A Home Consumed by Fire

Told to me by my older brother, Isaac, who died in Johannesburg in 1956 at the age of 54. In memory of his soul.

It was on one such night -- whether it was after Shabbos, or else just an ordinary week-night, I can't now recall -- that the comfortable fabric of my dreams was ripped asunder by a familiar but frightened voice: "Wake the children, quick!

"Isaac ... Itsikl, get up! My child, the house is burning!"

Mother stood by my bed, looking pale, her blue eyes tearful.

I bolted up and sat, confused, on the edge of my bed, not knowing what was happening. Through the windowpane a dreadful shining creature flapped its crimson wings, clawing at our windows with a menacing blackness.

"What is it, Mama?" I stammered, barely able to cry out.

"Take the little children and run with them to Grandma's! Father and I may still be able to save something."

I was not yet twelve years old, but suddenly I found myself thrown into adulthood. There was danger. I had to help. I had responsibility ... a job to do ... duty! In an instant I became a grown-up. Fear left me. I quickly put on my short pants and jacket, and stood ready, no longer terrified by the flames climbing in at the windows. Now I know that night was a fateful one for me in my later life. From that night I became an independent person. And in our home, life was never the same again.

My smallest brother, Elimelekh, was then still an infant, almost a newborn. The oldest was also a small, helpless child. Mother packed up both children and entrusted them both to me. I left the house with them. It was a mild summer midnight. As long as I shall live, I won't forget that night:

The nearest neighboring house was engulfed in smoky flames; it crackled like a dry pile of kindling. Jews cursed and ran around like poisoned mice, back and forth; women moaned and writhed -- it appeared the town had gone completely mad, everything was in such confusion.

Through the tumult and racket I strained all my senses not to lose my little brothers. The horrible scene was reflected in their eyes, and in my childish heart there was only gloom. The house of our neighbor the tar dealer was burning like a torch, and the air turned sharp and biting. I ran with the little ones to the middle of the market square, where we fell, exhausted, to the ground.

The fire had spread throughout the other houses. Women ran around holding small children by the hand, and men carried packets of bedding. There was much wailing for whatever couldn't be snatched from the flames. It all made my little heart that much heavier, and I waited nervously for Father and Mother to arrive. The flickering light of the fire reflected in my brothers' innocent faces, like the wings of a trapped bird...

I screwed up my courage and waited. Waited and watched over the little ones, like a faithful dog watches over his master's property. In my childish head there was only one thought, which came back endlessly: The children must be safe!

So we stayed and waited in the middle of the market, while the fire devoured one house after another. With me then was one more younger brother, Avrom, and my older sister Esther (both now deceased). But mother had entrusted the children to me, and I felt it was I who carried the responsibility for them. And indeed, the children remained safe.

Only in the morning, when daylight flooded the still-smoking ruins of the town, was I able to read in Father's sad face and Mother's weeping eyes what an enormous tragedy had occurred. I ran out into the street, but was forced to come back immediately because the scene in the street oppressed me fearfully: Our house, the workshop, the store and warehouse had been wiped out, without a trace. But the fire had been put out right by our shop; everything beyond it remained intact. Father and Mother had saved only a little merchandise from the store before the fire had reached it.

From then our troubles began coming one after the other, linked in a chain, like a punishment from on high upon our family.

But then Father became terribly sick. Our misfortune had dealt him too hard a blow; the colossal exertion and stress during the fire had ruined his health, and left him wrecked in body and spirit. He needed to be taken to a major specialist in a large city, or so ordered the doctors of our little town. There he had to remain several weeks in a clinic, under the constant care of the healers there. And quite miraculously, father returned to health and he became himself again.

But a new affliction already awaited our family. On the very day that father left his hospital, as we awaited him with happy hearts, the war was declared, the Great War of 1914. And right away, before he even had a chance to get home, he was obliged to report to the military. That was the order; to immediately report for duty in whatever district one happened to be at the time.

We had hopes at first that Father, still recuperating from a serious illness, would not be taken. But we were all bitterly disappointed, as Father was quickly drafted and mobilized. He had been born in St. Petersburg and spoke a fine, polished Russian, and that proved his undoing. The army needed educated men like him immediately, the military commission declared, and they dispatched him straightaway to Grodno.

On Mother's shoulders descended the burden of making a living and at the same time caring for five small children. We children felt as though we had been robbed of the dear and precious thing we called Daddy. Our longing for him doubled and multiplied with each passing day. We didn't exactly know who it was that had torn our father from us, but we heard the grown-ups talking of something called a war, and we soon came to understand that this thing, war, was to blame.

Consumed with the daily chores and troubles, Mother no longer had time to give to us, and we were left suddenly without the warmth and tenderness that other children enjoyed. As the oldest, I, a twelve-year-old, was suddenly launched into a new life, the tough life of a grown-up, as I was appointed the master of the house.

Like an apple grows ripe in the sun, so did I, in a short time, grow ripe from troubles. For me, childish games and pasttimes ended. Our life turned joyless as I earnestly took up the functions of a house-master, who had to worry about his little brothers. Carrying responsibilities that were greater than my years strengthened my will and energy, and in some ways tamed and altered my childhood yearnings.

Mother had it very hard. But the stress and loneliness never made her bitter, and she never was heard complaining about her fate. No task was too difficult if it was for us, and she never appeared jealous or held a grudge against the neighbors whose lot was far better than ours.

With the little bit of merchandise that had been rescued and a little saved-up cash, Mother started up the business again. She would stand in the store until late in the evening, while I stayed in the workshop, helping with the sewing and keeping an eye on the other children as they played or slept. Our workshop and our living quarters were together. We had a little hat factory, where we sewed hats and other fur goods. Learning that trade well as a young boy gave me a certain self-confidence in later life.

By then I understood what a war was, and that Father probably would not be coming home soon, and I accustomed myself to a heavy-hearted life, without the normal kind of childish joys and hopes. Late at night, tired, I would fall asleep with longing gnawing at my heart; I knew that we lacked the love that other children had, but Mother's pale blue eyes, moist with gratitude, gave me quiet comfort.

"My child, my Itsikl," she would say, "you're my only support now. My beloved child, may the Lord reward you with luck and success in your life."

My mother's love sustained me in those days.

I also had to do the hard housework - carrying water from the nearby river, cutting wood and lighting the oven, putting the children to bed and rocking them to sleep at night. We more than filled up the little house, so I had to sleep with my brother Avrom above the stove ...

Nearly a year went by. The river beneath our home flowed by. Outside it turned warm, and mild breezes blew. With the coming of spring our souls grew lighter, and it seemed that new hope would sprout for our family.

In early spring our family was destined to grow larger: We got a new little brother on Passover, and we children took the news with great rejoicing. This brought a new division of labor among us; my sister, still then a little girl, had to take over Mother's duties, i.e., she had to become a shopkeeper. It was pitiful to observe such a dainty soul dealing all day with the village peasants, most of them coarse and drunk. My authority as master of the house grew broader, with vastly increased responsibiilties: Watching over the children and acting as both nurse and tutor, besides helping with the sewing; carrying water and tending the fire, all as before. Still, that year, I would still sometimes steal a few minutes late in the evening to read a story-book. I had had to give up my schooling early - there was no time or opportunity for it - but reading was for me like a glimpse into a beautiful, carefree world, each book a magic land to be discovered. Dead tired, I would fall asleep late by the darkening night-lamp and creep over the oven to my "bed". Awakening in the morning, I would recall the stories and in my childish way, sketch fantastic pictures in my head about their further course ...

Passover came and went. And again the blooming blue days and nights of silver graced our poor little town, like a charm hanging overhead. For reasons I couldn't then begin to comprehend, our baby brother didn't have his bris on time, and it was already getting toward Shevuos again. Mother said: "Already a year since our great misfortune! Perhaps, my little joy, you will bring luck to our home?" And her melancholy eyes beamed at the baby's face, which was bright red from crying.

The days were restless. Jews bustled about, whispering assorted rumors of pogroms and harsh government decrees issued in other towns and villages, which would likely make their way here soon.

The air became dense and black, laden with heavy clouds. Our little town filled up with soldiers, who laid seige to the market and the surrounding streets when their military barracks ran out of room. The Jewish houses became sad and cheerless, as the hordes of booted, bearded, cursing Russians spread fear among the people. Here and there the Cossacks assaulted Jews, taking their money and merchandise, and issuing "assurances" that the time was soon coming when they would make an end of the "zhids" ... Jews sat in their houses as if on hot coals, and waited for salvation.

No salvation came. Instead, there came an order from the military high command, that in no more than three days, all Jews must evacuate the province.

"What are we to do now? How can we travel, for who knows how long, with a baby not yet circumcised?" Mother's grief burst out, and she ran around madly looking for someone - a rabbi, a lay person - to advise her.

Notwithstanding all the confusion in town, when word got out that the bris hadn't yet been performed it precipitated a gathering of all the local women at our house. As I recall it, each one asked that the baby be given a name of their own nearest relative or friend, suggesting that the namesake had been of such merit that his heavenly worth would enable us to survive our ordeal.

"Such righteousness will help us all, Chaye my dearest! ... Name him after my grandpa, do you hear? He was a holy man, a saint!"

The honor was finally given to Sara-Leah, one of my father's mother's cousins, who named the baby after her husband. The bris was performed two days before we left, in haste and fear amid the packed boxes and bedding. All our things were packed up for the journey, and there we we were having a celebration - but quietly, secretly, lest we arouse the curiosity of the gentiles and the thieving Cossacks. And so we quit our little town carrying a new little brother who had a new name - Yisroel.

We traveled different paths, however. Because of the baby's new circumcision, Mother had to travel with all her children on the train that had been was prepared by the government to evacuate the Jews. It was a terrible hardship, traveling right after a circumcision in crowded rail-carriage, with no water or medications to be found. Upon my back fell the responsibility for the few poor possessions we had left. There was no one else to take them but the oldest in the household, so we hired a cart on which we packed up all the household items and the merchandise. And down the highway, through towns already half-abandoned by Jews, I and the wagon driver ventured off, exiles in the world. We dragged ourselves through the heat and dust, to Vilna.

I had just turned twelve years old, but I was already the family guardian.

It was three days before Shevuos. The fields made me drunk with their sweet spring-smells. I lay half-slumbering, my insides rocking back and forth and my heart repressing tears. I felt lonely and lost, but I knew that I had to watch over the property that had been entrusted to me. I understood that this was all we had, and from this we had to earn our living until Father returned from the war.

On the road we had to stop, hide in the woods or drive out of our way in orer to avoid the villages, where gentiles were known to have robbed Jews. Because of the fear of thieves our short trip took much longer, and Mother was beside herself with worry. Eventually, however, our long wanderings ended and we came safely to Vilna, and Mother greeted us with tears of joy.

Top