Honor Thy Father

Within the shtetel, old age (70 or older) was considered a badge of honor.  The older a person became the more prestige he carried.

People would come to consult with him; to seek his opinions.  Elders were asked to aid in settling long simmering disagreements and arguments.

His long life was perceived as a sign of achieving wisdom and experience, and was considered as a true gift from heaven.

Not only the very educated, our Torah Scholars, received this homage.  Even the poor uneducated seniors, including the water carriers and the woodcutters, were honored.

Even as a child I observed that this honor for our elderly filtered down to our Polish neighbors (who did not particularly love Jews). Typically when they came across an old Jew they would touch the side of their caps as a salute. I never saw a circumstance in which they removed their hat – that would be just too much honor for a Jew, but certainly there was an element of sincere respect.

My grandfather received a great measure of respect and love throughout his life, and as he aged he garnered additional special attention from all who knew him.

He was called Shmuel, The "Lomer Stolier" (Samuel, the Lame Woodworker.)

When he was a young boy, he saw a Russian Cossack abuse his mother.  He lunged at him with his bare fists.  The Cossack used his rifle to break both of Shmuel’s legs.  Grandpa’s left leg was broken in several places, and when it finally healed it was shorter than the right leg by about 2 inches. As a result, all his boots and shoes had a compensating platform added to the left side.  He had to use a cane, which he hated, but this handicap remained throughout his life.

My grandparents had six sons and one daughter (my mother).  The oldest, Hershel, married and moved to Goray, which was about 50 miles away.  He opened his own woodworking shop.  Another son, Abraham, served in the Russian Army and distinguished himself in the War of 1905 in Manchuria.  He was awarded a gold medal.  When he came home he too married.  Shortly thereafter he left for America where he settled in Ellenville, in upstate New York, and started his own woodworking shop there.  Another son, Mechel, also started a shop near Zamoscz.  The youngest, Zisha, traveled all over the world, including all the Americas and Japan.  Returning from his travels, he too settled near by.  Daniel, Myer, and my father stayed with Grandpa who ran a prosperous cabinet shop.

Shmuel was the head of the family, and his decisions were always final.

He enjoyed the attention and love of this "tribe".  To me it was always touching to see this respect given to him.  Several times a year all the sons, and their children, came to our town to be with, and to give honor to Zaida.

Mostly I looked forward to the Pesach and Succoth holidays when Hershel, the oldest, and his son, Daniel, came to visit. To do so they would walk 50 miles each way.  It was too expensive to hire a horse and wagon.  They would start very early, dawn, and arrive just before sunset to be with us.  They usually brought a few presents, such as a live, fat, chicken, or containers of some fresh cottage cheese.

Daniel often brought me a few things for myself.  One time, a set of my own playing cards, and another time, a small sack of seeds that could only be found on the forest floor.  These white seeds, from the cones of sugar pine trees, were longer and thinner than white rice, and the taste was heavenly.

Their long treks took them through the forests and hills; even a steep mountain.  The two of them made this journey twice a year for as long as I remember — and all to bring honor to Shmuel!

Love, respect, honor, and admiration were shown by all the arriving children and their respective families.  Sometimes it was a little embarrassing to see all the attention that Grandpa drew, and upon occasion he would point this out.  He wanted to be completely independent, but I am sure he appreciated the attention given him.

There was one incident that I feel I must recount now. It was vivid and frightening, and I never forgot it.

At the end of World War I, during the German occupation, our local police chief called Grandpa in, and in rapid German ordered the old man to make some cabinets for him. Zaida did not understand the words, and he politely begged the chief to explain it to him again.

The policeman became very angry. He started swearing, and he slapped grandpa’s face, hard.

Embarrassed, Zaida came home and told us about the slap. Without a word, both Daniel and Myer brought out their axes and started to sharpen them.  It was their intention to kill the policeman that very night.

It took a great deal of crying and begging from all of us to get them to give up the idea of killing the policeman.

It was Zaida who forbid any action. "God will punish him," he vowed.

Nothing happened for two years, but then one evening, when the captain was astride his horse on the brick highway running through our shtetel, and as usual, showing his distaste ad contempt for the common people, a small animal scurried out and frightened his horse.  The horse reared up, and started to gallop away.  The captain tried to control the spooked horse by pulling on the reins.  The more he attempted to pull back (he was practically standing up and screaming), the faster, and more erratically, the horse ran. Finally it slipped and fell down. The German police officer was thrown, and hit his head, hard, on the pavement.

The horse was severely hurt, and had to be destroyed.  The policeman broke his neck and became paralyzed.  Within a day he was strapped down to a gurney and taken to some far away hospital, never to come back again. We were told that he died in a vegetative state.

Grandpa never said that he was pleased with this punishment, but he smiled… oh how he smiled.  He did remark, however, that he was sorry about the horse - he liked the horse.

Grandpa was happy with his God’s judgment.  His God was always right.