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The Kidush Hashem [martyrdom] of Rabbi Reb Yitshak Meyer Solovani

Reb [respectful form of address] Yitshak Meyer was both a prodigy of Jewish learning and an ardent Zionist in his deeds. His home was always filled with young people. He loved to engage them in discussions that always ended with the conclusion that the only option was to make aliyah to Eretz Yisroel.

He kept a diary and would stay up late into the night writing in it, by lamplight, all of the day's events.

He had a wife and children (two sons and two daughters), but they gave him no joy. The children didn't want to study in yeshiva and although that caused him great heartache, he never tried to force them to do so against their will.

He had a fearful nature and was especially afraid of the police and of weapons. Once, on a freezing cold day in the winter of 1929, we were travelling by train to Warsaw. At one of the stations, several Christians who were returning from hunting entered the train armed with rifles. Reb Itshe [familiar form of Yitshak] Meyer immediately disappeared and we searched for him for more than an hour before we found him, half–frozen, at the door to the train car, ready to jump out.

In August 1939, several of us, leaders of the Jewish community, were sitting and talking about the political situation. Reb Yitshak Meyer said that he was certain that there would be a war, and showed us a passage in a certain book that demonstrated that war was inevitable and that it would not be good for the Jews. “We must flee!” he exclaimed.

“So why are you still sitting here?” someone asked.

“I don't want to be the first,” he answered.

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Before the war broke out he and his entire family moved to Otvosk, because his son–in–law came from there. When the Germans arrived in Otvosk, someone shot at them. The Germans rounded up all the Jews and announced that if the Jew who had shot at them did not confess, they would burn all the Jews. Reb Yitshak Meyer stepped forward and said that he was the shooter. The Germans tied him to a horse and dragged him along the ground until he died.

Moyshe Tsvirkowski was the only Jew in the area who was the leaseholder of an agricultural estate.^[1] Every Saturday his courtyard served as a meeting place for young people who played sports there. He was a theater lover and provided much support for the town's drama circle.

Although he himself was a sympathizer of the Bund he agreed to allow the young people of Agudat Israel establish a hakhshore [Zionist training farm] on his estate, where they could prepare themselves for emigration to Israel.^[2]

Moyshe Tsvirkowski survived the war and died in Warsaw in 1961.

He was the shofar blower for the town. He knew a lot of trades but couldn't manage to make a living. (His business was bringing goods from Warsaw). But he was a good humored man, always cheerful.

The Sher family considered itself to be a fine, respectable family. All of the children were very able, but regrettably, no one from the family survived [the war].

He was a poor shopkeeper and barely provided for his wife and three children. Still, he was a great lover of the theater, especially the plays of [Avram] Goldfaden. He also played the violin for 30 years. He wasn't a professional violinist, but he taught others to play.

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Once, they produced the play, “The Wild Man” [by Jacob Gordin]and the leading role was played by a young man from a neighboring town. When this young man fell ill, Yosef decided to take his place. His wife, who always complained that Yosef was always occupied with nonsense instead of providing for his family, created such a scene during the show that they had to discontinue the performance. On the Saturday night of the second week of performances, they brought in a “wild man” from Krasnoshets and carried on with the show.

FIshl was a very poor man, even though he made furniture for the rich. He always said that he was unable to make plain things: “If you want plain furniture go to Leyzer, because my work is special.”

When his wife would demand money to prepare for the Sabbath, he would tell her that he was owed money and would go to collect it. His wife would say that she would go to collect the debts, but he wouldn't let her do that. Once, when she insisted on going to collect money owed by the notary, Fishl yelled at her: “You don't even know how to speak to me, how will you speak to the notary?”

In 1924, it was rumored in the town that they were signing up craftsmen to go to Eretz Yisroel. Fishl decided to go and went to the Tarbut [Hebrew language school] library where the registration was taking place to fill out the necessary papers.

“What's your name?” they asked him.

“Pincus,” he replied.

“Your name is Fishl,” they told him.

“So why do you ask?”

“What's your occupation?” “Merchant.”

“But you're a carpenter,” they said.

“So why do you ask?”

And so the conversation continued, but when it came time to sign the papers, FIshl declared he would not do so.

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“Maybe you don't know how to write,” someone called out.

“So why do you ask?” he replied.

Fishl didn't go to Eretz Yisroel. “There won't be place in Palestine for both of us”, he said.

Translator's Footnotes

1. Jews were generally not permitted to own agricultural estates, but could hold the lease to an estate owned by another. The lease entitled the holder to administer all the business of an estate and could yield a good income. Return
2. The Bund was a socialist organization that was opposed to Zionism and to religion. Agudat Israel was an orthodox religious organization that initially was opposed to Zionism but later participated in Zionist programs. Here, the willingness of the Bundist sympathizer Moyshe Tsvirkowski to aid the Agudath youth's Zionist program evinces tolerance and generosity. Return

Our townsman Chaim–Dovid Kazshitski wrote the first of these poems in Chorzele in 1933, when Hitler came to power in Germany and anti–Semitism increased among the Polish population. Aron Koval preserved the poem in his memory, and provided it for publication in this book in Haifa in 1965. At the same time, the author sent us the second poem, which he wrote in Wroclaw, Poland in 1952.

––The Editor

When I was a child they sent me to kheder [religious school for young children]. My mother knitted me a sack to hold my prayer shawl. I studied Chumush and Rashi [first five books of the Bible with commentary] and never thought to question God. The crowded classroom did not oppress me. I remember how the teacher would whip me for using dirty words but I still loved him, despite his hot temper.

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I loved that angry man, my teacher Reb Leyzer; he was dear to me, my teacher, Reb Leyzer. He had a Jewish heart, full of feeling. He told us little boys beautiful stories, stories of our people and of God's wonders and wove a web of lovely dreams around us. Then life suddenly changed, In technology, in culture. The child stopped weaving dreams, already mature at the age of seven. The public school soon taught him to hate; the children were divided by race. There's nothing to eat at home, so Reb Yankl goes to the fair, to sell his wares. But, for God' sake, what can he do, with his Jewish nose, his side locks and his beard. Waiting for him are pickets, armed with clubs and sticks. Her youngest child just three months old, Mother pleads with God, God the merciful, to bring Father back unharmed. But the devil impudently laughs at the pious, naïve woman. Robbed of what little he had, Yankl's left with only his prayer shawl. Blood drips from his brow.

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Tell us, dear God, what will happen now. We will never give in. We will never betray you. A star shines in the East, There you can hear the call of the pioneers, a call that thunders. There the courageous pioneers plow the bloodied fields. There they make their bodies strong. They help to redeem the earth there. We will show the world a wonder there. Don't look to politics, turn your gaze to Zion. “Our hope is not yet lost.”[1]

I want a home, I long for one. The wide world has no place for me. I long for my small, sweet land, there, where a lonely wall stands. I no longer need what I have here, Where there remain only tears. We've given the world enough; six million of us have disappeared. Here there's no one left to find. Everyone considers you a coward; even when you fight like a lion, no one sees that, no one believes…

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I want a home, the time has come. My brother has prepared one for me. He fought for it, he gave his blood, he did not lack for courage. I want a house, one that we build there. My place now is in the Negev. I want a home there, where my happiness lies, I won't return to a life in exile.

The Kazhitse Family

The departure of Hadassah Alter for the hakhshore [Zionist training farm]

A group of young people at the departure of Sore Aykhboym (first on right) for Erets Yisroel (1933)

Dine and Sholem Fater		Leye Fater

Hebrew classes at the Tarbut [Hebrew language] School (1936)

1. This quotation is a line from the song Hatikvah. Return

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