Page 77 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Makova

On a railroad, a trip like the one we took to Makova would cost
about five or six dollars, at least. On the covered wagon, called a
brichka, fifty cents was a fair price, depending on the passenger and
driver. It was a cold autumn day when we left. Low-hanging clouds
added to the gloom of the early morning; hardly a soul could be seen
on the road. Teamsters would stop at the inn at Pelcovizna, across
from my grandfather’s property, to eat and feed their horses. After
waiting half a day on the highway, I talked to the driver of a brichka
loaded with grain going to Makova, and he agreed to take us there for
two groshen apiece—a groshen was a Polish coin, equivalent to an
American quarter.
Now, the brichka is covered with canvas stretched over half-round
wooden hoops, to protect the wares from rain, and on the sides of
the wagon more merchandise is strapped on to increase the profit.
The road went through forests where robbers had their nests, and at
night, when the driver was dozing at the reins, thieves would run up
to the schooner, cut the ropes of the side shelves, and run away with
the sacks of goods. The Jewish driver of the wagon had no
passengers, and was glad to take us on at fifty cents apiece, on
condition that we watched the sides of the wagon and scared away
thieves. Those robbers were not as bold as we see them in this
country, shoving a gun in your face. They were afraid of the police,
stealing and hiding the goods without the driver missing them until
he was ten miles down the road. For two days we traveled in that
land-boat, swinging from side to side at every turn of the wheel or
chuckhole, unable to sleep at night for fear of the highway robbers.
We were afraid of them, and would not have looked even if they
were taking the whole wagon. The driver used us as two scarecrows.
Our menu was tea and bread at the inns.
Makova was a small city situated on a small shallow river, which
supplied murky bad-tasting water for the town’s use. On our arrival
there, we found Makova to be boy-ridden. Hundreds of boys flocked
to its yeshiva, and to find a day in a house to eat was impossible. The
several thousand Jews living in that small town were overtaxed with
supplying food for the students. David was more bashful than I was,
so I had to do the knocking at doors and making appeals for a “day.”
But it really was a matter of starve or get out. Here and there
73