animal trader and away from home three nights a week. We had a cow shed in the yard and we had geese and chickens. Mother raised the children. Mother milked the cows, helped in the store, ran the home, mother was an expert baker, her cakes tasted like the Garden of Eden. Mother worked and worked, didn’t rest for a moment. When we were hungry we took food for ourselves. We only sat down to eat a meal together on the Sabbath. When I was a year old my brother Yitzhak was born and I was sent away from home. My sister Sarah was five. My brother Avrum was three. Mother couldn’t take care of everyone at once. I was sent to Grandmother and Grandfather. They lived in another village, maybe thirty kilometers from my village. When I was three they brought me back home. My sister Sarah said I didn’t stop crying.
Our village was near a huge forest in the Carpathian Mountains.
What I loved most was walking in the forest. Always with a stick, because of the wolves. I loved swinging from branches and climbing trees. I would climb almost to the top of the tree and look out over fields, over houses. I only ever felt safe in trees. I knew no one would find me up there. I had my own private hiding place in the forest. I hung up a hammock made from a blanket I took from home and I ate fruit from a hoard I collected, all according to season. In the forest I knew where to find pears, mushrooms, berries and nuts. I was the first to know when the fruit was ready to eat.
In winter I suffered.
In winter I waited for the snow to melt so I could throw off my shoes and run barefoot to my forest. Mother embarrassed me. She’d run after me, shoes in hand. She’d call my name aloud in front of the neighbors, worried that I’d catch cold, shouting Avrum, Avrum, Avrum, to help her with me, but he’d go off with father. I’d hear, Sarah, Sarah, leave your book for a moment, nu, and go and look for your brother, put his shoes on and bring him home.
Sometimes I’d come back with Yitzhak, shoes in hand. Sometimes with Sarah. I liked feeling the cold earth. It was a nice tickling feeling in my back, right up to the hollow in my neck. Maybe that’s why my feet didn’t hurt when I walked in the camp with paper-thin soles.
Yitzhak and I went together to cheder – a traditional elementary school teaching Judaism and the Hebrew language. We started there at the age of four. We left home every day at five-thirty in the morning. In winter the temperature was twenty-five below zero. We’d hold hands and walk in the dark. We wore a coat, a hat, a scarf and gloves and woolen socks with shoes. Despite this my face hurt, like an iron stuck fast to my skin. I couldn’t feel my feet in that frost. Our legs were like planks bent in the middle. Our ear-locks were like barbed wire. We didn’t talk so our tongues wouldn’t fall out and stick to the snow.
We’d study for two hours in cheder and then go home. At the age of six, after cheder, we went to the Czech elementary school. We studied until 13:00 and went back to cheder in the afternoon. For at least another two or three hours.
A city rabbi would come to bless the village on two fixed occasions twice a year. The city rabbi was an important and respected man. He had a black coat, a hat, and a thick beard like steel wool. The rabbi would comb his beard with two fingers, stopping only to spit into a handkerchief. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dnieper. The rabbi didn’t say they’re throwing Jews into the Dniester. The rabbi didn’t say they’re shooting Jews in forests. People in the village asked him as they had always done over the years, rabbi, what should we do. What should we do, rabbi, on the radio they speak against Jews, there are rumors, rabbi. They send families far away, where is far away, rabbi, what do they do to us there, does it hurt? And there have been whispers, rabbi, passing by word of mouth, whispers about mass graves of hundreds, thousands, danger is coming, rabbi, what is waiting for us, rabbi, tell us what is waiting for us, is this the end?
The rabbi would think and think, and in the meantime a woman with an enormous belly pushed two Jews with beards and hats who stood in the aisle, and approach the rabbi from the side, punching him, boom! in the middle of his back and the rabbi jumped and the two Jews with beards and hats fell on the woman and she rolled about like a full barrel, shouting, hooligans, leave me alone, and they wouldn’t leave her alone, but rolled her out of the synagogue, and three old women with covered heads would call out in unison, she’s crazy, she’s from a goy family and she’s crazy, and the rabbi would arrange his hat, pull his coat and bend down to us with raised eyebrows, asking the nearest man, tell me, Jew, do you light candles at home?
Yes, we light candles, and you, tell me, have you checked your Mezuzahs?
I’ve checked them, and you, Jew, do you remember to put on tefillin, we remember rabbi, we don’t forget a single day.
And then the rabbi would say, nu, good. There’s a God in the heavens, open the Siddur, say Shema Israel and the Messiah will come.
The village people said, very well, and looked down at the ground. The rabbi requested a chair. The rabbi took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The rabbi put his hand in his pocket and played with coins. Chink. Chink. Chink. People stole glances at one another but refused to buy the rabbi’s medications. A few minutes later they continued to badger, what should we do, rabbi. Should we run away, answer us, rabbi. They had the voice of a hungry chick. Many chicks that weep and weep.
The rabbi would frown, saying: Certainly not, Jews. Forbidden! Forbidden to leave the village!
People said, very well, but immediately longed for Eretz-Israel, rabbi, Palestine, you know, the Jews are studying Torah there, maybe we’ll escape to Palestine?
The rabbi shouted: Forbidden! A boycott on anyone who goes to Palestine. Boycott! Boycott! Boycott! We must wait for the Messiah!
The people said very well, but until he comes, rabbi, what must we do?
We have a strong God, He will help, shouted the rabbi banging his hand on the Ark.
The people said very well. Men and heavy coats, and women with head coverings and handkerchiefs in their hands, crowded in front of the synagogue Ark, weeping and shouting in unison, help us, our Lord. Save us from Hitler, damn him, bring the Messiah, and then they went home. On the way, if they saw a priest or a white horse, or a chimney cleaner in black clothes and a black hat, they’d grab a button on their clothing, against the evil eye, not letting go until they reached home, believing that this would help them get through Hitler. Some kissed the Torah morning, noon and night, some wept. Small children rushed around the synagogue yard with sticks in their hands. They cursed Hitler and beat the ground.
The rabbi wanted to go back to his city. They lined up the children to say goodbye and shake his hand.
I didn’t like the rabbi and didn’t want him to ask me a question about the Torah or about Jews. I didn’t want him to speak to me about anything. I was ashamed when people laughed because I didn’t understand a thing about what I studied in cheder. I was most ashamed at farting in my trousers from the stress, because in cheder we read Hebrew letters that looked to me like sticks with a lot of mosquitoes, the rabbi translated the sticks with mosquitoes into Yiddish, and I knew Yiddish from home, but I couldn’t remember the Hebrew letters, not even one. I had no head for letters. My brother Yitzhak had even less of a head for letters. Yitzhak escaped from life in cheder. I suffered more. Every day I farted on the way to cheder. I squeezed tight but they got out, phut. Phut. Phut. I’d often whistle so my friends wouldn’t hear and, hopefully, wouldn’t smell before I had time to reach the hole in the shithouse. I’d sit above the hole in the plank to pass the time, I’d whistle melodies quietly. I’d play my harmonica in my mind, or draw on the wall with a piece of chalky stone I had in my pocket. I was an expert on butterflies with huge wings. I made enough room on the wings for me and my brother Yitzhak in case we decided to fly far away.
One day I was sitting in the shithouse and saw one of our boys approaching. I think it was Menachem, the shoemaker’s son. The boy pulled down his pants and sat down next to my ass. He and I begin to shove asses. Shove, shove, bursting with laughter. In the meantime the rabbi the melamed – teacher – arrived with a scarf around his neck and a smell of cigarettes. The rabbi, the melamed had a belt in his hand. The