|
|||||||||
A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Rich boy, poor boy
There are thoughts, opinions one would like to share; questions of importance to be answered.
One would like to know, who is a happier child, one who is born rich, or one poor?
The rich child, as soon as it opens its eyes, is met by nannies, maids, its whims are catered to, with toys, clothes, a new bicycle, education, travel. The child has only to snap his or her fingers and "voila!" everything is within reach, the wish granted, whereas the poor child, as soon as its little fanny is slapped, the first cry heard, is welcomed with open arms by creatures not much bigger than he.
As time passes, he shares a bed, many feet intertwined. Pedaling an ancient tricycle, or pushing the rusted rim of a barrel with a wire formed into an inverted U. He is aware of the scarcity of an egg, gets an occasional wiener, savoring the last bite. He gets a coat handed down from an older brother. Shoes too small, pinching the toes, or too big, flapping uncomfortably, all the daily worries of growing up.
Yet there is an unflinching love, an invisible glue keeping the poor child’s family together, the harsh reality taking them into a world of their own, faithfully holding on toward their goal, spinning threads of dreams and hopes, visions of better things to come.
This is their daily bread, the air they breathe. Without it, their life would be meaningless.
Thus, if life is a journey, an adventure taken by us all, men and women, young and old, rich or poor, one often ponders what is more important, the boredom of plenty and comfort, or poverty, the excitement of the trip, the mystery and challenge, the steadfast travel through the vast labyrinth toward an unknown destination.
It was late one Saturday afternoon, the congregation waiting for the blessing of the fire, the "Havdalah," enjoying beer tapped from a small keg, youngsters munching slices of herring, bread and nuts, welcoming a new week.
Laibl was not home. Mother was in her chair, the good old book on her lap, dozing; Malkele and Faigele upstairs playing and Zysyl entertaining Esther’l. Outside the bare branches of trees swayed, their falling leaves swirling in the air. There was the screech of an approaching streetcar coming to a halt, the echo of the church bells and the fiery sun hiding behind the horizon.
Srulik and his brother Avrum, the taller of the twins, readied the furnace. Row upon row of cast die, their openings like mouths waiting to swallow the molten metal.
Their father, owner of the little foundry, a heavy-set, burly man, a moustache spread over a great part of his face, a relic of long service in the Tzar’s army, made sure there was no mishap, not a drop to be wasted.
Moniek, their next door neighbor, the boy who replaced Jacob at the tailor shop, was not home when Jacob decided to visit Tante Gella; turning the corner of the Grzybowska and Zielazna, the marquee advertising a Ken Maynard movie at the "Baika." Students of the Warsaw University crowded the wide sidewalk, a middle-aged, bespectacled man walking toward them, when without warning, as if on cue, they rearranged into columns, a boy and a girl, the tallest like a charging bull roaring – "Dirty Jew!" knocking him down like a chopped tree, his body punctured by high heels and heavy soles.
"You bastards! You dirty rotten bastards! Damn you all!" Jacob cried, trembling.
"Oh, God, is it really a sin to be a Jew?" his clenched fists hurting, girding for action -- and soon, very soon, the opportunity presented itself.
At the corner of Zielazna and Krochmaina, illuminated by the gaslights, stood a Chasid, a towering drunkard, with one hand pulling his beard, with the other poking his pale face, when Jacob rushed over, and with all the strength he could muster kicked the brute in the groin and with his hand still in a fist punched his twisted face, knocking him down. The frightened Chasid hastily retreated – Jacob continued his walk, then abruptly turned and ran all the way home.
The lights in the store were already on. His father changed his silken caftan into his weekly outfit, Laibl already at his bench working, Mayer dusted the showcases, Moishele the scholar with a book in his hand at the side.
"What is it, Yankel?" his father asked. "You are out of breath. Are you in trouble? Had you been to the Havdalah you could have prevented this," he said, admonishing.
"I thought you went to see Tante Gella," Zysyl said. "You are trembling! Look, Mother!"
Smiling faintly, putting on a brave front, Jacob assured them that nothing had happened.
"No," his mother interrupted. "That is not so. I know you better. What happened?"
The children stopped playing. Mayer stopped doing his chores. Laibl put down his magnifying glass. All were anxious to hear what Jacob had to say.
Thus, he related the incident, from beginning to end.
An uneasy quiet filled the store, only the ticking of the clocks audible, David’l clenching his little fist, shouting: "You beat up that big bully! Oh! When I’ll be like you, I’ll beat them all up. I’ll show them!"
Jacob’s father, uneasy, trying to make up, said it was just an incident, an unfortunate one, with a gesture diminishing its seriousness, his mother adding: "My son, think of it as a bad dream. Forget it."
"No!" Jacob blurted out, trying to maintain his composure. "No! You’re wrong. You’re all wrong. It is not an incident, or a bad dream. It’s real. What I witnessed was an executed performance, a pusillanimous, hateful act from beginning to end – and I will not forget it.
"Do you remember the broken windows, glass all over the sidewalk, vile placards pasted on every corner? That filthy, bigoted act is no incident, it is real, and closing our eyes will not help. On the contrary it strengthens their resolve, their sinister unholy goal, their concerted effort of hate."
"Yes," Laibl said. "True, Yankel is right. I didn’t want to mention it before, but the evening classes I attend are not lacking with those kind of incidents.
"The ‘Shgutsim’ are nasty, frequently presenting a Jewish guy with a bloody nose, a black eye, a poke in the ribs. Luckily I am immune, I have built-in protection. The biggest one of them owes me more than one favor. His marks improved greatly, not through his efforts, but mine."
Jacob’s father, sorry that the week had started on such a sour note, adjusted his chair, and the children disappeared to their make-believe world. Jacob’s mother said, "Have faith, my son, have faith, and this too shall pass."
"No, Mother," Jacob murmured. "I am scared, afraid for you, for father, for all of us. A bitter enemy, a vicious animal is lurking; like an erect cobra exposing its fangs dripping with deadly venom, eyeing its prey, ready to attack.
"There is a resurgence of hatred, dreadful anti-Semitism unlike never before. The sermons of father Trzetchak and his underhanded slogans, ‘Swoj do swego po swoje’ is not an incident, it is vicious propaganda, more pronounced with every day, a boycott felt by all of us.
"I feel outnumbered, alone, and I am scared. I fear that God had forsaken us also."
"Don’t you ever say that again," his sweet, puritanical sister admonished, "never!" She slapped him lightly on the hand.
Soon winter came to an end and spring made its entrance, Jacob continuing his chores six days a week, twelve hours a day, often late for shul and Kiddush, but nothing could be done despite his father’s protestations.
He had to concede, because Jacob’s help counted, but come Saturday he still accompanied his father to the shul. But it was not the same. It lacked the thrill, the piety, devoutness. His spirit was in open rebellion.
 |