. They attacked them with knives and clubs and scythes and
axes, killed them or tortured them, and burned their houses. This was
called a "pogrom." Jews who escaped the pogroms came to Polotzk with
wounds on them, and horrible, horrible stories, of little babies torn
limb from limb before their mothers' eyes. Only to hear these things
made one sob and sob and choke with pain. People who saw such things
never smiled any more, no matter how long they lived; and sometimes
their hair turned white in a day, and some people became insane on the
spot.

Often we heard that the pogrom was led by a priest carrying a cross
before the mob. Our enemies always held up the cross as the excuse of
their cruelty to us. I never was in an actual pogrom, but there were
times when it threatened us, even in Polotzk; and in all my fearful
imaginings, as I hid in dark corners, thinking of the horrible things
the Gentiles were going to do to me, I saw the cross, the cruel cross.

I remember a time when I thought a pogrom had broken out in our
street, and I wonder that I did not die of fear. It was some Christian
holiday, and we had been warned by the police to keep indoors. Gates
were locked; shutters were barred. If a child cried, the nurse
threatened to give it to the priest, who would soon be passing by.
Fearful and yet curious, we looked through the cracks in the
shutters. We saw a procession of peasants and townspeople, led by a
number of priests, carrying crosses and banners and images. In the
place of honor was carried a casket, containing a relic from the
monastery in the outskirts of Polotzk. Once a year the Gentiles
paraded with this relic, and on that occasion the streets were
considered too holy for Jews to be about; and we lived in fear till
the end of the day, knowing that the least disturbance might start a
riot, and a riot lead to a pogrom.

On the day when I saw the procession through a crack in the shutter,
there were soldiers and police in the street. This was as usual, but I
did not know it. I asked the nurse, who was pressing to the crack over
my head, what the soldiers were for. Thoughtlessly she answered me,
"In case of a pogrom." Yes, there were the crosses and the priests and
the mob. The church bells were pealing their loudest. Everything was
ready. The Gentiles were going to tear me in pieces, with axes and
knives and ropes. They were going to burn me alive. The cross--the
cross! What would they do to me first?

T