Jewish Colonists in the Crimea; How Leah Got Used to New Life

(In the first article on Jewish colonists in the Crimea, published last week, Mr. Dennen told of the manner in which Jews of the European Ghettoes were adjusting themselves to life on their own socialized farms, on one of which Yiddish is the formal language. In the article which follows Mr. Dennen tells the feminine aspect of adjustment.)

Now take the story of Leah Botnik. According to her bosom friend, Reisel, she belonged to a very rich family. Her house in the village was nicknamed the “House of Romanoffs”. Naturally, the Revolution did not spare this house of Romanoffs either. After the Bolshevik seizure of power, Leah’s husband, a rich flour merchant, deserted her. He escaped to Germany, where he died in misery and poverty. Leah, to escape starvation in the village, was forced to join a kolchoz.

“At the beginning”, relates Reisel, “it was difficult for her to get used to the new life. After all, she used to roll in milk and honey, and now she had to work. Leah was a snob. She could not associate with us, who scrubbed her floors, sold her vinegar, or repaired her shoes. . . .”

Time conquered pride. Today, although no longer young, Leah, a healthy tan on her cheeks, is an excellent worker.

THE MILLINERY SHOP

I met her for the first time at the kolchoz millinery shop. It is one of those few shops, organized by ORT, which are particularly useful in the winter months when there is little work in the kolchoz. This millinery shop, I was explained, is part of a scheme to develop the handicraft industry among the colonists and that it will eventually help raise their material conditions.

I entered the shop late in the evening. The work was already finished and the workers—old women and young girls—were sitting around a hot stove, discussing something heatedly. My appearance caused some excitement. But not for long. In a moment I, too, was sitting near the stove and bombarded with numerous questions, among them: “How do the Jews live in America”?

WHY, SHE RAISES PIGS!

All spoke at once. After a while, however, the conversation was between Leah and myself. The others listened attentively. We spoke for a long time. Leah, a very cultured woman, explained to me many things about the kolchozes. Reluctantly I cut off the conversation, when I was called by the Chairman of the Kolchoz.

“Well, anyway”, concluded Leah, “if God will help us and we shall have a little more bread next year, there certainly will be nothing to complain about.”

“You still believe in God?” I asked.

“Of course”, she replied smiling, “don’t you know I just raised a couple of pigs?”

I was not destined to sleep that night.

“I am sorry”, the chairman informed me, “but the girls are giving a dance tonight and they want you to be present.”

Later, I learned that it was really I who was the cause of the dance.

LONELY WINTER HEARTS

The kolchoz has many young girls {SPAN}###d{/SPAN} not enough young men. That is, {SPAN}###ere{/SPAN} are young men in the kolchoz {SPAN}###t{/SPAN} after the harvest they all go {SPAN}###way{/SPAN} to the city. Some of them go to the university or work in factories, while others study in tractor schools. They return in the spring. Thus, during the long winter nights the girls are alone, and bored. They complained bitterly about it.

To be sure, there were many other diver### in the kolchoz—lectures, movies, etc. But then, one feels like dancing sometimes too.

The girls sought to exploit my presence. I had the shock of my life when they asked me to show them some real American jazz steps. But I was a guest and had to give in. After all, as they told me later, I was the first American to visit their colony who was neither bald nor fat.

When I entered the club room everyone was already there. The tiny room was crowded to capacity. Couples, mostly girls, waltzed around the room. The secretary of the Young Communist faction of the kolchoz—a son of a Kamenets Podolsk tinsmith—in his enormous and muddy boots, was doing a solo.

SUPERFICIAL GAIETY

In a corner, a young fellow was playing the accordion. He was tall and lean. His long ears moved ridiculously to and fro. His eyes glowed strangely. It seemed as though they looked far into the distance. Much to the discomfort of my partner, my mind was not on my dancing. I watched the perspiring faces of the colonists. They were gay. And yet it seemed to me that their gaiety was only superficial. And the accordion player’s eyes? What was he thinking about at that moment? Of a miserable boyhood spent in a Russian village; of bloody pogroms; the unknown future as a tiller of the soil? Perhaps it was only my melodramatic imagination.