After dashing about the market and the long commercial streets in search of a livelihood, one returned to the back streets.

The area bordering the market, Warsaw and Plock Streets, was the center of the batei midrash (houses of study), synagogues, shtibbles (small Hassidic houses of prayer), heders, the "Talmud Torah" and the Mikveh. All the Jewish institutions, one after the other, were concentrated in the back alleys.

It was here that a Jew came to pray, to study a page of Gemara, a chapter of Mishnah (collection of the Oral Law which is the basis of the Talmud), Ein Ya'akov (collection of legends and homilies from the Talmud, by Rabbi Ya'akov), to hear a maggid (popular preacher, generally itinerant) pour his heart out and express the anguish of his soul in a chapter of Psalms.

Here every individual became a part of the whole. A businessman or a craftsman can work alone or in partnership. But in order to pray, study, and read Psalms, it is better and more advantageous to do so together with other Jews.

From their stores and workshops in the market place, the men came here to find warmth, to draw comfort, to seek solace, and to be together.

On Synagogue Street stood the stone synagogue. Its outer walls were painted red and dark blue, the high wooden doors, brown. The roof rested on gray-white columns. The sun's rays, in all colors of the rainbow, poured in through the stained-glass windows. Birds, animals, and angels, drawn by a naive hand, looked down from the high ceiling as though through a blue mist. Stairs led to the interior of the synagogue, its floor lower than the level of the street.

During the week, except for Jewish or Christian national holidays, no one came to pray. On those special days, Jews assembled here to listen to the sermon delivered by the Rabbi, usually in the presence of government representatives. The cantor Haim-Haikel would sing "Mi Sheberech" and the boys, the anthem for the well being of the Kingdom.

In the years following World War I, the doors of the synagogue would open in honor of known Zionist activists and Jewish representatives in the Sejm (Polish parliament), the anniversary of Herzl's death, and on the first night of Hanukah. People prayed regularly only on Sabbaths and festival days. On such days, in addition to the regular worshippers, Hassidim and Mitnagdim appeared I equal numbers to delight in the singing of Haim-Haikel, the cantor. The synagogue and Synagogue Lane were then full of Jewish men and women dressed in their holiday best.

Some Sabbaths were distinguished for a special, festive joy. On such occasions, a bar-mitzvah boy would be called to the Torah for the first time, a groom would be called up to read on the Sabbath before the wedding, a young bride would be brought to the synagogue on the first Sabbath after her wedding day.

On such Saturdays all the celebrants-members of the family, in-laws, neighbors and friends, came to the synagogue as though to include the entire city in the festivity.

Not only on happy occasions did people come to the synagogue. A Jew's last journey also passed here.

The batei midrash stood like in-laws opposite one another. During the day, the warm, old besmedresh was full of maggidim and darshanim (homiletical interpreters of the Torah), and worshippers reciting Psalms. During the night men sat and studied the Torah. Before sunrise, the craftsmen started the day there by reciting the morning prayer. Then the minyans prayed, one after the other, until the late morning hours.

Young men sat around long tables, open books of Gemara in their hands, immersed in religious study.

Guests and beggars warmed up next to the stove and settled down to sleep.

In front of the entrance, the Hungarian book peddler, "Frozen Tooth," spread out his wares on tables and benches. Twice a year, this jolly Jew came with bundles of siddurim (daily prayer-book), mahzorim (festival prayer-book), tallitim (prayer shawls worn by male Jews during prayers), tallitim katanim (ritual fringed undergarment worn by orthodox male Jews), phylacteries, and mezuzot (portions of the Pentateuch, encased in a small box and attached to the doorpost of a Jewish home). He was always full of stories, jokes, and gossip accumulated on his journeys throughout Poland.

All day long people were to be found in the old besmedresh. In the daytime boys were taught Bible by the local Rabbi who was from Wolka. In the afternoons and toward evening, craftsmen and simple Jews who themselves did not know how to read, sat there and listened to lessons given by the dayan (judge), Haim-Shmayah. Between Minha (afternoon prayers) and Ma'ariv (evening prayers), itinerant maggidim delivered sermons. After Ma'ariv, when the besmedresh emptied, young men came to study the whole night long.

The besmedresh was surrounded by a large yard. When it was too crowded inside or too hot, people prayed in the yard.

No one willingly looked into a fenced-off corner some where near the entrance. This was where the tahara (purification) was performed and where the black hearse stood.

On the other side of the synagogue was the cold Zionist besmedresh. Here prayers were said only three times a day. Here study of the Torah did not have the same flavor as in the old and warm besmedresh.

The Mlawa Yeshiva (Talmudical academy) had once been housed here.

The Hassidim presented a different picture. In their house of prayer, they prayed, studied, and discussed various matters. There one could ask the advice of Reb Tuvia and Reb Itchkeh, bare one's soul, and receive help and comfort. Before prayers, Avrum, the lachrymose, red-eyed synagogue attendant, put up water for tea. Little Ovadia sold egg biscuits, honey cakes, herring, and wine.

On memorial days for the dead, prayers would be followed by wine and honey cake and mutual wishes of long life. When Saturday drew to a close, at the third Sabbath meal ("Shaleh-Siddes"), the men sat together in the synagogue at a meager table of challah and herring. The sad melodies, full of deep longing and devotion, were breath taking. Soft shadows blurred the barriers between one person and the next. All those gathered around the table became one entity, dissociated from the entire world and freed of all material concerns. Here in the shtibbl they found refuge and shelter from their homes. At the table, that looked like an ancient altar, they poured out their hearts, full of sorrow and longing for the departing Sabbath from which they did not want to part. Outside it was already pitch dark, the city was immersed in secularity. The Hassidim began the Havdalah. Only after the Havdalah did they start to prepare for Melaveh Malka.

For the Hassid, the shtibbl, the small house of prayer, was home.

There were many Hassidic houses of prayer in town - the Ciechanowite, the Neisztut, the Radzyminite, the Strykowite, and the Novominskovite. The Gur Hassidim and the Alexandrower Hassidim had large houses of prayer. These two Hassidic groups were as hostile to one another as water and fire. The Gur shtibbl was on Mikveh Square and later, moved near to Shoemakers Street; the Alexandrower shtibbl was in a small alley parallel to Synagogue Street. In both these houses of prayer one could worship whenever one desired. Hassidim, young and old, addressed one another with the familiar "you" (you-singular). There was no ezrat nashim (women's section in the synagogue). There was a strong feeling of male comradeship in all the Hassidic houses of prayer. The rehabilitation of a faltering Hassid was not unusual.

The Alexandrower house of prayer was in a huge building that was divided into two parts. The doors were always wide open. At the entrance there was a large barrel to which a copper water-jug was attached by a chain. The Hassidim made little use of it. They just dipped their hands in the barrel and sprinkled the water on the entrance wall.

Moshe Sofer lived right next to the Alexandrower house of prayer. The sanctity of writing volumes of Torah, tefillin and mezuzot, was reflected in his face. Even on weekdays he wore a silk caftan and a felt hat. Several times a day he underwent tevilah (ritual immersion). Nights he recited "tikun hatzot" (midnight prayers for the restoration of the Temple). His home was always full of poor guests.

In the Gur house of prayer more studying was done. Every day, between prayers, the congregation was taught either by the dayan Haim-Shmayah or by Mendel Wolf Koppeh. The Gur Hassidim Podgrayerver and Pinhas Mondri were forceful in their public activity, Shayah Mondri was haughty.

The Gur Hassidim were very zealous and far more militant than the Alexandrower Hassidim. The city well remembered the great dispute that went on for many years over the reception afforded some visiting Rabbi. In later years, the Gur Hassidim stormed the building in which the Hebrew gymnasium was housed and made it into a "Talmud Torah." The Gur Hassidim went en masse to capture the building, ready to sacrifice their lives, if necessary. Their aim was to take over all the public institutions and to rule them with an iron hand.

For a certain time, a Rabbi lived within the city itself. The craftsmen, especially Issar the Shoemaker, basked in his warmth. The artisans' Rabbi, who some years later became famous throughout the Diaspora and was known as Shapira, the Rabbi of Plock, was not held in great regard by the community.

In the first years of Poland's emancipation, a military court pronounced a sentence of death on this blameless and innocent artisan Rabbi for allegedly spying for the Red Army.

This legal murder shocked Jews all over the world. Only the condemned man remained calm as wrapped in his tallith he went to his death. His last words were, "I am prepared to be a scapegoat for the good of the Jewish people."

At the center of the back streets there was an uninhabited expanse that stretched from Church Lane to the stream and then continued until the tar pit. Bordering on alleys of crowded houses with tightly packed, poor inhabitants, the large, empty plot seemed far more neglected and abandoned that it really was. There was an alien and sorrowful air about it. Lonely, with no father and no mother, the area sprawled in the middle of town, the Public Square. This large plot was known to the Jews as Mikveh Square. It belonged to no one and yet, at the same time, to the entire population of the city.

In the direction of Shoemakers Alley, a low, broken awning jutted into the landscape. It covered the entrance to a deep and murky cave. It was here that Simha Nitzkin kept ice for the Jews to use on summer Sabbaths and also for medicinal purposes.

A short distance away from the center of the square stood a small, lonely, white building. For some time it housed the town's "Talmud Torah." After that, it served as a shtibbl, for the Gur Hassidim. Further on, close to the stream, a red brick building with a tall chimney suddenly came to view. This was the new Mikveh building. Before then, the old Mikveh, a broken down wooden building overgrown by mildew and moss, had stood in this spot. The city was proud of the new Mikveh in the stone house. Inside, the floors, walls, reservoirs and bathtubs, were all covered with porcelain tiles. This transformed the formerly filthy Mikveh into a modern and hygienic bathhouse. The now Mikveh had one fault, however: water was in short supply. On festival and Sabbath eves, all the efforts of Shmuel Hirschel to get water, were of no avail. It was just then that the water ran out as though all the sources had suddenly dried up. It often happened that more than one respectable citizen stood naked waiting for some water.

On the side of the Mikveh stood the shohatim with small, flashing knives in their hands. They ritually severed the windpipes of chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys. During the week they slaughtered dozens of fowl, on Sabbath and festival eves, hundreds. The place was full of blood, feathers, and screeching women, shoving one another. Their voices blended with the whispered blessings of the shohatim and the final croak of the chickens as, with one final flap of their wings, they were silenced forever.

"Rissoles of duck, chicken, goose and noodles," Hazkel the Tailor shouted in rage. "The place is a gold mine. Where else in the whole wide world does one work so little and eat so much? Where else do people have an entire month of holidays?"

Not far from the small abattoir, next to the Mikveh, lived Tova Koshes with her husband Mendel the Beggar, and her healthy, half-crazy daughter known as Beilah Tova Koshes. The nickname Koshes originated in the two straw baskets (kosze) that Tova carried in her strong arms as she walked through the streets. Sometimes they were full of chickens, sometimes, baked goods. From underneath her kerchief two wisps of blond hair streaked with gray straggled down her wide face that was furrowed with fatigue and yellow as wax. The cold sparks that flew from her restless eyes like daggers, stabbed and pierced the housewives, her providers, to the core. She wished on them but a part of her troubles, that too would do. Then, as though this was not enough, she would open wide her dry and toothless mouth. It seemed as though the witch herself in the form of Tova Koshes had suddenly appeared.

Sometimes it would occur to Beile Tova Koshes to strip bare. Naked as Eve, she would begin to run around the Mikveh. The father, Menahem Mendel the Beggar, suddenly tired of it all, cut his throat without benefit of a blessing or of a ritual knife, just a plain kitchen knife.

Tova Koshes and the members of her family were the only residents of that large, uninhabited neglected, Mikveh Square.

The mikveh building housed the "Bikur Holim" and "Linat Zedek" institutions. Mendel Wishinski and Archeh Oveds (Sherpski) competed for control of the institutions. Mendel Wishinski, although unappointed, busied himself in community affairs. He was so destined from birth. He moved at a rapid pace, spurred by the injustices inflicted on the townsfolk, his own troubles and those of others, and the immeasurable human misery all around him. He heard and saw all and knew everything. No secret in town escaped him; he was everywhere, like a wild flower that shoots up at will. In all public and private affairs he had to have his say, even if no one asked his opinion. His tongue was like a sharp sword. Mendel was belligerent for the benefit of others. He stood his ground and flinched before no one. He acted as though all the town institutions, nay, the entire city, were his personal property. People wondered how his thin body had the strength and energy to bear the burden of all the miseries and injustices of his people.

He used to pound on the synagogue table in the Hassidim's shtibble and wouldn't let them pray until they relented and agreed to compensate an injured party. Sometimes he interrupted a play or meeting at its height, all this, on behalf of others. People just had to give in to his demands. He was quite capable of standing in the middle of the market place and quarreling with one of the Jewish bosses, or picking a fight with a group of Jews because of some injustice.

Mendel Wishinski, known as Mendel Bashke's, was the most recognized and also the most restless person in town. He was a bundle of dry bones covered with yellow, wrinkled skin. Just blow in his direction and he would disappear. Even when he was silent, his mouth frothed as if to show that a fire smoldered within him. His green eyes threw off sparks of fire, causing one and all to keep their distance. People were afraid to start up with him. To them, he was the town "shaygetz" (scamp. They knew that in any dispute they would wind up the losers.

The old timers regarded Mendel as the community mascot, allowed to do anything he fancied. Everybody knew that he had a warm Jewish heart, was far from wealthy and was burdened with many mouths to feed. They were well aware that all he did was not for personal glory nor for his own benefit but for the public good.

The city relied upon Mendel, he was the only newspaper agent in town. Many Jews subscribed to the paper and received it directly by mail rather than have to deal with him.

Not all of Mendel's doings seemed proper to the well established householders. Mendel, a traditional, bearded Jew, would suddenly turn into a city policeman or else put on a brass helmet with a visor in front and back, and a short, gray belted jacket, like all the goyim, and join the Fire Brigade. He was the first Jew to become a fireman. The goyim made a ceremony in his honor and presented him with a medal for twenty five years of service. A few other Jews also volunteered for the Fire Brigade but they served only for a short time.

We might add that Mendel as the official of The People's Bank, did "favors" for poor members who had to pay a debt or promissory note, these kindnesses often meant a headache for the Board. Even this would not bring to an end the list of his good deeds. Before Jewish community elections or those to the City Council, Mendel would have his say at all the meetings of the various political parties. He always called upon the Jews to unite.

Mendel founded the first library in town. Illegal meetings and theatrical rehearsals were held in his reading room.

Suddenly Mendel Bashke's lost control over one of his institutions, "Bikur Holim," which provided medical expenses and aid for those in need. This passed over to Archeh Oveds, a new star who had become active in the public life of Mlawa. In time he became a great mayvin (expert) in diseases. But Mendel did not readily give in: instead of one association, he founded two new ones, "Ezrat Holim" and "Bet Lehem." Every Friday, the Jewish housewives sent Mendel Sabbath loaves, fish and meat. Mendel and his sons would than distribute this Sabbath food among poor, respectable families.

The last battle for the public's welfare was perpetuated in detail in the pages of "The Mlawa Times." The two indefatigable public servants are since long gone. No one knows where their bones lie, just as no one knows where lie the bones of all those Jews whom Archeh Oved's "Bikur Holim" and Mendel Wishinkski's "Ezrat Holim" tended with such devotion.

At the center of the back streets there was an uninhabited expanse that stretched from Church Lane to the stream and then continued until the tar pit. Bordering on alleys of crowded houses with tightly packed, poor inhabitants, the large, empty plot seemed far more neglected and abandoned that it really was. There was an alien and sorrowful air about it. Lonely, with no father and no mother, the area sprawled in the middle of town, the Public Square. This large plot was known to the Jews as Mikveh Square. It belonged to no one and yet, at the same time, to the entire population of the city.

In the direction of Shoemakers Alley, a low, broken awning jutted into the landscape. It covered the entrance to a deep and murky cave. It was here that Simha Nitzkin kept ice for the Jews to use on summer Sabbaths and also for medicinal purposes.

A short distance away from the center of the square stood a small, lonely, white building. For some time it housed the town's "Talmud Torah." After that, it served as a shtibbl, for the Gur Hassidim. Further on, close to the stream, a red brick building with a tall chimney suddenly came to view. This was the new Mikveh building. Before then, the old Mikveh, a broken down wooden building overgrown by mildew and moss, had stood in this spot. The city was proud of the new Mikveh in the stone house. Inside, the floors, walls, reservoirs and bathtubs, were all covered with porcelain tiles. This transformed the formerly filthy Mikveh into a modern and hygienic bathhouse. The now Mikveh had one fault, however: water was in short supply. On festival and Sabbath eves, all the efforts of Shmuel Hirschel to get water, were of no avail. It was just then that the water ran out as though all the sources had suddenly dried up. It often happened that more than one respectable citizen stood naked waiting for some water.

On the side of the Mikveh stood the shohatim with small, flashing knives in their hands. They ritually severed the windpipes of chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys. During the week they slaughtered dozens of fowl, on Sabbath and festival eves, hundreds. The place was full of blood, feathers, and screeching women, shoving one another. Their voices blended with the whispered blessings of the shohatim and the final croak of the chickens as, with one final flap of their wings, they were silenced forever.

"Rissoles of duck, chicken, goose and noodles," Hazkel the Tailor shouted in rage. "The place is a gold mine. Where else in the whole wide world does one work so little and eat so much? Where else do people have an entire month of holidays?"

Not far from the small abattoir, next to the Mikveh, lived Tova Koshes with her husband Mendel the Beggar, and her healthy, half-crazy daughter known as Beilah Tova Koshes. The nickname Koshes originated in the two straw baskets (kosze) that Tova carried in her strong arms as she walked through the streets. Sometimes they were full of chickens, sometimes, baked goods. From underneath her kerchief two wisps of blond hair streaked with gray straggled down her wide face that was furrowed with fatigue and yellow as wax. The cold sparks that flew from her restless eyes like daggers, stabbed and pierced the housewives, her providers, to the core. She wished on them but a part of her troubles, that too would do. Then, as though this was not enough, she would open wide her dry and toothless mouth. It seemed as though the witch herself in the form of Tova Koshes had suddenly appeared.

Sometimes it would occur to Beile Tova Koshes to strip bare. Naked as Eve, she would begin to run around the Mikveh. The father, Menahem Mendel the Beggar, suddenly tired of it all, cut his throat without benefit of a blessing or of a ritual knife, just a plain kitchen knife.

Tova Koshes and the members of her family were the only residents of that large, uninhabited neglected, Mikveh Square.

The mikveh building housed the "Bikur Holim" and "Linat Zedek" institutions. Mendel Wishinski and Archeh Oveds (Sherpski) competed for control of the institutions. Mendel Wishinski, although unappointed, busied himself in community affairs. He was so destined from birth. He moved at a rapid pace, spurred by the injustices inflicted on the townsfolk, his own troubles and those of others, and the immeasurable human misery all around him. He heard and saw all and knew everything. No secret in town escaped him; he was everywhere, like a wild flower that shoots up at will. In all public and private affairs he had to have his say, even if no one asked his opinion. His tongue was like a sharp sword. Mendel was belligerent for the benefit of others. He stood his ground and flinched before no one. He acted as though all the town institutions, nay, the entire city, were his personal property. People wondered how his thin body had the strength and energy to bear the burden of all the miseries and injustices of his people.

He used to pound on the synagogue table in the Hassidim's shtibble and wouldn't let them pray until they relented and agreed to compensate an injured party. Sometimes he interrupted a play or meeting at its height, all this, on behalf of others. People just had to give in to his demands. He was quite capable of standing in the middle of the market place and quarreling with one of the Jewish bosses, or picking a fight with a group of Jews because of some injustice.

Mendel Wishinski, known as Mendel Bashke's, was the most recognized and also the most restless person in town. He was a bundle of dry bones covered with yellow, wrinkled skin. Just blow in his direction and he would disappear. Even when he was silent, his mouth frothed as if to show that a fire smoldered within him. His green eyes threw off sparks of fire, causing one and all to keep their distance. People were afraid to start up with him. To them, he was the town "shaygetz" (scamp. They knew that in any dispute they would wind up the losers.

The old timers regarded Mendel as the community mascot, allowed to do anything he fancied. Everybody knew that he had a warm Jewish heart, was far from wealthy and was burdened with many mouths to feed. They were well aware that all he did was not for personal glory nor for his own benefit but for the public good.

The city relied upon Mendel, he was the only newspaper agent in town. Many Jews subscribed to the paper and received it directly by mail rather than have to deal with him.

Not all of Mendel's doings seemed proper to the well established householders. Mendel, a traditional, bearded Jew, would suddenly turn into a city policeman or else put on a brass helmet with a visor in front and back, and a short, gray belted jacket, like all the goyim, and join the Fire Brigade. He was the first Jew to become a fireman. The goyim made a ceremony in his honor and presented him with a medal for twenty five years of service. A few other Jews also volunteered for the Fire Brigade but they served only for a short time.

We might add that Mendel as the official of The People's Bank, did "favors" for poor members who had to pay a debt or promissory note, these kindnesses often meant a headache for the Board. Even this would not bring to an end the list of his good deeds. Before Jewish community elections or those to the City Council, Mendel would have his say at all the meetings of the various political parties. He always called upon the Jews to unite.

Mendel founded the first library in town. Illegal meetings and theatrical rehearsals were held in his reading room.

Suddenly Mendel Bashke's lost control over one of his institutions, "Bikur Holim," which provided medical expenses and aid for those in need. This passed over to Archeh Oveds, a new star who had become active in the public life of Mlawa. In time he became a great mayvin (expert) in diseases. But Mendel did not readily give in: instead of one association, he founded two new ones, "Ezrat Holim" and "Bet Lehem." Every Friday, the Jewish housewives sent Mendel Sabbath loaves, fish and meat. Mendel and his sons would than distribute this Sabbath food among poor, respectable families.

The last battle for the public's welfare was perpetuated in detail in the pages of "The Mlawa Times." The two indefatigable public servants are since long gone. No one knows where their bones lie, just as no one knows where lie the bones of all those Jews whom Archeh Oved's "Bikur Holim" and Mendel Wishinkski's "Ezrat Holim" tended with such devotion.

Adjacent to the street through which Jews from all over town streamed to the synagogue, the batei midrash, the Hassidic houses of prayer and the mikveh, and the boys to the heders, was the beginning of Potters Street. It started at Shimshon Tachna's house with the old wooden granary and continued past old wooden huts, empty fields, and the German Church of Plock Street. It was a plain, secular street with a single red-brick building that seemed to dwarf the old wooden huts besides it.

Later, during that bitter summer, Jewish blood flowed through the empty fields. Fifty men, hanging from scaffolds, jutted out into space.

When the city was still small, Potters Stream near the stream, "rzeka," made its living from leather. The top of the street was inhabited by the Mitnagdim. Here the Mitnagdim tanners lived and worked: Shimon Tachna, Nahman Figot, Kozebrodski, and Gerstowski. The bottom of the street, next to the German Church, was strictly Hassidic. There the Hassidic tanners lived and worked: Eliyahu Shaft, Yankel Nachtstern, Yossel Citrin, and Green Mendel (Kosobudski) the Practical Joker. This was on the right side of the Mikveh. To the left, next to the stream, were the big tanneries of Haim Leizer Narzemski. All the tanners, Hassidim and Mitnagdim alike, made a living from this trade.

During the week and on Saturdays and festival days, the Hassidic tanners, dressed in caftans of satin or silk and wearing velvet hats, worshipped in their houses of prayer. The Mitnagdim tanners, some at break of day and others at the second minyan, prayed at the old or new besmedresh wearing small cloth hats and dressed in ungirdled black gabardines.

Rows of deep, wooden barrels stood in long courtyards. Before tanning, the hides were immersed for weeks in deep pits containing lime and chemicals. Acrid odors irritated the throat, piercing eyes and nose.

Thick-bearded Jews and their teenage sons, wearing dirty leather aprons, stood here every day. They stirred the hides in the barrels with long poles, removed the hair from the hides with sharp scrapers, or worked in shacks finishing the leather skins. Only seldom did one see a tanner in town. Should you chance upon one, his small, dirty apron, and his greasy, shiny face and stained, brown fingernails betrayed his trade.

In Mlawa, the tanners' trade was completely in the hands of the Jews. They were attached to this profession and it was held in respect. No other occupation was so traditionally passed on from father to son. The attitude of the townsfolk to the tanners was different than that to the other craftsmen. The tanners were regarded as equals. Marriage to a tanner was not considered in the same category as that to any other artisan. Daughters of many Hassidic families were married to the sons of tanners.

The Hassidic tanners were quiet and modest people. They were neither to be seen nor heard in town. For days on end, they immersed themselves in their hard work. In the evenings and during their free time, they occupied themselves with the Torah.

Entirely different were the tanners at the other end of the street, the Mitnagdim. They certainly did make their presence evident. They were strong and nimble with a healthy lustfulness and zest for life. Aphorisms and witticisms blended in with long hours of standing at work. Conversations and encounters with other people and the burdens of this world did not weigh them down nor cause grief and sorrow - not Nahman Figot or Kozebrodski, and certainly not Shimshon Tachna. When one closely examined Nahman Figot's face, shining from the oil of the hides, one saw not the mischievous laughter of a rebel but a jeering smile acquired through life experience and common sense.

Figot's courtyard took up half of Potters Street. It had many inhabitants. Was there anyone who didn't live there? We might mention the wagoners Zalel and Fishel Dugo, the old rag-picker Abram and his sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the tanner Kozebrodski, shoemakers and tailors - an entire kingdom of craftsmen and simple Jews.

Next to this kingdom was another, a totally different one: Petrikuzer's steam mill that depended on the stream. This same Petrikuzer, or, according to his Jewish name, Moshe Hirsh Greenberg, was a Lithuanian. He was a stubborn man, greatly learned in the Torah. His wisdom and noble appearance aroused respect. He lived in close proximity to his friend, Reb Hersch Tuvia, and the two scholars always wrangled with one another. They always strove to best one other in rare and specific questions pertaining to the Torah and to Judaism. The two neighbors were firm opponents in complicated matters of arbitration in the town and its surroundings. If one of the litigants appealed to Hersch Tuvia then naturally, his opponent was forced to turn to Petrikuzer. Both Jews considered themselves very wise and treated one another with respect.

This same Petrikuzer was an extreme Mitnaged. He understood matters through the sharpness of his wit. His friend, Hersch Tuvia, acted according to his feelings and his deeply engrained Hassidim that warmed the chill of a cold brain. Quite often the two neighbors sat together in Nahman Figot's yard, drank tea, smoked cigars, and delved into the secrets and purposes of life on earth, Jews, and Judaism. Petrikuzer's yard was part of Nahman Figot's yard, the spiritual part.

At the entrance and also well inside Figot's yard, there lived the rag-pickers with their wives, children, horses and carts. When the farmers' field work ended, the peddling season began. The old rag-picker Avrum Hersch, and his sons, Shmuel, Meyer Nusen, Michael and Yerahmiel, as well as his sons-in-law, Aron, Menashe and Elia, each set out on a different road with wagons laden with all sorts of goods. They carried chinaware, plates with floral designs, pots, glass beads of various colors, decorative pins made of tin resembling gold, buttons, needles, thread, safety pins, and many other items. These would cause farmers and their wives eagerly to search every nook and cranny of their homes for scraps of iron, rags, bones, copper, and brass. Trade with the village was based on barter. The rag-pickers paid with the pretty items they brought with them from town.

For many years the shacks in Nahman Figot's yard were full of old rags, iron and other metals, and bones. Women and children with red, pusy eyes, skin covered with boils and with swollen bellies, ran back and forth rummaging through these piles and sorting them out.

Figot's yard was never at rest. It was always teeming with people, horses and wagons, sacks of flour, and rags.

Nahman Figot's nearest neighbor was Shimshon Tachna, an entirely different sort of person. He was small and wiry with a gray beard and a red, sunburnt face full of force and chutzpah. He spoke with emphasis, did not always give a proper answer, and was one of the central pillars of the apikorsim in town. Shimshon Tachna, Leibl Wolarski and Simha Nitzkin kept company and discussed G-d and atheism. No one ever entertained the thought that any of the trio, G-d forbid, omitted even one Minha prayer - most definitely not. But, it was known that it was they who encouraged hereticism in town, and that was enough.

The second of this trio, Leibl Wolarski, a bitter busybody, always absorbed in his thoughts, was absent-minded, full of complaints about how the world was run, sullen and ill-tempered. His wispy, twisted beard that ran wild over his wide face reflected his inner confusion, his moodiness, his contentious way of life, far removed from harmony and peace.

One crooked shoulder higher than the other, cast a shadow over Shimshon Tachna's large head, and gave the impression that it was increasingly burdened and bent with a heavy and troublesome load. He was a short man of narrow build and facile movement.

Leible Wolarski was a broad-shouldered Jew, always ready for a fight. His way in Judaism, acquired through study and pouring over ancient tomes, was as difficult and torturous as he himself. His arguments on ways of learning, providence, decree, and choice, as well as on general matters of Judaism, were stormy and usually ended in angry words. Shouting "you have a warped mind, you have a warped mind," at his opponent, he would thus end the debate and go off without so much as a goodbye. His hoarse voice added weight and volume to his words and showed that, as far as he was concerned, a life principle was at stake. What bothered him was that others refused to see things as he did.

The most composed of these three, the one whose mind was most at ease and apparently the cleverest, was Reb Simha Nitzkin. It was said that on Saturdays he sat with uncovered head, a cigar in his mouth and an open book of Gemara in his hands. The fact that Simha Nitzkin did not smoke at all, not even on weekdays, did not stop people from believing this nonsense.

Except for Leibl Wolarski, they lived in another world. What they discussed, what they did, no one knew. The three were widely known as heretics and that was more than enough. If some troublemaker wanted proof, he would be flooded with stories that no one had ever bothered to check. Incidents were related that no one ever witnessed but that everyone believed. In order to convince someone who perhaps entertained some doubts, people were capable of telling a tall tale like the following, "When the tree get together on Saturdays, one of them lights a match. 'Apikores' shouts one of the others as he blows out the match." That's what they were, apikorsim, irritating people.

In the vicinity of the back alleys lived these three Jews who were good friends and dedicated to one another. It may be that they had thoughts differing from those of the people around them. It may very well have been so, since all that went on about them aroused doubts, opposition, and despair. This was why they isolated themselves in their narrow corner and withdrew from other people. Their rebelliousness was confined to their small circle; they had no influence on the town's life.

One of them was a tanner, the second dealt in clothing, and Simha Nitzkin made soda, syrups, and mead. During the winter, he removed and preserved blocks of ice from the waters in the vicinity for the Jews to use during the hot summer Sabbaths.

"Fat Baruch," known as Baruch Wrublewer, lived for many years in the one red-bricked house on that street. He was the only Jew in Mlawa to have had participated in the second Polish revolution during the 1860's. Because he was a Jew, his sunburnt face, furrowed by wind and rain, was framed by a beard, which grew in tufts. The beard that descended from this hard, non-Jewish face suited his face like "arba kanfot" (fringed under-garment worn by religious Jews) suited a dog. During the summer, because of his religion he covered his big, hard head with a high, Jewish cap that had a large visor. The winter fur hat was more fitting for he looked like one of the villagers. His coat, not certain whether capote or goyish bekiesza (winter coat), generously covered his wide body.

Were he to have created the world, he claimed, man would live 5,000-10,000 years, each day becoming younger until finally, he dissolved into nothingness and disappeared like smoke. Since he was not the Creator and the Universe, as always, went its own way even without his permission, he, at the age of eighty-odd seemed younger than a bar-mitzvah boy. In his opinion, the younger a person, the closer he was to death.

Baruch loved living and enjoyed life as a flavorsome dish, a proper gulp of vodka, a young horse and anything else created for man's benefit.

He grew old and there remained only a few teeth in his mouth. He still liked to tell how when he was a young boy, he used to climb up to the attic in the mornings and draw close to the smoked meats and bottles of brandy, and get his full of life. In the forest, one did not eat rolls with butter or drink coffee in the morning. There were always dishes standing about, full of clobber, cream and cheese. Potatoes were aplenty. "He who wants to ride for an hour must lubricate the carriage axles for two hours."

In his old age, his condition deteriorated. Thoughts resembling gray clouds borne by the cold winds of late autumn, popped into his head. Baruch was seized by fear. Shadows appeared over the long years of plenty that had been full of light and sun. He would have liked the good years to extend and go on forever. Baruch didn't want to know that the blessing of longevity is accompanied by the curse of loneliness even as all those to whom he was accustomed, as to a comfortable piece of clothing, disappeared from view. He was suddenly filled with awe. This was like the long-ago fear in his childhood that his mother would suddenly vanish and he would remain along in a strange house on an unfamiliar street and in an unknown town. Not only the people, also the horses of those days were no longer here. Now Baruch sat in Ya'akov Shlomo Mondrzak's office and did nothing, kept through the generosity of his former employers. The thought that with each coming day his life was shorter fell like dust onto his befuddled brain.

All of a sudden the sound of trumpets neared, a military march was being played. Baruch stirred like an old war hoarse, girded his loins, pricked up his ears, and came to life. He got up and went out to see how Poland's national holiday was being driven in carriages through the market, but not Baruch, the old revolutionary. The goyim of today had forgotten him. He stood aside and watched.

In those days, Baruch recalled, one of the revolutionaries insulted his Jewish faith. "He is to be flogged," declared the officers of the military court. Baruch didn't agree and asked that the goy be granted amnesty. The officers didn't understand what was going on. But Baruch knew: the goy had insulted the Jewish faith, let G-d judge him and not, they.

*

The number of Jews in town who were in any way affiliated with soldiers and war could be counted on the fingers of one hand. One of those who had completed his service in the Russian army was Azriel the Blacksmith. His five years of service had taught him various "Fonia" (nickname for the Russians) ways and tricks. Others who served in the Russian army were David Kirschenbaum, Nahum the Ice-Cream Man ("Saharmoroznik"), and Avrum Hersch, the old rag-picker from Nahum Figot's yard. Avrum had an inexhaustible supply of tales from his years of "Fonia" service especially, relating to his participation in the war with Turkey. His son and his two sons-in-law, Aron and Menashe, who were conscripted during World War I, left for the front but didn't come back. From the war of 1920 between Russia and Poland, Haim Grzebieniarz, Ruven Dombkeivicz, Moshe Warszawski, and others, did not return. However, most of the Jews survived their several years of army service. They returned and became part of the town, established families and managed to make a living.

Only one of them remained a good-for-nothing, a ruin and eternal wreck who couldn't find his place in society. This was Fischel the Cantonist (a Jewish boy pressed into long years of pre-military service in Czarist Russia during the reign of Nicholas I [1825-1853]). Fischel ran errands in town and was a water-carrier. He was poor and reduced to begging from door to door. At first he did this only on Rosh Hodesh. Then, as for all the other beggars, this became a daily ritual. There was not a person in town who knew where he lived, what he did and whether he was married or not.

He was an old idler who "ate days" in certain houses. It was known that on Saturdays he ate at Yossel Perlmutter's house, on Mondays at Yonathan Segal's, and so on. If asked, he carried water; sometimes he got drunk whether the occasion called for it or not.

He used to "play a stick." People could see an old, tall Jew with a face like a goy's, standing in the middle of a circle of children and playing with a thick stick, rounded at the top. He would blow up his cheeks and let out strange sounds from between his lips, his thick fingers sliding up and down the stick as though he were holding a trumpet in his hands. His tall legs rose and with grotesque movements twisted his body in a senseless dance.

It was always difficult to catch Fischel's eye, to penetrate his mocking eyes. When he played his stick, however, it seemed as though his eyes had poured out and there remained only two empty sockets from which sorrow, misery, and fear flowed onto his pale, twisted face.

Twenty five years of his life he had spent in Fonia's service somewhere in Siberia, robbed of childhood and youth, and far removed from Jews. How numerous were the plots and ploys he devised in order to remain a Jew. Sometimes he would be brought to church to be converted. Each time he pulled yet another trick in order to be delivered from forced baptism. On such occasions he devised new tricks to make people think he was crazy. Once when the priest and his cohorts were all prepared to receive the sinful soul of the Jewish youth, Fischel broke into a dance and began to play on a stick. Another time, he pretended to be just an ordinary lunatic. He took off his clothes and, naked as the day his mother bore him, started to play the shepherd's rod in his hand, dancing like a savage in front of the holy icons inside the church. By going crazy, Fischel used to tell, he was saved from forced conversion. Finally, Fischel, still a Jew, came back after many years of army service. Due to habit, from time to time Fischel would pretend to be mad, play his stick and gladden the hearts of the town's children.

Not many Jews remained, even on Potters Street. Perhaps, some place there, one can still find the pits of the Jewish tanners' barrels. Maybe, somewhere in some yard, there is a wooden shack still standing. On Sabbath afternoons, Jews no longer sit on the wooden steps leading to the small and modest houses, nor on the grass at the sides of the street, cracking seeds, talking and taking advantage of the Sabbath rest.

Even the virtue of Tayvel (Tuvia) Beker of Potters Street, who began to wander dressed as the "Rabbi of Mlawa," was not rewarded. The street disappeared very rapidly and with terrible cruelty as though it had never been.

Between the day and the night there is a time and a place that is no longer day but not yet night. Objects and articles melt away, become blurred, lose their distinct outlines as images are erased by the soft shadows and fade away like smoke.

In the boundary between this world and the next, the life of the town enters a land of imagination and dreams, of unnatural images and visions.

Between this world and the next, sinful souls who can't come to rest, flourish. They take on the form of dogs, cats, frogs, and other creatures that wander for many days in the waste of deserts, in fields and forest until, as dybbuks, they invade a person's body.

Each night the dead come to dip in the Mikveh; they pray in the synagogue. The souls of those sentenced to hanging find no peace. They weep at night, arousing storm winds that uproot trees and blow the roofs off the huts. After a gentile neighbor dies, one can hear people saying, "Let him hover over field and forest and barren deserts, and not harm the Jews." Tsitsiot (fringes) are then often counted. Women, exempt from this commandment, do not leave the house without an apron.

The land of twilight, dreams, superstitions, demons, ghosts, and evil spirits is located within the town itself. Its boundaries pass among the houses and among the people. In midday it sometimes happens that a person strays from the straight and narrow path and enters this mysterious kingdom.

Is there anyone among the inhabitants of this city who has not been there for a short stay or a long one?

The town chronicles tell of two witches who used to fly to Shidlova on chicken livers, scattering seeds of wheat on the fields and on the backs of sheep belonging to the "authorities". This was done so that the fields would be stricken with blight and the flocks perish.

The two witches admitted to these deeds, and also that Asmodeus, the demon, dressed as a hunter, had come to visit them. When the judges of the city heard this, they sentenced the witches to death by burning. The sentence was carried out in the Rosegard.

There are creatures that bring good tidings. In contrast, there are creatures that are to be avoided. It is a mitzvah to kill a spider for it was they who brought fire in their mouths to burn down the Temple.

Swallows are nice birds. The swallows brought water in their beaks to put out the fire that was raging in the Temple. Even today the swallows fly low and herald the coming rain. If here or there one sees a spider in its web, one should tear the cobweb and trample the spider. One should not prevent the swallows from building their nests in the top corners of the window because swallows bring good luck.

If a bird taps at the window with its beak, it is bearing good tidings. It is a sign that a letter with good news will soon arrive. If a black crow caws on the roof, a disaster will befall the house. If a cat washes itself in front of a door, guests are coming. If at noon, a rooster stands on top of a fence in the middle of the yard, spreads its wings and crows coo-coo-ri-coo, good weather is due. If all of a sudden, a frog appears in front of the door, it signifies a curse. If one clearly sees the movements of its neck, it's a sign that it is cursing and one must say, "Salt in your eyes, pepper in your nose." If dogs howl at night, the Angel of Death is in town.

If the right hand itches, one will count money. If your ear is burning, someone is remembering you. If there is a ringing in your ears, somebody is talking about you: right ear-good things, left-bad. If a fire flares up in the kitchen, they are discussing you in heaven. Then one says, "would that they would say good of me." If one sneezes, one must say, "G-d bless you," and pull one's left ear three times and recite "G-d, I am awaiting your succor." Each time one must begin the verse with a different word. If some one yawns, it's a sign that the "evil eye" has affected him.

If a person falls down all of a sudden, and doesn't feel well, the first suspect is the "evil eye." One should rush to the victim's aid with an incantation against the "evil eye." That is the first thing that should be done. If the victim of the "evil eye" is the first-born (and especially the first-born of a first-born) and he yawns, it is a sign that he was gravely stricken and that the yawn succeeded in overcoming the effect. Red ribbons used to be tied on to the hands of small children in order to protect them from the "evil eye."

If the "evil eye" has stricken a child and frightened it, the mother licks his eyes with her tongue, makes him cough and spits three times in each direction with a hurried incantation to cancel the power of the "evil eye." If all this does not help, people will pour hot wax over a twist of thin rods held over a bowl of cold water. The wax figure formed in the water is the reason for the fear.

If a woman has difficulty giving birth, the remedy is to remove all the rings from her fingers as well as her lockets and bracelets and to open the drawers and the doors in the house. If this does not help, one should place a prayer booklet and a knife under the pillow at the head of the bed.

When the child has been safely born and it is a boy, until the brith (circumcision), the heder pupils come every day at twilight and recite "Shema" (daily prayer proclaiming belief in the unity of G-d). If a girl is born, pages of "The Song of Degrees" are hung over the doors and windows to protect the newborn. In order to increase the effect of "Hear Oh Israel" ("Shema"), the new mother is guarded and not left alone in the room until the day of the brith, just as the bride and groom are guarded on their wedding night.

In the city there were female "mayvinim" who knew in advance whether the newborn would be a girl or a boy. If the pregnant woman complained of heartburn, a daughter would be born. The hairs on the head of the infant in its mother's womb are ablaze. The long hairs of a girl reach the mother's heart.

An infant who ate a lot and screamed a lot would be placed in a cupboard full of food. If the infant did not want to suck at his mother's breast, the young mother would be questioned as to what she had once craved during her pregnancy. If she recalled that once, upon passing near the house of Mindel the Baker, she had a desire for fresh, black bread, two men would rush like young lions to the Cossack regiment to bring back "Fonia" rye bread and she would hold it against her breasts. The infant would smell the bread and begin to suck. The same was true for onions, herring, sour pickles, and other foods.

Until they were three years old, boys had to wear dresses and pinafores just as the girls did. The boys' hair was cut for the first time only when they had reached the age of three.

The grandsons of Yehiel Galant and Motel Domb, and the son of Ya'akov-Herzl were dressed in white until the day of their bar-mitzvah. Even their shoes were white. In these families the boys usually died when they were small and the parents thus hoped to outwit the Angel of Death.

The townspeople did not all act in this manner. There were Jews who meticulously carried out the religious rites and yet did not beat "kapores" since they were convinced that this custom held no logic. Only rarely, however, did a Jewish mother dare to sew a button on her son's garment without previously giving him a thread to chew on so that, G-d forbid, her own hands would not harm the child's brain.

There were no large rivers in Mlawa. Its one brook was both narrow and shallow. At many points it could be crossed just by taking one big step. After heavy rains the stream used to flood the lower sections of Warsaw and Potters Streets as well as Nahman Figot's yard. The stream did not demand a yearly sacrifice as did many other streams and rivers. Melobenski's and Yachet's water holes and the muddy pool next to the brick factory were treacherous. Each year they claimed a victim. If someone drowned while bathing, people would come there with long iron poles to search for the body. To aid in their search, they would throw a loaf of bread, on top of which was a burning candle, into the pool next to the brick factory.

The people's attitude to customs and superstitions can be illustrated by the story of the old woman who fainted on her way to the "Selihot" prayers (recited on days of fast or trouble, and especially during Elul and the first days of Tishri, until the Day of Atonement). When she was revived, a large cross was found around her neck. As the old woman came to and found people puzzling over the cross, she calmly said: "So many people believe in the cross, perhaps it too is G-d."

There was a similar attitude towards remedies. When people were sick, they were willing to accept any advice, any "old wives'" remedy. Sometimes, in some faraway forest, in a remote village, there would be a gentile shepherd who performed miracles, healing the sick by peering into their eyes or by touching them. Jewish men and women from all levels of society would make pilgrimages to the miracle worker to seek a cure for their ailments.

A sure method was to recite chapters from the Book of Psalms. The most excellent doctor, renowned for his great ability to heal, could not arouse such hope, expectations and immense faith as the little Book of Psalms.

If the patient's condition worsened, more Psalms would be read. In the heders, in the synagogue and in the Hassidic houses of worship, notes, on which were written the name of the patient and his mother, were placed before the reader's stand next to the Ark and a "mi shebirech" (blessing) would be recited. Reb Tuvia, Reb Itchkeh, and Reb Haim-Shmayah would be asked to mention the patient's name. The chapters of Psalms served as a cure for many Jewish troubles, communal and personal. And they were also useful in times of illness. "I Tehilim nie pomoze" ('even Tehilim won't help - Polish) meant: the situation has worsened. One would search for new rememdies, give the patient an additional name, generally "Alter", "Haim", "Nathan", collect alms for the "days." "Tea and Tehilim, if they don't help, certainly will do no harm, said the slightly enlightened. Most of the Jews were of the opinion that reciting Psalms did help.

This life principle encouraged the appearance of "mayvinim" givers of advice, and quacks. It was common knowledge that a cut finger or a bleeding wound could be cured by spider webs, by attaching a piece of soft bread to the wound. For any swelling or bruise one would apply chewed-up leaves from a potted plant common in Jewish homes. A radical remedy was to disqualify and scorn the bruise and make it loathsome by dressings of urine, human feces, or cow manure. Locksmiths cured wounds with iron filings, carpenters and coach-builders with tar, and blacksmiths would touch the wound with a red-hot iron, or axle grease.

Colds were cured with scorched feathers, by inhaling the smoke from scorched hair, the scorched horn of a cow or the smoke from scorched hooves. Warts would be cured by pouring warm pigeon blood over them, by placing peas behind a stone, throwing one pea into a deep well for each wart.

Yosef Radak used to make up ointments for all kinds of wounds, open and closed: ointments for treating sores so that they should swell and burst open, for faruncles, men's abscesses and those of nursing mothers.

Rifka-Rachel, Wolf Breindel's wife, cooked jams, fermented black berries, cherries, and red forest berries for the entire town as remedies against bellyaches and to promote sweating.

Yosef Zurominer and other Jews provided aid for conscripts: they would chop off fingers, pull out teeth, produce "hernias," supply salves that caused the entire body to look as though it had been afflicted with boils, and let the boys sniff gun-powder, which raised the body's temperature and induced coughing.

Healing the body started off with haphazard remedies: diarrhetic tea, enemas, medicines for sweating, cupping, attaching leaches and sometimes, also by letting blood. If all these measures did not help, the feltscher (medic), a popular figure in town, was summoned. With him they spoke Yiddish. In detail and at length they where the pain was and what hurt. Neighbors and members of the family made an effort to explain and advise as to the course of treatment. The feltscher would listen with much patience to all the suggestions. They did not offend his pride. He would decide whether a doctor should be called and which one. And in the end, he would be asked whether it was indeed necessary to follow all the doctor's orders.

The most veteran feltscher in town was Leyzer (Fried) who healed "according to the book" I which were written all the nostrums and remedies. Leyzer's son was the conductor of the Cossack regiment orchestra in Mlawa. He was the only Jew to wear Cossack trousers. He was distinguished for yet another virtue: he always fathered twins or triplets. Single children were not his specialty. In later years, the triplets played at a concert of the Philharmonic Orchestra in Warsaw.

The most famous feltscher was Tzudek the Nurse, or just plain, Tzudek. "We must call Tzudek. Where does Tzudek live?" The name Tzudek was coupled with his profession and many Mlawians believed that the world for feltscher in Yiddish was Tzudek.

Opposite Havah Velvol's house on Warsaw Street and later, on a house in Plock Street, hung three brass plates to that this was Tzudek's residence. He was stumpy with a neat blond beard which grew quite sparsely on his transparent face. He wore a short jacket and a stiff, black hat. Under one arm was a box of cupping glasses that looked like a book of Gemarah, in his other hand, a leather purse like that of Dr. Makowski. This emissary of the angel Raphael, walked with light tread about the streets and alleys to visit the sick. The greater the fear of the disease, the more Tzudek allayed the family's apprehensions and calmed them with his warm hand, quiet words, and simplicity. Both Jews and gentiles held him in great esteem. All the pharmacies accepted his prescriptions. He used to attach leeches and cupping glasses, extract teeth, let blood, give injections, anoint the throat, and examine the patient with a stethoscope just like the doctor's. Tzudek's expertise was greatly respected. It was known to all that he did not over rate himself and, if necessary, would advise to see a doctor.

Tzudek was blessed with a long life. People got used to him as to a nearby landscape such as the city clock, the pump on Warsaw Street, the little bridge, as to all the long-standing city landmarks. The little bridge on Warsaw Street was named "Tzudek's bridge," "Tzudek's bone."

Still in Tzudek's lifetime, his son Nathan inherited his father's role. He was held I respect even though they nicknamed him "professor."

There was a time when there was yet another Jewish feltscher in Mlawa: Frankensztein, Simha Nitzkin's son in law. After he passed away, an emaciated, quick and nimble fellow appeared in town who looked like a goy. He was clean shaven and had a long Gentile mustache. Though Jewish, he spoke only Polish. The name of the new feltscher, just arrived from Warsaw, was Tissabov. The Jews in town called him Tisha Be'av (Ninth of Ab, a fast in memory of the destruction of the Temple), instead.

The doctor Yuzef Makowski, a native Mlawian, was the town's leading medical authority. He was privileged in that, in his case, the adage "a prophet is without honor in his own country" did not hold true.

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