Sea of Lights

By Yael Remen

Yaakov Eliyhu Binder had been through a frightening experience in the past, mirroring the terror and pain which existed in his life. He repeatedly told his unforgettable memory to his young children, but for his son, Avremele, the tale served as inspiration.
Sea of Lights is the story of Avraham Binder, a perceptive boy who came of age in a time of strife and social chaos, but thanks to his sensitivity to beauty, noticed the loveliness of his universe and the goodness of man.

Sea of Lights author, Yael Remen, takes you to the Jewish ghetto in Vilnius, Lithuania, in the opening years of the twentieth century. Avremeles devout mother expected him to be a rabbi, and his father hoped he would become a bookbinder, like him, but the boy was attracted to art. Pursuing his dream, he enrolled in art school. When his passion for art merged with Zionist fervor, he migrated to Palestine, under the British Mandate, becoming a member of the vibrant bohemian circle of Tel Aviv.
While creating art in tempestuous years of war, political strife, and economic hardship, Avraham nurtured relationships with three pivotal womenhis mother, his sister, and his wife, each one inspiring and stimulating him in a different way.
Looking at the world, Avremele saw a sea of lights, and in response, created light-splashed images of his environment. Innately a pacifist, moved by love and tolerance, his art reflected his outlook on life, providing a haven of peace and harmony for his viewers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 3, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465318886

Yael Remen

Born in Israel, Yael Remen has lived most of her life in the Unites States. Holding a master of arts degree in education, she has devoted her life to raising her family. Her three daughters now grown, she has embarked on a second career and her first love, writing. She resides with her husband in Arizona.

Book preview

Sea of Lights

Yael Remen

Copyright © 2009 by Yael Remen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Terms Derived from Yiddish, Hebrew, and Other Languages

1

2

3

4

5

6

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9

10

11

12

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34

Epilogue

Sources

Bibliography

Notes

With love to my husband, Uri Remen; to my daughters: Shelly Rachel Remen-Sibul, Doreen Hanna Remen-Weiner, and Danna Mishelle Remen-Feldgoise; and to my grandchildren: Jessica Dora Weiner, Danielle Lazara Weiner, Maya Lili Sibul, Benjamin Remen Sibul, Jacob Abraham Feldgoise, Thea Monroe Feldgoise, and Rex Binder Feldgoise

Terms Derived from Yiddish, Hebrew, and Other Languages

afikoman (Yiddish). Ritual matza playfully concealed from the children.

Agudat Israel. An orthodox political movement originally opposed to Zionism.

Auf Der pripitchik brennte a feirl (Yiddish). Literal translation: On the small stove a small fire is burning.

Baba Yaga. The name of a sinister witch from Russian folklore.

Bialistoker (Yiddish). A native of Bialistok, Poland.

Bod (Yiddish). Public bathouse.

bris (Yiddish). Circumcision.

cholent (Yiddish). A dish of potatoes, beans, barley, beef bones, and stuffed darma, cooked on a low flame for twelve hours.

chuy (Russian). Horse dung.

dybbuk (Yiddish). Bad spirit

effendi (Arabic). Arab landowner.

Eretz Yisrael—the Hebrew name of Palestine before the establishment of the State of Israel

Gedal’ke der meshiggener (Yiddish). Literal translation: crazy Gedal’ke.

gedoylim (Yiddish). Bigwigs.

gefilte fish (Yiddish). Stuffed fish.

Git a mechaye (Yiddish). Good, it’s wonderful.

git Shabbes (Yiddish). A good Sabbath.

goy mamzer (Yiddish). A gentile child born out of wedlock.

Haggadah (Yiddish). The written story of Passover.

Harie at (Hebrew). You are hereby wedded to me.

Herrschaften-gentlemen, German

hupah (Yiddish). A wedding canopy.

iluy (Hebrew). An outsanding Talmudic scholar.

intifada. Palestinian uprising.

Kaddish (Hebrew). A prayer for the departed (mourner’s Kaddish).

kapporah (Yiddish). Ransom.

kartoflanka (Polish). Potato soup.

Keren Kayemet (Hebrew). Jewish National Fund.

ketubah (Yiddish). A marriage contract.

Ko-Lechai, Capitan (Hebrew). Hooray, Pilot.

Kristallnacht (German). Night of Broken Glass

Lieder (German). Songs.

machutunim (Yiddish). In-laws.

Malachamoves (Yiddish). The Angel of Death.

mameloshen (Yiddish). Uhrsprache.

Ma nishtana halyla haze. Literally translated from Hebrew: How is this night different. The traditional question the youngest child in the family asks the person who conducts the Seder meal, for which the response is the story of Passover.

Matate (Hebrew). Literally translated: broom. Name of a satirical theater in Tel Aviv.

mechitza (Yiddish). A barrier separating men and women at the synagogue.

melamed (Yiddish). Teacher.

minyan (Yiddish and Hebrew). Ten men needed for a prayer service.

mohel (Yiddish and Hebrew). Person performing circumcisions.

mooktze (Yiddish). Shunned.

nebech (Yiddish). Bum, failure; also: poor, unfortunate.

Pale of Settlement—restricted area in Russia, in the nineteenth century, where Jews were permitted to live, work and travel

Rashi. Acronym for Rabbi Shlomo Ben Yitzhak, eleventh-century Bible and Talmud commentator.

Rebbitzin-the wife of the rabbi, Yiddish

Revisionists-those who revised the direction of Zionism from diplomacy to militancy

schmaltz (Yiddish). Chicken fat.

Sefardim (Hebrew). Jews of Spanish ancestry.

Shabbes-Sabbath in Yiddish

Shabbat-Sabbath in Hebrew

Shalom—‘Peace’ in Hebrew, employed as a greeting word.

Shavua Tov (Hebrew). Literal translation: a good week. A song-prayer traditionally chanted on Saturday evening, asking Elijah for his favor in the coming week.

shofar (Hebrew). A ram’s horn blown during Rosh Hashanah.

shtetl (Yiddish). A small Jewish settlement in Eastern Europe.

shtreimel. A furry broad-rimmed hat worn by the Hassidim in the European shtetl.

siddur (Hebrew). Prayer book.

Szidowska Street. The Street of the Jews.

Talmud. The major body of Jewish teachings, consisting of the Mishna in Hebrew, and the Gemarah in Aramaic. (Abbreviated from the glossary of the book There Once Was a World, by Yaffa Eliach)

tefillin. Two black leather boxes fastened to straps worn on the arm and head by an adult male Jew, starting with the bar mitzvah, especially during the weekday morning prayer. The boxes contain four portions of the Pentateuch written on parchment. (Quoted from the glossary of the book There Once Was a World, by Yaffa Eliach)

tekiah, shevarim-teruah (Hebrew). Three styles of blowing the shofar, Hebrew.

Tzionim Klalim (Hebrew). Literal translation: the general Zionists. The name of the political party representing the middle class.

wielde chayes (Yiddish). Wild animals.

yinge’le (Yiddish). Little boy.

Yishuv. The Jewish population in Palestine.

1

On a cool day in November, in the year 1905, began Papa his often-told story, "I packed my trunk with notepads bound in red leather, binders, folders, and ledgers, all manufactured at my bindery, and headed for the railway station. It was time to visit clients in towns and villages outside of Vilna, deliver goods and receive new orders.

The platform was crowded. Soldiers and policemen were prowling everywhere, sniffing and smelling about like wolfhounds. I had never seen so many patrolmen at the train station before, but then, this happened after the October Revolution, and the tsar was wary. The uniformed men made me feel uneasy; in those days, it was not uncommon for innocent people to be randomly seized by the police, falsely accused of plotting against the ruler, and put under arrest! Everyone was a suspect! So, my heart racing, my head bowed, I moved fast, hoping to go unnoticed, when all of a sudden, a giant of a man appeared in front of me, blocking my way. I looked up at him in dread. An enormous mustache, the color of rust, was rambling under his fleshy nose; his face was red; his eyes were steel blue, and his hefty hands were hugging a long rifle. Aiming the muzzle of his firearm at me, he yelled, ‘Identity card! Show me your travel permit!’

Papa paused, examining the effect of his narrative on his children. Detecting the tension in their animated faces, he resumed speaking, carefully choosing his words and timing his sentences, his young listeners obliging him with sincere displays of awe and distress. Although knowing the happy ending of his adventure, they were eager to hear it over and over, as if not trusting their memories.

My fingers trembling, he continued, "I reached into my chest pocket and brought out the required documents. Grabbing them out of my hand, the officer brought the papers close to his eyes, inspecting every stamp and signature. Annoyed at not finding anything amiss, he grumbled, stared at my valise, and asked maliciously, ‘What’s the hurry, Mr. Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder? Tell me, why are you running so fast, where are you going, and what are you concealing in your suitcase?’

"I was so terrified, that the words did not come out of my mouth! My throat was dry, my tongue was lame, and my breath was frozen in my chest! Then realizing my silence would be regarded as confession of guilt, I composed myself. ‘I am a bookbinder, Mr. Policeman,’ I said in a feeble voice, ‘in a hurry to catch the train to Troky on a business trip, delivering merchandise to my clients.’

"The giant smirked contemptibly, clearly taking me for a liar. ‘Open your suitcase,’ he bellowed. ‘Let me see the merchandise!’

"Shaking all over, I did as he said. The red notepads, in bunches of twelve, shone in the bright daylight. Well, my dear ones, I might as well have flashed red cloth to a bull in a Spanish bullfighting ring. The officer’s face was suddenly ablaze!

"‘Ahah!’ he shouted, pulling me up by the collar. ‘You are not a bookbinder at all! You are a despicable socialist traitor, a miserable revolutionary, enemy of the tsar, distributing red books in the countryside! Your place is in prison! Take your belongings and move ahead to the police yard!’

Poking the butt of his weapon in my ribs, he pushed me forward, and I started walking, my legs barely carrying me, my back throbbing under his blunt rifle. I had never been so frightened in my whole life! The giant was accusing me of the worst of all offenses! Once labled a ‘socialist traitor,’ a person was certain to be found guilty, thrown into jail, and never see his family and home again.

Allowing his audience to grasp the enormity of his plight, Papa paused again, then proceeded with a grave voice and a foreboding expression.

"The fenced police yard was a scary place! Armed guards were barking and snarling at terrified detainees, digging into pockets, thrusting pointy bayonets into baskets and sacks. My captor shoved me to a corner. ‘Stay right here, you hooligan,’ he commanded, ‘I am going to find my superior. Don’t dare to run away! If you do, I will hunt you down and send you to Siberia!’

"Anxiously waiting for the high official to decide my fate, I stood in my place, shivering in the cold air, wishing I was far, far away from that awful spot. The soldier returned with a severe-faced officer, his chest decorated with a row of shiny medals. ‘Are you the anarchist Yakuub Eliyahoo Beender with the red books?’ he demanded, derisively mispronouncing my name. Trying to keep from shaking, I answered, ‘I am Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder, part owner of a bindery in Vielka Street. We produce these notepads and sell them to merchants, teachers, and students. There is nothing revolutionary about them, Officer, sir. Please have a look, they are blank! Kindly, allow me to go on my way.’

Papa took a deep breath. This was the turning point, the start of the second part of his ordeal, the beginning of the sweet conclusion. The children eyed him expectantly, their backs taut, their mouths gaping.

As I was pleading with them, he related, a tiny smile dancing in the corners of his mouth, "I caught sight of Vatzek, the hunchbacked porter from Vielka Street who had known me well for many years, making daily deliveries for the bindery. Carrying goods to the police headquarters, he had noticed me talking with the guards, and came near us to see what had happened. ‘Pan Binder,’ he said in Polish, his voice ringing with concern, ‘what’s the matter? Are you in trouble?’

"‘Oh, Vatzek,’ I cried, blessing the Almighty for sending him to me, ‘I was about to catch the train on a business trip when an agent detained me, suspecting I was carrying socialist pamphlets!’

"Vatzek started weeping! ‘Honorable officers,’ he wailed, shedding real tears, ‘Pan Binder is no socialist revolutionary! He is a decent capitalist, a true bourgeois, an employer, a respectable longtime citizen of this town! A score of laborers are earning their bread at his shop, I bear witness!’

"While he was carrying on, the policemen were leafing through the blank pages of the red books, throwing doubtful glances at both of us. The decorated officer seemed irritated. ‘Hush, old man,’ he snapped at the poor hunchback, ‘or I will arrest you!’ And to me, he said angrily, ‘You got lucky this time, filthy crook! Take your merchandise and leave before I change my mind and put you in prison!’

Grudgingly, the ravenous predators set me free. Quickly collecting my bags, I thanked Vatzek, and ran out of there as fast as I could!

The happy words singing in their ears, the listeners giggled merrily, releasing their pent-up apprehensions, and jumped up with relief. Once again, their father was rescued from the clutches of his enemies. Once again, God prevailed.

Ya’akov Eliyahu repeated his account of near-demise to his son and three daughters with varying degrees of accuracy, adding new details and omitting old ones every time, but keeping one feature unchanged: his timely salvation from mortal danger. For this was the message of the story: God was looking out for his people. He had come to his aid when all hope seemed lost, and he would be there for them, as well. God would shield them from the demons hissing Dirty Jew, pouncing on them from the shadows, swooping down on them from the sky like birds of prey, striking, kicking, and beating. God would make their matchstick legs run faster than their foes. He would hold and protect them.

God was the shield of the children, and Mama was their guardian. Her pounding heart muffled the mad screams, and her arms, enveloping their bodies like armor, made the enemy seem distant and powerless.

When her children were threatened, Mama was a lioness. Her eyes blazed, her lips were clenched as if holding back a menacing growl, and her fingernails dug deep into their flesh as if never letting go. Otherwise, she was kind and mellow, the gentlest of all the people her son, Avreme’le, knew. Mama was bliss, a fairy queen, an angel. Her face was seemingly too small to hold her broad smile, her green eyes were slightly slanted, and her lips were thin. Mama’s long honey-colored hair was neatly gathered at the back of her neck, and when unpinned, cascaded down on her shoulders like streaming gold. Mama was always at home. In the mornings, she roused him with a tender smile; in the afternoons, waited for him by the yard gate to return from school; and at night, sat at his bedside, singing to him sweet songs to help him fall asleep. On weekdays, she wore a brown robe under a white smock, and on Shabbes and holidays, a long-sleeved dark blue dress with a white lace collar.

Three things were constantly on Mama’s mind: good health, shelter, and decent livelihood for her family. On Friday evenings, when lighting the Shabbes candles, she prayed for them to God. Consequently, he fended her husband and her four children from sickness and danger and saw to it that all their needs were provided.

She met her husband through a matchmaker when she was sixteen years old, and he, eighteen. From the moment she knew him, Luba Diskin showed Ya’akov Eliyahu—or as she nicknamed him, Yankefe’le—great respect, seldom disputing anything he said or did. He was the decision maker, the head of the family, king of the house. Their firstborn was a daughter, Tonia. Their second child was a son, Avraham. Deenah was third, and Tzila, fourth. Mama and Papa never hugged or kissed one another in front of the children, and Papa rarely exhibited affection for any of them; but deep inside, Avreme’le believed his parents greatly loved each other, as well as him and his sisters. This went without saying. Love was a private matter. People did not openly declare such things.

Papa was a bookbinder, in joint ownership of a shop in Vielka Street, manufacturing all manner of bookbindings, notepads, photo albums, files, and folders. He had two associates and a handful of hourly employees, whom he painstakingly trained to perform at his high standards. He was a perfectionist; his stitches were small and even, his covers were tight, and his leather binding were meticulously glued and folded. Whenever his employees failed to properly execute their tasks, he reprimanded them sharply, disassembled their work, and forced them to redo it under his piercing gaze, but everyone knew that Mr. Binder’s bark was worse than his bite; he never fired a worker or withheld pay for any transgression.

His customers were neighbors with ancient prayer books, handed down from generation to generation, rabbinical scholars with disintegrating volumes of Talmud, librarians, city officials, businessmen, and university professors. They came to him with everyday needs, as well as unusual requests, such as creating books for special occasions and binding important documents. Papa brought his projects home and figured them out at the dining table, sketching preliminary designs, combining scraps of cardboard and leather, and laying them out with great care to achieve his desired effects. His fingertips were always stained with ink and coated with dried glue, and his clothes smelled of beeswax, leather, and raw paper.

Ya’akov Eliyahu’s father, Reb Aaron Binder, started the bookbinding tradition years earlier, in his native Grodna, about eighty kilometers south of Vilna. Reb Aaron was a Karliner Hasid. To earn a living, he bound old manuscripts at his small shop in the living room of his home, but his passion was refurbishing prayer books for his fellow Hasidim, disciples of the great spiritual leader, the rebbe of Karlin.

Once a year, Reb Aaron and his young son, Ya’akov Eliyahu, packed the tools of their trade and journeyed by foot to Karlin, east of Grodna, where legions of enthusiastic followers from across Lithuania had gathered to study the Torah, listen to the rebbe’s sermons laced with profound wisdom, and celebrate his teachings with song and dance. Hundreds of prayer books needed to be rebound and refurbished on these joyous occasions. Aaron Binder considered this a holy task, which he undertook with love and devotion.

He and his son had a routine. To produce the cardboard needed for their covers, they cut old newspaper sheets down to size, glued together measured batches, and placed heavy bricks upon them, waiting for them to dry. While the batches were slightly moist, the craftsmen ran each one under a press, creating creases for folding. Next, they sat down on low stools, placed the worn books on their knees, delicately removed the tattered bindings, and carefully restitched the flimsy pages with thin thread, dipped in beeswax to keep from tangling. Finally, using strips of gauzy cloth soaked in hot glue, they affixed the newly stitched pages onto the freshly made covers. It was God’s work. Nothing deterred Aaron Binder from his yearly pilgrimage to Karlin, certainly not the robbers and marauders lurking in the dense woods on the way, waiting to pounce on wayfarers in general, and on Jews in particular. The Almighty was his shield.

He taught his son all he knew about bookbinding, but his ambition never exceeded book repair, whereas young Ya’akov Eliyahu had aspired to create artistic covers suitable for important libraries and book collections. With this dream on his mind, after marrying Luba, he decided to move from Grodna to bookish Vilna—rich in yeshivas, houses of study, schools, and universities—to start his own business. In Vielka Street, lined from top to bottom with Jewish artisan shops, he came upon a failing bindery, about to go out of business. The owners, Mr. Kloisner and Mr. Blumshtein, agreed to make him a partner for an equitable sum of money, and a commitment to work one year at a laborer’s wages. He hired a reputable craftsman, learned from him the art of embossing gold leaf on cardboard, and made it his specialty.

The secret of the craft was spirits, intimated the expert to Papa with a twinkle in his eye. A good craftsman ought to drink vodka before imprinting the paper with gold leaf, he said. After delicately inserting the flimsy golden sheets under a hot press fitted with engraved steel plates, he should exhale his warm, alcohol-soaked breath on them, press down, and wait awhile—not too short and not too long—then gently lift the heavy weight, breathe down on the embossed letters once more, and, finally, remove the excess with a tiny brush.

In the beginning, Papa did exactly as told, but before long, discovered he was attaining good results even without drinking vodka. Soon the spines of his books were lettered with beautiful gold characters, and his silk-lined covers were imprinted with lustrous floral and geometric adornments, earning accolades from the most discerning book handlers in town. This was the reason why one morning, the tsar’s emissary came to the shop, inquiring if Mr. Binder would take part in a citywide bid, creating bindings for a series of government publications. Papa labored on his entry every night, drawing letters and decorations in a variety of styles and configurations. Eventually, he won the bid; was awarded a heavy silver medal, which he proudly displayed on a prominent wall in the shop; received the celebrated assignment; and was paid a handsome fee. Afterward, the small business enjoyed a steady flow of customers from near and far.

Still, making a living was a drudge. Prestigious commissions such as the tsar’s were the exception rather than the rule. The bindery of, Binder, Blumshtein, and Kloisner earned its daily bread from reconditioning and binding books, manufacturing office and school supplies, and selling standard items from the inventory; and when there was not enough local demand for their wares, the partners ventured outside the Lithuanian capital to broaden their circle of customers. Soliciting commissions at synagogues, offices, shops, and schools, they accepted every order, performed it to perfection, and delivered on time, gaining a loyal following everywhere they went.

Ya’akov Eliyahu enjoyed traveling on business, but however alert and prudent, he was at great risk in the countryside for it was crawling with bandits, wanton killers, and government agents spying for revolutionaries. Even the most astute individuals were likely to get trapped in those days, but Jews were at the greatest peril of all. Because Jewish activists were agitating for better working conditions at big-city factories, all Jews were labeled ‘conspirators’ and, added to regular ethnic loathing, were targeted for subversion. Lithuanian compatriots, eerily adept at recognizing them, eagerly helped the police apprehend them and put them away.

And so, all things considered, after the attempted revolution of 1905, while his wife, Luba, was expecting their second child, Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder decided to forego his avocation as a traveling salesman and settle down to the safe routine of a hardworking bookbinder.

Fluent in Yiddish, Russian, and Lithuanian and quick to perceive the changing political ideologies of his time and advancements in his craft, Mr. Binder justly considered himself worldly and urbane. ‘Be a person in the street and a Jew at home,’ was his favorite saying, quoted from the writings of contemporary Jewish philosophers, and he lived up to it in every way. In his business dealings, he knew no ethnic or geographical boundaries, but his social contacts were strictly limited to the synagogue and family circle. His slim figure was clad in a short coat and a dress shirt, his head was covered by a modern hat, and his face was clean-shaven except for a thin mustache, shaped into a fashionable goatee at the bottom of his pointy chin. Underneath his hat, he wore a skullcap, and every morning, laid tefillin and said his prayers. While deeply committed to his religion, he refused to let it rule his life. You did not lay tefillin this morning! Luba admonished him one night. True, I didn’t, he answered. As we say every morning, the Almighty is full of mercy and clemency. So he would forgive me.

There was no doubt in his mind, however, that if God blessed him with a son, the child would receive his basic education at the heder, learning what he needed to know in order to fulfill the primary obligations of a Jewish man: upholding tradition, understanding the fundamental tenets of Torah, and reciting his prayers. Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder yearned for a son.

On the first candle of Hanukkah, the winter Holiday of Lights, in the closing days of the year 1906, God granted his wish. Luba gave birth to a healthy male child. Advised of the birth, the ecstatic young father hurried to the Great Synagogue to notify the rabbi. Let it be proclaimed on Friday night, he said to him, a son was born to Luba and Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder!

Next, he rushed to see Meir Freilach, the coachman, who was setting out south to Grodna. For a small fee, Mr. Freilach agreed to bring Mrs. Binder’s parents the glad tidings. Meir loved bringing good news to people, especially to the Diskins, for they owned a general store at the edge of town, selling every food imaginable from brown sugar cubes to pickled herring; and whenever Luba’s mother, Roch’l Diskin, received a good word from her daughter in Vilna, she treated the messenger well. Indeed, in honor of the birth of her grandson, Roch’l Diskin awarded Mr. Freilach with a large box of schmaltz and immediately hired him to transport her; her husband, Binyomin; and Ya’akov Eliyahu’s parents, Aaron and Tzipora Binder, as well as a large crate filled with provisions, back to Vilna, in time for the baby’s circumcision ceremony.

Trekking by a horse-drawn carriage from Grodna to Vilna took nine hours; departing Grodna at the break of dawn, the travelers arrived at their destination in the evening. The women immediately flew into a frenzy of baking and cooking while their husbands went to the house of study, engaging in Talmud learning on behalf of the newborn, as custom dictated. They worked and studied and prayed and waited for the eighth day after the infant’s birth.

On the eve of the ceremony, the doorbell rang. Roch’l dashed to open, the wooden floorboards vibrating under her weight. Unlike her short and slender daughter, she was tall, plump, and matronly. A serene young man was standing in the hallway, curly sideburns growing on the sides of his face, a dusting of hair adorning his upper lip. About a dozen toddlers were standing behind him, all dressed in ankle-long black coats, black shoes, and black hats.

The yinglach are here, called Roch’l, showing the visitors inside, her booming voice ringing out throughout the apartment. The heder boys have arrived!

The children encircled Luba’s bed and, on cue from their teacher, commenced chanting prayers and benedictions for mother and child. Her ears flooded with the wistful melodies, her heart overflowing with love, Luba was gently cradling her infant, praying to God to grace him with his favor, protect him from evil, and grant him a long life, good health, and wisdom. If her supplications were not worthy to open the Gates of Heaven, she thought, if she did not deserve to reach the throne of the Almighty, certainly, the undefiled boys at her bedside did; their high-pitched voices were the voices of angels, and their hearts were pure.

While they were singing, the roving eyes of the children were drifting from Roch’l and Tzipora to a large basket brimming with red apples and candy, waiting by the doorway. Ending their program with praises for God, they hurried to the basket, sunk their hands in the fruit and candy, and stuffed their mouths and pockets. Their teacher received five shiny rubles from Roch’l, equivalent to a month’s pay. Everyone should be happy on my grandson’s Bris! she proclaimed, raising her arms and looking at the ceiling. May he be rich, she prayed, may he be a man of charity!

Rabbi Isaac Sharf, the mohel, arrived at daybreak. A portly man with an intense expression and a groomed gray beard, he walked into the living room in quick strides, carrying a small bag and a burnished steel box. Removing his heavy coat and furry hat, he took a white robe and a white cotton cap out of his bag, wore the gown over his street clothes, replaced the hat with the cap, washed his hands, brought his instruments out of the box, and neatly arranged them on the dining table, padded with a white blanket. Then baring his left arm, he looped the leather straps of the tefillin around it, fastened the small leather box to his forehead, draped the prayer shawl over his head and shoulders, turned eastward, and started praying. All the while, guests were trickling in, clutching prayer shawls and books, their lips moving in silence, the men assembling in one side of the room, the women, in the opposite side, all facing east, to Yerushalayim. In the front of the men’s section, Yankefe’le, Aaron, and Binyomin Diskin were devotedly mouthing the sacred words, their eyes shut, their knowing bodies gently swaying back and forth, giving thanks to God for blessing them with a son and grandson, granting continuity to the family and the community.

In the small bedroom behind the crowded living room, Luba was anxiously cuddling her peacefully slumbering newborn. Only eight days old, he already carried a painful obligation—the circumcision covenant. Compassionately surveying his tightly shut, puffy eyes; beautifully sculpted lips; shapely head covered in pale yellow down; and silky skin, she dreaded the inevitable. Soon Reb Isaac Sharf would chant the tune welcoming her son into the community, and her father would take the infant to be circumcised; and she could not stop them, for her baby also belonged to them and to the guests assembled to witness the seminal ceremony.

Reb Sharf’s voice was heard ushering the new member into the fold. Reb Binyomin stepped into his daughter’s room, delicately scooped his tiny grandson from her bosom, and brought him to the living room. There, in the center, stood a big chair: Elijah the Prophet’s, believed to be present at every child’s circumcision, in the hope that the newborn was the Messiah, the Blessed Anointed One, destined to bring peace and salvation to all humans.

Reb Binyomin sat down in Elijah’s chair with the infant in his arms. The mohel recited the traditional blessing. From now on this child was under the prophet’s eternal guardianship, and held a promise for greatness. Binyomin Diskin stood up and gently placed his grandson on the padded table. Then he held down his little arms, Aaron restrained his small legs, Reb Sharf opened his swaddles, and, with the infant’s mother averting her eyes and his father and his grandparents anxiously looking on, the mohel took the scalpel and swiftly removed the baby’s foreskin from his penis. The baby burst out crying, his wails breaking his mother’s heart. As his throaty shrieks resounded in the room, Yankefe’le hastily repeated the rabbi’s words—May he grow up to uphold God’s name, may he be righteous—and the boy was named: Avraham, son of Luba and Ya’akov Eliyahu Binder. The mohel placed the screaming baby in the arms of his godfather, Gershon Kloisner. Grandmother Roch’l quickly crumpled a piece of gauze, soaked it in sweet wine, and dripped the liquid into the infant’s gaping mouth to numb his suffering, but Luba grabbed her son, took him to the bedroom and calmed him with the warmth of her body.

An orgy of happiness erupted as the guests gave thanks to God with songs, chants, and frenzied feasting. Roch’l and Tzipora’s raisin-dotted noodle pie, cheese blintzes, and almond-and-cinnamon pastries were devoured with great zest. Red wine flowed like water, and the baby’s cries and his mother’s anguish were swallowed in the rapturous joy of his birth.

When he was older, Luba secretly told her son that her sole satisfaction that morning came when a vigorous stream of urine sprang out of his little penis, drenching the mohel’s face roundly and thoroughly.

Little Avraham, immediately nicknamed Avreme’le, was from then on his mother’s greatest source of happiness. Deep in her heart, Luba hoped that he would grow up to be a rabbi like her grandfather, Reb Nachman, whom she fondly remembered reclining over the voluminous Talmud in candlelight, his thumb and forefinger coiled over the wick, to get scorched and rouse him should slumber take him away from his studies. Diligent learning earned rabbis an understanding of the hidden meanings in Torah and Talmud, guiding them in their personal pursuits and in their roles as spiritual leaders. Mama considered learning a life-giving endeavor, the most noble and worthy a person could espouse. For this reason, on Avreme’le’s third birthday one cold morning in 1909, when it was time for the start of his education, she devotedly murmured the prayer of the mother sending her son to heder for the first time, fed him hot porridge dotted with butter, dressed him in warm clothes, put the first pair of shoes on his feet and a brand-new cap on his head, and allowed her husband to bundle him in his prayer shawl, lift him up in his arms, and take him away from her for the first time since his birth. Afterward, Luba stood in the window crying, and was not consoled until she brought her son home in the afternoon.

The heder was located in the sprawling Synagogue Yard encircling the Great Synagogue, amid other buildings, among them the library, houses of study, the rabbi’s dwelling, the orphanage, the poorhouse, and the public bathhouse. The dilapidated shack was divided into two rooms: the classroom in front and the home of the teacher, Reb Shmuel the melamed, and his wife, Yente, in the back.

Reb Shmuel was an old man with colorless eyes, a scraggly gray beard flowing down from his upper lip and cheeks onto his chest, and a bulbous nose that stood out not only for size but also for redness, earning him the nickname Reb Shmuel Die Bulbe. He wore a long dark coat that seemed to shine under a layer of grease, a shapeless black hat, and faded black shoes, all of which made him resemble an old black raven. Every day, Reb Shmuel waited for his pupils by the door of the schoolhouse, grinning tenuously, his irregular yellow teeth scary as fangs. When Ya’akov Eliyahu brought his three-year-old son to Reb Shmuel, little Avreme’le stared at the old man in anxious silence, curled down his lower lip, and burst out crying.

"Shshaa, yinge’le, hush, little boy, muttered Papa with embarrassment, putting him down on his feet and nudging him forward. Sit down at the table and sing like the other children."

Then he turned around and went to work without looking back.

Frightened and lonely, Avreme’le cried even harder, but his wails were drowned out by the loud voices of about two dozen boys seated on backless benches along two long tables, chanting their Hebrew letters in a deafening cacophony. Reb Shmuel’s tentative smile disappeared as soon as Papa was out of sight. Grabbing his new charge by the shoulders, he pushed him down on the bench, put a small board and a piece of chalk in his hands, and placed a prayer book on the table before him.

Chant, he said curtly, going back to his seat. Chant the letters like everyone else.

Curiously examining the board and the chalk in his hands, Avreme’le stopped crying. Then he lifted his eyes and looked around. The room was dimly lit with a naked lightbulb hanging from the low ceiling. Faint daylight was filtering in through two dusty windows, set in the wall facing him. Behind him, there was a densely packed bookcase, and more books were stacked on the table before Reb Shmuel. In the far wall, across from the entrance, there was a closed door; and in the corner, near the door, stood an oversized oven, overlaid with shiny brown tiles. A gray cat was curled up on top of the oven, next to a white hen, roosting in a nest-like box.

Reb Shmuel’s raspy voice interrupted his reverie. Don’t waste time, Avreme’le. Recite the alphabet!

Startled, he opened his book, looked inside, and commenced imitating the sounds he was hearing. In the evening, when Mama came to take him home, Avreme’le cried again, this time for joy.

To keep his students from lazing, Reb Shmuel occasionally slapped them or whipped them with a leather belt. Avreme’le tasted the rough palm of his teacher one day when he was instructed to recite the Hebrew letters for the class. His performance was satisfactory, but when the teacher slyly asked him, Tell me, Avreme’le, what is my name? his quick, innocent response was, Reb Shmuel Die Bulbe. And even before he finished uttering the last word, his body shook with the force of the smack awarded him for his insolence.

This was how he learned that things were not always as they appeared, and often, people did not mean what they said. He also learned to stay away from Reb Shmuel’s reach. After that day, he settled as far from him as possible, preferably next to Asher’l, an older boy whose body shielded him from the teacher’s probing eyes. Cozily concealed behind his benchmate, Avreme’le mindlessly chanted his letters, gazing at the windows, contemplating the blurriness outside, or guessing the thoughts of the cat and the hen. Soon he discovered that the slate and the chalk in his hands were good for doodling. Resting the board on his knees under the table, pretending to read his letters, he drew and erased, drew and wiped while chanting the alphabet.

One day, Reb Shmuel instructed his pupils to hold still, but little Avreme’le had not paid attention.

Absorbed in his fancies, he continued chanting and doodling while his classmates kept silent. Asher’l poked an elbow in his side, and Avreme’le fell off the bench, to everyone’s laughter. Afterward, the teacher got into the habit of sneaking up behind him and yelling in his ears or spanking his shoulders, but invariably, Avreme’le slipped back into drawing, daydreaming, and gazing through the windows.

He also loved studying the freckles of his pal Yosse’le, a thin redheaded boy his age. Yosse’le’s brownish freckles were bunched up on his hands in tight clusters like wildflowers and sprinkled on his face like millions of little bugs. Appearing and reappearing in countless forms, the freckles reminded Avreme’le of different things every day, clouds in the sky, fantastic animals, familiar faces, and wondrous shapes.

By midday, tired of chanting, doodling, and observing Yosse’le’s freckles, his stomach aching from hunger, Avreme’le fixed his attention on the door next to the tile oven, through which sour-faced Yente appeared with lunch: warm grits, dry bread, oatmeal cookies, and glasses of water. Even though she was homely and never cracked a smile, Yente seemed beautiful and kind to Avreme’le. Shyly taking his meal from her hand, he ate it to the last crumb and then, weather permitting, played outside with his friends; and when the weather was bad, he romped in the room until the melamed brandished his belt, signaling the beginning of the afternoon session.

The afternoons at heder were long and dull. Everybody yawned in the afternoons, mostly Reb Shmuel. His yawns were wide and fascinating. Following each other in quick succession, they revealed the inside of his mouth, with silvery sparks shining between his brown teeth and a fleshy lobe dancing in the depth of his palate like a wild critter. In the afternoons, Reb Shmuel picked his nose and his ears, scratched his back, and tugged at his beard, but it was all in vain: eventually, his eyelids got heavy, his head drooped over his chest, and he fell asleep, his loud snores reverberating in the room like thunderclaps. When Reb Shmuel slept, Avreme’le placed his slate board on the table and drew all he wanted: his teacher slumbering with his mouth wide open; his friends Yosse’le and Mich’l leaping from table to table; Sheine, the cat, atop the oven, looking on with drowsy eyes, her head nestled in her furry chest, and the hen, jerking her head from side to side, observing the scene in utter astonishment.

Reb Shmuel routinely awoke with a deep sigh and looked around with wide eyes, as if surprised his pupils were still there. After vigorously rubbing his face with his palms, he stroked his beard and straightened his back and, finally, opened a small blue book, fingering the pages one by one in search of his bookmark, starting the last part of the day—Avreme’le’s most anticipated part—story hour.

At story hour, Reb Shmuel morphed into a sage, a glorious prophet, a man of God. His voice suddenly deep and soothing, his eyes miraculously bright and lively, he recounted Bible stories, conjuring the Garden of Eden, a magical grove of unimaginable beauty and bounty, and the Almighty, a wondrous being who, although not a person, spoke to humans, and gave them the glorious prize of his love and wisdom for good behavior, or his harsh punishment for acting foolishly, making him resemble a father. Much as he was strict and his rebuke was scary, Avreme’le liked God—firstly, because he gave humans the Torah, which, Reb Shmuel said, contained all the knowledge and goodness existing on earth, and secondly, because he chose the Hebrews, of all the peoples in the world, to worship him, which, Reb Shmuel said, was the biggest honor humans could receive.

At story hour, Reb Shmuel’s words metamorphosed the gloomy heder into the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve resided until eating the forbidden fruit; or into splendid Mount Sinai, where God gave the prophet Moses the tablets with the Ten Commandments; or into a vast desert, where he made living water flow out of rocks for the freed Hebrew slaves; or into a land dripping with milk and honey, where he brought them at the end of their wanderings. The Hebrews well deserved God’s favors; Avreme’le envisioned the men as fair and courageous warriors, the women as peaceful and just mothers, their eyes sparkling like jewels, much like Mama’s.

Avreme’le loved Mama’s eyes. When he looked into them, he saw light, and the purest, and richest color green, which brought to his mind the lushness of the Garden of Eden. When Mama’s eyes were flooded with tears, the green inside seemed to melt. Mama’s eyes were always tearful when she saw him come out of heder. Why are your eyes teary, Mama? he asked her one day. Are you sad to see me?

Of course not, yinge’le, she answered, laughing and crying as she spoke. I am so glad to see you I cry for joy!

So while Avreme’le loved story hour because it brought forth wonderful people and places, he was also eager for it to end, knowing that Mama was standing behind the door of the classroom with tears of joy in her eyes. As soon as Reb Shmuel uttered the last word, Avreme’le bolted out, leaped into his mother’s arms, buried his head in her neck, and snuggled in her chest, and rode home nestled in her embrace like a kitten.

In the winter, Avreme’le’s days started and ended in darkness, but in the summer, God made up for it by extending the afternoons into long pink evenings, when the children, waiting for their fathers to return from work, played in the yard until the sun went to sleep beyond the distant hills.

The pie-shaped walled yard in the corner of Szpitolna and Zawalna streets—connecting Avreme’le’s two-story row house with a twin building, identical in shape and size—was bleak and treeless, and often littered with trash; but to him, it seemed delightful and expansive. Outside the yard gate, Nikolai the Watchman, nicknamed Kolia, who resided in a basement apartment in Avreme’le’s building, sat on a bench from early morning until dark, clenching an empty pipe between his teeth, his brown puppy, Dunia, dozing at his feet. When Kolia and Dunia guarded the walled courtyard, the mothers allowed their children to play outside. On summer evenings, Avreme’le and Yosse’le chased each other in the yard, looked for treasures in the dirt, and acted out Reb Shmuel’s Bible stories, waving imaginary swords and daggers, taming beasts, and vanquishing formidable foes. Often, fanciful blows were confused with real ones, and not once, their mothers were forced to run out, calm their roused spirits, and restore peace to the scene, where once more, acts of supreme courage would unfold.

The story of David and Goliath, the delegated heroes of the Israelites and the Philistines who fought each other in ancient Judaea, was the most popular of all. The boys followed a strict routine. Redheaded Yosse’le naturally landed the role of the ruddy Hebrew youth David, and Avreme’le posed as Goliath, the savage Philistine giant threatening to crush him. Wearing newspaper armor, outwardly certain of his victory over his puny slingshot-wielding rival, Goliath growled and punched the air with tight fists, David prancing and dancing around him like a rooster. Then in a mutually anticipated turn of fortunes, David took aim, and dispatched an imaginary river rock at the giant’s head. Goliath grasped his supposedly bleeding brow and fell down, the victor stepped on the loser’s chest, and now their impatient mothers were permitted to take them home, give them sponge baths, feed them dinner, and put them in bed.

The only person admitted into their world was Avreme’le’s sister Tonia. An excitable girl with hazel-colored eyes, a lively imagination, and explosive energy, she loved posturing as one of the valiant judges or prophetesses chosen by God to bring his laws to the often-unruly Hebrews and guide them to great victories over their enemies. When she did not play with the boys, Tonia helped Mama with the household chores, particularly preparing the traditional dishes for Shabbes and holidays.

Luba believed that the most lasting legacy a mother could pass on to her daughter was teaching her how to cook and manage her household; the sooner the better. So every Thursday, she took Tonia shopping to Market Square, to find the ingredients for the two most important courses for the festive meals: chicken soup and gefilte fish.

Market Square was a scented, open-air plaza three city blocks away from Szpitolna Street, crammed with shops and pushcarts, where farmers were selling meat, poultry, fish, fresh dairy products, fruits, and vegetables. Gedaliah the Butcher sold hens, some of which, plucked and cleaned, were dangling from a rope stretched across his storefront like a chain of long earrings. Mama never bought these hens because they looked too pretty, and because she had not observed Gedaliah slaughter them, and therefore did not know how fresh they really were. Instead, she selected a live bird from his cage full of squawking fowl and had him butcher it before her eyes.

A good soup chicken was not too fat and not too skinny, not too old and not too young, and picking one required experience. Tonia learned how to spot the best hen in the cage by the whiteness of its feathers and by palpating the flesh beneath the plumes while the butcher was holding it up screeching and screaming. Her conscience aching, she would observe him press the doomed bird to his bloody wooden block, wave his murderous ax, and deliver the fatal blow. Week after week, Tonia would cup her ears to the deadly silence that followed and received the warm, limp hen, wrapped in old newspapers, from Gedaliah’s bloodstained hands. At home, her mother would scorch the feathers off the flesh, pluck the blackened, acrid-smelling stems out of the skin, carve open the shaved chest, and take out the terrifying insides. Then she would thoroughly wash the hen and, finally, drop it in the big soup pot filled with vegetables and boiling water, to cook.

Tonia’s second most important task was selecting carp from Kasriel the Fisherman’s tub, inhabited by schools of fast-swimming fish seeking to avoid her sharp eye.

A good fish, Kasriel taught Tonia, was the feistiest in the tub, its scales silvery and its tail flipping vigorously. Tonia did not lose sight of her fish until Kasriel trapped it in his big net and plopped it into her pail. At home, she would pour the water and the fish into a wooden barrel that stood in the washroom, where it would swim the entire night. On Friday mornings, Mama would bend down over the barrel, plunge both hands into the water, firmly grab the wiggly creature, lift it out, and, with Tonia’s assistance, hold it down on the kitchen table spread with old newspapers. Finally, she would bludgeon its head with a hammer. Every week, Tonia watched the fish abruptly ceasing to twitch in her mother’s hands, and its head being chopped off with the sharp kitchen knife. She saw Mama scraping the scales, slitting the belly, and removing the entrails. After thoroughly rinsing the flesh of the fish, Mama ground it in the grinding machine, producing a grayish mixture, to which she added eggs, salt, pepper, a dash of sugar and a small amount of minced almonds. It was Tonia’s job to form the sticky mixture into evenly shaped oval cakes, which her mother then placed in a saucepot filled with a small amount of boiling water and slices of steamed onions and carrots, and cooked over a low flame.The head of the fish was cooked intact.

Gefilte fish and chicken soup signaled to Avreme’le that his father was making a living and his mother was happy. These dishes made Shabbes and holiday eves smell of mouthwatering cooking aromas from early morning until the lighting of the candles at dusk, and when serving them, Mama’s eyes glowed as if touched by God Almighty. Still, for him, eating them was agonizing, particularly the fish. He had less difficulty with the chicken, because on the few occasions when he accompanied his mother and his sister to the market, he purposefully avoided looking at the cage with the captive birds and never saw the one that Tonia condemned to die. The fish, however, was his weekly pet.

On Thursday nights he would be impatient to return home from heder to kneel by the little round pool, immerse his hands in the water, and fleetingly touch the fish’s rough scales. Watching it swim in fast circles, his heart was filled with sadness, for he understood how spooked and lonely the fish felt and how desperately it wanted to be back in the river. Avreme’le hoped that one day, the fish would stop swimming, fix its round eyes on his face, recognize him, and perhaps even blink, but all the poor fish ever did was frantically encircle the tub, the eyes frozen with fear, the gills and mouth opening and closing in a panic, as if mutely crying for help, begging to be set free. Every Thursday Avreme’le envisioned himself fishing his friend out of the tub, plopping it into Tonia’s bucket, and releasing it in the river; but to his great chagrin, he never did. You ought to be thankful for your Shabbes meal, chided Mama whenever he begged her to abstain from gefilte fish on Friday evenings. Children less fortunate than you eat fish only on holidays, and sometimes not even then!

So on Thursday nights, Avreme’le would go to bed with a heavy heart for not rescuing his fish from Mama’s hammer, and the Friday-night meals that filled everyone with excited anticipation brought him infinite sorrow and regret, when his pitiful pet appeared on his plate as an oval cake dotted with slices of cooked carrots and its head was offered to Papa with great ceremony.

And even though Mama always assured him that carp did not sense any feelings whatsoever, and that in fact, the Almighty specifically created it to be served on Friday nights as gefilte fish, Avreme’le always felt culpable when observing the familiar face, with bulging eyes and gaping mouth, vanish between Papa’s greasy lips, for the eyes glared at him accusingly, and the mouth shouted at him with blame.

Eating the head of a fish is a guarantee for wisdom, noted Mama routinely when offering the fish’s head to Papa, but Avreme’le thought to himself that by the time he grew up, he would be already wise and would never resort to eating the head of a carp.

When he was five years old, Avreme’le’s second sister, Deenah, was born, and seven-year-old Tonia became a first grader at the Hebrew school, Ezra. Now instead of going to the market, she went to class, and instead of playing in the yard in her free time, read books and studied numbers; and because Mama was busy with Deenah, now Tonia was the one waiting for Avreme’le outside heder at the end of the day, and on their way home, related to him things she had learned and heard at school.

Their good friends Szeine and Mich’l Rogowski lived two doors down the hall. Ten-year-old Szeine was a student at the public school. In the mornings, she would don black-and-blue uniform, venture outside the Jewish neighborhood to the red-brick school building on St.Vassiliev Street, and mingle with gentile children. In her school, she sang Russian songs and listened to stories about an old witch named Baba-Yaga and talking-animals from Krylov’s fables. Szeine’s brother, Mich’l, was one year older than Avreme’le and, like him, was a student at Reb Shmuel’s heder. Szeine and Mich’l had two little brothers. Their mother, Batya, was a seamstress, and their father, Dov, was a factory worker.

Batya was thin and angular. Her green eyes were soft and pretty, and her neck was long as a swan’s. Surrounded by scraps of fabric, wax paper, and thimbles, she was always bent over her sewing machine, a tape measure slung over her neck, and her sleeves impaled by pins and needles. As soon as Szeine came home from school to take care of her young brothers, clients started streaming into her mother’s workroom. They removed their dresses, stood in their undergarments before the long mirror until she slipped on their new clothes, and then, her tight lips clenching pins, she adjusted shoulders and waists and stuck the pins into the cloth. The ladies stood perfectly still, occasionally instructing her where to pull the fabric in and where to let it out.

Whenever Avreme’le came to play with Mich’l, he liked to stare at Mrs. Rogowski’s clients, for their opulent flesh was pink and electrifying. But when Batya lifted her eyes from her work and saw the boys at the door, she promptly ordered Szeine to take them to the next room.

Mama kept whispering that the Rogowskis were dirt poor, nebech. All their hard work notwithstanding, if not for Mrs. Rogowski’s parents who were paying the rent, said Mama, Dov and Batya could not afford living on Szpitolna Street. When Avreme’le saw Dov at the synagogue, he looked pale and drawn. The only time when Dov Rogowski’s face had a healthy color, and seemed wrinkle free, was on Friday afternoons, at the Bod, the communal bathhouse. Papa always said with a wry smile that at the Bod, there were no distinctions of wealth or rank. There were no ethnic discriminations at the public bath, either. It served both Jews and gentiles, albeit on different days. On Fridays, the Bod was reserved for Jewish men cleansing for Shabbes.

Avreme’le loved Fridays. On Fridays, humans seemed happier, and the universe looked prettier than on other days of the week as Shabbes was drawing near. On Fridays, Papa would fetch him from heder at noon, and they would walk home in streets clear of peddlers and wagons. On Fridays, he and Papa raced the sun, straining to complete all their activities before it dipped behind the hills; for at sundown, they were due at the synagogue. On Fridays, Mama would wear her finery and was fragrant and serene. Fridays were magical.

Approaching the public bathhouse one wintry Friday before his sixth birthday, Avreme’le observed the wooden building in wonderment: white steam was crawling from the horizontal cracks between the dark planks, making it seem to rise from the earth like a misty apparition. Entering the unheated dressing room, he and Papa quickly removed their clothes and, shivering in the cold, rushed into the foggy steam room filled with dense, vaporous air. In the center of the room, men and boys were lathering their bodies while attendants were drenching them with bucketfuls of tepid water from the boiler. Some men were lying in hot steam on the wooden bleachers along the walls, their flesh glistening in the dim light, resembling the plucked hens in Gedaliah’s shop. Boys were playing on the sidelines, boisterously splashing in streams of lukewarm water flowing outside in open channels.

Papa paid the attendant a kopek, and promptly, a bucket of water came pouring down on top of Avreme’le’s head. His father rubbed soap on his hair, dug his fingers into his scalp, and commenced scrubbing it, proceeding to scour every patch of skin in his neck, chest, back, and arms, the attendant continuously rinsing off the soap and the grime with fresh water. Rocking like a puppet under Papa’s vigorous fingers, the soap burning his eyes and bumping his head like a brick, Avreme’le shook with such ferocity that he was forced to firmly plant his toes in the wooden floor and spread his arms apart to keep from falling. Slippery bodies were colliding with him, woolly chests were towering over him, and heavy feet were inadvertently stepping on his toes. Still, he relished every moment, for through his half-closed lids, over the water and the stinging bubbles, he saw his father’s eyes looking at him, noticing him for the first time in seven days, and felt his hands touching his body, and warm water squirting him as if he was a tree. Papa pointed to his legs. Gripping his father’s slippery shoulder, Avreme’le lifted his right leg, and then the left, surrendering his knees and shins and feet to the thorough cleansing. That’s all, you are clean, declared Papa, starting to lather his own skin. Go play with your friends.

Avreme’le splashed in the water with the other children, but was mysteriously distracted by the bathers. Bunched together under the steamy spurts, they looked like a herd of wet, hairy animals from the picture books Yosse’le was receiving from his uncle in America. Torah says we were all created in the image of God, Papa had once noted when Avreme’le was reluctant to undress. Nonetheless, nakedness embarrassed him, not so much his own as that of the men, and particularly Papa’s. Glimpsing at it through his wet lashes, alternately averting his eyes from it and staring at it, he was at once repulsed and fascinated.

The last bucket of water came pouring down over Papa’s head. Before climbing up on the bleachers to bathe in steam, he thrashed his body with moist twigs of birch. It’s good for the blood circulation, he explained when Avreme’le had once asked him why he was beating himself. When he had enough steam bathing, he came down to thrash Avreme’le with the twigs, and then it was time to go home. Back in the cold cloakroom, they dressed hurriedly. Papa dried Avreme’le’s hair with the towel, wrapped his head in a scarf, and they rushed home in the dusky evening, the long shadows of Friday afternoon creeping behind them in the empty streets.

Shabbes Queen was descending on Vilna.

Mama was waiting in the doorway, wearing her dark blue Shabbes dress, a crisp white apron over it. Tenderly gathering Avreme’le into her arms, she leaned down and whispered in his ear in her soft Shabbes voice, You smell like a birch tree! Tonia and Deenah wore white ribbons in their hair. After hastily swallowing a wedge of warm noodle pie, he dressed in a freshly ironed white shirt and dark blue pants, and put on shined shoes and his woolen coat and cap. Papa emerged from his room dressed in a dark suit and coat and wearing a fedora, and together they walked out, heading for the Great Synagogue, four short blocks away.

Now the sun was a fiery big yolk about to sink in the horizon. Kolia and Dunia were at the gate.

Good Shabbes, Pan Binder! said Kolia politely, affectionately squeezing Avreme’le’s ear as he passed by. Dunia wagged her tail.

Good Shabbes, Kolia! answered