Voice of Kremenets Emigrants in Israel and the Diaspora,
Booklet 17

Eli Reznik's Family	6
Organization's First Hanukkah Party	8
The Water Carrier	32
The Great Synagogue in Shumsk	40
Aharon Lukacher	45
Shimon Pelets	45
Mordekhay Dagan (Korin)	46
Simcha Ginosar (Gintsburg)	49
Lieutenant Colonel Mordekhay (Bishbeyn) Barmor	50
Tsalik Golberg	52

Abir, Avraham	60
Agar	26
Akerman, Ikhel	37, 38
Akerman, Moshe	37, 38
Akerman, Yankel	37, 38
Amburski, Mendel	63
Amitay, Chana	60
Anski, S.	35
Argaman, Avraham	ii, 62
Arly, A.	61
Asch, Sholem	41
Avidar, Yosef	54, 60
Avrekh-Berger, Sosye	61
Ayelet, Yakov	62
Ayzen, Leyb	10, 54
Ayzinfreser, Miryam	60
Bakimer, David	61
Balter, Chayim	44
Balter, Munya	44
Balter, Yekusiel	44
Barak, Dvora	60
Barats, Berl	15
Barats, Simcha	15
Bar-Mor, Amos	54
Bar-Mor*, Galit	54
Bar-Mor, Shoshana	54
Barmor, Mordekhay (Motke), Lt. Col. (see also Bishbeyn; Bar-Mor)	50-51
Barmor*, Sara (see also Bar-Mor)	51, 54, 61
Barshap, Jacques	64
Barshap, Yitschak	62
Barshap-Karpel, Bronya	61
Barukh	30
Basuk, Moshe	42
Bayarski, A.	58
Beker, Yisrael	17
Belohus, Shmuel (Mila)	48
Belohus, Yasha	48
Ben David, Yehuda	51
Ben-Yehuda*, Ester (Fira) (née Leviten)	54
Benderski, Okel	58
Benkovski	25
Bentsines, Hertsel	39
Berele the Water Carrier	30-32
Berenshteyn*	61
Berenshteyn* (wife of Tsvi)	65
Berenshteyn, Chayim Tsvi	56
Berenshteyn*, Lisa	56
Berenshteyn, Tsvi	ii, 54, 58, 65
Berg, Zev	62
Berger, Reyzel	62
Berman, Yakov	61
Bern, Eliakum	60
Bernshteyn, Aleksander	60
Bernshteyn*, Liza	54
Bernshteyn, Riva	8 (photo)
Beznoski, Leon	58
Bialer	15
Biberman, Feyga	1
Biberman, L.	36
Bikovski	5
Bina, Vered	62
Binyamin the Long	40
Bishbeyn, Manus	51
Bishbeyn, Mordekhay (Motke; see also Barmor, Mordekhay)	50-51
Bodker, Avraham	60
Borbil, Pinya	58
Bornshetyn-Otsnik, Frida	42
Brik, Luzer	8 (photo)
Brotski, Tsonye	64
Broytman, Yashke	35
Bruce (husband of Dina, granddaughter of David Rapoport)	54
Brufman, Sara	61
Byk, Fred	64
Chasid*, Etye	65
Chelben, Moshe	61
Cherlov, Batya	60
Dagan, Mordekhay (see also Korin)	46-47
Desser, Mark	65
Desser, Max	ii, 65
Desser, Morris	64
Diamend, Miryam	60
Dina (granddaughter of David Rapoport)	54
Dishel, Sh.	36
Ditun, Leya	60
Dobrova, Mikhail	24
Dorfman, Bernardo	59
Dorfman, Manya	59
Dubikirer	36
Dugi, Avraham	63
Efrus (wife of Poznanski)	8 (photo)
Egozi*, Bilka (née Senderovits)	54
Eki (the tailor)	22
Elagin, Ivan	24-26
Engelman, Avraham Duvid	55
Engelman*, Beba (née Nudel)	55
Engelman, Moshe	55
Eydelman, Klara	8 (photo), 54
Fayer*, Chana	43, 57, 59, 65
Fayer, Chayim	10, 43, 57, 58, 59, 65
Feldman, Dora	8 (photo)
Fiks, Chaya	60
Fiks, Sara	61
Fingerhut, Avraham	62
Fisherman, Avraham	7
Fisherman, Rachel	61
Fishman*, Ester (née Rosenberg)	56
Fishman, Gitil Duvidovna	41
Fishman, Yasha	58
Fishman, Yitschak	56
Flom, Shmuel	44
Frishberg	10
Fuks, Sam	64
Galperin, Tsipora	60
Garber, Chaskel	59
Garber*, Fanya	59
Gertman, Sonya	60
Gilboa, Menuche, Dr.	1
Gindis (ORT School administrator)	41
Ginosar, Simche (see also Gintsburg)	49-50
Ginosar*, Zahara	50
Gintsburg, Simche (see also Ginosar)	49-50
Gintsburg, Aharon	61
Gintsburg, Baron	41
Gintsburg, Pinchas	20, 49
Gintsburg, Tsirel	61
Gluzman, Eliezer	60
Gluzman, L.	36
Gluzman, Yitschak	62
Gokun, Avraham	60
Golan, Avraham	49
Golan, Shalom	61
Golberg, Betsalel (Tsalik)	52, 65
Golberg, Yehoshue	ii, 42, 60, 61, 65, 65
Golcher, Moshe	60, 62
Gold, Doris B.	48, 64
Gold, Leya	48
Goldberg, Yehoshue	57
Goldenberg*, Chana	8 (photo), 29
Goldenberg, Eliyahu	8 (photo)
Goldenberg, Hadasa	60
Goldenberg, Manus	ii, 8 (photo), 9, 10, 15, 20, 27, 29, 35, 48, 49, 50
Goldgart, Menachem	10
Goldman, Menucha	54
Goldsher, Hilel	58
Goldshteyn*, Rivke (née Reznik)	6, 6 (photo)
Goldshteyn, Yitschak	6, 6 (photo)
Golifman, Artsi	58
Golikhen, Yakov	21
Goltsberg	62
Goltsberg, Leya	8 (photo)
Goltsberg, Yitschak	8 (photo)
Goltser, Meir	12
Goltser*, Mindel	12
Gorelikov, Moshe	44
Goren, Betsalel (see also Gorodiner, Alter)	ii, 21, 22, 30, 37, 46
Gorenfeld, Andzya	60
Gorenshteyn, Andre	64
Gorenshteyn, Shmuel	28
Gorodiner, Alter (see also Goren, Betsalel)	ii, 21, 22, 30, 37, 46
Gorodiner, Chave	21, 22
Gorodiner, Yitschak	21
Gorshteyn, Simon	62
Grade, Chayim	1
Grinshtok, Fedor Timopirovits	24-26
Grin-Tova, Gitil	61
Groysblat, Ester	56
Gun, Shmuel	12
Gurvits, Moti (see also Mezhe, Moti)	39
Gurvits, Yetske (see also Mezhe, Yetske)	38, 39, 40
Hadari, Pinchas	62
Halperin, Rut	60
Harari, Sara	60
Har-Tsion, Meir	61
Heler, Yitschak	63
Hemniuk	19
Hershele (cantor's son)	38
Hes, Moshe	1
Heyman, Malka	61
Hofman, Shalom	61
Hofman, Shlome	63
Hofshteyn, Duvid	1
Hokhgelerenter, Yitschak	58
Horovits, Tsvi	63
Isakov, Etel	60
Ish-Tov, Eitana	54
Ish-Tov*, Fanya	54, 61, 65
Ish-Tov, Shraga	54
Kagan, Moshe	60
Kagan, Netanel	62
Kagan, Tsvi (see also Kohen, Tsvi)	60
Kaminski, Iser	57
Kantor, B.	60
Kantor*, Bat-Sheva	54
Kantor, Daniel Max	54
Kantor, Ehud	54
Kantor*, Rachel	54
Kaplan family	64
Karkoviak, Shalom	60
Katsman, Chana	62
Katz, Ester	60
Katz, Marcus	ii
Katz, Mordekhay	10, 43, 57, 59, 64
Katz,* Tsipora (Tsipa)	10, 36, 37, 43, 57, 59
Kaufman, Chulio	61
Kaufman, Yehuda (see also Shikhman, Yehuda)	7, 17
Kesler, Senya	8 (photo)
Kesler, Yitschak	60
Kiperman*, Chayka	59
Kiperman, Nute	59
Kirzshner	58
Kiselevski, Felisa	55
Kiselevski, Idel	55
Kiselevski, Natalio	55
Kiselevski*, Roksana	55
Kiselevski, Ruven-Amar	55
Kisselhof	35
Kletski, Fani	44
Kligman, Zev	60
Klinger	5
Klorfayn, Leya	8 (photo)
Kloyzman, Dov	62
Kogan, William	ii, 64
Kohen, Rachel	60
Kohen, Tsvi (see also Kagan, Tsvi)	60
Kopiko, Tselke	39
Koren, Tsvi	63
Korin, Mordekhay (see also Dagan, Mordekhay)	46-47
Korin, Sara	61
Kornits, Shraga	61
Kotkovnik, Babe	55
Kotkovnik*, Gitel	55, 59
Kotkovnik, Idel	58
Kotlir, Leyb	8 (photo)
Kravits, Luba	62
Krementshugski, Moshe	8 (photo)
Krementsutski, Moshe (see also Tsur, Moshe)	60
Krementsutski, Sima	61
Kreytshmer	17
Kucher, Leybish	62
Kucher, Pola	60
Kundzior, Gedalyahu	60
Landesberg, Avraham	48
Landsberg, Avraham	65
Landsberg*, Chana	65
Laybel	15
Laybel sisters	36
Laybel, Yisrael	9, 64
Lelke	30
Lemel	30
Lerer, Duvid	17
Levinzon, Yitschak Ber, R' (RYB”L )	1, 18, 41
Leviten, Arye	62
Leviten, Eben Yehuda	62
Leviten, Ester (Fira)	54
Levitin, Bat-Sheva	54
Libman, Moshe	58, 59
Libman, Zhenya	59
Lifshits*, Leya	60
Litvintshuk, Hershel	58
Livne, Chayim (see also Yokelson, Chayim)	42, 60
Lukacher, Aharon	45
Magali-Kloyzman, Sara	60
Mandelblat, Bela	65
Manor, Menashe	54
Manor, Mordekhay Rom	54
Manor*, Shoshana (née Bar-Mor)	54
Manusovits, Shmuel	60
Marder	24
Margalit, Yosef	65
Marshak, Rachel	60
Mazur*, Ama	63
Medler, Morris	64
Medler, Moshe	27-29
Medler, Shimon	27
Meir, Golda	57
Menin, Leyb	58
Meyler, Y.	36
Mezhe, Moti (see also Gurvits, Moti)	39
Mezhe, Yetske (see also Gurvits, Yetske)	38, 39, 40
Miler	25, 26
Milshteyn, Sara	62
Mochan, Shmuel	60
Mordekhay'le, R'	37, 38
Mordish, Arye	ii
Mordish, Chayim	58
Mordish, Shmuel	61
Mordish, Y. A.	62, 64, 66
Motel (kiosk owner)	42
Motele (cantor's son)	38
Moti “Bochkes"	39, 40
Mozinski	46
Nachichke (wife of Berele the Water Carrier)	31, 32
Nadir*, Rachel (née Otiker)	8 (photo), 60
Nelik	58
Nelik*, Freyda	53
Nelik, Babtsi	53
Nelik, Nachum	53
Nelik, Ruven	53
Nelik, Yitschak	53
Nudel, Chayim	55, 57, 59
Nudel*, Feyga	55, 59
Nudel, Shlome	58
Nusman, Aleksander	60
Ofer, Avraham “Boichkes"	39, 40
Oks*, Brayne	58, 58
Oks, Velvel	57, 58, 59
Osovski*, Tsipora (née Galperin)	60
Ostrovski, Niknor	24
Otiker, Rachel	8 (photo), 60
Ot-Yakar, Mordekhay	ii, 26, 50, 61
Ovadis, Chayim	19, 20
Ovadis*, Emelye (née Perlmuter)	19, 20
Ovadis family	19, 20
Ovadis, Mitya	19
Ovadis, Niosha	19, 20, 49
Ovadis, Sofia (Sonya)	19, 20, 21
Ovadis, Yosef	19
Ovelonitsik, Vira Sergeyvina	25
Pak* (wife of Moshe)	65
Pak, Avraham	48
Pak, Leyzer	48
Pak, Moshe	43, 44, 64, 65
Parnas, Yitschak	62
Peker*, Freyda	58
Peker, Moshe	58
Pelets, Menachem	60
Pelets, Mendel	45
Pelets, Shimon	45
Pelets, Vita	45
Perets, Aharon	1
Perlmuter, Beydish	19
Perlmuter, Ruven	19
Perlmuter, Sonye	19
Pesis, Dvora	62
Pifman*, Tsviya	63
Pikhovits, Yurek	63
Pishhot-Grinberg, Tsviya	61
Poliakov, Sh.	41
Poltorek, Adalya	8 (photo), 61
Poltorek*, Adina	63
Poltorek, Chanulya	8 (photo)
Poltorek, Shlome	60
Popov, Vladimir Aktsivich	26
Portnoy*, Chinya	12
Portnoy, Yitschak	12, 63
Poznanski (not given)	8 (photo)
Prilutski, Eliyahu	60
Prilutski, Moshe	60
Pundik*, Menucha	54
Pundik, Moshe	60
Pundik, Yosef	54
Radzivilover, Matityahu (Matus)	15-16, 65
Rafalovitsh, Shmuel (see also Tsherepashnik, Shmuel	17, 60
Rapoport, David	14, 34, 54, 64
Raykh, Aleksander (Senya)	20, 21, 41
Raykh*, Sofia (Sonya; née Ovadis)	19, 20, 21
Raykh, Yosef	19, 20
Reznik, Eliyahu	6, 6 (photo)
Reznik, Feynale	6
Reznik*, Rachel	6, 6 (photo)
Reznik, Rivke	6, 6 (photo)
Rokhel, Moshe	60
Rokhel, Sara	60
Rokhel, Yitschak	ii, 8 (photo), 50
Rokhel, Yosef	54
Rotenberg*, Andzya (née Gorenfeld)	60
Rotenberg, Pinchas	21
Roykh, Beyla	56
Roykh*, Rivka	58
Roykh, Yisrael	58
Roykh, Zlate	56
Roykhman, Avraham	62
Royt, Zeyde	4
Royzman, Dvora	57
Roytblat, Feygale	58
Rozen, Mendel	37, 38
Rozenberg, Chayim	56, 58
Rozenberg, Ester	56
Rozenberg, Moshe	54
Rozenberg*, Rachel	54
Rozenberg, Sheyndil	56
Rozenberg, Yonatan	54, 60
Rozenberg*, Zahava	54
Rozenblit, B.	60
Rozenboym, Avraham	25
Rozenboym, Elizabet	25
Rozenboym, Munye	25
Rozenfeld, Avrasha	20
Rozental, Aleksander	18
Rozental, Y.	18
Rubenshteyn, Ester	61
Rubin, Duvid, R'	7
Rubin, Hadasa	63
Safir, Yosef	61
Schwartz, Rosaline see also Shvarts, Rachel)	34
Seden-Senderovits, Rachel	60
Segal, Shmuel	62
Sela, Aharon	62
Senderovits, Bilka	54
Senderovits, Rabbi	54
Shafir*, Chana (Chanulya; née Poltorek)	8 (photo), 61, 65
Shafir, Yakov	8 (photo)
Shavit, Melekh	62
Shayka	52
Shepetiskaya	26
Sher*, Chave	56
Sher, Duvid	58
Sher*, Ester (née Groysblat)	56
Sher, Motye	56
Sher, Reyzel	58, 64, 65
Sher, Shaul	56
Sheref, Mikhal	1
Shifris, Bela	60
Shifris, Yosef	5
Shikhman, Duvid, R'	7
Shikhman, Itsik	58
Shikhman, Yehuda (see also Kaufman, Yehuda)	7, 17
Shklovin*, Chane (née Perlmuter)	19
Shklovin, Sheyne	19
Shnayder, Batya	60
Shnayder, Eliyahu	60
Shnayder*, Ester	1, 64
Shnayder, Miryam	60
Shnayder, Moshe	8 (photo)
Shnayder, Vulf	9, 64
Shnayder, Zev	1
Shnayder-Terom, Chava	61
Shnitser, Nachman	60
Shnitser, Tsirele	60
Shpak*, Ester	59
Shpak, Yitschak	59
Shperber, Akiva	62
Shpigel, Avraham	56
Shpigel*, Chaika	56
Shpigel, Efraim	56
Shpigel family	58
Shpigel*, Leya	56
Shrayber, A.	15
Shrentsel, Avraham	60
Shtern, Chayim	60
Shteynberg, Sara	62
Shuber, Frida	63
Shulik	58
Shvarts, Betsalel	61
Shvarts, Rachel (see also Schwartz, Rosaline)	34
Shvarts, Shlome	63
Shvartsberg, Alon	54
Shvartsberg*, Eitana	54
Shvartsberg, Shlomi	54
Singalovski	1
Sitsuk, Atara	60
Skolski, Sh.	ii, 1, 20
Sobol	4
Sofer, Avraham	60
Sokoler, Mordekhay	63
Sorele (daughter of Feynale Reznik)	6
Spektor, B.	36
Spektor, Naomi	60
Stern, Isaac	54
Stis, Moshe	60
Stoler, Yosef	60
Taytsher, Chayim	64
Telerman, Meri	65
Teper	62, 66
Teper, Natan	61
Toren*, Dora (née Feldman)	8 (photo)
Toren, Dvora	8 (photo)
Tshatski, Jacques	64
Tshatski, Motel	58
Tsherepashnik, Shmuel (see also Rafalovitsh, Shmuel)	17, 60
Tshudnovksi, Bernardo (Berele)	55
Tshudnovksi, Katia	55, 64
Tshudnovksi, Pinya	55, 58
Tshudnovksi*, Silvia	55
Tshudnovski Getsik, Feyga	58
Tsimels-Kaganovits, Malka	60
Tsinele (daughter of Berele the water carrier)	31, 21
Tsizin*, Chana	65
Tsizin, Shmuel	65
Tsizin, Yankel	28
Tsoref	62
Tsukerman, David	60
Tsukerman, Yitschak	42
Tsur, Moshe (see also Krementsutski, Moshe)	60
Tsur, Leya (née Lifshits)	60
Tsvik, Yoski	58
Vakman, Yitschak	27, 64
Valakh, Fanya	62
Valkun*, Pola (née Kucher)	60
Vanda*, Ronya	61
Vaynberg, Helen	64
Vays	25, 26
Vaysberg	25
Vaysman, Sh.	ii, 62
Velberg	8 (photo)
Velberg, Aharon	62
Veldberg, Dov	60
Vinder, David	62
Vinston, Yitschak	62
Vishniv, Pesach	62
Vulf (ORT School janitor)	42
Yaganziski	58
Yakobson, Dr.	38
Yashpe, Arye	60
Yechezkel (husband of Feynale Reznik)	6
Yegelom, Zina	64
Yergis, Avraham	59
Yergis*, Freyda	59
Yokelson, Chayim (see also Livne, Chayim)	42
Yosef	62
Yosl (uncle of Tsipe Katz)	36
Yukelis	61
Zaltsman, Viktor	58
Zats*, Klara (née Eydelman)	8 (photo), 54, 61
Zeger, Liova	61
Zemberg, Yehuda	60
Zeyger*, Chaya	54
Zeyger, Meir	54
Zeyger, Rivka	60
Zeyger, Rut	54
Zidli Yisrael Meirs	40
Zinger, Shifra	60
Zitser, Shimon	62

This booklet, number 17, is the second booklet published on behalf of the joint Organization of Kremenets and Shumsk Emigrants. As of now, we can say that the merger has been successful. Shumsk emigrants participate in board meetings and other activities. This booklet reflects the pasts of Shumsk and Kremenets side by side, and the scope of this booklet is therefore wider than that of previous booklets.

In November 1979, member Zev Shnayder and his wife Ester, residents of Detroit in the United States, came to visit us. Member Shnayder introduced the idea of creating a library of Enlightenment literature named after RYB”L (R' Yitschak Ber Levinzon). He is well versed in RYB”L's books, and every once in a while he publishes studies on this subject in Yiddish and Hebrew. He is also encouraging us to develop the RYB”L Library. The Katz Institute gave a festive dinner in their honor in the Tel Aviv University cafeteria, and a reception on behalf of our organization took place at our clubhouse, with board members and their guests participating in this festive evening. A number of new ideas emerged from these meetings, and a few have already borne results. We agreed to send a flier to universities in the United States asking them to send us any duplicate copies of Enlightenment literature books. The flier has already been sent to a list of universities provided by member Shnayder. We may see some results. In addition, it was suggested that over time we produce a new book about the town of Kremenets and its vicinity, as well as a memorial book for Shumsk^[1]. This book would be based on Pinkas Kremenets, published in Israel in 1954, and the Kremenets book published in Argentina. The basis for the book will be material in the 17 Voice of Kremenets Emigrants booklets. In a meeting at the university, member Shnayder brought up an original idea, which is a study of RYB”L's innovations and the intellectuals in Germany.

Member Shnayder is co-editor with the author Singalovski of Our Own World, a literary periodical published in New York. In previous booklets, we printed articles by member Shnayder about Moshe Hes and Chayim Grade, and also poems by Duvid Hofshteyn, of blessed memory (murdered by the Soviets in 1952). He was the husband of Feyga Biberman, a Kremenets native who now lives in Tel Aviv.

Recently, two books were published with the aid of our scholarship fund: (1) Don't Scorn a Thief, edited by Dr. Menucha Gilboa, and (2) poetry by Aharon Perets of Tunisia, edited by Mrs. Mikhal Sheref.

The scholarship fund donated I£35,000 and 20,000, respectively. The rest was donated by the Katz Institute of Tel Aviv University. In the near future, a book in memory of member Shnayder's mother will be published. He has donated $500 for this purpose. The rest will be covered by the scholarship fund. The name of the book hasn't yet been determined. Member Skolski is preparing an introduction for both books, which will be printed in booklet 18.

The gross amount in the scholarship fund is I£380,000. From that, I£70,000 can be awarded in prizes. The two amounts mentioned above are only an estimate. The exact amount will be announced by the university's finance department in October.

[Page 2]

Dear Landsmen, again we are guests in your home and, we hope, desired guests. Again we have come to arouse nostalgia, one of the noblest and strongest human feelings in your hearts in a big way. Instead of a booklet, we had planned this time to distribute a summary of publications by the people of Kremenets, Shumsk, and our landsmen, with their partners from Pochayev and Vyshgorodok: three yizkor books, 16 issues of Kol Yotsei Kremenets, and several volumes of memoirs. But it seems that there is so much material that even brief summaries would fill a whole book. Consequently, we do not have the physical capability, and it would require a longer time.

In the meantime, we offer excerpts from the material that we have. Turning some of the pages of the published and handwritten treasure, we see how much we have to do, if only in our imaginations, to recreate our old home with its people, way of life, changing nature, and events both happy and sad. Beginning in the distant past and moving to its tragic end, we wish to be near you as we do this in order to share these immense experiences with you. When we approach the labor of issuing a new booklet, the question arises of whether we have the strength for it, as well as the funds. Until now, both questions have been answered by you, dear friends. We get strength from the encouragement we get from your writing (the letters we receive from here and abroad) and your words. The funds we have received from you over the past couple of years have been what we need, and sometimes more.

This time, too, we hope to earn your support, which should be enough to cover the many expenses caused by inflation and the growth of the booklets. This time we have greatly enlarged the Yiddish section in response to requests by landsmen from abroad. We believe that our Israeli members will be understanding and, if reading Yiddish is difficult for them, that they will make the effort. The members who find the booklets so valuable enjoy them to the fullest extent.

Finally, the marriage of the Organization of Emigrants from Kremenets with the Shumsk organization has so far been quite successful. One can see this in meetings of the unified board, at gatherings to honor guests from abroad, and chiefly from the last memorial service for our martyrs. The meeting of Kremenets members and Shumskers was fraternal and very warm, and it appeared that many on both sides had family ties and common roots.

[Page 3]

Let us hope that the symbolic number 18 will assist us and that we will all live to see Kol Yotsei Kremenets number 18 in an Israel of peace and quiet.

Happy New Year!

[Page 4]

In the chapter “Images from the Past,” we present here pictures of Zeyde Royt, may his memory be a blessing.

Zeyde Royt, as we see him here, was a man of stately appearance. For his whole life until the revolution, he was occupied with mediating between buying and selling goods and was known as one of the great mediators in southern Russia. In his contact with the Russian landowners, he received guests from them–friendly and generous–and their children as well. His eldest daughter, Sabal, married Klinger, from the Dubno suburb. They had been a family of timber merchants for generations.

My grandmother took me there one summer. She and Sabal's mother were invited for a week to the Klingers. This was several years before World War I. Among the bright days of my childhood, these were some of the brightest. But my good fortune was interrupted by my grandfather's tragic death in Kremenets. That and other tragic events in the city that summer appeared to be a foreshadowing of the dark, bloody clouds that covered the heavens in the 20th century.

Here I will tell my dear readers the dramatic story that happened some 32 years later with the Klingers' oldest daughter, Rozye, Zeyde Royt's granddaughter.

[Page 5]

Kremenets is known for its Bona and Potik hills, but for the Jewish population there, Vidomka was more important, with its woods and valleys and its magical corners in summer and winter.

On that mountain, a number of peasants would rent out rooms in dachas to Jews from Kremenets and from other towns.

At the base of the hill was the workshop of Bikavski, the richest peasant there. He had built himself a house with some rooms for vacationers. But Bikavski was known as a great enemy of the Jews. We children who lived in the dachas with our mothers over the course of a couple summers saw evidence of his attitude toward us. Our hatred for him grew, especially when we discovered a bunch of newspapers issued in Pochayev under the title Pochayev Leaf in his house. This was a Black Hundreds pamphlet that openly called for pogroms. Our hatred for Bikavski applied also to his two sons, two tall, healthy thugs.

Regarding this story, particularly interesting is the description given by our landsman Yosef Shifris as I heard it from him not long ago.

In 1946, Yosef visited Kremenets. Looking over a fence, he considered the not-too-distant remnants of the burned ghetto. Suddenly he felt a hand resting on his back. It was a young Ukrainian with whom he had played football and then had served with in the Red Army. The Ukrainian took him to his home on the Vidomka. The next day, the Ukrainian called to show him something. They came to Bikavski's workshop. In the house they encountered Bikavski's older son (the father was no longer alive) and Rozye Klinger. At Rozye's suggestion, they stayed together. Deep in the garden, among the high, thick bushes, they found the well-hidden bunker in which young Bikavski had hidden Rozye during the years of Nazi rule.

The Pochayev Leaf and the father's antisemitic poison did not succeed in erasing the son's human feelings, as appeared in his fine form. At the time of Yosef's visit, Rozye Klinger and Bikavski's son were husband and wife.

May my words serve as a memorial for them and all the murdered members of the Royt-Klinger families.

[Page 6]

“A loving memento to our dear daughter Feynale, may you live long, my dear son-in-law Yechezkel, may he live long, and their beloved and sweet daughter, Sorele, may you live long, from your parents, Eliyahu and Rachel Reznik, and from your sister, brother-in-law, and their loving son, Rivka and Yitschak Goldshteyn, Sukkot eve 5697, November 11, 1937, here in Kremenets.”

This dedication, beautifully written by Eli Reznik on the back of the photo, reveals an educated man in the company of some of his family members. For many years, he was an active member of the Zionist committee, and when he was young, he was a private Yiddish tutor. He attended the Hasidic Synagogue. We remember well that, thanks to him, great joy prevailed there during Simchat Torah^[2]. He led the older Jews in energetic dancing after each circuit. They all met a horrible death, along with all of Kremenets' Jews. May their souls be bound in the bond of everlasting life.

[Page 7]

The photo was taken at one of our Chanukah gatherings in Tel Aviv. We will talk about each person, his activities in Kremenets, and where he later settled.

We all know about A. Fisherman, center, and his devoted Zionist activities in Kremenets. He, too, devoted himself to community activities in Israel within the limits of his dwelling place.

It is not necessary to speak about Duvid Rubin, the many-sided Enlightened one, and his children, their role in Kremenets before the Holocaust, and their being first to be there after the destruction. We have several of his manuscripts, which we will make use of.

[Page 8]

Sitting with his back to us: Moshe Krementshugski. Second row, left to right: Velberg, Poznanski, of blessed memory; Yakov Shafir, of blessed memory; narrator and actor Eliyahu Goldenberg, of blessed memory, who participated in the party as an emigrant from the nearby town of Bilozorka[3] and contributed greatly to the evening's program; Manus Goldenberg; Yitschak Rokhel; Chana Goldenberg; Poznanski's wife (of the Efrus family), of blessed memory; Leya Goltsberg; Klara Zats (of the Eydelman family). Third row, left to right: standing next to the pillar: Riva Bernshteyn, of blessed memory; Senya Kesler; Rachel Nadir (Otiker). Sitting: Adalya Poltorek; Leya Klorfayn; Chanulya Shafir (Poltorek); Moshe Shnayder, of blessed memory; Yitschak Goltsberg. Standing: Dora Toren (Feldman); Leyb Kotlir, of blessed memory; behind him, Dvore Toren. Sitting: Luzer Brik, of blessed memory

[Page 9]

Volf Shnayder and his wife from America and Yisrael Laybel from Argentina: Volf Shnayder and his wife have visited Israel several times. Each time they come, they devote a large portion of their time to our organization, which is always being advised by Volf, in a sense directed from distant Detroit. With each visit he brings a new idea that advances the organization. We have described their visits and Volf's participation in our activities over time in our booklets.

This time the Shnayders' visit was a short one, but very intensive for us. We had many consultations with them. The Katz Institute for Research in Hebrew Literature at Tel Aviv University arranged an afternoon celebration in honor of Volf Shnayder and his wife, with the participation of institute members from the university library and several of our members. Shnayder, as we know, was one of the initiators of the Levinzon Library at Tel Aviv University in honor of our martyrs. He has for some years been the co-editor of the literary monthly Our Own Word, published in New York. His important essays on literary themes appear in almost every issue.

The last evening before his departure from Israel, the board arranged a musical evening to honor the Shnayders and Yisrael Laybel at the Kibbutzim College, with the participation of the board and the guests' relatives. The atmosphere was warm, and voices were raised high. This appeared in the words of Laybel and Shnayder and various members as well as in the nostalgic songs that members sang enthusiastically, with youthful fervor and longing. Very moving were the letters we received from the Shnayders soon after the gathering. It suffices to cite one part of the first letter. “Dear Kremenetsers and Shumskers, friends and members, everyone with whom my wife and I merited to meet on that unforgettable evening ….” Then, in his fine Yiddish, Shnayder depicted what they experienced, and he concluded: “That evening was engraved deep in our hearts and will always warm us and make us want to meet with you time and again. We thank you, dear ones, for the opportunity you gave us to meet with you and for you to receive us as part of the Kremenets and Shumsk family.”

[Page 10]

Yisrael Laybel's experience was similar, and the letter we received from Argentina from Tsipore and Mordekhay Katz and from Chane and Chayim Fayer describes the spirited report Laybel gave in various forums about his meetings with Kremenetsers in Israel, and especially about the evening at the college.

Let us hope that all who attended this gathering will live to meet with the Shnayders and Laybel at their next visit to Israel, which will surely come.

The author of this letter that we offer, Leyb Ayzen, is the efficient chair of the Organization of Radzivilov Emigrants, a friend of our organization.

Ayzen was among the Jews who fled from Radzivilov to Kremenets as the Austrian army drew nearer in 1915 and brought danger, threatening lives and goods, while the retreating Cossacks were also a danger. People called the arriving families refugees. They were received hospitably by the Jewish residents. In hindsight, the young intelligentsia were particularly active.^[1] Some of the Radzivilovers remained as permanent, desired residents in Kremenets. And those who in time returned to their partially ruined homes maintained a friendly union with the Kremenets Jews. Their remnant, who live in Israel and elsewhere, among them Leyb Ayzen, do so to this day.

[Page 12]

It is 1947. Thousands of Jewish survivors from Eastern European countries, mostly from the Soviet Union, gather in camps in Germany organized by the U.S. Army. Most of the Jews yearn to immigrate to Israel, but the gates to the country are closed, apart from a small limited number of immigration certificates granted by the Mandate authorities in the Land.

The Ha'apala institutions decided to increase the pace of immigration, and, indeed, in 1947 the number of illegal immigrants doubled. At the end of 1946, the institutions purchased a riverboat called President Warfield. The ship was 30 years old and was intended for short journeys. Its upper part (three stories) was made of wood, and under normal conditions, there was enough space for 500 people. During World War II, the ship was loaned to the British and crossed the ocean for the first time. After the war, it was returned to the United States and sold by its owners for scrap. The Ha'apala institutions rescued it from the scrap yard.

After it was repaired and fitted for its new purpose, and after a difficult and troublesome journey, the ship arrived in France, where the illegal immigrants were to board ship.

France was only a transit station for immigration, so there were not enough emigrants there for the ship, and they had to be brought from Germany. Through indirect measures, the institutions succeeded in obtaining an entry permit from the French government for 1,700 people from Germany (allegedly workers). The institution used this permit to bring 4,500 people to France, the number of immigrants that Exodus from Europe was planning to take. Here is how it was done. The official transport was transferred by train with the original permit, under the supervision of the American army. At the same time, using a photocopy of the original permit, illegal transports traveled by truck under the supervision of institution agents dressed as American soldiers. The ruse worked – surely not easily or entirely smoothly, but in the end, all the transports arrived in France and settled near the port of Marseille. On July 11, 1947, after the people and documents had been prepared, the immigrants were taken to the ship. On the same day, there was a transportation strike in France, but the strike organizers gave the truck drivers a special permit to take us to the ship.

From the moment the ship reached the Mediterranean Sea, it was under the watchful eye of the British intelligence service, which understood its purpose. The British authorities applied great pressure on the Italians and afterward on the French not to let the ship leave port. And indeed, after the immigrants boarded the ship, the British obtained a departure ban from the French authorities that denied the ship the use of a pilot boat and a tugboat, without which you can't leave the port. The situation was at a dead end. When navigator privately hired for an astronomical price didn't show up, the ship supervisor (from the Haganah) and captain (a Palmach man) decided to take the ship out on their own, a dangerous undertaking that had never been attempted before. At dawn, the cables were cut, and the ship tried to sail. Unfortunately, the ship ran into a sandbar as it left port. Just when we thought the attempt to leave had failed, the ship's crew managed to remove it from the sandbar through a variety of maneuvers, and the ship sailed for the open sea. We breathed sighs of relief – we were on our way to the Land.

There were 4,515 people on the ship: 1,561 men, 1,282 women (dozens in their last months of pregnancy), 655 children, and 1,017 teenagers. Around a third of the illegal immigrants were members of kibbutz and youth movements. As I found out later, five people from Kremenets were on the ship: Shmuel Gun, of blessed memory; Meir Goltser and his future wife, Mindel; Chinya; and me.

[Page 13]

The ship was overcrowded. Pregnant women, and sick people who were not in the ship's hospital, were housed in cabins. The rest of the immigrants were organized on wooden bunks built in three levels. To reach your sleeping space, you had to crawl inside and lie side by side, and it was impossible to sit. Those without a bunk slept on the deck.

The people on the ship were organized into groups of 30. The group leaders took care of food, water, and duty rotations and kept order. In spite of the overcrowding, daily life was organized. People meticulously obeyed orders delivered through loudspeakers and through a newsletter published in various languages by the leaders and pasted on the walls.

Hundreds suffered from seasickness and lack of air. Due to lack of space, the groups took turns climbing up on deck. Trust in the Haganah people, and the belief that in a week we would reach the Land, banished difficulties and suffering from our minds. To make our time enjoyable, stories about the Land and Hebrew songs were broadcast over the loudspeakers.

From the moment we left port, a British destroyer followed us, and in time, five additional destroyers joined it.

As it was common on Ha'apala ships, we prepared to defend ourselves if the British attacked us when we reached the Land of Israel's territorial waters. The deck was divided into sections, and each section was assigned to a group, which had to defend it when the occasion arose. Potatoes, canned goods, bottles, and so on were prepared as weapons. We didn't have firearms and weren't allowed to use them.

The appointed plan was to break into the five to seven miles of territorial waters by taking advantage of the ship's speed and the fact that it did not sit deep in the water. For that reason, it could approach to the shore, unlike destroyers, which were heavy and sat deep in water. In coordination with the Ha'apala leadership, the ship was supposed to arrive on the coast of Bat Yam or Tel Aviv.

At night, from July 17 to July 18, British destroyers attacked us 25 miles from the shore, outside the territorial waters – and against international law. The attack lasted around two hours. The soldiers used gas and opened fire on us. From the moment the soldiers climbed on board, they hit us with their clubs. We had three casualties, and many people were wounded. Because of the destroyers' forward attack, the ship's outer layer broke, water entered, and we were in danger of sinking. Some of the wounded needed emergency medical care. The ship commander therefore decided to stop defending the ship and follow the British order to sail to Haifa. If not for the attack outside territorial waters, the two hours of struggle would have been enough for us to reach the shores of the Land, where a large crowd of residents was waiting for us.

The British suffered casualties. A number were pushed or thrown into the sea, and others were wounded or taken prisoner. We arrived in Haifa exhausted, tired, and disappointed by our failure to break our way in. To prevent resistance, the British expressed sorrow that they couldn't let us stay in the Land and were forced to transfer us temporarily to Cyprus. Later, we realized that this was a lie.

After a careful search of each person, we were transferred to three deportation ships. Our personal items, 10 kilograms each that we were allowed to take on board the Exodus from Europe, were taken from us and transferred to the ships. After 24 hours of sailing, we had already realized that our destination was not Cyprus, but it was not clear where they were taking us. Only sometime later were we informed that they were taking us back to France.

[Page 14]

The city where I was born I carry through the whole world. The Jewish forest that I lost there I mourn. Wind, rain, and stars I ask: Who would set up a monument for them? They are tangled in my spirit, By day and by night. I have a dream of a bird that flies free, Out of its cage. They should have brought that dream. There were dear Jews in my town, A castle on a hill, poetic, and natural wonders; Righteous, good men and women and gentle, well-loved children. Then German bandits came–servants of war, And devoted their lives to blind hatred. As I pray, I ask God Why? Why did this happen to us? Pour out your wrath on them, The blasphemers of “Thou shalt not murder”–your commandment. Vengeance! For those murdered ones that You alone have seen.

[Page 15]

Several years ago at the College, the board members met with Cantor Radzivilover of New York for an official reception in his honor. Before then, we had only heard from him that he would conduct the ritual part of the annual memorial organized by Kremenetsers in New York in memory of our martyrs. One beautiful morning three weeks ago, my telephone rang. This was a call from Radzivilover saying that he would see me the next morning at the Hilton. His speech was friendly and familiar, and I looked forward impatiently to our meeting. It was as heartfelt and moving as I had expected.

Three hours in his hotel room sped by. Matus Radzivilover was only five when as an orphan he was brought from Shumsk to his grandfather, Berel Barats, who had inherited the job of providing his education from his cousin, Rabbi Simche Barats. Matus's father was killed in the collision between two trains in Rudnya-Pochayev in which 50 people died, among them two Kremenetsers, Laybel and Bialer, and one person from Shumsk, Matus's father. Matus's mother remained in Shumsk with two children.

Matus spent 10 years, the first 10 years of his life, in Kremenets under his relatives' warm supervision. As he said, these years were more deeply engraved in his heart than any others. From that hotel room we had a wonderful view of the peaceful blue sea, and we could also see events from long ago, scenes of the Tarbut School, where Matus studied, and the beautiful natural setting we evoked in our emotional conversation.

As he left, Matus gave us his book, written in English and nicely printed. Several months ago, the critic A. Schreiber said, under the title, “Now or Never,” in the weekly Algemeiner Journal, among other things, “… This English book by the world-famous cantorial artist, Cantor Matityahu, has a strong appeal and will be read with great interest by thousands of people.” And he adds, “This is the first time a cantor has written a book on a political theme….” Matus's take that he offers in the book on America's difficult problems at present has gotten a good response from a number of politicians, like Senator Jackson, Senator Patrick Moynihan, Robert Wagner, and others.”

[Page 16]

In this 220-page book, the author spends the first 75 pages on the history of Kremenets, along with pictures. His description of his escape from Lemberg to Kremenets on foot is thrilling. He and some of his friends who made the perilous journey came to Kremenets on July 13, 1941. Everything in the city was shut down, and no one could be seen on the streets. The last civilian and military offices had packed up. From the surrounding hills, the last Russian troops shot at the attacking Germans to support those who were retreating.

After a short rest at his mother's house, Matus ran further. His arrival point was already occupied by the Germans. But in that occupied Ukrainian area, Matus was saved thanks to his common sense and his belief, as he said, in the absolute downfall of the Nazis.

Those few hours in the hotel brought us close together, and I believe we will never forget that meeting.

[Page 17]

The school administrator, Kreytshmer, is sitting between the older students' two teachers. Some of our friends are here, as well as their teachers, and others, their friends and acquaintances, some of whom are still alive, until 120 years.

The first of those sitting on the ground is Shmuel Rafalovitsh (Tsherepashnik), who went to Israel from Argentina. He gave us the picture. The second is Yisrael Beker, of blessed memory. After him is Yehuda Koyfman (Shikhman), who immigrated to Israel from Argentina. The last is Duvid Lerer from Dubno. His fate is unknown.

Shmuel Rafalovitsh and Koyfman belong to the immigrants who sank deep roots in Israel, they and their children. Shmuel Tsherepashnik lives in Netanya and is very active in Yiddish cultural life. At his initiative, the Netanya chapter of the Yiddish Cultural Committee started a chorus and drama circle that present evenings organized by the Netanya Workers Council. He himself produces feuilletons successfully. Koyfman and his wife are involved in absorption activities for new arrivals from Argentina and Russia. Their home is a welcoming spot for immigrants and their many friends. They organize musical evenings, community singing, and talks by community activists.

In the publication of Russian Jewry Rasviet #35 from 1860, published in Odessa, we found a piece about the spiritual and economic life of Kremenets Jewry in those years.

We present here the most important sections of that article:

“A small town, Kremenets, which appears in splendid surroundings. It is laid out in a valley between mountains, the ends of the Carpathians. Particularly outstanding is the mountain, at the top of which are found signs of a castle that bears the name of the Polish Queen Bona. The town holds a special interest for us because one of our greatest scholars, R' Yitschak Ber Levinzon, lived and died there. More than half a century ago he did his undying work for the benefit of his people–while being beaten down by his bodily ills, he disregarded them and fought against his co-religionists' persecution.

Commerce used to bloom there, thanks to the influence of the then-existing high school, but now the commercial situation has declined.

Happily, we must report that the for a long time Jews there have had another view on their lives in general and education in particular: they are suffused with the urge to give their children a fine education in order to improve their lives. Also, women do not avoid modern education. Even though there are no boardinghouses, that lack is made up for by private homes. For education, a first-class primary school exists there, though its successes are not outstanding, if one can believe rumors. Happily, we can report that the female children speak a beautiful Russian and Polish, German, and French. They show particular affection for the latter. In terms of dress, they do not differ greatly from nonprovincial cities because of their situation. Jews from surrounding towns consider Kremenets to be a city of heretics.”

In the same correspondence, the author tells of a sad episode that happened to a 15-year-old from a prominent Kremenets family. The girl was lured to the nearby monastery by a fanatic with the goal of leading her to convert. She was tormented there for a year. The unfortunate father appealed for a year to higher powers to have her freed from her captivity. She was released, but having spent a year in the monastery was costly to her. She lost her innocence … and the author concludes with an exclamation: “It is interesting to know how this story will be regarded, that it could have happened in the 19th century….”

The correspondence is signed by a certain Y. Rozental.–Translated and delivered for publication by Aleksander Rozental

[Page 19]

The house called the Perlmuter House in Kremenets was located on a street that, according to my memory had the following names, in this order: Pochetova, Direktorska, and later on, Pieratski Street. The oldest part of the two-story white house with colonnade pillars had been built at the end of the 18th century, and the other part, sometime later. The yard was paved with large, flat stones covered with weeds. It was separated from the street by a very old, partially broken wall made out of beautiful pillars – not big ones – topped with crowns. At the end of the 1930s, the wall was replaced by a wooden fence. A Ukrainian school was located across the street. A short distance from there, across from the foothills, stood a three-story yellow building – the walls of the state's Jewish Primary School. Behind the house was a large sprawling garden, and on the other side you could see the mountain and the forest. Later on, a large portion of that garden was sold to Hemniuk the engineer, who built himself a modern “villa” there.

The house and garden were my great-grandfather Beydish Perlmuter's estate. I remember him as an 80-year-old man still full of energy and wisdom. He died after a short illness because he was not able to accept the death of his wife, who was two years younger than he was. They had four children: Emelya Ovadis, my grandmother, and Chana Shklovin, a doctor with a great personality, great knowledge, and a strong character. Ruven was a mathematician by education who tried his luck in agriculture, of course without success; when he gave up, he taught mathematics, beginning in 1939. He had two sons – my childhood friends. The youngest daughter of the Perlmuter couple, Sonya, finished her studies in chemistry but didn't work in her profession. In 1928, she married a wheat merchant, a man from Lvov. They had two wonderful children.

Everyone I have mentioned was murdered by the Nazis. According to information that reached me in various ways, I know that my Aunt Chana, who was called Shklovina by the family, fed poison to her granddaughter and then committed suicide. Her daughter, Sheyne, and one of my cousins were murdered when they tried to bring a little food to my parents, who had been arrested earlier. My mother's family, members of the Ovadis family, suffered a great loss even before the war. Of their four sons, one fell during the civil war, fighting on the side of the revolution, and the second, Niosha, an honor student and talented musician, drowned in Shumsk a few days after he returned from the conservatory with an award. The third, Yosef, served as a regiment commander in the Red Army and even fought in Spain during the civil war after the October revolution. During World War II, he directed the foreign bureau of TASS and held the rank of general. At the beginning of the 1950s, he retired after losing grace with the authorities and later died. He had two daughters. To my great remorse, I don't keep in touch with them. My last uncle, Mitya, is a pensioner who lives in Belgium. He was an active member of the Belgian underground during the war and received a number of Belgian and Russian decorations for saving Russian prisoners of war.

My parents and their elderly parents perished in Kremenets. My parents were shot to death together with hundreds of Jewish intellectuals in August 1941, a year before the ghetto was liquidated. My grandfather died in the ghetto, and my grandmother died there with the others. I want to stop for a while and talk about these images, which are my perpetual light and will always live within me. My grandfather, Chayim Ovadis, owned a flourmill that he later leased. His interests were varied. First of all, he was very active in the ORT network in Kremenets and for many years served as the chairman of the organization. He drew my father, of blessed memory, to the same work, and for a period of time, he was the principal of the ORT School. In addition, my grandfather was blessed with a well-developed musical ear. He played the piano well, and his favorite composer was Chopin. During the summer, my grandfather rose before dawn and worked in his garden for a few hours. I loved helping him in the garden, and my love of nature, which has accompanied me all through my life, may have developed there.

[Page 20]

The soul of our home and its main support was my grandmother, Emelya Ovadis. She had an innately cultured personality and a broad knowledge of world literature. Everyone loved her, including her son-in-law, her daughter's husband – my father. His mother died when he was young, and Grandma Ovadis was his loving mother. She never said, “I don't have time for that.” She ran the household, read a lot, and solved crossword puzzles in four languages with great skill. She was a tremendous influence on the family.

In general, I remember our home as a peaceful oasis. I mostly enjoyed the evenings, when my parents returned home from work. My mother Sofia (Sonya) was a dentist. My father, Aleksander Raykh, was called Senya by everyone. He was not only my father. He was a friend and a companion: the best of my friends and a joyful companion on ski and sailing trips. We read and debated together, and I had no secrets from him. He never tried to force his opinions or will on me. All of my life, I have tried to emulate him, his manner, his personal life, and his attitude toward others in his educational work.

He and my mother were a loving and perfectly matched couple.

My parents were shot to death in August 1941 with the others in a ravine not far from the old coalmine. I was never able to reconcile with that fact, and their loving, sacred memory will always stay with me.

As for me, at the end of 1941, I was in the Soviet Army, working my way up from private to commander of an infantry unit. I was wounded three times and received commendations. After the war, I got married, finished my studies at the university, and served as a school principal in Lvov. My wife was also a teacher. In 1959, we moved to Poland, where we also worked in a school. In 1969, due to the unbearable living conditions for Jews in Poland, we left for Sweden, which received us warmly. My wife and I are librarians at the University of Lund library. We have an only son, married, who was named Aleksander in memory of my father. He is an electrical engineer. His wife is the daughter of an established Jewish family in Sweden. Her father is a psychologist, she is active in the Zionist movement, and all of us love her very much.

It is difficult to condense the history of my whole family into three pages. This is a history of people who worked, whose lives were blessed and useful, and who fell victim to the terrible crime of genocide that did not receive an appropriate response from those who could have helped us.

The history of my family is a small strand in the web of our nation's suffering – and I think that this strand should not be forgotten, either.

M. G.

For a long time, I have wanted to describe our town's most outstanding family, the Ovadis family, in the booklet. I lacked a number of facts, and I was hoping to get them from a surviving family member. Here, Yozik (Yosef) Raykh, grandson of the head of the family, Chayim Ovadis, of blessed memory, precedes me, and for that he will be blessed. I want to add a few details to Yozik's article.

Niosha Ovadis, the youngest of the four Ovadis sons, was my classmate, and I loved and admired him. In Voice of Kremenets Emigrants, booklet 15, page 29, in my article “At the Graves of My Drowned Friends” I told about the tragic death of my best friends: Niosha, Avrasha Rozenfeld, and Pinchas Gintsburg, of blessed memory. I also gave a few details about Niosha's personality. I was a close friend of the Ovadis family. I met their daughter, Sonya, who was young, impressive, blessed with talent, and the future wife of Senya Raykh. I met Senya in Avrasha's home, and I was very fortunate to spend time with him, mostly on long hikes around the local farms during our summer vacation.

[Page 21]

When the second group of Third Immigration pioneers was organized in our town, I was a member. When Senya found out, he said he wanted to join the group.

In the technical school in Petrograd where he studied, he became friendly with Pinchas Rotenberg and was greatly influenced by him. When World War II broke out, Senya was drafted into the engineering corps, with his main work in road construction. At the end of the war, he brought home a large steamroller that his military unit had used. He wanted to bring this steamroller with him to the Land of Israel. Senya knew how much his profession was needed there, and with the help of his friend Pinchas Rotenberg, he hoped to find a place in the country. But our plans did not work. Senya's marriage to Sonya brought an end to his aspirations, and my enlistment in the Polish army postponed my immigration to the Land for a number of years.

Evening. It's dark outside. Inside, the house has only one room; its walls are faded and crooked, and light comes from a small kerosene lamp. Now it's lit, warm and pleasant. The children's faces are calm. They express enjoyment and satisfaction. Why? The smell of baking fills the room, a tempting smell that attracts the heart and stimulates the senses and the appetite, the smell of bread baking in the oven, rye bread. Mother is working hard. She kneaded the dough into a mound, the dough rose, and then she made the round loaves of bread, warmed the oven, roasted potatoes, and even fried latkes. What a joy for the children. Yes. This was before noon. Now it's early evening. The round loaves of bread have baked in the oven, and the pleasant smell that stimulates and tempts the appetite to taste the rye bread brings a celebratory mood, satisfaction, and peace of mind. We know that very soon mother will take the warm loaves out of the oven. Who can express the feelings in our heart in those moments? Mother opens the oven and takes the bread out, and its warmth spreads throughout the room. The glow of the lamplight shines on the loaves, some smooth and some with rough cracks. My sister Chava can't hold it any longer, and she goes up to the bread and kisses one of its cracks. How good and tasty this end is when spread with garlic – and even tastier spread with goose fat and rubbed with garlic. “Stupid,” my brother Yitschak says in good-humoredly, “you kiss bread? You eat bread.” You love and eat the bread, and what you love, you also kiss. And what's better than bread? There's nothing better in the world than bread. We get tired of daily matters, but not of eating bread. Yes, in their short lives our children haven't come across anything more important than bread. When there's bread in the house, there's life and happiness. When there's no bread, there's sadness and hunger. And what do we actually need to add to bread in order to bring happiness to this house? A simple matter, a slice of bread in the morning with half a rotten apple that my mother buys cheaply from the apple seller after yesterday's fruit is sorted in her cellar. And for lunch, a slice of bread with an unpeeled potato, and if we have herring, it's a meal fit for a king. And in the evening, there's happiness in the house if a few coins are found to buy a few sugar cubes and kerosene for the lamp. And then we boil water in the samovar, which makes a buzzing sound; its steam adds warmth to the room. The children drink sweet tea and eat bread. All this is good and enjoyable when a sack of rye flour, which Yakov Golikhen gave my father in honor of his daughter's marriage, stands in the corner. It's pity that Mr. Yakov doesn't have a lot of daughters and weddings. Even the mice share the flour with us, taking their share every night from the sack in the corner. Sometimes, they dare to come to the sack during the day, but only on special occasions, not every day. Nevertheless, the flour will last us for five consecutive weeks, but only if we're careful, meaning that we give the bread to the children by the piece, not according to their desire and appetite. Here is how it's divided.

[Page 22]

Each loaf is sliced in half. The big middle slice is cut into two pieces and folded into a sandwich. During times of plenty, there's something inside, and during times of nothing, there's nothing inside. In both situations, this is our portion from breakfast to noon. A slice of bread from the end of the loaf is only half a portion; both ends make a full portion.

I'm an apprentice to a tailor who is not only a tailor but also an idealistic man, a socialist who stands for equality and for an equal share of nature's gifts for owners and the working man. He obeys the rules of equality every day. I'm a witness when I arrive in the morning with my dry sandwich. After my “good morning,” the first question is, why didn't you come earlier? I'm already working while he's still dressing, washing, and shaving. And when there's no water left in the barrel, I bring more from the well. His breakfast, according to the rules of equality, is bread and butter, an omelet, and tea. I save my dry sandwich. At this time, the tailor's wife goes to the market, and the tailor goes to the fabric store. Lying in the cupboard is a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery that they just ate, and its smell is really intoxicating. My heart is drawn to the cupboard and to the bread, maybe just a small slice. A small slice will be enough to silence my great hunger and increase my breakfast. But no, stealing, even stealing bread, is forbidden. Why was bread created? Was it created to silence a person's hunger? And who am I? Not God's creation? I'm hungry. I get up to walk to the cupboard, but return and sit down. How can I take something that's not mine? I sew quickly and nervously. I want to forget the bread, but the smell is in the air, begging me to taste and enjoy. I can't take it anymore. I get closer to the cupboard and pull the door open, its creaking scaring me. What? I'm going to steal; stop it! I return to my sewing. My senses are getting duller. I can't think. What am I am doing? Did I lose consciousness? No – I'm alive. I'm awake. I'm eating bread from the homeowner's cupboard. I chew it, I swallow it, it makes me stronger, I'm awake, and I'm strong. The tailor returns and sits down to sew. He's sewing, and I'm sewing. He's eating breakfast, and I've eaten breakfast. This is equality, isn't it? He doesn't like to sew, but he has no choice but to do it. He'd rather see his friends and talk about the upcoming world revolution, the duty of the working man and his rewards after the revolution. And when he doesn't have friends available, he educates me about the arrival of the socialist-communist regime. I ask him, is there going to be enough bread to satisfy everyone? Certainly. And clothes and shoes for everyone? Your questions are stupid, this is our holy objective, and this is our war against the rotten, unjust capitalist regime. The revolution will solve all these distortions. I think quietly: we're both fighting the same war. He's sewing clothes for the merchants and clerks of the Polish regime that exploit and deprive the working man. He has an unlimited amount of bread. The fact is, I steal a slice of bread from them every day, and they don't know. He and his family have clothes to wear and shoes on their feet. They eat meat for lunch every day, and I eat a slice of bread with a potato. There's also a difference between their dinner and mine. My shoes are torn and tattered, and my clothes are patched. He's sewing himself a jacket so he can attend the Polish official's parties, because he likes parties. Both of us are socialists, both of us want a proletarian regime, both of us are waiting for the revolution. He's working for the exploiters, and I work for the socialists. Then why does he have an unlimited amount of bread? And me, I also have an advantage. No one can enjoy the taste of the slice of bread from his cupboard except me. Passover is approaching, and the workload increases. We sew clothes for the Passover holiday. I arrive at work before dawn. Why didn't you come earlier? is the question that greets me. I finish my work after midnight. “Could you work a little longer? It won't hurt you.” Day by day, I get weaker. I doze off from lack food and sleep, without wanting to, when I stitch by hand next to the table and not on the sewing machine.

The homeowner has already caught me a number of times and remarked about it. I can't overcome this weakness. Here's what happens late one evening. He wakes me up with a strong, rude shake. “You get paid for working, not sleeping.” I wake up confused, unable to control myself. I throw the garment I'm holding on the floor. Enough, I don't want any more, pay me what you owe me, and I'm leaving. Surprised by my reaction, he says, “Leave, but you don't deserve anything, and I won't pay you the five gold coins I owe you for the week. I stand there for a minute, recover, and say, as a matter of fact, don't pay me, take this money for the bread I stole from you. I stole a slice of bread every day. Now I'm paying my debt, and my conscience is clear. As for your conscience, only time will tell.

Years later, my brother, a Holocaust survivor, arrived in the Land. He's a baker, a bread expert. He doesn't tell anyone the secret of the sweet taste of the good bread he bakes. On a dark, rainy autumn evening, we sit in his house eating our evening meal according to our mother's menu: bread that he baked, coated with goose fat and rubbed with garlic, and a small glass of vodka, which my brother got into the habit of drinking during the war years in Russia. Both of us were quiet, thinking the same thoughts: about our mother's home, the family, our sisters, brothers, children, relatives, and the whole town of Shumsk. I saw the sparkle in his eyes when he asked me, Alter (my name from home), do you remember Eki the tailor from our town? Of course, was my answer. Do you know that he abandoned his wife and children and ran away on his own when the Germans entered our town, and that his family was murdered at the hands of the Germans? And what happened to him? I asked. I saved him from death. Here's his story. I ran a bakery in one of the Russian towns. I baked bread, and my bread had the best reputation in town, mostly among those who served the regime. Once I was walking in one of the town's neighborhoods where most of the refugees gathered. I walked in that area in the hope of finding one of our relatives. One day when I was there, I came across a man lying on the ground. It was not unusual to see people lying sick and swollen from hunger, but in this case, I thought I knew the man, and surely, it was Eki. The only words he could say in his condition were bread, a slice of bread. My brother's eyes filled with tears that choked him, and with difficulty, he said, at that time, I only remembered you, Alter. We understood each other. I couldn't help asking, Did you help him? He nodded his head, yes. We continued to drink vodka, and we were quiet. From a distance, I heard my sister Chava saying, there's nothing better than bread. You eat love and kiss bread. My loving sister, were you rewarded before your death with a merciful slice of bread? There's no answer.

[Page 23]

Ivan Elagin, a Ukrainian journalist from Lanovits^[5], near Ternopol, tells the following story.

One beautiful morning in the middle of 1966, I was traveling around Lanovits to write a story for my newspaper about the construction of a block of buildings there. Suddenly, I saw a lonely man standing with his head bowed next to the monument for Nazi victims. His name was Marder, and he told me the following story. “During the Nazi occupation, Battalion SS102 was known for the atrocities its members carried out against Jews, Poles, and Ukrainians. A Ukrainian by the name of Fedor Grinshtok, who was born in 1921, belonged to that battalion. After searching through my records – all journalists put everything in writing and keep the material for the right time – I found the following story told by Mikhail Dobrova, a Ukrainian who has lived in the United States for almost 40 years. After the war, he longed to visit his birthplace, Berezoke^[6], and here is the story Mikhail Dobrova told me.”

Today, Fedor Timopirovits Grinshtok lives at 2445 Ridgeway Road, Chicago, Illinois USA. After the war, this same Grinshtok arrived in Chicago, and I helped him find work. At the beginning, we got together every once in a while, but later on we stopped seeing each other because his opinions were not to my liking: 'they were dirty.' And so I stopped showing interest in him. Only after I met Marder and heard his story did I renew my interest in this vile animal, and here is what I found out.”

“During the war, Battalion SS102 camped in Bialo-Krinitse^[7], a suburb of Kremenets. The battalion was composed of a group of sadists who tortured Jews, Poles, Ukrainians, and Russians. I decided to uncover the crimes that those wicked men carried out. Their atrocities will remain forever in the memories of the local people, who were tortured by the bloodstained hands of the soldiers in Battalion SS102.” The battalion was established in 1942, when Soviet forces started their widespread counterattacks, destroying the Fascist armies. Battalion SS102's job was mass destruction of the population – mostly Jews and Poles. The members of Battalion SS102 murdered a total of 26,774 people. During my search for witnesses, I came across dozens of people who witnessed that battalion's acts of slaughter and torture and those of Fedor Grinshtok, which he carried out with his own hands.”

I refer here the story of Niknor Ostrovski, who had been a soldier in Battalion SS102. Ostrovski was born in Mochovets, near the town of Vishnovits^[8]. He was severely punished by the Soviet authorities for his atrocities. Here is what Ostrovski said.

I knew Grinshtok personally. He was famous for his limitless dedication to the Nazi Fascists and was appointed a unit commander. The battalion's main purpose was to murder Jews and Poles. Every once in a while, our lieutenant told us to follow the example of Grinshtok, who burned villages and their residents, shot people, and strangled babies. I knew about the Nazi's deeds, but Battalion SS102's 'beautiful' deeds outdid the worst atrocities I knew and heard about.”

On the shores of the River Lerd was a typical Ukrainian village by the name of Molotkis^[9]. Today, this village is not like all the others. You don't see trees blooming and loaded with nuts, as you expect to see in every village in the area.

[Page 25]

You are likely to see graves scattered throughout the village. We learned about this village's tragedy from eyewitness reports, as I will describe here. At midnight, on April 28, 1943, the village residents were sleeping peacefully. When the first rays of light “touched” the river Lerd, the early risers realized that their village was surrounded by the soldiers of Battalion SS102. In a matter of minutes, the village was “showered” with gunfire, and when daylight arrived, the butcher Grinshtok was seen with a Torah in his hands, walking around the village with other people and setting fire to the homes. Then he abducted a small child who was walking around innocently and threw him alive into the village well. The 'action' was finished when the village burned down and 500 of its residents were lying dead.”

“In Kremenets,” Elagin continues, “I met a former concentration camp prisoner by the name of Vaysberg. According to Vaysberg, the murderers who committed atrocities in the concentration camp were a man by the name of Vays, aide to the worst murderer of the Third Reich, Miler, and the men of Battalion SS102. In the concentration camp, Vaysberg continues, 13,000 residents were sentenced to death. We did not have names, only numbers, each prisoner and his number. Every day we received a quart of diluted soup and two thin slices of bread, and each day 10-15 men died of hunger. The commanders of the murderous Battalion SS102 selected Yekutski^[10] as the location to murder Jews, because it was geographically hidden. A resident of Kremenets, Vira Sergeyvina Ovelonitsik, tells the following story. 'On July 1, 1942, I was not far from Yekutski. Around 8:00 in the morning, Nazi trucks started to arrive, and they began pushing the Jews to the designated location. Everything over there was ready in advance, and a deep pit that had been dug earlier was “waiting” for its victims. The Jews were pushed into the edge of the pit in groups of four and fell into it after being shot by the battalion's men. One Jewish woman was holding a baby in her arms. A Nazi from the battalion threw the baby alive into the pit after he shot the woman.”

“Here is another story, told to me by a resident of Vishnivits named Benkovski. 'One day, unit 2 of Battalion SS102 arrived. Grinshtok was among the soldiers. It was prayer time in the local Catholic Church. Grinshtok and 10 other soldiers, armed with axes, broke into the church and cut the worshipers to pieces. The priest also died there. The victims were thrown into excavations dug around the church.

In Vishnivits, I met a family by the name of Rozenboym: the husband, Avraham; his wife, Elizabet; and their son, Munye. Here is the story I heard from them. 'In March 1942, all the Vishnivits Jews were locked inside the ghetto. Our home was on the border of the ghetto. Besides our family, 18 more people lived there. On July 11, 1942, at 5:00 p.m., we heard the sound of trucks approaching. Inside them were battalion members, who quickly ran from home to home, forcefully pulling people out and loading them onto the trucks. Immediately, we entered the bunker we had prepared in advance and hid behind a cupboard. The soldiers broke angrily into the house and started to search, but no one answered their calls. In the end, they found the bunker and forced out the people who were hiding there; Rozenboym's wife and son were able to hide in the kitchen. At nightfall, they left the ghetto and walked to the nearest village, where they found shelter with Ukrainian friends. For two years, they lived in hiding inside a pit dug in the ground, and for all that time they did not see sunlight. The rest of Vishnivits' Jews, around 5,000, were murdered by the Nazis after a hellish torture.'”

[Page 26]

After the war, Elagin continues, “the following events came to my attention. One Saturday in the summer of 1942, the murderers Agar, Miler, and Vays ordered the leaders of the Kremenets Jewish community to collect all the young people and bring them to the town center on the following day. They threatened that those who did not come as ordered would be killed without hesitation by the men of Battalion SS102. When the young people gathered on Sunday, they were ordered to march to the train station outside the town. There they were forced to climb onto trucks that were waiting for them under the threat of the murderers' guns. Here is what Vladimir Aktsivich Popov, who was an eyewitness, said. Grinshtok shot two teenage boys and killed them because they tried to 'escape.' Popov continues with his story: 'In the whole area, in Volin and Belarus, everyone knew Grinshtok's name, and his name aroused terror due to the many horrible acts he ordered and performed with his own hands.' According to Popov, the next event took place in 1943 in the town of Kovel^[11]. 'The Nazis sucked the last grain of wheat from the local farmers. For unknown reasons, they could not transfer the wheat to Germany immediately after it was collected. Therefore, the wheat was stored in a warehouse at the train station. The farmers decided to burn the warehouse so the plunder wouldn't be shipped to Germany. And indeed, one night the warehouse was set on fire. Grinshtok endangered his life and at great risk managed to put the fire out on his own. For that, he received a commendation, and every tenth resident of Kovel paid with his life for that fire.

When the Soviet army started its great campaign in 1944, Grinshtok escaped to Marderburg. There, he was drafted into a unit that fought against the maquis, the French resistance that fought the Nazis.

Shepetiskaya, a resident of the town of Bilozorka^[12], who took part in the struggle of the French maquis against the Nazis in France during the war, told me that Grinshtok was sentenced to death by the leaders of maquis, but they were unable to execute the sentence because the killer managed to escape.”

Here is how Ivan Elagin ended the story he wrote in May-July 1966. “I want everyone to know that whoever is giving that Grinshtok shelter is giving shelter to the murderer of many thousands of innocent people – a murderer whose hands are stained with the blood of Jews, Poles, Ukrainians, and Russians, the blood of babies, men and women, young and old.”

[Page 27]

In issue 15 of Kol Yotsei Kremenets, pp. 10-11, under the title “A Moving Meeting,” Yitschak Vakman describes his very moving meeting with his childhood friend Moshe Medler, Shimon the Teacher's son, in Tucson, Arizona: “We should have had a camera to mark the glory, the joy of the two of us.”

“Moshe embraced me, kissed me, and wept. Again and again these two Jews in their 80s (with God's help) looked at each other and, with tears in their eyes, looked back at their old home ….” writes Vakman, among other things. Medler is one of the generous readers of Kol Yotsei Kremenets that we see in the warm words and materials we receive after each booklet.

I am in close touch with him. Each of his letters is a source of memories for me.

During all his years in America, Medler has been active in Jewish culture. He was a representative and is still a board member of important institutions involved with maintaining and spreading Jewish culture in all Jewish areas around the world–organizations like Central Yiddish Schools Organization in the Polish Republic, YIVO, the Jewish National Worker's Union, and others. Not long ago I asked him, as others have before me, to share his memories of our unforgettable old home with us. His answer was not delayed. Here is what he wrote:

This is a private letter to my dear friend, Manus, who requested that I should try to transcribe my memories of our destroyed city of Kremenets, a request that, to my regret, I cannot fulfill. The reason is that I remember very little about important events. My youth was very bitter and hopeless. When I think back to the time when people began to think about what profession I should follow, there is a big problem. The problem was the fanatical pedigree that existed in my family, because I was the grandson of Leyb Stidinker, may he rest in peace. Because of this pedigree, I could not take up any old profession. So I began as an errand boy in a glass business (with Belaguz, I think). Then I was sent to a bookbinder named Pak, but since neither craft pleased me, they tried me out as a bookkeeper for Kremenets's dry-goods store. Then I went to learn to be a fireman. The pay was 50 kopecks a week. Aside from that, for Passover they summoned a tailor who took my measurements to make me a suit as a present for the holiday. It would take too long to describe how long it took before I decided to leave the home where I was born and raised because I saw no future there for me.

[Page 28]

One Sabbath I went to the Zviezdo cinema and saw a film called Jewish life in the Land of Israel. This was a propaganda film (a silent film) from the Jewish National Fund. It showed pictures of life in the Land of Israel, focusing on agriculture in the colonies. The film had Russian subtitles, as well as music by the famous violinist Gakman and the pianist Shtern, who played joyful music from Israel that aroused great enthusiasm and called forth noisy applause from the audience. Particularly successful were the Yemenite Jewish workers picking oranges in the orchards. Such large oranges were amazing, and there were so many of them! Shmuel Gorenshteyn called on everyone to sing Hatikvah with him. The film made a terrific impression on me, and when I had saved up several rubles, I decided not to tell anyone of my plans. Soon I went to the town of Brody, and there, with great effort, managed to get to a ship in Trieste, which took me to Yafo.

The ship anchored far from shore because there was no port there. People were brought to shore in small boats. There was a customs house that everyone had to go through. I passed through it and then out into the street, where by chance I bumped into Yankel Tsizin, may he rest in peace. He embraced me and among other things asked me why I had come. The situation there, he said, was not good. There was no work. People went around hungry. I calmed him down by saying that I would be with the others. This was on Friday afternoon. He immediately told me to go with him to Petach Tikva. We got a wagoner who had a wagon with two donkeys. I put my little satchel on the wagon. Yankel took off his shoes, and I followed his example. We both followed the wagon, which was transporting items, in our bare feet. Its wheels were half sunk in sand, and we helped the donkeys pull the wagon. We went three-quarters of the way on foot. In Petach Tikva we got on the wagon. Yankel took me to a place where I could stay overnight. This was a kind of tourist house. In Israel, they called it by the Hebrew word for “hotel.” There were beds in a large room.

[Page 29]

It had started to get dark. The Sabbath lights shone in Jewish dwellings. Observant Jews went in their Sabbath finery to the synagogue. I walked the streets and saw how Jewish workers were coming home late from work in the orchards. Totally worn out, I went to sleep. Two others were already in their beds when I lay down. It wasn't long before I felt terrible itching all over. My neighbors said this was only the lice, which were welcoming me as a new arrival. They advised me to go out to the barn where the young people entertained themselves with singing and dancing. Bloody, I went to the barn and recovered in the fresh air. Two days later I found work in an orchard.

What I saw on that Sabbath in our old home on the screen of the movie theater had come true.

So I will end this brief part of my life story that was difficult for me, but I have fulfilled your request.

With best wishes for you, dear Chane and Manus, and your children and grandchildren. Much nachas. I remain your constant friend.

April 15, 1980

Comment: Medler came to the Land of Israel before World War I. I believe we will learn in his next letter how he got through the hard time of the war and when he emigrated to America.

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