Page 110 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Recruitment
times to the regimental doctor to have myself measured. If a man’s
chest measure was fourteen centimeters less than half his height, he
could be reprieved for a year, while he improved. I lacked only two
centimeters in the chest, and it was hardly possible—or rather,
dangerous—to reduce twelve centimeters in such a short time. Many
young men tried that, keeping awake all night, drinking lots of oil,
eating a few crackers every day, and smoking lots of cigarettes.
On the day of the examination, my father was the only one to be
with me. My mother and sisters would not be able to stand the
sentence of military service pronounced by the board, so we didn’t
have them come with us. None of the boys who had been with me at
the drawing of the numbers was there either, as we had to appear
based on the numbers we had drawn. That very morning my father
and I stopped at Yosel Yakirs’ house for our last hope: maybe
something could be done. Yosel was an old master in bribing and
crippling, and this was his season, the recruiting time. He grabbed a
few capsules filled with yellow powder and made me swallow them.
My father prayed that the capsules would make me yellow, but Fate
had it that I should be in a free land instead of in the Russian army. I
never turned yellow and never will.
We went to Vavre, where the doctors and civilian officials were
presiding in that one big room. All the recruits gathered in a corner
of the hall and remained undressed for hours, waiting in line. Unlike
in America, where in time of war the boards of examination give a
thorough physical examination to every young man, even including
X-rays, when I was examined all they did was measure the height and
chest, and listen to the lungs and heart. When the policeman put me
on the scale and measured me, I tried to stretch my neck to raise my
height—which would have required more around the chest—but he
put his hand on my chin and pushed my head down. I was not a
strongly built boy, especially having sat bent over a book day in and
day out, but to the czar I was good cannon fodder. I was pronounced
godin, meaning soldier.
Then I was pushed over by another policeman into another
corner and told to get dressed. My name was recorded and I was led
into an old barn with other recruits and held there until the rabbi
came from the city to swear in the Jewish boys and the Catholic

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