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“Homeward! Homeward!” were the only words of the Koło youth who were posted in the large cities of Poland when the First World War broke out. They grabbed their suitcases and made their way home to their parents. The will to be with those closest to them in these critical years was stronger than all other desires. It dominated. Everyone knew, that the metropolis promised more business interests and opened many doors, however… in such times other powers directed them.

The war will last long! – This was the premonition, although the German generals promised in advance that after six weeks the French will break and the Russians will soften. The resolution is far away, and who knows, if the weak Jewish houses will withstand these great events!

It was not easy to readjust to the small town. There was a difference between those who had dreamed of far away places and starting a new life and those who had already tasted it.

When the sounds of shrapnel filled the air people readjusted quickly, once again becoming provincial. Experience in the big cities helped them organize supplies for the days when bread and security were the only desires: How do we survive the war?!

A few days after we returned to Koło the front drew closer to our city. Military were streaming from the border lines. During the day it was dead silent. Everyone, without paying attention, planned and prepared, looked for direction. However, at night, the walls shook and the streets trembled: the Russian cannons returned and with them the cavalry and infantry. The artillery could not hold back the German army who were tearing eastward.

I remember the tension of those days: the Russian army slowly retreated and the darker elements exploited every day,

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robbing Jewish property. From all corners of the land, from Galicia and other districts, bad news arrived. The war had just started and Jews were already paying a heavy price.

Truthfully said: we were waiting for the Germans. We wanted them to come quickly to determine the vague situation. We wanted to be rid of the Russians as quickly as possible as they had placed nooses around the Jew's necks. The Jewish economic position was ruined during the pogroms.

For a few weeks there was nothing to do. Precisely at that time people's minds were feverishly working: building plans and destroying them, combining and cancelling things in which we had invested a lot of effort. The main thing we held firmly was: prepare for the worst and endure.

The Germans entered the city and with them new plans were born. In the first minutes it seemed we had an advantage over them and it was worthwhile playing the card, but then came the disappointment. No privileges and no rights. They handled things according to familiar principles: oppress the weak, and in exile we were always among the weak. The plans for “tomorrow after the war” kept changing: we must emigrate. We will make our way in foreign lands because we are capable. Emigration for us was necessary for survival. In far away lands and democratic countries perhaps we will be able to build a new home.

Where to? Those who established ties with the Germans began to learn German; boys, with relatives in America, English; the majority looked for evening Hebrew classes, looked for private teachers in order to prepare themselves for the Land of Israel, which still looked like a desert. In their youthful fantasies they were moving into an abyss without obstacles or difficulties. Like our mentors said: “Someone has to be the first!” and “investments are built on fiction!”.

If you make and effort, it will be reciprocated.

The following days contradicted all our expectations. The Germans made a strategic retreat from our region and the Russians returned and with great commotion as they approached our town.

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Although they did not have interference from enemy powers and arrived with a crash: they began bombing the city at three o'clock in the afternoon and did not stop all night, as if the town was target practice. The shrapnel damaged houses, wounded people, but there was no mass murder or pogrom.

During the breaks, when the machine guns were quiet, Poles broke into Jewish shops and robbed them. There was no one to stop them in their work. Everyone lay hiding in cellars. Life was worth more than possessions.

After this critical night we saw thousands of Russian soldiers in the old and new marketplace, a great fair: Cossacks, Cherkasys, Kyrgyzstanis, and even Mongolians. They were all armed, some on wagons, others on horseback. Vodka poured like water.

We lived in fear for eight days. There was a shortage of food products. Hunger was looming. All the roads were blocked and no food products were coming in. Where would they get fodder for their horses?

One sunny morning the military departed leaving behind a sad memento: hunger.

The assimilated elements of our town did not want to see the hateful attitude on the part of the Polish population.

I remember an “incident” with my teacher about some school work. She gave me an assignment to write a composition on the topic: “My Strong Love for my Homeland Poland”. She, an assimilated Jew, hoped I would sing “Hallel” (songs of joy and thanks) for the country, where anti-Semitism was raging, where there were cries: “Jews, leave to Palestine!”. My writing disappointed her. In my work I wrote about my feelings for my hometown, where I spent my childhood (who can forget!). I described all the magnificent corners as well as the landscape and ended with this: “We've had this feeling many times, that we are roaming around here like a fox in a vineyard – the grapes are now sour… enough of these illusions, we must search for a new home!”.

My ideas were also not completely understood by my friends in the “Young Zionist” organization when I said: “Let's go, where our eyes will show us.

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Let's not remain here hardened on the spot! When you will want to move, it may be too late!”. They thought I was exaggerating, describing the situation worse than it was.

One by one, slowly, people changed their minds. Almost everyone realized that you could not build a life on sentiment. The letters I received from England also described a bitter reality. I was longing for “Lasek”, for the waters of the Warta River, which flow slowly and peacefully, but, besides sentiment, there was a harsh, cruel reality.

In 1919, two years after the great events in the Jewish a general world, the Balfour Declaration and the Russian Revolution, I decided to leave Poland forever. The slogans “War the War” and “With Independence in Poland the Jewish Problem will be solved” remained on paper. Before the thunder and lightning began, many young people, myself included, left Poland.

We left for various countries, searching for the dream of a new world.

A group of young men from Koło in the Polish military Seated (from right to left): Y. Pshedetsky, A. Markovitch Standing: Trayber, Brukshteyn

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After the murders of the Nazis, all cruelty has paled, nevertheless I can not free myself from the impression left on me when I saw a man die in front of my eyes.

Koło, like many cities and small towns in Poland, suffered greatly from pogroms during the First World War. The city was bombed, the bridges burned, Jewish businesses were robbed and there were many victims who fell. Three innocent Jews lost their lives on that frightful day: Avrom Yakov Band (he was tortured to death by Cossacks in the forest, not far from the town Klodavo. The murderers buried him alive), the watchmaker Lipky was stabbed in his workshop and Khaim Yilovsky was shot near his house.

This was in 1914.Two months after the German occupation the Russians began a counter attack. The German military retreated. Fear engulfed the Jewish population. Sad news was reaching us from neighbouring towns. The Russians killed two innocent Jews in Klodova: Nokhem Tchechinsky and Yakov Rayevsky. Cossacks hanged them in the presence of their families. These torturous events did not stop: What will become of us? Will we escape the sword and fire?

One December day, around noon, we heard canon fire. It was the Russians bombing the last German positions. The remaining German soldiers went into the trenches on the boulevard.

We saw people running in the streets, screaming and looking for a place to hide. Everyone went to his own house and down to the cellar locking doors and gates. A rumour was spreading from house to house: they are already here; they were seen in the outskirts of town! God in heaven knows what will happen to us!… At that time, I was in the home for the Kempinsky family. I helped bring the small children down to the cellar.

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After I closed the shutters, I looked outside through a crack.

The marketplace was empty, not a living soul. Shrapnel hit the House of Study and tore off a piece of the outside wall. A second shrapnel hit Yakov Band's tavern. His fifteen-year-old daughter was killed. With lightning speed, the news reached people in their cellars.

When the shooting stopped, the owner of the Kempinsky's house, Khaim Yilovsky came in and sat with us for a while. We spoke about the latest events and no one thought another tragedy awaited us.

Around nine o'clock that night there was movement in the marketplace. It was a bright night, mid month. I saw Russian soldiers on horses and a gang of local hooligans holding empty sacks in their hands.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door: “Open!” We were all overcome by the fear of death. There was no choice, we had to open. Avrom-Mendl Kempinsky and Khaim Yilovsky went out and opened the gate. I saw them bring in horses. Then there was the noise from a gun, as if they were shot in the room. The door was thrown open and Kempinsky fell in. the heart rending cries from Yilovsky's wife brought us out to the courtyard. Yilovsky was lying approximately 10 steps before the entrance with blood pouring from his head.

We carried the murdered man into the house and the cries of his widow and orphans broke my heart. The eyes of the deceased were still open as if they were asking: why did they destroy my young life?

I sat there the whole night and could not close my eyes. From time to time I could not control myself and cried quietly.

The next morning the funeral of the two victims took place. The road to the cemetery was packed. Who did not go to offer them their last respects?

Over forty years have passed since that tragic event and I cannot forget it.

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The Gabbais (beadles) in the Houses of prayer, synagogues, Houses of Study and charity organizations must be included in our folk – pantheon. They did extremely charitable work without pay. With a lot of compassion, they fulfilled their tasks, protecting our institutions, sparing every bit of change for the good of the people. Where do you find such Jews, these honest incorruptible men?

Reb Volf Butzker was not a tax farmer, also called Gabbais. He did not approach his position for honour and glory. The community bestowed the task on him and he carried it with honour and responsibility. He fulfilled this position for many years. He was the Gabbai in the House of Study and other communal organizations. Being the Gabbai in the House of Study was not easy. It was not a House of Prayer or synagogue with bought seats. The House of Study was open to all, rich or poor, Hasid or Misnagid (orthodox Jews opposed to Hasidism). A watchful eye had to make sure daily frictions were not brought in and people did not come there to take care of their “private accounts” …

People did not only come to the House of Study three times a day to pray. It was also a place of learning. Witness to this were the shelves filled with holy books and the long tables. Until Reb Volf Butsker became Gabbai, the books on the shelves were disorganized and were eaten by moths. The lighting was paraffin candles and oil lamps.

“Is the community so poor?” Reb Volf asked at a meeting of Gabbais and people who came to pray and worsened the condition of the House of Prayer. After hearing his plan for renovations there was fear: where will we get so much money? However, Reb Volf was stubborn: Let there be light! Let it be clean! The book shelf should bejewel the southern wall! This will not be a hospice!

All of his suggestions were accomplished and he got involved in the work. The House of Study was renovated and inside looked new: electric lighting, a book cabinet and clean.

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After the House of Study came his vision for the hospices. He removed the shame from the town which did not have insight into the poor. They rebuilt the hospice and appointed a cashier who gave each poor stranger a few zlotys and provided him with a place to sleep for three nights with three lunches. The cashier was Bram.

Various institutions asked for his help, they knew he would be supportive. The religious school “The Tree of Life” elected him to their board. Here he also accomplished something: he made sure children from non-wealthy families would be accepted tuition free.

A small episode about his generosity in relation to Jews and Gentiles. One of his neighbours, Saltishik, wanted to get out of paying rent. This matter reached the municipal court. The non-Jew insisted he was not guilty. The judge called the priest who demanded an oath from the accused. When the priest arrived Reb Volf said to the judge: I want to avoid a false oath so will renounce my money!!!

This fact moved hearts: Gentiles and Jews spoke about it.

The House of Study is no longer around as well as the last Gabbai, Reb Volf Butzker who was killed with hundreds of worshipers in Chełmno.

Jews being taken from Paviertche to Chełmno

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The families of Rabbi Reb Leyb Pordonsky of blessed memory, Reb Itche Feldman of blessed memory and Reb Dovid-Aron the ritual slaughterer of blessed memory were intertwined and cultivated as one.

Each member of the three families is a chapter unto its own. Each with its virtues and qualities. They all belonged to the Hasidic elite of the city and people willingly sought their friendship. By the way, these families were also connected through marriage. Older people remember the ritual slaughterer Reb Dovid-Aron very well, even his appearance: tall with a wide long beard down to his chest. There was always a cheerful smile on his face. He worked as a slaughterer for many years and he was loved by all social classes. The Pordonsky family descends from him.

The rabbi Reb Moishe-Leyb Pordonsky was a Ger Hasid. The Hasidim made him their community spokesman and prayer leader in the small Hasidic synagogue and said: “People love his sweet praying and of course, the Master of the Universe does as well”. He was so absorbed in learning his wife ran their wine business. She was the daughter of Reb Mikhl Trayber of blessed memory. She worried about daily existence and he, the world to come. Evenings and on the Sabbath Reb Moishe would study Talmud and Mishna with the respectable men in town.

One of his five sons Mikhal-Simkha Pordonsky held a respectable position in the Zionist organization in Kolo and was also active in the merchant's association; a second son was a ritual slaughterer in Kanin. Of all his sons and daughters, one has remained, Dovid Pordonsky. He lives in Rhodesia^[1].

Reb Itche Feldman was a man who was known for his charity and gentle character. He worked hard for the religious school “The Tree of Life” and was active in various social philanthropic organizations.

His wholesale business of textiles was well known in town and in the whole region. He always found time for communal organizations, however, not for personal gain.

From the Feldman family one grandchild has remained. She lives in Israel. Almost all were killed during the tragic war years.

Translator's footnote:

1. Today Zimbabwe. Return

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