Chapters of Remembrance The Memoirs of Michal Lubliner Volume I: 1905-1945 Translated from the Yiddish by Coby Lubliner Translator’s note I found the typescript of my father’s memoirs, with corrections written in by hand, among his effects shortly after he died. I began the translation of the first three chapters -- up to the outbreak of World War II -- soon thereafter, but for various personal reasons I did not feel up to continuing with the project for about a dozen years. I have now completed the following three chapters, covering the war period and its immediate aftermath. I have tried to be as faithful as possible to my father’s style, and the English used is an approximation to how he spoke the language. My only contributions to the text are a few scattered clarifications set in brackets [] 2 1. Childhood The road grows ever narrower, but the burden of memories grows ever heavier. It is true that as we age we become subjects of the Prince of Oblivion, and many times we don’t remember what we did a minute before. But that Prince’s dominion does not hold sway over the memories that we took in as children. Not in vain did the Sages assure us that what is learned in youth is not forgotten.1 And not only what is learned, but also events and experiences of the time are photographed by the inner camera, and the snapshots lie scattered in the attic of the mind. With a little dusting and sorting, they appear before us in all their freshness, as though what they show had happened just a short time ago. Into our memory have crept in various natural landscapes that we would encounter daily and become closely acquainted with, just as we remember exactly the living gallery of family members and friends to whom we were attached and who, each according to his measure, helped form our character. Numerous facts and personages demand to be remembered to the growing generation, a “generation that knew not Joseph”;2 according to the commentary of Rashi, that generation refused to acknowledge that there had been a Joseph. Just as in those days the refusal caused alienation and hostility towards us on the part of the Egyptians, so in our days it causes conflict and alienation in many Jewish families. The problem is that not only will the previous generations, and the past in general, become unknown, but a cult is made of not knowing, so that ignorance becomes a matter of pride! Who wants to know about the unique Jewish life style of long ago? About the warmth and devotion in the family, about the beauty and symbolism of customs that embellished generation! In my childhood, knowledge – any kind of knowledge – was a matter of status. People were greatly honored for learning and knowledge. Sometimes the respect was exaggerated; scholars received too much attention, at the expense of plain, honest, virtuous folk. Remarkably, such was the custom even among Hasidim, in contradiction to the basic principles on which Hasidism is built, since its founders regularly stressed that honesty and virtue are more important than knowledge, and human qualities are higher than learning! From a purely didactic point of view, however, this attitude had a positive influence on the young, stimulating them to learn more and more in order to avoid being lumped with those who were more tolerated than respected. And it should be added that in a small town such as Maleniec learning was no easy matter. We will yet have occasion to talk of the local “institutions of learning.” For now let us go back to the days when the world was seen with different eyes. That world has not only changed its face, but its very foundations, physical and spiritual, have been shaken up. 1Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 2Exodus, 1, 8 1 States and borders – whole empires – have been swept up by various deluges. The greatest and grimmest destruction in our history happened during the Second World War, when thousands of Jewish communities and settlements, rooted for many generations, were wiped out with the greatest cruelty. Millions of our parents, brothers and sisters, spouses and children were tortured and killed with the most indescribably terrifying means – all of it planned and executed by whole cadres of Nazi sadists, the greatest trained murderers in human history! Yes, today’s world is altogether different. The new technological achievements outstrip those days’ fantasies about the future, as described by the French writer Jules Verne. But what did Ecclesiastes say? “And the earth standeth forever.” Nature per se does not change, it remains almost the same. And the more genuine and wild, the more appealing and beautiful it is. I don’t remember exactly when the sense for natural beauty first awoke in me in that place where I spent my first years of childhood, Maleniec, more village than town. It was probably in my earliest years. Though we left the village when I was a little boy, I remember exactly how enchanted I was by the picturesque scenery that surrounded the place. To the east there was a large, dark-green wood, with all kinds of trees, young and old, of different species. Every little breeze made them stir and quake. Some of the trees could be seen through the window of the synagogue. More then once I thought that the trees were shaking in prayer like the people deadening inside. What drew attention to the south was a wide, blue, crystal-clear river, an attraction for good swimmers, since it occasionally flowed in stormy waves. On the west there was a golden, sandy hill, crowned with a sparse patch of slender little trees that looked like a small yarmulke on a sandy-haired head. Not far from the hill there snaked its way a narrow, sparkling stream, and next to it a grove of birch trees. We would bathe there, too. To the north there stretched rows of fields and gardens, which added even more color to the already colorful landscape. Although those fields were open and free spaces, rarely did we walk through them. For one thing, they lacked the powerful attraction of the mysterious, secretive woods, full of fear and danger, whose shade sheltered dangerous creatures, two- and four-legged. For another thing, we felt, without consciously thinking about it, that the fields belonged exclusively to non-Jews, while the woods were public property. Then we heard tales that the woods were used by dangerous bandits, who hid out in the darkness of the night and who would sneak out to attack passing travelers, robbing them of all their belongings. (Shooting the victims, as is today’s “custom,” was almost unheard of – the world was not yet civilized enough.) I still remember that when my father z. l. [of blessed memory] once took me on a short trip, my young, quivering heart began to beat faster when we passed a wood and it grew dark. I whispered a little prayer, a kind of tefilat haderekh. When we left the wooded region safely I began to breathe more freely. In general, I could not tolerate darkness; I had a hard time falling asleep in a dark room. I could not understand that one could not see with one’s eyes open! Regardless of the fear that woods cast on everyone, we children were never afraid of “our own” wood, which was always hospitable to us. We would play there at different times and in different places, which we called by specific names according to their topographic position. We would go there to gather mushrooms and to pick berries and flowers. The uniformed and armed forest guards were also largely friendly to us. 2 Going to the woods was not our only recreation. Another pleasant “sport” was driving a horse. If a friendly teamster were to let me take the reins and drive on my own in specific direction, if only for a short time, that would already be an achievement. It was mentioned earlier that the fields in our community belonged to non-Jews. The population of Maleniec was “mixed,” composing both Jews and non-Jews. Jews managed the several metal plants, where the great majority of the workers was non-Jewish. I don’t recall any ethnic conflicts. If a non-Jew were to call a Jew by an epithet, it would be at the instruction of another Jew. I remember, for example, that one Jew, named Moyshe Bunim, was called Tekiah, because he liked to serve as cantor and to blow the shofar. There was no church in Maleniec. In contrast, the Jews had a large synagogue with many holy books, a women’s shul, as well as a mikveh and a sweatbath. There was no rabbi, only a dayan who was also a teacher. Neither did Maleniec have a cemetery; when someone died he was taken to burial in the nearest town, Żornów, which was also the residence of the doctor who would come to Maleniec when needed. This doctor, though a convert to Christianity, was on most friendly terms with his former coreligionists. Patients who were not too seriously ill were attended by Berl the barber-surgeon, whose good-natured face was framed by a trim gray beard. We would make fun of the Latin words that he used when prescribing some medicine. He must also have been quick in his prayers, for he was always among the first to leave the synagogue after Sabbath or holiday services. I cannot recall when I began studying or reading.