Abba:
The father I knew, the father I discovered
By Bruria Schwab

In the Forest

A few men, together with Abba’s brothers, preceded the others to the forest. They built a hut of branches to protect them from the snow and started a fire. Then they showed the way to the rest of the family. Reb Avraham Shaul, however, again refused to leave the village. “I’m too old to walk around in the forest.” So he stayed in his house and each night found himself a hiding place — a haystack, a barn.

Even with the village people mostly gone, the hoodlums didn’t give up. They continued their nightly prowls, shooting and beating whoever they found. One elderly person, who could no longer hide outdoors in the cold of winter, was beaten severely and his beard plucked off of his face. He died a few days later. The village was so small that it didn’t have a cemetery of its own. His body was put on a wagon and sent to the next village, and the people quickly returned to their hiding places in caves or the forest.

The fear became a member of their family, a part of their bones. Each leaf rustle sent them into a panic. They imagined hearing shouts and screams all the time.

The cold of midwinter was biting. In the forest they sat on the frozen ground, on sacks and rags. No covers, no pillows. They made a big bonfire. The part of the body that faced the fire got hot, and the wind blew and froze the other half.

One night Abba, exhausted, fell asleep on an old coat that somehow had not been taken yet. The bitter cold forced him to get close to the fire, and in the toasty warmth of the fire, he rested his weary bones and fell asleep. All of a sudden, he was burning hot. The coat had caught fire. He sat up and dug the burning side into the snow until the fire was extinguished. He was left with half a coat in his hands. Half is better than none, he said to himself. He spread out the remainder of the coat and fell asleep again.

During that time he caught a cold from sleeping on the icy ground and a “souvenir” for the rest of his life — an arthritic backache.

People slept, woke up, collapsed again, froze, woke up. Once in a while someone would remember to add wood to the fire.

Hunger. This, too, became part of their existence. In the first days they had bread and potatoes. Potatoes roasted on an open fire — what a delicacy! But days passed, and the bread was gone, the potatoes eaten. Only a little flour left. One pot. They brought water from the lake. How did they get water? The lake was frozen. They started a fire, melted the ice that covered the lake, got some water, returned to their mother. She mixed some flour in the water with a wooden spoon and that was a meal.

The first Shabbos arrived, and a few families gathered. They cooked water with flour mixed with the wooden spoon in the single pot. They made Kiddush on this brew, taking turns sipping from the wooden spoon, continuing to cook it through the night. Everyone sat on the ground, crying.

“Woe is to us that we sit here on Shabbos, so miserable and pitiful.”

“Woe is to us that we have to desecrate the Shabbos and keep the fire going.”

“Oy, what terrible food to eat on the holy day of Shabbos.”

Then people remembered their relatives who had just been killed. A father, a sister, a child, and so they went on, crying and mourning for their loved ones and for themselves.

Abba’s father, Reb Aharon, sat in the midst of it all, but he did not cry. He sang in a pleasant, though sad, voice the zemiros of Shabbos. “Kol Mekadeish Shevi’i.” “Menuchah V’Simchah.”

Abba writes: “I was a child, but I’ll never forget that moment. It is engraved on my heart, how my father could sing Shabbos zemiros under such circumstances.”

“Reb Aharon,” people said, “this is not the time to sing. At such a time of pain and sorrow, how can you sing Shabbos songs and praise Hashem as if you are sitting at your Shabbos table?”

Reb Aharon, the Karliner chassid, answered, “Such is the will of Hashem, and we have to accept it. One day we will all sit on Shabbos and yom tov peacefully in our homes, surrounded by our families, and we will tell of the events that took place and that we experienced. It will all be like a long-forgotten nightmare.”

This strong faith gave my father and the rest of the people the ability to face the future and fortified them against their trials. It was an unwavering trust in the divine providence. A Jew should never worry and never fear. In all situations and all places, Hashem is with us.

What a legacy for a father to give to his son! With his father nearby, Abba always felt secure.

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