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by Shifra Mazover-Bobrowski, Rishon-Letziyon
Translated by Allen Flusberg
One day my mother brought me to the Ḥayder [boys' religious school], to the teacher Shayele, to learn prayer-book Hebrew. The teacher began to teach me to say, by heart, modeh ani[2], krias shma[3] and various blessings: a blessing for hearing thunder, for seeing lightning, for seeing a rainbow, and all the blessings for different kinds of foods; also, the Sabbath blessing “when the dear, holy Sabbath ends”.
We would hurry to finish, so that the boys that stayed in the Ḥayder all day, learning Ḥumesh [Pentateuch] and Rashi [11th-century commentary on the Ḥumesh], could continue their studies. My two brothers, Moyshke and Mordechai, of blessed memory, were students in this Ḥayder. I recall how my mother would send me to bring them snacks; on my way back, I would run over to the Adolen Hill and roll down from the top—in summer over the sand and in winter over the ice. For us children flying down this Adolen Hill was exhilarating.
On Fridays I would be sent to Zune the Baker, carrying the tscholent[4], to make sure it was brought to him on time to have it sealed in the oven. Along the way I could hear the pounding of cleavers—the sound of gefilte fish being made for the Sabbath.
Moyshe-Ḥaim the water carrier used to carry yokes on his shoulders, supporting two buckets of fresh river water for tea. He would come to us at dawn, when we were still washing our hands with negl-vasser [water for morning handwashing] from the copper ladle.
My mother used to feel sorry for him and say: “Come, Moyshe-Ḥaim, put the buckets down—and have a warm ulnik [grated potato casserole] made by Frayde the ulnitske [ulnik maker].”
Poor Moyshe-Ḥaim would take the ulnik in his hand and say that he still had a lot of river water for tea to deliver that morning—and then he would run off.
[Page 472]
I recall how in our shtetl [little town], right after Purim[5], they began baking matzos [unleavened bread] for Passover. This baking would take place in what were called szwalnies [sewing workshops], located in the poor part of town. Two long planed-down planks, supported from below by two barrels, formed what looked like two long tables; and around them stood about 20 destitute girls holding wooden rollers, with which they were rolling nice, round matzos. A young boy stood at a small table using a redl tool [a small, indented wheel] to perforate each matzo. In an adjoining room a woman was sitting with flour in a copper wash basin, kneading.
Once when I came to see how they baked matzos, one of the girls showed me how swollen her hands were from rolling for days on end. For an entire month they would be rolling all day, while standing on their feet. I said that I would come to help out a bit. I didn't know how to “stretch out” the matzo, and the girls taught me how. They were very glad whenever I showed up. My mother had told me that when you do a good deed, you should not talk about it; and so I never told anyone what I had been doing—even in my own home no one knew.
The husband of Sara-Mindl, the undergarment seamstress, was a Ḥasid who wore a shtraiml [fur hat], kapote [caftan] and gartl [loose belt tied around the waist]. On Simchas Torah[6], in the Ḥasidic shtibl [small, one-room synagogue], he would climb up on a table to dance. I remember that once, when I was hurrying away from the szwalnie, Sara-Mindl's husband was standing there [drawing water from a well]. I immediately saw how hard he was struggling to turn the kibel [kurbel = crankshaft]; I ran over to [grab] the other handle, and just then the shaft released and unwound into the well. My hands were badly bruised by the [spinning] handle. At the nearby home of Itche Artchech, they applied cold water to my fingers. It was a week before Passover, and the worst part of it was that because of the injury I couldn't go help the poor girls who were working in the szwalnie.
On Purim, a friend of mine and I would open my relatives' charity boxes and hand the money over to a lady charity volunteer, who would distribute it to poor brides[7].
When we were little girls, two of us would go to keep watch over an ill person all night. Linas HaTzedek [a charity organization to aid the sick] used to provide us with an icepack for the patient's head and a hot-water bottle in case his belly ached. I recall that one night the ice ran out, which meant someone had to go to Ahron-Moyshe's cellar to hack off some more ice. I was afraid to go alone, but we were also afraid that if we both went the sick person might die while we were gone. And so the two of us sat there until morning, crying. At dawn they sent me to get Avrome the feldsher [medic]. He used to heal the sick, and he had medications for everything: a salve to apply to the neck, bankes [cupping glasses], giving a klizme [enema], and making the patient drink castor oil mixed with some pickled-cucumber juice. When, Heaven forbid, none of the above helped, he would prescribe piavkes [leeches], so that the ill person would have no choice but to get better…
[Page 473]
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[Page 474]
I can remember when the assistant would come by carrying a lantern during the evenings of Ḥanukkah[9], when the ground was all muddy, asking for Ḥanukkah gelt [money][10].
I also recall that when a male baby was born, the melamed [teacher of small children] and his entire Ḥayder [class of children] would come on the Friday night before the circumcision; this was called the vachnacht [watch night][11]. The melamed and all the children would read krias shma near the mother and baby. The grandmother would also be there. In return for coming, each boy would receive a fistful of arbes [chickpeas] which had been arranged on an entire tray, spread out on a white tablecloth, together with little candies. Verses from shir hamaalois [A Song of Ascents, Psalms 121][12] had been hung on the windows and doors of the room where the baby was.
There were also theatre shows in our town. The performers were mostly amateur actors from Brisk [Brest-Litowsk, 40km south of Kamenetz]. Sometimes the performances took place in a barn that belonged to Ahron-Moishe Galpern. We would also have other forms of entertainment there.
Images of Moyshe-Ahron the meshugener [crazy] come back to me—how we used to see him only at night, wandering around in courtyards. I was very frightened by his eyes and his glance, but he never actually bothered anyone.
I also remember the times in my little shtetl Kamenetz, when the army draftees would carry on all night, playing various pranks, just before they began their military service. This used to take place around Sukkos [Tabernacles—September-October].
The village Gentiles who were serving in the Polish military also would cause trouble when they were on their way out of our little shtetl, quite drunk.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 477]
by Yitzchok Sheinfeld (Brooklyn, New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Translator's note: Most of this article appeared in an English version in the English section of this Yizkor Book, pp. 85-90, under the title “Kamenetz—The Memories of My Youth”, by Izhak Sheinfeld. That English version is missing the following paragraphs, translated here from Yiddish
In 1935 a new mayor came to Kamenetz, and he introduced new decrees. One of the new edicts was “sharvarag”[2]: every household had to provide one day of labor for the town once a month—road construction, gathering rocks, digging, moving the dug-up dirt, etc. During the short days of winter, the work would continue after darkness fell. When the Jewish members of the town council protested to the mayor, the Friday work hours were shortened, so that the Jews would not have to violate the Sabbath.
In the years 1936-1937 the activity of the Zionist organizations declined and almost completely fell apart. There was a group of young men who were still collecting money for the Keren Kayemes [Jewish National Fund, JNF] and turning it over to the Kamenetz JNF treasurer, Yosef Greenblatt. He used to send the money to the JNF Headquarters in Warsaw. That group of young men were: Yitzchok Sheinfeld, Yosef Feldman, Noach Goldberg, Reuven Szczytnicki and Yaakov Weitzhendler.
[Page 478]
Our friend, Yisroel Goldshal (a native of Pinsk), was at that time teaching at the Tarbut-Gymnasia[3] in Pinsk. In 1939 he became a teacher in Kamenetz, teaching children Hebrew.
During discussions with Yisroel Goldshal about reviving the Zionist Movement in Kamenetz, we decided to found a branch of HaShomer HaTzair[4]. Yosef Feldman was appointed branch head, and Yitzchok Sheinfeld branch secretary, whose duties included correspondence with the Warsaw headquarters. Noach Goldberg became the deputy branch head, and Reuven Szczytnicki the treasurer.
The government created difficulties and did not grant permission to open a location for meetings and to legalize HaShomer HaTzair. We held meetings in members' homes.
During Sabbath mornings, our group of HaShomer HaTzair invited the General Zionists to Mordechai Chaim in the bakery. We asked Isaac Shostakowski, Velvl Chaim Korshnboim and Yosef Greenblatt to help us legalize the organization. Berl (Berele) Fisher came to our aid and joined our ranks. At that time, after completing a leadership seminar, he had just returned to Kamenetz. Berele Fisher participated in our discussions and classes, and helped bring in new members from an even younger generation. The Zionist movement came back to life.
Then pressure on Jews began to be felt in Kamenetz, as well. Christian restaurants opened up, shops and cafeterias. Jewish shopowners lost some of their livelihood. The government demanded higher taxes and also loans, which were hard to comply with.
At 10 AM the passenger bus from Brisk[5] used to arrive. Groups of people would gather and wait at Zelik the bookbinder, so that he would distribute the newly arrived newspapers to his readers. The Bund newspaper, Folkstzeitung, was often confiscated. The newspapers Moment, Heint, Heintike Nayes, Radio and Dos Neier Wort were read by the majority of the Jewish population. The Workers' Library, which was also called the Y.L. Peretz Library, was closed by the authorities, and the majority of the books were confiscated. The former officials of the library were temporarily arrested.
[Page 479]
As always, the Kamenetz youth endeavored to emigrate, particularly to the Land of Israel. Unfortunately, only a small number made it. Whoever was able to immigrated to other free countries.
When I got to America, I could not forget the precious poor Jews. During the Second World War, when I was in the American army, in Africa, I met Jews from Poland, but could not find anything out about the fate of the Jews of Kamenetz.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 480]
by Shashke Visotzky
Translated by Allen Flusberg
I left my town of Kamenetz-Litowsk in 1930, in the full bloom of youth. At the time my greatest hope and desire was to return quickly.
As a child, I used to gaze at the large, beautiful synagogue with great awe and reverence. I believed I could hear the voices of angels singing songs of praise from the synagogue during evening.
My father, Moishe Eliezer Katzalski, the Kamenetz soifer [scribe], used to sit around day and night, either studying or writing a Torah scroll. The only time he was distracted was when he went out for a walk with Rabbi Burstein, the wise, intelligent Rabbi of Kamenetz.
I started attending school during the First World War, a short time before the German forces pulled out of Kamenetz. Our teachers then were: Kumersteiner and Chvat for German; Leah Bobrowski and Malka Polyakevitch for Hebrew; and Unterman for Jewish history and singing.
We were then suffering from hunger and disease, yet we did still go to school; and we were singing and dancing. Our youthfulness simply overcame our deprivation. Then our need was alleviated somewhat by the food from the [community] kitchen and the packages of food and clothing that began arriving from America.
After the Germans left the Bolsheviks came into our town, so we studied Russian and Hebrew. Our teachers at that time were: Leah Bobrowski for Hebrew and Dvora Dolinski for Russian. Once the Poles captured our town, we had to study Polish in the Powszechna[2] School. But we continued to study Hebrew in a private school that was run by the Saperstein brothers: Velvel Saperstein taught Hebrew, Shloimo'ke Saperstein taught Russian, and Herschl Saperstein taught Yiddish.
[Page 481]
We decided to set up our own library, for which each child in our school paid one groschen per week. To bring in more money for books, we used to sell raffles for tickets to shows that we performed; and with this money we were able to buy the best books. And this is how the “I.L. Peretz[3] Children's Library” was established.
We also let other children of the town—whoever wanted to— read our books. We had good books and a large number of readers. The library management included the following: Moishe Greenblatt, Chaya Krakowski, Golda Sher; and later also Lipa Horowitch, myself and several other boys and girls, whose names I do not recall.
The school studies did not go far enough for us. Several of my friends left for Bialystok, the girls to complete high school there, and the boys to study in the Yeshiva. And incidentally, one of the Bialystok Yeshiva students, Meir Visotzky, later became my husband.
Later many of these boys and girls threw themselves with the same fervor into the work of raising money for the Jewish National Fund (JNF). Kamenetz became well known for the large sums of money it collected for the JNF. And let me make mention here of two very dedicated and stalwart workers who supported the Zionist organization: Zelig the bookbinder and Yosl Greenblatt.
After each of the Zionist gatherings, we used to sing Zionist songs and dance a hora with great passion.
At that time HeChalutz[4] was also established in Kamenetz under good leadership. Meir Visotzky, who was then my friend, was one of those leaders. A large number of the members of the Zionist organization and HeChalutz, both male and female, are now in Israel
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 482]
by Chaya Sara Binder-Rudnitzki (Argentina)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Although I have already lived in Argentina for more than half of my life, I still cannot forget Kamenetz, the town I was born in, and where I spent my childhood together with my nearest and dearest. In my mind's eye I still see it as it was, with all the charm of an authentic Jewish shtetl[2]: its streets, alleyways and houses; the Slup [Medieval tower] with its tall walls, the subject of so many legends—yet no one could determine exactly what purpose it had been built for. The Kobryn, Brisk and Litowsk Streets; Shosay Street, a valley where we had recently lived after the great fire, when half the town burned to the ground; the town square, with the two rows of shops, where the Jewish shopkeepers used to sit and wait long hours for customers that rarely came by. The shopkeepers' only hope was the monthly fair that would reinvigorate them and bring in a bit of a living to the shtetl; but even that was in fact of little value after the high taxes that the government demanded were taken into account. In spite of the difficult economic situation and the oppressiveness, Jews lived securely, giving charity from their very last penny, helping out the needy, supporting institutions, and lifting up their morale.
Kamenetz was not considered one of the really tiny shtetls. It had fine young people who were always striving for a higher purpose. They were Zionists—among them General Zionists[3], Poalei-Tzionists[4], members of Gordonia[5] and Beitar[6], most of them Gordonia. They led culturally creative lives. They were in contact with great personalities who visited our shtetl, among them Pinchas Lubianker (Lavon)[7]. Many of these pioneer youth are now in Israel and occupy important positions.
[Page 483]
Kamenetz became well known for its great Yeshiva, which prepared and graduated many rabbis, among them US American, Canadian, and a few from the Land of Israel.
Kamenetz had its fine homeowners, synagogue functionaries and craftsmen. It had a few Houses of Study, several synagogues, a kindergarten, and two very well-respected rabbis. One of them, Rabbi Burstein[8], whose outlook was more worldly, gave his children a secular education and lived an aristocratic life. Since I was a close friend of his youngest daughter, I once had an opportunity to listen to a din-Torah [a religious-court hearing] at his home.
The case was that of a village girl who was accusing a former yeshiva student of pursuing her with professions of love. The two of them, not so very young anymore, make a curious spectacle. The yeshiva student: pale, of medium height, with dreamy, brown eyes and a refined appearance, is dressed simply but neatly. He feels quite uncomfortable with the present situation, and he gazes at the girl with some embarrassment, but without any anger. Very nervous, he tries to be calm as he recounts that when he happened to come to the village and saw her, he immediately fell in love with her, and for this reason remained there as a schoolteacher. She always responded to him with a smile and a warm look—until a short time ago, when she underwent a complete transformation. And although a yeshiva student is not allowed to carry on a love affair, he is unable to conceal his feelings for her.
The girl, a short brunette, certainly not ugly, expressed contempt for him and categorically refuted what he had said. But it was apparent that everyone there sympathized more with the young man.
Sitting in the next room as an unseen onlooker, I observed the rabbi's bearing, his dignified appearance and wise smile. He must have been thinking: two grown people who are making fools of themselves. To this very day I cannot forget the words of wisdom spoken by Rabbi Burstein with confidence as he ended the two-hour-long din-Torah.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 484]
by Rachel Sofer-Renkevitch (America)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
My shtetl [little town] Kamenetz-Litowsk, is located 35km away from the city of Brisk [Brest-Litowsk]. It resides on the banks of the Leshna River, whose water was utilized by the entire shtetl. Water carriers derived their livelihoods from bringing water to the wealthier homes. During the winter, when the river froze over, boys used to skate on the ice. In the summer the housewives washed their laundry in it; the young people would boat there, and on the hottest days people used to bathe in the river. A wide, sandy path ran along one side of the river; and the other side was flanked by broad green meadows.
Not far from this river, on a lofty hill with leafy trees, there stood a narrow, tall tower with masonry walls, the Slup. As you got closer to it, you would see that it stood in a valley, from which canals constructed of masonry led to various small streets of the town. Once you went through the iron doors of the Slup, you could climb a staircase all the way to the very top. From up there you had a view of the entire area surrounding the town, over quite a distance. In the summer, when the hill was overgrown with grass, people who lived nearby would go up the hill to lounge around as part of their Sabbath relaxation.
When a guest came to the town, he would be brought to visit the Slup as a historical fortress. And if someone wanted to slight a person in jest, he would call him a “Kamenetz Slup”.
* * *
The town had a synagogue and study halls, several small prayer houses, a Ḥasidic shtibl [one-room synagogue], a town rabbi, a cantor, a ritual slaughterer—as well as all else that had been retained from many generations of a deep-rooted Jewish way of life.
[Page 485]
Two rows of wooden shops stood in the middle of the market. From these shops nearly half the Jews of the shtetl derived their livelihoods. Every Sunday and Thursday the peasant farmers from the surrounding villages would ride in, bringing grain, fruit, fowl and similar items to sell. With the money they received in return, they would purchase all their necessities in the Jewish shops; and whatever money was left they would spend on getting drunk in the taverns.
There was no working class in the shtetl—this was a convention of the period in which people maintained that “in our family, thank God, there are no laborers”. There were merchants, private teachers, schoolteachers, brokers, and members of various other idle vocations.
Our tiny shtetl was isolated from the outside world. The railroad was 20km away. Mail used to arrive with the driver who drove passengers to the Žabinka train station. The driver's wife, Sara Leah, would take letters along when she felt like it. Newspapers were delivered once a week to the wealthier people—and even for them, only jointly for two or three families who shared a subscription.
The yeshiva was located in the larger study hall. There many young bachelors—long-term, assiduous scholars—studied. They would eat “teg”[2] at the homes of townspeople who provided meals for them in turn, each for a single day of the week. When someone passed the study hall at night, he could see from afar little flames and the flicker of wax candles, at whose light a young student would be chanting the sorrowful, pining melody, “mai ko mashma lon”[3].
There was a Ḥovevei Tzion [Lovers of Zion][4] movement, one of whose members was Zelig the bookbinder[5]. Various pamphlets and party newspapers used to be delivered to him, and the other members would get together there.
There was a drama circle that performed plays, bringing joy and culture to the shtetl. In those days Kamenetz had a library with a significant number of books—in Yiddish, Russian and Hebrew. The young people read, contemplated, and dreamed of a more beautiful, better morrow, knowing that the world did not end at the outskirts of the little shtetl—that roads led to new, unfamiliar territory beyond distant horizons that were opening before them.
[Page 486]
When the First World War broke out and the Germans occupied the area, life became even more paralyzed. In what was then already their brutal, systematic way, they suppressed all signs of life outdoors at night with a 9 PM curfew. And on one such night a fire broke out. Before anyone had any idea what was happening, half the shtetl was in flames, and the inhabitants had to abandon their homes with all their belongings and property. This event led to a state of fatal impoverishment and need, as well as a terrible struggle for material existence. When the war ended and the townspeople became aware of how profound the sorrowful economic situation had become, the young people set off in droves to the big, wide world: some to the Land of Israel, others to the Soviet Union—but most of them to America.
Those who remained behind continued to keep the thread of traditional Jewish life going under the rotten fascist Polish government, living without a present and with no prospect of a better future. They hungered and languished in a state of absolute material scarcity.
By the time the Second World War broke out and the Nazi brute entered my shtetl, its ground had already been tilled and sown with a savage anti-Semitic hatred of the Jews.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 487]
by Dobbe Halpern (America)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Bands of Robbers in Zastavya During the First World War
At the end of the First World War, the situation in our shtetl [little town] and the surrounding villages was steadily deteriorating. The Germans were already aware that their cause was lost and that they would now have to retreat from the territory they had occupied; and so they stopped bothering to maintain order.
At this time gangs of robbers and murderers appeared in the shtetl and in the entire surrounding area. Most of them were Russian prisoners who had escaped from the German [prisoner-of-war] camps that were in the Bialowieza Woods[2] and other locations. They would demand money and provisions, terrorizing the Jewish population in particular. No one could travel beyond a few kilometers from the town: they would attack anyone on the roads, taking everything away and often leaving the victims naked. Anyone who stood up to them would be risking his life.
My uncle, Mayshe Dubiner, lived in the village of Shishki. Once a group of robbers came to him and demanded money. My uncle didn't have the sum they were demanding available. Realizing that he was in great danger, he begged off, suggesting instead that they travel with him to Kamenetz, where he could raise the money. When they arrived at our house everyone fled, leaving only me with my uncle. Then after one of the gang had received the money I asked him for a receipt for the entire amount. He complied, signing his name “Chornaya Ruka”[3], i.e. “Black Hand”.
[Page 488]
Often they would also rob Germans who lived in the villages. The Germans knew who the robbers were, but when it came to blaming someone they would blame the Jews.
Once, on a very cold winter day, a group of armed Germans came into our shtetl claiming that some Kamenetz Jews had robbed them during the night. They demanded as penalty a large sum of money from the entire community; and should the money not be brought to them within an hour, they would set the whole town on fire, from one end to the other. To show that they meant it, they placed straw sheaves and flammable material on all the streets.
Many people in the town were ill with typhus at that time; they were carried out of the houses. The Germans didn't let anyone escape and the air filled with the sounds of mothers and children wailing. Several prominent men, among them my father, David Galpern, immediately set off to collect money. The rabbi and (to make a distinction[4]) the priest persuaded the Germans to wait until the sum they had demanded could be collected. Several hours passed before we no longer had to be in fear of a conflagration. And after this incident we never saw the Germans again in Kamenetz-Zastavya.
In Independent Poland
When Poland became an independent state, and when Kamenetz and its vicinity became part of it, the Kamenetz Jews breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that the Polish government would protect them from the bands of robbers. But it didn't take long to find out that we had been completely mistaken. It turned out that the commandant and his police force were the very same bandits that had been beating Jews in the streets.
Once a group of us, boys and girls, had gotten together at the home of Laybl Wystoker. Suddenly the commandant, whip in hand, appeared, beating everyone in sight. Gedalyahu Shustukowski z.l.[5], Berl Kaplanski z.l., and the teacher Gelerstein a.h.[6] were the ones who were beaten the most. When the bully got close to me I noticed that he was very drunk. I pushed him so hard that he fell over, and quickly I ran away. After getting home via backyards and side streets, I immediately hid in a neighbor's attic.
[Page 489]
I recall another incident: a Zastavya Jew came to sell some cucumbers in the town marketplace. He was carrying them in a sack, tossed over his shoulders. The Polish police from the police station beat him badly. Hearing his screaming, the neighbors ran to the pharmacist, who was the town mayor, and asked him to rescue the Jew. But the Polish mayor refused. When my father, who was then deputy-mayor, heard what was happening, he quickly ran to the police station to ask that they rescue the Jew from the savagery of the Polish police. Ignoring his position as deputy-mayor, they hit him too, and he came home all beaten up. But this incident aroused in him a strong wish to help the downtrodden. The clashes that often took place with the Polish police gave him the desire to labor for the common good.
When parcels of provisions for the neediest Jews of Kamenetz-Zastavya would arrive from America, my father a.h., together with Yaakov Kagan, who had a horse-and-buggy, would ride off to Brisk[7] to bring groceries back to people in the shtetl. The needs of the local Jews were so dire that he willingly overlooked the unrest along the roads.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 490]
by Zlate Timyansky-Gers (New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Although I left Kamenetz in the year 1929, I still can, even today, see the little town clearly in my imagination.
Like all Jewish children of that period, I, too, attended chayder [Jewish religious school for young children]. The melamed [teacher] was R.[2] Shlomo Rudnicki—who was called R. Shlomo “Lisker”, after the village that he came from. In chayder we were learning the Hebrew alphabet and Ivri [Biblical Hebrew]. We studied secular subjects, like Yiddish, Russian and afterwards also Polish, with private teachers. But an especially beloved institution of learning that we used was the library, for it provided a glimpse of the outside world.
In the library the young people who were still studying—as well as a significant part of the workforce—would gather during their free time to read newspapers or books dealing with social issues. The leaders of existing cultural circles and parties made it their meeting place. It served as the beating pulse of both Jewish and general culture.
Theatrical shows also used to be produced in the town. The star performers were mostly amateurs from Brisk[3]. At certain times the performances were staged in a barn belonging to Itche Palyakewicz (Itche the Tsegelnik [brickmaker]). The young people took great interest in these shows.
The arrival of a cantor, a maggid [preacher] or a Zionist speaker into town would generate a special holiday-like atmosphere. The large bays-medresh [study house] would then be completely packed with an audience. At such events little disagreements would also sometimes occur, but without having a bad effect on the almost always peaceful coexistence among the Jews of the town.
During summer evenings, especially on Sabbaths, the young people would go out for walks along the market street, where the circle of shops were located.
[Page 491]
In the period of the general economic crisis, during the 1930s, a large number of Kamenetz Jews began leaving the town, off to the Land of Israel and America. But to our great misfortune, most of the Jews of the town remained there and were murdered by the Nazis.
Jewish Kamenetz, my native town, full of the dreams of my youth—how can I ever forget you?
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 492]
by Aharon Meir Yoffe (America)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
In 1925, a certain group of people who were musical proposed starting an orchestra, but realized that it would be expensive and difficult to implement: we would have to purchase instruments and to bring in a director who could both teach us and conduct. Through various sources we found out that a particular landowner who had once—years earlier—conducted an orchestra, had retained various instruments in his possession. We decided to each contribute a particular amount of money—two zlotys per week—and to establish two groups to teach ourselves how to play, thereby making it possible to bring in more money. We also decided to go to the mayor and propose that the orchestra would be part of the firemen's brigade, so that we could obtain a subsidy from the municipality.
Shloimke Mandelblatt, who served as a secretary in the municipality, put in a good word for us on the project. After a few weeks it was all taken care of, and we established the orchestra. With much effort and energy we trained ourselves, and one fine morning we went out on a “march” around town. Everyone was amazed that we had completed so great an undertaking in such a short time.
At that time fellow townspeople approached us for a favor: since a very great yeshiva, headed by Rabbi Boruch Ber Leibovitch (one of the great Talmudists), was about to move to Kamenetz—and since the town would very much like to welcome them festively—might the orchestra greet them with music as they entered the town? We immediately agreed. We went out to the town outskirts via Brisk Street, waiting for them to arrive. Then we accompanied them into town with music, up to the Bays-Medresh [House of Study] building, which had been designated to house the yeshiva; and from there we continued on to the house that had been set aside for the Head of the Yeshiva.[2]
[Page 493]
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[Page 494]
Later the town began constructing a new building for the yeshiva on Brisk Street, and the orchestra again participated in collecting money in support of it.
The orchestra also played at evening dances, bliml-teg[4], etc.
But then I left my little town, and for me all that is left are the memories.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 495]
by Ḥ. Z. Mendelson
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Life in our shtetl [little town] of Kamenetz-Litowsk went by peacefully and quietly. The town's outward appearance was no different from that of other nearby shtetls: Many wooden houses, and several masonry houses on sloping ground. A main street, as well as several smaller streets. Open, unheated shops extending across the main street to the market square. In summer the stall-keepers sat there to sell their produce: various fruits, vegetables, and especially cucumbers, which our shtetl was known for because they were so abundant. In winter, warmed by coal pots, the stall-keepers sat there, too, selling a variety of baked goods. They were waiting impatiently for the market days, which took place twice a week—Sunday and Thursday—as well as for the special market fairs, from which these shopowners derived most of their livelihoods.
To provide some idea of the difficult economic situation in our shtetl in those days, I will now endeavor to recreate from memory a market day, as I recall it from my childhood years:
At the very crack of dawn, the retailers would go out to meet the peasant farmers, who would be coming into town in horse-and-wagons. These retailers were checking out what the farmers had brought with them, to see what they might be able to earn from it—perhaps they might actually be able to get a better deal before the farmers raised the prices of their produce as more potential buyers showed up—a strategy that rarely worked.
[Page 496]
The neighing of the horses and clatter of the iron wheels on the stone pavement; the tumult of throngs streaming into the shtetl on foot: all that noise and commotion made our shtetl seem more like a city besieged by foreign armies than a tranquil, peaceful little town. Gradually the market-day was getting under way. Suddenly our merchants and shopowners—who ordinarily would be sitting around, half asleep, in the sun in summer and next to their coal pots in winter—were transformed into truly masterful tradesmen. At first they would go from wagon to wagon to poke around and sniff things out—for there was no shortage of buyers, and each of them was trying to find a way to outbid the others in offering price. Haggling would begin in an undertone and quickly go up several decibels. If that didn't work, they used their last resort, the clap of a hand: the buyer would clap to signify a higher bid, and the seller would respond with a clap to indicate he was lowering his price. And so they would agree on a price, and the deal was sealed.
Once they were done selling their goods, the peasants would set off to the shops to buy whatever they needed: some shoes, a peasant coat, a kerchief as a gift for the wife, and other small items. And now the real war of competition would rage. Every shopkeeper was shouting, whining—dragging a customer over to his own stall—trying to demonstrate in any which way that his merchandise was better, nicer and stronger than that of his competitor. But this didn't pass so uneventfully, for these customers were responsible for more than a few losses before they made any purchase: despite the shopkeeper's careful scrutiny to make sure this non-Jew[2] did not swipe anything, and in spite of the watchful eyes of the entire household, all standing guard—a pair of shoes or something else quite often vanished into thin air.
They used to tell lots of stories, communicating in a mixture of Polish, Yiddish, and even Hebrew.
The peasants would end the market day in the taverns. There they would satisfy their hunger and thirst with liquor accompanied by a snack, from which the tavernkeepers made their living. And thus, half-drunk, the peasants would be singing as they left the shtetl. Now life was about to return to an even keel—tranquil and genteel.
[Page 497]
In the town there were also shopkeepers who derived their livelihoods exclusively from aristocrats, the landed gentry who lived nearby. But these were not ordinary shopkeepers who waited around all day for a customer. To most of them—like David Halpern, Hershl Dmitrewski, also Motke Kotik—customers came with a degree of courtesy; it was no small matter to do business with the aristocrats! With the aristocrats you didn't clap your hands the way the ordinary peasants and shopkeepers did. When the poritz [aristocrat] climbed down from his britchke [buggy], the shopkeeper would greet him with an affected smile. First the two of them would have some tea and a light bite together; and only when it came time for the actual sale did they go over to the merchandise. The shopkeeper's entire household would participate, presenting and extolling the merchandise, and just making small talk with the poritz—in either Russian or Polish, of course. And after the sale was completed, they would say their goodbyes most amiably. Perhaps surprisingly, however, none of these businessmen was wealthy. Their economic situation was no better that that of the ordinary shopkeepers—possibly even worse. They had a very limited number of customers, and most of the sales were on credit.
There were various kinds of merchants in the marketplace: small-time merchants, who might buy inexpensive items, such as a bit of pig's hair, some eggs, a rooster, or the like—nothing more valuable because of their limited ability to lay out enough money. But there were also real merchants who used to buy everything possible: cattle, grain, etc. It is worthwhile to mention several by name because of the unique traits each had. I remember them from my early youth in Mayer-Hirsch's Bays Medresh [Study Hall that served as a synagogue], where they were always attending prayer services after I returned from the Yeshiva of Krynki[3].
I can remember what a Sabbath prayer service in Mayer-Hirsch's Bays Medresh was like: The Bays-Medresh is packed, and the eastern wall[4] is occupied by the most prominent men. Aharon-Hirsch, a learned layman who owns a dry-goods store, is sitting there: his patriarchal, snow-white beard gives him a stately appearance. And there, standing in the corner near the Holy Ark, is Layzer-Moishe, who also owns a dry-goods store; he is the son-in-law of the previous rabbi. He is a great Judaic lay scholar who is actually also acquainted with secular knowledge. Sitting between them is old grey-haired Tzadik, known as “Anustn” [“A While Back”]. He got this nickname because he liked to tell all kinds of stories about events that had taken place in our shtetl, and he would always add that the event had taken place “a while back”. And when someone asked him: “Reb [Mr.] Tzadik, when did this particular event actually occur?” he would say: “Oh, around 50 or 60 years ago!…”
[Page 498]
And there is Aharon-Yosef the grain merchant, an agile man of medium height, who is always endeavoring to be the one who goes up to the omed [prayer-service lectern] to lead the prayers. His father, a quite elderly man in his late 90s, is sitting next to him. And before the prayer service can start, there begins what might be viewed as haggling over who is going to go up to the omed. Truthfully, each of them really wants to. But the one who is the most concerned is Aharon-Yosef the grain merchant—who is always afraid someone else may get there before him. For this reason, he is almost always the first to go up to the omed. He davens [leads the service] with heartfelt feeling in his own lovely and unique Sabbath melody. After the service ends, when everyone is wishing him a “Gut Shabbes” [Good Sabbath] as they congratulate him on how nicely he had davened, he beams with happiness. In addition, his elderly mother is taking great pleasure and pride in his performance, commenting “Certainly no small thing, such davenen!”
Who can recall them all? Yet each was an entire world of Torah and wisdom within himself.
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 499]
by Yakov Aronowicz (Buenos Aires)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Kamenetz-Litowsk, geographically located between Brisk-Litowsk and Pruzhany[2], was a Jewish town that was just like all the other Jewish towns. Its Jewish population was not very large—500 families in all—yet a full-blooded Jewish life flourished there in every way. There were 10 study houses[3], a Talmud Torah [religious school for older children], and a shtibl [small synagogue] for Ḥasidim. There Jews prayed and studied, strictly observing the beautiful religious life, until they perished in the Holocaust.
The Kamenetz Rabbi, Rabbi Reuven Burstein of blessed memory, was a great religious scholar—the scion of a rabbinical family—and also an intellectual[4]. And many of the large number of respectable middle-class Jews of the town were very religiously learned.
Kamenetz had an illustrious synagogue, hundreds of years old, containing a Holy Ark [where Torahs are kept] that was considered an artistic marvel: people would come from far and wide to visit the synagogue and view its ark. But the synagogue burned down during the great Kamenetz fire that took place during the First World War[5]. Afterwards on the site of this synagogue they built the Talmud Torah, where many children studied, including children who did not live in the town. And Kamenetz Jews, none of them wealthy, would provide meals for these nonresident children.
For the most part the Jews of Kamenetz made their living selling merchandise from shops; very few of the Jews were craftsmen, and only a small number of them were laborers. Nevertheless, they managed to support the famous yeshivo ketano[6], headed by the very learned Rabbi Shlomo Chayim. A special building was erected for this yeshiva, funded by Kamenetz and American Jews.
There were many intellectuals, teachers and writers in Kamenetz. There were political parties of all persuasions, the majority being Pioneer Zionist.
50 years ago Kamenetz already possessed a Jewish library with a robust membership as well as ordinary readers. Most of the books were in Hebrew, and some in Russian.
Translator's Footnotes
[Pages 500-501]
By Yosef Post (New York)
Translated by Allen Flusberg
Although I've never been there, I have “gotten to know” the shtetl [little town] of Kamenetz—and not only just recently. For nearly forty years I have been seeing the shtetl through the eyes of my wife Chana (Chana Kuptchik), daughter of Faygl and Herschl, who had lived in their beloved town, the place where they had been born. More than once it has seemed to me that I am strolling through the streets of Kamenetz with my wife and her family; not only do I see the Slup [ancient medieval tower]—I see the row of shops, I see their grandfather's windmill in Zastavya; and in addition I feel I know a large number of the residents, practically by name.
I see the synagogue in all its glory and splendor: its extraordinarily beautiful Holy Ark, with its crafted woodwork, and the two lions, looking very much alive, standing guard over the descending stairs. This synagogue was comparable with the most beautiful temples of the world.
Such a love for a native shtetl does not fall under the framework of ordinary nostalgia: it is a portion of one's life that accompanies a person all the way into very old age and perhaps beyond, to all eternity.
Only recently did I become acquainted with friends from the Kamenetz-Litowsk Book Committee, with whom I became quite close.
From our forty years of “roaming” around Kamenetz, we could report hundreds of episodes about the shtetl; but one episode, which my wife never tires of telling about, occurred in the aftermath of the fire, during the First World War, when about seventy-five houses burned down, and dozens of families were forced to move in with others in the remaining houses. Together with several other families, my wife's family moved into Shidlowski's house. When it got too crowded there, they, together with Rachtche Sofer and her family moved into a loft on Brisk Street, over Rochel Geier's tavern. The old rebbetzin [rabbi's wife][2] and her three children, Pinye, Shoulke and Chayene, had already been living there beforehand. The apartment, consisting of two rooms and a kitchen, was now housing eleven people, yet they lived there together as nicely as if they had been a single family. They were under the supervision of one mother—the very clever and warm woman, Rebbetzin Rabinowitch. To this very day I still hear about her little aphorisms that gushed with down-to-earth wisdom.
I can still also hear the singing from back then, resounding outside during the Sabbaths of summer, as the streets filled with strolling young people—a sound that will never be heard again.
Translator's Footnotes
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