CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF A LIFE IN BUKOVINA IN THE LATE 19TH AND EARLY 20TH CENTURIES

By Dr Moses Zwecker © Hava Oren

This text was written by Moses Zwecker in 1976, at age 80. The English translation is the work of his granddaughter, Hava Oren, author at Revista Baabel: https://baabel.ro/author/hava-oren

This is an extract only, and it is presented with the permission of Hava Oren. The complete version is available in English on Czernowitz Ehpes Website: http://czernowitz.ehpes.com/stories/documents.htm (number 52)

PART ONE

Chapter 1. My mother’s family.

My grandparents on my father’s side I remember quite clearly, but my mother’s parents I have never known. From my mother’s occasional remarks, I learned that they lived in Sniatyn, a little town on the border of Bukovina. My mother was born there in 1858. My grandfather, Shlomo Birnbaum (from Kolomea), died at the age of 36, leaving my grandmother alone with five children. Sarah, the eldest, lived in Kuti. I hardly knew her. The second was my mother. Then there were two younger sisters and a brother. My mother was very proud of her brother. She spoke of him often and never forgot to mention that because of his good looks he served in the imperial guard and for several years he stood guard before the palace in Vienna. In my childish naiveté, I expected to find in him a reflection of the imperial majesty, whom he had seen face to face almost daily, but when I finally met him, I was quite disappointed to see only a poor, middle-aged Jew.

            How my grandmother, a widow with five children, made ends meet I don’t know but she did. After her daughters were married, she sold all her worldly goods and went to spend the rest of her life in Eretz Israel, and be buried in its holy soil. There she lived on Chalukah money which she received along with thousands of other devout Jews in the Holy Land. She never asked for anything and I never heard of my father helping her in any way. I remember that once in a while we would receive postcards with Turkish postmarks from her. Once a parcel arrived. I think it was in 1906. It contained dried herbs which were prized as good luck charms, some holy earth, and other such things, and for me a little prayer book bound in red leather.

            When I came home for the school vacation in 1908, I found my mother in mourning. Grandmother had passed away in Tiberias. I never tried to find her grave because, during her last years, she had remarried and consequently changed her last name. She was a God-fearing woman and my mother took after her. Where else could the poor widow have found the strength to carry on if not in her faith?

Chapter 2. My father’s parents. The farm.

My great-grandfather on my father’s side, Moishe Zwecker of Arelitz, was also called Moishe Arelitzer, after the place in Galicia where he lived. It was customary at that time that devout and respected men, even if not rabbis, were called by the name of their town. He was a renowned Talmud scholar. As an old man he spent long hours teaching Talmud to my father and his brother Chaim. I inherited his noble name – Moishe – but for me it was the source of much hardship. Although the clerk in Stanesti entered my name officially as Moses, this made little difference. Whenever a state official, a teacher, or just any good Christian called me by my name, I could see their faces harden and a cold wave would engulf me. Nevertheless, I refused to change my name to Moritz or Marius as some people had advised.

            Reb Moishe Arelitzer had three sons, the eldest being my grandfather Mendl. All three left home in their youth and migrated to Bukovina. In the late 19^th and early 20^th century, many Jews moved from the poor and backward Galicia to Bukovina which was in full economic boom. The Austrian government encouraged this migration as a way to counterbalance the Romanian and Ukrainian majority. The Jewish immigrants were officially registered as Germans, to which they didn’t object because this gave them many advantages. They enjoyed the same rights as Germans did, at least on the surface. My grandfather’s move to Bukovina was part of this trend. He settled down in the hamlet Krostovata, near the then-Jewish village of Hlinitza on the river Prut, about 150 kilometres away from his native town. It was there that he married the beautiful Esther Herzig who became my grandmother.

         She was a native of that village, born on the edge of a beautiful beech forest. Her father, Shloime Herzig, a hard-working and thrifty man, had accumulated a considerable fortune. He owned fields and hired local Gypsies to cultivate them. For a time, he also managed the local pub. Shloime Herzig was not a migrant like most of the Jews of his time. His ancestors had lived there for generations. Half the village bore the name of Herzig, the others were the “newcomers”.

            Shloime Herzig had several grown-up children. Two daughters lived in Czernovitz, and two sons in Hlinitza. Grandmother Esther, the youngest, was the only one left at home. She was expected to take care of her parents in their old age and later inherit the farm. Marriage to Esther was my grandfather’s good fortune.     

            When did they marry? Their eldest son, Chaim, was born in 1858 so it must have been in 1856 or 1857 when they both were barely 20. At first sight, they might have seemed an odd couple. Although she was almost 15 centimeters taller than her husband, this never hindered their harmony. I never heard them argue or express different opinions. I think that Grandfather in his kindness was the one who always gave in. His eyes sparkled with kindness, happiness, and wisdom. A smile was always playing at the corners of his mouth and when not eating or talking he would often hum a tune under his breath. Grandmother had a serious face; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh. There was a look of suffering about her as if she were ill. Some said that she feigned illness in order to get attention and she certainly did get attention from all of her children and most of all from her husband. Of ill health or not, she lived to the age of 90.

            Despite her real or imagined sufferings, Grandmother was an active person, busy from early morning until late at night. Caring for nine children was not easy and although they had numerous servants, many chores were hers alone. She had to bake the challahs,cook dinner, and keep a watchful eye on the Gypsy servants who had a tendency to steal. The livestock was also her responsibility; there were cows in the shed and a yard full of chickens, geese, ducks, and their newly hatched chicks every summer. Grandmother’s work would never end. Only on Shabbat, she could rest, at least if the children let her. All her life was spent in Krostovata. Every time my mother talked about the first two years of her marriage, spent with her in-laws, she would shake her head and say: “Krostovata, forsaken by God and by men, not a single Jew, only Gypsies and as far as you look, only fields and forests and sky. I still feel the taste of the two years spent there. Indeed, she never had a neighbour to talk to, only Gypsies, she was alone her whole life. Only before Pessach (Passover) and Rosh haShana (the New Year), she would go to Czernovitz to do her shopping and visit her sisters. Otherwise, she was alone with her children, her husband, and her work. These were her source of happiness.

            Great-grandfather Shloime Herzig couldn’t have chosen a better husband for his daughter or a better worker for his farm. Despite his devout father, Mendl was no scholar. He was too energetic to sit in a corner and study the Talmud for hours on end. Even if he wore the long, black caftan and the black velvet hat with a skullcap underneath like all Jews at the time, he was not as pious as the others. He didn’t travel to the courts of famous rabbis. He paid the rabbis their share but had little use for their teachings. I don’t recall that he ever went to the rabbi of Vizhnitz whose New Year blessing was greatly sought after by the Jews in that area. My father didn’t hold the rabbis in high esteem either. God save us if anyone had found out or even suspected what my father thought about the miracle-working rabbis. The rage of the whole community would have turned on him.

            Reb Moishe Arelitzer may also have been a small-scale farmer but it was from his father-in-law that Mendl learned how to sow and reap. The Gypsies whom he hired to work in the fields were lazy and dishonest. He had to keep an eye on every detail or they would cheat him and make fun of him too. This is not to say that he only supervised. I often saw him giving the servant a hand with unloading sacks of maize and carrying them on the narrow path to the mill. This usually happened at the busy time of harvesting or sowing, when the horses were needed elsewhere.

            I have not witnessed the times when Grandfather had all five sons at home. When I was a child there was only Motl, the youngest, who would eventually inherit the farm. In fact, he took over most of the responsibilities while Grandfather was still alive. As far as I remember, there was a division of work between them. Motl took care of the farm while Grandfather supervised the mill. Farmers paid a measure of grain for each sack that was ground and this was in turn sold for cash. Since Uncle Motl was still much too young to do the bookkeeping, this remained Grandfather’s job. However, he had enough to do. Grandfather was operating the farm according to modern principles and planting more than just the traditional grain. For years he had a contract with the Austrian authorities to supply tobacco. Whenever I came to visit on weekends in the autumn, there were long rows of tobacco leaves drying in the yard. He also had a contract with the sugar refinery in Lujan to supply sugar beets. The land of the region may have been poor, yet Grandfather did better than most other farmers. He kept cows and fertilized his fields with their manure. Of course, there were no chemical fertilizers yet. Tobacco production went on for many years; it started before I can remember. Tobacco was freely available for anyone who wanted to smoke. My father started smoking when he was still a boy. The coachmen found it very amusing to offer him their pipes and with no one around to stop the game, the smoking for fun quickly turned into a habit. The consequence was chronic bronchitis: my father suffered from it all his life and it was eventually the cause of his death in 1929 or 1930.

            Grandfather would get up early every morning, say his prayers, eat a modest breakfast, and then drive out to the mill. He would return only towards evening. The mill was merely 3 or 4 kilometres away but the road was in a very poor condition. In the rainy season, it was almost impassable. It was a dirt track, which crossed a miserable Gypsy settlement, then went along the river Prut to the bridge. Beyond the wooden bridge stood several small water mills. They were built on boats secured to stakes on the riverbank and accessible through narrow gangplanks. It happened sometimes during floods that a mill broke loose and floated downstream.

            Grandfather’s house was built on the right bank of the Prut. It was a one-storied farmhouse with six windows in front. The typical peasant house was much smaller, with only two windows in front. The roof was made of wooden shingles, unlike the thatched roofs of the peasant houses. Its best feature, however, was the placement. From the high river bank, the whole valley of the Prut was visible. The left bank was low and one could see far away. As a child, I cared neither for the wooded horizon nor for the shiny snake of the river. Much more interesting was the enormous building of the sugar refinery in Lujan, some 2 kilometres away. The smoke rising from its tall chimney in autumn was for me a wonderful sight.

            There was never a quiet moment in the farmyard. Next to the house, there were stables for horses and cows. Across the yard ran a wire to which a large dog was chained. The dog barked loudly while all around it chickens cackled. Geese swam in a man-made pond. Beyond the pond was the vegetable patch. All the vegetables needed in the kitchen all year round came from there, especially onions and garlic. Behind it was the orchard. It stretched over a steep slope down to a nearby stream. Beyond the stream was the forest, one of those thick beech forests, which gave the name to the land: Bukovina in Ukrainian means land of beeches. The large and shady orchard was neglected and the yields were poor. Grandfather had no time to look after it and his sons were still too young and inexperienced. When Uncle Motl took over in 1903, the situation changed dramatically. He replaced the old trees with choice saplings, which bore wonderful fruit. Nevertheless, I liked the old orchard better. It used to have small yet very sweet plums and cheap apples. When I came with my sisters to visit on weekends in the autumn, we would always have some. As we would come in, we would hear Grandmother call in a tired voice from her couch: “Motl, take the children to the orchard and give them Shabbat fruit!” And Motl would take us to the orchard which was for me a small paradise and let us gather the apples that had fallen from the trees during the night. We were not allowed to pick fresh fruit from the trees because it was Shabbat. We didn’t mind, however, since fruit of any kind was a rarity for us at that time and we loved it. We had only to cut away the wormy parts. We would even take some home in a basket.

            All this was my grandfather’s little kingdom and it made him a rich man. Everywhere in Krostovata one could see his property in the form of small plots of land, some inherited from Great-grandfather, others purchased by himself. Peasants in dire want were known to sell their land. Needy and uneducated peasants were often cheated out of their land for a pittance. Sometimes they took loans with high interest, which they couldn’t pay; sometimes they just sold their land for liquor. Grandfather did run a small pub for some time. Is it possible that he may have acquired some of his land in a dishonourable way? I don’t know if he did but years later some of his descendants would pay for this with their blood.

Chapter 3. My milk brother. Education on the farm

            There were five boys and four girls in my grandparents’ nursery. In fact, there was no nursery as such; the whole house was the children’s territory. All nine of them were born in the hamlet of Krostovata, next to the forest. They were all suckled by Gypsy women and rocked to sleep with Gypsy lullabies. Each child had his own wet nurse. Even I, who was born more than 15 years after the youngest of them and in the bigger village of Hlinitza, even I still had a Gypsy wet nurse. I discovered this by chance 35 years later. One day a poor man came to my clinic. He looked like a Gypsy and carried a violin under his arm. I supposed he was a patient and asked him what I could do for him. He smiled slyly and said he wanted to see how his brother was doing. Who, me? Of course! He said that I was his milk brother; his mother had been my wet nurse. That was the only time I met him. Perhaps I haven’t given him a friendly enough welcome? Maybe so because at that time, I was in a very bad situation and I had other things on my mind. I didn’t even offer him a drink. He left disappointed and never returned.

            But let us return to the nine children born in Krostovata by the forest. The parents were not worried about the girls but there was a problem concerning the boys, which had to be addressed urgently: there were no other Jews in the vicinity, there was no cheder (religious school), and the boys would grow up like goyim (non-Jews). They had to learn to read the Torah! At the time it never occurred to any Jewish parents to give their children a secular education or to teach them a profession. Children were educated as devout Jews and the rest was left in the hands of Providence. Usually, the boys studied until the age of 15 but sometimes they had to leave school much earlier and start work to help their father. It was impractical for the boys to walk to the closest cheder, which was in Hlinitza; therefore a private cheder was organized in the house. In order to get a teacher, it was necessary to travel to Czernovitz. Twice a year, after Pessach and after Sukkoth (the Feast of Tabernacles), a “teachers’ fair” was held in the city. On a certain street cheder teachers who needed a job waited for prospective employers. The envoy of the community that needed a teacher took the candidate under a doorway or into a Jewish pub to check his qualifications. The requirements varied: for the youngest children, it was enough to teach them to read and a little of the Chumash (Five Books of the Torah). For older boys, the teacher needed to be well-versed in the entire Old Testament, the Rashi commentaries, and the Talmud. If the candidate was satisfactory, he would be employed for a term.

            When I went to Cheder, German, and arithmetic were part of the curriculum, but they were not taken as seriously as the Jewish subjects. In my father’s time, it was probably the same, at least in the cheder of Krostovata. All the boys could read and write acceptable German and they were good at arithmetic too. Girls were also taught to read, they needed to read their prayers too. But were girls taught German? I’m not so sure. My mother for instance could read the prayers flawlessly, both in Hebrew and in Yiddish. She could speak German but she could not read it at all and as for writing, she could only sign her name.

            My father often wrote letters in German, private ones as well as requests and complaints to the authorities. He even drew up a number of wills for his acquaintances and they were so well written that none was ever rejected because of any mistakes of form. He was an assiduous reader of the German newspaper. None of his brothers did as well as he in German. In Hebrew, he was also the best, not only in the Old Testament but also in subjects far beyond the scope of any cheder. He could discuss the Zohar; sometimes he mentioned Maimonides’ famous work “More Nevochim” (Guide for the Perplexed); he quoted from the Midrash and from the Talmud. He may have learned these things from his Great-grandfather, with whom he used to spend a lot of time.

End of Part One

Hava Oren was born in Timișoara, Romania, but emigrated to Israel with her family in 1972. A hospital pharmacist in Hadassah, Jerusalem, she renewed her contact with the Romanian language with the appearance of the Internet. After retiring, she became an author and is now on the editorial board of the Romanian (mostly Jewish) online magazine https://baabel.ro/