The steam bath would have been for us a wonderful thing, if it hadn’t been for the soldiers, who would suddenly descend on it from the trains, and ruin our peace. They subjected us to every kind of hardship: being drenched a bucket of cold water, having a shirt "borrowed’, or a towel. It once even happened that they stole from one of my friends a pair of boots. After such a "welcome", we learned to stay away from there.

In the evening I would go with my "cold uncle", my grandmother’s husband, who was a zealous disciple of the Rabbi of Neshkhiz, to bring in the Sabbath with him in his Rabbi’s house. It was there for the first time that I came into contact with the way of life of the Hasidim. I was very impressed by the way they would pray. Now that was praying! Nothing like the way they prayed in the other place, by the Orthodox congregation...there, everything was somehow so cold and dry. Here, on the other hand, they prayed with fire, with zeal, and with purpose. There stands one Hasid swaying in his corner, hurling his whole body back and forth...a second was tapping his feet...a third claps his hands ecstatically...a fourth one snaps his fingers. It was altogether joyful, alive... just the way I liked it. This was the way one was meant to serve God! This was the way to pray to "The King of Kings"!

Not to mention when the Rabbi himself would show up for Sabbath...there was no limit to their joy. They jumped up on the tables and chairs! Faces aflame and eyes lit up, their feet would start to dance all by themselves, as though the Messiah himself had suddenly appeared. There at the head of the table would stand the Rabbi, his eyes closed, saying the blessing over two huge, braided khallehs, which were surrounded by another ten smaller ones, so as to conform with the number^* of the loaves in the Holy Temple. Around him stood the Hasidim, quietly mouthing the words of the blessing along with the Rabbi, and then answering out loud, "Amen!". The Rabbi, a rather young man with not such a long beard, portioned out pieces of the largest loaf. The Hasidim threw themselves on the bread as though they were hungry children.

Soon the beadle would bring in large trays with fish, plates of meat, and pots of dumplings. People were eating with their bare hands!...they scrambled for the rabbi’s leftovers...they were tearing food right out of each others hands, as though they were not respectable Jews with beards and forelocks, but instead a gang of rabble! There was my grandmother’s husband, Reb Gershon Pozhezhinski, who was a wealthy Jew with his own building on Police Road, the same one who couldn’t stand to see a youngster "snacking", even when it was his own wifes grandson...but now, when it came to the Rabbi’s leftovers, he himself turned out to be the biggest glutton of all! His conduct gave me the courage, that I should also take whatever I could get...

After a while, it became quiet. The Rabbi began to speak about the Torah. The congregation drew itself together ever closer...some sitting, some standing, one leaning on the other...one holding onto another’s belt...a third one leaning on his neighbor’s shoulder. They strained to hear the Rabbi, terrified to miss a single word. Then somebody begins a song. The whole congregation joins in. One melody blends into another. Everyone swings their arms in time with the rhythm. It is joyful, alive, as though they were all one big family.

I was strongly drawn towards the Hasidic way of life...to their practised and customs. I nearly became a devoted Hasid myself...it seemed to appeal to the Hasidic blood, which flowed in my veins from my mother’s side. Indeed, more than once, I would picture my grandfather, Reb Jeremiah, who according to what my mother had told me, was one of the leading Hasidim of the Rabbi of Kotsk...one of the first ten at his table. More than once I thought to myself, "a shame that the old man is not here. He would surely have had great pride in his grandson, to see him lit up with such Hasidic fire."

In addition to Hasidic prayers and feasts, I also loved the preachers. To hear a sermon from a famous preacher, a master story-teller....that was for me a real treat. Brisk, which was a great Jewish center with so many synagogues, Houses of Study, and Hasidic houses, also boasted her own preachers. And there was hardly a Sabbath that from somewhere wouldn’t come a travelling preacher who went about giving sermons. Every Sabbath, summer or winter, I would go from one synagogue to another, so as not to miss a single preacher or story-teller.

The first time I saw him, I was very moved by the famous preacher Reb Alikum-Getzl. He excited me not so much with what he said, but mostly appearance, with his unique style of speaking. He wasn’t so mach a story-teller as he was a haranguer, and avenger, a real "prophet of doom". In his whole presence, there was somehow an asceticism, an other-worldliness...a kind of wild, uncontrolled spiritual force. His face: dark as night, with deep wrinkles; his eyes - dar, burning, which with one glance could fill you with dread. You thought that anyone who stood too close to him would be burned alive and reduced to a pile of ashes.

Such an impression did he make on each one who heard him for the first time. When he held a meeting, the synagogue would be packed. People were jammed shoulder to shoulder. You wouldn’t hear a peep...everyone’s eyes were fixed on him. I see him now as he stands up front by the Holy Ark, draped in his prayer shawl. You would see little more than his dark eyes, blazing with fire. And then he would start to speak...his voice thundered...he hurled his body from side to side. He banged his fists on the podium. From his mouth there poured out a stream of hot, burning lava-words, which rained down on the heads of his hundreds of listeners. He knew no pity for them. He hurled their sins at them right in their faces....all their dark, secret sins and transgressions. The congregation trembled, tormented by their own guilt, as though under their feet, they could feel the fires of Hell burning. From here and there came forth a muffled cought, a tormented sight. From the women’s benches you heard sobs, weeping......but it didn’t bother him at all. On the contrary, he raised his voice louder, higher. He hammered away mercilessly at the terrified congregation. He demanded repentance! good deeds! That was the only way they could possibly save themselves from downfall, from God’s punishment.

He heaped his bitterest condemnation Zionists and the Socialists), as he would call the Bundists...accusing them of "every sin under the sun", from smoking cigarettes on Sabbath, to eating non-Kosher food. "Guilty are the mothers and fathers who send their children to the secular schools, to turn their sons daughters into "modern youth", with their sivler and gold buttons! Woe! Woe, to the children of Jacob, who dressed in the clothes of Esau...who imitate the Gentile nations....who renounce the Hebrew Image of God! "But," he shrieked, "it will do you no good, Brothers! Where there now sits a cap with shiny ribbons, they will soon enough be banging nails!...instead of a fine coat, they will wear sack-cloth and ashes!...."

The sun was going down already. On the walls, long shadows appeared. The synagogue was getting darker and darker. But no one budged, as though they were stuck together in a single, dark, trembling mass. It was time for evening prayers, but the avenger, the prophet of doom, didn’t stop even to catch his breath. His throat was dry, hoarse...his prayer-shawl, and everything he wore, was soaked in sweat. But he was not too tired to rail and rage over the souls of his sinful listeners. And then, suddenly, he turned to face the Holy Ark...pulled open the doors, and flung his whole body forwards, embracing the Torah-scrolls. Holding the scrolls aloft with his bony hands, he began to heap abuse on the free-thinkers, the skeptics and know-it-alls, who were dragging the Jewish people down with them to disaster.

Everyone shuddered with fear. The crowd held its breath, as though waiting for something terrible to happen. And it wasn’t until the tired, beaten congregation finally heard the "May the Name be Sanctified...", that they could breath easier. Even the flames of Gehenna seemed to flicker and fade away....

As soon as I left that brooding, sinister preacher, Reb Alikum-Getzl, I compared him to the gentle, kindly "tailor’s preacher" from the small "Tailor’s Synagogue", where he used to hold meetings before a packed hall which was comprised of cobblers, tailors, water-bearers, and wagon-drivers. This was altogether a different sort of preacher. He didn’t scream, threaten, and harangue. He didn’t terrorize his congregation with the fiery flames of Hell, where sinners are flailed, roasted, and burned. Rather, just like a gentle shepherd who leads his thirsty flock to drink at the well, so did he lead the poor, down-trodden, hard-working Jews over the distant yet always-near path of the Scriptures. Leading them on with a soft-sweet melody, in his hand he seems to hold an invisible magic wand which he waves in the air, conjuring up before one’s eyes various pictures, whole scenes, each one more beautiful than the last.

The small Tailors’ Synagogue is packed to the rafters. People are leaning one on the other. (If it was summer, there would be even a greater crowd standing outside, by the open windows.) The congregation is captivated...they drink in every word, that flows from his mouth. It feels as though snow-white doves are flying around over the heads of the congregation. His silver voice resonates, soothing and warming the souls of those who yearn to hear God’s word. Everyone moves closer together. It feels so good, so wonderful. Even the children don’t stir. No one takes notice as the Holy Sabbath draws to a close, and the grey week stands waiting at the door....because now we are all far away, off in the Land of Egypt, in Goshen. And together with the Children of Israel, we see the ancient Patriarch, Jacob, who has called for his people to assemble together. Before our eyes we see him lying on his death-bed, his silver beard having turned completely white, his eyes half-closed; and with his weak lips, he asks of his son Joseph, the King’s Minister, that he should return his bones to the Land of Canaan, where he was born, and where his father’s bones rest. And there stands Joseph, dressed in his princely garments, and beside him stand his two sons, Menasseh and Ephraim, dressed in fine coats with shiny silver buttons, with golden tassles on their hats...waiting for their Grandfather Jacob to bless them before he dies...and off to the side stand Joseph’s brothers, with shocked faces, terrified to let out even a peep....

"Those are my sons," answered Joseph, with his head held high, "whom God has given me here, in the Land of Egypt...therefore, Father, they must go to the Egyptian schools, to learn their language and their knowledge.....bless them, Father!...."

Jacob was overcome by a feeling of dread: who knows what would become of his descendants in this Land of Egypt? With the passage of time, would they not, God forbid, forget their heritage, their ancestry? Slowly, he laid his trembling hands on their heads, and blessed them....so long as they should carry the names of their forefathers: Avraham, and not - "Abraham"; Yitzkhak, and not - "Isaac"; Ya’akov, and not: "Jacob".

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Two great, famous preachers...but how different they were from each other! And as different as they were in their manner of speaking, so different were they in their interpretation of Jewish tradition. The first one spread fear and terror; the second one soothed, consoled, and strengthened. The first one sought to break the spirit, to tear down one’s self-esteem; the second one, just the opposite; he took the weak, the the common, down-trodden working man...and strengthened him, lifted him on wings and let him soar; before the first, one felt fear, as for a teacher with a strap in his hand...for the second, one felt love, as the love for one’s father...

That "tailor’s preacher" helped greatly to enrich my childhood fantasies. But from him I also learned, one must not only read what is written in the lines...rather, one could, and one must, also read between the lines, because there can always be hidden meanings...

As usual, following the sermon I went straight to my uncle, Reb Hersh Toksin, to share with him my impressions.

"So," he would ask me, with his characteristic good-humored smile, "how did you like today’s sermon from the ‘tailor’s preacher’?"

"Oh, I liked it!", I answered enthusiastically. "If you don’t mind, Uncle, I would like to repeat for you whole sermon..."

"Wonderful, let’s hear it."

My uncle, whose many books were a standard source of material for all the preachers and story-tellers, was himself a weak speaker...in his heart, he envied the skilled orator. As soon as I finished repeating the sermon, he got up from where he sat, and walked over to his book-case..took down one of his published books, flipped through the pages to a certain chapter, and pointing with his finger, said with a certain amount of pride:

"Here you have his entire sermon..taken from me. They take everything from me...I’m only grateful if they don’t butcher me...."