THE RESCUE
  (For my family to be read at a Chanukah gathering)

It’s Friday, the sixth day of Chanukah.  On my dinning table sits a modern menorah holding seven small candles including the "Shamus" that I will use to light the others.

As always, I am the one who will light the menorah.  I have been doing this ritual for many, many years.  I love this beautiful holiday.  The small flickering flames tell me more than all the bright, loud Christmas lights, but this is not a competition of religious symbols.

I love holidays and remember them all, especially when I was a young child in a small Polish "Shtetel."

My pleasantest holiday recollections are about Chanukah, when the long winter set in.  The clay mud of the ground finally froze, sparing us the pain of getting our shoes stuck in the clay, and retrieving them with our shivering and chilled hands.

Chanukah meant warmth, good food, and the wonderful smell of burning aromatic oil.  The potato latkes were somehow very special.   Only during this holiday did they taste that good.

Grandpa lit the old ornate antique brass menorah, not with small candles, but he lit the wicks that had been dipped in a deep vessel of pure oil.

They lasted a long time, sometimes a whole night, illuminating the home and pushing away the darkness.

We children played with "dredels,"  losing or winning pennies or raisins, or prunes, and sometimes walnuts.

The older men played cards for money.  This was the only time I ever saw my family play cards.

The whole little town was illuminated, every window shined with the flickering lights.

My mother was always busy in the kitchen making the potato latkes and other good food.  She would talk about miracles and all the good things that happen during this holiday.

I always considered that miracles kept these little towns/villages alive.

All over Poland, Galicia, Bialoruss the Ukraine, Latvia, Litvannia, Hungry, Rumania, and beyond, were these little "Shtetlach" – all depending on themselves, existing with hardly any outside income.

They lasted for hundreds of years.  The dwellers managed to educate their children; all the boys had to learn to read and write Hebrew,  and to be able to understand their prayers and to read from the Torah.

Somehow they produced great scholars, philosophers, artists, musicians and even great medics.

Regardless of how small a "Shtetel" might be, there always were a few (by village standards) rich men. – the merchants that dealt with the "Goim," and the rest who perfected their crafts in order to exist.

Every town had a "Waser Trager," or water carrier.  He had a wooden yoke over his shoulders, holding two pails.  He delivered water from the wells.  It was very hard work, but the pennies earned kept his family alive.  There were "Holtz Hekker," (wood chopper) people that gathered wood branches from fallen trees, chopped them up, and delivered them to homes.  There was the milkman with his little wagon.  He arose early every morning and traveled to the nearby peasant villages to pick up the milk.  It was sometimes said that on his way back, he stopped at the river and added water so he would have more milk to sell.

There were the "Trager," (carriers).  These were strong men.  They all wore padded tunics and ropes around their waists and shoulders.  They had a stand in the market place, and waited for a signal to pick up and deliver heavy packs.  I still remember them carrying on their backs barrels containing herring, or sacks of flour or potatoes, or even tables, and other bulky items.

There were "Belfers," men that gathered the children and brought them to the "M’llamedo," the teachers who educated the young to know the Holy Scriptures.

The pay was minuscule, but somehow the people survived.  The standard of living was low.  Food was simple – black bread, potatoes, cabbage, maybe a piece of chicken on the Sabbath. .

Yes, there were shortages and hunger, but nobody starved.  The community took care of the minimum needs of its inhabitants.

Our family was comfortable, even considered well off.  We were the cabinetmakers.  We got work from the schools, or mostly from the working peasants in the nearby villages.

On Fridays the men returned from work, bringing sacks of potatoes, eggs, live chickens, and occasionally sacks of grain, rye and wheat, to be taken to the mill, and ground into flour.

Our old big family house had the workshop in the front.  In the rear were the living quarters of my grandparents, and the big kitchen and oven that seemed to be always on.  Further up, in an unfinished part of the house, lived Auntie Sosha, my grandfather’s sister, with her six children.

Sosha’s husband; Moishe-Arron Tulkop, left sometime during 1913 to go to America.  There he managed to earn some money and to eventually (many years later) bring his large family to the Golden Country

The war broke out in 1914, and until 1921, all through the fighting, invasions, occupations, and insurrections, this family of seven, without any means of survival, became our responsibility.

Our family shared our food with the Tulkops.  Fridays, when we did the baking of bread for the whole week, a few loafs of the large, round black rye bread, and two white "challahs" (the Shabbat twists) were given to them.  We also gave them our outgrown and discarded clothes.  It was of some help, but we had little to spare.  The two older girls earned a bit of salary as seamstresses, but the four boys were too young to do any work except run errands for neighbors, and this earned them only a few pennies.  They did not go to school, so my father became their teacher, and they learned a little.

My two uncles and their families lived in homes nearby.  My parents lived in the new house put up when they got married.  So all of us became very close – to share what we had,  and to mutually protect one another.

At the far end of the "Shtetel" was a bridge over the river, and a paved road leading  across Poland until it reached the Austrian border.  This was our only link to the outside world.

While this road made a 90-degree turn near the railroad tracks, a smaller dirt road continued on for some three miles through fields, and over a hill, until it reached the forest.  A foreboding place - the trees were close together, and it was easy to get lost.  The thick tree trunks and the closeness of the limbs formed a visual wall.

There was only one road that bisected this ancient stand of trees.  No one from the "shtetel" used this road, as it was told to us that it belonged to the Polish aristocratic family that owned most of the nearby land which the peasants worked.   This road led to their summer and winter dwellings, and it was off limits to everyone else.

I once saw this family in their carriage traveling through the forest to their summer villa.  They looked at us as if we were some form of vermin.  They did not smile back.

The forest was a means of some modest income to my relatives, the Tulkop boys.  Every summer the three younger ones, Benish (Benny), Jacov (Jacob) and Gershon (George) loaded themselves up with pots and jars, and went among the trees to gather the ripe wild strawberries, and the luscious large blueberries that grew in the forest.  They knew exactly where to find them, and they quickly filled their  containers.  I went with them a few times.  Some more cousins came along too.  It took my cousins and myself a long time to fill our jars, but the three Tulkops quickly went ahead of us.  When we returned to the "Shtetel," our faces smeared with juices of the blueberries, the Tulkops were already knocking at doors and selling the berries.

Sometimes, off-season, we picked mushrooms, but as some might be poisonous, my grandfather had to check each one before we could eat them.

In winter, the Tulkop boys became firewood gatherers.  They dressed in old warm clothes, took along ropes, a saw, an axe, and looked for fallen branches.  They never cut trees, but there were plenty of dry large limbs lying around on the snowy areas of the forest.

They sawed, hacked, bundled, and made large packs of wood, attached them to their backs, and brought them back to sell to the cold and shivering town’s people who used the wood to cook, and to stay warm.

The winters were long and hard.  More people went to gather wood, and some of them got lost, and occasionally some froze to death.

We always worried until the boys came home.  One winter, and this I will never forget, tragedy struck.  It was on a Friday, and during the week of Chanukah.

As usual, the Tolkops went to the forest to gather wood.  It was a very cold, dark day.  When they left it was snowing lightly, and the three boys kept together, but somehow the middle one, Yacov, got separated for a few minutes.  He called for his brothers, they called for him, but they couldn’t hear or see each other.  The snow started to fall heavier and heavier, obliterating their footprints.

Berish and Gershon became panicky.  They must get help to find their brother.  It was getting darker; maybe their brother walked out of the forest and was already in town.

In desperation they ran out of the forest to the "shtetel." They brought the bad news.

Instantly, my grandfather took action.  My uncles Meyer and Daniel got themselves ready.  They gathered up other men, including the "Tregers" and the horse traders; all outdoor men. They hastened to the trees, carrying blankets and long poles.

Half the people of the village followed them up to the little bridge.  Nobody went home, all eyes peered into the distance.

Auntie Sosha carried on with screams and tears.

"My poor child, dead, frozen and alone."

My mother found "Shoshele" (little Shosha), and held her in her arms trying to give her hope.

It was getting later and darker, and my "Zaida" alerted the Burial Society (the volunteer group that attended to deaths).

This was a Friday, and according to religious Jewish teachings, any Jew that dies on a Friday must be buried the same day.  It would be sacrilegious to keep the body over the Sabbath.

A grave was dug in the cemetery, a shroud was prepared, and hot water was made ready for the ritual.

In the forest, Yacov knew that he was lost.  He also knew that if he were to survive he must find the road that cuts through the trees, and he started to walk toward it.  But being confused and scared, he walked in the opposite direction.  He was very cold and tired, and sleepy too.  He staggered on hopelessly, and then he heard a cry, a whimper, and a strange sound.

He soon found the source.  In front of him was a steep ravine filled with deep snow.  Sheer, icy walls surrounded this hollowed out depression.  In the middle of this was a large dog trying to get out.  He tried again and again, but the dog fell back into the deep snow.  His paws were bleeding.  The snow was red with his blood.  The dog was probably chasing a rabbit, or some other animal, and fell into the ravine.  He was doomed now.

Yacov couldn’t let the dog die.  He talked to him, and finally tied a rope to a tree and lowered himself.  The dog came closer.  Yacov held on to the rope and the dog, and pulled them both up, completely exhausted.

The dog could not walk.  He was also exhausted, bleeding, and hungry.

The boy found some crumbs in his pockets and fed the animal. The dog licked his face, and it felt warm.  Yacov noticed a large tree that had fallen, and that there was a hollowed out spot at the base of it.  He knew he must get some rest and shelter, and this should be a good spot.

He also knew that this would be dangerous.  What if there was a sleeping animal there, maybe even a bear, but he had no alternative.  He crawled in, carrying the dog with him.  He put the bundle of firewood in front to protect him from the falling snow, and he started to fall asleep.  Hypothermia was beginning.  He drifted off in spite of his efforts to remain awake.  The dog warmed him somewhat, but then both fell into a sound sleep that would surely lead to death.

The rescue groups spread out hollering and screaming Yacov’s name.  They would then stop and wait in silence, listening for a reply.  Nothing was heard.  They searched and searched, found nothing, no footprints, and no indications that the lost boy had ever been there.

It was getting ever later and still darker.  The people became discouraged.  They felt that the boy was forever lost…. undoubtedly already dead.  They decided to leave and come back tomorrow to find his body, but my Uncle Daniel refused.  He asked for one more search.  They went over new territory, and someone heard a whimper, a cry.  They followed the sound and found the bundle of firewood covering the entry to the hollowed out tree.

Yacov was asleep, maybe dead; the dog in his lap licking his face.  There were screams of disbelief.

They formed a litter with their poles and old blankets. They pulled out the sleeping boy and the dog.  Yacov did not open his eyes, but they knew that there was still hope.  They rushed the three or so miles back to the village.  One young man ran ahead with the news.

I can still see my grandfather on the bridge.  As soon as he saw the procession, he started running towards the group, the tails of his coat flying like the wings of a butterfly.  He quickly examined the sleeping boy who was still holding on to the dog.

Women came running with kettles of hot water---

"Hot, no! Warm yes," dictated Grandpa. "Take him to my house." 

The sleeping boy was put in grandfather’s feather bed, covered, and watched.  He opened his eyes and smiled.

Grandpa told them to keep the fire going.

"To save a life is more important than to observe the Sabbath,"

He then ordered one young girl to keep the fire in the stove going.  He sent a bottle of vodka to the burial society…there would be no funeral today.

He lit the Chanukah lamp, and whispered a long prayer.  The women lit the Sabbath candles, everyone smiled.  All night the boy was watched by his mother and his uncle.

In the morning, we all went to the prayer house.  "Zaida" was called up to the Torah.  He "Bensht Goimel "(thanked God for the good luck), and gave a sizeable donation to the community.

Yacov got out of bed, and life soon became normal.  The dog was picked up by our neighbor, the butcher, who put salve on its feet, and bandaged them.  He put the dog in a quiet corner where he recuperated.

In two months, spring started.  The dog looked up to the sky, smelled the fresh air, and ran off.  We never saw him again.

My mother recounted this Chanukah event many times.  She always believed that many good things in life could happen during this holiday.  No wonder it is called the holiday for miracles.  And I always wondered who would be credited for this miracle - the boy or the dog, as each was there to rescue the other.