Triumph After All

CHAPTER 2
REFLECTION

“The wicked bend their bow, ready their arrow on the bowstring, to shoot in the dark at the upright of heart.”1

“My mouth has filled with Your [God’s] praise . . .”2

“Go and see the work of God; He is awesome in deed . . .”3

“From the fruit of your works the earth is sated. He causes vegetation to sprout for the cattle, and plants through man’s labor, to bring forth bread from the earth.”4

“And they sowed fields and planted vineyards, which yielded a fruitful harvest.”5

“Why must I walk in gloom because of the foe’s oppression?”6

“I am poor and destitute . . .”7

After the evacuation of my village, I knew deep down we would never return home to our peaceful life, to my shtetl, in Ruscova.

The exodus of my family and friends took place a short while after we celebrated Pesach (Passover), the holiday of freedom. What irony! I recall the holiday’s preparations and celebrations very vividly.

“Tziper-Gittle, di darfst oufshtain se do asah arbet!” (Cipora, you have to get up, there is much work to be done!), came the wakeup call from my mama.

Yes, there was much to do every day, but a month before Pesach, don’t ask! Every corner had to be taken care of. The two-bedroom house: the hallway, at the entrance, the large kitchen, where my bed stood, and the cellar. All the rooms looked as if a hurricane had swept over our home. Indeed, every house in our village looked like that. “Use the large paintbrush,” called Mama, while she scrubbed the floor in the second bedroom.

All the walls got fresh white paint before Pesach. Why did we need to do it? Did we have any chometz (leavened bread or pastry, which is forbidden on Passover) on the walls? Tradition! Everything had to be cleaned, scrubbed, brushed, shined, and washed until you did not see your nails, as if they were buried in the flesh. Everyone was busy. Even the children could not be idle.

The night before Pesach, we collected the last slices of bread. We had recited a certain blessing: that if any chometz should be found, I or we, members of the household, would be punished. The following day, before lunch, we burned the leavened bread.

When I was eleven years old, the rabbi of our village asked me to take part in the baking of a shmireh matzo (matzo made from wheat that was guarded from the time of its harvest). It was such an honor to be part of the regular group of women who baked the matzos for the community. I remember that I was very excited, and I spread the dough and made sure it was perfect in its round shape, a tradition from one generation to the next.

Guess what? I won the prize for the most perfect shmireh matzo! What a thrill! My mama was very proud of my performance as a baker. From then on, she did not hesitate to call upon me for the Shabbos baking. Until today, I love baking.

On the eve of Passover, everything looked so sparkling clean, everyone wore pressed clothes, the aroma of delicious foods filled the house; the chicken soup, the baked potato kugels (casseroles), the tzimmes (sweet cooked carrots), and much more. We kids could hardly wait until the chanting and singing of the Haggadah (the book that contains the in-home religious service, conducted at the dinner table, the Seder, which tells the Passover story). We loved it all.

Papa started with the kiddesh (blessing over the wine). Then he said to my brother, “Nu, Mendele, as is tzait, di zoltz fraigen de fyir qashes.” (“Well, Mendele, now is the time for you to ask the four questions.”)

During these hectic weeks, I heard my mama calling me often: “Tziper-Gittle, as is shpait! De keey kannen nit varten!” (“Cipora, it is late! The cows cannot wait!”)

Meaning I needed to help with milking the two young cows we had. I took the silver-colored bucket, went out to the barn, and sat on the low stool. The pail was between my knees, and the white, warm liquid streamed down from the udders through the tips of my fingers into the opening. Drip, drip came down the milk. I started singing some Shabbos zemiros(songs): “Shalom alechem,” welcoming the angels of God. The udders were heavier. I guess the cows liked the music, and I loved singing. It was a good mutual union of effort.

Through the open barn door, I saw the rugged land covered with lush grass, a velvety pasture. The Carpathian Mountains in the distance were also covered in all hues of green, and in between, splashes of color—a brilliant red, the bright yellow of the sunflowers, and the purple flowers that stretched to the sky and became like one. The pine trees spread their arms to each other as if hugging and uniting. I could sit and look at the beauty, the breathtaking scenery, the whole day, but the pail was already full, almost to the rim.

“You did a great job!” exclaimed Mama. “Now we will be able to take some of the milk, make butter and cheese, and give some of it to the families who live in the lower part of town. Nebbech (pity) they do not have enough food, and the children are so young.”

“It is important to help the needy,” Papa and Mama reiterated to us often.

I am not the only one who helped with chores. My younger sister, Haya, also did whatever she was able to complete. Mendele studied in the Heder (school for Jewish boys) the whole day. The older students in the class helped the younger ones with their studies.

Why didn’t we girls study? I studied in public school until the age of ten, and then my secular education had to stop. Why? You already read about it earlier. My parents did not give up on our studies. I had a tutor, a young bocher (a yeshiva student). He taught me some of the Jewish studies: Humesh (the Five Books of Moses), and some holiday laws.

What else did we have on our land? There were many rows of various vegetables. Mama supervised it all, like a first-class captain on his ship.

“We need to plow the ground, than rake it!” the commandment was given.

The rows had to be straight as arrows. Two rows of each: carrots, turnips, parsley, cucumbers, tomato vines, and five to ten rows of potatoes and corn. We had two hired Romanian gentiles, who lived in the Carpathian Mountains in their small wooden houses. There was a plethora of work, especially toward the end of summer, picking the vegetables. We piled the potatoes and the corn in the cellar; the piles reached the ceiling. The cellar was built of bricks and served as a refrigerator, keeping all the food cold.

What about fruit? Let’s not forget them.

“Make sure you don’t leave the ripe ones on the ground. They are also useful,” called out Mama.

I joined the two helpers. I carried a burlap sack. The handle cut across my shoulder, the sack on my right. I picked up the soft, full-grown fruit. We had many trees—peaches, plums, pears, and apples were plentiful.

“Why do we have so many jars spread out along the counter?” I asked my mama when I was younger.

“I am in the process of pickling some of the vegetables. That will take several days, perhaps a week. Next week I will make jam from the fruit and bake cakes and cookies.”

“Why, all this messy work?” I continued curiously.

“During the long winter months, when the trees are covered with heavy snow, as well as the ground, we will have food to eat until the beginning of summer,” Mama replied.

The pots were full of pink, thick sauce. The scent filled our home and spread through the window, trying to compete with the fresh smells of summer. The ripe fruit ready to be plucked off the branches, the scent of the hay in the field mixed with the odor of the flowers blooming in the meadow—these were pleasant memories that stayed with me always. They brought me solace from the desperate reality we were surrounded with in the ghetto.

As I gazed through the open window in Falchovitcho, I saw a picture of hell!

Women, men, and children of all ages were on the road and in the alleys. The ones who didn’t have any strength leaned against the houses or the ghetto wall with outstretched hands, their eyes pleading for something to bring back to their starving families. Some lay down on the ground for several days, to be picked up and buried in a communal pit. It was such a disgrace to the human race.

We were the lucky ones! Yes, we were crammed twelve into two rooms, but others were shoved into one room, ten to fifteen people with no source of food. I saw many rummaged in the garbage cans or in the piles of rotten food that accumulated along the unpaved roads. One little piece of a crusted bread or some potato peels, or anything of that nature, would have sufficed.

We at least had bread to eat. It was grave in...