No, there was nothing holy about this book, this novel, as Meilech called it, by a Russian goy named Pushkin. It was not one of the few sifrei kodesh the boys owned. “I don’t care.” But he speaks more quietly. “I will not live there for one more minute.” Trailing mud and pebbles onto the newly washed wooden floors, Meilech stalks into the room. “Meilech, vus teest duch du, what are you doing here?” he whispers. Cautiously, he steps out of bed, pushes aside a white curtain, and peers out of the shutter.īefore the knocking can wake up his parents, he dashes to the door. His parents and brother are still asleep. It’s been quiet here in Valiokei, no pogroms for several years, and yet…. He’s grateful for the luxuries his father’s general store enables him to enjoy: a feather quilt to shelter him in Lita’s winters, a downy pillow to rest a head weary after poring over a sefer for hour upon hour.Ī sudden banging on the door startles him into alert wakefulness. On this chilly winter’s night, Yeruchum has just climbed into his narrow cot. Yeruchum - shorter, quieter, and calmer than his redheaded comrade - usually followed Meilech’s merry and often mischievous lead. Soon the two of them expected to leave their village for the town of Ponovezh, whose yeshivah, founded just a few years earlier, had begun to win a reputation for excellence. Friends like brothers.įor the first 13 years of their lives, they walked together to cheder, fished in the local streams, climbed the highest tree in the village. Yes, a mother can be stern, critical, unforgiving.Įven if that father happens to be the most respected man in his village.įourteen-year-old Meilech, only son of Rav Dovid Briskman, the “Roiteh Rav,” makes his wet and muddy way to the home of his best friend, Yeruchum Freed.īorn just six months apart, the Rav’s son, Meilech, and Yeruchum, son of Reb Yoinasan Mordche Freed, were friends. Night sounds: a dog barking in the distance, a baby’s cries, a mother sternly rebuking her child. The drizzle and whipping wind discourage the town’s Jews from leaving their homes the place seems empty, abandoned.Ī dark-clad figure appears, passing the droplets of candlelight creeping through a house’s shuttered windows.

The sky is weeping, leaving the roads thick with mud. ITbegins innocently enough on a quiet Shabbos eve in Valiokei.

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