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JEWISH AFFAIRS ROSH HASHANAH 2012of scholarship and tradition that was destroyedalong with the communities and their scholars.The painting, which is oil on canvas, nowgraces the wall in the entrance to my house. Icontact the former owner sometimes when I am inCape Town. She is now happily settled with herdaughter in an apartment and is working.The Galician RabbiOn 29 October 2006, my very good friendAdam Goldsmith, one of South Africa’s expertson Russian silver, phoned me from Shangri LaHouse in Killarney. The house and its contentswere being auctioned off. In the art section, hehad seen a portrait called ‘Galician Rabbi’ andthought I needed to see and bid for it. I hastenedto the house and made my way through the throngsof people to the back garden where the auctioneerwas selling the lots. When the portrait come upfor sale, the merest glimpse was enough toconvince me that I just had to have it for mycollection. There was a lot of interest and thebidding was brisk, but eventually it was knockeddown to me.Why had I been so possessed to buy thispainting? The portrait was life size and superblywrought; the artist had captured in the Rabbi’seyes, a look of pure saintliness. I judge how gooda portrait artist is from the way he portrays theeyes and hands of the sitter, and this artist hadbeen greatly accomplished in that regard. Thatmuch I knew. What I did not know was who hewas, nor who the rabbi he had painted had been.The Galician Rabbi was soon hanging on thewall in my lounge where he could conductTalmudic debates with the other three rabbishanging there, two facing left and two facingright. All that was left to do was to find out whohe was so that an official introduction could bemade.The artist’s signature looked like BenPurukawa and was dated 1935. The letters aredifferent to how we would write them today. Asyet, I have not been able to identify this artist whoI am sure is Eastern European and know is verygood.The sitter came next. I looked through booksin my library, in the Encyclopaedia Judaica andthrough books in the Kollel Bookshop. I asked theRosh Beis Din Dayan Kurtstag. No luck! Someonesuggested my painting was of the Gere Rebbe.They were similar but he was not my man. Theyears went by, lots more art came and went, but hewas still the unknown Galician Rabbi, and itworried me.In 2011, Shwekey fever hit Johannesburg. Ihad never heard of this entertainer, but he was dueto perform in two concerts at Monte Casino. Myfriends Stan and Ingrid Seeff invited me to lunchon the Shabbat before the concert with Shwekey,his wife and their musical director Yochi. Thelatter, a Judaica collector, had heard of mycollection and passion for Holocaust art andartefacts, so we arranged for him to visit myhouse. In the course of that visit, Yochiphotographed the Galician Rabbi and promisedto send me whatever information he could find onit after his return to New York.He was true to his word. Soon after, theinformation arrived along with a picture of theRabbi. The Galician Rabbi now had a name:Rabbi Yeshaye (Shaya) Halberstam of Tchchoiv(Czchow), 1864-1944. He was the youngest ofseven sons of Rabbi Chaim of Sanz, the DivreiChaim. My Galician Rabbi had been murdered bythe Nazis Al Kiddush Hashem somewhere inEurope.Yad Vashem runs a programme called UntoEvery Person There is a Name. This comes froma poem by Israeli Zelda Schneersohn-Mishkovsky,a Ukrainian-born Orthodox Poet who belonged toa lineage of illustrious rabbis. Her father was theuncle of the late Lubavitch Rabbi MenahemMendel Schneersohn.Unto every person there is a nameBestowed upon him by HashemAnd given him by his father and motherUnto every person there is a nameAccorded him by his statureAnd the manner of his smileAnd given him by his style of dress…Unto every person there is a nameBestowed on him by the seaAnd given him by his death.Now my Rabbi, too, had a name and aHolocaust victim has an identity and isremembered. I now understood why I had feltsuch a strong need to purchase this portrait fiveyears earlier for my Holocaust art collection.Maybe one day I will find information about theartist as well as where Rabbi Shaya perished; thenmy research on this piece of art will be complete.44
JEWISH AFFAIRS ROSH HASHANAH 2012RIFKA*Bernard LevinsonThe snow is falling. Heavy indolentsnowflakes. Rivers of snow slowly form betweenthe dark wooden houses. The village of Soligalichis covered in a blanket of snow. Berel Chaitovichis a tailor. He is a small man. He has a tight crispbeard. An elaborate skull cap. Wired rimmedglasses cling to the tip of his nose. His wifeBrocha is a large woman. An imposing monobosom.Solid oak thighs. Her long hair crushedinto an enormous bun. They have ten children.Rifka is the sixth child. She lives in her ownworld. Each day she wanders between the housesin the village. In response to a command in hersecret world, Rifka takes off her clothes. Themarket square is her stage. Neighbours bringRifka home smiling. Vacant. Everyone in thevillage knows Rifka.The silent snow is falling. The few treessurrounding the village have become whitegrotesque ghosts.On the other side of the world the city of Leedsexerts a magnetic tug on men and their familiesfrom all over Eastern Europe. The English loomsare busy. England is the home of the new boomingtextile world. Leeds is the seething centre drawingtailors from the old world. Lithuanian tailors.Polish tailors. Russian tailors. It is snowing thenight Berel Chaitovich and his wife Brocha vanishfrom the village of Soligalich with their tenchildren. He is able to pay for their passage andthey arrive in the city of Leeds.Count Boris Ignatievich Mironov is thelandlord of the large Vlodavky province.Soligalich is one of the villages in his serfdom. Ashe passes in his elaborate sled accompanied byhis soldiers it is imperative for everyone to lookdown. Eye contact is an aggressive act and couldprovoke a highly aggressive response. CountMironov owns everything. He has all the power.He is feared by everyone.It is snowing when his sled overturns. Turningsharply the horses stumble. The sled lurches andfalls over. The sled is filled with men. Fur coats.Bernard Levinson is a distinguished South Africanpoet whose work has appeared in numerousscholarly publications and anthologies.Professionally, he is a psychiatrist, based inJohannesburg.Fur hats. Enormous fur blankets. They are drunkand roar with joy as they spill into the snow. Themoon dances on the bells and glass beaded harnessof the horses freed from the sled. In minutes thesled is lifted. The horses re harnessed andcontained. The men climb into the sled singing.The falling snow muffles the singing and shoutingas the sled dissolves into the cold darkness.The snow is falling. A frozen sun tumbles overthe snow covered roofs. And then the cold moon.A single candle burns in the small cottage. BerelChaitovich, his wife Brocha and all the childrenare asleep. There is a banging on the door. Berelwakes and goes to the door. Four soldiers enterthe dark room. Berel is a small man. He is minutenext to the soldiers. They carry long rifles. Thefamily are all awake. They are hidden in theshadows. Berel Chaitovich stands at the doorsurrounded by soldiers. The spokesman stepsforward.“Last night,” he shouts, “the Count lost hiswallet! Someone in this village must have thiswallet! The Count had an accident in his sled.”Berel Chaitovich nods. He is totally accepting.If the soldier had said that the Count was at thismoment standing on the roof of their home, BerelChaitovich would have nodded his head. Yes,everything is possible. And so....“The count has lost his wallet. There was a lotof money in the wallet. It is most important to findthe wallet. Has anyone here found the wallet?”The soldiers look menacing. They stare intothe shadows. Silence. It is so still they can hearthe candle splintering light on the dark walls.Rifka steps out of the darkness.“I found the wallet.”All eyes are on Rifka. No one is breathing. Thesoldiers grip their rifles. Rifka begins to undress.She has layer upon layer of clothing. Finally sheis naked from the waist up. Large pendulousbreasts. There is a roar of approval from thesoldiers. They nudge each other. They slap theirsides. They know Rifka. They have witnessedthis undressing many times. They throw up theirhands laughing. They slowly leave. They arelaughing in the street.Rifka continues to undress. The wallet is inher voluminous underpants.The snow is falling over Soligalich.45
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