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[Page 29]
by Yidl (Yehuda) Dantsiger
Translated by Yael Chaver
Tragically, I was the only survivor of my large family, which was well known in town, after the catastrophe that overtook the Jews of Europe in general and the Jews of Dubienka in particular. I will try to provide some details about the family of my mother, who came from Warsaw (and was known in town as “the woman from Warsaw”), as well as about my father's family.
The Dubienka survivors certainly remember my large family, both in town and in the vicinity. If not for the Holocaust, many of my family members would be living with us here in Israel, helping to build and safeguard the country. To our everlasting sorrow, our Nazi enemy erased them from the face of the earth, along with the six million precious and innocent souls who were slaughtered for no reason.
Let me begin with my father, Pinches Dantsiger (also known as Pinches, the synagogue caretaker's son). He was devout, easy-going, scholarly, and pleasant. Although he belonged to the Gora Kalwaria Hassids, he read secular books as well, and was very tolerant of Jews who thought otherwise.[1] He tried to argue and influence me, his oldest son, to follow in his footsteps, but was never aggressive. As far as I can remember, he sold boots at the fairs in Dubienka at the time, and had three partners with whom he traveled through the area. This business did not last too long. His partners left, for a variety of reasons, but they remained close friends.
One partner, Berke Hodes, who was a true scholar and a powerful debater, left the business world and became a teacher of older children, including myself. This decision enabled him to follow his true calling, that of a Torah scholar, while also becoming an activist in the community he was so fond of. He was also a mediator and an adjudicator. Many people came to him with their problems and questions, and appreciated his patient listening and talent for eliciting compromises. Berke Hodes was much loved and admired, not only as a teacher, but also for his secular knowledge. Unusually for Torah scholars, he loved to swim, and taught his students to love the sport as well. On hot summer days, he would take us to the nearby river and teach us to swim. One of his feats was to remain underwater for a long time, with only his legs poking out, we students marveled at his ability. When he finally raised his head, we would applaud loudly. Everyone loved him.
My father's other two partners were the brothers Monish and Shmuel Krasner. They were
quiet, kind people, who looked after their families. The partnership with them was longer-lived.. My grandfather, Avraham Dantsiger (known as Avraham, the synagogue caretaker) was the most familiar person in town. He looked after the town's synagogue, and was involved in everything pertaining to ritual.
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He took part in all the events, holiday celebrations, weddings, bar mitzvahs, etc., all with love and devotion. Avraham the synagogue caretaker deserves a separate article.
My grandfather's sister, Shoshana (who was called Bubby Rose) was always active in the community, and ready to help the needy. She always knew who was in need of help and what they needed. Before holidays, she organized other women and collected challahs, cakes, and other goodies, to distribute them to the needy. She was literate, and taught other women to read and write; she was also the synagogue reader for illiterate women. Her method was to read one sentence, which the other women would repeat after her. Most women could not read or write, as there were no schools for girls. Later, there were elementary schools for boys and girls, such as Yavneh and Bais Yaakov.[2]
I will not go on to list my entire well-known, vanished family. Let this essay be an eternal memorial to the sons and daughters of Dubienka and the vicinity, and an eternal reminder of the Nazi criminals and their helpers. May their names be blotted out!
Translator's Footnotes
by Yehuda Dantsiger
Translated by Yael Chaver
The family of the cantor and scribe Shaul Grinberg was renowned in the town. They lived in our house for a long time, until they moved to their apartment across from the synagogue. Shaul was a cantor as well as a Torah scribe who was gifted in visual arts. His personality was a combination of an observant and an enlightened Jew. He was considered a Misnaged, opposed to Hassidism. His sharp sense of humor was aimed at the Hassids, who had boundless faith in their leaders.
Even when young, Shaul's son, Yitzchak, contributed to the household by performing small tasks for others. He was an autodidact, and amassed all his knowledge on his own. As a bookbinder, he read every book that came into his bindery. By the time he had completed the binding process, the book's content was fixed in his memory. As a child, I would help him in his work, and he encouraged me to read the books in his shop. The books were brought from the local Y. L. Peretz library as well as from the library in Skryhiczyn. Like his father, he was a talented artist and designer. He was also a good organizer, and commanded the local Beitar club.[1] Under his leadership, the club flourished and expanded. He spent evenings at the club, teaching the young people Hebrew songs and the Hora dance. Everyone admired him.
As I heard from my friends, during the last years before the Holocaust (when I was already living in Warsaw) Yitzchak managed the accounts of the Jewish community. He learned accountancy on his own; thanks to his talents, he was able to take on the job quickly. Mr. Lemberger, the previous accountant, helped him a great deal. I was told that Yitzchak was an excellent accountant and kept all the books in perfect order.
I have assumed the responsibility of describing and memorializing this family and their life, as none of them survived the catastrophe. May their memory be for a blessing!
Translator's Footnote
by Gershon Shachar
Translated by Yael Chaver
The Pergaments were well known in the town. Avigdor, Ya'akov's father, was modest and kind, and was always available to help where needed. He was a forester, who worked for the Shidlovskys in Skryhiczyn. Avigdor was a member of the Turisk Hassidic group, and was active in the establishment of a Turisk synagogue. After the fire, he was able to collect donations from many people, especially the rich Skryhiczyn Hassids who were his friends. Everyone knew this, and considered him personally responsible for the existence of the synagogue. He was always happy to help others.
Ya'akov Pergament was my best friend, and I was virtually part of the family, all of whose members I knew well. We were also members of the same Beitar club; Beitar was the first Zionist youth movement established in the town, which attracted many young people. Later, when we discovered that people in the HeChalutz movement could reach Palestine – the dream of all the young people – we decided to establish a branch of the movement. We knew that there was a branch of Beitar in the nearby town of Horodlo, some of whose members had already been sent to a training farm. So we walked to Horodlo (there was no transportation linking the two towns).
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Ya'akov's mother, like my mother, was against us walking that distance. I remember Avigdor convincing Yaakov's mother that it wasn't just a whim, but a way to achieve an important goal. “We, too, might be able to emigrate!” he said, enthusiastically. After Ya'akov's mother agreed, my mother had to agree as well. We did open a HeChalutz branch in Dubienka, and Avigdor was proud of his son for being part of the initiative.
Ya'akov did his training in Łódź, and I trained in Pinsk. We were granted immigration papers in the same year. The trip cost 400 złotys, which my parents couldn't afford. Ya'akov's parents were not wealthy, either.
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We decided to find work in order to finance our trip. Avigdor, who worked for the Shidlovskys, was able to arrange work for both of us in their sawmill. We worked all summer, and gathered the funds. We were not able to travel together; Ya'akov immigrated several months before me, in 1939, several months before the terrible war broke out. He became a member of Kibbutz Shefayim, where he and Masha were married. They lived in the kibbutz for several years, before moving to Ramat Gan.
Like his father, Ya'akov was active in community matters. He was the chairman and treasurer of the organization of Dubienka natives.[1] He helped all the war survivors who arrived in the country to get settled.
Unfortunately, he became very ill, and died when fairly young. May his memory be for a blessing!
Translator's Footnote
by David Shpigl
Translated by Yael Chaver
The local labor movement began after World War I, when Poland regained its independence. Its founders created two important organizations: a labor union, and a library (named after Y. L. Peretz); both housed in the same building. The union spearheaded the fight for better working conditions in Dubienka. For the first time, an eight-hour workday was discussed. Prior to that, workers labored from dawn to dusk. Another struggle was that for higher wages; the pay was very poor.
The library was very active. Among its activities were community discussions, book loans, and a popular social hub. Naturally, people argued over political and cultural issues. The library contained many new books as well as classics, mostly written in Yiddish.
In 1925, Shmuel Vinik, a native of Dubienka, returned to his hometown after completing his studies at YIVO in Vilnius.[1] He led the founding of the local clandestine Communist organization, which quickly formed connections with other towns and villages in the vicinity, such as Białopole, Skryhiczyn, and others. Some Skryhiczyn members had studied in advanced institutions in cities such as Warsaw, Krakow, and Czestochowa, where they had become passionate about Russian Communist ideology.
As I noted, the Communist political party was illegal. Once it began a propaganda campaign, which included distributing flyers and hanging red flags in the streets of Dubienka, the police began efforts to stamp it out and made mass arrests. At the first trial, Vinik was sentenced to three years in prison; the others were sentenced to two years each. Members who had evaded capture fled to the large cities of Warsaw, Łódź, etc.
I would like to name several members who were part of our youth movement.
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According to rumor, Shmuel Vinik had fled to Russia in 1939, at the beginning of the war, where he had been arrested; his fate is unknown.
Falik Branshpigl is living in the U. S., and is married to Malka Valovska, also of Dubienka.
Shmuel Shroyt was murdered during the Holocaust in western Ukraine, where he had fled at the beginning of the war. That was also the fate of Moti Landsberg, Simcha Krasner, and others.
The organization did not completely cease its activity. In 1936, there were additional arrests in Dubienka and Białopole. Bella Shvartz (now Shpigl) and Frida Shpigel stood trial, and were imprisoned until the war's outbreak.
That was the end of the organization. The union and the library were also shut down by the authorities. The theater also stopped functioning, as its members were scattered. However, some people continued to dream of a better, more beautiful future, until the outbreak of the war. Then, the Nazis – aided by Ukrainians and Poles – destroyed the flourishing life of our Jewish town, killed the inhabitants, and destroyed all the structures, including the large synagogue, the study house, small synagogues, as well as our entire religious and cultural life.
Theater: The theater was founded by Y. D. Mitelpunkt, our gifted director. He gathered amateurs and taught them to act. The repertoire consisted mostly of classics like The Dybbuk, Mirele Efros, Kenig Lir, The Two Kunilemels, and others.[2] The performances were in Yiddish, and the main roles were played by Khantshe Nagelstein (my aunt), Rachel Landsberg, Motl Rasls, and others. They were later replaced by other actors, whose names I do not remember; I left Dubienka in 1933.
Luckily, our town was on the Russian border, and the few Jews of Dubienka who crossed the border escaped the bitter fate of most of the city's Jews.
After the war, some survivors came to Israel to help it develop. Others went to different parts of the world, such as America and Europe, but we all remember the town, and will never forget the deeds of the jackbooted German murderers.
Translator's Footnotes
by Yehuda Kupfer (may his memory be for a blessing)
Translated by Yael Chaver
Rabbi Shlomo of Dubno (born 1738, died 1813 in Amsterdam) was a Hebrew philologist and an early proponent of the Jewish Enlightenment. Nonetheless, he had a connection to our Chelm, where he spent several years studying with Rabbi Shlomo of Chelm, an expert on Hebrew grammar. Shlomo of Dubno revised and commented on the latter's book on Hebrew accents and chants (1766).[2] His commentary includes a long poem in praise of his teacher. The town of Dubienka is not far from Chelm, in Hrubieszow county, and its Jewish community numbered three thousand.[3]
Now, imagine that the Maggid of Chelm had no connection to Chelm. He was from the small town of Kelmė near Kaunas, Lithuania. No one has heard of Dubienka. The Maggid of Dubno's name was actually Ya'akov of Dubienka, although he lived in Dubno for years. He was married there, and lived with his wife's parents. He was born in a small town near Vilnius, and died at the age of 65 in Zamosc. Life in Zamosc influenced him greatly, thanks to the town's fine qualities and connections with Lemberg (including the Galician Enlightenment). While in Zamosc, he changed his name to Ya'akov Kranz.
We were acquainted with his descendants, who were part of the assimilated Polish Jews of Zamosc; we knew them from the Izraelita kheyder.[4] Mieczyslaw Kranz, the director of the Bank of Lodz in Chelm (around 1900) was one of his grandchildren. He was the subject of gossip, as he was living with a non-Jewish woman, and never attended synagogue, not even on Yom Kippur. Rabbi Ya'akov Kranz was in touch with Moses Mendelssohn, who called him “the Jewish Aesop.” His parables and allegories were well known and popular among Jews. Yitzchak Ber Levinson wrote about him.[5]
Translator's Footnotes
[Page 33]
by Yeshayahu Dvir (Dantsiger)
Translated by Yael Chaver
When I was a child, our entire family lived in the village of Skryhiczyn: Grandfather and Grandmother (my paternal grandparents), my parents, and we children (my younger brother Pesach and me, Shayeh). Grandfather was a simple, observant Jew, who prayed a lot and chanted Psalms. He made a living as a blacksmith. Grandmother was industrious and cultivated a magnificent vegetable garden. Father was observant while also being enlightened, and Mother was a wonderful housewife.
I went to kheyder as a small child. The melamed was Shimon (Horodler) London. Classes, with fifteen children, were held in their one-room apartment. It was crowded. Chaya and Ethel, the melamed's daughters, sat on the trunk that held the family's clothes, sending us into gales of laughter. We sometimes studied in the study house, which was also small, but nice.
We spent half the day in kheyder, and in a Polish school the rest of the time. We had an excellent teacher, who taught all the subjects: reading, writing, mathematics, geography, history, natural science, art, and games. The teacher was smart and very conscious of hygiene. The room he lived in was very clean. He had a piano, and I enjoyed hearing him play.
I loved the village synagogue, especially during holidays. On Yom Kippur, when the floor was covered in fresh straw and tall wax candles were burning, I had a special feeling of spiritual holiness.
We children played mostly after the midday meal on Shabbat. We gathered at the gate of the Rutenberg house and swung on the gate. I also loved walking along the roads and paths of the town, and looking at the fruit orchards. We would sometimes go out in the early morning to pick wild strawberries and blackberries. In summer, we went to bathe and swim in the Bug River.
The village was bisected by a stream with overgrown banks, which paralleled streets where Poles lived. We were afraid to walk those streets for fear of the dogs, which barked and attacked us, and sometimes even bit us.
I was fond of the cold and the freezing temperatures of winter. Skating and walking over the creaking ice was also fun. We sometimes took a sleigh ride.
My bar mitzvah was held in the synagogue, where I read my portion, and there were treats for the guests. Afterwards, everyone went to our house, where vodka and cakes were offered.
After my bar mitzvah, my parents decided to move to Dubienka, where they had a plot inherited from my mother's parents. They built a fine new three-room house. In Dubienka, I made new friends. We all studied Talmud in the hall entrance to the synagogue, where our teacher was the fine scholar Berkeh Hodis.
The Dubienka synagogue was very handsome and impressive. It was more than two stories high, with pillars surrounding the bimah. The Torah Ark was beautiful. There were doors to the women's section. I enjoyed listening to Cantor Shaul Grinberg, especially at the early morning prayers before Rosh Hashanah, during that holiday, and on Yom Kippur. The women became very emotional, weeping and wailing, and it was quite noisy.
The old study house was welcoming and warm, with a large congregation. It was crowded, but pleasant. I would go there with my friends for the afternoon and evening prayers, which were also social occasions. I enjoyed the preachers, and sometimes stayed on after the evening prayers, listening to the older men discuss politics.
My father usually prayed in the Turisk synagogue, and I joined him on Saturdays and holidays. I liked listening to Avraham Shochet when he was the cantor. I remember the tall wax candles.
In Dubienka, as in the village, I loved to take walks, with friends or alone. It was wonderful to watch the snows melting in spring and the streams overflowing their banks, to the point of flooding.
One of the most important events in town was the weekly fair, which was held in the town square, near the shops. Peasants would arrive in town every Thursday morning, driving hundreds of carts heaped with grain, potatoes, chickens, and eggs, Horses, cows, and pigs were also part of the wares.
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Entertainers and jugglers also arrived, adding to the tumult. The horse-traders were especially noticeable.
I attended Talmud-Torah in Dubienka; it was a combination of kheyder and school.[1] The only youth movement in Dubienka was Beitar; I joined, like all my friends. We gathered in the clubhouse for Zionist activities. We hiked, went to summer camp in the forest near Strzelce, and discussed emigration to Palestine. I was a dedicated Zionist. When I studied the Bible and everything connected with the Land of Israel as a child in kheyder, I longed for the beauty of biblical times. That was when I heard about the Balfour Declaration. Later, when Balfour visited Palestine for the dedication of the Hebrew University on Mt. Scopus, Jerusalem, we were all very excited. We decorated an entire wall of the clubhouse with pictures of Balfour and Weizmann. Two of my aunts lived in Palestine: Rachel, who was a kibbutz member, and Esther, who lived in a city.
I was the first member of our local club to receive an immigration certificate for Palestine. I parted from my family, friends, neighbors, and the whole town. I left for the training farm in the village of Gnojnik, and then for the Beitar convention in Warsaw. With friends, I left Warsaw for Palestine. Sadly, I never saw Dubienka again. I was soon joined by my parents and my brother Pesach. I remember the town of Dubienka and Skryhiczyn, the nearby village, and the synagogues – especially the great, beautiful synagogue of Dubienka, the like of which I have never seen anywhere.
Translator's Footnote
by Beila Shpigl (Schwartz)
Translated by Yael Chaver
All these years, I have longed to see my town Dubienka again. Fate can deposit a person in myriad places, but one always remembers the place where they were born and grew up. Our town was very small and poor, but is always nestled in my heart and my soul. I visualized the streets, alleys, wooden houses, and the beautiful synagogue that I saw when Father took me there as a child, to celebrate Simchat Torah and other holidays. I remembered the central square with its shops, mostly owned by Jews, the river, the meadow, and the forests that I still miss. Recently, when travel to Poland became possible, my husband David and I decided to go and visit Dubienka. The organized tour of Poland took us to the death camps of Treblinka, Majdanek, and Oświęcim, as well as the area of the Warsaw Ghetto.[1] We also visited the old Jewish cemetery of Warsaw, which had survived the war. That cemetery contains the graves of famous persons such as Y. L. Peretz, Rachel Kaminska, and others.[2] The effect of the cemetery was powerful, though all of Poland is actually an immense cemetery of the Jews of Poland.
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We also visited the Nozik synagogue, the only one to survive the Nazis. It has been restored to its former beauty, after having been turned into a stable during the war. We visited Lublin, with its Jewish cemetery that dates back to the 16th century, and Krakow, with its many sites that are linked with the rich history of the Jews in Poland. This is only a brief description.
We had a few free days after the end of the organized tour, so we hired a taxi, and drove from Warsaw to Dubienka. Along the way, we stopped in Chelm, as my mother had to be treated in the Chelm hospital. We asked a local Polish woman where the Jewish cemetery was. We found it after some time, but it was vacant and surrounded by barbed wire. There were only two headstones that someone had erected to memorialize his parents and sister. We also found a flat gravestone that had a few Hebrew words on it.
We left Chelm and were soon near Dubienka. I cannot describe the emotion that seized me. What I saw now erased the scenes I had treasured for decades. Before our trip, we were asked by Dubienka friends to visit the house and street where they had lived. They had described the town they remembered before they fled. Nothing was recognizable now.
I found Chelmska Street, where I had lived, but nothing was familiar. I identified the street only thanks to the name at one of the street corners. It was impossible to recognize the place where our house and its beautiful garden had been.
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It looked like a jungle. There was no trace of the impressive synagogue, the central square, or the shops. The area was deserted and bare of the trees that had grown there. The Gentiles had pulled up all the headstones of the Jewish cemetery and used them as thresholds in their houses.[3] The sight was painful. This was how the new scene erased the memory that had been engraved in my heart for so long. Now I need to try and restore the street scenes and the wonderful young people, who educated themselves in spite of poverty and constant shortages. They dreamed of a better future, which many of them never lived to see.
Translator's Footnotes
by Pinchas Rutenberg[1]
Translated by Yael Chaver
We hitched rides through Hrubieszow, one of the towns relatively less affected by the war. That city has a rich history, connected with Polish kings of long ago. In the distant past, it suffered from the Tatar wars and the Odain revolt.[2]
The marketplace plan is typical of Jewish marketplaces. There were many peasants and merchants there, with plentiful food for sale. It seemed like the lively prewar markets. I hoped to recognize a Jew, one of the 7,000 Jews who had lived in Hrubieszow, but I saw no one that I could identify.
Dubienka was where the parents of my friend Józef lived. Józef and other residents told me that the prewar Jewish population of the town had numbered 1500. Some were well off, others were poor. They were shopkeepers and merchants, as well as peddlers. They also floated lumber and grain down the river to Danzig. The Gentile population
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numbered approximately the same. The Gentile population included Catholic Poles and Ukrainians, as attested by the two churches, one Catholic and one Russian Orthodox; the latter is not in use. When World War II was over, and a provisional government was set up in Poland, the local Ukrainians fled eastward, across the Bug River, for fear of Polish retribution; the river is about 1.5 kilometers from town.
The town has quite a history, which the Poles are proud of; in the late 18th century, it was the place where Koscziusko defeated the Russian army and stopped them from crossing the Bug. Dubienka is in a remote corner of Poland, on the border between Russia and Poland (also known as the Curzon line) where the Bug forms a natural boundary.[3] The town was desolate. The Jewish marketplace was mired in mud. It was surrounded by wooden buildings with tall, narrow balconies in front. Some of the homes were abandoned, with shuttered windows. Most of the buildings, though, accommodated Polish refugees who had fled from Wolhynia and Galicia for fear of Ukrainian vengeance. No police or militia were visible.
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The eastern bank of the Bug River was still full of “White” Polish soldiers, who were hunting Soviet soldiers as well as any Jews who were still alive.[4] There were also Ukrainians who attacked Polish villages, robbing and killing the residents. The two groups had a common enemy: the Jews.
Both sides feared the sudden appearance of a living and breathing Jew coming to demand his house or property back, after having deposited it with a Christian neighbor before his deportation. I was told that the Jews were all crammed into a very few houses after the Polish conquest. The area served as a type of ghetto or Jewish neighborhood, as it wasn't completely sealed off. In 1942, the Jews were loaded onto peasant carts, removed from the area, and taken to the train station, about 15 kilometers away. They were then crammed into train cars and sent to the Sobibor death camp. That was the end of Dubienka's Jewish community.
Before the war, hostility in Jewish-Christian relations was below the surface. As the war approached, hatred toward the Jews increased. Members of the National Democracy party heightened anti-Jewish incitement.[5] However, after the Jews were exterminated, anti-Jewish feelings rose to new heights. I felt that the atmosphere was poisonous and even dangerous for Jews.
I noticed that the villages of the area, on the whole, had not been badly damaged by the war. The buildings appeared well maintained and whitewashed, just as they had been before the war. The peasants were still farming, raising pigs and chickens, and their cows were producing milk, as before. However, Poles displaced by the war had settled here and were now poverty-stricken. The farmers had been affected by the different armies and partisan forces that had come through and demanded food. But the industrious peasants cleverly hid bacon and grain for themselves. As the saying goes, “A farmer is like a sheep: you shear it, and it regrows its wool.”
Before I entered the home of my friend Józef's parents, I asked him not to tell his parents that I was Jewish while I was staying there. I knew what might happen to someone like me. He promised. His parents greeted us joyfully and emotionally, even tearfully. Józef introduced me as a Polish friend and buddy from military service and captivity. His mother prepared a pan of hot water for me to wash; she washed my hair and soaped my back. She gave me a warm shirt and clean undergarments. Everyone in the family treated me
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warmly. But, as the saying goes, Jewish identity is an open secret. That same day, they learned about my origin. Yet their kind attitude towards me did not change. They told me about their two married sons who had settled, with the assistance of the government, in areas of Ukraine and Belorussia designated for resettlement by Poles. The government's plan was to settle the areas with Poles, to counter the non-Polish population. Their sons were exemplary farmers.
When the Germans overran all of Ukraine, east and west, the Ukrainians in Volhynia mounted severe attacks on Poles. My hosts' young grandchildren were cruelly crucified on walls, with the slogan “Polish Eagle” (the emblem of the Polish Democracy Party) daubed around them, and their sons were flung into wells, where they drowned. My hostess wept bitterly as she recounted this, as well as the cruel fate met by the Jews.
We drank samogon with the evening meal.[6] Józef's parents told us once again about the deeds of the Ukrainian and Russian nationalist bands against Poles and Jews. Neighbors began to come in, and friends from villages arrived to celebrate the return of the son who had returned from captivity alive. Each guest brought fruit, or a bottle of liquor, and congratulated the son and his future bride, as well as me. I sat with the guests, and was introduced by Józef as a Pole who had fought bravely for the homeland. The next day, there were other visitors, who drank liquor and expressed their congratulations. As they drank, they recounted how the Germans had killed the Jews of the town and the vicinity, young and old alike. This was a story like any other, with no hint of regret or distress. The hosts sighed, and remained silent.
My friend whispered, “You know, Teofil, most of these guests collaborated directly or indirectly with the Germans. Some are still members of the National Democracy party, and go out at night to hunt the remaining Jews, or attack government officials who work for the new regime. They also take revenge on Ukrainians. In effect, they've become professional murderers.”
He was warning me about the identity of the guests, and advising me to be careful when I talked. Apparently, he, too, had been unaware of events during his absence. He had read the subtle hints that his parents dropped in their rare letters. The German censors had cut out half of their letters, or did not send them to him at all. The parents wavered between sorrow and joy. They passed out more liquor to the guests, who regaled them with more wartime stories. I sat there, listening intently to the depressing stories. I was offered more liquor. Józef and his parents did their best to hide my identity, so that I could enjoy the party. Occasionally, I would look out of the window at the vacant, dark, marketplace, as though searching for something, but I did not see what I was looking for. Only a few shapes scurried stealthily through the square, splashing in the mud and snow.
In the distance, a broad-shouldered man in a long army coat and a short woman wrapped in a peasant shawl were making their way over the slush. Everyone in the house suddenly turned their heads, whispering, and looked at the pair mockingly. Loud laughter broke out at the sight of the Jewish man who had come back to his childhood town. The Jew had recently been discharged from the army, and had married a Christian woman; the two had decided to settle and raise their family here.
Two days after I arrived, Józef asked me whether I wanted to go with him to visit the home of two young Jewish survivors. I agreed, and we set out. The men were young, one over twenty and the other about sixteen, unless I'm mistaken. I don't think they were brothers, but they were certainly related. They had hidden with a peasant, whom they had paid handsomely. The local flourmill may have belonged to the parents of one of the young men, or both were otherwise related to the mill's owner, who had been murdered. The mill was now owned by the Soviet authorities or the new Polish regime, who supervised it.
The two young men had received temporary exclusive rights to buy the flour and sell it to the locals. They were living in a two-room house full of sacks of grain and flour, for baking bread and pancakes. They also had a horse and cart, with which they brought sacks of flour from the mill, two kilometers away, and stored them in the house where they were living. I asked to spend a few minutes alone with them. I revealed my Jewish identity and told them where I was from, but they weren't forthcoming, and gave only partial answers. I told them about the danger
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they were in by living in such a remote location, among people who were so hostile to Jews. I advised them to move to a large Polish city, with a larger Jewish population that was better protected. They could leave Poland, and make their way to Palestine (this was now my plan, which I had decided on ever since I set foot in Poland). They looked at me wonderingly, and said the following briefly and bluntly, indicating that I should leave them alone: “We won't leave this place. We're making a good living, and have permits to operate the mill. We're not afraid of the ‘Whites’; we're armed, both when we're on the road and at home.” They completely disapproved of me. I sensed that they wanted me to leave quickly, and not offer them any advice. They offered no hospitality, not even a cup of tea. They were selfish and addicted to money; there was no trace of the great qualities of the chosen people.
Others in the town told me that the two young Jews were extremely wealthy, and had stolen their families' valuable objects back from the Poles. The speakers projected envy, and hatred toward Jews. I feared for their lives, but they themselves did not realize the danger they were in.
After I had rested at the home of Józef and his parents, I told my friend about my plans: I was going north, to the town of Sławatycze, eighty kilometers away. My sister and her family had lived there before the war. I decided to search for their traces. Józef was appalled at this plan. His parents also intervened, and asked me not to go, saying that the road was too dangerous. They also said bluntly that I would never find any living member of my sister's family. Besides, the weather was bad, and the unpaved road passed through a field along the river. There was no train connection in the area. Even though the region was on the Polish side of the border, it was dangerous. Some ‘White’ partisans were still roaming around. But I silently clung to my plan. I needed to go there, and at least find out something about their fate – I could never rest easy otherwise. I felt free, after my recent captivity, confident and strong, although my past experiences had scarred me deeply.
I was revived by the kindness of that Polish family, and more certain than ever that my hopes to reach a land where the sun shone on Jews would come true. I didn't know when or how, but I was confident that it would happen.
When I was back at home, I returned from work one day, and my neighbor told me what the ‘White’ rabble had done in that Dubienka neighborhood earlier that afternoon. Two of the riff-raff entered the grocery on the corner with weapons, and robbed the grocer of all the day's proceeds. My neighbor then gave me a daily newspaper, with an item about two young Jews who had been murdered in the early evening, as they were transporting sacks of flour and grain from the flour mill to their home, in order to sell it to the town residents. They mentioned the names of the victims. They were indeed the two young Jews I had tried to convince, two weeks earlier, that their lives were in danger and they needed to leave the town. They wouldn't listen. Hearing of the murders gave me nightmares.
Translator's Footnotes
by Henya Levy
(daughter of Beile and David Shpigl)
Translated by Yael Chaver
I grew up hearing stories about Dubienka. Both my parents came from there – they had been neighbors, and had even owned a cow jointly – and had many memories of people and events in the town. Their stories evoked a small town where Jews led intensive lives under crowded conditions and economic problems. Families, with their numerous children, lived in medium-sized wooden houses, with children sleeping in each room, sometimes in the same bed.
Small children began their studies when very young with the melamed in kheyder. The center of town was occupied by the marketplace, where my grandfather Chayim Shpigl once had a shoemaking stall. Gentiles from the vicinity came to him with horses and carts to buy shoes and boots. The weekly market was usually held on Thursdays, when peasants came from all around to sell their wares, and buy household goods from the Jews. The synagogue manager would patrol the town streets at midday on Fridays, announcing, “Shabbat is coming, close up shop!” The women stayed home, preparing the festive Friday night meal, while the men went to the synagogue. The town had no central water supply, and the residents had to draw water from wells, and wash their clothes in the nearby river. It was clear to me, without discussing the matter with my parents, that they were too preoccupied with their livelihoods and everyday problems to pay much attention to the aesthetics
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of buildings, furniture, and clothing. I don't know how close my vision of the town was to reality. Those who lived there are the only ones who can judge.
Two years ago my parents and I decided to visit Dubienka. I was certain that the current town of Dubienka wasn't the Dubienka of long ago. Yet I searched for some signs or relics of the town as it existed in my imagination.
We arrived in Dubienka on a road surrounded by fields and small towns with many trees and bushes. The town roads were full of potholes that the rain had turned into pools where ducks were happily splashing. Dubienka is in a very rural area, with many fields and grasses, far from any town. The entire region is pastoral and peaceful. A few dilapidated wooden buildings, some still furnished, are the only indications that Jews used to live there. There is no trace of the synagogue, and not a single headstone is left in the Jewish cemetery. The calm and peace that we encountered were in vivid opposition to the experiences of the town's Jews when the Nazis marched in. The Germans successfully obliterated every trace and sign of Jewish presence. Some of the town's Jews survived, including my parents. They survived thanks to the town's proximity to the Russian border, which they were able to steal across and thus stay alive. The description of the town and its memory are engraved upon their hearts and transmitted to future generations.
My generation did not experience the Holocaust directly, but only through my parents' stories. All I know is stories, and imaginings.
by Shaul Vorzeyger
Translated by Yael Chaver
I was born in Dubienka in 1909. I was five years old when World War I broke out, and my memories are still vivid. My family consisted of my parents, Moshe and Fruma, and four sons: Shmuel, the oldest, followed by Pinchas, Ya'akov, and me, Shaul. The town was completely destroyed during that war. Most of the buildings had been burned down, and the shops had been robbed. Economic conditions were dire. The family therefore decided to move to Skryhiczyn and work on a Jewish-owned farm. The work was mainly related to agriculture, which was well developed. There was no shortage of work.
We lived there for about fifteen years, working at all sorts of trades. When we came back to Dubienka, we built our house. Father was a musician with the town's klezmer band, and worked as a house painter (it was impossible to make a living through music alone). We brothers worked at whatever odd jobs were available. All four of us served in the Polish army. After I was discharged, and returned home, the question of what to do next arose. Naturally, I dreamed of emigrating to Palestine.
I heard that a branch of the HeChalutz movement had been organized by Gershon Shlechter and Ya'akov Pergament. I immediately joined, and was one of the first to go to the training center. This was, of course, a prerequisite for receiving an immigration certificate. At the Klosowo training center, we worked in rock quarries; quarrying rock with heavy tools was very hard. Other members of our club did their training in other centers. I received a certificate and immigrated to Palestine in 1934. The British authorities stopped granting certificates to Jews afterwards, so that our friends stayed in the training center for four or five more years, until the illegal immigration began.
I was sent to Kibbutz Ayelet HaShachar, which I left after some time, and moved to Haifa. I joined the Haganah in 1936, and was an active duty soldier in 1947-1948.
My family consists of two sons and four grandchildren.
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by Moshe Poznanski
Translated by Yael Chaver
In 1927, Alter Cohen and Chayim Lemberger established the first Zionist club in our town, in a house near the Turisk synagogue. That was also when they founded a bank in Berl Dach's apartment. I remember that clearly. In 1928, the members of the Beitar club of Hrubieszow came to visit our town. Wearing brown uniforms and led by Binem Zinger and Buchtreger, they marched around the market square, singing Hebrew songs. We young people followed them at a run. Naturally, their visit made a great impression; a group of young people in our town decided to start a Beitar club as well. Many young folks joined. The club was a godsend for teenagers, who had no club where they could spend their evenings. Shalom Abend (of blessed memory) was the club leader. Binem Zinger was a bank accountant, who came to the club every evening and taught us Hebrew songs. He enlivened the clubhouse. The club was truly a godsend for the young people of Dubienka. It moved to a larger space in 1930, near the Wlodawa synagogue. Leibl Pergament and Joseph and Yerachmiel Rapoport (of blessed memory) established a local branch of the Grossman Jewish State Party in 1931.[1]
I went to the “Bar-Kochva” agricultural training center in Tluszcz, near Warsaw. Meanwhile, the Polish army was sending me draft notices. I had no choice but to enlist in 1937, in Zamosc. Godl Reis followed me. I was discharged from the army at the end of 1938, returned home, and worked in our fabric shop. The cursed war broke out in 1939, and the Russians entered the town shortly before Rosh Hashanah. Communists now ran the city; David Vinick was the council chairman. Red flags immediately flew over the town, and people were happy --
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but not for long. Following the Sukkot holiday, according to the Soviet-German pact, the Russians were to retreat eastward, beyond the Bug River, which was the new border.[2] The Soviets fell back and made it clear to the Jews that it would be in their best interests to leave with them and flee from the Germans as quickly as possible, as their lives would be in danger. The Soviets were willing to supply the Jews with transportation, so that they could take their belongings along. Many families left the town and crossed the Bug with the Soviet army. However, most of the families did not want to leave their shops and property, and decided to stay. In October, Jews were rounded up in Chelm, and expelled to Hrubieszow by way of Bialopole. Many of the refugees were killed en route. Some walked to Dubienka and recounted the murders and torture perpetrated by the Nazis, things that were extremely hard to describe. The Germans came into town in December through the tollgate, and expropriated Goldberg's house. The officers settled into the house, and the local policeman Kaczyk Biegnowski was their guide and helper in the town. At 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, Biegnowski and a German went to all the synagogues and study houses, where Jews were praying, and yelled out, “Stop! Heil Hitler!”
All the Jews were ordered to go to the marketplace and stand at the shop owned by the Elbirts. The Jews wanted to remove their tallis and tefillin, but the Germans stopped them, ordering them to go to the town pump, near Refa'el Shwartz's home. They were then told to stand in a circle and throw all of their tallises, tefillin, and prayer books in a heap in the middle. One German drenched the heap in gasoline, set it on fire, and ordered the Jews to dance and sing around the bonfire. Noach Gizer and Hershl were beaten for not singing loudly enough. Meanwhile, the Gentiles who came out of church laughed out loud and applauded at the sight. I stood at the side, watching; I still feel a pang in my heart at the memory.
A week later, I was walking on Dziakluczny Street, near the Nagelstein's house.[3] A German caught me, shoved me into a vehicle together with two Gentile boys, and we drove to a forest near Sobibor. I felled trees for a fence, probably the fence that surrounded the Sobibor death camp. It was hard work; I was also beaten by the Germans.
[Page 41]
I knew one of the Ukrainian guards, who helped me to escape and cross the Bug to Soviet territory. The Soviets imprisoned me. By the end of 1942, I was free and living in the city of Omsk, in Siberia, where I stayed until 1946. I returned to Chelm, Poland in June of that year.
There, I met Gentiles from Dubienka, who told me what had happened to the Jews and about the massacre in the Strzeleckie forest. All the Jews were rounded up and taken in carts to Hrubieszow. They were then loaded onto freight cars and brought to Sobibor, without food or water. Sobibor was the last stop for the Jews of Dubienka, who were all murdered there. Only ashes remained. We honor the Jews of Dubienka, may their memory be for a blessing!
Once back in Chelm, I started a fabric shop, something I had done in Dubienka. Gentiles from Dubienka were among my customers; I always asked them to bring me sacred objects left behind by the Jews, such as tallises, prayer books, tefillin, etc. and paid them as much as I could afford for these objects. I also exhumed bones of Jews from the forest near the city, and reburied them in the Jewish cemetery of Chelm.
Although I was doing well, economically, I could not continue to live in the country that had become a gigantic cemetery of its Jewish residents. I decided to flee and go to Israel, and in June 1949 boarded the Israeli ship Galila. Once I arrived, I lived in a transit camp in Haifa, and then moved to the small towns of Pardes Hanna and Bet Eliezer. I now live in Rechovot.
Translator's Footnotes
by Shulamit Rabinerson
(Hanna Erlich Tenenbaum's daughter)
Translated by Yael Chaver
Before I knew a word of Yiddish, I was already familiar with the phrase “in der heym” [at home]. My mother, Chana Tenenbaum (née Erlich), never referred to the town by name, always as “at home.” The small town on the bank of the Bug River gave my mother great strength and a huge heart. Her years “at home” nourished her throughout her life.
According to Yehuda-Leyb Kuper, the town's name was derived from Hebrew. In his version, several Jewish families from Western Europe were traveling eastward in search of livelihoods. In Poland, they stopped for the night just past the large forest. The Gentiles warned them that bears and other predatory animals would come out of the forest and devour passers-by; it was too dangerous to spend the night there. However, as it was time for the afternoon prayer, the Jews stayed, wrapped themselves in their tallises, and stood in prayer. When the bears emerged growling from the forest and saw the Jews praying, they went back into the forest and harmed no one. Hearing this, the Gentiles asked the Jews to stay, and promised them protection in return for protection from the dangerous beasts. The Jews stayed there, and called the place, in a corruption of the Hebrew “dubim kan” (“here there be bears”), Dubienka. Whether the tale was true or not, Yehuda Leyb loved to tell it, just as much as I loved to hear it.
When we first arrived in Israel and had no electric power, Mother and I sat by candlelight with my girlfriends, tying yarn strings to looms and warming our chilblained feet at the same small kerosene heater that provided us with hot tea, she would tell us stories of her home town, to warm our souls. Although I hadn't been born in Dubienka, I always felt as though it was my home, too.
Mother told us about her poverty-stricken home. My grandmother didn't want anyone to know how poor they were; she boiled potato peels to keep smoke and food aromas coming out of the chimney.
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[Page 42]
She would step outside in a starched, ironed apron and a spotless kerchief, loudly calling her children to come and eat. Mother also told us about how Grandmother would pinch her daughters' cheeks so that they would appear less pale. She thought the cold temperature would keep the girls' cheeks rosy.
Mother's pride never lessened her whole life. She never asked for anything, and was always ready to share the little that she possessed with others, saying, “No one is too poor to share with others.”
The small town had very lively young people. There were self-education groups, literary clubs, and people walked six or twelve kilometers to hear a good lecture or attend a good performance. These events were always followed by discussions and debates about their contents. Everyone was self-educated, and would examine everything logically and morally. The young people were thoughtful, decent, idealistic, and had a firm sense of self-worth.
As Mother described life in her childhood home, there were five children. These were Hodl, who married and left home when Mother was very young; Moshe – the only boy – a gifted Jewish scholar who was ultra-Orthodox and spent his time studying; Mother, who was inspired by Zionism and the wish to settle in the Land of Israel; Zelda (known as Zoshia), a devoted Communist, who wrote a letter to Korczak. He responded by granting her a scholarship at age 14 to study in his teachers' seminary. She joined his educational project and worked there until the outbreak of World War II, when she was motivated by her political ideology to leave for the USSR -- and disappeared. Beyla, the youngest, was a Bundist.[1] Mother would tell us how heated arguments on political and ideological issues would arise between meal courses on Shabbat, and only Grandfather's authority and the spirit of the holy day could calm things down.
Mother had a keen sense of social justice, which was hardly surprising: she had been apprenticed to a seamstress at age 9, in return for three years of wages given to her parents. The money was used for the dowry of her older sister Hodl.
As was usual at the time, Mother worked from dawn to dusk. Her workdays were shorter in winter and much longer in summer. She became the family breadwinner and supported the entire family. She described her working conditions as follows:
“I would leave early in the morning, wrapped in a thick woolen scarf (Yiddish: fatcheyle). My path lay along the cemetery fence; I wasn't afraid in the morning, but in the dark evening I was terrified. My shadow on the snow was like a demon, and my own footsteps sounded as though I was being pursued. I always hurried through this terrifying section of the walk, until the next fearful spot – the synagogue. It was well known in the town that the dead would arise at midnight and come to pray at the synagogue. They would seize anyone they saw and take him away. So I was always in a rush to avoid the dangerous spots late at night – God protect me!”
She'd reach home tired and freezing, glad to have some hot food; often, the meal consisted of hot water, a slice of dry bread, and a bit of herring. Her goal every evening, though, was to resume reading. Mother was never too tired to read, even after a twelve-hour workday. Book in hand, she'd sit on the window ledge and read by the light of the gleaming snow; candles were too expensive to use for reading. Mother loved to read, and was always ready to talk and learn from what she was reading. She would often close a conversation by saying, “Well, and what have we learned from this?”
Later, when she became an independent seamstress, she would make a point of not keeping her workers for more than eight hours; this was revolutionary for our town. The decency and consideration for other workers that she had learned as a child, when doing what amounted to slave labor, stayed with her all her life. Each new experience expanded her wisdom.
The cemetery figured largely in her tales of the town. Whenever Yehuda Leib Kuper came to reminisce with Mother, they would chuckle and laugh over one of the amusing anecdotes they remembered.
As most of the Jews were poor, they would go to the cemetery to pick pears, and sorrel for cooking soup. One Friday, after the children had been sent to the cemetery for pears and sorrel soup, their mother opened the lids of the pots simmering on the stove and began to hear
[Page 43]
groans and cries coming out of the pots. A messenger was sent to the rabbi, to ask whether the food was kosher. His decision was to turn the fire off, remove the pots, and bury them in the cemetery. All the residents in the town gathered to accompany the pots before the beginning of Shabbat. Some people discussed the rabbi's wisdom, others described the uncanny events in the pots, and still others dismissed everything that had happened, angering everyone. There was great commotion.
Years later, when I visited Poland, I saw a pear tree in a cemetery and sorrel growing nearby, and remembered Mother's tales.
We were very poor when we first came to the Land of Israel, but were never really hungry. Mother planted tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers and melons in the back yard. I can still taste her delicious lunches of salad and fresh homemade bread. The evening meal consisted of bread and jam, washed down with tea, making a filling meal. No one left the table hungry, and people were often invited to join in. The door was left unlocked, so that anyone who came – from the village, the town, or the kibbutz – could come in, shower, have some food, and take a nap. Tea was always warming on the small kerosene stove, there was bread and jam in the pantry, and no one complained.
We often left home in the morning, and when we returned we would find someone sleeping soundly on the floor, under the down comforter. One time, we found Mitelpunkt sitting over a cup of tea, waiting for Mother patiently. She always respected him as an educated writer who had lived in both Dubienka and Hrubieszow (where Mother had lived after marriage).
The outbreak of World War II in 1939 roused Mother to speak about her experiences during World War I. Our Tel Aviv balcony became a neighborhood meeting place. Every evening, people would gather, some on the balcony and others on the sidewalk, and have vigorous political discussions interspersed with memories, drinking tea all the while.
The fragrant summer nights of Tel Aviv, with the clear starry sky overhead, were the perfect setting for reminiscences. We didn't turn on the lights, because they attracted mosquitoes; besides, we couldn't afford to pay for non-essential electric power. But the soft, warm darkness kept the tales flowing.
Mother recalled life in Dubienka during World War I, when the town passed back and forth between Russia and Austria. All the residents hid in the cellars, and ventured out only at night, when the shooting stopped. Shops were robbed, food disappeared, and everyone was hungry. The battlefields were potato fields belonging to Gentiles. Finding food was delegated to the children. Mother was one of the children who tied a sack at night under her wide dress, and crawled out to the battlefield to collect potatoes. She wasn't afraid, as she realized the importance of her deeds: everyone depended on her for sustenance. In her memory, it was a great adventure, and part of her education in overcoming obstacles. She gave lively descriptions of children digging up potatoes all over the field with their fingers, and the tricks they used to elude the army patrols (that would accuse them of robbing corpses, a crime punishable by death) and the local Gentiles (who would kill them outright, thinking they were out to rob).
When news began to arrive about the events in Poland and the horrific catastrophe, Mother tried to convince father to try and save family members. Father's sisters refused to come to the Land of Israel, claiming that conditions were bad, and that the news about German outrages shouldn't be trusted; there was no need to panic. Beyla, Mother's younger sister, was the only one who agreed to join us.
My parents collected all the funds they had brought from Poland to use as bribes, gifts, and payment for an immigration certificate. We noticed the jewels disappearing from Mother's ring; one day I realized that a ruby brooch was missing, and Mother's fur coat was gone from the closet. My parents, though, were overjoyed: they had obtained an immigration certificate, and sent it to Aunt Beyla. But Aunt Beyla never came – her family wouldn't permit her to travel in wartime. That was the end of our family saga. Mother, Father, and I were the sole survivors, and lived in poverty – but no one complained.
That was also the end of our relative affluence,
[Page 44]
and the beginning of our struggle to make a living. Like many of my peers, I grew up without grandparents, aunts and uncles. I was an only child, and the fellow natives of my mother's hometown became my family. Thus, when my parents went to visit their aunt in the country, I went to visit Fruma Kahn in Kfar Vitkin; when they traveled to visit relatives in Haifa, I visited Simcha and Frieda in Rishon LeTsiyon. On Saturday afternoons, when families visited over cups of tea, we went to Rivka Berg (Taub) and Yechezkel, in nearby Yad-Eliyahu.[2]
As I said, that was my family.
My parents decided that I needed to prepare to greet the survivors who would come, and that I should learn another language besides Hebrew. It would make for easier communication with whoever came: immigrants, refugees, and – in case of a miracle – family members. There were discussions about my second language. German was out of the question, as the Germans were the source of all evil. Russian, too, was unacceptable, because of the events at Babi Yar.[3] Polish was rejected because of the Polish cooperation with Germany that facilitated the construction of numerous death camps in Poland. That left Yiddish.
Pre-State Israeli culture disapproved of gold jewelry, and even of gold teeth, as they, like Yiddish, were symbols of the diasporic life that we tried to forget and erase. Suddenly, I was required to speak Yiddish – the language that had been stifled at home. Naturally, I refused. My parents kept tabs on my readings in Hebrew. Now, they began to tempt me into Yiddish by subscribing to the Yiddish newspaper Der Amerikaner.[4] They taught me the basics of reading Yiddish – I was, of course, familiar with the alphabet, which is Hebrew – and told me that a detective story (“Der detektiv stori”) and a romance story (“Der emeser stori fun lebn”) were serialized in the weekly.[5] That was how I began to read Yiddish before I could speak it.
Father died before the end of the war, and Mother was deep in debt. In a burst of fury, she burned all the paperwork that had any connection with Poland: her rich correspondence with Korczak, letters, postcards, property ownership documents, etc. She announced, “I want to know nothing more about this. We are starting to live for the future.” The future included welcoming anyone coming from Dubienka and helping them to settle in Israel. Naturally, my own Zionist education continued, as did the conviction that Israel was the only place for Jews. When our American relatives came for us, at the outset of Israel's War of Liberation, Mother refused to go, as did I, out of Zionist zeal and the feeling that we could not betray our country. My children were similarly educated, and we all have that strong feeling to this day.
Mother never complained. Though we had little, she always found a way to help others. She reworked clothes that no longer fitted her and gave them to me. Clothes that I outgrew were given to the neighbors' children.
Mother cultivated relationships with Rivka Berman-Taub, Masha Brener, Ayala Shachar, Simcha and Frieda Danziger, Moshe and Ya'akov Pergament, Yehuda Kuper, Fruma Kahn, and others who later formed the nucleus of the Dubienka Natives Organization, and set up the memorial for the town's martyrs.
Mother remembered them all; the town was always as alive to her as it was the day she left. She talked about the magnificent synagogue, the visiting rabbis who lodged in her parents' home, the wooden walkways where the young people of the town would stroll, swimming in the Bug River, and forest rambles while searching for strawberries and raspberries. The conversations of these young people centered on how to create a better world, dreams of settling in the Land of Israel, going to Lublin in order to qualify for an immigration certificate. Mother received a certificate twice, but could not use it because of family problems.
Lest we forget: she had been the primary breadwinner for her family since she was nine years old.
She knew all the family and social relationships in the town, who had gone where, people's nicknames, etc. She was a walking encyclopedia of the town. Beyond all that, she was mother to them all. She was the address for grieving people as well as happy people. Her door, home, and ears, were always open. To her dying day, her home was full of visitors of all ages, who came to talk, learn, be supported by her strength and pride, and feel that they were “at home.”
Translator's Footnotes
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