he replied. âAnd I, unfortunately, lacked the strength of Joseph.â
Â
 On the Slope Â
Time had embarked on a precipitous, irreversible journey, roller-coasting along the brink of a fathomless abyss. A smouldering breeze from the west brought evil tidings. Newspapers, radio and the politicians screamed: War is imminent! Yet the government in the land of my birth was more concerned with devoting all its energies to the Jewish question.
One million Jews must go! â to Madagascar, Palestine, Uganda. Janina Prystorowa, a reactionary member of the Sejm (the Polish parliament), in conjunction with her colleague, Father StanisÅaw Trzeciak, proposed in 1936 that shechitah , the ritual kosher slaughter of cattle, contradicted Christian ethics and should be prohibited on the grounds of cruelty.
If this bill became law, argued our cityâs Kehila , the Jewish council on which the anti-religious Bund held a majority at the time, it would not only infringe on the religious beliefs of the Jewish communities, but threaten their very livelihood. Clearly, as in all such cases, the whole thing was just another ploy of the antisemites, a smokescreen for their devilish intentions. After some deliberations a national strike was proclaimed, a strike that would bring all industry, commerce and education in our country to a total standstill.
I vividly recall the day of the general strike, 17 September 1937. The Jewish quarters were galvanized, and the foreboding whisper of an unbelievable daring, fraught with great danger, hovered in the air. Groups of Bundist militia waited concealed in nooks and shadows, prepared to respond to any provocation, while the mounted police, their presence visible and their bayonets fixed, patrolled the streets, ready to protect the local hooligans.
But as the day negotiated its last traces of light, and evening dropped like an impatient drape, and the slanting dimness of the forest of puffed-out factory chimneys resumed its cheerless eternal vigil, my heart sank. I watched the Bundist militia leave their stations for home, watched the mounted police disperse, and my disappointment was complete. I, the fifteen-year-old revolutionary, felt cheated. The general strike that I had hoped would lead our people to the barricades had fizzled out like a punctured balloon.
Dejected, I made my way home; but on turning a corner I came face to face with a small procession of people carrying a tall wooden cross and shouting slogans into the air. I stopped to watch, and as the cross passed by, one of the zealous marchers ripped off my woollen school cap and screamed: âWeâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle!â He was joined by the others, and they all chanted in unison. âWeâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle! Weâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle! So help us God!â
And they did.
Â
 Hotza-tza Â
Little Itzik, whom we called the Barber of BaÅuty, was an aggressive leader and the acknowledged poet of the young Communists. He was constantly at loggerheads with his neighbour Bainisz, a Bundist and mechanic whom he both respected and hated. âI respect you, Bainisz,â he said, âfor your brave stand against the antisemites... And hate you,â he screamed, poking a finger into his neighbourâs face, âfor your counter-revolutionary activities. Just wait, you Social Fascist,â Itzik boiled. âAfter our revolution, we will deal with your kind.â
The last municipal election here was like a war, albeit one in which nobody was actually killed. There were fights, to be sure, crude fights; but most of the confrontations were verbal. I recall little Itzik standing like a featherless rooster in front of Zombkowskiâs pharmacy on Limanowskiego Street, his Adamâs apple jumping nervily up and down in his scraggy throat. The night before, he had engaged in another vitriolic exchange with his
Â
 On the Slope Â
Time had embarked on a precipitous, irreversible journey, roller-coasting along the brink of a fathomless abyss. A smouldering breeze from the west brought evil tidings. Newspapers, radio and the politicians screamed: War is imminent! Yet the government in the land of my birth was more concerned with devoting all its energies to the Jewish question.
One million Jews must go! â to Madagascar, Palestine, Uganda. Janina Prystorowa, a reactionary member of the Sejm (the Polish parliament), in conjunction with her colleague, Father StanisÅaw Trzeciak, proposed in 1936 that shechitah , the ritual kosher slaughter of cattle, contradicted Christian ethics and should be prohibited on the grounds of cruelty.
If this bill became law, argued our cityâs Kehila , the Jewish council on which the anti-religious Bund held a majority at the time, it would not only infringe on the religious beliefs of the Jewish communities, but threaten their very livelihood. Clearly, as in all such cases, the whole thing was just another ploy of the antisemites, a smokescreen for their devilish intentions. After some deliberations a national strike was proclaimed, a strike that would bring all industry, commerce and education in our country to a total standstill.
I vividly recall the day of the general strike, 17 September 1937. The Jewish quarters were galvanized, and the foreboding whisper of an unbelievable daring, fraught with great danger, hovered in the air. Groups of Bundist militia waited concealed in nooks and shadows, prepared to respond to any provocation, while the mounted police, their presence visible and their bayonets fixed, patrolled the streets, ready to protect the local hooligans.
But as the day negotiated its last traces of light, and evening dropped like an impatient drape, and the slanting dimness of the forest of puffed-out factory chimneys resumed its cheerless eternal vigil, my heart sank. I watched the Bundist militia leave their stations for home, watched the mounted police disperse, and my disappointment was complete. I, the fifteen-year-old revolutionary, felt cheated. The general strike that I had hoped would lead our people to the barricades had fizzled out like a punctured balloon.
Dejected, I made my way home; but on turning a corner I came face to face with a small procession of people carrying a tall wooden cross and shouting slogans into the air. I stopped to watch, and as the cross passed by, one of the zealous marchers ripped off my woollen school cap and screamed: âWeâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle!â He was joined by the others, and they all chanted in unison. âWeâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle! Weâll do to the Jews what they do to our cattle! So help us God!â
And they did.
Â
 Hotza-tza Â
Little Itzik, whom we called the Barber of BaÅuty, was an aggressive leader and the acknowledged poet of the young Communists. He was constantly at loggerheads with his neighbour Bainisz, a Bundist and mechanic whom he both respected and hated. âI respect you, Bainisz,â he said, âfor your brave stand against the antisemites... And hate you,â he screamed, poking a finger into his neighbourâs face, âfor your counter-revolutionary activities. Just wait, you Social Fascist,â Itzik boiled. âAfter our revolution, we will deal with your kind.â
The last municipal election here was like a war, albeit one in which nobody was actually killed. There were fights, to be sure, crude fights; but most of the confrontations were verbal. I recall little Itzik standing like a featherless rooster in front of Zombkowskiâs pharmacy on Limanowskiego Street, his Adamâs apple jumping nervily up and down in his scraggy throat. The night before, he had engaged in another vitriolic exchange with his
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