[Pages 260-261]

I am not going to write about Hanoch the grammarian and philologist. Others did and will do it better, both during his lifetime and after his passing. In this short note I want to mention some details from his life. As opposed to my other brothers who left our home before my birth, I had the opportunity to be in his company at home for several years. He was thirteen years my senior, and during that time period, until he left home, he educated me and I learned a lot from him.

Like his older brothers, he learned Torah from tutors and became known for his diligence and brilliance. I mention here that the local rabbi, Chayim Leibish Hamerling had high hopes for him and during the period when he studied with the tutors he used to examine him frequently and enjoy the depth of his knowledge. However, Hanoch was captivated by Zionism even before he left home, and besides Talmud he started to study by himself general knowledge, the languages of the land and other tongues, and in time began preparations for extern matriculation exams, including Hebrew grammar.

That year I left the cheder and Hanoch continued to teach me Gemara, Bible and grammar, Hebrew and of course general studies. He loved being alone and studying in the quiet atmosphere of the nearby forest, or in one of the farm buildings or the fruit orchard around the house. Apparently I was a good pupil, as he devoted many hours to my studies, telling me tales and especially emphasizing the Bible. He would chastise me when I deserved it. He carried on with the discipline of a “rabbi”. He was not fond of my brother who was two years my junior (killed in the Holocaust) because he did not pay attention.

In time Hanoch rented a room in Lopatyn, studying by himself and teaching Hebrew to youths. Hanoch, like his elder brothers, did not care to take part in the workings of the farm, apparently because of Father's influence, whose wish was for his children to learn Torah, and even more so because of Mother's influence whose desire was that her children would not be farmers but “people”. But Hanoch told me that as a child he used to shepherd our cows in the field.

Hanoch was nostalgic about the beauty of the surrounding area, the large fruit orchard around our house and the cherry, pear and apple trees where he would seclude himself in the shade. But he was not attracted to agriculture. He taught himself bookbinding and would bind his books himself. It was – said he – a fashionable thing in those days. He also learned accounting and bookkeeping (in German) and ordered books from abroad, in Polish and German, and various dictionaries.
At that time a touch of Haskala crept into Father's house and in the bookcase dwelled the Talmud together with books in foreign languages and even a “remnant” of a Bible with a commentary by Mendelson. (I said a “remnant” since it remained even though the commentary was sentenced to burning by Father.) Now Father viewed it differently, and certainly Mother, who was always very liberal, did as well.

Slowly there began to be seen in Lopatyn the buds of Haskala under the influence of Hanoch and his young friends who surrounded him. The first gymnasium students appeared, sons of Reb Zalman Leib Wasser and the sons of Reb Pinhas Winkler (my paternal brother-in-law), a Husiatyn Chassid, who studied in a gymnasium (high school) in Brody. I should mention that the Belz Chassidim gave Reb Pinhas such a hard time that he had to leave Lopatyn with his family and move to Brody, where a Jewish gymnasium student was no longer a rare phenomenon.

At age 18 he left Lopatyn (the village Tritki was a Sabbath border from Lopatyn) and moved to Lemberg where he completed his extern studies and passed two levels of the matriculation exam in Byelsk (Bilitz). Because of his physical frailty he was rejected by the military and supported himself by giving courses in Hebrew and general studies. Throughout that time he kept a mail correspondence with me, sent me Hebrew pamphlets to read and on his visits home for the holidays he would examine my knowledge. He especially emphasized my studies in Bible and grammar and always said “turn it over and over, everything is in it”. I must mention that already then our entire correspondence was in Hebrew. In 1916 when the Russian invaders retreated from Lwow, he left Galicia and went to Vienna, where he completed his studies and supported himself by teaching. At the end of 1919 he married Zipora, daughter of Shmariahu Imber (brother of N. H. Imber, the author of “Hatikva”)

On the sixth day of Kislev 5682 (1921) he made aliya and lived variously in the “Ahva”, “Ezrat Israel” and “Nahlat Shiva” neighborhoods of Jerusalem. His last apartment was in the Geula quarter where he lived for about thirty years. Beginning in his youth he developed migraine headaches that continued throughout his life. In the “Mizrahi” seminary where he taught, invited by the principle director Lipshits, he sometimes was compelled to stop his lessons because of the migraines. Nonetheless, most of the time he was immersed in work in his large library that was chock-full of books. His many and rare books spilled over into adjacent rooms. During the last years of his life he suffered with other ailments and he underwent several surgical operations but recovered and even his migraine passed. His face was relaxed and pleasant and it became possible for him to collect his numerous articles into a book, but he was not privileged to see it published.

On the last evening of his life he was engaged in proofreading his book. He went to sleep and early in the morning suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. He was taken to a hospital and on the 12^th of Adar I 5730 (1970) he died. He was 85 years old. His wife Zipora passed away two years later at the age of 78. Their daughter Lea, may she live a long life, resides with her husband Eliezer and her two daughters in Kiriat Bialik.

[Page 262]

Asher Barash

[Introduction by the editor] Two autobiographies, written in the third person by Barash himself, were printed during his lifetime: the first is in the second volume of the “Encyclopedia of the Founders and Builders of Israel” (begun in 5708/1947) compiled by David Tidhar; the second is in the book, “Intellectuals in Israel: Authors' Portraits,” by Moshe Mevorach (1956). The first is more detailed, while the second is later and more updated. I even saw this autobiography in Barash's own handwriting years ago in Mr. Mevorach's possession. The first version of the first autobiography can be found in “Ketuvim,” Issue 27, the 5th of Adar II, 5687 [March 9, 1927]. Here the second version is reprinted. G. Kressel

He studied at chederim, the beit midrash, and at home (from his father's books and educational books left by his older brother or received from his friends), and before becoming a bar mitzvah, he finished the government school, where classes were taught in three languages: Polish, German and Ruthenian.

At an early age, he recited rhymes and wrote stories and plays in Hebrew and Yiddish and even wrote a few in German and Polish. By the time he was 14, he already had “collections” of “writings” beautifully copied in small notebooks he bound himself. One of his best friends, although several years older than him, was the renowned Hebrew linguist, Hanoch Yalon, who lived in Jerusalem.

He heard about Zionism when it arrived in the town and he was immediately captivated by it. He and a few of his friends founded an association of sorts and they exchanged letters with prominent figures in the national movement.

At the age of 16, he chose to leave his parents' house and his town and stand on his own two feet,

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and he never returned there again except as a guest. From that time until he immigrated to Israel in the spring of 1914, he traveled throughout Galicia. His main residence was in Lvov [Lviv], and he acquired a broad Hebrew and general education there.

Initially, he published several lyric poems and stories (mostly humorous) in Yiddish (in the daily newspaper “Tagblatt,” in the weekly “Der Yidisher Arbeyter” and in various literary anthologies). Then, in the winter of 5668 [1907-8], Y. Ch. Brenner, who had come to Lvov from London following his work on “HaMe'orer” [“The Arouser”]^[1], sent several of Barash's short prose poems that were of limited value to D. Frishman in Warsaw for the second anthology of “Sifrut” [“Literature”]^[2] that Frishman edited. The poems were printed in that publication. His first story, entitled “Tena'im” [“Conditions”], was printed in “HaShiloach”^[3] in 5669 [1908-9].

He was involved in the literary community of Yiddish and Hebrew writers in Lvov, but he was particularly close to two writers from opposite sides of the national movement, the scholar, E. M. Lipschuetz, and the poet, G. Shofman. The latter printed four of Barash's lyric poems and the great novella “Min HaMigrash” in the journal “Shalechet” in Hebrew literature's Mendelian style [named after Mendele Mocher Sfarim], which made a strong impression at the time.

From then on, he devoted himself to writing entirely in Hebrew, writing and publishing poems, stories and notes, mostly for Hebrew periodicals.

When he immigrated to Eretz Israel in the spring of 5674 [1914] (one of the first Lopatyners to immigrate to Eretz Israel), he regularly participated in the weekly “Hapoel Hatzair”,^[4] which was then the main literary platform in Israel, in the monthly “Moledet” (he even edited some of its novels), and in the days when Brenner edited the literary section of “Hitachdut”, he also published some of his works there. Beginning in 5675 [1914-5] he started teaching Hebrew language and literature (during the war years he also taught German language and literature) at the “Herzliya” Gymnasium, at the Reali School in Haifa, at the Beit Midrash for teachers, and at the Commerce High School in Tel Aviv (for several years, he was also the principal of that school).

After the World War, from 5685 [1924-5] onwards, his literary activities branched out and strengthened, and he produced many works including short stories, poems and essays, translations, and he also did some editing. He was one of the first members of the Hebrew Magistrate's Court, one of the founders and heads of the Writers' Association, a member of the Teachers' Federation Committee, founder and first honorary secretary of the PEN Club [in Israel], vice president of the Bialik House, a member of the board of directors of the Bialik Institute, a member of the central committee of the Language Committee and one of the first eight members elected to the Academy of the Hebrew Language. In 5699 [1939], he was awarded the Bialik Prize by the municipality of Tel Aviv for the novel, “Ahava Zara” [“Foreign Love”] and in 5709 [1949] he received the David Yellin Jerusalem Prize.

Translator's footnotes:

1. “HaMe'orer” was a Hebrew language periodical that Y. Ch. Brenner edited and published in London from 1906 to 1907. Return
2. David Frishman was the editor of the Jewish literary journal, Sifrut, from 1908 to 1909. (from YIVO) Return
3. “HaShiloach” was a Hebrew language journal published from 1896 to 1926. Return
4. “Hapoel Hatzair” [“The Young Worker”] was the newspaper publication of the Zionist organization Hapoel Hatzair. The first issue was published in Jaffa in 1907. Return

[Page 264]

This story by Asher Barash–one of his best-known works–was first published in “Knesset: Literature by Writers from the Land of Israel”, 5688 [1927-8], and later appeared in “The Writings of Asher Barash”, Volume A, pages 410–429. The story is based on an event that took place in Barash's hometown, Lopatyn. The incident drew the attention of Dov Sadan and was later described by Elazar Wilder, who discovered an account of it in the memoirs of Ben-Zion Friedman. Wilder's Hebrew translation of that account is included in this volume.

Sadan further remarks on the Eker family (in a letter to the author of these lines): “Cheker in Barash's story is Eker, the patriarch of the Eker family. One of his sons made aliyah to Eretz Israel during the period of the “Second Aliyah” as a member of Yosef Aharonovitz's group. He married Lina Anderman, the daughter of the merchant and writer David Meir Anderman, a native of Buchach. Another son became a pharmacist. His pharmacy was located in Lvov [Lviv], on Gulochowski's parcel of land, opposite the rear of the grand municipal theater. He, too, eventually made aliyah to Eretz Israel and purchased a house on Yarkon Street. The poet Bat-Miryam, who wrote poetry in Polish, resided in his house. The rabbi described in Barash's story is Rabbi Dov Chaim Manzon, known in Yiddish as “ Der Rebbe Reb Deidi'le”. He was the grandson of the [first] Ruzhin Rebbe [Yisrael Friedman]. He was a kind man, though not as fortunate as his cousins, the tzadikim from Sadigora. Chortkov, and Husiatyn. He wandered from town to town: first in Sudova-Vyshnya, then in Radekhov, and later in Brody, where he owned a large plot of land on the hospital (Shpitlana) Street. This was in addition to the houses his followers had purchased for him in the center of the city. He resided in Brody until the First World War and never returned to it after the war. In my book “MiMachoz HaYaldut” [“From My Childhood District”], I describe the wedding of his daughter Sara, who passed away in Israel. She was the mother of Dr. Yisrael Weinstock (named after the Rebbe from Ruzhin), who today is engaged in Kabbalistic research.

The book “BeMeitar HaDak” [“On a Thin String”] by Anda Eker was translated from Polish into Hebrew by Anda Amir-Pinkerfeld (Eked Publishing, 1966), and includes a brief introduction by the translator. Following Anda Eker's death in Lvov in 1932, Dov Sadan published an essay about her in the newspaper “Davar”–an essay later reprinted in his book “Even Bochan” [“Touchstones”], 5711 [1951]. In that essay, Dov Sadan writes: “Anda Eker, native of Lvov, was born into a wealthy family. The figure of her father is portrayed in Asher Barash's story, A Jew Escapes from Trouble,” and bears a distinct Zionist spirit. Her uncle made aliyah with the pioneers of the “Second Aliyah.” Her father, too, eventually settled in Eretz Israel in his old age.

Yet, her language remained a foreign one – Polish. Her collection of poems was published in that language…

According to Dov Sadan, Barash's story captures “The atmosphere of that region”. The value of the story is especially heightened by the vivid memory of the Eker family portrayed within it.

[Pages 265-267]

There was a priest named Markowski who lived in Łopatyn at that time. During his latter years, which I still remember even though I was a little boy, he was no longer active in service to the church because for some reason he was considered unfit for this by his superiors. However his title of Priest remained.

He was a very wealthy man. He had a large agricultural farm, fertile fields, a beautiful fruit orchard, and a large area planted with crops that at the time was very profitable. There was a large livestock farm and a magnificent building in which to live in and enjoy.

Like any other priest of the Roman Catholic church, he was not married, and the farmhouse was maintained by a woman whose name was Wikta. She came from a simple and poor peasant household. I had heard it said that she was beautiful. I myself did not know her and was at that time a child below the age where I understood what beauty was and the importance of it.

The priest Markowski used to walk around the town among the Jews. Basically, he was a good man and well liked. He was involved in commerce with Jews. He would buy from them and sell produce to them and in general was involved with the townspeople. He lived very comfortably. At his home there was no lack of parties, festivities and celebrations attended by his fellow priests and “poritzim” (landowners) as well as other important people in the region.

One day in the year 1898, the priest was suddenly struck with the idea that he had to sell his estate. No one understood or knew the reason for this. His financial situation was good, the farm was profitable, he had no debts; and on the contrary, the people who knew such things could tell that he possessed large sums of wealth. The reason for the sale was therefore a secret even to those who knew him, and he took this secret with him to his grave.

Reb Mania Ecker (trained in portents), the son of Reb Leibish Ecker, owner of the estate in Niestanice near Radekhov, bought Markowski's estate from him along with all of its contents. The name of the estate was Gaia. Ecker paid a large sum of money for the estate. Nonetheless, the sale was considered a great “bargain” because the farm was worth much more. The contract was written and signed in accordance with the law by the notary Holzer and Reb Mania was supposed to receive the estate. Reb Mania did not immediately take hold of the entire house, but instead went to live in one of the rooms there, and Markowski continued to live in the other rooms.

Markowski was supposed to leave the estate on a Tuesday. About ten days earlier, on a Sunday, Wikta suddenly appeared in Reb Mania's room and announced that her master was asking for Reb Mania to come immediately. Reb Mania was standing just then in prayer, wrapped in his tallit and tefillin. Reb Mania did not interrupt his prayers. He did not even speak to her but rather gestured with his hands that at that moment he was praying but after he finished the prayer, he would come to her master. Wikta returned to Markowski and said the Jew was standing in his “boziakis”^[1] (which is what the gentiles in this area called the tallit and tefillin) praying and indicated that he would come after his prayers. Markowski sent Wikta on some errand, and after she left, he shot himself with the pistol that was in his hand. The people in the yard heard the shooting, broke into the apartment because the door was locked, and found their master dead – wallowing in his own blood. On the desk, they found a note, in Polish, in his handwriting, “[Z powodu] mojej Gaii tracę życie ” meaning: because of my Gaia (the name of the estate was Gaia), I take my life. He also left a will naming Wikta, the housekeeper, as the heir to his property.

It was crystal clear that Reb Mania's piety saved his life. If Reb Mania had immediately taken off his tallit and tefillin and ran to the landowner as was requested, he [Markowski] would have shot him first and then himself.

The priests and landowners in the area – Markowski's friends – arranged an appropriately respectful funeral for him, and his riches and possessions were transferred to Wikta the housekeeper. Wikta sold all the moveable property to the town's Jews.

Isaac the Tall One – “der langer Isaac” that's what they called him because of his height – the head of the burial society in the town, was feared by everyone because of his profession and his usual sulky look. He was also an antique dealer, “alte zachen” [old things]. For weeks, with the help of a handcart, he carried out various items he had bought from Wikta from the “Gaia.” As a boy, I was particularly interested in the huge number of empty bottles he carried away. People huddled together and said that Isaac the Tall One, too, had enjoyed some of the inheritance left by Markowsky,

At first, fury was in the wind, but slowly, slowly everything calmed down. The relationship between the Jews and the gentiles at that time was not bad, and these matters did not affect the day–to–day life in the town.

Reb Mania and his family moved into the estate he had bought from Markowski. Reb Mania's wife was nervous and anxious and soon died. They had seven sons: Moshe, Yehoshua, Mendel, Wolka, Azriel, Aharon, and Bendit and one daughter who was called Yente. The farm was successful and very profitable. Some of the fields were then sold to the people of the town at a fairly high price, and the other part remained in the hands of the Ecker family. A few years later, Reb Chaim Bernholz, the father of Avraham Bernholz who is with us in Israel, bought the farm.

On Sabbaths and holidays, Reb Mania would organize a minyan in his house in “Gaia”. The worshippers were from the nearby area, people who lived not far from the estate. There was a considerable distance from the estate to the synagogue, the kloyz in the center of town, which made it difficult for people who walked. A cantor was brought in from the outside for the High Holy Days. After the prayers, the worshipers enjoyed a shot of liquor and sweets after kiddush at Reb Mania's. The kiddush lasted for hours and was spiced with Chasidic tales of the rabbis and their holy ways, the nature of their [Hassidic] courts, and the miracles and wonders within them.

Translator's footnote:

1. Bozia is the Polish word for small religious medallion. Return

[Page 302]

I attended Asher Barash's 60^th anniversary celebration, where I heard a dozen or maybe even 15 speeches. These speeches were exceptional, vivid, and delightful. I waited with eager anticipation, almost impatience, for someone to mention that this remarkable figure had his origins in Galicia. I hoped they would connect his work to Galicia even a little, discussing its character, influence, and impact on Barash's work and on others. Unfortunately, I waited in vain, as only one speaker mentioned Galicia; none of the others did. Feeling the need to address this oversight, I decided to ask for the opportunity to speak. However, my request was not granted, perhaps justifiably, as I would have been the 16^th speaker at one o'clock, past midnight. Therefore, with the esteemed editor's permission, I will conclude here with what I would have said in the quiet of that night.

Here, I am not speaking as an author or as the son of an author, but rather as someone from Galicia who witnessed the early stages of Asher Barash's literary career, when he was grappling with uncertainties and hesitations as a newcomer.

First and foremost, as a man from Galicia, I felt greatly uplifted here. Galicia is usually viewed as an insult, a notion of suffering and poverty, of trash and the dregs of society. It was said that whoever God wanted to punish was destined to be born in Galicia. Great minds and people of integrity were thought to have emerged in Russia, Germany, France, or Holland! Yet, when I find myself at a gathering where someone from Galicia is being celebrated, even if that fact is downplayed, blurred, or ignored, and even though many, in the secrecy of their hearts, might daily recite the blessing: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who did not make me a Galicianer!”–my heart rejoices.

I said I witnessed Barash during the first stages of his career. That was 37-38 years ago.^[a] At that time, I was also a young student, almost the same age as Barash. I was then a cultural activist and the editor of a Polish-language monthly Zionist journal for the academic Jewish intelligentsia called “Moriah.” I translated and published Barash's first articles about new Hebrew literature and lyricism in that journal. This young man also gave me

[Page 303]

his first stories and poems to read. Although I did not keep the material and can't recall much about it, the image of Barash remains vivid in my heart.

Today, Barash is rounded and broad-shouldered, but back then, he was a thin, gaunt and delicate youth. Yet, he had eyes full of richness–eyes that captured the heart, piercing and overflowing with intelligence and thought. They conveyed the message that this young man would bring something new into our world, that he would contribute something meaningful and productive – that he was a youth with wings, possessing an extra measure of soul.

Barash came to us in Lvov from a tiny town – “a pitsinkeleh shteteleh” – called Lopatyn. As an activist in those days, I visited most of the cities and towns in Galicia, but never went to Lopatyn, for the place was so small. However, I believe that it is precisely the smallness of the place that left its mark on his work, that determined Barash's uniqueness and his virtues.

The characters in his stories are living, natural figures. We observe them in their ways and manners, with no detail missing, not a single mark or line overlooked. We know what is in their hearts and what is in their minds, witnessing every movement and every tremor. We see them in their Sabbath attire and weekday clothes. We see their relationships to other people and to place. The psychological analysis and the well-formed brush come together and blend seamlessly, creating a realistic story, a photograph of life as it truly is.

What Barash owes to his little town is significant because small towns often lack distractions. There are a few matters to keep oneself busy, no diverse landscapes to catch the eye, no great dramas or tragedies to divert the spirit, and no disturbances of thought. This lack of distractions leaves little choice for those who possess talent and a sensibility of mind, whether a painter or a writer, other than to focus on what is present: the people of the town. You must observe, depict, and describe them as they truly are, delving into their details, reflections, thoughts, habits, and traits. The alternative is to portray a hen scratching in the garbage heap, capturing her clucking, strategies, aspirations, and goals.

In the big city, with its chaos, wealth, and diversity, the inner world of a writer is more vibrant, filled with richer experiences and complications. The range and scope of his experiences are broader, and his thoughts are more scattered and fragmented, capturing everything around him and being eager to grasp more, expand further, utilize, and process. In the big city, a person is only one element in a grand creation, one tree in the vast forest, one picture in a large gallery. There is a whole panorama of sights to focus on, or one can allow the eyes to wander and thoughts to disperse, enabling the spirit to engage with a multitude of influences rather than only one person or only the hen, as is inevitable in a small town like Lopatyn. For this reason, Barash's characters – even those who saw the light of the world in other regions – are so well formed, so complete, and sophisticated, competing with the vitality of creations from the divine, blessed be He.

Original footnote:

1. This article was first published in 1949. Return

[Page 304]

As a native of Asher Barash's hometown, his image is vividly etched in my memory from the twilight of my childhood. The “cheder” where I studied was located near his parents' apartment, which was connected to my uncle's apartment (who was a ritual slaughterer and inspector). Both apartments shared the same roof, and only a long, narrow corridor separated them. I often visited my uncle and often observed Barash's actions and conduct. Frequently, I saw him sitting in his small study, reading books and writing extensively in his notebooks. I would stand nearby and glance furtively at those notebooks, feeling envious of his beautiful handwriting – those tiny and round letters, like precious pearls, were written meticulously in straight lines!

Barash drew us together with great affection and shared fascinating stories with me (where did he get them from? They were perhaps the fruits of his imagination). He devoted many hours in the evenings to teaching me lessons in Hebrew. Having graduated from the town's state high school a short time earlier, he had mastered Hebrew, Polish, German, and Ruthenian. In our town, he was known as a consummate intellectual and often referred to as the man “who peered and fell victim to his curiosity.” In Lopatyn, there was already a small group of educated youths, the eldest of whom was my brother and teacher, the linguist Hanoch Yalon, who had been living in Jerusalem since 5,681 [1921]. They were the first enlightened individuals in our remote town, and they laid the foundation for the Zionist Movement and the Hebrew language in the region.

And here are a few sketches of Barash's portrait from that time: He was a slender, charming young man, and, despite his youth, he appeared mature and composed. A certain intelligent mischief always accompanied conversations and interactions with others. His features were delicate and smiling; he wore “Pince-nez” glasses in the fashion of the time, and through these lenses, his burning, penetrating eyes sparkled.

In the town there was much talk about him. They said that he wrote poems, stories and feuilletons in notebooks and even published some of them in various newspapers. His stories were about life in the city and the countryside, and his protagonists were the townspeople, Jews and gentiles alike. Since Barash was not careful about disguising the names of the characters in his stories, he was subjected to the wrath of the zealous Jews. He dedicated one of his first stories to my brother, Eliezer Dov Distenfeld, who was a distinguished scholar and one of the first educated individuals in our town.

[Page 305]

Like other young men, Barash left his parents' home at the young age of 16, and moved to Galicia's capital, Lvov [Lviv], to acquire a general education. He then wandered through many towns and made a living teaching. He also published many stories while in these towns.

A short time before the outbreak of World War I, we learned that Barash had made Aliyah to Eretz Israel. This event left a significant impression on the town and quickly became a topic of conversation among the residents. Many supporters of Zionism were proud of their fellow townsman who moved to the Holy Land. However, many fierce opponents of the Zionist idea responded with hostility.

When I made Aliyah in 5680 [1920/21], my first stop was to Asher Barash's home in Tel Aviv. Our meeting was very emotional. He asked me for details about his hometown, remembering every street and every alley and its residents. He recounted events and memories, and his words were filled with nostalgia for the “good old days.” When I told him that I intended to settle in the Galilee and work in agriculture, he responded with excitement and kindness, giving me books from his library to help me.

We met, [years later], during his visits to Jerusalem. He enjoyed the cool, fresh air and said to me, “I love Jerusalem, its mountainous atmosphere, and the calm and serenity. However, I also love my city, Tel Aviv, very much; after all, I stood beside her cradle.”

A while later, I met him again in Jerusalem, walking through the streets with slow, deliberate heel-to-toe steps, leaning on his sturdy stick, his faithful companion since his youth. He asked me to join him as he reminisced again about our hometown, bringing back memories of various strange and peculiar characters and life events. He had already immortalized nearly all of them in his beautiful stories. In our conversation, he recalled the notorious thief, Peshyemski, who had struck fear in everyone in town, and it was as though the thief were alive, standing before him. When I shared with Barash that this thief robbed our house one Shabbat eve, taking the challahs and the cholent, and on another occasion he stole my father's clothing from the bedroom, he burst into hearty laughter and added a few more “exploits” of that famous master thief.

I had another chance encounter with him on a side street in Jerusalem. His face looked different from how I remembered it. He had a faint veil of sadness in his eyes, as if old age had suddenly leapt upon him. He walked a few steps, stopped, and then continued again, repeating this over and over. It was clear that he was not in good health. “We are growing old,” he remarked as he went on his way. His words sounded uncharacteristically melancholy and contemplative. Suddenly, he recalled the town that had been destroyed and the Jews who had perished in the Holocaust. He seemed very pleased when I mentioned that many of our townspeople now lived in the country. “If only we could all get together,” he said wistfully.

He seemed to be pressed for time. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote something down. “I must return to Tel Aviv,” he said before a very cordial departure.

A few months later, we received the heartbreaking news of his passing.

[Page 306]

The Man at Home

It was a two-story house, surrounded by a shaded garden, where tall trees grew, ornamental shrubs lent the garden an air of stability, and colorful flower beds delighted the passersby. The house was divided into several apartments, with Asher Barash's unit located on the lower floor at the western side of the building. The balcony, shielded by a covering that extended halfway down, was always in shade. From the writer's study, a door led to the balcony, where Asher often spent his leisure hours, gazing keenly at the garden that separated him from the street, taking pleasure in the well-tended greenery around him.

Very often, during the early morning or late afternoon on sunny days, Asher Barash could be seen standing in his garden. He was broad-shouldered with a round face framed by thick eyebrows and a heavy mustache, with eyes half-closed in a gaze of constant reflection. He stood slightly askew due to a defect in his leg, as water flowed in a soft hiss from the hose he held over the flowerbeds and shrubs. He enjoyed nodding his head to greet any acquaintance passing by, chatting easily about matters of the garden and the apartment market, the affairs of the day, the ordinary conversations of a citizen confident in his surroundings, the regime, and the value of good human neighborliness – always with a smile beneath his thick mustache. His hair, not yet touched by gray, appeared somewhat disheveled, while the pleasant, cool breeze coming from the sea played with it in the morning or evening air.

On the outside, Barash appeared to be like any other citizen in Tel Aviv, a city known for its idyllic side streets and its faded alleys. Having lived in Tel Aviv for 38 years, since making Aliyah in 1914, he devotedly fulfilled his ordinary civil obligations as if they were a commandment. He considered these obligations as his contribution to the revival and establishment of the foundations of the Hebrew man's foothold in his land and city, putting an end to the wandering spirit and gypsy-like tendencies in his blood. It was no accident that Barash never left his home and his land for all those days. In one of his latest tales about Melchizedek Oigenfal^[1] (which, to a large extent, includes autobiographical elements similar to those in his stories about Yaakov Rudorfer^[2]), the author recounts a secret Melchizedek told his relative. It is a story of shyness and, at the same time, about feeling important.

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The secret that Melchizedek shared was that he vowed never to leave the land throughout his life and never to venture beyond its borders. Barash himself said little about his own life, but when it came to the topic of leaving the country, he openly shared his secret. Did he not criticize others who felt the urge to wander – “What?” he would ask with slight bewilderment and that characteristic smile of his – “Is he setting out again? What is he looking for there? Has he already discovered everything here?”

The study was always dimly lit. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with reference books, foundational works in literature and literary history, dictionaries, anthologies in Hebrew, German, English, and French, modern Hebrew literature, books on the Bible, and collections of world folk tales. A large, cumbersome writing desk occupied the space. On the wall hung a portrait of Asher Barash painted by a friend in Galicia during the wandering days of his youth. The name of the place where it was painted was stamped on it – Wieliczka, a salt-mining city located near Krakow. In the portrait, his youthful and handsome face radiated health; his clothing was elegant and well-tailored, and a pleasant light seemed to flow from his broad forehead.

Barash entertained guests with tact and awareness of their human importance. And if a child happened to be in his presence, his vitality seemed to increase, as if it had been waiting for just such an opportunity. He became a supporter and booster of hesitant youth, particularly in the realm of literature, and in this role, he was a natural mentor. And here he acquired a self-evident authority – not aggressive or domineering, but something natural and accepted without hesitation. Even the writers who were fiercely protective would easily reconcile when he, A. Barash, as an editor, prepared their writings for the platforms he edited: “Hedim” [“Echoes”], the fine, constructive literary journal of the 1920s, and, toward the end of his life, the youth journal “Atidot” [“Foretellings”]. Those who collaborated on these platforms left their mark on one another, each contributing depth and warmth to their peers' words.

He always wore a good-spirited expression, even on the most difficult days, and he had a keen vision, ready to assist any creative and constructive effort in literature and in life. It is no coincidence that he was actively involved in every practical undertaking of the Writers' Association of the “Vaad haLashon” [“Language Committee”], and any institution aimed at implementing tangible activities. Even in the last two or three years of his life, despite the difficulties of adjusting to conditions after the founding of the state, he did not refrain from taking actions that led to something tangible. Was he not the founder of “Gnazim,” [“Archives”], the bibliographic institute of Hebrew writers and literature, whose foundations he laid and upon which the entire house would be built? This “child of his old age” received immense dedication and continuous effort until it became a vibrant and thriving reality.

Asher Barash almost never got sick in his life; at least, nobody could recall him being ill for decades. Only during his last few weeks, did a subtle feeling of heaviness emerge,

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noticeable only to those who knew him closely, and only in small ways. It became known that Barash had fallen ill; his blood pressure was elevated, prompting doctors to order him to stay at home and rest. He was compelled to set aside the proofs of all his stories, which had already been prepared for print and were soon to be published in two large volumes. He also had to stop working at gathering his essays and notes, which were to be collected in the third volume of his complete works.

However, he could not resist the call of civic duty. The casket containing the remains of Peretz Smolenskin was brought to Eretz Israel and was placed in the square of Tel Aviv's city hall on its final journey to the “Har haMenuchut” cemetery in Jerusalem, where speeches of commemoration were scheduled to take place. Among the relatively small crowd that came to honor this occasion was Asher Barash. Leaning on the railing, he stood among the crowd, his face extremely pale, his eyes sunken and darkened, and one could sense how much effort he was exerting merely by standing there. Yet he did not ask to sit down or to retire until the entire ceremony concluded.

The next day, a brutal heatwave descended upon the land. For two days, the scorching heat reached an intensity we had not experienced in many years. This likely had a negative impact on Barash's health, though he showed no external signs. The night before he died, he struggled to fall asleep. Early the next morning, Wednesday, at half past five, when it was still twilight outside, he got out of his bed and went into a side room where he had set up his library. He took a book and sifted through the page proofs. After some time, when he did not respond to his wife's calls, she entered the room and found him lying on the floor, lifeless.

In many of Barash's stories, death unexpectedly strikes his protagonists, always shrouded in mystery. The realistic descriptions in his writings seem completely at odds with the surprising endings. Asher Barash himself experienced a similarly startling conclusion to his life. While the end of the story of his life appeared outwardly uneventful, it nonetheless served as a profound reflection on the events and human experiences amid a world filled with turmoil.

If one were to say that the news of Asher Barash's death came like thunder on a clear day, it would not have been an exaggeration in the least. He was a well-known figure in Tel Aviv, the city where he truly came of age (he was only 25 when he arrived there from Galicia). In Tel Aviv, he gained great literary and public recognition. He taught thousands of students in Tel Aviv, first at the Geulah Gymnasium. Many of his students now hold important positions in various civilian and military professions. He nurtured and advanced more than a few aspiring writers and journalists. At first, no one could believe the report. “What? Barash is dead? Impossible.” Such was the reaction.

A look of disbelief was etched on the faces of the hundreds who walked behind the deceased's bier. After the purification, the bier was placed in the living room of the departed. Two large candlesticks with lighted candles burned by his head. The body of the deceased was covered in black,

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and above it lay a tallit, as was the Jewish custom in the Holy Land. All who were good and cultured in Tel Aviv passed before the coffin – writers, artists, men of the Torah, and the deceased's students. Before notices had been posted on the city's billboards, word of his passing had already spread. Even from the Writers' Association retreat in Zichron Ya'akov, a delegation of writers, who happened to be staying there at the time, arrived. Others also came from Jerusalem and Haifa. That they managed to do so under the difficult transportation conditions that prevailed then can be attributed only to their strong will.

The time for removing the bier was set for four in the afternoon. Long before that hour, crowds began streaming into Mendele Street and into the open area near the house. Members of the deceased's generation arrived, those even older than he, such as G. Shofman, Jacob Fichman, Y.D. Berkowitz, D. Shimoni, Benzion Katz, Yaakov Cahan, and others. Writers whose works were first published in “Hedim”, and who are now themselves editors and shapers of literary paths, also came. From the group of writers who call themselves the “Progressive Culture” writers, not a single person came. But this, again, was not surprising.

The bier was carried through the streets of Ben Yehuda, Allenby and Bialik on the shoulders of authors and admirers of the sages and Hebrew literature. Traffic was halted at several spots, but not completely cut off. Tel Aviv Municipality could have done more to demonstrate its appreciation and recognition of the master of modern Hebrew literature, and the source of pride and the glory of its residents, but it did not act accordingly. The bier was placed on the ground next to Bialik's House, where the author Yehuda Burla delivered a eulogy as a colleague, a friend, and a fellow writer who had begun his literary journey around the same period as the deceased. Following him, a teacher representative of the “Geulah” School, where the deceased had taught for many years, offered a farewell as a fellow educator. Lastly, Mr. Yosef Heftman, the chairman of the Journalists' Association, came to deliver a eulogy on behalf of the organization. Asher Barash made significant contributions to Hebrew journalistic language by serving on the committee that determined journalistic terminology, a committee that had been active for several years.

At the open grave, in the old Tel Aviv cemetery, when the bier was lowered into the grave, the poet, David Shimoni, a companion of many years, rose and mourned him.

“I never imagined, Asher Barash,” David Shimoni began his elegy, speaking directly to his friend who had passed from this world, “that I would have to speak over your grave. It never occurred to me that you, so full of vigor, confidence, energy, and tremendous working strength, would leave us suddenly, without anyone being prepared for it.

“And you, so deeply rooted, strong, never lacking in hope, faith, and composure, acted in such uncharacteristic haste, not quite fitting your nature, leaving us to sigh in your absence.

“Throughout the many years of our acquaintance, I never heard you claim any credit for yourself for any

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deed you had accomplished, even if it were a great one. But there was one deed you did boast about: from the day you arrived in this land, you never left. You never stepped beyond the borders of this country.

And I understood why you took pleasure in that – because you had planted deep roots in the land. You were a man of roots, a strong tree in the garden of our literature. A mighty tree with many branches, under whose shade many found shelter and peace.” And in this spirit and language, he continued to weep for him.

The grave was dug between the graves of the authors Fishel Lachover and Yitzchak-Zalman Anochi. That row of authors' graves, which eventually filled completely, contains the graves of the greats of Hebrew literature – the pillars of the revival period.

In the yellowish sand mound, a wooden stick was planted, bearing a small tin sign. On the sign, in block letters, was the first name “Asher,” and in handwritten letters, the surname “Barash.” The setting sun illuminated the sign, causing the letters to glow, guiding the path of those leaving the cemetery.

Translator's footnotes:

1. The story “Oigenfal” by Asher Barash deals with the enigmatic figure of Melchizedek, a king and priest of the Most High God, as he appears in Genesis (14) and Psalms (110:4). Barash portrays Melchizedek as a central and significant character in a world where mythological events unfold, using the name “Oigenfal” as a pseudonym for this figure, who encounters Abraham on his way from the battle against the four kings. Return
2. “Chapters from the Life of Jacob Rudorfer” was published in 1928 by Hedim Publishing. Return

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