Suraska Street, ZabludowTranslation by Daphna Brafman Coordinated by Tilford Bartman
For many years I have been walking on the Bialystoker road and I cannot reach my little town. How many are the desires of the heart that had vanished through time. How many are the horizons discovered through time, and I am still on the same road, on the way to a town I cannot reach.
But something unusual has happened in my imagination; at once all cables fell and it seems like I am making real steps. Yes! I am walking, The road becomes shorter and keeps getting shorter, and perhaps it is nothing but an illusion of a man dying of thrust? No! It's real; I am really walking. I am already by the pillars along the roadsides. Before me there's a long fence, from which thick iron spears stand, sticking up to half of the fence's height. Objects of many shapes are seen between the small trees, and above them all an object made of black marble- tall statue, like a monument, and under it lies the son of the aristocrat who died before his time. It seems as if here, in the world of the dead, the monument emphasizes its superiority over other statues.
On the other side are the heads of the green river willows. There we used to run and bathe on the hot summer days when managed to sneak out of the "Cheder" (religous school for young children). I can still see the eternally peaceful waters and their green color. The river is hidden in the shaded bosom of the tall willows. Here we jump into the river and immediately run out and play with the water. We run in the field like wild birds or fall on the ground shouting of joy and no worries disturb our childhood.
I am closer to town. Slowly, slowly I can see the chimneys of the tanneries; when closer they look like enormous giants who guard the town. Suddenly the air changes, it is filled with sour smell, reminding the smell of sour bread. As I'm closer- the air is filled with strong smells.
I am already at the entrance to the town. On the left, as if they were connected, are the homes of the tanners Nissel and Khetzkel Becker. Next to them, on the empty space, the peeled spots of the moist oak peels are spread to be dried by the hot sun. That is the reason for the bitter sour smell in the air. Two young husky and barefoot men dressed in leather aprons, pour the spots into a deep basket and carry it with iron sticks into the factory.
I do not know why I turn right. The Church is standing there; it is hard to recognize it because of the wild bushes around it. No one knows when was the last time the old and rusty iron door closed. Next to her is the factory of Palveskin, and on the other side of the Church there are cisterns of clay and plaster; this is where the farmers took materials for the nearby brick factories.
I turn left again and enter the little Egypt alley; this is where the city Christians live. We the children always avoided entering this street due to fear. Here is the entrance; at the gates of Hertzki Rubbins and Zalman Bialystotski's leather factories. I remember the lightening that hit them once; Hertske's wife was saved, Zalman Bialystotski was killed.
I arrive at the street of the cemetery that crosses the Egypt road. There's a red house on the corner. This is where Chaya Mindel lives; she sells fruit in our market. Her husband is a quiet man, refined, and has a good general knowledge. He was a teacher who used modern teaching methods. My favorite teacher. He spent six years in the First World War, overcoming all the dangers and suffering. He did return home but two years later died of starvation, leaving his students bleeding of sorrow.
Not far from there is the old cemetery, surrounded by thick bushes. Its tombstones stick above its wall. From within the bushes I can see the tent of the well known Rabbi, the great Tzadik R. Yoseleh with whom during the month of Elul an animal converses and asks him to be the advocate for the Jews of Zabludow.*
*the month of Elul is the last month before Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur and during the month people pray for forgiveness before the days of judgement.
I enter Mohavitz Street. A part of the street is occupied by the mansion of Yashka Minkes. Yashka is a hidden anti-Semite. He smiles to a Jew he knows, and puts his arm around his shoulder as a friend, but he is no big friend of the Jews. Swatick's mansion is on the other side, and it stretches all the way to the home of Leibaleh Altas , built in the shape of "t". The big house is made of wood and it faces the street. Its other side is connected to a factory of dry leather and after that the stable. Mohavitz garden and farm are next. There was a canal there; it never dried and in the strategic maps of the two world wars in was marked in red. There's a well in the yard. The residents drew water for tea from that well; that is why it was called "tea waters". I see a wooden bench behind the window and the two steps at the entrance. This is where I spent my childhood years, in the house on Mohavitz Street, in the garden, and by the well. Here I learnt to love people, and the truth; here my heart was filled with the need to fight for justice. With some beautiful and unforgetable memories my soul is tied to you my dearest!
I remember my mother, always worried, who knew only misery and dreamt of good times to come. She was a woman of valor full of simple wisdom and logic, fed by personal experience. A rebellious woman for all it's interpretation. She complained of injustice in front of god himself when she saw the "wonderful acts" done in his world. She used to express her dissatisfaction verbally: "if this is the justice in god's world- better to live without him". She protested against the government of the rich in Poland, and she rebelled against her strict husband who was more dedicated to the public than his own family. This indeed was how her husband was- my father, short, wide shoulder and refined; his beard was shaped after the French fashion style, his childlike light brown eyes were smiling and reflected goodness. His muscular body resembled Hercules and his force like Samson the hero. He was named Leibaleh Altas after his righteous mother. The name Leibaleh was given to him because of his unusual goodness. He was good to me, to his wife and children, to all people, and even to those who used him and abused his kindness and innocence, and cause damage to him and others.
He served all with heart and soul. In the Bilski Street Beit Hamidrash he served as Gabai and Shamash (treasurer and custodian). He always made sure that the poor shall be invited for a Shabbat meal. He was a member in various associations and took care of them. He took care of cleaning the Beit Hamidrash and it's maintenance. As a member of Hevra Kadisha (buriel society) he took care of purification. He washed the dead, carried and buried him and said Kaddish when there was no relative to do so. He was sorry when he couldn't find some poor he wanted to take care of. In time he became a public servant whose task was to care for the needs of the public. He was occupied with it and did not stop caring with devotion and honesty until the last moment of his life. For that reason he lived a life of poverty. No doubt Leibaleh Altas sacrified his private life for the benefit of the public. He believed that the happiness of the public is more important than the happiness of the individual.
Opposite our home lived Isaac the blacksmith. His small yard was always full of horses and wheels. Isaac was short and well built. The hard work bent his back. His big head and face were covered hair and on his arms black spots, marks of burns from fire sparks. On the side above his eye brow there was a big dark mole. His arms were short and thick, his hands and fingers were hard because of the blisters. He worked from dawn until evening but always in a good mood and secure. He loved his work and home. He was a good and friendly man- a symbol of simplicity and hard work.
Next to Isaac was the farm of Shmuel Tsliver. It looked like an old and deserted wooden warehouse. He once was a barley grinder. At his old age he prepared fodder for the horses of the landlords. Shmuel Tsliver was an angry Jew who never looked at people when he spoke with them. He usually didn't speak but when he spoke it looked as though he mumbled broken words aimed at an empty space and not a person. When he was angry, on the other hand, he yelled so loudly that babies woke up. He was also known to be a miser. Here I stand in the warehouse and look at the miserable little brown horse. His eyes are covered, he walks and walks on the surface that presses and grinds the maize. But it looks as if the horse is standing in one place, barely moving his legs. I hear his heavy breathing, see the tense moving of his nostrils and feels that this miserable creature sighs like a human being who cannot take the physical abuse any longer every sigh is followed by a curse. A curse from Shmuel: "may the thunder hit him! He wants to eat but not to work!" Being a miser he reached a "genius" idea- he shall "wean" the horse from food. One day, Shmuel was experimenting on that idea, the horse stopped working and expressed his protest; this time without a sigh, he fell on the ground and slowly died. When later Shmuel was asked "can a horse live without food?" He replied- foolish horse, had he managed to hang on one more day he would have survived. Shortly after the death of the horse Shmuel Tsliver died as well.
I am standing by a big house made of wood, connected to the street by a bridge. Climbing on it is through steps on both sides. The house stands on the corner of Mohavitz Street and the Shoemakers' Street. Old Solah lives there. Solah- little, fat clever and warm face, was the leader of her old family. Her wisdom and behavior reminded a biblical character. All her children called by her name. There was a big bakery in her home; her pasteries were known all over the area. She was one of these women who left their mark on the community they lived in.
After Solah's home a poor cabin stands and in it a low and small window. Here lives the old "black Jew" as he was called. He was a teacher of small children, a dark and little Jew. Here he stands; a short Jew with long eyebrows and a long gray beard that reaches his belt. At home he wears a pair of short and wide atlas trousers, black vest and under it a short yellow talit.
Here, I am sitting on the short and hard bench. Next to me is the old Rabbi and in his hand is the long stick; one side of the stick is wrapped with a cloth smeared with pitch and the other side has a sharp edge. With it he touches every letter separately and sings quietly with feminine voice the alphabet with vowels. Suddenly a coin falls on the Siddur and father is standing behind me saying: " you see, Yoseph, the angel threw a coin; this is for you. If you study well the angel will always throw a coin for you. The "black Jew" supports him: "yes, my child, of course. The angel, the angel." There was no one in town that didn't need this Jew, the teacher of little children.
Yehudah the carpenter lives across the street from the childrens' teacher. His wife Sarah Meita "trusk" is standing in the corridor and conversing with the cow. Sarah Meita was blessed with an unusual talent to speak. No one has ever seen her not talking; that is why she is called "trusk". She loved the cow more than she loved her husband and two sons. The cow was everything for her, and it seems like the cow understood her. She used to drag after her like a child after his mother. Sarah Meita used to tell the cow all the neighbors' gossip, and all that has happened to her during the day. Whenever she had a fight with her husband and children she would go to the cow and pour her heart out. She used to say that the cow is the only soul that could comfort her. When her young son Zalman, who did not study but knew all, asked her, "mother, why do you talk to the cow? Can she understand? After all it's a beast!..." Sarah Meita used to get angry and shout at him: "shut up, you're a beast, she understands better than you do." Her devotion to the cow knew no limits, as if it was human. Her love to the cow caused Sarah Meita to love animals, and especially the town's cows.
Not far from there stands a house; its color is brown. In front of the house, between two windows that dace the street, there's a green bench. It is a bench similar to the beaches in public parks. Here lives Yoseph Yablonski. On the rear background of the yard there are trees from which oil was extracted. That is why the house always smelled like burnt oil. Yoseph Yablonski was a respectable homeowner in town. He was medium high with wide shoulders. He was well dressed and his collar was stiff and always with a tie. He always wore thick dark glasses on his wide nose, hanging with a wide black handle and decorated with blue pearls and tied to the vest. His thin beard made him look like a nineteenth century French diplomat. He was the second man in town who used to wear a cylinder hat for Sabbath and holidays, and his silk talit was decorated with embroidery that looked like a golden crown. He served as a Chazzan (cantor) and he loved it with all his heart and soul although he was never paid for it. He believed that the pay downgrades the value of khazzanut. The liturgy enriched his life. He didn't learn music notes but his ear was sensitive to music. His melody was not original; he imitated the great Jewish cantors but also created his own melodies
This elevated his importance in the eyes of the public. It was the prayers he sang in his original melodies that touched the hearts of the people. Days of Elul, before the high holidays, were his best time of the year. He was occupied with instructing young singers. The choir children changed every year, only Avreml the orphan participated every year. Yoseph was not generous in compliments or in words of encouragement. He always found defects. But when a child was blessed with a pleasant voice and the ability to sing the right tune, his eyes shined under his glasses. He then used to say to himself- an important instrument grows in this spirit. In the eyes of the city Christians he was considered a respected member of the city council and in the eyes of the Jews he was the world's greatest cantor. His mind was always in the music; even when he was meeting with people he used to sing. Usually it was the melody of a prayer. Interesting, no one in town was ever interested in his private matters- they viewed him as a man who lives in spiritual world only. When another man met him he immediately talked about the High Holiday as if this was the center of his personality
Bakery in Zabludow Back to table of Contents Web: 2003 Tilford Bartma
