Reflecting on Jewish Vilna

In the summer of 2010, my wife, Jessica, and I traveled to Vilnius, Lithuania to participate in their summer Yiddish program.  (Jessica is a PhD candidate in Yiddish Studies at Columbia University.)  There, I was able to explore face-to-face the remnants of a once thriving, luminary Jewish community.  In this Yom Kippur sermon, I reflect on my experiences of Vilna, grapple with the immensity of what was lost, and consider what small Jewish communities today can learn from our Lithuanian cousins.

Standing With Us Today: Recalling the Lessons of Jewish Vilna

          Fania Brantsovsky was born on May 22, 1922[1] in Kovno, Lithuania to Rohl and Beniamin Joheles.  Beniamin was a mechanic in Kovno, though he was originally from Vilna, Poland.  This got him into trouble when Fania’s sister, Riva, was born in 1927.  The Lithuanian authorities discovered Beniamin’s Polish citizenship and imprisoned him on charges of espionage.  Beniamin’s father was able to get him out of prison, and three days later, the family of four made their way back to Vilna.  There they would stay until 1943, when their worlds were forever ripped apart.

          Despite the tensions of inter-war Eastern Europe during the 1930s, Fania enjoyed a relatively normal childhood.  She recalls one of her favorite teachers, Stefania Szabad, a righteous woman in her own right whose husband was a renowned humanitarian, doctor, and Yiddishist.  In Fania’s Yiddish school, she learned at the feet of teachers who also lectured at the Vilna University, and she and her friends participated in lively political debates.  Fania graduated high school in 1939 – the same year, Vilna was ceded by Poland to Lithuania, and Fania traveled to Belarus, where she became certified as a teacher.  In June 1941, Fania returned to Vilna—now called Vilnius—to enter the University, and three weeks later, she and her family were surrounded by war.

          Still, they tried to make a life.  Even when all the Jews were forced to move into the newly-established ghetto, the community managed to keep up schools, shops, and a theater.  Fania’s father altered her birth date, making her appear four years younger in order to keep her out of the forced labor camps, and as a minor again, Fania made her way into the Jewish underground of the Vilna Ghetto.  The underground gave her a job weaving straw shoes twelve hours a day.  Food was very hard to come by, and a sprig of dandelions was a rare birthday treat.  Fania’s was one of five families living in a crowded apartment in the ghetto, a not uncommon arrangement during the German occupation.  For years, Jewish Lithuanians had argued about Soviet politics, weighing communist ideals against brutal Soviet methods, but all agreed that the Nazis were far worse than the Soviets had ever been.  Every day, men disappeared, and the crowded streets of the ghetto became more despondent.  After more than two years of war, Fania managed to escape the ghetto to join the Faraynikte Partisaner Organizatzia (the United Partisan Organization or UPO), the armed resistance to the Nazi occupation and their Lithuanian collaborators.

          The UPO was instrumental in smuggling arms, food, and medicine.  Chimney sweeps carried guns in false-bottomed cases, and wounded men and women snuck supplies into their bandages.  Their slogan was “Lisa is calling,” in honor of a partisan who had died early during the resistance.  Fania served as a messenger, better able to pass as a non-Jew than any man, and worked with the partisans until the end of the war.  It was only later that she realized that the day after she left Vilna, the ghetto had been liquidated and her parents and sister deported throughout Eastern Europe, where eventually they would meet their ends.

          When the war ended, Fania was twenty-three years old.  Today, she is eighty-eight.  For the past sixty-five years, Fania has worked to keep alive the memory of those who were murdered during the Holocaust and to revitalize the Lithuanian Jewish community.  Today, she works for the Committee for Holocaust Survivors in Lithuania and is the overseer and original founder of the library at the Vilnius Yiddish Institute.  This past summer, as students in the Vilnius Yiddish Institute’s Summer Program in Yiddish language and culture, Jessica and I had the good fortune of meeting and learning directly from Fania, hearing her incredible stories straight from the source.

          My most vivid memory of this amazing woman is of her standing in the forest where she lived as a partisan for two years.  We were surrounded by hovels carved into the ground where the partisans had slept, and Fania showed us where they gathered to cook their food and sing uplifting songs.  She told us about Hank, a non-Jewish Dutchman who escaped the Nazis, stumbled upon the partisans in the forest, and joined their ranks.  She told us about the former medical student who ran their “hospital.”  She told us about successes and failures, miraculous salvations and terrible tragedies.  As I listened to her full-throated Yiddish, straining to understand a word or two and waiting eagerly for the translation, I marveled at her strength.  Not only was she courageous enough to survive in this forest as a young woman over sixty years ago, but she continues to return, year after year, and stand in the heat with students a quarter her age to share her story with laughter and tears.  Fania has worked tirelessly for the Jewish people, and she is an inspiration to all who meet her.

          Truly, our entire summer in Vilnius was life-changing.  Jessica and I arrived on July 23, traveling to Lithuania directly from our honeymoon in Italy, and we stayed a full four weeks before returning to the United States.  During that month, I not only learned the rudiments of Yiddish grammar but I was also introduced to a whole world of Jewish culture and life that I had never before considered.  Through classes and field trips, books and songs, movies and lectures, I eagerly absorbed the stories of Jewish Vilna, connecting myself to this heartland of European Jewry.

          Jews have been living in Vilna for over four hundred years, and for much of that history, Vilna has been a center of Jewish culture and learning.  The definitive edition of the Talmud was printed on the famous Vilna presses, the extraordinary Talmudist Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman—called the Vilna Gaon—was one of the most authoritative Jewish scholars since the Middle Ages, and the prominent school of thought to which the so-called “Litvaks” subscribe was born and cultivated in Vilna.  Vilna was also a center of Yiddish literature, giving birth to literary giants such as Chaim Grade and Avraham Sutzgever.  YIVO, the Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut or the Jewish Scientific Institute, an organization dedicated to the study of Yiddish life and language, was founded in Vilna by Max Weinreich, and the Vilner Troupe became one of the most well-known Jewish acting groups in the world.  When Napoleon surveyed the beauty and depth of Vilna in 1812, he remarked that it was the Jerusalem of Lithuania, and this name--Yerushalayim d’Lita—has been embraced and celebrated ever since.  At times, fully half of Vilna’s population was Jewish, and over 80,000 Jews resided there by 1941.  Until World War II, Vilna was a pulsing, multilayered city burgeoning with Jewish creativity; it was this allure that drew the Yiddish Institute from Oxford to Vilnius in 2001, and it was this allure that drew Jessica and me to the Yiddish Institute this summer.

          The Nazis virtually destroyed Jewish Vilna, and so much more has changed since Lithuania came under Soviet control in 1945.  Still, as Jessica and I looked out our apartment window to the centuries-old Jewish quarter where the Vilna Gaon lived, where the famous Great Synagogue had stood, where the small ghetto was established by the Nazis, we could feel the presence of the lingering past.  To get to class, we walked down Zydu, or Jew, Street.  Plaques describing the formation of the Vilna ghetto and the deportation and execution of most of its 40,000 inhabitants were written in Lithuanian and Yiddish.  Though today, Vilnius is a modern capital and European tourist attraction that largely ignores its ugly history, the gravity established by uninterrupted centuries of Jewish flourishing cannot be escaped.

          While we were in Vilnius, Jessica and I each read the memoir of Lucy Dawidowicz, From that Place and Time.  In her book, Dawidowicz, an American, describes her year-long research internship at the YIVO in Vilna from 1938 to 1939, just before the outbreak of war.  As we read, we were struck by the immediacy of what she described.  Dawidowicz remembers fondly a restaurant called Velkeh’s where the great and the aspiring poets of the day would gather to share their work; this restaurant would have been in our row of buildings, just down our street a bit.  She gives the history of Glezer gas, or Glazier Street, where historical records confirm the presence of Jews in 1619; we walked past this street, which bears the same name today in Lithuanian, every day on our way to school.  She describes Ulica Niemiecka, or in Yiddish Daytshe gas (German Street), which was the boundary of the old Jewish quarter in the 17th century and later came to hold more Yiddish signs than any other part of the city; this was the street where our apartment was, and it bears the same name today, rendered in Lithuanian as Vokiečių gatvė.  While Jessica and I sat in modern restaurants sampling kvass, a non-alcoholic beer-like drink, and eating potato pancakes that reminded us of Hanukkah latkes, we could never quite shake the feeling that the past was with us, giving meaning to our weeks spent in Eastern Europe.

          Of course, the Vilnius Yiddish Institute celebrates and honors this past, and our program’s teachers patiently taught us so much history and culture.  But the Institute does more than remember – it helps to create new memories.  Dr. Eliot Palevsky, the director of the summer program, repeated over and over again his creed for our program: מיר זיַינען דאָ, we are here.  Sixty students from around the world convened on Vilnius, the erstwhile Yerushalayim d’Lita, to learn to speak Yiddish and to carry the proud torch others have borne for a thousand years.  We learned from our friend and classmate, Benjy Fox-Rosen, a world-traveling klezmer musician who directed our music program.  We met with Shimon Gurevich, executive director of the Vilnius Jewish Community Center, who told us about the Jewish high school and primary school that are full to capacity and ready to accept more Jewish students if they can get more space.  Wes studied with Yiddish professor and poet Dov-Ber Kerler, son of the famous poet Joseph Kerler, who shared his passion for the personal stories he travels through Europe collecting.  One look at our summer activities would confirm: מיר זיַינען דאָ, we are still here.

          Many have claimed and continue to claim that Yiddish is dead or dying, and in truth, the rich Yiddish culture of Eastern Europe was tragically and violently assaulted by Nazis and Soviets in the twentieth century.  But in this new millennium, the survivors, few though they may be, continue the proud history of Jewish life, passing their traditions down to their children and grandchildren.  Not only in Vilnius, but in Warsaw, Poland; Moscow, Russia; and Riga, Latvia do Jews maintain a constant presence, demonstrating the longevity and inviolability of the Jewish culture in this European homeland.

          Being in Vilnius has given me new appreciation for the Torah portion that we read on Yom Kippur.  In this parasha, Nitzavim, God affirms the covenant between the Eternal and the People of Israel, declaring it an everlasting bond between God and nation.  Moses declares in the name of God:

וְלֹא אִתְּכֶם לְבַדְּכֶם אָנֹכִי כֹּרֵת אֶת הַבְּרִית הַזֹּאת וְאֶת הָאָלָה הַזֹּאת כִּי אֶת אֲשֶׁר יֶשְׁנוֹ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ עֹמֵד הַיּוֹם לִפְנֵי יהוה אֱלֹהֵינוּ וְאֵת אֲשֶׁר אֵינֶנּוּ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ הַיּוֹם.

Not with you alone do I make this covenant and its sanction; truly, with each person who is here with us, standing today before the Eternal our God, and also with each person who is not with us today (Deut. 29:13-14).

            Commentators like Rashi, Ramban, and Sforno understand this verse to refer to God’s promise of covenant not only to those men and women standing in the desert at Sinai but also to every subsequent generation.  These scholars base their understanding on the ninth century compilation of interpretations known as Midrash Tanhuma, which suggests that every Jew that was born or yet to be born heard God’s revelation at that time: “The souls of all Jews were present at the making of the covenant even before their physical bodies were created.”[2]  According to the midrash, all Jews were present at Sinai, and therefore all Jews have an inherent bond across the generations.

             I have felt this bond while standing at the Western Wall in Jerusalem; I have felt this bond while standing for centuries-old Hebrew prayer; and I have felt this bond while standing in the narrow streets of the old Jewish quarter of Vilnius.  While I was studying Yiddish this summer in Lithuania, I was standing with those who are not with us today, and they were standing with me.  Their voices echoed in the halls of our university, and our Yiddish songs reverberated in their ears.  We few students were vastly outnumbered by the slain, standing in a crowd of no-longer-living souls who once walked these same streets and ate this same food.  The only comfort we could offer them was that מיר זיַינען דאָ – we are here just as you are here with us.

            I was powerfully affected by the present absence of so many hundreds of thousands who had lived in Vilna before me.  But our Torah portion affirms that we who are standing here today have the responsibility of living out actively the covenant we share with God.  We cannot rely on those who came before nor on those who will come after; they stand with us, and it is we who bear their memories.  On this Yom Kippur, we recall our own place in the lives of those who have preceded us, and we recognize our crucial position in the chain of tradition.  I stood in Vilna alongside the proud inhabitants of Vilna’s past, and I stand here today likewise surrounded by the history and memory of the Steubenville Jewish community.  Perhaps eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania have never been the center of Jewish life that Vilna once was, but I have already seen how dear this community has been to those who call it home.  This congregation of Temple Beth Israel may be small today, but it remains a vital Jewish presence here in Steubenville.  Those who are here today stand with those who have come before, and our presence remains part of the Jewish heritage of Steubenville.

            As I look ahead to the year 5771, I am excited to be able to share it with this community, to be a part of Temple Beth Israel’s narrative and to interweave my life with the lives of its families.  But this morning’s Torah portion teaches me that we can’t understand today’s congregation without knowing more about where we came from.  Today is a Day of Remembrance, and I’d like to invite you to share some of your memories of the communities that formed Temple Beth Israel.  In my few short days here, I’ve heard wonderful stories about the Temple’s youth group, about the downtown synagogue’s sisterhood, and about the home lives of those who grew up orthodox.  For a few minutes this morning, I invite you to share another story or two, to highlight the community that stands with us today even if we can’t see it with our eyes.

*Discussion*

            Thank you for sharing.

            When I think back on the summer of 2010, I’ll remember the language classes, the Shabbes dinners, and the music workshops.  But perhaps most clearly of all, I’ll remember Fania and her extraordinary story of survival, resistance, and renewal.  Her commitment to keeping alive the memory of Jewish Vilna and to rebuilding a new community for generations to come is a driving force behind the Vilnius Yiddish Institute and has inspired me to continue my own exploration of Yiddish language and culture.  She stands today alongside friends and family of her childhood, just as each of us stands amidst a community of the past that we carry with us in the present.  And she serves as a model for how we can share our lives with those who have come before.  In honor of her and of the thriving community of Jewish Vilna that stands with me in my own life, I’d like to share a song entitled Vilne, composed in 1935 by A. L. Wolfson and set to music by Alexander Olshanetsky.  The song expresses the love and yearning of an aged Vilner remembering his beloved hometown.  Written before the Holocaust reached Lithuania, this song reflects the natural beauty and cultural significance of Vilna.  I will read an English translation, and then I’d like to invite Jessica to conclude with the song itself.

Vilne

Lyrics: A. L. Wolfson (1867-1946)
Music: Alexander Olshanetsky (1892-1946)

Vilne: city of spirit and innocence.
Vilne: steeped in Jewishness,
Where quite prayers murmured
Quiet secrets of the night.

I often see you in my dreams,
My passionately beloved Vilne,
And the old Vilne ghetto
In a foggy glow. 

Vilne, Vilne: our hometown,
Our longing and desire.
How often your name
Brings a tear to my eye! 
Vilne streets, Vilne rivers, 
Vilne forests, mountains and valleys...
Something gnaws at me, makes me yearn
For days of long ago. 

I see the Zakret forest,
Enveloped in its shadows,
Where teachers secretly
Slaked our thirst for knowledge.

Vilne sewed the first thread
In our banner of freedom[3]
And inspired its children
With a gentle spirit.

Vilne, Vilne: our hometown,
Our longing and desire.
How often your name
Brings a tear to my eye!
Vilne streets, Vilne rivers,
Vilne forests, mountains and valleys...
Something gnaws at me, makes me yearn
For days of long ago.

*Jessica sings in Yiddish*

VILNE (1935)

Lyrics: A. L. Wolfson (1867-1946)
Music: Alexander Olshanetsky (1892-1946)

Vilne, shtot fun gayst un tmimes
Vilne, yidishlekh fartrakht,
Vu es murmlen shtile tfiles,
Shtile soydes fun der nakht. 

Oft mol ze ikh dikh in kholem, 
Heys-gelibte vilne mayn, 
Un di alte vilner geto 
In a nepldikn shayn. 

Vilne, vilne, undzer heymshtot, 
Undzer benkshaft un bager. 
Akh, vi oft es ruft dayn nomen 
Fun mayn oyg aroys a trer. 
Vilner geslekh, vilner taykhn, 
Vilner velder, barg un tol….
Epes noyet, epes benkt zikh 
Nokh di tsaytn fun amol.

´Kh ze dem veldele zakreter 
In zayn shotn ayngehilt,
Vu geheym es hobn lerer 
Undzer visndursht geshtilt.

Vilne hot dem ershtn fodem 
Fun der frayheyts-fon gevebt
Un di libe kinder ire 
mit a tsartn gayst balebt.

Vilne, vilne, undzer heymshtot, 
Undzer benkshaft un bager. 
Akh, vi oft es ruft dayn nomen 
Fun mayn oyg aroys a trer. 
Vilner geslekh, vilner taykhn, 
Vilner velder, barg un tol….
Epes noyet, epes benkt zikh 
Nokh di tsaytn fun amol.

ווילנע

א.ל. וואָלפֿסאָן


ווילנע, שטאָט פֿון גייַסט און תּמימות.
ווילנע, יידישלעך פֿאַרטראַכט ,
וווּ עס מורמלען שטילע תּפֿילות,
שטילע סודות פֿון דער נאַכט.

אָפֿט מאָל זע איך דיך אין חלום,
הייס געליבטע ווילנע מייַן ,
און די אַלטע ווילנער געטאָ
אין אַ נעפּלדיקן שייַן.

ווילנע, ווילנע, אונדזער היימשטאָט,
אונדזער בענקשאַפֿט און באַגער.
אַך , ווי אָפֿט עס רופֿט דייַן נאָמען
פֿון מייַן אויג אַרויס אַ טרער.
ווילנער געסלעך, ווילנער טייַכן,
ווילנער וועלדער, באַרג און טאָל ....
עפּעס נויעט, עפּעס בענקט זיך
נאָך די צייַטן פֿון אַמאָל.

'כזע דעם וועלדעלע זאַקרעטער
אין זייַן שאָטן אייַנגעהילט,
וווּ געהיים עס האָבן לערער
אונדזער וויסנדורשט געשטילט.

ווילנע האָט דעם ערשטן פֿאָדעם
פֿון דער פֿרייַהייטספֿאָן געוועבט,
און די ליבע קינדער אירע
מיט אַ צאַרטן גייַסט באַלעבט.

ווילנע, ווילנע, אונדזער היימשטאָט,
אונדזער בענקשאַפֿט און באַגער.
אַך , ווי אָפֿט עס רופֿט דייַן נאָמען
פֿון מייַן אויג אַרויס אַ טרער.
ווילנער געסלעך , ווילנער טייַכן,
ווילנער וועלדער , באַרג און טאָל ....
עפּעס נויעט, עפּעס בענקט זיך
נאָך די צייַטן פֿון אַמאָל.

            Thank you Jessica.  May this year be one of remembering those with whom we always stand.  G’mar ch’simeh toyveh – May you be inscribed for goodness in the Book of Life.


[1] Factual information drawn from personal interactions as well as an autobiographical account recorded online at http://www.eilatgordinlevitan.com/kovno/kovno_pages/kovno_stories_fania.html.
[2] Nitzavim: Cells of One Organism. http://virtualjerusalem.com/judaism.php?Itemid=699.
[3] A reference to the Bund, which was founded in Vilna in 1897.