HOW I BECAME A VEGETARIAN (FOR A WHILE)

I was ten when I heard the most horrible inhuman cries for help.  There was a living creature begging for its life, there was no mistaking the sounds of panic - of knowing that life was now ending.  The plea for rescue, the screams coming from helplessness, shattered the quietness of the whole shtetel.

Yet, while people stopped and listened, they soon moved on.  I, however, in hearing those screams, the sad sounds of dying, cried and cried.  I tried putting cotton in my ears to drown out the death sounds.  It did not help.  I crossed the City Square, past the market place with all the stands, past the village stores, went through the short tunnel that led to the river, and then onto the green meadow…. But still the horrible cries followed me, and rang in my ears.

I sat near the slow moving water and fantasized about having a gun. I wanted to kill the torturers, and I would have even killed to end the creature's suffering and pain.

I stayed away all day, but later on this sad winter's afternoon, I returned home, miserable and disheveled, hungry, wet, and still crying.

In our shtetel, Shebeshin, besides the 3000 Jews, there were also about 4000 gentiles. The Jews lived in the inner city, and the goim lived in the outer sections, reaching all the way to the outskirts, where the fields and orchards were located.

Besides the people, the town also had other inhabitants – a few dogs, and many cats.  Every household had their chickens, ducks, and geese being raised for the holidays. The Gentiles also had cows that were taken out to pasture everyday, and brought back for milking when the sun set.

The Jews had a few goats that ate virtually everything, but they kept mostly to themselves in the small gardens that surrounded the old Greek Orthodox Church (abandoned in my time). The garden had good greens, long grass, shrubs, and fruit trees; ample food for the goats. They too, were brought home at night to be milked. The village also had a few roaming pigs.

The pigs belonged, of course, to the non-Jews. They stayed mostly near their barns. The Jews did not like them for a number or reasons.  When the pigs smelled something that had once been considered edible, but had been thrown out because it was now completely spoiled or burned, they would rush up and devour it.  They were regarded as scavengers, and we called them our "clean-up squad."  In fact, they kept the area reasonably clean.

Across from our rather sizeable house, lived a nice Polish family by the name of Kolowski. We got along very well with this large, well educated family.  They too had a big house; one that they were improving all the time. They rented out the left side of this dwelling structure.  At one time the Catholic Priest lived there with two young maids.  At another time, my Uncle Daniel, his wife, and children occupied this  premises for a period of about two years.

They had several cows, and we bought milk from them. The Kolowskis had a big vegetable garden, and a small fruit orchard.  Most of our fresh vegetables came from their garden.  A few times a year the Kolowskis let us, the young kids, into the fruit garden to pick all the ripe cherries and plums, and later to pick the apples and pears.

They also had a white pig.  I kind of liked this hog.  He was given to them as a present when he was just a little piglet.  I could tell that he liked me, and I named him Pan' Chazer (Pan' in Polish = Sir , and Chazer in Yiddish means pig).

Pan' Chazer was smart.  He never bothered anyone.  He stayed close to his home; a clean barn.  He just liked to wallow in the mud after the rains.

After a few years, the once little piglet became enormous – big and fat – and I heard that the Kolowskis’ were talking about butchering him for the coming Christmas.

The pig heard this too.  He understood what awaited him.  He began to hide.  He found dark spots between buildings, and behind the firewood stored for the winter.  He even ventured into strange neighborhoods to hide.  For days no one saw "Pan' Chazer" until one morning when everything changed.

Early in the day our neighbors attached strong bolts to the barn walls. They brought out ropes, and the women provided many basins and pots. They all started looking for the hog. They went about, calling out for him. They eventually found him in a small hiding place. They pulled him out screaming. They quickly tied up his hind legs with the strong ropes, while all the time he was fighting, crying, and trying to get away. Then they tied up his front legs as well.

Pots of hot water were used to wash his hide.  He could see now that this was very bad. It was the biggest indignation and insult.  His protestations and cries became unbearable. They lifted him up, and hung him on the hooks by his hind legs, his head was now down, about 3 feet from the ground.

The pig protested, fighting and screaming, then pleading and begging. The cries were nerve shattering.  Suddenly a sharp knife was plunged into the throat of this living, breathing, screaming creature. Veins were cut. His blood started to exit and fill the basins and pots.

The living pig knew that this was the end.  He moaned and cried and got weaker.  I actually heard him sob with a human sounding voice.

I now realize that the Poles like pig blood to cook with. They use it in their sausages, kielbases, hot-dogs, bologna, and salami.  No wonder they drained the last few drops from this animal.

When I came home after watching how the butchers skinned the still warm creature, how they cut off parts of his body, relishing every morsel, I announced to my mother that I would never, never, eat meat again.

She laughed, telling me that kosher meat was fine, but I was not to ever eat anything from a pig.  I protested: "Nothing from a living creature," and I meant it.

"So what will you eat?" she asked. 

I answered that there were plenty of vegetables, fruits, and grain, and I loved kasha and dumplings.

Being stubborn, I persisted.  My poor mother obliged, and for two years I didn’t eat meat, until sickness struck me. I got a "strep" throat (streptococcus). This was considered a dangerous disease at that time.  There was no knowledge of antibiotics, or of any of the now common cures for infectious diseases.

But our friend and next door neighbor, Dr. Talanda was called in to help. (Technically, he was a Felcher, a medical practitioner close to what today we would call a paramedic, but he was honored as our Doctor.)  He experimented with herbs, and his own ideas of what would help the sick.

My fever was very high.  My throat was red and almost closed off.  Dr. Talanda insisted on staying with me for two days and nights.  He administered everything from castor oil to some sweet, unidentified, concoction, and I recovered.  But I had lost a lot of weight.  My mother said it was at least 10 pounds.  Dr. Talanda took me aside and declared that since he had saved my life, I was now  obligated to obey him, and to start eating a little meat.  He said that people are born meat eaters, and we can’t go against nature.

My mother cooked chicken soup, (what else!), and the good doctor fed me the soup with little bits of chicken.  I obeyed, and got better.

A few days later he gave my mother a small duckling to prepare for me. The doctor declared to me that he knows poultry, and this duckling was willing to give up its life so I could get really healthy and well.  I began to eat more and more meat of various sorts, and grew healthier day by day.

Still, even after the passage of eight decades, I still hear and feel the panic of this poor tortured pig - a living being.  It stays with me, creeping into my sleeping hours with a shrill sound, creating nightmares that sometimes stay with me even in my waking hours.

Thanks to Dr. Talanda, I got well, and for years I have speculated upon the faith of people that remain lifelong vegetarians.  

So now I am in the position of observing my grandson, Stephen, and his wife and children who have been practicing  the art of Vegetarianism for many years.  When occasionally they come to see me, it is a bit of a pain, not knowing what to feed these four people.  Actually, they are always welcome, but it is difficult to know what to prepare for them.  I see in stores, vegetarian foods that look like hamburgers, hotdogs, and other stuff. They are supposed to taste like the real meat products, but I don’t think this is quite fair.

I'm left to wonder if soy beans feel pain when they are plucked, cooked, and formed into hot dogs.