A Jewish Journey. Sheldon Cohen
did indeed make this suggestion to the Czar. “Yes, I will tell my people,” he said dejectedly.
This was the first time that one of the Jewish divisions had allied itself with the Czar to recommend a restrictive measure against their fellow Jews. He realized that he, as an orthodox rabbi, could live long enough to see a complete shift in Jewish thinking toward a rapprochement with a government repressive to traditional Jewish beliefs.
The fools! Don’t they see what they were doing? When in history had a country ever allowed full rights to all its Jewish citizens? This would be a movement that could end Judaism if carried to the extreme of complete integration.
As an orthodox rabbi, this development strengthened his belief that he must do all he can to keep Judaism alive, and this meant rigid adherence to Torah. Was he an ancient relic? Was there a tide of change that would sweep everything in its path making him and people like him irrelevant?
His father had become a Hasid, yet he remained orthodox. This represented a difference between generations. Would his son adopt the ways of the Maskilim? Was this the nature of change? Was he fighting a losing battle? He left Kolakoff dispirited and depressed.
When he learned that the government had established two rabbinical seminaries, one in Vilna and one in Zhitomar, he realized that the tide had drifted further in the direction of change. These rabbinical students were exempt from military service, and he knew that this would be an irresistible force, which would fill the ranks with students eager to avoid a military from which Jews would often never return and from which Jews could never be officers.
These seminaries, also financed by the candle tax, would provide future teachers and rabbis all steeped in the Maskilim philosophy. He realized that Haskalah was a raging force. Haskalah literature, books and pamphlets printed in Russian, Yiddish and Hebrew would reach the great majority of Jews who were uneducated.
Now, more then ever, he felt that change was inevitable, and as this change whirled around him, he elected to do what he could to keep Jewish learning and study of Torah intact.
The Czar’s decrees were law, and trouble awaited anyone who offered opposition.
Soon there was clear evidence that Torah learning would be restricted or done away with, but there was no law against the teaching of Torah by individuals, so this is where he would concentrate his efforts.
He was like the man climbing the mountain, and the Czar was like the landslide, but whatever small contribution he could make to continue Jewish learning would be his small effort to counter the Czar’s influence; God would give him the strength to continue.
Czar Nicholas I’s hatred of the Jews knew no bounds. He established his most restrictive order to date. He classified Jews by their worth to the state. The first classification was “useful,” and included wealthier Jews who were professionals, merchants, and craftsmen.
The second classification was “non-useful,” and included the poorer, uneducated and tradesmen. This latter classification was subject to general conscription into the army, or if they were unemployed, they would disappear from their community and find themselves in Siberia.
This was the first time that one of the Czar’s anti-Jewish edicts raised eyebrows even in Russia, as some of the Russian political leaders spoke out in opposition. In addition, on behalf of their fellow Jews in Russia, prominent world Jews spoke up against this anti-Semitic directive.
In the meantime, the rabbi intensified his efforts to teach Torah. This was his mission. Most of his waking hours were in the synagogue teaching the children every day.
CHAPTER 7
One evening there was a knock on the rear door of the synagogue while the rabbi was there with the children. It was Kolakoff. His face was grim. He said, “I need to talk to you, Rabbi. I have something to bring to Prushkin’s house, and I was sure you would want to come along.”
The look on Kolakoff”s face frightened the rabbi for whereas it was always glum, tonight a look of anger combined with the glumness. He knew he was in for bad news.
“What do you have to bring to Prushkin’s house?” he said squinting through the darkness.
“Come, Rabbi, see.”
Kolakoff directed the rabbi to a horse drawn cart. On the cart was a blanket that was covering what had the shape of a human form. The form was Isaac Prushkin.
The look of death was there: mouth agape, chin dropped, eyes open, contentment written on a thin face. The rabbi touched Prushkin’s cheek: cold, waxy—the feel of death.
“Oh, my God,” whispered the rabbi, “what happened?”
As if giving a report to a commissar, Kolakoff said, “He went crazy, Rabbi. He tried to kill one of my men just doing his duty. My man acted in legitimate self defense.”
The rabbi stared at Prushkin, while his lips formed the words of the Kaddish, an automatic reflex. No one would hear Prushkin’s side of the story.
Kolakoff continued. “One of our agents told us that this man was telling his neighbors to revolt against the Czar. He was making threats that would put the whole community in danger. Stupid man. What does he think he could do against the might of the Czar? When we questioned him, he tried to choke one of my men. That was his last act in this world.”
The rabbi stood there with bowed head. He knew better then to say anything. Prushkin: tried and sentenced. Case closed.
“Did you know anything about this attempt at resistance, Rabbi? Is this the way you Jews show appreciation for what the Czar is trying to do for you?”
Grief stricken, Shepsel whispered, “I don’t know anything.” His prediction had come true. Prushkin could not control himself and his statement about preferring death had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. No one would ever know what happened as Kolakoff’s version would be accepted, and there would be one less Jew for the Czar to worry about.
“Anybody else thinks like Prushkin?” sneered Kolakoff.
“Not that I know of,” lied Shepsel.
“I’m counting on you to look into this, Rabbi; and if you come across any more such foolish talk, tell them about Prushkin.”
“They will all learn soon enough.”
“You’ll come with us, Rabbi. You can minister to his family. I hope we don’t have to do this again, but you can be assured we will if anyone attacks us. Foolish Jew!”
They arrived at Prushkin’s home. The rabbi entered and informed Prushkin’s wife. Amongst howls and wails from the wife and children, the body was carried in and placed on the bed.
Jewish law mandated burial within twenty-four hours. Prushkin was dressed in a white pajama-like shroud, yarmulke (skull cap) and tallis (prayer shawl). Morris Berganoff and Barel Katz were present. They never looked at the rabbi, nor did the rabbi acknowledge them. Kolakoff watched from a distance. After the funeral service was completed, the parishioners and family shoveled some dirt on the grave. Then the family went home to sit shiva. Then they left town to take up residence with the wife’s parents. One year later, his family put up a stone to commemorate the memory of Isaac Prushkin.
CHAPTER 8
In 1855, Nicholas I of Russia caught pneumonia and died. Although some historians have put forth the theory of suicide, most feel that he did indeed die of natural causes.
Nicholas’s oldest son, Alexander, age 36, succeeded his father to the throne. The new Czar Alexander II, instituted far-reaching reforms. He abolished a system of serfdom in spite of vigorous opposition from the landed gentry. By the 1861 Emancipation Act, Russian serfs received their personal freedom from the landowners and given plots of land. The goal was to create a class of people who would be responsible for their own economic and personal