Читать книгу A Jewish Journey - Sheldon Cohen - Страница 13

Kolakoff said, “Nice looking boys, rabbi. They’ll make fine soldiers. I know you’ll be proud of their service to the Czar.” Kolakoff’s smile turned into a quiet laugh as he turned his horse and trotted off in the opposite direction.

Kolakoff was the local official responsible for ensuring that the proper numbers of twelve-year-old Jews “joined” the service once per year. Since the Jews were forced to live in a solitary area, it was a simple matter to take a census, and therefore arrive at the exact number of twelve year old Jews who would “volunteer” to serve Nicholas I.

As the rabbi walked alone toward his house, he thought of how the Czar’s blatant attempt to decimate the Jews by his twenty-five year conscription mandate had the effect of creating an aura of distrust and hatred within the Jewish community itself. Who would go? Who would not go? The authorities would accuse those Jewish families whose boys would or could not go of injustice and of protecting their own.

Anything that disrupted the organizational structure of the Jewish community and pitted Jew against Jew served the Czar’s purpose, which was to destroy the Jewish community and end Judaism in his empire. The Czar hoped to accomplish this goal by converting or killing the conscripts, and by disrupting Jewish life forcing many to emigrate. Rumor had it that his plan was to relocate the rest into an as-yet-unidentified place of exile. The rabbi felt there was truth in it.

He entered his small, wooden house where his wife, Anna, greeted him. She was two inches taller then the rabbi and had long, pitch-black hair always covered by a homemade, colorful babushka. In contrast to the rabbi, the corners of her mouth, always turned up in a slight smile, added an angelic appearance to her face, and the rabbi, in private, called her his Mona Lisa.

Their marriage was an arranged one as was the custom in the early part of the nineteenth century. Time, familiarity and children resulted in a love built upon mutual respect. She was six years younger then the rabbi. They had three children: two recently married daughters, Shana and Maram, one living in Bialystok and the other in Kishinev. A three-year old son, Jacob, blessed the rabbi and his wife later in life.

Another, and immediate problem, was on the rabbi’s mind. There was a growing Jewish minority in a state of unrest over the conscription problem. The leaders of this group looked to the rabbi for direction. The militants among them were advocating local and even national resistance.

To help the rabbi assess the mindset of the militants he called a meeting. Since the rabbi had heard the murmuring of discontent, he elected to talk to the leaders to ascertain what he could do to prevent the certainty of bloodshed if the movement evolved into a state of uncontrolled and unregulated passion. He waited for the men to appear.

Three men were the spokespersons for a sizeable group of discontented Jews. The rabbi considered these men the most intelligent in their small community. They were men who could hold their own discussing religion with the rabbi, and they had emerged as the leaders.

The men arrived one at a time over the course of twenty minutes so as not to arouse any suspicion by arriving in a group. Anna had set the kitchen table with a bottle of wine and sponge cake, and then retired to another room. Jacob was asleep. After the last man had arrived, they all sat down at the table. The rabbi recited the blessing over the wine, and the men proceeded to dip their sponge cake into the small wine glasses.

The carpenter, Isaac Prushkin, was the first man to speak. The rabbi observed his intense expression. He never smiled and his face reflected a constant state of depression. Prushkin’s lips, hidden behind his long mustache and thick black beard, his half-closed, dull eyes, his tendency to stare downward, all enhanced this impression. He picked up his head, stared at the rabbi and said, “Rabbi, some of us have had enough. It’s time to take a stand. Can we sit by and watch them take our sons and force them to convert? Are we entitled only to enjoy our sons for twelve years? Is our purpose to raise boys for the Czar’s army? Better we should not bring any children into the world. A Jewish husband and wife are no better then a cow and a bull whose purpose it is to raise meat for slaughter. We do the same. Death is better than what we are doing.”

The rabbi was startled because as Prushkin spoke in an ever increasing crescendo, his face remained expressionless.

The other two men remained silent, but nodded in agreement.

“The Czar would be happy for you to think like that, Isaac, because then he would have you killed. He would have one less Jew to deal with, and after you were dead, your son would still be in his army. What would be accomplished?”

Prushkin’s unblinking eyes stared into oblivion.

After a moment of silence, Morris Berganoff, a powerful and handsome blacksmith with black wavy hair, hands like leather, and muscular arms discernable even under his shirt, added with anger, “You are our leader, Rabbi. We look to you for help. Your son is only three, but if God grants him nine more years, you’ll have to give up Jacob to the Czar. Even if God does not grant you this time you’ll die knowing that your son will be in his army and that they’ll destroy his Jewishness.”

The third man Barel Katz, a timid widower, rotund and short with frontal baldness and thick glassed, added, “The Czar has put every Jewish father in a position of martyrdom like the ancient Jews who were forced to convert on the spot or die. Many preferred death rather then turn their backs on God. They went to their graves with the Shema on their lips. I feel like I must make that choice soon. They will soon take some of our sons. We’re all poor men. Where do we run? What do we do?”

The three men now stared at the rabbi, and it was clear to him that their intensity spoke of a single mindedness. Their serious, determined faces manifested the frustrations imposed upon them by an autocratic regime. Limited by opportunity and forced into poverty, Prushkin, Berganoff, and Katz could be the spark that might set off a fuse leading to an explosion, which would spread like wildfire through the entire Jewish Community of Tiktin. Worse yet, such an explosion could involve the entire Pale.

The rabbi responded in a calm voice to control what he felt was an angry consensus amongst his “three wise men” as he called them. They were respected and powerful enough to spark the entire community.

“What we are going through we have gone through for hundreds of years,” the rabbi said. “Our ancestors fled Germany after being blamed for the Plague. By a stroke of good luck, the Polish king had a Jewish girlfriend, so he invited the Jews to live in Poland. And now we’ve become part of Russia, so we live under Russian laws that discriminate against Jews. They have a massive military force. We have a Torah. Their guns could shred the Torah in seconds, but in spite of that, the Torah has a force within it that will triumph over any nation with guns. The Torah has resided an eternity in the mind of God, and it will continue to reside there forever, so we take comfort in the fact that we will triumph, but we will not triumph if we all elect martyrdom, for who’ll be left to teach Torah? It must remain a living, breathing document for all to study rather then a relic of a bygone people.

“Everyone can understand how you men feel. Can we resist? We have no army. Even if we decided to take to the forests and fight, we have no weapons. We are up against one of the largest armies in the world that could destroy us in days. Oh, how happy that would make the Czar. That would solve his problem in no time at all. Listen, God tells us that no one can oppress a people for too long. Things will change. Be patient. As I stand here before God, I tell you this as fact.” His eyes closed, his head bowed and his arms lie still at his sides.

The men remained silent until the rabbi opened his eyes, and then Katz said, “I want to believe what you say, rabbi, but are we just pawns to the Czar? Must we sit by while they sacrifice our sons? How long must we wait for a miracle to occur and bring us justice? It’ll be too late for our sons when that happens.”

“We must all refuse. No man should allow his son to go,” moaned Berganoff.

“Then they’ll all be taken by force, and you will be killed. What will have been accomplished?” said the rabbi with emotion.