The peasants, the Russians,
would get drunk and all they knewor were toldwas
that the Jews killed Christ, so they would want to kill the Jews.
They usually would pick a Friday night so they could look for
houses with lit candles. Then they would know it was a Jewish
house. Many young people volunteered to protect the village,
so they would get injured too.
Luckily, where we were,
we had the Dnestr River that divided us from another city that
really belonged to Bessarabia. My father had a friend with whom
he went to the Yeshiva, a ferry driver.
This man gave us refuge
from the pogrom.
Later, when we left Russia,
I remember the saddest part for my father was to say goodbye
to his friend, the one who saved us from the pogrom. I can still
see them hugging, the two men with their long beards and tears
in their eyes.
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