

It was dark in the payment office. A half-dressed little soldier dreamed in a corner, spreading sweaty, charcoal fumes in the smokey room; a tin teapot boiled on a smokey hearth:

– Open the bag, ordered the serious sergeant, putting on his official jacket with the stiff collar over his open shirt, unbuttoned at the chest, while, meanwhile, he tried to touch Mirl's waist. She sprang up, pushed away his hand and quickly opened her satchel. The packs of sugar dazzled, like tongues of fire. The sergeant's fat face became somber: “What is this?” He dug his inebriated eyes into Mirl's frightened face and with unexpected anger his drooling mouth thundered:

– To the devil, what is this? Mirl stunned, with a barely audible voice: Sugar, Mr. Sergeant, and she felt as if a blister would burst…

Suddenly, he grabbed her hand, ignited as fire, his eyes became cloudy, filled; he began dragging her to the door… Mirl defended herself with all her strength, scratched his feverish hands, tried to bite the surface of his palm and forgot the “fortress” on her body. In the struggle with their intertwined hands, the infuriated sergeant clamped down as if she was a part of his sweaty body; he began to search her body and roared like a furious animal:

– My God! Why are you so hard? Crucifix, is she encased in iron?

– Tatiniu [diminutive of father]!…

The closed door opened with a loud scrape. Two thin little soldiers saluted obediently:

– Take the girl immediately to be

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searched, ordered the sergeant forcefully and meanwhile fixed his boorish attire.

Mirl blinked helplessly with a frightened glance at the soldier's disheveled mop of hair, at his thick, hairy chest and gave a frightened shout: “No! Never!”

Mirl came to herself as a result of the soldiers mocking laughter, clearly felt the danger, straightened her bent back, fixed her disheveled hair and began to ask for mercy:

– Let a woman examine me, I beg you, only a woman, or you can kill me on the spot…

Mirl's notable modesty, her deep-felt plea so strongly confused the “protector” of justice that he began to think with wide-open eyes, losing his composure; his enlarged pupils cleared and with a certain delay, he called a faded gentile woman with legs like blocks, a half-open bosom, who dragged Mirl like a calf to the slaughter… And after a few minutes, [the gentile woman] brought the soft leather, still warm from Mirl's body, and the full tobacco corset hung on the gentile women's back as if a jewelry cloth.

A bestial whining, suffocating laughter resounded like echoes under the high ceiling. Only the sergeant remained serious, sober and he ordered severely:

– Send in the girl.

Mirl appeared thin, small, leaner and, also, calmer. Her pale face reflected her victory for her saved modesty.

The sergeant sent out servants, looked at Mirl for a long time, quietly and with a flash of deep amazement. However, his eyes of evil inclination, as if covered with blood, greedily looked at the round form of the artistic corset that still bore the roundness of Mirl's young, girlish body. The man in him fought with his ignited blood…

The aroma of Mirl's fresh body, the strength of her full shoulders, the firmness of her wide hips, intoxicated his damp eyes, which turned red, red hot like glowing coals. His wide, chubby face, his perked-up ears, his blond hair as stiff as a violin bow – everything in him devoured Mirl's young, plump body and drove him as if from a fresh, wild storm, and he again wrapped his firm hands around Mirl's now thin waist. He now felt softness, roundness. His burning fingers wandered around… Poked… Gripped… At the same time, he roared like an animal:

– Obstinate Jews! Jews!

And Mirl suffocated as if in a prison cell, fought with her last strength, begged with all of the sorrows of the world: Shoot me instead! Shoot!

His burning hands suddenly, as if pricked by a spear, freed Mirl's convulsing body. He remained hardened like a headstone. His fogged eyes were as if drunkenly stupefied, his thick brows like wild bushy whiskers:

– Shoot?

Mirl's sincere plea rolled over his lost thoughts like a flying bullet; he spontaneously straightened up, wiped his thick sweat and began to look reflectively on Mirl with astonishment, as if a fiery dart had pierced his mind and a black membrane had fallen from his cloudy eyes… He saw Mirl's inviolable innocence. He thought that Mirl had suddenly grown, become taller, standing with her head down like a painted young woman on a pedestal.

He controlled his animal instinct with great strength; a feeling of respect, completely strange to him, did not permit him to act violently…

– What is your name? he quietly asked.

– Mirl.

– How old are you?

– 16 years old…

Friendly, he wanted to pat her. Mirl did not let him…

– I like you very much, Fraulein…

– Thank you…

– Perhaps you would like something to eat?

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– Thank you…

– You want to go home?

– Yes…

The sergeant again called his two servants, hoarsely ordering:

– Pack up all of your things. Take “your bag.” Lead the girl in full order to her house. Understand? In full order.

– Jawohl Herr Wachtmeister [Yes sir, sergeant]. Both saluted and drew out their clubs.

Mirl stunned, looking at the suddenly humanized sergeant, at the servile servants and at the saved suitcase, did not believe her eyes: is this a hallucination? A dream? Or perhaps only a fresh trap?

Outside in the dark, it was cold, windy; Mirl's face seemed as if it had been roasted by a hellish fire. When she became a little accustomed to the night-time haze, she saw the firmament of heaven, blue, even silvery, interwoven. The thick trees in the Lubliner forest appeared to her like the flags on Simkhas Torah [holiday commemorating the completion of the yearly reading of the Torah and the start of the reading for the new year] and the stars in heaven like small candles over their many-branched crowns.

The small trail between the low forest grasses winding toward the shtetl [town], looked like a combed wide, grey part. The juniper smelling forest intoxicated her with its therapeutic spice aroma. Between overgrown bushes, it smelled of all kinds of delicacies – red berries and fresh mushrooms.

On the evergreen trees, a bird twittered; some musical notes were braided into [the twittering] from somewhere, distant cuckoos. Even the long row of telegraph poles hummed melodically as a contribution to the nighttime forest symphony. From time to time, shooting stars cut through the clear sky like silver spears. The two thin, little soldiers in long great coats with short swords in their belted waists, strode near Mirl respectfully, respecting the strong order. But, sometimes, at a high hill, a deep pit, they grabbed her hands, feeling Mirl's frightened trembling… Here, two healthy men, a young girl, in the wild forest. However, they remembered: “Take this girl in complete order.” They bit their lips and they walked…

Mirl's walk was light, easy, hopeful – such miracles? – as her ancestral merits gave her support.

Deep into the night, Mirl saw the notary public's garden, chestnuts fallen from the withering trees, the eerie barking of the black bulldog. But she did not recognize the shtetl. It seemed to her they were wandering around lost, a muffled silence as before a storm. The starry sky lay so low, almost huddling on the roofs; it seemed to her that the golden cross at the tip of the church would perforate the half-crescent moon…

It was quiet, dark in the sleeping alleys. The city lamps threw shadows on the lurking Jews, with candles and small prayer books under their arms, as they went to the clearly illuminated house of prayer from which the weeping sounds of selikhos [penitential prayers] leaving a fear of the coming Days of Awe.

At the watchmaker's, a large extra-bright lamp burned in the window. Thin beams created dark shadows on the dark sidewalk. Mirl's distracted mother with a crumpled Yom Kippur face, listening for the slightest rustle, suddenly ran toward the moving silhouettes… Seeing Mirl's thin body, her slender waist, she let out a high shriek:

– We have experienced a catastrophe, no leather, no tobacco, no income…

The watchmaker sat in a corner with a lowered head. The sisters sobbed as if someone had died…

Mirl joyfully opened the packed satchel where the leather, tobacco, sugar lay mixed as if saved from a great fire.

Her father immediately turned on the lamp; it flooded so much illumination that the white cat on the black hearth ran off in panic. Her sisters embraced Mirl with a loud bawl. Her mother

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lifted her pious hands to the tin ceiling. Praise to the Lord God for the great miracle…

And it seemed that the poor house, its peeling walls, the twisted cabinet, the deformed doors and even the starry sky that almost reached the broken ceiling received an illuminated appearance, like on the eve of a large, joyful wedding…

Chana was 35 years old when on a winter Shabbos [Sabbath] night she sneaked out of Rywkale's house to realize her ancient dream.

In a warm fur coat, heavy cotton petticoat, grey shawl around her smooth head, the exhausted Chana looked 60 years old.

At the end of Shabbos [Sabbath], the small shtetele [town] Krasnik was quiet, dreamy, wrapped in a gleaming snow. Chana's image threw dark shadows on the blinding whiteness. Her heavy boots squeaked loudly, leaving crude figures on the snow-covered bridge and a damp echo in the cold air.out

A thick row of chestnut trees seemingly enrobed in white snow stood as straight as an imperial guard protecting the empty road for when a great dignitary needed to travel through. Chana's wide steps took her to the small Jama Street where low houses with mossy shingle roofs that, in the empty, starry night, looked as if they were spattered under a mountain of fresh flour. Chana quietly knocked at a small, leaning house with small windows and half bent door, and, not waiting for an answer, opened the rusty clasp, and a quiet, harsh and stale aroma wafted over Chana's flushed face.

It was half dark in the house. An older Jew with a pointy beard sat bent over a long, bare table and was inscribing something on a wide parchment with a goose feather. A small tallow candle threw long shadows on the four-corned calligraphic letters. Small, kerosene lamps in a corner of the small room gave off smoke. There was a monotonous drip from a leaking cask into a tin basin, sounding exactly like notes: drip, drop, drip, drop.

– A good week to you, Reb Yakov, an embarrassed Chana called out quietly in a low voice and with great piety.

The city soyfer [scribe], with palpable fear, lifted his weak eyes from the outspread parchment and with ever greater astonishment began to stammer:

– May God protect me, someone has come here? What does he want?

Chana, from afar, not daring to approach, but with a servile voice, stammered:

– Yes, I came. I am Chana the Popkowicer. I came about a holy matter. She suddenly stood up straight, breathed deeply and began to weigh her words one by one:

– I want you to write a Sefer Torah [Torah scroll] for the synagogue.

– Good gracious! A Sefer Torah? Reb Yakov, astonished, asked again and immediately thought: A pity, the unfortunate agunah [abandoned wife] has lost her senses, has gone insane from hardship…

– Woman, go in health! – the surprised soyfer said to her severely and added with a pitying voice: The Lord God will yet take pity on you; do not be disillusioned, Chana. His warm voice caressed and consoled her. However, seeing that Chana stood as if transfixed, not moving from the spot, her sad eyes looking as if enchanted at the open parchment and [tears] beginning to drip from her dark eyelashes as from a dripping candle – Reb Yakov's heart grew a little softer:

– What do you mean? He began to speak with a Gemora [Talmud] melody. A woman would have a Sefer

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Torah written?… Has such a thing ever happened?

– Is such forbidden? Chana's pale lips trembled slightly.

– Forbidden? The soyfer, as if asking himself, began to crease his wrinkled forehead, as if he wanted to remind himself of such a law and hummed, holding his hand at his chin:

– Forbidden it actually is not, but it is just unheard of, a strange thing and mainly it costs a treasury of money! And how will you get such a giant fortune?

Quietly – without a word to lose – Chana removed a tied-together, small sack from her wrapped throat, laid it next to the soyfer on the table and with a tearful voice choking a little, spoke:

– I toiled at this for 20 years, laid a groshn to a groshn [saved]. For 20 years I did not want to know of any sensual pleasure but when the hour arrives, when I lay my head with my sacred forefathers, let a Sefer Torah remain in the synagogue after me.

Reb Yakov's half-grey head moved to the side, his dripping, damaged eyes covered with two pairs of wire-rimmed glasses, suddenly were lost in the wintery double windows after the rise of the sun. And through this fogginess, he looked penetratingly at Chana's round face from which only her black eyes shone as if ignited with fire, whose cutting sheen bore through Reb Yakov's two pairs of glasses deep into his wide-open pupils. His amazed look immediately beamed back with respect, with admiration and without a trace of doubt, but with deep belief in Chana's words; he immediately began to compare her to the holy Chana, to Sura, to Rywka, Ruchl and Leah.

And Chana, as quietly as she had entered, left as modestly. Her weakened heart now beat a little stronger with great joy. Her heavy, short boots now became easier, so light that Chana simply floated in them and the many stars in heaven clearly lit her way. The frozen snow now became like a soft, plush carpet for her…

Back in her house, Chana only opened wide her joyous heart for Rywkale. She fell on her, sobbed aloud and could not say more than:

– Rywkashi, dear Rywka, Rywkanyu.

Frightened, Rywkale grasped her by her hands:

– What happened Chana? Why are you so stunned? Rywkale tried to find out. Perhaps you have found your “highwayman” who so darkened your life?

– No, Rywkashi, Chana joyfully called out and began to revive a little:

– No, my life is no longer dark. It is already light, very light; with God's help I will bring a Sefer Torah into the synagogue…

Chana was called “Popkowicer” because she was born in the Polish village of Popkowice. She was raised by a father, a poor leaseholder whose small, shrunken wife whose barely visible stomach gave 10 healthy village boys each with a fondness for horses, oxen and other village labor. Their 11th and last child was Chana. And strange, while pregnant with Chana, the leaseholder's wife's stomach grew so large, as if her frame had made way for the new soul who was still dreaming among her intestines. Later, Chana bustled differently. She was always quiet, dreaming. She liked to play alone in the field, sit for hours under a grown tree, near quiet brooks and Chana would actually say prayers to the sprouting flowers.

On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Chana would travel to the shtetl with a large group and with them go to the synagogue, absorbing the holy prayers. Instead of playing in the courtyard along

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with all of the children, Chana preferred to look down from the women's section and fell into great ecstasy when she saw that they were taking out of the small cabinet such a round thing that wore a silver crown with small bells… Jews unrolled it piously, with such great love; Chana also fell into a holy fear. Her small body trembled childishly. Her dark eyes would fill with tears and quietly, drip, drip. When Chana returned from the shtetl [town] after the Days of Awe, she would remain for a long time under the influence of the prayers she had absorbed. Mainly so that no one would see, she stood in a field, prayed to the branched trees and sometimes fell into hallucinations from which she would awaken as if from a deep dream.

When Chana was 13 years old, her usual calm disappeared. She began to disappear from the house often, running around the fields barefooted, reciting prayers piously to the ripe trees, sobbing her strange longing to the ripe flower beds and could not find a place for herself anywhere.

– Nothing but a somewhat mischievous person has entered our girl, Chana's mother, the simple village Jewish woman, would complain to her husband. Perhaps we need to check the mezuzahs,^[1] go to rebbes with her or take her for a cure?

It was on a hot Tammuz [June or July] day. Thick trees, full of ripe fruit, stood under the leaseholder's window, heavy, overloaded, languishing and waiting for a breeze that would refresh them in the great heat that was everywhere. The glowing sun also looked so tired, as if all of its fire reserves had burned at once. In the sky, which had become opaque, dark clouds emerged from all sides and immediately was concentrated into one

A street photo of Krasnik during the First World War. On the left – the vinegar factory.

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large, thick dark cloud that blew on the village of Popkowice with thunder, lightning, rain and storm.

A young dorfs-geyer [those who go to villages to buy and sell things] suddenly appeared from the dusty highway, with wind in his flushed face, wind in his disheveled hair, wind in his half-crossed eyes; his lively stature also looked as if it had been carried by a hot wind…

– Can I wait here for the miserable storm to pass? He quickly turned to Chana who was absorbed in a dream and immediately removed his sack from his back.

– Yes, you can. Chana immediately suggested that he enter the house. The stranger quickly noticed that the well-buttoned blouse on Chana's slender, grown [body] was bursting. Her checkered petticoat reached to her knees. And he had no one to rush home to and meanwhile he would spend the night here.

In the morning, the storm strengthened and, God forbid, no one drove him out. He remained and again spent the night and when the storm-washed sun later again shown, clearly illuminating the watered trees that gave off intoxicating aromas from their ripe fruit, the stranger felt pity in leaving a lonely girl alone in such a deserted place. In short, the girl loved the field, and he went to the field with her. She wanted to bathe, he also bathed. It did not take long and Chana was calm again. Quiet again, pious, a pious woman…

When the soyfer [scribe] came to inspect the mezuzahs, the leaseholder immediately said that his efforts were not needed; they had already driven away the corrupters. The leaseholder, again, seeing that with the arrival of the stranger, the girl had been saved, quietly thought: there are 11 mouths in the house, there will be another glutton… But when a hill began suddenly to develop under Chana's apron, the gang of village brothers grabbed at the wind-blown head of hair of the frightened “rescuer” and shouted into his cunning eyes:

– Oder du shtelst a khuppah, oder mir makhn fun dir a kupe [A play on the words khuppah – wedding canopy – and kupe – mound: either you get married immediately or we will make a mound out of you.

The young dorfs-geyer decided – better a wedding… But five days after, with luck, becoming a father, he disappeared into the water… Chana looked for remedies with rebbes, recited incantations at various rivers, threw crumbs into the water there, along with a tsitsis [fringe] from her husband's talis-koton [fringed undergarment worn by pious men]. However, nothing helped – disappeared and was gone. The tiny poor thing [the baby] was very small, emaciated. Chana's milk in her breasts soured because of grief. The child quickly began to succumb with its weakened little heart, and screeched throughout the house with such heart-wrenching sadness that Chana tore piece of clothing from herself, wrung her hands and sobbed loudly: Why, Tatishe [father]? For whom, Mameniu [mother]? And when the child's little heart became still, Chana no longer had anyone left to love, to serve, for whom to sacrifice herself, remaining in distress and alone, a lost soul. Therefore, she again began to go to the field, plead with the trees, cry to the flowers. Chana longed for something in which she could redeem herself completely, for something that would let her love, adore…

The leaseholder racked his brains, trying to remember: who does Chana look like? And how does he have such a strange young woman? As much as he remembered, they were simple village Jews from generation to generation; there was not even one pious Hasid in his family, and here – such a Chana, a “misfortune” that draws her to prayers, to holiness, which is more suitable for a boy. But such a young woman? In any case, who had seen such a calamity?

And therefore the leaseholder decided that Chana, his unfortunate 15-year-old agunah [abandoned wife], had to be sent quickly to the shtetl [town]; at least she would become a respectable servant girl.

Chana arrived in the shtetl in a coarse cotton dress, with coarse bast [tree bark fiber] shoes on her

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thin feet. And since her curly head had been shaved and her embittered heart – broken, she no longer wanted to wear a sheitl [wig worn by married pious women], but wore a simple headscarf and a large shawl on her small shoulders, living with Rywka'le, the daughter of Malkha Rukhl, and working in the small bakery.

Rywka'le's pious husband, Reb Chaim Misziker, would sit day and night along with their four sons, busy in study and prayer. They filled their poor house with Torah melodies from the Talmud and commentaries. Chana, from childhood on, longed for something, not herself knowing for what – but something that would emerge from her daily, weekly existence, some sort of contentment for her soul as well as her body; she believed with complete faith in a life after death. Therefore, she soon found great consolation, tranquility in this house of Torah song. Chana's healthy, strong hands would stop in the middle of kneading, halting the wide gestures and, with the small paddle between her hard palms, with pensive eyes and perked up ears she turned to the adjacent alcove, her beating heart breathed in the delicious melodies of gemora music that carried from the second room that quickly enveloped Chana like an enchanted spell…

When cleaning the flour covered alcove, Chana would stop at the bookcase, pat the gilded backs of the outspread Talmud and secretly press her lips to it. She murmured something quietly, hummed, until it became as easy as her quiet prayers to the flowers in the field…

On Shabbosim [the Sabbaths] and holidays, Chana would go to the synagogue with Rywkale. [She] listened intensely to the cantor's ringing voice and although she understood little, she knew a large number of prayers by heart: Adonai, Adonai [My Lord] – she would say aloud and strongly squeeze her eyes: Adonai, Adonai – she felt as if her heart was at ease and she was completely connected to God…

Chana would feel the highest ecstasy when the ark was opened and the Torah scroll was taken out. She could not tear her longing glance from the outspread parchment. This love of the highest adoration transformed her previous suffering: adoration of those who nourished her quietest dreams. A satisfaction in dedicating her most hidden love to God who was found in heaven and to His laws that were found in the Sefer Torah on the earth… Chana felt that only there, in the outspread scroll was the very highest of all the holiness and the very deepest of all her silent dreams…

Years passed. Chana the agunah aged before her time. Clear wrinkles already creased her round face. Her dark eyes were surrounded with blue rings, but she still kneaded all of the fermented dough at Rywkale's bakery, still wore her calico petticoat, coarse bast shoes and a dark bonnet on her shaved head and still passionately consumed the Gemora melodies with which Reb Chaim's house was always filled. Chana learned bits of the Talmud, pieces of Tanakh [Hebrew bible including the Torah, Prophets and Writings] from just listening and knew by heart the teytsh-Khumish [translation of the Hebrew prayer book into Yiddish] that Rywkale would read to her on the Shabbosim. When Rywkale would sometimes fall asleep when reading and when awakening would make a mistake in the lines, and Chana would, with great trembling, lead her back on the correct road: God is with you, Rywkaniu, she would call out, shuddering. Avraham had not been led to the Akedah [the binding of Isaac], but Yitzhak… Or – a pity on you Rywkashi, his brothers sold Yosef, not Benyamin…

Everyone in the shtetl long marveled: This poor Chana, no husband, no child – for whom was she hiding her saved rubles? Some tried to guess: She was gathering expenses for a trip around the world; perhaps, somewhere she would find her disappeared “highwayman…” Others racked their brains: She wanted to receive permission from 100

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rabbis so that she could again get married… Chana only silently smiled and placed a groshn to a groshn [added to her savings]. [She] carried it in a linen sack at her throat and warmed it for a great purpose that she alone knew. Until she revealed her deepest secret to Reb Yakov the soyfer.

For two years, in the morning hours, Chana would sneak into Jame's alleyway to see how Reb Yakov went to immerse himself [at the ritual bath] before he took the goose feather to write her – Chana's Sefer-Torah – that would remain a remembrance after her wandering life. Chana's aged face became younger with each day… She threw off her many years as an abandoned woman. Her imbittered life again had a deep meaning, a solid content…

The entire shtetl of Jews solemnly prepared for the great holiday for the completion of the scroll. Reb Faywl Iser, the watchmaker, with his great fantasy, created a covered lantern with four corned small windows that were lit from inside by dozens of small candles. And when the lanterns were carried at night to the higher floors, it looked like some kind of fantastic illuminated balloon hung between the heaven and the earth.

The night of taking Chana's sefer into the synagogue was a white one, a star-studded one. The new sefer lay wrapped at the house of the soyfer. Respected members of the middle class stood around it as if it were a new-born child who was going to be made a Jew. Well-to-do Jews bought letters, entered for a price. Silver rubles flew to the city beadle, Kopl. One grabbed the best letter from the other, raising the price for the most expensive word.^[2]

Women were drawn from all corners of the city to Chana's small alcove. There a piece of red velvet with the 10 Commandments and two strong lions on the sides guarding the sacredness embroidered with silver stitches lay spread out with great importance. Only lacking was sewing together the velvet to become an embroidered cloak for the new scroll. However, a stitch in the sacred garment signified a remedy for various illnesses. For being barren, an abandoned wife and being an orphan. One could buy a stitch in the sacred cloak for a “ten-piece” coin. The last two stitches, however, were the softest, because with them the garment was finished. Therefore, there was a great competition. Esterl, Dovid Kon's [wife], the first rich woman in her lacey bonnet, three strings of fat pearls under her rosy double-chin, like a patrician said: Five rubles for the last two stitches.

Surale, Skharye's [wife], the second rich woman, in her taffeta crinoline, which richly made a noise with her every move, covered the price with: Eight rubles for the last two stitches.

Esterl patted her crepe bodice and cold-bloodedly counter-attacked: 10 rubles for the last two stitches.

Bayla-Minka, the wife of the city gabbai [manager of synagogue affairs], in her raw silk sheytl [wig], as if made from flax, with clear, wet eyes, loose blouse over a half dozen petticoats, had been at the cemetery and spoken at the holy man's ohel [tomb], asking for the joy, Rabbi, that the holy man not fail to come at the right time….

Looking stunned at the sudden “money war” with her watery eyes, Bayla Minka raised her shaking hands to the low ceiling and called out with a prayer melody:

– God Almighty, intervene…

But intervening was Reb Faywl Iser, who was afraid that the tallow candles in his artistic lantern could – God forbid – go out before the two rich stubborn ones would come to an agreement.

– I have good advice, Reb Faywl Iser blinked with his clever eyes. I propose that Esterl should stick the needle in and Surale should draw out the thread… Then Surale should stick the needle in and Esterl should draw out the thread – and let there be peace among the Jews…

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– Congratulations! – everyone shouted.

The orchestra already was standing near the scribe's low house. Reb Eli Klezmer's [musician] polished trombone strongly sparkled in the darkness, as if thin darts were burning under its cooper skin. Reb Shmuel Yekl, with his brown fiddle under his small chin leaned his left ear on its stiff strings and kept tuning it, sounding, humming, seeking the correct tone. Zisha, the barber sucked the tip of his silvered trumpet between his thin, girlish lips, marching. The half-blind Zerakh carried the large drum with a wide strap wrapped around his small back and he kept hitting the brass cymbals with a wooden stick, which grumbled as if someone had thrown small, hard stones at them. And when Reb Yakov Soyfer appeared in his worn kapote [kaftan] with the new Sefer [scroll] pressed to his heart, the out-of-tune orchestra gave such a fanfare that everyone's feet immediately began to dance and the holiday parade through the shtetl began. Provincial members of the middleclass, dressed in military uniforms with dragoon hats, like clowns, rode on horses with small lanterns in their hands and sang as on Simkhas Torah [holiday commemorating the completion of the yearly reading of the Torah and the start of the reading for the new year]. Other walked with pride with burning torches on high sticks and kept announcing: “Completion tribute in honor of the holy Torah.”

Four Beis haMedrashnikes [those who attend a house of prayer] in their short kapotes with shallow caps on their heads carried the khuppah [wedding canopy] poles. Under the khuppah a garland of Jews surrounded Reb Yakov and the new sefer. Their eyes fixed to heaven, they danced with the highest ecstasy.

Chana the Popkowicer, in a new curled sheitl [wig] that she had put on after twenty years as an abandoned wife, with a flushed face like a bride, was led by both rich women and all of the women in the shtetl, with lit candles in their hands, walked behind. Bayla-Minke clapped her hands: “In a good hour, in a fortunate hour.” Over everyone's heads, a full moon threw strips of silver on the nearest forest, from which tips of branches were clearly seen from afar. It seemed that they, the trees, were joining the celebration. The side fields and the green-covered meadows with their intoxicating aromas perfumed the sacred celebration. On the pointed roof of the old Krasnik synagogue, the full moon, which accompanied the parade through the entire shtetl, stopped first, to illuminate the arrival of the new sefer, and threw stripes of silver on the singing and dancing Jews.

With all of the shtetl women, Chana the Popkowicer had to separate, go up to the women's gallery; they sat below the brass chandeliers with the silver hanging lamps as hundreds of candles illuminated and brightened the painted synagogue walls; on the eastern side were painted, as if alive, a long fish, the Leviathan, the legendary giant ox and, opposite on the other wall, young angels with drums in their hands, appeared as if they were floating on the walls.

Chana's flushed face shone like the shkine [divine presence of God]. She knew that the angels were waiting for the shofar [ram's horn] announcing the arrive of Moshiakh [redeemer] and that Jews would be worthy; they would cut the Leviathan and the ox and divide the remnants among everyone in honor of the longed-for redemption. Chana's radiant eyes watched with joy as the congregation underneath joyfully celebrated. She heard them make the first hakofus [circular procession] with the sefer: “Please, God, save us now; please, God, bring success now.” The music played lyrically and Chana heard clearly how the angels on the wall were banging along on their gilded drums.

Suddenly, the women began to poke, jab her, wake her from her dreaminess: you can go down Chana, never mind, they will let you in… It is your celebration – they whispered in her ears. But Chana was embarrassed,

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blushed like a bride and waved away with her hand: - God protect [us]. A sinful woman goes down? God forbid, it is unworthy to push oneself. Unless, when the time comes. So she will be worthy for her husband to carry into the synagogue – then yes…

The time will come. Chana felt it the entire day in the strange beating of her joyful heart… Even remained breathless a few times She knew that this was all because of too much joy, from having completed her long years of striving, her dreamed dream. Now it was all the same to her…

And when the congregation opened the holy ark to place the new scroll in it, Chana saw that this opened a door to heaven… She saw a flame from thousands of candles, heard the sound of a heavenly band and felt as if she had begun to go higher and higher… Another step, another step and here – the heavenly gates suddenly were opened wide for her…

– Help! Chana fainted! Water! – the congregation began to clamor from all sides.

But when they came with a little water, Chana, the woman from Popkow, already was in heaven…

It was after the First World War. A post-war civilization began to bloom in the shtetl… The few remaining young men, “privileged” and just half crippled, proudly grew double chins, became men of illustrious birth. Expediently, they looked over the Austrian-German borders, flirted with yearning girls of marriage age, and dated without any serious intention.

Alas, it was a dark and bitter time for the mature marriageable girls, for the unmarried, sick women and for those youthful widowed women, whose beloved men remained on the bloody battlefields.

Many Jewish soldiers from Galicia, Austria, who no longer had someone to hurry home to remained in the Polish military, continued a barracks life and skipped through Jewish alleys in fresh great coats, new bootlegs, with grey strips wrapped around their knees, which the shtetl people immediately honored with the old-new nickname: “remaining rag dolls.”

Mature girls who were serious prospects actually began cleaning and decorating themselves with particular fervor. While indeed they were soldiers, some were handsome, intelligent and, after all, males…

The girls could not make any new clothing, but used old sacks, mended straw mats dyed with multi-colors, appropriate for their young, quivering breasts in lightly painted cloth, bare beautiful legs in short petticoats and flirting around the green meadows where the proud “only sons” and newly hatched soldiers ceaselessly flirted, whistled along to romantic war songs and made a date with the dreamy young girls who still hoped for a bit of God in heaven…

Erev [the eve of] Passover arrived. The spring sun melted the wintery, frozen rivers. The shtetl fields were adorned with green, aromatic carpets; the thick gardens were clad in white, fresh blossoms. Mature cows with full udders and young calves who looked at the barefooted shepherds whistling joyful melodies on plain, hollowed out bones and cheerfully danced along with the warm rise of a new summer…

The shtetl women, with caps in disarray, turned up petticoats and worn-out slippers aired old-style men's coats, beige satin clothing, crepe bodices, which it was a sin to throw out and, therefore, fed moths and insects in most closets the entire year.

The Passover kvas [fermented beverage] had already soured in the koshered barrels; the frothy raisin wine bubbled in the large vertical carafes. The porters brought full baskets of brown matzos from the bakeries. Through the streets and backstreets, the spring breezes [caused]

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entire stacks of rotted hay to flutter in the wind, twisted straw, caught rancid smells of discarded khometz [food not kosher for Passover]… The cleaned houses already smelled of fresh whitewash, speckled with koshered cleanliness.

On that erev [eve of] Passover, pious Jews prevailed in having all the Jewish soldiers freed for the two Seder nights.

Prosperous members of the middle class, gazing with paternal care at the adult stature of their mature daughters, quietly whispered to their busy wives:

– Perhaps [I should] bring home a soldier for the Seder? Because, Goteniu getreyer [dear God], with Him everything is possible… Marriage matches sometimes disguise themselves in military great coats, emerge mainly from afar. And, anyway, it is a great mitzvah [commandment, good deed] to bring home a soldier from afar for the Seder.

This time, young women from the shtetl [town], decorated the rooms better and more beautifully, knowing that a strange man would be at the table. They spent a long time adorning themselves in the light of the mirror and dreamed – a corporal, a sergeant or perhaps even an officer?

A pious unmarried girl already in her twenties had been raised by the town shoemaker… She was tall, dexterous, with long, blond braids and large, round amber-colored eyes that sparkled on her pale face like diamonds pasted in platinum. Her proper hands were always embroidering lingerie, finishing wedding dresses for unfamiliar brides, but for herself she constantly remade things from her mother's and grandmother's old trousseaus… Yet Dinala, the daughter of the shoemaker, knew the secret of how to adorn old things and how to look as if she was wearing sumptuous clothing. However, this did not help her attain a match without a dowry…

On that erev Pesakh [eve of Passover], the poor shoemaker permitted himself to dream aloud: Should he bring a soldier home to the seder? Huh? What do you think, women?

The wife of the shoemaker, a preoccupied Jewish woman wearing a worn-out sheitl [wig worn by married, pious women], with a grey winter coat on her hunchbacked spine, placed a pair of frightened pitiful eyes on her muddled husband: Crazy? Madman? Who are you? Rothschild?

However, Avigdor wiped his turned-up nose with the edge of his sleeve and firmly answered: Yes, I will bring one…

Dinala's large amber eyes flashed thankfully at her resolved father; she gushed quietly:

– There is nothing to be ashamed of with poverty. Our small house gleams; the embroidered matzo bag is overfilled… The aroma of the gefilte fish on the Passover platter permeates the entire alleyway (and she surreptitiously looked at herself in the mirror). There is nothing here to fear; let him bring a soldier to the seder.

After praying, all of the girls in the shtetl, dressed up in their best dresses, with shampooed hair and red faces, stood near their open windows, fidgeting with impatience, anxious to see what kind of person their father would bring home…

The shtetl richest man appeared in his beautiful, satin kapote [kaftan], with his wide red beard and wide gegartlter [wearing a gartl – cloth belt worn by pious men] around his waist, walking with measured steps like a king to his secure throne. Near him in wide gaiters [buttoned lower-leg covering] walked a short soldier in a long great coat from which his long head was barely visible; from under his military visor shone a pair of small, barely visible eyes.

The girls, who were afraid that the rich man would grab the handsomest soldier, breathed easier; they did not begrudge him the guest… Although they knew well that the rich man's thousands-of-rubles dowry would not in any case be received by any soldier.

And then the second richest man strode gracefully; his sable shtreiml [fur hat worn by Hasidim] gleamed, his beard also gleamed. Near him, a dark, strong soldier strode idly with the wrapped edging [of his pants] casting a shadow; he could not keep up with

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the healthy stride of [the] aristocratic middle class; he constantly remained behind and looked as if he would trail behind… The second richest man did not necessarily look for the nicest soldier. What concerned him? A soldier was a soldier; the main thing is the mitzvah [commandment – good deed].

Then Avigdor the shoemaker appeared in his moldy-green kapote [long black coat worn by pious men]; his small shoulders were a little rounded. His sorrowful eyes looked at the ground as if he was embarrassed for someone, or was afraid… Avigdor was looking at something on his right… A tall soldier was striding with healthy steps in a well-fitted great coat; three silvered ribbons were sewn on his wide epaulets…

The shtetl girls actually let out a surprised shout:

– Ha, people! Look who the bungler chose – one with three stripes [corporal]! Looks like a yedneral [general]… He will look at the ridiculous unmarried one and he will run away from the seder… No, he will not need to run away because he will not even sit down… There were guesses from all sides.

Meanwhile, other Jews appeared with other soldiers; every girl was busy searching for her predestined one, her own fate… Perhaps? If?

The Passover night was very cool, a starry one. The full moon sat as if on the top roof of the old synagogue, flooding the mossy, dreamy roofs with opaque silver and as if specially in honor of Passover, spread clear, grey illumination through the Ryczówer highway… From the open windows could be seen the twinkling melting wicks of the dying candles. The last notes of the Had gadya, had gadya [One little goat – song sung at the end of the seder] was still heard from some houses. And then appeared the first strolling couples, who had just left the seder tables, shy, still hardly knowing each other… In the houses, they had quietly thought, read a few words. However, now they were under the open sky; the intoxicated moon as if enchanted by its own silver wine illuminated the sidewalk like the middle of the day. The couples now saw each other clearer than under the red beams of brass hanging lamps. Their tongues became looser, the soldiers bolder, they permitted themselves to hold hands. From the meadows carried the enchanted spring fragrances of the blossoming hay. There was the scent of fresh lilacs near the city hall garden and young hearts longed, dreamed; they looked in each other's eyes, embarrassed; dreams mixed with truth and it seemed that they knew each other a long time, very long…

Cheerful and joyful, modest young women strolled like this, with the invited soldiers on a magnificent, star-filled seder night.

But there emerged from the Jame alleyway a dejected Dinala, in light summer slippers, polished by her father's devoted hands and with his dreamy confidence… Her white petticoat made from her mother's hoop skirt was blinding. The rose-colored, well-suited blouse, made of her grandmother's long cape showed a ripe, already developed femininity… Her loose, blond braids looked like two golden chains around the decolletage of her dress yoke. The sky, the moon and the quiet sorrow of a poor, mature young woman were mirrored in her round amber eyes… And she looked entirely like a lost princess in an invented children's story…

The corporal with three stripes wore a well-pressed suit. His black curly hair was raised askew. On his genteel brown face, there was a tender smile and, with genteel tenderness, he led Dinala so delicately, as if he were holding an expensive porcelain; he looked at her with experience, manly astonishment and whispered quietly in her ear…

All of the shtetl girls appeared intrigued, slowed their walk. They made way for them, as if a tzarina had suddenly appeared. Some soldiers politely saluted the corporal…

Women looked enviously, not believing their eyes, speaking to each other through the windows: Look how beautiful she is; they are leading the “entrepreneur”; he will yet mistreat her … And

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later send back returned goods… Everyone had an opinion.

Only the believing shoemaker and his distressed wife remained sitting at the seder table, quietly crumbling and breaking the last pieces of the afikoman [half-piece of matzo eaten at the end of the seder] and piously prayed to the great, Almighty One who knows the entire truth and sees everything, so He would judge their daughter's merit as acceptable…

After Passover they whispered everywhere, hoping to learn if something had occurred somewhere… If “bread” would grow from the rye… But not everyone's longed for dreams came true… Because the greater number of soldiers hid [the information] about their wives and children. Letters came to the town rabbi that the immoral people, who wanted to violate Rabbeinu Gershom's ban against polygamy and a woman being divorced against her wishes, should be sent in a procession of prisoners under escort…

Only one serious match turned out well – Dinala the shoemaker's rejected daughter…

A tall Galicianer Jew in a long, ribbed-fabric fur-lined overcoat, which glued itself to his high bootleg as if a hard clod of dirt, came to the [discussion of the] engagement contract. He gave a Hasidic glance at his only son's destined one and thought: according to her face she was a beautiful woman and according to the cleanliness of the house, an efficient housekeeper. He immediately offered her a golden medallion: Here you have a gift for the engagement. And so with this you will decorate the tea cart…

And when offering greetings to his small in-law, he, the Galicianer, looked like Og, the king of the Bashan, standing near a dwarf.

Dinala's khuppah [wedding canopy] was near the old synagogue where all the disappointed girls stood with their heads down, quietly sighing, with colorful lit candles along with the thousands of stars in heaven illuminating the handsome man with three stripes, leading his chosen one to a private room where a golden broth and their newly built house awaited them.

Shtetl skeptics and “professional” non-believers looking at the richly star-studded heaven and at the newly dismantled khuppah poles, quietly had to admit that someone must be sitting [in heaven] who was watching, making an accounting and calculating the correct balance…

The marketplace

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My acquaintance with Krasnik originated in my young years.

Born in Belzec, I would come very often, particularly on the holiday days to my brother-in-law, Berishl the butcher who was a resident of Krasnik. My brother-in-law was a simple man-of-the people, but very honest, with a good heart. He lived in wanes^[1] and was known as a rare, sincere man, permeated with compassion for his poor neighbors.

I was told that when a poor neighbor had put together a few groshn and would appear at his butcher shop to buy a half pound of meat for Shabbos [Sabbath] for her household of eight people, he would give her two pounds and would tell her to pay for half a pound. He would then add, as if speaking to himself: “I have put in a half pound of very good meat here. When you cook it, you will have a respectable portion to give to all of your children.”

Understand that he could not become a rich man from such “trade,” particularly as he was himself a father of six children: five daughters and a son, Yerakhmiel. At this opportunity, it is worthwhile to remember that Yerakhmiel later, during the cruel years of Hitler's rule in Poland, became the leader of a group of partisans that operated in the forests around Krasnik where he carried out various actions against the Germans and their Polish collaborators.

May these notes serve as a monument for Yerakhmiel, the unknown hero, who fell with weapons in his hands during an action and for his entire family, which perished in a murderous manner.

I would come to Krasnik for every undertaking of the Culture Union. Here there was revealed to me the extraordinary activity of the young who bubbled with so much life and a thirst for knowledge. At the Culture Union we discussed Yiddish literature, science, socialism, Marxism, religion, history and so on. The young took part in all of the discussions (thanks to the evening courses) with such seriousness and fervor.

I remember that after such an evening, Chayla Gutwilik and I discussed a political question. The answers of the young, sympathetic girl are etched in my memory, of how much erudition she expressed in her thoughts and how respectfully those present listened to her.

Chayla Gutwilik was deported from Paris with a daughter and both perished in the Hitler camps.

On that evening, I also, for the first time, made the acquaintance of our present president, the dear Comrade Maks. In the course of this discussion, a comrade said to Chayla: “Go look for Meir (Maks).” It did not take long and the door opened and a short, powerful young man appeared with a smile on his face. As soon as he was seen, everyone shouted as one: “Here is Meir, make room for Meir.” And the discussion again flared up: about the position of the Bund on the Jewish question and on general political life in Poland and so on.

We separated when the sky became brighter with the rising sun, with a promise that tomorrow we would continue…

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The Ryczówer Road

In the morning, when I appeared on the Ryczówer road, everyone who was walking there greeted me with a smile on their lips as if I was an old, good friend. Here, they forgot about last night's arguments, strolling together like the best of friends. I was welcomed into the large family of the young Krasnikers with open arms.

The Ryczówer road was the “exchange” for the young people. Here, Zionists, Bundists, Poalei-Zionistn [Marxist Zionists], communists and plain Jews were seen strolling. Everyone discussed political problems; would the Pilsudski regime ease the situation for the Jewish working class, would they need to fight for a Jewish worker to become a street cleaner or a railroad worker?

After one such animated stroll on the Ryczówer road, a tall, solid Pole with dark whiskers approached me and asked me to go to the police with him. This was, if I am not making a mistake, the secret agent, Kaminski. He accused me of coming [to Krasnik] to carry out “communist propaganda.” All of my arguments that I had only come to spend a little time in Krasnik only enraged the secret agent. When he telephoned Belzec and then my brother-in-law, Berishl the butcher, intervened, he let me go. However, I had to pay a fine for not reporting to the police as soon as I had arrived. (I later learned that this Kaminski was shot by the Germans accused of two-sided work.)

Thus I ended the first phase of my acquaintance with the Krasnik young people, an acquaintance that stamped my life's journey, tied and bound me to the Krasnik community that was so close and dear to me.

In 1926, at approximately the same time I began to come to Krasnik more often, at a congress in Lublin of the

Amateur Troupe in Krasnik (1920-1921)

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Bund Youth – Tsukunft [Future] – I became acquainted with Comrade Yitzhak Lemer, a young man full of dynamism and energy who had a great academic background of knowledge. He was then the chairman of the leather branch and chairman of the municipal cultural union to which he would dedicate his free time to teach the Krasnik young people, out of whom grew great people with an instinct for communal life. (Yitzhak died prematurely, during his most successful years.)

He was the one who prompted me to come more often to Krasnik, where I was surrounded with a warm friendship by all his comrades, as well as Y. Cyngiser.

Yankl Cyngiser, one of the leaders of the Bund

Today, a scant forty years [later], when I remember all of my friends from Krasnik and from Belzec who dreamed and fought to renew the world, I see their bright images in a dream and young lives that were cut down in their blossoming years. Honor their memory!

We, the lucky survivors, must never forget who cut short all of the young lives.

May these words serve as a headstone for those from Belzec as well as for the young from Krasnik, who had the same hopes and belief in a more beautiful and better world for everyone.

After the cruel war, when after five years I returned from enslavement in Germany, I had the joy of finding my friends from Krasnik (not many Jews from Belzec remained). Here, I learned from Georges Gorfinkl, Leibl Farber and from all of those I knew from before the war that there were those who came from Krasnik in Paris who were active in the resistance movement; many of whom paid with their young lives as was the case of the two Goldbaum brothers, Mendl Rozencwajg, Moris Grinwald, Yankele Zilberfajn, Tsheytel Flam (Lederfajn), Wolf Wajsbrot.

Consequently, I, with complete awareness, joined the Friends of Krasnik society.

At our first meeting after the liberation to memorialize all of the survivors from Krasnik and its surroundings, I “became” a Krasniker. I carry the name with pride and honor.

Translator's footnote:

1. There is no indication that Wanes is a place name as no town can be found with this name. Wanes is a Yiddish word meaning bathtubs. The exact meaning of the word here is unsure. The closest Yiddish town name to Wanes is Voynitch or Wojnicz. return

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