Distinguished scholar also once a child

By Dr. Moisey Wolf

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The following is the third of four excerpts from the memoirs of Dr. Moisey Wolf, who died in February. Born in Warsaw in 1922, Dr. Wolf left a rich account of his childhood in Poland, the war and its aftermath in the Soviet Union, his distinguished career as a psychiatrist in Moscow, and his new life in Portland after his arrival with his wife, Susanna, in 1992. Judson Rosengrant, the translator and editor of the memoirs, specializes in Russian language, history and culture. He lives in Portland.

As the oldest son, Grandfather Yeruhim had inherited from his father part of a Warsaw building and the Cheremoshno village property. I was four when I was brought to my grandparents for “rehabilitation” after bouts of scarlet fever and diphtheria that had followed one upon the other. This is what I recall from that time.

Grandfather Yeruhim and Grandmother Revka had two large wooden houses with iron roofs (a mark of prosperity), one for themselves and the other for their guests, that is, for the children and grandchildren who came to visit in the summer.
   
In the attic of his own house Grandfather Yeruhim had built a pigeon loft. He was very fond of pigeons. He was convinced that they were the cleanest, noblest creatures, noble because “they have no bile,” as he put it, and quickly get used to whoever feeds them and respond to him with gratitude. They live in pairs and love each other all their lives, never changing partners. As Grandfather often said, “People should follow their example.”

   
He instilled that fondness in me, too. I eventually developed such an interest in pigeons that I easily abandoned my childhood and youthful games. I fed the pigeons three times a day. They had large appetites and ate everything that was eaten in the house, along with every kind of grain. When I came to Cheremoshno during vacations, the pigeons would sense at a distance that their provider had returned. They would fly to the window in groups and vie with each other to peck at the glass. Spring was their “time of love.” It was an amazing spectacle. The male, who is distinguished from the female by a head plume, starts courting her. While she eats he walks around her cooing and prevents other “suitors” from approaching. He frequently covers her with his wing and they kiss with their bills without embarrassment. Then they build a remarkably soft nest together in which she lays a pair of eggs every six weeks. The most intimate moment—impregnation—takes place in a secluded place out of human sight. While the female sits on the pair of eggs she has laid, the male continually walks around her, truculently cooing. She leaves the nest only for very short periods to eat. During that time he immediately takes her place and remains on the eggs until she returns. After two weeks, a pair of blind, naked, helpless chicks are hatched to be warmed and fed by the father and mother in turn. They both teach the chicks to fly, first in the territory of the attic and then beyond after pushing them outside. With that the parental duties end and the next cycle of love begins. The following year the chicks repeat everything they have been taught by their parents or have been endowed with by nature.

I am unable to pass over in silence another “warm” place in my memory of grandparents’ house: their huge cellar, which was essentially a kind of refrigerator. Every year toward the end of winter Grandfather and Gritsko, “der Shabes goy” (the Gentile who on the Sabbath did all the work forbidden to Jews), would fill the cellar with ice brought from the lake. They placed it in layers, covering each one with sawdust, up to eight layers thick. The method made it possible to maintain a near freezing temperature in the cellar until the following winter and thus to keep perishable foods year-round, including earthenware jugs of milk and sour cream. The ice cellar once served as a private resource for me. When Grandmother forbade me to eat until I had said my prayers, I, following Grandfather’s gestures, facial expressions, and hints, went down to the cellar and ate an entire layer of sour cream. When she discovered the theft, Grandmother raised a to-do. She knew quite well which “cat” had eaten the sour cream but evidently feeling herself at fault too, she never punished me for it. On the contrary, she woke me the next morning while I was still in bed, and after a brakha (blessing), gave me “brown” milk that had simmered all night on the Russian stove.

Beside the structures I’ve already mentioned, Grandfather also had a large barn with three cows and, invariably, one calf. The cows provided our entire family with a supply of fresh milk, sour cream, hand-churned butter, and curds and whey all year, and in the summer even with ice cream, which Grandfather would make right before our eyes to our enormous delight.

In November 2006 a committee was formed to promote and support the translation and publication of the memoirs of Dr. Moisey Wolf. If you would like a brochure about the project or more information, please contact Rosanne Royer, Project Coordinator, at 503-646-3717 or rosanneroyer@comcast.net.