Every man has a story – his own life story. It starts in his father's home, in the fields and meadows of a man's childhood. This, undoubtedly, is the nucleus. This nucleus is well-preserved and it blossoms on rare occasions in the conditions which stimulate growth. The development of the story is not continuous. It has its breaks and winter slumbers but it awakens and presses on with some changes. Occasionally, it repeats itself but in other cases sails on to unexpected destinations.

This is the way my story moves too. It opens in the small township of Kupishok which, for me, includes the whole of my Lithuania, the Jewish Lithuania, the Lithuania which is gone forever.

I have invariably been a man of opinion, in short – a prattler. As a child, I was the head of all the talkers, regardless of place: Synagogue, family table, even more so with friends. I have always been fortunate to have had a proper circle of listeners. My imagination and eloquence aided me to depict events and situations so that they interested the listeners.

The constant reading of tales and stories nurtured this skill of mine still further and it later became a way of life. Anything that came out of my pen or mouth was often embodied in a story. Sometimes, it appeared as a story inside a story which is not necessarily recommended by the creators of strict literary and linguistic rules. However, the rule makers do not always go along with human nature.

As I said, I embarked on the Lithuanian stories in Lithuania. I remember that whenever I went through a special experience, I instantly had the urge to tell people about it, either orally or in writing. Years later I understood that my stories actually met the needs and tastes of many people. Human beings are story lovers by definition. This lust embraces all ages, status and communities. People obviously have diverse tastes and levels of intelligence. If you are lucky enough, you succeed in reaching your listeners. They will always be with you and occasionally – behind you.

The best Biblical prophecies have been written in the form of tales. Let me remind you of the fables of 'The Vineyard' and 'The Vision of the Dry Bones.' The Jewish heritage possesses these values in abundance and so do other nations. Hassidism too has made its way with the help of story-telling.

Consequently, I surmised that the teacher would be more successful in his class if he explains his material through a story. This idea is well-suited for a special education discussion but let's return to our business at hand.

The Lithuanian stories started in my hometown. When I left the country, the stories continued to accompany me. Nevertheless, the story inclination has become even stronger after the great ruin. Moreover, the experiences that I used to consider meaningless and unimportant appear today as significant and worth describing. Sentiment, you may ask? Nostalgia?

Possibly yes and there is no point in being ashamed of it. Nonetheless, there is something which is above all that: It is the light of the leading star, the code of life we are searching for and bound to find in middle-age. As is said in 'Sayings of the Fathers (chapter 5)': 'Fifty is the age of wisdom.' Occasionally it is the age of complete loss, confusion and weakness. This is the philosophy of eat and drink since tomorrow we may die. This can be adopted by an individual as well as by a community. Jerusalem, too - the capital of the independent State of Israel - has not yet produced prominent moral values but has been swept in the direction of imitiating others. Instead, it should have shaped new ideas following the belief from our glorious past – 'For out of Zion shall go forth the law – (Isaiah 2:3).'

Here are my stories. I was hesitant to call them memoirs in the sense of eternal memory, as memoirs oblige precision. They have to follow a chronological order, exact names and other accuracies.

I write this as I approach the age of ninety. It is a peculiar age since memory frequently goes back several generations, allowing you to recall events in detail. It is not the same when one tries to remember what happened yesterday or an hour ago. In the latter case, the ability of storing things in one's memory is very limited - now you see it, now you don't. I have tried my utmost to be as much to-the-point as possible without exaggerating and rambling. There is a lot to tell and there is no bigger joy than that. All the more, my impaired vision limits my writing by hand. Instead the tape-recorder, this precious instrument, confronts me with the heroes of my life who are mostly dead. They come up from their graves exactly as they used to be. I argue with them, crack jokes with them and at times get angry. It is not boring at all!

The characters of my stories are the descendants of generations to come. Thank God, up until now, I have not bothered my household with my inner world. Someone like me, always worried and thoughtful since my youth up to this hoary age, does not usually have enough time for relatives.

Every generation has its manners. My generation rebelled against the fathers' heritage. This spiritual gap between the older and younger generations is not a good example for the sons. There are enough reasons for close relationships between various generations since it encourages the younger ones to return to their roots, at least the family ones. I present this story to you, my descendants on all sides, in order to let you enjoy it and broaden your horizons.

My students are plentiful and I still meet them on various occasions in different frameworks. It happened that during a conversation I suddenly recalled that this year I celebrate the 75^th anniversary of teaching. When I was fifteen, I was officially appointed the Hebrew and religion teacher at the school which I myself attended at the time. The appointment was made by the school inspector during the German occupation. It happened right after the death of my father, Meir Kodesh, may his memory be blessed, who had held this teaching post until he passed away suddenly. The brave inspector even surprised me by offering to pay me the full salary my father received: twenty marks per month in cash.

Since then I have been breathing the classroom air for seventy-five years and my students are spread out all over the planet. Destiny has been kind to me, having brought me to the lovely city of Ashdod whose leaders gave me the opportunity to teach for another fifteen years in the realm of Adult Education. In this Zionist city, I have acquired many more friends and students, all of whom I love. The stories of old Lithuania are usually not part of their own life experience but with a bit of curiosity and patience, I hope, they will spend some hours on broadening their outlook through reading this book.

The last ones to mention are the Litvaks, the Jews of my country of origin wherever they are. Not many of us have remained alive after the horrible Nazi burning. The people of my generation are slowly disappearing the natural way. Precisely for this reason, I sincerely hope that the Lithuanian Jews and their descendants will find something of the old aura of their devastated homes in this book.

As for the style - I knew a different Hebrew too. All the same, it seems to me that my readers would prefer the stories of Shlomo Kodesh in his original style. These are my stories and language.

Ashdod, 1993

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