The war was buried under deep snow. Both opposing camps were dug in opposite each other, stiff and cramped from the cold and frost, waiting for the arrival of spring so they could once more crawl out of their trenches, to plow the fields with steel and iron from guns and cannons, and to sow death and destruction.

In the meantime, it was quiet. From time to time, you would see passing though the village two or three ambulances from the Red Cross, bringing a few dozen soldiers from the nearby front, some of them missing a hand, others a foot, and some suffering from a frozen limb. And then it would be quiet again. As though there never had been any such blood bath over the face of the earth.

The river of homeless had also run dry. The greatest portion of them had already been scattered deep in Russia, all the way to the Rivers Don and Volga. There, on the new, foreign soil, they "pitched their tents", still hoping to return one day to their former homes.

The smaller portion settled in among the neighboring towns and villages, which lay in proximity to the Russian-German front. There they waited for "the Redeemer", German.... that he should come all the more quickly and capture them, so they could return to their homes, and not have to be dispersed once more to some far-away, unknown destination.

Now that the flow of Jewish homeless had ceased, I began to feel the burden of my own homelessness. The long, empty hours dragged my spirits down. The whole time when I was busy with the working of bringing the necessities of life to the hundreds and thousands of Jewish exiles, the escapees from fire and sword, it was easy for me to forget about own fate....that I myself was no more than a loneley refugee, uprooted from my own soil. Because next to the human pain and suffering which I saw before me, my own lonely life appeared small and insignificant. Now, sitting all alone, I began to take stock of my own life:

Where did I stand in the world? What kind of future was it for me to sit here in this small, cast-away village of Rakov? And for how long am I supposed to sit at a stranger’s table, to sleep in a strange bed?

These kinds of thoughts and questions continued to churn in my brain. I wanted to run away from myself, to escape these voices, which seemed to fill my whole body like an infestation of ants.

I was overcome by a nagging longing for home, for my own family. Where were they now? What if, God forbid, the storm had torn them away from their own soil, and carried them away to God knows where? Who knew if they weren't also at this very minute in exile, along with other Jewish wanderers and deportees. Where was my poor, frail mother now? What was she thinking about me?

And in order to drive away such painful thoughts, I tried to immerse myself in the ancient Book of Books...the Bible. But I found no solace in the bible. So I threw myself into Yiddish and Russian books, which I borrowed from the local intellectuals. I read everything I could get my hands on: Dostoyevski's "Crime and Punishment", "The Brothers Karamazov"; Tolstoy's "War and Piece", "Anna Karenina"; "The Ashmedai", by Leonid Andreyev; "The Mother", by Maksim Gorkiy; "The Old Mare", by MM"S (Mendele Mokher Seforim); "Tevye the Milkman" by Sholem Aleykhem, and books by Peretz, etc. But even in all of them, I found little peace.

Uneasiness surrounded me from all sides. I was so depressed and irritable that any triviality was enough to upset me. In one of these moods, I got into an argument with the Rabbi, by whom I was a frequent house-guest. He, the strict Slobodka Masoratic, and even more of a zealot, had become a self-appointed guardian over my Jewishness...whenever I came to see him, he would, instead of asking me if I had eaten, subject me to a severe cross-examination over my adherence to religion: had I prayed yet? He would feel my face with his hand, to see if I had shaved again, and thereby violated the law from the Torah of "the five corners", and other such "offenses".

In fact, my shaving was at that time associated with genuine "preservation of life"...I had to conceal budding manhood from the suspicious eyes of the Russian politzay. But from such things, he wasn’t interested in hearing...

He harrassed me so long with his constant lectures, until my patience snapped, and in anger, I slammed the door and never went back...not even to pick up my wages, which were still owing to me as an employee of the Refugee Aid Commitee, of which he was the chairman.

And at about the same time, the bond of friendship which had prevailed between myself and the former Novordocker yeshiva-boy, Yankel Lyubtchanski. was also severed. Up until that point, our friendship had been as strong as the love between David and Jonathan. But recently Yankel, the happy, life-loving young man, had given himself over to the pleasures of the world, from which one might seize as much as possible. He had suddenly shed every trace of the Yeshiva-boy, and rebelled against God and his Torah. He started smoking cigarettes on Sabbath, and wasn't even above trying a piece of "the meat that squeaks", and such things. He had changed, and was no longer willing to deny himself any of this world's temptations.

It wasn't long before he had made aquaintance the village intellectuals, with the well-to-do young women, the former students and midwives-in-training, all of them attractive young women. They were all starved for the society of young people, for the romantic pastimes which the war had so unexpectedly brought to an end. In their present womanly loneliness, they stirred their own imaginations with the erotic novels of Artsibashev and Moposan, which ignited their young blood and intoxicated them with hot, glowing desires for unsatisfied love. And in the person of my friend, the yeshiva-boy, with the dark, romantic eyes, they saw their dreamed-of hero, the slim Cavalier, the proud Officer. Was it any wonder, faced with such an abundance of romantic opportunity, that my friend’s head was spinning?

And in those days there was one more thought always present in the minds of the youth: "My number may be the next one called". In the meantime, therefore, one had to seize from the world’s pleasures as much as one possibly could, because tomorrow might be too late. This was the new "bible", that my friend, the former yeshiva-boy amnd Masoratic, had learned so quickly, and begun to practise with great fervor.

And so this "agitator" became a modern-day Jerboam ben-Nevot, who, having sinned himself, now wanted others to join with him. He took it upon himself to become my personal guide, to "make a man of me". Perhaps he had the intention, that with two of us it might be easier to ignore the voices of his yeshiva-boy’s conscience...who knows?

Day in and day out, he would come to me with his constant refrain:

"What's the point of sitting over your books like a hermit? Leave them for later; there will be time for that after the war! Come, better, let me introduce you to beautiful, intelligent young women, the likes of which you’ve neve seen in your life! Women, I tell you, real beauties, I swear! In their society, you’ll soon forget about everything and everybody! Come, they're already asking about you!..."

He nagged and argued with me so persistently, that he finally succeded in awakening within me, that 17-18-year-old boy, the desire to make the acquaintance of those "beauties".

So I went along with him. But I felt very uncomfortable in their half-Russified female society. I felt lost and embarrassed, like a village boy who finds himself among big-city folk. In addition, I was terrified to open my mouth in Russian, in case I should make somehow a mistake, which would make a bad impression on these well-educated high-school graduates. So I ended up sitting there withdrawn, like a stranger. And no matter how they tried to draw me into their cheerful, happy society...they were not successful.

My friend, on the other hand, was like a fish in water. He regaled his admiring listeners with witticisms...tossing off Russian expressions right and left. It didn't bother him in the least, that he butchered the beautiful, resonant Russian Tongue with his fractured grammar.

Before long he had tossed aside his hat, lit up a cigarette, and like an real cavalier, grabbed hold of one of the girls and led her around the floor in a dance, to the music of a balalayka or a mandolin....soon, he had taken hold of a second one, and disappeared with her in a dark corner. And in that time, he would look at me as though he were a nouveau-riche, who wanted to show off his "riches" before a poor neighbor.

He was on fire, devouring a world that had been out of bounds to the former Novardock yeshiva-boy. Now that he had crossed over that line, the thirst for the forbidden worldly pleasures had burst out of him with the force of hot steam bursting out of a vessel.

His reckless abandon, his unboundedness, both in his infatuation with women, and in his screaming heresy, which verged on obscenity, was finally more than I could bear. Although I myself was no "holy man", and had for quite some time now failed to observe the "613 commandments", yet still, deep in my heart, I was basically religious. And so with each day, he became more of a stranger to me. I began to avoid him and his intelligent "beauties".

But since being alone with my own uneasy thoughts was even worse, I began to spend time with the local, working-class youth, which consisted of a group of tradesfolk: shoemakers, tailors and seamstresses, who shared with me a longing for the printed word in Yiddish. Among them, I felt quite at home.

Every night we would meet together in another house. By the shine of a small oil-lamp, behind closed windows, we spent many long, pleasant winter evenings. You could talk at ease, smoking cigarettes and telling stories. One would start up a melody, a folksong, Rayzen's "Huliehet, Huliehet Beyze Vinten", or his "Mah Koh Mashmo Lon" and others, and everyone would join in softly and sing along. From time to time I would read for them something by Peretz, a humorous story by Sholem Aleykhem, which would bring forth a hearty laughter from everyone. Other times someone would start a discussion about Jewish and general affairs; what would happen after the war was over. Everything was so relaxed, so free and natural...as "natural" as the need and poverty, which stared at you from every corner!

When this lively group would get hungry, it would be time to conduct a shared feast. From under the oven someone would pull out a basket of potatoes, start up a fire on the hearth, and start boiling a pot of potatoes. Soon there would appear on the table a loaf of black bread....someone would cut it into portions. We threw ourselves on that bread and potatoes like a pack of wolves, washing it down with a glass of hot tea from the kettle.

In those moments, your heart was at ease. For the time being, your could forget about all your sad surroundings, and your constant loneliness. You felt then, that it was good that your fate was bound together with the fate of these poor, honest, sturdy working-folk, who shared their bread and their friendship together.

Eventually, the hard-working parents, who were trying to sleep in the next room, would give a signal with a cough and a throat-clearing that it was time already to call it quits. Quietly we would make our way home, alone and in pairs, through the narrow side streets, so as not to alert, God forbid, the military patrol, which kept watch over the sleeping Jewish village of Rakov.