Lodz, 23 April 1934 My precious brother, as well as nephew, and niece, S. Zissman, My current letter will surprise you a little and, as you read through it, you will surely say, "Finally, finally, Uncle Wolf remembered (me) and wrote a letter!!!" Yes, devoted brother, everything that you might have thought and wondered there about Uncle Wolf's silence could have turned out to be the truth...and I myself don't know how to begin my letter of apology to you now. First of all, I was aware that I had not received a letter from you for three months. Second, I can write you, my devoted brother, that I was overcome by a great longing for you so that I too began to wonder about you there and your family. Third, I want to tell you the plain truth that I have no desire to write you sad letters. I don't want to cry for, or complain to, you because, no matter how much I want to make everything cheerful as I write about my life, everything emerges painted in dark colors in order to describe how sad and tragic life is. Really, I ask myself a question: "Why, in fact, does it turn out that it's to Shloyme that I pour out my whole bitter heart? Is there a shortage of friends and family in the world...to whom I can speak or write of what is pressuring me? However, however, my devoted one, I can tell you quite openly that I don't regard anyone in the world as I do you. I don't have any better friend in the world than you, my devoted brother, (no one) to whom I can express myself so openly as to you. And I always need to explain and to unburden myself. However, however, I just don't want to cause you pain because, really, why do you deserve it? Why do you deserve to have your Uncle Wolf constantly writing you tearful and complaining letters??? Don't you carry out your responsibility to your uncle? Don't you do everything that is in your power to do for your uncle? And, nevertheless, I cause you aggravation and pain every time that I write. So, for example, in this letter, I would like to portray everything in a way that would make you laugh. However, the result is that the mind is tenacious, and the pen in my hand doesn't want to write any lies. Therefore, I write everything that my mind directs. So, for example, I will describe this very day. It happened to be the anniversary of the death of our young, deceased daughter, Balcia. My wife and I wanted to have a little "pleasure," and we went out to look at the mound of grass under which our young, departed daughter has already lain buried for four years. I stand by the grave as if I were paralyzed. I don't say a word aloud. I am merely thinking: "Wouldn't it be much fairer and better if I were in my daughter's place? Then I would be rid of all of the troubles and suffering..." On the other hand, Aunt Malke, i.e., my wife, collapses on the grave in a faint. She shouts, she weeps, she trembles, until, until, she runs out of tears, words, etc. Yes, Sol, if one is squeezed, if one has pain, one runs to the graves of the dead for assistance. And I think to myself: "How ridiculous this is. After all, if people who are alive can't help one another, of what possible value can the dead be?" And yet, my devoted one, I tell you that when I come home from the cemetery, I feel somewhat relieved. If I still feel the pain, I am compelled to express it in my present letter to you! I will return to my first theme: Why didn't I write to you for such a long time, for almost more than three months? First of all, dear brother, I have to make it clear to you that I have endured a great deal during the last three months. So, for example, my wife, i.e., Aunt Malke, and my daughter, Rivkele, were ill practically all winter. They were lying in bed longer than they were up and around. To be sure, you are well aware of your aunt's illness; since the time that Balcia passed away, she has had a weak heart and, from time to time, she experiences heart attacks... On the other hand, Rivkele is a very weak child, one can say a "wartime child," not very well developed physically, so she is not capable of starting to work. This winter, seeing how tragic the situation was in our home, seeing that she needed a coat, a pair of shoes, a dress, and that from the three days (a week) that I work there's not enough for food and rent, etc., she decided to go and learn a trade from a seamstress. However, as we know, such a girl is always exploited. She worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, without a bite of lunch. In the morning, she rushed to work; at night, she rushed from work; so she practically stopped eating. Finally, she became ill and lay in bed approximately ten weeks. You can imagine, dear brother, the winter, the pre-Passover period, that I lived through. It's not enough that I struggle, that I don't earn at present even half of my expenses for our home; such times have to come along during which I have to attend to two sick people. To be sure, on a day when I didn't go to work, I was attendant, nurse, nurturer, cook and medical practitioner. However, on a day when I had to go to work, I took two pieces of dry bread and went to work leaving behind two sick people abed in my home, my wife and my daughter. There wasn't even anyone to give them a cup of tea or anyone to make a fire in the house. I lived through this sort of winter and, thank G-d, lovely springtime came, the lovely pre-Passover period. I arise early each morning and curse the day because I open my eyes to see the most tragic of tragedies in my home... I also waited impatiently for a letter from you, from my dear and devoted brother, but instead of a letter I received newspapers which I didn't even have the patience to read because my mind was confused, preoccupied, upset. Once, I opened a package of newspapers and saw a small piece of paper on which your dear son, Leonard, wrote in "his language" and you, his father, were amused. You were pleased that your son was writing a "Greek greeting in the Latin alphabet to his great uncle." I looked at the piece of paper for a long time with your son's handwriting, and I recalled your childhood. When you were still a youth, you used to write or draw in all my copies of the Pentateuch and holiday prayer books. And yet, I didn't interfere with your "work." This is a childhood pleasure. Perhaps, Sol, you won't believe that you used to play such tricks on me, even more than your son, Leonard, plays on you...so, in order to convince you, I am for this special purpose enclosing with this letter several pieces of paper from my copies of the Pentateuch and holiday prayer books on which you wrote with your own hand twenty-five or twenty-six years ago in Hebrew school with your colleagues, Pleshewsky, Scheinfarber, et al. Therefore, Sol, looking at your handwriting you may feel a bit scolded and won't make fun of your son anymore... I hope to see your son healthy, educated, proud as a Jew and as a person. I hope that your son will bring to your home much happiness and joy to you as parents. I would also like to see his picture as a 5-year-old youngster. Yes, Sol, this is our only consolation, the roots that we leave behind us, because in the final analysis we see after all that "a generation leaves and a generation comes." Young people grow old and the old pass away, and a new generation arises. When I begin to recall how long ago it really is since I met your father, the fiancee of my sister, may she rest in peace, how long ago you entered the world; even though it seems like an eternity to me, only two generations have passed, i.e., your father as a child, you as a child, and now your son as a child. Yes, Sol, whenever I start to write about child rearing, i.e., the raising of children, my hand trembles, and I think to myself: "G-d knows what sort of punishment is in store for me to be subjected to for my ill-considered course of action, for my tactless conduct. I was constantly of the thought that if a person sees clearly that he has no chance of making a living, no firm foundation on which to stand, he has no right to bring children into the world because the fault is not that of the child but of the parents who bring the child into the world. I write to you, Sol, of what I have become convinced of on the basis of my own experience, although you know very well, Sol, that I don't have too many children. My Rivkele is a fine and intelligent child, would that she were only to become well; on the other hand, Joseph is an unusual child, nice looking, refined, smart; he takes after me. This year, he will complete elementary school. He will be fourteen years old, and my head is splitting from thinking about what will be next, what to do about him next. He himself is too bright not to understand the situation as it is. Alas, he would be eager to go to high school because he is a good student. Unfortunately, the educational system in Poland is not yet organized in a way that high school is available without money. And, without money there's nothing to discuss. Right, Sol? One's heart is pained; it's as if a knife is being thrust into one's heart when one sees that children are eager and want to get an education, want to develop into menschen, want to do something for the world, and are confronted with parents who are not of assistance and who have no means of providing an opportunity for the child. Isn't it a sin, a crime, against one whom we have intentionally or unintentionally created... Truly, the child is in no way guilty, just as we are not guilty for our parents having brought us into the world, having sat us down as four-year-olds in a squalid cheder; not having provided us with the appropriate training to provide for ourselves; at twelve or thirteen turned us into "businessmen"...if I am not mistaken, Sol, you were sent to a shoe store to earn money (and), when I was twelve, (I was sent) to Uncle Yankel Lewin, at thirteen to Yosel Tsuker...until, until, people were produced who were crippled, weak, unhealthy, businessmen without goods, capitalists without money, people without common sense, good-for-nothings, salesmen of thin air, schemers, Menachem Mendles, and so on... Well, Sol, it seems to me that I have bombarded you with enough stories about having children, about child-rearing, about educating children, etc. As far as that's concerned, Sol, don't be angry for my writing you about all this and so often. Perhaps in your writing, in your letters, I will find a word of consolation that will give me ease and relieve the suffering that I endure due to the matter of rearing children. Further, I write you that, during the intermediate days of Passover, I received 62 gulden and 80 groshen from you by mail. On the basis of today's exchange rates, that's about $11.50. I thank you very much, devoted Sol, for your generosity that you demonstrate to us. May G-d help you so that you will never be in need. The money was very useful to me because I owe for twelve months' rent. However, I am very concerned about what the reason is for your not having written to me for such a long time. I haven't received a letter from you for three months. If it were not for my having received newspapers, I would be very worried about you there. Are you really so busy that you don't have any time to write? Please don't make me wait, and write an answer immediately. So, regards to you and your worthy wife and dear son, dear sisters, father, family, et al. My wife, Rivkele, and Joseph send their heartfelt regards to you. The whole family also sends you heartfelt regards. Wish everyone a happy summer. Please answer. With respect, Your uncle, Wolf Lewkowicz All material Copyright 1995 by Marshall L. Zissman and Sol J. Zissman.