My Parents' House

Ah, the memories! Moments of life about which I want to write. I know from the past that more than half of the Jews are natives of the villages. Now, at meetings among conversations about those times, people say, “Oh, shtetele-shtetele! This is a lost Paradise.” However, this sentiment can be divided into two periods of the life of every Jew.

During the first years of my life, up to about the age of ten, it was paradise when the winter-spring wind sometimes blew the snow into drifts. We children played in the snow. And because I was still short, it seemed to me that the snow drifts were enormous. They were so huge that we could sculpt a snowman out of snow that all could see from afar. My brother Lazarus, who was two years older than me, courted a girl named Gineshe, but we called Nina. Her family of five returned from evacuation to Kalinkavichyi, where we lived. We always laughed at the way Lazarus called to her to walk on the snow drifts with him, saying, “come out here, there is a lot of snow.” We threw snowballs, and rode on homemade skis and skates made out of boards, bars and wire.

We children enjoyed the first rays of the spring sun which melted the snow, and we ran together on the street of the shtetl Davydovka, in the Gomel region of Belarus. As ice still remained underneath the snow, we poked sticks into the ice to quicken its melting. Melted snow turned into thin streams of water, which flowed to a larger stream. We made paper boats to sail on the water, and shouted and chatted and played. Passing adults smiled as we awakened their joyful memories of youth, and our parents scolded us for getting wet and cold and sick. But we did not pay attention. We ran and were glad of the coming spring.

Ah, Spring! The time when flowers blossomed: pansies, peonies, snowdrops, chamomile and daisies. We collected birch sap in jars, dripping with delicious, cold sweet juice. The forest was covered with greenery and gardens, and was abundant with apples, pears, cherries and plums, white flowers at the spots which later grew fruit. The fields were covered with clover, poppy, sunflower, buckwheat and other grains. Many tasty potatoes grew in the sandy Belarus soil. I also remember that there were a lot of stones on our street. We loved to throw stones, sometimes even arranging competitions on who could throw farther. Whoever won, collected our toys. Then one day one of us said, “If only comrade Stalin threw a stone, the stone would fly to Moscow.” And of course we all agreed. Here is an example of how boys seven to ten years old thought about the “geniuses” of mankind.

One day, walking through the clover field, we saw flying insects that landed on flowers. Some of our boys asked a farmer why these insects sit on the yellow flowers? He explained that the bees land on flowers, suck out their sweet nectar and carry it to a specially made box or a hollow tree where honey is formed. Our mouths watered. We continued to play and suddenly Nick cried out in pain. We thought that bees were the same kind of insect as moths, beetles and dragonflies. The farmer did not explain that bees can sting. I ran to the track and saw that Nick was cradling his hand. He had endured a bee sting and we could see a needle remaining in his finger, which I pulled out. As the pain gradually subsided, we ran on.

We played different games and we also played with the girls, Tamara, Manya, Fania and others. We almost always played before dark, as long as none of the parents came out to shout: “Children, go home.” Or: “Kinder, gey aheym,” because not everyone could speak in Russian. And we ran. Once, while playing hide and seek, I asked Tamara, a very beautiful girl, with whom I somehow often hid, “Tomochka, show me what you have there,” and I pointed. She was confused and ran away. A few days later she said: “First, you show what you have there, and then I'll show you.” And we showed each other, a little shyly, but at the same time happily ran on. We liked each other. Tamara was a very beautiful girl, slim, with blue eyes, blond hair and dimples. I remember her pink dress.

The shtetl Davydovka is a street length of about two miles from South to North, with comfortable medium sized houses, containing about forty Jewish families. Belarusian families also lived there, many of whom spoke Yiddish, including the parents of my friend Kolya Mickiewicz. Often, when the Jews met with Belarusians, and they had to discuss something secret, and children were nearby, they spoke Yiddish, so we did not understand.

Many Jews in our class, including me, could not spell the letter “R”, i.e., burr. Children who were not Jews, mocked us. I remember being 7-years-old, afraid to utter a single word, for fear of ridicule. Sometimes I even cried because of it. But I constantly trained myself how to speak the words with the letter “R”, as long as I have not learned how to do it without lisping. Only then I calmed down. Now, I would have given much to be able to talk at least a little bit in Hebrew, because it is said that the founder of Zionism and the State of Israel, Theodor Herzl, made his first appearance on the second Zionists Congress in 1898 and declared the creation of the State of Israel with Hebrew as the national language.

The western side of the main street in the pine forests was about 15-20 km long and this is where we went to collect blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, mushrooms, chanterelles, and etc. Then we dried them for the winter, and mom cooked a delicious mushroom soup, meat, and juice. In the forest, the road that passes between the trees was going through the fields to the neighboring villages of Prosvet, Shatilki, Azarychy, Parichi and other settlements on the way to the city of Kalinkavichyi.

My grandfather, Abram Heitmann, owned a tar plant on the left side of the street in the woods, which was destroyed during the revolution. A hospital was constructed on this site later on. We boys, Eugene Katchura, Koley Mickiewicz, Marat Frenklah and others, went to the destroyed factory and pulled out nails, collected animal bones, bottles and rags, and brought them to Leibo Karavashniku, who gave us 5-10 kopecks, which we used to buy candy, cookies and other treats. Leibo was a very interesting person. He was 40 years old and went around unshaven in torn trousers, a jacket without a sleeve, and a cap on the side of his head. He had a horse, but instead of it, he sometimes pulled the wagon. Then, when I was older and read the books by Sholem Aleichem, Leibo reminded me of the hero of these works. The boys ran after him, teased him and sang a song we composed about him.

If tomorrow there is a war,
we will kill a boar,
Leyviku will surrender the skin
and fat and meat
we will all eat.

We collected the heads of matches in a metal tube with a curved end into which we put a nail. When Leibo began to fall asleep, we created an explosion under his door by hitting the nail on the stone. He jumped up and chased us. However, he was on friendly terms with us because we did business with him.

Jewish men of our shtetl sewed very beautiful shoes in under-equipped shoe shops in their rented houses which stood in the middle of the street. They sewed boots, sandals, shoes and other footwear. They also repaired old shoes for the residents of our town and for the peasants of nearby villages.

My father, Beryl Spevak, worked hard in the factory to feed his eight children and he still had to work more and sew at home, which is what he did before the start of the working day. I remember that when I woke up early in the morning he was already working. He had a special pad, awl, and several sizes of threads. In payment for h is work the peasants brought butter, milk, cheese and other products. Otherwise we did not have enough for our family to eat. There was another kind of payment as well. The peasants repaired our house, and a large two-storey barn where we kept our cow, calf, pig, chickens and ducks. Hay and straw were stored on the second floor. I remember one peasant in sandals, unshaven and in a torn jacket. He was a terrible sight and I was afraid of him and his evil look. Mom poured him a big bowl of borscht. He came to us to repair the barn, add some rungs on the second floor, and perform any other repairs. Dad repaired shoes for his family in exchange. It is possible that during the occupation of our village by the Germans this man took apart the house and barn and brought them to his own property.

My father and mother and other Jews, including Frenklah, Hinges, Margolin, Gandelman, went to the synagogue on Friday and Saturday. We were happy on the Jewish holidays. They were festive days, but hard on the working women of our village who prepared elaborate delicious dinners. We ate meat, gefilte fish, tsimes, dumplings, honey cake, the unforgettable kugel, mashed potatoes with fried onions, specially cut pieces of roasted goose with onions, called gribenes. Oh, what yummy food! I think I still remember the fragrant smells. Cooked matzah ball, lokshen, borscht and other soups. I furtively pinched off pieces of challah, or licked a cake, or grabbed some whipped eggs and sugar with birch twigs, while my mother baked. Now, in Miami, we play cards and discuss the situation in the world and in Russia, with our friends Rita and Michael Bernstein, originally from Odessa. At this time in Moscow Boris Nemtsov was shot, and Rita's Israeli neighbor, Rohul, baked a cake and gave some to Rita to try. Rita says: “I enjoy the aroma and taste of this cake.” And we are back at her: “Oh! See, no matter where Jews live or lived, the aroma is equally enjoyable for us.” And we debated and recalled our childhood. Just think: “Oh, those childhood days! We had fun, and we were happy! The adults looked at us with their hidden thoughts: “You are small and do not know and do not understand ...”

Yes, we did not know that we live in a strange land, among people who every day, every minute wanted us to go somewhere and disappear forever. They did not want to understand or sympathize with the fact that we had nowhere else to go. But life is life, It goes on, and people have fun.

But back to the past. One day my mother sent me to a neighbor for a special double kosher mold for Kugel. I knocked on the door, and aunt Pesia asked, “What do you want, Kigesele?” I stood, silent and looked at her. I had forgotten on the way, why my mother sent me. Then there was a lot of laughter. They joked and laughed about everything.

As a rule, on Friday, after a week of work, my father and his friends went to the bath-house. I remember vaguely, that one time my father was late. Mother had prepared the Shabbos diner, lit the candles, and we were eight children, sitting at the table and waiting for our father. At that time the custom was very strict. No matter how hungry, no one had the right to start eating until the head of the family, the father began. Mom was agitated, and when my father came, she asked: “why do you come so late?” They spoke loudly, then calmed down and the meal began.

The women dressed up very nicely on the holidays. They wore elegant dresses which they stored in a special place, and fashioned their hair into beautiful styles as they sat in front of small mirrors. I don't remember if they wore lipstick, but they did use makeup on their cheeks. They dressed up beautifully, and clothed their children well, and did it with love.

The men shaved and cut their hair. Shlomo was the town barber. They also polished their boots with cream, dancing “Kazachok ” (the Cossack dance). My dad loved to dance the Kazachok and other dances. I clearly remember the days when a group of 3 -4 klezmer musicians would arrive in the shtetl. They played the violin, balalaika and other musical instruments and sang Jewish songs as my mother and second oldest sister, Fania, sang along. I still remember the words to a few of the songs. Then they danced and squatted, put a bottle on their heads and danced some more. My father loved the dancing.

Mom took me in her arms and danced with me. Then all took turns, sister Rosa, brother Levu and so on. All danced and sang and the musicians continued to play. I love the sound of the violin to this day. I could spend hours listening to them. One of the musicians patted me on the head. He probably noticed the music lover in me. After performing the musicians were offered seats at a table where they consumed a good drink and a snack and then went on their way to another shtetl.

While dining in a restaurant in Brooklyn during my early years in America, I listened to one of the musicians playing music on the violin that sounded like the violin music of the shtetl. I could not tear myself away from the sounds, and my wife had to drag me home. Now, I live in Miami, and when I hear the Bianochki violin played by the granddaughter of my friend, Gregory Pinchuk, I am frozen. I hear my mother singing the songs she loved.

My second sister, Fania, also sang songs and told stories.

One of her stories scared me so much, I remember it to this day. “I was riding on the train, and the conductor was checking the tickets. He asked one man to open his bag. And when the man opened it, there were three heads within.” And my sister laughed and said to reassure me, “do not be afraid, it was the heads of fish.” My sister was very beautiful. Now her daughter Galya looks like her. One day, when my sister was a young girl, she decided to come by train from Kalinkovichi, where she lived with our older sister Lena, to visit us in Davydovka. Our shtetl was 8 kilometers away from the train station, much too far to walk, so Lena asked a horse-drawn vehicle nearby to drive her home. The boy driving the cart lived in the neighboring village. On the way he professed his love for her. She replied that it was impossible because she was Jewish.

“I see, but this is not a problem for me,” said the guy. And so on. Sister looked pale as she entered the house. Two days later, this guy came to our house and tried to persuade my mother (my father was at work) to allow him to marry Fanu. I remember him. He wore awesome new boots and an embroidered shirt. We were afraid so Dad walked her to the station that night and sent her back to Kalinkavichyi. Before the war, she married a very brave guy, Misha Saltzman. He worked as an instructor in the District Party Committee of Kalinkavichyi. She gave birth to a son Arkady, who now lives in Israel. My father was the chair of the Jewish school and village council. He was totally illiterate in the Russian language, like most Jews. Mr. Gandelman would sign the documents. Mr. Gandelman became my mentor In America.

When I was still too young to attend school , I noticed that my father hid a tallit and tefillin cubes high up in a cabinet. I became very interested in these items and wondered how to get them. I put a chair on a stool and reached the top, took everything I found there and played games until my father came home. There were trees along the street among the houses. There were two grown pines near our house, and we collected the pine cones in autumn and played with them. On average, every two or three houses had gardens with apple, pear, plum, cherry, and other fruit trees. Despite the fact that every child had a garden near his house, we were drawn somehow, to pick the apples, cucumbers and tomatoes from someone else's garden, where they looked tastier than ours. For that behavior, I sometimes got smacked on my rear.

There was a milk distillation facility opposite our house where peasants were required to hand over their milk for the State. This facility produced delicious cream, fermented baked milk, and other milk products. My parents often traveled to the district center, Azarichi, located 40 miles from Davydovka, to pick up money that mother received from the state as the mother of many children. One time my parents decided to buy a new suit for me. I remember it clearly as a gray jacket, pants, and even a small tie. My God, how much that suit was my joy and pride. Everyone, including my four brothers, envied me because of that suit. However, as they say, not every day is a holiday. One Saturday, while wearing the suit, I went for a walk with the boys, Koley, Eugene, Marat, and others. We went to the rear of the dairy laboratory and saw empty bottles there which was an unusual and grand discovery. We were delighted with this find. We cleaned the bottles and sold them. We got a penny from the sale and bought candy and cookies which we divided equally among us all. We were excited and happy, but the joy did not last long for me. When I entered my house, my older brother, Yuri, noticed that my new suit had holes in many places. Yuri immediately reported it to my mother. You cannot be jealous of me. They began questioning me about who I had been with, where I got the money, and so on. I stayed silent, like a partisan. But in that time children were not treated as they are now in America.

I remember when my younger brother, Abrasha/Arkady, was circumcised. It had already been twenty years since the revolution when he was born, and there was an official ban on brit milah. A tall, slender, bearded man in a black robe with a long belt and handbag came to our house. My brother was put on a pillow and held by my mother's brother, Simon Hitman. My brother was crying as Mom stood in the corner. When I saw a razor in the hand of the Mohel I was afraid, and wondered what he would do with that razor. I was not prepared for this. No one had explained it to me, apparently afraid that I would tell my non-Jewish friends. Uncle spread my brother's legs, and after he uttered a prayer, the Mohel took the tip of his petsele, and quickly and dramatically slashed it with a razor. My brother let out a strong cry. The Mohel took the piece that he cut, put it into the ritual silver cup, and again said a prayer. After that, everybody went into another room, where Mom and women prepared the table. Then they all had a long talk, and my brother cried. I felt very sorry for him. I reassured him, but he did not listen to me, and does not to this day!

A few days later we received an unusual visit from my Belarusian teacher to congratulate my mother and father on their newborn. I was in second grade, and as it turned out, she came because I was a high achiever and participated in the school show. I remember how we put on one particular play. My role, along with my classmate, Lucy, was that of the child of an engineer who kept aircraft designs. A spy came to the house who wanted to steal the blueprints. We started screaming, and crying, and I snatched the drawings from the cabinet and threw them out the window and a policeman arrived and shot the spy. To create the sound of the shot, another student hit a sheet of plywood with an iron bar, resulting in a very loud sound. I actually was so scared that I forgot my role and I forgot what to do next. Somebody shouted: “Kigas, Kigas,” and I woke up and continued my role. “Spies managed to steal the drawing!” Now I remember and analyze the events, including the importance of this play, and I understand that school children were taught to hate. Ah, the memories.

[Page 21]

Getting to Know the Phone and the Car

When I was in 2nd grade, the teacher called me up to her desk, handed me a phone and said, “Kegesele, put the handset to your ear.” I did so, and heard, “Alo, Alo, who is there?” I was afraid. I looked at the teacher, then the receiver. I looked around and did not see anyone. I timidly gave the phone back, and the teacher said, “It's a phone. Sound goes through the wires and you can talk to someone from out of town.” But I could hardly believe that this was possible. That's what I often think now. When I was a driver and drove a car with the personnel director, we talked about the development of telephones. He said that soon the time would come that even while sitting in a car we could talk on the phone with people in Moscow, Leningrad, and even with other small cities. I said, “How can that be?” And he said that we would even be able to see each other's faces. I laughed, and so did he, strange to even think about this. In the evening, when our company came together I told them about this fantasy, and we had a long discussion and a good laugh.

One day, my sister, Lena's husband, Boris, came to visit us by car with a driver from Kalinkavichyi. He worked as the chairman of a cooperative. Boris wanted to show off in front of his mother-in-law that he was a hero. That day was the first time I had ever seen a car. With my childish curiosity I was interested in this new technology and when all was quiet, I climbed into the car to look for the feet, which I thought pushed the car. I climbed into the front seat and accidentally clicked on a button. Then I heard a strange sound. The car moved forward. I got scared, jumped out of the car, hid and waited. I wondered how the car could be moving. And again some force pulled me into the car to press the button again. I pressed and the car moved. I immediately let go of the button and jumped out. Satisfied, I thought, “How interesting!” In the morning the driver began to start the car, but there it was, the engine would not start. The battery was fully discharged. Naturally they found the culprit immediately. They went to the collective farm chairman, took a couple of horses, hooked up the car with another five people pushing, and the engine started up.

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