MEMOIRS OF SHERESHEV
By MORRIS KANTOROWITZ
Leaving for the states my uncle left
behind his wife Esther-Liba and children. The
youngest being Eliyau (Eli) ten months my junior. The
others from the oldest was Chvolkah (Hellen), Avreml (Abraham), Rose, Lipa(Leon),
Elchononv (Herald) and, of course, the youngest Eliyau (Eli). At the time of my uncle’s departure they were
all still at school accept the two oldest ones.
My uncle’s idea was of course the
same as any married man’s who left at that time for the States, that is to
receive the first papers after two years of residence and to send for the rest
of the family, which he had done thus saving his entire family from the fate
that befell European Jewry. And my mother who practically knew only this one brother all her
life and was tied to him with a thousand knots, had to part with him, which had
turned out to be forever. She remained alone of the AUERBACH family taking on
the burden and responsibility to look after an old father and mother.
Since the day of my
uncle’s departure, there wasn’t a day that my mother didn’t mention his name at
least once. She used to wait for his letters as eagerly as a devoted Jew for
the Messiah, hoping that it will bring the “good news” meaning that his older
daughter Chvolke (Ellen) became betrothed. It seems that that year was a difficult and
traumatic one for my mother, that I, then a five-year-old child, would still
remember it now, almost seventy years later.
There were
other less world shattering events that took place in Shereshev,
for example; the introduction of the first autobus in the Shtetl,
which was bought in partnership by a few local merchants to commute between Shereshev and Pruzany, eighteen kilometres away. That bus used to be parked overnight in my
uncle Shloime’s shed that had high and wide enough
doors for the bus to pass. I can still
see the name the bus was given by the owners; large letter spelling “Warszawianka” on either of its sides. It would cut down on
travel time between Shereshev and Pruzany
from three hours by horse and buggy to half an hour by bus. There was of course the small matter of fare,
which was a whole zloty by bus against half a zloty by horse and buggy. As far
as the price goes, I like to inform the reader that a zloty represented a days
pay for an unskilled laborer.
Behind my uncles house
was a large garden and I recall how in late autumn a hole was dug in the ground
in which potatoes were heaped, covered with straw and the straw covered with a
thick layer of earth. The potatoes were left there for over the winter. In
early spring they were dug up, as a rule in good condition to be eaten until
the new crop was ready to be harvested in the fall. This system of preserving potatoes over
winter was wide spread in Eastern Europe. However it happened sometimes that
the potatoes froze or rotted, to the disappointment and privation of the
owners.
I see myself in my uncle Shloime’s house where I used to be a frequent visitor. How
lively that house was, always full with young people, not only the members of
the family but their numerous friends. All my uncle’s children except for the
youngest one were between the ages of ten and twenty, each in a different class
and each with his or her classmates. That house could have easily been taken at
times for a small school or a youth club.
I can still see my cousin Abe (Abraham) play the violin and hear my
mother praising his talent and extol his virtues regarding his scholastic
abilities.
Years later, many years
later, when we met as adults, I realized how much fate has wronged him. I have
no doubt that would he have had a chance to get a higher formal education he
would have attained fame and recognition. Never the less despite those
deprivations he managed to amass enough knowledge to put many academics to shame. My uncle´ s other children too were keen and
studious youngsters and it seemed that they had a bright future, yet when they
reached these shores it did not turn out to be the “America” it meant to be.
That summer my mother
hinted that my father was looking for a way to come home, that is to transfer
his license to Shereshev, which was more complicated
than it seemed. At about the same time a decision was made, I would assume,
more by my mother than by my grandfather, to enroll me in a more advanced and
progressive heder. There was one in Shereshev run by “Yaakov-Berl”
Eisenstein. A man of about forty, corpulent in appearance, self educated, who
got his early education and experience as teacher from his late father the “Melamed” (teacher of children in Heder)
who was known in the Shtetl by the name of “Chaim the Melamed”. Yaakov-Berl ran a Heder of some 20-25 boys of different ages and levels. His
method of teaching was considered modern in local terms. Not only did he teach
the Pentateuch, Bible and Mishnah (the collection of
post-biblical laws and rabbinical discussions), but even Gemara
(part of the Talmud which comments on the Mishnah).He
even taught Hebrew as a living language, which was something new in the Shtetl, in direct competition with the Hebrew school that
was established in 1925 and numbered some 125 students during the 1930’s. Besides the above qualities this Yaakov-Berl had others too, he was a good violinist. On the
warm summer evenings passers by used to stop to listen
to the sweet melodies pouring out the open windows of his living room. For good
measure he was also a carpenter who made all the furniture in his house, a
shoemaker who used to make shoes for his entire family and also a maker of
violins that were the highest priced in Shereshev.
His oldest son Leizer(Lazar) was my age and years later was my classmate in the
Polish public school.
A decision was made for
me to enroll right after the holidays, which are Rosh Hashana
(the Jewish new year), Yom Kippur (the day of
atonement) and Sukkot (the feast of
tabernacles). My father came to spend
time with us for those holidays. He took me with him to the synagogue, which
was quite a walk, passing by three others on the way. For some reason I remember the Day of
Atonement best. The eve of that day my father and I went for “Mincha” (the midday prayer) distributing
alms all around the entrance of the synagogue. I recall the long evening
prayer, the floor of the synagogue covered with hay as most of the worshipers
wore no shoes inside and the hundreds of large lit candles all around gave the
synagogue an air of solemn mystic. How mysterious, how
awe-inspiring, how bewailing, how lamenting and heart-renting those prayers
were.
At the age of five I did
not understand the meaning of the words in the prayers but the dignity of the
moment was enough to instill in me and in all the children, a feeling of
respect and solemnity. In the morning
all the seats of the synagogue were taken, there wasn’t enough room for all the
children to sit down, besides, how long can one expect a child to sit? So we
used to run around. My father was a
member of the same Shul (synagogue) as my maternal
grandfather, called the rabbi’s synagogue. The reason being is that the rabbi
lived nearby and attended services there. My maternal grandfather Laizer-Bear was the Gabbi (head
warden of the synagogue).
According to Jewish
tradition one should not wear leather footwear in the synagogue on the high
holidays, however, only the older members adhered to this tradition, among them
my grandfather who was in his stocking feet. Wanting to make sure that my
grandfather has plenty of hay under his feet and not wanting to be conspicuous
in hoarding hay, I walked around the synagogue pretending not to notice the
growing pile of hay under my feet, as I was shoveling it on the floor until
reaching my grandfather who was so engrossed in prayers that he wouldn’t move
his feet for me to put the hay under.
From my playmates of that
age I can recall my cousin Eli, my uncle Shloime’s
youngest son, and his cousin, Abraham Winograd, from
his mothers side who’s family lived next door, also
another cousin of Eli’s from the same side of the family a girl by the name of
Sara Leiman. The four of us became classmates in the
first grade Hebrew school a year later.
At times I used to play with my cousin from my father’s side, a daughter
of my father’s brother Reuben and his wife Chashkah
(nee Pinsky). They had two children at that time, a
little girl Michla two years younger than I and a
newborn son in 1928, Shalom. It was with Michla that I played when I used to visit them. That little
Michla had a head of curly blond hair like her
mother. Once as I was visiting them on a Friday night, playing around a table, Michla, a three-year-old child got too close to the lit
Sabbath candles on the table and her hair caught on fire. She started to scream
and I, a five year old, screamed with her. By that time her parents got to her
and put the fire out but her hair was noticeably singed. This did not interfere
in her growing up to be a beautiful young girl only to be murdered at the age
of 17 with her family by the Nazis during the slaughter of Drohychin
on October 15, 1942.
It seems that my mother
wasn’t to keen on sending me to the new Heder in late
fall, for I stayed home that winter of 1928-29.
About the same time violent upheavals were taking place in the
land of
Israel, at that time called
Palestine. The large Arab
population turned against its small and defenseless Jewish minority killing
individuals or slaughtering and driving out entire communities like the ancient
community of Hebron, killing in the process
70 Jews among them women and children.
At night when my mother
used to put me to bed I used to ask her why are the Arabs
doing it, to which of course she had no answer. However to calm me down she
began to say with me the “Kreyat Shmah
Al Hamita” (night prayer) ending the prayer by
wishing a good night individually to every member of the family including
cousins, saying that this prayer will protect me from all evil.
For the record I’d like
to say that I had memorized this prayer in a matter of a few days and have been
saying it nightly ever since even in the darkest and most despairing nights of
my life, ending by wishing every member of my family a good night, knowing only
too well that they are not alive any more, that they were put to death by the
Nazis in the cruelest way, but hanging on to their memory and intending to
continue to my last days.
That winter, 1928-29, I spent most
of my time at home with my mother and sister Sheva.
It was right after Pesach (Passover) in early spring of 1929 that I started
attending the Heder of Yankl-Berl
Eisenstein. Yankl-Berl
ruled the Heder with an iron fist. I can still see
him at the head of a long narrow table around which some two dozen boys between
the ages of 6-12 sat tightly together and, in his hand a long thin rod, with a
well aimed lash over a boys ear, no matter how far
away, he keeps the attention of his charges to the lesson. A boy sitting next
to him could expect a stab from Yankl-Berl’s thick
finger that would leave a mark for several days. I only attended Yankl-Berl’s
Heder from after Pesach to Shavuot (Passover to
Pentecost) that is in the spring of 1929. I was already six years old and time
for a formal Jewish education in the local private Hebrew school known as the “Yavnah Hebrew School, affiliated with Tarbut
in Shereshev”.