My BEGINNING

By Beckie Shopnick

A moment in my life just came to my mind: my parents and some members of my family were escorting me to the train on the way to this country. That was a dream come true. It was a dream of independence, of opportunities, of helping my parents to ease their struggle for existence. Everybody seemed to be happy, though somewhat envious of my departure. But my father, however, felt different. When the last minute came and the hugs and kisses began, he became very emotional and started to cry, so I said to him, "papa, don’t cry! You have to be happy-- I am going to America!"

And so here I am on my first ride by train, trying to adjust myself on the hard bench with my meager baggage under it and a bundle of immediate accessories and food on my lap. Within minutes, the city of my birthplace was a thing of the past, but memories of my growing-up came to focus. Memories, which I am first aware of, rich in content as well as in, scope... Memories of happiness and tragedies... Memories of hunger and want. They were all crowding up in my mind in swift motion trying to catch up with the speedy rhythm of the train, but here-- what is it?! Was suddenly being awakened by the glorious sun through my window. Vast horizons appearing which my eyes could hardly follow, thick forests, small towns, villages, or just a cottage here and there half-sunken into the soil with smoke coming out of the chimney. (Very likely a peasant boiling his own grown potatoes or baking bread of his own wheat raising.)

Most of these sights take me back to the place where I was born. It was a suburb of the city of Vilna, Poland. It was called the new city. It really looked like a small tom in more than one way. A great big marketplace in the center of town and all sorts of stores on both sides of the very wide cobblestone street. Side streets with mostly old cottages with shaky porches half sunken into the ground, also, a couple of two- or three-story brick buildings with a court and an out-house and a well or pump of fresh, cold water -- all facing the unpaved streets with no sidewalks. The town was located on a considerable steep hill about a half-hour walk from the big city where my father had an iron shop; and, in order to make both ends meet, my mother had a grocery store located on the very top of the hill.

The sunsets over that hill were magnificent. I was intrigued by its beauty of color. It brightened up my soul and spirit in one of those beautiful, shiny days. We also had misty, gloomy and gray days. It just reminds me of one of those days, when I was watching a funeral procession and associated the mood of the people who were escorting the body of their loved one to its last resting place. The sorrow and compassion for those people are still in my heart.

The landlady next door to us had a mill run by horses. I had the most wonderful time following the horses round and round, the landlady had a couple of grown-up daughters who made a lot of fuss over me, more than my parents could ever give me for lack of time. I must have been about three years old at the time,

As for the population of the town, I first became aware of other people in my later years. They were mostly poor, hard-working people and small businessmen. Vilna was also a haven for pickpockets, robbers, thieves, killers, and prostitutes. There were no children in the immediate neighborhood, so my sister-- who was eighteen months older than myself-- was my best pal. We played together and fought together. She was my advisor, consultant, and leader.

As having no children around, we used to listen to grown-up talk of what s going on in the city or in the world at large. So we were informed that a car of buslike vehicles run by horses was first running from one end of the big city to the other. So we decided one day to see the miracle. My sister took my hand and off we went without telling our mother. I can just imagine how upset and worried she was over our disappearance. After our father came home, she told him of our behavior. Well, my sister got a good spanking that she couldn’t forget to this day. The walk to the city and back was worth the punishment for our sin. We saw there a very broad boulevard with sidewalks on both sides; a great big orchard with all kinds of fruits, fenced off with an ornamental iron fence (we both marveled at the fruits, as much as we could see through the small spaces); on the other side, still vacant lots with a couple of big modern buildings with balconies where we thought the wealthy ones must live (because it was much different where I was growing up).

Another memorable episode took place when I must have been about five years old. It was the coronation of Nicholas the second. My father took my sister and myself downtown for the occasion. It was something spectacular, with color and pomp. Dignitaries of government dressed in uniform with shining medals and colorful ribbons on their chests, marching first, followed bands of music. Then came soldiers in the thousands, marching in step, with flags and picture of the past present and future rulers of Russia, Cossacks on horses tried to keep the ten-row deep, curious watchers on the sidewalks. As for myself, I didn't understand what the spectacle was all about until later years.

During my pre-teen years, we had lived in several neighborhoods. The first of our moves was just across the market place: a grocery store and bakery in the rear, it included our dwelling, which consisted of one large room and my parent's bedroom partitioned off with boards, and a clothes closet as an addition. It was rather a very prosperous business, but my mother worked beyond human strength, as I think of it now. But we children had the most wonderful time there. There was a nice garden in the back of the house and we used to grow all kinds of vegetables, and raise chickens and geese, too. But most of all, we enjoyed actually watching the things grow. As soon as the cucumber was grown to a considerable size, off it went into our mouths. I still feel the fresh sweet taste, the pumpkins we grew only for the seeds inside of them, which we dried and ate. We also grew sunflowers for the sake of the seeds.

On Friday, the peasants from the surrounding area used to bring their own grown fruits and vegetables to that great big market where my father bought some for my mother's grocery store to sell. We were her best customers. So food was no problem with us. My mother baked bread during the week, and for the weekend she baked challah all night. Thursday, I remember her waking me during the night to help her smear the challah with the egg yokes to make them shiny, rolled out of bed with my eyes still closed, but I would do anything to help my mother. After the challah was baked she opened the store to sell all the commodities for the Shabbat. In the late afternoon, people from the neighborhood brought pots with prepared food to be cooked for the Shabbat. The floor of the bakery was all taken up with the pots. My sister and myself helped to pick up pots, pot by pot, for my mother to put into the hot oven. After the oven was closed and pasted up, all the children were put into a big basin to be scrubbed washed and dressed for the Sabbath. Then my mother got herself washed and dressed, the candles were lit and blessed by her with great piety and feeling. The Friday night supper was being served when my father came back from the synagogue.

Now you can just visualize what one woman could accomplish all around the clock. This was my mother.

Saturday morning she was up early to read the morning prayer in the bible, and made us do the same. After breakfast we started taking out the pots from the oven and people came to call for their food. God beware if they ever made a mistake by taking somebody else's pot instead of their own.

After my father came from the synagogue, the chollent was eaten and the deserved rest was taken by my parents, and the small children were also put to sleep. But my sister and myself were first beginning to have our fun. The landlord was a butcher and had a big barn and an icehouse in the basement right on the premises. We used to make 'kwas' from old bread; it's like a punch without a kick. And we’d put it in the ice-house to cool. The barn had an open ceiling with heavy beams across where we threw over a heavy rope and swing so high like a trapeze. The landlord had two sons our age, so we played and danced together. Dancing with the boys and other friends from the neighborhood was a tradition on Saturdays. That’s how we made up for the whole week of responsibilities. I still can't understand where and how we ever learned to dance, as the only music we ever heard was from a box which a man carried with a monkey on top-- and when he turned the handle on box, music came out and the monkey danced. We used to throw him a kopek for his entertainment.

As the fall season is approaching, there was a new era of joy and labor waiting for us. The first on the agenda was to put the yearly weather-beaten sukkah in shape. So we kids got busy looking for every scrap of wood we could get a hold of to patch a hole here and there; a rusty nail, a brick-- everything came in handy. The walls with new wall paper, the roof with fresh pine branches. After it was all done it really looked like a doll’s house. We kept our fingers crossed the rains by any chance shouldn't spoil the fun and the good food in particular, which was specially prepared for the festival of Sukkoth.

The winter season is approaching fast, with a lot of snow and long evenings, so there are other occupations for us children prepared. Picking feathers, which we were not very much fond of. It was an obligation more than fun. We got more feathers in our heads than hair. A good place to play was on the big baker's oven: plenty warm and plenty space, even to dance! Another diversion was sleigh riding on the white- blue, crispy snow, followed by the bright full moon and millions of stars, which lit our way.

At certain periods of our childhood, when new additions of children kept on coming, we used to have a maid to help with the children and the household. On Saturdays she spent some time with us -- that is, my sister and myself --telling us all kind of mystery stories with witches, and magicians performing miracles. We were

so intrigued by the stories that we were pinned to our seats. One Saturday, she suggested we have our ears pierced, so we were thrilled by the idea. That was rather a painful memory, but it paid off just to be in style.

In our spare time, we indulged in creative artwork. There was a couple living next door who had a millinery store, so we made miniature hats from scraps of cardboard, ribbons, velvet, feathers and other trimmings that go into them, and put them in her window for display. Another diversion was needlepoint. Every penny we could get hold of went for canvas and wool. I remember once we made Moishe and the Ten Commandments and presented it to our aunt as a Purim gift. Well, my aunt and uncle were not that thrilled with the piece of creation, so we were very much hurt by it.

Talking about my aunt who was mother's sister ... she was just controversial in character, selfish and domineering, (my mother was kind, generous and compassionate.) remember her coming from a small town to live with us till she got herself a husband: this was no small matter! My father arranged a matchmaker to find the lucky one and the meetings were held in our house on Saturday afternoons and we children had to be out of the way, so the big baker's oven was our refuge. Leaning over like on a balcony and looking down the orchestra I remember one Saturday the matchmaker brought a guy who looked very intelligent but very thin and pale. He looked like one of those students who came to a big city to study for rabbi and sleep in the synagogue on a hard bench with his arm as a pillow. Well, that didn't work, so next Saturday, a redhead came along. We were also the judges and thought that one is not for her, as for some reason we didn't like red ones. So that's-how it went on-- with dark ones, blonde one, s fat ones, and thin ones-- until one Saturday my father came with a tall dark and handsome one and it was love at first sight. She herself was not good-looking but was very sophisticated in her style of dress. We kids admired her taste, but wished she gets married and out of our house so we can once more be free to enjoy our lives. The engagement was made right there and then as well as the money matters according to custom in those days. The date for the wedding was also set. It was really due a great deal of credit to my parents, my mother the gracious hostess and my father the great judge and conversationalist who kept the meeting alive.

After all the transactions were made my aunt kept being busy with dressmakers and shopping for her dowry. I remember her beautiful sky-blue wedding dress-trimmed with silk lace. The wedding was taking place in a very prominent hall, which was filled to capacity with relatives who came from small towns around Vilna and whom I never saw before in my life. They were all beautiful people, well-dressed and well-mannered. After the ceremony the dancing started. The music was lively. That made everybody join into the swirling-- even my father whom I saw dancing for the first time. I was very proud and surprised at his grace and rhythm. After the dancing, the waiters were already lined up to serve the delicious supper with all the trimmings. The golden chicken soup with kreplach first, then the poultry with kishke galore. We kids could hardly wait for the occasion. We were starved!

Then, the wedding presents were being called by a master of ceremonies who was dramatically calling each one by name and announcing the amount like at an auction. When I came to think of the tradition, it wasn't a bad idea as most people are trying to show off their generosity even if they borrow the money. Well, it looked like a good time was had by all. The handshakes, kisses, and good wishes were the last performance and everybody went to their respective places.

My new adopted uncle had his own established butter and cheese business located on a very wide business street in a basement. A few steps down, there was a wide platform and shelves to keep the buckets of butter and cheeses. My aunt stepped into the business to help her husband and with her capability and hard work they were very successful. Their customers consisted mostly of the big brass that employed servants to shop. They used to stand on the sidewalk in line in the heat or cold to wait for their turn. There was only room for one person to stand on the platform so my aunt or uncle did the selling. They seemed to be very happy in their way of life. My parents were also happy that finally they succeeded in their efforts. At last, our own life retained its normal pace once more.

But after a short period of time, a new project had been established: that is, baking of matzoh. So, for one month before Passover, our bakery was converted into a matzoh factory. That kind of business required quite a few people to be employed: someone to make the dough to roll the matzoh to make the lines with a metal wheel and a baker to put them into the oven and finally pack them into very big woven straw baskets which were taken by horse and wagon to his shop in the city to sell. We children also pitched in the making of the matzoh, measuring the water and the flour and in between the changing of women who had babies to be nursed and have lunch. Our palms were so puffed up like a spongecake but we endured the pain in order to help those poor women.

Well after four weeks of slave labor and the private orders were completed the cleaning-up first began. The furniture, floors, all utilities had to be scraped to its core to make kosher for Passover ... and we kids finally got our new outfits from the dressmaker, and new shoes from the shoemaker which were ordered months ahead of time and were already too small, so they were handed over to the smaller children. My sister as the oldest was always the victim and had to go back to her pantofel. (It’s a slipper made of wood and when walking you could hear them for miles, we rather liked them as the noise sounded like music to us with their rhythm of-every step.)

My father did the bookkeeping and after all the commotion and slave labor there was a net profit of $150. So that was the first and last time of matzoh baking.

Beckie Shopnick