The Journey from Israel to Kletsk
And now I am on my way to the vale of death. From Ben-Gurion airport to Riga by airplane and from Riga to Minsk by train. In Minsk my wife and I were welcomed by a friend from youth, Yoske Pashpiyorko (Joseph Peshpeyorko), the only Jew residing in Kletsk. He had studied economics, joined the Communist party and for 20 years had been the manager of a kolkhoz. Now he is retired. In our youth the two of us had sat on the same bench in the Tarbut school and together we had joined the Shomer ha-Tzair. For fifty years the Yiddish language had not risen from his lips and now he has difficulty speaking it. I address him in Yiddish and he answers in Russian.

We are on the highway to Brisk and the heading towards Kletsk. Road signs of familiar places pass by our faces. Memories flood me, emotions overcome me and I am unable to utter a word. Baranovitz, Stolpatzah, Mir, Salonim, Lakhovitz, Niesvuzh. I had known the towns and their Jews. The regional summer camps of the Shomer ha-Tzair rise up in my memory. These are not anonymous places. Each place raises in my imagination living faces of young boys and girls, scenes of the past, and tears choke my throat. As we approach Kletsk I break out in tears and my friend clutches my hand...

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