A Life To Live...

by Israel Kipen

  The Jewish calendar is replete with festivals, holy days and days of mourning. It celebrates national triumphs and acquisition of freedom; it commemorates defeats and dispersions; it rejoices in harvests and in the receiving of the Law. Its cycle enhances the Jew’s consciousness of nationhood and continuity through a long and often tortured history.

  In our home, each of these occasions had an implicit meaning and clear outward expression. Passover, and the preparations preceding the festival, were for me the most exciting time. Such preparations had to begin early usually in February with wine-making, fermentation of beetroot as a soup additive, washing of all linen and full house-cleaning, these being performed once a year to that degree and therefore so significant and noticeable.

  The washing of the linen in particular was a major chore and event in the house which required considerable physical exertion on the part of Mother, Bobe and a washerwoman specially engaged for the occasion. The whole process took three days. At that time, no washing machines yet existed while even a washing trough and water-heater formed no part of common household conveniences. The kitchen stove was worked constantly to supply the hot water required, the centre of the kitchen was taken up with a huge circular wash-tub made up of curved slats held together by two iron bands like wine and beer barrels. By the second day, the accumulation of steam that filled our apartment affected the wall-paper so that it lifted from the wall in bubbles and looked as though it may peel off completely at any time. For the final rinsing and complete whitening of the linen, some blue chemical was used, its acrid smell adding to the general unpleasantness that pervaded the place. For drying, the linen was hung on long ropes in part of the attic. The floor of the attic was covered with dust and remnants of the broom manufacturing engaged in by the occupant of the other part of the attic. When the linen was finally taken down during the winter, it was half-frozen and stiff, and had to be thawed in the apartment itself at the same time as the customary business and manufacturing activities were taking place. As Passover drew nearer, the house was also thoroughly spring-cleaned, the clean and ironed window drapes re-hung, red polish applied to the floor-boards and the Passover cutlery, crockery, pots and pans taken out of storage, the apartment taking on the face of a minor mansion. It was also a time for new clothes for children and adults alike. Being the oldest, I had the privilege of always getting new clothes and I was proud of them. Sailor suits and patent leather shoes were the fashion of the day. Enhancing the joy to be had through the beauty and delight of the festival was the sunshine, warmth and balminess of the northern spring.

  In contrast to the happy atmosphere of Passover, the approach of the High Holy Days in the autumn was matched by a mood of more sombre contemplation mounting progressively over the month preceding the New Year and culminating in the Day of Atonement ten days later. It was a time of self-appraisal and of reflectiveness about God and the meaning of life and the individual’s place in the process of creation and regeneration, and in its wake, the household became enveloped by a deeper earnestness and sense of accountability, while the seriousness with which Father would approach this period, the midnight prayers he went to on the Saturday night before the New Year and the mental preparation he made remain engraved in my memory.

  It is just such seriousness that to this day remains with me as an impression of those younger days. Life and living were more serious for everybody. Old and young alike knew that they stood or fell by their own efforts. There was no recourse to blaming ‘the system’, however much people may have been inclined to do so privately. Such blaming may have served as an emotional palliative for failure, but it did nothing to alleviate the burden imposed by the realities of life. Nobody owed anybody or was owed a living. The notion that a person was not entirely master of his own life and fate was seen as a questionable retreat by the individual from both mental and ethical responsibility and accountability, while it was that very accountability to self and to family, notwithstanding the difficult conditions and limited opportunities, that drove my parents and their generation, as it did all their preceding generations, to take upon themselves in full earnestness the burdens and business of living. Grateful for the bread they ate after having blessed it, they were ever mindful of the fragility of existence and, as a consequence, aware of their earthly responsibilities and scorning of levity and flippancy. In my own home, there was little laughter. Every minute of my parents’ lives was pervaded by a certain compulsion and sense of purpose, continually, diligently and dedicatedly committing their physical and emotional energies towards the making of a decent and respectable living. For our part, as children, our duties were towards our studies. The seriousness with which we applied ourselves and the progress we made in learning were the yardsticks by which we were assessed and the parent-child relationship was governed. We knew that our parents loved us, cared for us, and concerned themselves deeply with our well-being; but there was no embracing, no kissing, no particular praise, no inflation of egos either to be had or expected. Such outward manifestations of affection were not part of our home.

  As the eldest child, it was primarily upon me that my parents most concertedly practised parenthood as they understood the demands of parenthood to be, even though it was at times severe. Every discussion relating to my upbringing centred upon my progress in learning. My whole future was predicated on my attitudes towards my school-work. There was constant demand upon me to increase and intensify my knowledge, and on this score they permitted themselves no laxity. Nor was there room for praise or self-congratulation; these were deemed counter-productive and potentially debilitating. Praise was reserved for God. People, on the other hand, had to work, to strive through exertion and to improve themselves. This made for character-building, honesty and decency, these being essential preconditions for self-respect and success. Whenever as a youngster I became too verbose, Mother put me in my place with a single-line retort: “Empty vessels make the most noise”. My parents’ greatest concern was that we should not turn out to be “empty”.

  Such frames of mind made our play almost a cause for self-reproach. According to the scale of values we absorbed, play was time wasted, it betrayed levity, it was the stuff of frivolity. Sholom Aleichem’s story in which his lead character tells his ten-year-old son that “in three years you will be Bar Mitzvah, thirteen years old and a man, it’s time for you to become serious” is not a figment of the author’s satirical imagination; it is a mirror of the reality that imbued the times. All this said, however, children were children and boys were boys even then and particularly when there was the prospect of a football game. One then threw seriousness to the wind, forgot all admonitions and abandoned oneself to play, which became so sweet precisely because it was frowned upon. None of the boys in my neighbourhood with whom I played in fact possessed a football. Our “ball” was simply yarn wound firmly into a ball, while the only empty space where we could play was behind the house situated at Kupiecka Street No. 5. The space was surrounded on three sides by outdoor shacks which served as stores for firewood for their owners’ apartments. There were, however, in that space open drains full of water into which our ball often landed. As a result, being made of wool, the ball became soaked and heavy, with the further consequence that the soles of our shoes frequently became detached from their uppers and in need of equally frequent repair.

  Shoes and drains apart, our football games were attended by other problems. The surrounding shacks were of moderate height and often a vigorous kick of the ball would land it on one of its roofs. Its retrieval was fraught with certain dangers. Not so much the danger of falling from the roof— that was deemed child’s play —, but having to contend with the landlady who watched us from her window. Her years notwithstanding, the moment she saw us on the roof of the shack, she would come running, shouting, cussing, brandishing a stick and swearing retribution for breaking the fragile roof. As long as we stayed on the roof, watching her was an entertaining spectacle for we delighted in her impotence.
But later having to face our parents to whom she would report us was quite another matter. Father did not always have the time or mind to deal with me on the spot. Instead, he bided his time – in itself a punishment – and the longer I had to wait for his inevitable wrath, the more tense I became. By the time he ended his lecture about the frivolousness of play, my disrespect for other people’s property and the shame I brought upon my parents by my childish behaviour, I felt both truly guilty and wholly contrite. This is not to say that I did not join in such games again, but when I did, it was only after inner struggle between the demands of reason and the wiles of temptation.

  Topics of conversation at home most frequently related to world politics, the state of the Polish economy, antisemitism generally and in Poland in particular. There was never any talk about recreation or entertainment. I do not recall my parents ever attending the cinema or even the Jewish theatre, even though some of the plays were of a high standard. Had Mother married a more worldly man than Father, her life would have been considerably different, even within the limitations and strictures that governed Jewish life at the time. For she was by nature a particularly vivacious, fun-loving and out-going person. She herself would have loved theatre, enjoyed being among people, was pleasingly articulate and relished airing her thoughts, which she did well. But Father set the tone and measure of the family’s life. Mother had to adjust to it. She did so fully, but at the expense of constriction of her own more natural inclinations.

  There were only two occasions that I recall my parents going to the Palace Theatre, myself accompanying them. The first was the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Hebrew Gymnasium of which I was later to be a pupil. At that celebration, Yitzchak Grinbaum, the leading personality of Polish Jewry, leader of the Jewish deputies in the Polish Parliament and a world leader of the General Zionists came from Warsaw as the main guest speaker. The second occasion was a visit to Bialystok by Vladimir Jabotinski, the world leader of the Zionist Revisionist Movement. He was a short man, not particularly physically attractive, and wore thick glasses. He spoke for a long time. I did not then comprehend much of what he was saying, but the audience seemed transfixed, and, on leaving, I do recall Father commenting that he was a great orator. It required the presence of such outstanding personalities in town for my parents to depart from their more customary routine. The episodes are also indicative of their approach to my upbringing that they saw fit, on such occasions, to take me with them.

  A major concern for every businessman at that time was the annual tax assessment. This was before formal book-keeping for taxation purposes was obligatory. The mode of levying taxes was by guild assessments. The taxation office had a number of assessment commissions drawn from the different trades. These people were ostensibly well informed about the individual assets of every trader and manufacturer, and on the basis of such ‘scientific’ analyses, the turnover of each business was assessed and two separate taxes levied. One was for the actual turnover; the other was based on the profit of every turnover. How the individual businessman fared in such assessments was in effect a lottery. More often than not, assessments bore little relation to the actuality and each year saw a pilgrimage to the taxation office to have injustices rectified. The public servants dealing with these matters had little time, patience or sympathy for their supplicants. By virtue of their position as government employees in the Polish police state, even the most minor officials, in contrast to the Western democratic notion of public servant, were vested with exaggerated summary powers which made them officious and resistant to such appeals. This system of arbitrary tax assessments lasted well into the ‘thirties and compounded the difficulties of making a living. When, however, book-keeping became mandatory, other apprehensions ensued. The majority of traders never employed a book-keeper to order their accounts. Whatever books the trader held were kept erratically whenever he found the time and release from other more pressing matters to attend to them. Accordingly, these books were often not up-to-date. The taxation department employed inspectors to audit such books and when the news spread that they were now in a particular neighbourhood, that day was a black one indeed.

  In the late ‘twenties, the government introduced a modest bill for workers’ accident insurance. This created additional book-keeping problems, for the employer was obliged to deduct a weekly contribution to the fund from his workers’ wage and make over the total deducted amount at regular intervals. The matter became a topic of conversation at home and captured my imagination, for to me certain contradictions arose. In cases of serious injury, the support of a disabled person would surely cost the government a great deal of money; and yet by all accounts, the government was poor, so how could it undertake such unpredictable commitments as these? On the other hand, how could a government be poor at all when it printed its own money? I was sufficiently troubled by these vexing questions to approach Father over the matter. I recall his smile if not his answer. It was about the time, I was to learn later, when the British Government decided to remove the pound sterling from the gold standard and all nations feared that the entire world financial order would collapse as a result.

  In such adult matters I was particularly inquisitive. I would ever drift towards serious discussion, and the more complex were the issues and the less I understood, the more I remained riveted. It was no use chasing me away or bidding me leave to do my homework. The only way to get rid of me was to terminate the conversation. Often, during my teens, and particularly during the winter, I would walk in the evenings around town, musing as if compelled over the issues that had been discussed. In my solitude, I felt then a sense of inner reward at having my mind exercised by such abstract concerns, even if they were to me still hazy, unclear and confusing. Perhaps this gave me the illusion of emerging from childhood and childishness and a more conscious awareness of growing up. I never discussed this with any other boys. I accepted my turmoil as my own affair and my own exclusive problem.

  Where Winter had been reserved for reflection and introspection, the advent of spring usually brought a change of mood. The first rays of warm sunlight thawed mind and body alike. Easily affected by nature, I could not but be moved by the burgeoning of flower and colour and the sense of promise in the air. Even in our neighbourhood where a blade of grass was to be had at a premium, spring could not be missed. For it happened that at the very back of the yard at Kupiecka No. 7 where we lived, one of the neighbours, a grocer, kept a vegetable garden whose proliferation of vegetables and sunflowers with their high stalks and yellow heads redeemed the otherwise drab and colourless setting. This garden was fenced off with chicken wire, but its progressive unfolding and its colours and smells could nonetheless be savoured, marvelled at and enjoyed. I spent many hours of contemplation before that miniature oasis.

  Another outlet for me was the railway station. Trains have always been every boy’s attraction and I saw nothing extraordinary in my own wanting to see the trains come and go. There was a narrow elevated pedestrian bridge spanning the whole width of the extensive railway network in Bialystok and this afforded the best vantage-point to observe the scene. Though the station was a considerable distance from my home, I nonetheless enjoyed the walk there. Once I assumed my position at the centre of the bridge I was elated. The sight of the huge locomotives, the power of their pull, the shriek of their whistle transmitted to me an awareness of their very force inherent in them and this played on my youthful imagination. The people who disembarked from those trains appeared in my eyes as super-human for they came from other cities and travelled long distances, which seemed in itself heroic. Watching them also instilled in me a sense of unlimited space and a desire for the distant and unknown, these feelings particularly enhanced by the arrival of the international trains which transported me in my imagination to strange lands with strange languages beyond the borders of my own home. These trains looked much more spacious, their exteriors were of a different colour and the inscriptions of their destin
ations on them – Moscow-Berlin-Paris – caused my pulse to quicken. I learnt when these trains would be arriving and made it my business whenever I could to be at the station in good time for the treat and excitement and release from my otherwise confined existence in Bialystok that their arrival offered. Little did I know that when time came for me to travel in such a train, the mood would be anything but euphoric.

  Enchanting as spring was, the summer that followed held its own rewards. As a rule, we went on holidays for the duration of the summer when the schools were closed. The choice of holiday places ranged from the nearby woods to the faraway pine forests of Mileiczyce. The logistics of organising the expedition were complex. We would rent a unit consisting of a room or sometimes two rooms with kitchen facilities. Usually, no bedding was provided, nor kitchen utensils – though if they were, these would be of no use because of the laws of kashrut. Accordingly, setting out on holidays involved a major operation of unsettling ourselves, packing and then installing ourselves into the unit. With the need for separate milk and meat utensils, we virtually had to transfer an entire household. All of these were loaded on to a horse-drawn cart. If our destination was fairly near, we would travel on the same cart, sitting on the bedding. If, however, our destination was more distant Mileiczyce, the goods were despatched in advance by horse and cart and we followed some time later by train to one of two stations, one of which was seven kilometres, the other fourteen kilometres from the holiday site.