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Not far from Gzhibov, which leads to the Jewish neighbourhood, lies, squeezed between two main streets of that quarter, Marianksa alley. Noisy and swarming with people, Gzhibov reaches around and swallows up the surrounding streets and alleys, filling them with sounds and melodies, historic voices and nervous gesticulations and movements. Beside the large iron stores stand youth with large sauce pans on their heads calling out the goods they have to sell. Dark haired charming girls carry glass pitchers with a light red drink to quench the thirst of the hundreds of brokers, lottery – Jews, money changers, porters, teamsters and young petty bourgeois looking for business on the noisy Gzhibov. Older Jewish women sit beside the gates with gloomy eyes, their heads wrapped in scarves, and measure out for the school boys, beans, and nuts from the Land of Israel. A hot steam emanates from the beans and blends with the oil and kerosene odours from the surrounding soap shops. Provincial Jews with frightened eyes and flaming faces, wearing high leather boots and coats down to their ankles, run through the sidewalks clearing the way with their hands. Slowly getting off the train in groups, loaded with parcels, one runs into a neighbour or friend from their hometown in this sea of people and the joy is so great, as if they hadn't seen one another in years, as if “Train #8” from which they all disembarked took forever to arrive.

Slightly embarrassed, not audacious enough to hire a carriage, these new businessmen know where to buy cheap merchandise on Gzhibov, and later, at home, nationalize…they mull around impatiently,

Mikhal Burshtyen – story teller, novelist. A high school teacher by profession; born in Bloyne near Warsaw in 1897. From 1912 lived in Warsaw and was the author of four books. In 1939 he left for the east. He was in the Kovno ghetto. He died in Dachau in 1945. - - - all his works are elegies about the decline of Polish Jewry in the years between the two World Wars. One ray of hope – The Land of Israel. This fragment describes a popular Warsaw institution – the “Palestine Department”.

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as if the ground was burning their feet, sneaking into warehouses, packing up goods and returning irrelevantly to the train.

The “All Holy” church towered over the walls of Gzhibov, ruling over a strange kingdom. Its porticos and columns from the late renaissance create a contrast to the one or two story small yellow houses with pasted on signs and covered with mushy roofs.

Under the church, in the cavern, we find a vaulted hall. After the “pacem requiem eternam” those praying go down to hear the passionate sermons of the priest Kalevsky. The priest throws pitch and sulfur on the enemies of the church and ignites a flame of faith in the hearts of the believers. The fire burns and burns and then is extinguished, it smolders…until the time. The time will come. This is what these believers know.

Sometimes it happens – a young man with a rich father in the Gzhibov neighbourhood, converts on Krakow suburb, in the “new world”, or in the alleys – then he comes years later as if he misses the familiar, enters the “All Holy” church and the priest Galevsky (Translator's note: previously spelled Kalevsky), sprays him with holy water and changes his name. Such a person was named Khaim Shloimeh, receives the name Francischek Salezi, his name on his birth certificate is Hersh, and now he is Henryk. Only his surname remains unchanged. Levental remains Levental and Nusboym remains Nusboym. This is how the attitude toward the church remains familiar, almost like family. Why go to strange churches when everything here is so close and familiar from our youth.

Over on the side is the Marianska alley. The noisy sounds of Gzhibov barely reach there. The residents have always lived there quietly and modestly. Until, until the times changed and the name “Marianska” began to ring in all corners of the Polish republic. The Marianska alley became more popular than Nalevkes, more popular than the minister Grabsky, and the name “Marianska” was awakening new hopes…

In those years, hundreds of people, day in and day out would stream through Gzhibov to Marianska alley. House number 10, from the earliest morning hours until late in the evening was besieged. The Palestine Division presented itself as a small empire. Various departments were squeezed together on a few floors. It gave the impression of an external ministry, a ship business, and a consulate and immigration bureau all together. At the doors, instead of police stood “impressive people” who fought with the “emigrants” who no longer had patience to sit and wait for certificates and permits. They pushed and shoved into the “departments”. In each “department” there was the director and problem solver

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listening to the men and women. Indifferently they answered “yes” or “no”. In a separate cold room they undressed the elderly Jews, measured their strength and looked for spots on their wrinkled skin and sagging breasts. In another “hall” they squeezed in mothers and children who were travelling to their fathers, brides to their grooms, girls with cut hair and short dresses – everyone's heart pounded and their lips whispered: how do we get through this…the English control were the main concern and the greatest hardship of every emigrant.

Levy stood confused. The first thing he saw in this great crowd that pleased his soul was Hebrew writing. It was like a gust of air from the Land of Israel, and a deep shiver went through his body. Still, here in the diaspora he was getting closer to his ideal. His dream was becoming reality. Suddenly, his good mood was clouded over. Levy saw something he would never be able to forgive: the Hebrew notices were not grammatically correct. That meant, that here in this holy place (Levy always claimed the holiest act is to settle in the Land of Israel, and every place connected to this good deed is holy), people are sitting who do not know the holy tongue properly. This was a hard knock fro him. However, soon everything became clear to him and gripped his heart. Beside the dividers near the window sat girls and boys with and without whiskers. Laughter could be heard all around. They were speaking a foreign language. Their faces seemed satisfied and happy, calm eyes looked with indifference and disdain at the “emigrants”. The phones rang continuously. Levy heard chopped words about dollars, pounds, zlotys. It appeared all the clerks were only interested in one thing: the exchange rate of the currency.

A middle aged woman stood at the cash. Crying she spoke into the little window:

“Have God in your heart, I payed a half a year ago for a ship ticket. You calculate according to today's exchange rate of dollars! You are taking a third of all I possess!”

“Your efforts are futile lady, nothing will help. You are not the only one. They claim ostensibly, that they have been holding the zlotys the whole time”.

Young people stood at the “Work Department” and waited for their exams. Meanwhile they chatted:

“Remember Shmuel, if they ask you who is the leader of the Poalei Zion (The Labour Zionist Organization), answer which Poalei Zion, the right or left?

“Perhaps you can tell me sir, what is the difference between a Moshav and a Kibbutz?”

“I'm going to my brother in Ein Harod”.

“Remember! This won't pass so smoothly. They will write about it and create a commission. Everything will have to be investigated. You will have to account for every groschen and every pound.

“If you will create scandals, we'll throw you down the stairs.”

He thought:

Everything in thought looks different in reality. He's been dreaming of this for years. It is in his heart. He has been waiting a quarter of a century for this moment. He had imagined this time through rose coloured glasses. And here it arrived – like the coming of the Messiah. But it was not the sunset he awaited. There was no passion to enrapture everyone, the entire nation. Something was missing. Was it the people, the leaders? Someone is guilty. Perhaps life is to blame, the everyday life that weighs and measures, counts and calculates, and who knows, if there, in the holy land, Jews will not remain in exile one beside the other. Perhaps Yidl the teacher was right, that everything is material, or as they refer to it: materialism. Is everything just about the stomach?...what about the heart and soul longing for Zion? Why is everything squirming in him? Why is he longing for Zion? That narrow strip of land on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea about which Yehuda Halevy sang: “Zion will you not ask about the welfare of your prisoners”. What will become of this land? A “spiritual centre” as Ahad Ha'am wanted, a state with police and soldiers as Jabotinsky believes, or just stores in Tel Aviv asking: “who exchanges dollars”, like on Gzhibov? Will Zion, the Zion of our dreams become a second Nalevke Street, the entire “negation of the diaspora”? No, not that. He will open everyone's blinded eyes, he will fight for the purity of the pioneers, he will – and Levy felt a strong push in his side.

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Beside him stood one of the “important guys” a young guy with a crazy face who looked at him with murderous eyes.

“Why are you getting in the way? Why don't you just leave. The stairs are here.

Levy continued to wait in line.

(From the book: “ Across the Ruins of Poland” Buenos Aires, 1949)

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Kh. N. Bialik, Odessa
May 3, 1915

My dearest friend Reb Yakov Dinezon,

Peretz' death left a huge impact on me, as if he “went up in a storm”. His writings were also like that: “fiery chariots and fiery horses”. Like a storm he flew through on a fiery chariot as flashes of lightning flew in front and behind. It seems to be he will reappear more than once, in nothing less than a good disposition, exactly as the other old grandfather…he is however, like that Zealot son of Zealot, not dead.

I cannot attend the gathering, especially because Ravnitsky is not well and I have to mind the store. I myself am also unwell. I must therefore be satisfied with offering advice from a distance. I already actually sent advice verbally through Droyanov on what is going on in Warsaw. Now I have the opportunity to reiterate: if you want to produce, in Peretz' memory a work that will last forever, do not do too much at once. Do not take the entire task upon yourself. Nothing will result from this.

* * *

Khaim Nakhman Bialik – the genius of Hebrew Literature from its renaissance period was born in 1873 in the village of Rady, Volhinya, and after a stormy, creative life, died in Vienna in 1934. He was buried in Tel Aviv. He was 12 years younger than the genius of the golden age of Yiddish literature, Yitzkhak Leybush Peretz. They created a friendship which stood above friendly literary common interests. This was a friendship of geniuses, an eternal friendship. Bialik lived in Warsaw during the year 1903-1904. For many reasons, including the closeness to Peretz, this year in Warsaw left deep vestiges in his soul. You can read more about this in a contribution by Nakhman Meizel in this anthology. We are offering here an extract from Bialik's letter with a few immortal words about Peretz, written to Yakov Dinezon right after Peretz' passing.

In my opinion, what would be most appropriate for Peretz' soul, would be the creation of a fund for children's literature, both in Hebrew and Yiddish. To that end, you do not need to raise a lot of money. This can be achieved with modest means. Five thousand rubles should suffice. And as already mentioned – this would clearly be in both languages. Do not allow Peretz to be dragged into a crowded clique. He would not have been able to tolerate that. In short, this is my advice and it would be great if you would follow it.

Ravnitsky already wrote you about Peretz' first Hebrew volume “From the Mouth of the Nation”. We would have loved to come to Warsaw to put it on order, but we cannot. Perhaps among Peretz' manuscripts there are more folk stories in Hebrew. If so, please send them to us. Then we can add, to “From the Mouth of the Nation” some of Peretz' Hebrew Hasidic stories. Then the “From the Mouth of the Nation” will be a respectable volume. Write your opinion.

Your devoted,
Kh. N. Bialik

From: Literarishe Bleter, Warsaw, vol. 17, 1931

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Warsaw at dawn.

Grey, frayed pieces of woven linen rise higher then lower over the houses on the sleepy streets of Jewish Warsaw. Soon she will open her eyes and uncover her face, which is still shyly asleep, and her cheeks will shine. The entire sleepy and dreamy silence will blow up the sun with a clatter like golden cymbals. It spreads like the whinny of wild horses which one looks to tame with reins and soothing whips, because the sleep cannot leave their feet easily; doors begin to open. Doors of Jewish homes; Curtains are moving away from the windows where the stillness of inner Warsaw wants to become one with the outside cries, which chase the entrails of the city toward the sober morning.

I stand, stretching out my back on the wall of a house and look out at Nalevke. Wherever you look, the streets and alleys are filled with Jews. Here begins the liveliness of Jewish men and women, in the tattered

Fishl Bimko – the dramatist and story teller – was born in Kielce in 1890. His special dramatic talent was discovered very early. Many of his dramas were performed in the best Yiddish theatres around the world. Among others, “Thieves” by the Vilna Troupe and Maurice Schwartz' Art Theatre. He spent a lot of time in Warsaw. In 1921 he wandered off to America. In the late 1920s he lived for a long time in Warsaw where his works were published. When we asked him about his contribution to our anthology he responded that Warsaw was the centre of Jewish Poland and the periphery also belongs to the centre, all of Jewish Poland, and this is the landscape of all his works…From his works we have taken the dynamic description – literally a poem in rhythmic prose – about a morning in Jewish Warsaw. Bimko's work – the dramas and the short stories, have been published in dozens of volumes. He died in New York in April, 1965.

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grey dawn, which stands in one place. Flames arise from her, flames and smoke as if from an eternally unsatisfied fire, the old Jewish flame! Their beards shout, like torn, tangled thick pieces of forest when rain jabs their heads; even respectable combed beards, silky, are visible in the grey dawn, beards where one can count each hair. Wigs are thrown on women's heads, blond, black, brown and others…women who have fermented filth in the folds of their clothing like the sourdough at the bakers at the exchange. Women, who sweep the streets with their muddied garments. The old, dear Jewish slobs! Their feet, in twisted shoes which are breaking and their feet, well -wrought, in shoes with high heels, feet to kiss all over. The wind begins to blow kaftans, kaftans on skinny, thin Jews, like lulavs, and kaftans that are glued to wide bodies, under which arrogant bellies stick out. Here one can hear the screams from mischievous and tattered boys, the Shloimes and Moishes, their sharp voices coming from the courtyard, from the old Jewish Warsaw courtyard! And one can see cripples, yellow, hunchbacked beggars with piercing eyes, those that drum to the beat of their wailing melodies on brass cymbals: “Hear me out my beloved people!” Here one can hear “the grinding” of those praying in quorums, in the Houses of Study. They grind the words with their teeth like millstones under grinders. Here come the wrinkled, religiously ecstatic young men like green willows by the water, with slender steps they walk undressed from everything, walking with devoutness in their pale cheeks, and so much Torah in their eyes, large, black Jewish eyes! Before them, on the street corners, stand their dejected mothers beside large baskets of bagel with shouts tearing from their throats: “Three for a fiver!”. Porters are standing on the corners, girded with rope, those Warsaw porters who shudder at the smallest scream from a young woman who is being attacked somewhere in a back alley, or any Jew. They are the first to sacrifice themselves for them; the porters stand prepared by the open shops, like guards, looking to haul a crate of goods on their backs, like an ox on his horns. They laugh rudely at the young women passing by: “Cover up your blouse so we won't see your private parts”. Here sit Jewish coachmen on their seats, with white and yellowish – brass badges on their caps, they are deep in Yiddish newspapers. They lap up every written word: “Such cunning minds, let the devil take them!” Jewish Warsaw shouts, Jewish Warsaw laughs, Jewish Warsaw cries, all at once and one cannot distinguish one from the other.

Everything one observes is Jewish: a celebration, if not yours, you are an in-law. Some good for nothing is latching on to you,

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he's your good for nothing and you must laugh along with him, even with tears; a funeral procession passes by, you must bow your head, shed a tear. Who is this corpse? Which Jewish home has now become empty? Has a household of eight remained without him? Everyone else's celebrations matter to you, their circumcisions, their weddings. A Jew has died? A Jewish child has been brought into the covenant with Abraham our forefather? Did they braid a bride's braids? Oh, Jewish mother! The eternal Jewish mother, how could you witness them taking your babies to slaughter? (Who said she could?) Oh, good worried Jewish father, who carries the burden of earning a living which bends him to the ground, no one needs to concern themselves with you, this is all a part of you, it comes from your bowels.

From the collection: Warsaw Jews, Buenos Aires, 1959

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On an autumn evening, as the rain fell for the third day in a row, voices were suddenly heard from the courtyard. Windows of the houses began to open and neighbours began asking where the clamor was coming from. Without speaking, with winks and nods they pointed to the window at Reb Shmuel Shimen's apartment which was next to his undergarment shop.

Small groups of neighbours were already gathering in the courtyard, asking questions and joining together. People chaotically jumped from one corner to the other, clinging to one another in the darkness, to the walls, deducting and explaining. A light rain continued crosswise as if combining heaven and earth, clouds ladened with fear and furry, thickened and were wrapped in black. However, the neighbours did not feel the rain which continued to soak them, nor the bulging loaded sky or the darkness which continued to thicken and tangle their steps. They clung to the walls, jumped chaotically from one circle to the other and pointed secretly to Reb Shmuel's windows which were apparently too bright and too festive on this rainy teary night. The festivities were noisy in the ordinariness of the night, glaring in people's eyes and calling for fear…

Herz Bergner was born in Radymno, Galicia in 1907, 1915-1917 lived in Vienna and lived in Warsaw from 1923-1938. Since then in Australia. 1951 – world tour: America, Europe, Israel. Story teller and novelist. Author of six books. Recipient of two literary prizes. A few of his bools have been translated into English and Hebrew. His “Light and Shadow” was the first Yiddish novel to appear in Australia. The theme of Warsaw in his works is very authentic, observed from up close. In all his years in Warsaw Bergner lived in the Nalevke district. He was well acquainted with the busy, honest Nalevke merchant as well as the tormented party idealists. Both these characteristic aspects are expressed in the short stories we provide here.

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The doors to Reb Shmuel's apartment were already open – with open arms. Anyone with a hand or foot could enter. A cold wind blew through the large rooms. It smelled of neglect, like a dwelling from where a corpse was removed. People carried the darkness of night on to the beautiful shiny floors as the rain entered from outside and puddles of water formed taking the shape of sad blots…Reb Shmuel, who was sitting at the head of the table could not take his eyes off these blots. He watched, as his servant, flushed and angry, ran after everyone who came in telling them to wipe their feet. But no one paid attention to her and ran through the rooms making a commotion like always in a time of danger.

Reb Shmuel did not look at anyone. He just looked at the many boots and shoes which brought the rain inside on that dark night. He saw how the puddles on his shiny floor were growing bigger, growing in a weird way in length and larger than human heads, with wild unkempt beards…the rooms now lost their familiar scent and smelled of strange drenched clothing and with an unfamiliar steamy dampness. His wife, without a drop of blood in her face, ran around with quick steps, anxiously worried hands, which waved around the room like a frightened bird, trying to block and wipe away everything. She jumped from one person to the next asking them to be quiet and stop ranting:

“Why must the whole world know of the catastrophe that befell us, from this great shame which peels off my face!…”

However, her pleas were not heard and they paid no attention to her. She soon had no one to talk to. It appeared she was talking to herself, to the walls, to the furniture standing in the apartment. But she did not stop. She picked up a stool which had been thrown in the chaos, straightened the tablecloth which had been blown by the wind, bulging high above the table as if she did not want anyone to see the table naked. Calmly, she smoothed and straightened the tablecloth until it returned to its restful place on the table. The main thing she wanted to do was shut the doors which the people had noisily thrown open. She continued to tirelessly close the doors with such gentleness as if nothing had happened. She ran past al the curious onlookers, hiding her face with her hands, so they would not see what she was feeling inside:

“Go… go in good health!” she said as she tried to hide the tears in her eyes. “What is there to see? A few people came to visit, there's nothing to see…”

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Reb Shmuel noticed how everyone was running toward him. Voices landed on his bent head:

“Take a look how he's just sitting there like a quiet pious hypocrite! … May God forgive his soul!”

“The way he looks, he can't even count to two!”

“Take a look at the hypocrite!”

“Did you ever sit with your head bowed like that before?”

“What have you done with the merchandise from your shop?”

“Thief!”

“Robber!”

“It's good to drag strangers' hands into the fire!”

“He stood proud with our money! Made big deals!”

More than anyone, a hoarse voice screamed at him, and a pair of cold glaring glasses which danced angrily on a blue nose:

“I don't want anything to do with him, but a word is a word! I want nothing else!”

They referred to him with the familiar “you”, the same people who had paid him the utmost respect, trembling before him. Now they shouted at him rudely and imperiously.

The same people, who could not, under any circumstances, rant about him with audacity, were now asking quietly:

“Do not abuse me Reb Shmuel! I can't bear it! I am bloody poor, believe me, I'm telling the truth!”

A widow from the courtyard, a small thin woman, carrying “all of Warsaw on her head”, together with a brown, torn wig which sat on her head like a living thing, dragged a tattered young woman behind her who was large and heavy. The young woman was turning redder, cheeks flaming from great shame. She was adorned in vinegar and honey, in a loud silk dress, as if to her own wedding, and absolutely did not want to follow her mother who could cause her the greatest shame and have people laugh at her. The widow was very agile, very accomplished, as she dragged her daughter to Reb Shmuel and pushed her in his face:

“This is my royal child who you drove to hell, remember?” she said as she waved a finger in his face. “This joyful bride to be must now sit alone until her braids turn grey because of you! You are the angel of death of her young life! I gave the food from my mouth, collected a dowry for her, such an amazing child… such a quiet dove!… She could have lived with the emperor!” …

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She lamented about her daughter, showing everyone the torn fringes and patches on her shawl:

“Can you see, dear people, how everything has peeled off me! Take a look at my attire! … This is what I wear for holidays and daily wear!”

With rage she dragged her adorned daughter, as if she wanted to tear off her nice clothes. She tossed her daughter from one place to the next as if she wasn't a living person but rather an object. The young woman felt bad about her large size and appearance as well as her fancy attire, as if dressed for her own wedding, which was totally inappropriate, and she bent down so people would notice less of her appearance. Finally, she shed her shame, forgot about her beautiful clothes and began shouting with her mother…

Reb Shmuel watched as peopled seated themselves in his house and began to feel at home. Parents were making use of their children, sending them on errands, constantly shouting to them. A certain stout broad man, whose name Reb Shmuel could not even remember, comfortably removed his overcoat and boots which were stuffed with newspapers, due to size. He leaned his walking stick with the monogramed silver handle on the door and sat down at the table. Before he sat down, he lifted the corners of his caftan so they would not crease. He stroked his silver beard, and leisurely removed a wad of cotton from his pocket, tore off small pieces and shoved them in his ears. He tapped the table a few times with his fingers, puffed out his lips and pleasantly glanced around the room with a knowing look. He did not see the people around him. He looked beyond them and called out to Shmuel with firmness and determination, like his demeanor:

“This is a very fine dwelling! …What do you say? I will move in here with my wife and children, they should be healthy and strong! What do you say about that? Say something!”

Reb Shmuel did not say anything. The doors to his home now stood completely neglected like arms spread open. His wife was still fussing over the people, trying to bring some semblance back to her home. Her arms fluttered with anxiety and worry like a tired bird. However, soon everything was scattered, as if an angry wind blew through. The stout man would not cease and continued to talk to him:

“How much would the penalty be to get out of the obligation for your home?” he asked as he looked leisurely around the room. Removing his hat and taking out a skullcap from his breast pocket.

“It must have cost a

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pretty penny! You must have paid a lot of money, when houses were like gold! What do you say? Say something!”

He stood up, slowly walked towards the door, tapped the wood with one finger to check if it was solid. Then he examined the walls, the ceiling and took healthy steps on the floor to be sure it was still strong. He returned to his place, sat down on the chair and leisurely stretched out. The he leaned toward Reb Shmuel and placed his ear next to him like a tube:

“Do you have anything to say? Say something! The window frames are not strong! When does the rent have to be paid? I'll move in with my wife and children, they should only be healthy and strong! What do you have to say about that? I will pay to the last groshn. I can pay from my capital. I can regulate, the world is not lawless! Do you hear what I'm telling you?

Reb Shmuel did not hear. The widow from the courtyard was asking him in a quiet voice, which could be barely understood, to return the dowry for her daughter. then she shouted at her daughter:

“You should also ask Reb Shmuel! Maybe you can touch his heart! Maybe you'll convince him! Throw yourself at his feet and beg!”

An entire family, a husband, wife and children tore into the room and came to him bustling, out of breath as if afraid to be late. The woman began to shout that from that day on she would sleep there with her children. She heard that Reb Wolf Yablonka, the loaded stout man, wants to move in, but she has priority. She was laden with kitchen supplies, sooty pots and spoons, and shouted she would begin to cook supper. Then she would put her children to bed. She actually began to undress them. The children, in their underclothes were afraid of all the people, the shouts and the shadows on the walls that were jumping wildly and quickly:

“Let's go home mother” they cried with fear.

But their mother became angry.

“No! You must not cry! This is our home! You must obey your mother!'

They pulled at her hands. Angrily, she sat each one on the table but they cried even louder due to great suffering. She cried with them and hugged them:

“Did mummy hurt you?” she asked, “where did mummy hurt you? Go to sleep now, go to sleep, ay lu lu”.

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Suddenly, she began to sing loudly and sadly and threw the children into the high concealed beds. When she noticed, in the small bed where Reb Shmuel's children were lying curled up in fear, there was still a bit of space, she shoved one of her boys in. At first the children wiggled away from the strange boy, but then, from behind, so no one could see, began pinching him. However, they quickly forgot their hatred, huddled together and began to play with the shadows on the wall which were beating wildly…

Reb Shmuel was so indifferent to everything happening around him, as if it wasn't even his house. He was even sorry he sent away his older daughters from the house. His black eyes were dull and weary. His aristocratic broad beard was now pointed and long like a gusset. Always self confident and standing proud he now felt totally lost. He was astounded when he realized he had to get up and shout, but he did not move. He watched as strangers' eyes were greedily lapping up his household possessions and strangers were handling them, appraising them for a good price. A pair of masculine hands suddenly reached for the standing clock and a masculine head, with a large swollen beard bent down to listen if it was ticking. Then the same hands opened it with assertion, as if it was his own valuable possession which would be a pity to break. He examined the cover and the mechanism. Meanwhile his proud beard widened. The hands began to tinker with the clock, removing the large brass scale and the entire brass innards, which were ringing loud. The clock wheezed as if being strangled and began to howl and breathe quickly as if it was about to spit out its lungs. Without its face it remained standing like a cripple with a shattered blind eye…

Reb Shmuel's eyes met with the empty, blind look of the clock. He saw, how that pair of hands which removed the brass mechanism were carrying it out of the house. But soon the same hands returned and reached into the empty case which stood ashamed in the corner of the room. The case could not move from its place. It was swaying heavily and left a large four – cornered mark on the wall with cut up silk pieces of spider web, like a bird's torn wing…

Reb Shmuel slowly rose from his place and went to the proprietor of those hands and just as slowly ripped his shirt at his heart and stretched out his neck to him:

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“Take a knife and slaughter me!” he said in a calm voice. “Why torment me for so long? If you want to bury me, dig a hole and bury me! Meanwhile, I'm not dead yet! I haven't bankrupted anyone yet! Meanwhile, my name is still Shmuel Shemyon!”

He was totally calm. However, it was precisely due to this calmness that people shuddered. The entire time they had been waiting for his words of comfort, but they did not come. They absolutely did not look at him and became accustomed to his silence. When he suddenly began to speak, his voice frightened them, as if a corpse began to speak. It became so quiet, they suddenly heard the rain in the gutters and on the roofs. His wife broke the silence. She ran to her husband who was standing in the middle of the room with bent shoulders toward the floor. She grabbed him with both hands as if she wanted to present him to these strange glances, to these strange people, caressing his back, bent shoulders and heavy arms. She shouted into the rainy night, with a long, shrill far reaching voice as if crying over a corpse:

“What has become of him?” she wailed while continuing to caress him, as if trying to prove he was still alive, “what do you want from him?” Just look how he looks! Look how he's falling apart! Wow is me!”

In order to show he had fallen apart and was no longer whom he had been she shook him and he almost fell. He let her do whatever she wanted. Gradually they began to sneak out one by one from the house. They avoided looking in each other's eyes, embarrassed in front of the others…

A dampness lingered in the rooms and they were filled with strange bitter smells. The clock, without its mechanism stood in the middle of the room with a torn off cover, like a black empty coffin…Reb Shmuel remained in the same spot, seated at the table and the light burned noisily and festively until day dawned…

The feeling of a living creature wiggling in her belly did not bring Esther joy. It filled her with fear. She spent many hours listening to the wiggling in her belly trying to imagine what the child would look like. She imagined a little boy running around, looking exactly like his father, like Binyomin, who they took away in the middle of the night and put in jail.

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The child would have his grey eyes and blond, gentile- like, straight hair. During the day she could not get comfortable and at night she could not close her eyes. She could not stand the fact that her friend Dvoyre slept sweetly with an open mouth and arms stretched out like a cross. Dvoyre's healthy regular breathing drove her crazy. It wouldn't take much for her to pull off her blanket and wake her from her sweet sleep. In addition, the nights were sweltering and she could not catch her breath in the small back room she rented on Wolinsky Street with Binyomin. The window was open but no air came in. She listened to the late-night footsteps of the occasional passerby and the sleepy angry voice of the janitor, and the squeaks of the gate opening. She heard the people sleeping outside in the court yard due to the heat, lying on the platform of wagons, fight over a better place to sleep:

“Nu, stop already, move!” said someone with a nasal voice, “look how he spread out like he was in his father's vineyard!”

Every time she dozed off these voices would wake her up. The shirt she washed before going to sleep was hung to drying in the window. The roofs were tightly braided in the moonlight. Dvoyre slept sweetly hugging her pillow, mouth open and her hands spread out as if hugging someone.

While Esther, pained and longing, wanted to tell her something before she fell asleep, she always fell asleep while listening. As she continued to nod her head many times, Esther would suddenly hear healthy snoring from a far off corner even though Dvoyre slept with her in the same bed.

Esther had so much to tell Dvoyre about the nights spent on the shores of the Vistula, when Binyomin would lie sprawled out on her lap and she would run her fingers over his closed eyes and trembling hot lips. A weird tiredness ran through her sleepy knees when he kissed the tips of her long fingers, scratched from work, and twisted her blond hair around his face and neck.

The night passed and the wiggling in her belly which she feels every day began with even more fear and joy combined. She still had not written to Binyomin about this. How many times had she wanted to write him about this, but at the last minute she backed out and instead shared with him all the small details of the world with exactness, as if this was very important to him, but, the fact that she would soon be a mother,

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she kept to herself…once she even wrote him a letter mentioning it but ripped it to shreds. However, it could not remain like this for long. How would he react?… In his long, filthy, crumpled letters from jail, crammed half by pencil and half by pen, in a fine, barely legible handwriting, he never mentions home. It is very possible he would be angry with her since she did not take Dvoyre's advice and did not let her lead her through the crooked steps on the fourth floor to escape. There, on the fourth floor, there was a small hidden narrow door. Dvoyre told her many times, with her healthy fresh voice about the narrow door. There, Esther could have “gotten rid of everyone”. The fourth floor grew like a secret. She always saw the shine of the cold white medical instruments, already feeling the sharpness on her own feverish skin.

Esther decided she would no longer tell Dvoyre anything. However, when night falls, she forgets and Dvoyre, as usual, falls asleep while listening, and Esther's voice wanders through the darkness ashamed.

She met Dvoyre completely coincidentally after they took Binyomin away. They recognized one another simultaneously in the middle of the street and kissed. They both noticed the two rows of chestnut trees which lead out of town, parents among sad neglected walls, the small smoky train station, and Leybele's horse drawn carriage with the broken wagon and one -eyed emaciated horse. During the first days when Dvoyre moved in with Esther, they were weary of one another, keeping secrets. Soon they realized they had nothing to hide and began to speak openly to each other. If one of them needed a “meeting place”, she did not have to look for excuses, like an acquaintance was coming, or relatives from town…

However, Esther walked around as if lost and irrelevant when Dvoyre invited friends who lay on the squeaking cots and filled the room with shouts and song. She watched from the side as Dvoyre jumped from one friend to the other throwing her long arms each time around another's shoulders. Dvoyre always enjoyed being the centre of attention. When she walked down the street surrounded by the boys, her long curls flowing in the wind, she loved to laugh loudly and have everyone look at her. She made fun of Esther who wanted to “spoil” Binyomin with a

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child upon his return from jail. Sometimes she would even tell her that her boyfriend was also “sitting” and she missed him very much, but she soon forgot what she said a moment earlier and continued to laugh, happier than before.

Esther felt weak. She felt how the child was growing in her belly and was afraid to move, as if she could still lose it. A strange tiredness poured through her limbs. Although she knew she should move around a lot, she sat in one place because it seemed to her she would give birth on the spot. At night she was overcome with fear of this unfamiliar feeling and this only worsened as she neared her due date. Her hot damp body huddled closer to Dvoyre. The plumbing in this woman's house continuously dripped and banged like a hammer in her overheated head. She shouted and pulled at Dvoyre but she continued to sleep sweetly and did not hear a thing.

Many nights passed like this, each similar to the other. However, the last night, before she gave birth she pulled on Dvoyre so strongly that she woke her up and she remained sitting and frightened on her bed. Esther was already experiencing a lot of pain. She suddenly stretched out and appeared longer. Her feet hung over the bed and with pale trembling weak hands she senselessly and stubbornly tore the head piece from of the bed as if it brought her some relief. She worked so hard with her hands, large drops of sweat appeared on her face and she lifted her soiled shirt over her rounded warm knees.

Dvoyre was barely able to get her to the hospital. In the horse drawn carriage she shoved herself into a corner so she could barely be seen. She was ashamed to scream and with clenched teeth she contracted with the same melody over and over. She listened attentively to her own pain which encompassed her and pushed her open.

In the long sleepy hospital corridors, they sent her from one doctor to another. There were many women dragging themselves around and moaning quietly. Each time they clung on to another doctor's door but the hospital guard answered with a joke:

“You don't give birth as quickly as you became pregnant…”

Esther wandered the corridors for a long time until they admitted her. It took the same amount of time

to fill out the forms, and the she was cuddling a small red face wrapped in a shawl. She walked out of the hospital gates alone, white and pure with a sense of springtime and Genesis…

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“Do you like it?” she soon happily asked Dvoyre as she placed the red baby in the shawl in front of her eyes.

“I like it” replied Dvoyre not really looking at the child because she was disgusted by this red creature with eyes closed shut like a kitten…

The room smelled of diapers and milk. Dvoyre would come home well after midnight. She was waiting for the child to grow a bit. She regularly ran around with her boyfriends. When she returned home, Esther would bring the baby close to her face and happily show her how the child looked like Binyomin with his blond gentile -like straight hair and tell her how he already speaks. The first word the child babbled was “Da -Da”.

Dvoyre shook her long locks and could not possibly understand how one could be so happy with a child.

But one night, when she came home, she did not find Esther. The room stood empty, in ruins. Instead of smelling of diapers and milk it smelled of wind and the street. Esther's bed stood torn to pieces with a plucked blanket, and her small basket had been thrown across the room. The few books she kept on her shelf were torn and scattered all over the floor.

The landlords entered the room. She was in a night shirt and he was in his long underwear, his skullcap on the back of his head. They told her a half hour earlier, Esther was taken away. There were a few men with a policeman who turned the room upside down, asked Esther some question about Binyomin and took her away…

The landlady was frightened:

“It's a good thing you were not here” she said to Dvoyre. “If yes they would have taken you away as well and who would look after the baby?”

Then she brought the child in. Dvoyre took the baby and put him on the bed “I'm going to become a mother” she thought.

But soon she forgot about the child and began to undress. She slowly put the room back together and combed her locks in the small mirror which leaned against the window. Suddenly she felt she was not alone and someone was staring at her. When she turned around she saw a pair of large alert eyes, examining her cleverly, watching every turn, every move she made.

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She turned away from the child trying to forget him but there was nothing she could do. She continued to feel his wide eyes and could not find a place for herself.

Dvoyre approached the child, bent down and laughed in his little face. The child laughed back, each time louder, with his chubby thick hands around her neck, babbling in a warm little voice, unintelligible childish talk, as if he wanted her to understand. From his childish chubby hands and his childish unintelligible little voice, Dvoyre warmed up and a joyful blushing lit up her cheeks. She took the child in her hands, touched her cheeks to his childlike soft little cheeks, to his childlike silky hair…

“Mama…Mama” the child babbled happily to her.

(From the book “The New House”, Melbourne, Australia, 1941).

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The fact is that from 848 various periodical in Yiddish which were published between 1862 and 1915 in Eastern Europe, approximately 300 were holiday leaflets and humorous publications, let alone the very distinct place they held Jewish societal national life of the day.

We will attempt to answer two important questions in this domain: Why? What was the reason for such a tremendous amount of “joyous” and festive publications? What was the celebration that caused everyone told so many jokes and celebrate?

Goal and character? What did they want to achieve with these leaflets which “laughed through tears”? How did they do this?

A special bibliographic journal would be required to describe the 300 entries as well as a broader and deeper analysis of their content. Here we will occupy ourselves mainly with the form, and externalism. Of course, we will not be able to avoid their content, inwardness and what was hidden “between the lines”.

The one who began this was Y.L Peretz with his famous “Holiday Leaflets”, which were published in two series in the years 1894-1896.

Mordkhai V. Bernstein was born in Biten, Grodno Province in 1905. At a young age he joined the “Bund” and contributed to Bundist publications, was active in many proletarian organizations. He lived in Warsaw for many years. During the Second World War he was exiled to Russia. In 1946 he returned to Poland. He then lived in Germany and ten years in Argentina. Since 1962 in New York. He was the editor of “The Awakener” and a scholar of Eastern European Jewish history. He wrote voluminous works among which were: “This Was the Ashkenaz Version: The Rise and Fall of a One Thousand-Year Era”. From his numerous scholarly works about the recent past of the Jews of Warsaw we are providing in this anthology a fragment about “The Holiday Leaflets” by Y.L. Peretz which were the seeds of the later branched out tree of the Warsaw Yiddish press.

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These were unique, with various titles, that were distributed from time to time, yet had the character and likeness of periodicals.

Due to the great role these “leaflets” played, we will spend some time talking about them. In total, 17 booklets containing the “Holiday Leaflets” were published. The first in a series of 10 notebooks and the second in 7. At first a notebook had 32 pages, later, 64. Each leaflet had a holiday title. Here are the names of Peretz's 17 “Holiday Leaflets”:

(As we provide the names of the leaflets and sub- titles we are using modern spelling. Peretz would have written Blattel instead of Bletl, with the Hebrew vowel “eh” under the silent alef).

1. “In Honour of Peysakh (Passover)”
2. “The Bow and Arrow” – A Lag BaOmer leaflet:
3. “Vegetables” – A Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) leaflet:
4. “The Fast” – a leaflet about the 17^th 0f Tamuz
5. “Consolation” -A leaflet for Sabbath Nachamu:
6. “Shofar” (The Ram's Horn) – A leaflet for the Days of Awe:
7. “Hoshana (the prayer recited on Sukkot, (Feast of Booths) – A leaflet for Sukkot and Hoshana Raba:
8. “The Candle” – A leaflet in honour of Chanukah:
9. “Job's Sabbath” – A leaflet in honour of the Sabbath:
10. “Homentash” – A leaflet for Purim:
11. “Kol Chamira” (Everything Leaven) – a leaflet in honour of Passover:
12. “The Omer” – a leaflet for Lag Ba'Omer:
13. “Bikurim” (First Fruits) - A leaflet for Shavuot (the Festival of Weeks):
14. “Tamuz” - Just a leaflet!
15. “Le Shana Tova” (For a Good Year) – a leaflet for the Days of Awe:
16. “Fifteen”:
17. “Enjoying the Sabbath”.

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The initiators and distributors really had to “pay” for this trick with a holiday “editorial” or with a song about day to day happenings… this made everything Kosher, even though the content was revolutionary.

There is already a rich enough literature about Peretz's leaflets during the time when the Jewish worker's movement was emerging. Radical circles of the Jewish intelligentsia and workers were forming around the “Leaflets”. They later played a constructive role in the founding of the Jewish Socialist and revolutionary worker's movement. The “Leaflets” served as enlightenment and as a propaganda platform for this movement as it was being formed. Yiddish writers gathered around the “Leaflets” as they did not agree with the “Hebrew or Russian” enlighteners; Other contributors besides Peretz were Dovid Pinsky, Mordkhai Spector and others.

The Freedom Movement on the Russian street influenced the Jewish surroundings. The Jewish intelligentsia, students and Yeshiva boys who had been “ruined” were among those who read the “leaflets” and interpreted them; they tried to read between the lines; placed periods in the unfinished or chopped up sentences to find hidden meaning. They tried to find a way to unload the unhappiness against the influential tax farmers. The “leaflets” became the platform for all who were consumed with protest, with revolt against the “elite” of their towns, against eastern and aristocratic social classes. Here is where they declared their struggle against the darkness of Egypt in Jewish Goshen (in their words).

The writing in the “Leaflets had to be very cautious, very “clever” and with hints. The common folk of scissors and iron knew what the writers meant, interpreting the parables appropriately.

Songs were published in the “leaflets” which later were sung widely at workers' demonstrations as well as at the “stock exchanges” and “soirees”. Like the one we find in “Homentash”, from 1895' Peretz's poem called “The Plea”. The title of this leaflet has to do with Purim however, there is not one line in it about Purim. As a result, you can find this poem as an editorial. At first the crowds recited it, but later a melody was composed and it was sung in hundreds of small Jewish towns:

…Master if the Universe
After not enough suffering –
When will you, Master of the Universe,
Cover the deep abyss

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Which divides Your children
Into weak and strong,
Lambs and butchers…

They interpreted the word “suffering” to mean destitution, exploitation, oppression. The ‘abyss’ here certainly meant reaction, nobleman, influencer, autocracy and the Tsar. Obviously, they did not have to explain who and what was meant by the ‘strong’and ‘weak’' nor the ‘lambs’ and ‘butchers’. Thousands of appeals and political pamphlets could not have had the same effectiveness as Peretz's plea to none other than the Master of the Universe.

In the Lag Ba'Omer “Bow and Arrow” leaflet we find the familiar “Night Watchman” which was often recited at worker's gatherings until the Nazi Holocaust. So much parable lay in these words:

The night is a pleasure! The night is precious
But beware of the fire! Beware of the fire!

In the Passover story “Everything Leaven” the first to appear are Peretz's “Three Seamstresses”. (Here the poem is called “The Seamstress”).

It is clear the festive stories were an umbrella, a cover, for the “terrible” objective and the content was to achieve this objective.

We must mention a second series similar to the “Leaflets”, built on the same characteristics, published by Mordkhai Spector in 1894.

Spector's “Leaflets” with the various names (“The Echo “, “The Lantern”, “The Watchmaker's Loupe”) had a contrary subtitle than Peretz's, as he produced “everyday” leaflets, not holiday leaflets. It is very likely the ordinary weekday of Spector was a demonstration against the “holiday” theme of Peretz…

Spector was listed as a partner (on the cover page) of Peretz's first leaflet “In Honour of Passover”. The following was indicated in Yiddish: Peretz – Spector. But in Russian publication it appeared as: Published by Peretz and Spector/ in the following notebooks Spector's name did not appear and this was his reason for his “Everyday” Leaflets.

It must also be said that these “Leaflets” evoked reaction among the zealous enlighteners in well to do prestigious circles. They did not appreciate the radical – rebellious tone of Peretz – Pinsky. They produced pamphlets against the “Holiday Leaflets” which imitated and parodied the names of the holidays. This is when Dovid Frishman (under the pseudonym A. Goldberg)

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published two parodies under the titles: “Lokshn (Noodles)” and “Fleas from Tisha B'Av”. Both of these were published in the Warsaw publishing house “Akhyosef”.

The period of Peretz's Holiday Leaflets was a sort of introduction, as well as a model for hundreds of subsequent publications of this sort. During the following years there was actually an outpour of various publications in honour of the holidays.

A fragment from an article in “Yidishn Kemfer” (“The Jewish Fighter”), New York, 1962.

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