While studying in the yeshiva, there was an occurrence that could have ended far more tragically. On the eve of Pesach, we were given leave. So what do young boys do, even yeshiva student, who want to take a break and enjoy themselves after sitting from early morning to late at night day in and day out studying Mishnaic and Talmudic tracts – a far from simple study as we all know. So we – a gang of six boys – decided to go to a beach for a swim and recreation. Our choice, Kleipeda (Memel) which was not far from Telze. It was in March of 1939. On the morrow, unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, the Germans entered and occupied Memel – and we were inside. The boarder was closed immediately and the Germans forbade any movement across it. Jews were not being killed yet, but there appeared at once on the billboards anti-Semitic slogans in German and Lithuanian for the persecution of the Jews. Bathing in the sea and walking on the pavements were forbidden to the Jews. We ran towards the boarder, hid for four days, and then choosing an opportune moment ran through the boarder. We failed to notice the barbed wire stretched out lengthwise on the ground. One of our gang of friends got caught in it and let out a shout of pain. Shooting broke out immediately. The other five of us succeeded in hiding out on the Lithuanian side of the boarder and were saved; the sixth however fell a victim to the shooting. This was our first encounter face to face with danger.
In all, Telze was no ordinary shtetl. Here holiness reigned. There were no unbelievers there, nor apostates.. Though there were in fact a few unbelievers but they remained hidden so as not to upset the religious members of threat society. The rays of glory of the famous yeshiva lent beauty to the town. Even the gentiles showed respect for the Jews and veneration towns the Shabbat and the Jewish festivals.
A disaster is like a train, if the locomotive gets a blow or is braked, it sets up a chain reaction that involves all the carriages. The blow cannot be one-sided, every misfortune has an end. The first blow with Memel was followed by a second one. Lithuania had been occupied by the Red Army and the Soviet regime had introduced its Communist regulations. All Jewish cultural centers and publications were shut down, as were the yeshivas. So too the Telze Yeshiva closed down. Its head, the late Rabbi Bloch had by chance escaped and was abroad.
I returned home. People began to disappear without rhyme or reason. Commissars were appointed factories (“zavoden”) and large businesses, until they had taken over all of them according to the so-called nationalization program, but in effect was simply highway robbery.
GROWING UP
Mercury in a thermometer rises and falls according to the conditions of the surrounding air and is therefore constantly in motion. Such is man, what he is and what he believes are dependent on his environment. When I feel disheartened, I often recall my bar mitzvah, when I recited not only the blessings but read the maftir (lesson from the Prophets). I remember even today that this was from the Portion of the Week, “Behar” from the Book of Leviticus, and the haftarah from the Book of Jeremiah. After the maftir, it was customary for the rabbi to give a sermon. But on that Shabbat, there I was all of thirteen years prepared to step forward and deliver the speech instead of the rabbi (the late Aharon Shmuel Katz). I remember him coming up on the bima, a raised platform, giving me his hand and my first compliment “bravo”. His kiss on my forehead warmed my heart until the beginning of the war. Rabbi Katz was the last rabbi in Rasein. In the month of Tammuz (57 (1941) he succumbed at the hands of the Lithuanian murderers. Too many gifts did not come my way as a boy, but I always felt the presence of an invisible guiding hand that led me, supported me and even chastised me when it was necessary. I believe that only the Almighty can and does help us in this life. It was He who taught me how to behave. I already learnt this lesson at the tender age of three.
I told my mother what my father was doing and vice versa. I was very inquisitive and wanted to know everything. I was constantly asking questions. I got one very handsome present at that time. To this day I bear the scar from a blow to the middle finger of my left hand and a burnt fingernail.
Every Thursday my mother would bake all sorts of goodies for the whole week: Halot (special bread for Shabbat), kichlach, and other delicacies. For this purpose a little brick oven was used in the kitchen. My father used to chop up wooden blocks, put them into the oven and set them alight with burning wooden chips to obtain the desired heat for baking. From time to time, more pieces of the wood were thrown into the oven to keep the fire going. There were no electric ovens in those days. For greater heat, my father would buy wood. But the bark of such wood when burning curls up. As I watched my father lighting the stove, I wanted to copy him and do the same. I pushed a piece of wood into the oven and held it until it started to burn. When the wood lit up, I failed to notice how the bark curled around my finger like the whistle my father had bought me, and set it alight.
When I cried out in pain it was already too late. The fingernail was burnt and also some of the flesh on the finger. The scar is still there, and this taught me two important lessons; not to be a tale-bearer, and that sin is punishable by God. And also not to put my finger where it’s not necessary, that is to say, not to stick my nose into an inferno where one can get burnt. Then I was particularly interested in seeing how buns and kichlach in various shapes are baked in the fire from a simple dough. After the accident, however, I gave up messing around my mother’s apron strings and going into the kitchen.
Among the various gifts, I found an interesting one. As a child I was a poor eater, so as an inducement to eat what was placed before me, my father gave me money to buy sweets. Curious to know what this money tasted like, I put the coin into my mouth and whoops…. it slipped into my throat and got stuck. What a commotion ensued. I gargled, my father clapped me on the back in the hope of dislodging the coin. But to no avail. As if for spite, the coin went down into my stomach. Evidently, it wished to acquaint itself with my intestines, looked around and decide whether to remain or not. Here, the doctor couldn’t help. But luckily the coin didn’t get lost there and it came out of its own free will through the normal passage of the rectum, without the aid of tablets or other medicines. It’s true that this gift didn’t remain with me, but ever since I have developed an aversion to money from the feeling that what comes easily goes badly.
