[Page 10]

Michael Peled (Tel-Aviv)

         The right-hand road led to the small Jewish Village "Paviage", more precisely, the small Paviage to be discerned from the big Paviage, which was a Gentiles' village.

         Up to this junction, you went through a settlement, and in addition to this a Jewish one (though poor indeed), there were no sidewalks, and the road was not particularly paved. It was a dust-road for carriages and men.

         From here onwards, wide fields are revealed to your eyes (snow in winter), and loneliness. If you were a boy you would be glad to walk alone, without meeting a living soul - a Gentile, until you reach Paviage, as already said, was a small Jewish village.

         At the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, the Jewish village-settlers were expelled from their houses and "immigrated" to the adjoining villages. Although they were not agricultural "settlers" in the full sense of the word. They rented lands from the landlord, and were even busy, at other occupations: Shopping, inn-keeping and wayfarers lodging and others... nevertheless a field odour spread out of them.

         And look, there was a real Jewish village not far-off our town. It was called "Small Paviage", to be discerned from the christian “Big Paviage” some kilometres distant farther.

         I don't know the history of the Jewish Village from its outset. It was clear that the village has been a remainder of a bigger and more populated village. Already during the years before the First World War the number of its inha- bitants was small. Two ramified families are especially known to have formed its basis: the Olanski and Perski families, God avenge their blood. These two families carried on until the Holocaust, which fell on our Community and its neighbours. It is noteworthy to point out that the lands belonged to the proprietors, but the areas were not vast and didn't supply a living for their labourers. Today, I would have called these farms as Auxiliary Farms. Not only were the areas restricted, but the Authorities didn't help to their development and rapid growth, they even put obstacles to their efforts. The men were compelled to work in town in order to maintain their families. They mostly worked in tanneries. The women and children worked on the small farm. The men did the hard work in their leisure time, or a salaried Gentile worker. Hence Paviage too was not con- sidered to be an agricultural farm in all its meanings and aspects, though it formed a peg in the social order.

         These few were also exterminated and there remained no trace or sign of Jewish labour and labourers. The attempt to be deeply rooted in land-work was eradicated. These also sanctified the name of the Jewish people. Let their memory be registered and sealed in the Remembrance Book of the Oshmana Congregation, which was exterminated and to which they had belonged. May their memory be honoured.

         Time stopped passing away. All the years retreated back- wards. The present existed no more. The machine of life turned me back to bygone days. Is it true that there were such days?

         Had they been generally speaking, "those days" ? or is it not but a mockery of imagination ? A dream's play of a bygone world ? and perhaps are you carried on the wings of delusions and memories which do not want to fade ?

         I took the album of "those days" and these pictures must testify as a hundred witnesses that indeed there was such a world, a shining and smiling world which is merrily shown to you through the shining faces and eyes of the centuries. And they, my pupils and yours, and those teachers who look at you likewise, all endeavour to convey, to prove to you, to themselves and to all others, that they are living creatures, living and working, that happiness and grief, tension and relaxation and human life spread out of them. They exist!

         Do they exist indeed ? Yes, they do.

         I am trying to speak with them and they respond. There is no need for an effort to make them speak. They willingly take part in the conversation, they even intervene in the speech of each other and slowly we sink down in memories and we rouse from oblivion many, common experiences. And the memories are heaped in piles, piles of things just as a heap, a hill or a mound.

         Slowly we begin to restore order in the matter .

         Then silence. A painful and a scorching silence.

         After such a long and silent separation, speaking was by no means easy. First they were astounded to see me, to me. Much water had flowed in all the rivers of the world since we were separated. But silence did not only prevail between us, but also among themselves, a sort of stubborn silence.

        Why did not somebody open his mouth? Perhaps they feigned to be strangers to each other ? Or perhaps were they stricken with astonishment of the unexpected meeting?

         We were silent. We looked at each other and remained silent, contemplating each other's face as if examining each other's face. Maybe some changes took place in our appearance and we are trying hard to remember childhood and youth looks.

         It is hard to establish how much time we spent in this silence, but sighs and groans began to come up - sighs of relief. No, the teeth of time couldn't overcome the memories, couldn't exterminate or anihilate them.

         And suddenly there started confusion, commotion and tumult broke out and when they had calmed, then came the hour of conversation ... good and quiet conversation. The enthusiasm of the unexpected meeting subdued. In the meantime, we grew up, became adults, and a quiet and friendly conversation was possible.

         But has there been indeed any conversation? Maybe those were halucinations? – Halucinations.

         Mendel Ulkenitzki, Mendele, wearing spectacles, bright- haired and clear-eyed, how do you do? You have grown up and are very impressive, how and in what did your time pass? I have heard that you had been a soldier and to what did you arrive at?

         Mendele, the boy, rolled his eyes which were serious, moved his eyebrows, but his mouth remained motionless.

         And you, Zvi Leskes and Yankele Levin, what ails you? looking as if questioning? It's I who speak to you. I remernber that you were a little bit unruly but innocent and good. They moved their heads and remained silent.

         And you, Ettele Benski and Yudith Zusmamovitz it's a pleasure to look at you. You are radiant and certainly are living a nice and pleasant life. And ... Ettele, with her narrow and deep eyes and Yudith Zusmanovitz the wise and smiling, but silent. Silent. Why?

         Consequently I turned towards Shebah Berkman, the narrow-faced and profound thinker, and near him there was merry Berele Shames. They both looked at me it seems com comprehensively, but when I saw that even a muscle didn't move in their faces, I turned my head away from them surprised but without complaint.

         Gronia Kaminer, Haim Kozlowski from Kozlinki the stammerer with a dull countenance, and you, Sender Kozlowski sitting near them, you who are clever, speak, tell me about yourself and your friends.

         He bent his head as if ashamed and did not utter a word. I was astounded. What was the meaning of this silence since the meeting was exciting and moving ? perhaps did it only seem to me that they were listening. Was I not dreaming? This time I spoke with excitement to a whole group: Mintz and Kite, Rachele Shapiro, Batia the daughter of Rabbi Gelbord, Haya Karp and Leah Group and Rachele Zuskin.

         They looked at each other, speaking the dumbs' language, their voices did not reach me. But from their eyes grief could be seen.

         This time I looked a long time at the serious faces of Zalman Abilowitz, Baruch Bobrovski, Shalom Lerner, Sara Finger, Hanale Liebman and Abraham Voronowski from Ulshan. They also looked at me, a tired and premature grown up.

         Did I rightly understand? The meeting was agitated, causing a great excitement. There is what to say, my teacher, awful things occurred and nobody was able to speak, to tell, to converse. They were silent.

         Still I kept on being cool-headed. The mere fact I was staying with them, fondled my soul.

         I turned around on hearing sounds of foot steps. And look, they were coming closer and closer ... not from one period, or one age, oh, God who gathered them together?

         Here is Frumele Kuchevitzki of Volozin, from a side the brothers Ruben and Mayer Golemba are approaching, Ruben the open-minded with his radiant face. Treading be- hind there are: Haim Kravietz, Haim Kozlovski, the beloved pupils of the teacher Yoseph Lev, and still coming after them: Eliezer Hadash (son of the teacher Hadash), Eliahou Hadash, Leib Shugal and his sister Beila, Yoheved Isenberg and Mina Shugal, big and small are flowing and approaching.

         In the rear: Henech Blecher, Sheine Kozlowski, Frida Minz, Ita Karchmer, Etele Abelovitz and others, and others and others ... too numerous to be counted.

         From another side came a bewildered group, the pupils of the Orphanage, pupils of the "Tarbut" school, and even those who learned at the "Zisho" school (a yiddish school), standing, leaning their bodies onwards and keeping silent. Listening, to what ?

         I am perplexed and cannot understand the reason of this happening, the strange behaviour and the silence.

         Bewildered, bewildered eyes. Eyes of all shades and expressions are concentrated in you. Their lips are moving but their voices cannot be heard. Movements of the body and muscles of the face are all speaking silently. And perhaps, perhaps sounds are coming out, speaking and telling stories, only I, deaf-eared and slow-witted cannot perceive them.

         I don't know how long this bewildering and depressing, very depressing vision went on.

         Suddenly, everything broke loose, hearts opened and voices became audible, mouths spoke and all became clear ... my teacher, we do not exist, we could not be seen, only in your memory. You are carrying our names in your heart, thank you, thank you.

         A big host is beginning to retreat. Slowly, backwards, towards the horizon. Vision is fading, and the characters are disappearing. Mist starts flooding the place and nothing could be seen. And, nevertheless, I am quite sure that I saw them, heard their voices, and that they begged me to remember them for ever, for ever.

         I awoke from my hallucination, and for an unknown reason, I continued to believe that the meeting indeed took place, that the silent dialogue took place, Yes took place ...

         Dreams haunted me. I felt the world had to do on existing to perpetuate their memory, the memory of these pupils.

         "I am weeping for that beauty who is decaying in earth" (Brachot Tract. Talmud).

Reb Shlomo “Galinishker”

         He was tall and lean and had unusually long legs. Every Thursday afternoon he used to ride on his little horse, and his legs almost touched the ground.

         It is unknown to me how the man made a living. Apparently his needs were very modest.

         Though all alone in the world, he was never embittered and could often be seen standing in the street, surrounded by adults and children. He used to tell stories about the Polish uprising against the Russian regime in 1863, and always found listeners. It was amazing how he remembered every detail – but one thing he could not remember. Once, on a late afternoon he approached Reb Shimon David Baron and asked him a question which apparently had been preying on his mind. “Tell me, Reb Shimon,” he said somewhat vexed, “I had a brother in America but I have forgotten his name.” Reb Shimon, however, did not remember his name either. Reb Shlomo was angry at Reb Shimon David why he did not reveal to him his brother's name. I was passing in the street at that moment and Reb Shimon called me and told me the whole story. “Read in the Book of Exodus,” he said. I obeyed him and began reading, noting the various names, till I mentioned one of them which reminded him what his brother's name was.

         Reb Shlomo was very pleased and out of gratitude he pulled my ear. For a couple of days I could not touch it, for it hurt me so much. I remember well the affectionate ear-pulling. But it was worth while to have rendered and old Jew happy.

"Yankel the Fisher"

         Reb Yacob (Yankel) had a habit of- buying on credit in the morning and of returning the debt on the same day, in the evening. Michla Ginzburg, in whose shop he used to buy, asked him once: Why do you take the merchandise on credit in the morning and return the debt in the evening. You can not say that you earn the money during the day, because you live from the allowance you get from your sons. So what is the use? Reb Yacob smiled and replied: Since you are a clever woman, Michla, you will understand me. All my life I was known as a straightforward and honest man and everyone granted me credit out of a feeling of security. Lest they forget that they may give me merchandise on credit, I continue to buy on credit from you and enjoy the fact that you do not refuse it to me. Michla smiled too, and replied: Congratulations! May you live till 120.

"Der Podmurovschik" (Foundation Builder)

         As a child he was uprooted from his parents' home and did not remember his native town. He did not know the Hebrew letters in the prayer-book and had learned the prayers by heart. How did he get to our town? Well, this is his story. After having being taken from his home, he was sent to a Russian village where he stayed until he was 21. Then he served for 25 years in the Tsar's army, certainly a hellish experience. When he was discharged, he had to be registered in a Jewish community. Otherwise a discharged soldier was considered a "vagrant" and often banished from one place to another. The Jewish Community of Oshmana accepted the man and agreed to put him in the register, and that is how he became a resident of our town.

         Since he had no relatives and did not want to depend on charity, he worked as long as he could and finished his life in a hostel for the poor.

Reb Shimon, "Der Dreher"

         As children we used to stand in the entrance to the printing shop and watch Reb Shimon work. It is hard to say what drew our interest; after all his work was mechanical and simple. Perhaps it was the man himself, very tall and lean, bent like an interrogation mark and quiet - "terribly" quiet. The children tried to annoy him and shouted at him "Dreher, Dreher". This word meant not only a turner, but had also a derogatory meaning - "a cheat", "a liar", "a deceiver".

         The old man used to turn his head in our direction and say: "Children, it is better to turn the wheel than to deceive people. Remember this. I am not angry with you because you are children. You had better go back to the 'heder', learn well and not do anything evil".

         May these sentences serve as an apology of many children who have grown up since, the same children who once shouted "Dreher, Dreher!”

Leah Nisan's of Blessed Memory

         On one of the winter evenings, as we were all sitting around the table, the door was opened and one of our friends burst into the house bringing with him a whiff of cold air. "Did you hear?, he shouted, X the old spinster was engaged to Y." The reaction was joyful. Finally she will get married. It was high time for her to hear the musicians play the wedding-tunes. Then voices of amazement were heard: "Is not the prospective bridegroom a good-for-nothing? It is bound to be a mismatch." And from the direction of the stove came the old woman's comment. "Children, she said, you have little experience and do not know the ways of life. A match is like a ladder. Only when a ladder is placed at a slant can you climb it up, but if it stands upright it is like climbing up a wall. It makes no difference if the match does not look right to you, your view of things is distorted." In the course of time we learned that the couple lived in happiness and harmony, and we remembered old Leah Nisan's words.

Reb Chone the Coachman

         Reb Chone had a noteworthy habit. As we had mentioned previously, he gained his livelihood by taking people in his carriage to the railway station at Sol, ten miles away from Oshmana. But even had he been offered all the money in the world he would not have worked after sunset. Then he would wash, change his shirt and walk leisurely to the Talmud reading circle. I do not know what his scholarly achievements were. It seems to me that he was pretty ignorant, but when asked why he gave up work he needed so badly, he replied: "I drive the carriage because I am compelled to do it, but I learn the Torah willingly and joy- fully. Perhaps the burden of my daily work will become lighter, since I took upon myself the burden of the Torah.

A.A.

         Those were the simple people, who would be called up to the Torah only on the Simhat Torah festival.

         May they be remembered together with their destroyed Community.

         A flood of dim memories sweeps over me, the mist of the distant past closes in on me, and out of that twilight there appears, without any order or logical sequence, a rich gallery, an endless gallery of names, faces, eyes, looks and smiles, expressions of sadness and bitterness. There walks the body of one, while the head on his shoulders belongs to someone else. But everywhere and above all, there are the eyes, eyes, eyes, without end. They surround me in a dizzying whirl, and I am unable to say whose eyes they are. They stare and penetrate through me, mute yet demanding, they beg and cry out. For whom are those looks, what is the request mirrored in the pupils of those eyes? They are crowding around me, they follow me wherever I may turn. There are some amongst them in which all life seems to have stopped, frozen.

         And what are they beckoning at, winking at you cunningly, cleverly? And the serious, questioning eyes, what mute question is burning in them? Your heart goes out to them, your befogged brain tries to put in some order, to allot the eyes to their rightful owners. For a moment it seems that the veil of oblivion has been lifted and things begin to get clearer and clearer, taking shape in the rays of sunshine breaking through the rain and mist limiting your vision.

         And I keep on looking at those eyes, speechless and straining my memory, trying to concentrate. Little by little the twilight disappears, the fog lifts, the oppressive drizzle melts away, visibility gets better and better, my own sight grows more and more confident as under my gaze, so full of love, and gratitude, respect and admiration, the figures begin to arrange themselves in a kind of line, and one after another they keep on forcing themselves under my pen. Not according to any special qualities or talents do they take their place in this written record: I have only good and pleasant memories of all of them. They all pass in a long row, parade before me. Every now and then I rise from my seat, bow my head before them, very, very low, full of reverence and humility before their saintliness. And a voice coming from the innermost recesses of my being calls to me: "Shed your shoes, for your feet are standing on Holy Ground, for they have hallowed Heaven with all their soul and being, and commanded us to live on and remember." A shiver passed through my body and even I saw their eyes again, the eyes of the days gone by, those good, eager eyes, burning with a thirst for life, for action.

         The gaze of many, many of them rested on me and calmed me a little - in that frame of mind I began to write. Only a minute later I felt the pricks of doubt and hesitation again: for who am I? Am I worthy of commemorating them? But again the soft, bright caressing eyes fortified and com- forted me: "You! You will be able to do it." Shall I indeed? I'll try!

         FEIVE SOLODUCHO, tall, straight and proud of bearing. His large brown eyes inspire trust. A romantic in all his being and a Zionist without peer. Full of enthusiasm him- self and a source of inspiration for others, firm in his faith in the ideal that burnt in his body and soul, the deep faith of a man of few words. His contribution to every kind of activity, whether Zionist, cultural or public, reflected the strong inner light of a radiant personality. He had striven to realise his dream of emigrating to Eretz Israel - (well do I know his fruitless efforts and attempts in this respect) - and he didn't live to see his dream come true. May his name never be lost in oblivion!

         FRIEDA SOLODUCHO, born SHELUBSKI - full of charm, true to the ideas of her husband, Feive. She, too, strove to emigrate to Eretz Israel, but fate decreed otherwise: she perished on the stake of the holocaust. Blessed be her memory!

         NOTL TABORISKI, Feivels faithful companion, whose friendship for Feive was unconditional, a modest, retiring man. He never put forward any demands for himself, his look - humble, his bearing - gentle, his voice – confident and.serene. If only we could blow away the dust covering your eyes that you might see the State of Israel, a living fact, your dreams come true. Honoured for ever be your memory!

         SHIMON BER LEVIN, of short stature, but of lofty spirit, owner of a printing shop, willing to sacrifice his livelihood for the sake of his ideals. A man of many talents, a bit of a musician, a stage amateur, full of bright ideas. The love of his people and his land burnt in his soul, but not for that love did he lay down his life. He perished in the fire of the holocaust - blessed be his memory.

         ZALMAN SHEINBERG, my childhood friend, blue-eyed and of noble spirit. A gentle soul, unprotected against life's abuses. Pure of heart and pleasant in his ways. He walked swaying slightly, always bent forward. He belonged to the race of dreamers, who dare neither name nor realize their dreams. May yours be the life of eternal perfection!

         I also wish to mention his brother, Nissan, one of the "chavura" (circle of friends).

         SHALOM KALMAN SHRIRA, tall, broad shouldered, loud in his talk and broad in his stride, yet in that tough body there dwelt the soul of an idealist. Zionism and the Hebrew language were his guiding lights, straightforward and staunch of heart as he was.

         The holocaust consumed him and not a trace was left of his family. Blessed be his memory!

         ESTHER ZISLING, soft and gentle, a spirit rich and blessed with artistic gifts. She had been the mainstay of the dramatic group of "Tarbut" for many years. The stage boards offered her scope for self-expression, she looked upon the parts she had to perform as something sacred and acted them superbly. She contributed a great deal to the cultural life of the community and should be remembered with respect and admiration.

         Let us also remember her sisters, Feigl and Fruma.

         ASHER KAMIN, wide awake, full of vitality and fruitful enterprise, both in his private business as well as in his social activities. Practical and shrewd, he used to contribute much to his group, as a generous giver, as one who has a lot to give.

         May his brothers, Ya'akov and Eliahu, and his sisters be remembered here, together with him. They were all devoured by the holocaust. Blessed be their memory.

         AHARON RABINOVITZ, the representative of the General Zionists on the "Tarbut" board, the Keren Kayemeth Committee, and other Zionist institutions. Simple and straightforward in his ways, innocent of heart, a man, who avoided all quarrel and strife and knew how to calm the spirits of others. Both he and his family perished. Blessed be his memory.

         BEILA OLANSKI, young, black-eyed, high-spirited. A faithful member of the "Tarbut" group, where she found an outlet for her gifts and scope for spiritual activities. How it grieves one that all these were extinguished too soon!

         ZELIG SHRIRA, simple in his bearing, moderate in. his talk and sober in his approach to life. He had done a great deal for the "Tarbut" drama circle, he kept it going, in fact. One of the more important and active members of the group, talented and distinguished for his special intuition in creating stage characters. He also worked as the make-up man. One could hardly imagine the drama. circle without him.

         How it grieves one to think that he had to walk up the stage of the Nazi slaughter-house defenceless, exposed to the cruelty of the savage beast.

         NAPHTALI TOSHAV, the eternal "rascal", even when he grew up. For this reason he played an important part in the drama circle, acting the comic parts, portraying the folksy characters, the "ameha" types. He spared no time or efforts, knew his place in the society, which he very much respected. No trace was left of his family. Blessed be his memory.

         ABRAHAM KIT - quick of speech and movement, one of the loyal supporters of the Zionist cause. He never refused any duties or tasks laid upon him, and was prepared to serve the cause in any cultural Zionist activity. Younger than his fellow members, he kept pace with them and never fell behind. Blessed be his memory.

         ZELIG SOLARCHIK, graduate of the Hebrew Teachers Seminar "Tarbut" in Vilna. In the drama group he generally played comic parts, with remarkable success. Blessed be memory.

         LIZA BOGAD-BIALER, Alte Zupraner-Chadash, Hana Miasnik, Mira Shelubski, Fruma and Roza Kochevitzki, Leah and Masha Mechanik, the flower of the town's girlhood, lovely in body and soul. There will be no trace left of those young lives, if we do not mention their names in this list. May their memory be blessed!

         LEIB MECHANIK, son of Malka and Lipman. Grew up in a Zionist-minded home and remained true to the spirit he had been raised in. He was the kind of youth that is a blessing and pride to all. He has gone, without leaving any trace or mark behind him. Let us remember him kindly.

         HAIM DEUL, a man of learning and character, worked for many years as a teacher in the "Tarbut" school, as did his sister, Hinda, who possessed a great literary talent and distinguished herself as a brilliant teacher. May they be remembered for ever together with the others that perished.

         BRAINA DEUL, a model housewife, noted for her business acumen as well as for her high cultural standards. People loved her company, liked to meet her, talk to her and enjoy her charm and wit. Blessed be her memory!

         RIVA KARP DEUL, of comely appearance, considerable cultural standards, she devoted her gifts to the amateur stage and achieved great success there. She was popular in the company and knew how to make and keep friends.

         SHMUEL KIVOBITZ, pleasant in his ways, company loving and blessed with a gift for making friends. For many years active in the drama group, where he played many important parts with great success. However, as his views were leftist rather than Zionist and he was an enthusiastic supporter of Yiddish and the Yiddishists, he became the leader of a Yiddish amateur drama group and was closer to other circles. His charming personality and friendly feelings towards his first drama group enabled him to remain on good terms, indeed, keep up his friendship with the members of the "Tarbut" group, although they did not share his views. Both he and his . family perished in the holocaust. May the Almighty revenge the blood spilt!

         ITZHAK LIPKOVITZ, short of stature, his eyes - bright and smiling. A gifted man, noted especially for his remarkable analytical turn of mind. He was a leftist, active in the field of Yiddish schooling and champion of the Yiddish culture and literature. It was good to talk to him, he never raised his voice, nor belittled those that opposed his views - He married Batia Chadash, raised a family - they all vanished in the holocaust without a trace.

         YOSEP ELIAHU SWIRSKI, one of town's merchants, a man of substance, who joined the Zionist camp of "Tarbut" and from time to time participated in its activities. Was always willing to lend a hand in time of need. Blessed be his memory !

         YOSEP YANKELEVITZ, also one of the town's mer- chants. A person of considerable education and culture, well versed in the ways of the wider world, outside the small town. A loyal supporter of the cause of progressive Zionism, participating in its activities. He should be remembered es- pecially as one of the inner circle of the more active members. His brothers, Abraham and Koppel, and his sister, Mathilda, who were my schoolmates, should also be mentioned. Blessed be their memory!

         SHIMON MEKEL, an artisan, moderate in his ways and very slow in action, a dreamer. Straightforward and the soul of integrity, he hoped to climb up the social ladder. He used to read a lot and devoted himself wholeheartedly and earnestly to the Halutz Movement. He raised a family, they all perished in the holocaust, without leaving a trace behind them. Blessed be his memory!

         YEHUDA RAPOPORT. a simple, sturdy fellow. He was a blacksmith and treated his trade with great respect. I knew him since my childhood and we were in the same company while doing our military service in the Polish army. He knew the meaning of true comradeship and I was always happy to meet him. Blessed be his memory.

         BARUCH GOLEMBO, one of the group, should be mentioned and remembered kindly.

         ARAHAM KRAINOVITZ, of handsome, athletic appearance. His kindness of heart was reflected in the smile that hardly left his face. Both in public life and personal relations with friends ever ready to answer the call, to do whatever he could. He was active in all the branches of the movement and was one of the organisers of the "Tarbut" drama group. The hearty laugh, coming out of his mighty chest, had rung in my ears since our heder days.

         His sons, Reuben and Dov, and their Mother, Bracha, are in Israel, they have realised their Father's dream. Honour and gratitude to his memory!

         SHABTAI GOLDANSKI, lost his father at an early age and grew up fatherless, a most devoted son to his widowed mother, faithful unto death. He was one of the group, turned to business and did well. Although always overburdened with work and other duties, he would deprive himself of the rare moments of rest and leisure in order to devote himself to public activities and help in any way he could. No trace was left of his family.

         SHMUEL and DOV BOGAD - had known some hard times in their lives, but their childhood was a good one and just before the outbreak of the War things began to look up for the two. They were loyal and devoted to the movement, involved in its daily activities. No trace was left of them. Blessed be their memory.

         MILA KOZLOVSKI, came from a talented family and herself had her fair share of talents. She was a loyal member of the group and contributed her wide learning and intelligence. She raised a family - all perished in the holocaust. Blessed be her memory.

         YOSEF DANISHEVSKI, a sensitive soul in a handsome body. His bearing and behaviour were rather hesitant. He could never hurt or in any way offend anyone, was beloved by his friends and companions. No trace was left either of his or of his parents' family. Blessed be his memory.

         MORDECHAI CHADASH, son of Ya'akov Pesach, was a quiet, modest man, his voice low, his way of speaking -gentle, moderate, but he carried out without murmur any duty task allotted to him. A friendly fellow, easy to get on with. Blessed be his memory.

         HERZL PERSKI, MEIR SELZER, SHMUEL MIASNIK, used to perform mainly comic parts in the "Tarbut" drama circle. Especially, the first two mentioned above distinguished themselves as comic actors and would always get enthusiastic applause from the audience. Blessed be their memory.

         Forgive me, dear martyred friends. I have tried to mention the names of all of you, I devoted a few lines to those that I pressed themselves under my pen, but maybe that I have not been quite accurate or have not said enough, as each of you might think. You know better, no doubt, but then my pen is too poor an instrument to be able to express all I feel, to say all that should be said.

         In putting down your names here, I meant to raise a memorial not only to you, but also to those whose names I have not mentioned. There are many, many of you, beloved martyrs, - and how could I hope to mention you all ?

         But now you are all, all of you, gathered and forever enshrined in this "lzkor Book" of the martyred Oshmana Community, so cruelly destroyed! Generations to come will be taught the greatness of Jewish, martyrdom, from -your graves, which are no graves at all, there will rise an eternal flame to nourish the new generation's faith in life, to fortify the young in their struggle-for man's freedom and for the re-birth of the people of Israel in our own land - our State.

         Together with the sounds of the Kadish prayer over your unknown, far and wide strewn graves, another song has arisen to Heaven, the joyful song of our people, which has lived to see Deliverance, the song of all the people, both in Israel and in the Diaspora.

         May your memory be preserved forever, to the lasting glory of all the martyrs ! ! !

         Not a poet or a writer has penned these pages dedicated to the memory of our town and townsmen. You have no poet, nor great artist, our vanished community, to sing of you. No brilliant master of the language, or thinker has given here expression to the grief and mourning that fill his heart.

         Whoever reads these pages of reminiscences may perhaps sense some of the bereavement that never leaves the minds and hearts of those whose childhood was spent in the streets and lanes of our town. In that town there existed, forever struggling for survival and for the unique Jewish way of life, the wonderful Oshmana community, blessed be its memory. Simple, ordinary, but very loving people have bared their souls in this book. The lines they wrote down are not remarkable for their highflown style or analysis, since what mattered was to put down the last remnants of memories of the past and let them, in the form of writen word, speak and tell their tale.

         The deep emotional need to pay that awful and immense debt to those, who were our fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, acquaintances and friends, and all those that breathed the air of our common daily life there, compelled us to write.

         In their own blood and tears they rose above the their personal experience, leaving behind all that was good and beautiful, dynamic and brilliant, to fulfil the old prophecy: "In thy blood thou shalt live, in thy blood thou shalt live!"

         Great is our hope and deep our belief that it will be possible for the reader to participate in what did exist and happen and which is now no more, in that upon which curses instead of blessings were showered.

         However, there are not only tears to be found in these broken phrases, but also a firm faith in the eternity, in the survival of Israel. And out of the prayer in our hearts there rises a tearladen hope that the rule of evil will vanish for ever from the face of the earth.

         What monument, what memorial for the future generations to see, can a loving son raise for you, dear little town, except these few pages, filled with sorrow and regret, what else can one do but resurrect your memory for all those that have survived your awful destruction.

         May your memory become one with the memories of the Eternal People, which has for times innumerable been martyred on the scaffold of evil, yet out of the flames of countless stakes has arisen forever as the victor!!!

Michael Peled

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