JAKOW PAT AS THE BORDERS GO UP IN FLAME (Editor’s note: The following article was written in New York on the day war broke out in Poland — September 1, 1939.) I had wanted to write about our Bialystok and the heroism of the ordinary Bialystoker Jews in the difficult months of resistance against anti-Semitism. I had planned to tell about the Jewish workers, the weavers and tailors, the hard-working housewives. Unfortunately, I must cancel these plans. For as I write, the borders of Polandeare in flames; Hitler’s bombs fall upon Warsaw and Wilno, Katowice and Krakow, Czestochowa and Lodz. A wild horde of barbarians has attacked Poland. Today the destroyer of the world, Adolf Hitler, pro- claimed in the Reichstag: ‘“‘I will spare women and children, but if they do not surrender, we will show them!’” What he means 1s that plans for slaughter are ready. Hitler intends to unleash a bloodbath in Poland. Across the sea the terror that has captured Poland and our beloved Bialystok has also engulfed us in America. Now, as I write these words, we stand at only the beginning of the catastrophe. It 1s difficult to con- sider the matter calmly or to write about it dispassion- ately. But this we must do: rationally consider our next steps and our responsibilities. Our brothers and sisters need our help, lots of it. We must broaden our assis- tance to them, both moral and material. The fifty thousand Jews in Bialystok must know that the thousands of Bialystoker Jews in America join with them in fraternal solidarity. The Jews in Bialystok must realize they are not alone; they have not been abandoned to face the can- nons and bombs by themselves. On this side of the ocean those who love them feel their pain; our hearts beat to the same rhythm as theirs. That is the moral support we can offer them. Material relief must also issue forth from individu- als and organizations. If bombs and weapons of war fail to destroy our fellow Jews, let them not perish from hunger and poverty. The social institutions in Bialystok are at this moment the most potent weapons our kins- men have to fight this war. The orphanages, synagogues and public kitchens constitute the wellspring of the peo- ple’s energy, as well as a source of comfort for the suffering. Until now these institutions were sustained by the generosity and dedication of the Jews in Bialystok, with only modest donations from the poor masses. Assis- tance from abroad has unfortunately played a minor role in bringing relief to our hapless landsleit. In the main, they have helped themselves, but all that 1s now The Bialystoker Memorial Book impossible. Now the Bialystokers in America will have to do their part. Let us awaken our consciences to the demands of this difficult hour. Let us open our hearts to our heavy responsibility of saving the lives of those in Poland. This is a tragic period, when we will be called upon to make extraordinary sacrifices. Is it not a miracle that a second Bialystok exists in America, fortified by five million Jews throughout our land, which is our insur- ance policy as well as a basis of hope for our people in Bialystok. Let us loudly and unmistakably proclaim: “Brothers, we are with you!” Bialystoker landsleit in various places in America have distinguished themselves with their singular com- passion for others. Now 19 the time to show it as never before. As the borders of Poland burn, let us do our duty. AWROM SZEWACH THE YAHRZEIT CANDLE The sorrowful Yahrzeit candle blew out, A flame for a full day and night Quieting my longing and grief, By conjuring up memories of the dead. Next year on the same day This candle will again be lit, Only to flicker out in sadness And one’s duty shall once more be done. Every part of me burns with fever My eyes fill with tears of pain After me who will know when to light the Yahrzeit candle In memory of the martyrs falling in the war? Will anyone know at which burial ground to weep Or to erect a monument inscribed? Will future generations shine again? Whose heart can stand the pain? So I stand at the flickering Yahrzeit lamp The wisps of smoke darkening my mood, In my head a stream of blood Winds its way through my song. 49