Life of Rakov People

Monday, a hot and clear day, in the middle of the summer. The market square is crowded -- men and women, Jews and Gentiles. They are all intermingled, people push and are being pushed, people buy and sell, all are shouting at the top of their lungs, everywhere noise and confusion.

The peasants' wagon are placed with apparent order, their shafts pointing upwards; the unhitched horses are facing the wagons, chewing the fresh-cut hay; the neighing of horses can be heard throughout the market square and the 'oink' of the pigs adds to the hustle-bustle.

Sara Nehama's store is full of bodies, with no room to spare. Today she runs a 'sale' on kerchiefs. At the entrance, by the door, her daughter is shoving people in; and, at the same time, her son is busy at the exit throwing people out.

Shlomo Reizle's and his brothers, the strong men of the town, have already done much today, having shown the strength of their arms to more than one goy. Now they are walking to the river Bukrova to cool their young bodies in its water, to dive, and to swim with powerful strokes.

The day is coming to a close, and the setting sun, the red ball of fire, is on the horizon above Vilna Street, way beyond the forest. Black beetles fly in the air and sink down to the ground with a scowling buzz; bats hover overhead, noiselessly chasing each other, like fearsome monsters. The noise in the market place subsided, the town is quiet, and the last wagons are leaving; the peasants and their wives, half drunk, lie in their wagons swinging from side to side, singing the Byelorussian folk songs, returning home from the market...

Yanki of Novofolia was successful today: he sold a young cow to Pinni the Butcher, and the coins are jingling in his pocket. The eyes of Yankiva, his wife, were full of tears when she departed from her “hadvilia” (the animal she raised herself). Yanki, too, felt a slight pinch in his heart: what did he do? He gulped some more “botilotshka” (alcohol), and then some more, until the sad feeling went away. He gave his wife the bottle: Take, Marussa, drink! And don't worry! And now the two of them lie still against the side of the wagon, like two sheaves in a barnyard, and trust to the 'wisdom' of their horses to take them straight home. The air is scented with the smell of freshly cut hay, and the slight chill emanating from the river is intoxicating; the sound of the croaking frogs could be heard from the swamps by the water-mill; the last bathers leave the river refreshed, get dressed, and slowly start back home, their day activities behind them, and plenty of time for night chores. And suddenly, shouts were heard, like the shouts of someone about to get murdered:

-- May the wolves devour you! Go to hell! You... damn you! Where have you brought us, you bastard?!

The people looked around, and here is what they saw: Yanki of Novofolia and his wife lying down in the swamp by the mill, where the 'wisdom' of they horse stuck them. The poor horse was up to his belly in the swamp, kicking with his legs, breathing heavily, trying unsuccessfully to extricate himself. People were already gathered around them, Jews and Gentiles, unable to help, for who would dare enter the swamp where one could sink over his head, and end up meeting his grandmother face to face?... And who knows what would have been the end of Yanki, were it not that Heaven sent him help in the shape of Shlomke Reizle's -- a strong man, broad-shouldered, with two iron hands.

When Shlomke saw the situation of the poor goy, he took pity on him. He immediately rolled up his pants, entered the swamp, and carried the goy and his belongings to the green banks of the river. No sooner did Yanki get out of the swamp, still shivering from the cold, with chattering teeth, and he started swearing at his beast for what it had done him. And while swearing at his beast, this goy remembered that in the morning, leaving his house, he had taken something to the market. Yes, the young cow, the black one. And where was she now? Was she not taken by those deceitful Zhids? And he started cursing the Jews for stealing his young cow.

When Shlomke heard those words he got angry, and his hands landed on Yanki's face again and again: “Is that what you 'muzhik' [peasant] say?!”, Shlomke raised his voice and punched him in the stomach with his fists, until the goy collapsed and fell back into the swamp. The Gentiles saw that and immediately surrounded Shlomke with murder in their eyes, until it seemed that they would finish him. But the brave Shlomke would not let them do as they wished, and was happy for the opportunity to show those Gentiles the strength of his arms. His two brothers came to his aid, and the three of them started striking and hitting right and left. Bloody and wounded, the Gentiles ran away with their last breath, scattering in all directions.

And the teller ends the story: And who knows what would have been the end of these Gentiles had not the lads' mother come rushing, with a stick in her hand, and shouted: Go home, sheigets [unruly youngsters]! You may still, God forbids, bring riots upon the town with your heroics! The sons cooled off a little, dipped in the water to chill their bodies, which had gotten hot, and returned home, while their mother, Reizle, hurried after them: Home, sheigets!

I heard the following description from my wife, Rinah, and my sister-in-law, Gansia Rubin, who had known Shlomke Reizle's in his later years, until his death. He was not strong then, nor brave, but a dissolute man, wandering the streets of the town, arm in arm with his good friend Yuzshek the “Sitar” (sieve maker), both always drunk. With the passage of time, his name became synonymous with everything that was coarse, licentious, and worthless. His behavior was a disgrace to his family. Until one day, and he was already an old man, he returned home full of liquor, fell on his bed, and expired. When his good friend Yuzshek the “Sitar” heard that, he came and stood by the corpse and said: “Shlomke, Shlomke, I always entreated you: drink some and then some, but always leave some drinking for the dessert; but you drank and did not have dessert, and death overtook you...”

Aba Botvinik related the following: Shlomke Reizle's would enter a tavern, stick a bottle of vodka in his mouth, drink some, chew on the empty part, spit the broken glass and continue to drink. He did this until he finished both the bottle and its content.

A wintery night, and the moon is full. It was Saturday night. The Jews were returning home from the synagogue, and the town was reassuming its weekday demeanor. Smoke was coming out of the chimneys and was spreading over the roofs and over the quiet streets of Rakov. Everything was silent. Only the moon and the stars in the sky were shedding their light on the soft white snow. It was a cold night, in the middle of Winter, people huddled in their homes, and not a soul could be seen in the streets. A sled was rushing by, disappearing quickly. The frightening sound of barking dogs could be heard from afar, a wintery wind was shaking the unlocked gate, frost was covering the ground, embracing the whole world.

Only the courtyard of Hirshel the “Commissioner” [a person who would go to the city to buy goods for the merchants and receive a commission] was full of motion. He was readying the sled for the trip to Minsk, loading sacks and packages. Shopkeepers would come with their lists of goods, for him to bring back from Minsk, and would argue with him about this and about that, and he, Hirshel, would apologize, promise, and... continue with the last preparations for the trip. Basically, Hirshel was a good tempered and a good mannered Jew, giving all comers a hearty “Shalom aleichem” [welcome], enthusiastically shake hands, with his six fingers, and it felt like a bundle of fingers was stuck in the palm of your hand.

But this time his spirit was not high, it was apparent that he was not looking forward to the journey: who could predict what would happen on the road? He still remembered the previous trip, when the unexpected blizzard piled up 'mountains' of snow, and blocked every path, and he found himself stuck between two huge piles of snow, unable to move, and had it not been for farmers from the nearby village, who rescued him, he would have surely perished.

The preparations were completed, the sled was hitched and ready for the journey, loaded to the brim with packages and sacks, only one small corner remain empty, which Hirshel set aside for his honored passenger -- Basha Riva the shopkeeper, who was traveling to Minsk with him to do her shopping.

And Basha Riva, you have to understand, was not petite. She was, without casting the Evil Eye, a voluminous, wide-waisted woman; even her height was not much shorter than that of “Big” Yitzhak Ya'akov. And now, you can imagine that for the trip to Minsk she put on clothes upon clothes, one more dress, and one more blouse, and a sweater, and a kerchief, and on top of all of that -- the fur coat, the felt boots on her feet, and several “bashlikim” (hoods) on her head. When she sat herself in the wagon it was as if a gigantic structure, a many storied building, was loaded on the wagon.

And the wagon moved, pulled by the white horse; at first slowly, and then with a trot. They passed Minsk Street, the Polish cemetery, and they reached the Barbina, where Hirshel met with the other “commissioners”, and they all traveled together. And the road was bright with snow, as if a large white sheet was spread over the length and breadth of the Barbina, all straight and smooth without even a small depression, and the sled glided over it, easily and quickly.

The horses were trotting over fields and through forests. The skies above wide and deep, and the teamsters were sitting inside the wagons, bundled up in their coats, dozing. They could trust their horses, who knew well the way to Minsk. Not so Hirshel's white horse. This horse would stop as soon as he sensed that his owner was slumbering, raise his ears, listen to Hirshel snoring, drop his horsey head, shut one eye, and doze.

And Basha Riva? Don't ask. She was very comfortable in her corner, and no sooner did they leave Rakov, that she fell asleep. It was dark all around, and the sled was standing in the middle of the road to Minsk, with all its passengers, including its white horse, sound asleep.

And Hirshel awoke from his sleep. When Hirshel woke up the horizon was already reddening, the moon was setting, stars were disappearing one by one; a flock of ravens was flying overhead, filling the air with their shrieks. Smoke was already rising from the chimneys of the huts of the village, the night was over, and dawn was coming. Hirshel wiped off the 'webs' of sleep from his eyes, saw that he was left behind by the caravan, and that he was only half way to Minsk. In his great anger he poured his wrath on the skin of the animal; the whip in his hand bristled once and twice, the animal was startled and jumped on all four -- and the wagon with it. Basha Riva, who was sitting at the edge of the wagon, fell down into the soft snow, unseen, and continued to weave her sweet dreams. Neither Hirshel nor the horse noticed the loss. On the contrary, as the load of the wagon lightened with the fall of Basha Riva, the horse ran at a fast pace, and the wagon 'flew' over the snow, so as to reach Minsk early.

Early Sunday morning. The Rakov pig merchants were returning home from Minsk, hurrying their horses, so as not to miss the Sunday Mass in their churches. To their amazement, the first horse of the caravan stopped suddenly in its tracks, and then all the other horses, neighing and jumping. The Gentiles stepped down to see what was happening, and were astonished to find Basha Riva sitting in the snow -- fast asleep. Surprised, they crossed themselves.

What are you doing here, Basha Riva? The Gentiles started shaking her, and waking her up. She opened her eyes, looked around to learn in which world she was, and mumbled to herself: “I am going to Minsk, to Minsk.”

This is the story which I heard from my father, who was an official of the “Hevra Kadisha” [the Burial Society].

On the road between Gorodok and Rakov, nearer to Gorodok, there lived a simple country Jew, he and his family -- his wife and three sons. Over the years, the people of Gorodok learned to know them: they were well-to-do but coarse and miserly. They would not share their bread with a passerby, and did not donate even a penny for the needs of the community. Therefore, the people of Gorodok were waiting for the opportune moment, when that family would need the service of the community, to make them pay through the nose, to compensate for the past.

And it came to pass, that the father of the family fell sick and died. The brothers were in a quandary: Where should they bury the father? Should he be taken to Gorodok? -- but they were known there, and people were just waiting for the opportunity to 'skin them alive'. They decided, therefore, to bury their father in Rakov. There, where they were not known, it would cost them only pennies.

They decided, and they carried out the decision. They spread hay in the wagon, loaded the dead body, and brought him to Rakov. When my father heard of their coming, he sent them to the 'guests' synagogue, where the funerals of the 'out-of-towners', were usually held. As to the cost, Father told the brothers that they would have to pay 10 Rubles.

-- “What”, shouted the eldest brother, “where can we find 10 Rubles? We are but a poor family.”

-- “If you are poor”, said Father, “then it is a different matter. You will have to pay only three Rubles.”

The eldest brother paid the three Rubles, and, with a burst of joy, called to his brothers: “So, you see, I told you that we could do it here for mere pennies. And do you know what, when the time comes, we should bring Mother here to be buried.”...

Whether or not they brought their mother I do not know, since, in spite of themselves, before it was all over they had to shell out 20 Rubles for the burial, and place them on Father's desk.

R. M. Of Rakov was a craftsman -- a carpenter by trade. It is true, we cannot deny it, that he was not one of the best. It is well known that he never produced a well-made piece of furniture. As a craftsman, he did not come even close to R. Bantche the Carpenter. Therefore, he had to seek jobs out of town, in the neighboring villages, to make his living. And that was his routine: He would hoist a case with glass on his back, put the carpenter's tools under his arm, and thus, with the case in the back and his red beard in front, he would be on the road for the whole week, until Friday afternoon. In the villages he found work aplenty: he would put glass in the windows of one house, fix the door of a second, and place a board on the roof of a third. And thus he spent his weekdays. At night he would sleep at the home of one of the peasants, and on the morrow he would go out to his work. He would go around from village to village, fixing here, patching there, until Friday afternoon. At noon on Friday, he would place the sack on his shoulders, full with the best of the villages he had visited, and head home to Rakov -- a Sabbath guest.

He had heard a lot about hungry wolves who devoured humans on such wintery nights, and he did not want to come face to face with them. What should he do? “Put your trust in the Holy One, blessed be His Name”, he decided, “and whatever would be would be.” And with his last strength he started to walk towards the shining lights. But as he reached them, he saw a group of peasants walking towards him, headed by some ill-tempered dogs. As soon as the dogs saw him, they broke loose and charged at him, ready to attack, and even devour, him. It was only thanks to the goys, who intervened and calmed the dogs down, that R. M. Remained alive. After they calmed him, they took him into one of the houses, frightened, frozen, and tired. After he rested a while, and the fear of the dogs went away, he told those goys who he was, what had happened to him, and how he had lost his way.

But the biggest surprise was still awaiting him. “Do you know where you are?”, asked the goys, “You are at the palace of the Graf [a title of nobility], in his Novopholya Estate.” R. M. Had heard a lot about the retired General, who received the Novopholya Estate as a gift from the Czar, and who lived there like a king, surrounded by his many servants. Only that R. M., the wandering poor carpenter from Rakov, had never dreamt that he would spend the night in the General's palace. The next morning, when he woke up, he became aware that all that he had heard of the grandeur and splendor of the General was nothing compared to what he was seeing: a splendid palace, surrounded by imposing buildings the like of which he had not seen, servants and other workers engaged in various chores in the yard and in the fields, which extended as far as the eye could see. The large stable was full of grooms, tending to the horses as if they were spoiled children. And lo, they took out three purebred horses, hitched them to an expensive sled, and the General himself came out of the house, tall and erect, with his golden epaulets on his shoulders, over the uniform, exuding majestic splendor. He sat himself in the sled, and 'sailed away' with the hunting dogs running at his heels. The General went hunting.

As the sun was setting, and the Sabbath was over, R. M. Was taken to Rakov by one of the General's men, who was going there to purchase something.

For many years afterwards, R. M. Would tell and retell of all the wonders he had seen in the General's estate, and of what happened on that wintery day when he lost his way home. And R. M. Would end, as if sharing a secret: “It was not so bad, after all I spent a Sabbath in the palace of the General.”

Shmuel the Potter was terminally ill. He had been sick in bed for about a year, suffering from that heavy dry cough, which kept coming out of his rutting lungs. His face would turn green, and his body would shake, and the 'hoch... hoch... hoch...' would be heard throughout the house. His wife, Dvora, would rush to his side, give him some of the medicine, and wipe off the phlegm from his white beard. The drops of valerian would ease his breathing for a while, until the next cough would burst out of his lungs: 'hoch... hoch... Hoch...

She, Dvora, was already used to that, and took care of him in her quiet way; she poured him a glass of tea from the kettle, gave him a few more drops of the medicine, changed his bedding, and cleaned his phlegm. But even the strength of this woman could end, and she would need a good night's sleep. From time to time someone would come and stay overnight, so that she could have a few hours of rest. One day, it was early Spring, my friend Rivka Glivotzky came rushing to my house: Yehudit, you know that Shmuel the Potter is deadly ill, let's go there and stay overnight, and give Dvora some rest. We were young then, sixteen - seventeen years old, and our hearts were touched by Shmuel's suffering. So, I informed my mother, and we went.

The entrance to the apartment was through a dark and narrow hallway. Some firewood was stacked against one wall, and the opposite wall had a window frame but no window; the frame was covered with old boards both Winter and Summer. We stumbled through the dark, until we found the door, and when it finally opened we had to stoop to enter the apartment. On the outside the house looked like a ruin, about to collapse; on the inside there was a small room, mostly taken by a wide stove -- the kitchen, and next to it, separated by a partition of thin wood, was a second room. It was in this, second, room, that Dvora kept busy washing, sewing, and polishing. Along the walls we saw a table, a bench, a small wooden sofa, and four upholstered chairs; a clean cloth was spread over the table, as white as snow. Everything here was clean,

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polished, and shiny. As we entered, Dvora came out of a back room, where she was caring for her husband, and welcomed us with a smiling face and obvious joy: “Good evening, children!”, she said, and called to her husband: “Shmuel, Shmuel, see what dear guests we have.” She immediately went to the kitchen, brought back a boiling kettle, and poured us two glasses of tea. The hard cough of the sick man was heard from the back room, and when it eased a little he called Dvora, and whispered something in her ear. She took a white sheet and two pillows, placed them on the wooden sofa, went into the back room, and the two of them came out, with the sick man leaning on her.

Shmuel looked terrible, almost like a corpse, and we were filled with some strange fright. He, somehow, sat himself on the sofa, reclined on the two pillows, with his feet dangling in the air, took a deep breath, and said: Do you see Dvora'le, it has been a long time since I saw a young face in our home, and here, tonight, God brought us two of them. Oy -- he continued with a sigh -- those youngsters remind me, perhaps during the last minutes of my life, of those days long ago when we were young, days of youth which passed so quickly. It seems as if it were only yesterday, and here I am on the edge of the grave... Dvora stopped him and asked him not to talk, lest he would be seized by the cough, but he did not pay attention: No, -- he said -- I do not think that I will cough... and I feel that I must talk, must pour my heart out. Afterwards, it would be easier to welcome death.[Page 119]

And turning to us: Tell me, have you ever loved? Have you tasted the sweet taste of love? Have your young hearts ever trembled at the sight of a loved one, or at the sound of his voice? Oh! We knew the meaning of love! Didn't we, Dvora'le? Tonight we are not ashamed to tell everything.

Do you remember the yellow coral necklace that I bought you for ten kopeks [Russian pennies]? That necklace in which I invested all that my heart felt for that creature who was, in those days, so young and so beautiful and so lovely! True, I was a handsome lad too, wasn't I, Dvora? Yet, I was only a poor potter, making pottery for the Gentiles, and earning but a few pennies a week. And I had to bring those pennies to Mother, whose house was full of children; and I, the eldest, was the breadwinner, earning the money that Mother needed. We were almost neighbors. Every day, on my way to work, I passed by their house and saw Dvora'le, and something inside me started quivering. But, I did not dare stop, for even one minute, and exchange a few words with her, for she was the daughter of one of the wealthier men in town, and I came from a poor family.

And the festival of Simchat Torah arrived. As always, all the girls came to the synagogue, and I saw Dvora'le among them. During the Hakafot [walking around holding the Torah scrolls] I passed near her, and she stretched her head and kissed the scroll that I was carrying. Without thinking, I grabbed her arm, but released it instantly. I saw that she blushed, dropped off the bench, and disappeared among her friends. My eyes searched her, but I did not see her until the Service was over. Leaving the synagogue I saw her standing by the door, she came to me and whispered: What have you done? Everybody saw you grabbing my arm! She whispered, and she flew away, like a pretty bird, without waiting for my reply. True, she flew away -- Shmuel continued with his story -- but my heart was full of joy. I knew that she had noticed me and that she liked me.

Since that day, I started taking a little bit off my earning and put it in a special purse. Mother asked me about the missing money, but I always had my excuses. When Passover was approaching, and after I had received a good raise from my employer, I asked Mother to order a new suit for me from Ya'akov the Tailor; a suit just like the sons of the balei batim [well-to-do] wear. Ah, who was like me when, on Passover, I strolled with my new suit, just like the sons of the balei batim, a handsome and well groomed lad. And when I passed by Dvora's house I took courage, approached her and said: “Good day, Dvora'le!”, and she answered: “Good day to you, Shmuel!”, and continued to stare until I disappeared around the corner. I was full of love for her, and the thought occurred to me: Look Shmuel -- I said to myself -- you are a handsome lad, you have a nice suit, you earn your living, why don't you get married? But how does one do that? First of all, one has to buy a present. As I still had ten kopeks left, I decided to buy her a necklace of yellow corals -- the customary present of a groom to his intended bride. One Saturday night after Pesach, I put on my new suit, went out, and saw my Dvora'le coming towards me. “Have a good week, Dvora!”. I said. “Good week, Shmuel!”, she answered. I gathered up my courage and asked her to walk with me on Granary Lane; but she walked away, “I am on my way to some friends”, she said. When I implored her, she simply said: “I am afraid that people will see us” and ran away.

I was dumbfounded. I did not want to remain on the street, so I returned home, took off my clothes, and went to bed. It is easy to sat “to bed”. I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. “So that's how it is”, I was thinking, “and you, fool, had such great hopes because of her few smiles; you even wanted to marry her.”

The next day I was very tense. I finished work with great effort, and returned home still seething with anger. But behold who was waiting for me! Dvora'le! It was already dark when I passed by her,

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and she asked me to stop for a moment, stuck a note in my hand, and disappeared. The note said: “Come tonight to the bushes behind your house, I will be waiting for you there.”

I ran home quick as an arrow, and refused food or drink. My mother became worried that I was ill, and advised me to go to bed; but I washed, got dressed, and ran... to the bushes. Dvora arrived a few minutes later, and we fell into each other's arms. We were so young, and were lost in our emotions; our hearts beat as one. We went on meeting almost every evening, without anyone knowing. One evening I brought her the coral necklace which I had bought for ten kopeks. In the whole world, no one was as happy as I was when I put the necklace around her neck. Those were the happiest days of our lives. Weren't they, Dvora'le?

Dvora was silent; only wiping the tears from her eyes. And the sick man continued:

That evening we vowed to remain together for the rest of our lives, whether or not our parents would consent to our marriage. Shortly afterwards, we stood together under the hupah [wedding canopy]. We bought this apartment, and here we raised our children. We lived in poverty, but with much love; the children being our comfort until they grew up. One day, our eldest daughter, Haya Batya, came to us and announced: Father, Mother, I am going to America, to the Land of Liberty. All our entreaties were in vain, and she persisted: I want America, the Land of Liberty. And she went -- and the other three followed suit. And we remained alone.

Suddenly he stopped his story, asked for a few more drops of valerian, drank a little, and then continued: “Dvora, I have one request of you, do not sell this table cloth which we got as a wedding present; also -- do not marry someone else...”

His strength was leaving him. His mouth continued to whisper, but we could not recognize the words. Suddenly he got very pale, fell down on the sofa, his throat issued a strange noise, and some foam mixed with phlegm came out of his mouth. The noise got louder, and we made him comfortable on the sofa and covered him with a blanket. We sent Dvora to rest, and she fell on the bed, dead tired. We lowered the light, and the two of us huddled frightened. Thus we spent the hours until dawn, when Dvora woke up and sent us home. I got into bed, and very soon was fast asleep.

When I woke up, light was coming through the shutters, and the sound of the voices of the Hevra Kadisha [burial society] was heard: “Charity thwarts death”... “Charity thwarts death”...

I knew -- R. Shmuel the Potter was dead.

Rakov was surrounded by forests, and in those forests there lived Jews, healthy of body and sturdy of frame, who, in spite of their close commercial ties with Rakov, chose to settle alone, in the small villages, among trees, fields, and lakes.

R. Yohanan of Solominka, the Commissioner. In the woods of Solominka, some two kilometers east of Rakov, lived Yohanan the Commissioner. He was a learned Jew, of good appearance, with a long beard down to his chest. His business was bringing goods from Minsk to the shopkeepers of Rakov [for which he received a commission -- hence the name 'Commissioner']. The work was not easy, yet he would spend every free hour bent over the pages of the Gmara, studying with unquenched thirst, and his singsong voice would come out of his rustic hut, mingling with the chirping of the birds and the murmur of the water flowing in the river, which passed next to his house. When he saw a passerby, or even someone at the distance, he would hurry and invite him home, to eat at his table. Both in his appearance and in his way of life, he resembled that ancient one [the Patriarch Abraham], the like of which is very uncommon nowadays.

R. Yehoshua of Michlova. The Michlova Forest stretched along the Rakov - Vilna road, some two kilometers west of the town. It was a thick forest, spreading over many kilometers. Here R. Yehoshua of Michlova chose to settle. He was a big trader, dealing in wood, shapely and clever, with a fragrant cigarette constantly in his mouth. He was honest in his dealings, but firm, and something of the health of the forest and its strength stuck to him. He and his family lived well in a large house. He was involved with the town people, and was always seen riding his two-wheeled carriage led by a well-groomed horse. Both his appearance and his manners were those of a powerful rich man. But the truth must be said, he used to give money to the needy, and donated to charity whenever he was asked.

The “yishuvnitza” [female settler] Feige Danishevsky also lived in Michlova. She was a capable woman, who leased a large dairy farm, and managed the business cleverly and knowledgeably -- just like a man.

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R. Yehoshua of Poholanka. The road to Ivenets, a small town twenty-one kilometers from Rakov, started at Slovoda, at the end of Vilna Street, and continued along the Poholanka Forest. Not far from the road, in a tavern in the forest, lived R. Yehoshua of Poholanka. Short, skinny, with a red beard, he was known as a simple man, with modest manners and a quiet voice. He was a 'commissioner', but in addition to the buying and fetching goods he also cultivated a small piece of leased land. He had three cows, whose produce -- milk, cheese, and butter -- he would sell in the town. We, the teenagers, used to walk to his house in Poholanka on Saturday afternoons, order a jar of the rich milk and some creamy and fragrant cheese, and eat it with the rye bread which his daughter baked. That was a delicacy whose taste still remains in my mouth.

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In the same Poholanka Forest, Tanhum Popka used to make turpentine from the pine trees of the forest, as well as grease for the wagon-wheels, and wood coal.

R. Yitzhak Segalovitz. He used to manufacture machinery for chopping hay and straw. During the war between Poland and the Bolsheviks, right after the First World War, he was seized by Polish soldiers and tried as a spy. The military tribunal sentenced him to hang, and only by a miracle, after appeals for mercy, and the intercession of the leaders of the community and the local Catholic priest, his life was spared and he was released.

R. Noah of Nosvitz. He had a factory for manufacturing soap. R. Noah used to sell his product in the market places in Rakov and the neighboring towns.

Isaac the Tailor lived on the Market Square. He was an expert in his craft, and the better-off balei batim would invite him to their houses before the Festivals, and he would sit and sew suits for all the male members of the household.

There were also older tailors whose time had passed, such as R. Ya'akov the Tailor. I heard the following story about him: He was a Jew with a majestic face, and a beard which gave the appearance of a scholar. And it happened that R. Ya'akov entered the Tailors' Synagogue, where, as usual, a group of young people were sitting and studying. When the scholarly looking Jew entered, one of the youngsters wanted to start a learned conversation with him. He mentioned a difficult passage in the Talmud that the learners had been discussing, some interpreting it one way and some another, and asked for R. Ya'akov's opinion. R. Ya'akov glanced at the Talmud's page “as a rooster when 'Bnei Adam' is recited” [an idiom which means: without any comprehension], but did not lose his composure and responded: “It so happened that you asked your question of a knowledgeable person; but what would have happened had you asked the question of someone who was ignorant of the meaning of the sayings of our sages? Wouldn't you have embarrassed him? Therefore you do not deserve an answer.” Having said that, he turned and left the synagogue...

And another tailor: The father of Pinchas and Yitzhak Ze'ev Greenholtz was a clever Jew, but his style of tailoring was old-fashioned and he turned the business over to his two sons. They started a workshop for manufacturing ready-made clothes and employed many workers.

This industry was, by and large, in the hands of the Gentiles, but Jews were involved with it as well. For example, Re'uven the Potter who was known as 'the leader' of the Psalms recitation on Sabbath Eves.

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He had a 'hazakah' [claim] on this task: on the eve of the Sabbath, between Minchah [the afternoon service] and Ma'ariv [the evening service], he would stand up at the head table in the synagogue, bang on it, and read aloud: “Happy are they that walk upright” [the first verse of Psalm 119], and the congregation would repeat after him, verse by verse...

And also R. Shlomo Yidel, who was a yeshiva student until his marriage, and an ordained rabbi. He married the daughter of a Rakovian potter, received a pottery workshop as his dowry, and was nicknamed “the Potter Rabbi”.

Beryl the Brazdiyanky. He was called thus after the small village Brazdiyankivo, where his family had lived for several generations. He, just like his fathers before him, cultivated a small piece of land, as did all the Gentiles of the village, and filled his granary with grain and his cellar with other produce of the farm. He also had a cowshed with a few milking cows; and, like his Gentile neighbors, he would come to Rakov on market-days to sell his farm-produce to the Jewish merchants in town. There was one difference between him and his neighbors -- he was learned, and after a hard day work he would sit by the oil-lamp and read a newspaper or page through a book. True, the farm work made him appear coarse and unrefined, but underneath this crude outer layer was a man of culture, as even a short conversation with him made clear. He and his family were murdered during the First World War by a band of robbers, who used to roam the forest in those days.

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Smiths and Mechanics

Rakov had many blacksmiths. In Slovoda, on the road to Yivnitz, was the workshop of Hanan the Blacksmith and his son Mordechai. Their work was, mostly, the shoeing of the horses of the peasants of the neighboring villages.

Feibe Gershon the son of Noah. A tall skinny Jew, well-built and strong, with muscular arms. He worked in his blacksmith shop all week, but on Fridays he closed early in the afternoon and rushed to the bathhouse. Clean and shiny, he returned home, had a small glass of spirits, and then another one, tasted the Sabbath delicacies, and hurried to the synagogue. “The Sabbath is the Sabbath”, he would tell his wife, looking forward to the time Minchah [the afternoon service] would commence; for he had the 'claim' on leading this service. And don't you make light of this responsibility...

Binyamin the Blacksmith. His shop was on the edge of town, near the bathhouse. He was an expert in his craft, iron-smithing, and made farming implements: plows, harrows, axes, knives, and more. He was of average height. I still remember how he looked: his solid and wide body, and his long blond beard which was flowing down to his wide chest and gave him the appearance of a learned Jew. Even though he was not exactly learned, he was familiar with the “black dots” [printed letters]. He had a 'claim' on reading the Torah on the Sabbath, during the early service, which was conducted in the “Shtible” [small synagogue]. That was a source of pride for him and for his colleagues.

R. Hayim Ely Poznik. He had two lines of business: his machinery workshop, where he worked himself and employed others, and... Hasidism. He was a disciple of the Koidnov Rebbe, and the leader of the Koidnov Hasidim [followers of the Koidnov Rebbe] in the town. It was in his house that the Rebbe stayed whenever he came to town to visit his 'flock'. During these visits it was as if the Shechinah [Holy Presence] was dwelling with R. Hayim Ely and his household. The whole material-world would be forgotten; he would dress in the 'Hasidic' garb -- a black robe with a sash tied around his waist -- and he and other followers would dance around their Rebbe and make merry. On those days he absorbed the spiritual inspiration which would sustain him on all the other, common, days. He derived his Hasidic ecstasy from that ancient well -- the book of “Zohar” [a cabalistic book], which he would read at any spare moment, and whose words he would drink thirstily.

The first teacher we must mention is R. Shlomo Rosenthal, who taught the Bible with the commentary of R”aSHI [Rabbi SHlomo Itzhaki, a famous Eleventh Century Biblical and Talmudic commentator]. He was a born teacher, and his approach to the subject matter and its teaching was based on a deep love. The students returned his love, and the memory of his lessons remained with them to the end of their lives.

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R. Israel Hayim of Telitzky. He taught Gmara to boys who were already twelve - thirteen years old. Having learned with him, the students could turn to a page of the Talmud and study it by themselves.

And after him, it was but a short step to the famous yeshivas: Volozhin, Mir, Slovodka, Telz, Radin, Vilna, and Minsk. Indeed, many of his students traveled to these yeshivas and 'filled their bellies' with the study of Torah, and some of them were crowned as rabbis [were ordained].

Shmuel Yitzhak Ruventzik. He studied in the Rakov yeshiva for several years, married a local girl, and established the “progressive heder” where he taught the Hebrew language in Hebrew. He was the chairman of the Rakov branch of the Zionist Organization when it was at its infancy and numbered no more than ten members. In 1912 he migrated to Eretz Israel, changed his name to Re'uveni, and taught in the “Tahkemoni” school [in Tel Aviv]. He passed away in 1938, and left an extensive family, which was much involved with the life of the Jewish community in Palestine.