After all it is said: “He who is full of himself has no space left for God.”
Moliwda’s village consisted of some dozen small, neat houses made of stone and covered in slate, between which ran paths lined with pebbles; the homes stood at uneven intervals around the trampled little meadow, through which flowed a stream, creating a small pool. Higher up was the water catchment, a construction built of wood, which, like a mill wheel, propelled certain machines, no doubt to grind grain. Behind the homes stretched little gardens and orchards, thick, well-tended, and we could from our very entrance glimpse ripening pumpkins.
On the grass, which was already dry by this time of year, gleamed great canvas rectangles that made it look as though the village had been decorated with white holiday collars. There was something strange about it, for a little village, and I soon realized that there were no fowl here, so that there was none of what leaps out at one in every town: the toddling ducklings, the incessantly honking geese, and the furiously attacking ganders.
Our arrival caused a great deal of commotion, the little child sentries being the first to run out to us, having been the first to detect newcomers. Startled by the presence of outsiders, they clung to Moliwda as though they were his own children, and he spoke tenderly to them, in a croaking language we did not know. Then some men showed up from somewhere, bearded, squat, in shirts made of raw linen, and seemingly gentle, and only after them did the women run up, laughing. And everyone was dressed in white, and all in linen, and we could see that they made the cloth themselves, for across the common lands around the village there shone recently woven pieces of it everywhere, hung out to whiten in the sun.
Moliwda took down the sacks of what he’d bought in the city. He told the peasants to greet the guests, which they gladly did, forming a circle around us and singing a short, joyful song. The gesture of greeting here was a hand placed over the heart, then transferred to the mouth. I was entranced by the appearances and manner of these peasants—though that word seemed to apply rather to some other form of person, for unlike the peasants I had seen before, in Podolia, these people were cheerful and welcoming, and evidently sated.
We were completely astonished—even Jacob, whom nothing is able to surprise in general, seemed amazed by the extent of our welcome, and for a moment, he seemed to almost forget who he was. The fact that we were Jews did not bother them in the least; on the contrary, it was precisely because we were different from them that they showed themselves so well disposed toward us. Only Osman seemed not to be surprised by our reception; he kept on asking Moliwda about their provisions, their division of labor, their income from the vegetables they were cultivating, their weaving. But Moliwda didn’t seem comfortable answering all these questions, and to our astonishment, it turned out that the person who had the most to say on such matters was a woman whom they called “Mother,” although she wasn’t old.
We were led into a large room, where the young people, girls and boys, waited upon us as we ate. The food was simple and delicious—aged honey, dried fruits, olives, and a baked eggplant spread they applied to a crust they baked directly on a hot stone—with spring water to drink.
Moliwda behaved in a dignified and calm manner, but I noticed that although he was treated with respect, he was nonetheless not their master. Everyone called him “brate,” and he called them “brate” and “sestro,” which meant that they considered one another brothers and sisters, like one great family. When we had had our fill, the woman they called “Mother,” also dressed in white from head to toe, came to sit with us. She smiled warmly at us, although she scarcely spoke. It was clear that Moliwda held her in the highest esteem. When she started to gather herself, he stood, and following his example, we all stood and were led into the room where we were to spend the night. Everything was very modest and clean, and I slept splendidly, though I was so tired I had nary the strength to continue taking notes. For example, to record the fact that in my room the bed was merely bedclothes on the floor, and, instead of a wardrobe, I had only a stick suspended from strings on which to hang my clothes.
On the second day, Jacob and I observed how well Moliwda had arranged things there.
He surrounded himself with twelve brothers and twelve sisters—they made up the management of this village, on equal terms, women and men. When the time came to make some determination, they gathered on the little square to vote. When they agreed to something, they raised their hands. All of the huts and all their other holdings, like the well, the carts, the horses—belonged to everyone, to anyone who needed them, and he or she would take it as if on lease, would borrow it, and then, having done with it, give it back. There were few children, since they viewed procreation as a sin, but what young ones there were did not remain with their mothers, but were also communal, with several older women taking care of them, since the younger women worked in the fields or the home. We saw them painting the walls of the homes and adding to the whitewash a dye to make the houses light blue. The children were never told who their father was, and the fathers didn’t learn it, either; that could have given rise to injustices, partiality to their descendants. Because the women did know, they played an important role here, equal to that of the men, and it was apparent that for this reason these women were different from women elsewhere—calmer and more reasonable, sensible. The community’s accounts were kept by a woman, who could read and write and reckon. She was very learned, and Moliwda addressed her with respect.