Death in Yashinovka

“Who is it before whom you become pure? And who is it that purifies you?”
—Mishnah Yoma 8:9

This is how I imagine the death of Yahakow Lejb Slomianski—my great-grandfather—in Yashinovka, Poland, on Tuesday, October 3, 1944, at 11:47 p.m.

He is alone in the forest. The sun is setting on a frigid evening. At 59, Yahakow Lejb is still tall, although he is losing height. His broad shoulders no longer project strength. His arthritis has become unbearable. His hands are full of calluses from endless hours at the tannery, fleshing skin, drenching, and pickling it. He remains surprised by the degree to which he misses the “odoriferous trade,” as his wife, Feige, called it. That is why the family always lived in this godforsaken village, one in a constellation of 33 Podlasie shtetlach: to keep away the smell of Bialystok, the leather marketplace, which is where Yahakow Lejb and his sons would transport merchandise twice a month.

Yahakow Lejb catches his breath as he waits for nightfall. He is afraid for Menachem. He surely could have prevented the altercation they had a few hours ago. They had managed to live in peace for these many months, but now things are likely over. Before he left, Menachem said, quoting a And, as Rabbi Matia ben Harash said, if one has pain in one’s throat, they may drop medicine into his mouth on Shabbat, because it is a possibility of danger to human life.”