Next to his family, Papa loved his books best. He collected first editions and rare books. These books were precious to him. Often when dinner conversation centered around our forthcoming emigration from Poland, Papa would state categorically, “The books go with us.” Mama never objected—I think she was just as proud of this collection as Papa was.
No one had asked my opinion but, frankly, I had no idea why these books were so important to my parents. Papa had tried to explain but it was beyond my comprehension.
There were many rules connected with the books. Our house was comfortable and quite large. Several rooms had never been finished because of our planned immigration to America. Consequently, I shared a bedroom with my older sister. I’m sure she was not thrilled with this arrangement, but to her credit she never expressed her frustration to me.
Papa had two rooms to himself—his office and the library. The office was a lovely, sunny room. A big desk was situated catty-cornered, with several chairs and some bookshelves. I remember a screen with colored panels of the world’s continents in a bas-relief, presented to Papa by students from the university on some special occasion.
On the walls hung several pictures, but two of them stood out above the rest—one a portrait of Theodore Herzl, the father of Zionism, and another one of Zev Jabotinsky, the leader of revisionism, which was also a form of Zionism. Papa tried to teach me about the importance of these two distinguished men. Mostly, the door was open and I could enter at will. Of course, when the door was closed, I would not disturb Papa.
The library—that was another story. The door to the library was mostly closed, and even when it was open no one was permitted inside except Papa and Mama.
Somehow, Papa regulated the temperature; it was always very cold in that room. Some shelves were glassed-in, others open. Heavy curtains covered the large window so that little sunshine ever entered the room. On rare occasions when I had been permitted to enter this mysterious room, I had to wash my hands with soap and water and then Papa put white cotton gloves on my hands and on his hands as well. He would show me different sections. It was interesting, but I still didn’t understand the importance of Papa’s collection.
I asked Papa if he would read to me some stories from his books. Papa hesitated for a moment, and then he said, “Sure, why not?” During that week, Papa mentioned casually that he could make time on Sunday to read a story or two. I asked if I could invite a few of my friends. Papa agreed, and I couldn’t contain my excitement.
Mama baked cookies and an apple strudel for the occasion. My parents allowed me to invite ten friends. It was difficult to select only ten friends, but I promised to invite others later on. The readings became a popular event. Papa read in Yiddish, Polish, Hebrew, French, Russian, and German. He would translate as he read. My friends and I were fascinated and delighted. We all looked forward to these events with great anticipation.
The readings went on for almost a year. Our imaginations were filled with magnificent fairy tales, and our stomachs were filled with treats Mama never failed to prepare. The readings ended the summer when unrest and uncertainty became a daily occurrence—just before World War II started.
Little did I know then that Papa did not collect children’s books, and the stories he told us must have come from books he got from school libraries in the Horochow and Lvov areas. I believe Papa kept up the myth because he realized how much excitement it brought into my young life.
When the Nazis occupied our town of Horochow, Papa was among the 300 leaders they rounded up at the very beginning. Later they came back with a truck and took Papa’s beloved books away.
©2006, Charlene Schiff. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.