Chapter 3
My uncle organized a petition
to free my father from prison. He addressed a letter to the authorities
stating numerous examples of how my father extended help to the needy,
provided work and a living for many people, even during the recession
of the thirties; how fairly and honestly he treated his customers who
were simple farmers and who depended on him for their livelihood. Then
he went around the neighboring villages and collected hundreds of signatures
from people who knew and liked my father. Whenever uncle Jacob approached
someone for a signature the reaction was invariably the same: "What,
they arrested Shiku Sharf! They are crazy! Sure I'll sign."
The chief of the N.K.V.D.
(a combination of police and internal security - the most feared institution
in the Soviet Union at the time) who, following many requests for an
appointment in the course of several months, finally consented to see
uncle Jacob. He exploded in a barrage of abuse and threats, which could
be summarized as follows: How dare you give comfort to an enemy of the
people. By trying to help him you become our enemy as well. I should
arrest you for fabricating such a false document (?) and for forging
all those signatures (?). The fact that my uncle was allowed to walk
out of the police station a free man was a miracle in itself. We still
had a lot to learn about Soviet justice.
My mother spent almost
every day standing in line outside the prison gates with a package of
food and some clothing, waiting for the opportunity to hand it over
to a prison guard, who would, she hoped, hand it over to my father.
Although the Soviets had rules for everything, one never knew when the
package would be accepted, whether it would reach its destination or
be appropriated by the guards. Many years later we found out that he
did not receive more than ten packages in the course of almost a year's
imprisonment in Zastavna. Some of the contents were stolen by the guards,
some by hardened criminals, and some my father shared willingly with
other cell-mates who were just as badly off, throughout his stay in
the Zastavna prison. The N.K.V.D. were building up a case against him
by day and night interrogations, by drumming up false statements from
"witnesses", and by collecting incriminating "documents".
The accusations centered around the following statements: counter-revolutionary,
people's enemy, exploitation of the proletariat, rnember of an illegal
organization (Zionist). My father, being a brave and strong person,
did not give in to tortures, degradations, hunger and constant suffering,
to which he was subjected together with all the other "enemies"
who were incarcerated in the Zastavna prison. To understand somewhat
(and I stress the word "somewhat", because it is impossible
to fully comprehend the barbarous treatment to which millions of innocent
people were subjected in the Soviet Gulag), one must read Aleksandr
Solzhenitsyn's book The Gulag Archipelago.
After almost a year
of "investigations", he was sentenced to five years of imprisonment
in a labour camp and, together with thousands of other miserable victims,
was transported to Magadan in Kolima district, one of the most notorious
camps, where they had to slave in gold mines under the most inhumane
conditions. The land was covered with permafrost, minus 40, 50 or even
60 degrees Celsius was not unusual. Winter was as long as the Jewish
Diaspora and summer was nothing but an illusion. I am still puzzled
by the amount of human resources, energy and substantial expenses the
state invested to give each case a legal faÁade, which in the end was
meaningless, because many prison terms were extended, up to twenty five
years, and a large number of those who were enslaved did not survive
those terrible hardships. My mother and I were not aware of what transpired
behind the prison gates until many years later. We knew only that he
was no longer in Zastavna. While my mother was spending most of her
time outside the prison gates, my relatives took care of me.
The Shapiras, whom
I addressed as uncle and aunt, became my second home. They lived in
the old section of Zastavna, which was originally a farming village,
and which retained its character almost intact. The house was made from
mud bricks, whitewashed on the inside and the outside. It had a hard
clay floor and a straw thatched roof. Adjacent to the house was the
cowshed with two very healthy looking animals, who were the main source
of the Shapiras' income. Their pride and joy was the milk processing
house, which my father financed some years ago. It was the only solid
brick building in the yard and it contained various machines and utensils
for separating the cream from the milk and for producing cheese and
butter and other dairy products. The Shapiras also cultivated the land
adjacent to these structures. They had a variety of vegetables, mainly
for their own use. In the yard there was a cellar, dug deep into the
ground, for storing vegetables and fruit, and many preserved foods which
would have to last through the winter. I always enjoyed visiting them,
even prior to my forced stays. I liked to drink a glass of milk coming
directly from the cow's udder. I liked to eat the poppy seed cookies
my aunt baked, which were covered with the skin removed from a pot of
boiling milk. I also enjoyed many other fresh, delicious dairy products.
The garden too, offered many delicacies, like poppy seeds, fresh peas,
sunflower seeds, and pumpkin seeds, after drying them in the oven. I
did miss my parents, especially my father whom I hadn't seen for many
months. My relatives did their best to distract me from such thoughts.
I was particularly upset that we couldn't spend this summer, as we did
the previous summers, visiting my grandparents, Sima and Peretz Surkis,
in Viznitsa. From there we often travelled to Vizenca, a short distance
away. It was located in the Karpathian mountains, surrounded by woods,
mountain streams and glorious mountain vistas. People believed in the
healing properties of the pure and sweet air and water. There were many
sanitariums and rest homes in the area.
I saw my first movie
on such a visit to Viznitsa. I must have been four or five years old
at the time. The reason this movie is so memorable is because it was
a very frightful experience. There was a train on the screen, coming
straight at me and I would not allow anyone in the hall to convince
me that I will not be crushed by this monstrous machine. I made such
a racket, that my mother took me outside and for a long time had to
comfort me. Zastavna had no theatres of any kind. For entertainment
we had to go to Chernovitz. The city had two permanent repertory theatres:
one in Yiddish, called "La Scala", (I do not know what was
the connection between the famous Milan opera house and the Yiddish
theatre, maybe an imitation of its architecture), and the other, a more
imposing structure, an imitation of a Viennese building, was a German
theatre. It was converted into a Ukrainian theatre after the Russian
annexation.
We also visited,
less frequently, my father's parents in Kisilev. My father's mother
died at the age of 28 and her death had a very deep affect on my father,
who loved her dearly and was very attached to her. Soon after,
my grandfather, Eliezer Sharf, remarried. My father did not see eye
to eye with his stepmother, and so, at the age of 13, struck out on
his own and never looked back. My grandparents were the owners and the
operators of a country tavern. The place was frequented by farmers who
often drank a lot and became rowdy. In the yard and nearby a special
pit was dug up, which served as a depository for broken bottles and
glasses. When my father was about nine years old, he was playing with
his friends in the yard and accidentally fell into the pit full of glass.
A large scar under his chin remained a most visible witness to this
unforgettable event.
Kisilev had nothing
to offer me. I was always glad to return to Zastavna where I could play
with my friends, ride the tricycle around the long veranda and later,
the bicycle, on the large area of the market place, when it was free
of commercial activity. From time to time we went to the beach, on the
river Prut. On one occasion I was so severely sunburned that I could
not wear any clothes for two days.
Following my father's
arrest I also spent some time with my aunt Frieda. She lived in the
modern section of Zastavna. These were mostly villas built in the thirties,
on the outskirts of the town. They had running water, electricity and
indoor toilets. Aunt Frieda, a young widow, lived alone with her son,
Loniu. She was still running the leather goods and shoe store founded
by her late husband but only as an employee of the state and
she could hardly make ends meet. I liked to play with Loniu, who was
some three years younger than me, mainly because of his car. Two children
could sit in it and pedal with our feet propelling the car forward.
It had a steering wheel and one of us would steer the car (we took turns
at the wheel). This was a unique toy for Zastavna (I don't remember
seeing it anywhere else) and we would spend our time traveling to "far
away" places.
Uncle Jacob's home,
a very modest, rented apartment, served me only occasionally as an extra
home. Although I loved my uncle Jacob and his recently married beautiful
wife, they were short of space, so it was always easier to place me
with the other relatives.
The saddest summer
of my young life was over. (Little did I know that I was going to face
many summers from now on that would be infinitely sadder than the previous
one). The school reopened, but it was a very different school. The atmosphere
in the school was friendlier: corporal punishment, so common
till now, was abolished. The language of instruction was Ukrainian.
School hours lasted from morning till early afternoon. Hebrew schools
were illegal, but the "Cheder" was very active about three
evenings a week. We were told time and again not to mention a word about
our studies at the Cheder. Since there were numerous small "home
made" Cheder schools, it was unavoidable for some of them to fall
prey to the authorities who were rapidly consolidating their police
state by removing any vestiges of any form of freedom, by transforming,
what seemed to have been hitherto decent people, into spies and informers
by blackmail and threats.
Propaganda in its
ugliest and most invading manner was so constant that it was totally
inescapable. It was strictly compulsory to attend the propaganda meetings
in the work place. The streets were "decorated" with banners,
slogans, posters and the pictures of the fathers of Communism: Marx,
Engels, Lenin and Stalin. The loudspeakers in various public places
and at work did not cease to extol the blessings of Communism. The radio
programs, the movies (yes, we had a movie theatre now), the press, they
all managed to invent a thousand ways of saying the same thing.
The regime was especially
successful in doing its job in the schools with young, sensitive and
susceptible minds. It was easy to brainwash them in the shortest period
of time. All children automatically belonged to one of three Communist
youth groups, depending on age. Up to grade one they were members of
the "October group" (so named in honor of the October Revolution
of 1917). Then the child was promoted to become a pioneer. Our school
indoctrinated us about the duties and obligations, as well as the honour,
of being a pioneer. When the teachers considered us to be ideologically
ready (not more than a month's time), they issued to each pupil a red
kerchief which was worn around the neck and it was held in place by
a leather ring underneath the chin. There was a lot of excitement and
joy (real joy!) when we were told that we had the honour to become pioneers.
We were to assemble in the school yard all dressed in white shirts or
blouses with the red kerchiefs around our necks, lined up according
to classroom, standing at attention, like a well-disciplined army, swearing
allegiance to the Party and to its leader. It was indeed a memorable
day. I was beaming with pride when I arrived home from school, anxious
to share the wonderful news with my mother, who unfortunately was not
home.
I felt a certain annoyance
with her daily trips to the prison, I was even ashamed, after all, I
was the son of an enemy of the people. I took my school work
and all the extra-curricular activities very seriously. At the age of
fourteen I might be accepted into the "Konsomol" and from
there one could reach the pinnacle of achievement, the highest honour
for a citizen of the Soviet Union, membership in the Communist
Party. Well, I was disappointed that the apartment was empty and I had
no one to share my news with. Soon it would be dark and tonight I had
my Cheder lessons. I would tell the Rabbi, surely he would be proud
to have such an illustrious student.
I could hardly wait
for the appointed hour. I was the first to arrive at the Rabbi's home.
Pointing to my red kerchief I exploded: "Look Rabbi, from now on,
you are talking to a pioneer." Very deliberately, the Rabbi
slapped me across my face hard enough, so that I recoiled to the wall,
which was a short distance behind me. The educational message in the
Rabbi's reaction did not really register, the pain and the humiliation
did. That night I came home crying and I declared firmly that I would
never go back to the Rabbi's house. My mother was too tired, too preoccupied
with worries, to put up a fight and the subject did not come up again
for a very long time. Soon, within a matter of months, all Cheder schools
were eliminated by the N.K.V.D. Jewish education and particularly Jewish
religious education survived mainly in the home, from father
to son, and to a lesser extent, in the synagogue. Some synagogues were
appropriated by the state for secular use.