Four sisters had Mutti, each one a gem. Ziviya, the oldest,
was born in Kolbuszowa during the reign of the Austrian-
Hungarian empire. When I met her in 1929, it was Poland. When
I think of her, I remember her as a tall and stately
grandmother, well-dressed and graceful.
When we arrived in America from Germany in 1937, I met the
other three sisters: Tante Dvoireh, Aunt Chanshe and Aunt
Raisel.
Dvoireh was the plainest looking of her sisters, yet when her
generous eyes came to rest upon someone, they radiated the
tranquility of her heart. "Sheker hachein" was the
thought that struck me at our first meeting. Soon I learned
that she glowed with a strong, profound love of Yiddishkeit.
Her personality was gentle and pleasant. Her kindness reached
out to all those she could help. It was easy to love and
admire her.
In spite of her wit and her ability to accept her hard life
with humor, she was overshadowed with sadness. With good
reason. When she was in her teens, her father, my grandfather
Osher Yeshaya, lost the two forests he owned with a partner.
He had to sell their fine two-story home and the family moved
to a ramshackle old building near a small stream. No one had
lived in this shack for years and it was rumored to be
inhabited by sheidim.
The family was very poor now and Dvoireh had to be sent as a
household help with a family in a nearby town. When she
returned home for Yom Tov, her mother was horrified to see
black and blue marks on her arms. Her mistress had treated
her unkindly and Dvoireh's mother cried, "Vay is mir
that I sent a child to be a servant!" Her father sent one of
the brothers to collect her wages and to tell the family that
Dvoireh would not be returning.
Many families in those days sent their children to America in
the hope that they would have a better life, and several
months later, Dvoireh left for New York to the home of
distant relatives.
A storm arose during the voyage and Dvoireh arrived weakened
and depleted. She was immediately told that in America it was
essential to know how to wash sheets and blankets, towels and
clothing. A large pile of laundry had been accumulated for
her to do. "After you finish, you can eat," she was told.
That night she slept on the bare kitchen floor. The next day
she rose early, washed neigelvasser and went down the
street looking for some religious-looking woman whom she
could ask for directions to a Rov, since she needed
advice.
Luck was with her. The third woman she asked told Dvoireh
that her husband was a dayan and invited her to come
with her. When retelling her story, at this point my aunt
would always remark, "The dayan appeared to me like an
angel of Hashem. First the wife served us breakfast.
Afterwards, the dayan asked how he could help. At
first, I couldn't talk, only cry. When I told him I was
looking for work as household help, he found me a job with a
fine, frum family- beginning the next day."
Here her qualities and ability were respected and
appreciated. Dvoireh was given her own room off the kitchen
and lived with this family until she got married.
"Yetz kommen die schwerre yahren," Tante would sigh.
Harder times were in store for her. "The couple I had worked
for through two and a half years led Moishe and me to the
chuppa. And now -- parnossa."
Times were hard in the U.S. in the late 1800's and early
1900's. Workers were not paid well and for every backbreaking
job there were dozens of applicants. Moishe went out every
morning to look for work. Dvoireh took in washing. One
evening he came home agitated and anguished to the point of
tears. He had been offered work at a fairly decent pay -- but
only if he worked on Shabbos. He refused and was thrown
out.
"If you were mechallel Shabbos, I would prefer to
die," answered Tante. "He Who sees to it that all Creation is
fed to the tiniest bird will send us parnossa -- while
we uphold our most precious heritage."
Then Tante went to a neighbor to borrow some walnuts and eggs
to cheer up Moishe by baking his favorite cake.
She found customers who wanted their laundry washed. Moishe
would pick up the dirty laundry and deliver the dried and
carefully ironed items. But the income from this work was not
enough. In the next eight years, they were blessed with six
children. Tante went out and bought material on credit and
sewed children's suits and dresses. These she sold from house
to house and when she was able to pay for the material she
was given some more.
During those years, Moishe would joke that Dvoireh worked 25
hours a day. "But there are only 24 hours in a day," people
would remark. "Correct," was the answer, "but she always
borrows one hour from the next m'es l'es (24-hour
day)."
Years passed. The children grew old enough to work and now it
was easier. For years, Tante Dvoireh paid a private
melamed to come to the house to teach and supplement
what the boys learned in cheder.
When we arrived from Germany in 1937, Moishe was still
working 4 1/2 days a week. All their children were married
and they were living in comfort.
Tante Dvoireh lives in my memory as a true heroine, the
personification of an eishes chayil.
