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Dr. M. Zagorodski of blessed memory

It was August 1, 1950. That day, I was 83 years and seven months old. I had been thinking thoughts and pondering ideas for about seventy of those years, now as an elderly man. Of course, everything was in its era and situation. I spent about half of those 83 years in the Diaspora and half in the Land. However, even throughout the forty years that I spent in the Diaspora, I thought about the Holy Land, for my mother of blessed memory, who was the daughter of one of the Yeshiva heads of the holy community of Mir, the daughter of Rabbi Leib Kunem, knew all the prayers by heart. When I was already about three years old, she taught me to recite the Shema, Shmone Esrei, and Grace After Meals, and I would repeat several times a day “And rebuild Jerusalem the Holy City speedily in our days,” “Have mercy upon Zion,” etc. “Please O L-rd our G-d have mercy upon Your nation of Israel, and upon Jerusalem Your city, and upon Zion Your honorable sanctuary.” When I got a bit older and became proficient in Torah, David-Horodok became “the City of David”; every river in the Diaspora became the Jordan, Jabbok, or the Arnon; every hill – the Lebanon; and every tree an acacia tree or the cedars of Lebanon.

“The City of David” was a town during my childhood “at the beginning of its founding.” It was small, with about 300 Jewish families living in its center, around a field of shops. The houses were built of wood, with uneven boards; the windows were without shutters; the roofs were covered with bales of hay, or for the wealthy people, thin pieces of wood; the streets were without sidewalks or thoroughfares. During the spring, when the snow was melting, the streets would turn into bogs or even streams of water. The part of the town close to the riverbank was literally a pond, to the point where boats could travel from the houses to the marketplace. Aside from the houses of the Jews, gentiles lived in huts surrounded by vegetable gardens, pigsties, and areas for other domestic animals.

The Jewish community was poor and destitute for the most part. There were many teachers of young children and butchers; but in particular, there were very many shopkeepers. They owned general stores, in which the residents would be able to purchase whole salted fish – because for the most part, the salted fish was sold in pieces – as well as other diverse products apparently needed by city dwellers. On the other hand, one could obtain all the needs for one's household and farm, for the “payment” of the gentile was the “fat portion” of the Jew…

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b) The Melamdim [teachers of young children]

Veliemitser Street in David-Horodok

Who can describe the poverty? Who can find the precise words to describe the full depth of suffering of the impoverished Jews in the towns of Polesye!? Is it a wonder that poverty sometimes drove upright people out of their minds – and they sinned! The poverty of the residents of the remote towns 80-100 years ago requires a quick scribe and a lamenting pen to describe, as Jeremiah in Eicha [Lamentations].

There is the story of a certain prayer leader who did not receive his wages from the community, so he stole the synagogue candlesticks. (His wife nagged him to death, saying “Men do not despise a thief, if he steals to satisfy his soul when he is hungry^[1] (Proverbs 6:30) – and how much more so to satisfy the souls of his many children who are shouting for bread, but there is none!” I recall

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that prayer leader when he covered his head with his tallis at shacharit of Rosh Hashanah and walked to the prayer leader's lectern [amud] with important steps. He stood, powerfully recited Hamelech [The King] and continued in the standard melody, “sitting on the throne”… A shudder passed through my childlike bones, as if I was indeed seeing “the King” sitting on the high and lofty throne…

The disgraceful poverty! There was a cobbler in town named Sopliak. He earned his livelihood from the poor people who wore torn, worn-out shoes, and would bring their shoes to him to have the patches replaced. This Sopliak, as a typical tradesman, lived with his family in a corridor that he rented from the homeowner (this house had one room for the family of the owners). The corridor was the pen for the cow that stood tied in one corner. The other corners were set up for the family of Sopliak the cobbler… The cold penetrated the corridor in the winter, but the cow also warmed up the Sopliak children. He did not know of a comb or soap throughout all his days, and his appearance was like a destructive demon. His mustache and lips were always wet and full of tobacco – the only pleasure that this poor man ever knew in his life. He used it to his heart's content. With two fingers blackened by tar, Sopliak would pinch a small measure of tobacco from the box that he prepared with the horn of a cow. He would push it into his nostrils and breathe with force, thrust and breathe until he began to sneeze loudly. His roommate, the cow, also began to tremble and free itself from its rope. The wet tobacco hung from the thick hairs that stuck out of his nose, and added a garland of grace to his face… When this Sopliak came to the synagogue on Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah and saw that they were giving Torah honors to every child but skipping over him, as if he was not alive and existing, he would raise his hand to the shamash [beadle] and scream: “To me, to me!” This poor man did not pass over the pleasure of embracing the Torah and circling the bima with it. My father, who educated me according to the methodology of King Solomon, “chastise your son” etc.^[2] would also use the threat: “I will send you to Sopliak as an apprentice…” This had its effect…

My mother kept track of my birthday by a unique type of count: according to the fires! My mother told me that I was born on the third day of Chanukah in the third year after “the great fire”. This is the matter of the fires: A hundred years ago, there were towns in the Polesye area surrounded by forests from the time of creation. Most of them were coniferous: pines, firs, and the like, all of which are rich in tar. All the houses were built from these tar trees (the walls, ceilings and floors). The roofs of the few wealthy people were covered by wooden shingles. All the rest were covered with bales of rye hay. All this was very flammable. Not one summer passed without a single fire in the towns. A fire might destroy the entire town if it was large, or only a sizable portion of it. A large fire would be announced in the nearby towns, and the Jews, merciful people that they were, would hasten to collect loaves of bread to send to the people afflicted by the fire. (According to my research about the community, it is possible that the “large fire” was in the year 5627 (1867), even though, according to the head of the “community”, there was a significant fire also in 5628 (1868).)

To this day, after the age of 80, I recall the plan of the towns – a plan that was not very different in all the towns of the district of the forest of Polesye. There was a square yard with the shops of the Jews: that was the market. Small streets without names spread out from there. The homes of the Jews surrounded the market, and behind them were the huts of the gentiles with the vegetable gardens and pigsties. The pigs would wander around outside throughout the day, and they would conduct the sanitation task in the yards of the Jews – cleaning the garbage. The underground water in that area was shallow, and almost every yard had an unfenced well. I recall that when I was about three years old, we children played in the yard, and when we returned home at sunset, a child was missing. His mother went to look for him, and I showed her that he was playing in the well…

At that time, a Desiatnik (ruler over tens!) ruled in town. When I was three years old, I was given over to the teacher. We were about ten children in the room of the rebbe. Whoever was outside shouted aloud: “Desiatnik!” The doors would creak,

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we would then all climb up on the oven, as the rebbe himself would crawl to the chickencoop beneath the oven and frighten the chickens… We did not know what happened, but we were all afraid of the desiatnik. The fear of him remained in our imagination until we came to the Land (The Jewish policeman did not frighten us: on the contrary, he was afraid of our lads…)

There was a rabbi living in David-Horodok who was a Tzadik in his generation. People did not come to him from other towns to receive his blessings, and he was not wealthy like the other Tzadikim with their “courtyards and assistants”. Nevertheless, even the small donations from the Hassidim of the City of David were sufficient to sustain him more or less appropriately. My father, a native of Lithuania, was a Misnaged [non-Hassid] who did not believe in the Rebbe. However, he did not separate himself from the community and did not force his ideas during unusual occurrences. For example: When I was born, Reb Ahrele Karliner, a well-known Tzadik and kabbalist came to town. He had Hassidim in towns as well as cities (Pinsk-Karlin). Even though my father was a Misnaged, he invited Reb Ahrele to circumcise me. (When I take a bath, I always recall Reb Ahrele and think: how good is my lot.) Once on the Sabbath, my father went to listen to a Torah lecture from the local Tzadik (with the goal of proving it incorrect, as was his manner). This time, I went with him. The Rebbe blessed me and placed his hand on my head. (I am now close to 90, and have no baldness on my head. This is certainly in the merit of the Rebbe – The Tzadik…)

Along with the faith in Tzadikim (good Jews), there was also great faith in prayers, belief in the evil eye, belief in demons, spirits, witchcraft and other nonsense. (Due to a lack of cleanliness, children had kilkim (kilk is kolton in Russian) on their heads – long hairs that stuck together and were impossible to comb apart, but rather a clump that would not separate, and needed to be cut.) My older brother had such a kilk on his head. My mother did not remove it from his head, for she said: “This child is a great scholar and bright as the sun, and if I remove the kilk, the evil eye will overtake his wisdom and beauty. When he got older and went to cheder, the children embittered his life, “The one of the kilk has arrived.” He cried and pleaded with his mother to have mercy upon him and remove his disgrace. My mother finally cut off the kilk, but the child was punished: he began to squint with one eye.

Wagon drivers would come and go every week from the City of David to nearby cities. They would bring merchandise for the shopkeepers as well as letters. My mother told about the wagon drivers that they decreed a fast day on the day that the first train arrived on the railway, bringing letters and merchandise for the shopkeepers and robbing the livelihood from the “class of wagon drivers”, who were separate from the rest of the community and had their own house of worship as well as a rabbi and rabbinical teacher. (One wagon driver asked his rabbi on the Sabbath: “I recited the entire Book of Psalms today, must I still recite Barchi Nafshi?” (sections of Psalms recited on winter Sabbath afternoons)^[3] The rabbi deliberated, but then finally said, “If you transport a house full of tar, must you place tar on the wheels of your wagon?”)

There were many melamdim. If there was no chance of opening a shop, many would open a cheder. I recall several of them. I recall my rebbe whose name was Kadish. He was poor throughout his entire life: he wore worn-out patched clothes, with multi-colored patches. He would stand next to the table dressed in an apron of pads, peer into the Gemara, and shake his body: clumps of old cotton would shake off of his simple apron. He would shake his body, and read from Tractate Ketubot: A virgin gets married on Wednesday and a widow on Thursday… oy, oy, master of Abraham! Tali tania bedelo tania; oy oy ha tania ve ha tanya, oy oy…”^[4]

The rebbe Kadish prepared his class for his students in that manner. I was among the students, and I was eight years old… I did not understand any of Kadish's words. All of us lads sat on a low wooden stool. I, being small, could not see what was written in the Gemara. I would lift myself up from time to time to peer into the Gemara on the high table. My friends then shouted: “He lifts himself up to look at the virgin who is getting married…” The rebbe Kadish would get angry.

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Once when I lifted myself up, he approached, grabbed me by two hands, shook me, and forcefully placed me on the bench, to the point where my nose started to bleed. One student burst out shouting: “He who spills the blood of a person!”^[5] (Kadish panicked and called the rebbetzin to dry up the blood.) I stopped studying in Kadish's cheder at the end of the term. He was a negative character among the students.

My father the melamed was a positive character. He explained the structure of the Tent of Meeting, the Tabernacle, and its vessels to the lads who studied in his cheder. He drew for them the clothing of the priests with the bells, the miter on the forehead, the menorah with the knobs and flowers. However, a group of those students had been “poisoned” by the “culture” that was brought in by the lads who visited the large cities. Those lads would make mocking gestures, and stick out a finger… When my father caught a child in his iniquity, he would send him home to his father to punish him, for he did not know any other ways of teaching… But, with his healthy intellect, he understood that beatings would not uproot the evil…

My family lived in the house of Hillel the butcher. His son Wolf did not succeed in his studies. His father told him, “My son! You will not be a rabbi among Israel, and you will also not be a butcher. Go do something for yourself, and you will be a melamed…”

There was one other melamed who disseminated Haskalah: the melamed Moshe Zaika. He was called that because he had difficulty with words. He taught in accordance with the new methodologies. He imparted education to the children of strangers, but he left his own son out on the street. On the day after Yom Kippur, the city was in uproar: The son of Moshe Zakika played on the street with the daughter of a neighbor on the holy festival.

It is said that the Sabbath protects the Nation of Israel more than the nation observes the Sabbath (Ahad Ha'am). This was true with respect to the Sabbath in the towns. The poverty, denigration and atrophy were only felt in town during the weekdays. When Thursday arrived, the awakening toward the Sabbath began: women began to concern themselves with flour for challahs, wine for kiddush, and meat. Lamentations began in the houses of the poor about the lack of money for the needs of the Sabbath. The men ran about, some to obtain a loan, others to oppress a debtor, and still others lifting their eyes to the mountains, from whence will their help come…^[6] The butchers organized their tables with meat, innards and intestines, and the market was full of the shrieks of the women. On Friday, the town filled up with its residents, for those who were returning from the villages and the fairs hastened to return to their homes and prepare for the Holy Sabbath. They returned, some in a wagon laden with produce from a village; some on foot, worn out from carrying a sack over their backs filled with the goods of a village. The tailor exchanged his work with the needle, and the shoemaker with the anvil. Anyone sitting in the empty market, for G-d had not prepared anything for him – prepared to hear the curses of his wife and her complaints about her “wage earner”. He would go straight to Chaya-Tzipa (see further on) and promise to pay next week. Will G-d not cast off forever?^[7] If only not to return to “his dear partner” emptyhanded…

Friday: In every house they were baking, cooking, scouring, cleaning, scraping; shampooing the children's heads, organizing and setting tables, preparing candelabras and candles. The dwelling places of poverty were turning into sanctuaries of rest, to splendid holiness, to a place where it was possible “to sanctify the Seventh day as appropriate to it.”^[8] Even the mistress of the house was resting after a week of wandering, worry, resentment and curses. She wore her dress from the time of her wedding, recited the blessing on the candles, added her tears, the tears of blessing, over and above her tears of the entire week – and sent her shampooed and combed children to the synagogue to pray, and to answer Amen.

The men had just emptied their sacks or closed their shops. They immediately took their laundered cloak in one hand, and the “broom” into another hand, and rushed to the bathhouse. The barbers sat in the anteroom of the bathhouse. For two kopecks (one mil or prutah in Israeli currency) the barber would cut the hair. For three kopecks, he would also give a shave. Along with his wages, he would also take the hair that was used to make cushions or mattresses for weddings. There, one could obtain wind horns, they would let blood for those suffering headaches, and for any ailment…

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They would get undressed, fold their outer clothes and make a bundle, take the cloak and the dirty pants (used as a “zoo”), take the “broom”, and go inside. They would hang the dirty clothes on rods beneath the ceiling, where the heat was burning, and begin to wash their bodies, scrubbing and cleaning in water that was almost boiling. They would beat themselves with the leaf-broom until they ran out of energy. Then they would pour cold water over their bodies. They would take their folded clothing, get dressed, and return home with a rejuvenated body, drink a warm drink, and hasten to the Welcoming of the Sabbath service. (The bathhouse served as a place of healing for all diseases, and fortified the body so that it would not weaken from the change of atmosphere. People lived, had many children, and lived long.)

The Sabbath helped the Jews forget the bitterness of the exile, for when they considered the situation, with a hidden assertion, the Jewish soul mourned for the fact that permission was given to the wicked ones to damage the chosen of G-d, who were created in the Divine image. The Sabbath made them forget this disgrace.

The exile was especially felt on the day of Nitl or Nitla ^[9]. I recall that day from my childhood days in Horodok. Nitl was a holiday for the Christians, the birthday of Jesus. The gentile lads would arrange Koladi – they would go out at night with torches and burning wooden sticks. They would make bonfires, jump through the bonfires, and sing inciteful religious songs. Woe to a Jew who encountered these celebrants. It would be better for him to encounter a mad dog. On that night, the Jews would hide and close themselves within their innermost rooms. They would not learn, however. On Nitl, they would play cards. The next day, they would tell about a shattered Jewish window, about Reb Yankel the Melamed being hit by a large, heavy snowball, for he went out to attend to his bodily needs (for due to his illness, he could not hold back until the wrath passed…).

The settlement of the City of David had various characters: those who comported themselves well, and rotten ones whose livelihood forced them to swear falsely, to lie, to impinge on the honor of their fellow, to create ruses for livelihood. From those who comported themselves well, I will note Shaul-Ber the Maggid. He earned his livelihood from selling raisin wine for Kiddush, Havdalah, and the four cups [of Passover]. He would prepare it with his own hands with scrupulous kashruth, protecting it from the eyes of a gentile^[10]. From this source of livelihood, he merited a fine house, full of sons and daughters. On the Sabbath, after an afternoon nap, Shaul-Ber would go to the Beis Midrash filled with Jews who were waiting for him. He would sit in his place next to the Holy Ark, roll up his white sleeves, expose his hairy arms up to the elbow, rise, stand up straight, and lecture the audience on the Midrash of the weekly Torah portion or Ein Yaakov. He had a pleasant, somewhat nasal voice. He would emphasize his words from the Midrash with hand gestures. The congregation paid close attention, absorbing every clear, full word from his mouth. Shaul-Ber lectured until he got tired. Then a member of the congregation approached the prayer leader's podium and declared Ashrei Temimei Derech^[11], etc. He would recite it verse by verse, and the congregation would respond, until the conclusion of this eightfold chapter, by confessing his error: “I have strayed like lost sheep.” Then someone would lead the Mincha service in a glorious, moving voice. After that, the worry began to return to the hearts of those who had observed the Sabbath… the worry for the upcoming week did not grant rest. Sometimes, the rest was interrupted with the cracking of the ice in the river, the sound of trees breaking because of the heaviness of the snow, the breaking of wood and beams, etc.

Chaya-Tzipa also belonged of the ones who “comported themselves well”. She was a middle-aged woman, childless because G-d had closed her womb^[12]. Her husband managed the property of the landowner [poretz] and spent every weekday on the estate, returning home on Friday for the Sabbath. Chaya-Tzipa was a G-d fearing, goodhearted and merciful woman. Since she did not have a family, she occupied herself with good deeds. On Thursdays, she would take sacks and make the rounds to collect leftover bread from the homes of the wealthy people, so to speak, for on that day, they would already be preparing dough for the upcoming week. Chaya-Tzipa would collect in her sack the morsels that the children had bitten and left over, along with morsels of pastry, cake, charred bread,

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etc. She would collect one or two sacks worth, load them on her bent back, and go around the next day to distribute her loot to the homes of the “needy” – that is the families who had become impoverished but were embarrassed to extend their hand. Chaya-Tzipa did not distribute this as a gift, but she rather sold it on loan that was to be paid back when they regained their means… Her husband would return from the estate on Fridays, bringing sacks and bags of the finest produce of the estate. A sack of potatoes for the rabbi, a sack for the rabbinical judge, a small sack for the cantor, and similar for all the rest of the clergy. The rest was for his wife, who hastened to give it to the families “under her protection”. In return she received blessings on her head, and wishes that G-d should open her womb…

Among the rotten ones were numbered the poor people who took advantage of the fires that broke out in the houses, partaking of the booty during the panic that arose in the town with every conflagration. There were also the parents who could not afford to marry off a daughter, so they sent her to the big cities to earn a livelihood. One such person in Horodok was Moshe the Drummer, who played the drum while the musicians were performing at weddings. He raised a daughter who came of age, but nobody had mercy on her. She traveled to the city of Pinsk where such girls would find a place to stay in certain houses. She got old there, and they sent her away, for there was nobody interested in that worn out person. When she returned to her parents' home, she continued on as was customary in the “guest house” in Pinsk. Anyone who passed by the house of the drummer and saw this licentious woman would spit and curse in his heart on account of the promiscuous woman.

I remember other families whom I knew while I was still a child in the City of David. There was the family of Eli Kon: The head of the family got the name Kon (horse in Russian) during the year that he purchased a small steamboat that was able to float through the shallow water of the Horyn River after the snow and water swells melted in the spring. The jokers of the city called him “Kon” as they thought it was appropriate for his steamboat. The Yudovitz family was known as one of the wealthy families of the city. They lived in a house that was plastered even on the outside, and we children would look with jealous eyes on his children who would come with their father to services on the Sabbath, always late. There was also the Katzman family, one of whom was a defense attorney for the justice of the peace in civil cases. (There was a case where someone purchased a bull, but they gave him a steer, and the defense attorney could not explain the difference between them to the judge, because he did not know the translation of the word “castration” in Russian.) The other Katzman brother had a son who was a student in Berlin. When he was interested in a girl from a strictly Orthodox family, the parents of the girl refused to look at him – they would not give their daughter to a goy [gentile], who eats non-kosher food and goes around bareheaded. It would be better to give her over to Molech^[13]. Getzel the student did not give up, and, it is said, he explained the matter based on the foundations of realities^[14].

This was the way Horodok or, as I call it, the City of David, was during my childhood, seventy or eighty years ago. When I got older, I always thought: I wish that I had wings like a dove^[15], I would fly and see the place of my childhood cradle! How great was my desire for such when girls and boys from the City of David came to the Land of Israel and told me that the town was already a city, a city like all cities: sidewalks, streets, water in the houses, physicians, a pharmacy, bogs and pits that had been cleaned, and a Tarbut School! O! Who would have thought, who could believe the news? I said that the day would come when I would visit it again, my town. But then the Holocaust came. A weakness^[16] overtook the gentiles, and they destroyed the town, to the point that not one survivor remained! My eyes weep over the loss of my town along with all the towns in the area where my people had lived. I can find no comfort by justifying their punishment in that they did not heed the call of the prophets, and did not hasten to leave the vale of tears and go to our Land, which was awaiting its children so that they could settle it and build it up.

Translator's footnotes

1. Translation of this verse from Mechon Mamre. The reference in the text states it is Proverbs 10:30, but this is a typo – it is actually Proverbs 6:30. Return
2. Proverbs 19:18. Return
3. Psalm 104 is Barchi Nafshi, then the Shir Hamaalot Psalms (120-134) are recited. Return
4. Seemingly a nonsensical droning on of Talmudic words that do not make sense. (A reasonable English translation would be: Yadda, yadda, yadda.) Return
5. Genesis 9:6. Return
6. Paraphrased from Psalms 121:1. Return
7. Paraphrased from Lamentations 3:31. Return
8. Paraphrased from the Kol Mekadesh table hymn [zemer] of Friday night. Return
9. Referring to Christmas. Nitla means the hanged (or crucified) one. Return
10. It is forbidden by Jewish law to drink wine that has been touched by a gentile. Some are scrupulous to avoid wine that was even looked at by a gentile. (Note, this prohibition does not apply after wine has been boiled or pasteurized. Hence, in modern times, there is little issue once wine has been commercially bottled and pasteurized.) Return
11. The opening words of Psalm 119. Psalm 119 is an eightfold alphabetic acrostic. The final verse of this psalm is noted in the next sentence. Return
12. Based on Samuel I 1:6. Return
13. The pagan god of child sacrifice. Return
14. Hard to interpret this – but I believe it means that the girl was interested in him as well, so he ignored the parents and continued to pursue the relationship. Return
15. Psalms 55:6 Return
16. Probably referring to a failing on the part of the gentiles – a desire for bloodshed. Return

To what can our settlement between Stolin and Horodok be compared? To a child growing up in a home in the shadow of an adult brother or sister. He jealously raises his eyes toward him, and they serve for him as an example in all their ways and deeds: He attempts to study Torah, knowledge, manners, and character traits from them.

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Our connection to Horodok was greater than to Stolin. Letters and newspapers reached us in Rubel via Horodok. Lipa Finkelstein's shop was the “postal authority” and letters from all corners of the earth reached us in his name.

These two towns were different from their founding, and certainly from the beginning of this [i.e. the 20^th] century. The former was noble, aristocratic, sated, joyous, fully like a bright spring day. Its proximity to the railway station and its centrality to thousands of Hassidim left its mark upon it.

In contrast, the population of David-Horodok was composed primarily of toilers. It was all grumpy and gloomy. It was full of bogs. The marketplace was a bog, the streets were bogs, and one could only move from street to street with difficulty. In my eyes, it was like one long, rainy day.

This gloominess of Horodok was the positive moving force for the youth. The youth of Horodok did not freeze on their guard. They were bustling, storming to find a way to leave this mud. They aspired to the breadths and to progress.

It was natural that the modern cheder that taught Hebrew in Hebrew, would arise first in Horodok. Aharon Yonah Shafer was the one who would bring the praiseworthy, famous teacher Ish”i Adler to Horodok. This was in the early days of the Zionist movement, in 1900. From that year until the modern Tarbut School arose in 1917, the old cheders in Horodok with their vapid methodologies disappeared in stages, and a new order and spirit pervaded in local education. This was something that other places did not merit.

It was as if the gloom of this town was saying to the youth: “Don't sink in the mud. Search for a way, and rise up.” Talented lads, not only the sons of the wealthy, left their parental house for the wide world – to obtain a matriculation diploma and to go to university. Even a local public school, where elementary fundamental knowledge and education was taught together with gentile children, was opened in Horodok. The people of Stolin, for example, were unable to rise above the poverty of their lives, for they bore their souls in that manner.

The city was not graced with a beautiful landscape. However, nature graced it with a large river that sent its waters afar, to the cities of the valley – Niz – and the large ones: Kiev, Kremenchuk, Ekaterinoslav. It exported lumber, and in return imported flour on large and small rafts filled to the brim.

The large bridge spread over the river said to the youth, so to speak: “See, how great is the power of man, and how manifold are his possibilities with science and technology to assist him.” The steamboats would come and sail at the side of Horyn to the railway station or to Nirtcha on the Pripyat River – bringing news and reminding the youth that there is still a large, wide world there in the distance – a world of breadth and light, of enlightenment and praise.

There were boys and girls who returned to their parents' home for the Passover holiday, bringing from the wide world the pulses of rich life, the spirits that were blowing there, the spirits of freedom and struggles, penetrating the hearts with disquietude and dissatisfaction, feelings of incompleteness with the current reality, and seeking for the new and the good. In time, that discontent penetrated the spirit of the students of the Tarbut School. They called themselves Bnei Yehuda, and declared Hebrew as their language at home and on the street, like the deeds of the great Ben-Yehuda. There was nothing like it in any city or town in the Diaspora at that point. Students in the schools in other places followed and took hold of this later on.

The Bnei Yehuda who are today in Israel certainly are able to tell of this splendid chapter in the annals of the town that was wiped out and destroyed, as if it never was.

In Horodok, the parents followed after the children. From the time of the rise of the Zionist movement, the important householders did not hold back from participating in gatherings and activities with their children, even though the youths were directing

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everything. Nobody stood as an obstacle before the seekers. There was no person of authority who raised their voice against the youths (for example, like the Rebbe in Stolin). The rabbis in Horodok did not act with strength, and were even lacking in influence to mix in with communal affairs. They stood at the side or, inadvertently, assisted the new movement.

In essence, there was nothing unique about it. It was like several hundred other towns in the former Pale of Settlement. Look into Mendele, Peretz, Sholem Aleichem, Sholem Asch, Bialik, and all others from the group of writers of that generation, and David-Horodok will appear before you as it was, with its Jews and gentiles, wealthy people and paupers, with its parties and organizations. Absolutely everything is as written. However, it had one hidden trait – my native city. A person is born only once during their lifetime, and a person only has one native city. The farther away one gets from it, the more one senses its reality. Even if one moves away from it, it lives within you. It is a portion of your essence, and a flood of water will not wash it away.

As a child, I walked on the ground of my town, and I saw it through the eyes of a child. I did not know then that somewhere in the wide world there were mansions, buildings of stone and concrete, paved roads, gardens, and meadows. I accepted my town as it was, with its thatched roofs, its “ponds” of water on its streets, its alleyways and passageways, and all its charms. I saw it as a complete whole, containing everything. It was whole in its style of building, both with the houses of the Jews and the houses of the gentiles. A child who grew up there absorbed its tastes and styles, and united with it.

I recall that there were two-story houses in my town. In order to see the upper story, one had to raise one's head upward, with the concern that one's hat might fall to the ground. It was the work of Satan that the Pravoslavic Church rose up close to those houses. Its gold crosses sparkled in the sun and whitened in the snow, casting oppression over the heads of the Jewish children.

One such house was owned by Aharon Slomiansky. As customary, the first floor was a shop for manufactured goods. In times of emergency, which occurred with some frequency, it served as a place of refuge. Those who lived on the street would turn their heads toward the Singer sewing machines, the Fraget products and various bundles of bedding and moveable objects. At a time when the church bells rung and sounded the alarm for a fire, the store took in everyone. There were wicker baskets containing dowries for daughters who had come of age, wooden chests with iron rings filled with all sorts of finery, holy objects of the rabbis, and all sorts of utensils. Everything was mixed together, and the valuable could not be discerned from the cheap. That was the first floor. The upper story was only open to the public once a year, when the Rebbe of Stolin would be hosted there when he came to visit his flock. I too was among his flock. At that time, the youngsters did not know where to look: whether on the throng of Hassidim who crowded into the rooms, awaiting with awe the Rebbe, who was in an inner room; whether to look upon the baked goods, desserts, and jams that were brought in and removed in cycles. Or perhaps to touch the heavy furniture and valuable ornaments that decorated the rooms.

The second house was splendid, fully secular, and mainly private. You could look from afar, but could not enter. This was the house of Yudovitz, an elderly Jew, perhaps a wealthy man, perhaps not. However, he was a complete apikores [heretic],

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almost an unbeliever to vex^[1] – this is what the adults who knew everything said. He brought in a building plan from outside the country that was not known in our place. The “stately” roads that spread out from the house were not like the height of the house. There was a slightly arched balcony in the front, flower bushes in the corners, and a wonderful chair on the balcony – if you wanted, it could double over and stand, and if you wanted, it could be a half chair and half sofa. I later found a house and furniture of this nature in drawings in a textbook of the German language. It was as if it was copied from there, and presented for viewing in the market square in our town.

I never peeked into this holy of holies. Below, amongst the rest of the rented shops, there was a very popular pharmacy. The pharmacist was the son of the elder Yudovitz. He spoke to every person in their own language: to gentiles in gentile language, to the common folk in Yiddish, and to the maskilim [enlightened ones] in a language which was a blend of half Yiddish and half intelligentsia-style Russian, peppered at times with Latin names. I was a visitor there at certain times to obtain pills, creams and various types of “leaves” prescribed by Wolf the medic. The pharmacist often served as a sort of physician, for the minor illnesses of the Jews and gentiles were known, and there were medicines established from the six days of Creation.

These mansions jutted upwards, arousing curiosity and wonder. However, they were exceptions. Who is so ignorant as to turn their eyes upward at a time when everything is lovely and close to the range of vision of a child: you open your eyes and see everything. Even the street is entirely before you – as a shortcut, for jumping over an abandoned fence, for “sailing” over the greenish water. When nobody was looking, one could also take a reed off of the roof of a cottage, and escape before the gentile would find out or before his dog would start to chase you. The builder knew what was wonderful to the soul of a child. He left a place on the pathways, placed ladders on the roofs, and placed barrels of water next to every house as a protection against fire. He made pits under the ovens and the entrances to the houses. How good were your houses, O Horodok!

We once ran about on those streets and in those houses. Some did so for a few years, and then escaped to the “wide world”, and others walked upon them until the end of their days, until they were carried to the place outside the city where the sky and the ground kissed together.

The Chumash and the Siddur. Tisha B'Av and Passover nights. The rebbe in the cheder and grandmother in the house – all of them declared: “Exile, exile!” However, I will admit, and I am not ashamed: I did not see the exile at that time, and I never even saw a proper pogrom during my childhood. For some reason, the uncircumcised ones, many of whom “understood all speech” are etched in my imagination like the Gibeonites^[2], drawing water and hewing wood for us. They removed the manure from our barns, they lit the ovens on the winter Sabbaths so we would have heat, they put out the lights on Sabbaths and festivals so that we would not, heaven forbid, fall into a sin. They did every difficult job for us. At the end, they stood at our doorways as paupers to receive challah on the eve of the Sabbath, and matzos on Passover. They drank the wine of the “ten plagues” for their own enjoyment, etc. The Beis Midrashes and houses of worship stood on the roads in splendor. Hundreds and thousands of Jews comported themselves in the manner of freedom, and worshiped out loud to G-d, the Creator of the world. For some reason, it seemed to me that the wooden cross standing at the corner of the street was bent and embarrassed, cancelled with the Jewish sense of holiness breathed around me. For indeed, what was that wooden plank. It had no form or splendor in contrast with the Torah scrolls adorned with silver crowns, pointers, and checkered covers. It was not clear to me at that time what exile was, and what was its essence.

After time I heard, and also read in books, that the sun and the trees, the gardens and the broad areas, the joy and happiness of life – the gentiles took everything and left nothing other than asphyxiation and slime, the bare street, without shade or protection. The books were indeed telling the truth. As for me, however, when imagining my native city before my eyes, cherry orchards appear before me, apples and pears giving of their bounty, and the trees rustling. The waves of the river caress the ground of my town, and boats sail in it. Groves encircle it, and the wide, high sky is spread above me. I see children running about, fighting, and making up. Battles are conducted

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between the sons of the covenant [i.e. Jews] and those who were not sons of the covenant [i.e. gentiles]. There were “wounds, bruises and sores”^[3] – when such an event took place to a youngster in the wide world.

The sages further stated: The gentiles took the dew of the heavens and the fat of the earth^[4], and only left the Jews the businesses of oil, kerosene, salted fish, and all types of haberdashery. However, by your life, I saw succulent fruits growing on “Jewish” trees, ripe vegetables in our yards, and animals that are kosher by the most stringent view, with split hoofs and who chew their cud. Various kinds of kosher fowl waddled in our precincts. Indeed, the gentile tilled the soil, making furrows, and even planted seeds and saplings. Indeed, the gentile guarded the cattle. At times, they would even bring the calf born in the meadow – however, the furrows in our yards were witnesses that we pulled out the weeds with our own hands, we broke apart the clods of earth, we placed stakes for the beanstalks, and we recited our blessing to the fruits of the ground. The red crests and speckled feathers were witness to the adventures of the children on the leather plucked from the fine wagons – for the mooing of the cow was heard in our barns, and the clucking and pecking in our houses. Indeed, the books exaggerate in their words, that a miniature Noah's Ark was in the town, containing everything.

During my childhood, I did not know what socialism was or the meaning of class struggle – as it came to be called with the passage of time. The concept of tycoons and paupers, homeowners and tradespeople was clearer. In accordance with external signs, very picturesque, socialism then appeared to me: polished gardens as if they emerged from a bath with reddish white chimneys rising above, and covered gardens growing greenish moss; straight walls and crooked walls; glass windows of one piece, and patched windows with a blanket stuck into a hole that had enlarged specifically during the harsh winter. Also many kapotes [cloaks] passed before my eyes: black, shiny and rustling; and dull, yellow, and worn-out. Various beards fluttered. Some covered a difficult life and pale face, while others covered a full life with a red face. Looking at them aroused feelings of confusion. The ears absorbed complaints about one who disappeared, that such-and-such happened to somebody, and another thing to someone else. After time, these visions took on names in the vernacular, but in their time they were inexplicable mysteries.

Various events took place then in the kingdom of my childhood, without being able to find a common thread. Cut-off pictures rise before me now as if from the fog. On one Thursday, at 10:00 p.m., my sister suddenly appeared before me, emotional, fiery, panicky, with news: certain lads broke in noisily to Motel the tailor's workshop, declaring, “From this day forward, we will not work nights for this exploiter.” They “removed” the girls from work. Neither the household or the “girl laborer” knew whether to rejoice over an additional night of undisturbed sleep, or to be concerned that the meager livelihood was further reduced. I recall a loud knock on the window of our house one Saturday night, with the voice outside declaring: “We do not work on Saturday night!” These lads once made a mistake and came to take down someone in her own house, without permission from the master of the house – someone who blinded her eyes at the sewing machine in order to provide bread and clothing to the members of the household. Indeed, they did not continue to “knock” and the machine continued to click during the nights without interruption despite Karl Marx, and, to differentiate [between the deceased and the living], Senderka, the son of the town blacksmith^[5]. One dark night, he entered the large Beis Midrash, right opposite the window of our house. That time, there was no voice of the Maggid [Preacher] or the weeping of women in the courtyard, but rather high talk and song. Suddenly a shot flew through the air, and shouts of Doloi (Forward!) shook the street. The light in the house was extinguished. Someone ran for his life to lock the door of the hallway with a wooden beam, and told the children, “Sleep in your clothes tonight.”

The next day, the children told each other that the “sisters and brothers” were wreaking havoc, because they have fists and yurks^[6], and when the “Distnik” (an unarmed civilian guard) Lybonko appeared with the copper stripe on the flaps of his clothing, with the symbol of the regime

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on them, they were shouting, “Doloi Samodirjzovetz!” (Onward individual ruler). They especially told about a certain dwarf, called not to his face “Shpentser” [undershirt]. He was brave, imposing fear upon the gentiles and even upon the various Strazniks^[7] who appeared in town from time to time.

The truth be told: This was both frightening and enchanting. It was frightening because of the gentile-looking faces of the lads, wearing blue pants and tall boots, with forelocks peeking out backwards from their hats, which were tilted a bit to the side. It was said that there was an abundance of these types in the city of Kiev, which was known for its gentile thugs and gangs. However, here, it was Jewish lads, and it was dangerous to be in their presence. They were not afraid of their parents, and did not honor the Rabbi or other honorable individuals. They even acted against the Czar. There was also a great charm with these hooligans. The competed successfully with the children of our forefather Jacob, with the acts of bravery described in Sefer Hayashar^[8], and with the mighty Samson who pulled down the posts of the building and cut up a lion – for we witnessed with our own eyes acts of bravery taking place outside with nobody to disturb.

Just as they suddenly appeared, they suddenly disappeared. It was said, “they escaped to America.” Only one of them, specifically the legendary dwarf, the aforementioned “Shpentser”, remained in town. We later saw him with his posture bent even more, thin and weak, as an ancient, weak tower, with a beard, and a raspy voice. It was said that he returned to religious observance. He afflicted himself, prayed a great deal, slept on the floor with a wooden board at his head, in order to purge his sins. With the setting of the splendor of the dwarf, the final spark of the “revolution” in my childhood area also set.

It is said that the Land of Israel is embedded in the hearts of Jewish children by the Chumash, the Siddur, Selichot, and Kinot^[9]. It is said that the carobs of Tu B'Shvat, and the gourds and grapes of Rosh Hashanah imparted a love of the Land. It is possible that this is so. However, in my city – it was sanctified through song. Even before Frischmann told about Rachel's Tomb, the celebrations in Meron and the Western Wall, even before Tchernichovsky's “Velvele” set out to “walk” to the Land of Israel, and even before Bialik's “Bird” returned from the hot lands to our window – the Land knocked on our doors. Eliakum Zunser, Dolitzki, Imber and their comrades echoed in our place with clear, pleasant voices of boys and girls. That which prayer and belief in the advent of the Redeemer did not do was accomplished by glorious song, from the embrace of the poets of Chibat Zion. That which the Mizrach^[10], embroidered by the Jewish girls with their own hands and hung for display, did not do, was accomplished by the illustrated pamphlets that reached us in a wondrous fashion, with the name Mishmar Hayarden written upon them, as well as Rechovot and Kastina; and was also accomplished by the album of dried flora of the Land of Israel with names from the Song of Songs written upon them. The love of Zion and the love of life, the adventures of the Land of Israel and the adventures of life – both of them were one, and imparted vitality to each other.

In our place, the Land of Israel could be found in many corners, first of all in the modern cheders of Shlomo Zagorodski and Shimon Leichtman, where Hebrew was read with the correct “melody” [i.e. pronunciation], and the first lessons were from an illustrated book with wonderful stories, even some of the fables of Krylov and La Fontaine, and adages of our sages. The name of the book was Safa Chaya [Living Language]. It lived up to its name. It imparted life to the child. Even those who did not merit to study Torah from them, for the “methods” frightened G-d fearing, observant Jews, and their sons continued to warm themselves in the light of Torah in the cheder – these children also came to the Land of Israel through the library of Shlomo Zagorodski, full of books such as “The Heroes of our Nation”, “The Complete Legends of Israel”, etc.

Even regular story books, in which the Land is not mentioned or noted, these too only told about the Land of Israel, and the story was only about the Land of Israel^[11]. Thus a story touches upon a song, and a legend upon a melody, and the hearts of the children were won over to Zion as the song about Jerusalem in the vision.

Once, the Land of Israel visited us, literally, in its own reality and essence. This was a Zionist “preacher” who came to town and caused excitement. I have completely forgotten his name, his appearance. I only remember that large gathering.

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On that occasion, the women did not weep in the women's gallery, the elderly did not groan, and the children stood with open mouths to hear the words. That preacher had a rod, a wonderful stick, with verses from the Bible and images of Jerusalem etched upon its back. The entire Land of Israel was, so to speak, folded over this rod, and came to us. When the preacher reached the pinnacle of his enthusiasm, and pointed to the audience with the stick, it seemed that it was like Moses our Teacher raising his stick, splitting the sea, and bringing Israel through it, etc. etc. That preacher had a very wise soul, and he knew that listening is not the same as seeing. Therefore he “showed” Zion to the people. When he finished speaking, he cast his rod to the audience. It passed from hand to hand with holy awe. My hands also touched it, and I felt that I was one sixtieth in the Land of Israel^[12].

Houses and roads, gentiles and Jews, Cossacks and firefighters in uniform, songs of Zion and the pealing of bells – all of these were a dream and reality, until one day the child left his place and traveled afar. The child left and a young man returned. It seemed as if everything changed: the streets, the houses, the people, the trees. The war, the revolution, the change of regime, and the disturbances heaped up furrows before the people. New centers of life were found: parties, organizations, libraries, schools. However, for some reason, it seemed that everything was hanging on nothing, for even electric lighting reached here, although it could not disperse the shadows cast around. He arose and left his childhood place forever.

Translator's footnotes

1. A halachic term for a person who rejects Jewish religions practice not out of laziness or convenience, but rather out of conviction (as if to anger G-d). Return
2. A Canaanite tribe that made peace with Joshua, rather than submitting to the Israelite conquest. See the ninth chapter of the Book of Joshua. Return
3. See Isaiah 1:6. Return
4. From the blessing of Isaac to Jacob (intended for Esau), see Genesis 27:28. Return
5. Senderka must have been the town Socialist activist. Return
6. I suspect that this means batons or rods. Return
7. A person whose job is to prevent people from escaping. Return
8. A medieval book of Midrash, with a historical bent. Return
9. Selichot are special penitential prayers for the High Holy Day period as well as fast days. Kinot are the dirges of Tisha B'Av. Return
10. A decoration placed on the eastern wall, pointing toward Jerusalem. Return
11. An obscure sentence. I believe it means that the youths were so in love with the concept of the Land of Israel that they read it into stories that were not about that topic. Return
12. A rabbinic expression for a small but not negligible amount. Jewish tradition states that sleep is one sixtieth of death, for example. (i.e. there are small but non-negligible aspects of similarity) Return

Greble Street in David-Horodok[1]

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The bridge in David-Horodok

And at times it even seems to me that I am once again walking on the streets of David-Horodok.

Most of the shops are closed. The last of the wagon drivers are passing quickly through the streets of the city, for the hour is late. Reb Dovidl, may the memory of the righteous be blessed, left the bathhouse fully clean, with water still dripping from his peyos.

He ran, with his long kapote [cloak] constantly dragging on the sidewalk, to the shops and especially to the barber. He quickly warned them to shut their doors while there was still time. Quiet pervaded on the streets.

The first worshippers were already coming from all corners of the city. They walked calmly to the center, to the Shulhof [Synagogue courtyard]. A festive, holy atmosphere pervaded on everything.

After the meal, people went to stroll on The Greble and on the Horyn Bridge outside the city. Friends and acquaintances met there to discuss all the issues of the world. On such moonlit nights, we would go out to sail a boat on the Horyn.

We strolled as a group behind the large garden that Mordechai Zelik had leased from the Kniaz [nobleman].

Among the grain fields, between the tall stalks, we met with people older than us, such as: Z. Olpiner, Zeev Basevitz and, may he live, Sh. Kvetny. They were reading the recently published poems of Tchernichovsky or Bialik. They were discussing and arguing about every word and title. Sometimes, we went to the new cemetery on the other side of the city. We walked amongst the graves and the brave ones from among us turned, approached the graves of the Tzadikim and read the kvittels [Petitionary notes] that were placed in the burial canopy of the Tzadik [righteous person].

There, in their time, gatherings of the youth and various other gatherings were arranged, beginning already with the revolutionaries from 1905.

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A springtime flood during the time of the melting of the snow and the overflowing of the river in David-Horodok

It was the time of year with the most pleasant weather. We went out to stroll on Tshipiasker Alleys – the romantic area of the city. We sat on the small bridge next to the church. It was quiet all around. Under the bridge, the water remaining from the overflowing of the Horyn during the spring flowed leisurely. The entire area was a single garden. Nighttime birds raised their voices in song. They were joined by the croaking of the frogs. The air was suffused with intoxicating aromas of the blossoming of the trees and gardens in the area. Everything was lively and vibrant. It was hard to part from such a night.

These images and many other similar ones from the days of my childhood and youth rise before my eyes. Then, I am overcome with an aching longing and a strong desire to peer once again into that corner.

Apparently, this is the power of one's childhood cradle.

Indeed, what was this Horodok in essence?

It was a small town in the heart of Polesye, far from the highway, from a main road, and from the train. It was immersed in mud for five to six months a year, often weighing down on the body and the soul together. There was even a very difficult struggle for existence during the final few decades.

Nevertheless, as has been said, the power of one's childhood city is so great, that one cannot control it.

How painful that, of the memories of childhood and youth, only a large, communal grave remains on the road to Olshan.

Translator's footnote

1. The inscription on the photo indicates it is Ulica Pilsudskego – i.e. Pilsudski Street Return

In town, there was a street corner next to Kaplinsky's pharmacy.

If you stood in that corner, you could see the town divided into its main street, fanning out to its four corners.

The streets were straight, and you could see them from beginning to end in one glance.

On a weekday, the market was bustling with lots of people. Cattle and fowl were brought for sale. Farmers with their wagons came from

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the many villages in the surrounding area, bringing their merchandise to the center, from where they spread out to the streets and alleyways. They brought from the good of the land and the fruits of the ground, and in return they received clothing, shoes, and other necessities that the soil did not provide them.

The commercial center of David-Horodok[1]

The bustlingness of the marketplace reached its pinnacle during the afternoon hours, and subsided toward sunset. When the electric lights were lit and the stores and workshops closed, the wide area that bustled with life all day rested, and prepared itself for nighttime life to the light of the rising moon.

Toward evening, the population went out to the streets, setting out toward the main street leading to the bridge and the river.

Were you to stand in the corner of that street, all the residents of the city would pass before you as if in a procession. At the head were the boys and girls who did not yet bear the yoke of livelihood on their shoulders. Therefore, they were able to devote themselves to their studies, to youth group activities, and to spending evenings without any burden or worry – as is appropriate and fitting for that age.

Lads stood at the corner of the street, surveying all the passers-by. They would lean on a wall or a post upon which a large light fluttered. It was as if they were standing on a stage, conducting an investigation through jokes and mirth.

Everyone knew each other in this town, not just by name and surname, but also by unique nicknames. The nickname would resonate with you more than the surname, the name of the father, or the profession – for the nickname was the profession.

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It was sufficient to point with the finger to someone walking and approaching, and to call him by his unique nickname – and all the lads would burst out in laughter, as if the single word told everything…

Night by night, after the movement subsided and most of the people went to bed, the boys and girls continued to wander about in the corners of that street, and to enjoy themselves with highlights, jokes, and stories about many various matters, about matters between a girl and a boy and about matters about important world events.

Those who tarried late into the night would spend these late hours in song and music. Many of the youths were able to play musical instruments of all types. They would bring them to the corner of the street, and the echoes would resonate afar.

The corner of that street fell asleep after the last of those out for a stroll left. It would rest from the bustle of the previous day, so it could arise and awaken to new life the next day. That is how things continued on, without accounting and without purpose.

It was a wide river, and on Sabbaths and festivals, the residents of the city streamed to stroll atop the bridge.

The bridge was the central meeting place of the city – on a warm Sabbath day as well as on a harsh winter day.

The great river flowed beneath it. Its head could be seen somewhere among the trees, and it continued endlessly, until it flowed into a second, larger river, and then to the sea within the bounds of greater Russia.

On the water beneath it sailed boats filled with youthful mirth and song, the echoes of which could be heard from afar.

The movement was especially great toward evening, when the heat lessened and work and studies concluded – when laziness fell upon the face of the earth…

For many hours after the town fell into its slumber and the streets emptied of people, the river was still filled with boys and girls moving about – sailing like long shadows under the moonlight on a clear night.

In the summer, the river also served as a place for bathing and swimming throughout all the hours of the day.

In the summer, before the ice rose upon the river, it served as a connection between the town and the larger world. Boats would come and go from morning until night.

The second whistle sounded, all the travelers boarded the boat, and those accompanying them remained on the shore. The third whistle sounded – and the boat set out. The travelers waved. It sailed and moved toward the horizon, until it disappeared behind the great circle. Only then did all those who gathered to say goodbye to the travelers decide to leave, turn their backs, and return to their homes. However, the idle ones who always came to watch the boats setting out continued to stand and watch from afar, as if they were waiting for another new thing to once again capture their interest.

All this was in the summer.

In the winter, the river was covered with thick, heavy, hard ice. Then, those out for a stroll left the bridge above and moved to the white bridge below – the natural bridge, solid and wide.

Day and night, they enjoyed themselves with skates and winter sleds. The movement along the ice was especially great on clear, moonlit nights, when a mantle of mystery enveloped all living things.

We spent many hours of our lives upon the bridge – the bridge that was destroyed from time to time on account of the battles and wars that came through on both sides. The bridge both separated and united. The bridge was an attractive force and the most popular meeting place – who can forget it?

What was the most known place in the town? Pleasant to both children and adults together?

This was the large, broad square in the center of town, upon which all the synagogues of the place were built.

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That place was constantly bustling. Every morning at dawn or late in the evening, Jews would enter and exit through the doors of these synagogues that filled the yard.

The movement was especially great on Sabbaths and festivals, in the morning hours and even in the afternoon hours.

For what would good Jews do after the festive, pleasant afternoon meal and the nap that followed? To where were they attracted, if not to the synagogues to hear the Maggid [Preacher] and to gather together in a crowd – one large, diverse congregation, separated and distinct on all the days of the week, with each person going about their work and livelihood, hitched like slaves to the wagon of life. However on Sabbaths and festivals, they were angels, the children of angels…

Nevertheless, the Shulhof was not only a place of Torah. It also served as a valuable place of culture, where lectures and speeches by Zionist emissaries would be arranged. These emissaries were also emissaries of the new life arising at the corners of the East.

In the yard and inside the synagogues, Jews would gather not only for prayer and supplications, but also for outcries and protests against the travesties perpetrated against the Jews throughout the wide world, and for preaching about the path to new life – the path to national revival, which struck roots in that place.

The synagogues were served not only by rabbis and preachers of Torah, but also by the various parties – the Zionist parties, the workers' parties, and even the parties that preached against Zionism.

Therefore, we will remember that Shulhof, which attracted many of the town residents, and became a place of education and guidance not only for the love of the nation, but also for the changing face of that nation.

The Shulhof with its many synagogues stood in the center of the city. Roads and alleyways were next to it from all sides. All of them led to one place – like streams flowing into the sea, the Jews of the town flowed from all sides into that yard.

Translator's footnote

1. The inscription on the photo says: Rynek – i.e. town square. Return

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