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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A precious thing
Otwock, a suburb of Warsaw, is a resort surrounded by tall pines, with pure, unspoiled air, where people suffering from respiratory ailments come to find relief.
Jacob’s father had developed a stubborn tickle in his throat, a touch of asthma, causing the family to leave the city, stay over the High Holy Days, worship with the Moditzer Rebby, a famous composer – their idol.
That summer of 1938 was sweltering, all waiting for the weekend to go to the beach, take comfort in the cleverly improvised pools on the Vistula River.
And if the heat of nature was not enough, man-made heat added to the discomfort. The Nazis’ sabres were rattling, Germany annexed Austria, the Sudetenland; claiming Danzig.
Chamberlain, the man with the umbrella, was calm. So was the Cardinal of Munich, the future pope, accusing atheists and communists, unduly creating panic.
On the eve of the Holy Days Laibl, Jacob, Mayer and their friend Shmuel joined the family.
Their father, like a king was followed by his entourage to the shul – the youngest by his side with the tallis, and holy book, his eyes glowing.
On the second day of Rosh-Hashana, after the echoes of the Shofar faded, all left the shul, their parents walking in front, the youngsters following behind, their laughter ringing.
After a luscious meal, the man of the house announced, "We are going to ‘Tashlich.’ Children, get ready."
Laibl, Shmuel and Jacob had other ideas. "Tashlich," where crumbs thrown into the river fulfill a double duty, feeding the fish and getting rid of sins, was not new to them, they had outgrown it. Their father was not in need of them anymore, having more children than he could handle.
Reb Aarele, son of the Kozienitzer Rebby, grandson of the world-renowned Magid, was in town keeping open house, the three of them following the multitude, a gentle breeze blowing their way, majestic pines like an honor guard occasionally welcoming with a cone. … Soon they arrived at a windowless one-story whitewashed building, guarded by two giants in black caftans, huge furry hats (shtraimels) reminding one of cossacks, allowing only men to enter.
If a woman approached, she was gently guided to the rear, to a half-dozen windows, pushing, elbowing, their eyes fixed inward. A glimpse of him, to meet his sagacious eyes, a nod of his head strengthened their hopes, fortified their faith, an occasion to tell their children and grandchildren of this great event.
Clutching in their hands a scribbled piece of paper, a plea for help – what great doctors failed to accomplish, he as the last resort had the power to alleviate their agony, for he, the divine mailman, had a shortcut to heaven – the "Quitlech," often having a favorable reply.
Suddenly there was a commotion. The guards stepped aside, doors opened, and like onrushing torrents the crowd was carried into the hall.
Inside was an enormous. long table spread with a white cloth, an assortment of fish, fowls roasted to a crisp. Bottles of wine, fruit and grapes adorned the whole length, untouched. Alongside, two benches were occupied by his most fervent followers - like a solid black wall not stirring, waiting for the Rebby to appear and start the feast.
But the holy man was not in a hurry. The heat, the noise, the powerful lights kept up the suspense, and the discomfort, the congregants like herring in a barrel, Jacob leaning against a seated burly Chassid fighting sleep.
There was a hush; the noise subsided, a tense, weary crowd straightened their backs, facing the door.
Dressed in a long silk robe, a black shtreimel, a middle-aged man of medium height walked toward an elevated ramp, his dark eyes, matching beard, tieless white shirt, in an aura of divine mystery, capable of putting one in a trance.
"Good Yom-Tov," said the Rebby, all in unison replying, "Good Yom-Tov, Rebby." He once again looked around the great gathering, and with a smile pointed to Jacob, his resonant voice asking: "Who is that young man?"
At first Jacob did not realize that he was the chosen one; he had to be reminded by the fat Chassid that the Rebby wanted to know his name.
"I am Yakov ben Ephraim Fishel from Warsaw," he replied.
"Pour him a glass of wine, I want to drink ‘L’chaim’ with him," said the Rebby. Immediately Jacob was given a goblet and drank with the revered one to life, becoming the center of attention. The crowd out of respect stepped aside, staring, Jacob having more breathing space – an opportunity to observe the others.
Presently the Rebby approached the table, tasted a slice of fish, and then the unforeseeable happened.
The hungry Chassidim grabbed the food and began to eat. Evidently their lunch was long overdue, and though the food teased their nostrils, they did not dare touch it – it was the Rebby who had to be first. In no time the table was cleared, as if a swarm of locusts had passed by.
Then the youngsters began to sing, taken over by a boy with a tamtararam, followed by a second and a third until the great hall echoed in a noisy celebration, all vigorously clapping, a tamtararam without any letup.
Jacob and his companions decided to leave; nonetheless, they agreed that what they had witnessed was beyond comprehension, admiring the unshattered reverence toward the Rebby.
"Yes," Shmuel said, "despite their misery they are happier than many people I know – they possess a precious thing many have lost: faith."
After the Holy Days the children returned to school; Moishe in his last year, David’l in his first year holding onto his sisters. Only Esther’l remained home. The little darling clung to her mother’s apron, watching her answer the letters from Zysyl that were arriving more frequently.
"Zysyl is with child," Jacob’s mother announced, holding her most recent letter. "I am going to be a ‘bubba,’ and you Fishel a ‘Zeida,’" Mayer commenting: "How nice, I’ll be an uncle, and you Esther’l a tante, the youngest one I know."
Jacob’s mother was exhilarated but frightened, aching to be with her daughter, waiting for an invitation.
Soon it came. Zysyl was afraid. She remembered the agony of her mother giving birth to her eighth child, and for her it was the first.
"I am leaving, my daughter needs me," Jacob’s mother said, turning to Malkele. "You’ll take care of the house."
"Don’t worry," interjected Laibl, "we’ll be okay." Though the little ones did not like the idea, David’l held back the tears, Esther’l crying openly.
Two days later Zysyl gave birth to a son, she and the baby doing fine.
Meanwhile, at home everybody chipped in, the 11-year-old Malkele performing nicely, Faigele helping with the dishes, in the process scalding her little arm.
A week later Jacob’s father attended the "Bris." Soon after the ceremony he and his wife returned home.
At first glance Jacob realized that something was wrong, the exaltation missing. His father hid his feelings behind the workbench, his mother swallowing a sigh, wiping a tear.
The next evening, after the children had gone to bed, Jacob asked how Zysyl was. … "She is my sister!"
"Yes, my son," his mother whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I suppose you deserve an answer.
"Though my daughter is surrounded by wealth, she is unhappy. Her husband is a weakling ruled by a scheming mother, his father a shiny fixture, a man with no feelings."
Jacob listened to the outcry, recalling Zysyl’s protests, her silent rebellion. She wanted no wealth – what she yearned for was love, devotion, companionship.
She sacrificed her youth, her very life, obeying her father, fearful for her not to become an old maid.
Jacob was angry, eager to smash the walls of these ancient rulings – remorseful for the poor beautiful girls, their aching mothers, his heart bleeding for the fathers and their unhappy daughters.
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