Angels, Prostitutes, and a Saint

In 1917 a plague struck our region of Europe!  It spread slowly, and in about two years, it killed off about half the population of our village.

The plague was typhus.  It spared very few households.  No one knew how to stop it.  Once a person was infected, death was sure to follow  - first a high fever, then dehydration, coma, and ultimately, death.

The town's only doctor, who was in charge of the city hospital, was helpless.  He had no medication that was effective against typhus.  Even our friend, (let us call him a paramedic for lack of other accurate terminology), Dr. Talanda, who also administered medicines (some of his own concoctions), threw up his arms in despair.

The authorities posted notices: "All dead must be buried immediately, and all their bedding must be burned."

Every morning we saw fires in the streets set by people following this directive.  Burning the bedding did not help.

The Jews decided that this was a punishment from God for being sinners, and for not obeying him.

They prayed, fasted (further weakening their immune systems), as they searched  for sinners. They finally concluded that they themselves were the sinners.  They were neglecting the poor, the sick, and those who lost all hope.

So in their wisdom they arranged to get all the poor single people married - dowries and other traditional considerations were now deemed unnecessary. They held the ceremonies at the Jewish Cemetery so that "Death" would see, and therefore intervene with the Jewish deity.  Even so, the plague did not stop.

My father, who was in the forefront of the new secular movement, felt that something else had to be done.  He tried to find better solutions through reading, but there were very few books; most of them had been destroyed in the latest book burning.  He decided that hygiene was a must – people were covered with large, fat, ugly lice.

"Kill the lice!" he advised, "and keep your hands clean. Wash and wash again—and use soap."

Easily said!  There was no soap legally available to the Jews. There was a government monopoly on soap, but my Uncle Meier was bootlegging.  He produced his own brand of toxic soap.  Papa obtained some bars, and he shared them with his friends.

When one of my father’s best friends, a Mr. Feiler, became ill, Papa swore that he would not let him die.  Against all protestations, my father stayed alone with his friend for days.  He sponged the sick man, changed his bedding, administered a few bits of food in the sick man’s mouth, and kept him awake, not letting him drop into a coma.

Papa kept a small bottle of carbolic acid, and a little iodine with him,  and he used a few drops in the washing of hands and body.

His friend survived.  Later he emigrated to South America, and later still, he came to visit my parents in America.

With his encouragement, Papa’s friends also followed his example.  Not one person  in our family became ill from typhus.

A few months later the plague finally stopped.  Papa and his friends became known in our shtetel as the "Saving Angels," although most Jews attributed their success  to their good deeds.

In the shtetel, we had everything.  We had our thief (one), and our whore (one).  She was the daughter of the vinegar dispenser.  She supported her family with the favors of her body.  Tuesday, the market day when the Gentile farmers came to town, was her busy day.  They paid her with sacks of potatoes, grain, flour, and livestock.  She was acknowledged, and politely ignored.

We also had a cultural dramatic club where our own amateur group gave performances in the "Pojaarne-Komando" – the voluntary fire brigade’s large hall (which also served as the firehouse).  When I say "we," I refer to my father and his group of friends.  They, with other young people in the shtetel, opened a library, and brought in newspapers and popular lecturers. Occasionally, when they needed a child on the stage, I was the one usually selected – not because of my talent, but because I was the leader’s son.

Among the performers was a very bright young girl of about 18.  Her name was Judith.  We preferred to call her Judy.  She had real talent, and therefore often played the leading female role in our productions  - Perez Hirshbine's Chava, or the translation of Tolstoy’s Anna Karanina, to name two.

She was a very dramatic actress, putting her very soul into the part.  She was also my father’s favorite.

Judy, her mother, and her sister with two children (her husband had abandoned her) lived in a nice section of the city.  They were always beautifully dressed in brightly colored outfits.  I was told that these garments were left over from better times.  I was too young to question how they lived, or how they earned their income.  At my age, everything was in order.

In 1920, all the young men in my shtetel started emigrating. They all wanted to leave - to Palestine, America, Belgium – any place that gave them hope for a better life.

My father left for America.  The literary/dramatic club disbanded for lack of both participants and attendants.

Judy, along with her mother and sister moved to a different part of the city – to a quiet Polish neighborhood - a small home in a little fruit orchard.  Sometime later a rumor started that Judy, in order to support her family, was "selling her body."

I did not believe this.  Not our Judy!  But the rumor spread.  Wink, wink, every young man whispered the story, and many probably lied about their contacts. One young man was said to have sold everything to spend his time in Judy’s home.  He supposedly returned home penniless.

I never gave this matter much thought.  I was busy preparing to emigrate to either Palestine or America.  I came to America.

When I arrived in San Francisco, Papa wanted to know about all his friends.  I told him about the Judith rumors.  He looked me straight in the eye, and asked if I had visited this young lady.

When I blushed from ear to ear in denial,  he shook his head and said: 

"Too bad, too bad.  I would have hoped that you had enjoyed her, and could  describe the experience to me."

Some years passed.  I went for a visit to Israel.  All of my remaining "old country" friends; those who had managed to save themselves, came to visit me.  There were many happy people gathering together.

We talked about all the people we knew from the shtetel.  When I asked about Judy, they fell silent.  Hers was not a happy ending.  Her mother had become quite ill, and stayed that way for a long time.  Her sister left for a far away town, and was killed by the Nazis.  Judith, sweet Judith, committed suicide right after her mother died.

She had taken care of her family as well as she could,  and when that obligation was finished, she did not want to live any longer.

Judy, I will never forget you.

In our shtetel there lived a man named "Shlomo, the watchmaker."  This was a town in which every man over 18 years of age was bearded.  Shlomo had no hair on his face.  He was absolutely beardless.  No, he did not shave his whiskers or beard – hair simply refused to grow on his face. Of course, this alone, made him stand out in any group or crowd.

I often used to pass his window.  It was on a quiet corner facing north.  He, the watchmaker, was always in front of his table which was littered with parts of time pieces, old clocks, pocket watches, and the newest style of wrist watches.  These were really small pocket time keepers with a leather strap.  He repaired, cleaned, and polished these devices.  It was apparent that he took great delight in his work.  He was always smiling, and when he was not working as a watchmaker, he had his holy books open, and was reading or studying.

At one time, at the suggestion of my father that I should learn a trade, I played with the idea of learning to become a watchmaker.  I called on Shlomo and asked him to teach me.  He did not discourage me, although after looking at my large hands and fat fingers, he raised his eyes up to heaven.  I would come in each day and he would attempt to explain to me how timepieces work.  This form of education did not last long.  I dropped delicate pieces of clocks and watches, and he soon suggested that I stay in school, and not pursue a watchmaking career.

The room had another window facing the city square.  I often saw Shlomo’s wife, Sarah, through this window.  She was a young woman in her early twenties (Shlomo was then about 55 years old.)  Theirs was one of the forced, hasty marriages imposed by the community during the typhus epidemic - to appease God for their sins and the neglect of lonely, deformed, or abandoned single people.

He had been a widower for a long time, living a quiet solitary life, and she was an orphan without a dowry, past twenty, and she had a deformed hand.  Every time I saw her in the window looking outward, she reminded me of a caged bird.  She seldom looked at me, but I sometimes saw a slight smile on her fine face.

No one ever saw them together.  No one ever saw her shopping in the market place, but one day the whole town saw the two of them crossing the square together and heading towards the Rov’s (Rabbie’s) house. Why?  Curious people put their ears to the walls trying to hear the conversation.

"What brings you here?" inquired the Rabbi.

"No, no," pleaded the watchmaker. "She is an angel, respectful, loyal, and she  takes excellent care of me."

The Rabbi turned to Sarah, "Do you want a divorce?"

"No, no," she answered.

"So why do you want a divorce?" The Rabbi was perplexed.

Sarah blushed and hid her face. The Rov didn’t stop.

The Rov couldn’t argue any more. He sent for the Dyon, the judge, who came right in.

He asked the same questions, and got the same answers from the married couple.  They didn’t have to look in textbooks, nor study the Talmud; they knew everything by heart.  After a lengthy discussion a divorce was granted.

They warned Sarah that she must wait the prescribed period of time before marrying again.

As so after a few months, while she was living with relatives, a few young men started to woo Sarah – and this time she selected her mate.  After a year had passed she gave birth to a son.

And Shlomo? He continued his private quiet life.

Before leaving for America, I brought in a pocket watch that my Zaida given me to be cleaned and polished.  When I picked it up, Shlomo looked me over.

"Yes, you will have many nice watches, and you will be successful in life."

He put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a Kohanim blessing:

"May God bless and protect you."

I knew that it would all come true.

After all, he was known as "The Saint."