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Finally, after much work, the memorial book for the Jewish communities of Dubienka, Skryhiczyn, and Dorohusk is being published. It will safeguard the memories of our dear martyrs and relatives who died so tragically at the hands of the cursed Nazis (may their memory be blotted out). We had many doubts and thoughts as to whether we would be able to meet the challenges of collecting materials and ensuring the finances. Financing was the main problem. The Jews of Dubienka were never wealthy, and even here, in Israel, we had quite a lot of trouble collecting the money necessary to publish this book.

Yehuda Cooper (May his memory be for a blessing), Committee Secretary

Yes, seeing this book come to life was a long and arduous process. The materials were gathered slowly and with great difficulty. Naturally, the number of writers is not final. People who lived in the town and in its vicinity set down their memories as best they could. Those who experienced that hell, witnessed the abuse and terrible brutality of the Nazi murderers, and lived to tell the tale, saw fit to preserve everything in the book, so that their children and grandchildren would know all they went through and everything that happened to their parents and relatives.

The materials I received were in Hebrew, Yiddish, and English. It was difficult to translate and prepare it all for publication. Many articles were written by elderly people, whose handwriting wasn't always clear and whose memory was weakened. Thus, the editorial process was laborious. There were also duplications of materials, which I had to abbreviate and change. I hope our dear writers will have no complaints if they see that their articles were shortened or changed; I beg their pardon in advance.

I realize that the book is far from perfect. There will certainly be more sources and more details, as well as people who did not have the opportunity to fully express themselves. I contacted many natives of Skryhiczyn and Dorohusk over the phone and in writing, but not all of them responded. Connecting with Dubienka natives in the United States was especially difficult. There, too, most of the people are elderly, our association is not very active, and so it was a long time before I received articles. At the last moment, they thought of including articles in English as well, so that their children and grandchildren would know what the Nazis did; naturally, the younger generations cannot read Yiddish.

We present the book to the natives of Dubienka, Skryhiczyn, and Dorohusk, in Israel and elsewhere, knowing that we did our best to memorialize our Jewish communities and martyrs, and hoping that that their pure and noble characters and lives would live forever in our memories, and in the memories of later generations, and be an eternal inspiration. May their memory be for a blessing, and their souls be bound up in the eternal bundle of our nation's life!

Gershon Shachar
Committee Representative

Relations between Gentiles and Jews in the town were peaceful. A regulation of 1785 equalized the rights and obligations of the Jews with those of the Gentiles. The same year, an agreement between Jews and Gentiles obligated the Jews to pay a tax of 900 złoty towards road paving and maintenance, and 200 złoty annually to ensure order and security.^[1] Between 1860 and 1890, wealthy Jews put their capital into building steam-powered mills and a beer brewery.

The community grew larger at the end of the 19^th century and the beginning of the 20^th century. We know that Yisachar Dovid Kwartowski was appointed rabbi in 1897. Children studied in traditional cheders.^[2] Once World War I broke out, in the summer of 1914, Dubienka suffered due to the battles that were waged nearby. Many residents left their homes and moved to villages and other towns. After the war ended, the Jews of Dubienka began to rebuild their businesses and trades. However, many Jews – especially the young ones – saw no future for themselves in Dubienka and emigrated to countries across the Atlantic.

The Jews of Dubienka continued their occupations as shopkeepers and artisans during the interwar period. In 1926, the merchants and artisans founded a charity fund and a credit union cooperative. Many local Jews whose sources of livelihood grew sparse during the economic crisis of 1928-1936 survived thanks to these institutions.

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During the interwar period, most in the community continued to practice the traditional way of life, while Zionism began to be influential. In the elections to the 14^th Zionist congress, the ‘Et Livnot’ party received 37 votes, and ‘Al Ha-Mishmar’ – 12. 42 members participated in the elections to the 21^st congress.^[3]

Dubienka was captured by units of the German army in the second half of September 1939. The Germans began snatching up Jews to abuse them and send them to forced labor, as they did in other places. German soldiers burst into synagogues and removed Jews wearing their tallises, and harassed people with beards and sidelocks, which were cruelly plucked out.^[4] At the occupiers' order, a town Judenrat was set up.^[5] Its tasks were to supply people daily for forced labor, and to collect valuable objects and fur garments.

In December 1939 (the Jewish month of Kislev 5700), the town's Jews were ordered to report to the market square, where they were surrounded by Gestapo police. Those who were young and relatively healthy people were ordered to walk from Dubienka to Hrubieszow. Many were shot on the way. In Hrubieszow, the deportees were sent to a square surrounded by barbed wire. The Germans added several hundreds of Jews from Hrubieszow, and marched them all to the town of Sokola, near the Soviet border. It was a death march. About half of the Jews were murdered en route, and the others, exhausted and drained, were ordered to cross the Bug River to the Soviet region. Many drowned in the Bug, and only a few were able to reach the other side of the river.

In early 1940, deportees from Wielicka (near Krakow) were brought to Dubienka. These, along with the local Jews, were sent to forced labor in estates that the Germans had taken over and to the brickworks of Biała-Podlaska. In that year, Jews over age 10 were forced to wear white armbands with a blue Star of David. Jews were forbidden to pray. The synagogue and Study House were destroyed, and the Torah scrolls were ripped up and set on fire.^[6]

In the spring of 1940, The Germans sent hundreds of Jews over age 17 to Belzec, where they were held and built fortifications until the spring of 1941. In November 1941, 100 deportees from Krakow were brought to Dubienka. In March 1942, 843 deportees from Mielec (Krakow province) arrived. On May 22, 1942, there were 2907 Jews in Dubienka.

The Jewish community of Dubienka was wiped out on June 2, 1942. On that day, the Germans collected about 400 carts from the Polish peasants. 2670 local and deported Jews were expelled from their homes by SS forces and Polish policemen and taken by cart to Hrubieszow, where they were packed into railway freight cars and taken to the Sobibor death camp. A few managed to escape to the forests; most of these were turned over to the Germans by the Polish peasants.

About 200 skilled Jews remained in Dubienka. Many of them starved to death. On Dec. 19, 1943, the Germans took the last 43 Jews of Dubienka and murdered them in the cemetery.

HM 6672, HM 6712, HM 8443
M-1/E 881/754, M-1/E 980/846, 03/707
Z-4/3569 IV, Z-4/3569 III
S-5/170, S-6/625
Haynt Dec. 6, 1926

Translator's Footnotes

1. The Polish złoty is the official currency and legal tender of Poland. The word złoty is a masculine form of the Polish adjective ‘golden’, which closely relates its name to the guilder. Return
2. A Cheder (also spelled Cheyder or Kheyder) is a traditional primary school teaching the basics of Judaism and the Hebrew language. Return
3. In Hebrew Et Livnot means “time to build,” and Al Ha Mishmar means “on guard.” Return
4. A tallis (or tallit) is a shawl with a ritually knotted fringe at each corner; worn by Jews at Morning Prayer. Many religious Jews grow sidelocks (also called peyos). The tradition stems from the Torah, which says it's forbidden to shave or round the corner hair of the head. Return
5. During World War II, the Germans established Jewish councils (Judenraete, or Judenrats). These Jewish municipal administrations were required to ensure that Nazi orders and regulations were implemented. Jewish council members also sought to provide basic community services for ghettoized Jewish populations. Return
6. The English term “House of Study” is from the Hebrew “Beit Midrash”, a place dedicated to learning Torah. Synagogue is from “Beit Knesset”, literally House of Assembly (for prayer). Return
7. The first three could not be identified. The fourth refers to the popular Yiddish daily newspaper that appeared in Warsaw. Return

Mutual aid between community members was very strong. People knew each other well, knew what was happening in each household, and knew who was too poor to buy food. There was a group of women activist volunteers (we called them “the synagogue's women managers”) who knocked on doors every Friday or holiday eve, collected bread, challah, and other food items, and handed them out to the needy, to assure them of food on Shabbat and holidays.^[1]

Conditions in the houses were very bad. Generally speaking, the houses were constructed of wood planks 6 cm. thick. The floors were of thinner planks. The older houses lacked floors. The roofs were covered by shingles, made by professional shingle-makers. The older houses were badly rundown. Their walls were crooked, and the house gradually sank into the ground. Going into the house, you had to remember to duck your head. Conditions inside were also bad. There were no water taps or sinks. Water was carried from the river or the well pump. There was a wooden water barrel in the kitchen, which the water-carrier filled from the buckets that hung from a yoke over his shoulders. The water-carrier had an important role in Jewish culture. Everyone in our town knew our carrier: he was thin and hunchbacked under the yoke. He walked from house to house, reciting the Book of Psalms by heart under his breath. Cooking and heating the stove was done with wood.

The house, too, was heated by wood, burned in an oven whose chimney was constructed through the roof, to enable the smoke to escape. The oven needed to be cleaned occasionally. This was the job of Leybkeh the chimney-sweep. Wood-cutters prepared the wood. Water-carriers and wood-cutters were vital for life in all Polish towns. The kitchen had no sink. A large basin was used to clean and rinse dishes; the water was then poured out outdoors. Once, a woman opened her door and flung the dirty water out. A passing policeman fined her. When he husband came home, she told him what had happened, and added, angrily, “When Messiah comes, we'll all go to the Land of Israel and do anything we want!”

Every home had a large oven, like a bakery oven, to bake bread. Most women in the town baked bread once a week for their household. I remember my mother preparing dough every Thursday evening in a special wooden trough, where it would rise all night. She would get up early on Friday morning, stoke the oven with wood, and light the wood to heat the oven. In the meantime, she would bake flat cakes and potato fritters. We really loved the flat cakes.

This was customary in all the towns in Poland. There was a well-known phrase: “If you want a warm flat cake, wait till Friday.”

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When the wood had been consumed and the oven reached the proper temperature, Mother would place the loves of bread and challah inside. After the bread was ready and had been removed, the hot oven was used for the food eaten on Shabbat. The cholent and kugel were kept in the oven all night, and were eaten on Shabbat.^[2] Lighting a fire on Shabbat was forbidden.

There was no indoor shower. Jews went to the town bath-house on Friday, as did most of the town's residents. Jews also went to the ritual bath, as a pious duty.^[3] The bathhouse had internal ledges up to the ceiling. The heat from the oven increased with height, so that people could select the degree of heat they were comfortable with. Every person had a small broom, a bundle of twigs with which they rubbed their body, a process they enjoyed. There were some experts at this, who were termed beaters. People who wanted a “good beating” asked for an expert. Leybkeh the chimney sweep, one of these experts, was in great demand and not always available; there was a long wait for his services.

Thursday was the regular market day. Peasants would come from their villages with carts full of produce – fruit, vegetables, and chickens – as well as horses and cows. The market was held in the town square, and was always very lively and noisy. Traders, shopkeepers, and housewives scurried between the carts, seeking merchandise. If a Jewish holiday fell on a Thursday, the market was held on a different day; the Jews dictated the course of life in the town.

As far as I can remember, when I was a boy the town belonged to the Jews. The town square, at the center, contained many shops. Wooden houses were built around the city square. Let me start my description from the post office, on to the Dakh family's house, the Abends, and Likhtenshteyn's shop. From there, on to the Goldbergs, Avrom Mandel and Rapaport, the Balems, on to the Elbirts. That was the town center. The houses were surrounded by wood sidewalks. The handsome town center and the shops were Jewish property. Only one shop belonged to a Gentile, whose name was Golczewski. The properties on all the other streets were also owned by Jews. The Gentiles lived outside town, in shabby houses with straw roofs. The post office, police station, and city hall were in the town center. The Jews ran life in the town. Everyone you saw was Jewish, and Yiddish was the only language you heard; it was the “official” language. Gentiles only came to the center on market days.

The center was always full of life. Jews stood here and there, talking. I must say I considered it a Jewish country, with the beautiful synagogue, the study houses and small Hassidic synagogues. Although, as I wrote at the beginning of this article, life was not easy for the Jews of the town, due to lack of livelihoods and difficult conditions. But people were not depressed or sad. Apparently, this type of life was common in under-developed Polish towns. People were accustomed to it, thought that there was no better way to live, and were happy with their lot.

One might say that all the small towns of Poland were like Dubienka. We read about them in fictitious guise, in stories by Sholem Aleichem (“Kasrilevke”) and Mendele the Bookseller (“Kabtsansk”).^[4] These stories are quite accurate in their depictions of the hardships of Polish Jews. Yet the Jews were happy and pleased with their lives. They even created detailed songs about their home towns. We still sing the best-known of these, such as “Slutsk, my home town, how I long for you,” and “My little town of Belz.” They celebrated holidays, Shabbat, and joyous weddings. Life in the towns conformed to Jewish tradition. Everyone was Orthodox. The adult men wore beards and long black coats, as well as traditional Jewish hats.^[5]

Even young men, who were less observant, didn't dare to walk bare-headed. On Friday afternoons, Avrom the sexton would walk through the town center, announcing, “Go home, go home, for Shabbat.” They all closed their shops and hurried home to prepare for Shabbat. Shabbat was celebrated meticulously. The town was quiet. No one as much as rode a bicycle.

The Gentiles did not dare to travel through the center of town on Shabbat, and were careful on the Jewish day of rest. Everyone, including young boys and teenagers, went to pray in the synagogue, the Study House, and the small synagogues, afraid their parents would find out if they missed prayers. The town was deserted and quiet at prayer times. When we returned from prayers,

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Mother would greet us joyfully with a resounding Gut Shabbes!^[6] The greeting was returned by everyone before we sat down at the long table; Gut Shabbes! Gut Shabbes! Father blessed the wine. We'd eat the gefilte fish and sing traditional Shabbat songs. Mother brought the cholent and kugel out of the oven and placed them on the table.^[7] We loved the Shabbat food, especially the delicious kugel. Shabbat wouldn't be Shabbat without these dishes. There were songs about these dishes, such as “Shabbes after the kugel,” when people were bursting with food. After the meal, we children and boys usually went for walks through town. We strolled on the wooden sidewalks in the central square, and often ventured out to the woods of Strzelce. The town was surrounded by forests, and it was one of our greatest pleasures as boys; we would stay there until darkness fell. Our parents rested at home on Shabbat afternoons, and then celebrated the final Shabbat meal. I fondly remember the lovely Shabbat songs we sang.

Holiday celebrations are an indelible memory. Preparations could be felt as early as several weeks before the date. Making ready for Pesach (Passover) was special.^[8] We baked our own matzah. Each family supplied its own flour, and households with large ovens would bake their neighbors' matzah according to pre-set order. Matzah-baking was labor-intensive, and families worked together to help each other. Once the dough was ready, the women would roll it out into matzah, and the boys would run a small spiked wheel across the matzahs, to perforate them and prevent them from rising. Each family received the amount of matzah it needed.

Housecleaning for Pesach was unusually thorough. All the kitchenware was brought to the riverside, where everything was scoured, and rinsed in the river. Copperware and brass lamps were also shined up. The special Pesach dishes were brought down from the attic, where they were kept all year. Ordinary kitchenware was taken to the bathhouse to be soaked in boiling-hot water, to remove every trace of non-Pesach food. Once Mother had finished cleaning the house, she decorated every room, hung clean curtains, and spread the tables with beautiful tablecloths. The entire house was festive. No bread was eaten on the eight days of Pesach.

The Sukkot holiday was also special. Each family built its own sukkah just outside the home. Some houses had built-in sukkahs. In these houses, part of the roof was opened on the eve of the holiday, to fulfill the sukkah requirement.^[9] However, most houses did not include such a facility, and families constructed the sukkah themselves. They collected boards of all sizes and nailed them together. Then the boys went to the riverside and gathered reeds, to place over the top of the sukkah. Families that were unable to build their own sukkah were invited to enjoy their neighbors' sukkah. This also fulfilled the tradition of hosting guests in the sukkah. It was lovely to sit in the sukkah with neighbors and sing holiday songs.

Heartfelt holiday wishes were exchanged at Rosh Hashanah. Women embraced each other and extended fervent wishes, sometimes accompanied by tears. Everyone fasted on Yom Kippur and went to prayers at the synagogue or the study house. These prayers lasted all day. The town was deserted; no one was out on the street. Even the birds prayed. You might say that the entire town participated in services. Yes, the town was Jewish, and Jews set the way of life.

My memories go back to the 1920s, when I was part of this way of life. I went to kheyder; the melamed was Fishl Belfur.^[10] We studied in an old house, without a floor. Newer houses usually had a wood plank floor. We sat around a table, on decrepit benches. I remember the first time my father brought me to kheyder. I was wrapped in a tallis; Mother came along and handed out candy to all the children.

Much has been written about studies in the kheyder, including stories of melameds and their small disciplinary whips. Fishl began by teaching us the alphabet. Once we knew our letters, he started teaching us to read the prayer book. As everyone knows, there were no regular schools that offered higher classes. But some melameds were well versed in the Bible, the Mishna, and the Talmud. Among these in our town were Bentziyon Dantziger, Akiva Kramer, Berki Hudes, Shloyme Blushteyn (Idel's son). They usually taught Mishna and Talmud, and no secular subjects such as are taught these days. The system had the teacher reading a biblical verse and translating it word by word into Yiddish. He would read it in the traditional melody, thus: “va-yomer Adonoi el Moyshe” (And God said to Moses) became “Va-yomer- hot gezogt (said); Adonoi (Gott) – God; el (to) – tsi; Moyshe – Moses; leymor” – in these words. The students would repeat it after him.

Once a boy had completed his first year with Fishl Belfur, his parents had to select his next melamed. The melameds taught only Mishna and Talmud. Shloyme (Idel's son) was the only one who also knew Hebrew well. When Father asked me who I wanted to study with, I immediately said, “Shloyme, Idel's son.” At first, Father didn't agree, but eventually he relented, and I started studying with Shloyme. Shloyme taught me Bible and Hebrew, in the Ashkenazi dialect, of course.^[11] I loved learning Hebrew. He also taught us Hebrew grammar, and we enjoyed speaking Hebrew.

There was no advanced school in our town. The melameds usually recommended that the more talented boys go to yeshivas in a city such as Lublin or Międzyrzec Podlaski.^[12] Yeshiva studies were free of charge. The students ate at the homes of Jewish community members, at a different house each day. The local Yavneh School was opened only in 1930.^[13] Its history is interesting, as Yonah Tzukerman notes in his article: “It happened one Simchat Torah, when they prayed in the small Wlodowka synagogue.^[14] By then, several young men had adopted Zionism. After dancing with the Torah scrolls, as usual on Simchat Torah, they decided to sing the Zionist anthem “Hatikvah”. The Hassids, whose synagogue it was, attacked them with denunciations: “Gentiles! Rascals! Get out!” and drove them out of the small synagogue. Some of them got together and decided that they had to establish a modern elementary school, as in other towns. They would pray there on Shabbat. The school had excellent cantors, such as Moyshe Epltsvayg and Yonah Tzukerman, and a choir as well.”

The Yavneh school was not merely a place for studies. It was a center of cultural and Zionist activity. Young Zionists would go there to pray; my friends and I were among them. This was far from simple, as my father opposed this move. Children usually prayed with their parents; so why did I want to leave my father.?. Some of my friends were already praying there. My parents were well aware that they couldn't prevent me from going, and Father had no choice but to agree.

Prayers at the Yavneh school were a very pleasant experience. Most of the participants were young Zionists. There was a good choir, which I joined. Studies were excellent. The teachers were good, and taught us Hebrew as well. Their names were Ya'akobovitch, Sadovitch, Hurvitz, and Bluma Kirshenfeld, whom I greatly admired because of her Yiddish songs. She had a lovely voice, and sang many popular Yiddish songs that I wanted to learn. I wasn't too shy to stand outside her classroom window, where I listened avidly to her singing. Naturally, I learned

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all the songs by hearing (there were no tape-recorders at the time). The songs were useful when I did my agricultural training in Pinsk.

The Yavneh School had no classes for girls. Traditionally, girls did not study in kheyder; they were considered to have no need for literacy. Their function was to have children and work in the kitchen. True, there was a city elementary school (szkoła powszechna) that offered all grades. Studies there were held in Polish only; the subjects were general studies such as history and math. The teachers were Gentiles. Boys and girls sat together. Jewish students were able to attend. In some cases, Jewish students who enrolled couldn't keep up with studies, and dropped out in mid-year. There were constant clashes with the Gentile boys, who harassed the Jews. One of the reasons for these clashes was that the teacher would ask the Gentile boys questions, which they couldn't answer. The teacher would turn to a Jewish student, who, of course, immediately came up with the correct answer. The Gentile boys were offended, and revenged themselves by blows during recess. That's the way it was. Relations between Jews and Gentiles were not good.

The Jewish boys had no choice but to stop attending the state school. It was easier for Jewish girls, some of whom were able to graduate. All this was in the 1930s; women of previous generations did not go to school and were actually illiterate. Though they went to the synagogue for prayers, only a few could read. One woman read out loud for the others, and was always surrounded by women. She read from the Tzena-Re'ena loud enough so all the women surrounding her could hear.^[15]

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She read one verse at a time, translating each into Yiddish as she went, and the women repeated after her. There were many jokes about this method. People who sat far from the reader couldn't hear her well, and her words became garbled. For example, the reader read the Yiddish translation: “Riboyne shel oylem, zolst unz helfn in dem zkhus vos men hot Yitzchokn gefirt tsu di akeyde”. The women who were a bit further away heard and repeated “Riboyne shel oylem, zolst unz helfn in dem zkhus vos men hot gefirt Yitzchokn tsu di geneiva.” Those who sat furthest away heard and repeated “Riboyne shel oylem, zolst unz helfn in dem zkhus vos men hot gefirt Yitzchokn tsu di nekeyve.”^[16]

Although the men attended kheyder, most of them were illiterate as well. They were able to read the prayer book, and some had even learned the texts by heart, but they couldn't understand a word.

Eventually, as Zionism spread, Zionist activity began in Dubienka. There was progress in culture and education. People realized that studies had to change as well. A group of young people, led by Shloyme Lev (son of Yerachmiel Shoychet), started a school for secular studies and Hebrew. Shloyme Lev was well-versed in the Bible and knew Hebrew very well. Thanks to other teachers, like Yehoshua Rapaport, Moyshe Lichtenshteyn, and Avrom Lazar, the school developed well and class standards were very high. Students learned Hebrew and spoke the language among themselves. It was a pleasure to hear. All this took place before the Yavneh school was established.

The young people of the town completed their studies at age 14 or 15, and were at loose ends. They spent most of their time walking the sidewalks aimlessly. There were no youth movements to supply them with a clubhouse for evening meetings, and no trade school. Parents who did not want their children to be idlers would hand them over to an artisan such as a carpenter, shoemaker, or tailor, to learn a trade. The boy was often exploited as a messenger and household helper. He would even help the housewife in the kitchen. She would send him on shopping errands, or set him to rocking the cradle of a crying infant. The cradles were suspended from the ceilings by ropes. As the story goes, one homeowner instructed the helper to nurse the baby, to which the boy responded, “How can I do that when I have no breasts?” These boys worked as unpaid apprentice, as their masters were too poor to pay them.

Thus, young people lived aimlessly with no future prospects. Their mothers would sigh and lament, “The young people roam around pointlessly – how will they end up?” Talented boys who were good Mishna and Talmud students were recommended by their melameds to continue their studies in a yeshiva elsewhere. Well, every father wanted his son to become a rabbi. Some sent their sons to a yeshiva in Mezherichi or Lublin.

In 1928, the Beitar club of Hrubieszow visited Dubienka. They wore brown uniforms and caps with insignia. Their commanders were Binem Zinger, and Buchtreger. They marched around the central square, singing loudly in Hebrew. The news spread quickly, and many young people started running after them. It was a fine sight; we were happy to see young Jews in their fine uniforms marching in the center of town, singing Hebrew songs. The commanders wore swords. The young folks were very impressed at the sight, and kept following the visitors. Zinger and Buchtreger seemed to have come to town to propose that the young people establish a Beitar clubhouse in Dubienka.

The Beitar group in Dubienka

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sprang into action. Among them were Alter Cohen, Chayim Lemberger, and David Piness, all enthusiastic Zionists who thought it was important to establish a branch of Beitar in town. Alter Cohen, a well-known devoted, active Zionist, took the initiative. He selected a committee, rented premises, and started the club's activity. Many young people aged 14-16 joined; in effect, they constituted the majority of young people in the town. The clubhouse provided an extraordinary solution for the young people, as they now had a place to gather. Their parents were even more delighted, as they were happy to see their children off the streets. Binem Zinger, the leader, stayed on in Dubienka and found employment as an accountant at the bank. He was full of initiative for the club. He'd come to the club every evening, teach us Hebrew songs, and lead us in the famous Hora dance which we hadn't previously known. The club's activity was wide-ranging: there were Hebrew classes, discussions, and lectures. We loved the Hebrew songs that became part of our lively social and cultural activities. We marched through town on every holiday, singing in Hebrew. I'd especially like to mention my friend Yitzchok Grinberg, who was very active at the club and loved to spend evenings with the young folks and discuss Zionism and Palestine. Everyone loved him.

The Dubienka HeChalutz club was established one evening when we had gathered at the Beitar clubhouse, in the home of Monish Tzimerman, the carpenter. We were singing and dancing as usual, when Nachum Blender of Skryhiczin (may his memory be for a blessing) came in and told us he had been at the Hachshara farm at Metshov; he had been sent by the HeChalutz club of Horodlo.^[19] After six months of agricultural training, he was confirmed as an emigrant to Palestine, and held a British Mandate immigration certificate.^[20] Naturally, we were all astonished; we all dreamed of emigrating to the Land of Israel. We clung to him, sat around him and were eager to know how he had accomplished this.

He said that he had heard from a friend in Horodlo about the HeChalutz branch in that town, and that they were sending members for agricultural training; this was a requirement for obtaining an immigration certificate. The aim was to train people to found new kibbutz settlements. Nachum immediately went to Horodlo and joined the local club; he was sent for agricultural training, and received an immigration certificate. He advised us to establish a HeChalutz club in Dubienka as well, so that we could eventually immigrate to Palestine. He proposed that we ask members of the Horodlo club for instructions and advice.

Ya'akov Pergament and I volunteered to go to Horodlo, on foot, naturally, as there was no public transportation. Walking there was not a simple thing. We were only 16 and 17 years old. When my mother heard about our plan, she was very upset. “Are you crazy? You're kids. You'll be beaten up en route by the Gentile boys in the villages, and attacked by dogs. No, no way!” she said angrily. Eventually, we somehow managed to convince our parents. They realized they had no choice, and we began our trek to Horodlo. We arrived there at midday, and went to the home of a friend of Ya'akov's father. We went to the clubhouse in the evening, and talked with Moshe, the club's secretary. He explained all that we needed to do, and gave us the printed materials of the HeChalutz central office in Warsaw. The first thing we needed to do was to contact the Warsaw office and request the questionnaires. We went home the next day, happy hat we had been able to carry out our mission.

The Pinsk Hachshara: Gershon Shachar, Moshe Vaksman, Motl Hudes, and Moshe Gruber

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Many young people registered to join. Some Beitar members switched over to HeChalutz. We immediately contacted the central office in Warsaw and began our social and cultural work. We gathered there every evening for singing and dancing, and started a wall newspaper that was open to everyone.^[21] We had discussions. Ya'akobovitch, the Yavneh teacher, gave lectures on Zionism. There were also artistic shows, and Hebrew classes.

We contacted the Warsaw Central Office concerning our participation in Hachshara, and received questionnaires with names of training facilities and asking us to state our preference. In 1933, we (Ya'akov Pergament, Shmuel Nadel, Shaul Vorzeyger and I) left for training in Kłosów. The work site was a quarry, where we had to extract and shape rocks using heavy hammers. We were young boys who had never worked with, or even held, a hammer previously. We were completely exhausted after a day of this kind of work, and our hands were swollen and badly blistered. Two weeks later, we realized that we were incapable of this kind of labor, and had no choice but to return home.

Naturally, this was very unpleasant. What would we say to our comrades at the club? Only Shaul Vorzeyger was strong enough to continue the program. It was then that our members Motl Hudes, Moshe Gruber, and Moshe Vaksman left for Hachshara in Pinsk. I didn't despair but looked for other places to do the agricultural training. I contacted Motl Hudes in Pinsk to ask how they were feeling; he quickly responded, saying that I should join them in Pinsk: the group was strong and the members sociable; besides, the group included four members from Dubienka, and adjusting would be easier. After some time, I joined the Hachshara group at Pinsk, and was warmly welcomed.

Shaul Vorzeyger, Kłosw

I distinctly remember the day I had to part from my parents, especially Mother. The organization's instructions were to keep our plans strictly secret and not tell anyone – not even our parents – where we were going. But how can you not tell a Jewish mother that her son is going to the Land of Israel, especially a mother like mine? Our home was full of people. The entire family and friends had come to say farewell. The all accompanied us as far as the bridge, when Yasha Mendeles, the cart-driver, was waiting. Apparently, Father had asked him to wait there.

People who emigrated to Palestine from our training camp Natives of Dubienka: Shaul Vorzeyger, Moshe Gruber, Motel Hudes, Moshe Vaksman, Gershon Shachar, Ya'akov Pergament, Ayzik Goldshtof Natives of Skryhiczin: Nachum Blender, Moshe Shidlovsky, Shmuel Hurvitz

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People joined us all along the way. Parting from Mother was very difficult. She hugged me tightly as she wept, saying, “Who knows whether we'll see each other again,” before she fainted. The pain of this parting is indescribable; it was as though her heart foretold that this would be our last meeting. It was hard to calm down. I wept, too. The memory is very vivid to this day.

I won't go into details about the trip on a freight ship. Much has been written about the illegal immigration, about the struggles against the British authorities, and the sinking of immigrant ships.^[24] Conditions aboard these ships were difficult: people slept on wooden benches. But we knew we would soon be in the Land of Israel, and were strengthened. We danced and sang on the deck. It happened to be the holiday of Shavuot, and we wanted to make it an especially joyous occasion. I had materials for all the holidays that I had collected during my training in Pinsk. Several friends joined me in using this material to celebrate Shavuot on board ship.

The next day, as we neared Haifa, the ship sailed at random, to confuse the British forces that were searching for us. We waited for dark, and an opportunity to leave the ship. Apparently, the British Navy did discover us. They fired a few shots and hailed us on a megaphone, ordering us to proceed to Haifa immediately. We had no choice but to sail into port. Our guide, Leybl Shwartz, instructed us to throw all our identifying information, photographs, and letters overboard. I had to part with all the educational materials I had collected during my five years in Pinsk, which I was keeping in order to bring to the Land of Israel. I was very sad to part with these.

We sailed into port, accompanied by British Navy vessels. British soldiers immediately surrounded us, and we were transferred to an internment camp at Atlit, in preparation for being taken to one of the detention camps on Cyprus. It was only thanks to the intervention of the Jewish Agency that we were allowed to stay in the country. After seven days at Atlit, we were granted permission to stay in Palestine.

We were overjoyed. Everyone was leaping and dancing for joy. One of our groups was sent to Kibbutz Ein Harod, where a member of the central committee sent us on to various settlements, including kibbutz settlements. While still training in Pinsk, we had decided to join a new settlement that had just started. For us, it would be Kibbutz Ma'oz Haim, in the Beit She'an valley. En route from Ein Harod to Ma'oz Haim, I kept thinking that it might be a dream. We were driving along Mount Gilboa. Yes, we had learned about it from our teacher in the kheyder. I loved studying the Bible. This is where the Israelites battled the Philistines. King Saul didn't want to be captured by the Philistines and be tortured – “and Saul picked up his sword and fell on it.”^[25] That was a painful verse. Here we were, nearing the town of Beit She'an, descending into the valley, with the Jordan River in the distance. There was Ma'oz Haim, surrounded by a defensive wall. We were at the gate. Two armed guards opened the iron gate and greeted us happily. “Shalom, welcome!” It was hard to believe, but yes, we were inside.

Here was the tower, topped by the searchlight, and the guard who was welcoming us with a wave; there was the dining hall, surrounded by tents. We had read and learned about all this during our training, and had waited impatiently to receive the certificate that would permit us to immigrate to our beloved land. We knew all about the “Wall and Watchtower” kibbutz settlements. Each had been built stealthily in the course of a single night; British Mandate law stated that existing buildings couldn't be demolished. These Zionist pioneers found a way around the law and tricked the British. This was how all the kibbutz settlements in the Beit She'an valley had been built. They're still known as the “Wall and Watchtower kibbutz settlements.”^[26]

Here I was, and it wasn't a dream. My heart was pounding, and I was powerfully moved. I was in the Land of Israel, in a brand-new kibbutz. This is what we dreamed of. And here came my girlfriend, who had arrived a few months ago. She came running from the dining hall – someone must have told her that I arrived. We embraced and kissed, in a joy that knew no bounds.

Acclimating to the country was not easy. Life in the Beit She'an Valley was a struggle. The temperature sometimes reached 104, and malaria was widespread. There is a Yiddish proverb that says, “Fever isn't a disease, and Purim isn't a holiday.”^[27] Here, it was the reverse. Purim was widely observed, and malaria fever was a terrible disease that caused many deaths.

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But we managed to overcome all the difficulties, and the Beit She'an Valley became filled with flourishing farms. Anyone travelling through the valley can see the green valley with its fields, orange orchards, and fishponds. It's hard to believe that none of it was cultivated previously. There is too much information to detail here, but it is all part of our history in this country.

I arrived at the Pinsk training center in 1933. Our first apartment in Pinsk was on Bernardinska St. We assembled from all the towns of Poland, all members of the HeChalutz HaTzair and Freiheit Zionist youth groups, aged 18-20. Everyone yearned for an immigration certificate that would permit entry to the Land of Israel; the wait could take years. Our living conditions were very bad. We even went hungry in those early years. When I recounted this to my children (and now my grandchildren), who loved to hear the old stories about my days in training, they couldn't understand, and asked, “Why didn't these people work and make enough money to live on?” But manual laborers were paid very little.

Our physical conditions at the training center were quite rough. The walls were damp and moldy, and the plaster was peeling. We had almost no expenses for rent and clothing, as we had brought clothes from our homes. Our work clothes were shabby, faded, and patched. But in spite of these low expenses, we barely had enough money for food. Often, we barely ate on Saturdays, as we had not worked that day. I remember Senderkeh, who would sing a Soviet Russian song in the dining hall: “Those who don't work, don't eat.” People's health was affected. There were digestive issues and stomach ulcers that could require surgery. How did we do it? Our desire to reach the Land of Israel kept us going. We couldn't return to our parents' homes – there was nothing to return to. However, very few people left.

At first, our boys worked mainly at logging and in sawmills. Our girls did housework such as cleaning and cooking for rich families. Interestingly, in a big city like Pinsk, people still cooked and baked in brick ovens. The oven was wood-fired, and the food pots were inserted with a pitchfork. One of our girls was relatively inexperienced, and the pot tipped over inside the oven, spilling its entire contents. She was frightened and ran back in tears to our training center. The housewife followed her and tried to calm her down, but she refused to return. Our girl never did housework for others again.

Working with logs and wood was hard labor, of the type usually done by Gentiles. We “revolutionaries” were determined to be as good as anyone else, and do all the hard jobs. In the sawmills, we worked alongside the Gentiles, who were surprised to see us. We would walk in Pinsk in groups, holding our axes and saws; some of our girls would occasionally join us.

Here's an anecdote: One day five of us set out to “conquer” (our term for seeking work). We passed by a yard full of woodpiles. The group consisted of the late Yehuda Kalman (a member of Kibbutz Gvat), Joseph Tkhur (Kibbutz Ein Harod), Zalmankeh (murdered in the Holocaust), Leah Toyer (in Israel), and I. I knocked on the door and asked about chopping the wood in the yard. The woman looked at us with surprise, and said, in Yiddish, “You Jewish children, your lips still taste your mothers' milk! Do you have your mothers' permission to do such hard work? After all, it's Gentiles' work!” In the meantime, her husband walked in and explained that we were trainees who were capable of working like Gentiles, and so on. The housewife wasn't easily convinced, but she eventually agreed. We started sawing the pieces of lumber, while she watched us through the window. Suddenly, she called out to her husband, in Yiddish: “Moyshe, Moyshe, I can't watch these poor Jewish children doing such hard work. Do me a favor: pay them their full wage, as though they had completed the work, and let them go…”

When our members first arrived at the training facility, they brought high-quality clothes, including expensive suits. The warehouse manager would take these clothes and pack them in a box, as they wouldn't be needed. We were provided with shabby work clothes with multicolored patches. We weren't embarrassed at all to wear them. On the contrary,

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the clothing was part of our “revolution” and pioneering spirit. When I see “hippies” coming to the kibbutz today in their shabby, patched clothes, I smile and tell them that we dressed the same way forty years ago.^[2] The difference is that we patched our clothes because they were worn out and full of holes, while today they patch trousers that are in good shape – as a fashion statement. However, we too had people who displayed their own preferences. Moysheleh Cohen, for example, from the Zhetl training camp, would cut off one trouser leg and continue wearing the trousers. Disregard for one's personal appearance was a kind of style; the more one neglected one's appearance and added patches, the better a kibbutz member they were.

Another example was Nisseleh, who came from a poor family, and showed up at the clothes warehouse to pick up the trousers that he had handed in for repair. The warehouse manager, Esther M., brought out khaki trousers with green and black patches. Moysheleh took a look and said, “I don't understand. I don't care, but why didn't you use khaki cloth for the patches? That wouldn't have been very hard.” The manager, who considered it a “bourgeois” demand, unsuitable for “revolutionaries” such as us, jumped up and shouted, “What? Aren't they nice? Are you looking for a fancy suit? Are you going to a ball today?” Comrades who heard the shouts gathered around. Esther was inspired by their presence, and shouted, “Come here, Nisseleh. Let me decorate you with a ‘herring’ as well!”^[3] As she spoke, she pulled down a tie from one of the shelves and knotted it around his neck. The poor guy stood there shocked and silent, as if frozen. Once she had finished, Nisseleh raised his hand and slapped her face resoundingly.

We were a lively, cohesive group, like a large family with many siblings. As time went on, there were romances, and couples formed. The kibbutz terminology of the time considered them “problems.” I don't know how the term originated; one version is that in the Klosowo training center Benny Marshak once spoke about marriage during the training period as a “problem” that needed to be discussed by the general assembly.^[4] In his lingo, “probleming” meant making love. But after all, we were youngsters of the right age for love.

We slept in bunk beds, 80 cm wide (which we termed “internationals”). Two people slept in each bed; sometimes a third person (a “problem)” would join. At that point, everyone would turn onto their sides. The language in these kibbutz training settlements was Yiddish, with special slang terms. Looking back today, with our permissive culture, we might say that we behaved with restraint and quite responsibly.

Most of the couples that formed in the training centers reached the Land of Israel and are living happily as married couples, with children and grandchildren. Sometimes only one member of a couple was able to immigrate, while the other was left behind. I am sad to say that the kibbutz leadership was insensitive and quite inflexible in such situations. In one case, our member Simcha G., who had been at the training center for over five years, received notice to report for service in the Polish Army.^[5] He was willing to pay the expenses, and asked the kibbutz leadership to allow him to immigrate. Yehudit, his girlfriend, also begged them to permit her to immigrate. They refused, saying, “We need soldiers in the Land of Israel.” Yehudit eventually made it to the Land of Israel, married and had a family, but never forgot and never forgave, and mentions the experience every time we meet.

I remember living in an apartment owned by a Gentile, whose son was the town magistrate. It was a two-story apartment; we lived downstairs and they lived on top. One time they saw our couples happily hugging and kissing, and thought that our apartment had become a brothel. A few nights later, a police detective visited the apartment, checked the bedrooms and searched the beds. On another occasion, a detective showed up after midnight, knocked on the door and announced “Open up, police!” Everyone woke up and started to argue with the unwelcome guest. One of the guys wanted to attack him physically. The commotion was great. Someone hurried to the girls' rooms to check whether a “problem” had been staying there overnight. The detective checked all the beds with his flashlight, turning back the blankets, found nothing, and left. That was the last night we had a police visitation.

Actually, our lives were interesting, lively, and good. However, we were hungry. We worked hard, and some went on living at the training center for years. No one was to blame. We accepted the situation,

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because we were devoted Zionists. We knew that we were living a communal life, and the regulations had to be observed. We were forbidden to receive money from home.

Receiving stamps, however, was permitted. Our parents would always enclose stamps in their letters, to facilitate a speedy reply. Over time, the stamps began to function like money. One widespread hobby in the training kibbutz was photography. People loved to be photographed, and wanted to memorialize their lives in the training center, as well as to preserve the memory of friends who had left or emigrated to the Land of Israel. We would exchange photos, and send photos home as holiday gifts. My mother, for example, would show my pictures around to family, neighbors, and my friends, bragging about her son who was with his friends in the kibbutz, cutting logs, or spending time with his girlfriend. As it was an expensive hobby, we would ask our parents to send us the stamps that functioned as currency. There were many prohibitions in the kibbutz, but trading in stamps was unofficially sanctioned.

Other prohibitions seem ridiculous today. People who received packages with goodies from their parents had to send them back. The goodies, of course, could have been handed out to the members in the evening, after work. Another prohibition affected those of our women who worked for households in the town, doing cooking. Kibbutz regulations did not allow them to taste or eat the finished product, which they had made. They couldn't even have a cup of tea. The housewives couldn't understand such behavior, and were offended. They even came to the training center to complain. Abba Posten, who was the group secretary and a kind of ideological father, was strict about observing kibbutz principles. He never agreed to deviations from these principles. As the oldest person in the group, with fine rhetorical talent, he would attack and condemn even the slightest deviation; no one dared to disobey him.

Economic conditions in our kibbutz in 1933-1934 were very bad. The Haynt newspaper published a series of critiques of the training centers by B. Yeushzon, and demanded an intervention by the Jewish Agency.^[6] Yeushzon claimed that the training centers were training cripples, and suggested limiting each person's time at the center to one year; the candidate for immigration would spend the rest of his wait at his parents' home. This became the subject of a major debate in the Jewish press. Many training center members were pleased with this criticism, although they never expressed themselves in public. Public opinion supported organized aid to the training centers. Small centers were closed, and their members were dispersed among other, larger centers. Aid offices were opened. There was one such office in Pinsk, which secured work for us in large factories. We began to work at the Konda and Luria plywood factories, and our conditions improved.

Curiously, the difficult economic conditions did not affect our spirits. We sang and danced until midnight. The neighbors complained, and demanded that the landlord evict us. We switched apartments three times between 1932 and 1939: the apartments were on Bernardinska, Pilsudski, Kolejowa, and Nadbuzna streets.

I'd like to say a few words about holiday celebrations in the kibbutz training center. In those days there were, of course, no tapes or records, nor did we have any holiday materials. We did our best on our own. Simkha Gozhanski and I would sometimes sit up all night searching for materials and money for the party. Zionist songs were usually taught by the emissaries from the Land of Israel. We often used existing melodies to which we adapted lyrics that we wrote for the holiday or the occasion. The familiar Passover Haggadah became the basis for parodies satirizing social life in the training camp, often at the expense of our members.^[7] For instance, the Haggadah's verse about “It happened at midnight” was very suitable for “problems.” We would translate sections of the Haggadah into bawdy, humorous Yiddish verse, which the members loved. Our critique was usually light-hearted and not malicious. Eliezer Gluz, an emissary who lived with us for quite a long time,

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was satirized in the style of the Book of Esther.^[8] Everyone collapsed in laughter. To my surprise, he wasn't offended or hurt. On the contrary, he came up to me, gave me a warm hug, and said, “Gershon, that was excellent! Please give me the text, as a souvenir for me and my family.”

The Passover Haggadah was a rich source that we adapted for our group. We rearranged sentences and inserted Yiddish words rich in double meanings, as well as humorous criticisms. During the parties we mainly spoke Yiddish. I adapted the Haggadah's “Four Questions” to reflect current events. Tsipora Loifer (currently living in Ein Harod) was our singer.

The Pinsk theater hall was owned by a Jew, a Zionist named Boyarski. If there were vacant seats at performances, we were given free tickets. Sometimes we appeared onstage as extras, and in return all our members were given free access. We learned all the songs in the show, and would sometimes write new lyrics for our own shows. One show lyric, titled “Where is My Certificate?” was adapted to our particular situation, as follows.^[9]

We're all grown up
But still being trained!
We can't go to Palestine.
Four years is no joke!

My parents keep asking,
“How much longer?
You could have done Russian Army service,
But you know no limits.”

Mother asks, “How long?
Everything must end.
So get moving!”
Unwilling,

I keep singing,
“Where is my certificate?”
My food tastes bitter
And I worry all the time.
Tragic thoughts keep nagging
And I keep singing,
“Oy, oy, oy, where is
My certificate?”

Yes, we awaited our certificates for years. One year we donned our hats and went to the Simchat Torah celebration at the synagogue of the Karlin Hassids. It was quite a celebration. They followed each hakofeh with ecstatic songs and dance.^[10] The Hassidic song, “Let salvation finally come, let the Messiah finally come” was accompanied by jumps and leaps, as though they wanted to catch the Messiah on his arrival. We, too, were waiting for salvation. So it was that we found ourselves drawn into the circles of dancers, shouting at the tops of our voices, “Let salvation finally come!”

We were so excited when we returned to the kibbutz that we woke up our members and began dancing a spirited hora in the dining hall, in spite of the pajamas that many still wore: “Let salvation finally come, let the Messiah finally come!” We added an extra line: “Let the certificate finally come!”

Holding each other tightly, we danced our hearts out. The long wait for immigration certificates and the despairing letters from our parents were expressed in our singing: “Let salvation finally come, let the Messiah finally come, let the certificate finally come!” Joining arms, we danced ecstatically. Our yearning for certificates, and our parents' despair about our future, found expression in our loud cries, “Let the Messiah come, let the certificate come!”

The Messiah did not come, nor did the certificate. Some people spent six or seven years at the training center, with very little hope of leaving. The quantity of certificates was limited. It was only thanks to the illegal immigration that we were able to leave. I reached the Land of Israel in August 1939. The terrible Second World War broke out a month after I arrived.

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