The first written account of Radoshkowitz dates from the end of the eighteenth century. It was written by Rabbi Shlomo David, who was then the head of the Yeshiva of Radoshkowitz. He used to scribble notes at the edges of whatever text he was studying. These comments concerned private and public affairs and wound up being passed down from generation to generation.

From these we learn that at the time of Catherine the Great, Radoshkowitz was a thriving town. At one point there was a plan to build a major highway linking Vilna, Minsk, and Smolensk. This highway was supposed to run through northern Radoshkowitz. On one hand it would bring great economic prosperity; on the other, it threatened to cut through the Jewish cemetery. But the plan never materialized.

The town consisted mostly of small shopkeepers. There were a few well-to-do landlords and a couple of rich men who leased forest tracks and employed many people. The actual workers were gentiles and the clerks were Jewish. These employers provided housing and a decent living for their employees.

The townspeople had to pay taxes to the government. In addition they had to contribute heavily for the needs of the community: the yeshiva and its students, the synagogue, the rabbi, two mohalim, and hordes of poor people, both from their own community and others. From the remaining texts we learn that people complained about the high assessments imposed on them to cover unexpected community needs.

These writings also reflect the social gap between the esteemed Torah scholars and their students, and the lower, uneducated classes. It was a big honor for a rich man to marry his daughter to one of the yeshiva students and thus enable him to continue his studies without worrying about making a living.

Travelling salesmen (book sellers) brought news about the world in general and from the Jewish world in particular. At the time (the end of the 18^th century) a rift began in the Jewish world between the Hassidim and their opponents. No such rift developed in Radoshkowitz.

Most problems of daily life were ruled on by the rabbi. One case involved a grain merchant who wanted to hire a worker who was a Cohen. The merchant learned from a yeshiva student, that the Shulchan Aruch clearly forbids the use of a Cohen in such work, because it would be sacrilegious. The merchant couldn't decide what to do. The question was brought to the rabbi, who allowed the employment of the Cohen on the grounds that if he were not employed, he would end up relying on charity, which would be a worse sacrilege.

Another question of employment arose when the caretaker of the bathhouse died, leaving a widow and three children. The leaders of the community wanted to hire his fourteen year old son, in order to ensure the livelihood of the family. Others questioned this appointment because the boy's name was "Shalom," which is one of the names of God. Would it not be sacrilegious to use that name in a place where people undressed? Again the rabbi found a practical solution. He suggested that, instead of "Shalom", they use the German translation, "Fried." A notice was posted at the synagogues and at the entrance to the bathhouse, that in the future, Shalom, while in the bathhouse, should be called, "Fried."

This only demonstrates how religion shaped matters of everyday life. Another story, which demonstrates the degree of religiosity and modesty of some, is that of Reb Shimcha Neta, who broke an arm and a leg when he fell. According to the sages, while a couple is having sex, no creature, not even a fly or a mosquito, should be present. But there was a fly in the room. So he climbed on some furniture while trying to kill it, fell, and was injured. He poured his heart out to the rabbi that now he was unable to satisfy his wife. The rabbi's reaction was, "If all the Jews were as righteous as this young man, the redemption would already have come."

He once came to the rescue of the whole community when word got around that the rope, marking the "eruv," had been cut by some gentile rascals, no doubt, and every one on their way home from synagogue froze in place. When Shimson heard of it, he rushed to tie the rope together again and thus, saved the day.

On Erev Pesach, I would sell my chametz to Shimshon, as did many other Jews, and he knew to return the bill of sale when Pesach was over.

He was also responsible for giving people bad news (a duty performed by a goy). And he did it with delicacy and sensitivity.

He also performed many duties which were not the duties of a goy. He provided us with tree branches and decorations for Succoth, he took part in our Purim celebrations, dressed up as Haman, and ended up being invited to our homes to partake of meats and drinks.

He spoke Yiddish and knew our laws and customs. At the same time he was an observant Christian.

We paid Shimshon for all he was doing for us, as a community and as individuals. He was also part of any celebration and was given food from the table. He was also given chickens when their kashrut was in question.

It was sad that Shimshon died suddenly. One day he just did not wake up.

I first came to Radoshkowitz at the age of ten, with my father, who took the post of rabbi. In the following years I came to know and to love it. The main street stretches diagonally from north to south. The street is tree-lined, and is part of the road from Vilna to Minsk. The side streets lead to fields and forests and some nondescript gentile neighborhoods. In the center are the markets and stores, and until the big fire (1851) some of the wealthiest residences stood there . They were replaced by plain, walled buildings which fit into the drab business section.

Opposite, at the low end, stretched the spiritual center: synagogues and houses of learning (Baytai Midrash). The old synagogue, tall and always dark, was a remnant of the Gothic era. It was in poor condition, and many a boy climbed through its unsafe back rooms for a smoke near the tower. On the day of the big fire, this building went up in flames and burned like a huge torch. After a big effort to collect funds for a new building, it was replaced with one made of stone and plaster, which in a short time developed holes and cracks, which were never tended to.

Minsk, forty kilometers away, a town steeped in modern trade and culture, left its imprint on Radoshkowitz . Our people were pleasant; Hebrew and general education were part of us. Private Hebrew teachers and government public schools where Russian was taught, coexisted. Meetings with the gentile lords were short and cordial. They discussed meat, tariffs, profit distribution, repair of the bath house, etc. And in the evening people would meet in each others' homes for conversation, to play cards, etc. The young would roam the countryside and were very fond of swimming in the rivers.

There was a feeling of satisfaction and calm which generally prevailed. And when I would return to Radoshkowitz from studies away, and see from afar the top of the Catholic church, a sense of peace and contentment would envelop me as I was coming home.

A dozen years passed. The church still stands as a reminder of the loss which will never return.

Between the two world wars we kept very close ties with Minsk: business, children attended school there, and it was one's first stop on the way to the big world. That ended when the border between Russia and Poland separated us. From then on we looked to Vilna as our gate to the outside world.

Life was quiet before World War I. The police commissioner's main concern was taking care of the drunkards on Market Day. He was well respected, but when word of the 1917 revolutions reached us, he had to seek refuge in one of the Jewish homes.

Main Street was lined with shops. Their owners were busy on market days. Other times they spent their days watching passersby when the weather was fair or keeping warm inside their shops in winter.

The only change to the usual quiet of Main Street were Jewish weddings and funerals which came down Main Street. On the other hand, if it was a gentile funeral, the shopkeepers would close their stores while the procession went by.

Another excitement on Main Street was the fire department parade. It would draw onlookers, both Jewish and gentile. The fire house, itself, was a center of many social activities until it burned down, taking with it all its equipment. It took a while until it was replaced. Sometimes excitement was provided by visiting "magic men" who could lift tables and chairs with their feet and teeth. Sometimes on a weekday, a visiting cantor and singers would come. The shopkeepers would close early and hurry to the synagogue with their families to listen to these guests.

On Tisha B'Av it was customary to visit the graves of relatives. Most people went to

the new cemetery but some went to the old one, with its very old gravestones and trees. One of the graves was of the poet, M. Z. Mané, who was born and died in Radoskovich. Teachers and their students and members of the Zionist movement visited it every year.

The weekly market day would bring life and excitement to town. In addition to all the merchandise exchanging hands at the market, the bars and stores did brisk business, too, and the streets were full of people. At the end of the day the gentiles went home, and the Jews went back to their routine of preparing for Friday and then Shabbat.

The synagogue courtyard was the town's spine. Around a large square, surrounded by many houses, stood the four synagogues, the old Beit Midrash, the new Beit Midrash, the Lubavitch Shtibel, and the Kvidinov Shtibel.

The old Beit Midrash was the largest. It was made of bricks and seemed too large for the congregation. With the years it fell on hard times and was poorly heated. It was usual to see a few members praying around the two heaters by the entrance. After the October Revolution it also served as a meeting place for Jews and gentiles alike and as a dance hall, to the dissatisfaction of its Jewish members.

The new Beit Midrash was made of wood and replaced the previous one which was destroyed in the "big fire." This one was very popular and filled with members. The spiritual leader was Reb Haim Moshe, the shamus, who served for many years and was liked by all. The members were progressive, and when the Zionist movement reached our town, this synagogue was at its center.

Across from these two stood the other shtiblach. From the outside it was hard to distinguish between them. In the "Kvidinov" the outstanding person was Moshe Aharon, the undertaker, who was jovial and devoted to his trade. He was helped by his love for drinking. Sometimes he would be found sound asleep in one of the graves he had dug.

In the other shtibel, a more "aristocratic" spirit prevailed. Its membership included the wealthier people, who allowed Zionists to join and supported their fund raising. The Rabbi was Zalman Hillel, whose pleasant ways made him very popular and admired as a teacher of the town's children.

People who lived around the synagogues were mostly artisans. The rest of the townspeople were shopkeepers. The two "classes" did not mix.

Along the river were the kosher slaughter houses, the house of the righteous woman, Ziré-Meré and her daughter, Sara Epstein, who owned the best bakery, and the tailor shop of Reb Alter Shulman, in which the Zionist minyan took place. To complete the picture, we must mention Haim Hershel, the tinsmith and his son, Fishel, as well as crooked-head Basha and her son, Avraham-Etzé and his two sisters. All three of her children were wonderful musicians and a source of pleasure to their listeners. There were also Grona, the wonderful baker, Vavka, the tailor, and Haya, whose fresh apples in summer and frozen apples in winter were well known.

In the poorest section of town stood some empty buildings. These served as housing for the town's poor and for many a travelling family who stopped on their way through.

Near the river stood the public bath house. It was very busy on Friday, when there was a steady stream of men, women and children. The heating of the stoves and the upkeep of the pumps was the job of Avraham Ben Haim Heshel.

People were busy scrubbing and washing, complaining about the water not being hot enough, or there not being enough of it. Those who could stand the heat would go into the "sweat room."

On summer days people would bathe in the river. Even the rabbi would come, but he kept to himself, away from other people. The Catholic physician, Zalinski, a heavyset man, would also come, accompanied by his personal servant, who would get into the river with his master and wash him.

On both sides of the river were fields and meadows, then the small forest and then the big forest. These were places for picnics on Saturdays. But a Jew, alone, would not go to the big forest. These forests served as shelter during the time of the Holocaust.

This is the image of my childhood. Since, many changes have occurred. The town was destroyed and is no more. We keep its memory in our hearts.

A) The Beginning of a Spool (A Collection of Memoirs from Life in Radoshkowitz)

Contrary to the general assumption that we are all born with a desire to wander and explore (geographically), our own fathers and grandfathers had no such desire. They were well rooted in their town, and no wind could bend them.

B) Rooted Jews

Even though Radoshkowitz was a small town, for hundreds of years people were content to live there all their lives without leaving it.

Reb Leib Hertz was the liaison between the town's people and the big city. He would supply them with all their business needs. Spiritual needs were served by local resources. Klezmer, cantor, Purim players, etc. were all supplied by local talent.

With this attitude it is no wonder that the townspeople frowned on immigration to America. They would bid farewell to the immigrant, with sad expressions, as though they were paying a condolence call, and say, "May you come back to us soon." In many cases, they did come back and from then on were called, "Americaner."

Another event which caused much criticism was when Yeruham Freidé-Henia's opened a new type of store where he sold tickets to travel by ship. It caused a wave of discontent.

Finally, young people began leaving town, not to go abroad, but to the big cities – Minsk and Vilna – to study in high schools and universities. This was met with dissatisfaction and concern..

C) The Synagogues and the Public "Clubs"

Socially, Radoshkowitz was quite divided. There were the upper classes, who saw themselves much superior to the poor lower classes, and between the two, were the middle class, where most people belonged.

Each of the three classes kept to themselves and had a special meeting place. The first such "clubs" were the synagogues. People spent long hours there in addition to prayer, discussing business and social deals.

The big synagogue was the meeting place for the middle class, the Lubavicher Shtibel for the rich people, the new synagogue and the Kvidinovi Shtibel, for the poor and lower class. But as fate would have it, with time, the new synagogue became the meeting ground for the educated, the Zionists and the new socialists in town.

One meeting place where all the people were equal was the bathhouse. There, people went every Erev Shabbat and holiday, and would discuss all matters, public and private, without any inhibitions.

Another such "club" was in the open air, on the corner of Minsk and Vilna Streets, where people would meet (except on market days) and discuss ideas and events of the day, with no class distinction.

But in spite of the social division of the townspeople, in times of need, all got together and were a model of unity and self-support. Most of the inhabitants were related to each other, as for example, the many families named Isaacson or Rubin. In the case of a joyous or tragic occasion, all the Jews would come to share in the event. When monetary help was needed, people would form ad hoc committees and do what was necessary. This kind of committee would be formed by a generous person. I remember one such a person, Reb Michal, the shochet. He was special, young in spirit (I knew him as an old man), righteous and full of fun, the first to wipe a tear from someone's face, and always at the heart of any merriment. The whole Jewish population of Radoshkowitz was one big family, in the best sense of the word.

D) Unity in a Time of Change

The Russian Revolution brought about major changes in that big country. Some of them were felt even in Radoshkowitz. It brought on a struggle between the generations, though it did not cause a real rift. Let me demonstrate this with my own experience. I was raised in a very observant home. Reading of "the text" (biblical) was of foremost importance. But with the new era came changes in the texts we read. My father's was the Talmud, whereas my brother's was Gratz's book, "The History of the Jews." Later, when my turn came, my text was the writings of Bogdanov (who popularized Marx), "Chapters in Economic Politics." But like my father and my brother, I read with total abandon. I found myself reading out loud in the same chanting style as my ancestors before me. So even though the text was very different, the style was very much the same.

E) M. Z. Mané

We all took great pride in our local poet, Mordecai Zvi Mané. He, himself used a pseudonym, "Hamatzir" – Habachur Mordecai Zvi Yeled Radoshkowitz (The Lad, Mordecai Zvi from Radoshkowitz).

Every community needs a strong tree to hang their local patriotism on. Our tree was Mané. Between Mané and the Jews of Radoshkowitz existed a real love affair. His grave in the old cemetery was always decorated with flowers brought by the youth of the town. The older population took care of his tombstone. And even a small hill outside town, on which he supposedly wrote one of this famous poems, was a site for pilgrimages.

I remember that when I came to Minsk for the first time, and people asked me where I came from, I answered, "From Radoshkowitz" and people would comment, "Ah, Mané's town."

In Radoshkowitz the name Mané meant different thing to different people, but it always stood for praise and glory. Even the people who helped Mané achieve his reputation as a painter and a poet, basked in his claim to fame. Thus, I learned from my father, very early in my life, about Reb Avraham Sofer and his son, who were among the first to notice Mané's talent. I learned about the cantor, Shmuel Chiz, from Warsaw, who was one of Mané's first friends, about Reb Arye Leib Shinhaus, who was a talented author in many fields, but whose most important achievement was Mané's biography.

For generations Mané's name was very popular in Radoshkowitz, until the town was destroyed by the Nazi animals. The first Hebrew school was named after him. When I last visited Radoshkowitz in 1935, coming from Eretz Israel, I and my friends went to visit Mané's grave. I never thought that only a few years later the town and its inhabitants would exist no more. Two years later I received a letter from Prague, from a friend from Radoshkowitz, suggesting that we co-author a book about Mané.

Later yet, when I first got word about the destruction of Radoshkowitz and its Jewish community, the story was that the Jews of Radoshkowitz had been rounded up by the Nazis and shot next to Mané's tomb. This turned out to be incorrect, but my initial shock made me tell the story in Ha'aretz, where I pointed out its symbolism – the mass grave side by side with Mané's, inseparable in life and death.

Radoshkowitz was a small, modest town, surrounded by green fields and forests, and two rivers, the Goyka and Viazinka, where we swam in the summer and ice-skated in the winter. The same modesty and moderation applied to its economy, as well as to its spiritual life. Even though there were differences of opinion, they were not extreme, and a compromising approach prevailed.

Most people were progressive in their ways and in politics. When it came to Zionism, the majority supported what is now the Labor Party (Mapai). Despite twenty years of Polish rule they did not adopt Polish ways and did not change their names, their language or the education of their children.

When World War I broke out in July, 1914, its events did not bypass Radoshkowitz. In the second year of the war, word reached the town that the German army was approaching, and many people decided to flee. The next two historic dates, the 1917 Revolution and the Balfour Declaration of 1918, found Radoshkowitz alive and well. Both events caused excitement among our people. But the good times did not last.

In 1920 war broke out between Russia and Poland, and Radoshkowitz was caught in the crossfire and changed hands a few times. When the final borders were drawn, it resulted in an economic death sentence for Radoshkowitz. The villages, which supplied its agricultural needs and its customers, were now in Russia, whereas Radoshkowitz was in Poland. Business in Radoshkowitz came to an almost complete halt. Young people began to leave as there was no future in town, and taxes were very heavy. Poverty spread, and yet, people still hoped that things would change for the better.

The will to survive and prosper found its expression in the spiritual and social life of the town. It drew spiritual strength from the Zionist movement, from the rebirth of Eretz Israel and its language. The "Hechalutz" movement opened one of its first offices in town. Young people from Radoshkowitz were members of the Third Aliya and subsequent ones, as well as representatives of "Hechalutz" in other Polish towns.

Over time, young people created other Zionist clubs. The most important among these was called, "Freedom and Rebirth." It became a center for the whole region and had a few hundred members, sixteen to eighteen years old. "Hashomer Hazair" had one of the best organized centers. It educated its members in a pioneering spirit.

The Zionist Federation was the overseeing organization. Its leaders were most enlightened. They established organized, important activities to educate and promote their ideas and ideals. Its greatest achievement was the establishment of the Jewish school, "Tarbut" ("Culture"), which educated the young and gave hope to their parents for a better future in the Jewish homeland. This school received no support from the Polish authorities. It was supported solely by parents' donations and the dedication of its teachers. All realized how important this school was for the future of its students. This was an elementary school, so for high school the Jewish students had to attend either the Russian, Belarussian, or Polish schools. Very few Jewish students attended the public elementary school in town.

The Jewish education served its students well. It prepared them for future positions as Jewish educators elsewhere and for other leadership roles. Those students who immigrated to Israel found that their school had taught them Hebrew and taught them to feel at home in the new land.

Among Radoshkowitz's young people, a few showed a talent for the theater. Those organized a group of actors who produced shows based on works by Gordon, Pinsky, Livik, Dimov, etc. Another accomplishment of these young people was the establishment of a Jewish library named for M. Z. Mané.

When Radoshkowitz was cut off from Minsk (as a result of the new borders) it developed a kinship with Vilna. Many young people found their way to Vilna where they attended many of its educational institutions. They stuck together in this city, and many created a family away from home, at the home of Dvora Gordon, a very special woman.

Jewish Radoshkowitz is no longer; it was destroyed by evil men. But in our memories it will live forever.

The years resulted in deteriorating economic conditions in Radoshkowitz, especially after the new border was established. Half of the Jewish population (there was a total of 300 Jewish families and 300 gentile families) depended for their livelihood on financial aid from relatives in America.

Storekeepers bought their supplies in Vilna (paid for with IOU's), and sold them with very little profit. The general depression in Poland did not help, either. Moreover, everyone had to pay heavy taxes to the government. Conditions continued to deteriorate to the point where some people depended on handouts of food and money. Things got so bad that finally many people left Radoshkowitz. They went to America, Australia, France, England and of course, Eretz Israel. The Jewish Federation tried with little success to retrain the Jewish population and find different occupations like agriculture and beekeeping, but with very small success. The only exception was a handful of big business people who supplied Radoshkowitz and a few nearby towns with necessities like sugar, flour, and gasoline.

Market days were the major source of income. Accordingly, there were two market days a week, the minor one on Thursday and the major one on Sunday. Both gentile farmers and Jewish business people depended on them, so if a gentile holiday fell on Thursday, the market day would be moved to the preceding Wednesday. Better conditions existed in the fields of public affairs and spiritual-national (Zionist) activities. The volunteer fire department was well equipped, and put out many a fire. Their hall served as a meeting place, ballroom and theater. The bank, established by Yoel Lipman, Avi Yoel-Dov Isaacson, Ben-Zion Shepsenbul and Yekutiel Funt, was responsible for much vital economic activity. Also, there were some decent educational institutions. There was the heder, which taught in the old fashioned style, and the public library which circulated many good books in Hebrew, Russian and Yiddish, but the jewel of the new national Hebrew education was the Tarbut school, which educated the future generation. This most important school was the result of efforts of the Jewish community's spiritual leaders, Avi Yoel-Dov Isaacson, Ben-Zion Shepsenbul, Yoel Lipman (Zrubavel) and Ya'acov Cahanovich. The president of this institution was Avi Yoel-Dov Isaacson, who devoted much of his time to this school. He loved the Hebrew language, and spoke it whenever he could. His children were well versed in Hebrew. He and a few of his friends established an office for the Jewish Federation, in town, and were instrumental in encouraging young people to go to Eretz Israel.

A few of those who graduated the Belarussian high school continued their education in Soviet Russia, Vilna, Prague, Geneva, Grenoble, and Toulouse. Shmuel Rubin's oldest son became a professor of botany in Ukraine; Avraham Lappidot, became a professor of forestry in Balarus, and Yoseph Shepsenbul became professor of anatomy in the United States. A few young people graduated the Jewish teachers' seminary in Tarbut in Vilna and ended up teaching in elementary schools in various communities in Poland.

A few young people excelled in the arts. A few young women played the piano well. The drama club performed in the firehouse hall, with proceeds going to help various causes. Some of the participants were actors, likeYoseph Lipman (Y. Zrubavel, today a member of "Ohel" theatre in Tel Aviv), Shmuel Nechemia Isaacson, Miriam Isaacson, Shimon Zukovski, Haim Shapira, Dvora Pederski, Yehudit Greiss, Yerachmiel Resnik and more. Others - comedians - performed in family circles or in Shabbat gatherings in Mina Roda's home. But the most active were the various Zionist groups which sprang up after World War I, "Hechaluz," "HaShomer Hazair" and other youth organizations.

Two activities stand out in my mind from the fourteen years I spent in Radoshkowitz. A) the warm hospitality extended to Jewish soldiers who served in the Polish army during the Russia-Polish war. B) The many activities of the Jewish National Fund.

In 1921 I served in the Polish army, which fought the Red Army. In our travels we

stayed for a while in Radoshkowitz, in private homes. My friend Feivel Borovich (who is now also living in Israel) and I stayed with a gentile family, Golobovich, on Vilna Street. Our job in the army was supplying food and clothing, so we supplied our host with many food items otherwise unavailable. His daughter cooked the most delicious dinners for us and for many happy neighbors. But for spiritual satisfaction we became friendly with some of the town's Jewish girls. In our army unit we were fifty or sixty Jewish men, and we called ourselves, "Moshe Rabeinu's Army."

As the Jewish holidays approached and my longing for my family grew, it was much appreciated to be invited to Duba Isaacson's home. She was helped in this most generous invitation by her brother-in-law, Avraham Yitzhak Isaacson and his wife, Bracha; Reb Yoel Dov Isaacson and his wife, Shifra; and the dentist, Rivka Polakov. We were entertained throughout the holidays, we and some of our Polish officers. We were all grateful for this most generous reception. I was so impressed by it, I will never forget it as long as I live.

The other impressive event was the devoted fund raising for the JNF, by young and old alike. I especially remember the events preceding the first bazaar in Radoshkowitz. A few days before it was to be held, after weeks of gathering donations from various store keepers, and preparing many handcrafts, ourselves, we realized that we still needed a permit from the local authorities to hold the event. The meeting held to find a quick solution to the problem was attended by the JNF representative, Yehudith Gross and members of the community, Shimon Zukovski, Ze'ev Shapira, Yerachmiel Resnik, Ya'acov Segalovich, Nathan Weisbrod, and Borochanski. The weather that night was bad; it was a very cold, fall night and a very heavy rain was coming down. The only solution to our problem was to travel to the town of Molodezna to apply for the permit in person. On account of the bad weather no one volunteered to go to Molodezna. So this task fell to Yehudith Gross. She left that same night and returned the next day permit in hand.

The bazaar was held in the firehouse hall which was decorated. There was much excitement and finally the event opened with a very large attendance. Some of the crowd were not very friendly and wanted to disrupt the proceedings. So they released a bunch of white doves, but the crowds took this to be part of the celebration and welcomed it with applause. The event was a big success; it raised much more money than anticipated and was the talk of the town for a long time.

The members of the local chapter of the JNF were always looking for ways to raise money. They handed out the blue boxes so that every home had one. They held "flower days," sold stamps and flowers to school children, and raised money even at private parties like weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs and Brith-Mila's. Also on special days and holidays, they would pass the blue box around the synagogues. These tasks were usually carried out by Ben-Zion Shepsenbul, Yoel Isaacson, Yoel Lipman, Isser Tanhilevich, Ya'acov Cahanovich, Haim Goldin, and Shimon Zuckovsky. I remember being involved in such an event with Shmuel Bassin on a stormy night on Hanukah. The wind and the snow were so strong and furious we could hardly walk. But in spite of the bad weather, we made it to the last two homes. The total take was insignificant; it was just that we were caught up in the spirit of dedication to the cause of the JNF.

Another special story among the activities of the JNF was a minyan that gathered on Simchat Torah. It was attended by young and old, and it met at Alter Shulman's home. On that day the members of this minyan gave up their comfortable seats at the synagogue so they could be closer to the street, and they lured passersby to join their midst in prayer. Then they "sold" all the mitzvot and honors to the highest bidder: "Hatan Torah," "Hatan Breishit," "Hagbaha" and "Glila." This way they raised money for the JNF. Later these funds were greatly increased by the generosity of two visiting merchants. One was Zvi Burstein of Zambrov, who has since moved to Israel, and his partner, Sheinovitz, from Warsaw. After the prayer, all members of the minyan were invited for refreshments and singing. At that time they discussed their plan for more activities to raise money for their beloved cause.

I dedicate this story to the memory of those whose activities helped add another stone to the building of the state of Israel. Unfortunately, they perished, and never lived to see their dream realized.

At first the school had a rough time. The Orthodox in Radoshkowitz saw in it a competitor to the traditional heder and did everything they could to prevent parents from sending their children to the Hebrew school, where they would be exposed to all kinds of bad influences. On the other hand were the free public schools. So people had to be committed to the Zionist idea of sending their kids to Tarbut, and many were.

In its own self interest the school had to make sure it kept its students happy. So they had to find the right gimmick to satisfy every child. It was the prime responsibility of every teacher to make sure that he provided his students with the best possible education.

The sole source of funding for the school was from tuition. People in Radoshkowitz were financially limited, and this translated into a school in constant economic struggle.

Perseverance, devotion and love were the three forces that sustained the school. The teachers taught with an abundance of energy and enthusiasm, and transmitted their spirit to their students. Together they fought for the existence of the school. The methods of teaching were sometimes nontraditional and innovative. For example, in the course on Bible studies they held a trial. The defendant was Shimshon, who was accused of being overconfident in his ability to fight the Philistines and did not involve his fellow Jews in the struggle. All the participants in this trial were students under the guidance of a teacher.

When the school was internally stable it was decided to hold an exhibition of students' work. The students received the idea with great excitement. On exhibit were works in all subjects: Jewish history, quotations from the Bible, curse words from the Bible, two plays based on the Book of Ruth, geography of Radoshkowitz, Hebrew-Hebrew dictionary, works in science and geography, drawings, etc.

Among the visitors were Jews well-educated in the Bible, and some of them very skeptical as far as the school's achievements. They examined the works very carefully and soon realized that the school was doing an excellent job and could not be ignored.

The students came to love their school like a second home. The story goes that one teacher stayed after hours on a winter Friday afternoon to catch up on his work. After a while he found himself surrounded by his students. When he asked why they were still in school, they answered that they wanted another lesson. The teacher agreed, and the lesson lasted until it was time to go home and light the Shabbat candles.

The school left its imprint on the town. Hebrew was spoken by many, even the less educated, and Hebrew songs were very popular.

The school drew students from surrounding villages. It had five to six classes, 120 students between the ages of six and thirteen. There was no difference between rich and poor; no student was dismissed for lack of money. It was the teachers who suffered the consequences.

The teachers, also, were the ones who looked for additional sources of funding. The best, and basically the only source of income, were the parties held by the school population. The students performed plays, songs, declamations, etc. Even when such a party was not a financial success, it helped spread the knowledge of Hebrew songs.

The four rooms which constituted the school, also served as a meeting place for the "Hechalutz," and "Hechalutz Hatzair" youth organizations. The place was always at the heart of some Hebrew-Zionist activity.
 
 

As to the young, they suffered from cultural-spiritual suffocation. Once in a while one would hear of someone who crossed the border and went to Minsk. Others left for the universities in Vilna and Prague. But most stayed in town like fish caught in a net. Many of these dreamed of immigrating to Israel, and in preparation, joined "Hechalutz," "Hashomer Hatzair," and "Beitar." When one of these people was lucky enough to obtain a certificate of immigration, everyone rejoiced with him.

But some of the older generation also found a way to maintain an interest in the world of Torah and learning in spite of the constant struggle to make a living. Some of them were Ya'acov Moshe Alpirov, Rabbi Haim Shmuel Lappidot and his two sons-in-law, Yizhak Zalman Taller and Zvi Isaacson.

There were some more secular Jews whose concern for the spiritual survival of the community is worth mentioning. Their main concern was for the young generation. So, soon after World War I they established the Hebrew school, Tarbut. When I came to know it in 1928 it was connected to a chain of such schools which had been established in Poland. Its only source of income was the tuition paid by the students, which, at best, covered half its expenses. The rest was covered by parties organized by the teachers and run by the students, and some by the teachers forgoing their pay.

I must mention that Radoshkowitz had another school, the Orthodox heder, which was supported by former residents of Radoshkowitz who had emigrated to America. As a result, this school was free. Still, those parents with a Zionist conscience chose to send their children to Tarbut, and pay the relatively high tuition.

On top of this poor state of affairs, the Polish authorities added new decrees which were a constant harassment. It looked on this school with dissatisfaction and was constantly checking on the teachers' qualifications and the condition of the school building. They tried to close the school a few times, but only the stubborn devotion of the Jewish leaders stood in their way. To prove this, let me present parts of a letter sent by the school committee to the Union of Immigrants to Israel, written on Sept. 8, 1935:

The years 1935-6 were a difficult period for the school, confronted with financial and legal problems. Only in 1937-8 did it finally see better times, as the following letter from July 7, 1938 will attest:

The town's education leaders were right. The school became the center of all cultural activities for the Zionist youth. It saved many from ignorance and idleness. Many of its graduates went to Israel and are leading full and productive lives.

Your efforts, secular Jews, were not in vain.

A) Forgotten Dreams

I participated in an assembly of the Sons of Radoshkowitz which took place in Tel-Aviv on March 17, 1951 to honor the memory of our town's Jewish community. I sat there feeling alone and lonely. I had left Radoshkowitz fifty years earlier, before any of the people present were born. I regretted being born so early, before the establishment of the school, library and other organizations which so changed life for these young people. My father used to tell me that when the Messiah comes on a white horse all the Jews will go to Israel…while people around me received an altogether different education.

It was pleasant sitting among them, hearing the different stories of their lives and the life of the town, although their stories stayed with me for days and filled my heart with dread and sadness.

To this day I love our Radoshkowitz. I am fond of every corner I remember. A day doesn't go by that I don't think or speak of it. But our early memories are mixed with our emotions and are subject to our longing for childhood and youth and our dreams and hopes of those years. We think that were we to return to that charmed place we would find the same beauty and charm, the same dreams we left behind. But regrettably, it is not so. I know it from my own experience.

I left Radoshkowitz when I was eighteen. I went to Odessa and stayed with my brother. He wanted me to enjoy the city and showed me every important building and park. But I could not get excited. I longed for Radoshkowitz, its beautiful river, bridges, trees, etc. In 1905, I immigrated to Israel. First I lived in Jaffa and later in Beersheba, but my longings for Radoshkowitz did not subside until the much awaited day came, when I went back for a visit. I reached Radoshkowitz with the midnight train. At three in the morning I reached our home on Tatars Alley. I was very happy and awaited impatiently for the sunrise, when I would see all that I had left years before. But it was not so. Everything was there, but it was not as I had remembered. It had all shrunk. It was smaller, poorer. It was the same and yet not the same. I was very disappointed, sorry and sad. What had happened?

After much thought and reflection, I understood. Everything was there, the same, unchanged, but I had changed. This must be true for every one. We long for a place or situation, but its beauty and charm are subjective. We long for our childhood, our youth, which cannot be brought back.

B) The Synagogue Court

We lived on a nameless alley which my father referred to in his articles as Tatar Alley, because two Tatar families used to live there. My father would chuckle every time he received mail addressed with that name. From that alley one could reach all four corners of town: the market; the cemetery; the main street, which would lead any place – to Vilna or Minsk Streets; and also to the post office lot.

The lot on which the post office must have stood was a place for people to go for a walk. The river, which crossed town, was deeper at this point, and many people used to swim here during the summer. Since there was no building in which to dress and undress, people did so in the open, and the only cover was in the tall grass. I remember a time after a Christian holiday when a poor, old gentile man hid in the grass and peeked at the girls. When he was caught, he was chased with screams and blows and never seen again.

I was always glad to go on errands for my mother. I would love to go by way of a small bridge and would often get lost day dreaming while watching some small fish or a pretty stone in the river. Sometimes I would wade in the river and forget my mission altogether. What would bring me back to reality were the voices of the boys leaving the heder at the synagogue court across the river.

On the other side of the river stood "the cold synagogue" building. On its right stood the small Beit Midrash, and next to it the shtibel of the Hassidim - my favorite, since that's where my father would pray, and that's where I went every year for "Hakofot." I liked this synagogue court for several reasons. In summer months when the doors were open, you could hear conversations from the workshop of Haim-Hashil, the tinsmith and from Ziré-Meré's bakery with its wonderful smells. Not far from there was the house of Shaya, the woman's tailor, and when he was away you could hear his seamstresses singing. I remember that when I was ten years old, Shaya made dresses for me and my sister for our brother's wedding. I was so happy that my red wool dress was made by the best tailor.

Nearby was the house of Eliyahu-Leib and his wife Haya-Dina. He was tall, his back was bent and his glasses very thick. When I would walk by and hear their conversation through the open windows I would pause to listen. He was known for his stinginess. When eating he was so concerned that his wife might eat too much, that he would ask her, "So, Haya-Dina, are you full yet? I'm full." And his wife would feel obliged to say, "I'm full, too." He would immediately carve a star of David at the edge of the bread to make sure that it would not be sliced any more. He was not poor; on the contrary, he was a money lender.

I remember another man, Zosha, the candle maker. He was tall and straight while

other men of his age were bent over. He let his wife and two daughters do all the work making and selling candles while he took it easy. The one who worked the hardest was the younger daughter, Grona. She worked hard and was difficult to marry off. It was true that she was not exactly good looking, but she was bright, quick and hard working. Finally, she was married off to a widower with six children, Netka, the melamed, who also baked matzot for Pesach. After his wife died, at the end of the thirty days mourning, people suggested that he marry Grona, and they did get married. Grona settled in his home and continued to toil, taking care of six children and baking.

One winter night her husband went on a buying trip to one of the villages. In his coat pocket he had matches, which ignited when he stood next to a hot stove. He tore his clothes off and returned home disheveled. When his wife saw him she burst out crying, and lamented her bitter fate, being married to him.

C) The Women of the Market

When I was a little girl, the market day was Sunday, until it was changed to Thursday. But old habits died hard; the farmers continued to come on Sundays and we had two market days a week. This turned out to be a blessing since it brought some income at the beginning of the week and a little more for Shabbat.

I remember a few women who would buy eggs and fruit at the market and then sell them door to door for a few pennies more. They would borrow the needed money on Wednesday and return it on Friday. I remember one such loan which went bad. The woman was a black sheep of sorts, who lived at the end of Vilna Street. She needed a larger loan and had a rough time finding someone to lend her the money. Finally she found a neighbor who agreed, provided she would pay him back on Sunday. She did not show up on Sunday, nor on the following Sunday. Finally the man went to her home, but she look at him as though she saw him for the first time and said to her husband, "Itze, who is this man and what does he want?"

I remember Teibe, the Dipper, who had two lines of work: she worked at the Mikve dipping women, and at the market she bought eggs for resale. She lived with her husband in a room they rented in Sara-Dreize's house. In those days, after "the big fire," I frequented Sara-Dreize's home, which stood across from the Provosslavic Church. I loved visiting there – the little mount on which the building stood, and the trees near the church – maybe because until the fire, that's where our house used to stand, the house where I was born.

At the time of the Dreyfus Affair, Zalman, Sara-Dreise's son, used to receive the newspaper, "Hazfira," in order to follow the various developments. Even though I was only ten years old, I followed the affair with great interest, as did many other people whose conversations I would listen to. But Teibe, the Dipper, was interested only in her own affairs. I remember one day, Sara-Dreize's house was full of people discussing the Dreyfus trial, Teibe came out of her room and said to her husband, "Tell me, Zalmanke, who is this Dreyfus, a man with three legs?"

Let me mention the Duma (county building) in Radoshkowitz, a two story building which stood on Minsk Street, next to Boiweed Garden. I remember it well since my father used to take me with him each time he went there. He would see a gentile clerk, whom we called, "Captain." He must have been a retired army officer. He was an older man with whom many Jews were friendly. The other clerk was Yoshé-Iché Mandles Greenhaus, and I remember him and his wife. They had five pretty daughters and a son named Mendel, who, I believe, is now in Israel. Yoshé's face was usually sad and serious, but a Jew with five daughters and one son has quite a burden. Only at the Duma did he smile and tell jokes.

There was this woman called Musha-Fayge, who did odd jobs, from kneading dough, to taking care of sick women, etc. Her face looked like a chunk of dough with finger marks in it. But she was pleasant and never argued with the women. She was the poorest of the poor, and she would break the fast after Yom Kippur with a cold potato and a piece of herring. No one ever gave her a handout, and she never complained.

One day she received a letter from relatives in America telling her to get a passport because they planned on bringing her over. She was very happy and went to discuss it with Yoshé. He looked at her, examined her looks and searched for any particular markings. She then told him that since birth she had an unusual belly button. Since that day she was referred to as "Musha-Fayge, the Belly Button." There were other people with special nicknames, simple, practical people. Where are all those people? They were lucky to die of natural causes and not the strange deaths of their descendants…
 
 

My grandmother's house was a dark, old, large wooden building, which stood near the court of the synagogue. In its big room stood an oven, and everyone was always busy taking care of it. In this house lived Aunt Haya-Eta, whose husband had left her and disappeared in America with her two children. She lived from occasional jobs, like baking cakes for market day, cooking for weddings, feeding ducks during winter months and leasing vegetable gardens. Some neighbors lived behind the oven and a curtain. The big yard would turn to mud during the rainy season and when the snow melted. Then we would walk on wooden planks. There were duck coops around the yard and their sound competed with that of the nearby water plant.

During the month between Purim and Pesach , the house would become the center of activity for the entire Jewish community. On the day after Purim, the house would change. The curtain behind the oven was removed, the walls were white-washed and a large "Lux" lamp was hung. Sawhorses, with fresh smelling planks, were set up. On both sides of these planks stood young women with their tools, ready to make matzot. In the corner, one woman would mix the batter in a shining copper bowl, and two boys stood next to her, one with flour, one with water, ready to assist her. She had the most physically demanding job, plus she had to put up with everybody's advice and criticism. At the head of the line stood the woman whose matzot were being baked at that moment. She would hand out cakes of dough to the women who rolled them out. She would also order the woman mixing the dough to make it as hard as possible so that it would turn out brittle and tasty. From there the rolled out dough would be handed to young men, who, with the help of a ruler and roller with points, would line the matzot with rows of holes, to prevent them from rising. Finally the baker would put the dough in the oven for a few minutes. When they were taken out, their aroma filled the house. The matzot were put into a large box and from there went to the straw box of "Short Yoshka," who was thin and deaf. He carried in the flour sent by each family and carried out the finished product. These straw boxes were larger than Yoshka, and when he was paid for this service he would thank the family in his usual way, "Let's hope that next year I won't be your servant, and you won't be my employer."

The commotion generated by the baking of the matzot was especially loved by the children. Those whose family's matzot were being baked on a given day would be running around, creating a lot of noise. They were especially excited by the small matzot baked just for them. And I, my grandmother's granddaugher, would join the celebrating children. Later, machines for baking matzot were brought in from Minsk, but some people continued with the old-fashioned way, maybe for reasons of kashrut. And my memory remains of those fun-filled days preceding Pesach.

A candle to the soul of my mother, Sara Epstein. Shabbat. The house is full of activity before the arrival of the "Shas Society," who are going to celebrate the completion of studying a portion of the Gemara. The long table, which on week days stands along the wall, is moved to the center of the room. It is covered with a white table cloth and piled with different kinds of baked goods and sweets. We, the women, are busy setting all thus up, encouraged by mother, who is excited and checking every detail.

"They're here," someone calls. They are in the synagogue court coming toward our home. In devotion and honor of our dead father, the "Shas Society," comes to our home to celebrate the completion of every portion. They come to bless mother, and ease the pains of her widowhood.

The first in line is the rabbi. Next to him is Ya'acov-Pinchas with his penetrating look. Next to him, Reb Yekutiel, who teaches my brother Gemara. Behind them, a long line of students from the Yeshiva in which my father used to study and discuss Bible and Gemara.

They sit at the table while reciting the blessings for this special occasion and for the wine and then eat heartily. Some of the young men who eat at our home on weekdays, feel at home, and after the rabbi's speech, begin singing "zmirot." It is joyous and noisy.

Then, I remember, the house would be empty, and all that was left were empty glasses, empty plates and some left-over food here and there, and mother standing with one hand leaning on a chair. She is not moving. She does not notice us. Only her lips are moving.

"Mother," I cry, "What is the matter?"

"Oh, my daughter, I am thanking God for the privilege of hearing Torah study in our home, as we were used to while your father was living."

Do you think, my dears, that life is for playing. Not at all. When I look around these days, I do not understand the young women today. They bear two children and finished. Is this what it's all about? My midwife used to tell me, "Hanna-Basha, a chicken who lays eggs every day has a red crest, and those who lay eggs once in a great while have a blue one and cluck all day." Today's women are like those chickens who cluck all day.

Thank God, I raised my twelve children without the help of nannies or servants, and they lacked nothing. When the children were young I used to work extremely hard. I would get up early in the morning and buy rolls from Sara Ziré-Meré's and a bag of dried beef from Yoshé, the butcher. I would cook milk-soup for breakfast and then make lunch. When I was frying potato pancakes, the children would surround me, and before I had time to remove the pancakes from the frying pan, they would call at the same time, "Me! Me! Me!"

I would bake bread twice a week and for Shabbat and holidays, hallah and sweets. In summer I cooked jellies and in winter, preserves. I would spread the preserves on bread and would give it to the children, while in summer they ate bread with cheese.

I took care of the cow, too. I cooked bran and water every day. I would let the milk turn sour in large ceramic containers, make it into cheese and finish it in the oven. I also made sour cream and butter.

I must say that after a full day's work I was too tired to clean the house. When my daughter, Bracha, would return from the store in the evening, she would clean the house.

Before going to sleep we would count the children, making sure all dozen were there. Once in a while Feychinka would disappear. After looking for her everywhere, we would find her asleep behind the counter in the store.

Yes, my dears, concludes Hanna-Basha, the years went by, and thank God, I raised my children so I could be proud of them. I should now be as proud of my grandchildren.

Our old and poor next door neighbor, Ya'acov Hirshel, lived with his family in a wooden house on the other side of the well. He lived from his vegetable garden. He also raised sheep, which provided his family with milk, and they also had an old goat with big horns. This goat and I were in a constant state of war. He liked to come into our garden and eat our flowers. One day I caught him finishing off some flowers. I raised a stick to chase him away and he lunged toward me and knocked me down. Who knows how this would have ended if not for the neighbor who came to my rescue.

We raised potatoes in the sloping part of the garden. The view from that point was beautiful. Green fields and meadows looked like a mosaic, and one of the two rivers which flowed through town ran through them. This river attracted us children, and every free moment, we spent swimming in it or playing alongside it.

Beyond that was the big forest behind which hid our town. There we spent our Sabbaths. Our parents would set up hammocks and rest, and we, the children, would go deeper into the forest and pick berries and mushrooms and bring them proudly to our parents.

East of the river was the estate of the matron, Shnitkova. She owned wheat fields which spread all the way to the border between Poland and Russia. On the other side of our border was a village, so near and yet so far. We wondered about the people who lived over there, did the same things we did and probably looked at us thinking the same thoughts about us.

Life was interesting in our town. The streets were lined with cobble stones, and the wheels of the carriages made a lot of noise. We did not have asphalt roads like in the cities The carriages were full of the produce from gardens and fields, and some animals (chickens, sheep, cows) would be tied to them. Traffic was especially heavy on Thursdays, market days in Radoshkowitz. In the market the farmers and business people would set up their stands, display their merchandise and continually shout to attract buyers. Once some of the farmers sold their horse or cow, they would spend the rest of the day at the nearest bar, drinking vodka. The women shoppers would walk around with their bags full of groceries for Shabbat. Once the farmers sold their products they would use the proceeds to buy necessities at the nearby stores.

On the next day, Friday, all was quiet. All business would close in the late afternoon. It seemed that even the gentiles were observing Shabbat. Town was quiet. Shabbat meant a day of rest for all.

There were two schools in town, the public, polish school, which served the Polish kids, mainly, and the Hebrew school, Tarbut, the pride of the Jews, where the Jewish students went. I was among the lucky ones to be among the first graduating class. To this day I am grateful to my teachers who taught me the Hebrew language and culture and instilled in me the love for our fatherland.

We would go on class trips and visit the town's outskirts. Once a year we visited the Tarbut school in the nearby town of Krasna. We got to know their students well. They would visit us, too, and pay a visit to the grave of the poet M. Z. Mané.

For the various holidays we would produce plays, which were always a pleasant experience. Most of the students participated, some in song, some in dance and some in recitation. These shows attracted many of the town's people and were an opportunity to prove to our parents how well we spoke our national language. Our favorite holiday was Purim, and naturally Megilat Esther was the basis for a play. We had many costumes, and the musical numbers took quite a few musicians. The one who stood out among them was Haim Itché, a violin player. Haim Itché was one of the town's klezmers. He never took a lesson and could not read music, but he played beautifully. He was tall and thin. He had a long nose and big, sad eyes. His hat was askew and he looked retarded. When he laughed he would kick with his right leg as if riding a bike. He was invited to play at weddings and parks, and the minute he began his audience was spellbound.

Haim Itché played at our plays and rehearsals. Before Purim, when it was still winter and cold outside, he would be too lazy to come to rehearsals. We had to send messengers to bring him. Most of the time the task fell on me and my friend, Hilka (Mitzik, the shoemaker's son). We would buy Haim Itché's favorite candy. We'd usually find him asleep on the stove, and he would be angry when we woke him up. He would emphatically declare that he would not come down, but after long discussions, much begging and the candy, he would agree to get dressed and come to rehearsal with us.

In the spring of 1937, the day finally came for our family to move to Israel. Our joy was mixed with sadness at having to part with family and friends. Many came to bid us farewell and saw us on our way. Hava-Bila Trigonov saw us to the train station in Alchnovitz. The carriage moved quickly as the sun was setting. I looked back at the town. Its last lights were twinkling as though wishing us well. When we entered the village of Potniki it was dark. The farmers had returned home, and we could hear cows mooing and dogs barking. We could hear young voices singing, and a short while later, we were standing at the train station in Alchnovitz. One last wave and Hava-Bila disappeared as the train moved away. All we could hear was the even noise of the wheels, and it seemed as though we could hear the song "Anu Olim Artza" (We Are Going to Israel).

Who did not know my father, Reb Pesach-Haim, the tailor, whose shop was in the center of Market Square, and where eight workers were employed? He was a simple and honest Jew, like most of the people in town. He lived by his labor and would pay his workers even before giving my mother money for Shabbat expenses.

And who did not know my dear and good uncle, Reb Yechezkel (Hachi), the cloth merchant? He was an independent, conscientious Jew. So here are the two events which happened to my father and my uncle right in front of me and were a source of strength and encouragement in days to come.

In 1915, during World War I and the big Russian retreat from the German army, most of our town's people left Radoshkowitz. My father and my uncle were among the few who stayed. My uncle begged my father to stay, saying, "Don't worry, nobody is going to eat us up." And so we stayed put and were spared the tribulations of being refugees. I remember something which happened on Erev Yom Kippur. The few Jews who were left in Radoshkowitz did not go to the synagogue, and everyone said the prayer, "Kol Nidre," in his home. That evening a group of ten Cossacks showed up at Market Square and went looking for the few remaining Jewish families. They found our family and that of my Uncle Hachi. The Cossacks started screaming at us, "Kikes, give us money." One of them, who was riding a horse, pulled out his saber with the intention of lowering it on my uncle's head. My uncle did not lose his cool and hit the Cossack on the head with his cane. The Cossack was so surprised by my uncle's reaction that he dropped his weapons and fled. My uncle was a hero and taught me not to surrender, but to fight.

Another case of bravery on my father's part happened in 1919, after the Russian October Revolution. Our town was occupied by the Polish army. The first to march in were Pozin's soldiers, who like the Cossacks, were known for their cruelty to Jews. Their officers gave them a few hours to rob the inhabitants as a reward for occupying the place. They spread around town and began to abuse the Jewish residents. They caught Leib Hertz, the carriage owner, whose house was at the end of Market Square, and tied him to a big dog. The dog kept biting him, and the human animals stood around laughing. One of them took out his saber and cut off the poor man's beard. My father, who was watching this from his house, couldn't take it any longer. He grabbed the large American scissors and ran out. He went to the Polish officer and addressed him in Polish, "Hurry up and tell your men to let go of this Jew, otherwise I will stick these in your belly." The officer was so impressed by my father's courage that he ordered his men to stop, upon which my father patted him on his back, saying, "Good man."

These displays of courage by my father and my uncle left a deep impression on me, and I learned a good lesson – to defend myself when necessary. And so there came a day when I did just that. Once during the Polish days, a Jewish sports team defeated the Polish team. The losing team got angry, and the "shkutzim" began taking their anger out on the Jews. They went to Tatar Street and threw stones into Jewish homes and stores, breaking glass windows. Seeing this, I called upon my friends to fight back, and our attackers ended up fleeing for their lives. The same spirit served me well years later when I moved to Israel.

It's winter and it's snowing. Slowly the town is covered by a white blanket; the houses are white, and so are the trees. Here and there are some footsteps and marks left by carriage wheels. But as the snow continues to fall, even those disappear. Suddenly the quiet is broken by a group of children. They are wearing warm fur coats and are pulling sleds up a hill in the center of town. We are all tired so nobody notices how tired I am. Each one sits in his sled and starts the ride downhill, hoping to be the first one to the bottom of the hill. Some sleds collide; their riders are thrown out. We get into arguments, and then the empty sleds continue their slide. Slowly darkness envelops us, and we go home.

In summer our family would go to Odernaka, a resort town nearby. The days were bright, the sky, blue, and green grass grew all over. We spent most of our days in the nearby forest, resting in hammocks hanging between the trees. Next to the forest ran a river in which we swim. Afterwards we spread on the grass and enjoy the warm sun. I remember these wonderful days like a dream..

I was six years old when my parents and I left Radoshkowitz. We received certificates to go to Israel. I can't describe our joy on that day. Maybe that was the happiest day of my life. I did not know much about Israel and did not know the importance of our trip, but I did understand some things from my parents. Most important was the commotion at home, on the train and on the ship. All this was new to me and made me very happy.

A week before the trip we started packing. Excitement filled the house. Suitcases and crates were piled one on top of another. My mother and our maid were packing, weighing what to take and what to sell, what to give to relatives, etc. In the meantime people would stop by to bid us goodbye and give us some advice. One would say, "Be careful on board ship, and watch the children so they don't fall in the water." Another would say, "Don't let the children stick their head out the train window; it's dangerous." Another would say, "When you reach Jerusalem, God willing, don't forget to go to the Western Wall." So this is how we spent our last week in Radoshkowitz. Finally the last day came. I will never forget that day. Our friends started coming early in the morning. They brought us gifts and parted from us with tears in their eyes, hoping to meet again when they came to Israel. There were moments when there were so many people that the house seemed too small. At such a moment I left the house and went to visit my favorite places for the last time. When I came back a carriage was there. We got in, and it started moving slowly. The whole town was there. It was an unforgettable sight. It was dark, the sky full of stars, and on the ground, a whole convoy of people was accompanying a family on its way to Israel.

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