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8 HASHALOM March
2017
March 2017
HASHALOM
9
JEWISH WORLD
Purim in Moscow, 1946
By Miriam Paltiel Nevel
The author with her father and brothers in France, on
their way to the U.S. (Photo courtesy of the author)
For decades, waiting long hours to receive a ration of bread was part of life in Soviet Russia.
Purim decorations created by Rachael Van Rooyen, Grade 6 - Eden
The first Purim I remember began in sadness and ended in joy.
It was 1946, and World War II had finally come to an end. My family
was back from Siberia, where we had spent most of the war years (our
mother had passed away). Now, in our one-roomMoscow home, my two
brothers and I were sitting on the floor playing chess. That is, my oldest
brother was trying to coax me, or perhaps I should say coerce me, into
playing chess with him. He was just about to give my hand a forceful
push so that I would move the rook across the chessboard, when the
door opened and in walked a tall uniformed soldier. It was our uncle Itche
Mordche, returning fromwar.
His World War II had finally come to an end. His wife who was my
mother’s sister Rivka, and their baby had been murdered by the Nazis
in their hometown. And now Itche Mordche had returned from war and
wanted to find out what he could about his family, whom he had left
behind when he went away to fight three years ago.
Our uncle asked us when our father would be home. My older brother
told the visitor that Papa would come home after work.
Then the soldier began to examine some spoons and a plate that were on
the table in the middle of the room. The plate was caked with the days-
old remnants of something that used to be food. Next he looked inside
our little food cupboard, which was hiding forlornly in a corner of the
room. Then he went to the kitchen, which we shared with our neighbors,
and examined our private kosher cooking space there. Every place our
uncle looked was empty of food.
The soldier left.
We didn’t expect the visitor to return, but sometime that afternoon the
door opened and there was Itche Mordche again. And this time, nestled
in his hands was the biggest loaf of black pumpernickel that my brothers
and I could remember seeing.
“A freilichen Purim!”
[“Happy Purim!”] the soldier boomed, dropping the
black loaf on the table with a loud thump. He took off his green military
jacket, and ceremoniously pushed up one shirt sleeve and then the other.
Then he picked up the bread knife that was on the table, and proclaiming,
“Shalach monos, a freilichen Purim!”
our guest began to work on the
pumpernickel, splitting it into chunks, while three hungry pairs of eyes
stared at the knife in their uncle’s hand as it moved up and down and side
to side on the black loaf.
(The next day, after Itche Mordche had left, my brothers and I speculated
about howour uncle had procured the bread. My oldest sibling, who inmy
eyes was an expert on practically everything, came up with this scenario:
When Itche Mordche left us earlier that day, he went to the bread store,
which was mobbed with people eager to buy bread. Using his strong
fighting elbows, the soldier delivered a left jab, then a straight right, then
a front punch, and all the while he kept muttering loudly over and over
again,
“Daetee, daetee, golodniyae daetee.”
[“Children, children, hungry
children.”] And so the line at the bread store had split in front of our uncle,
and he crossed all the way to the head of the bread line.)
After handing each one of us our meal, our uncle went to the kitchen to
wash his hands. He whispered a blessing over the bread. Undoubtedly,
he was thankful to G d for allowing him to acquire this bread, which was
drawn out of G d’s good earth in time of hunger. Then he sat down at the
table. And all four of us ate our first Purimmeal, leaving a sizeable portion
of bread for later, when we would have a second meal with our father.
Deep sighs punctuated their whispered words.
After we finished eating, while waiting for Papa to come home, our uncle
andmy older brother played chess together happily. And I was glad not to
be forced to move the chess pieces at my brother’s commands.
When the chess game was finished, Aunt Rivka’s husband sat silently,
waiting to talk to Father, who could give him information about his wife
and his baby.
Father came home. After they greeted each other, and ate a Purim meal
consisting of more black pumpernickel, Father and Uncle sat on chairs
facing each other, talking. Deep sighs punctuated their almost whispered
words about mass graves and the date of Aunt Rivka and her baby’s
yahrtzeit. Tears, bright like tiny crystals, glistened in the tall soldier’s eyes.
The next day Uncle Itche Mordche left Moscow. That year he succeeded
in joining many chassidic Russian Jews who escaped the Soviet Union.
Once out of the Soviet Union, our uncle made his way to England, where
he remarried and began a new family and a new life. I never sawhimagain.
My father, brothers and I left Russia as well. After several years of
wandering through Europe, we came to America.
Decades later, in my American home one Purim. The reading of the
Megillah; the sound of
graggers;
the clamor of children, toddlers and
adults; the delicious homemade sesame candy, After several years of
wandering, we came to America
hamantaschen
and hot chocolate all
mixed together to create the happy atmosphere that celebrates the
Jewish people’s victory over evil.
I was sitting quietly amid the roar, and let my thoughts wander. In my
mind’s eye, here was Uncle Itche Mordche rolling up his sleeves one at a
time and booming, “Happy Purim! May all the Hamans have a downfall,
and we should have warmth, happiness and great celebrations all
together!” In my mind’s eye, a circle of children would mill around Itche
Mordche, and he would dance with all the children and make
l’chaims
in
fine Purim spirit.