The Journeys of Brothers

By Murray A. Tucker

For twenty-year-old Meyer Stein, the word pogrom strikes fear into his heart. At the age of five, he witnessed one firsthand, bringing on destruction wrought by peasants, Cossacks, and the army. Hearing the word again as an adult, Meyer feels trapped. His whole world has centered on his small, isolated Russian village, where he and his wife, Rachel, are comfortable. But that is about to change.

Meyer knows he must leave or suffer the same atrocities of others before him. He worries how his pregnant wife will cope, and he wonders how he will handle the harrowing journey with his rascal of a younger brother, Ephraim. As the two leave Russia in 1903, they experience perils both from nature and people bent on betraying them for a reward.

A work of historical fiction, The Journeys of Brothers reflects a composite of the experiences of many Jewish immigrants from Russia at the turn of the twentieth century. It describes pioneering in Saskatchewan, spying for the British in World War I, and assisting Jews to flee the problems of Eastern Europe. A story of the personal courage and sacrifice of European immigrants, it narrates an engrossing saga of immigration and personal development.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491714225

Murray A. Tucker

Murray A. Tucker, the grandson of Russian Jewish immigrants to Canada, is a retired research economist. He is also the author of Screamer: The Forgotten Voice of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Tucker and his wife, JoAnne, live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Visit him online at www.murraytuckerwriter.com.

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PART 1

CHAPTER 1

V ivid memories flash back in my dreams, nightmares that leave me sweating even in the cold of a Canadian winter. Bodies of neighbors and their children, my playmates, strewn lifeless on the hard mud of our village. I was five. My aunt, armed with a butcher knife, had put me and my younger brother in a hiding place while she faced three men. "Come near me, Shagatz, and I’ll cut off your manhood."

I watched through the openings. One of them lunged for her shoulders and another went for her legs. She sliced the neck of the first one who released her and grabbed his throat, looking surprised as blood gushed out. The gurgling sounds were the last the man would make. The second man forced her to the floor. My other aunt who had been hiding emerged with another knife and came down on his buttocks. He yelled in agony, and as he turned over, she did what her sister had promised, thrusting the knife squarely at the man’s groin. As he writhed in pain on the floor, my first aunt got up and, with her sister, looked menacingly at the third who dashed for the door.

My brother was almost three. He had no notion of what was going on, nor any memory of it. It was a different matter for me. I couldn’t hold it in. My bladder and bowels let go at the same time. I was terrified.

I was told that one of the non-Jewish residents came to our shtetl to tell us that the villagers had nothing to do with the attack, that it was a band of youths from a town some distance away and that there would be no more strife. My aunt called the attack a pogrom, a word that still haunts me even though I have moved far from the source of these attacks, by Cossacks, the Russian Army and peasants, riled up by demagogues.

I grew into manhood and was married to a beautiful woman, Rachel, the daughter of a merchant in a wooden synagogue in Pogrebishche, Probish, as we called the town. The merchant had a second daughter, Bess, and three years later, when she had just become a woman, was wedded to my brother, Ephraim, himself a teenager.

My brother and I learned to herd cattle for a non-Jew who had land nearby. He taught us how to butcher a steer, but it was not in the tradition of Jewish dietary law, Kashrut. Life was pleasant and while I had bad dreams that haunted me, I grew to enjoy shtetl life because I knew no other. That was all going to change in an instant.

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On that fateful day the roosters’ crowing awakened me as usual. I took a deep breath of the cool morning air. I felt I belonged here, next to Rachel.

Shrieks of women jarred my ease. I then heard the shouts of Yunkel, a roving peddler. I rushed out covered only by my nightshirt. He hurried as if he did not care if he sold any of his wares that were bundled and carried over his shoulder. At least two weeks early this month, and by the stunned look of those gathered outside their hovels, the news he bore was bad. "It’s a pogrom! The goyim, peasants in Kishinev, are blaming Jews for the murder of a Christian boy. They’ve killed or injured hundreds of our people."

A hardy man in his mid-thirties, a dark beard mostly hiding his angular face, he wore a hat too small for his head. Tzitzes, fringes of his prayer shawl that symbolize continual devotion to the commandments, hung below his black jacket. Never married, he traversed our province of Podolia south west of Kiev carrying a bundle of assorted hats, knives, leather belts and boots, ribbons, linen, tallow, needles, thread, and some reading material, usually the discarded newspapers pulled from trash. He’d sell anything. If the buyer couldn’t pay, he’d seek an advantageous trade.

Yunkel connected our village to the rest of the world. Wherever he called home, he would leave on Sunday to return before sundown on Friday. His territory included the homes of the wealthy as well as our shtetl in the town of Strizhavka. Unlike the wealthy, we would welcome him into our mud huts. If he arrived late, he would spend the night, relating news of the outside world to a room full of men who listened attentively in silence.

A pogrom. I visibly shook with that old, but vivid memory. Yunkel continued recounting happenings in Kishinev. After the villagers took their vengeance, the Cossacks pillaged and raped or sodomized anyone including young boys. The army followed, but instead of protecting us, they took all the cannon fodder they could find. Some say it looks like there will be a war with Japan. The spineless elders in your village council will be told the Czar’s quota. It appears that every man, able-bodied or not, will be taken, even those who have already served.

Yunkel had barely delivered his news when Rachel appeared. She was winded. I was the only one who knew that she was pregnant, although one could guess since she was less spry and needed help on chores she used to do alone.

She grabbed my arm and looked pleadingly into my eyes, Meyer you must get out of here. They will take men like you, to what only God knows. I’ve heard that the body of your friend, Isaac Weintraub, was in the middle of the square in Vinnitsa, nailed to a cross.

I thought back to the time when Isaac and I were children. A month ago he was caught trying to escape. I could wind up like my friend. Did she know why Isaac was crucified? I can’t leave you and what about our child? Besides, we have no money, and it’s dangerous.

Rachel was adamant, What good are you to us, dead or in Siberia? No one will blame you for running. All of them would do the same if they could…

If they could, if I could, but they can’t and I can’t.

You can.

Arguing with Rachel was difficult. She was always sure her opinion. How? If I run, I’ll be an outlaw, you’ll be punished. Eventually they’ll catch me. Until they do, I’ll be running and hiding. No, I must accept my fate.

I had heard of others who had made it to the west. I’d also seen those who had been captured and tormented. As far as I knew, the world ended somewhere west of Vinnitsa. I could only imagine the way, cold and hungry, my feet barely able to move my aching body.

Rachel’s voice brought me out of my musings. Meyer, you can sell our milk cows.

Rachel didn’t seem to care for herself. She would give me her dowry so that I could leave the misery that these oppressors have inflicted on our people. The word, avekloifen, run away, came as a command. I was numb. I looked wide-eyed, staring into space as if Rachel were not here. As it was, I did not believe I was here either. Was this fantasy? I shut out the chatter surrounding us, enclosed by silence. I was calculating guilt against opportunity. Because of her condition, Rachel could not come with me. Leaving would be a gamble, but staying would be more of one. There was no opportunity here, only misery. I made up my mind.

I hugged Rachel around her blossoming waist, lifted her and spun her, Meyer, put me down. This is not good for the baby.

The baby. How could I leave, now? Our child, our first-born, would not have the protection of a father. I can’t leave. Our child must have a father!

"If you don’t leave, chances are he’ll have none, anyway. My Zaide will help. He’s old, but he knows how to survive."

In his sixties (no one knew exactly how old he was), Rachel’s grandfather was a Tücher, he made headscarves and talis. He and his wife lived in a large house in Pogrebishche. A pious man, his beard was untrimmed as was his flowing white hair. He always wore a large hat and, like Yunkel, tzitzes fell below his jacket. He knew how to keep the raiders from his house, and it wasn’t prayer. He had the means to pay the leader who would mark his door and leave him alone.

While the thought of a pogrom obviously unnerved the community, I felt relaxed. In fact, for a person facing a pogrom and the army, I was too calm.

Moments later, my brother Ephraim broke my solitude. Meyer, what’s going on? There’s some change about you. How have you come to accept this fate so calmly when only last week we talked and you were terrified of another pogrom?

Three years my junior, I had disliked him all my life. His birth had led to our mother’s death. Our aunts raised us and favored him over my older brother, Reuben, and me.

No way would I tell him what I was thinking. To explain myself circumspectly I quoted our rabbi, God gives us the power to change some things and others must be left to Him. I am calm because I know the difference between what I can and cannot change, and I accept my fate.

I wondered. Am I a liar? But I’m not telling a lie. I can and will change my circumstances.

Silence lasted a few seconds. I could see Ephraim calculating. Something suspicious is going on. You’re acting strange. I’m going to watch you.

I didn’t need a spy. If anyone had an interest in keeping me in Strizhavka, he did. The Council generally didn’t offer the Czar two from the same family. If I left he would be the only eligible male since Reuben was in Odessa. To make matters worse, he’d be seen as the brother of a deserter. While physically strong and young, he was rebellious and not willing to accept commands. He’d be shot. Should I feel responsible for him? Am I my brother’s keeper?

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Yitzhak Bronfman might have helped others. It was nothing more than hearsay, but I had to try. Like most of the Jews in our shtetl, Itzy was some sort of cousin. If he had names and places along a path that would help me flee from Russia, I needed to know.

Itzy’s wife, Sarah, greeted me at their door. At one time the interior and exterior were like our huts. The frontage was brick, a sign of wealth. Inside, the mud floor was covered with rugs. A wooden table and two chairs sat in front of a fireplace, blazing with sweet smelling wood. Yitzhak had been successful in making vodka from potatoes, and supplying the goyim, who were forbidden by their orthodox priests from making or drinking alcohol.

Dressed in a floor length black skirt, a black vest that covered a white blouse she had a black scarf draped over her shoulders that she used to cover her head as all the women did when in public. Meyer, it’s been such a long time since you came by. Sit. Can I give you some kasha and some beans? Oh, you poor boy, you’re so thin! What’s new? What brings you? How’s Rachel, she’s such a beautiful woman, reminds me of myself thirty years ago…

The questions kept coming, then a current history of her family, her son, Joseph, with whom I’d played and learned prayers, and her daughter, Sori, who was slightly older than me. Recently, I saw Sori in my dreams and imagined making love to her since Rachel refused to have relations with me while pregnant. Sori lived with her husband in Sqvar. They had two children and were awaiting their third.

Itzy walked in. Sarah, who are you badgering, now? Then, seeing me, he asked, Meyer, what brings you here? He looked like Rachel’s grandfather, but unlike Zaide Moshe, Itzy didn’t wear fringes indicating that he wasn’t a follower of Hassidim. Slightly bent but still strong and healthy, he was about fifty, but it was difficult to judge age. I didn’t even know my own although Reuben, ten years my senior, told me that I was twenty.

Can I talk, privately? I asked with some hesitation.

Nonsense, Sarah knows all my business. Anyway, she won’t let me sleep until I tell her, so you may as well talk. Believe me, she keeps confidences.

This latter statement was hard to believe, but I had to get the information. It was no use holding back. I blurted out, "I want to escape this misery. I’m tired of the endless intimidation and humiliation from the goyim, and now rumors of pogroms and the draft. I’ve heard that a wealthy German Jew has arranged to help us live in peace and abundance in a far off land."

But you need gold. Yitzhak continued, You, your father, your father’s father, even your great-grandfather– I knew them all. All were too honest to have any gold.

I will have gold. Rachel has agreed for me to sell the milk cows, her dowry. What I need to know is how to make the necessary contacts to get out of here.

Looking at his wife, Itzy exclaimed, You’ve heard enough. Go milk the cows.

But I did that an hour ago.

Well, do it again. In any event, leave; you mustn’t hear this conversation.

After Sarah closed the door, Itzy looked at me and sighed, You know there are few secrets I’ve had to keep from her, a few kopeks behind a stone, a little variety when she was pregnant, and now this, the secret escape route. I suppose she’ll learn sooner or later, but I prefer later. Come; tell me, do you think you’re up to the hardships? Will you be able to tolerate the loneliness? Do you realize that you’ll be a stranger with few other people who think like you, speak a language you’ll understand and seek God as you do?

I thought about Rachel and our unborn child and how she would cope. I had no idea as to how or when she would join me, but I knew that there would be a way. Perhaps naively I believed that my relatives and friends would also join me. The thought that I might not see them again was not there. I responded, Are there any greater hardships than a war, or being a Jew during a pogrom? Well if that means that everyone starts from the same level, I’ll have a chance, something I can’t have here, no matter what. By leaving, everything I do will benefit my family. As to loneliness, time and new friends will numb that pain. Moreover, I’ll do everything I can to bring my relatives and friends to this new beginning.

Looking at Itzy whose face bore a compassionate frown while he contemplated the wine bottle, I continued, Itzy, all those things do matter, but getting out matters most.

Setting down the bottle after pouring two cups, Itzy made a barucha, a blessing over the wine, and began to detail my great adventure. Sitting at his table in front of a piece of paper he carefully described how I could escape. Pointing to a place on the rough map he had drawn he said, Your first goal is to cross the border here into Bessarabia. It’s still part of Russia, but the Austrians have convinced the Russians not to place its army there.

He continued with the map indicating larger towns and rivers, "You’ll be on foot, a fussgeher. Danger exists everywhere. You can write down nothing. If caught, you can’t say anything about the people helping you. You’ll be tortured, but no matter what you say, you’ll wind up as a corpse, naked and nailed to a cross like Weintraub." I again shuddered at the thought.

Yitzhak could give me only my first contact, the shul in our market city of Vinnitsa. Rabbi Friedman will provide you with two days supplies and possibly a kopek or two. He’ll also tell you the next contact point. He then described essentials– warm clothing, two blankets and at least two days of food. His final admonition, Wear your most comfortable boots!

With that statement he opened the door and asked Sarah to make tea and slice some of her wonderful mandelbrot. We sat for thirty minutes, noshing, sipping tea and talking about nothing, or at least nothing that I can remember. My mind was fixed on the journey ahead.

CHAPTER 2

T here was no time to waste. The thought of crossing the fields and forests of Podolia that I had never seen terrified and thrilled me. Rachel wanted to hear all that Itzy had told me. You can’t know more than that I’d left to seek employment and that you don’t know where I went. Once I reach a safe place, I’ll let you know.

As she embraced me, holding me tightly, my excitement became apparent. Because she was pregnant, we hadn’t had customary sex for two months, although we did enjoy each other in other ways. We were kissing passionately and moving toward something more serious when, without knocking, Ephraim barged in. Mortified, Rachel turned away. With no apology my despised brother began a tirade that I was sure could be heard throughout the village. You’re sneaking away. I know. I saw you at Bronfman’s. Why else would you go to that old miser except to get an escape route? You’re going to take me with you, or I’ll tell the Council.

The Council consisted of men, village elders, chosen by the commissar, the Czar’s representative in the governing district or Gubernia. This group had the task of selecting young men to serve in the Army. My brother had no thought of anyone but himself. I knew that by betraying me his name would be moved to the end of the Council’s list.

Like my marriage, Ephraim’s marriage to Rachel’s sister, Bess, in November 1902 was arranged. He was seventeen and had not met Bess before they were married. She was pregnant, almost immediately. His appetite for sexual encounters was insatiable. For a kopek and some of Bronfman’s vodka he found peasant women who thought nothing of having sex with a Jew. We herded cattle on large farms near our village where he’d usually find his conquest.

Stop shouting and sit down. I rarely raised my voice, but I was angry. You’re a shameless bastard.

Ephraim just grinned. Other than the difference between good and evil, we looked so similar people had difficulty telling us apart. Both of us had different features from our neighbors, mainly blond hair and blue eyes. Our neighbors had dark skin and hair and deep brown eyes. To provide a difference between us, I had grown a mustache. As if to spite me, so did he.

You’d betray me just as your birth killed our mother. I guess that I’ll have to accept this fate. But you mustn’t shout any more. There’s no telling who heard you and what they’ll do. We both might be prime on the council’s recruitment list for the Czar’s army.

He looked at me, wily. Ever since I learned that our mother died bearing this monster, I had disliked him. He was clever and deceitful. "My loving brother, you offend me. I wouldn’t think of revealing OUR secret. Trust me. Tell me what WE’RE going to do."

CHAPTER 3

H aving walked to the market weekly, I was accustomed to the journey of ten versts (six miles). Ephraim and I planned to use a market day so that I could sell Rachel’s cows and he could sell fresh eggs and potatoes that he had stored from the past fall. Going to market would not arouse suspicion among those in Strizhavka.

Rachel got up before me and prepared a pot of kasha mixed with some meat. As I put on layers of clothing and rolled up two blankets, her tears began to flow. I hugged her and tried to hold back, but could not. I didn’t know what the future held for us only that we desired change. We held each other closely for what we both knew would be our last embrace for some time.

Because Ephraim and I were carrying blankets, we needed to depart early. If our neighbors had seen us with more than normal items for market, it might’ve caused them to raise questions. The sun comes up early in mid May, and we were ready before dawn. We walked across a short plain. On a hill the faint light of the coming day lit a deep blue, almost purple sky. I looked back for my last vision of the only home that I’d ever known. Smoke was rising from the fires in each hovel. The tranquil scene was in sharp contrast to the chaos my family would face. I thought I could hear the chazzan chanting the first of the daily prayers, but it may have only been a memory.

As the sun came up, I sensed spring. Grains were beginning to sprout in a sea of green. The days would be warm enough if rain didn’t intervene. Once we left, the problem would be the evening and night when bitter cold would set in. I was warned to avoid setting a fire that might be spotted and reported.

While I disliked my brother, his youthful zest pushed me to go faster. The muddy road began to take its toll. By mid-way I called for a rest. The quick pace also had increased my appetite. I broke off a hunk of bread and washed it down with a few gulps of water.

We arrived at the start of the market. Most of the vendors were people from the surrounding villages selling meat and potatoes. Some had cooked food that smelled delicious, but was forbidden by Kashrut, our dietary law. Chickens clucked in cages and would continue to swagger after their heads were cut off. This means of slaughter was also against Kashrut. Pigs heads decorated several of the stalls. The mixture of odors was overwhelming.

I sat with my two cows that foraged as best they could near me, while Ephraim set up to sell about forty eggs and twice as many potatoes, all carried to market on the back of my cows.

Several men looked at the cows, but none offered. It was getting late. Deciding that I was in financial stress, one person offered me basically nothing. He increased his offer, still nothing. I didn’t counter since that would have opened me to a negotiation that I knew would go nowhere. Go cheat someone else, I told him, I will not deal with you.

Overhearing my resolve, another man approached, I’ll give you half.

It was getting late, and there were few buyers left, but I was stubborn. I declined.

As if God sent him, an older man came forward. I’ll give you twenty-two.

It was three rubles less than the twenty-five that I was quoting. Emboldened, maybe crazy, I said, I’m not going to sacrifice my wife’s dowry for anything less than my price.

Noting my resolve, he offered me one more ruble. I decided to take the offer. I had the stake I needed, 23 rubles.

Ephraim had set prices and did not bargain. He was next to me. If you want quality, you’ll pay my price. If you want garbage, see my neighbor. Fortunately for him, there was a scarcity of eggs and potatoes late that day. While he had to wait until near sundown, he sold everything at his price. The man was a born businessman, and lucky.

Vinnitsa was large and my memory of the shul’s location, hazy. I remembered a Jewish section near the market. As we walked, I heard familiar chatter. Two women were arguing in Yiddish, but what else do Jewish women do?

We were, two young, blond, blue-eyed men with goyish faces asking Jewish women, in Yiddish, where we could find Rabbi Friedman. They both stopped short and stared as if we were visitors from another planet. Then one asked, "What does a shagatz want with our rabbi.

I responded politely, "We’re not shagatz, we’re Jews. Ephraim added, Do we need to prove it? He reached to unbutton his fly.

That won’t be necessary! exploded the second one, the first one obviously considering his proposition. Whatever your business, Reb Friedman is an old man and used to aggravation from your kind. He or his wife can be found at the house next to the shul. Just keep walking and you’ll see it. It’s the grandest building in this wretched place.

The sun was low in the sky, so I figured that the rabbi would actually be at the shul for the evening service. We could prove ourselves by joining in. Hungry and tired as we were, we hastily walked until we came to the building the women described. I could hear the sounds of prayer. Entering and placing on head covering, we sat on benches in the rear. The men were davening, each praying, mumbling at a very fast pace the words they had memorized since childhood. One stopped, turned, and stared at us. Gradually everyone turned. The place became silent except for the rabbi who was chanting with his back to us. Three of them started towards us. I started the Barechu, the call to worship. The three stopped abruptly then one moved forward to welcome us. The congregation resumed a cacophony of prayer. The rabbi never lost a beat.

After the sunset service, we were engulfed with questions. Where are you from? Why are you here? Are you married? I did not tell the complete truth. I said that we were from near Pogrebishche, on our way to a new life. Both of us are married, but our wives will have to follow once we settle near our relatives in the west.

An older man, bent over, his breath putrid, looked up at me with wide eyes and an all-knowing expression. His face was covered with dark hair including the area on his cheeks. He was leaning on a cane that he shook at me as he talked, "This is neither the time nor the place for a Jew to be moving about. Haven’t you heard of the pogrom? Don’t you know that the Czar is looking for more cannon fodder? If our town council knows that there are two young men eligible for the military quota, they will catch you and put you at the top of the list and you’ll have many years of miserable existence or better, you’ll die in some god-forsaken place and your family will not be able to say Kaddish."

Although his face was covered with white hair, the rabbi looked clean. After the service, the rabbi, who had