I often hear Yiddish writers talking about publishing and distributing books. They’ll speak of typesetting, matrices, plates, sheets of paper. But I’m probably one of the few writers who have known the terminology of printing from very early childhood. My father wrote commentaries on sacred texts and had his books printed. Early on, I knew about typesetting a book with lead font, correcting galleys, handling matrices, pouring lead, printing, and binding. Despite my father’s meager income, he saved money in order to publish his books. Father would say, “A book remains forever.”
Aside from publishing his own books, he also edited a manuscript by Rabbi Joseph Shor, author of Pri Megadim. I remember that manuscript as if it were before me. It was bound and had faded letters on yellowish-gray paper. Nevertheless, the handwriting, which even then was one hundred and fifty years old, was still legible. The title of the book was Notrikon, and like everything else that Rabbi Joseph Shor had written, its style was obtuse. Father worked on this old manuscript with a good friend,
known in rabbinic circles for his books and whom I will call Reb Nachman.
It was a great joy for me to stand by the table and listen to Father talking with Reb Nachman. Both had reddish beards and blue eyes, but Reb Nachman was an elegant Hasid. His alpaca gaberdine always sparkled. On his nose rested a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, which hung on a black string. His boots were polished to a bright shine. Smart and gentle, he came from a fine family and was a former student of Reb Tzodik Lubliner, who during his lifetime had written several hundred books, which Reb Nachman kept reprinting. Father enjoyed Reb Nachman’s bon mots, and Reb Nachman enjoyed Father’s bold talk. They hit it off very well. Although I heard Reb Nachman call the Radziminer Rebbe by some nasty names, Reb Nachman’s entire behavior was that of a scholar and an aristocrat.
But woe unto Jewish aristocrats!
For despite all the books that Reb Nachman published, he didn’t earn a penny from them—and so his son had to make cigarettes. Apparently this was not a kosher line of work. It was contraband, because packs of cigarettes were supposed to bear a customs tax stamp proving that the duty had been paid. But, after all, what could a scholarly Jew with a wife and children do? His son peddled these cigarettes to stores, and this was a supplement to their earnings, perhaps their sole income.
One day my father sent me to Reb Nachman’s house, but I don’t remember why. His apartment was somewhat different from ours. They had more children and also more furniture. He sat at his desk wearing an old vest and a little cap. Spread out before him were colored slate pencils and bottles of ink and India ink. Reb Nachman not only had a beautiful handwriting
but, with the talent of a graphic artist, he could also “print” letters to decorate title pages with all kinds of little flowers, wheels, and circles.
Since Reb Nachman often came to us and my father rarely went to visit him, I was given a royal welcome. Reb Nachman talked to me as if I were his equal. Since he had already heard that my older brother, Israel Joshua, had strayed from the path, he spoke to me about the heretics. He showed me a sheet of paper on which he had drawn all manner of flowers, small birds, and eagles.
“Have a look,” he said. “If somebody told you that all this came about of its own accord, you’d say that man is crazy. But the heretics say that the world was created by itself. Isn’t that madness?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And man, they say, is descended from monkeys. But where did the monkey come from? Can a monkey create itself?”
“No.”
“And the earth, they say, was torn from the sun. Well then, where did the sun come from? They’ll babble all kinds of nonsense as long as they don’t have to admit the truth that there is a Creator.”
Reb Nachman’s remarks made me blush. In our house I wasn’t spoken to with such respect. There I was just a little boy. But here they treated me like a young man and served me a glass of tea and a cookie. A girl my age with dark hair and long braids came into the room, followed by another girl. I could smell cutlets frying in the kitchen. Reb Nachman’s apartment was not as bare as ours. Here everything mingled: Torah, clever talk, girls, good cooking, and a table full of pencils, inks, brushes,
and stencils. Reb Nachman even discussed the heretics, whose views I had wanted to know for a long time.
Then I heard loud banging on the front door. There was an uproar; gentiles were talking. Reb Nachman jumped up from his chair. I too stood and witnessed a bizarre scene: the kitchen was full of police. I saw a detective, an investigating officer, and other officials with gilt-button uniforms bedecked with little crowns. The janitor followed them, hat in hand. Even a man dressed in civilian clothes came with them, a secret agent. I didn’t understand their Russian, but from the way the officials yelled, stomped their boots, and held their swords, I realized that this was an inspection. Reb Nachman’s face turned as white as paper. The frightened little girls shrank into a corner. His wife pleaded with the men, but they shouted at her. I was very frightened and began to tremble.
“Can I go home?” I asked Reb Nachman.
He looked at me in confusion. “If they let you.”
I moved toward the door, but a policeman stopped me. “Where are you going?”
I either didn’t know about Reb Nachman’s business or didn’t know that he dealt in illicit goods. I stood there shaking. A while back, my friend Boruch Dovid and I had seen the Warsaw prison, its yellow walls, barred windows covered with iron mesh netting, behind which stood sallow-faced prisoners, and the black gates through which the prisoners were brought in police wagons.
I was certain that my time had come and I would be put in jail. I would rot there between the thick walls along with Reb Nachman and his family and no one would come to save me. But why did I deserve this? And what did they want from Reb
Nachman and his little girls? Was he the victim of a false accusation? Had a decree been issued against him?
I recalled the story of Rabbi Akiva, who had been tortured with iron combs and whose soul departed with the words “Hear O Israel.” Would I come to a similar end? Had the Khmelnitski period returned, or the era of the destruction of the Holy Temple?
Oh, if only I could jump out the window! Oh, if only I could suddenly sprout wings and fly off like an eagle! Oh, if I could suddenly become as strong as the mighty Samson and grab a jawbone and begin beating these Philistines! Or if I had the sort of hat that could make me invisible, I’d walk out the door and they’d see only emptiness.
I hadn’t yet been arrested, but such a strong desire to be free came over me that I thought, What have I lacked till now? What was there to worry about when I could walk down the streets freely? The summer day, the Warsaw streets, our own home suddenly became dear and precious to me. I looked fearfully at the swords, the epaulets, the whistles, the medals. A thought ran through my head: If there was a God, why was He silent? How could He permit such wicked men to torment Jews?
After some discussion the policemen began searching the apartment. One remained standing by the door. At first they found nothing; then suddenly from somewhere they began pulling out boxes of cigarettes and cigarette paper, tobacco, and, I think, other merchandise as well, wrapped in all kinds of paper and tissue paper. And if that wasn’t enough, the civilian brought a crowbar and they started breaking open the floorboards. They opened the floor at the proper spot, under which they found more boxes and paper-wrapped goods.
“Someone informed on us!” Reb Nachman exclaimed.
“Be quiet! No talking!” ordered a policeman.
The inspection lasted about three hours. Perspiration poured out of me and I nearly melted. It threaded down my back, over my belly, over my entire body. My shirt was soaking wet. Even the policemen noticed and joked about it. One of them grabbed one of my sidecurls, but his hand got wet. I felt myself being overwhelmed by fear. I felt everything in me melting away; soon, I thought, there’d be nothing left.
Reb Nachman’s girls looked at me, and even though the family was in trouble, they smiled. After a while, it appeared that all the perspiration had run out of me. But I still stood there trembling and quaking with fear and shame. These gentiles, with their swords, revolvers, Russian talk, peasant jokes, awoke in me a hatred that I had never before felt toward any other person. I stood face-to-face with the evil ones.
I don’t recall exactly how it ended, but when Reb Nachman’s son finally arrived, he took some of the officials into a bedroom, spoke confidentially, and made a deal with them. All my fear had been in vain. Neither he nor any other member of his household was dragged off to jail.
After the policemen left, Reb Nachman took hold of his beard and said, “What a life for Jews! I swear, it’s high time for the Messiah to come.”
They wanted to give me some more snacks and invited me to stay for a meal, but I wanted to leave this apartment. What had happened here not only frightened me but troubled me greatly. I had already heard plenty of my brother’s complaints that Jews were little shopkeepers, business agents, idlers, and nondescripts. There were more shopkeepers than customers. Fathers-in-law
gave their sons-in-law free board for several years, but they themselves had nothing to eat. My brother spoke of the Land of Israel, where Jews had taken up farming and were becoming a normal people. He also insinuated that those who toiled bitterly had nothing to eat for the Sabbath, while those who walked about with nothing to do were loaded with gold. He had spoken with Mother about the Bilgoray sievemakers, who slaved away in the workshops all week long and on Fridays went begging from door to door.
“Why don’t they strike?” my brother asked. “The owners would have to submit.”
Mother, too, had begun using weird words ever since she’d returned from Berlin, where my sister’s wedding had taken place.
“In Germany people are free,” Mother said. “The policemen speak politely with people and say ‘please’ and ‘excuse me’ … At the border they didn’t rummage through our suitcases and they called Father ‘Herr Rabbiner’ …”
All this talk spun in my head and formed a knot. I wandered the streets, and something seethed and boiled in me. My brother’s words awakened a feeling in me which mingled with my own thoughts. No, this was no way to live. Life here was one big disgrace, absolutely disgusting!
For the first time I began to look at the Jews of Warsaw with a new set of eyes. I saw tiny shops, tattered people, dirty, bedraggled children, disheveled women. From the study houses and shtibls the voice of the Torah was heard, but surrounding all this were Poles, peasants, and countless goyim who hated Jews and considered them freeloaders, beggars, parasites. The Jews had only one protector: God in heaven. But what if, God forbid, the heretics were right?