Avraham Gliksman

Avraham Gliksman or, as he was called, “The Grocolicer” was tall and thin, and his long white beard made him a patriarchal figure. When I was a boy, it seemed to me that this is what Avraham Avinu [Abraham the father] looked like, maybe because his name was also Avraham. He was a simple Jew, certainly not a scholar, but he was very devoted to the rabbi and his court. He lived near the rabbi's courtyard and entered and exited it as if it was his private property. It has been said: “There is one who acquires his world in a single hour,” and he bought the name Pod Rabin, meaning deputy rabbi. He received this name from the officers of the Russian army who highly esteemed him because he once stopped the plague among the horses of his Majesty the Tsar, and all the people in our city called him Pod Rabin. But how was this miracle performed by him?

The city's elders say that in the days of the author of Tiferet Shlomo [Splendid Shlomo], a plague broke out in his Majesty's stable. As is well known, several artillery battalions were stationed in our city to transport the cannons. At that time, horses were used. The Grocolicer happened to be there by chance. He turned to the army officer and said: “I will cure the horses, but on the condition that you release all the Jewish soldiers for the entire duration of Passover.” The officer accepted his offer. What did Abraham Grocolicer do? He went and collected the leftover challah from the rabbi's table after Shalosh Seudot [three meals] and wrapped them in his handkerchief. On Sunday morning he went to the army stable and scattered the leftovers in the manger. The horses ate it along with the oats and the plague stopped. Since then, he became very important in the eyes of the military and they called him Pod Rabin. Every holiday, he went and released all the Jewish soldiers who were in the army and if a Jewish soldier sinned, he went to beg mercy for him. This is how he worked for decades and the officers who left the place passed on the news of the miracle to those who came after them.

When he had to go and ask for a favor, he wore a silk kapote [coat], girded his waist with a red silk red sash in the manner of the Galician Hasidim, wore a beautiful shtreiml [fur hat worn by some Hasidim] on his head given to him by the rabbi's court, and held a magnificent cane with a silver head to make an impression. In this manner he occasionally fulfilled the great mitzvah [commandment, often translated as good deed] of Pidyon shevuyim.^[1].

Dovid Leib (Fajerman) was among the city's wealthy and important homeowners. His build was sturdy and almost athletic. He was involved with people and loved to talk with everyone he met on his way. He was accustomed to spicing up his conversation with logical words and beautiful proverbs, and kindly welcomed everyone who came to his home. On the other hand, it was a little difficult to take money from him for charity or for a “good deed.” It is said that once two important people came to his home to ask him for a donation for Hachnasat Kallah^[2]. He received them warmly, invited them into the large room facing the market, seated them on the upholstered chairs that were covered with beautifully ironed white cloth, and ordered tea. When he began to talk to them, he talked about the city's affairs and its leaders, the rabbi, the slaughterer, the cantor and so on, and when they started talking about the main issue, he talked to them about something else. When they revealed to him that they had come to receive a donation for Hachnasat Kallah, he asked who the bride was. They replied that even though this matter had been revealed only to a few, they would reveal it to Reb Dovid Leib. [The bride was] the orphaned daughter of the late Hershel Baruch Szimiles. As is known, the late Hershel Baruch Szimiles did not leave behind any property except for a daughter who has reached marriageable age, and now that she had a match, it was a great mitzvah to marry her off. Since the late Hershel Baruch Szimiles was a decent Jew and enjoyed the labor of his hands, [they said], we ask your honor for a decent donation. Dovid Leib got up from his seat and asked: “Am I allowed to know who the groom is?” And when they stammered in response that the groom was not a doctor nor, for that matter, a rabbi, but a simple craftsman, a baker, meaning not a real baker but a baker's apprentice, Dovid Leib filled with anger and said: “You want to marry Hershl Baruch's daughter to a baker's apprentice and that I should lend a hand to this thing? This will never happen! I definitely don't agree with this match…”

When Dovid Leib married his young daughter to a widower who was between forty and fifty years old, the whole city was amazed. Is it possible? How can a rich man like Dovid Leib, who gave a decent dowry to his daughter and also gave her a beautiful wedding, as is the custom of the rich, not marry off his daughter to a young, single man? A joker, who was there at that time, stood up and replied: You must know that Dovid Leib will not do anything without a motive. You might ask, what was his motive in this? The motive was that he wouldn't have to buy the groom a new tallit [prayer shawl]”…

Another story goes: when his son, Itzala, asked him to make him a winter coat, claiming that while he did not care about the cold, he was afraid that people would laugh at him, his father replied: if you want a heavy winter coat, put two heavy stones in your house coat and you will have a heavy winter coat.

I heard this story that I want to tell you from an old man who lived at that time. Reb Ezriel Bugajski was a respected homeowner in our city. He was rich and progressive. One of the sons of Yakov Bugajski, father of the Bugajski dynasty in our city. He used to travel every year in the summer to the mineral springs in Karlsbad [Karlovy Vary]. In that place, he behaved with complete freedom and felt like a free bird because no one knew him there. Once, on a Shabbat, when he returned from drinking the hot spring water, he strolled on the boulevard, took a cigar out of his pocket, lit it and smoked it to his pleasure. The unfortunate man did not know that in Karlsbad was a woman from our city named Goldele Yoel's, a righteous woman, “pure olive oil,” who saw him in his sin. The woman approached him with a laughing face, did not scold him, shook her head and said: “Gut Shabbes – Reb Ezriel.” When Goldele Yoel's returned to the city, she told everyone what she had seen in Karlsbad, and great excitement prevailed in the city.

There was a great joker in our city named Yoske Levi, the predecessor and the rabbi of Shlomo Yitzhak Kokoska, and he organized a “living funeral” for Reb Ezriel. And the story goes as follows: On the first Shabbat after Reb Ezriel returned from Karlsbad to Radomsk, he went to the synagogue to be called up to the reading of the Torah as a Cohen. When he left the synagogue after the prayer, two lines of men and women stood outside, from the Synagogue Street to his house in the market, and everyone blessed him with Shabbat shalom – “Gut Shabbes Reb Ezriel” – “Gut Shabbes Reb Ezriel”…

Hershele, the one I want to tell about, was a decent Jew who was among the insulted and not the insulting. His occupation was in rags. He had a horse and a cart and traveled to the villages near Radomsk and engaged in his trade. Once, on Shabbat eve, when he rode home at dusk, he speeded up his horse, not, God forbid, with the strap of cruelty to animals. He spoke to his horse in the language of supplications: “Run my dear horse so that we will not, God forbid, desecrate the Sabbath, because the Creator, blessed be He, commanded us “in order that your ox and your donkey may rest” [Exodus23:12].

He was careful to say “amen” after every blessing. And to increase this,


[Page 142]


he brought to the young men, the students of the Beit HaMidrash [House of Prayer], cold water to drink from the well-known spring called by all “Stak.” He approached each of them and asked, as he was serving them the glass of water, “Bless Shehakol ^[3] and I will answer 'amen' after the blessing!” It is said that he once needed a guarantor to sign a deed of one hundred and fifty rubles for him. He approached his neighbor and asked him to sign his name on it. That man did not want to be a guarantor because it is said “Beware that you do not…” But Hershele begged him and said: I don't want, God forbid, any guarantee, just write the two words in this place: Eliezer Pelman, and that's all, and this will be considered a great mitzvah for you. After much persuasion, Eliezer Pelman agreed and signed the two words for him. When the time came to pay the deed and Hershele did not have the money to redeem it, Eliezer Pelman was forced to pay. Hershele promised Eliezer Felman to return the money in monthly installments until he repaid his debt to the last penny and claimed that it was not worth getting angry over trivial things.

When the time for the first payment came and Hershele had no money, Eliezer's anger flared up and said that if he met him, he would tear him like a fish, and suddenly Hershele came toward him. Eliezer hurried toward him with outpoured rage to give him a good beating. And here Hershele stood before him with a smile of mercy on his lips. He took out of his coat pocket a nice plum and said to Eliezer: Surely this year you did not bless the Shehecheyanu ^[4] blessing on plums. Eliezer will say Borei Pri Ha'etz [Blessing on Fruits] and also Shehecheyanu, and I will answer “amen” on both blessings…

Two progressive yeshiva students in traditional clothing. Yisroelke Hamer (right) and Dovid Krauze (left)

Cheder Metukan

This was the name given to the Hebrew schools established by the Zionists in the diaspora. The name announced that this cheder [religious primary school] was not just any old-world cheder, but Cheder Metukan ^[5] in which Hebrew and Zionism were studied. When Zionism penetrated our city, it was accompanied by the desire to learn Hebrew. Young men, students at the Beit HaMidrash, began to learn Hebrew after they read Ahavat Zion [Love of Zion] by Avraham Mapu and Le-an [Whither] by [M.Z.] Feuerberg. After Mendel Fajnzilber opened Cheder Metukan, many homeowners, who were captivated by the idea, sent their sons to this cheder. This caused a great outcry in the city, especially among the Hasidim, who claimed that the cheder was dangerous and “it would not happen” (“we will not allow the oppressor of Israel to destroy Jewish children”).

A great controversy erupted in the city between the Zionists and the Hasidim who shouted: “A despicable act has been done to the Jews.” However, the Hasidim's shouts were to no avail and Cheder Metukan existed despite everything.

Nonetheless, the Hasidim did something. What did they do? They took a good-for-nothing Jew who was supposedly a teacher who taught Jewish girls to write short letters in Yiddish from the Brivshteler [Letter writer – book of sample letters]. The Hasidim called him Der Warszawer Lehrer [The Warsaw Teacher] and told him: “Go and teach the Holy Language to Jewish children!” They also found him a “room” where he would teach the Holy Language, meaning… “they specifically want the Holy Language? – give it to them!” In this way, they competed with Mendel Fajnzilber's Cheder Metukan. Mendel Fajnzilber told me that once he and several of the city''s jokers decided to go and hear how this good-for-nothing was teaching. They went and stood under his window and listened to a grammar lesson in that language: you should know that the word kitshma (fur hat) is a feminine noun kitchmati: “The translation is my fur hat. Kitchmatich.[Meaning unknown] The translation is your fur hat, etc.” [This may be a play on words.]

After he finished the grammar lesson, he, the teacher, walked in the middle of the room and dictated these words to students in the tune of the Gemara [commentary on the Torah]: “Who formed man with wisdom and created within him many openings and many hollow spaces. ^[6]”

I heard the story I am telling you from our city's elders. A story about a young man from another city who came to Radomsk to study and to fulfill “Exile to the place of Torah. ^[7]” He was one of many who came from distant cities to study the Torah in our city. Where would they eat and what would they eat? This question did not worry them. They knew that there were forces that could change the situation, and every homeowner would give them one day of food. And so they did. They went from house to house asking for one day until they found all seven days of the week. An incident happened, one young man only had five or six days a week, and then he fasted for a day or two, to fulfill the saying of Chazal [Jewish sages] “Your life will be one of privation, if you do this, happy shall you be and it shall be good for you” [Pirkei Avot 6]. The young man I want to tell you about had all the days except for Wednesday. The gabbai [assistant to the rabbi] of the Beit HaMidrash felt sorry for him and arranged a day for him with Mr. Rozewicz, who was extremely rich and owned a factory for oil lamps. Our townspeople probably remember the big building with the tall chimney that stood next to Brzezinski Street close to the railroad tracks. We've already mentioned that Mr. Rozewicz was very rich, his table was full of food and anyone who entered his house hungry came out full. The aforementioned young man entered the benefactor's house and was asked to sit down. Then he washed his hands, blessed the washing of hands and sat by the table. He saw some beautiful fresh rolls and a loaf of bread on the table. He recited the blessing over the rolls first to beautify the mitzvah because they were made from semolina flour. And behold, the young maid brought a plate with a whole salted fish, soaked in oil, garnished with chopped onion, and placed it before him. What did the young man, who was very hungry, do? He dipped his bread in oil and ate it with great appetite together with the fish, until he ate all the rolls and bread. The poor young man thought that was the entire meal they intended to give him. And now the smiling young woman came and in her hands was


[Page 143]


a plate with a dozen kreplach [dumplings] soaked in turkey sauce, and they smelt like heaven. What could he do, even though his stomach was already full, how could he not eat kreplach? He barely ate the kreplach with the sauce and prepared to recite Birkath HaMazon [Grace After Meals]. He already hummed to himself Al Naharot Bavel^[8], and the young woman came again with two plates in her hands and a light smile on her face. On the big plate, there was meat of all kinds: roasted goose, fried liver, veal coated in eggs and a large piece of ox meat. On the second, smaller plate, dessert for the meat: plums and peaches cooked in vinegar. The fruit looked as transparent as glass. But what would the young man do with a full stomach? He did not eat the meat because his stomach was full to his throat, he tasted a little from the tzimmes [stew made with root vegetables and dried fruit], and it made him feel a little better.

In short – the eye sees and the heart covets, but what would he do when the intestines are sealed and blocked and he could not even enjoy just a tad? The young women, as if in anger, asked: Why doesn't the young man eat? If he did not like meat, I will bring chicken or a roasted chick. He just needs to say whatever he wants.” He did not know what to reply to her, so he showed with his hand to his lips that he was reciting Birkath HaMazon and he was not allowed to stop. When he left the house, he talked to himself: “This bread, the bread killed me, the bread was my downfall”…

Translator's footnotes

1. Pidyon shevuyim (lit. “Redemption of Captives”) is a religious duty in Judaism to bring about the release of a fellow Jew captured by slave dealers or robbers, or imprisoned unjustly. Return
2. Hachnasat Kallah (lit. “bringing in the bride”) refers to the mitzvah of providing the bride and groom with all that they need to marry. Return
3. Shehakol (lit. “That all was created by His word”) is a blessings recited before consuming food or drink. Return
4. Shehecheyanu is a blessing of gratitude for new or special occasions, literally meaning “Who has given us life.” Return
5. Cheder Metukan (“Reformed Cheder”), an elementary Jewish school that combined religious study with other subjects such as math and grammar, with a particular emphasis on Hebrew. Return
6. Asher Yatzar is a blessing that translates to “He Who Formed” and is recited after using the restroom to thank God for the wisdom and wonder of the human body's ability to function properly. Return
7. “Exile to the place of Torah” is a teaching from the Mishnah [compilation of oral laws of the Torah] that advises one to voluntarily leave their familiar surroundings to find a community dedicated to studying Torah. Return
8. Al Naharot Bavel [“By the Rivers of Babylon”] (Psalm 137) is traditionally recited before Birkath HaMazon on weekdays to remember the sorrow of the Babylonian exile. Return

I think it was in 1934. As a member of the “Chalutz-Mizrachi” in our town, I was ordered by the Keren Kayemet committee to show up with a collection bowl at the Radomsk Chasidim Beit Midrash on the eve of Yom Kippur to collect donations. I was looking forward to it. I myself was a Radomsk Chasid as were both of my parents and both grandfathers. My grandfather Yochanan z”l was the Gabai of the previous Radomsk Rabbi.

Well, I arrived at the Beit Midrash and according to custom placed my bowl with the other donation bowls after the Mincha prayer. People donated generously to the Keren Kayemet because many Chasidim supported the “Chalutz-Mizrachi” among them Menadeleh Frenkel and Moshe Luria. As I was counting the money the Gabai Reb Shlomo Yitzchak son of Reb Itamar Rabinowicz grabbed my bowl and emptied the money that was in it into the bowl of “Keter HaTorah” Yeshiva that was founded by Reb Mosheleh, the son-in-law of the Radomsk Admor for the youth of the Radomsk Chasidim.

I was appalled he would do such a thing with the Keren Kayemet donations. He answered: “Do you think I will allow money donations on Yom Kippur eve for the sheygetsim and shiksas [young men and women who are not Jewish] in the Kibbutzim in Erez-Israel?” When I answered that the money was specifically meant for religious orthodox settlements of “HaMizarachi” he responded that to him “it's the same thing”. To which I said: “Reb Shlomo Yitzchak! It is erev Yom Kippur, Jews donated this money to the Keren Kayemet and you taking this money for another purpose is theft – I demand the money be returned”.

He slapped me across the face. It hurt more than any slap from a gentile. My heart ached for him and the other good Jews who sealed their ears from hearing the call of the Nation to return to Zion and redeem the people and the land.

The Keren Kayemet Committee (1926) Standing (from right to left): First Row: A.B. Ajzen, M. Szitenberg, Y. Fridman, S. Rozenblat, T. Margolewski, A. Hoffman, Y. Rozenzweig Second Row: Y. Wajntreter, M. D. Goldberg, M. Shita, Yaakov Eichner, D. Wilenski, Chaim Goldberg, Y. Liberman, S. Najman Sitting: F. Bugajski, Y. Zandberg, M. Wolkowicz, A.M. Waksman, M. Birenbaum. Fourth Row – Y. Ditsfler, D, Bugajski

[Page 144]

Abraham-Nakhum Sztencl was born in 1897 in the village of Czeladz near Sosnowiec, a grandchild of the Czenstochower dein (religious judge) and a brother of the Sosnowiec rabbi and Rosh Yeshiva (head of religious school). He absorbed within himself much Yiddishkeit, was versed in the Talmud and the Talmudic commentaries and steeped in Tidus and Kabalah. After the First World War, he entered the wider world and became acquainted with poets and writers. His songs and novels and dramas were published in the popular Yiddish press and attracted the attention of the German literary circles of that era, which supported the publication of his song compilations.

“Shlomoh,” she said to him, “what is the matter;
Is God, God forbid, not as worthy as a father-in-law?
As all wives trade in the market, I will.”

“You will help me carry out to the stall,
And will run back to the Beis-Midrash quickly,
And everything will be as the present.”

“You at the open Gemara and me at the pot,
What have you here, Shlomoh, a clogged up head?
I will cook with the Jewish women in the market!”

He could barely contain himself, so strongly
Had he begun to laugh; on your farm,
Gutenyu, you have acquired another peasant…

And thus it actually was, every morning
Forward with the chafing pan and apron she goes,
He carries the pots and large basket after her.

And when he returned from the noisy uproar,
And seized still from holiness the first holy man,
Comparing himself to him, if he knows where and when?

And first after Minkhah, when he carries home the basket,
From a whole day his learned hump,
Straightens up, he is ashamed to catch sight of himself.

He shines with ideas: with money, there is no problem
And before you know it, he is back in the Beis Midrash!
And in the morning, when the basket is packed…

The whole Talmud with a page of Gemara, he has mixed in his head!
And every letter of the sacred Torah with the trop,
Sings heimish in his heart such a heavenly song.

However, he first felt what it means to be a Jew,
Helping his wife sometimes at the yearly fair,
A drunken goy broke a pot – –

A broken shard of ceramic stays in his heart,
The whole market a little broken earthen pot full of tears,
A pile of broken pieces floats in the dust.

And in the middle a dove dances for his female dove,
His heart trembles with cooing praise –
He begins to understand the secret of people in love.

A nation that lives from hand to mouth,
That continuously fills the market with its Yakov's voice!
Why should it not be challenged by Esau's hand?

Studied the Mishnah from “ Hmenayaat hkad”?
He is as much a businessman as I am at my wife's warehouse…
That he does not kill me is simply because he is lazy.

“G-d, who nourishes all creatures with Your hand,
Feed Your folk until it will be redeemed,
Your House of Israel, Your holy family,

G-d forbid, less than the hungry market dog?”
G-d, what it means to be a Jew, I first understand now…
And his look with tears, as with a dove's glazed eyes:

Is he in the Beis-Midrash? He no longer knows where he is!
A crying-cooing absorption in pious thoughts, so sweet,
Tears from him, “Tie-di-di-die” and “Oy, oy, oy.”

And sometimes in the market it gets so quiet.
The drunken goy pulls himself out of the confusion,
And falls with furious speed from his feet:

“Rabbi!” this scream would sharpen a scissors!
A string breaks in a harp that had played –
Interrupting a posek from the Book of Psalms in the middle of atrop:

“Are you not, also, a peasant on G-d's farm?”
And elevate Him, as we elevate a beam of light,
He smiles, “Simply, you needed only a lens…”

This sale, afterwards, on the market, this getting rich quickly!
In the apron one shuffles the silver, the money is brought under the cap
And when he carries empty baskets from the fair,

He can barely carry them because he is so tired,
O, they will still make a good Jew of him
G-d, if I had wings now like a dove…

“Shlomoh,” she looked at him. “What is the matter?”
And standing at the market, you think, is not difficult?
And perhaps it was Elijah the Prophet…”

And when the joy in her dovish eyes was seen,
He whispered, “G-d your will should happen.”
And he quickly washed a tear from his eye.

[Page 145]

Sarah Hamer-Jacklin, a Radomsk native, a daughter of an eminent Hasidic family, emigrated to America as a young girl, and there became known as a writer. She had dozens of stories published by the Yiddish press on the American continent, in which she describes the way of life of her old home and her new life in America. The Nowo-Radomsker Society in New York published 2 books of stories by Sarah Hamer-Jacklin, “Lives and Images” (1946) and “Trunks and Branches” (1954).

We present here 2 stories by Sarah Hamer-Jacklin:

1. “The Rebbe Died” (from the book “Lives and Images”);
2. “The Bednicer Dybbuk” (published in the Forverts).

The Editor

“The Rebbe is very weak, and he needs mercy, so that he will get well.”

My father, who was depressed, said these words to my mother when he came into the house during the time between the morning and evening prayers.

“Last year on the 7^th day of Sukkos, he was also as good as gone, and he regained his health, and with G-d's help, he will also recover,” my mother consoled him.

“The Most High watches and takes care of such tzadekim (righteous men) as Reb Yekhezkel Radomsker,” she piously added.

Meanwhile the city was in turmoil, the people ran to the “gutn ort” (the cemetery) to plead for the Rebbe's health. The cemetery was measured with white linen (an omen for a long life), Hasidim were drawn from near and far to the Rebbe's court, and the Beis-Midrash was packed with yeshivah-bukherim (yeshiva students), Hasidim, merchants and business owners, who said psalms and pleaded for the recovery of the Rebbe.

In the court, under the open sky, women stood with shawls on their heads and listened to the tragic tones that floated outside from the Beis-Midrash and brought tears into the air. They shook piously to the cadence of the melodies of the psalms and whispered quietly. Their gaze was turned to the Rebbe's room, in which lay the holy patient.

Reb Yohanan, the Rebbe's oldest gabai (sexton) was seen on the threshold of the Rebbe's room. He let the people know that the Rebbe's temperature had gone down and that the Rebbe felt, praise the Lord, better.

The people gave a sigh of relief and went home in a lighter mood.

During the week, various rumors were carried through the city. Here was heard, the Rebbe is getting better and here a rumor was spread that the Rebbe is worse.

Therefore, my mother sent me to my grandfather Yohanan, to learn how the Rebbe is, because my grandfather was the Rebbe's gabai and his right hand.

It was a Friday afternoon. Every Friday at that time I would go to my grandmother for a blackberry kichele (little cake).

[Page 146]

This time, however, I went with a mission. When I entered the house and saw the big baking pan, on which were laid out freshly baked kichele five in a row, from which rose hot steam and from which ran blackberry juice, I completely forgot my mission and remained standing in amazement near the baked goods.

My grandfather came in from a side room all dressed up, his long white beard combed, in his Shabbosdikhe clothing (clothing for Shabbos), in a black satin long coat, in a shtreiml (fur-rimmed hat worn by Hasidim). His white socks glittered from under his long caftan. Short, thin, shrunken from fasting every Monday and Wednesday, he always showed more love to his grandchildren than to his children. Seeing how I stood “glued” with me eyes on the baked goods, he asked barely smiling:

“What do you want, Sarale?”

“A blackberry kichele!” I answered in one breath.

All the while my grandmother was going through the whole house looking for something. She looked in the drawers, in the dresser and in the “fleishike ” (meat) cabinet.

“A nosherke!” Suddenly I heard my grandmother's voice, “It would be better for you to eat bread, then your cheeks would be red, like mine.” And she showed me her red little cheeks, “She only thinks of sweets. Therefore you are green as grass… It would be better if you asked how the Rebbe is doing,” she said reproachfully.

“How is the Rebbe?” I asked in one breath, suddenly remembering my mission.

“What do you want from the child?” my grandfather mixed in.

“The child!…Look at only a child!” my grandmother mocked. “A young woman of over nine years is no longer a child… I was already a bride at her age. Yes, the world is changing,” she lamented. “Today a young woman of nine years is still being suckled! Here,” she gave me a hot blackberry kichele. “Here, and do not eat it until it cools; it is not healthy to eat hot blackberry kichele.”

And my grandmother again began to search as before.

Every Friday when she would give me the warm kichele, she told me that I should not eat it until it cooled. I would listen, shake my head in agreement that she was right, and immediately go out to the street with the kichele and eat it, and the blackberry juice in the hot dough burned my tongue like fire.

“I cannot find it!” my grandmother suddenly said in resignation. “I have already searched in every corner,” she said to herself. “It is as if the earth had swallowed it…”

“What are you looking for?” my grandfather asked.

“I am missing a silver spoon; it is as if someone has stolen it!”

“For a long time?”

“For three days.”

“Aha,” my grandfather remained seated in thought. Sorrow looked out from grandfather's eyes. His fingers tapped on the table for a long time. He sadly shook his head. Suddenly he stood up and said, “No one has stolen the silver spoon from you. I know where it is!”

“You?” my grandmother looked at him confused.

Without saying a word, my grandfather went to the dresser, opened the door and took out a tefilin bag from there.

“It's Izraelke's,” my grandmother said.

“Yes, your little musician,” my grandfather, sadly agreed shaking his head.

Whenever my grandfather was deeply angry with his children, they were only my grandmother's.

He opened the tefilin bag and on top lay the silver spoon.

“Nu, here you have your thief,” and he threw the spoon on the table.

“I hid the spoon here. I suspected that the irreligious Izrael does not daven every day. Now I see it is obvious, that he is growing up to be a goy, an Agudas youth. Beautiful nakhas (pleasure) have we lived to see! We sent him all the way to Chrzanow to study in the yeshiva!

My grandmother answered him.

I shuffled out of the house, sprang down the many floors and hopped on one foot onto the Shul Street. I came upon Pesya, my Aunt Hava's daughter, a girl of my age. She, just as I, would go to my grandmother's every Friday for a blackberry kichel.

“Come,” I suggested to her. “Let's play spools.”

I took out five bone spools, which we children would get from out mothers, when they made pecha (jellied calves' feet) on Shabbos.

“We are not allowed to play,” Pesya said. “The Rebbe is sick.”

“He is already better, and with God's help, he will be soon be completely well,” I echoed my grandmother's and my mother's talk. I sat down on the ground, and threw the spools.

“I am going for a blackberry kichel,” she finally conceded…

“They are not ready yet,” I said preventing her from going.

“And from what do you have such black teeth?” she pointed to my mouth.

“Oh, this is still from last Friday.”

“You are a liar!” she screamed in my face and left me on the ground with the spools and departed for our grandmother's house.

On Shabbos after Havdalah (closing Shabbos prayer), my grandmother came to visit us. My grandfather was with the Rebbe.

From a crocheted bag, my grandmother took out her knitting on four long knitting needles. A small green sock with red stripes hung down.

[Page 147]

She sat down at the table, on which stood the bright kerosene light, and started to knit the red stripe and count stitches. The needles rapidly turned here and there. She only counted the stitches for the red stripe. When she was not counting she could knit rapidly and tell stories and not even look at the knitting.

I would love to watch my grandmother's bright face. All grandmothers, I would think, wear eyeglasses, but not mine.

Straight and tall, with a smooth, round face and red cheeks, she loved to dress in beautiful, clean clothes. She wore the black satin hat worn by pious women with different colored beads in the bonnet and the Shabbosdike green silk dress with hand-embroidered birds, which she herself had embroidered. She was a great expert at knitting and sewing. She ran a cloth business herself, too, and would travel to the market alone.

My grandfather was occupied with the Rebbe and with studying the holyTorah.

My father, seeing how my grandmother was knitting a sock so rapidly, asked her a question:

“Mama, for whom are you knitting the socks?”

“For my youngest grandchild, Chipele.”

My father laughed loudly:

“Mama, I have a sock factory and you are knitting a pair of socks for my child!”

“Your socks! I would not give a three groshn coin for all of your socks,” said my grandmother. “Thin, cheap and one wears them once, they move like spider's webs, you see.” And she showed him the sock she was in the middle of making. “These are goods. It will keep the child warm. They are strong and well-made.” And she continued knitting with great fervor.

The door opened and our neighbor Bashelah came in, a wide, short woman with a red face. Attached to her apron, she brought with her, her three-year old twin daughters, Cirele and Mirele.

“I am so busy with the twins, they should live,” she indicated the two pudgy little children, that I have no time to run to the court. “Haya, dear,” she turned to my grandmother, “How is the Rebbe?”

“Improved, thanks to the Most High,” my grandmother answered with delight.

Aunt Yentel, Aunt Hava and Aunt Ruchele came in with children. The husbands went to the Rebbe.

A krupnik (barley soup) was cooking on the oven. The evening meal endingShabbos was disrupted today, because the Rebbe was still seriously ill. ThisShabbos night, the city did not celebrate the meal ending Shabbos.

My father also went away to the court to see the Rebbe's son Shlomoh Henekh, with whom he had a silent partnership.

Everyone sat down around the big table, which was still covered with the whiteShabbos tablecloth with red blossoms. Freidel, the servant, served and my grandmother told little stories about the Noworadomsker Rebbes:

“It is told about the grandfather of our Rebbe that when he was seven years old, a marriage was already arranged. A great Rebbe came to look at the groom. Seeing the child, the Rebbe asked him a question.”

'I am sure that the young groom does not know where God lives.'

“On this, the seven-year old child immediately answered.”

'If the father-in-law will tell me where God does not live, I will tell him where God does live.'

“And of the present Rebbe's father, he should live long, Hasidim would tell stories of miracles and wonders.

“It is told that when the present Rebbe's father died, exactly at the moment he breathed out his illustrious soul, the large wall clock in the Rebbe's room, which had never stopped in the previous quarter century, stopped…

“And about our Rebbe, I want to tell you a story:

“Six Hasidim left Przedborz in a wagon and horses to visit the Noworadomsker Rebbe. The six Hasidim started on their way much earlier than usual, because it was the kurtsn Freitag (short Friday) and they told the driver to drive the horses faster so that they would be able to greet the Rebbe a little before the time for blessing the candles.

“They rode and rode and the way became longer and more unfamiliar.

“A heavy snow feel and the Hasidim were travelling in an open wagon and they were thoroughly wet by the snow and the cold climbed into their bones.

“Night began to fall and not even the top of the city church could be seen.

“They asked the coachman how long it would take to reach Noworadomsk and the Rebbe. The driver admitted that they were lost. The horses left the highway. Such a thing had never happened to him before and he himself did not know how this could have happened.

“The Hasidim became very fearful that they could, G-d forbid, desecrateShabbos and G-d is the only one who knows how they could have gotten lost. Suffering from hunger, cold and wetness, they said psalms to the Most High. Meanwhile, the snow grew higher and suddenly they realized that they were travelling in wild fields.

“It was getting dark. Their fear grew greater. For miles no living being was seen.

“However, suddenly, as if from the bare earth, a tall peasant grows before them, stands next to the wagon and asks in Polish, 'Where are you travelling to?'

“And he does not wait for an answer, takes over the horses, sits down next to the coachman, takes the reigns from him, shouts to the horse 'giddyap!' Immediately as if by magic, they are already on the right highway, and before they can turn around, they are already in the city, and the wagon is standing next to the Rebbe's court.

“The Hasidim crawl down from the wagon, while giving their thanks to thegoy for the great favor he has done for them. They realize that he has disappeared. They look for him on all sides, but there is no goy. He has disappeared just as he came.

“When the Hasidim went into the Rebbe and started to tell him what had happened, the Rebbe made a motion with his hand that they should be silent and said, 'I know… I know… what happened to you.'

[Page 148]

“And the Hasidim understood who that 'peasant' had been…”

We all ate the delicious krupnik, which Freidel had brought to the table, while listening to my grandmother's stories.

Suddenly there was a jolt at the door and Beila, the woman in charge of themikvah, and Sosil, the wife of the gabai, came in shouting.

“Gevald, Jewish children,” they wrung their hands and screamed. “The Rebbe is as good as gone! Oy, misfortune,oy, a calamity!” Beila, the woman in charge of themikvah, sang out and Sosil, the wife of the gabai, echoed the melody, with which my mother would read the Lamentations onTisha-Bov.

The house became filled with a lament and a cry. My grandmother gave the order.

“To the Rebbe's court, women, to the Beis-Midrash!”

Everyone went to the door.

I quickly got up and wanted to run along, but suddenly I felt the chair on which I had been sitting the whole time get up with me. I looked around and saw how my little sister Khule stood in the corner and was shaking with laughter. I immediately understood that this was her work. I extricated myself from the ties that bound me to the chair and ran to my sister and gave her a pinch. She cried and, in spite, began to call me “Sztryne with the loud bell.” (Translator's note: struny is string in Polish)

This was my nickname, which I strongly hated.

I was called “Sztryne” because I was thin and green looking and “loud bell” because when I wanted something that I could not have, my shouting rang like a bell over the whole street. For the nickname that my sister had now called me, I again began to hit her.

“Mamishe!” I called looking for help.

“Wait, just wait,” my mother waved to me with her hand, with her finger pointing, “until your father comes home; you'll receive yours…”

“Now, when there is a calamity in the city,” my grandmother said, already standing at the door. “Now you decide to play tricks?”

“The street is dark with people,” Keila shouted in, and all of the women went outside.

I ran after and seeing me, the other children ran after me.

My mother turned back to us and drove us into the house. However, we did not want to go in on any account. My grandmother Haya made a compromise; Freidel, the cook, who was considered as one of the family, would tell us stories and with this we were bribed.

Freidel loved to tell dreadful stories about thieves, dybbukim and the bad. As a result, we children would be afraid to sleep alone and would crawl to our mother's bed.

But our mother had told her that today she should not tell us stories of devils and the bad, only about the clever king with the seven daughters.

When I woke up in the morning, everything seemed to be happening as it usually did. I heard the noise of the machines, which came from the factory that was next door to our residence. In a corner of the kitchen, Freidel was busy koshering a chicken. My mother gave me food. She looked pale and cried out. I asked her, “How is the Rebbe?”

She answered me that the greatest doctors, who had been brought from Warsaw, had given up on his life. “Only God in heaven can bring a miracle and help him,” she sadly explained and her eyes were full of tears.

It was now clear to me why I only heard the noise of the machine, and the song of the workers from which I would have great joy and with which I would sing along was missing.

Suddenly, a lonesome voice carried from Leibke the Revolutionary:

“friend, when I die,
the free flag to my grave,
free flag with the red paint,
is covered with worker's blood.”

became silent because no one sang along. Usually, all one had to do was start and there began a garland of songs, “Ikh hob a klein yingele (I have a little boy),” “ A brevele der mamen (A letter to mother),” “ Dos talisl (The little prayer shawl);” in the main they wrote their own songs, according to the way of the day.

When Dovid-Leib Fajerman's son Aiche went to America, taking from his father a large sum of money, they immediately wrote a song about it… A youth abandoned a young girl, and she ran to drown herself and in the city it was said because she was pregnant… From this a sad song was created… A rich son fell in love with a poor young woman and went away with her to the “goldene land,” the song created was a happy one.

However, today while the Rebbe floated between life and death, the singing was disturbed. I ate my breakfast silently and left for school.

When I came home from school, there was a fearful stillness in the house, which screamed with silent voices. I looked around and did not see anyone. Frightened, I ran from one room to another and called, “Mamishe! Freidel!” However, no one answered.

I went into the factory. The machines were silent; the wheels, which wove thread from large rollers, were idle in the middle of the room. From the round sock machines hung unfinished hose. There was a stale smell of oil and kerosene over everything. A still buzz from the silent machines still hung in the air. I looked at the wall clock and saw that the hands of the clock were not moving. The mobile clock was fearfully quiet.

Suddenly, I realized that the air was buzzing in a monotone, “The Rebbe has died”…“The Rebbe has died”… “The Rebbe has died”…

“What does it mean died, what does it mean is not alive?” I asked loudly and I scared myself with my own voice. I ran out with force from the factory and into the kitchen. I was hit by the smell of cooking. A chicken, which Freidel had earlier put up to cook, was cooking on the oven. It perfumed the house. Cut lokshen (noodles) were lying and drying on thelokshen bret (noodle board).


[Page 149]


I went over to the oven, which was covered with pots and saw that red cherries were cooking in one pot. The smell provoked my nostrils. I suddenly felt very hungry.

Freidel came in from the street with a black shawl on her head and eyes red from crying. She looked at me with astonishment and asked:

“What are you doing in the kitchen now?”

“I want lokshen with soup,” I said.

“What! You want to eat?” A strange voice groaned out of her. “Now, when there is such a tragedy in the city, a Jewish child wants to eat!”

I was frightened by her strange voice and by the tragedy in our city.

I suddenly felt a stab in my heart and quietly said:

“I only want water.”



B. The Bednicer Dybbuk

As the fearful Days of Awe approached, Jewish life in theshtetl [town] was more in turmoil. Hasidim were drawn to the rebbe's court from near and from far to celebrate the Days of Awe at the table of the Rabbi, Reb Yehezkiel'e Radomsker.

Jewish shops that would stand vacant through the year as their shopkeepers awaited customers with their eyes became very busy on the eve of the holidays. Unfamiliar customers would suddenly appear in their shops and many shopkeepers would run to another one to borrow a piece of goods to be able to give it to the customer…

Inns that were sparsely occupied during year by those traveling through, by a Jewish woman coming to the rebbe for a blessing because she did not have any children, were packed with Hasidim during the month of Elul.

Rosh Khodesh Elul [the start of the month of Elul] was also the time when poor people received money for the rest of the year. During this short time, they took in more donations than during the entire year. During the year, they would go to the houses and receive either a piece of sugar or groshns [pennies] from the woman of the house. And from the very rich houses – a kopeke. But those were very few. In the month of Elul, they did not go to the houses, but begged at the cemetery, where women and men came to visit their parents' graves, to cry, to pour out their heavy hearts and to ask for a good year. Akhazan [cantor], a shamas [a caretaker, usually of a synagogue] would appear from somewhere and recite kaddish [prayer for the dead], which resounded through the entire cemetery.

After the El Malei Rakhamim [God full of mercy – Jewish prayer for the soul of the deceased], the poor would prey upon the mourners and the latter would distribute zekser [coins valued at six] and, sometimes, even five kopekes. Such [people – the mourners] had to be protected and shielded if they, God forbid, gave one groshn coins, because just like the beggars blessed and wished a good year for a good donation, they assailed and cursed everything bad when a donation was a small one. And what Jew wanted to cause trouble and hear a curse in the fearful days [Days of Awe]? So they gave…

In the late evenings, when the poor would finish at the cemetery, they went to the Shul Gas [Synagogue Street], to the rebbe's court where fresh covered wagons of Hasidim would arrive. There, they [the poor] stood in a row. The first one who stood at the entrance was Kulie's [son] Zurekh, the lame one. Near him stood Peske, his wife, a tall and long woman with a yellow face, with a mouth without teeth, wrapped in a silk, ragged shawl, probably a donation from a rich woman.

Chaim Baraban [drum], a Jew with a wide nose like a potato, shouted with breathless curses that they should give him a donation for the orphan. He did not ask, he demanded. Near him stood Shmulikl, the orphan, a small, thin boy, with an outstretched, boney little hand. He did not say anything, but his dark, eyes of exile were demanding…

Nekha with the hiccups also was there. A caved-in woman, immersed in rags; a small, thin head with frightened eyes looking out from the ragged clothing; a closed, exhausted, wide mouth that would suddenly open and begin to hiccup in such a high tone that it carried from the Shul Gas to the market.

Hanihunya also stood there; a tall Jew with a dark, wrinkled face and a black beard, a snuffler who could not pronounce the khes [letter sounded as kh], therefore, he was called Hanihunya.

Thus stretched out the row of native-born [in Radomsko] poor beggars who knew each other, old well-established Noworadomsker paupers, who felt that only they had the right to their shtetl [town] and not the members of the middle-class and the Hasidim who came to their rebbe.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar poor man who no one knew invaded the shtetl and drew all of the attention from passersby to himself. He eclipsed all of the city's poor.

This was not exactly a poor man who asked for donations, but a man in whom sat a dybbuk [wandering spirit] and not only one dybbuk, but two complete [dybbukim]: a khazn [cantor] and a watchman. That's what we children decided because he sang like a cantor and cursed in Polish like a watchman and threatened to arrest [people].

This was a middle-aged man of short stature, with wide shoulders, with a beautifully combed black beard, with eyes like two sharp knives that threatened and terrified. He was dressed in a long, worn kapote [long coat worn by pious men], but neat and tidy, clean. He always carried a cane in his hand, which gave him the appearance of an impoverished merchant. No one knew who he was and from where he came. He was called the Bednicer Dybbuk [wandering spirit from Bednice] because from him the dybbuk spoke or sang; he constantly mentioned theshtetl Bednice.

He mostly had his seizures when we children, would come from kheder [religious primary school]… We would surround him in a circle, all of them young boys except for Tema, the daughter of the [female] baker and me, the only girls who ran along with the boys and with them we ordered: Bednicer, sing [May it be God's will], sing Shabbos [Sabbath] songs, and we threw pennies and candies.


[Page 150]


Around us gathered the best business owners in the shtetl and they watched the spectacle with great curiosity. The Bednicer Dybbuk lay on the ground for his entire length, his shirt opened at the neck, a hairy body visible. He sang and prayed; his mouth was closed, sweat ran from his face and entire body; he convulsed and carried on. Among we children, he evoked admiration and a hidden fear. Business owners and kind-hearted young men, sons-in-law on kest,^[1] watched, saw, listened and gaped. They rewarded him with a generous hand and threw larger coins.

Finished singing, the Bednicer Dybbuk would stand up, wipe the sweat with a large, red pocket handkerchief, pick up the coins that had been thrown and he would bow like a magician. He would place the collected money in a leather pouch and carefully push it into his lowest pants pocket. After resting a considerable time, he again threw himself on the ground and again sang with a closed mouth. If it happened that the coins were small ones or just a few, then the “watchman” would swear and curse with terrible curses and this threw a fear into everyone. Then they would throw the last groshn [pennies] that they had, so that the goy [the gentile watchman], the impudent person, would stop…

For several years, the Bednicer Dybbuk would come to Noworadomsk every Rosh Hashanah Elul and tear away the little bit of handouts from the native poor and, immediately after the Days of Awe, he would disappear. He was resented by the Noworadomsk poor. They would argue with him that he should leave “their city,” but it did not help. They cursed him and swore at him, called him a rascal-thief, poured slop-pails of water over him, even beat him, but all of this was of no help. The poor ran to the rebbe and told him about the Bednicer Dybbuk. The rebbe sent the shamas [synagogue caretaker] and told him to bring him the dybbuk, but he [the dybbuk] had disappeared for a short time and did not appear again unto the end of Elul and he again vanished right after the holiday. He would be forgotten during the year, but as quickly as the Days of Awe neared, he again appeared. A fear would befall the shtetl; Noworadomsk went topsy-turvy. Mothers threatened their children with the dybbuk; brides were afraid to walk in the streets alone in the evening. Young, pregnant women had their mezuzus [small box placed on door frames of Jewish homes containing the Shema Yisroel – Hear O, Israel – the central prayer of Jewish workshop] checked [to ensure the purity of their contents] and did not even go in the street without an apron (a remedy again the bad). Old women would say that they themselves had seen that at midnight two people emerged from the Bednicer Dybbuk; a cantor and a watchman and that the watchman, the drunkard, lay in wait for young girls [young women]…

Noworadomsk looked frightening and mysterious in the lateness of the night when only men sneaked through the empty streets and alleys, the Neyer Weg [New Road], the romantic boulevard, the only paved boulevard without mud, with tall, mature chestnut trees on both sides, where girls and young men would stroll, was empty and deserted. The noise from the Babriger River carried there and mixed with the quiet whispers of the enamored couples. Many loves were joined there. And many broken hearts looked at the passing young people with sad eyes and searched with their eyes for the one who had promised eternal love… In the quiet summer evenings, middle-class young men with [their] long jackets shortened, flowed to the Neyer Weg [and they] would secretly throw side glances at the middle-class daughters, and a romance without words would begin to spin… At times, a yeshiva-bukher [religious secondary school student] would also sneak here, with his peyes [sidecurls] moved behind his ears, who would read forbidden books placed under his sefer [religious text] and with a beating heart, he would set out on the dangerous Neyer Weg that attracted [him] to that concealed world of story books. Journeymen tailors, shoemakers, sock-makers, gaiter quilters also strolled on the Neyer Weg – young people in whom began to awake a militant spirit for something better and from excited mouths was heard the words: “Karl Marx,” strike, struggle, meetings, free America. And quietly, so that no outsider would hear, they sang Doloy Nikolaya (Down with the Tsar). However, the journeymen from various trades no longer walked alone; the seamstresses, women tailors, women sock-makers and young servant women would stroll with them.

However, with the arrival of the Bednicer Dybbuk, the young girls began to disappear from the Neyer Weg. Firstly, the middle-class daughters would be missing, then the working girls and it more and more became a male boulevard. The young men understood that the girls were not coming out of fear of thedybbuk, because they did not dare come alone to the Neyer Weg and, those who did dare, were not permitted by their mothers to go out alone at night. TheNeyer Weg thus became empty, without the girls. The young people suddenly felt as if “someone” had robbed the holiday from their romantic life. The enchanted boulevard was empty of content. That “someone” they knew was the Bednicer Dybbuk, and they decided to take revenge. Leibke Revolutsioner [the revolutionary] called a meeting and after long, hot debates, it was decided to get rid of the Bednicer Dybbuk, to drive him away forever. In the morning, as we children stood in a crowd and in amazement watched the Bednicer's spectacle, when he sang with a closed mouth like a cantor and cursed like a watchman, suddenly the Akhdes [unity] group of young men arrived with sticks in their hand. Just then, the dybbuk lay stretched out on the ground and was in the midst of singing Hamavdil [He who separates – prayer said by women at the close of the Sabbath].

• Better confess your sins – Hirshl Kakuske shouted – before we send you to the next world.
• The dybbuk continued to sing.
• Bednicer, we have come to drive out the dybbuk – Berl Waszewade raised his stick.
• Run away, Bednicer Dybbuk, on your own or go to your rest – Mendl the baker warned.
• If not, we will carry you to your death – another one shouted.

• Oh, the devil take your father – Shimele the shoemaker called out with his cane in the air.
• If you were a real dybbuk – said Motele Szapira, a young man from a Hasidic family (of whom it was said that he had had a breakdown) – you would have gone to our rebbe when he called you and he, may he live, would have driven the evil one from you…
• Stand up and leave here this minute – Leibke “the revolutionary” ordered.

• Stand up and leave and really this minute! Do you hear! This instant!

Suddenly, with a wink from Leibke “Revolutionary,” blows began to fall on the Bednicer. Sticks and fists were lowered on his heavy body.

Khatskele the dandy shouted: You thief, cat's cradle player, Sibernik [criminal exiled to Siberia]! You will no longer frighten our girls and children with false dybbukim. Leave Noworadomsk! Leave here, you rascal!

• The Bednicer stopped singing and shouted breathless curses that they should stop hitting him.
• Asked Shlomo Duner [thunder] – Do you promise us that you will leave?
• Oh, I cannot! the Bednicer groaned.
• Mir tsetreybern [we purge, literally to remove the forbidden vein and fat from a kosher animal] you like a non-kosher cow – Itsikl the butcher, a tall boy with a black eye, called out.
• Stop! I… I promise… the Bednicer groaned – I promise!
• Leibke the revolutionary winked at the group and the blows ceased.
• Promise that you will not show your sneaky face here again!
• I promise – the Bednicer barely gasped and blood ran from his nose.

• Not find… He repeated weakly and submissively.

“Berishl the Actor,” a young man who appeared in Mekhiras Yosef [The Selling of Joseph] on Purim and from which he retained the name “actor,” blessed him – “May you have as good health as you do not have money for a ticket.” However, everyone gave a contribution for a ticket; they accumulated the money and they led him to the station.

Friends, wait, the train is arriving. They pushed the Bednicer into the train wagon, the door closed, [there was] a long whistle, coal smoke poured out of the locomotive. The train disappeared and with the train, the Bednicer Dybbuk disappeared for eternity from our shtetl.

(From Forverts [Forward], New York)

Translator's footnote

1. Receiving support given by a father to his daughter's husband so that he could study Torah. Return

In 1925, there was an entertainment at the Warsaw Literary Union, in its famous meeting hall on Tlomackie 13.

Hundreds of writers, journalists and guests filled this relatively not large hall, which was the Yiddish literary address in Poland. It was a powerful attraction for provincial youth, who, during a visit to Warsaw, wanted at least to breathe the air of their beloved poets and columnists, who could be seen here intimately as if at home. There, the esthete Yosef Heftman is eating marinated herring and the essayist J. M. Neuman is drinking tea withchallah … The political orator Natan Szwalbe enters stuffed with news from the foreign ministry and pours it out for a group of colleagues.

The poet Z. Segalowitch is sitting in a corner with a “literary supplement,” as the young women who attached themselves to the writers were called, and with an expression of Byronic suffering on his face told her the history of his last love.

Melekh Rawicz, the courteous secretary of the Union, still young but with a less aggressive vision than today , discusses the thesis of his then popular speech on “free love” with a group of poets that consisted of the progressive element of the Yiddish shtetl in the then morning years of the awakening.

On the stage under the large oil painting of Y. L. Peretz, the Jewish musicians play an Argentine tango and the small, blond, pale Hersh Dovid Nomberg then stands up and invites a young woman to dance.

The couple makes a considerable contrast; H. D. Nomberg dances with a strenuous sad countenance, as if someone were haunting him. He places his feet like a zealot who has been told by the dance teacher when a turn needs to be made to the right, a thump to the left and stand on tiptoe. And the young woman with a head of blond hair moves naturally, floats a little, unsure in the arms of her talented cavalier.

[Page 152]

Sitting together with me at the table observing Nomberg's balletic troubles are two of his landsleit, Ludwik Wajnberg, the agile photographer from Noworadomsk who is light as a feather, and his young eccentric daughter Tusye. And when the dance is ended, the sweating Nomberg sits down with us at the table. He breathes heavily; he is visibly strained. However, he is happy to see the guests I have brought to the Literary Union so that they would have something to talk about later, back in Noworadomsk.

H. D. Nomberg spent many years in Noworadomsk where his mother, a widow, married a “spirited” Gerer Hasid and wealthy man, Reb Itzel Szterenfeld.

He speaks affectionately with Wajnberg about that city in which the spirit of the founder of the Rabbinic Dynasty of Tiferes Shlomoh (Reb Shlomoh Radomsker) reigns for almost a hundred years. He wants to know what is happening in the Rebbe's court where the golden thread of Hasidus still continues with the grandson of Tiferes Shlomoh, Reb Shlomoh Henekh Hacohen.

The dance atmosphere around us suddenly becomes absorbed by the moving memories of Nomberg's childhood and its world of Hasidic shadows, from which the writer separated so radically.

Nomberg describes a characteristic episode from his childhood, when he studied the Gemara with the Amshinower (Mszczonow) Rabbi and it became clear that the child prodigy Nomberg was growing into a prominent Jewish personality, a great rabbi. “It should be understood, however,” says Nomberg, “the evil spirit, God preserve us, had slipped in among the students and we would play cards in the evening. The Amshinower Rabbi was quickly informed of this and once on a Shabbos night, when we were in the middle of a game of cards in the room of my friend Elimelekh Swarc, there is a knock on the door and I hear the cough of my Rebbe. First, someone answered through the door in the voice of a corpse that comes in a dream: 'If, he who knocks comes with good intentions, let him come in; if, however, he means us harm, let him remain outside…'

“The Rabbi was no fool and quietly left. However, several days later, when I repeated the page of Gemara by heart and with fervor, the Rebbe suddenly stood up with the words, 'You see, Hersh-Dovid, ten years from now, if you are afrumer Jew and a student of the Talmud, my smooth hand here will have grown hair…' We all understood that the prophecy was the result of my card playing.

“By the way, as you know, the prophecy of the Amshinower Rabbi was fulfilled even earlier than ten years, when right after my marriage to the Radomsker beauty Mashele, I traveled to the Rebbe in Ger. Here in Warsaw, another 'rebbe' stopped me and with him I remained…”

Nomberg points with his finger to the portrait painted of Y. L. Peretz, who looks down at us all from the wall and he goes on:

“However, before long, when a copy of Hatzpire with my articles arrived in Noworadomsk and with it confirmation of the earlier rumor that I had become a heretic, my wealthy father-in-law Mordekhai Szapiro came to Warsaw with my young wife Mashele. And I was forced to divorce her and so it was. Although she, Mashele, did not want to and cried bitterly at the get (religious divorce)…”

The orchestra begins to play some sort of lively shimmy motif and H. D. Nomberg, a little drenched from his early sweating, invites Tusye to dance. The photographer Wajnberg says to me; “This is how it is already, my greatlandsman once played cards and would lose. Later, he was drawn into billiards and seldom put the ball in the net. And now, when he dances, he steps on the feet of my daughter. Often, I cannot understand this great spirit; I think, such a clever man, with such a deep perception of people, and so often a victim of small manly weaknesses…”

In the same year I visited Noworadomsk or as the Poles called the city, Radomsko.

It was no longer the same Hasidic fortress as in Nomberg's childhood. When I asked the president of our cooperative bank (Reb Yitzhak Szpira) how many heretics were in the city before the “05” revolution, he started to count on the fingers of his left hand… He bent a finger with the Bundist Alibarde, then with one Z. Szreiber, then he said the name Wajs, remembered another name and ended there. All, that is, the heretics could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

And the other ten thousand Jews? Every morning they ran to daven in the large Beis Midrash, in the new Beis-Midrash, in theshul near the Rebbe's court, in the Gerer shtibl, in Kotcher, in Amshinower and in dozens of houses of prayer. After, they ran to the market, groped in the carts of the peasants and the capable women sat in the stores and worried about the income of the scholarly men.

And if, G-d forbid, the Rebbe became ill, life almost stopped in the city. One waited for a word, for a wink from the Rebbe's court about how he was, if his temperature had gone down. Hardly a trifle – the hundred year rabbinic dynasty of the Tiferes Shlomoh.

The last Rebbe, Reb Shlomoh Henekh Hacohen, inherited not only the brilliant learning of his eminent great grandfather, but also his worldly common sense. He used it in business and was very successful. He became rich, bought a whole street of houses in Berlin for little money and later drew an immense income from them. However, with this vast revenue, he founded a rich yeshiva under the name “Crown of Torah.” He supported many hundreds of students there with food and clothing from his own resources. The last Radomsker Rebbe became a legend during his lifetime. Many times I met his son-in-law, the young rabbi Moishe Rabinowicz, who with his father-in-law was occupied with organizing the “Crown of Torah” yeshivus. It was a marvel to see the devotion with which this worldly, very educated young man carried out the building and planting of the “Houses of Torah.”

And it should be remembered that their deaths, the death of the last Radomsker Rebbe, of his son-in-law and of their families, was very heroic and holy, as great as were their lives.

[Page 153]

In the Warsaw ghetto, in 1942, in the house of their devoted Hasid, Reb Nusen-Pinkhus (Noske) Erlich, on the 17^th of Av, the tragic end of the Radomsker dynasty occurred.

When the Gestapo assassins broke into the Rebbe's residence and demanded that he go down to the courtyard “for a scolding” and be made an example for the hundreds of other inhabitants of the same house, Reb Shlomoh-Henekh refused. He did not want to be brought before his neighbors; he knew that the “scolding” meant death… Dressed in a talis andtefilin, he himself decreed that he be shot first, so that he would not live through the disgrace and when the bullets fell, they one by one annihilated the last Radomsker Rebbe, his son-in-law, their wives, their children and grandchildren, all together 34 souls… The most fervent wish of the Rebbe was fulfilled. Aminyon of Jews brought them all to a Jewish burial at the Gensher Cemetery near theohel of the Nowaminsker rebbe. The Rebbe and his son-in-law lay together; theRebbitzen Esterl and her daughter Reizele lay next door – dear beloved, mother and daughter…

“Here, in the hut, was hidden the poet Leivick, when he escaped from Siberia in “05” and intended to steal across the border…” Thus the bookkeeper of our bank explains to me.

I gaze at the street, the little houses. Later I speak with Ali Alibarde, who helped more than one revolutionary escape abroad across the German border, which is located ten miles from the city. I know too, that to this day, there remains with the poet H. Leivick a warm feeling of gratitude to the young people of Noworadomsk, who showed such heartfelt hospitality while he trudged illegally, in fact, from Siberia on his long road to America. And there in theshtetl has also remained a feeling of pride that they effected this and that in faraway America should bloom a great Yiddish poet.

Later, just before the World War, when I drove by auto from Piotrkow to Częstochowa and stopped for a few hours in Noworadomsk, my friend showed me the house of Hershel Grynspan, who had shot the German diplomat vom Rath in Paris. The world was then shaken by that shot. However, the Jews in Noworadomsk were proud that from their environment had come the avenger. Incidentally, the Grynspan family had been called “The Cossacks” for many years in the city, an indication that in the old days as well the Grynspans did not permit “ shpien in der kashe (any bullying).”

Ten years ago, when I would come to New York not as an immigrant, but as a “respected” envoy of the Cooperative movement in Poland, someone called me on the telephone in my hotel and said:

“My dear Dr. Szoszkes, last night I saw you at your lecture at the Hotel Biltmore and noticed that you are still wearing glasses from the era of Captain Dreyfus. Through such glasses you cannot gaze at the modern era. Now, you must begin to see through American glasses. I have already had the privilege of giving such glasses as a gift to all of the writers and politicians who come here from Europe, and therefore, you must also receive my gift. I am waiting for you [in the lobby] of the hotel. My name is Moishe or Morris Schwartz…”

When I later visited and spoke before the Noworadomskerlandsleit, my attention was particularly drawn to the attachment of these, for the most part, leftist landsleit to the memory of the Radomsker rabbinic dynasty.

I heard them telling about the greatness of Reb Shlomoh, the Tiferes Shlomoh, who had actually died seventy years earlier, and they could only have heard the stories about him from their grandfathers and grandmothers. Yet, many Noworadomskers in New York knew that the old Rebbe's prayer for the new moon caused the Jewish masses to dance in the street and that when Reb Shlomohdavened on Shavous, the whole history of the receiving of theTorah was clearly seen and the shouting and thunder from Mt. Sinai was almost heard…

I learn there, for instance, that when one of the Jewish informers tried to write a letter in a Sefer-Torah that the Hasidim had finished for the Rebbe, the pen did not want to move and as the informer tried to press hard, the pen gave a spurt in the eye and he became blind…

I learn, too, about the great power of hypnosis which the Tiferes Shlomoh used almost one hundred years ago, before the medical world knew of this. The sick were cured of evil spirits and dybbukim and demons and devils would quickly leave the houses, when the Rebbe energetically chased them…

The people did not forget the sincerity, the melodies and the love of their old Rebbe. It was like a golden thread that stretched from generation to generation and remained strong in the Noworadomsker families in the Bronx, in Brooklyn, in Chicago, in Canada and in far Los Angeles. These memories and the tender descriptions of Sarah Hamer-Jacklin, the Radomsker poet meander like a quiet song.

I look at the modern American Jew, my friend Moishe Schwartz, who is a progressive, is not religious and seeks new paths in life, as he looks for them in the optical trade and where he is known in all of America as the creator of the Boylin Company and I ask myself, from where does the person find such piety, when he speaks about “our martyr, the last Rebbe,” when his eyes flash, remembering the yeshivus “Crown of Torah,” when he celebrates the old way of life of his home-city, one of the hundreds, with its Boti-Midroshim, shtiblekh, khazonim, yomim-tovim, with the moving radiance and splendor of our Polish era, which disappeared in the smoke of the bloody fire?!

There are, it seems, glasses that look back generations, which see pictures through the gauze of memories, but such glasses we cannot find; they are somewhere in the pupils of the eye that look deep, back and far.

  Radomsko, Poland     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2025 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 17 Nov 2025 by OR