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In the Bonds of Life

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To those of our city and its district who have passed away, of blessed memory, who merited and did not merit. They merited making aliya to the Land, living in it, building it and being built up through it. Some of them succeeded in witnessing the birth of the state and living as citizens of the state; but they did not merit to live and see the continuation of the struggles of the state for its life and development; they did not merit to see and rejoice in its political successes and military victories, and in its economic development. To our great sorrow and bad luck, they did not witness the publication of this book. Let us hereby light a candle in memory of their souls. Let us engrave a marker to their souls. Let us erect a monument in their memory, some with a short biography, some with a brief epitaph, and others by only mentioning their name. Everything in accordance with what is possible with the material and information collected. Here are words of memorial to them, organized by the time of their passing from our midst, or according to the time of receipt of materials. May their souls be bound in the bonds of eternal life in our eternal homeland!

Aharon Kramer

He was one of the first pioneers to make aliya. He was young when he made aliya, only 19 years old. After four years of labor and toil, with dedication and loyalty to his work, he fell in the line of duty, as a victim of his work.

He did not merit to build a house and establish a family, for he only lived 23 years. Therefore, it was impossible for us to get to know him, to discover details about him and present them in his memory. Indeed, we did know his parents Reb Mordechai and his wife of blessed memory, and his brother David of blessed memory, one of the activists of Mizrachi in our city. Nevertheless, we did not get to know Aharon, neither in Sanok because of his early aliya at a young age, nor here in the Land, because of his premature, tragic death. Therefore, we have very few details about him, his way of life, and how he made aliya. The facts we know about him are not what was told orally, but rather what was written about him in the newspapers of the Land of that time, particularly in “Kuntrus,” the weekly of the Achdut HaAvoda Socialist-Zionist union of workers of the Land of Israel, dated 13 Elul 5684 (1924). We are presenting here the obituary, exactly as it was published in that edition of “Kuntrus.” Aside from this, the newspapers, including “Kuntrus” wrote about the accidental death of Aharon Kramer, whether because of

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the general problems exposed by his accidental death as the fourth victim in his workplace, the issues of responsibility toward a worker in the Land, and, in the wake of the problems of responsibility and security – the issue of restitution, as is written there “In accordance with the tragedy… even in this particular case, for… the late Kramer was survived by a family in Galicia…”; and perhaps due to the communal participation in the sorrow caused by the plethora of mourning announcements. For we have found these mourning announcements (which certainly represent only a portion of all those published) in various trade organizations (The Meretz Builders group, the chislers' organization, Builders' Group A of Haifa), the Council of Haifa Workers, and others. Aharon Kramer and the circumstances of his death were also mentioned at a meeting of the Council of Haifa Workers that took place on 26 of Elul of that year, more than three weeks after the day of the tragedy.

The first and primary words regarding Aharon Kramer and his death were published, as has been said, in “Kuntrus,” which we will bring down here in their original.

{Photo page 412: Uncaptioned. Aharon Kramer's passport photo.}

Aharon Kramer In the afternoon of the 4th of Elul, the members of “Kvutzat Yitzchak Levi” finished the quarrying that had lasted for three weeks. Suddenly, an explosion was heard in one of the excavation pits. When the members of the group approached the location, they found Aharon Kramer wounded in his head, and Shmuel Friedman wounded in his shoulder. Aharon struggled with his wounds for three days, and then died. Kramer had made aliya from quiet Sanok in Western Galicia four years ago, and dedicated himself to his work with his full heart. At first he worked on the Tiberias-Tzemach Road, and excelled as a good worker. Then he entered the “Yitzchak Levi” group, in which he worked until his last day. The hand of destruction afflicted “Kvutzat Levi”, and chose a victim each year. The fourth victim was dear Aharon. Aharon was 23 years old at his death. K. H.

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is now like a Bar Mitzvah -- for ten years have now passed from that journey that overtook him in the midst of his work, in the midst of the rains of wrath that fell in the Jezreel Valley in which he caught a cold that developed into the illness that cut him off in his prime.

Twenty-one years ago, this group of a half a dozen youths in Lwow, sitting in alternating fashion in the small cheder on Bernstein Street and the headquarters of the pioneering movement, as people whose prayers had been fulfilled, and whose dreams that seemed so murky at the outset were close to realization. The youths of the Jewish people waited patiently for a long time to see whether they would be answered, how they would be answered, and especially how many of them would be answered. Tens turned to hundreds, and hundreds to thousands. When the thousands of aspirations came, breaking through like a storm, those who possessed them did not know what to do first. Even if they had the full means, it would not have been sufficient, and even more so that they did not have such throughout the time – they also felt the urgent need to be among those making aliya. They therefore lifted up their sketchy eyes to the stychic^[1] situation – perhaps the power will arise of itself, overcoming the situation and presenting the path to the task and its actualization. For the new powers that were now bursting forth required different guides, people who would sprout up from the thickness of their essence.

I felt this reality of the newness that simultaneously attracts and repels during my travels over cities and towns. It seems, however, that I clearly sensed it in the city of Sanok, which stands out as a midpoint between eastern and western Galicia on a map. On our unique map that is our chapter, its impact was not great. When I arrived there in the grayness of dawn, the association dawned on me, imposed on its slight Zionist tradition as a grotesque chiaroscuro – that then, before that world war, the Yiddish “Volksfreund,” – that is: friend of the people – publication was issued, and its editor was Adelbert Shanbach. A curse: Yiddish, and the friend of the people, and Adelbert! Certainly, the melancholy spirit that came over me also affected the weather – gloomy clouds and rainy. As well, the atmosphere of the hotel in which I stayed – the odor of cold acidity that pervaded the space – was also noticeable in the footsteps of the hunchbacked lad who went through the rooms, silent, shriveled, with his face toward the ground. This was evident even from the words of her mother the innkeeper, who inquired about my purpose in the city, as she pointed to her son and said: “Look at him, who was in your Land of Israel, he went with blood and fat, and returned as a broken vessel.” She concluded, “Slow, Chalutz, Chalaputz ^[2].” However, greater than the effect of the air and the atmosphere, was the effect of the evening in the large assembly hall, in which there was a mixture of faces and voices, a bustling hive of people. It was like a mighty wave, standing with faces of despair, as people who could not absorb the situation and could not bear it. If you stuck your hand above this rumble, you might find some with linked hands, stamping this bustling circle with the stamp of authority, a plan, and a course of action. The next day, as I was strolling along the gentle upward slope of the boulevard, it was as if I was inspecting the quorum at a funeral, to see who could overcome this ragout^[3] It seems that this was nothing but a futile investigation.

Later I learned that several things escaped my notice in that city; in particular, a diligent, broad-scale Hebrew activity, the fruits of which were also known to the public. From this circle of activity, several powers emerged, whom you can find today assisting our literary and journalistic pursuits – some in the translation of classics, some in articles, and some in research. However, I did not know of them in those days, and even had I known, it would not have helped me, for their productivity was outside the mass of people that I saw in that assembly hall. However, with the passage of time, I also realized that among those few youths who strolled with me on the hill of the boulevard, there was someone worthy of attention. He was someone who seemed to me as not totally connected with me. I found out on that day of Tisha BeAv that his essence became known during the convention of chalutzim from all the cities and towns of the district. At the break of dawn, groups of people started to stream from the Istrik “lower” train station through the large forest, a distance of several parasangs^[4]. Many were walking barefoot through the small brook that led to the path that leads to the mountain village of Tilisnyca. On the long route, I heard many of their discussions and became involved in them. The conversants were

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people who were active in the chapters. They talked with an air of self understanding. A minority of them spoke with an air of bashfulness and hesitation. Among them was a lad who appeared to me there, in his city, in the boulevard of the garden, as partly accompanying me. However here, in the midst of the forest, with his dry words – or perhaps it can be said: dark words that came out of his mouth with difficulty – I saw them as a hard shell covering internals of substance. I said to myself, “Here is someone who understands the essence of the matter.”

After that conversation, I saw the name of Yacov Rosenfeld, a bit here and a bit there, in letters to the headquarters, whether in a report about a regional meeting, or a letter about a hachshara depot. Therefore, I was certain that I would find him in the large hall of the Krakow youth center, where a convention of chalutzim from western Galicia and Silesia was taking place. However, someone else came in his stead from his city; someone with an angry temperament, who banged his fist and shouted: I want this stage to be a confessional podium. He, Yacov, who conducted most of his work within the confines of his chapter, did not come to the convention. However, he did make the rounds to hachshara depots – at first in the village of Kidalowice, and then, a bit further out, to the village of Widelka near Rzeszow, where youths from various towns gathered and worked with gentile farmers 13 hours a day for the salary of a liter of milk, bread made from coarse flour, and potatoes. A man of burdens by nature, he burdened himself with the concern for those far and near, as he walked dozens of kilometers on foot to visit isolated groups of chalutzim, to connect them with the general community of chalutzim, to their movement and headquarters.

The work of the young Jews who hired themselves as workers, or, as might be said, as slaves, was difficult. Their work in the Jewish city, in the suburb of Kolbuszowa, was no easier. Its residents were Hassidic zealots, known to us as fanatics, and would relate to them with a combination of disparagement and hatred. Their work in the fields of the Jewish landowners did not earn a salary greater than dry bread. These difficult external factors also served as a lens to the internal values of the soul – as difficult as thorns in the pits that require uprooting, even more difficult are the educational strands that require guidance and nurturing. However, more difficult than all was the bent posture of the comrades who were prepared to obey and take direction rather than think for themselves, to fulfill commands rather than decide with their own power. Despite all these difficulties he worked to increase their understanding and diligence, as one who saw himself within this large nation as a bone of his own bones. Since he saw himself as requiring their guidance, he also found within himself the power and talent for this.

Just as I was surprised that I did not find this man in the convention of chalutzim of Krakow, I was not surprised when I saw him after some years signing the letters coming from the chalutzim headquarters, and when I heard that he excelled in his power of activity, that knew no rest or recoil. From all of this I learned that he knew what his predecessors did not know – they could not conduct themselves on a weekday without dragging along the borrowed luster of the Sabbath, whether literal or figurative; whereas for him, the weekdays were his life. They were unable to exist without the amusements of imagination, whereas he saw their amusements as a vexation. However, both he and they were like comrades aspiring for a common ideal, but to them, he was like the halo of the moon rather than a ring of iron. Simply, a partition of generations separated between he and they – they and their friends, children of the wealthy people of the nation, were yet able to actualize their dream with an abundance of good (or at least, with ink); whereas he and his friends, the best of the sons of the nation, already forged their essence with many tribulations (or at least, so it seemed).

I learnt a great deal from the exchange of letters that reached me when I was already living in our Land. I learned this when I went abroad, spent about two weeks at hachshara points in Galicia, and finally sat in that small room on Bernstein Street in Lwow where I understood the great changes that had taken place to him and his routines, the different spirit that blew within him, a spirit of practicality and action. He, the youth who had become a man, was one of the chief actualizers, whose landscape was based on stychism on a horizon that was close to the ground.

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His parental home was also far from us – the house of the town shochet (ritual slaughterer), which was always filled with groups of Hassidim. Each group had its own stringencies. This house also stood on the inter-period threshold – on the one side, ritual slaughter as a holy profession with all the aspects of piety associated with it; and on the other hand, the export of merchandise, seemingly also abroad; and primarily, the sending of sons and daughters over the border, some to the capital of Germany, which was overtaking the progressively declining attraction of Vienna.

Tatters, tatters of memories.

The following memory now comes to mind:

… The large, splendid garden giving forth all of its aromas. There, far from the foothills of the mountains, behind the barracks, the San River sparkles with its eternal curve, as a silver adornment decorating an ancient book.

At that time, they did not yet ask. When they listened to themselves, they already felt the unease secretly welling up inside of themselves. Nevertheless, in those days, these 13 and 14 year old children who were walking through the deep fields, with the cold rustling through the tops of the linden trees, with these imaginations hiding between the leaves of the old chestnut trees. On the one hand, this sweet, pleasant Polish landscape was theirs, and for them. They walked around free from commandments, with their songbooks under their shoulders, and life beating through their hearts with barely any partitions. The school as Polish, the language was Polish, and the reading was primarily Polish.

He never spoke Polish. I do not recall if he already spoke Hebrew by then. In any case, he did not speak within our group. Speaking – is the language of divisiveness. For the most part, he was quiet. His silence was also different. It was not oppressive, even though it seemed that he was conducting something on the side, somewhat distant from those who were with him.

His silence was the good silence of attentiveness, the silence that was the partner of speaking, which complements it. Only on occasion would he burst out in a broad smile, with a low voice, a laugh that does not come from the throat or the vocal cords, but rather deeper from them, from somewhere behind the heart.

Was it because of this that there was always some sort of sadness within his laugh?

Or another memory:

… It was the Sabbath, before evening. Crowds of people were strolling on the main street, Jagiellonian Street, on the 500-600 meter long section between the head of the street, as it descends down a slope leading to the other side of the city, until the square marketplace paved with shiny stones. On one side of the market

was the Franciscan Church, and opposite was the Kloiz of the Hassidim of Tzanz. On one side was the town hall, and opposite it was the bath house. In the middle was a deep, frightening well, whose pail was broken on most days. The water drawer, half crazy, would draw cold water, that sets the teeth on edge, from the depths of the well, with a leaky pail, with holes.

A group of boys and girls would be walking in a group, discussing, as was their custom, in loud, self-assured voices. They would discuss a Polish book or some other topic. As they were walking, he was quiet, as was his manner, with his non-oppressive silence. Suddenly, “It is okay, but what shall one do in, let us say, three to five years?”

The question was asked in a low voice, in an incidental fashion, almost as if it was not related to the topic of conversation – and how surprising was this?

The person walking beside him looked at him, the questioner, seeming as if he had just seen him for the first time. “What shall one do?” that is the question in its essence. What shall one do, not what do you think, or what are you discussing.

Even though it was not easy to admit it, the truth was that I was then connected to the essence of the youth, to his self assuredness, his silence, which was beyond all calculations.

And I recall further:

It was in the Hechalutz hall. A large map of the Land of Israel was hanging on one of the walls. The map was made by an unsteady hand on blue and white paper. Opposite it was the perplexed look of Y. Ch. Brenner, its motto, and some picture. There was a blackboard in the corner, with several Hebrew words written upon it. You may want to say: engraved on it with the same childlike handwriting, with a surprising fashion, that can only be written by the hands of adults who are first learning how to write.

Now, you again do not recall what he was telling then. This is the first time that you hear him speak at length. However, you preserve in your heart the light of his eyes that was collected and hanging on his lips.

Outside were the idlers of the town – large, full, complete. Whereas in the room the children of the tradesmen, apprentices, and shop assistants were crowded – the dwellers of the “Jewish Lane,” the residents of the suburbs and outskirts of the city.

In the light of the silence of the idlers, their eyes sparkled with the light of aspirations.

The dust raised up from beneath their feet exuded the sharp smell of the heat of summer. Tall houses. The river. Low houses covered with wooden shingles. Pastures for grazing. Young shepherds raise up clods of earth and place them on the passers by. Thickets covered with roofs of straw. The forest. Far off is the blue and brown, but as the walkers approach, the blue changes to light, cool, cordial green.

Later, there is a deep valley. It seems like it is inside a well. The sky is spread over the treetops, and the river washes over the exposed roots and pours over the smooth stones with its sparkling waters.

There is conversation. Someone starts, and others continue on. The questions outnumber the answers. Presently, only one thing is clear and certain: the language is Hebrew (“The Pioneers of the Hebrew Language!”). This is the revolution. This is the refuge. This is the different life.

He is standing on the side. One foot is on a lone stone, and the other is as if planted in the earth. Will he also ask for permission to speak? Among the tall trees, he appears taller than usual, more lumpy than usual. He also said a few things – heavily, and mumbling.

At first, you do not pay much attention to them, but later, when you return home alongside him, you suddenly set your eyes upon him – with gratitude and deep friendship.

From afar, at the peak of the mountain, the city is lit up with the light of sunset. This is the first time that the essence of the choices becomes clear – with the light of departure.

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Rabbi Yisraelche was a well-known scholar, an enthusiastic Hassid of the Admor of Czortkow, and a well-known personality in the city and region. He excelled with his communal work in all civic affairs and problems – especially the problems of the Jews of the city. He was a dynamic personality, with a strong character. Since he was in constant contact and discussions with the officials of the local government, given that he was a member of the city council in the “Magistrate” from the age of 21, his words were always heeded. Many needed his services for their contacts with the authorities, and he responded positively to all who turned to him, and was willing to help at all hours. His warm home always had visitors – some who came with their request that he speak to the government, and others who came to his wife Velkili as they needed help with their rent, to make a wedding, or because they found themselves in a difficult economic situation and were close to losing their livelihood. They would always find in Velkili an attentive ear. She was a generous, kindhearted woman, who greeted every person pleasantly and participated in the tribulations of her fellow with her entire soul and means. Everyone who entered her home knew that they would find a merciful woman there. She spent the entire day collecting money to distribute to the needy people of whom she was aware – to those who turned to her as well as to those who did not turn to her. Aside from this, she was busy throughout the entire day with sewing for toiling women, not for a fee. Velkili was expert in cutting and sewing. She understood everything that she saw at first sight. As she walked through the city, when she saw poor people walking around in torn clothing, she brought them into her house and stood them behind the curtain. They would remove their torn clothing and they would wait in her house until she fixed them. She would take care of poor children who would accompany their parents as they went from door to door and try to influence them to study a trade so that they too would not be forced to enter the “profession” of begging. There were some for whom she found places of work, and even provided their needs during their period of study.

The love of this couple for the Land of Israel was vey great. Velkili had broad knowledge in general, and was knowledgeable about Jewish matters in particular. This erudite woman once asked one of the rabbis, Rabbi Yacov Yosef Gelernter of Jasienica, who had come to bid farewell to her family before making aliya to the Land and went to spend the night with Reb Yisraelche, from whom he had also received funding for the journey: Our sages extol and glorify the tests of Abraham our Forefather, to whom the Holy One Blessed Be He promised the entire Land. However, when he required four cubits of land to bury his wife Sarah, he was forced to pay good money. Therefore, why do our eyes witness this same severe test in our generation, after the prophet prophesied, “You have been sold for free, and you will be redeemed without money.” Today, we have to pay for each piece of earth that we purchase, and we must support them with myriads upon myriads of liras, and there are still those who oppose this. The things that occurred with our forefathers are also happening to us…?

Representatives of the Land of Israel who visited our city would always be the guests of Reb Yisraelche Maier, for they knew that they would not leave empty-handed. These people from the Land of Israel knew well how to tell stories and legends of the Land of Israel and its fine qualities. These stories penetrated deeply into the hearts of the family members, and encouraged them toward the love of the Land. It is therefore no wonder that the family of Rabbi Yisraelche and his wife Velkili were among the first of our town to make aliya to the Land and settle there.

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{Photos page 419: Reb Yisraelche Maier. Velkili Maier.}

Their eldest son Rabbi Shalom Shachna, and their daughters Chava of blessed memory, and, may she live, Miriam, preceded them and made aliya to the Land in the year 5680 (1920). Their sister Bat-Sheva followed in 5685 (1925). Velkili of blessed memory made aliya in the year 5686 (1926) with her daughter Yocheved, and Reb Yisraelche followed one year later, in the year 5687 (1927) after he concluded his job as supervisor of the construction of Yeshivat Chachmei Lublin^[5] – a task to which he was summoned by its founder Rabbi Meir Shapiro of blessed memory, while he was still the rabbi in Sanok. Their son Alter and his family made aliya in 5692 (1932). Their eldest daughter Keile Zwerdling, who had many children, did not succeed in making aliya. Her husband and family perished in the Holocaust. Their names are perpetuated on the memorial tablet that was erected by the family in the Shaarei Torah Talmud Torah in Tel Aviv, along with the youngest member of the family Avraham Chaim who passed away in The Hague, Holland.

The communal work of Rabbi Yisrael Maier did not stop in the Land. The large-scale enterprises of his grandchildren “The Meir Brothers”(Moshe, Mordechai and Menachem) earned them renown even abroad. The Heichal Shalom Synagogue in Tel Shalom – a Moshav named after the eldest of the sons – is known, as well as the synagogue in Pardes Hanna and the Shalom Meir Tower^[6] in Tel Aviv: all of these became famous in the Land as well as beyond the bounds of the Land.

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Translator's Footnotes

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