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When I arrived in Warsaw, the winter of 1910, to organize guest performances for our troupe I found theatrical barrenness, duped. This “barren woman” already had a theatrical midwife who evoked labour pains. This was in the person of Dr. A. Mukdoni, who arrived in Warsaw a year earlier.

In his memoir “Memories of a Yiddish Theatre Critic” (archive for the history of Yiddish theatre and drama), Dr. A. Mukdoni says this about himself:
“Mid-summer, 1909, exactly 20 years ago, I, a young doctor, filled with energy, as full as an animal skin container filled with liquids, had great plans and a passionate desire to serve Yiddish culture, I arrived in Warsaw…From all the important, great missions, which I felt I was born to fulfill in my lifetime, the theatre mission was the closest and clearest…I arrived in Warsaw still fresh with influences from European theatre, and I was extremely well read in theatre literature. Arriving in Warsaw, the first thing I did was throw myself into Yiddish theatre.

Peretz Hirshbein – the great dramatist, author of dozens of theatrical works, story teller and novelist, was born in 1880, in a village near the Kletchel in the province of Grodno. His father was a miller at a water mill. Hirshbein began writing in Hebrew, mainly dramas. He later switched to Yiddish and began to write short stories and novels. In 1908 he founded and ran an artistic theatre in Odessa. After two years of raging successes as well as failures, in 1910, his troupe had successful performances in Warsaw, however shortly after crumbled, and remained in the history of Yiddish theatre as a pioneering exploit. Hirshbein, together with his wife, the poetess Esther Shumitcher, traveled around the world and wrote about it. From 1911 his home was in New York, later Los Angeles, but he always wandered. He often spent long periods of time in Warsaw, and in the 1920s, almost an entire year. He died in Los Angeles in August 1948.

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Within a few weeks I was completely oriented in the small and poor Yiddish theatrical world in Warsaw, and it is superfluous to say my disappointment was cruel…”
Now, one can imagine how cruel my disappointment was, when I arrived in Warsaw and within a half hour grasped from whom I must request support and warmth for a troupe which had already been living and performing together for a year of difficult experiences and fruitful activities. This “midwife” energetically demanded the barren woman should give birth to a child with none other than her own labour pains.

Nevertheless, I received from the literary society, actually Peretz, travel expenses; rented from Kompanietz his Muranov Theatre for seven performances and returned to Odessa to prepare for our trip.

Alas, what good fortune could I have expected from seven performances in Warsaw. Even if the visit was grand, it later turned out, the seven performances would not enable me to cover the expenses of our large troupe which had to travel to Warsaw from Odessa. Even more so, Kompanietz's own troupe was performing in the Muranov Theatre, and before our performance was nailed together on boards and was a filthy mess, he wanted me to pay him. The conditions he presented were criminal. I already had a year and a half of experience and it was clear to me we were risking too much coming to Warsaw. No longer did the province appeal to me: such a dense Jewish population, with proper Yiddish. It also appeared to me that in Poland the Yiddish theatre was not as strongly persecuted by the police.

Good friends explained to me that it was a small error that my repertoire lacked a complete play by Y.L, Peretz. The best thing would have been to perform “The Golden Chain” in Warsaw. They also explained a few other trivial things…But the truth was, if not for Y. Dinezon and A. Vayter, who without any ulterior motives hoped, that our troupe solve the entire theatre problem, I would have, in the last moment regretted the entire thing. Arriving in Odessa, I did not hide my personal impressions of Warsaw from the troupe. However, the desire of the troupe to leave Odessa superseded my personal feelings. With a heavy heart we began our journey. If I am not mistaken this was in the month of March.

The troupe arrived in Warsaw a few days before the first performance.

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As the performance drew nearer by the hour, the actors became more nervous. We broke our heads trying to figure out how to decorate the Muranov Theatre. When I demanded from Kompanietz everything I needed for our performances according to our contract, he laughed at me. I dragged myself to second hand stores, collecting rags, furniture and decorations. After the first few days in Warsaw I was bent and dizzy.

Wanting to begin thoroughly with a Yiddish play, we made a small mistake choosing for our first performance “With the Current” by Sholem Asch. We were to end the evening with “People” by Sholem Aleichem, directed by Dovid Herman. (Dovid Herman produced this play for us when he was with us for a few weeks in Ekaterinoslav).

There was a huge audience. All of Warsaw's intelligentsia gathered at the Muranov Theatre. Our performers were very nervous; I could not even recognize them. We all felt we had made the wrong decision choosing this play. However, the performance was far from a failure. The audience sat as if electrified. At the end, the actors were animated when they performed the comedy by Sholem Aleichem. It was as if they were reborn and the atmosphere in the theatre was carried onto the stage.

The press, particularly “Der Fraynd” (“The Friend”), wrote a great review. We received the greatest praise from Dr. Mukdoni who wrote for “Der Fraynd” at that time. According to him, the Muranov Theatre was transformed that night into a temple.

The second evening we performed “In the City” by S. Yushkevitch. The performance was strong; an even greater success. Once again, it was Mukdoni who praised the entire performance of our troupe.

From the third performance on, Mukdoni began to sense his mission. He began to speak up about “his own vast knowledge of theatre literature”. He unearthed the animal skin container filled with his own grandiose plans of his important theatre mission, and began to hail upon our troupe with all he had in his inkwell. The other newspapers who hated the literary society, and considered our guest appearance to be an enterprise, were totally reticent toward us. From his tribunal at “Der Fraynd” Dr. Mukdoni cursed and blessed; blessed and cursed and concluded: “the Hirshbein troupe is a stillborn child, an aborted fetus”.

In a very sincere and naive manner I turned to the

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literary society to take over the troupe; even it's management. The only person at that time who possessed a practical approach to the troupe was Dovid Herman. However, at that time he did not have the desire to live the life of wandering Gypsy. And although Mukdoni writes about himself in his memoirs: “In Paris, together with the Jewish painter Abel Pan, I produced a very modern version of fragments of Y. L. Peretz and Sholem Aleichem, and besides this I was infatuated with theatre” – in my opinion, he appeared then like someone who went abroad empty-handed and returned overloaded to our small Yiddish world. He could not conceive that theatre meant education to us.

My suggestion, that Nomberg and Asch should take over the troupe, which Mukdoni now recounts, became a bitter joke… I collected many jokes from our troupe during the few weeks we spent in Warsaw.

It's not that Mukdoni, God forbid, was responsible for the demise of my troupe, although one could surmise from his memoirs that he was blamed. Our troupe received its first knock in Odessa from the chief of police Talmotshov. The second knock occurred in Vilna from the governor's wife. The troupe did not fall apart immediately after Warsaw, as Mukdoni writes. We continued to wander for four months after performing more than sixty shows.

From Warsaw we travelled to Minsk. This was a time for me to self evaluate.

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Oh, Smotche – my home from childhood – Arises in a fleeting glance. Skipping through my blurred memory The wooden steps return. So what, if there is barely any light and air In the angular walled courtyard? Summer evenings the sun would climb Up the chimneys, up high. Shadows seclude themselves in open windows, The window pane flutters like a flag, And children on the steps, snuggle together, Engrossed in the story being told. …a wild bandit rides by, With a sharp knife in his hand” … But suddenly all becomes silent, The sky becomes distant – Children hear a song.

Binem Heller was born in Warsaw in 1908, to a poor Hasidic Jewish family. He was a poet and editor of literary journals and anthologies. From his youth on (he debuted in 1930), until a few years after the murder of the great Yiddish writers in Russia, he identified with the Soviet line, spent the years of the third destruction (the Holocaust) in Russia, 1947 in Poland, 1956 in France, Belgium and since 1957 in the State of Israel. He was one of the most talented poets of the younger generation in Warsaw. Author of 15 collections. His poems are lyrical, romantic, measured in form with clear content. Until 1955 he was pro- Soviet, since then – regretful moods, engrossed in nationalism. Heller wrote his most powerful poems about Warsaw after the Holocaust. The poems we have included here, were written in the early 1930s and express poetically the experiences of a large portion of the pre-war Jewish proletarian idealistic youth in Warsaw.

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A purple reflection on walls and on roofs, And the hammering of shoemakers in a hurry. And the song becomes louder and louder, And – once again quiet for a while. The open windows – occupied by shadows, And a hasty sewing machine. The song about work, about hardship and sadness Is aided by a girl's voice. The children on the steps –holding their breath; …the bandit has left for the forest… In the open windows – thick shadows, Night will arrive very soon.

I often stretch out Carrying myself from flat to flat. It's easy for me To be the carrier - - Here is Smotche, Over here is Muranov. But all streets wind in a circle, The all lie twisted And unending. And somewhere, somewhere, There is no escape From the dark scent of suffering. Sometimes I move – But everywhere, Hanging in the sun Are round rings of dust. And in the quiet nights Blazing on the walls: In disputes, In frightening wails.

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All around Staring from the balcony Are yellow, melted spots. And somewhere, somewhere There is no escape from the dark scent of suffering.   My Way Will it eternally be My way – Like on Zamenhoff Street – In the throngs Of the unemployed, Police, And despondent Jews, Boarded up in long clothes As if in black coffins? It will eternally be My way – just like this, And always, forever In my spine – Like night Chilled with terror? Will the end Also be like this, With black verses, And with large boots, Will the undertakers dance, Will the undertakers stomp their feet, Stomping the earth on my head? And I will not oppose – My years, Murdered In dusty workshops?

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And I myself Will never see: My home – Flowing With rocks from her cobblestone pavement To the windows of the Oyazdov alleys? Will my way Be eternally like this? –

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Jewish Warsaw had its two main centres: the Nalewke Neighbourhood and the Gzhibov Neighbourhood. Naturally there were many rich Jews in Warsaw who lived on the wealthy Marshalovska Street or in the “Krakow Suburb” and other wealthy streets; others, those who were totally or half assimilated Jews, lived on the Oyadovska Alley or on Alley “Shukha”. Simple Jews called these streets “The Christian Streets” or the “Gentile Neighbourhood”.

At the entrance to Nalewke on the Novolipky side stood the religious book store belonging to Eliezer Yitzkhak Shpiro (later: Dovid Kozak), and on the entrance on the Bielansko side stood the religious book store “Akhiasaf” (later: Efraim Gitlin). The Hebrew writer A.L. Levinsky of blessed memory once said that these two religious book stores at the entrance to Nalewke gave the impression of Mezuzahs hanging on the entrance of Jewish homes.

The Nalewke houses were blessed with double courtyards, and sometimes these houses were composed of three giant yards one after the other. In these courtyards, Jews worked day and night, together with their wives and children to earn a meagre living. A small dwelling comprised of two rooms and a kitchen, and was divided into a workshop and living space for “father, mother and small children”. The father dressed in “an undershirt, pants and fringed garment” was the manufacturer, and his wife, between cooking and cleaning helped her husband with his work. The same went for the children; as soon as they came home from Heder, they would eat something and then help their father with some of the lighter work or run errands.

What wasn't produced in these Nalewke courtyards? They produced splendid men's and women's clothing; shawls and neck ties.

Yehuda Leyb Wohlman was born in 1880 in Konskiye – Volyie. From 1900 until 1925 he lived in Warsaw. Later in Israel. He was a journalist, novelist and dramatist. He died in Tel Aviv in 1955. He knew Warsaw very well and wrote a lot about Warsaw's Jews, especially the merchant class.

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They manufacture parasols and walking sticks; large and small mirrors; chocolates and candies; leather brief cases and letter holders; scented soap and shoe laces; notebooks for school children and children's suits; socks, ribbons in all colours and sizes; elegant women's purses and cheap wallets for the simple folk; optical glasses and all types of chains and watches; drapes for windows and all sorts of handkerchiefs; silverware and toys for children; curly Ostrich feathers and sweat pads for women's dresses; men's and women's shoes and elegant hats; combs and pins of all types and dozens of other articles which deafened the courtyard with the noise of machines and the banging of all sorts of hammers.

This all took place during the six work days. When Friday evening arrived, the work stations and the unfinished articles were covered with white tablecloths and then entire dwelling was filled with candle lighting, the scent of two challahs under modest challah covers, the masterful chanting of “Woman of Valour”, the “Kiddush”, blessing of the wine, and the joyful Sabbath melodies. Saturday night, after the Havdalah ceremony the travelling salesmen would arrive, examine the goods in order to send large orders.

In those days, large and vast Russia was still open to Warsaw, and the travelling salesmen, quick and talented youth, sold Nalewke merchandise as far away as Viatka and Archangelsk. Others connected Warsaw with Siberia and Tashkent.

All that was produced in Nalewke happened in very crowded conditions. Besides this there was the Nalewke front. This is where all the wholesale business of satin and silk was located. The most distinguished firms of those days belonged to Yakov Broydo, Leyzer Brill, Eliyahu Fisher and other Lithuanian Jews. These were people with a totally different “gait” then what people were used to seeing in Warsaw. These Lithuanian businessmen, with kempt beards and a calm pace, wore wrinkled short jackets with long un-pressed pants, and on their heads wore hard black hats, which looked like upside-down iron pots, while the Warsaw born wealthy Jews were dressed “business like”, in fine shortened black caftans with slits; on their heads, a small cap from Beynish Postbriv's factory, and elegant pants tucked into shiny boots. Their beards were for the most part trimmed with a scissors. In any event, they were well groomed.

Both kinds of Warsaw 's business Jews, the Lithuanian silk merchants from Nalewke and the Warsaw born iron merchants from Gzhibov, were all

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honest people, who were as trustworthy as an iron bridge. At the same time, both groups were grounded with two feet in Torah good deeds. Both groups knew each other very well. All the more reason for them to do business together. However, a closer relationship, like marriages between the groups happened very rarely. Even more: studying Torah on the Sabbath and on long winter nights happened separately. The Lithuanian Jews had there Talmud Society on the Nalewke and the Polish Jews and their Talmud Society on Tvarde Street.
The most powerful group of manufacturers were on Genshe Street, which was the “left sleeve” of the Nalewke. As we know, after the Grand Duke Sergei, the General Governor of Moscow at that time, placed difficult edicts upon the Jews of Moscow, many Jewish manufacturers from Moscow moved to Warsaw and opened shops on Genshe Street. It did not take long before Russian manufacturers from Moscow became interested in Genshe Street in Warsaw and opened branches of their businesses. Now there were Russian signs hanging on Genshe Street with wide winged Russian eagles. Other Moscow businessmen offered their branches to trustworthy Jewish businessmen. Slowly, it became a sign of prestige for a Russian to open a branch of his business on Genshe Street. After the magnate Sava Morozov opened his branch on Genshe Street at Hertz Hufnagel's (who by the way was a great Talmudic scholar and enlightened Jew), his competitors Zachar Morozov and Vikula Morozov did the same thing (the first one's representative was Novinsky, the son in law of the Moscow businessman T.D. Gurland, and the second's representative was Yosef Levita).

Besides the Moscow merchandise, Genshe Street became the centre of the widely developed Polish manufacturers like Heintzl and Kunitzer, Saybler, Zhirardov and other manufacturers, Jewish and Polish as well as larger and smaller Germans from Lodz, Zgierg, Pabiantz, Ozorkov and Zaviertche. This is how Genshe Street in Warsaw became an important manufacturing business centre, and Jewish merchants from all over Poland, Lithuania, Volhynia, Podolia and parts of White Russia came to buy manufactured goods.

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Very few people have the honour and privilege to be referred to and remembered, not only by their family name, which is the usual way, but also by their first actual name. The name Dr. Gershon Levin falls into this category.

Jews from all corners of pre-war Poland flocked to Warsaw to see Dr. Gershon Levin because they knew Dr. Levin was a great expert in lung diseases, chief of the Jewish hospital and they knew they could receive the best advice and treatment. They also knew he was not simply Dr. Levin, but first and foremost, Dr. Gershon Levin, the folksy man, the Jewish doctor who was not embarrassed by his Jewish name. they respected this even more than his medical proficiency.

They felt deep in their hearts that because he was a Jewish doctor who was deeply rooted in Jewishness, spoke Yiddish to his patients so they could fully understand, they were more comfortable confiding in him and the knew they would receive correct and appropriate advice for their illness.

They went to Dr. Levin as one would go to a great expert and specialist, to find a remedy for their physical suffering and found calmness and tranquility and sociability with Gershon, the doctor, the Jew, who in such ordinary, simple Yiddish explained their illness and what they should do.

They had great respect for the consultation, for the doctor and for his vast knowledge.

Dr. Leyb Leon Wohlman was born in 1887 in Berditchev. He arrived in Warsaw in 1910 and studied medicine. He was very active in the Jewish Medical Society. Wrote books on public hygiene and edited articles. He collaborated on publications from the Jewish Scientific Institute. In 1939 he arrived in America. He was a close friend and colleague of Dr. Gershon Levin (1868-1939) – the Jewish folk doctor in Warsaw.

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They apparently felt frightened and lost looking at the large shelves of books all around the doctor's office, the modern instruments and equipment which he used in examinations. A separation or distance existed between them and the person in the white coat. However, all of this immediately disappeared in the person of Dr. Levin, the Jewish Gershon, the human being, who with his entire appearance, with his Jewish appearance, comforted and calmed his Jewish patients. The fear, terror and sense of being lost in a doctor's office disappeared completely when the great doctor began to talk to them, not in high Polish, but in the familiar simple mother tongue and answered their questions about their sicknesses with true Jewish insight and healthy folk humour. They saw before them a renowned doctor who spoke to them on a personal level in Yiddish, with insight and understanding and this calmed their stressed nerves, quietened their broken mood and they would leave his office believing they would soon be cured…

Dr. Levin did not only speak Yiddish at his home but also in the hospital – with patients and fellow doctors who spoke and understood Yiddish as well as hospital staff.

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For the drama troupes repertoire was not a problem, it was a hardship. They all had the same complaint: there was nothing to perform. I argued the opposite: there is such an abundance of material, I can't decide what to do first: I took it upon myself to provide repertoire for three dramatic troupes for ten years. People looked at this as simply boasting.

Not only was repertoire ready for the dramatic theatre in Warsaw, other preparations were done as well. Due to my initiative a communal theatre committee was established, comprised of representatives from the literary and journalist unions, actor's union, school organizations, culture department, and other organizations that had to be approached: H.D. Nomberg was chosen as the chairman of the committee, as he was the chairman of the literary union at the time. I suggested to the committee they run the theatres at their own expense like the communal committees in Cracow and Riga. The Warsaw committee did not want to take upon itself any commitments pertaining to the actors, but they were prepared to subsidize the drama theatre. The director Y. Barkovsky announced he would establish a drama troupe on Gazhe Street if he would receive a 15,000-zloty subsidy from the committee. The best artists, headed by A. Samberg and Sh. Landau signed a commitment they would work in a dramatic theatre.

Dr. Mikhl Weichert was born in 1890 in Stare- Miasto, eastern Galicia. His childhood and youth were spent in Stanisle. In 1908 he participated in the Czernowitz Yiddish Language Conference. Later he lived in Vienna, Berlin and from 1918 in Warsaw. He was a lawyer, high school teacher, cultural activist and above all a theatre director and producer. He was the founder of the Yiddish drama schools, theatre studios and experimental theatres. He was the educator of a generation of Yiddish actors. He was a theatre scholar and a writer. He wrote books about theatre and his memoirs. His greatest directorial success was the staging of Asch's “Kiddush Hashem”, then “The Dybbuk”, the most often performed theatre piece in Warsaw. During the years of the Holocaust he was in Warsaw, later in Cracow, then in hiding until 1945. Since 1958 he has lived in the State of Israel.

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My drama theatre opened with Sholem Asch's “Kiddush Hashem” with my staging. For a long time, I have wanted to replant this narrative on stage without losing its epic character. I expressed my thoughts in the journal “Litarishe Bleter”, vol. 9, 1927.

Before all else I decided: under no circumstances will I produce a “drama” in acts, and I will not add any text. It occurred in Yiddish and European theatre, that the revisor would patch things up with his own prose when he didn't find what he was looking for in the text. Sometimes, even when he could receive text from the author, he added his own as he deemed it better. In those years in European theatre a fresh partner was brought to the author: the modern director. He too brought his own prose when he felt the need due to directorial ideas. I believed, and still believe until today, this can not be tolerated. In the aforementioned article I wrote: “Language is the deepest expressive material of the poet. The source from which he draws. Adding to his text is like spitting in his well”.

Nothing kills the fluidity and charm of a story more than forcing three or four strongly built acts. I chose the form of tableaus which help illustrate the story. I knew the danger of loose scenes on stage. They entertain the eye but they do not warm the heart of the spectator. They cause a tremble of emotion but do not allow the emotion to develop or expand. Each scene awakens interest and carries you off to the next scene: before it succeeds in warming you up, the third one arrives.

In order to avoid such danger, which was capable of burying the entire production, and not return from the dead, other means were attempted. I considered: the scenes must capture simultaneously the eye, ear and heart of the spectator; they must be short and filled with restrained strength; they must grow to allow each following scene to be stronger than the previous one. They must unroll without hardly any interruption; they must combine artistically into one whole.

I have not found a better way to connect the scenes than music. Obviously, music was nothing new in Yiddish theatre. As is well known, in operettas and melodramas, folk and street melodies justified the entire absurdity of action, situations and character sketch. In dramas, music, according to European standards, accompanied a song, portrayed a mood, illustrated a scene. In all three cases it was an add on, a decoration, negligible. The staging of “Kiddush Hashem” had to be the main thing. This had to sway the entire production. The instrumental composition had to grow organically

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from the musicality of the author's words and interweave the entire performance. After completing the staging I went to see Henekh Kohn in Lodz, read him the text and explained how I envision the music.

H. Kohn had a rare sense for scenic music. He could penetrate the soul of the director and feel the atmosphere of a production in the situation of a scene. He treated the music for “Kiddush Hashem” as leitmotif. Variations of the leitmotifs filled in the short musical introductions to each of the four parts, connecting the individual scenes in such a way, that the music sang along with the last words which rang out in the scene and led to the first words of the following scene. This is how he wove together, in one sound, the vocals and music, the recitative, the song and the instrumentation.

The second medium which had to connect individual scenes was the frame of decorations. The 25 tableaus had to be performed in one scenic frame. The artist V. Vayntroyb projected right and left on a canvas hung between two pillars, tied crisscross over a rafter. This frame remained throughout the entire performance, only small canvas drawings had to be changed as the backdrop as well as pieces of painted plywood on the stage. This took place when the curtain opened, in the dark and did not last longer than a minute. It was carried out with music so the spectator would not sense the smallest interruption from scene to scene.

The scene structure had to be short. The rule was: concise. Each scene did not end, it was cut off. The exceptions were finales of the first three parts. I divided this theatrical vocal-musical composition into four parts just like a symphony is divided into four compositions. Three finales rang out widely, the fourth like a pointed tower crowning the building.

The conciseness of every scene was required for another appeal. Torah study, candle lighting, chanting the blessing on praise of women, praying, performing a marriage ceremony, reciting the hymn of the first day of Shavuot, confession of sin, Psalms, Hear O Israel, Torah Scrolls, wedding canopy poles – were all situations and props used hundreds of times, dishonoured and shamed in operettas and melodramas. Old Yiddish theatre was fond of such scenes, ready to pour and smear ad nauseum. I could not allow this olive oiliness to seep in for even one minute. Cheap words, restrained movements, strong staging, sketch of sets, light styled costumes, music of word and sound, all had to raise the spectacle to romantic realism.

Music also helped the finale. When the tragedy of the Talmudic scholar is endless– like the author –at the Lublin market, where the

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tailor stands in front of an empty shop and sells trust, all became clear to me. However, also Dvoyreh's death in holiness and purity from the beloved Cossack's gunshot could not ring out the dreadful destruction of the Ukrainian Jewish community in Ukraine. Before her martyr's death even the strongest of words would have been too weak. Only music could express the main idea behind this production: nobility and heroism.

Dramatic theatre just came about. And something totally different happened.

At this time the “Vilna Troupe” had just returned from Romania, settled in Lemberik and performed A. Dimov's “The Singer of Sadness”, directed by Yakov Shternberg, produced by Yakov Preger. “Temptation” and Fredrich Hebbel's “Judith and Holofernes”, and Dovid Herman's and Fransisco Langer's “Periphery” directed by Yezhy Valdens. The day arrived and I was approached abruptly by M. Maze, his usual way, to produce “Kiddush Hashem” with the Vilna Troupe.

“How do you know it's for sale? You haven't even heard the play! Who buys a cat in a bag?”

“I trust you”.

“But how does the cat cross the water when she gets out of the bag?”

The troupe is in Lemberik and I am a high school teacher in Warsaw. I can only come to you during Passover when there are no classes for ten days. On the four days of the holiday we can perform in the evening which allow 6 days for rehearsal. I need four full weeks to prepare”.

“The troupe will come to Warsaw”.

“In order to rehearse “Kiddush Hashem”?”

“For this reason, as well. We do not want to remain confined in the province, we want to perform in Warsaw. We need a new repertoire”.

“Your ensemble is too weak for Warsaw. By the way, they are about to crumble. “Kiddush Hashem” is a play for actors”.

“You will have all the actors you will need”.

“Do you know how much this production will cost? Vayntroyb calculated the sets and costumes will cost four thousand zlotys”.

“They will certainly cost more. Artists are hardly mathematicians. But this is not a deterrent”.

“Do you have money for these expenses?”

“Not one groschen”.

“How would you like to tackle the rehearsals?”

“We never had any money when we began to rehearse, but on opening night we did not lack anything the director requested. Your conditions, Dr. Weichert?”

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“I haven't thought about it. I need to think about this matter. I'd also like to consult with Kohn and Vayntroyb”.

“Don't waste your time. I've spoken to both of them and they agree”.

“Are you trying to trick me?”

“As you can see. Think about your conditions and prepare a written agreement. The next time I'm in Warsaw, I'll sign it”.

“In the agreement I will write the names of the actors I want to perform and I'll stipulate four weeks of rehearsals.”

“With the greatest honour”.

Maze quickly signed the agreement. Simultaneously, he signed agreements with Kohn, Vayntroyb and Rechtlebn, who was Sholem Asch's agent, and rented the “Elysium Theatre” on Karove Street. By the end of March 1928, the troupe was in Warsaw. By the beginning of April, we began rehearsals.

After a reading rehearsal I distributed the parts typed on a machine. The Yiddish actor was used to weighing the size of his role in his hands. The more text, the better. Here, everyone received three pages, if not fewer. Only Samberg and Veyslitz received a bit more. It can't be said the actors were excited.

However, during the first rehearsal they were already excited. I arrived with a prepared director – book where everything was worked out to the last detail. The actors poured soul into my visions and filled them with life. It was like an unspoken challenge between the performers, even those with the smallest roles. Each one tried harder to surpass the other in passion, persistence, discipline, clean relationships, purity of words, and tidy movements. It was a pleasure to see and the roles grew form one rehearsal to the next as if they were receiving flesh and blood.

Samberg's Mendl was a strong robust character, like a tree rooted in the ground. Solid and proud, free of sentimentality. Y. Veyslitz's tailor, a folk type, was filled with unending goodness and great love, without the smallest spark of over powering, symbolism or allegory, entirely human and brotherly, even when he spoke about God, trust, faith and Torah. M. Orlesaka and D. Licht,played Dvoyrele and Shloymele. Every one of their words was filled with sensitivity, love and pure modesty. Y. Kamen's Cossack Yerem, innocently stares at Dvoyrele like a saint, desires her and trembles before her. Sh. Natan's drunk, was vigorous in his disgusting revulsions.

Y. Mansdorf and Y. Kurlender, two magnificent types played Jewish communal council members who jump out of their skin when one wants to offend the honour of another.the landowner.

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“Kiddush Hashem” had a few so-called mass scenes. As in every theatre as well as the Yiddish theatre there were professional extras and chorus members. For dozens of years they enhanced all the operettas and melodramas. I had no intentions to allow them on the stage. I prevailed upon the conductor M. Shneour and the manager of the “Folk Choir”, M. Danzikerkron that only two groups of ten young people from the choir could take part in the production. They were to appear on stage for the first time. This did not scare me. They were one hundred times more likeable than the worn-out extras. I worked with them on the script, H. Kohn on the songs, and the Rom sisters worked on plastic. Already at the first rehearsal they showed as much enthusiasm as the actors. They brought a lot of youth and freshness to the performance. Five of them, thanks to “Kiddush Hashem”, became professional actors: Lola Folman, Sh. Osevitsky, Litera and Lemberger concert singers, Yoel Bergman remained and actor in the Vilna Troupe.

The actor's recognized success and brought it with them into the streets, to both fortresses of indulgence and gossip: 13 Tlomacki Street (the writer's union) and 2 Lesh Street (the actor's union) boiled like a kettle. For God's Sake! How could a troupe, with its own hands, bury themselves in the ground? When did Sholem Asch have success in Yiddish theatre? Unless he showed a brothel like in “God of Vengeance”, or prostitutes like in “Motke the Thief”. All others: “The Compatriot”, “Lineage”, “The Inheritors”, “Amnon and Tamar”, “The Sinner” performed in Vilna, “Our Belief” at the Central Theatre, “Uncle Moses” in “Vikt” were disasters. Who cares today about the Cossack massacre of the Jews in 1648? Prostitution gives the theatre audience, prostitution! Since when is Weichert a director? Did he study with Reinhardt? Nothing makes sense! True, he has a shiny pen and is an expert on theatre (in order to put down the director one must elevate the writer) – however, from expertise to directing is a long road. Listen to this fool's idea! 25 tableaus on a small stage, which is miniscule, and he does not even have “shoelaces” (to hang decorations up high on a string). Such a production requires three stages like the “Polski Theatre”. And what a pity on the actors. They are putting everything they have into this and will never swim out of the debt. Obviously, the troupe will fail. Let's hope they don't crawl into a sick bed with a healthy head!

The gossipers were not limited to these two unions. They were also being buried by the high school. Among the conditions the high school teachers fought for was that a teacher with a university diploma should receive a 20% supplement to his earnings. For nine years they payed me this supplement.

Suddenly, the secretary from “Askala”, Mrs. Davidovitch, our neighbour, said to me:

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“Don't resent this, dear doctor, but they are harassing us. Your diploma is not in order. Do you have another copy at home?”

“I don't have a copy, I have the original. I'll bring it to you tomorrow”.

“You don't have to. Your explanation is sufficient. I just want to avoid angry tongues”.

The premiere was scheduled for May 2nd, 1928. At the general rehearsal everything went butter side down. It ended at 6 o'clock in the morning. The mood was oppressive. Miriam Orleska, Maze's wife, cried her eyes out. She remembered what the crows at 13 Tlomacki and 3 Lesh were squawking. Other actors remained calm. There is a superstition in the theatre that says if the general rehearsal is a disaster, the premiere will be a success. People enjoyed these smelling salts.

I approached Maze:

“You're tired. Go home and lie down. But before you go I must tell you something. I could do it after the performance but then I'll be either very important or a bitter failure. It would have a different flavour. A flavour of favour or toadying. This is what I would like to say to you: your conduct during this entire process was of the highest decency. Artistic and friendly. I was challenged. I wanted everything on stage to be fresh and new: the staging, music, actors, extras, sets and costumes. As a devoted friend you went with me step by step. You never said no, although you knew very well how risky every new production is. Therefore, I thank you!”

I shook his hand firmly. Henekh Kohn was living with me. We were both exhausted and walking home we did not say a word. When we entered the gate at 6 Senatorske Street and walked through the courtyard, I lived at the fifth court, Henekh, who was walking ahead of me, all of a sudden stood still. He turned his head to me and said:

“Doctor, there will be an explosion!”

He then turned around and continued to walk. I did not reply. At the premiere the first ten rows were taken up by the press. They came to my funeral. This is what they believed. Serious, tense,

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some with pity on their faces, others with unmasked joy. (A few days later Aron Zeitlin wrote this in an article in “Our Express”). The rest of the rows were filled densely with common folk. When the curtain opened there was a stiff coldness emanating from the first few rows onto the stage.

The end of the first half aroused great applause. After the intermission a warmth emanated simultaneously from the stage and the back rows which only grew. Soon the front rows warmed up. They applauded after every scene. The spectator's eyes shone during breaks. The press had to capitulate. When the play was over, the entire hall broke out into a wild ovation. From all sides they called out: “Weichert! Weichert! Even the members of the Pen Club stood in their places, applauded bravo and called out my name.

I was in the wings. An actor came down from the stage to get me. I did not have the desire to appear. I was dead tired and a strange repulsion stuck in my throat. Maze ordered me at that moment to go up on the stage. I did not obey. Then Samberg came down from the stage and both of them dragged me with force. The curtain opened and closed numerous times. The audience applauded wildly. The faces of the actors were shining with joy. It was an explosion!

“Kiddush Hashem” was performed 250 times in Warsaw and countless times in all the large towns in Poland. Sholem Asch came to the 100th performance. It was the first time he saw this staging. He hadn't even read it before, although he had authorized it. After the third part he came up on stage and gave a speech. He complimented me and the actors. He concluded by saying “Dr. Weichert is the conscience of Yiddish literature”.

At the banquet which the troupe organized in honour of Sholem Asch in the Raspberry Hall of the Bristol Hotel, he said to me: “You should feel very worthy because you have a lot of enemies”. I replied: “I don't know if enemies are a proof of worthiness, I don't have enemies. If others see me as an enemy, I don't give it much thought. I simply don't have enough time”.

(From the book “Memoirs” Volume “Warsaw”, Tel Aviv, 1961).

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The creator of “Esperanto”, Doctor Ludwig Zamenhof, was not only a scholar and creator of a new language but also a sentimental man with a good heart.

I had the rare good fortune to get to know him up close, over five months, six days a week. That is when I saw he was not like all the other doctors. He was a good doctor as well as a compassionate human being. (I did not know at the time he was the creator of a new language). What I am about to recount took place in Warsaw – the Warsaw that was: the city where one hundred thousand Jews lived, and was known for its famous Jewish doctors, charitable organizations, hospitals and other institutions. The Warsaw Jewish Hospital (on Chisteh Street), with is large scope, was for poor people what a light house was to a ship during a storm at sea. From everywhere, (even outside Warsaw), people came to be cured in the Warsaw Jewish Hospital, because this was where the best doctors in the city could be found.

In October 1901 I was brought to the hospital as a patient. Section number five, where I was taken to, was filled with patients. They had to place a bed for me in the corridor.

Since I arrived in the evening I had to wait until the next morning for a regular doctor.

Moishe Weisman- the author of a few books of memoirs – was born in 1885 in Semiyatich. From 1910 until 1913 when he left for America, he spent months at a time in Warsaw. In America, he first lived in Chicago and then from 1922 in Los Angeles. We are providing here a piece about the genius philologist, the creator of Esperanto, Dr. Ludwig Zamenhof from Weisman's memoirs. Zamenhof – (born in Bialystok in 1859), spent his student years in Warsaw and practiced general medicine, then as an eye specialist and had his office on Dzhike Street. After Zamenhof's death in 1917, (he's buried in the Gensher Cemetery), Dzhike Street was renamed Zamenhof Street. Zamenhof also wrote a book on Yiddish grammar.

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Meanwhile I observed, almost all the patients behaved as if they were nobility! They lay in bed and the guard had to bring them everything.

That night seemed very long. Coughing from the rooms reached my ears and bad thoughts made me panic. However, the night guard, who mainly just sat in the corridor, kept coming over to talk to me: he comforted me and gave me hope that I will leave that place because the doctors, especially Dr. Zamenhof, will take good care of me.

Around ten o'clock in the morning two doctors came to see me: one was older, the second, a young man. The older one was Professor Freydenzon. He was tall with a head of grey hair and a trimmed, pointed small beard. The younger one, was of middle height, black thin hair parted down the middle and a black short beard which looked lie a trowel, gold glasses on his thin nose. This was Dr. Ludwig Zamenhof.

I was a new patient. Since I was lying in the corridor they both came straight to me. Freydenzon checked my pulse, looked into my eyes and spoke in a language I did not understand. Then, Zamenhof sat down beside me on my bed, listened to my chest with his stethoscope, tapped my ribs and asked me something in Polish. Hearing that my Polish was far from his Polish, he smiled and began to speak to me in half Yiddish half German.

Once again, the doctors began to speak to each other at length and Zamenhof, in a fatherly manner, stroked my hand and told me to lie calmly in bed…

A head nurse accompanied the doctors (she was referred to as Madam), and Dr. Zamenhof said to her: “We will have to place him in a separate room. This spot is not good for him”. However, the “Madam” explained there were no empty rooms. Then he said to her: “He is so young…! Take someone out of a room and switch them”. And that same day, like a young nobleman, I lay in a clean airy room and thought about Dr. Zamenhof, because in my sixteen years of life, of course I had met doctors, but all the others were cold, with sullen faces and cold hearts.

A few days later the “Madam” came to me and said the barber will come today and cut off my long hair. This did me no good. This agitation aggravated my heart. I loved my long hair and did not want it cut. When Dr. Zamenhof came, and listened to what I said, I had to tell him the truth. His face became serious. He left immediately and returned quickly with the “Madam”. She promised me they would not cut my hair.

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A few weeks passed. The white paper attached to my bed had more written on it every day by Dr. Zamenhof. My situation did not improve. A couple of times a week Professor Freydenzon would come see me with new doctors and they held regular consultations.

By the eighth week, one morning, a few doctors gathered around my bed including the famous surgeon Dr. Kroze; with his smooth fingers he tapped my ribs and spoke with the other doctors in Latin. The next day, when Dr. Zamenhof came to see me, he gave me the good news. The following week they will operate on me…

When you lie in the hospital for a long time you learn who is who. I learned Dr. Kroze was the best when it came to operations, although he was a cold and stern man.

On the chosen day, in the morning, they dressed me warmly and brought me to section 2 where they do operations.

When I was lying on the operating table and a young doctor standing beside me was prepared to put a round small screen over my nose, I saw that it was not Dr. Kroze about to operate but Dr. Shpilreyn. Frightened, I sat up and said I wanted Dr. Kroze to do it, no one else…there was a commotion…I pushed myself off the table prepared to go back from where I came. I asked them to call Dr. Zamenhof; without him I would not allow anyone to operate on me.

They took me to a second room where I waited for Dr. Zamenhof to come see me. He told me the operation would be postponed a week as Dr. Kroze was busy that week elsewhere.

This is the type of person the beloved Jewish Dr. Ludwig Zamenhof was, the creator of a new language, which would, as he believed, fraternize humanity all over the world.

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When we learned Weissenberg was sick it was too late to do anything to save him. This was late morning in March 1938. At that time, Dr. Milaykovsky (the internist) came to us at the hotel “Britannia” on Novolipiye Street where Weissenberg was living at the time.

After examining him for a long time, Dr. Milaykovsky said this was Tuberculosis and at such a state that it was too late to save him, when 3-4 months earlier, the same doctor examined him (Weissenberg had already been coughing for a long time), and assured him it was just a severe bronchitis and if he would stop smoking he would recover.

This news affected us like a miserable heavy cloud appearing suddenly on a clear day. We were not prepared for Weissenberg to be so hopelessly sick, and at the very least he could think about this. His rare energetic, healthy organism could not fathom this possibility. He came from a family which lived long lives. His grandmother, for example, lived to 105 and his mother was killed in Treblinka at 93.

Perl Weissenberg-Zilberberg was the younger daughter of Yitzkhak Meir Weissenberg. She was born in Zhelekhov in 1914 and lived in Warsaw from 1918 – 1939. Until 1945 in Russia, until 1946 in Germany, until 1948 in Sweden and until 1954 in the State of Israel. In 1954 she moved to Canada, lived in Calgary where her sister older Genendl had lived for a few years and died young there. Perl writes short stories, poems and essays. Her story “The Week of the Seven” premiered in Israel and was published in book form in Hebrew translation. Y.M. Weissenberg (1881-1938) the great Yiddish prose writer and long-time communal rebel. He lived almost all of his creative years in Warsaw. He was one of the most remarkable figures in what was then the world centre of Yiddish literature. This description of his last days is both of literary quality as well as an authentic document.

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That day I arrived and cried all day until nightfall. Of course, not in front of him, but in the corridor of the hotel, in the guest room where his despondent close friends had gathered.

The disease did not abate. On the contrary, it worsened quickly. After a short time, he was bed ridden.

His friends would often come from Lodz. When they heard Weissenberg was so sick they advised he go to a sanitorium. His Warsaw friends had already spoken with the head doctor at Marpa Sanitorium in Otvotsk about him going there. He would get his own room as not to be in the same room with other lung patients.

But this did not help. We can see he knew very well what a sanatorium was from his novella “How Fate Leads”, written before he himself became sick. Oh, how clear we see the cruel stamp on those sentenced to death. And he said: “There (in the sanitorium) is where I will die”. He did not want to live in Otvotsk even privately as he said: “in Otvotsk the air stands still due to the density of trees. I must”, he said, “be in a place where the air changes; where the wind always changes bringing a fresh stream of air”.

However, as already said, this decision was not made then, independent of his choice being good or bad.

In the evenings Sh. Y. Londinsky and Yitzkhak Bernshteyn would often visit. One could hear some very interesting conversations. Londinsky would often talk about our prophets, who with good and bad, showed the Jewish people the correct, just and nice way to live and solidified them due to their truths…they also spoke often about Socrates, and Weissenberg said: “He could not escape from jail, although his students prepared him and made escape possible and came to take him out. Someone like Socrates is the prestige of his people and he decided it was better to drink poison which they presented to him than escape. Socrates could not have done otherwise”. They also spoke about other outstanding personalities whose spirits spread light over all generations. The topic of the individual and society was also widely discussed.

Londinsky would often recite a chapter of psalms showing how much poetry they contained. He said the majority of people who recite psalms do not understand its beauty. Meanwhile, he would become sentimental, like a small child.

Other times Weissenberg would talk about various problems and people or Bernshteyn would pose questions and offer his opinion about this or that.

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Bernshteyn would jot down his answers in a way Weissenberg would not notice.

At that tine Bernshteyn began to publish in the press and often his articles could be seen in “Moment” and “Haynt”. In general, in went in the direction which was repugnant to Weissenberg. To this end Weissenberg said this once to him:

“Bernshteyn, if you are going to be a thief, at least be a good thief, if you don't they will pull your cap down over your eyes…”

Weissenberg's wife once came in from the street with products she had just bought and told everyone, with a chuckle that she bought rolls from a “crazy” baker who stood on Mila Street with a basket of rolls shouting and cursing: “Here, gorge yourselves, 5 rolls for 10 groschen!” In those days 3 rolls cost 10 groschen.

When Weissenberg heard her tell her story while laughing at the baker, he began asking, with drawn out words, pausing after every syllable, which was a sign he was very angry: “Beyl – tchu, you also took 5 ro – lls for 10 gro – schen?! Don't you understand that when someone curses his own merchandise, he must be really hard pressed?! You must return immediately to Mila Street and return 2 rolls, so that you will have bought 3 rolls for 10 groschen and not 5”.

She had to go back return the rolls or pay the difference.

Yechiel Lerer sent questions, asking if his newest poem “My Home” pleased Weissenberg. He said “yes”, although his previous works, like the “Psalm – Songs” were even better. The messenger later recounted that Lerer was very happy that Weissenberg liked his poem. Lerer hesitated to come himself as he did not know if Weissenberg wanted him to. As was known, there was anger between them, because also Lerer, who Weissenberg introduced to Yiddish literature, later, like most of his students, left the place where they could have earned a living writing.

During Weissenberg's illness, he did not take a break from publishing and distributing his work. After the 2^nd volume of “In the Depths of Eternity”, had been published, he prepared a book of pamphlets and a book of old short stories, revised as “Stories of My First Creative Period”, published by his friends in Warsaw and appeared 30 days after he died. The book appeared with an error as it was called “Stories of My First Creative Period”.

The books were distributed in his last years among friends and according to recommendations of acquaintances through his secretary, Miss Walfish. The collection of money from these books was done by a collector.

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In general, the idea of dying was foreign to him, even when he was critically ill. He continued to work on his 10-volume work “In the Depths of Eternity”, that is t o say, the 8 volumes that were still in manuscript form, because the first 2 volumes of this work had already been published. He still wanted to revise his unpublished poem “Esther” as well as his drama “Envy and Lust”, which had been published long ago but he wanted to modernize it. He was also planning to write a fresh work: a novel in the form of a letter. In a word, he had great plans for the future.

Just before he departed for Legyonovo he also wrote a work connected to the latest literary events. It had to do with a certain prose writer who at that time made an impression in the Yiddish literary world. However, Weissenberg said: “This is a small talent worth a groschen”.

He did not write this work on his own. He dictated it since writing by this time took too much energy. Every day a young man came to see him who worked for the “Joint”, a certain Fish and also Marvil, who wrote according to Weissenberg's instructions.

He promised Smoliazh that he had a future as a writer.

His friends Tcheliadnitsky, Erlikh, Goldsobel and I, went to Legyonovo to rent him an apartment. Weissenberg soon departed. Before his departure he packed his manuscripts by himself, which consisted of a large heavy bundle as well as his bound books (“In the Depths of Eternity”).

He asked the owner of the hotel to take the books, but he took the pack of manuscripts with him. I travelled then with him. M.B. Shteyn also accompanied him.

The first time Legyonovo had a good effect. He felt better and the first few days he even walked around or sat on the veranda. However, this did not last long. Soon after he was laid up in bed.

One morning, when I arrived from Warsaw, I noticed he was in a very good mood and happy. He soon told me that all night he listened to an accordion and a violin, because not too far away one of the peasants had a wedding. He loved village music.

That afternoon he asked me to read to him his landscape description “A Summer Rain”. I read it with fatigue, not feeling the outstanding beauty of this description of nature. While I was reading he unhappily asked me: “What's happening in your world of Sleep?” …

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His illness devoured his organisms with great speed. I remember returning from Bialystok, not having seen him for 6 weeks (his wife went to distribute his books in Warsaw and I went to Bialystok) I barely recognized him.

I found my sister Gnendl walking out of his room, embittered because he got very upset about a triviality. His anger was an expression of revolt against his powerlessness against his disease. I entered his room ready to be upset with his display of anger, but when I saw him I could not utter a word.

It is remarkable how much energy he had for this situation. He was so sick, but he wanted to be alone in the apartment at night. In the evening he told me and Gnendl to go home to Warsaw and to return in the morning for the whole day. When we told him, he should lock the door at night, he did not want to do this either saying: “A thief would never enter where there is an open door”.

Londinsky, Smoliazh, Troyanov and Miller would come to visit often; Boymatz, Friedman and others would come from Lodz.

Weissenberg would ask Gnendl and I to serve his guests, just as he did in the years he was well. Understandably, neither I nor the guests had the mood to entertain. But nothing helped. We had to obey him, we had to eat even when we felt we really could not eat anything.

Boymatz would sit very close to him. It is remarkable he was not afraid of getting infected.

Londinsky would always bring him the finest fruits with metropolitan generosity. For example, he would bring a full crate of strawberries from the finest fruit store in Warsaw. Weissenberg liked this very much, even though he hardly tasted them (by this time he ate very little). He did appreciate this generous gesture.

In a conversation with Erlikh, Tcehliadnitsky and Goldsobel about Yiddish literature and his fight for it, Weissenberg said, when he recovers, he will make a ball and invite Leo Finkelstein and Yehoshua Perle and tell them he forgives them as well.

He dictated the introduction to his last book of poetry “In Paris” to Londinsky.

At this time, he received a card from Sh. Don. By then Weissenberg was very weak. He got out of bed in order to sit for a bit in an armchair. While sitting his entire body shook from weakness.

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However, he did reply to Don telling him once he recovers, he will publish a journal in the fall.

Weissenberg did not want to die nor did he want to think about it. One day his sister came from Zhelekhov. She lived with their mother. He told her that when will be healthy he will come to their town and make arrangements for their mother to have a comfortable old age.

His sister, observing his state said sadly: “Let us hope that God will help and you will recover” …

When he heard this, he shouted at her furiously: “You bitch!”

He had such a strong will to live. He would always say: “death is ugly”. This was always expressed in his writings. The greatest Mitzvah (good deed) for him was to keep others alive, even the smallest creature.

One day, as he was lying in bed he noticed a small bird got his foot or wing caught on a high window. It struggled for a long time, flapping its wings trying to free itself from the window. It did not help and finally the bird lost its strength. As soon as Weissenberg saw this he told Gnendl to take the broom and give it a push. He also warned her to do this very carefully.

Troyanov would always bring him white narcissuses. He would sit for hours across Weissenberg's bed in silence looking sadly out the window.

“Troyanov”, he once said to him, “your silence says more to me than someone else's words” …

In general, Weissenberg was more affected by silence than noise.

Two weeks before Weissenberg's death Tcheliadnitsky, Erlikh and Goldsobel came to visit. The last two were a bit noisy, meaning they spoke and asked questions as usual. However, Tcheliadnitsky sat completely silent. At that time Weissenberg was feeling better (this was the improvement before death), his temperature fell and his appetite improved. He felt hopeful and assured that soon he will be healthy. He sat up in bed, smoked a cigarette and spoke, I could even say bragging, that now he was becoming healthy again.

Tcheliadnitsky looked at him in silence.

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A minute later Weissenberg looked at him and asked: “Why are you silent Tcheliadnitsky?” with moving softness in his voice as if he were comforting Tcheliadnitsky…

The improvement did not last long and the last phase arrived: lower temperature and lack of power.

The last day was Friday August 12th. He told me to sleep during the day because at night I will have to stay up.

That night, around 11:00, my father called me in. He wanted to sit up but he no longer could. He asked for food, egg cookies and white cheese. He swallowed it in a strange quick way not really knowing why he needed this. Then I gave him tea which was on the table. After tasting he said:

“The food is all very good, but I can't eat it”. A while later he said:

“Why is the table empty? There should be food and drinks on the table.”

Then he asked me:

“Why are you emptying my world?”

No one else was there except me. There were a few flowers on the table, pink gladiolas. He loved the flowers very much. He always delighted in various shades of pink. He did not like bouquets, rather individual flowers on the table. Soon he lost power and fell onto the bed. A bit later I heard a noise in his throat, as if something was boiling and puffing. The truth is this was the throes of death, but I did not understand. This was the first time I was with a dying person and it was my own father.

His last words were:

“Did I speak too truthfully to people?”

At dawn, when the first rays of sun appeared, they shone on the already cold body of Yitzkhak Meir Weissenberg.

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“Good Shabbes, Jews, good Shabbes! The Society to Support the Sick has arrived! Come down, bring down and throw down: Challahs, bread, fish, meat, sugar. Faster Jews, faster! There is not enough time! We must go to other courtyards as well. We can't wait! Faster, faster Jews, don't waste time. Bring down: butter, chicken fat, eggs oranges, apples. The sick need to put something good in their mouths in order to strengthen their hearts”.

Music. Shabbes – music in the Jewish courtyards of Warsaw. Played by Jewish labourers, overworked, pale, worried Jews. Working very hard to earn a living all week, they did not rest on the Sabbath, they did not lie down to rest their weary bones. They dragged large baskets through the Jewish streets of Warsaw collecting goods for the poor sick people in hospital.

There were tens of charitable societies, besides the hundreds of small ones in Warsaw: “The House of Bread”, “Supporting the Poor” and others. Thousands of packages were delivered on the eve of every holiday with all the necessities for the holiday provided for the poor families. Pots of tea and bread were distributed every winter through the poor Jewish streets of Warsaw. Every Jew in Warsaw had to be connected to “House of Bread”, “Supporting the Poor” or another charitable society. One who was not a taker, had to be a giver. Every Jew in Warsaw knew this. The biggest tragedy to befall an impoverished person was if he was forgotten and did not receive the necessities for Passover or other things that the poor needed. He suffered more from being left out than for not being able to provide for himself for the holidays. Tens of large charitable societies, besides the hundreds of small ones were active in Warsaw to help the needy.

Moishe Zonshein was a journalist and writer. He was born in 1906 in Warsaw, spent the years of the Holocaust in Russia, returned to Poland in 1946, then moved to Paris and in 1948 moved to Israel. He died in Jerusalem in 1960. He was a Warsaw Jew through and through. His book “Jewish Warsaw” contains 28 accounts and stories and all 28 should have been included in this anthology. However, we must be satisfied with two of his most artistic and heartfelt accounts.

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There were also local “little societies” on every street or courtyard: for supporting brides, interest free loans, free schooling for young children. None of the societies were as well known as the “Good Shabbes Jews”.

It was unimaginable for a Jewish courtyard to be neglected by the “Good Shabbes Jews”. It would have been a spoiled Sabbath. They would be lacking the flavours of the Sabbath, like the gefilte fish, the Sabbath challahs, the cholent and kugel. The good feeling of the Sabbath songs of Reb Itche Meir, the wealthy Warsaw Jew and Ger Hasid, or of Yosl the water carrier would not be felt.

When the “Good Shabbes Jews” did not arrive, the rich man's Sabbath was also disturbed. Even though he had enough Challahs, he would prepare and set aside one especially for the “Good Shabbes Jews”. It was embarrassing for the poor teacher whose wife divided her Challah dough into smaller pieces so there would be a small one to donate to the “Good Shabbes Jews”. It was sad for Yosl the water carrier. He had to buy black bread for his family for the Sabbath, but his wife made a little Challah to donate to the “Good Shabbes Jews”.

The Good Shabbes chant began very early so they could manage to collect the goods from all the Jews by noon and deliver them to the hospitals. The “Good Shabbes Jews” were already in the courtyards in the early hours of the morning.

Never would a woman or a child not be dressed when they heard the chant of the “Good Shabbes Jews”: with a coat thrown over their night clothes, those who were late would run down the steps from the fourth and fifth floors not to miss, God forbid, the chance to give a gift to the “Good Shabbes Jews”.

“Don't linger Jews, don't linger!” they would call out. The people did not linger, they hurried.

“Give more Jews” they demanded, and people gave more. Children and mothers haggled who earlier were haggling themselves. They gave another small piece, another little bit. They gave away their last egg, the last few sugar cubes, sometimes not having enough for their own children. The “Good Shabbes Jews” would be comprised of three Jews with two large baskets, with two handles on each basket. “Good Shabbes Jews, Good Shabbes”. The baskets became fuller. The men were burdened by the weight of the baskets but continued to carry them.

“Good Shabbes Jews, good Shabbes!”.

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Even if you did not have enough for yourself for the Sabbath, you tried to give something to the “Good Shabbes Jews” for two reasons: the sick poor were a priority, and the people in your courtyard should not learn that you did not have enough for the Sabbath.

“Good Shabbes Jews, good Shabbes. Those who have not yet brought us something can bring it to the next courtyard!”

Nothing was received today from Sorele. The talk in the courtyard was that she had no earnings. Sorele was not seen all week at the butcher buying meat and also not at the shop. Sorele bragged that she bought a goose and butter at the market which was good for the whole week, but her neighbours did not believe her. The “Good Shabbes Jews” did not receive anything today from Sorele. The women in the courtyard winked at each other.

They wanted to quietly help her. They soon heard light footsteps on the stairs. Sorele's daughter was running down from the fifth floor with a small package in her hands. Wrapped in the package was something for the “Good Shabbes Jews”. She ran with it to the neighbouring courtyard. They did not have any Challah nor fish, meat or even a single egg and they were embarrassed if front of their neighbours. The child brought a piece of bread wrapped in paper for the “Good Shabbes Jews”. The neighbours should not see that they do not have any Challah for the Sabbath. She brought it to a second or third or maybe even a fourth courtyard, where they do not know her.

“Here, take this piece of bread” said the child as she handed over the package. “My mother said that next week she will give Challah and sugar as well. Even an orange” she added. “Today she doesn't have. Good Shabbes, Jews, good Shabbes!”

The courtyard on Novolipiye Street is a dark one. The house on the left side of the courtyard is completely dark and, when you finally find an open door of a dwelling on the first floor and go down one small step where it is really dark, you can “feel the darkness with your hands”.

Walking down the corridor, one always bumps into something moving. One supposes it is a person. The one you banged into does not make a sound, he doesn't warn you and he doesn't get angry about the unsureness, he's so used to it. You bump into someone, part ways, then bump into another. This is what happens in that corridor. As you reach the end of the corridor,

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there is a door leading to a room which is lit with a gas light even during the day.

A vapor gushes out of that room and for the first few minutes you feel disoriented. It is difficult at first for your eyes to adjust and see the books. Shelves filled with books, thin books, thick books, old and new with various canvas spines. Black canvas, grey canvas, yellow and brown. On the spines of the books there are numbers from one on. One times one, two times one, five times. Five times two, three, four, then one thousand, two thousand and on.

The room is filled with people, men, women, young and old. Workers with smeared hands and clothing come to borrow books. People with tired faces and sunken cheeks. Men with long hair and unshaven for a few days, the unemployed. People with intelligent faces, young doctors, students and school children. Old people, grey from age, hunched over Jews. Jews with beards and with Warsaw round cloth “Jewish” caps. Jews without beards, from Lithuania, wearing fedoras. Jews with worn out cut gaberdines, young men with sidelocks tucked into their hats. Young boys with round caps on their little heads, girls with braids tied with ribbons. “Mademoiselles” wearing hats decorated with flowers and “odd” coats. Grandmothers in wigs and headdresses displaying toothless gums, all with books under their arms. Three men stand behind the counter. One is tall and broad with a shining face. He is Bressler.

“Mr. Bressler, give me something good” asked an elderly grandmother. “Something like…I don't have to tell you”.

“Nu, did you see what just arrived Grandma?”

“You should be healthy and live long Mr. Bressler. I've already read all ten chapters. Now give me something else, you know yourself what”.

Bressler pulled out a thick book covered with thick grey canvas. “Take this book Grandma. It's what you like”. Then he begins to tell her the plot. Her eyes begin to sparkle. “And the robbers really convert to Judaism?” she asked. “Be well Mr. Bressler. Have a good day”.

As soon as he finished with the old lady he was talking to a female pupil. “Have you already read Shenkevitch? Here, take “Faraon”.

“And you, I think you are reading Sholem Aleichem. Are you pleased?”

“And give me “The Wild Tsilke” shouted a girl. “You know Mr. Bressler, I saw Segalovitch. He's very tall and smokes a pipe”.

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A worker shuffles over, he takes Marx or Kautsky. Bressler's face becomes serious as he converses with the reader. He hands him another large book with pages splattered with candle wax.

This is how the books wandered from the shelves to the readers and back to the shelves. All sorts of books: books where girls cry about their bitter fate. Novels soiled and yellowed with tears of compassion. Books with blackened pages which were turned by overworked hardened fingers. Books where people searched for answers to all questions that bothered them; they searched for the purpose of the world or wanted to change everything and were tormented by the question, how?

Bressler spoke with everyone. He knew all his readers. He knew what they read and he knew what tormented them. He even knew who had eaten that day and who did not.

Beside the writing table stood a pale, gentle woman with a thin nose and opera glasses. Apparently, in her younger years she was a student. Today, she's Bressler's wife and the librarian.

She writes down the monthly dues and which books were taken.

“You owe us for seven months” she whispered to reader with sunken cheeks, flaming eyes and red tubercular spots on his face.

“When I get the job I've been promised, I'll pay you for the entire time”.

The young man limped away. The spots on his face grew redder. He knew he just told a lie. He would not receive work and will not be able to pay.

The librarian blushed as well, as if she was responsible for the young man not getting a job. “It really doesn't matter” she said comforting him. “When you get a job, you can pay”.

“Hello Mr. Bressler” shouted a reader over everyone's head.

“What did you take? The Road to Anarchism? When you finish the book, we'll talk a bit about it”. A young man of eighteen jumped from table to table. He had a long nose and melancholy eyes. He took the books off the shelves.

“Give them” said Bressler, “Asch's “Shtetl” number 1007, Mendele's “The Nag” number 898, Dinezon's “Yosele” number 825”.

He knew all the books by heart. He knew all the numbers. From all the Musar books, Jewish Books of Moral Instruction (Bressler had these as well), to Shomer's novels including the latest ones just published.

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Bressler's library was among the first lending libraries in Warsaw. Thousands of readers were educated by the books they borrowed from Bressler.

Night after night hundreds of people sat until dawn swallowing every word from these books, written or translated by Yiddish writers and poets.

After Bressler, others were founded. Dozens of other libraries were opened ejecting Bressler and taking his readers. Bressler died and his library went to others. However, when you walked past 5 Novolipye Street, one could not help but stop, look into the courtyard and whisper: “Bresler's Library”.

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