THE "GARTEL" IN THE "SHTETEL"

The very popular expression, "The Clothes Make the Man," probably originated in antiquity.

When some ancestral naked man, while hunting, killed a fierce animal, and made a garment out of its skin, the whole tribe acknowledged him as their leader. 

"Look what he killed!  He is the great hunter, look at the animal’s skin he is wearing!"

And much later, they put a gold crown on their leader, and covered him with ermine skins, or with thousands of bird feathers, to denote his high position.  Thus costume became the indicator of the high or low state of the wearer.

Just by a glance, one could know the difference between the general and the private, the successful one from the failure,  the chief to the lowest.  Through costume one can tell the mailman from the bus driver, or even a dog catcher.

But this will not be a narrative about costumes in general.  This is a partial  accounting of what the Jewish people in the myriads of shtetels in central Europe wore to identify themselves.  The dress and appearance were as unique as their special language, Yiddish, that developed over an eight hundred year period.

Yiddish was their very private way of communicating; a mixture of jargon using German, Hebrew, Slavic, and Old French idioms.  They perfected it to become a unique language complete with grammar and syntax, and subtle differentials of meanings between similar sounding words.  Later, a high literature was developed  - a Jewish author, writing in Yiddish, even winning a noble prize for literature.  But we digress here.  This story relates only to appearance and clothing within the shtetel.

Some of what they wore was imposed on them, i.e. the yellow Star of David, or the peaked hats of the Middle Ages.   There were other items as well that were required by surrounding anti-Semitic peoples as a way of identifying the shtetel dwellers as Jews.  But some forms or types of clothing were worn just in defiance of the normal attire of the local inhabitants.

When I was a child growing up in a small typical town in Poland, all Jewish men wore this silly, stupid little black cap.  It was about 3 inches high; a pillbox shape with a ridiculous visor like thing that was too short to shade the eyes.  I never wore it, but almost everyone else in all the small towns wore them constantly.

When the First World War ended in 1919, and the younger people started to move around and were exposed to other parts of the world, a degree of rebellion emerged.  The young men of my shtetel,  with my father as leader, decided to boycott the silly black caps.  

Boris Bibel, Philip's father

They bought European type hats "Kapelushen" and even the "Goish," shinny caps, but they dared not wear them during the day.  Instead they wore them only at night when they went for walks on the main street, or to the clubs; the Zionist or the Bund.

This was not tolerated by the shtetel populace, and when a young girl died from some sickness or another (I remember this clearly), the old women of our town banged on our windows and accused my father, and the rest of the young men, for transgressing God's law.  The death of the girl was a punishment from God directly caused by these young men flaunting his order to wear the little black hat.

Because of Anti-Semitism, depression, and a general feeling of helplessness, the young men of the shtetels defied the older generation and began to leave these small towns.  America, Belgium, and Palestine beckoned them, and they left – never to return.  And never again did they wear the little black caps.

All pious Jewish men wore a "Gartel;" possibly a corruption of the word: girdle.

Drawing of a Shetel Street scene reproduced from:
BOOK OF MEMORY TO THE JEWISH COMMUNITY OF SHEBRESHIN

This was a long rope made from fine cotton, or even silk.  The color was always black.  This was worn over the outer garment, which was also black, right around the midriff area.  My grandfather never wore one, although I know that he had several of them.  It was expected that all religious Jews would wear them.  My grandfather, an observant, religious person, refused to wear one except for one time, and one time only.  It was at my uncle’s wedding when he wanted to look exceptionally respectful.  He had pointed this out to me with a wink.

Being curious, I had asked him several times to explain the meaning and the necessity of wearing a gartel.

"It is the Rabbi’s decree," he finally explained.

"But why?" I asked.

"To divide the man’s body in half – the upper part is the heavenly part, the Godlike, the holy; the lower part is earthy, sinful, and impure."

"How so?" I pushed.

Grandpa picked up a fistful of dust – 

"See it is all death material.  Everything that ever lived, man, animal, plants; everything, dies and turns into death material.  The lower part has the feet in death!"

I didn’t understand what my smart ancestor tried to explain.  It took a long time to sink in – so I must have appeared stupid.

Grandfather stretched out his arms,  

"This is what the Rabbis tell us, but what do the Rabbis know?  If food did not pass through the stomach, we and they would all soon die of constipation.  And besides, what comes out is also life giving – becoming fertilizer which will feed the new crops and produce more food, and so it is not demeaning.  Why I even figure that half of the human population is walking around with some of this stuff stuck to their bodies.  And without the part we have between our legs, there would never be the creation of new life.  Besides, don’t the Rabbis know that man is created in God’s image?  So the almighty, too, must have the same parts as we humans."

He looked at me for a very long time, patted me on the head and said,

"Someday you will figure this out for yourself.  Don’t let the fanatic zealots corrupt you."

And Zaida, for his entire life, refused to wear the gartel .

My Uncle Meyer, a man of artistic talent, a known lover of several women, was ready for marriage.  His marriage was to be an arranged marriage to an 18-year-old beauty in the city of Chelm.  He had met her a few times, and described to us how independent she was, and how lovely.

The whole family traveled to the big affair.  Everyone put on their finest clothing. We knew that this would be a great event, and that we would be bringing home the new bride.  My uncle even built a new apartment for her.

The wedding arrangements proceeded as scheduled.  All the men were with the bridegroom, writing and signing an elaborate "ketubah" (the marriage contract).  The women were with the bride, getting her ready for the veil and the canopy.  Suddenly we heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the women’s quarter and we rushed in and saw a terrible sight.  Several females with large scissors were surrounding the bride, and all were screaming.  The young bride  was standing on a chair, obviously very defiant, and holding a large kitchen knife next to her heart.

Cutting off the bride's hair on the night of her wedding was an inviolate ritual.

The practice started out in the old days of wars, invasions, pillages, and rapes. The shtetel  dwellers tried to make the young women appear as unattractive as possible.  But to the Jews all over Eastern Europe, this became an edict, a must, a God’s Commandment that could not be broken.

I remember noticing that all these young married women, including my beautiful mother, wore heavy ugly wigs (the "Parick .")  They never let their hair grow back.  This was God’s order!  No wonder they covered their heads with shawls and babushkas.

My future Aunt was the first female I knew of in my young life that was willing to revolt, and she was determined not to let anybody cut off her long tresses.

The screaming, pleading, and tears went on for a long time, and finally a compromise was reached.  Cool heads fortunately prevailed. One woman alone was allowed to cut no more than 3 inches from the bride's hair.

The bride had won.  She came home with us, never wore any type of wig, and always openly displayed her beautiful long hair.

I loved this couple, and when I started to write my adolescent poetry, she was the one to whom I showed my first efforts.

Sadly, in 1942, when the Nazis came to our town, my whole family was brutally eradicated, including my aunt with the long hair, and as has been related by one who somehow survived, she remained defiant to the end,  holding her new baby daughter in her arms while the Nazis shot them both to death.

God did not punish her.  He was preoccupied in Seattle drinking coffee.  Some men turned into what too many still are – pitiless beasts of prey. This shtetel, like so many others throughout Europe, only remain in memory.  And there are but few of us who can still directly remember the sights, sounds, and lore of shtetel life.

Men’s clothing in the shtetel were almost all alike, always made of black material, including the ubiquitous long thin coats ("capotes.")  New apparel was seldom made or worn.

The only time a young man got a new wardrobe was when he married.  I can only remember one new suit that my father had our friendly tailor make for him.  The clothes that had been made for his wedding were carefully maintained, and lasted for many years.

But a most expensive and elaborate garment was made for him to wear on very special occasions.  It was a great coat.  It hung in the wardrobe, but was never worn by him.

Oh, he put it on twice that I remember, but only to entertain us, and to make us laugh; when laughter was absolutely necessary.

This was a heavy, well padded, great coat with a long slit in the back -  all the way to the center of his body.  The wings of the coat were rounded in both corners, and there were two large buttons on both sides, near where the kidneys are.  It was called a "Bekesha."  When Papa showed us his back, he looked like a black bug.

Once when my little brother Leon was sick, and Papa wanted him to laugh, he put on this silly coat, got down on the floor on all fours, and crawled around like a big insect.  We all laughed.

The coat went back into the armoire.  The style was badly copied from the Polish aristocratic style, but no sensible Jewish young man, certainly not my father, wanted to be seen wearing it.

Just before leaving for America, my father saw a strange beggar come to our home  with an outstretched hand.  This was nothing unusual.  Men without any means of earning money went from town to town to beg in order to help support their families, and to save for some manner of dowry for their daughters – and often they had many mouths to feed.

This was in winter, and the man wore threadbare clothes, with patches on the patches.  We could see that he was cold and miserable.  Papa looked at my mother.  She shook her head "yes."  The great coat was retrieved and given to the beggar.  The shivering man put it on over his old garments, and  reaching under the great coat into a pocket of his old tattered clothes, pulled out some paper money to give to Papa.

"No, no," pleaded my mother. "This is for you.  It is a gift from God."

The grateful man cried, patted the new garment wondering out loud how this was possible.  It was brand new, never worn! 

"This is my lucky day."  

He tucked the flaps under, and left us with many good wishes and good feelings.

"Brand new! Brand new! God will repay you."

Philip as a young boy living in
Shebreshin, The Shtetel of
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