[Page 187]

[Page 188]

R' Leybush Halshtok z”l of Ostrovtse was my faithful friend, from whom I learned a great deal. In the last days of the year 1916 I left the Ger prayer–room where I had prayed and engaged in serious study for a long time. Having separated from the Ger shtibl, I was in search of a new subject in life.

During that time we founded the “Mizrakhi” in Ostrovtse. R' Leybush may he rest in peace threw himself heart and soul into that work. It was thanks

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to him the “Mizrakhi” in Ostrovtse grew day by day and was admired by all levels of the Jewish population in town.

In the summer months, R' Leybush z”l taught “Pirkey oves” [Ethics of the Fathers] on shabes afternoons with a large group in the local “Mizrakhi” venue, and later also “Ayn yakov” and every Wednesday evening he taught a chapter of Mishne [commentaries]. It turned out, however, that the local “Mizrakhi” was too small and could not accommodate the large crowd that streamed in to hear the lectures.

Without another alternative we had to transfer the lectures to the new bes–medresh [study–house]. But the “Agudas shlomey emuney yisroel” could not tolerate that , and they did everything possible to disrupt his work. They attacked him at every opportunity, everywhere, whenever possible.

R' Leybush z”l was head of the rabbinic court in Ostrovtse – his only bit of livelihood, from which he could barely support his household. Because of the attacks he was forced to resign from his office at the rabbinic court. A few months later they came to beg him to take the post again, and with that they ensured him that the lectures under his leadership, through “Mizrakhi”, could again take place in the new bes–medresh without disruption. And only then was he willing to take up the post as head of the court.

R' Leybush Halshtok was born in Kalish in 1884 and studied for many years in the kheyders and yeshives there. Later he married [a woman from] Ostrovtse and settled there. He was a close relative of the Ostrovtse Rebi, R' Mayer Yekhiel Haleyvi Halshtok z”l. He was known as a great Talmud sage and was called on for difficult decisions. He was secretary of the “Mizrakhi” for a long time and was the head of Jewish education. For a certain time he was also active as a member of the community council as a representative of the religious Jews. He was a social activist, beloved by all levels of the Jewish population and even his political opponents from various camps had great respect for him. He took care to see that his children were educated in the national–traditional spirit.

He was taken away with the first deportation in 1943 and went the last way with all the murdered Ostrovtse Jews.

Honor his memory!

[Pages 189-190]

Rubele Shpilman was a personality in Ostrovtse and the surrounding area. Everyone who knew him respected him greatly and he was beloved by all, both Jews and Christians.

On the anniversary of Poland's liberation, Rubele conducted his orchestra along with the cantor and his choir in the great shul, in a performance attended by highly–placed government officials and all were inspired by it.

It was a great honor, really an experience, to be able to have Rubele Shpilman and his sons and grandchildren play for a simkhe.

Although Rubele was beloved in the Christian circles he strictly observed yiddishkayt. It happened more than once that a Christian group waited respectfully for the end of shabes, for the appearance of the stars, for Rubele and his orchestra because they knew that Rubele would not begin playing before then. Sometimes it happened that he interrupted his playing and went to a far corner where he stood praying minkhe or mayrev.

Rubele Shpilman and his wife Khay'ele lived well and modestly until the outbreak of the war and the Nazi murderers marched into the shtetl.

His wife Khay'ele had died before the war. For years before her death she had been secretary of the local women's union, which had very much helped the needy. She was clever and many people went to her to consult her about problems in the family and other of life's questions. With her great wisdom and deep understanding of human life dilemmas, she would help to properly evaluate the situation and so comprehend the background of their problems and somehow find a solution to them.

Here is one of many cases in which Khay'ele Shpilman solved the problems of the needy: On the tree–lived boulevard, near the bridge by the Greletskes, lived a poor and sick tailor, Meyshele, with his whole family in a wooden shack. This was in 1928 during the terrible freezes, and Khay'ele Rubele's – as we lovingly called her – found out about that family's unfortunate situation, and that they were hungry and sat through those freezes in the cold wooden shack. She sent her daughters Rokhtshe and Khantshe to give them fur coats and other warm clothing and told them to bring the children and the whole family to her home. She settled the family in her large salon, fed them and clothed them until after the freezes.

With that gesture of virtuous humanity Khay'ele aroused the pity of a group of people who donated and collected a certain sum of money and rented an apartment for that poor family from Erlikh the photographer. The inspiration was so large that they did not have to hire a wagon to move the family's belongings but carried their few poor possessions on their own backs to their new home.

On the first transport from the shtetl to the gas chambers, Rubele Shpilman and other Jews from the town passed by his fine house on the boulevard; under his arm he carried the violin that had accompanied him his whole life and created so much joy and happiness, and much honor and esteem.

Now that violin is silenced and its player has walked his last path…

May their memory be sanctified!

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… Let it be holy,
Not ploughed, not sown,
Let it be holy…

Y.L. Peretz, “The Golden Chain”

That which happened to our nearest and dearest is a symbolic “something” that does not allow itself to be set within the framework in which it is conceived, taken from the human lexicon, and beyond the human powers to even think about. Death. Catastrophe. Destruction. Loss. Darkness. Wasteland is still not the right shade, the right color of the “picture.”

The crime was of cosmic proportion and – so is the pain for the survivors.

We call them “sacred martyrs” and we count them in the millions. Yes, we are a nation of millionaires … No nation and language can compare to us … We have plenty of “miracles” and “sacred martyrs,” enough to export. With a light heart, we would gladly cede some of these to our enemy. Let them also save themselves through miracles and be a warehouse for “sacred martyrs.” We tremble, nonetheless, at the memory of each destroyed family.

I wish to tell about one such family, my cousin, a resident of Ostrowiec, Hersh Kleinman and his dear ones.

The majority of Polish Jews, with their respectful, decent lives and sacred death did not shame humanity … A traditional Jew, somewhat modern, with a neatly trimmed beard, careful with the immaculateness of his clothing, as with his external appearance. Sometimes, his short, so-called European clothing served only for his business trips. On some of those trips, he would also try and catch some time with the Rebbe of Ger. With time, when his children would begin their studies in the gymnasium [secondary education], not without their parents' consent, Hersh stopped going to see the Rebbe, in order not to become conflicted with himself, and mainly, [not to become] hypocritical. He used his Jewish attire from then on only on Shabbat and on the Jewish holidays and at family events.

Hersh Kleinman was not a squanderer; he did not spend his money frivolously … He worked very hard for the money he owned, with a lot of strength and hard labor, and had to provide for his four young children, for their education. But Hersh never forgot about the needy people, about the “help the brother of your people.” Whenever he would meet me in the street or at home, after asking about his parents, about my mother – his aunt, and about the children of his sister Chana'le who died young, he never forgot to give me a valuable coin:

“Here Moshe, give this to them, to the children.”

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His brother-in-law, the Rosh Yeshiva [dean/head of the yeshiva] Reb Matisyahu Weitzman, may his blood be avenged, used to say about him:

“Hersh is a refined young man.” He would then immediately add: “But his house and even he himself are too fancy …” That meant, that in issues of God and man, he was not particularly careful… Understandably, the idea of the Rosh Yeshiva, who was totally stripped of the materialism [of this world], was that his brother-in-law was insufficiently religiously guarded – too much into worldly materialism… with his shaven beard, the above-mentioned shorter clothing [frock/coat]. Perhaps, those who stood too close inside the house and asked for help, also seemed too fancy through the eyes of the extremely devout brother-in-law.

“What does this mean?” they asked. “Are you really going to speed up the coming of Messiah with this? And with whose energy… with the energy of Hertzl? [referring to Theodore Hertzl, known as “the father of the State of Israel”]…

It is time to dedicate a few words to the other half of the family. The wife Sarah or “Soro'le,” as she was warmly called, Sarah Kleinman Meisels, came from an old Jewish lineage, from the Meisels. Her great-grandfather, Harav Reb Dov Ber Meisels, was the Rav [chief rabbi] and leader of the real Jewish city of Krakow, and later, of the Polish crowning city of Warsaw, and was also a revolutionary and great Polish patriot. The famous Polish patriot (Lubomirski?) said: “The Rav brought to our regions the spirit of the Maccabees…” Her father, Yosel Kowkes, belonged to the most refined Jews of Staszow, with a good reputation in the entire area. Her mother – came from the Halberstams and Eigers [prominent names in the Jewish scholarly world]. Sarah's brothers: Leibish, Itche, Chaim, and Pinye, all prominent Torah scholars with great reputations – with the Poles as well. Not one single decree was carried out as a result of their efforts. A particular thanks to Leibish, who not only was an activist, but an advocate as well. Today, her sisters: Dobra, Freide, and she herself, Sarah – an example of Jewish pride and modesty.

Their sister Angie Meisels stands completely on her own. I saw her only twice at the Kleinmans. Oh, and once in her modest, two-room residence in the “Savoy” in Lodz. I don't know why, but along with her beautiful face and name, there comes to my mind names of other famous women: Henrietta Szold, and Angelica Balabanova, without allocating any similarities within this trio. An unusually beautiful face. Her head shone with a white light – a light from other worlds … The same for her eyes – wells of goodness, love, and mercy. In her young years, Angie left the Jewish ways while still in her parents' home.

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During the years of the Russian Revolution, she suddenly appeared in Peterburg and in Moscow, circulating there in the highest circles of the revolution. Angie found herself in the company of [Anatoly] Lunacharsky [Russian Marxist revolutionary; helped establish the Bolshoi Drama Theater 1919], Dzherzhinski, [“Iron Felix”; Bolshevik revolutionary and official], Lenin, [Grigory] Zinoviev [Russian revolutionary and politician], and others.

After the victory of Bolshevism, Angie returned to Poland. Confused, with her humanitarian feelings wounded, she separated herself from people, and spent the rest of her life alone in the Savoy Hotel in Lodz.

Her contacts in Poland – other than the Kleinmans – her sister, brother-in-law, and other relatives – were exclusively with intellectual circles. They knew about her friendship with the progressive writer and thinker Andrej Strug, and about the then young humanities professor [Tadeusz] Kotarbinski [Polish philosopher, logician, ethicist], and others.

During the time of the ghetto, Angie went into a trance of her own individual faith, for example she believed strongly in her own, personal salvation. Her Polish friends made efforts to keep her on the Aryan side, but without success. She was sure that God was with her in every step and move, and with all her 248 limbs, she believed in her own positive fate … Was it really such a deep belief? And maybe – it was an expression of her own deep humanism that did not permit her to trouble others? Who knows…

Very likely, Angie perished in Auschwitz, together with millions of other Jews, may their blood be avenged.

Getting back to the Kleinmans: It is no wonder that the house of the Kleinmans became a house of scholarship. The leaders of the Ostrowiec Jews gathered there; also the gentiles: professors, teachers, and priests were frequent guests in the house. The Kleinmans, particularly Soro'le Kleinman, showed tact, simplicity, and intelligence in their behavior – their house quickly became an attraction for all those who searched for solutions, comforts during tragedies, or easing of their difficult worries. Later, when the Kleinman's children grew up, the house also became a gathering place for youth.

The first time, I remember the Kleinmans from my sister's wedding. I was eight years old at the time, it was already after the speeches and dances with the bride and groom. I was still under the spell of the dance on the table of 90-year-old Yehoshua Heschel. The old man danced a Chassidic “kozatska” [Ukrainian (Russian) folk dance] between glasses, bottles, and plates of fruit. His left hand was pushed into his gartel [sash] and his right hand – holding his red scarf which he waved in all four directions like a fan…

The crowd clapped their hands and gaped as they watched the old man juggle his old feet between glass and porcelain, not budging one thing.

I too could not tear myself away from the magical show of Arish Klezmer and his sons, and from the show of the great performer, the pious Jew, Meir Volf Levak, who, with his fiddle, created and broke down worlds. I will never forget this vision. I already wrote about Meir Volf in connection with my sister's wedding, somewhere else.^[1] But I cannot help myself, so I have to tell about it again:

I still see him right now, Meir Volf, as he closes his eyes, throws away the bow, and as if his fingers were on fire, they run across the strings … Anxious, heavy drops of sweat fall from his forehead, from his cheeks, circling into his dense beard. His fingers run quickly across the strings, as if on hot, fiery coals … You think the fiddle is on fire, as smoke comes out from his fingers…

Suddenly, the wedding guests grow silent. Even children are holding their breath and looking at the fiddle in fear. They look at him, as if at a sorcerer… I look around – everyone is holding their eyes fixed; chassidim, pious Jews, are experiencing Divine revelation, and he himself, Meir Volf, even though I see he is playing among the wedding family, among the guest, you still feel as if he is not here, it is only his shadow that is present … He himself is somewhere distant, in heaven, speaking to the Creator through his fiddle. And he is running – with the consent of God – to greet Elijah the Prophet, who came to announce the news of the coming Redemption.

As mentioned earlier, it was already after the speeches and after the mitzva dance [with the bride and groom]. The majority of the wedding families and guest had already left. Only the close relatives of the bride and groom remained. Hersh and Sarah

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were now the center of the district. Outside, it had already begun to dawn, and the Kleinmans were waiting for the designated wagon that would take them back home to Ostrowiec. They had to leave to go open the store. Meanwhile, they were talking, singing a folksong, and I remember one of them, “Meir'ke my son,” and Frug's song, “The Wine Cup.” Sarah sang with great passion:

God in heaven, have mercy
Drop a tear into the cup!

I thought I saw God's tear in the cup that was almost full, and the next day God's last tear would fill the cup and … the Messiah would arrive. I was still under the spell of Meir Volf's fiddle, and from the unusual dance on the table done by 90-year-old Yehoshua Heschel. This mysterious dance, and the fiddle, carried us to distant, strange worlds.

Suddenly, I feel a soft, warm woman's hand around my neck. I had not completely awakened from my thoughts – a kiss is pressed to my cheek… I look, and it's Sarah. But it's still a woman, I rubbed the kissed spot with my hand as if the kiss burned me…

My mother recognized my fear, and said smilingly:

Moshe, it's only your aunt!

These were the Kleinmans and that's how they remained in my memories and in my heart forever.

And this is what their two surviving daughters wrote about their parents:

From about the beginning of the war, our house was filled with refugees from Konin, Lodz, and other cities. My parents helped everyone, both materially and morally. Our mother cooked daily for the unfortunate refugees and for those who were sick with their kidneys and with sugar issues – in the hospital, even though often it was very difficult to acquire products. She herself had chronic stomach catarrh [gastritis], yet our mother worked tirelessly in the store and at home, hiding her husband and son from the German “lapankes” [round-up games] for forced labor.

Her older son, our dear brother Yosele, lived in the Warsaw ghetto, worked as a bookkeeper until the war in the public office in the well-known pharmaceutical company Pszczolki. In his frequent letters, Yosele lamented over the forced separation among his dear ones. Regardless of the reassurances of the German “trustees,” that work would save his life, Yosele went to his death as early as June 1942, during the first great evacuation of Warsaw. News of this came to our house like a thunder.

After losing her oldest son, our mother fought like a lioness to save the rest of her children. With her own life being threatened, she put forth great and lengthy efforts to acquire so-called “Aryan” papers for her two daughters and son-in-law, and a work position for her second son, our dear, unforgettable brother Leon.

After a heartbreaking eternal parting, Hirsh and Soroh Kleinman first pushed forward their only, adored grandson, then later us two, their daughters and a son-in-law.

Now they waited with a stoic calm, with resignation, for their own inevitable end…

On the day of the evacuation, they went with stony looks in a row to the wagons, holding their hands. Suddenly, our mother, from among the crowd of curious, Polish neighbors, caught the glance of a Polish neighbor. She threw a package into his hands. “These are shoes for Leon!” This was the sum total of baggage that my parents took with them on the way to Treblinka…

Also, Leon (Leib Ber, who proudly carried the name of our great grandfather, the Rav of Warsaw; Ber Meisels) did not survive the war. In March 1943, he fled from the factory to Warsaw. But it was not for long that he celebrated this freedom. Polish blackmailers informed on him and gave him over into the hands of the German thugs, who shot him in one of the nearby Warsaw forests, May his blood be avenged.

God, where are the gravesites of Hersh, Sarah, Yosel, and Leibel Kleinman?

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Yes, maybe we should not have gone back to a “civil” life…

That is not what happened, but we go on with life: We celebrate a yahrzeit [anniversary date of death], publish Yizkor books, cantors make a living from reciting “El Moleh Rachamim” [prayer for the dead], and others also take compensations…

Maybe it's better like that! Maybe it's a piece of my cousin's “good” nature? Maybe it's better to rejoice with the living? …

Original footnote:

1. See “Sefer Apta” [Memorial book of the city of Opatov (Apt)], pages 328-329 Return

The Beynerman Dynasty

The first Jewish medical practitioner in Ostrowiec, that I remember, was Alter Bainerman. I do not know why, but in the small town, he was called “Alter Bulyok”.

He was a healthy, broad-shouldered Jew, stoutish, with a fine short beard, and always with a fat cigar in his mouth, and he spoke in a deep bass voice. This image of him, has remained in my memory. The Jews in Ostrowiec thought highly of him, and he was no less popular among the Christian population.

Whatever Alter said – was done, and nothing less. Even when a Jew in the town was already so sick that he had to see Doctor Malinger – Alter was approached first, to ask his advice, whether he should actually take the medicine that Dr. Malinger had prescribed. And there were indeed cases when Alter the medical practitioner ruled: “I am telling you not to take this medicine. I will prescribe another”. His patients would actually put aside the medicines that the doctor had prescribed and take those that Alter Bainerman prescribed. So great was the trust that the Jewish masses in Ostrowiec placed in him, and particularly the women.

And whom did they consult with toothache and a swollen cheek, if not Alter? In Ostrowiec in those days, they did not know about dentists, fillings, or broken teeth. They immediately ran to Alter with a swollen cheek, he did not waste time and gave an order: “Open your mouth!”, took the pliers and pulled out the afflicted tooth.

To this day, I remember when I was lying at home with my face swollen like a mountain, writhing in pain. Reb Alter came to our house, approached me, and sternly ordered: “Open your mouth at once!” He took out his pliers, and with one snap pulled out two of my teeth. I actually saw my great-grandmother standing there. And to this day, a shudder goes through my body when I am reminded of the terrible pain that I endured when my teeth were pulled out, even though it did not take long.

Alter the medical practitioner was particularly popular with the farmers, both male and female, who lived in the surrounding villages.

Twice a week – Mondays and Thursdays – fairs took place in Ostrowiec, and many farmers from the surrounding villages would gather at the market-place, where they sold their agricultural products.

On these two days, Alter and his sons were inundated with work. Every farmer, male and female, took the opportunity and went to Alter the medical practitioner – one with constipation, one a swollen cheek from tooth pain, and one with a pain in the shoulder.

In their work-premises, in a small street, the male and female farmers would spread themselves out on the floor, while Alter and his sons, with sleeves rolled up, would pull teeth, lubricate shoulders, place cupping glasses^[2] and leeches, and apply enemas, one after the other.

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Institutions and characters [Title of section]

Reb Alter had his own system of healing the sick. He firmly believed in an enema, and if someone came to him with an injured finger, he suggested first of all, that they have an enema, because he maintained that all troubles and pains – are a result of constipation.

After Alter's death, his son Avromtshe enjoyed from the same trust from the people in the town. The Ostrowiec Jews regarded him more highly than they did all the doctors. If Avromtshe said to a sick Jew: “I am telling you, that you will be fine”, they would become well from this statement alone.

There was often an “epidemic” in the town: children began to cough, had red throats, and diarrhea. At those times, Avromtshe had his hands full with work. He could truly not walk calmly down the street. Women would scream from all sides. “Reb Avromtshe, have mercy, my child is God forbid, going to die!” On such an occasion, Avromtshe would mobilize all his brothers: Shammai, Izik, Eber, and Naftali. They all went to the Jewish homes and painted throats, placed cupping glasses, did dressings, instructed the sick to drink hot tea and take medicines a few times a day.

Exactly like his father, Avromtshe would not tolerate the medications that Dr. Malinger prescribed. The people were told that they should immediately cease taking those medicines, and to take those that he prescribed. “If you want to be well” he would say to the sick person, “do what I tell you, and do not let the doctors confuse you, because they do not understand anything”. And they actually listened to what Avromtshe said.

Avromtshe was also actively involved with the “Linat Hatzedek” [Lodgings for the Poor], where he devoted a lot of his time and energy. He would sit there and attend to poor Jews and women with small sick children who benefited from his free medical assistance. Everyone knew him well because he engaged in conversation with them and spoke to them in their mother tongue, in Yiddish. He was a true people's-person, in the full sense of the word.

Besides this, Avromtshe was active in communal organizations and was head of the left Po'alei-Tzion^[3] in Ostrowiec. He generously supported this organization, and maintained it, at his own expense.

On every festival, a magnificent parochet^[4] would be hung over the holy ark in the old Ostrowiec synagogue. This parochet was donated to the synagogue by Avromtshe Bainerman and woven into it, in large gold letters was written: “Donated by Avraham Bainerman, the son of Reb Alter, of blessed memory”. I met Avromtshe Bainerman for the last time during the German occupation of Ostrowiec. The German soldiers caught us at work, a large group of Jews, and led us behind the town. There they forced us to clean military toilets with our bare hands, and we were not allowed to use rags and buckets that were there. Later they took us out to a large site that was covered with horse-manure, and we had to clean it within a short time. On his head, Avromtshe wore a large deep hat, and they forced him to remove the hat, put in the horse-manure and carry it back and forth. And they, our Nazi overseers, stood at a distance, splitting their sides from laughter, delighted by the spectacle that was provided for them by the “filthy Jews”.

I also remember the old Mendel Feldsher^[5], who wore spectacles tied with string behind his ears. His premises were in Kunaver street, next to Izik Mendel the ritual slaughterer. He earned his living mainly from placing cupping glasses, painting throats and administering enemas. In his later years, he was assisted by his adult son.

And who of the Ostrowiec Jews, of the older generation, does not remember Malye the doctor? In the cold, dark, winter nights, she would walk through the town with a lantern in her hand and visit sick Jewish women. She was a leading specialist in her profession and she knew precisely when Feige Mindel the midwife had to be summoned. Feige Mindel delivered all the children of the young Jewish women in Ostrowiec.

I remember Moshe Bainerman too - also a feldsher. His premises were opposite the church and there were a few steps to enter. As far as I can remember, he was a tall, slim, well-built and handsome man.

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Later Nachman Alman came to Ostrowiec from Tarle – he was the son-in-law of Alter Bainerman. He also became a health practitioner, and very soon became popular in the town with both Jews and Christians. He would walk around with a satchel in his hand that contained instruments and various lubricants to administer injections and medications. In Ostrowiec and in the surrounding areas there was never a shortage of sick people and there was enough work for all the Jewish medical practitioners.

It is interesting that all members of the Bainerman dynasty were either medical practitioners or hairdressers. These two professions were paired, and one complimented the other.

After Alter's death, his sons Shammai and Eber, and later Naftali, worked in his premises in the small street.

Nachman Alman had his premises on Starokunowska street, not far from the market-place on one side, and neighboring the Gorzysta on the other side, not far from the river. For many years, I had my hair cut there, and I remember well this locale. Later, when Izik Bainerman opened premises near us on Drildzsher [Ilzecka] street, at the corner of Szeroka street – I moved over to him and became a regular client.

In these hairdressers in Ostrowiec, one could have a haircut and be shaved, but also enter into a debate about everything and everyone. Passionate discussions would take place there among young people of every persuasion, who came there for a shave and a haircut. There were discussions about Zionism, Communism, the Bund^[6], the philosophy of Po'alei-Tzion, about religion - and everything else. Each one defended his party and his beliefs with fervor, from which they did not want to retreat, not even by a hair's breadth. And sometimes they were late going home for lunch because of these discussions.

With the tragic extermination of Jewish Ostrowiec by the Nazi murderers, the medical practitioners also perished, members of the great Bainerman dynasty, together with their wives and children, who were cruelly tortured in the hell of Hitler's death camps.

Translator's footnotes:

1. Barber-Surgeons. A feldsher, is not a doctor. He is an unlicensed medical practitioner or a public health officer. Often referred to as barber-surgeon. Return
2. Cupping glasses, “bankes”, were place on the back of a person with a fever, to draw out the fever from his body. Return
3. Po'alei-Tzion – Labor Zionist movement. Return
4. Parochet – the curtain that hangs in front of the holy ark in the synagogue. Return
5. It appears that Mendel took the name of his profession as his surname. Return
6. Bund – Jewish Socialist Party, established in 1897, prominent in Russia and particularly Poland, before World War 2. Return

His real name was Berl Nainudel. He received his nickname Tchotchke because of his small round nose. And that is how he was called in Ostrowiec throughout all the years.

From his earliest youth, Berl had to assume the burden of earning a living and providing for his sustenance, because his parents passed away when he was a little boy, and he was thus completely orphaned.

In those days, Ostrowiec was not yet accessible by train. They used to travel to Warsaw in large covered wagons, with horses harnessed to them. Berl would travel along with the Jewish merchants, and he would help carry the heavy loads, and fill up the wagons with the packages of merchandise. And coming home to Ostrowiec he would drag the boxes into the shops according to the orders on the list. And the merchants had the greatest trust in him. For they knew that they could rely on him.

And so Berl grew up and developed into a tall and handsome young man, straight as an oak tree. He was healthy and strong, and he was capable of breaking iron with his bare large hands. Summer and winter, in the greatest heat or cold, he would work patiently outside, and he never complained about his fate.

And if it happened by chance, after the autumn rains fell on the inferior Polish roads, and the loaded wagons got stuck in the mud and the horses were unable to move –

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Berl did not lose himself. He did not stand idle, nor was he in in doubt about what to do. Placing his shoulder under (as leverage), and together with the horses, he dragged the wagon out of the mud. With Berl one was never at a loss.

Berl always dreamed about joining the Russian military. There he would have everything that he needed. He was attracted to far away places and the main thing was to tear himself away from the grey reality that was Ostrowiec. But he was not successful. At the Conscription Office he drew a high (lottery) number (lessening his chances) – and for this reason he had to remain at home.

With time Berl met a girl, fell head over heels in love with her, and later married her. He already had his own home. His wife Chaya, was lively, and a true “Woman of Valor”, an ideal wife with all the best qualities.^[1] And she helped him with making a living. Little by little she began to do business with fruits and with fish, and every day she earned and brought home a few “groshen”.^[2]

Later on, Berl was employed by the great cow merchants, the Jasnas of Sosnowiec. He successfully proved his skills and worth there and transported large herds of cattle to the German border. His employers brought him along to the great aristocratic courts, where they purchased cows and wild oxen, which no one even dared to lay their hands on. But Berl had experience. He took one of the wildest oxen by the horns and shook it the way one shakes a “lulav”^[3]

The noblemen could not get enough of looking at him, and beamed with pleasure at the heroism of the strong “Jew” who was not even afraid of a wild ox.

In those days Berl was living modestly but not poorly. His wife provided him with several beautiful and smart children. Berl showed himself to be a loyal husband and a devoted father who was deeply concerned with providing for and educating his children.

In the fourth year, when pogroms broke out in Ostrowiec, and hooligans robbed, beat, and murdered Jews, Berl wasted no time. He took an axe and together with his friends, defended the old great synagogue. And when the pogromists found out that “Strong Berek” was standing there with his friends, ready to take up battle, they no longer dared to go there. And indeed thanks to Berl Tchotchke, the famous synagogue was rescued.

And when on every eve of Yom Kippur^[4], the old Ostrowiecer Rebbe, Rav Meir Yechiel Halevi ztz”l, (may his saintly memory be for a blessing), would go to synagogue for the Kol Nidre prayer, thousands of people, men, women, and children would crowd into the synagogue courtyard, and because of the great throngs, it was impossible to walk through. Berl used to take the Rebbe in his strong arms, and he took him straight into the synagogue, right through the large gathering of people.

Berl was very beloved by the working class and by the poor people of Ostrowiec. He was considered “our brother”^[5], and he did not tolerate when anyone was mistreated or hurt. He sided with those who had been insulted or wronged.

When the cow merchants, the Jasnas of Sosnowiec, passed away, and the business was transferred to different hands, Berl needed to find another occupation, from which he could make a livelihood for himself and his family.

Berl went to the market and presented himself to the porters. They accepted him with open arms, because they knew him well, they knew about his talent for work, about his good character, his outstanding relationship with people in general and with the workers in particular. In this society, among his own kind, Berl felt very good. His fellow porters, wanted to make him the treasurer of his union. But Berl openly declared that it was easier for him to carry a heavy iron box on his shoulders, than deal with complicated figures.

Berl and his wife Chaya raised their children as proud Jews and as honorable workers. His oldest son Pesach occupied a respected position in the labor movement of the left Poalei Zion of Ostrowiec. Later they immigrated overseas and until today they continue their communal activities in the Jewish labor movement.

Berl also had an excellent sense of humor. The Jews of the shtetl always sought his company. There were always lots of people gathered around him, to whom he would tell his stories and jokes, at which they would heartily laugh and forget their problems and worries for a while.

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A story circulated throughout the city how Berl once saved an entire train wagon of Jews from having to pay a penalty for travelling without tickets. Back in the Tsarist period all government officials would take bribes (“chabar”). And the train conductors would also take bribes from the passengers and would allow them to travel without tickets for long stretches, for which they (the passengers) had to pay a lot of money. That's how they would travel from Ostrowiec to Lodz for a third of the price of a ticket.

Once when a full train wagon of Jews were travelling without tickets, quite unexpectedly an inspector came on board and all the Jewish travelers were frightened for if they were caught without tickets they would have to pay double. But Berl Tchotchke who was travelling with a ticket, calmed them down and instructed them to sit quietly in their seats. He would “play a trick” on the inspector.

No sooner said than done. Berl lay under the bench at the spot where the conductor needed to enter the wagon, and he stretched out his leg, so that the inspector and conductor practically fell over his foot. The conductor wanted to display his diligence. He started to pull at his leg and scolded him for deceiving an official and “stealing a ride” without a train ticket. But the conductor was unable to budge him from his place. The inspector also helped him by trying to pull him by the leg but was unsuccessful.

Berl sat comfortably under the bench and bleated like a calf. Now the two train officials were really angry! “Did you smuggle a calf under your bench? “As much as they tried to pull him away from his spot, they were unable to do so. Berl was a man of herculean strength and each time they tried to pull his leg he pushed them against the wall!

Not having a choice, they got ready to have him arrested when they would arrive at the Lodz train station. But now a strange thing happened! When they arrived at the Lodz train station, Berl slowly crawled out from under the bench, and when the inspector wanted to take him to the Train Authority, Berl showed him his ticket! In the meantime, all the Jews had gotten off at the Lodz train station and went on their way!

It was known in the city that Berl loved song, music and dance. At work, he would always sing in an undertone, either some song or a cantorial piece. He was also active in the theater troupe which performed the “Mechiras Yosef Shpiel” every Purim bringing a lot of joy and cheer into Jewish homes.^[6]

With Berl's death, some of the life and laughter of Ostrowiec disappeared. A proud Jew, full of heart, and a man of the people, was laid to rest --- a man from Jewish Ostrowiec of old. Honor to his Memory!

His family name was Sherman but almost no one in Ostrowiec knew this. Everyone in the city knew him as Elye Kvoke^[7]. He received this nickname because his home was full of little children, like a chicken with its little chicks. He had many children. They would be born and then grow up, like mushrooms after a rainfall, and they filled all the corners of the house.

Elye once ran quite a large business in the field of “not very high quality” (Trans. Mediocre?) tailoring from which he made his living.^[8] He would sell the finished pants and jackets to peasants who came to Ostrowiec on market days every Monday and Thursday. He didn't do very well but the family managed somehow. Children were born. Circumcisions were performed. Sons and daughters were brought up and married off, thus ensuring the survival of the Polish Jewish towns and villages of the olden days.

I remember Elye Kvoke when he was already an old man. He was no longer working, and like a hen with its chicks, he wandered amongst his sons and daughters, grandchildren and great grandchildren, drawing great joy and happiness (“nachas”) from this new healthy generation which he merited to “create” in his lifetime.

I remember his children. Avremele Kvoke, Zisl Kvoke, Shimshel Kovke and Chana Kvoke and many more whose names are difficult for me to enumerate. A family with extensive branches, which constantly increased and grew from generation to generation.

For many years all the Kvokes were tailors just like their father and grandfather Reb Elye Kvoke, peace be upon him. They would sew trousers and jackets and sell them at the market to the peasants who had travelled there from the surrounding

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region. But they could not earn much of a living from this and more than once did it happen that they experienced hunger as they sat at their sewing machines.

With the passage of time, the Kvokes abandoned their sewing machines. They went out into the streets and became porters. And these very same tailors, their faces pale from sitting so many years in their narrow cramped, stifling, quarters, grew into handsome, tall, healthy, powerful men, as strong as oak trees – with well developed muscles and arms, capable of breaking iron.

Thus the sons, grandsons and great grandsons of Elye the Tailor, may his memory be blessed– became part of the famous family of porters in Ostrowiec, at the head of which were the well known Berl Tchotchke, Yankel Vaiser and and Yosel Balas.

Yankel was a mighty and strong Jew. Tall and broad shouldered, a man of good humor. From the time I got to know him, he was blind in both eyes. But he knew where he was, how to get around, and he knew to whom he was speaking. And thus, as a porter, he would carry the heaviest loads on his shoulders. When a fellow porter led him by the hand, he would walk under the heavy load (strong) as a tank…

Already during his lifetime Yankel selected a plot for himself in the Jewish cemetery of Ostrowiec and he would often dream about this “good place.” Whenever he would set up a (new) gravestone, together with his fellow porters, after the work was finished he would lie down in his own plot and stretch himself out in his future burial grave. His greatest pleasure was to take a walk to his “villa” (summer house, or “dacha” in Russian) as he called that place, and he would spend the long hot summer hours in the Ostrowiec cemetery, near the old oak tree, the only surviving tree there.

And during the Nazi occupation, when the Nazis, Hitler's murderers, issued the command that all Jews present themselves in the Ostrowiec market place, at the Umschlagplatz^[9], Yankel hid and he could not be found, although the Jewish police searched everywhere thoroughly and checked in all possible places.

During a dark, rainy night Yankel Vaiser took his old yellowed tallis (prayer shawl), wrapped it around his body, and over that he wore his festive holiday frock. Crawling on all fours, he made his way to his beloved spot near the oak tree, to his grave in the Ostrowiec Jewish cemetery.

And thus, he crawled here and there in the back ways through Mlynska [street] up to the hill where the synagogue stood, touching, tapping, each stone which was not familiar to him. And perhaps he was bidding farewell to each stone, forever? On the way a German blood hound attacked him, and Yankel silenced (the dog) with one strong blow, on the spot.

And thus he crawled forward, through the back streets, until he arrived at the Jewish cemetery. He went to his beloved spot, the grave that he had selected many years earlier, lay down there and stayed there all night.

In the morning some Jewish traitors gave him up. An SS (Nazi) officer came and shot him on the spot. And later they buried him in the same place, in the grave he had selected during his lifetime.

And his gravestone was the 500 year old oak tree which remained in the cemetery. Honor to his Memory!

During his lifetime, Yosel Kabale was a horse-and- carriage driver and that's how he made a living. He was burdened with children and three wives. Not to be “wished” on any Jew, he could not hold on to any of his wives for very long. He got married in Wasniow^[10], to one ‘sister’^[11] after the other.

If one said in Ostrowiec, “Yosel the horse-and-buggy driver” no one knew who was being referred to. But if one said “Yosel Kabale,” everyone in town knew who that was. Hardly anyone in the city knew his real family name. To the extent that on Simchat Torah, in the synagogue, when he was honored with the sixth Hakafah beginning with the prayer “Ozer Dalim”, the synagogue trustee would call out in a loud voice: “Yosel Kabale is honored with the Torah!”^[12]

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Most of the time Yosel Kabale worked at night for he did not have a nice looking carriage, nor did he have first-class horses. He had a poor, miserable, horse, which never protested, and which patiently tolerated the dirt on its back which from time to time accompanied the boss's whip. The horse did not even complain about the bad food or about the ‘pease-straw’ (straw or fodder made from dried peas or other crops) which his boss gave him in the morning after having travelled all night back and forth.

Before buses started running in Ostrowiec, Yosel Kabale was able to make something of a living. From time to time people used to “catch a ride” to the town of Apt (Polish: Opatow) and that brought in quite a few zlotys. All Ostrowiec merchants would travel to Opatow, which was the Polish County administrative seat of the surrounding region and there, at the Tax Office (Polish: Urzad Skarbowy), they would be required to take care of their taxes.

The distance between Ostrowiec and Opatow was 17 kilometers. It took two hours to travel by horse-and-carriage and the price was one and a half zlotys per passenger. When the buses started running, the price was the same, and the trip lasted only a half hour.

Indeed, the passengers began to travel by bus. The trips were better, more convenient and faster. With time the buses ended up with all the passengers.

And all Friday Yosel Kabale would stand with his horse-and-carriage near Lipa Ostroker's warehouse, waiting and waiting, and he didn't even have a single (passenger). He got angry and lost his patience. Desperate, he would stand in middle of the road, his hat cocked to the side, and he shook his fist and shouted in a loud voice: “You buses! May the devil take you!! There is not even a little pease-straw (fodder) left in my mattress for my horse to eat something on the Sabbath!…”

Throughout all his years, Shaye Gazlen was a fisherman and a fruit vendor. He never turned away anyone who needed a favor, and he always supported poor and sick Jews. He was always ready to help a friend in distress. So how, all of a sudden was he called a “gazlen” - a thief or robber? How does a Jew with such a good heart have a nickname with such an “evil” connotation?

Shaye Gazlen had no children. He and his wife lived together like two (loving) doves. They lived peacefully and modestly and somehow managed to make a living. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, no sin intended (not to complain). They did not, heaven forbid, go hungry, and G'd did not forsake them.

Every Sabbath, a group of friends, organized a “minyan” (a quorum of 10 men required for religious prayer services) at the home of his brother-in-law Avrumele Tzvaygman, the shoemaker. And that's where Shaye Gazlan prayed throughout the years. It had been long ago established as a tradition that he would be awarded the “Maftir” (the last, and most respected portion of the weekly Sabbath Torah reading. Congregants are honored by being called up to the Torah to say a blessing while the Torah is read aloud and the last portion, the “Maftir,” is often the most esteemed and coveted.) And if someone wished to “borrow” his “Maftir” on a Sabbath day, he went to the greatest lengths and made the greatest sacrifices, for the sake of Heaven, in order to maintain this age-old tradition (of Shaye Gazlen receiving “Maftir”).

Shaye Gazlen was no robber or thief. He never had anything to do with weapons: he didn't even serve in the army. He had never, heaven forbid, attacked anyone in the forest. In Ostrowiec he had a reputation as a fine decent person and he never took a penny from anyone. So how did he of all people become associated with the nickname “Gazlen” (thief/robber)?

The truth was that Shaye Gazlen could not bear to see any injustice done to a person. When a village Jew would come to town to sell some fruits, Shaya did not permit anyone to fool or cheat him. And if someone did not repay his debt to him on time, he would often shout “How can you be such a robber”? And also in his business relations with various merchants, as soon as he saw that someone was not acting decently or correctly, he would raise his voice, become angry, and shout: “How can one be such a robber”?

And because he used this expression (so often), the nickname became associated with him. He could never “free” himself from it and thus throughout his entire life in Ostrowiec, he was known as Shaye Gazlen – Shaye the Thief/Robber.

Translator's footnotes:

1. “Woman of Valor” corresponds to “Eishet Chayil” in the original Hebrew, based on the original verses in Proverbs, Chapter 31, Verses 1-31. Return
2. 100 Polish Groszy (Groshen in Yiddish) equals 1 Polish Zloty. This means that his wife regularly helped bring in an income, but not very large amounts of money. Zloty is the official Polish currency. Groszy or “groshen” in Yiddish, corresponds to a much smaller unit of Polish currency, similar to how a penny is much less than a U.S. dollar. Return
3. Lulav is a “palm frond” which is held in the right hand during the Jewish autumn holiday of Sukkot (Tabernacles) and as part of the holiday ritual prayers, is shaken in all directions. The author implies that for Berl it was as easy to shake the wild oxen as it was to shake a palm branch. Return
4. Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the year when adults pray and fast for 25 hours and repent for any sins committed. Return
5. “Nasz Brat” in Polish. Return
6. The Mechiras Yosef play, based on the life of Joseph in the Jewish bible, describes the sale of Joseph by his brothers, Joseph's arrival in Egypt and his sufferings until his appointment as Viceroy of Egypt. The play has been performed on Purim regularly throughout communities across Europe from the 18^th century to the present time. Return
7. In Yiddish, ”kvoke” means a “clucking hen.”Return
8. The original Yiddish refers, in Yiddish characters and Yiddish pronunciation to the Polish word “tandetny” which refers to ‘shoddy’ or ‘poor quality’ work. Return
9. The Umschlagplatz was the well known term used by the Nazis to denote the area, usually near the railroad station, where Jews in towns and cities were assembled by military force, before they were deported by train to the death camps. Return
10. Wasniow, a town established in the 14^th century, is located about 9 miles from Ostrowiec. Return
11. It is not clear whether the author literally means that Yosel Kabale married several sisters from the same family or whether he uses ‘sisters’ in a figurative sense, i.e., that Yosef Kabale married several women, one after the other, as it was not the custom in Jewish families in Eastern Europe to marry more than one daughter within the same family to the same man, unless the other daughters were no longer alive. Return
12. On the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, which concludes the week long holiday of Sukkot (Tabernacles), members of the congregation circle the synagogue seven times in a procession, called a Hakafah, while dancing joyously as they hold Torah scrolls in their arms. The prayer for the sixth procession starts with “Ozer Dalim, Hoshiah Na”, which means “The One Who Helps the Poor, Please Help Us!” To hold a Torah scroll in the sixth procession is considered a special honor in some congregations. Return

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“Naftali of Tea”–this is what people called him in Ostrowiec, and this is how he is lodged in my memory.

I still remember, after so many years, how he appeared: an older man, short and thin, with a sparse beard and long payot [sidecurls]. And with a pair of large eyeglasses, tied with strings behind his ears.

He used to sit in the old beis-medresh from early in the morning until late at night. Near him, on the table, stood the large brass samovar [an urn used especially in Russia to boil water for tea] that was always boiling and into which R. Naftali was always pouring water lest, God forbid, there would not be enough tea for everyone.

On early winter mornings, when the frost outside crackled and bitter cold seized the bones, all of those who were praying were given pleasure from R. Naftali's warm glass of tea right from the boiling samovar. After the morning prayers, they could also fill their empty stomachs with a warm bagel, with a sweet, or even with a poppyseed kichel, which was delicious.

And if someone among those who were praying had a yahrzeit, R. Naftali made sure ahead of time that there would be a little whiskey. People drank the whiskey, wished each other “l'chaim,” and ate R. Naftali's poppyseed kichel, so that it went through all their limbs.

And if any in the congregation did not have in his pocket a couple of groschen–that, too, was not a worry. R. Naftali knew every one of the congregation and those who studied in the old beis-medresh, and he would make them a loan, and no one, God forbid, ever refused. “It's nothing,” he would say. “Have a glass of tea and something to eat, and when, God willing, you have some money, you'll pay me back.”

The “doctors” of the beis-medresh, the young men who used to sit for whole days by the long table, immersed in the difficult sugyot [a passage / specific issue]of the Gemara–took great pleasure in his peppered beans, which he sold for one groschen per glass, and from the fresh, hot pastries right from Peretz the baker's oven, which gave people a taste of Gan Eden.

R. Naftali would keep several pages of an old worn-out notebook in which he would write his debts. And if someone asked him to do something, he would spend a long time looking with his weak eyes through the scratched out and spotted pages until he finally found the right name and wrote down his debt. There he also wrote down what he owed the baker for the aforementioned sweets, bagels, and poppyseed kichels, as well as the income and costs of his years-long “undertakings” in the beis-medresh.

Everyone in the beis-medresh knew that R. Naftali was a fine man. He never took anything that he was not entitled to, God forbid. Therefore people had the greatest confidence in him. If he told you that you owed so-and-so much, let us say, for five pastries, two glasses of tea, and three poppyseed kichel–you could fully believe that it was so. Cheating, swindling, lying, and deceiving, God forbid–R. Naftali was far from capable of such things.

Every Friday morning, when even the Sambatyon ceased its raging and stone throwing and quieted down in honor of Shabbos–R. Naftali shut down the samovar, threw out the ashes that had collected over the course of the week, collected the glasses and the bits of leftover foods, put all of it into a chest, and went home to prepare for Shabbos. He freed himself slowly from all of his weekday worries and rested a little. Shabbos is coming–rest is coming.

But R. Naftali never forgot that the world is nothing more than an antechamber, a corridor through which people quickly pass until they come to the banqueting hall, to the salon. And after a hundred and twenty years, one dares not come with empty hands. One

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has to bring a certain baggage of mitzvos and good deeds. He kept in mind the well-known saying of Chazal: “Prepare yourself in the antechamber [a chamber or room that serves as a waiting room and entrance to a larger room] so that you may enter the banquet hall” [Pirkei Avot 4:16]

He really spent his whole life preparing for the banqueting hall. Thus he did every year, sitting by the table with the large samovar in the beis-medresh–studying, praying, saying Psalms, and reading books on morality in order to fill his baggage with mitzvos and good deeds, so that he would not arrive there emptyhanded…

Who from the older generation in Ostrowiec did not know Eli Golda Yointches, or “Eli Kratzer,” as he was known in town?

He was a tremendously God-fearing man, a real fanatic, and consequently he was also quite poor. He was not interested in any compromises in everyday life, and he did not want to deviate even the distance of the letter yod from his Yiddishkeit.

In the beis-medresh he was always fastidious that no one should, God forbid, say a word during the prayers nor go without a gartel [a belt dividing the top half and the bottom half of the body] while praying. And if someone arrived at the beis-medresh during chol ha'moed Pesach or Succos without wearing a silk kapote [long black coat worn by Hasidic men] or a velvet hat–such a person would receive from R. Eli an embarrassing scolding. He would become angry, scolding and berating, saying that he had committed a terrible, unforgiveable sin, saying that he had profaned the holiday.

I remember what happened in Ostrowiec many decades ago, when people spoke about replacing the kerosene lamps in the old beis-medresh with modern electric lights. This uncompromising fanatic, R. Eli Kratzer, fought against this “reform” with all his strength and might. How could they, God forbid–as he thought–turn to such evil? I remember how he angrily maintained, yelling and screaming, that a beis-medresh was not a “comedy,” or, even worse, a place of sinfulness; and he swore, by all that was dear and holy, that “as long as I live, this would not happen!”

At that time, two camps formed in the city: for and against electric lights in the beis-medresh. Leading those who opposed this reform in the beis-medresh–was R. Eli Kratzer. For days and nights the argument raged in the beis-medresh, so that there was no end to these unfortunate discussions.

But gradually the electric lights triumphed, after having caused such tumult in the old beis-medresh, and in time they were used in all other beis-medreshes and Chasidic prayer houses, and eventually the traditional kerosene lamps that had been used over generations for praying and studying were extinguished.

Eli Kratzer and his allies did not give up their bitter battle against this “decree” that had befallen our city so easily, God save us…There were earnest attempts to break the first electric lights. So it seemed in the old beis-medresh, and the yelling and fighting between the two camps spread to the whole city

But it did not help. The battle against “progress” was lost. The electric lights in the old beis-medresh triumphed completely.

And the observant, fanatical, and uncompromising R. Eli Kratzer, with a heavy heart, had to capitulate to the technology and progress of the twentieth century, which penetrated even into the old beis-medresh in the form of electric lights…

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Between the hilly street that stretches from Tylna and Zatylna, opposite the small Beis Medrash [Study Hall] and within the small sloping street that leads to Shvamma [Starakunowska] street to the rebbe's court; between these two hilly streets there are several houses from which you can hear children's voices. Here live the teachers of the town. Farther down, where an old fence surrounds a small yard – on the left of the entrance – there are wooden stairs with a balcony at the very top. There lives tall Dovid who is well-known in the entire town and in all the surrounding towns as the singer and lamenter for all the grooms and brides.

When you come to the home of Dovid the badchan [entertainer] you find a small, narrow home that gets dark in its depth. On the right is a table, and on the left at the sewing machine sits tall Dovid who is sewing fur collars onto coats. In his younger years he was a tailor with his own hands. Now, since he is over fifty years old, he works for tailors sewing fur coats, putting on fur collars, and as an additional income, he is a badchan, which he loves to do just as he loves doing the tailoring.

Well, Reb Dovid'l is sitting with his kappel [skullcap, yarmulka] on the edge of his head, and his thimble on the middle finger and he pushes the needle into the skin of the collar. If the needle does not go in, it screams [squeaks] as if it would be hurt, so he rubs the needle in his hair back and forth and then it rushes calmly with its jabs into the skins.

A little farther down, almost in the middle of the house, there sits Dovid'l the badchan's wife Shaindel Dina, at a large table, and she neatly completes the pieces of work. From time to time, she gives a deep sigh, as she catches a glimpse on the wall where there are pictures of her sons and their wives and children, and her grandchildren whom she knows only from these pictures. Her heart breaks as she looks at them, and she sobs miserably at the table.

“Are you crying again?” her husband asks in his bass tone. “What will your tears accomplish, I ask you. Will they bring a good year?”

“Yes,” she nods, “I am crying again.”

She turns her head away from the wall and resumes her work which she accompanies with sighs and hiccups.

When the tall Dovid goes into the street, he appears to be haughty, because he has a lengthy gait. His ash-gray beard is tidily combed, his eyes look forward, as if he would not see anyone round him. But that is not because he is so arrogant, but because he feels as if melodies and words are buzzing inside of him, as if lyrics are galloping in his brain like a pair of prodded [kicked] postal horses. He can hardly keep them contained, enclosed.

There is a wedding tomorrow. As soon as someone will see him, they will ask:

“So, Reb Dovid, show us what you can do. Something new, Reb Dovid.”

The words begin to mix in the badchan's head, sad ones, heartfelt ones. You have to find a way to make the bride and groom, parents, and all the women cry before the chuppah [wedding ceremony]. The more they cry, the more they will pay. And as he is walking, he jangles off in his badchan's way:

“Oy, dear bride, dear bride,
Do not get lost,
Soon they will take you to the chuppah.”

And then the lanterns blind the eyes as does the jewelry on the women's hands, heads, and throats. The satin and taffeta dresses and the brilliant pins in the wigs and hats are rustling. Reb Dovid'l is standing on a platform in his satin frock and presents words from his, sharp badchan tongue. And the musicians support him all around, arousing and stimulating the appropriate people according to the names of the family and in-laws, as would major waves in a river. The lines and the paragraphs address those living and those departed, who are all invited to the wedding, in a manner so moving as it could even move a stone. Everyone is gasping and listening. Everyone is certain that the dead are actually present,

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along with everyone else, coming to celebrate along with the young couple. The lamps and the lights chine brightly and it feels as if they could make themselves even brighter. The sweet voice that emits from the tall, stretched out badchan with the graying beard, embraces everything and everyone. Reb Dovid'l badchan moves the highest heights of the heavens. The assisting musicians do not even know that with their violins, trumpets, and flutes, they are pushing off his weekday moods, his worries, his gray, tailor's life of sewing fur coats and putting collars onto cotton jackets and blouses.

The following morning, after the wedding ended and all the festivities are over, the ordinary days resume as if nothing ever happened. The week rushes by just as rainwater during spring. On Shabbat morning, when everyone is still asleep and you don't have to get up and go to work, Reb Dovid's still can't allow himself that extra bit of rest. He gets up. First, today we bless the new month of Teves [generally February time]. He has to be in shul because everyone – old and young – comes to hear the chazan [cantor] in the old wooden shul. Second, it has been quite a bit of time since he last recited his chapters of tehilim [Psalms]. As long as one has his bit of seasonal work then he is a busy person, and you put it all off for later. And if not for Shabbat, then for when?

The outdoors is blanketed with a blue-white snow that fell overnight and embraced and covered everything. Reb Dovid'l puts the first footprints onto the dry snow that crunches underfoot. He creates a path from his house to the Beis Midrash, where Jews are already gathered around the coal oven and are warming themselves with the pleasurable “aah, aah, aah.” The warmth spreads through each limb.

The wooden shul is filled with men, old and young. Through the small wooden, moldy windows, the women gaze, and listen to the chazan with his choir as they sing the “chaim” [life] words in the blessing of the new month. Everyone is reveling in the beautiful chassidic compositions and harmonious words that blend beautifully as sung by the choir. As the hum of the swishing trees in a storm, in the same manner, the bass voice of the tall Reb Dovid'l is carried. When he completes the prayers, many thanks are given to Reb Dovid'l who is slowly folding away his tallis [prayer shawl], with his eyes looking forward as always, while the lines of the lyrics he sang are streaming through his mind. Also, now there is a friendliness on his face. In his mind, these words from after the lyrics, are present:

“Yasher Koach [Good Job], Reb Dovid,
I am very pleased,
You sang with your whole heart,
It was a pleasure to hear
But you should know
My dear Jews,
That from “thank you” alone
You cannot give honor to a home.”

These words go on inside of him, as if by themselves, in an organized manner, and accompany him the entire way to his home and is welcomed with a welcoming “Good Shabbat!”

He meets his youngest son Avremele standing at the table, thoughtfully humming a melody of a new song that his brother had sent him from America, along with the notes.

The look in the eyes of Reb Dovid is an angry one when he sees his son preoccupied with the notes.

“Listen here, young man, did you daven [pray] yet today, or are you just getting ready to go daven?”

This complaint did not go to the tall, thin Avremele with glasses on his somewhat long nose and with a loose ball that projected from his thin throat, as if he had swallowed something but it did not go down the tract. He stands there as if the comment was not directed to him. He is very familiar with his father's nature. Soon anger would overtake him.

But when, after the Shabbat meal, he starts to sing loudly the deeply tragic melody: “Maybe it is pouring rain to bring mazal?” then a tremor goes through even Dovid'l's body, as if ants are crawling under his skin. Even though his wife had told him to go have a nap after eating, go rest, after all, it's Shabbat. “Go, Dovid'l, I put a warm cover in your bed, go, live, warm up a little.” This went into one ear and out the other. The beautiful melody and the heartfelt words lead him to his son, and he stands beside Avremel, and both of them, the deep bass and the young baritone, pour themselves together to one totality.

Reb Dovid'l feels as if he has become younger,

[Page 207]

that he is getting a redemption while still alive. His son Avremele carries music in his heartfelt voice into the small town. And his daughter Sarah'le, in the large town, is living through human suffering, Jewish anguish and faith, on the theater stage before thousands of listeners. Dovid'l badchan lives in their blood. Maybe the grandchildren and great-grandchildren will sing the beautiful living song that he could not and would not sing, because he was not allowed…The yoke of life did not allow him. Worries of earning a livelihood did not allow him to take part in higher things, like creating great musical compositions to poetry, to the Psalms, which is what he dreamed of all his life.

Father and son stand at the window. They look out at the white, bright snow, and both are singing: “Maybe it is pouring rain to bring mazal?” True, Reb Dovid'l's beard is already graying, but he is still in his middle years. He still has a whole world ahead of him. And his son Avremele is still a young boy. Dovid'l's voice goes deeper, the son's voice – higher. Both together can move a rock. A joy envelops his entire body and soul. He gave over his singing into the blood of his children, who will carry it across the world. Nothing will be lost….

[Page 207]

I remember how all three water-carriers who carried water to us in the course of five years: Shloyme Duvid, his son Meyerele, and the one and only Chaim Yehoshua. The water-carrier Meyerle is particularly etched in my memory, for he served us for a long time. All of them had bent backs from carrying the heavy yokes with their full water buckets for many years.

For many years we had in our kitchen a large copper barrel for water–an inheritance from many years earlier from my deceased grandmothers and grandfathers. For a long time that barrel had been used. It developed leaks on all sides, so that with great sorrow we had to part with this treasured part of our home and exchange it for a wooden barrel.

I remember how in winter, in the greatest freezing snow and blizzards, early in the morning we would suddenly hear a loud knocking on the door of our house. I had to awaken from my sleep in my warm bed, wrap myself in a cotton blanket, and go to the cold kitchen to unlock the door. The water-carrier entered with his heavy boots. Long icicles hung from his whiskers, and he was totally covered, from head to toe, with snow. I did not close the door so that he could go in and out several times with his buckets until the barrel was full of water.

This was on a normal winter day. But when Friday came, the water-carriers had to be half the night, putting their yokes on their shoulders and getting to work, because “the day is short and the work is abundant.” The day is short, and people need water for all their household and baking needs throughout the shtetl. And later they need to wash, put on their Shabbos Kapotas^[1], and run to the beis-medresh to welcome in Shabbos.

On Shabbos, the water-carriers would get up early and go to their little beis-medresh. They all belonged to the “Tehillim [Psalms] Fellowship.” They would say, along with everyone, chapters from the Psalms and then finish up with the morning prayers. Then they would go home, catch their breath, and lie down tired and worn out from taxing days and sleepless nights during the whole week.

In the hot summer months, when the small, stuffy dwellings were intolerable–on Shabbos the water-carriers would go out early on Shabbos with their wives and children

[Page 208]

to the nearby “Blonie ”^[2] by the river, stretch out on the grass, and breathe in the fresh air. They would crack some nuts and then take a delightful Shabbos nap in the lap of nature. “Sleep on Shabbos is a pleasure.” There on the “Blonie ” by the river with such exhilarating air, after a week of hard labor…

And if, God forbid, a water-carrier became ill–which often happened–his colleagues wouild assume his work while he was sick. They divided up his customers and took care of them so that none of them, God forbid, would go waterless.

If a person wanted to wash clothing–and people did laundry in their homes, because there were no public laundries such as there are today–several days before they had to inform the water-carrier that in a few days they would need more water than usual. In that case, the water-carrier would enlist in his work his youngest child, who helped him carry the water to the homemakers.

I remember how once in the middle of doing laundry, the Christian woman who did our laundry cried out in Polish, “God in Heaven, there's not a drop of water!” The barrel was emptied of its last drop. I had to run through the whole town, in all the streets and to all the pumps, trying to find our water-carrier…

It often happened during the winter that the great pump in the market would be out of order because of the severe cold, and the locale of the pump in the shul street was in total confusion because of the crowd so that it was not possible to get near it–then many water-carriers would have to carry water from the pump to the pool by the firehouse, which made their difficult lives even harder.

My mother, a”h, handled the water bills. Every Sunday she would sit down with Shloyme Duvid the water-carrier and together they would determine how many pails of water had been delivered that week. But there were times when their accounts did not agree. So there would be a dispute. They would go over the account again and finally thrash it out.

I also remember other water-carriers in Ostrowiec, such as: Zelik Kulba, Moyshe Hillel, Shyele Dszobas, and others. In summer and winter I would often see them in the street carrying on their shoulders the heavy yokes with the full water buckets by their sides. All had bent back. They worked hard at their wearying labor.

And when Shloyme Duvid the water-carrier died, his son Meyerle, on the morning after shiva, took up his father's yoke and pails and carried water to the households that he had inherited from his deceased father.

And years later, the same yoke was borne on the shoulders and water was provided to the same households–by his young grandson, Chaim Yehoshua. A generation goes and a generation comes…

I will conclude my recollections of the lives of the water-carriers in our old home with a tragic story. In the early days of the Nazi occupation, we in Ostrowiec were shaken to our depths because of a bestial murder that took place in the middle of the day.

A sadistic SS man had caught a water-carrier in the street, took out his revolver, and with the cry, “You, accursed Jew!” shot him in the head and left him lying dead on that spot.

Translator's footnotes:

1. kapota – long black coat worn by Chasidim Return
2. błonie – Polish word for an open space, covered with grass,meadow Return

[Page 209]

Who from the older generation of Ostrowiec did not know meshuganeh Reizl? I remember how she used to go around, summer and winter, distracted and disconnected, always exasperated and bitter toward the whole world. She would stop to curse and yell bad things at someone she just encountered on the street.

I remember how we schoolboys would antagonize and torment her, and she would respond with balled up fists and bitter curses, bombard us with stones and take out all her sorrows on us.

From early in the morning until late in the evening she would run through the market and the Jewish streets and fill the air with her cries and screams. The women would take pity on her and throw her a bit of bread, a bagel, or a kichel, and occasionally offer a glass of tea and a little laughter.

After running around for a whole day, late in the evening, tired and worn out, she would go home. Her usual resting place was on Szeroka Street by R. Fintsha Mintzberg in the passageway near his cellar door. She would lie in a corner there for many years. That was her home. She would sleep there at night and rest after a hard, wearying day.

But in the early morning, all the inhabitants of the surrounding streets were disturbed by Reizl's curses and screams, which struck to the heart of the heavens. Half-naked men, women, and children would appear on the balconies, having been awakened from their deep slumbers by Reizl's early morning “concert.”

She was a strong, healthy Jewess, as full of fire as a volcano. The curses fell from her mouth as if from a sack full of holes. And if she offended you with some evil word–she was not guilty and you could not expect her to feel bad.

The women of Ostrowiec knew of Reizl's hard life, of her terrible family tragedy that disrupted her psychological well-being, disturbed her nerves, and led her to such a sad condition.

The complete opposite of meshuganeh Reizl was Simcha Plachta. He was quiet, peaceful, easy-going. He never offended and never quarreled. He would go through the streets quiet and unnoticed.

He was a devoted smoker, but he had no money. Truly, he had no money. So he would wander the streets all day and his “business” was to collect cigarette butts. He was lucky if he found an unsmoked cigarette. If he found a whole cigarette, he was in seventh heaven.

In winter, during the greatest cold, snow, and blizzards, Simcha would spend whole nights in the old beis-medresh in a corner near the oven. The people praying would take pity on him and would occasionally give him sustenance and cigarettes to smoke.

And when the cold departed along with the snow and the first spring breezes blew–Simcha Plachta would return to the streets of Ostrowiec and collect cigarette butts…

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Yitzchak Siennor

After the deaths of the first two mad people, Reyzl and Simcha Plachta, a new madman appeared in the city–Yitzchak Siennor. He lived in the small shtetl of Sienno, but he would come to Ostrowiec from time to time to “walk the streets.”

Yitzchak Siennor was a God-fearing man and a learned Talmudist. He had spent years as a young man studying in yeshivas. He was a faithful student, sitting in the beis-medresh studying Torah and praying and swimming in the deep sea of Talmud. He knew that the Torah does not enter one's mind by itself, but one must toil at it.

Later, Yitzchak got married and was a shochet in Sienno and lived life like anyone else–but a terrible family tragedy disrupted him and shook him to the depths of his soul, ruined his life, and permanently disturbed his mind.

During his frequent visits to Ostrowiec, he could be clearly heard. From early in the morning until late at night, he would go through the market and the Jewish streets as if he were learning with the Gemara melody in a loud voice. He would offer interpretations and shake his head as if he was deeply involved in a difficult sugya^[2] from the Gemara.

The cheder boys in the and the town wise guys derived great pleasure from his singing, because Yitzchak had once been the prayer leader in Sienno. Now he would gather the children together, stand in the middle of the street, and sing for them all of the Shabbos z'miros and High Holiday prayers.

In Ostrowiec, older Jews, seeing Yitzchak in such a fallen state, would sadly shake their heads and feel sorry for him. And more than one of them raised the old-new question, “This is the Torah, and this is its reward? This is the reward for sitting all day and all night by the Torah and in prayer?!…”

And so it has always been. After wandering around in Ostrowiec for a while longer, Yitzchak would suddenly disappear. It seems that he longed to return home, to his birthplace. So he did until the last days of his tragic life, wandering from Sienno to Ostrowiec and from Ostrowiec–back to Sienno…

Ephraim Neiszu's birth was unrecorded, and his “family name,” Neiszu, he received because of his flat, crooked nose.

Ephraim fulfilled certain functions in the shtetl, functions for which he had over the years had strength and which no one interfered with. He learned that this was his job and he had to do it.

If, God forbid, a Jew died in Ostrowiec, you would see how Ephraim would go quickly from the burial house, bent over from carrying the broad Tahara-bret [the board on which dead bodies are cleansed] on his back, tied with a fat rope. The women, seeing this, would wring their hands and say to each other, “Oy, gottenyu, [dear G-d] we should no longer know from such bad things!” Later, as the time for the funeral approached, you would see how he quickly went and carried on his back the heavy stretcher [on which the deceased would be carried].

And if a pauper died in the city, a solitary person with no family or relatives–the Chevra Kadisha would tell Ephraim what to do. He would go to the Jewish streets and to all four corners of the market and call out in a loud voice, “The mitzvah of the d-d-dead!” The Jews would shake their heads sadly and prepare to fulfill that great mitzvah of burying the dead.

And when, with God's help, people had heated up the bath in honor of Shabbos, Ephraim Neszu would go on Friday morning to tell the Jews in the shtetl the happy news. He would go to all the Jewish streets and to all four corners of the market and call out his announcement: “Goooo to the baaaath!”

Ephraim Neszu never missed a Jewish simcha in the shtetl. A wedding, a bris, a book presentation–he had to be at all of them. He had a good appetite, praise God, a very good appetite. But he would never beg. If he saw a young Jewish woman, he would wish her sincerely, “May you make a bris.”

[Page 211]

But it was bad, bitter for him if there happened to be in Ostrowiec two or three weddings or two or three brises in one day. He would run around like a poisoned mouse, not knowing where to go first and where it would be better…

From his earliest youth, Avram'le Matshiik earned his keep by doing hard physical labor. He was a tall, healthy young man, well-developed and broad-shouldered, with strong hands that could bend iron. He feared no sort of work, however hard it might be.

In his later years, even as a family man, he worked as a porter and became part of the many-branched Jewish porter dynasty in Ostrowiec , which was led at that time by the well-known Berl Tchatchka, Yankl Vaysser, Yossl Balas, and Shimshon Kvaka. For many years he worked with them, carrying various bags and packages and bearing on his back the heaviest burdens.

I remember how large trucks would arrive with merchandise for R. Shmuel Levi on Drildszer Street, and how quickly and deftly Avram'le Matshik and his friends would unload the large, heavy bales of flax and carry them into the storehouse. It was something to marvel at, the sterling work-symphony of these strong Jewish laborers with their straight backs and developed muscles that radiated health, strength, power, and energy.

When unrest and antisemitic hooligans came to Ostrowiec and attacked Jews in the streets, Avram'le Matchik and his fellow porters–simple people and sincere, beloved Jews–would stand on watch over Jewish honor and Jewish interests. He was not a coward, and with his healthy hands he could distribute such fine “caresses” to antisemitic hooligans that they would remember them for the rest of their lives…

Once, rumors spread through the city that Avram'le Matchik was not, God forbid, in his right mind, a little “beside himself.” First his fellow porters noticed this at work, and later it was not a secret from anyone.

And from then on, until the last days of his life, would run through the marketplace and through the Jewish streets with his hand raised toward the sky, crying out, “A million airplanes! A million airplanes! A million airplanes!” He soon got the nickname in the city of “Avram'le Matshik of the millions.” He was always surrounded by and accompanied by the Jewish pranksters, who laughed at and took great pleasure from his “millions.”

More than once I became very upset seeing the miserable situation of this sincere man of the people. The former giant, powerful as an oak, one of the most important supports of the eminent porter dynasty in once-Jewish Ostrowiec…

Translator's footnotes:

1. Meshuganeh – a Yiddish slang term for a person who acts in a crazy or eccentric way. Return
2. Sugya – Topic from the Talmud on a particular statement. Return

I cannot forget you, Mother, no! My heart longs woefully for you. I remember I prepared a bundle to go on the road --You came forth with a cry, Mother, with a cry… You wanted at least to have another look at your son You called out that I should remain Your hand trembled. You could not say goodbye Your heart was moved–but your mouth was locked… Only your eyes spoke, Mama, for a son can understand Your tears sparkled like pearls and asked to where? --Be well, Mama. Surely the road will take me Don't wait for me, for the days will drag out… I wander with my bundle alone in foreign places. By day it is a sack and by night a pillow A bit of my shirt remains as a reminder To dry up my bitter tears… I remember with longing how gentle was your hand Your heart filled with pain–I feel, Mama, your tears Your son among strangers in another country He should not be lost, a star should not be extinguished… Mother's tears are pleading, mother's tears May there be peace, peace, may there be peace…

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