When I was about nine, my mother took Judith and me to the Carpathian Mountains for several weeks’ vacation. I still have a photo of us standing with a man in a bear costume hugging us. I think this excursion was an effort to improve my health.
We had not actually planned to stay in Rozwadów; my parents still wanted to go to Palestine. Uncle Chaim Simcha and his two boys were already there – I guess they had slipped through before the British tried to stop the influx of German refugees. Father often told exciting stories about what he had experienced in the eight months he was there. He made it sound very interesting and glamorous, so I dreamed of one day going to Palestine, the Promised Land.
Leo and friend, Josef and friend outside
their house in Rozwadów
Josef and Judith at the circus
3.
Religious Life
CELEBRATION OF THE SHABBAT formed the center of our religious tradition. Friday afternoon, Father took me to the mikveh, or ritual baths. First, each one poured a bucket of water over himself and washed with soap. Then we went into a kind of sauna, a steam-filled room with about twenty long steps going up one side. I managed to climb to the fourth step, but the higher steps were too hot for me. After this, we immersed ourselves in cold water. We emerged from the mikveh clean – inwardly and outwardly. Then we dressed in our best clothes and returned home for the lighting of the Shabbat candles. This ceremony moved us deeply, and Mother often had tears in her eyes as she lit the candles.
After the candles were lit, Father, Leo and I went to the synagogue for evening prayers. The ancient melodies sung by the vorbeter (cantor) pierced my heart. I could understand only a few of the Hebrew words, but the melodies and the feeling of those chanted prayers expressed clearly the persecution and suffering of our people, the longing for God and for redemption. I relive those Friday evenings still today when I secret myself away and listen to my scratchy recordings of Yossele Rosenblatt.
If any traveler or stranger was at the synagogue, it was considered a mitzvah (good deed) to bring him home for the Shabbat meal. Mother always hoped that Father would bring someone along and he often did. Father led us into the house singing, “Peace be unto you from the watching angels,” and “Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies.” We washed our hands ceremonially and gathered around the festive table. He blessed the wine and then the challah. The meal then went on for hours: maybe gefilte fish followed by lokshen mit yoch and then a dessert. After the meal, Father read to us from Sholom Aleichem or from other famous Yiddish authors. To close the long evening, we sang many prayers and psalms together.
Sabbath morning we slept in. After a light breakfast – maybe coffee cake – the whole family went to the synagogue. Friday evening was solemn, but on Saturday morning there was a more social atmosphere. I loved to watch the reader open the special cupboard where the scrolls of the Torah were stored, pointing towards Jerusalem. He removed the velvet covering in the prescribed way and laid them out on the pulpit in the middle of the synagogue. My father or other men from the congregation were called up for the special honor of assisting the reader.
There were many rituals associated with the readings from the Torah and the prophets. These were solemnly performed, but a casual, untroubled atmosphere tempered the service. During the long readings, my father sometimes nodded off; another man might then come up behind him, pull on his ears and then pretend that he had done nothing. Shul went on for hours.
During all this, of course, my mother sat in the women’s part of the synagogue. I think they took it all more seriously than the men. Even though she didn’t understand Hebrew, you could see that she felt it in her heart. The younger children could go freely between the men’s and the women’s sections; often I found my mother weeping.
After a substantial meal, we usually settled down for an afternoon’s nap. Sometimes, my father took me with him to the rabbi’s house. In some ways, this was the focus of spiritual life for the men. They discussed Scripture and the Talmud with the rabbi. My brother Leo didn’t come with us; he was busy with his activities in the Zionist Youth Movement.
When the first stars appeared in the evening, we went again to the synagogue. But the real closing ceremony was held at home. We had another meal and sang praise to God who made the difference between light and darkness, between the sacred and profane. We followed Shabbat – “the queen” – to the door and bid her farewell for another week. Then business started again; we had to think about tomorrow.
Sprinze, Mother, Milech, Grandmother, Rahel
4.
Refugees
I WAS TEN YEARS OLD when the war broke out. It broke like a thunderbolt into a sunny summer day. The cultural, religious, and ethnic life of Rozwadów was shattered forever. People were glued to their radios. We soon realized that the invading Germans were advancing rapidly through Poland, and that the Polish army was defeated. Masses of Polish soldiers started retreating through town – among them many Jews. Mother and a few other women set up an outdoor kitchen to cook for the soldiers.
My father’s business was destroyed long before the Germans arrived. First, Polish army officers came and requisitioned most of the sugar and rice. They gave us receipts, but even at the time we had no hope of ever receiving any payment. Afterwards, chaos and riots broke out. Mobs of Polish people wandered the streets breaking into shops and looting. They stole everything that was left in our shop.
We feared that the Germans would send the able-bodied men to forced labor camps, so my father and older brother (then twenty-one) fled toward the Russian border. They returned home after about two weeks, however, because the German armies had already moved ahead and closed the border.
When the Germans moved in on Rozwadów, they took the town in a matter of hours. We spent the night in the cellar listening to the sound of explosions and artillery fire. Afterward, my father and Leo hid in the attic; we were instructed to tell the Germans that they had left for Russia.
As a ten-year-old, I didn’t understand the seriousness of what was happening. My friends and I ran around town, looking at the soldiers. I remember standing in the square and watching a German officer gather his troops for a pep talk. He walked up and down in front of the soldiers standing at attention. Since German is so close to Yiddish, I understood some of it: “…We have conquered here, and we’ve conquered there…We have planted seeds in all these countries. Poland is just the beginning. Germany is going to take over the world.”
We were not allowed to meet in the synagogue or hold any gatherings. But since it was Yom Kippur, we met in one of the houses anyway, to hold our prayers. I will never forget that ardent crying-out to God for his intervention and protection. No one knew what was ahead of us, but everyone feared the worst.
About a month after the Germans arrived, all Jews were ordered to gather in the square within an hour. No one said what was to happen, but we packed all we could carry on our backs. German officers (S.S., I now suppose) ordered us to march towards the San River. They shouted and drove us forward – long lines of men, women and children, all carrying as much as they could manage. One drove by on a motorbike harassing everyone to go faster. He struck my father with his bayonet. I don’t think my father was badly hurt, but he fell, and the experience made a deep impression on me.
When we finally arrived at the San, there were more soldiers. I can’t remember how we crossed the river, but I remember the