This is a story I have waited over 25 years to write. It was told to me by my husband, z’l, who heard it from a stranger sitting next to him in shul. I am writing it now because Ukraine is in the news and, like everyone else, I am following the appalling events as they unfold, while at the same time remembering the atrocities that occurred there in the past. These include the massacre of 33,000 Ukrainian Jews in Babi Yar during World War II and a particularly well-documented pogrom in Kishinev in 1906. The man I call Moshe Leib lived in Kishinev, and he, too, was a victim of antisemitism. The story I have written about him falls squarely in the genre of creative nonfiction. I have made up names, invented dialogue, and reimagined characters and events, but what happened to the tavern keeper is, in its essence, true.
That Moshe Leib, fearful for his life, was forced to leave his homeland, and the way in which this happened, was tragic, but ironically, it might have been the best thing that ever happened to him. He and his family fled Kishinev in March of 1906, just months before the pogrom that terrorized, maimed, and/or killed many of their relatives, friends, and neighbors.
In Kishinev, Moshe Leib owned a tavern. This profession would not have been his first choice. Highly intelligent and well-read, he would have preferred a job that allowed him to use his gift for language and writing. Still, in Russia at that time, Jews were not permitted to own land and were barred from working in many professions. Running a tavern was one of the few options open to him. A practical man, he accepted his circumstances and, through hard work and persistence, built up a business that managed to generate enough money to support his family of six. Over time, he had become acclimated to the frequent brawls in the tavern, especially when his patrons were drunk, and, for the most part, had learned to shrug off their frequent anti-Semitic outbursts.
There was, however, one customer whom Moshe Leib considered a friend, Alexandr Demnovich. Demnovich, a tall, hulking man with a close-cropped head of hair and a bushy beard, both the color of rust, managed the estate of Ann Hodorov, an eccentric recluse known for her enormous wealth and free-thinking. Rumor had it that after being abandoned at the altar by a German count, she had become a recluse, spending her days reading philosophy, literature, and political pamphlets. Demnovitch, who, unlike most of Moishe Leib’s other customers, could read and write, was Anna Hodorov’s most trusted employee. A man who respected learning, he was, however, aware of and deeply ashamed of his own limited education. He admired Moshe Leib, who was not only learned in religious matters but also literate in Russian and several other languages. Everyone in the town knew that, for a few kopeks, the Jew would read and write letters for his neighbors. This extra income was helpful, especially during those times when his belligerent customers refused to pay their bills or when the government imposed high excise taxes and licensing fees on tavern keepers.
A lonely bachelor, Demnovich looked forward to slow times in the tavern when he and Moshe Leib would sit at a table drinking tea and discussing articles in the newspapers. Sometimes Moshe Leib would lend him books to read, which he could not always understand. Still, he was grateful. Once, when there was news of a pogrom in a nearby village, Demnovich promised Moshe Leib that should one occur in Kishinev, he would hide him and his family in Anna Hodorov’s stable.
When Anna Hodorov died without a single surviving relative, she left all of her assets to her estate manager. Some months later, Demnovitch asked Moshe Leib to draw up a will for him.
“You know, my friend, that I was never a very religious man, but I always had respect for the Orthodox Church in which I was raised. Anna Horodov, however, tried to poison my mind against religion, talking endlessly about its corruption—how the priests were puppets of the tsar and the so-called holy men were really demons, vampires sucking the blood out of the Russian people. Towards the end of her life, I began to wonder if she was in her right mind. At some point she began to rave and rant against Catholicism as well. She once told me that her mother had been a great benefactor of the Catholic Church and that two of her brothers had been priests, but, obviously, none of this rubbed off on her. She tried to turn me into a non-believer like herself, but she did not succeed.”
Demnovitch had not been drinking while he talked, but now he poured himself a glass of vodka. Gulping it down, he pushed the bottle towards Moshe Leib, who shook his head. He laughed gruffly. “I don’t have to tell you that I’m a very rich man now. You can see that for yourself. Guess. Guess how many rubles this new fur hat cost me? It’s the highest quality sable. And the gloves? Just look at them! They are made of the softest leather money can buy. And the workmanship! Did you ever see anything like it?” He waved his hand in the air, as if to say that he did not expect an answer, and poured himself another glass of vodka.
“You can understand that it’s important for someone in my position to think about the future. So, my friend, I would like you to write out a will for me. Sadly, like Anna Hodorov, I have no family, and so I have decided to leave everything to my church.”
Moshe Leib, aware of Anna Hodorov’s background and worried that the man might be violating an agreement made with his benefactor, asked, “Were there no conditions?” His companion’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You mean on how I was to spend the money or who would inherit it?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Did she write something down or ever say anything about the subject?” Demnovitch shook his head. “There were no conditions. It’s my money now, so I can do whatever I want with it, and I already told you that I want to leave it to my church.”
Moshe Leib, biting his lip, asked again, “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely. 100% sure.”
His friend picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and, with some misgivings, began to write.
Several years later, Demonvitch died, his end hastened no doubt by his newfound wealth and the excesses in which it had permitted him to indulge. The tavern keeper mourned his friend, but only briefly. Soon he was preoccupied with other matters.
Only days after Demnovitch’s will was read, the police came to arrest Moshe Leib on charges of falsifying the document. The Catholic Church was claiming that Anna Hodorov had told the bishop of her intention to leave her estate to her employee with the proviso that it would revert to the church upon his death. Moshe Leib was accused of subverting her wishes because of his hatred of Catholics. The explanation for his behavior was as follows: Many years ago, the tavern keeper had spread a rumor that a local Catholic priest had egged on a mob to attack his son, which had left the boy with a limp. His account had, of course, been a lie, as was his feigned innocence in the matter of the will. Self-serving and vindictive like all Jews, he would go to any length to cheat the church out of its rightful inheritance. No doubt, Demnovich had intended to honor Anna Hodorov’s wishes, but the tavern keeper had tricked him into doing otherwise.
Maybe Anna Hodorov had made this proviso, and maybe she hadn’t. If in fact, the woman had not been in her right mind during the last years of her life, as Demnovich had claimed, there was no accounting for what she had said or done. In any event, it didn’t much matter. One Shabbos afternoon while Moshe Leib was learning with his sons, the police burst into his house and arrested him. He was taken to prison, where he would spend many months and nearly die.
In a crisis, the Jews of Kishinev, like Jews everywhere in Russia, would seek the help of a shtadlan. A shtadlan was someone who bridged two worlds: his own Jewish world and that of the Gentiles. He was, as it were, an emissary from the shtetl whose job was to mediate when his fellow Jews had problems with the authorities. After Moshe Leib’s arrest, his near-hysterical wife ran to the house of her brother-in-law, who was slightly acquainted with Fruma Malka, one of Beryl Kopchick’s cousins. Together, they made the long trek to her house in the sleeting rain. Awakened her from her Shabbos nap, Fruma Malka quickly pulled on her boots, grabbed her coat, and began leading them on still another long walk to her cousin’s house.
The clean-shaven man welcomed his guests, and feeling the blast of biting wind and sleet as he opened the door, rushed to offer them glasses of hot tea. Although devout, Beryl Kopchick did not look like most of the people who came to him for help. He knew that a Jew’s beard and payos were like a curtain that hung between him and the Gentiles. When the life of a fellow Jew was at stake, he knew that it was better that the curtain not be there.
Although his accomplishments on behalf of his fellow Jews were legendary and he did everything possible to get Moshe Leib released from prison, all of the shadlan’s efforts were in vain. An ordinary man, and a Jew to boot, the prisoner was caught up in a battle between two old and powerful enemies: the Russian Orthodox and the Catholics. Ultimately, it was not Beryl Kopchick but Rav Chaim who came up with a plan to free Moshe Leib.
By then several months had passed, and the tavern keeper was gravely ill. Because he would not eat even a mouthful of treife food and because the packages left by his family were confiscated by the guards, he subsisted on skimpy rations of bread and weak tea. The Rav feared he would die before his case came up and understood that even if he survived to face trial, a case of this magnitude would probably be decided not on evidence but by politics and bribes.
That the Orthodox Church was a tool of the government was obvious, and it was unlikely that the Catholic Church would be allowed to inherit even one ruble from the Hodorov estate as long as Bishop Vladimir remained in charge of the matter. Known for his steel will and rancor against the Catholics, the Bishop had assured the Jewish community that its interests were identical with his own and had pledged support for Moshe Leib. Nonetheless, all these months later, the man still languished in jail. The Rov worried, moreover, that if the Bishop, who was rumored to be suffering from a heart ailment, were to die, his successor might have a different agenda. It was not inconceivable that he might propose a compromise whereby the churches would share the inheritance. If such a deal were struck, the principals would think no more about the fate of Moshe Leib than they would about the fate of a mouse or a worm.
The problem weighed heavily on the Rov. He lay awake nights debating different courses of action, and when he awoke in the darkness of the winter morning, davened fervently for divine guidance.
At last he came up with a plan. There was a young man named Pytor who worked as a guard in the jail. Many years earlier, the Rov had helped his mother, giving her shelter when she and her young son were forced out of their home and living on the street. Olga had never forgotten this kindness. When the Rav became widowed, she announced her intention to pay him back for all he had done for her by attending to his needs. She cleaned the house, and under his supervision, prepared meals for him. She would gladly have done it without pay, but the Rav would not allow it. Fond of the boy, who, as a small child, was often underfoot when his mother was working, the Rav had taught him to read Russian and play chess.
The Rav had hesitated at first to involve Pytor, for fear of getting him into trouble, but when news of Moshe Leib’s worsening health became alarming, he decided that he had no choice. He hastily called a meeting of the townspeople, gave a d’var Torah on the mitzvah of rescuing a captive, and asked everyone to contribute to this important cause. Although many were themselves impoverished, they did not hesitate to give whatever they could. While Pytor would not accept any payment for his role in the prisoner’s escape, the money was needed to get Moshe Leib and his family out of Russia, where they would never be safe.
Anyone acquainted with Moshe Leib knew that, if he had a choice, he would not have wanted to go to America. For years he had worried about the stream of Russian Jews to a place he saw as a spiritual wilderness. He was appalled by reports of emigrants who had beards and payis and learned Torah for many hours each day in the study halls of Kishinev but in America had to work on Shabbos to feed their families. He despaired even more over reports of those who had discarded their heritage as casually as a crust of moldy bread soon after docking in New York. Had he had the choice, Moshe Leib would have remained in Kishinev.
The truth was that he was not asked and that, if he had been, he would have had no say in the matter. This was a matter of life and death. On a dark, snowy night in March of 1906, he was smuggled out of prison by Pytor, who had plied the other guards with vodka. When the men had passed out, Pytor had wrapped Moishe Leib in blankets and carried him for nearly a mile before reaching his destination, a copse of barren trees on the far end of the town, behind which a driver, his wagon, and a team of horses were waiting. From there, Moshe Leib was driven to Odessa, where he was reunited with his family. Two days later, they set sail for America.
On the day of his departure, as Moshe Leib wept for what he was leaving behind and contemplated the dangers and uncertainties that lay ahead, he had no way of knowing that his forced exile would turn out to be a great blessing.
Joan Zlotnick is a retired professor of English whose recent publications include a novel, “Griefwriting”; a column on caregiving and grief in Mishpacha Magazine; articles in Aish and Binah; and a memoir, “Holding it Together: Surviving Caregiving and Grief.” She and her daughter-in-law, Grunny Zlotnick, are co-editors of The Ahavas Yisrael File, which is currently in press.
