Another area was also not deserted at night. This was around the Pipke Tree. Ripples of laughter could be heard coming from there and the tree was the only living witness to the number of kisses that materialized beneath its branches before the dawn. The tree was proud to be so honored. But he was usually silent guarding everyone’s secret. In the rain, couples also found shelter under it. He would cover his guests with his large broad wings keeping the rain away from them.
The “Pipke Tree” was not only a human guardian. On the edge of its branches was a plaited basket of hay and straw. He no longer remembered how long this basket had nestled on his branches nor how it was created. But every year, as soon as the snow had melted and the air was warmer, two storks would come here and take over until the end of the summer. They too came here on “duchy”, as a couple – man and wife, and at summer’s end, they would fly away with their children, a whole family. Every year without fail.
They said that a stork brings luck. No doubt this was why after many meetings under this tree, new families came into being. The storks were accustomed to people, and neither disturbed the other. And what’s more, the humans often took to watching the storks while the storks from atop the tree had a good view of what the humans were doing below. Their way of co-existence served as a model for the people. The tree had a sort of influence on living peace and friendship. Under his branches, there never was heard a cry even from little children.
He was surrounded by a green satin carpet, decorated with long and short green and grey cones, and the long Yodle and Sosne pine needles. Rolling about on this carpet could hardly be called “rolling about” since it was considered to be holy ground. Religious youngsters and even older Jews were wont to stand and pray the afternoon prayers next to the Pipke Tree, refusing to seek out any other place for this purpose. The tree was evidently also pleased with these prayers.
In the Tzitevner Forest. First on the right (standing) Zalman Yalowetzky, murdered by the Lithuanians shortly before the invasion by the German army. Next to him, his wife, Reizel, and the author’s parents. Seated (from right to left) Mula Yalowetzky, Chaya (Irene) Hayat and the writer – 193).
Once, close to the outbreak of WWII, we all noticed an unusual phenomenon. The first to observe this was my friend Menashe from Rakishok, whom we met here every summer.
“Take a look, Davidke, tears are falling from the elephant’s eyes. It’s a bad omen, don’t you think? The tree is crying for the first time, and this bodes ill.”
This was in the summer of 1940, the last duchy season for Lithuanian Jewry.
“What a prophet you think you are,” I tried to say soothingly. But I felt a heaviness in my heart, as a looked searchingly at the tree in the hope that he had erred. Unfortunately, this was no mistake. Tears were indeed streaming down the tree. I realized that this was no normal occurrence. And this was the year of the Soviet occupation, the beginning of the nationalization of factories and large businesses, land reform and the so-called collectivization of land workers. Rich peasants, the wealthy, merchants and former party activists were imprisoned.
The holidaying in Tsitevian came to a halt, and it became quiet and deserted. The visitors had been Jews of all walks of life – rich and poor, workmen and merchants, teachers and students, employees and the self-employed. The truly wealthy would take their relaxation in Palanga, Birshtan, Druskenink or Nida, but here was the choice for rest mainly for the middle-classes. But for them, too, all this had come to an end, as had indeed Jewish community life in Lithuania.
…Now, a good fifty years had flown by. I had never forgotten the Pipke Tree. When I prepared myself to leave for Eretz Israel, I turned to my relative, Shmuel Yalowetzki, who had by chance survived the war and was living in Vilna, to accompany me to once familiar places in the country. He agreed, and we made a trip in his car to many towns. So how could we overlook Tzitevian, where we had spent so many summers together. And once there, we couldn’t miss a visit to the Pipke Tree. It took us some time to find it, and I had almost given up hope of doing so, fearing it had been destroyed. But after some searching, we finally traced it – surrounded by trees and bushes, instead of a green carpet of moss and pine needles. There were no signs of the numerous paths leading up to the tree all around. None of these were left, nor was there for whom. No one is taking any interest in the past. Nettles have taken over the surrounding area. We asked one of the locals if he remembered the nest of storks at one end of the woods. He replied that he couldn’t recall seeing any storks there. We could hardly recognize the tree itself, it was so overgrown with moss.
We also went to take a look at the lake nearby. But there is no longer a pier, nor any boats, nor indeed the people whom these might serve, since not a single Jew there was left alive, they were all slaughtered. The Lithuanian murderers dragged out every last one of them from their hiding refugees in the woods and killed them.
We went back a second time to take leave of the tree. It looked sadly at us and was silent. From its long nose issued a sort of smoke, as if here smoking a pipe and from his eyes tears rolled down. Was he crying for all the sad post-war years, or only because we met again after such a long time is hard to tell. No one had paid any attention to his condition. Only Shmuel and I understood him well as an old devoted friend.
Again, I felt a shudder passing over my body. It seemed to me that he focused his right eye on me. Beneath his eyes, horizontally down his trunk to the ground, a wet streak was visible. Round about him there was no sign of human footsteps. His branches had thinned out, there was a deathly silence. No more laughter, no more crying, no core couples – it saddened the tree. For the first time, I understood that trees could not only be happy with people but could mourn with them. They are more silent. Goodbye, you Pipke Tree. Though your roots are in Lithuanian soil, here in the Holy Land, I shall never forget you.
If only you could speak, Pipke Tree, you would have much to tell. How the men from the surrounding villages would travel every Friday to their families for the Sabbath, among them my late father. On Friday, straight after lunch, he would finish his work, go to his friend, the wagon driver, borrow a horse and cart and ride to Tzitevian. This was about 15 kilometers from Reissin. And if, God forbid, he should be delayed or receive the horse later than expected, he would use his whip to hasten the creature:
“Hurry, hurry my little horse, Shabbat is fast approaching.”
And the poor horse would give off a steam as if he had an oven under his skin; he had to run fast all the way, fearing the lash of the whip.
When they reached the shtetl of Shidlove, passing through it was already half-way – 8 km. from Reissin. If I happened to be home at that time, my father would take me with him.
My two sisters, Chaya and Chana and my younger brother, Shimon, would spend two summer months with mother. The air is cool and fine and was only bad if it rained, when you could be soaked to the skin, since to go with an umbrella was no joy. But rain was rare. Mostly the weather was mild and to go in a horse and cart was a pleasure.
A small wood flashes past with the delicious scent of pine trees and moss. The view changes rapidly and you soon come to the gardens and meadows and orchards, while the telephone pylons with tightly drawn wires accompany you all the way with an incomprehensible tune.
“My son, look at the windows of the houses to see if the Shabbes candles have already been lit,” my father asked of me. He himself doesn’t have a chance to turn his head in that direction, since he must keep his eyes looking ahead, but he must be careful not to enter the town on the Sabbath but arrive on time. There are many Jews in Shidlove, and naturally they light candles on Sabbath eve. The distance to our destination is still substantial, but Thank God, all is calculated. My father even has the time to take the horse to our peasant friend, Budzineiskas, where he will spend the Sabbath and be well fed and rested. The wagon owner gave ample oats and hay to feed the horse, and if not, the peasant would supplement with his own. Upon arrival, my father wipes the sweat off the horse with a cloth before handing him over to the peasant. Each time my father would bring the man a present.
