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In the seventh grade in the gymnasia, we had to take pre-army training. A Polish instructor taught us how to use live weapons.

On one Friday in April 1937, there was a lesson for all of the girls in class. We were four Jewish girls. Giza Gozik stood behind the target and registered our score. All of us who were lined up received a set number of bullets for shooting. We shot, and then returned to our place.

When Mina Boher's turn came up, for some reason, Giza moved from behind the target, and a bullet hit her head. Giza was killed instantly, and we all were startled and nearly fainted when we saw our dear Giza wallowing in her blood, and any hope of resuscitating her was very faint.

That Sabbath eve and Sabbath day turned into a time of mourning and darkness.

The Jews took comfort that the incident did not take place to a gentile girl, for if that had been the case the tragedy would have turned into a disaster for the entire town, for the Christians would certainly have conducted a pogrom against the Jews, replete with pillage and murder, resulting in many deaths.

We could not take comfort in this. Giza was a dear friend of ours, and her loss was very difficult for us. It was also difficult for us to participate in the sorrow of Mina, who had to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that she killed her friend.

Giza's funeral took place at the conclusion of the Sabbath, and all of the residents of Lizhensk, young and old, took part. This was a funeral that won't be forgotten due to the number of participants and the depth of the grief.

Giza, who was a happy girl, full of life, healthy and goodhearted, was missed terribly by us. With her death, the songs in our group and joy among our circle of friends ceased for a long time.

Mina was also lost to our circle of friends. She knew, as we all knew, that she was innocent; nevertheless her agony and pain were great.

The court, in its first sitting, convicted her; however the court of appeal found her innocent, and her name was cleared of any suspicion. Nevertheless, this event left its stamp on her soul. She was broken and downcast for a very long period.

Now Mina is also no longer with us. May the memory of our two friends, tragic as it was, be kept with us forever.

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I was at that time a student in grade three or four in the elementary school. In the middle of the class, someone knocked on the door. A Polish army captain, dressed impeccably, entered. His face gave evidence that he was a fine and good-looking Jewish young man. He presented himself before the Polish teacher. He then immediately left and disappeared.

After a few weeks, that same young man returned to the school, this time dressed in civilian clothes. The teacher introduced him to us as the person who from now on will be the Jewish teacher to teach the religion of Moses and Israel.

This brought boundless joy to the Jewish students: finally we were to have a teacher of religion. In those days, it was customary that for the religion class, a priest would enter to teach the religion of Jesus to the Christian students, and the Jewish students would leave the class as people of a lower status, who did not have the rights to religion. It was as if we were despicable and valueless Yids.

When we reentered “their” class after the religion class, we were embarrassed by the glances of suspicion and condemnation, as if we killed their god at the time that we took leave of them and were outside the class, as if we were guilty for his death and they were ready for revenge against us.

Actually, they took revenge against us daily. During recess they would beat us terribly. We were always the minority in the school. When we returned home they would storm after us, calling out “Hora onto the Yids”. They would strike us upon our heads with their rulers or schoolbags. We were forced to flee. As we fled, they would throw stones upon us. The teachers follow after us, looking upon the groups of their students with indifference, and without any action.

We had nobody to whom we could complain. No teacher took our side. We thought that with the arrival of the Jewish teacher, we would have a protector. To our dismay, we were wrong, the new teacher was not able to help us. He was like a lone sheep among a pack of marauding wolves. Most of the Polish teachers were anti-Semites, and those that did not attack us or denigrate us on their own volition would look upon the acts of revenge of the Christian students with complete indifference.

I remember with particular horror the teacher Dolanga, a vicious anti-Semitic dog. It is told to us that his mother served as the “Sabbath goya”^[1] in the town, and she would light the oven in the Jewish homes on the Sabbaths. In payment for her services, she would receive a Sabbath chala for her sustenance. She fed her son this holy Jewish chala, and thus raised him as a morbid anti-Semite who took out his wrath and vengeance against the children of the Jews who were his mother's benefactors.

He particularly enjoyed picking on Yitzchak Stulbach. He always called him Itzik, and would laugh a sardonic laugh as he mentioned his name. He would always ask him questions that he was unable to answer, and then he would bring him to the center of the classroom and order him: “roll down your cloak”, and “lie on the bench”. Yitzchak, who was forced to fulfill his order, would lie on the bench with the corners of his clothing rolled down, and Dolanga,

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the Polish educator, would beat him on his behind with a stick to his sick heart's content. His Christian students would stand around him in amusement, choking with laughter due to their great joy.

We were taught religion at the time when the Christians had their religion class. When the priest came to the class, the Jewish teacher also came to the class. He would take us to a different classroom to conduct his lesson.

Once, the Jewish teacher was late in coming for his class, and since we were forced to leave the class, we went to the specified classroom to wait for him. Due to the great boredom of the long wait, Abish Reichental and his cousin began to grab our hats from our heads and throw them in the air. We younger children ran to hunt for our hats, and they threw them further, until one hat flew away and rested on the head of Jesus of Nazareth, whose statue was hanging from the side wall.

Abish and Hatali immediately fled and disappeared, and we younger children remained them frozen in fear. We were greatly afraid, for we could not even imagine what type of punishment would be awaiting us. To our good fortune, all the classes were full, the students were busy with their lessons, and nobody went outside.

Finally, the teacher arrived. When he saw the spectacle, his face turned white, he could not utter a word. When he regained his composure, he asked what had happened, and we told him all the details, placing the entire blame upon Abish and Hatali who had disappeared. The teacher locked the door, and figured out what to do. In the corner there was a shaky wooden bench. He took it, removed a long board from it, ascended the desk, and removed the hat from the head of the statue.

It is easy to imagine what would have happened to him if a Christian teacher or student had been present. There would have been no other explanation other than that the Jews, during their religion class, place a hat upon Jesus as is required by the Jewish religion.

Translator's footnote:

1. A gentile who is paid or commissioned to do acts on the Sabbath that are forbidden to Jews, such as turning on lights and heat. Return

[Page 234]

They arrived in town one day; they came from somewhere and appeared in Lizhensk. They were two older lads, orphans, wearing tattered and worn out clothing. Nobody knew anything about them, or from where they came.

One morning, frightful screams were heard in the town. We gathered together and saw that the two lads were bruised badly, and the younger one was shouting loudly “God boga! God boga!”^[1].

From that time, he had the nickname Bogatz (which has a double meaning of god and a rich man). The older of the two was tall, strong, with wide shoulders. His eyes exuded evil and his mouth spouted out a stream of invective as the gates of hell. Everyone was afraid of him as if he were some demon. He was illiterate, and he made his living as a porter. I remember him constantly wearing a thick rope around his waist, and always dirty with flour from the sacks that he used to unload from the wagons and carry to the bakeries. He was unwashed and his hair uncombed. He slept and ate amongst the gentiles. During the day he would go to their stalls and purchase some ham or thick sausage, which he would swallow down quickly, taking alternate bites from the sausage and the whole loaf of bread that was in his hand.

We kept our distance from him as much as possible, out of fear of his wildness and his great strength.

The Jews did not consider him as a Jew and the gentiles did not consider him as a gentile. They called him Ivan, however nobody knew his real name. It is very strange that on Yom Kippur, Ivan would lie on the lawn in the synagogue courtyard, alone, silent and forlorn for the entire day.

I was a young child and it was a festival. I do not remember which festival it was, but it was not Yom Kippur. I was about to enter the synagogue and behold, Ivan was lying down in the synagogue lawn. I was surprised, since it was not Yom Kippur, and I did not know why Ivan was there that day. I thought that perhaps he had thoughts of repentance. My small heart was that of a Jewish child, full of thoughts of reward and punishment, hell (Gehinnom) and the Garden of Eden. My heart was pained for him, my mercy was aroused, and I wished to comfort him, to relieve his depression and to help him along the path to repentance. I did not wish him to be thrown into the cauldrons of burning pitch in Gehinnom. I approached him, with my heart pounding. I did not know how to start, how to express my feelings of mercy toward him and my wish to help him. I coughed and said:

“Reb Ivan…”

I could not continue. For at that moment, he burst out with a storm, and thunderclouds gathered from above. Ivan rose up in a hurry from his place… I succeeded in fleeing. He did not touch me, however the half brick that he threw at me flew just past my head. I was lucky to have been saved from a disaster.

From that time onward, he was a topic of my childhood nightmares.

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I remember that for many years, Ivan lived alone and forlorn in Lizhensk, separated also from his “brother” as if he never knew him.

Once, when I entered the Beis Midrash in the morning, I saw him lying face up on a bench, behind the stove. He was surrounded by children and adults, and he was bloated all over and unconscious.

Three days later, Ivan died and was buried behind the gate of the cemetery.

On that day, dozens of dogs gathered in the yard of the cemetery near his grave, howling and barking endlessly. The Jews of Lizhensk said:

“The dogs are lamenting the death of Ivan, may peace be upon him. The other brother, knows as Reb Mordechai Bogatz, then became part of the Jewish landscape of Lizhensk. He grew a beard and peyos, and wore a black hat and kapote. On the Sabbath, he wore a streimel and black bekishe (Hassidic hat and cloak), and came to the synagogue to worship along with the rest of the Jews.

He got married according to the laws of Moses, raised a family and ate kosher food. For his livelihood, he acted as a small-scale middleman, particularly among the gentiles in the horse trade. I don't know if he earned enough to make ends meat, however I always saw him on the days of the fair spurring on horses, slapping their flanks and praising his “merchandise” to his buyers. After the fairs, he would come to my father's tavern and drink together with the gentiles as one of them.

He did not have to worry about his livelihood anymore, for his wife, the “Bogatzka”, concerned herself with that. She was a professional beggar from her youth. On weekdays she would stand at the entrance to the grave of Rebbe Elimelech of holy blessed memory, and would not permit anyone to enter the gravesite unless they gave her requested dues. People were afraid of her strength, and gave her what she requested. On Sabbath and festival mornings, she would go to the doors of the rich people with a large sack on her back and collect cakes and strudel. She would not accept chala. She would bestow various blessings upon her benefactors, each according to the situation. Woe to a person who would offer her only a chala, for then her blessing would be turned into a stream of invective which was worse than a curse.

Mordechai Bogatz died and left a widow and orphans.

Death came to them by means of the demonical German murderers.

Tranlator's footnote:

1. Boga is the Polish word for god. Return

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One's lot in life is not something predicable. It depends on comparison with the lot of others, for better or for worse. Therefore it was good for everyone in a town to be able to compare himself to someone who is less intelligent, less successful, less adept at interpersonal relations, etc. This was the role of the “town fool” in every town. It was impossible for a Jewish town to not have someone like this with whom one could “pride oneself in the disgrace of the fool”.

The name of our fool was Mottel or Mottenu.

He was born into a poor and forsaken household. He was an orphan from his childhood; he did not know his parents; and he did not know any form of childhood.

His mother died while she was still nursing him, and his father roved from town to town to solicit donations. He returned to his “family” only on very rare occasions.

Mottele grew up without a steady supply of food and without appropriate and well fitting clothing. In the summer he would borrow a hat that was too large for his head. It would rest upon his ears and hide his eyes. His body was covered with rags that were never washed or aired out. His swollen feet were shod in shoes that were too large and worn out. In the winter, he wore a hat that was so big that it covered his face

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up to his nose, and his head was pointed forward. He wandered about town aimlessly and nonsensical utterances issued forth from his mouth. He spent his days in the Beis Midrash near the oven, and at night he slept between the oven and the sink. The Beis Midrash was his home, and its worshippers were his parents. To his good fortune, among these “parents” there was one person who sincerely cared for him, Reb Yossel the teacher. He was a believing Jew, upright and good hearted, and he tended to him with an understanding and forgiving smile. He would provide him with food and clothing to the best of his ability.

To us children, Mottenu was the source of constant amusement. We would spend time with him and be amused by his antics, and in this manner we also came to value Reb Yossel the teacher and his deeds.

At one point the news spread that Mottele had reached his thirteenth birthday and attained the age of Bar Mitzvah. Shortly, it was rumored, Reb Yossel would arrive with a pair of tefillin and arrange a ceremony whereby Mottele would put on tefillin. It was as if a strange occurrence was about to occur, mixed up and wondrous. How could someone who does not know the form of a letter put on tefillin? How could he pray? How could he recite a blessing?

We stood in the Beis Midrash from the morning waiting for the event. In the meantime we surrounded Mottenu, we mocked him, played tricks on him and amused ourselves. He stood in the center, nodding his head like a large ox, his mouth uttering moans on occasion, and his lips with the smile of an incoherent person. He did not pay attention to our mocking. He was absorbed within himself.

In the meantime Reb Yossel the teacher arrived, glowing with the joy of the mitzvah, as the true host of the event who knew how great the mitzvah was that awaited him as he brought Mottenu into the yoke of commandments and Judaism.

He took out a new pair of tefillin from the festive sack, lifted the left sleeve of the celebrant, and tied up the tefillin straps as he recited the blessing in a loud voice. Mottele groaned something incoherent, and we children answered Amen in a loud voice, accompanied by thunders of laughter and joy. This happy event did not take place for only one day, for Reb Yossel tried to repeat this for several days, and we … absorbed everything.

There was a second amusing event in out life that was tied up with our dear fool Mottenu.

The town of Lizhensk merited to have its only guesthouse. With the help of well to do people and other donors in our town, a guesthouse was established, so that guests, charity collectors, lecturers and other travelers from various Jewish communities would not have to sleep in the synagogue and on the streets. Every beggar and guest would be able to have a prepared bed to sleep in, replete with proper bedding. The beggars of the town had bedrooms with minimal but adequate furniture.

What did Reb Yossel do? He took his adopted son Yossel, brought him to the guesthouse, showed him to a room that was set aside for him, made up his bed, and put him to sleep there. He glowed with happiness that his protégé merited to have his own bed like a normal person. This was a glorious and holy moment for all of us. We all were full participants in the joy of the great mitzvah and the fine moment of Reb Yossel.

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The following morning, when the first worshippers arrived at the Beis Midrash, they were surprised to see their Mottenu sleeping on the floor between the oven and the sink, as he was accustomed. When we asked him why he continued to sleep there, he said: "I cannot sleep in a bed".

Thus, Mottenu remained the only “privileged” one who was permitted to sleep in the Beis Midrash, until..

Until the terrible destruction of Lizhensk arrived. The Nazis included Mottenu with the rest of the community, as one of them. He was killed on a calamitous day along with the rest of the residents of Lizhensk.

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