ZISHA,  JACOB,  AND OTHER PEOPLE FROM MY CHILDHOOD
(A series of night time remembrances)

Memories, memories from my childhood, long forgotten, faded almost completely.  People long gone, the small shtetel in Poland where I grew up is destroyed, the characters played out their roles in the time given them, and then they were wiped out without a trace.  This shtetel, this remote village of another time, now appears in my sleep, somehow demanding to be remembered, to have its existence told about to those who do not know.

"Look, I lived, took up space, don’t wipe me out like a speck of dust."

I tried to disregard the pleas.  After all, they are only minor details in the process of my growing up and then leaving this town, this childhood, and this way of life.

But they demand a place, a small area of recollection and reconstruction, and I have to give in.  Not to paint their portraits for posterity – only just to sketch them.

Zisha was my uncle, my mother’s youngest brother.  My grandparents produced six sons and one daughter.  Zisha, the youngest was spoiled by his parents.

I don’t remember him as a young man, but I remember that the talk was that one-day Zisha simply disappeared.  He left, went to an other town, and the family never heard from him again.  I heard whispers that he must be dead.  Years passed, and it was as if he had dropped into a black hole.

Since I never knew him, nor remembered him, he was not my concern.

Until one summer day a horse drawn wagon pulled up to our home and a young, blond, blue eyed, tall man jumped out.

I remember cries, laughter, screams, and disbelief. 

"Zisha, Zisha is here!" 

Half the people from the village gathered, admiring the miracle of seeing him.

I remember the big meal, my grandmother and mother bringing in huge portions of steaming food, as if trying to make up for all the meals that my uncle had missed.

Zisha brought in some duffle bags full of gifts.   He told some tall stories of being a seaman and traveling to strange places like America where there were there were tall buildings reaching to the sky, and immense rivers and canals. He related being in Japan, a strange land where the homes were made of sticks covered with paper - where even the inside walls can be moved to create new areas.

He opened the bags and gave us highly lacquered wooden dishes, strange clothes made out of silk, and for me, his sister’s oldest son, he brought a small violin, shiny patent leather boots, and a sailor uniform.  I was about six years old at that time.

Life, after his return, must have gone on normally.  Zisha worked in the shop with his brothers.  He got married to a pretty young woman, and established his own woodworking shop in a nearby village.

On many Sabbaths, while with our family he was called up to read from the Torah.   It took me by surprise that when he was called to these readings, he was not called by the name Zisha, but by a non-Jewish name; "Alexander."

Jewish children, when born, were always named after a deceased ancestor – not to honor them as such, but to let the deceased rest – he or she is reborn again to go on.

My grandfather explained the non-Jewish name, Alexander, came down through our family for a period of over two thousand years – and not by choice.  I never knew anyone else named Alexander.  This all came by an edict from Alexander the Great, the conqueror of Persia, and half the world.  Every country that came under his rule had to set up his bronze or marble statue honoring him, but Israel had a religious injunction, or taboo, about graven images; be it paintings or sculpture.  Alexander the Great understood this and exempted the nation of Israel from having to have his statue set up in the Temple.  But he demanded that a male member of every household had to carry the name Alexander, and the Jews were forced to oblige, though reluctantly.

Since the Jews traditionally name their offspring after their departed ancestors, they officially named sons Alexander, but never actually used the name.

That is how traditions (some forced upon) were, and are, created,  and then they go on and on seemingly forever.

Zisha was never the perfect woodworker, and moreover, in the small village where he lived, the plain living peasants did not need his services.  Their homes were rough log cabins, and all had straw roofs and mostly dirt floors.

But I, on a visit to his place, discovered his true talent, and the way by which he was able to feed his growing family.

Zisha was an unheralded wood-carver artist.  Using hand made tools, he skillfully carved Christian images and sold them to the peasants.  Actually, it was more a case of barter than selling.  Very little cash was available, but he was paid with potatoes, grain, poultry, and whatever his customers produced.

Zisha's work was excellent and highly valued.  Life-like holy images adorned many homes in the village.   I admired one small carving.  It was a woman (Mary) wearing a turban, holding a child with one hand, and with the other hand leading a sheep.  The woman’s face was that of my mother, and I told him so.  He never sold this carving, but when I left for America, he brought it to me as a going-away gift by which to remember him.

Alas, in my lonely travel to my new home, I lost it – and then forgot about it.

There is another  incident etched in my mind as if it occurred only yesterday – yet it happened a long, long, time ago when I was a mere four year old.

I see the platform in front of our new home.  It is a cool evening.  A little boy of about ten is standing outside, completely naked, crying.  My mother and my aunt Liala are bringing out basins of water, old towels, and washing down this frightened child.  I hear screams.

"My God, he is completely covered with vermin!"

My uncle Daniel is also busy.  He is cutting the boy's hair, and later shaving it off.

Still later, there is a fire.  The child's clothes are burned.  Some of our old clothing covers his body now – pants are rolled up, a torn shirt hangs down.  The boy is fed some food, but he can’t eat, and a bed is made for him on a banquette.  He falls asleep without talking.   I hear his name mentioned – Yukel.

Yukel is not a prestigious name, and we treat this strange boy as something less than an equal.  But he is not a stranger.  He is my grandfather’s nephew.  When Yukel’s father died and he became an orphan (his mother had died previously), some distant relative volunteered to take care of the boy, but he soon tired of the job and asked my grandfather to come and take him away.  My Grandfather was the only relative left to turn to.

Yukel remained reserved and a loner.  As he grew a little older, he began to work in the shop, and over time became quite efficient in the trade of our family – woodworking.

But he troubled the family.  He became a voyeur wherever women gathered; be it at the river where they washed clothes and bathed, or at the public toilets (there was no running water) and the stalls had no doors.  The family had its greatest concerns over the fact that he was spending an ever greater amount of time with a gentile farmer girl of about fourteen.

"This has to stop,"

I heard the elders say while discussing him, and that my grandfather was to take action.

My Grandfather went back to Yusefof, the town where Yukel was born.  In this town there lived an orphan, a young girl of about fifteen.  She had become the ward of this little town.  Grandpa arranged a match between Yukel and this girl named Sarah.  Yukel was then close to seventeen.

Our family, including myself, attended the wedding.  Most of the residents of Yusefof came and brought gifts for the newlyweds – pots and pans, dishes, towels and other items necessary to begin a household.  Not all of the presents were new.  There were quite a few discards.  But the married couple looked happy.  Grandpa, one uncle, and I remained in this village for a few days more.  They resurrected Yukel’s father’s woodworking shop, and thus my family and the town’s people had a new establishment.

As they say, "Life goes on."  Time passed.  I lived my own life – a very good and busy life in America.  Yukel and his existence were forgotten; my memory of him faded away.

World War II ended.  I prospered, and my wife and I took several long trips to see the world.  We went to Israel a few times.  We looked for remnants of our families.  Bassya found a few, and I discovered some first cousins – Bibels from my father’s side.

From the woodworkers, the Bagliebters, I found an old woman with an unfortunately faulty memory.  She and her husband came to what was then Palestine in the early 30s.  Her husband had died, and she could not tell me very much.

It hurt me to know that from our whole tribe of hundreds, or even thousands, there were no more survivors.  I asked and searched, and on one trip to Israel, I heard that there actually were some that had somehow survived.  I was told that there was a very important man, Joseph Neeman, in Haifa.  He would be able to inform us.

I got in touch with him.  He listened, smiled and embraced me.

"Come, I will take you to a relative."

We drove to a very imposing apartment house with a great entrance with marble floors and steps.  He rang the bell.  When the door opened, I saw a smiling man, well dressed and obviously well fed.  This man embraced me.  He actually picked me up off the floor and kissed me.

"Oh, cousin, cousin Philip, it is me; Yukel."

We cried and kissed, and his wife Sarah emerged.  She was a beautiful lady.  The last time I had seen her, she was 15 years old.  They disclosed that my guide, Joseph Neeman, was their son, and they also had a married daughter who would be arriving soon.

But his name is no longer Yukel, it is Jacob now, and they changed the family name to "Neeman" (that was supposed to mean Bagliebter in Hebrew).

Jacob is retired; the apartment was given to him by the government.  It was originally owned by an Arab who fought the Israelis in 1948 and ran away to Syria, abandoning his home.

Jacob had come to Israel in the early 1930s and worked at his trade.   He showed me all the beautiful furniture that he made for is home.  I told him that I, too,  had done the same for myself.

After a great meal, Joseph, who I discovered is in charge of security at the Haifa Port, invited us to go sightseeing on one of the Israeli Navy boats.  The boat was a new acquisition, and had a crew of about 12 young men.  We saw much more than the casual visitor.  The young captain proudly showed me the intricate mechanisms of this shining vessel.  After we returned to port, I sent two small kegs of beer to the crew.

Joseph beamed and thanked me.  We had discovered our family roots.  Israel is good for those of our tribe remaining.  

Never underestimate a Bagliebter/Neeman.

Every shtetel in Poland had these three characters.   I am almost positive that very few hamlets did not harbor them.

These three were the town burglar/thief – the "ganif," the "town prostitute," and the "town fool" – the crazy person.

They were known to all.  They were considered harmless, and accepted as part of the community.  If we came across them in the morning, we respectfully said: "Good morning."

In the next courtyard to our home, in a dilapidated shack, lived a large family – a widow, a group of children of various ages, and the oldest boy who was the sole supporter of this group.  He was the ganif, the accepted town thief.

He never stole expensive items, but the three bakeries in our village were systematically raided, and loaves of bread and cookies disappeared.  Pounds of beans, potatoes, and even some chickens, found their way to the pots and stomachs of this poor family.

The largest (unwitting) supporters of their appetites were the farmers.  Every Tuesday, all the peasants and farmers from neighboring villages came to our city with their loaded wagons.  They brought their products – sacks of potatoes, onions, beans,  grain, and cages of livestock (mostly poultry). They sold them to the small merchants, or exchanged them for the things they needed like sugar, salt, flour, boots and wearing apparel.  I believe that our shtetel survived mainly through this type of commerce.

This was also the big day for the thief.  He could, in the wink of an eye, pilfer a sack of potatoes, even a few chickens.  He was never caught, nor punished.  He was agile, athletic, and quite good at his craft.

He never stole anything from our family, perhaps because every Friday night when we baked for the week, Grandma baked an extra Challa and two other loaves of bread for the Ganif’s family.   I remember my mother would even include two candles for the Shabbat blessings, as his family was very religious.

In an alley near the river, lived the "Vinegar Woman."  She was the sole supplier of vinegar for the whole area.   I was sent there with a pitcher, and given a few pennies to make this purchase.   The front of the house contained a few damp fragrant barrels of vinegar, but on one of my trips I noticed the door to the bedroom was open, and on an unmade bed sat a young woman.  She looked at me and smiled.  I was only a six-year old child, and I asked her if she was sick, as it was late in the afternoon and she was only wearing a nightgown.

"No, no," answered the vinegar woman,

"My daughter likes to sleep late; she is just getting up."

It took me two more years to find out that the late sleeper was called "the curve" (pronounced coor – ve), the whore.   She alone, not the vinegar, supported the mother and her brothers and sisters.

Again, I became aware of the importance of the Tuesday market day for the livelihood of our village.  On Tuesdays, there was a line of men from the villages taking their turn for the service of the late sleeper.  Not everyone paid with cash.  Most of the men paid with sacks of farm produce, and live animals.  What the family did not consume, they sold to the town merchants.  This family lived well, although they were not invited to many town functions.

Our town had more than the usual crazy fool.  We had two – one, the "old one" and the other, the "young meshuganea." The "old one" was a smiling, smelly man who stopped everyone with,

"The messiah is coming, he is outside of town, lets go and welcome him."

He kept on running and searching.  He never hurt anyone, and he was tolerated and accepted, and occasionally fed.

The "young one" was exceptionally religious.  He always carried a torn prayer shawl, a "Talis".  He put it on every so often, found a corner, and began the Morning Prayer.  He did this many times.  In his prayers which we could all hear, he apologized to, and begged forgiveness from God.  He, too, was harmless and was accepted as a part of the village.

One incident about this ultra pious man has come to the fore in memory.  This man was the ultimate searcher for the intimate connection with God, including everything that is pure, the observer of all commandments of the Bible, repeating his vows over and over again.

This incident was talked about in our shtetel for years and years, and then forgotten by me until now.

It was a Saturday night.  The elders gathered in the rabbi’s home to talk about the community, to plan a new roof for the shul, and necessity of having to start saving money for a dowry on behalf of some poor girl.  My grandfather took me along, and after these discussions, the rabbi’s wife asked for a volunteer to go down to the city water pump (there was no running water) to fetch a bucket of water for the tea that she wanted to brew.  The "young" jumped up, took the pail; after all this is a mitzvah (good deed), and after he returned, the tea and cake were served.  Before we left, the "young meshuganea" looked at the rabbi and beamed.

(The Mikva is the pool, or bath, in which young women purify themselves after their monthly cycle).

The pool hadn't been drained and refilled yet, so we were lucky that no one became (physically) ill.

BIBEL FAMILY PORTRAIT - POLAND - circa 1918

PLEASE CLICK IN PICTURE