Page 71 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Wisoka Mazovieck

the main room of a house on a sort of divan, and during the night all
those noodles would find their way onto the floor.
I continued to be sick to my stomach for a time, as those people
were very sincere, and wished to see the boys eat plenty in order to
have the strength to learn God’s word. Time is the greatest doctor;
you either forget or grow out of your problem. I forgot my mama’s
cooking and became accustomed to Wisoka’s delicacies. My stomach
stretched out little by little to the extent of being able to receive three
bowls of noodles and three pounds of black bread per day, without
giving a murmur or a belch. We studied from morning until night,
with no play or other distractions whatsoever—except eating, which
we enjoyed. I was always hungry, and conversation among the boys
was always about food. The whole week we talked about the Friday
evening meal; at that Sabbath feast we would receive a little gefilte fish,
a snippet of meat, and, of course, white challa bread.
Learning was secondary to our food problem, yet I made good
progress in my studies, and could do a little of my own thinking. In
that yeshiva were two classes. David was in the lower, and I in the
upper class. Our studies were just the Talmud and its commentators,
of whom, beside the great Rashi, there were dozens, each one
commenting on the commentaries of the earlier commentators. Our
teacher was an old man with gray whiskers, very stern, who seldom
talked or smiled. He wore a skullcap and a cassock, like a Capuchin
monk, of black broadcloth which had turned brownish and greenish
during so many years of service, slit in the rear with a pocket from
which a large red handkerchief always hung out, ready for nose
service. He never sat down on a chair, only stood before a small
stand like a regular lecturer, reading the lesson from an open Talmud.
We then proceeded to read and study the lesson by ourselves the
whole day, and each boy had to read a certain part of the lesson
afterwards and explain the difficult passages to the teacher, who
walked back and forth with his hands folded behind his back, never
leaving the room. His first name was Fishell. I cannot remember his
family name, but he was a very pious man who knew his Talmud and
was sincere in doing his utmost to educate us. He was what is called
in Yiddish a misnagid, meaning he did not care if we prayed or studied
the liturgy. All he wanted to do was to learn and learn.
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