And the knowledge that I would be going there every Sabbath to have by him an "audience", drove me to study with great fervor. The dry Gemorra did not always appeal to me...I often wished for a captivating story from rabbinic literature, instead of a ponderous lesson from the Gemorra, with all its commentaries, with commentaries on top of commentaries! But the strong desire to please my uncle, whom I loved and respected, gave me a great motivation to study.

I would spend the whole week getting ready for my Sabbath audience with my uncle. More than one Thursday I spent an "all-nighter" in the warm company of other yeshiva-boys, older and younger, studying together and memorizing our lessons, including all the commentaries.

The "all-nighter" was a special custom, a time-honored ritual so much a part of every yeshiva-boy’s life, that it deserves to be recorded here in its entirety:

It is late at night. Inside the House of Study it is dark. By the podium burns the Eternal Light, and nearby two or three memorial candles, with their small, flickering flames. Only the long table which stands near the oven, is well-lit. Around the table sit a dozen or so yeshiva-boys with thick Gemorras. In front of each boy’s Gemorra there burns a large tallow-lamp, which the beadle had given him earlier in the evening. A great stillness prevailed in the House of Study. The dark shadows which danced on the grey walls gave the hall an eerie atmosphere. To drive away the eeriness of the night, we huddled together like sheep...and we studied with intensity, with fire, and "with one voice"...all of us humming together one and the same sad, eerie Gemorra-melody.

It was in those long nights together, that the boys first really experienced, with all their hearts, the true joy of study. You felt a kind of holy sweetness that filled your whole body. The sad, mournful Gemorra-melody drifted outside and rose high above the town, as though it were the "guardian of the night" who stood watch over the sleeping town.

Around the time of the second or third watch, when the voices of the "seekers of truth" were dry from studying, someone would start to make preparations for a feast, which had all the trappings of an real family get-together. Every yeshiva-boy would contribute a share of the money which he had saved up from the copper coins that his well-to-do patrons would sometimes pay him in lieu of meals...

Soon a delegation of yeshiva-bokhers would go off to the neighboring bakery, where people were still awake late at night on their own "all-nighter"...but instead of studying the Talmud like us, they were kneading dough. The yeshiva-boys would pick up a ring of bagels fresh from the oven, and three or four warm, chewy loaves of bread. From there they would go to the nearby inn, which was still swarming with wagon-drivers, shoeshine boys, horse-dealers, fish-sellers, beggars, porters...and they would buy a few big pickled herrings, with a steaming pot of tea from the "Chinaman"....and the feast would be under way. And what a feast it would be! As enthusiastically as we had earlier studied, so did we now turn our enthusiasm towards eating. We ate till both cheeks were stuffed, until beads of sweat rolled down our foreheads!

After filling our bellies, nobody wanted to study any more. And so to pass the remaining hours left before morning prayers, we would do all kinds of crazy things...we all but turned the House of Study upside down. One joker wrapped himself in a prayer-shawl, and stood before the podium like a cantor. The rest of us became his "choir-singers". In the dark, empty House of Study, we sang together all the cantorial favorites. Anyone would have thought that it was the dead who had risen up from their graves, and come to pray in the synagogue...

A second boy got up on the podium, and became a preacher....he started preaching to the "congregation" in a wavering voice, describing in sordid detail how "the evil-doers shall be made to suffer in the Hereafter". And to make everything all the more realistic, the rest of us would start to wail, cry, and blow our noses, just like the old women in the ladies’ benches used to do when the Rabbi would get to the part about the Day of Judgement.

A third boy would get up and imitate, with all his idiosynchrasies, the expressions and mannerisms of the Head of the Yeshiva, the way he used to stand before us and give us his lessons. A fourth one gave his impression of the always-foul-tempered, cruel Reb Hennekh, the assistant head of the Hebrew School, who liked to beat the wayward boys with a leather belt.

When we had finally made fun of everbody and everything, when we were all played out and all sung out, we would start to play various tricks on each other. Someone would hold a piece of paper under the nose of a sleeping boy, light it with a match, and we would all laugh as he woke up a scared out of his wits, not quite dead and not quite alive. Someone else would have a wet handkerchief tossed in his face. The shouts and the laughter could be heard all the way into town.

And that is how the yeshiva-boys used to conduct an "all-nighter". This ritual was always a great experience, which was not to be forgotten. It would bring a measure of joy into the dreary, day-to-day life of the lonely yeshiva student.

When the long-awaited Holy Sabbath would finally arrive, it meant that soon, I would have the good fortune to be able to sit across the table from my beloved uncle. It was a joy for me to look into his kind, aristocratic face, which looked to me like the face of a Hillel the Elder, or a Rabbi Yokhanan ben Zokhai, or a Rabbi Akiva, the way I used to picture him in my fantasies. But on the other hand, there was also a dread, a fear associated with crossing the threshold of his small, clean apartment, where he would sit day and night writing his books....

My uncle, Reb Hirsh Toksin, was known as a great scholar, not only in the Talmud, but in all the scriptures; as well, a master of grammar and all worldly knowledge. Although his sons and daughters had long since left for "Golden America", he had stayed behind, and earned his livelihood by writing books: treatises on the Torah, on the Prophets, and on rabbinical literature, which had names like "Etrot Tzvi", "Tzvi Tifaret", "Urah Khayim", "Urah Yisrim", "Urah L’Tzadik", "Etrot Khakhamim", "Oyr Toyreh", "A Be’ur Al Haggadah shel Peysakh", "Yediot Ha-Tevoh She-b’Talmud", and many more. His books, which were written in a clear, flowing Hebrew style, were widely known among all the Jewish communities of the Diaspora. There was hardly a well-read Jewish home where his books were not to be found. Every travelling preacher and every well-known story-teller would make use of his books.

His appearance, with its scholarly dignity, reminded one of the pictures of long-ago Jewish rabbis. His scholarly face, framed by his silver-white beard and curly forelocks, always had a healthy pink glow. His deep, dark eyes were always lit up. His clothes, whether those he wore at home or those he wore in the street....whether his weekday clothes or his Sabbath finery.....were always extaordinarily clean and well-chosen. Just as clean and well-kempt were his patriarchal beard and forelocks...every hair was always in place. His soft boots were always polished to a shine. His black cane with its silver handle, which was never far from his side, looked like no ordinary walking-stick, but more like a sorcerer’s rod in the hand of a magician. The tobacco he smoked was always of the best quality with the finest aroma. No one else could wrap such thin, perfect cigarettes. Before going to bed, he would soak his silver-amber cigarette holder in a specially prepared chemical solution, so overnight it should be cleaned of the nicotine which had accumulated during the day.

Day and night he would sit at his writing desk, which was covered with books, manuscripts, and all kinds of wonderful writing tools...and he would write. And even though he wrote with his left hand, his letters were so beautifully well-formed, like little diamonds and pearls...it was a pleasure to look at them.

When he walked through the streets, everyone would look at him with great respect, and greet him with a polite "Good Morning". Even Christians and officials who happened to be passing through, would quickly doff their hats for him...

His wive, Aunt Tzirl, however, was exactly the opposite: a tall Jewess, a good head taller than he, but weak and sickly, always coughing and sniffling, nagging and complaining. She used to go about with a kercheif wrapped around her head. Her face was long and drawn, sour and cruel. With her whole bearing and appearance, she gave off a feeling of gloom, which reminded one of a gray, dreary sky, from which rain never stopped drizzling, that chilled you to the bone...

Uncle and Auntie were of two completely different personalities, which were about as far apart from one another as the distance from East to West. The uncle gave off an air of warmth and light - and she, the Auntie, just the opposite: cold and gloom. And just as Uncle was kind and generous, she on the other hand (may she forvige me!) was an absolute miser, without a word of a lie! When she would scream at him (as was her wont) he would smile good-humoredly. When she was sick (and when was she not sick?) he would be her doctor; he would prepare for her all kinds of remedies, balms and lotions, walking softly so as no to disturb her, like a good, patient nurse. He would cook for her special dishes, to try and please her. He would clean and polish their little apartment, which consisted of three small rooms, so that from each corner it sparkled. When he was finished taking care of his sick wife and his housekeeping, he would put on his long evening robe and sit down to write his scholarly works. And wonder of wonders: As soon as he would be seated at his writing table, the sick aunt would stop with her hacking and coughing, as though all her maladies had left her at the same time...and then, all you would hear would be the scratching, light and swift, of the uncle’s pen on white paper.

Such was my uncle, Reb Hersh Toksin. I became strongly attached to him, as he was to me. In my free time, I used to watch in awe as he sat in his corner and wrote his books. I was quite sure, that he loved me as well. When he saw me, he would lay down his pen talk with me, as though I were a grown-up, asking me about the smallest things...whether I had eaten, or if I were lacking in anything...

Although he was truly a good soul, he hated ignorance. He maintained that every man had a responsibility to pursue learning...and if he chooses not to, it was a sign that there was something wrong with him, that he didn’t have even a shred of appreciation for the beauty and power of the printed word. He often used to remind me of this. In this way he hoped to instill in me, that I should always strive for knowledge.

My weekly "audience" with him was conducted is a most fatherly manner. He always let me recite my whole lesson right to the end, and never interrupted me in the middle. Afterwards he would ask me a few questions, to see how deep was my understanding. And if he noticed that something wasn’t clear to me, he would point it out to me in such a way that I shouldn’t feel embarassed.

And afterwards, when he was satisfied with my answers...his face would light up even more. In those moments, he looked to me like the Vilna Gaon, as he appeared in the large portrait that hung on his wall. He would then tell Aunt Tsirl she should give me a piece of cake and a cup of tea...sometimes he would give me a present of one of his own books, which was for me much dearer than the Auntie’s miserly piece of cake. The book I would show off for my friends in the Yeshiva...I was exceptionally proud, that I had such an uncle. And to this day I am still proud to bear living testimony to his deep, mysterious works, to his spiritual legacy. (In 1933 I saw his collected works in the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.)