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The name Chaim, that a father gave his son when he was introduced into the Covenant of Avraham Avinu z”l, was more common in our city than Yosef and Alter. And if it weren't for the two names, Yitzhak and Moshe, in which many of our people were called, and pushed the Chaimim into a corner, the name Chaim would have marched at the lead. This name had a slight advantage over the others. It was added to the name of a dying Jew who was resurrected, or to a seriously ill person who had risen from his sickbed. Still, it didn't catch up with the Yitzhakim and the Moshes that our small town has been blessed with. Therefore, the name Chaim marched with great pride. There were those whose spoiled parents, or the rabbis in chadarim, were not satisfied with the dry and short name and added an affectioning ending to it, “Chaimel” or “Chaimko.” In the streets, and in Batei HaMidrash, in which the surname didn't “play any role,” the Chaimim were identified by the addition of their wives' names. If that was not enough, their mother-in-law also donated her name, like Chaim “Peshe Roize's,” meaning, Chaim of his wife Peshe and Roize his mother-in-law. There was no shortage of Chaimim whose profession was stuck to them, like: Chaim the watchmaker, Chaim Mendel the tailor, Chaim Hersh the shoemaker and Chaim the porter. The Chaimim, who unfortunately stumbled once in their lives, were attached with humorous labels: “Chaim, what time is it?” or Chaim Ketzele (pussycat). When this Chaim argued with another Jew, and a member of his company angered him, he mockingly demonstrated to him his cat's howl. Others became widely known because of the color of their hair or their disability, such as Chaim the Redhead, Chaim the Lame, and Chaim the Stammerer. Famous people, who were involved in public service, gabbaim^[1], shamashim or undertakers, were never offended when they were given the names of their professions, such as Chaim the carpenter and Chaim the tinsmith.

The three Chaimim that I would tell here - Chaim the carpenter, Chaim the tinsmith and their friend, Chaim Peshe Roize's, were so different in appearance, character, and daily behavior. But these three innocent and sincere people were similar in two qualities: love

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of the community and mutual aid. They were poor, but if any of them ever needed help from the community, that need was considered an insult to their dignity. All their confidence was in the God of Israel, as written in Hallel HaGadol: “O Israel, trust in the Lord, He is their help and their shield“ (Psalms 115:9).

His surname - Laub, as was reflected in the Metrica books, managed by Mr. Marcus Preminger from “White Sheep” Street. Chaim Laub was born in the eighties of the previous century. He was skinny, tall, about a meter seventy, or eighty, his face was long, his sidelocks were short, and had a dark brown beard. He wore a short black silk coat, a black hat in summer, and a sheepskin hat in winter. He always wore black boots on his feet. He was a carpenter with all his body and soul. He was punctual and saved every centimeter of plank, so that, God forbid, it will not go to waste. More than once, during the burial of the deceased, R' Chaim, who stood with both feet in the grave, felt that the plank, which was given to him to support the sides, was not suitable, it was a little short. He wasn't lazy, he took out his folding ruler from his coat and checked its length. If it turned out that he was indeed right, he didn't hesitate to climb out of the open grave. He attached a new plank to his left knee and sawed it to the standard size, as was the custom of the place. “We will not steal anything from the dead, what the deceased deserves - he deserves!” he said, and went down into the grave with the new plank and shoved it into its designated place. He packed the remaining wood and stashed it away inside the coffin. Together with his friend, Chaim Peshe Roize's, who also engaged in burial, carried the coffin and returned it to the custody of Beit HaMidrash, whose warehouse served as its resting place until the next funeral.

It is impossible to say that Chaim the Carpenter abstained from drinking sour cherry liqueur that his two daughters made for him, and from sipping brandy that the mourners brought with them at the end of the eleven months of the recitation of Kaddish. Moreover, he didn't abstain from drinking from the bottle of brandy, which was brought to the minyan at the Tailors' Synagogue by those who were marking the anniversary (yahrzeit) of their deceased. On the Shabbat, he joined the Seudah shlishit table, which was organized by the elders of the nearby Beit Midrash, a table laden with herring, challot and, of course, brandy. When the carpenter was in a cheerful mood, and full of food and drink, he opened his mouth and sang the songs of Seudah shlishit.^[2] The elders, and those celebrating the yahrzeit, accompanied him with singing and rhythm, while still grinding with their teeth the challah crumbs that remained on the sheet spread on the table. “We prepared a feast in honor of the Sabbath - in great splendor and glory,” they burst into shrill, wailing voices, and Chaim the Carpenter overcame everyone with his sharp voice, which was more like the great blowing of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah.

R' Chaim was one of the tailors' gabbaim, and almost always had the right to lead the prayers. He was knowledgeable when he approached the reading of the Torah, and only the second gabbai, Naftali Plechner from “White Sheep” Street,” was able

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to cast a veto, change the name of the one called to the Torah and determine which man would receive the third, fourth or last (and this, when the reading of the fifth and sixth were perceived by the gabbaim and those who celebrated a wedding and circumcisions).

The synagogue was indeed called “Tailors,” but there was only one old tailor there, R' Chaim Mendel der Schneider. Apparently, the tailors saw that the carpenters and the shoemakers had taken over the east, and they were left in the minority. They left and moved to the synagogue around the corner called Katsavim [butchers] that most of its worshippers were butchers and cart owners.

On Sunday, he showed up at first light at R' Efraim Druk's lumber warehouse in his yard on Todiowi Street. He walked around the high piles of planks, started to turn them over, searched and examined. And when he finally found a suitable plank, he took out his folding ruler, measured and calculated the length, width and thickness, and put it aside. He looked for dry boards, without cracks and without many eyes. He searched for the best, the best of the best, and was very happy when he found them. Chaim was always afraid that his good name would be damaged. He was a construction carpenter. He made door frames, doors, windows, beams, and everything of the best quality. Alone he struggled to get the plank out of the pile, found the plank unsuitable, and was disappointed and sad in his heart. “Work for nothing,” he said. Now he has to work hard to return the plank to its place in the pile, so that R' Efraim would not feel that the carpenter destroyed the piles. Tired and weary, he walked to the house across to call the warehouse owner who had just woken up from his sleep. “R' Froim, come and do the math for me. How much should I pay?” he asked softly. R' Ephraim knew his client well and knew that he had turned over half of the warehouse and took out the best of the best. He measured the goods, made the calculations, and determined the price.

Here, R' Chaim the Carpenter began to beg for mercy. “You understand, R' Froim, how difficult it is to earn a penny from my work. The homeowners who order from me give me trouble, pay when they have time, and I am stuck with the money I borrowed. I already owe to the sun and the moon,” he said with great flattery and in a small weak voice. “Maybe R' Froim can deduct something from the account, after all, I am a long-time customer of yours. I knew your father, R' Moshe, of blessed memory, and all your family members. I knew your brother Shlomo and your brother Mendel,” the carpenter said in a whiny tone. “I know your situation, R' Chaim, and I know you don't have a penny in your pocket. Why don't you take some advance money from the customers to buy lumber? Don't I pay for the lumber in cash? And for the sawing of the lumber by Mr. Yekel and his workers at the sawmill and the workers here in the warehouse, I don't pay in cash? But what will I do with you, my friend R' Chaim, when in the end I will fall by your side, and you will take me to the grave after a hundred and twenty years? Please go up to my wife, Etil, and she will record your debt in the debt book. I hope you don't forget to give the first penny you will get from your customers to Etil, and she will erase what is due from you.” R' Ephraim finished

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his answer and he dismissed the carpenter, who hurried out of the warehouse with a bundle of boards on his shoulder.

R' Chaim the Carpenter didn't earn his living only from carpentry. His good hour came on the eve of the High Holidays, when mountain Jews from the Cheremush villages, Roztoky and Biloberizka, came to hire his services as a cantor and reader of the Torah. He stipulated that his salary would be paid in two installments: the first - in the Ten Days of Repentance, and the second - on Isru Chag of Simchat Torah.

He already closed the carpentry shop in the week of Parashat Nitzavim-Vayelech. Packed his Shabbat clothes, took out a Torah scroll from the Holy Ark in the Tailors' Synagogue, wrapped it in a tallit, along with the shofar, etrog, and the dried lulav from the previous year, got on the cart the villagers sent him, and set out to bring the joy of the High Holidays to these remote Jews.

He spent about a month in Roztoky and Biloberizka and stayed at the house of one of the villagers that the minyan gathered in his house. One of the rooms served as a temporary synagogue, and there he led the prayers. He read the Shacharit, Musaf and Mincha prayers by himself. Blew the shofar and led then to the Cheremush River to say Tashlikh. On the day after Simchat Torah he received the rest of his salary, plus several baskets of eggs, a few cups of butter, and cups of cream and cheese. They put a cart at his disposal, and he returned to his home.

That same day he entered his carpentry shop. The pungent smell of scrap boards and carpenter's glue hung in the air, a smell mixed with the smell of cooking that wafted in from his wife's nearby kitchen. He returned to the gray carpentry work, and re-integrated into the needs of the public, to the synagogue management and the burial service, which gave meaning to his life.

If he had not been caught in the Aktion on the last day of Passover 5702, when he escaped from his burning house together with three members of his family and transported in a sealed train car to Belzec extermination camp. If he had not died on the way or suffocated in the gas chamber like the rest of our townspeople, if salvation had not been delayed and our city remained as it was, R' Chaim the tinsmith would have reached old age. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that his only son, Itzila, would have placed a tombstone on his grave in Kuty's cemetery. and on the second line, after “simple and honest man,” as was the custom of the place, he would have added, “he loved mankind and loved his work.” “Loved mankind” - the virtue of Aaron the priest, who reconciled between rivals and brought people closer to the Torah.

“Loved work” - the virtue of the Tannaim^[3] and the Amoraim^[4], who, in addition to their study of the Torah and mitzvot, engaged in various crafts, as we learned in Pirkei Avot that we read on the Sabbaths between Passover and Rosh Hashanah.

But the man, and his entire family, perished in the Holocaust. Their ashes and bones are scattered somewhere between the city of Kolomyia and Belzec extermination camp. Their burial place remains without a tombstone, and their pure souls await the fulfillment of the prophecy of the prophet Yechezkel in the Vision of

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Dry Bones: “So says the Lord God: Lo! I open your graves and cause you to come up out of your graves as My people and bring you home to the land of Israel” (Yechezkel 37:12).

R' Chaim the Tinsmith was not a great scholar. In the synagogue he followed the reading of the weekly Torah portion that he still remembers from the days of his studies at the cheder. Between soldering one pot and another, he mumbled chapters of Psalms from a small prayer book he kept in his blacksmith shop, and occasionally quoted chapters of Pirkei Avot. But his knowledge of poetry and prayer cannot be questioned. He especially loved the hymns of Shabbat eve and Seudah Shlishit, and every Shabbat presented himself at the High Beit Midrash and sang.

However, his greatness and importance - a cantor at a time of need. His pure prayer had a special flavor, a flavor of softness and gentleness, a prayer that came from the heart and penetrated the hearts of his listeners, the elderly and the young alike. It must be assumed that his prayer ascended to the heavens and reached the throne of honor of Melech Malchei HaMelachim ]God].

If the regular cantors didn't come due to illness or some other reason, the gabbai, Moshe the “long,” immediately approached him and said: “well, R' Chaim, what do you say? Maybe you will come to the amud^[5] and finish the prayer today in place of the missing one?” R' Chaim hastened to fulfill the mitzvah, before the one who asked will turn to another. He always willingly took upon himself the service of God. Instantly he raised the tallit above his partially combed head and began to say loudly Hodu L'Adonai Ki tov [“give thanks to God, for he is good”], and the worshippers repeated after him. For the Mincha prayers on Sabbath, and the two days of Rosh Hashana, he used stand without prior request, with devotion, as if the prayer had been created for him, and no one challenged his right and possession of it. It was clear to the worshippers of the Great Synagogue that the Mincha prayer of Rosh Hashana was always intended for R' Chaim the Tinsmith. He opened the prayer with the traditional melody and said the chapters fluently: “May Hashem instill His fear on your actions… therefore give respect your people…” etc. And the cantor's singing of the following chapters spread throughout the body.

The tinsmith and his family lived a life of poverty. Not that they were, God forbid, hungry for bread. They didn't lack chicken for a hearty Shabbat meal or clothes to wear, it's just that the housing conditions were poor. It is possible that despite all his years of work as a tinsmith and the work of his two children, his daughter Yenta and son Itzila, he could not replace his apartment on “Public” Street. It is also possible that the reason lies in the fact that the house was located almost in the city center and was easy to access for customers. The apartment had one room with an earthen floor covered with brown mortar. Its walls were whitewashed with light green and smelt of moss. One window faced the street and was rarely opened. The room led into a narrow, dark corridor, at the end of which, beyond a heavy bed, stood a bucket that served as a temporary toilet, because how could a toilet be built when the house had no yard. Everything around it was closed and enclosed. In the second apartment, behind it, lived the Shostak family, the carts' owners. To the right was a courtyard surrounded by a high fence, reaching the window of R' Naftali Plechner shoemaker's

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workshop. He and his assistant were forced, for lack of any other option, to look out their back window at the roof of R' Chaim the Tinsmith's house.

A cramped apartment. What else could have been put in it that they did not? A long, narrow worktable stood by the window and tools were placed on it: hammers, vises, wooden and steel hammers, a long, round steel anvil. Tin fingers were placed in a small tin box. Beside it stood a small jar of hydrochloric acid, and next to it a small jar containing some mineral, which was used to dip the hot salts before each soldering. At the end of the table leaned dishes that he had already repaired, patched with islands of shiny tin with which he had patched their holes. They stood ready until their owners arrived and redeemed them for a few pennies, a piece of butter, or a bunch of onions and garlic. Graters lay on a shelf hanging on the wall. At the foot of the table stood a short and wide tree trunk with an anvil stuck in it. On it, he repaired and straightened the sheet metal that would replace the old sheet metals on the roofs that rot had eaten into. In front of his desk, in the right corner, stood a stove that his wife, Meltzia, was preparing a hot dish on. Behind the stove stood a wooden sofa, which was more of a bench than a sofa, and on it slept his daughter, Yenta. Yenta was an aging young woman and had not yet found a husband. Even though she had long been on her own and saved zloty after zloty. It seemed that her father, R' Chaim the Tinsmith, forgot to prepare a respectable dowry for her. A dowry that two thousand dollars buys a groom who is both healthy, handsome, also earns a little and can support himself.

The ageing Yenta was a beautiful delicate young woman like many of her friends, the city's young women. Together with her brother Itzila, who was seven years younger than her, she stood behind a wooden loom, and the two wove carpets called kilimim. Their work brought income that allowed them to live modestly and buy modest clothing. The loom stood in front of the stove, as if glued to the wall, and the two had difficulty to squeeze behind it to pass the two woolen threads through the thin ropes. If there was still an empty corner left in the room it was occupied by two worm-eaten beds where R' Chaim the Tinsmith, and his wife Meltzia slept separately at night. During the day, all the family's pillows were placed on these two wooden beds. They were covered with a curtain whose color had faded immediately after it was purchased decades ago. The other sofa was Yenta's. And if you ask, by the way, where does Itzila sleep in this crowded place? Was there another place in this room where he slept at night? Without a doubt, there was. At night, his mother prepared his bed on the bare dirt floor, between the stove and the wooden loom, an uncomfortable bed, but there was no choice. This is what it was like. When he was a baby, he slept in a wicker cradle the size of a barrel cut in half lengthwise. Now, it is resting in peace in the boydem [crawl space], among all the rags that R' Chaim never dared to take out of his house and throw away once and for all. The boydem was the storeroom. When he was missing something, he went to the ladder that stood in the dark corridor,

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climbed it, reached the boydem, looked for what he wanted, and took it down for reuse. Was it out of stinginess, or did his heart not let him say goodbye to beloved objects? Was it poverty or lack of time to buy new ones? We will never know. If you ask where everyone kept their Shabbat clothes? There is a simple answer: a little in a box under the daughter's wooden bunk, and the rest were hung together on nails on the wall behind the loom, covered with a sheet so that they would not be covered in dust.

He loved the street and loved to delay the people who walked along it. He delayed customers while he was working, when they brought him a cup or a funnel to repair. Sometimes he would make the correction on the spot, “It's a shame you have to come again, wait a minute, sit next to me,” he said to the customer, pointing at the only chair in the house. The rest of the chairs stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall that crossed the Shostak family's apartment.

He talked and chattered until he upset his wife. Then Meltzia intervened and didn't hold her tongue. “Stop it already! What do you want from the man? Let him go! If you have something to say, get it out between Mincha and Maariv prayers in Beit HaMidrash.” These things angered him, but he remained silent. He preferred not to argue with his wife in the presence of customers, lest they slander him. He preferred to be seen by customers as a good and trustworthy husband. “Meltzia, calm down, how can I shut up a customer?” He said, showing his short, yellow teeth and pulling his reddish mustache with a hidden, mischievous smile. “How can I silence the words of a respectable man who brings a living to my home?” he added. “The man will ask, and I will not answer!” And before the customer he apologized: “My wife is busy cooking, and the noise of the beatings and the talking disturbs her, so we will cut it short.” In the meantime, he had finished his work and handed the utensil to the customer. The customer threw in twenty or thirty pennies and went his way. With his calloused, sooty fingers he collected the pennies and threw them into a tin cup that hung on the edge of the window frame. Several people came at once, bringing with them items to be repaired. They obviously couldn't squeeze into the room and had to wait outside.

At dusk, Chaim finished his work urgently. He combed his red beard, took off his dirty kippah, put on his black hat and black coat, kissed the mezuzah, and left urgent steps to the Chorkov's Beit Midrash. After the prayer, he returned home. A dark lantern was lit inside. His wife, Meltzia, treated him to thick porridge. He prayed Kriyat Shema Al HaMitah^[6], fell asleep, and slept to gather strength for the next day, when he would rise and begin a new day of work and fresh worries.

During the Nazi regime, I saw an old woman with a Jewish face but was dressed like a Ukrainian. She was a Jewish convert from the village of Kybaky. Many years earlier she converted from Judaism and married a Ukrainian. When the German decrees against the Jews were imposed in the village, they didn't skip the converts, and she was thrown to the street by her husband and sons. In her distress,

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she returned to the city to look for her Jewish acquaintances. She stood under R' Chaim's window and asked him for help. He recognized her and took pity on her. With his meager means, he arranged a place for her to sleep with a neighbor, collected alms for her and bought her clothes so she could change her attire.

The sound of a whining bell, like the howl of an abandoned dog, was heard in the entrance hall of the house. A few knocks - two or three and sometimes even more - on the morning of Purim announced: he came. The men, who had just returned from the morning prayer, knew, and the women busy packing mishloach manot^[7] for neighbors and relatives, also knew, that he came. All the more so, from the depths of the corridor echoed the rough voice of the arrival, the familiar guest: “R' (and here he said the homeowner's name), have you already prepared the tsel (“note” in Yiddish)? “I don't have time, the carriage owner refuses to wait outside for long.” He approached the door and added: “Hurry up, take out what you have to take out, and peace be upon you.” The homeowner opened the front door wide, and R' Chaim, who was better known by his nickname, Chaim Peshe Roizes, entered. Behind him trailed a boy in costume, and in his hand a stick with a bell. Chaim, tall and broad-shouldered, his back slightly bent, dressed in Ukrainian clothing from the old village of Kotiv, and wearing a side bag made of hairy animal skin. His face, which was adorned with a short black beard from which white hair protruded, was smeared with a thick black oil called “tar” that he mixed with a little black chimney soot. His face resembled that of an African negro. His brown eyes were gleaming, and a fur hat was stuck upside down on his bald head. R' Chaim got straight to the point, took the tsel on which the homeowner had written what his gift would be, a kind of commitment for Kimcha DePischa^[8] for the city's poor: “So and so zloty, a few kilograms of potatoes and a few kilograms of Passover flour that he, with God's help, would donate.” And if the homeowner didn't prepare the note, for reasons that were kept private, he instead prepared an envelope containing five ten-zloty bills, along with a bag containing the best holiday delicacies: three or four hamantashen stuffed with poppy seeds, or black strawberry compote, two pieces of fladen (sweet cake) made from dough leaves, sugar, nuts, raisins, and of course red strawberry compote, and he didn't forget to add sugar-coated wafers. R' Chaim took the parcel and stuffed it into his backpack. “May you be blessed next year and be able to give much more,” he said with satisfaction, walked to the door and kissed the mezuzah. The boy preceded him, stepped out in front of him, and led him by tapping his stick on the floor. They both climbed into the carriage, and he, R' Chaim, instructed the carter “drive to so-and-so on Saniatini Street.” In this manner he

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traveled around the city throughout the entire day of Purim, until evening, when everyone sat down for the holiday meal. When he finished the meal, he took the notes and money out of his pocket and counted: so-and-so kilograms of potatoes, so-and-so kilograms of flour and hundreds of eggs. Dozens of jars of goose fat for frying the Passover pancakes, and for greasing the tins for baking the potatoes together with pieces of lung and liver. That day, the fatigue was far from him.

He was refreshed and full of satisfaction that he had managed to obtain a lot of money and food for Passover. Their distribution is not a problem, he has lists of those in need. As we know, there are many poor Jews. Recently, several new people came to town, and immediately went to the community committee, located on Court Street, and registered as required. The clerk made sure to send their names to Chaim Peshe Roize's, to enter them on the Kimcha DePischa list.

The next day, on Shushan Purim, he crossed Old Covenant Street where he lived, walked around the municipal bathhouse, and appeared before the widow, Mrs. Leah Tzarnes, that in her oven they would start baking matzot at the beginning of following week. She knew him well, and there was no need to explain to her why he had come. “Well, then Mrs. Leah,” he said to her, “this year I need four whole days of baking for myself, can you give me the oven? “I will work next to the oven and my wife, Peshe, will help with kneading the dough.” “Of course, R' Chaim,” the widow agreed, and added, “How can I not be a partner in this great mitzvah, R' Chaim, don't you know that I do not intend to go to the afterlife empty handed? Therefore, I constantly equip myself with mitzvot and good deeds, trying not to miss the purification of the deceased, baking matzot for the poor, visiting the sick, or the mitzvah of Hachnasat kallah^[9]. This is my existing foundation, the fruits of which I will surely eat in the next world, when my time comes to go to Him. Isn't that so, R' Chaim?” said the widow, and soaked her tears in her white apron. R' Chaim completed the deal with the widow, putting on the Shabbat fur hat he was wearing for Shushan Purim. “After all, today is Shushan Purim and I still haven't done anything.” He said, reached his right hand to the doorframe, kissed mezuzah with his hand and left.

With quick steps he reached the market, to the butchers' square in which the carters gathered with their carts. He searched and searched until he found what he wanted, and when he found him, he approached him in confident steps and took out of his pocket a crumpled list with the donors' names. “Take the list, R' Dugie and drive! I don't need to teach you how to drive, and through which streets. Drive as you see fit to these homeowners,” he said and pushed the list into the cart owner's hands. He remembered and continued to tell him: “Load the cart with what is written and don't dare return empty-handed. If they are not at home, drive a second and third time, if it lasts until midnight. Unload the full cart in the front yard of the community committee, at the clerk, and if he's not there, don't be shy and go to Rabbi Yitsis and he will

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will open the door for you. The carter, R' Dugie the cart owner, didn't ask any additional questions, everything was clear to him, as it is every year. He tucked the list into his waistcoat pocket, next to his onion-shaped watch, and set off. The clerk distributed the groceries, which R' Dugie brought in his cart to the community committee, over several days.

R' Chaim Peshe Roize's served as an unpaid shamash at the Great Synagogue. He was irreparably strict and had done everything by himself. Alone he swept the marble floor and wiped the dust off the stands and the tables. Only on Shabbat the Shabbos goy, the Ukrainian Onufrei, was at his disposal. He lit the lamps that burned from the beginning of Shabbat until its end. R' Chaim lived in peace with Onufrei. Every now and then he approached him and praised him. On the other hand, he had problems with boys and teenagers. R' Chaim could not stand it when they moved the stand from its place, jumped from place to place to talk, or competed with each other on the Holy Days to see who would be the first to climb the wooden steps to the Holy Ark. He couldn't bear it when they went up and down the stairs and tried to beat him in opening and closing of the Holy Ark. Every now and then he grabbed one of them, pinched his cheeks, and tormented him with harsh words. He also never gave up his “right” to lift the cantor who fell when he got down on his knees during the Musaf prayer on Yom Kippur. Sometimes, when he felt that the cantor was weak or sick, he sat behind him to make sure that no one would approach him to lift him, and by doing so, they will deprive him of his “right.”

He had no income from his work as a gabbai and undertaker. His livelihood came from elsewhere. In the summer he sold apple juice called kvass at the market, as well as apples roasted over whispering coals. On Wednesdays he was busy selling eggs that he received in crates from merchants in Zabłotów. But on Thursdays, he was the king of the market. He and his skinny and frail wife, Mrs. Peshe Roize's, stood by wooden tubs filled with water in which carp swam. The buyer handed him a fish she had chosen at random, and he killed it with a blow of a wooden mallet on his head. Killed it, removed its gills and fins, cut it into pieces as the buyer demanded, and poured the pieces into her basket. Meanwhile, his wife counted the money she received for the goods. A livelihood, thank God, was not lacking, neither in summer nor in winter. On cold Thursdays, he prepared two pots of whispering coals to warm himself. With one hand, he blew air on the coals so that they would burn and whisper and warmed his second hand. Occasionally he switched his hands. The other pot was used by his wife, who like many gentile women in the market, held the pot of coals under her dress to warm her frozen feet. A woman came to buy a live carp for Shabbat, “not fat, just big and weighs little.” R' Chaim put both his hands into the tub of water and began to search and hunt for a suitable fish. The fish ran around in the water under a thin layer of ice. It was very cold and R' Chaim's hands almost froze. Catching a fish was not an easy task. But he, R' Chaim, didn't give up. He stubbornly chased the fish until he caught

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one of them with his blue fingers. He took it out of the water and threw it on the scales. If the fish was stubborn, refused to be weighed, jumped off the scales on the snowy ground, fluttered in the snow and tried to escape, R' Chaim, or his wife, Peshe, immediately rushed to put it back on the scales.

On hot summer days, he placed near his kvass barrel a pot to cook young and tender corn on the cob. Sometimes, a boy, whose soul craved corn on the cob, passed by him, but didn't have a penny in his pocket. He stopped by the stove, stared at the cooking corn, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, and his eyes bulging from their sockets with desire. R' Chaim, called out to him in a fatherly tone: “Come here, my boy, take one. I know your father, he will pay me the debt,” and pushed into the boy 's hands what he wanted. The boy began to gnaw on the corn kernels and went on his way.

On Friday he sat in the Great Synagogue, cleaned, swept the men's hall and the women's section for the Shabbat. He washed, dried, and changed the tablecloths. The Shabbos goy, Onufrei, helped him. If there was a funeral on Thursday, he left the fish sale in the hands of his wife. He went out to the outskirts of the village, called Onufrei, and the two of them went down to the cemetery and began digging the grave. We will never know who was responsible for the burial, R' Chaim the Carpenter or his friend R' Chaim Peshe Roize's? Both were in the same position, and both saw a great mitzvah in burial, a true kindness for the dead.

During the Soviet rule in the city, from mid-September 1939 to the beginning of July 1941, when the community institutions collapsed, both remained in their positions and went out to every call that was made to arrange the burials.

In early August 1941, the Germans rounded up the men who were required to do forced labor. They were brought to the Cheremosh River?, which had overflowed its banks, to pull fragments of barges out of the water that threatened to destroy the railway bridge connecting Kuty and Vizhnitz across the river. From the piles of wood, the workers removed dozens of bodies of rural Jews from the Cheremosh villages across the river in Bukovina. These Jews were tortured and murdered by Ukrainians and soldiers of the Romanian army who returned and conquered Bukovina. R' Chaim Peshe Roize's sat on the riverbank and received each body into his hands. He knew many of these Jews, and he did not recognize many, but he personally took care to bring them to the cemetery and bury them in a Jewish grave.

He and his family were not granted to reach a Jewish grave like his two friends, R' Chaim the Carpenter and R' Chaim the Tinsmith. Their bones and ashes are scattered somewhere in the Belz extermination camp or next the railroad tracks leading to this cruel camp. All together they are waiting to wake up at the end of days. Only God Almighty knows when this will happen.

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When he was still a bachelor, and his cart and horse captured an honorable place in market square, his name, and his horse's name, were already famous. Only God has the solution to the riddle of the identity of the man who gave the cart owner, R' Shmuel Kliger, the nickname “Schmill der Yung” (Young Schmill). A tall young man, upright and broad-shouldered, whose head was covered with a black forelock, which was always placed under his hat and landed on his right ear. A strange nickname for a young man with a red, lively face. Both his cheeks were always swollen, as if he had eaten a pear and it was not easy for him to decide whether it was time to swallow the chew, or to hold it in his mouth, to play with it a little, chew it, and then swallow it. To differentiate, of course, to the habits of his horse who chewed twice as long in comparison to other carters' horses.

R' Schmill placed his horse, which was rewarded by the nickname Zduchlek, meaning corpse, together with the horses of his carters' friends. The horses stood crowded together in the square behind the butcher shops. Dozens of rats gathered between their legs. They were harnessed to carts, which were arranged every day in two rows on the market's clay soil, similar to a food transport department of some army.

Why was the horse called Zduchlek? Very simple! The name suited it. It was thin and bony, its ribs jutted out like hoops under its brown skin, which was covered in wounds that had been smeared with a black ointment, concocted by the nimble hands of Zaychuk the gypsy. Its skin was stung by horseflies that buzzed on its back, its belly and at the base of his tail. These flies, which gave the horse no rest, stood under its eyes, and mercilessly licked the thick liquid that dripped from them. The horse also had many stab wounds on his neck from the bloodlettings. When it tried to pass out or tilt its head to the side, when it didn't feel

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well, R' Schmill approached it, and with a pocketknife that he pushed into the end of its neck, he let out a cup of black blood from the body of his breadwinner. Horses, in its status, have long since died, and from their carcass only the skin was left. The stary dogs' catcher stripped their skin in his laboratory on the Zerink, adjacent to the slaughterhouse, in the vicinity of Raztoka.

But that was not the case with Zduchlek, R' Schmill's only support. It was a noble horse, strong and adaptable to everything. With pride, and not for nothing, the carter boasted of his horse's lineage. In the “Horse's Book,” which was bound in thin black cardboard that he always kept in his coat pocket, it was written, black on white, that the horse “Zedo” was born to its father, the breeding horse “Tzipola,” from the village of Smodna, and to its mother the mare, of the Hutsul breed, from the village of Horod, both near the administrative city of Kosow. The newborn first saw its owner's world on the twentieth of the month of July, in the year one thousand nine hundred and thirty-one. The document was signed by the Sołtys [head of the village] of Horod. Not a bad document - his Zduchlek was only two years old, and its future lay before it.

And now we will return to R' Schmill's nickname, der Yung. Let's say, that he was a violent man who threatened his friends, the cart owners. They stood in the square every day waiting for a little income, and there was a lot of competition among them. Let's say, he was rude and didn't refrain from harsh criticism of a carter or his homeowner. Let's say, he was uneducated and didn't know how to distinguish between the reciting the Shema prayer before going to sleep and Modeh ani l'fanecha [“I Thank You”] that a Jew says when he gets out of bed in the morning, healthy and unharmed, and even before washing his hands. Let's say, that he was insolent, who irritated, angered, and insulted the elders .Those who resided on the upper steps of the sweat bath, which he regularly visited every Sabbath eve, when he tried to claim for himself a place of honor on the narrow wooden steps that were in the possession of carpenters with inguinal hernia. They lay down, enjoyed themselves, and hit their hunched backs with a willow broom.

The statement is not true, and even part of it is not true. He was not rude, nor did he have a sharp tongue, he was not insolent or man of judgment who would provoke anger. What's more, he knew a little “small print,” meaning, that he prayed well, understood the weekly Torah portion and its Haftarah. From time to time, he ran for the position of gabbai in the Hasidim Beit Midrash, but he couldn't get elected on the pretext that he was single. Even when he finally took a wife from a decent family, exchanged his cart for a spring carriage, and added another horse to Zduchlek, none of them helped him. Nor the right of his wife and her decent family, nor the conversion from a cart owner to a carriage owner. The nickname “Schmill der Yung,” the name given to him by the homeowners at the Hasidim Beit Midrash in the city of Kuty, was interpreted one way or another, and his downfall was because he did not grow a beard.

At the age of thirty-something, he finally got married, received a small dowry, and decided: to no longer be a cart owner, no longer a servant to the cart. He will not load any more goods: sacks of grain

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flour, sacks of potatoes, crates of iron, nails and hooks, lumber and planks, and will not drive a beggar or a miser to Kosow. To make a living, he will buy a spring carriage, add another strong horse to his “corpse,” and now he is already the owner of a carriage. Although he didn't change his profession, he remained a carter by nature but managed to raise his dignity a little.

One morning, filled with courage, went to R' Srul Mendel the carriages owner at the end of the “cart owners” street, which began at the shack of the shegetz [non-Jew] Rudolf Meir, and ended up at the home of R' Itzkel Bergerin the teacher. He bought a carriage from R' Srul Mendel that was “not so old, but not so new.” That is to say, a carriage in its middle years. A carriage that would have many years of travel throughout the District of Kosow.

One Wednesday, he left for the livestock fair in Kosow. and towards evening returned riding a white horse dotted with spots, doubtfully black, doubtfully brown. “I was looking for a horse like this,” he replied to those who asked him about the reason for this strange purchase. “Is this your horse? Your Zduchlek is brown, and it is appropriate that the two horses be similar in their skin color.” Asked him his new neighbors, the carriage owners, who crowded around his carriage and gave their opinions on its nature and character. “Why do you ask?” replied R' Schmill with a question, and immediately answered: “Very simply, two similar horses may attract a “good eye” to them. Just because one is brown and the other is spotted a “good eye” will not be drawn to them, and no evil will stick to them,” ruled an expert who was well-versed in all kinds of spells, noises, sorceries, and other kinds of harm.

He got rid of his old cart when he sold it to the highest bidder in the nearby village of Kobaky. He left the brown horse in place, harnessed Tzik, the spotted horse, next to it, and joined the long line of carriages. The line wound along the paved square starting at the house of the widowed Mrs. Schechter and ended at the pumping well across from the Zeiger family home. About twelve carriages were lined up. Was there competition between the carriage drivers? The answer is no. There was no competition between carriage owners and there would be no competition. What is competition for? They were all friends. They all prayed at the Hasidim Beit Midrash. All graduated from the cheder of R' Zurni na Beile, or the cheder of Chaim Zev the melamed [teacher]. Many passengers didn't use carriages. Really, why would they quarrel and insult each other?! Therefore, the unwritten law in the rule book of the carriage owners of the Holy Community Kuty, and the surrounding area, was strengthened: “A carriage shall not move from its place until the previous one is filled.”

Five passengers were needed to fill a carriage. Four passengers inside, and one passenger next to the coachman on the stand. Sometimes, they waited for hours and hours until the carriage was full. All the pleas of the passengers who wanted to be taken to their destination because they had urgent matters to attend to were in vain. If one of them agreed to pay the full fare, the carriage set off, and immediately the carriage behind it moved and took over

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its place at the head of the line. Travel was also limited. At most they reached Kolomya, or Śniatyń. The travel to Kosow was considered short, a total of ten kilometers, only a three-quarter hour drive. But the trip to the border bridge in Vizhnitz was the shortest, two and half kilometers long. Right under their noses. Of course, there weren't many people willing to make such a trip. The Jews walked to save money, and the Poles and the Ukrainians, who lived in Dolina, didn't use carriages, because the bridge was right under their noses. Still, they occasionally traveled to Vizhnitz. They were residents of Bukovina (Romania) who had come for a visit and returned to their country in a carriage loaded with parcels and goods. One carriage set off, while another returned from afar, slowly circled the market square, as the horses' hooves and wheels struck the paving stones with a resounding sound, a carriage returned, stopped at the end of the line, and waited its turn for another ride.

There were few trips on all days of the week. On the Holy Sabbath they rested from all work. On Sundays, they worked from early morning to midnight. They were mostly Christian bachelors, who wanted to impress their future brides with their lineage, wealth, and love. What did they do? They rented a carriage for the whole day. The young man sat next to the coachman and arrived at the young woman's house, who was impatiently waiting for him at home. She was dressed elegantly, decked out in her best holiday clothes, Her cheeks and lips were red from the “chicory” paper she had applied to them. Meanwhile, her parents went out to greet their future son-in-law. The young man, with great generosity and a show of generosity, invited his girl to get into the carriage. They left to visit his family, or just to take a Sunday stroll, which would probably end with a drink at the Seidman-Scherzer family's tavern market square.

When it was R' Schmill's turn, he tied the reins, jumped down from the stand, and greeted his passengers. He loaded five passengers, who were headed for Kosow, into his carriage and set off. When he arrived in Kosow, he dropped off his passengers at the carriage plaza below the “Yellow Mountain,” and lined up to pick up passengers back to Kuty. In this manner he made his way year after year. As he grew older, he began to grow a short beard, a mixture of black and silver bristles. Over the years, nothing remained of his black hair. Most of it had fallen out, except for a patch of trimmed gray hair around his head. It was clear to everyone that the man was bald. He was immediately included in the Farekhes Association - the owners of bright and noble bald heads, who, on Shabbat Hagadol ]the Shabbat prior to Passover[, had to be present to Pharaoh, the King of Egypt, and get ready with him the upcoming Passover. The legend prevalent in our city said that King Pharaoh was bald. “Is it possible that Kuty's farekhes will not come to visit the “King of Kings of the farekhes in Egypt” on Shabbat Hagadol?! Therefore, already on Shabbat eve, after “Schmill der Yung” finished the Shabbat meal he ate with his wife, his son Zelig and his little daughter. and only slept a little, a group of pelgerim already stood under

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the windows of his house. The pelgerim were young Jews who were about to be drafted into the Polish army. They ran around the city streets at night, making noise and shouting, lifting weights and heavy objects, hoping that they would be able to lose weight and thereby avoid military service, or at least receive a deferment of one to two years. Until then, God willing, maybe they will get married. They lined up under R' Schmill windows on the eve of Shabbat Hagadol, cursing and shouting at the bald man: “well, R' Schmill, haven't you woken up from your sleep yet? Put on your best clothes and set off with us, lest we miss the train to Egypt, and you, R' Schmill, will remain the only bald man in the city.” The man, of course, begged for mercy, asked to be left alone, brought out various pastries, poppy seeds, cookies, nuts and seeds. They devoured them and ate them. Finally, they went on their way to the next bald man, and there was no shortage of such in our city.

Another legend circulated in our city that Schmill der Yung was very dedicated to his horses. He fed and watered them alone and didn't let anyone approach them. He cared for them, cleaned them, and was anxious for their safety. He was especially afraid that they would stumble and collapse under the weight of the passengers in the carriage. The rumor spread that on one of his trips, a homeowner asked him to drive him to Kosow. “I have arbitration with a judge in Kosow,” the Jew explained to him. “Well, what's the problem? Get in the carriage and we'll set off right away. It's good that you're the fifth and we won't have to wait,” R' Schmill replied to him with satisfaction. The carriage set off. The passengers were preoccupied with their own thoughts. The day had just begun. They reached Mount “Saint John,” which was quite sloping, but not steep. “Please,” he urged his passengers, “get off and follow the carriage. It is difficult for the horses to pull a cart loaded with five people up the mountain.” With no choice, the passengers got out of the carriage and climbed up the mountain. When they reached the top, a stone monument in the image of the saint stood there. The passengers asked to go up to the carriage. Here a surprise awaited them. “A load of five people is too heavy for the horses descending a steep slope. “The carriage could slide into the ditch and you, God forbid, will get hurt,” R' Schmill ruled unequivocally. “We're also walking downhill. I don't need trouble. Do you want to come with broken bones?! Not with me.” When they finally reached the valley where the road was already straight and flat, the passengers tried to get into their seats in the carriage, but R' Schmill delayed them for the third time, claiming: “you should miss the sight of such a beautiful and lush landscape, a green forest, tall trees and flowers. You should hear the birds chirping and the butterflies fluttering. Let's walk a little further. In the meantime, the poor horses will rest,” he said, and ordered the horses to continue on their way. Then the Jew's patience ran out. He became angry with R' Schmill, uttered a short, incomprehensible curse, and asked angrily: “R' Schmill, I understand that I am traveling to Kosow for arbitration, and I also understand that R' Schmill is traveling with us for the needs of his livelihood. However, I am not able to understand at all what he is doing and what benefit you have dragged your horses with you.”

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More legends circulated in the city. They told that R' Schmill der Yung didn't stay away from alcoholic beverages, and sometimes even squinted at beautiful women he drove in his carriage. On the Sabbath and holidays, he wore a black coat, a black hat, took his tallit sack under his armpit and went with his son Zelig to the Hasidim's Beit Midrash, which was a little further away. Even though Beit HaMidrash of the Chortkov Hasidim was located a few steps from his house, he chose to pray together with the carriage owners, that among them he felt good, like a homeowner.

But his big day actually came on Passover Eve. He, as the eldest son, and his son Zelig harnessed the carriage shortly before sunrise and arrived at the square of the ancient High Beit Midrash. They climbed the rotten, creaking wooden stairs, came to the women's section, and joined other eldest sons who had come from all Batei Midrash to hear the conclusion of Masekhet Mishnayot, as is customary, in order to be exempt from Ta'anit B'khorot. R' Chaim Zev the teacher read the end of Masekhet Mishnayot and explained something in garbled Hebrew. The orphans recited Kaddish D'Rabbanan. Bottles of brandy were drawn out. Someone served various types of pastries and honey cookies. Everyone ate and drank to their hearts' content and wished each other a koshern un freilichen Pesach [kosher and happy Passover]. Then? the two got into the carriage and returned home to eat some of the leavened bread that was still permitted to eat. R' Schmill took with him the wooden spoon from testing the leaven, which contained a few breadcrumbs, a candle and a chicken wing tied and wrapped in white cloth. In his other hand he held a bundle of clean underwear to change into for himself and his son. The son Zelig found two or three pieces of dry wood, tucked them under his armpit, and the two marched to the city bathhouse. In the square, in front of the bathhouse, they lit a fire to burn the leaven. Homeowners arrived, threw the leaven into it, and said a prayer for the removal of leavened bread: “All the leaven and sourdough I have etc.” And he, R' Schmill der Yung, walked next to the fire with great importance, as a hen supervising her chicks, ordering and commanding, warning and threatening, making sure that the flames would not spread towards the bathhouse and the surrounding wooden houses. At nine o'clock he checked that the fire had turned into whispering embers after he poured a bucket of murky water that he had drawn from the stream that flowed beneath the bathhouse. In a good mood, he and his son Zelig entered the bathhouse. They washed, dipped in the two pools, the hot and cold, and climbed the wooden steps to the top. They were both sweating and during the act shoved their heads into a wooden bucket full of cold water and hit each other on the back with willow branches. It is clear that on that day, after preparing himself for the Seder night, he was idle from work, didn't travel anywhere, and put his two horses in the stable, so that he could rest and not work, as written: “You shall perform no labor, neither you, your son, your daughter, your manservant, your maidservant, your beast, nor your stranger who is in your cities” (Exodus 20:10). He has done so every year, as long as peace prevailed.

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In September 1939, war broke out. Poland was occupied. At the middle of the month Soviet troops arrived in the city. Community life slowly declined. Batei HaMidrash barely held a minyan for mid-week prayer. The custom of burning the leaven in the bathhouse square has also passed away. The homeowners burned the leaven in their courtyards. The bathhouses were taken over by the Soviets and were used by the Red Army soldiers. At night came the officers of the NKVD, party leaders and their families. Travel outside the city also decreased. Since Kuty was a border city, the authorities restricted movement to and from it. Private trade has completely ceased, and where would they go when there is nothing to travel on and no one to travel with? Of the many carriages, only three or four remained, which were used by Soviet officials. The carters became unemployed or moved to menial jobs, such as logging in the Kaminitz Forest. Among them was also R' Schmill, who worked every day to earn his living and feed his two horses were who stood idle in his stable which was attached to the garden of R' Refael Katz from “community” street.

A year and another year passed. War broke out between Germany and the Soviets. The rumors that came were harsh. The Red Army retreated along the entire front for fear of the Germans. The city was filled with anxiety and insecurity from the fear of the treacherous Germans, who were about to completely occupy the city and execute innocent Jews. However, before the evacuation of the city, the Soviet administration officials collected all the means of transport, wagons and horse-drawn carriages from the residents and confiscated them for the benefit of the war effort. An officer? from the Soviet security services? arrived at R' Schmill and demanded from him his carriage drawn by two horses. It is clear that Shmil didn't negotiate a price. He understood very well that there was no way out, and no request would help. He immediately agreed, harnessed his two horses, Zduchlek and Tzik, to the carriage and handed them over to the officer who sat on the stand ready to set off. R' Schmill didn't hold back his emotions. When the officer saw how the tall, broad-shouldered man with a small gray beard was crying, stroking his two beloved horses, he felt sorry for him. “It's nothing, citizen, when the country is in danger there is no value in property. When we return from the war, we will give you your horses and carriage back, or we will pay for them. In the meantime, take a “receipt,”” the officer said. He probably didn't understand that R' Schmill wasn't crying about his property that was taken from him, but rather about his two horses who were part of his life. The officer took out a notebook, tore out half a page from it, and wrote with a chemical pencil in very large letters:

”I, Lieutenant (here he wrote his name, his father's name and his last name), who serves

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in the Soviet administration in Kuty in Stanislav Oblast, confirms that today, the twenty-eighth of the month of June, one thousand nine hundred and forty-one, I acted in accordance with the emergency regulations and removed from the possession of the citizen, Schmill Zilkowitch Kliger from Bathhouse Street in Kuty:

1. Carriage in good condition
2. Two Hutsuls horses, healthy and fit for work.”

R' Schmill read the receipt and put it in his waistcoat pocket. The officer pushed the horses and disappeared with the carriage. The next day the Soviets retreated in the direction of Bukovina and Bessarabia. R' Schmill remained without a carriage, without horses, and without a status. His bald spot also widened and became more and more obvious due to the difficulties. The remaining hair fell off his head and there was no sign left that he once had hair. He suffered severe torment, “bald from end to end.”

After a few days, a cavalry company from the Hungarian army entered the city. They emerged from across the Carpathians. They allowed the Jews to live in peace. However, the Ukrainians from the surrounding area occasionally raided the city, seeking revenge on the Jews who collaborated with the Soviet regime. The rioters tried to break windows and beat any Jew who dared to leave their homes and got in their way. After a month and a week, at the beginning of August 1941, the Germans arrived. They took control of the city and annexed it to the of Generalgouvernemen (General Governorate for the Occupied Polish Region) territory. The Germans began the Nuremberg Laws (antisemitic and racist laws). They confiscated Jewish property right and left, imposed ransoms and various payments, and forced men up to the age of forty-nine and women up to the age of forty to perform forced labor. For a day's work they received a few grams of sticky bread, which was not at all fit for human consumption, but because of the severe hunger, it tasted like honey. The famine began and with it the Nazi hell. Elderly people and children starved to death in the streets. The cuts and punishments for selling grain to Jews were unbearable. The young people, who were still fit, went out to hard labor, because who will fall ill in times of great trouble and danger? R' Schmill, even though he was already over the age of fifty, hired himself out, replacing young people who could not go to work, and in their place received the daily ration, the sticky bread, to bring it to his starving wife and daughter. Suddenly, luck shone on him. As an expert groom he was sent to work at the border station in the village of Slobodka. There, he took care of the station's dozens of horses. He was treated well by the German officer who commanded the station and by the other guards.

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The Ukrainian cooks were ordered to set aside for him the leftover food instead of throwing it in the garbage. He collected the leftovers and distributed them to the forced laborers who came to the place from time to time. He rarely snuck into the city to bring to his family a little dry bread and potato peels that he collected from the barn. Fearing that his absence would be discovered, he hurried back to the camp and continued as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, a replacement groom arrived at the camp and the commander allowed R' Schmill to leave for a Passover vacation. He left but never returned. On the day of the Aktion, the last day of Passover, his house was not set on fire because the street he lived on bordered with Ukrainian houses, and the family of the widow Nowitzki lived across the street from his house. He had a chance to survive, but the rioters took him, his wife, and his two children out of his house. They were severely beaten by the Ukrainians and the Gestapo, loaded on trucks and sent to Kolomyia. From there, they were taken by train to the Belzec extermination camp where their pure and holy souls perished in the gas chambers. No one was left from R' Schmill and his wife's family, therefore “the Merciful One will shade them forever with His wings and will avenge the spilled blood of His servants.”

May their memory be blessed forever.

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In 1939 I graduated from elementary school, which had seven grades. In Kuty there were two elementary schools, one for boys and the other for girls. The structure of the girls' school was beautiful. The classrooms were spacious and during breaks we would play in the yard. We were banned from speaking Yiddish and we had to speak only Polish. Anti-Semitism was well felt. The principal, a fat and unsympathetic man, was particularly antisemitic and we were afraid of him.

The Jewish children also went to Jewish schools: “Beit Yaakov” and “Tarbut”. The atmosphere in the Jewish schools was calm, without the tension and fears we had in the Polish school. I studied at “Beit Yaakov” religious school. The feeling was wonderful. On Saturdays we would go to the synagogue and sometimes we would walk with the teacher out of town. I especially remember the trip to Kosov. We stayed there at “Beit Yaakov” school. The students received us nicely and treated us with cakes and drinks. Then we went home.

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Before I start writing my childhood memories of the town I remember fondly, I want to mention my family members who died and perished in the Holocaust. The parents, Alter Pasternak and Priva Koren, started a beautiful family. Five daughters and two sons (the brother died while in his infancy). Death has ravaged our family cruelly and at a young age. My father passed away when my sister Perla and I were very young. I remember the neighbors took us to stay with them until after the funeral. At the time, we did not understand the magnitude of the disaster. The second disaster befell us with the death of our sister, Nacha, in the ninth month of her pregnancy. I remember her lying on the floor covered with a sheet and candles to her head. People came from the synagogue and blew the shofar so that the child could come out. Of course, no miracle happened. My mother refused to be comforted and passed away exactly on the anniversary of her death. The eldest son, Herschel, who was married to Billa, and his three children, Shmuel, Zalman, and Priva, perished in the Holocaust. The second daughter, Yeti, (nicknamed Pizziya) immigrated to Israel after her marriage to Bruno Hoisman. Her two children, Oded and Priva (Irit), granted them with five grandchildren, four sons and a daughter. The fourth sister, Zelda, married Dudi Feldhamer. They perished in the Holocaust with their two children, Sami and Chaimke. May they rest in peace. Last - Perla, the youngest daughter, may she live long, married to Isser Wallach and they have a daughter and three grandchildren.

Life at home was very traditional. We got up in the morning with the blessing “Mode Ani” and in the evening, before we went to bed, our lips murmured “Shma Yisrael”. The holidays were kept very strictly. I especially remember Passover. The bustle in the house was great in anticipation for the boiling of the dishes to make them kosher. The stove was heated by hot coals. The whole house was made kosher and cleaned.

The lives of Perla and I changed with our joining to “Hashomer Hatzair”, where we discovered more progressive lives. It was the most beautiful time of my life. I discovered a

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Different world. The “Chazak ve'ematz” (be strong and of good courage), the interesting conversations, the trips, the Hora dances. Every year on the eighth of July we went to the Great Synagogue (di groise Shil), to hear the interesting lecture of the late Dr. Menashe Mendel in memory of Benjamin Zeev Herzl. We were dressed in “Hashomer Hatzair” uniform, we sang and celebrated. It was an extraordinary experience. We thought it would last forever: the trips, the dances, the small and big loves, the separations, which were often accompanied by anguish. Time passed, we began to mature. Some of the members fulfilled their dream, went to training, and immigrated to Israel. Some went to universities, and perhaps even dreamed of Aliyah. Over time, “Hashomer Hatzair” tended more to the left. I and other friends left the movement in favor of communism, with the clear thought that only in this way would the problems of the Jewish people be solved, problems that had always preoccupied my mind. The establishment of the state of Israel at that time was seen as a utopia. I did not realize then how wrong I was. I paid a high price. I spent a year and a half in prison due to communist activity that was illegal in independent Poland. I caused my family great sorrow, but then I still believed in the righteousness of my way. I believed that the Soviets would bring us salvation. The day they entered Kuty was the happiest day of my life.

The disappointment was not long in coming and intensified after we fled to Russia. An entire book could have been written about my activities as a communist. I will tell one episode: on May 1, the police would arrest the known communists, in order to prevent them from organizing demonstrations and distributing printed material against the regime. I was once sent to Lvov, to bring printed propaganda material in order to distribute it in villages and towns. I did not know that a suitcase full of paper could be so heavy. I could not lift it up and put it on the train. The truth is that I was sorry about the whole thing, but it was too late. I knew that if I returned with this suitcase to Kuty, the police would arrest me on the spot. I sat and looked for a solution. Suddenly the savior angel appears on the train. His name was Stengel. It was a young man from Kuty, who lived not far from the Hazenpratz family. He was an avid revisionist. I knew only he could save the situation. I asked him to take the suitcase and send it to Adela Engel, who was also a communist activist. I promised to pay the expenses. I told him I had relatives in Zablotov and I did not want to lug around with the suitcase. I knew he would not be harmed, because the police would never suspect him. He agreed, but after lifting the suitcase, he twisted his face, saying it was too heavy. Luckily some Poles were sitting there, telling him that he can't refuse to do a favor to such a beautiful maiden. In short, he took the suitcase with suspicious and concerns, but accidentally handed it over to Mrs. Engler, who lived on the street where Sheindel Height lived, instead of Adela Engel. She opened the suitcase out of curiosity, saw its contents, and was shocked. When she recovered she informed Sheindel Height. Miraculously it all ended well. I met Stengel once in Israel. We did not mention the incident. Today he is no longer alive. May he rest in

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peace.

The head of “Hashomer Hatzair” Histadrut in Kuty was Meir Tenanzpaf. He was very active and contributed much to the movement. None of his family members survived. May them rest in peace. In 1941 we left Kuty and together with the late Rosa Tzila we fled to Russia. There we found Pola, and together we went through this terrible war. We stayed with Tzipa and Isaac Hozen, and also with Hanhale and Moshe Klinger. They told us what our family went through and the town that was completely destroyed. I wanted to get to the Land of Israel as quickly as possible and live there forever. I never complained that it was difficult for me, even though I lived in bad conditions, but always with a strong belief, that everything will work out for the best.

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Our town Kuty, located in Galicia, was known as a resort town surrounded by greenery and fields. Its fruits were known far and wide. There wasn't much employment for young people. The town had a temporary boom when they began to weave carpets. The adults engaged in trade, and there were also craftsmen there. There was one big hall in the town, called “Sokol,” theater performances and movie screenings were held there. The tickets were quite expensive, and not everyone could afford to visit it. But as we say: a yid a lemadan git zich a atsa (a Jewish scholar gives advice).

If it happened, and one of the family members was not feeling well, everyone immediately said that it was from the “evil eye,” and to test it, they took a cup of water and put hot embers in it. If the embers sank, it was a sign that there was no “evil eye,” but if the embers floated, it was a sign that the “evil eye” harmed the family. And how do you remove the “evil eye?” You go to Chanziza, an elderly woman who lives next to the Geller family. She muttered like this: “three women are sitting on a mountain and talking among themselves. One says that the “evil eye” was placed on Yenta, Priva's daughter. The second says that this is not true and the third says that it is necessary to spit three times.” It goes without saying that they left her a few pennies and went home relieved.

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How did they remove the “evil eye” from a child who was not feeling well, vomiting, or in pain? They took wax, warmed it up, poured it onto a smooth surface, and checked which image was formed - an animal or a human figure, and it was the one that caused the “evil eye,” and in this manner the child recovered.

Another story that went around town regarding the same Chanziza: the mayor highly valued her and loved her stories, poems, rhymes, and dreams. Once, this elderly woman told him that she had a dream. In her dream, her meager shack was destroyed. Since the mayor greatly respected her, he made sure to build her a new hut.

He loved hearing the following poem about Kuty:

Three paper rolls
Beautiful girl, come please.
We will eat and gobble down a lot of food
Until darkness takes you.
How I fell into the trap when I married you
And you hate me so much.
I wish the wind would take you
And I will finally have satisfaction.

And how were announcements made in the town? - by Feranya the policeman. He was drumming on a big drum. At the sound of the drum, everyone gathered near the town hall, where all the announcements were made. There was also Shimon Fogel (Kuzma), the town's rich man, owner of the gas station and of the only telephone in town. Every time he spoke on the phone, he took off his hat.

Midnight. Who dared to get closer to the synagogue at this hour? We had an elderly neighbor who came to visit our home often. She used to bake loaves of bread for the whole week. One day her late husband, or her late mother, showed up, took a challah, and disappeared. That neighbor was convinced that their spirits were floating around and came to visit, along with the rest of the spirits of the town's dead at the synagogue at midnight.

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There was a mitzvot maker in town, Chaim Peshe Roize's. Before Purim, he painted his face black and only his red eyes stood out. He wore special clothes and carried a long stick with a bell at its end. He visited the houses of the town's wealthy, collected donations of money and groceries, all for the benefit of the poor, so that they would spend the Passover holiday with dignity.

And there was also Zeyde Shatner - owner of a wicker furniture store. Many things were stored in his boydem [attic]. Once he went up to the boydem with a candle in his hand and suddenly the candle went out. There was complete darkness in the attic, and then, according to the gossipers of the time, Zeyde walked and muttered: “boydem, boydem…” and suddenly he tripped, fell into the store, and said: “aoys boydem (the boydem ended).”

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I studied at Tarbut school for seven years. From kindergarten and until the entrance of the Russians to the town. With the entry of the Russians, the existence of a Hebrew school was prohibited, and the school was closed. I hated the Polish school to death, and for good reason, as Jews we experienced insulting and humiliating treatment from the anti-Semitic teachers, headed by Hordinsky, the principal. For me, the Hebrew school was a real celebration. Our teachers came from out of town and changed from time to time. Mrs. Stein was the only teacher from Kuty. To this day, her admired and charming figure stands before me. She taught Hebrew, Bible, and Jewish history. I will always remember her vitality, her smile, and the hard work she put into organizing the Hanukkah and Purim celebrations. She brought us very close to the love of the Hebrew language, and to a large extent, to Zionism.

Also noteworthy are other Jewish teachers from Kuty, among them the teacher Fledhamer, the teacher Zurger, the teacher Steigman and the teacher Steinkole. Although these teachers were professional, they were prevented from teaching at the Polish school due to their Jewishness. When the Russians entered the town, they were also allowed to teach at the general school, although unfortunately not for long.

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Berel Luker
From his book “From Kitov to Jerusalem,”
The Zionist Library, Jerusalem, 1970

I was born in the month of Iyar 5647 (27 April 1887) in the village of Kryvets near the town of Solotwina [Solotvyn[, Stanislawow Voivodeship, Eastern Galicia. My mother, Chaya, daughter of R' Mordechai Hirsh Luker, passed away before I reached the age of three. My father, R' Yakov Shatner, brought me to the home of my grandfather, R' Yosi Shatner, in Kitov (Kuty), and I lived there for about four years, and my memories begin from that house.

On a side note, I will add here why I was named under my mother's surname, Luker, and not under father's surname. The story was as follows: according to the Austrian law of those days, marriage was forbidden to young people who had not reached the age of twenty-four, that is, before the end of the age of compulsory military service. Many evaded this law by marrying only according to the Jewish law, marriages that the country's law did not recognize. Many had done so, including my father. That's why I am recorded in the registry books as “illegitimate” - under my mother's surname. Until I entered high school I was named after my father, I didn't use the name Luker at all. But, at school they demanded a birth certificate, I was forced to use the name Luker, and my father didn't see any flaw in it. I hope that by being called Luker I didn't bring shame to my mother's family, nor did I cause sorrow to my mother, may her memory be blessed, in the afterlife.

My grandfather's home was an enlightened traditional home. All the Jewish laws and customs were strictly observed, but the spirit of the new age prevailed there. My grandfather was a learned scholar, gifted with a phenomenal memory. He almost knew the entire Bible by heart. Sometimes, when he returned from his trading house (for fabrics) and sat and drank for his pleasure, he said to me: “Berale, bring me the Bible.” I brought it. “Choose a verse.” I chose. “Tell me only the dots.” I said. And then he told me, just based on the dots, the verse

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and its exact location. In his library, next to the Bible with all the commentaries and Gemarot with Rif (Rabbi Isaac al-Fasi), also research books such as: The Book of Beliefs and Opinions by Rabbi Saadia Gaon, A?edat Yitzchak [Binding of Isaac] by Yitzchak Arama, Be?inat ha'Olam ]The Examination of the World] by R' Yedidiah HaPeninim and more.

He had an educated stance toward Hasidism, but he didn't fight it. He treated it with forgiving humor. He was a member of Hovevei Zion [Lovers of Zion] and joined the Zionist movement - and after the appearance of Theodor Herzl. He was among the subscribers to the Hebrew newspapers: at first HaMelitz, later Ha-Tsfira and the weekly Hamagid Hahadash. He also subscribed to the German newspaper in Vienna Neue Freie Presse [New Free Press]. My grandmother, Kreindel, was a humble housewife. She was diligent about reading Tz'enah Ur'enah and HaMaor HaGadol, and next to them also read the novels and feuilletons of Neue Freie Presse.

After staying for about three and a half or four years at my grandparents' home, they entered me to a cheder of small children. I didn't have time to gain much knowledge in this cheder. I only learnt how to read and the beginning of the Bible. But I was blessed that my grandfather told me every evening, before bedtime, stories from the Torah and Jewish history in the days of the First Temple period. These were pleasant stories that planted in me at a tender age the first seedlings of love for the Jews and for Israel.

In 5655 (1895), I was brought back to my father's home in Solotwina. In the meantime, he married a second woman. His second wife (Sheva of the Ringelblum family) gave birth to my brothers Issac and Mordecai and my sister Perel (Pepi) who passed away after the First World War.

My father was an educator by nature, had a good temper, and was always kind to people. He had a sense of humor, and in every incident knew how to discover the ridiculous element. With me, and also with my brother and sister, he always behaved with consideration and kindness. He never scolded us, and even more so, never treated us with the degree of punishment. His way was always to hint at the ridiculousness of our actions. And here are some examples:

I was a student at the elementary school founded by the educational network of Baron Hirsch. My father found out that I was selling notebooks and pencils. He entered into a conversation with me and casually said: “I've heard that you have begun to deal with practical matters, maybe you can tell me. How do you do that?” I replied that I buy wholesale and sell retail. “How much do you pay, for example, for a box of pencils?” - “twelve Kreuzer (a small Austrian coin).” “And what do you get for one pencil?” - “One Kreuzer.” “And what is your profit?” - “And your honor, is the whole thing a small thing in your eyes?” - “If so, Berale, you will be a merchant like your father!”

The boys considered it a matter of honor to wear long pants, because in doing so they resembled the adults. “Pantaloon” was the fashion then, and the longer the pants,

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the more refined and modern they were. And since my pants weren't as long as “pantaloon,”

I tried to “lengthen” them as much as possible by pulling them downward. “Berale, he said to me, the 'pantaloon' must be long upwards as well…”

He received an excellent education and continued his studies even after leaving the cheder. He knew Hebrew perfectly and recited chapters from all the books of the Bible with great fluency. He was also well-versed in the poetry of Yehuda Leyb Gordon and Avrom Ber Gotlober, the works of Isaac Erter and others. He was a faithful companion of Hebrew literature in its development. He already read HaMelitz, Hazfira and Hamagid Hahadash at my grandfather's house. When he failed in trading, he tried his luck as a clerk at the “Carmel” company in Lwow [Lviv]. Then, as secretary of the community in Kitov that my grandfather headed. At the beginning of the twentieth century, he moved to teaching and founded the school Safa Brura [”clear language”] in Kitov and introduced the “Hebrew in Hebrew” teaching method. After the First World War he moved to Stanislawów and managed the school Safa Brura there until his passing in 1923, at the age of fifty-seven.

I studied in Solotwina until 5649 (1899) with different teaches and according to the traditional method, meaning: Chumash with Rashi and Gemara. My father, who was then at the period of his trading career, found time to teach us the basics of Hebrew grammar and the Bible, and instilled in us a taste for the Hebrew language and its literature. In those days, I first heard from my father about new Hebrew and Yiddish literature - and from the latter he read on the Shabbat and holidays, and mainly from its works of Avrum Goldnfoden and Sholem Aleichem.

At the same time, I also studied at the general Jewish school named after Baron Hirsch. These schools were a small link in the great chain of projects and institutions created by Baron Hirsch to alleviate the suffering of our brothers in the countries of Eastern Europe, and first and foremost, in Austria and Russia. Hirsch sought to place the elementary Jewish education on modern foundations and to establish vocational schools, to establish loan funds, and settle the Jews in agriculture in their countries of residence. In particular was his grand plan for Jewish agricultural settlement in Argentina and other countries in the American continent. This is not the place to evaluate the results of all these programs. But it can truly be said that Baron Hirsch was one of the most enthusiastic philanthropists of our time, and not only among the Jews. He deserved the respect bestowed upon him by the Jews of Galicia, who adorned their homes with his portrait, next to the portraits of Moses Montefiore and Edmund Rothschild.

Hundreds of Jewish boys studied general studies in Baron Hirsch's schools in Solotwina, of course in Polish. Practically all of them also studied in chadarim, since

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the parents didn't trust these schools in everything related to Jewish studies that were studied there “in a nutshell”: Jewish religion, Chumash in Hebrew and Polish, and that's all. There was no trace of the Jewish spirit and atmosphere in these studies. The main advantage of this educational institution was that it gathered Jewish children in special schools and thus spared them the hostile atmosphere that was prevalent in almost all government schools. Contrary to his trend, this school operated in a “separatist” trend, that is, Jewish. Children from poor homes also received clothes and winter shoes. But, in general, the atmosphere at school was assimilatory, steeped in Austrian and Polish patriotism, like all Polish schools in Galicia. Therefore, it is not surprising that we didn't feel a great affection for the school and also didn't embrace it with love.

I remember one typical fact concerning Jewish studies at this school. We studied Chumash and reached Parashat Noah and to the verse in which God said to Noah: “and never again will all flesh be cut off by the flood water… and the rainbow shall be in the cloud, and I will see it, to remember the everlasting covenant between God and between every living creature” etc. At the cheder we studied a special blessing for the rainbow: “remember the covenant,” while the Hebrew teacher at the school named after Baron Hirsch didn't mention the blessing at all. Instead, he explained to us that the whole matter of the bow is not an unusual phenomenon, because if we hold a glass of water in front of the sun, we will see a tiny rainbow. I told my father about it, and he sat down and wrote the teacher a long letter in Hebrew. He remarked to him that the Ramban had already debated the matter of the rainbow, and even emphasized that according to the simple meaning of the Bible verse (”I gave my rainbow in the cloud”), the rainbow already existed beforehand (“my rainbow” indicated that He already had the rainbow etc.), and only “from this day forward it shall be a sign of a covenant between me and you,” etc. He also hinted to the teacher that he shouldn't speak to the children in this manner about such matters.

My second grandfather, R' Mordechai Hirsh Luker, and my grandmother Sheindel née Brener (sister of the judge R' Berel Brener of Chernivtsi), lived in a village near Solotwina. I stayed at their home often, especially on holidays, vacations etc. There I was in a completely different atmosphere than at my father's house. My grandfather was an ardent Hasid of the Rebbe of Ottynia (a city near Solotwina), and a staunch opponent of Zionism, in which he saw an attempt to bring the coming of redemption closer (in 5662, 1902, he immigrated to Israel and passed away on that year in Jerusalem). My grandmother was also extremely religious. My grandfather ran the business, which required only a little of his time, and devoted the rest of his time to studying the Torah. My grandmother ran the tavern, and her free time was dedicated to reciting Tehillim and reading Hasidic fairy tales and moral books in Yiddish. She also introduced me to her spiritual world, by giving me books such as

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Kahal Hasidim [Hassidic legends of Holy Rabbis], Shivchei HaBaal Shem Tov [a collection of legends about the Ba'al Shem Tov], Mishlei Hamagid MeDubna ]Proverbs of the Maggid of Dubna], and more.

Thus, I was exposed to various, and to some extent even contradictory, influences, all of which left their mark on my development and the way I lived. In 5658 (1898), my father abandoned the trade, in which he was unsuccessful in, and moved to Lwow to manage the “Carmel” company of Shalom Meltzer (father of Dr. Natan Meltzer z”l), who was among the founders of the “Ahavat Zion” company that founded Kibbutz Mahniyim. The family remained in Solotwina. A year later my father decided, for the sake of proper family relations, and especially for the continuation of my Hebrew education, since I didn't have suitable teachers in Solotwina, to move me for the second time to my grandfather's home in Kitov. At the same time, my grandfather's daughter also returned to his home, having abandoned her husband and brought her young daughter with her. Therefore, I had difficulty in my absorption. In the meantime, I moved in with my aunt, my mother's sister, Hannah, and her husband, R' Yakov Luker, and on the Shabbat and holidays I left for my grandfather's house.

A warm atmosphere surrounded me at my aunt's house, from her side and from my uncle's R' Yakov. He was a merchant of leather and simple shoes and worked hard to support his family.

He was intellectual and a Hasid of the Rebbe of Vizhnitz [Vyzhnytsia]. His son, Meir, was very interested in literature and knowledge (at the same time, a love affair began to develop between I and Malka, the daughter of R' Yakov, which eventually led to marriage in 5670 (1910).) After a while, I moved to my grandfather's house for permanent residence.

I entered to study with the teacher, R' Michel Horner (his wife was my grandmother's sister).

My grandfather, who, together with other parents, brought this teacher to Kitov for the education of their children, my father among them. R' Michel, who was very devout, was advanced in his education compared to other teachers of those days. In addition to the regular studies: the Chumash with Rashi, Gemara and Tosafot, he taught us the Bible with the commentators (Ramban, Ibn Ezra, the Malbim and more). He did not even exclude himself from Mendelssohn's “commentary” and his school. He also taught us the principles of Hebrew writing by dictating a few verses from the events of the day every day and especially taught us the principles of letter writing. He was meticulous in our language and is an expert in pronouncing verses or passages of verses. One example remains etched in my memory: a Jewish tavern owner in one of the villages went to the city with his wife for Rosh Hashanah, leaving their daughter at home. A non-Jewish man, from the same village, came and harassed the young woman. When she saw that she was in trouble that she could not prevent, she took a can of pungent liquid and threw it in his face. He was severely burned and escaped for his life. R' Michel dictated the entire story to us, and finished: “The can spilled, and the young lady escaped…”

I continued my studies under my father's supervision, who in the meantime, moved with the family to Kitov.

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In 5662 (1902), I started general studies with a private teacher, and in 5663 I passed the exam for the German Gymnasium in the city of Siret (Bukovina) and entered the fourth grade. In 5668 (1908), I received a high school diploma and started studying law at the German University in Chernivtsi.

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