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I was back home. The joy of being free and united with the family, great as it was, became clouded because of the desperate financial condition. In my absence, my wife was forced to sell her watch, greatly treasured because it was a present given to her by the schoolteachers at her wedding. The baby needed milk. The struggle for existence began anew, and it was fierce and exhausting in this last year of my studentship. On top of all other difficulties, I found out that in order to secure my diploma I must produce a certificate, the nature of which escapes me now, from my place of birth. Papers played an enormous role in the life of Russian citizens. Every adult person had to have a passport, a very elaborate and detailed document.
It was an integral part of one's life that gave rise to a current expression: “A man consists of a body, a soul, and a passport--and while a soul is not essential, the passport is.” Second in importance was a testimonial by the police of good behavior, at least politically. Then came a birth certificate and some others, all these being a source of income to the functionaries in charge. I was forced to go to Pereyaslav. I could not have gotten it by mail, since no official paper could be obtained without a bribe. I took the steamship, since the two cities were situated on opposite banks of the majestic Dnieper. Ordinarily, it would have been a pleasant eight-hour trip but, due to the negligence and inefficiency of the transportation department, Russian rivers usually became partially unnavigable by the end of summer.
That is where the Volga boatmen came in. They dragged the boats through the shallow places with ropes bound around their waists. I had never witnessed this before. A sailor sat on the prow of the boat, probing the depth of the water with a long pole. The boat zigzagged to keep in deep water, but soon it scraped bottom and stalled. The passengers, with the exception of a few privileged second-class travelers, were forced to vacate the boat. Then began the laborious work of dragging the boat by ropes and pushing it with poles, aided by curses and the choicest abuse from all parties concerned. The same procedure was repeated in still another place with the result that the trip took us nearly twenty hours. In addition, there were not enough vehicles to accommodate all the passengers when we disembarked. The more robust men walked the entire four miles into town, some carrying children on their shoulders. Women became hysterical, and the few vehicles were so crammed with human cargo that the horses could carry the load only with great difficulty. It was all confusing and exhausting.
At last I was back in my hometown after nearly 10 years of absence. It appeared shabbier and gloomier than ever because of the contrast between this forlorn town and the joyous, magnificent Kiev, the most beautiful of all Russian cities. I visited the Fortress, and all the changes I found were for the worse. It was also depopulated because of mass emigration. I went to the synagogue to which our family belonged. In the past, it had been not only a place of worship but also a sort of club where members of the congregation met to exchange news, to discuss matters political, and to tell stories and relate gossip. For the children it was also a playground, but I could not recapture the fascination it once held for me. My teacher of old, the “Philosopher,” was dead. Some of my friends had emigrated while with others I had no point of contact.
There was, however, one with whom I had been very friendly in boyhood. We had studied in the same Cheder and belonged to the Hebrew-speaking group. I was always envious of him because he lived uptown in a nice house. He was gay, frivolous, and carefree--all the things I was not. He was now married and well to do. He invited me to stay with him while in town, helped me to get the necessary document, and upon my departure pressed on me (he did not have to press hard) a loan of 50 rubles, a really huge sum of money for a poor student. Years later when I was in this country, I had a chance to repay him for his generosity by sending him some food and medicine during the time of famine in Russia.
I came back greatly encouraged and plunged into my studies for the final examination. In May 1912, I received my diploma “cum laude.” A rich student friend of mine invited a group of us to celebrate our graduation at his expense. We had a private room in a fashionable restaurant. An elaborate dinner was served, and drinks including champagne were served in abundance. As was the case in all student celebrations, we sang the merry academic song, “Guadamus igitur invenes dum sumus” (Let us be merry while we are young). The waiter who served us became suspicious, slipped out of the room unobtrusively, and in came a plain clothes man, unmistakably an Okhrane agent. Luckily, he must have had some Latin and recognized the song. He beamed at us benignly, joined the chorus, and was treated to champagne in comradely fashion. Even a spy has some sentiment, especially when he has champagne.
I was now a doctor and, as such, I was confronted at once with a grave problem. The need for doctors in old Russia was great. In an area of one-seventh of the total globe and populated by more than 180 million, there were only eight universities with a medical faculty, not counting the academy of medicine in St. Petersburg, a “caste” institution with a small enrollment. Women at that time were just making their appearance in the field of medicine, and their number was negligible. It was easy to get a position with one of the “zemstvos.” They did not discriminate, some because of liberal tendencies, others not from choice but from necessity. There was a great demand for doctors from small communities, which offered subsidies. I could also have gone into private practice with hope for some measure of success. However, I felt that I was not qualified to go into practice yet.
The fact that I had to devote a great deal of time to the task of earning a living caused my studies to be somewhat sketchy, the cum laude notwithstanding. The teaching of medicine in Russian universities was far from satisfactory. X-ray, so helpful diagnostically and therapeutically, was not utilized although it had been invented a few years previous to my graduation. Autopsies, of utmost importance in the teaching of medicine today, were performed only in cases of violent death. The teaching of pathology under a very competent professor was hampered by lack of an adequate supply of microscopes. At examination time, the students were more dependent on the help of the technician who prepared the slides than on their own knowledge of the subject. There were some really good teachers in the department of internal medicine, but the general standard of professorship was low because many got their appointments as a sinecure for model behavior and not for scholastic attainments. Some professors were relics who did not believe in new inventions or novel ideas. The teacher of hygiene denied the existence of bacteria and sneered at the use of a microscope.
All diseases, according to his textbook, originated from bad air, whatever this might mean. The professor of zoology was a queer fellow. At examinations, he offered only one question. If answered correctly by chance, the student would get a satisfactory mark; if he failed the first time, the student would put on glasses or change his uniform to civilian clothes and try his luck again the same day. The simple expedient of studying the subject never entered his mind.
Internship was not compulsory. I did it voluntarily, having accepted the position of an intern in a Jewish hospital in Kiev. My wife retained her teaching job. I helped her from my meager salary, and at the end of six months, I accepted the position of a “Zemstvo” doctor in the small town of Vladimir. This was on the border of Galicia, once part of Poland, now under the rule of Austria. I now had a solid, well paid position as assistant doctor at the local hospital, and soon I developed a considerable practice among the Jewish population. The Jews shunned the hospital because most of them could not speak Polish and also because of religious considerations. Up to that time, the Jewish practice had been in the hands of a “Reifa” (Hebrew for healer). He was an extremely old, totally illiterate man, one of the many self-styled doctors in the small Jewish communities.
The doctor's fee was very small--30 kopecs (30 cents) for an office call and 50 kopecs for a home visit, with the transportation fare paid by the patient. It was not much, but it was on a cash basis as was the case all over Russia. It was considered bad form for a doctor to demand a fee or for the patient to offer it. Because of these “ethical” considerations, the fee would be put in a box on the office table, the doctor modestly averting his eyes. On a home visit, the money would usually be slipped into his pocket, which would give the dishonest a chance to cheat a little. Once or twice I found my pocket loaded with coppers of very little value, but this did not entail a great loss, for the practice was lucrative and the cost of living low.
We rented an old, dilapidated house, once the abode of a Polish magnate, with plenty of rooms for residence and offices combined. There was even a primitive kind of bathroom. A glassed veranda opened into a large garden with fruit trees and rose bushes. It was good to live in a big house after having spent most of the student period in a room on the sixth floor with the window opening into a noisy, dusty street; and it was comforting to be able to spend money for whatever was needed without fear for the coming day. It was the first time in long years that my wife was really happy.
It was soon marred by the death of her brother, Shulim. This was not unexpected, but the blow was great all the same. There is an old adage, “Where there are roses, you will find thorns,” and this was justified with regard to our life in this town both professionally and socially. This was a predominantly Polish town. My chief was one of those arrogant, patriotic, haughty Poles, and it was not easy to cooperate with him. It was like walking a tight rope where an accident might happen at any moment. The nurses and the help were hostile. Because neither my wife nor I spoke Polish well, social contact with the so-called intelligentsia was precluded, especially since they generally hated the Jews along with the Russians.
This attitude went back to the time of independent Poland. It is true that at the earliest period of Polish independence the Poles showed considerable tolerance toward the Jews. In the 14th century, under the reign of Casimir the Great, Poland became a haven for the refugees from Germany where they were massacred for allegedly causing the spread of the Black Death, of which millions perished, by poisoning the wells. It was told that the King was influenced in favor of the Jews by his Jewish mistress, the beautiful Estherka. Whatever the reason, the Jews not only found a refuge in Poland but also were extended all the rights of citizens and became a factor in developing the country economically.
The ruling class in Poland was the nobility of “Slachta.” They owned all the land and the peasants were allowed to till it in a status of serfdom. These feudal barons were indolent, engrossed in drinking, hunting, and fighting among themselves especially during the session of the Diet and at the time of selection of a king. The management of their estates was left largely in the hands of the Jews. This antagonized the peasants who found themselves under the rule of the Jews. The burghers, on the other hand, found the Jews superior rivals in commerce, trade, and craftsmanship and resented it. Because of this and due to the fanaticism of the Catholic clergy and the intrigues of the Jesuits who tried in vain to convert them to Christianity, the position of the Jews deteriorated, and their rights were abrogated. When the greatest part of Poland was absorbed by Russia under the tripartite agreement, the Poles accused the Jews of Russophile tendencies. Anti-Semitism in Poland was even stronger than in Russia proper. Russian anti-Semitism was government-inspired, and it was the autocracy that incited the masses against the Jews. The intelligentsia did not tend to show animosity and did not discriminate against the Jew socially. In Poland, the chauvinistic intelligentsia was almost entirely anti-Semitic. Even the National Democrats who professed socialism were hostile toward the Jews.
The Jewish population of Vladimir, about equal to that of Pereyaslav, was vastly different in its mode of life and aspirations from the Ukrainian Jews. Like the great majority of Galician and Polish Jews, they belonged to a sect called “Hasidism,” or “Doctrine of Piety.” The main tenets of this sect were a belief in the “Zadiks” or holy rabbis and a particular way of praying. It was believed that the “zadik” could perform miracles through praying and by communion with God. Barren women, ailing persons, men with financial reverses went to the “zadik” looking for help and paying according to their means.
While the founders of this sect were actually pious, learned men, dreamers seeking an outlet for the pent-up miseries and grievances of their followers, this institution deteriorated in time. Hypocrites and imposters sprang up who exploited the credulity of their followers for their own aggrandizement and enrichment. The praying of the Hasidim was characterized by boundless ecstasy, violent shouts, and wild gesticulations. In the Ukraine, the Haskala movement had already made good progress. A long coat and ear locks were limited to the clergy or a sprinkling of die-hard fanatics, while a wig on a woman was rarity. In Vladimir, it was the rule. To us, it seemed almost medieval. Because of such an environment, we were almost entirely isolated socially. However, I was too busy with my varied practice to feel a great necessity for it. My wife occupied herself in summer with gardening while the care of our son, now a vivacious youngster of four, took a good deal of her time. In winter, she visited her family and friends in Kiev. After all the years of privation, toil, and uncertainty, life was good. It did not last long. In the second summer of our sojourn in Vladimir, the rumble of impending war was already heard. It was not long in coming.