We're up and packing early, ready to go when Justas arrives at
10:00 am to take us to our next put-in, on the Levuo river.
It's a two and a half hour drive for us--and at more than twice as
long for Justas, who started and will finish back in Vilnius. He is
devoting his entire day to our journey. Again, I am awed by his
generosity and enthusiasm for our trip. We could not begin to do this
expedition without him. Over the next ten days, while we are paddling to
Keidainiai and then on to Jurbarkas, he will be on his own trip, to Tenerife.
We're wishing him safe, productive, and enjoyable travels.
In mid-afternoon, we arrive at our intended put-in, just below the
dam on the Levuo in the town of Kupiskis. However, there's not nearly
enough water in the stream to navigate, so we drive a few miles further, where
Justas drops us off at a hastily contrived spot beside a small backroads
bridge. It's not ideal. The banks are muddy and steep, with no suitable
place to park Justas's van and trailer, but we make the best of it. We
unload in double time, share quick goodbyes, then organize our gear by the
riverside. We pack the boat with our clothing, camping equipment and very
heavy rejuvenated food bag, then set out.
**********
Before World War II, the tiny town of Kupiskis (or, in Yiddish,
Kupishok) was home to twelve hundred Jews--42% of the local population of 2830.
Our river journey through rural Lithuania is teaching us a lot about the
nature and importance of pre-war shtetl life. Most American Jews live in
large urban areas and tend to think of ourselves as city folks. Yet for
much of our history here in Lita,
we made up virtual majorities in scores of tiny agrarian villages. This
heritage is well worth preserving. Long before Zionism and our return to the
land of Israel, Jews were living close to nature, in community with one
another, surrounded by dense forests, green fields, and riparian watersheds.
Of course even in those rural villages, we often feuded bitterly
amongst ourselves. Lest one romanticize shtetl life as
bucolic, it is worth noting what Pinkas
Kehillot Lita has to say
about Kupishok:
Kupiskis Jewry divided off into two communities, the Hassidim and
the Mitnagdim (Misnogdim or Opponents). As a result, the town had two official
rabbis, one for each community (previously they had one rabbi for the whole
town), but then they had two Shochtim (ritual slaughterers), two burial
societies and four synagogues. Often, bitter quarrels arose between the rival
communities. The Kashrut certification given by one was negated and declared
Treif (not Kosher) by the other.
Toward the end of the nineteenth century, many Kupishok Jews emigrated, mostly
to the US and South Africa. Economic hardship took its toll, as did
fires, which frequently ravaged Lithuanian towns and cities, with their
preponderance of wooden structures to feed the flames. Still, the shtetl
managed to sustain itself until the Nazis arrived in June of 1941.
Days after the German invasion, Kupiskok filled up with Jews from
neighboring areas, all fleeing the Nazis--and their murderous neighbors--to no
avail. In mid-July, the Germans established a small ghetto on Vilna
Street and began to execute Jews in the forest outside of town. Much of
the killing was actually done by the Nazis' Lithuanian accomplices, including
the local police chief and his deputy, and one of the high school teachers.
By the end of September 1941, not a single living Jew remained; over 3000
souls from Kupishok and nearby towns were buried in the swamps and woods.
A few Lithuanians tried to rescue Jews. The village priest,
I. Regauskas, attempted to save some of the Jewish students--but informers
tipped off the Germans. The local gentile doctor took in the rabbi's
wife, Kh. L. Pertzovski and her friend, B. Meirovitz, together with their
children--but again, Lithuanian neighbors quickly discovered and informed on
them. All were murdered.
And so this once vibrant Jewish community ceased to exist, with
its Hasidim and Misnagdim and all the other warring factions
dead, side by side, in the forest ditches.
**********
Upon our launch, I sound the shofar, to announce our Jewish
presence.
We jump in the boat and paddle off--but not for very long.
For the afternoon's first couple hours, we are not, as expected, in a
river but a rather paltry creek. The water level is, more often than not,
too low for paddling. Again and again, we bottom out on rocks and
sandbars; from the start, we're spending much more time wading beside the boat,
dragging it downstream, than in it. Logjams prove even more challenging.
Downed trees routinely clog the entire stream, sometimes at intervals of
every fifty yards or so. Each time we pull up at a blockage, we plunge
into murky water up to our waists and plod through thick brush, spider webs,
brownish foamy scum, and the discarded plastic bottles and other detritus that
accumulate at these logjams--then struggle to heave the boat over the morass.
And then repeat the whole messy procedure minutes later, again and again
and again.
**********
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov believed that we need challenges to
strengthen our resolve. He taught: the obstacle creates the desire.
Many teachers, across cultures, suggest that without difficulties
overcome, a trip is just a pleasurable outing; it is the tough passages
that transform a journey into a pilgrimage. As the Talmud puts it: L'fi sachra, avdah--According to
the labor, so is the reward. If this is true--and I believe it
is--then this afternoon was rewarding--and important--for Rosa and me.
Yesterday--Shabbat in Kovno--was a monumental experience: leading services in
my forebears' hometown, sitting at Chiune Sugihara's desk, walking the ghost
maps of Kovno and Slabodka, in the footsteps of Judel and Shimon and Mendel and
Toba Kagan Finkelstein--and Israel Salanter, Isaac Elchanan Spektor, Leah
Goldberg, Abraham Mapu, and so many more. Today's agenda is
entirely different but no less critical: overcoming ordinary obstacles, pushing
through where the river doesn't, working in partnership with my daughter.
So when, after a couple of hours, the obstacles gradually ease away and
the creek, fed by tributaries, widens and deepens into a real river, meandering
blissfully through tranquil wetlands, we feel proud. Thankful for how our
kayak carried us through, we decide to give her a name: Lita--the
lovely, lilting traditional Yiddish word for Lithuania. Lita,
homeland of the Litvaks. And our boat, our home on the rivers by which
they lived.
**********
Later, as day softens into evening, we hit a few more logjams,
then struggle to find a camping spot. Eventually we settle for a site a stone's
throw from the gravel road that parallels the river, just behind an old
house--on steeply sloped, weed-infested ground. It will have to do.
I'm a little worried about the dense overgrowth; I fear we may be camping
in a thicket of poison ivy--and I know, from the burning and itching, that we
are definitely ensconced in stinging nettle. But we wash and scrub our
exposed skin in the river, then put on long pants and hope for the best.
It was a hard day and essential day. A good day's
journey--and good day to have behind us.
We retire to the tent. I count the omer: forty eight, just
two more days until Shavuot.
Now off to sleep, incline be damned, head up, feet down, rolling
in our dreams with the earth beneath us.
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