Stephen Shooster
classroom. As much as I developed a disdain for the way I was treated in school, it was nothing compared to the storm that was brewing outside of my country, in Nazi Germany. I also had little interest in helping my father take care of our horses. It’s not that I was a lazy child, because I did what I was told, but I just found working with ani- mals sickening. My father, conversely, seemed to like what he was doing, earning a reputation as a natural healer. I think he learned these skills from his father, who also worked with horses. My father was a hard worker, scratching out a meager living, barely supporting our family, but at least he earned enough to own a home within the city limits of our town. Not an easy task, since the Jews were required to pay taxes greater than their counterparts. The only language we spoke in school was Polish. At home, we spoke Yiddish, a unique combination of Hebrew and German. So, I learned both. In fact, one of the most interesting things about the Jews throughout Europe is that they spoke the native language of whatever country they happen to be in, plus Hebrew and Yid- dish. In many ways, their connection to Hebrew through the Torah and the com- mon language of Yiddish, combined with their strict adherence to tradition, made them a nation-within-a-nation, wherever they lived. This is especially true, since they found themselves frequently in hostile circumstances within their host nations, both in the form of abuse from violent pogroms, and being forced to leave their homes and communities, sometimes after generations of living in the same place. Yet, no matter where they lived, they found ways to thrive, raising children that would abide by the Sabbath, lighting candles, and praising God and family. I was too young to understand any of this, yet Polish and European history is replete with atrocities and hardships forced upon the Jews. My hometown is located in the southeastern tip of Poland near the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains; it is nestled along the River Biala, otherwise known as the White River. The river earned its name from its fast-moving water. It was far more suitable for white-water rafting, or a trout-filled mountain stream than boat traffic. During some months it was deceptively placid, when the snow melted it would become a raging, white, destructive torrent. In 1934, when I was about 8 years old, I remember being on top of the old Roman arch bridge with my friends looking down at the raging white-capped river. We were amazed at how violent it became. I saw horses and cows caught in the torrent and even parts of a house crashing through the rocks. I remember the firemen were
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