Semyon (Sholem) Zilberman
My paternal grandfather, Moishe Zilberman,
was from a place called Druya, Vitebsk province
(Belarus). There were eight children in the family,
and Jewish tradition was fully observed there:
they communicated only in Yiddish. Food, of
course, was kosher. Shabbat and holidays were
observed in accordance with Jewish law. It was
in such a traditional family that my father was
born into in 1884.
One of his countrymen who owned a sewing studio in Riga offered my father to be his apprentice, providing him with accommodation.
I was born in Riga. At that time, the Jews of Riga strictly adhered to the letter of the Jewish law, and no one had heard of non-kosher food.
My mother, Leya Abramovna, was born in the small Belarusian town of
Disna. My mother's parents had their own farm with a cow, chickens, and
a garden. They also adhered to the Jewish way of life. My mother's father
was a talented musician who played the double bass in a klezmer ensemble.
Their son, Dovid, my mother's brother, graduated from the St. Petersburg
Conservatory in the violin class. He toured several times with the symphony
orchestra, including concerts in Raga, and also gave solo performances.
My parents were always present at his performances. He last performed in
concert in 1926.
In Riga at that time, in my opinion, the living conditions for the Jews were
relatively democratic. We lived in the Jewish area. Religious, Zionist, youth
and sports organizations were active there. I went to a children's religious
kosher camp in Asari, near Riga. Moreover, for the modest income of our
family, it was free - wealthy Jews contributed funds for the maintenance of
the community. I remember how we picked blueberries there, from which
they made jam and baked pies for us. For several pre-war years, my parents
rented a cabin on the Riga seaside. There were synagogues nearby, and
when my father arrived from the city on the eve of Shabbat (he rode by train,
the engine of which was heated with firewood - the smoke was thick!), we
went to the synagogue together.
When the war began, the Jewish youth of Riga united in groups. There were
instructors at schools who explained how to use weapons. My two older
brothers, Meir and Henoch, being members of one of these groups, signed
up for the militia. Before they left, they went home to say goodbye, and my
mother suggested that they evacuate along with the whole family. But they
answered: “If not us, who will defend the city?” They did not realize that the
fate of the city was already sealed. Before they left, their mother gave them a
note with the address of her musician brother, Dovid, who lived in Leningrad,
in order to keep in touch with each other through him. On the evening of
the next day, June 27, 1941, our friends suggested that a truck should drive
up to take people who were about to evacuate to the train. We were lucky
– we managed to come running at the last minute before the departure
of the car with refugees. Otherwise, we would have shared the tragic fate
of six million Jews, my innocent brothers and sisters. The truck was open,
soldiers with rifles were sitting along the sides. From the upper floors of the
houses the Latvians fired at the fleeing people as we passed. We got to the
freight station where the train was. Each compartment, a small space with
two benches, had a separate entrance. At first there were five of us, but then
refugees crowded in at the stops, and we were riding with terrible crowding.
Traveling in this way for three weeks, we finally disembarked at the Kirov
region. In mid-July, my mother wrote to her brother in Leningrad, and by that
time he had already received a letter from my older brothers. As a result, the
family united. In August, my older brother was drafted into the army – into
the newly formed Latvian division, 30% of which was made of Jews. In some
divisions, classes were even held in Yiddish. Shortly after, we received an
official message that my brother died on December 31, 1941 in the village of
Elagino, Moscow Region. This is how my family experienced the war.
After the war, I became a tailor's apprentice, a job I inherited from my father.
For nine years, I worked in a Riga atelier, then I got married and moved to
Leningrad, where my family and I lived for twenty-five happy years. In 1979 we
moved to Canada and had to start building our lives anew. In 1981, I opened
my atelier in the center of a religious district. I worked there for fifteen years
and then retired. In our family, we have always adhered to Jewish traditions,
celebrated all Jewish holidays. I am a member of the Chabad synagogue.
Twenty-five years ago, I unfortunately lost my wife. To this day, I miss her so
much. We are glad that we have found ourselves in a country where we have
the opportunity to proudly show our Jewishness, and no one prevents us
from doing this. I am the proud grandfather of four grandchildren and two
great-grandchildren. I wish myself and all the Jewish people a happy sweet
New Year, full prosperity and security for our dear Israel.
