Yaroslavl, January 1917.

Apparently, it was not ordained that I should be able to sit back and enjoy the bit of peace that I hand found in the Harkavey Leather Works, where I had made friends with so many of the workers. I was suddenly faced with new troubles which were altogether unexpected.

The story (or more accurately, the tragi-comedy) went as follows:

One morning, the supervisor of our section brought in a young man of about thirty, with a pale, worried face, and according to his usual procedure, shouted out loud:

"Hey, fellows, I’ve brought you a fresh "nerd", a new "Daytsh/Taytsh"!"

On hearing this news, a tremendous commotion broke out on our floor. There was an outburst of shouting and laughter that could be heard in every corner of the great workshop. Each one strove to outd- the next in makeing jokes and wisecracks at the expense of the new Taytsh which in any case applied to me as well:

"More Taytshes? An ill wind on their fathers!"

"A plague of Taytshes on us!"

"We don’t want to work with any Germans!"

"Put him upstairs with the "aristocrats"!"

By the term "aristocrats", they were referring to the bootmakers, of whome the greater portion were intellectuals, the "samo-oborontses", as they were called, who had become workers in order to avoid being sent off to war.

And so that the spectacle should be even more festive, the supervisor along with Hennekh ran up to me and grabbed me by the arms, shouting:

"Come, Taytsh!"....and with great ceremony, dragged me before the newly-arrived "Taytsh", and stood the two of us side by side.

They took both our hands, making us shake hands with each other, and then, turning towards us with mock sincerity like real intellectuals, said with mock seriousness:

"We have the great honor of presenting you with our own, well-known Mr. Yitzkhak Taytsh".

The newly-arrived young man stood there in shock, his whole body trembling in confusion so you could hardly bear to look at him.

Who knows, I thought to myself, where he comes from? Who knows if he hadn't perhaps come to bear the name Taytsh in the same way as I?

After the raucous crowd finally got tired of entertaining themselves to their heart's desire at our expense, the supervisor ordered them back to work. He tossed to the newcomer a dirty old leather apron, and set him to work right beside me. This meant that I, Yitzkhak Taytsh, should keep an eye on this second, new "Taytsh", as though there were some intimate connection between the two of us.

When the whistle blew, announcing that the time had come to eat lunch, I invited may new acquaintance to eat with me in the nearby tea-house, where the workers in our factory used to go for a quick meal.

My intention was, that while we were eating together, I might be able to draw out from him the information as to whether he was a "real" Taytsh, or merely a Taytsh like I was.

I sat down with him in a quiet corner, and ordered for both of us. But my guest barely touched his food. And to my question:

"Why don’t you eat?", he simply answered:

"Thanks, I’m not hungry."

As an experienced "imposter" who had long carried with him a false name, I thought I recognized that something was weighing on his heart. Something was bothering him, as though his conscience was not clear. I could se it in the frightened look in his eyes, and his nervous movements. I felt that he wanted to tell me something, but he didn't have the courage; and perhaps, he didn’t trust me.

Indeed, the desire to know whether he was a real Taytsh from his father’s father, or merely such a Taytsh as I was, was driving me crazy...but I tried to keep an air of equanimity. I calmly cut a slice of black rye bread, dipped it in my tea, and kept quiet.

Seeing my apparent lack of concern, my guest became even more uneasy. Finally he cleared his through and spoke in a quiet voice:

"Are you a refugee?"

"Yes," I answered.

"What province do you come from?"

"What difference does it make? I'm a refugee!", I snapped back.

After a moment's silence, he cleared his throat again and continued:

"I come from the Province of Vilna."

"So do I," I answered, hardly daring to reveal any more. But to give him more conficence, I admitted as an aside:

"I come from the County of Vileyka."

As soon as the young stranger heard that I was from County of Vileyka, he turned white as a sheet. He started squirming uncomfortably, as though he had suddenly gotten a terrible stomach-ache.

By now it was clear to me that he was also, so to speak, "a Taytsh from my school"; a deserter just like I was. He had surely purchased his identity from the same old dealer in Budeslav where my uncle, the Cantor of Molodetchno, had bought my false papers......yet he still seemed to believe, that I was a real Taytsh!

To break the thick, heavy silence that had suddenly descended upon us, I asked him:

"What county do you come from?"

"I...I...I also come from the County of Vileyka," he barely managed to stammer, looking at me with such pleading eyes, as though seeking from me a way out of his dilemma.

"What a coincidence!" I said with mock enthusiasm, "two Jews with the same name, coming from the same county. Maybe we’re even slightly related somehow?" With these words, I fixed a steady gaze in his eyes, to see what he would say next.

He dropped his eyes to the floor. Then, realizing that his own fear might well betray him, he marshalled his strength, put on a smile and spoke softly:

"I’m really from Borisov, in the Province of Minsk. I'm only registered over there...."

"I’m also only from there "on paper", I assured him.

He asked me no more questions of my lineage, nor did I as him. And so ended our first conversation.

In the course of the next few days, he became quite attached to me. Although he was a good ten years older than me, he always showed me a good deal of respect. He greeted me with a warm "good morning", and was quick to offer me a cigarette. He treated me as though I were an old friend. Perhaps he felt a deference towards me, because he thought I was a real Taytsh, in whose name he was saved from having to go to war.

I no longer had any doubt that the two of us, with the name of Taytsh, were, according to our passports, brothers from the same father! I resolved, however, to continue to play the role of a real Taytsh as long as possible.

Little by litte, the other workers in our section ceased to find it a source of amusement that the two of us had the same name, "Taytsh". It now appeared to them as nothing more that a very ordinary circumstance, that two such unrelated individuals should happen to have the same name. But so as not to confuse us, they called me "Taytsh Number One", and him: "Taytsh Number Two".

A month or two went by. Then one cold, frosty day, early in the month of February, the supervisor showed up in our department clutching his sides with and shaking with laughter. He was accompanied by a Jew of middle years wearing a fur coat, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a round black beard.

That same, day, all three of us were "invited" to the boss’s office. Around the office there had already gathered a crowd of curious on-lookers in their leather aprons. Excitement filled the air. Everyone was dying to find out, what would happen to the "Three Taytshes". Most of all, Hennekh the joker was in his glory:

"Soon our righteous owner will have himself a prayer quorum of nothing but Taytshes", he wisecracked.

Finally we were brought before the old boss Harkavey. He sat there fuming, surrounded by his sons, son-in-laws, secretaries, book-keepers, helpers, and helper’ helpers. He was determined to get to the bottom of this. No sooner had we entered the office, than he rose to his feet, fixed his sharp, bespectacled eyes on us, and shouted with rage:

" Who are you!?"

We, the "Three Taytshes", looked at each other. Each one of us was waiting for the next one to find his tongue. The boss screamed louder:

"Why don’t you speak? Have you lost your tongues? Answer!!"

"Bring me their passports!" he ordered one of his secretaries.

The secretary soon appeared with a large portfolio, containing the passports of all the workers in the factory. He quickly extracted three documents from the file folder, and began to read:

"Itzko Moiseyevitch Taytsh!"

"Here," I answered, my heart pounding.

"Shmuel Moiseyevitch Taytsh!"

"Here," answered Taytsh Number Two with a trembling voice.

"Avram Yosselevitch Taytsh!"

"That is I!" announced the new Taytsh in a confident voice.

"Are all three of you from the same family?" asked the boss, like a judge, barely able to control his anger.

"God forbid! According to their names, the are my brother’s sons....but my brother and his family are long since gone off to America. I do not know these men! I see them now for the first time!" said Taytsh Number Three, glaring angrily at us.

"How do you come to be here?" asked the elder Harkavey.

"We are refugees, have mercy on us, Mr. Harkavey, Sir," pleaded Taytsh Number Two.

"This is no hiding place for refugees!" shouted the boss, stamping his foot on the floor. "On account of you phony Taytshes, should they close my factory? Send me to prison? Ha!?"

"Where do you come from?" asked the bosses older son, addressing me

"I c-c-come from the Province of Vilna, County of Vileyka," I barely managed to answer.

"And you?" he asked, turning to face Taytsh Number Two.

"I come from the village of B-boyd," replied Taytsh Number Two, skirting my answer.

"From what county?"

"From the County of Vileyka," he admitted, casting a sideways glance in my direction.

"And where do you come from, Sir?" The younger Harkavey had addressed the third Taytsh with a certain deference, as though he were impressed by the older man’s beard.

"I come from Minsk. I am a long time resident. I am registered in the County of Vileyka, Province of Vilan. I am a real Taytsh. I come here with a letter of recommendation from our Rabbi, may he live long. I am a father of children, a red ticket. Have mercy and allow me to work here," he concluded in a single breath.

"I have a wife and two children. I am a refugee," pleaded Taytsh Number Two, "Have mercey on them. Do not bring down misfortune on our heads."

"Which of you is a real Taytsh and which is a phony? Speak up, confess!" demanded the boss's son-in-law, the strict general manager of the factory.

"Idiot!" screamed the elder Harkavey, "you still have to ask? Can't you see for yourself which one is a real Taytsh and which are phonies!?"

"I am a real Taytsh! From my father’s fathers a Taytsh! I can swear for you on my prayer shawl and phylacteries. You can ask the Rabbi in my home twon, and even the police!" asserted Taytsh Number Three, with great vehemence.

"According to their passports, they are all three brothers, or at least cousins, if you can believe it!" interjected the balebus's second son.

"I swear, I don’t know them. I’ve never seen them before!" the real Taytsh, Number Three, continued to insist.

The atmosphere in the room was dripping with fear. Everyone was terrifed of the "Three Taytshes. And the "Three Taytshes" themselves were shaking in their boots from fear.

The owner, Harkavey, in a state of agitation, was pacing back and forth in the office. Suddenly he stopped next to me and said:

"Are you married?"

"No," I answered, "I’m just a young refugee. My parents have been captured by the Germans (Daytshen)".

"Captured by the Germans?....Daytshen, Taytshen!" sneered the boss, spittitng my last words back at me through his teeth. "How long have you worked here?"

"Eight months," answered one of the clerks on my behalf.

Of the three Taytshes, it fell upon me, the youngest, to be the sacrificial hen for all of us. Their status as married men and providers stood in their favor...

They handed me my passport, and counted out my final wages, that were still owing to me for the few days work of that week. Without so much as a "Have a nice day", I left the office, as though I were running through a gauntlet.

That night, I didn't go back to my room. I was sure that by now, di Yaroslavl police and gendarmes were watching for me. One night I slept with a friend, the next night in the Jewish Folk-School, a third night with the Kotik family. But no matter where I went, I found no peace. With every knock on the door, I felt they were coming to take me away.

Just as in my yeshiva-boy days, I ate meals with strangers and slept on strange beds....