Panemunė (Aukštoji Panemunė, Lithuania) |
20th Century Visits to Panemune
A.
Account of Trip to Poniemon, 1920
By Bernard Horwich, 1939[1]
…In the course of the several trips I made to Europe during this
period, I took the time, on one of them, to visit my native Poniemon,
which I had not seen for over forty years.
I was anxious to view again the scenes of my childhood.
On arriving, I decided to go first to the home of the Rabbi of
the town, although I did not know him.
I found the door of his house open, and saw the Rabbi inside,
sitting behind a big book which completely screened his face.
Only his skill cap was visible behind it.
I entered and knocked on a chair to draw his attention, upon
which he raised his eyes above the rim of the book.
At my “Good morning, Rabbi,” he nodded his head somewhat vaguely,
and disappeared again behind his book.
“Rabbi,” I said, “I am a stranger from America.
I want to have the pleasure of talking to you.”
The man lifted his head, murmured something, and again
disappeared from view. “I
see that you are engaged in the hard study of God’s torah,” I commented,
thinking this remark might draw him into conversation.
But he only murmured something unintelligible and continued with
his reading, paying no attention to me at all.
Finally, I said: “If you do not want to listen to me, I will have
to leave. All I wanted to
know is whether you knew my father, Yankel Horwich.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, putting the book down, and jumping up.
“Yankel! Sholom! Sholom! Peace to you!
You are the son of our unforgettable Reb Yankel!
May he rest in peace!
Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Well,” I answered, “I had quite a time getting to the first
place.”
The Rabbi immediately became very attached to me, to such an
extent, indeed, that it made me rather uncomfortable.
He told me all he knew about my family, and talked especially
about my father. Apparently,
he considered my coming quite an event.
The news spread, and soon the whole town was out on the street,
surrounding me and greeting me, and asking me about their relatives in
the United States.
I knew none of the townspeople, with the exception of two men and
a woman. These were Chaim
Hersh Bregstone and his wife, Reva, and a man by the name of Abe Meyer,
“son of Moishe.” The
first-named was a brother of Joseph and Ike Breakstone of New York, whom
I have previously mentioned.
Abe Meyer was an old man, of about ninety years, and blind, and a
terrible hater of “Columbus
and America.” He held on to
my arm for nearly half an hour, telling me what America had done to his
two sons. They had forgotten
all about the Jewish religion, he had learned.
They never went to “schul,” did not pray and did not eat “kosher”
food, and were just like “Goyim.”
He told me he was busy day and night praying to God to have mercy
on them.
I remained in Poniemon for a day and a half, and found my town
very much the same as I had left it.
I noticed, however, that while, in my time, the houses had been
on a level with, or higher than, the street- the street now seemed to
have risen considerably, and looked higher than the houses.
This, no doubt, was due to the accumulation of dust for over
forty years.
The Rabbi took me to see the old synagogue, which they still
used. As a child, this
synagogue was to me the greatest building and most important place I had
ever seen. Now I found it to
be a dilapidated wooden shanty.
As I entered, memories of my childhood appeared before me.
There were the same benches where I had stood beside my father,
often for three or four hours at a time, hungry and miserable, beating
my breast and praying and crying to God to forgive me for a multitude of
sins which I had never committed-as well as for the sin I actually did
commit with regard to Herr Ashfort, as related in the early pages of
this book.
At my request, the Rabbi next took me to see the house where I
was born. It had changed
hands twice, and the rooms were somewhat altered.
At the time of my visit, it was owned and occupied by a young
couple, and I was pleased to see that it was being kept in rather nice
condition. I asked to see
the barn in the rear of the house, which caused some surprise, until I
explained why.
When I was about thirteen years old, the other members of my
family all went away one summer afternoon, leaving me and several of my
young playmates at home. We
decided to have a little private party and dug some potatoes from the
garden with the intention of baking them.
We found, however, that we had no wood for our fire.
Undaunted, I hit upon a way of securing some, by chopping out the
threshold of the barn, which I considered a nuisance and only in the
way. I got a hatchet, and
each of us chopped a little until we had chopped out the threshold.
We built a fire, baked our potatoes, and were enjoying them, with
sour milk, when my uncle, Chaim Eleazer, suddenly arrived on the scene.
When he discovered how we had secured the wood for our fire, my
troubles started.
Although my uncle was generally good-natured, he had a quick
temper. He ordered us o at
once take the cows out of the barn, as it was likely to collapse,
claiming that the threshold was what kept the barn from falling down.
He did not explain this to us calmly, but became very excited and
shouted at us at the top of his voice.
We forgot our potatoes and sour milk, as he chased us around with
a whip, which he wielded right and left, until he became tired.
“Well,” he remarked as he stopped, “I have done my duty.
The rest I will leave to your mother.”
When my mother came home, there was more scolding, beating and
excitement. Later we talked
about engaging someone to put in a new threshold, but as that would cost
money, it was delayed from day to day, until the matter was forgotten.
Since this had been one of the major misdeeds of my youth, I had
always had it on my conscience, and wondered whether anything had
happened; so on this visit I was most anxious to see how the barn
looked. To my great surprise
and delight, I found that there was still no threshold in the barn, and
that it was still standing, just as I had left it.
I then went to visit the grave of my father.
Standing beside it with the Rabbi, who accompanied me, reciting
the “kaddish,” I lived over again my childhood days, and there rose
again before me the image of my father, with the beautiful expression on
his face which denoted his character, his piety and the loveliness of
his spirit, which I shall never forget.
B. Account
of Trip to Poniemen, Summer 1933
By Stanley
A. Leavy, December 1971
...I was permitted through grandfather's[2]
family piety to get a glimpse of the life of my ancestors when I
accompanied him in the summer of 1933 to their little village outside
Kaunas, in Lithuania, where they had lived so long.
Quite a few relatives were still living then in the village,
which was named Poniemen (on the river Niemen), a name that always
brought laughter to grandfather and others of the family.
The visit in Poniemen was short; grandfather saw his relatives, probably
distributed large amounts of money (he is said to have virtually
supported the village) and talked briefly with them.
I recall that he stood weeping silently while his sister replied
in Yiddish with "gestorben, gestorben, alle gestorben,"[3]
to his inquiries about his old friends and relatives, alive, I suppose,
when he had last visited.
The village was a single street just above the Niemen River on which
Kaunas is located. There
were plain wooden houses, some painted, some not, little fences, scrubby
trees, small gardens, maybe a cow.
It was probably an all-Jewish village, a "shtetl".
Lithuanian nationalism had been active there, so that many of the
Jews had added the national "-aitis" to their names....Did we sit with
some of the relatives in Poniemen in a little summer house in the garden
and eat?
C. Account of Trip to Paniemunias, Lithuania
By Walter B. Miller
August 30, 1989
This is an account of a trip to the ancestral village of the
Breakstone family by Walter Miller and Andrea Berman on the 30th of
August 1989.
Having been informed that we could not stay overnight in Kaunas/Kovno,
we stayed at the Lietuva ("Lithuania") Hotel in Vilnius/Vilna, about 60
miles away. For the first of our two trips from Vilna to Kovno we joined
a tour bus party taking a guided tour of Kovno, having arranged to leave
the tour after we got to Kovno in the morning and to rejoin them in the
afternoon.
The landscape on the road between Vilna and Kovno (Route A227) bore a
remarkable resemblance to the eastern Pennsylvania farmland where Jacob
Nathan (Yekl) Breckstein and his family settled in the early 1880's. By
contrast, the outskirts of Kovno, with acres of modern high‑rise
apartments, resembled the northern outskirts of present day New York
City.
When we arrived at the major historical square of Kovno we asked the
English speaking tour guide if she knew whether there was a Jewish
cemetery in Panyemunyas/Poniemon and if so where it was. She said that
there was indeed such a cemetery, a very exciting piece of information,
since we had been very doubtful that it was still in existence. She
wrote for us the words "PANEMUNZ IUDU KAPINES" (Poniemon Jewish
Cemetery) to show a taxi driver. Taxis were scarce, but one finally came
to the square. When we showed him the words he launched into a long
discourse in Lithuanian, the gist of which seemed to be either that
there was no such place or that he was unable to take us there. After
another wait we hailed a second cab. A real stroke of luck. He spoke
halting but intelligible English. We told him what we were looking for.
A resident of Kovno, 43 years old, he said that he had never heard of a
Jewish Cemetery in Poniemon, but would be willing to help us look for
it.
Kovno in the 1880’s was a city of about 75,000 people. Walter had
imagined that we would go to the central part of the city, walk down to
the Nieman River, cross the bridge to Poniemon, and walk along the main
street to the Cemetery. Kovno today is Kaunas, a sprawling city of over
400,000‑‑the largest non‑capitol city in the Baltic Republics, and the
fourth largest city in the three Baltic states.
The cab driver had a very difficult time even getting to the river; most
roads were blocked by construction or standing traffic. We drove what
seemed to Walter like a very long time, given his image of Poniemon's
location. We drove along the river for about 3 or 4 miles, and finally
crossed a bridge to the Poniemon area. The main street along the river,
described by Bernard Horwich in his book, was and is called
"Viadoto"(Viaduct).
The driver stopped several times to ask people the location of the
cemetery, but no one knew where it was. Nor did we see a cemetery at or
near the location indicated on Jeff Marx's map. We finally drove to the
Catholic Church on Viadoto, where the driver was told the location of
the mortuary building where bodies had been prepared for burial in the
Jewish cemetery. We finally located the building, but no cemetery was
visible. The mortuary is now a dwelling whose address is 178 Viadoto.
Our driver knocked on the door, and the current occupant, Peter Migonis,
a man in his late 50's or early 60's, came out to talk to us.
Migonis talked at length to our driver, who translated a relatively
small portion of what was said. His major piece of information,
tragically from our viewpoint, was that the cemetery had been destroyed
after World War II. We asked if there were any remaining stones. Migonis
took us to the left side of the house, and said "I walk over this every
day". He pointed to a flat slab engraved with Hebrew letters, embedded
in the ground, half covered with sod. We uncovered most of the stone.
The inscription was quite legible. It was divided into two parts
vertically, like facing pages in a book, with about 10 lines of Hebrew
on each side.
Andrea photographed the stone while Walter tried to decipher it (since
time was limited we did not want to spend the time it would take to do a
rubbing or careful attempt at translation; we intended to return but
were unable to). Walter made out the word "bat" but the following name
was unfamiliar‑‑possible M?H, but not Moshe.
Migonis said that the cemetery had been divided into two parts, one on
each side of the mortuary building. The section on the right (facing the
Nieman River) was the larger section. We went first to the section on
the left. It appeared to be about 50 by 100 yards, but we could not see
any clear boundaries; the section probably extended to the steep drop to
the river. It was heavily overgrown with underbrush, tall weeds, and
stinging nettles. However, scattered on the ground in various places
were at least three and possibly more gravestones. All were tipped over
on their faces, and we could see no inscriptions.
Trying to push aside the underbrush was difficult, since the
nettles were very painful, and the ground was wet.
Migonis said that at one time there was a steel fence or border
surrounding the cemetery. He described it as a pleasant place with
walkways and large trees. He said that one night in 1946 or '47 Russian
soldiers entered the cemetery and engaged in a wild orgy of vandalism,
overturning stones and doing extensive damage to the whole area. I asked
him what happened to the gravestones. He said that the Russians threw
them down the steep incline to the riverbank where they were taken to be
used in construction projects. We were later told by a Jewish family in
Kovno that they had been used as paving stones. There is little doubt
that Migonis' story that the cemetery had been destroyed is true, but
one can doubt his version of the identity of the vandals. The local
residents tend to blame the Russians for everything; it is also quite
possible that it was local Lithuanians who destroyed the Poniemon Jewish
cemetery.
We then went to look at the section of the cemetery to the right of the
house. This area is quite flat, with fairly well cared‑for grass and a
grove of light‑barked trees, probably birch.
Migonis said that the trees had been planted about 20 years ago,
and seemed to imply that each had been planted on a grave or a grave
area, although this seems unlikely.The river can be seen from this area,
and appears to be at least 50 feet below the level of the grassy
section.
The former mortuary building is a one story brick structure with a
corrugated metal roof, about 20 by 30 feet, with windows on three sides.
The fourth side, facing the grassy plot, has a bricked‑up doorway.
Migonis, as interpreted by our driver, said that the building was the
place that "dead Jewish men"("Yudisha mens") were taken after they died
but before they were buried. An old Lithuanian woman lived there before
the war. The Jewish people paid her money to work there. Inside the
house was a well, presumably for water needed in the mortuary. Migonis
said that he had been doing some construction about five or six years
ago (he seemed to say he was working on the roof, but this doesn't fit
with his story) and found many skulls and other bones (something like
this; we supplied words as the driver groped for vocabulary)‑‑many,
many, he said. When he was finished with the work, he said with an air
of deference and respect, he replaced them in the ground.
Migonis pointed to the hills overlooking Poniemon on the same side of
the river (south?) and said that was the location of the Fourth Fort.
During the war, when he was a small boy, a group of Jewish men were
there (Andrea said "resistance?", and both men nodded), and a battle
took place with many bullets and many casualties. He said that the
bodies were taken to another place (the mortuary? not clear) and that he
was involved in, or watched, the bodies, which were naked, being washed.
Migonis began to blink and turned away from us. When he turned
back his eyes were wet, and he became withdrawn and uncommunicative.
We drove back on Viadoto toward the traffic circle and bridge to Kovno.
On the way we stopped to take pictures of the houses on Viadoto, some of
which undoubtedly had been Breakstone residences. Most were quite small,
with faded paint on wooden slats, and steeply slanted roofs made of tar
paper or corrugated metal. Each house had a large house number.
It was hard to estimate their age, but they would appear to be at
least 50 years old, possibly a hundred or more. They seem to have been
the same kinds of houses, and probably the same houses, described by
Stanley Leavy during his trip with his grandfather to Kovno and Poniemon
in 1933.
We were very pleased that the dwellings in Poniemon
seemed to have changed so little since the time family members had lived
there, but our driver did not share our feelings. He said that it was a
disgrace that Kaunas, a city of over 400,000, the fourth largest in the
Baltic republics, should have such dilapidated houses. We thought they
were picturesque and charming, and relieved that Jeff Marx's fear that
they had been razed to build a sports arena was unfounded.
We returned to Kovno with a great sense of regret over
the destruction of the Poniemon Jewish cemetery and the tragic events of
the 1940's.
D. Trip to Paniemunias (Panemune)
By Rabbi Jeffrey A. Marx
January 19, 1990
This is an account of a trip to the shetl of Panemune on
January 19th, 1990. I
greatly benefited from Walter Miller's and Andrea Berman's report of
their trip to Paniemunias in August of 1989, which allowed me to dress
properly for the expedition and alerted me to the necessity of hiring an
interpreter.
Upon my arrival in Vilnius, on January 18th, I engaged the services of a
driver and translator through the Intourist desk at the Lietuva hotel.
At 8:30 A.M. the next morning, the winter sky still not fully lit
up, we left Vilnius for Kaunas.
As we traveled along route A227, I explained to Zita, my translator for
the day, that the primary purpose of our trip was not to visit Kaunas
but rather its suburb, Paniemunias.
Zita knew of the town and seemed quite amenable to taking me on
an extended "detour" from the normal tour itinerary.
She was quite delighted when I produced the National Archive’s
map of Paniemunias drawn up in the late '30s or '40s (!), as well as the
hand‑drawn map I had made of the shtetl from the 50 year old
recollections of Ralph Codikov and Alter Shaymes.
She explained to me that, due to Soviet fears of invasion, maps
were simply not to be had in Lithuania and that those that existed were
deliberately falsified. On
top of that, the Lithuanians were currently in the process of changing
all the Russian‑named streets to Lithuanian names.
Once we reached the outskirts of Poniemunias, the driver stopped
periodically to shout at those passing by and get directions.
On try number three we were in luck.
The middle‑aged man we stopped knew Poniemunias well, and gave us
directions which took us from Kaunas over a bridge north of Poniemunias
(near the artificial lake created by the dam).
The road from the bridge led directly into Viadoto Gotveh at the
northern end of Poniemunias by the church.
Our first stop was the site of the old Jewish cemetery which Walter's
report gave as 178 Viadoto Gotveh.
We knocked several times at the door of the former mortuary
building and hearing no answer, boldly entered inside.
There we found Mr. Peter Migonis, the current occupant, rising
from his bed to meet us.
Zita quickly apologized for our intrusion and explained the purpose for
our visit. Mr. Migonis did
remember Walter and Andrea's previous visit and, in response to my
questions, stated that most of the cemetery stones had been taken away
over 20 years ago, that one stone remained on the side of his house, and
that several others were in the over‑growth just to the south.
He was not interested in showing us around, but waved his arm
towards the south of the house and invited us to explore.
Leaving Mr. Migonis in his bed, I walked outside and immediately spotted
the gravestone on the south (left) side of the house.
Several lines of Hebrew were visible.
Deciding that I could always apologize later, I took a shovel
which was leaning against the side of the house, and pulled away the sod
from the rest of the stone.
The driver fetched a bucket of water to wash the stone, and we dried it
carefully. The Hebrew was
quite legible, stating that the stone (originally) marked the graves of
two women who died in 1840 and 1852.[4]
I next donned a pair of hip boots and work gloves I had brought with me,
thanks to Walter Miller's warning about nettles and brush, and plunged
into the southern section of the former cemetery.
I was extremely lucky that the winter weather had stripped all
the leaves and nettles off the underbrush and that there was no snow on
the ground. I found several
round cement pillars on square bases, which Walter indicated in his
report were large overturned gravestones, but which turned out to be the
remains of the cement posts that once marked the southern boundary of
the cemetery. I found only
one other tombstone, mostly destroyed, which yielded the date of 1862.[5]
There is a possibility that other stones may exist six inches to one
foot below the ground but there is no way of ascertaining this without
literally digging up the cemetery area.
The ground to the north of the house was completely devoid of
stones.
Leaving the cemetery, we proceeded to the former site of the schul and
cheder (on the E. side of the street, just where the Paniemunias bridge
runs into Viadoto). A petrol
station now marks the spot.
We proceeded to houses N. on Viadoto, where we encountered an elderly
inhabitant of Paniemunias.
She pointed across the street to the west side of Viadoto, and showed us
a yellow house directly next to the bridge, in which, she said, had
lived twin Jewish girls.
Next to them (on the right) in the green house, lived Avram, his wife,
Belaminah, and their two daughters who had problems with their legs.
Next to them on the right was the blacksmith, also a Jew, who
survived the war and went to live in Vilnius.
We next drove to try and find #31 Viadoto where Ralph Codikov, a former
resident of Paniemunias, now of Los Angeles, had lived before the war.
As I photographed the house, I was approached by its current
inhabitant, Antonis Bagdonas, who was curious about my activity.
He explained that he had lived in that house all of his life and
that all of the house numbers in Paniemunias had been changed after the
war. His house was
originally number 29. He
pointed next door to where an empty lot stood and explained that it was
the former site of number 31.
Antonis asked us, since I was interested in Napoleon, if we wanted to
see Napolean's Hill(!). We
traveled south on Viedoto Gotveh, then bore right, following the curve
of the river. On the
Poniemunias side, just as the river made a sharp upward (westerly) turn,
in the town of Freda, was a high hill. Antonis told us that the legend
in Paniemunias was that each soldier in Napoleon's army, scooped up a
helmet-full of dirt and dumped it on that spot, creating a high hill for
Napoleon to stand upon and survey Kaunas, planning his attack on the
city in 1812.[6]
Zita, now joined in, telling me
that the Lithuanians are full of stories concerning the hidden treasures
which Napoleon secreted in Lithuania as he fled from the Russians.
We dropped Atonis off at home with many thanks, and proceeded across to
Kaunas, not on the Paniemunias bridge but on the Alexsota bridge.[7]
We had no problems leaving Kaunas and returned safely to Vilnius
a little over an hour later.
E. Back To Lithuania,
October, 1991
By
Philo Bregstein, 1992[8]
…Grisha
Bregstein, who returned after many years to the country of his birth,
Lithuania, from Siberia where he'd been deported under Stalin, is to be our
guide on our visit to Panemune, a small town on the Neman River, very close
to Kovno, present-day Kaunas, where my grandfather came from. For Grisha,
after fifty years, it is at the same time a return to the village of his
childhood….
We drive over a bridge. Far below us runs the Neman with its steep banks.
Then we're entering the main street of Panemune. I can see Vaidotto Gatve
printed on the wall. The first shock is that the quiet village street we
imagined is even noisier than the streets of Kaunas: a narrow, dusty road
filled with truck traffic. The old houses, dilapidated for the most part,
lining the street look colorless. Grisha points out the gas station where a
long line of cars is waiting.
"That's the spot where the synagogue used to be...wait, we've gone too far.
Let's get out." As we're walking
back past the oncoming thunderous truck traffic, Grisha's sharp eyes scout
out the area. All at once he's sure of himself, "There's the house."
We're looking at a brown painted house with a low metal roof like all
the others, only it's a little larger and better maintained. Now Grisha
triumphantly starts to point things out, "And there on the corner was
Mendele Fein's house, they were related to us, too...and the house on the
left was Chaim Hersch Bregstein's."
Grisha points at the right half of brown painted house.
“Look! Over there! That’s
Grisha has rediscovered the yard of his childhood and is eating the apples
from his grandmother’s orchard. He has become a stranger, however, a guest
in his own home. The Bregstein family house was no hovel, but rather a
well-to-do farmstead, with a large orchard and kitchen garden now apparently
completely neglected. Here both Victor’s father as well as my own
grandfather were born.
As we walk into the orchard we discover that behind the wooden fence there's
a high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. "Don't go over there! No
pictures!" shouts the old woman. Behind the idyllic orchard and garden of
our forebears it turns out there are barracks, an armory and also a large
number of Soviet tanks stationed there, the same ones that occupied Kaunas
during the coup in August. Officially, the Soviet military has no power left
at all, but the old woman's still in a panic….
As we drive back through the village I can see that most of the trucks are
that dull military green, and there are shabbily dressed Soviet soldiers
walking by. At the bridge.
Grisha points at the bus stop; "That's where the little Kleinbahn
train used to run to Kaunas.”
…Grisha calls Tsila, the only Jewish survivor from Panemune, living
now in Kaunas. Tsila is the same
age as Grisha. They sit together and look at our hand-drawn map of Panemune.
Panemune was a village of four hundred inhabitants, ninety percent of
which were Jewish: a typical shtetl.
She points out the house where she was born. "Weber, that's my maiden
name. We lived on the side of the river,
beyond the road to the
bridge. We were poor, it was a small house, and the Bregsteins had a
beautiful big house." …She remembers the Bregsteins' neighbor, Trevax.
"Trevax, he died too, had a brickyard in Rokai. And one of the
granddaughters of the Sonkins, the neighbors across the way from the
Bregsteins, is now living in Israel.”
She tells of how one of Sonkin's Lithuanian neighbors came to warn
him that there was going to be a pogrom and that they'd have to hide.
She points at the house with the flour mill (now gone) belonging to
the Feins facing the Bregstein house.
"Fein's grandchildren are in Israel now, too.
Fein and one of his sons were murdered in the first pogrom, before
the ghetto, by neighbors who drove them out of their house and killed them
near the IVth Fort.”
…We walk to the Neman. Sonkin's
house right next to the river is in a serious state of disrepair and looks
haunted. A poor family has shacked up there. …I propose going to the
erstwhile Jewish cemetery of Panemune as planned...We stop by the river at a
lawn with young trees planted at regular intervals where there's a little
red brick house further down that must once have been the place where the
dead were washed." Was this the
cemetery?" "Yes, this was the
cemetery. As you can see, there's nothing left. Everything's been removed."
"Did you ever go here when you were little?"
…Then Algis drives up with a large, sturdy man whom he introduces as his
friend and who, according to Algis, knows 'everything' about Panemune. The
man motions to us and leads us to the underbrush that runs alongside the
cemetery and down to the river. There must still be a few gravestones here
dumped by the bulldozers. We walk into the woods and find our first one.
Grisha pulls out his pocketknife to clean off the stone. "1928. Nothing but
the date. I was seven then." While we all spread out, walking through the
undergrowth to search, Algis calls Grisha. He's standing beside a relatively
intact gravestone covered with moss and leaves. Grisha brushes off the
stone, then opens his knife to expose the Hebrew letters. With difficulty he
translates into German, "Buried here...," and while we all gather around him
patiently, he shouts, "Zwieg... Zwieg is buried here...! That's my mothers
family name." Suddenly we don't know what to do. Grisha is beside himself .
and wants to take the stone right away. He starts up an excited conversation
in Lithuanian with Algis, who promises he'll come and pick it up the next
day and deposit it at his place.
…We're on our way for the last time to visit the house in Panemune that was
locked up yesterday on account of the old apple lady's absence. One of our
Lithuanian friends went to talk with her yesterday evening. Just as we'd
thought, she was scared that we wanted to reclaim her house. We heard the
stories about the general fear in Lithuania of those thought to be dead
returning from the gulags, or of heirs of murdered Jews coming to legally
reclaim their houses and land. It seems that specialized lawyers are already
establishing themselves in Vilnius for this reason. Up till now, this legal
restitution has concerned only people with Lithuanian nationality, which
Grisha has. His cousin Lily, who had asked us to inquire about her parents'
home in Kaunas, is not entitled to it because she is a foreigner. The old
lady was finally reassured and had agreed on this morning's visit.
When we stop in front of the house, Grisha motions for us to wait: he'll
test the waters first. This time, however, everything's in order, the gate
beside the house lets us all in. We shake hands heartily, as if we were
coming to visit an old aunt, and hand over the chocolate and the cigarettes.
The woman is now accompanied by her son. She has completely overtime
her fear, and frankly tells us that the house was bought in 1941 by a farmer
and afterwards became the property of the state. Grisha. explains that it
was precisely then that his grandmother had to go to the Slobodka ghetto
after which distant relatives sold the house.
The farmers wife also tells us that one of Chaim Hersch Bregstein's
nieces had visited a couple of years ago to see the big house next door
where that family had lived. Both of them remain silent about the fact that
Chaim Hersch and his wife died in the ghetto.
…When Grisha starts up about neighbor Fein, she gets enthusiastic, knew Fein
very well. The father, all of them...”They were very polite and intelligent.
He used to own the mill, he was a real Grand Seigneur." The woman says that
her mother-in-law's family that lived four miles away used to bring their
grain by horse and wagon. The old woman now lays her hand on Grisha's, "I
can still remember that the youngest of Fein's sons was rescued by a certain
Pavlavicius, who went into the ghetto on his bike to pick him up. They
rescued nine Jewish families."
Grisha says that Algis’ mother saw Fein and his son carted away to the lVth
Fort where they were shot. "A friend of mine from Rokai told me that they
shot Parlavicius later on." The woman sighs and nods.
"Yes, in 1940 his house was completely demolished when the river
flooded. That's when he moved to the other side of Panemune.
There he was shot. Nobody knows who did it."
I ask when the Soviets built the cement wall behind the yard. Again she
becomes fearful, as if it were better to keep quiet about such things,
"There were a lot of tanks and paratroopers. The tanks are still there. Will
they ever go away?" Grisha reassures her, "In Lithuania; the Soviets can't
do a thing anymore. If they did something, they'd get into trouble with the
whole world." The woman now talks about how when they bought the house
they'd had a cow they used to bring out to pasture in the hills behind the
house. Then the Soviets came along and built the cement wall and took away
four hundred square meters of their land. Grisha is surprised, "Four hundred
square meters, that was almost all of our land. You have to get it back!"
The substantial orchard and kitchen garden evidently make up only a small
portion of the original Bregstein yard.
"I'll have to find out," says Grisha, "what's going to happen with the land.
There’s nothing left of the farm except a big empty space." The son
reassures him, "They'll give you compensation in any case." Grisha laughs,
"I don't know. I don't believe any of it." The woman now lays her hand on
Grisha's shoulder in motherly fashion.
“In whose name was the land registered, in your mother's or your
fathers?”” 'My father's." "Then
you'll get it back, or they'll pay you."
"How much will they pay? For my father's deportation they paid me five
thousand rubles, and for our lost belongings, three thousand rubles." The
woman is now in definite solidarity with Grisha.
“My husband was in a gulag for nine years and we got four thousand
rubles.” Grisha takes his final
apple, motioning to us that it's time to leave, and for the umpteenth time
he repeats his little joke, "For three thousand rubles I can buy four
chairs. That isn't very interesting."
When we get up, the old woman restrains him, lays her hand on his arm, “Are
you in a hurry? Why don't you stay a while?" We let ourselves be drawn
indoors, where, to our surprise although not to Grisha's, the interior is
just as he recalls it from fifty years ago: this is where his grandmother
lived, and on the left side of the house, which has now been rented out, he
lived with his family before they moved to Kaunas. He studies the ceiling
and the white walls painted with old designs. "It's still just like it used
to be. Except this door wasn't here, and there were two beds in the bedroom.
And there were lots of flowers."
When we're sitting around the old country table, Grisha's nearly always
sharply squinting eyes now widen in amazement, "I wonder if I could ever
have imagined that I’d come back here and that we’d be sitting around this
table together." He gestures theatrically in Victor’s direction, "When he's
back in Montevideo he can tell his father, that he ate in the same room they
used to live in." Then he points at me, "And his grandfather was born here!
I never knew him, he was long since gone, at the end of the last century.
But in 1926 he came here with his entire family for a visit. I was five
years old, but I remember it well: they came in a big Fiat with huge
headlights and a driver! He sat separate from the passengers and talked with
them through a tube. I can still remember everything about that car, but
nothing about his grandfather and the other family."
My grandfather had driven from Amsterdam in his luxurious Fiat to the
village of his birth to show how successful he'd become.
The only thing remaining of the idyllic stories of the shtetl is the
décor and all we can take with us from Panemune is a big bag of apples.
[1]
Excerpted from: Bernard Horwich, My First Eighty Years,
Chicago: Argus Books, pp. 363-367.
[2]
Isaac Breakstone (1863-1945).
[3]
“Gone, gone, all gone”.
[4]
The stone, measuring approximately three feet across, was rounded at
the top and scored down the middle so as to resemble two tablets.
The right hand tablet reads: "Here lies my virtuous mother,
Hinda, the daughter of our teacher and Rabbi, Yitchak Isak, who died
on Shabbat, 28th day of Nisan, 5612 (1852), may her soul be bound up
in the bond of eternal life."
This is the stone of Hinde Anixter.
(See 1850s list in “Jewish Families and Individuals in
Panemune 1780s-1940s”).
The left hand side of the tablet reads: "Here lies our virtuous
mother, Chaya Pesha the daughter of our teacher Sheftal, who died on
Shabbat, 19th day of Sivan, 5600 (1840)..."
[5]
The upper left part of the stone was destroyed.
The stone reads: "...Av___ the son of ____ Zweig, 21st Iyar,
5622 (1862)."
[6]
While the account of the hill's creation is clearly fiction, the
hill would command an excellent view of Kaunas.
[7]
We again proceeded South on Viadoto Gotveh, bore right as it merged
with another road, and followed the signs to Alexsota.
(All told, perhaps one mile from Paniemunias).
The Alexsota bridge goes directly into the old historical
square in Kaunas.
(Directions now for future visitors to Paniemunias become quite
easy: go to the historic square in Kaunas, pass over the bridge,
keep bearing left along the river to Viadoto Gotveh.)
[8] Traveling with Philo was Victor Bregstein, a photographer from Buenos Aires, who had settled in Paris recently. His father, who lived in Uruguay, was born in Panemune and was a cousin of Philo’s. Excerpted and translated from "Terug Naar Litouwen", De Groene Amsterdammer, 15 Januari, 1992, p. 12. Parts of this account also appeared in Philo Bregstein en Victor Bregstein, Op Zoek in Litouwen: Lithuanian Quest, Waanders Publishing, b.v., Zwolle, Jewish Historical Museum, Amsterdam, 1992.
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