Tales from My Father's Home

Telling you the story about Mendel-Leib Rabinowitz demands a confession on my part – I wasn't the most diligent student in town in the realm of Talmud. It does not mean to say that I was not knowledgeable or sharp enough, but my natural curiosity constantly diverted me from matters of faith towards more secular reading.

Having noticed that, my father decided to take urgent measures: First, he constructed a study room for me which was isolated from the rest of the house. But that effort proved to be totally unsuccessful since seclusion gave me even more freedom to plunge into popular Hebrew books and magazines.

Then father came up with the idea of a private tutor - he hired a shrewd Hassidic rabbi who would spend a certain number of hours with me. But those lessons also came to a halt despite the relatively high learning fees father paid for me. The poor man couldn't stand my mischievousness.

Utterly desperate, my pious father was looking for a solution and, at last, decided quite cleverly that I would study with a partner (in Havruta). He chose just the right individual for the task: Efraim Oshri (later a Brooklyn Rabbi and the author of the famous “Khurban Lita” or “Annihilation of the Lithuanian Jews”).

Miraculously enough, the new system did work and we proceeded from one Gemara page to another and in case of problems used to turn to my father, a Talmudic scholar himself, for guidance. The only day, however, when we couldn't consult him was Thursday - the Market Day - when father gave my mother a hand at her store on the Market Square. Indeed, that day was a bit of a celebration for all shopkeepers in town, since crowds of Lithuanian peasants were flowing into Kupishok from nearby villages.

So who did we go in case of Talmudic difficulty? Mendel-Leib Rabinowitz - one of the most renowned scholars in town. However, he was also busy at his gloomy shop of agricultural implements. I remember we once entered his packed store and watched him bargain with a peasant.

They seemed to be deeply absorbed but he asked: “And what do you boys want?” We shyly answered that we had a 'kashe' (a Talmudic question). Having heard that, he left in the middle of the argument, abandoning all his customers. He went into a dark back room and invited us to join him. There we presented our question and Mendel-Leib remained with us until the issue was resolved no matter how many customers were awaiting him.

This is just one example of those devoted souls for whom nothing is more important than sacred Jewish values and the study of Torah.

Note: Mendel-Leib Rabinowitz was born in 1866, the son of Baruch-Mordechai Rabinowitz and his wife Chana-Feiga and died December 30, 1931. He was the father of Basa-Dvora Rabinowitz, the wife of Beno-Laiser Meyerwitz. His daughter and her family were murdered in 1941. He probably had a son whose wife came from Daugavpils, but no records have been found as yet about this family and what happened to them during the Holocaust.

We Tore Up the Devil

The Lord wished to bestow His favor on the people of Israel so He granted them many festivals. These were the days on which we, the Jewish children of the Eastern European Diaspora, exempt from the burden of Torah study in the heder, were free to enjoy the many pleasures of the holidays.

Mother would wash my hair on the eve of the festival and I would dress in my holiday clothes. The house was filled with the delicious smells of the special food my mother and sisters were preparing for the evening meal. Every festival had its own characteristic aromas and tastes.

Despite their apparent similarity, the festivals are nevertheless very different from one another. Some are joyful and playful, whereas others are more sober, sometimes even sad. Take for example Passover, which we looked forward to for a month after the joyous Purim feast. We awaited the Passover Seder with its enjoyable and symbolic activities: The four cups of wine, the four questions, reading the Haggadah, the traditional songs, stealing the Afikoman, the game with nuts, and so on.

Or Shavuoth, a very short festival, only two days, but full of pleasurable surprises: The meal of cheese blintzes and other milk dishes, the synagogue redolent of greenery, and Tikun Shavuoth, the adventure of spending the entire night in the synagogue reading passages from the Torah and partaking of the cakes and coffee which one of the righteous women would bring from time to time to strengthen the hearts of the men who filled the synagogue until dawn.

What festival is more joyful than Sukkoth, beginning with the first nail we knocked into the sukkah at the end of Yom Kippur. I helped my father with the building of the sukkah by passing him the hammer and nails, and arranging the thatch so that we would be sheltered from the sun during the day but see the sky and the twinkling stars through the narrow openings at night. What could be more pleasant than eating in the decorated, crowded sukkah which we had built with our own hands, and fulfilling the commandment of sitting in the Tabaernacle.

Not to mention the lovely festivals of Purim and Simchat Torah in which we fulfilled the commandment to celebrate light-heartedly and with great enthusiasm. We can add to the 'happy' festivals Tu B'Shvat, the fifteenth of the month of Shvat.

Since this is not a religious festival, we were not given a holiday from heder until the afternoon when we were allowed a couple of hours of holiday merriment. We produced our packages of dried fruit, fruits which were rare in the cold climate of the Galut. The poorer children of the class, who were not able to bring these exotic fruits, did not suffer any deprivation for the teacher would place the fruit in one large dish and divide it equally among us. There were no more lessons that day. The teacher ;would leave us to our own devices and after much rowdy play we would go home in an excited holiday mood.

These are some of the joyous festivals which contrast with the festivals in which sadness and solemnity hold sway. Among these are the fast days like the Ninth of Av when there were no lessons in the heder because it was our day of mourning for the destruction of the Temple. From the cradle, we had heard stories about the atrocities perpetrated during the destruction and when we were older we studied passages from the 'Book of Lamentations.'

There was no contradiction between the ancient custom of little children throwing thorns on the mourners sitting in the darkened synagogue on low benches reciting lamentations with the thorns sometimes cuaght in the beard of a mourner raising either a smile or his ire. The heaviness of spirit we felt as this day approached as if the catastrophe had occurred in our own day and we ourselves had suffered all the hardships and bitterness of the Exile. Throwing the thorns was thus the fulfillment of a commandment for us and the sorrow flowed from the depths of our pure, young souls.

The feeling was the same on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Even though it is a holiday and the children studying the Gemara knew the legend about the dancing in the vineyard in the time of the Temple, there was no doubt about the nature of this day whose place was firmly fixed in the list of solemn festivals. Many of the prayers recited in the synagogue were punctuated by the sobs of the women. But most distressing to me was the sight of my father's tears.

Everything was clear to me concerning the happy and sad festivals except in the case of Rosh HaShanah, the New Year. I could not decide to which category

these two significant days belonged. Two contradictory feelings struggled within me. At the beginning of the month of Elul, I already became apprehensive. The blast of the Shofar after the morning prayer awakened in me serious anxiety about my fate in the coming year and my mind was filled with thoughts of repentance.

There isn't a human being in this world who has never sinned, all the more so this nine-year-old boy who, because of his many misdemeanors, was considered by everyone to be a mischievous scamp. I was not yet of an age to be held responsible for my sins, this responsibility being held by my father until I reached my Bar Mitzvah day when he would read the prayer absolving himself of the father's responsibility for the sins of his son. However, he wisely did not completely forego the punishment which I deserved and I received my fair share of having my face slapped and even suffering the indignity of being put over his knee and soundly spanked.

I thus had no actual reason for apprehension about my fate for, as our Sages said, “Afflictions purify a man's sins.” In a strange way, I was even somewhat grateful to my father for punishing me as I saw this as an absolvement from punishment from on High in the future. Nonetheless, I couldn't totally ignore my thoughts of repentance and behaved with great restraint from the first day of the month of Elul until the day after Yom Kippur reinforced by my mother's admonition every morning as I left the house, “In the month of Elul, even fish tremble in water.”

At the same time it was hard to ignore all the joys that Rosh HaShanah afforded a child like me, like the blasts of the Shofar which reached their peak before the Mussaf prayer. For an entire month, from the beginning of Elul, the Shofar would be heard every morning in the synagogue after 'Shacharit.' More than once we children succeeded in snatching the Shofar for a few moments and competed with one another in trying to blow it until we were caught by Shabtai, the Shammas, who retrieved the 'holy instrument,' roundly scolded us and threw us out of the synagogue.

In this way a month passed until at last we heard the sounds of the Shofar on the New Year. Seven times we would hear the blasts which slowly faded and then

suddenly there would be absolute silence. Then the soft, spine-tingling voice of the Rabbi, his face almost completely hidden by his prayer shawl would say, “Tear Up the Devil!”

'Tashlich,' the curious custom practiced on the first day of Rosh HaShanah of symbolically casting ones sins into the water, was something I enjoyed witnessing, even though my father dubbed it women's foolishness. A procession of men followed by the women would proceed to the river where they would say,, “And I will cast all my sins into the depths of the sea,” and they empty the contents of their pockets into the flowing water.

As I was well-informed about the known or rumored wrongdoings of many of the town's inhabitants, I would choose a victim and observe his sins as they were thrown into the river. I watched Meir Stein, the banker, who stole the savings of poor widows and orphans, and Benzi, the cheating moneylender, and Joelke, the rebel, who was reputed to eat unkosher food when he went on business to Gentile villages.

There was no hint of sadness on the eve of Rosh HaShanah as we sat down to the festive meal. The table was beautifully set, the candlesticks polished, the challah twisted in the shape of folded hands. On the table was a bunch of grapes, rare in the cold climate of Lithuania, ready for the blessing 'Sheheyanu,' the golden honey in a dish in which to dip a piece of bread when saying the blessing for a good and sweet year; the pile of New Year greeting cards with which my sister had decorated the table; and, most important of all, the large fish head, and next to it a smaller fish head on which father and mother would make the blessing “May we be as the head and not as the tail.”

For me, the fish head was the greatest delicacy, one which I also enjoyed on Sabbath eve. On the eve of Rosh HaShanah, however, there was additional pleasure in the joyful obligation of saying a special blessing over the fish head. I felt a little guilty about enjoying the festive meal so frivolously on this solemn festival.

In this way Rosh HaShanah had been celebrated year after year until that fateful year of fear and apprehension. This was the year of the blood libel against Mendel Beilis in Russia, which threatened the large Jewish population with terrible pogroms if, God forbid, evil judges were to find Beilis guilty. He had been accused of murdering a Christian boy for the purpose of using his blood for baking matzot for Passover.

This was an obscene libel which the enemies of our people had used for hundreds of years as a pretext to persecute us and spill our blood. The Beilis blood libel at the beginning of the twentieth century was the worst of them all for millions of Russians Jews depended on the outcome of his trial. The Czar's advisors planned the trial very shrewdly and thoroughly. We awaited the trial with great trepidation.

During that period, one day Nachum Leib, the postman, entered our house with a pile of letters in his hand. He extracted one from the pile and in his slightly husky voice read the beautiful curving letters in the Russian language forming words on the envelope: “To Mr. Meir Kodesh in Kupishok.”

You may well ask why he read the address out loud when he was already in our house with the letter in his hand? He had come for the special purpose of delivering it and it was therefore incumbent upon him to read out the address. This obviously also gave him much pleasure and a chance to show off his reading ability.

My father was most surprised to receive this letter from such a distance as they did not arrive very often. As this was an unusual event, my father hinted to my mother that she should offer Nachum a glass of tea while he searched in his purse for the two kopeks to reward him for delivering the letter.

As soon as the postman left, my father hastened to examine the envelope. He too feasted his eyes on the long address written in Russian, turned over the envelope and read the name and address of the sender, wondering who was Rabbi Abraham Dov Poppel from Heidotishok (in the vicinity of Vilnius.)

After several moments, he suddenly remembered that this was a distant relative from his father's side, renowned from his youth for his worthiness and promise of greatness, handsome in both appearance and spirit, outstanding in the

possession of both religious and secular knowledge, God-fearing and conscientious in his attention to the needs and well-being of his congregation.

Father placed the letter in his pocket and returned to his pupils who, in his absence, had begun to quarrel. When at last his pupils went home for dinner, he sat down at the table to read it. I will attempt to convey the contents as accurately as possible after some eighty years have passed since I read it. (I could not but notice that, annoyed as he was at my inquisitiveness in reading the letter, my father evinced a flicker of pride that his young son was able to read Hebrew so fluently.) The letter was written in beautiful Hebrew, sprinkled with sayings of the Sages. And here is a shortened version of what Rabbi Poppel wrote to my father.

The Month of Elul, 1912
Tuesday,
Heidotishok.

Dear Rabbi Meir:

        I am appealing to you about the following matter. We are now going through hard times for the Jewish people in the light of the terrible blood libel which our enemies have imposed upon us. Mendel Beilis is in prison awaiting trial and only God can bring justice and free us from these shameful accusations.

At this difficult time, we must have recourse to repent. I believe that if the repentance of one individual can reach the seat of the Most High, then the repentance of an entire congregation will certainly 'tear up the devil' and deliver us from sorrow, accusations, and wicked, harsh decrees.

I have therefore gathered together seven worthies of our town in order to discuss the matter of charity and repentance. As it is said by our Sages, “Charity begins at home.” No doubt Rabbis and teachers in other Jewish communities will do the same in order to forestall the evil through repentance, prayer and charity and the Lord will hear our supplication, forgive our sins, and bring about a fair trial for Beilis and bring peace to our people.

Now the High Holidays are approaching; the Days of Judgement when on Rosh HaShanah we are all judged and on Yom Kippur, when the sentence is passed. We are in need of an experienced cantor to intercede for us with our Heavenly Father. There is nobody in our congregation with all the necessary qualities – experience, an impressive appearance and a pleasing voice.

In previous years, we contented ourselves with one of our own people but this year is different and we decided to search for a cantor outside the bounds of our community who will be better able to arouse the Lord's mercy. Since I know that you are graced with all the qualities of a very fine cantor, I am beseeching you to come to us for the High Holidays and to serve as our cantor.

If you are willing to accede to our request, we would appreciate a speedy reply. Be assured that your expenses will be covered generously and that virtue is its own reward.

As I was an expert in the Holy Tongue, I avidly read the Hebrew magazine to which my father subscribed, and was aware of the Beilis case and the danger which threated him and all the Jews of the land. I also understood the intention of the Rabbi who had invited my father to serve as cantor.

Although I did not know the Rabbi and his name was not familiar to me, I was nevertheless fully aware of my father's qualities and why they had approached him. Indeed, he was renowned for his skill in prayer reading and his melodic singing. Many prayer readers even tried to imitate him but with no success.

Despite his ability, father was very modest, unlike some other members of the congregation who would push their way to the reader's stand and entertain the congregation with their chanting. Instead, he would only go up when invited to do so and even then only after a great deal of persuasion. I was very proud when the Rabbi and the Gabbai would aproach him and quietly ask him to honor the congregation by reading the Mussaf. He would smile modestly and comply, taking his large prayer book and washing his hands before going up to the reader's stand, as though this was the first time he was serving as cantor on the Sabbath. On the High Holidays, he would volunteer to read the Mussaf (the prayer after Kol Nidrei.)

However, father never went to another town to serve as cantor and it never entered his head or that of any member of his household to leave home for the High Holidays and to go to a strange congregation. I waited to see what would happen, asking myself if he would really accept the invitation. And what would my wise mother have to say about it? For it was very unlikely that he would do anything of this nature without first discussing it with her.

In my presence, everything continued in the usual way but from my parents' bedroom I heard whispering with my name repeated a number of times. I pretended that I knew nothing and just waited impatiently and with great curiosity to see what would happen.

And sure enough, one morning after the prayer service, about two weeks before Rosh HaShanah, father stopped me as I was about to leave for heder, lightly stroked my cheek and said, “Listen Zalmanke, I have news for you. Next week, God willing, we will go to visit grandfather as we do every year to wish him a happy New Year and from there we'll go on a long journey.”

My grandfather, my father's father, served as the Rabbi in a small community which could be reached in thirty minutes by train. Twice a year, before Passover and the High Holidays, the entire Kodesh family would gather from all parts of Lithuania in order to wish him a happy holiday. We would spend about half a day in an uproarious mixture of words of wisdom, Hassidic melodies, the gathering of aunts, and children's games. At the end of the day, we recited the evening prayers and then departed to take the train to our different destinations.

I loved these family gatherings mostly because of the tumult and I had no fear of grandfather's questions about my studies. The fact that his grandson was acquainted with a page of Gemara did not impress him. According to him it was natural that young boys studied the Holy Scriptures to develop their intellect. What was more important in his opinion was good manners which, in my case, were presumably not perfect. My father was occasionally criticized by my grandfather for my naughtiness. The result of these conversations I felt on my body when we returned home.

As the day of the family gathering came to an end, the younger generation would receive grandfather's blessing. We would line up according to age and the seniority of our parents. He would place his hands on the head of each of us and whisper a blessing. We thanked him and so ended our visit.

This time, when father revealed to me the news about our projected journey, I couldn't restrain myself from admitting to having read the letter. He pretended to be surprised and even lectured me on the ban placed by Rabbi Gershom on reading other people's correspondence. However, he himself was so alarmed at the thought of the severity of the ban that he hastened to add that it apparently did not apply to a son who reads letters addressed to his father!

Although obviously not angry with me, he did forbid me to tell anyone else about the invitation. But our closely guarded secret soon became common knowledge and a topic of discussion among the members of our congregation. Well-wishers respected my father's decision, whereas other critcized him, asking how a respectable Jew like my father could think of abandoning his home during the High Holidays to chase after honor in a strange town.

My reticent mother acccepted the adventurous journey silently. Her eyes showed sadness but also an undertone of pride was evident in her voice when she related the contents of the letter to her sister, Tzippi, who nodded her head and said how fortunate my mother was that her husband's good reputation had spread so far. “What a pity,” she said, “that you can't accompany him.”

Mother could not even think of closing her store for ten days, the livelihood being so meager. Also, the cow and the chickens had to be attended to and the potatoes picked. So what could she do? She was a strong woman and knew how to endure difficult times.

When the hour of parting arrived and Mendel, the coachman, brought his wagon to a noisy halt at our door to take us to the railway station situated ouside the town, mother did not cry, even though this was the first time she was to be separated from her husband and youngest child for the holidays. She parted from my father in the bedroom, out of modesty, and emerged slightly flustered and teary-eyed. She smiled at the coachman, hugged me tightly, and then gently pushed me away. “Hurry Zalmanke, get on the wagon and be careful. For goodness sake, don't put your head out of the window of the train! Behave nicely and listen to your father and be a good boy! Don't bring shame on our family!”

I was the one who cried! She wiped my tears with a corner of her apron. My father and I climbed onto the wagon and joined the other passengers. In a short while, we were sitting in the railway carriage on our way to grandfather's house.

Our visit this year was somewhat different from previous years, for everyone knew about father's undertaking and looked upon him with greater respect. He was secluded for a long time in a separate room where grandfather gave him instructions, warnings and good advice. Father came out of the room slightly more bent, as if an added burden had been placed on his shoulders, for grandfather was very particular about everything to do with worship. One can surmise that he left out nothing that is incumbent on a cantor. A proof of this was my father's tears when he received a blessing from his aged father.

I was also granted special attention from grandfather on this visit. He explained to me the special responsibility of a cantor throughout the year, but especially during the High Holidays and in troubled and fearful times such as these. He warned me not to jeopardize my father's mission by thoughtless behavior, and gave me his blessing.

From grandfather's house we proceeded directly to our destination. I had never been on such a long journey in a train, and had never spent such a long time with my father in a closed compartment. To tell the truth, I felt a little uncomfortable being in the care of my father without the gentle intervention of my mother. It seemed to me that my father was also not at ease with the situation. As usual, he spent most of the journey reading, but every now and then he would attend to me, feeling my forehead to make sure I was not ill, and taking out the food which my mother had prepared in abundance to sustain us during the long journey. I looked out of the window and enjoyed the scenery.

From time to time the train would stop at a station, letting off passengers loaded down with their bundles, and taking in others. Our compartment remained almost empty. A Jew who entered and tried to engage my father in conversation soon gave up after father replied to his probing questions very tersely and went off to look for more congenial company.

As it grew dark, I sat beside my father and tried to imitate him by reading a passage from the Gemara which I had packed in my luggage so as not, God forbid, to be idle during the journey.

But soon enough I could not conceal my yawns. This did not go unnoticed by father, who put down his book and started to prepare a bed for me on the upper bunk. After reading the Shema, I climbed into my bunk and he covered me and dimmed the lights. I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

We reached our destination at dawn. Not many passengers got off at this station and the Rabbi's messenger had no trouble identifying us and leading us to the carriage which was to take us to the town a few miles away. The Rabbi and his household had gotten up early to welcome us to their home. In addition, a number of townsmen were also in the house of the Rabbi at this early hour preparing the morning prayer.

The men sat down at the table to drink a glass of tea before 'Shacharit,' unlike the Mitnagdim who refrained from drinking or eating before the morning prayer. While drinking their tea, they examined my father on his knowledge of Torah and appeared to be satisfied with his answers, for they very quickly loosened their tongues and spoke to him as though he was one of them.

During this conversation about local matters, we learned that this year, for a reason which I cannot recall, there was a problem in the fishing industry and that there was a danger that the fishermen would be unable to provide us with fish for the holiday. I didn't take much notice of this at the time, even though I was to be directly involved with the shortage of fish, as I will shortly describe.

My father quickly settled into his group and made preparations to accompany them to the synagogue. I seemed to have been forgotten, and it was only when he was putting on his coat that my father turned to me and said, “You, Zalmanke, will stay home, pray on your own, and the Rebbetzin will put you to bed to make up the hours of sleep that you missed. We have a lot of work before us, and need physical and spiritual strength during the High Holidays which are approaching to 'tear up the devil' in our prayers.”

No sooner had the men left, when the Rabbi's wife and her eldest daughter began to attend to me. While inquiring about our family, they made up a comfortable bed for me, closed the shutters, and I soon sank into a refreshing sleep.

A gentle pat of my father's hand awakened me at noon. He had already managed to unpack our luggage which my mother had packed so efficiently:

Clothing in one pile, underwear in another, presents for our hosts, and even my

school books, as if I wouldn't find any books in the Rabbi's home!

I dressed and joined the family for lunch. After reciting the blessing following a meal and reading a page of Gemara with my father, I was given permission to go outside. I had never been in a strange town, except for my grandfather's town which was very small and where I knew every Jew. Now I was curious to confront the unknown.

Our arrival was already known to all the Jews of the vicinity. Inquisitive boys were loitering near the Rabbi's house and inspected the visiting youngster who had come with his father, the cantor, to stand at his side during the service. We soon became friends and they led me to the courtyard of the large synagogue.

My new friends told me about their 'melamed' (or teacher), about the tricks they played on him, congregation gossip, and their own private stories about their homes, their families and so forth. They were also well informed about the Beilis case, and even gave me the latest news which I hadn't heard yet because of our preoccupation with our journey. A number of them read the paper which reached their homes just as I did.

All the things we had in common brought us closer together and I returned to the Rabbi's house surrounded by many friends and very content despite the separation from my mother and the fear and trepidation concerning the great responsibility which I bore together with my father. I was grateful for this adventure, and already imagined the stories I would tell my friends when I returned home.

The festival began. It was strange to see a woman, not my mother, blessing the candles. Even the candlesticks were different from ours, and the way the Rebbetzin performed the blessing was different to the way my mother did. When I was little I used to cling to my mother when she blessed the candles, often feeling her burning tears as they fell on my face and I would cry together with her.

Suddenly I felt anger towards my father for separating me from my mother on the eve of this holy day, even though I lacked nothing and everyone in the house spoiled me and showered me with affection. The Rebbetzin even tried to persuade me to let her wash my hair before the festival but I refused , since having my hair washed was not something I enjoyed. No matter how tightly I closed my eyes, the soap suds would find their way in and burn them. Father rescued me from our well-intentioned hostess and took upon himself the responsibility for getting me ready for the holiday. I was quite pleased with myself when, cleaned and combed, I looked at myself in the mirror after putting on the new clothes which had been made especially for our journey.

In the synagogue, father was ready to begin the saying of Psalms for the New Year. The rest of the year the Book of Psalms was the province of the simple folk, whereas the more learned worshipped through the study of Torah. Not so on Rosh HaShanah. On this day everyone is equal before the Lord and His judgment, and the saying of Psalms is raised to the highest level. And so I sat down next to my father.

Clearing my throat, I began enthusiastically to recite, “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked.” But the enthusiasm began to wane as strange thoughts entered my mind and vied with my good intentions to direct my lips and heart to the praising of God. I started to wonder what my mother was doing at that moment, and what about my friends? These thoughts had been put into my head by the Devil and I, small and weak, did not know how to overcome his machinations.

My father was absorbed in his repentance, as was everyone else, and I felt neglected and alienated in these strange surroundings, with nobody to support me in my time of stress. I felt sorry for myself. My eyes filled with tears. Not the purifying tears of repentance which atone for one's sins, but tears of anger against my father who had abandoned me and who had separated me from my tender-hearted mother.

Also anger against myself that I was unable to overcome my evil inclination and that I was abusing the trust given to me by this holy congregation. The words stuck in my throat and I became silent and sank into a daydream. My father sensed my distraction and his nudge restored me to full consciousness and I continued to pray, but without inspiration and with a heavy heart.

At the end of the service, people began to approach my father, whom they regarded as an honored guest, to greet him and wish him a happy New Year. They also stroked my cheek and some even showed interest in me which helped to raise my spirits. The special honor conferred on us when the Rabbi himself came up to us to wish us a happy New Year also cheered me somewhat.

My father took my hand and accompanied by members of the congregation, we returned to the Rabbi's house. But no sooner had we entered, the set table appeared alien to me and my heart sank once more. With difficulty I refrained from bursting into tears. I felt hurt that my father did not notice my distresss.

To add to my displeasure, there were no small challot for me to bless as was the custom at home where my mother would bake these little loaves especially for me. Even the dipping of the challah in honey, to symbolize a sweet year, was performed differently. At home, each one would receive a beautiful plate with a spoonful of amber-colored honey, whereas here there was but one communal bowl, and each one dipped his piece of challah in it and recited the blessing. I was too shy to do so; it was as though the custom had been changed deliberately just to annoy me.

The Rabbi and my father made the blessing over the wine in the rather sad melody used during Rosh HaShanah, the honey was tasted and then we came to the blessing of the fish head, which was to cause me much embarrassment and suffering. After the benediction, “Who has kept us alive and sustained us to reach this present time,” we reached the main benediction, “May we be as the head and not as the tail.” At this point, the Rebbetzin was to bring out the fish head, giving each one a portion and, saying the blessing, we would enjoy eating the stuffed fish, the gefilte fish, which from the beginning of time until the present day has been considered a Jewish delicacy.

Even though I wasn't in the best of moods, I looked forward to making the blessing and then enjoying the fish. I had completely forgotten about the very poor catch the fishermen had had that year. I was also not aware that a member of the congregation, who was concerned that his beloved Rabbi would not be able to bless the head, spent a great deal of money from his own pocket and somehow managed to obtain a small fish which he sent to the Rabbi.

So, unaware of all the facts, when I perceived that the Rebbetzin would serve the fish head only to the Rabbi, I was filled with wrath. I jumped up from my seat as if bitten by a snake and rushed out of the room to the dismay and consternation of all those seated at the table.

Father rushed out after me, followed by the Rabbi, the Rebbetzin and their children. They found me lying on my bed and sobbing. Father, as usual, started feeling my forehead to see if I had fever and begged me to tell him what was hurting me. To this day, I am unable to explain my strange behavior. I was an intelligent boy who was not regarded as spoiled or infantile. How then could I have been overcome with such childish and insolent anger that I answered father's concerned question with the absurd answer, “The fish head hurts me!”

He, however, guessed the meaning of this, for he shamefacedly turned to his astonished hosts and apologetically explained that it was a childish caprice, that I was accustomed to make the blessing over the fish head at home and was distressed that this year I was not being permitted to carry out this commandment.

Father's explanation added to the consternation of our hosts. For a moment there was complete silence in the room. Everyone stood around my bed as if I were seriously ill, not knowing how to relate to me.

It was the Rabbi himself who solved the problem with great charm and understanding. He placed his hand on my head and eagerly exclaimed, “You are quite right, Zalman. You deserve to make the blessing over the fish head. Get up, wash your hands, and come to the table because we're waiting for your blessing.” This was an amazing and wonderful solution to the problem.

The Rabbi and the rest of the company returned to the table and waited for me to fulfill the Rabbi's request. He explained his action to my father and to his family, “Our dear young Zalman did us a favor. He is truly the messenger of Israel's advocate. Every year we stand on the Day of Judgement, poor and empty-handed, waiting God's mercy. This year, when we are in such great danger, we are more than ever in need of a virtuous emissary who is the purest of the pure to make the blessing. The benediction, 'We should be as the head' is one of the most important blessings on Rosh HaShanah. It means that we should be like the head and not, Heaven forbid, degraded and oppressed like the tail. An unexpected miracle has occurred! Dear Zalman, who is innocent of sin has undertaken to represent us on this Day of Judgement and to recite this important blessing which will, because of his innocence, surely reach the Most High.”

As he was speaking, I entered the room, downcast and ashamed, and took my place at the table. The Rabbi, as though he didn't see me, continued to speak and, turning to my father, said, “You are fortunate Meir that thanks to your son's blessing and his innocent tears our prayers will be answered.”

First noticing my presence, he presented the dish to me and said, “Zalman, would you please recite the benediction and be the first to taste the fish, after which we shall also make the blessing.” I glanced at my embarrassed father who smiled reluctantly and gave me a sign of assent. I took the dish and in a clear voice recited, “May we be like the head and not like the tail.” Everyone said, “Amen,” and waited for me to taste the fish first and only then did the Rebbetzin divide the fish head into small slices so that everyone could have a taste.

Achieving my desire for the fish head did not bring me much joy but I was certain that my tears had been justified. Most assuredly, the fish head belonged and had always belonged to me alone. Nevertheless I felt that this time my demands had been exaggerated and that I had hurt my father.

The meal, as was usual with holiday eve meals, was very tasty but the atmosphere was subdued. At the conclusion, we said the traditional prayers and, as is customary on the eve of Rosh HaShanah, read Psalms.

I struggled to stay awake, wanting to remain with the men: The Rabbi, his son Aaron, who was older than me, and my father. The Rabbi again saved the day, suggesting to my father that we go to our room to rest. “You have much work before you, Rav Meir, and so does our Shlomo Zalman, your assistant. Go to bed. I shall also retire soon.” My father answered jokingly, saying, “One must obey one's host as long as he doesn't tell you to leave.” He closed the book in his hand and led me off to our room. He put me to bed without mentioning my capriciousnes at the table. I began to recite the 'Shema' but my eyes closed in the middle of the prayer and I fell fast asleep.

My sleep was light. A little oil-lamp shining in the narrow passage cast a heavy shadow in our room. Father was asleep but he groaned from time to time and tossed and turned as though he were troubled. However, he continued to sleep. Not so I, for waking up and seing the strange room in the light of the oil-lamp, it was forcibly brought home to me that I wasn't in my own bed and my beloved mother wasn't with me. I was also apprehensive about what the future had in store for us.

One of the local boys, older than me, had told me some bad news. Just that morning he had read that the authorities had found a priest by the name of 'Paranaitas,' an anti-Semite, who claimed to know both Hebrew and Aramaic, and to be well-versed in the Talmud. He claimed that he had found the secret commandment in the Talmud to slaughter a Christian boy before the Passover and to use his blood in the baking of matzot.

The court in Kiev where Mendel Beilis was to be tried had approached this priest who had agreed to give testimony at the trial as an expert on Jewish law and tradition. There was great danger that the evil authorities of this oppressive state were preparing a show trial. Who could save us?

Suddenly I was beset by terror. How could one be sure that God would not abandon His people? There was damning evidence for our many sins. We also had the hand of the prosecutor, who was the devil, and the 'angel of death' against us.

The Day of Judgement was approaching and the people of Israel would gather in synagogues around the world to pray for a good year, a year of forgiveness and atonement. Repentance, prayer and charity would avert a bad verdict. But for this, it is necessary that the counsels for the defense be powerful and completely righteous. I, myself, was one of the counsels for the defense! The Rabbi had said so and he knew what he was talking about. He had the countenance of an angel with a cheerful face, a pleasant manner, and an air of distinction.

Can he also divine our secrets? Does this righteous man also know that I, the defense counsel of Israel, who was brought to this town with my father to divert the heart of the Judge to give a good verdict, is not a paragon of virtue? Is there a man who has never sinned? Sometimes the evil inclination overcame me and I committed sins against God and Man.

All at once I felt the weight of the burden my father had placed on my shoulders. As if to annoy me, my sins and misdemeanors came to mind, even those I had committed in infancy!

I remembered all the forbidden food I had gobbled up. When I went down to the cellar to fetch onions, potatoes or pickled cucumbers for my mother, I took advantage of the errand to sip from the honey. But this was not the worst sin! There was also the forbidden taste that the evil inclination, may he be cursed, forced on me on that market day when our house was filled with villagers selling their wares.

When they left, they forgot a clay pot filled with that particular unclean meat. The evil inclination urged me on, “Taste it. Just a little taste!” I did so and my stomach turned! For days afterwards, I could not rid myself of the taste of the 'trayfe,' the unkosher food. Remembering this caused me to wonder how I could possibly redeem myself on the Day of Judgement.

Then something happened which I shall remember until the end of days. I was filled with self-pity, pity for my iniquitous soul, and with pity for my poor father who had to bear the punishment for my sins. For four more years he would have to carry this burden. But above everything else, how would I be able to face the Most High tomorrow in the synagogue on such a solemn day, a day when all Jews would be judged and the devil was already sharpening his evil tongue to malign us.

I was filled with sorrow and even thought of waking my father. I burst into tears, covering my head with the blanket so that he would not hear me. And wonder of wonders, the tears gave me relief. A strange idea entered my head. What if I tried to speak to my evil inclination? After all, he was also a Jew and, as my father had explained, the other side of me. I prepared in my mind what to say to him, “Please, evil inclination, let me be spared during the High Holidays, here in a strange place. Why should innocent and honest people suffer because of my transgressions?”

In the midst of these thoughts, I recalled the incident of the fish head and realized that I had acted foolishly. I had behaved like a spoiled child and had brought shame on my father and on myself. Even though the kind-harted Rabbi had turned bad into good, as though it was due to me that the blessing would be accepted, I did not flatter myself that this was so. I was aware that a religious duty achieved through a wrongful deed does not count.

Many years have passed since then, and I don't remember in exact detail the dialogue with my evil inclination. But one thing I do remember. The result was good. My tears dried, the heaviness in my heart began to dissolve and, at last, I fell into the sleep of the just.

When I awoke, I recited the morning prayers with great conviction as was fitting on such a solemn day. As was the custom among the Hassidim, we had a festive breakfast of cocoa and home-made pastries. I strode along with my father, the Rabbi, and his son to the synagogue. I felt that my evil inclination had listened to me and I was untroubled. We had made an agreement and he would not lead me astray.

The synagogue was almost filled, even though we had arrived early. The congregants were preparing themselves for many hours of worship. Soon the place was filled to capacity. The children surrounded me, but I tried to ignore them and to imitate my father and the Rabbi who were wrapping themselves in their prayer shawls which they wore over the white robes they had donned at home.

I immersed myself in the prayer book and from time to time would sigh deeply and direct my thoughts to Heaven. The cantor for the morning prayer was the Rabbi himself. This was a token of respect and the congregants felt more secure on the Day of Judgement when he conducted the Service.

Before the hour of the blowing of the Shofar arrived, the synagogue attendant announced a break. The 'shul' emptied out and we too went home. The Rebbetzin begged me to eat and drink something as the day was long and I would soon have to help my father who would be reading the Mussaf prayer. I was persuaded to drink some coffee with milk and eat a piece of delicious cake she had baked. I sat and ate quietly and after a while we returned to the synagogue.

On the 'bima,' the Shofar blower was preparing himself for the holy blasts and the special prayer, with tears pouring down his cheeks. I stood beside my father and the Rabbi ascended the bima, as was the custom, to read the passages for the blowing of the Shofar.

As the Rabbi began to recite, an hysteria seemed to overtake the congregants. Terrible cries and sobs filled the house of worship. They repeated the passage with tears of supplication seven times, accompanied by the wailing from the women's section. The voices gradually died down and there was silence.

The Rabbi once again rose to his full height and began to sing the moving traditional melody, 'Out of Distress I called the Lord.' The Rabbi read passage after passage, six passages in all, each one beginning with a letter of the words, 'Tear Up the Devil.' The congregation loudly repeated each passage after the Rabbi. At last the Shofar blower recited the blessing preceeding the Shofar blasts.

My heart was pounding in trepidation. Would the shofar blower succeed?

Would the blasts be clear and lengthy, and not disrupted by the devil? But we could rely on the shofar blower, Reb Eliyahu, a simple Jew whom the Lord had blessed with this talent. There was nodbody like him. His Shofar blowing was his pride and his success was the hope of the congregation.

The Shofar blowing was over and the time for the Mussaf prayer drew near. All eyes rested on us. Once again there was a short break. Father took me outside and spoke to me as to an associate, giving me final professional instructions. I was to sing two whole sections of the prayers solo. My father and the Rabbi had discussed this innovation of giving the task of the cantor to a young child. The Rabbi had convinced my father that my prayer would reach the Most High for no one is purer than a child.

We re-entered the synagogue and returned to our places next to the eastern wall. My father, wrapped in his talit, holding his prayer book, was summoned by the Rabbi to the bima to read the Mussaf prayer. The eyes of the whole congregation were fixed on him. My father slowly approached the bima with me close behind, identifying with him completely and praying for his success. Father put his head in his hands and through his talit I could sense his tears as he whispered, “I am ready and willing”.

Then his voice was heard, clearer than I ever heard it before, singing the traditional melody, “Here am I, poor of deeds…” It was now my turn to make my voice heard by giving the tone, in the language of cantors. Thank goodness, my voice also came out loud and clear. Even though my eyes were lowered I could feel the surprise and satisfaction of the congregation when they heard the cantor.

But suddenly my father's voice broke and he was strangled by tears. My father was famous as a tearful cantor who went from one mood to another according to the context of the prayer he was reciting. My own crisis of apprehension had passed, also my shyness. I even forgot my young age.

The hole community of Heidotishok had called my father and me to help it at this solemn time to overcome the accusers of Israel, to 'tear up the devil', and to arouse God's compassion for this congregation and for alle the people of Israel in this time of trouble. All my fears of the past couple of days of being unworthy for this task disappeared.

Father led the congregation, skillfully stopping at times so that I could join in. Looking up from my prayer book I saw that I had won the admiration of the congregation. Father also glanced contentedly at me. I was overjoyed, and sure that the Lord would accept our prayers. We had the second day of Rosh Ha-Shanah to look forward to, and I was certain that my father would continue to fulfill his task admirably, and that I would stand proudly by his side.

It was a good feeling. If only my mother were here!

The Family Story of the Pinskers

I had five uncles in Kupishok, my hometown in Lithuania. Two of them, Mendel and David, were my mother's brothers, descendants from my grandfather Meshulem Mordechai. His first wife died while still young and left three daughters: Sterna, Hannah, my mother, and Tzippi.

Then grandfather married for the second time. His wife's name was Dina. She bore him two sons and two daughters, Batiah and Rachel. All of them established families in Kupishok and were good neighbors to each other. My mother's brothers, Mendel and David Kadishevitz, passed away in their youth.

The girls got married. Aunt Sterna married a man named Ginzburg and moved to Dvinsk or Dinborg. He died before I had the chance to meet him. The rest of the families lived in Kupishok. Mother married my father Meir, the son of a rabbi in Donmonek. Aunt Tzippi married Samuel Pinskoy, Aunt Batia – Hillel Zilber.

Aunt Rachel finally married Abraham Glick. He was a soldier in the Russian army during the First World War. He was one of the last soldiers who retreated from the advancing Germans. He expressed his desire to stay with us. Uncle Samuel, being a caring person, agreed and accepted the unknown soldier. Soon we provided him with civilian clothes. We, as children, found a new partner for housework. Subsequently he married Rachel who was single and aging. That's how we got another uncle, thanks to kind Uncle Samuel.

Now I will start with the life story of Uncle Samuel, the father of Joe Pinskoy's family, who live in Wallingford, Connecticut. This story in its translation into English is dedicated to his children. These relatives appeared out of the blue due to Joe and his wife, Eve, both warm and hospitable people. The parents taught their children (daughters, Gladys and Joyce and son, Clive) to be linked to their family. Not only did they develop warm feelings towards their Israeli relatives whom they found in the 50's, but they also transferred these feelings to their children who in turn strengthened them.

Thus, in the last years of my life, I feel a spiritual need to build a bridge between generations and to tell the sons and daughters growing up under the sky of the free United States of America about their ancestors in distant Lithuania.

Aunt Tzippi and Uncle Samuel's story would not be complete if we didn't meet Grandpa Meshulem Mordechai (Motie) Kadishevitz – our family's patriarch.

In Kupishok, everything started from Grandpa Meshulem Mordechai, or

Shulem-Motie, as he was called. I'm writing these lines while I'm slightly confused and my eyes are darkened. For this reason, it's difficult to recall the events with many details. They are all in a fog and mixed with things I have seen or heard since then. The following is what I remember about my grandfather.

He died when I was probably still in the cradle, while my memories start from the age of two or three. It seems that his name emerged quite frequently either in family conversations or perhaps as folklore. He used to be a dominant figure in the community, everyone listened to him carefully. He spoke in a pleasant manner and with a great sense of humor.

Shulem-Motie's style was straightforward and very colorful. A great many of his stories spread about the town as jokes. Let me tell you one of them. My grandpa was a tradesman who exported linen products to Russia in the nineteenth century. Dozens of poor tradesmen used to go to local villages and buy linen from the peasants. Afterwards they sold their merchandise to my grandfather. He was obviously respected by those for whom he was the source of their livelihood. Some used to flatter him a great deal and inquired about his well-being. He used to accept those expressions of respect properly although he reacted to them with his own humor which wasn't necessarily respectable from the language point of view.

They say that while walking back from the sauna, he was invariably met by merchants. The latter blessed him with 'tzur rephue' (a Yiddish blessing after taking a sauna.) According to the custom, the proper answer would be 'thank you' but it wasn't the case with him. In the cold and snowy winter days, he responded, “Kish me t….” (kiss my a..). Quite a sharp answer to a simple act of courtesy!

When people wondered about the reason for this rudeness, he explained, “A weak, ageing Jew comes out of a hot sauna into the freezing cold wrapped up in fur clothes and is hurrying home. Suddenly, these pests stop him with their stupid greetings. If he replies politely, they will naturally begin to ask him other questions. Was the water boiling or just hot? How was the steam? What news did they talk about in the sauna? and so forth. In the meantime, he is in danger of catching a cold or even pneumonia, God forbid, whereas after a response like mine, I get rid of the pests and go on!”

My grandfather bought quite an extensive piece of land in the market square that was later used for building a number of flats and shops. In his lifetime, he divided the possession between his sons and daughters. By this, he prevented a fight over their inheritance which can bring hatred, but it did result in jealousy. Almost all were shop owners with similar merchandise. The problem started when the peasants bought the stuff from one of the sister's shops instead of another sibling which was nearby.

His third daughter, Tzippi, he gave in marriage to a young man from a respectable Hassidic family. His name was Samuel Pinskoy (later changed to Pinsker.) He was a polite individual with a pleasant voice which he used in the local synagogue and talking at meetings. Samuel also was bright and had a wonderful sense of humor. As a dowry, he received two small shops in the town center and a plot for building a house not far from where we lived. The family grew but their financial condition worsened. A man with initiative and energy like his obviously did not want to live from hand to mouth without trying to improve the state of affairs.

In those days, penniless Russian Jews started thinking of making money in distant places. At the end of the nineteenth century, some developing countries attracted people with initiative and willingness to improve their financial situation. North America, New York especially, promised new opportunities to immigrants.

Another country was South Africa. After the war that freed South Africa from British rule, permanent and temporary immigration started. After they arrived in the new country, the immigrants began saving each penny, even on food, and many helped their families still in Europe when they themselves became more successful.

In the meantime, their family grew larger. Unfortunately, not all babies lived long. To the very end of her life, my aunt mourned the little angels, boys and girls who died right after their birth. Only five of them survived – three sons and two daughters. Joseph, the eldest, Beryl, and David, and the girls – Regina and Chaya.

Painfully, my uncle separated from his family and went to distant South Africa for a long time to try his luck. I was then very small, or maybe I wasn't even born yet. Nevertheless, I remember well the time when he came back. He looked quite different from the other Jews in town in his modern clothes. His beard was beautifully trimmed and his earlocks were shortened. Samuel's stories and jokes about the blacks and Dutch heroes who fought the British Empire made him very popular. He was always encircled by curious listeners striving to hear more about wild animals wandering in the forests and about gold mines. He never told his personal story about the way he had earned money even though I occasionally talked to him during my rare visits to Kupishok after I reached manhood.

In later years, his eldest son, Joseph, told me about those years his father had spent in South Africa earning money for his family and separated from his close relatives. But there was a happy ending! Samuel came back to Kupishok and immediately expanded his shop, adding more expensive goods. Now, anyone who wanted to cover his body from head to toe turned to Samuel Pinskoy's clothing store.

Some years passed and I left the Kupishok world with its small shops and entered the modern era. I would make short visits back twice a year to be with my mother and sister. During those rare visits, I invariably stopped by Uncle Samuel's store to listen to his calm words, full of wisdom and life experiences.

I do not remember Aunt Tzippi's house in the years of survival with five little ones and a husband far away. That life was very similar to her sister Hannah's, my mother. I can't help being amazed at the way those Jewish women, so tender and charming, could bear such harsh periods: The necessity of earning a living, bringing up their children, and struggling with terrible poverty. And at the same time, they preserved their self-esteem and were respected by other people.

It is difficult to comprehend how they could bury child after child, console themselves, and still hold themselves proudly despite all the disasters. What poet or writer would dare write Life Poems about our mothers and grandmothers, heroines of life and love.

My memories about this side of my family started to flourish near the end of my life: They occasionally emerge from darkness, as if they demand to tell about their lives, perpetuate their stories. There is a great deal of truth in this claim since the number of survivors from that period is decreasing.

Age does its share and others were eliminated by the Nazis like mice or insects. Their homes have been destroyed. Nothing has remained! Should they be forgotten? Not only because they were our brothers and sisters, grandparents and parents, but they were kind people, good even in moments of hardship.

They were persecuted, humiliated and despised simply because they were Jews but their souls were lofty and noble. To their graves and gas chambers, they took their hope for the future!

May their memory be a blessing.

If you read Hebrew, you would be able to enjoy my poem called 'This Was the Kupishok That Was' in which I depict the life story of my parents, brother, sisters and friends. But since your Hebrew maybe is not yet up to standard of reading literary pieces, I will satisfy your curiosity by telling a family story in English.

Perhaps not one of the descendants will understand the story of Aunt Tzippi; it will simply seem unreal to them. Imagine a petite woman living on her own for several years, having to take care of her children and business (the family had a small shop) when her husband left in order to earn his living in remote South Africa.

But you might be wondering what she was doing at the time of her husband's journey. Not surprisingly, her life was tough beyond words! She was bringing up her children, at least two she buried because of malnutrition and disease. She arose every morning at sunrise and during the winter even earlier. The cow had to be fed, the garden (which provided the family with vegetables) had to be cared for, and food, prepared.

Tzippi would carry water from the local well on her back, watered the garden, and took the cow to the pasture. Then came time for the morning prayer and after that her working day started!

She then walked to her little store. That's the way she spent six days a week arriving home late and exhausted. As the Sabbath was approaching, my aunt baked some challot and cakes for her family. In addition, at Pesach, this hard-working woman had to prepare wine and perform another seventy-seven chores. She also had to write happy letters to her husband saying that everything was all right! Strange as it might seem today, her life was not so different from many other women in Lithuanian Jewish towns at that time.

When Uncle Samuel arrived back from South Africa, they built a house near ours and lived peacefully together. Aunt Tzippi continued to work with her husband in the shop thanking the Lord for all the good He had done for her and her family.

I do not know what she said or what she thought about when the cruel Lithuanians brought her to the Nazi murderers. I suppose, even at that fateful moment, she did not curse the Lord since she believed in His mercy.

The Children

The Pinskoy's had seven children, five of them lived but the other two were taken away still in their infancy. This was the unfortunate death quota that was never surpassed in Lithuanian Jewish families of that time. Taking the appalling sanitation conditions into account, it was a miracle that those five survived!

I will try to tell you a little about each of the children the way I still remember. It is obvious that David (Sidney in America), Chaya and Regina are ingrained in my memory as they lived near us in Kupishok until I left at the age of sixteen or seventeen.

My Cousin Joseph

Let me start with the sons. By the time I grew up, Joseph had already left home in Lithuania. He used to be extremely energetic and quickly escaped from the poverty of a small town. He earned his living through part-time jobs in Vilnius. As I remember, he joined a group of young people who fought against the Czarist rule which oppressed all the citizens, especially the Jews. The party he joined was the Jewish-Socialist party called 'The Bund.' Its members strove to put the ideas of Marxism into practice.

The Jews of Lithuania had good reason to wish a political change since they were constantly oppressed, prevented from getting good jobs and were forced to live in specific areas. Since Jews were not given the opportunity to work in agriculture, the public sector or the army, the only occupations that remained were commerce and peddling. Only a few Jews reached top positions in the field of medicine, law or finance. Joe was not among those few.

Therefore, he eventually headed for America. In the first years of his life there, he saved every penny and, as a result, rose to a fairly high social and economic level. He used to be a strong and persistent person. He was a man of principle so it was not easy to argue with him. At the same time, he was good-hearted and devoted to his family.

Being a relative living in a distant country, I received a great deal of attention and warmth from Joe. I recall how he located me in Jew York in the 1950's and we went to the graduation ceremony of his daughter Joyce in Boston. On my next visit to the states in the '60s, we met again and he simply made me crazy with his anti-Zionist political views. I also remember how he would bring us to Wallingford from time to time and did everything possible to make my wife and I feel welcome.

One Sabbath morning he had to bring his wife's mother to the synagogue. She probably did not ride on Shabbat, so he took her arm and led her there, despite his own reservations concerning Judaism. Joe was indeed special. Every time I visited him, his friends from Lithuania were in his home. He would generously help those who were not as successful.

The following generations would do well to follow in the footsteps of a giant of an individual like Joe Pinsker, a true 'mensch.'

My Cousin Beryl

My cousin Beryl was the next son. He was much older than me. I always liked him for his kindness. Exactly like his elder brother Joe, he left Kupishok at a young age and eventually ended up in Vilnius. There he learned the trade of watchmaking and started to work. Later, at the time of the German occupation, he returned to Kupishok for some years and opened a workshop in Uncle Samuel's house. After the death of my father in 1918, may his memory be blessed, I would go across to Uncle Samuel's house and watch the gentle and skillful work of Beryl.

At the end of the German occupation, I left Kupishok for Kaunas in order to study in a Jewish comprehensive school. The Pinsker family remained behind. Some time later, destiny arranged an intimate and tragic meeting between Beryl and me in Kaunas.

Before I tell you the entire story, I want to give you an insight into the horrors of the Lithuanian army. The oppressive Czarist rule left its mark on the military system. Army service was considered extremely difficult, so everyone would do his best to avoid it. The recruited soldiers were literally turned into slaves by the atrocious discipline of the officers. The latter wasted the military budget on their own needs, walked around in perfect suits and lived in good apartments. At the same time, the soldiers suffered from malnutrition and horrific sanitation conditions. The drunken officers tortured their subordinates by beating them and forcing them to run many miles loaded with ammunition, hungry and freezing from the winter cold. This was the way the regular soldiers were treated; the persecuted Jews suffered even more. Even a corporal could insult the bloody Jew who tried to soften his commander's temper by giving him presents.

During the rule of the Czar, Jews often fled the country as they got closer to army age. America was the ideal shelter. Another way of bypassing the dreadful military service was to buy the desired exemption certificate by giving bribes to the senior officers. The demand for the exemption was so great that there were special agents who made the arrangements. Any physical defect of a Jewish boy was considered a great blessing!

The poor teenagers tortured themselves for months in order to appear weak and ill in front of the medical committee. Everyone attempted to have a weak heart, flat feet, bad hearing and sight since these defects provided people with the much desired certificate.

Apart from the physical torments, there was also the problem of keeping kosher. Many Jews observed kashrut whereas in the army they had to eat from the communal bowl filled with rotten meat.

When the Lithuanians became independent, they turned out to be no better than the Russians. On paper, it was forbidden to discriminate against Jews, although in practice they suffered even more than before. Therefore, I still cannot fully understand why Uncle Samuel did not succeed to free his son Beryl from the paws of the Lithuanian military machine. Beryl was recruited and placed in a battalion near Kaunas.

At that time, in 1920, I was already studying in the capital before obtaining my matriculation certificate. I was an orphan - young and enthusiastic. My knowledge of Hebrew and Jewish tradition, which I had brought with me from my father's home, helped me to earn a bit of money giving private lessons. I gradually became accustomed to my independent life and even started to enjoy it. I had a room of my own and did anything I wanted. For the sake of historical truth, I didn't always do what I was supposed to do. Among my friends, there were guys from well-established families. We had a lot of fun together - but that is a separate story…

My cousin Beryl visited me in my school and continued to stop by fairly often. He sometimes stayed in my room for a couple of days and we spent many enjoyable hours together despite the age difference.

One day, unexpectedly, I learned that my cousin was ill and hospitalized. When I arrived, I found him lying on a cot with a severe stomach-ache.

He remained in the hospital for some two weeks and I visited him almost daily. Eventually he was on the way to recovery and on a Wednesday they said that he would be released the next morning.

I promised to come and take him from the hospital. On Thursday I gave up a school day and in the morning headed for the hospital in a carriage. On my arrival, I entered Beryl's room and found him dead on the couch. There was no one around. I was frightened and perplexed. When I summoned the nurse, she was a bit moved. When the doctor arrived, he was much less understanding and suggested that I take the body to the Jewish cemetery.

More than seventy years have passed but I can still vividly remember that horrible hour in a strange city, lonely and penniless. I somehow got over the feeling of anguish and sent a telegram to Uncle Samuel and Aunt Tzippi. They soon arived in Kaunas exhausted from mourning their son and from the long journey.

This is how Beryl's young life came to an abrupt end. Perhaps fate wanted me to be close to him in his last days. May his memory be blessed!

My Cousin David

This is an altogether different story. During the first seventeen years of my life, David and I lived together. Our houses were adjacent to each other and we were good neighbors and good friends. At some stage, our relationship changed since David left for the United States. Many years later we met again during my first visit to the States in 1954.

I found him in a small town in Connecticut where he lived with his exceptional wife. He earned his living at a shop; his home did not have a happy atmosphere. It was hard for me to recognize the new David, closed and sad. He was very glad to see me though. I could not complain about his hospitality but I felt as if we did not have a common language anymore.

Even though my relationship with Sidney (which was his name in the States) was a bit cool, it wasn't like that during our childhood. He was then called 'Doydke Tzipes' which derived from his mother's name – Tzippi. Jewish women were often deprived of certain religious rights (the reminder of male dominance in Judaism) but it surely wasn't the case in my home. There, my mother enjoyed great respect and influence. Raising kids 'fer Got unt fer menschen' (for God and people) was her major responsibility.

David and I had studied in the same heder, played with the same kids and were both punished by our fathers. As a matter of fact, I was smacked more often, since Uncle Samuel was much more liberal than my strict father. He was slightly older than me but I sometimes proved to be better at religious subjects at school.

Starting at a very young age, we both actively helped our parents in their shops. On market day, we would stand on the look-out in order to prevent thefts when the store was packed with customers. At the end of market day, we used to help clean the street in front of the stores.

Before we reached maturity, the First World War broke out. Lithuania was precisely on the border between Russia and Prussian Germany. The war was fierce and there were many casualties. The civilian population of Lithuania was trapped between the two military forces and suffered from both armies. Everyone, and Jews in particular, went through terror, torture and persecution. With the temporary defeat of the Russian army, the government started to look for justification. Naturally, there was no better scapegoat than the Jews.

Not much time passed before the German soldiers conquered Kupishok after a fierce battle which resulted in thousands killed and injured. The small Jewish town turned into utter confusion full of Russian wounded soldiers, Jewish refugees and German conquerers. We, the Jewish children, suddenly became the interpreters because of our knowledge of Yiddish, which is very similar to German. The German soldiers constantly robbed our parents' shops which was similar to the vandalism of the Russian army.

In this confusion, each person had to try to look out for his own welfare. David succeeded to do so and even taught me how to help the Germans in order to receive presents from them.

The occupation lasted for about three years. My father died and I had the freedom to do anything I fancied. David, my other cousins and I became the leaders of the young people in town. Our parents' stores were virtually empty, the economic situation was tough so we decided to assist our families in any way we could.

We somehow acquired the goods that the nearby peasants needed and even went to the villages with some salt, clothes, sugar, and soap. In return, we obtained milk, butter, flour and several dozens of eggs. As a matter of fact, David used to be quite eloquent when it came to commerce, just like his mother Tzippi. He would argue with the peasants in order to get a better deal. As I did not reveal great talent in the business field, he helped me.

Evenings passed in a different way altogether. The Germans often imposed a curfew on the town from sunset until sunrise. As a result, the teenagers gathered at somebody's house and we used the evenings for studying, reading and singing. In this field, David accepted my superiority and loyally followed my instructions.

When I left Kupishok for the capital, I heard about the Zionist dream. When afterwards I occasionally went back to visit, David was managing a large shop full of a variety of goods. His parents were his active assistants. He would complain to me about life in a small town and even expressed his desire to leave either for Palestine or America. He sometimes visited me in Kaunas where we spent wonderful evenings together with our other relatives.

After the tragic death of his brother Beryl, David presumably got fed up with Lithuania and left for the States to be near to his brother Joe. When he fled, he was not aware that his entire family would be cruelly murdered by the Nazis several years later.

As I said before, David established himself in America, got married but for some reason did not have children. It seems to me that his life was not very joyful. Still, he deserves being remembered by his relatives.

The Daughters

I would like to finish this family story with several lines about the two daughters of the Pinsker's – Regina, the elder one, and Chaya. We were about the same age but had utterly different destinies. Fate was not merciful towards them. Regina (or Gena as we called her) succeeded in establishing a family which eventually broke up. Chaya, on the other hand, had to be satisfied with dreams.

Even though our families were neighbors, I did not see them as often as David. Their practical mother was extremely active in everything that concerned her family and the economy. Their yard was full of chickens, there were two cows and a turkey for Pesach.

The girls, Chaya especially, were very helpful and I remember watching her carry two buckets of water early in the morning. Gena was more spoiled; I never saw her working in the garden or carrying bags of groceries from the market.

When we grew up a bit, the two sisters and I became closer. The reason was the up-and-coming Jewish youth movements. We began to be involved in learning Hebrew as well as attending all kinds of events where I had the role of an organizer. Gena and Chaya invariably took part in our parties. Gena was famous for being able to speak perfect Yiddish. Chaya was often in the center of Jewish folk dancing and singing.

After I had left Kupishok, Gena was married for a short time. She had one or two children. Several years later, my fiancee Hadassah and I arrived in Kupishok in order to meet my family. One evening Gena tried (unsuccessfully, though) to teach us to tango. I still recall the melody of that dance and it always reminds me of my cousin. That was the way we parted … forever.

Conclusion

This is the end of the Pinsker story. Much to my regret, it has no happy ending, unless you consider death a happy end since it is a complete liberation from suffering and hardship. I do not know what my dear aunt, uncle and their children thought about when they were thrown into the hands of the ruthless Nazi murderers.

I want to believe that they were consoled by the miraculous survival of their two sons – David and Joseph. The last words of Tzippi and Samuel probably were blessings to the future of their children, and grandchildren who would be born in safety and freedom.

Naturally, they did not leave material wealth to future generations. The little they had was robbed by German and Lithuanian criminals. It says in the Bible, “I can hear the voice of your brother's blood from the Earth.” (Genesis, free translation.) Instead they left the most valuable inheritance possible – the moral strength to cope with difficulties, to achieve what one needs with wisdom and love.

This is the heritage which will be passed on and is the most priceless possession one can ever have. Therefore, I hope and pray that the splendid legacy of Kupishok will live on in your and your children's hearts.

Epilogue

There has been a myriad of books written about the Holocaust but this manuscript – these stories – tell of a prior period at the beginning of the last century… a period of our history which has all but been forgotten.

Many years have passed since these experiences – some seem just like yesterday – the highs and the lows which everyone must face in his life.

I arrived in Palestine in 1933 and immediately became immersed in developing the Ulpan movement, which has been the foundation of teaching new immigrants from all over the world the Holy Tongue.

Prior to the establishment of the State of Israel, I traveled to America and disseminated information about the concept of the Jewish state in the day schools and yeshivot there.

Subsequently, on behalf of the Government, my travels took me to London, Rome, Paris, Berlin, Caracas and other locations in the Jewish world.

Even now, after almost seventy years in my beloved Eretz Israel, I am still as optimistic about our future as I was when I first arrived.

In my retirement, I can only hope and pray that the words from my stories will remain in your mind and heart as they have within me over the decades.

Ashdod,
5760/2000

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