Chune "Elchanan" Later

TIMELINE FOR CHUNE LATTER:

circa 1852 to circa 1854: Chune LATTER was born (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER's Narrative)

circa 1872 to circa 1877: Chune LATTER married Hentsche Freida LATTER nee GLATTER.

circa Spring 1901: Tante Yetta LATTER was born in Neswich (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER's Narrative)

circa 1901 circa 1907 : Chune LATTER, Hentsche Freida LATTER nee GLATTER, Esther LATTER, Tuvia LATTER, Yetta LATTER moved from Neswich to Yazlovets (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER's Narrative)

circa 1907: Chune LATTER, Hentsche Freida LATTER nee GLATTER, Esther LATTER, Tuvia LATTER, Yetta LATTER moved from Yaslovets to Koropets (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER's Narrative)

after 1907: Tuvia LATTER died in Koropets of Typhoid Fever (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER's Narrative)

March 1915: World War I started (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER'S Narrative)

March 1915: Russians came in to Koropets (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER'S Narrative)

June 1915: Russians ordered all Jews to leave Koropets and goto Buchach (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER'S Narrative)

June 1915: Russians ordered all male Jews to the Russian boarder to dig trenches (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER'S Narrative)

August 3, 1915: Chune LATTER dies in Yazlovets of Cholera (source Tante Yetta CHERR nee LETTER'S Narrative)

According to cousin Milt Goldman, his "Aunt Rosie Newman once told him that Chune Letter (Latter) was renowned for his hospitality, bringing folks home for dinner and offering shelter to travelers thru Krupitz (Koropets) and Yaslovitz (Yaslowitz)." Milt (Charles Milton) Goldman is a great grandson of Chune Latter.

The article below was written by William (Bill) Delit Newman, a great grandson of Chune Letter (aka Chune Latter).

"DER YAZLOVITZER GIEBER

(The Hero of Yaslowitz) by William D. Newman

A short story from the book "LETTERS FROM HEAVEN"

Not one word of the story you are about to read is true; absolutely nothing. On the other hand, if you believe in the collective unconscious of humanity and the indomitable spirit of the Jewish People, you know that this story is, indeed, true; truer than the facts they describe. I'll let you decide for yourself:

Now that the new millennium has arrived, I am free to reveal a well guarded secret of the "Letter Family". Until recently, I was honor bound to say nothing whatsoever to anyone in the family lest a hundred year old solemn oath would be violated. At last, I can do so with a clear conscience but already, I am getting ahead of myself. Let me explain:

For many years, I was impressed with the unusual cohesion, continuity and survival of our large family. At each of our recent 'family circle reunions', I was approached by other non-family member guests residing at the Raleigh Hotel who expressed their admiration for our family. No doubt these outsiders were dismayed by the two hundred pale blue T shirts and caps declaring for all to read: "I SURVIVED THE LETTER FAMILY REUNION" Invariably, they exclaimed that they had rarely known such a large family, let alone one which continues to see each other with such relish! Somewhere, halfway through my lox and onion omelet, that morning, it occurred to me.... Surely, such a large and unique family like ours, must have produced illustrious ancestors somewhere back in our long history. How else could one account for such accomplishment by our modern family descendents? Accordingly, I sought out the single most authoritative source on these matters, our now dearly departed cousin, Irving Stahl.

I visited Irv at his Century Village apartment in Florida. We talked for hours, always a pleasure to hear his interesting family remembrances. To my disappointment, however, he informed me that there was no mention whatsoever of greatness of any sort that could be found in his research; not one noted scientist, not one celebrated writer, scholar, rabbi - nothing, nada, not a shred of evidence. Irv perceived my disappointment. Following another hour of interesting stories and iced tea, he escorted me to the door.

With his arm on my shoulder, he blurted out.... "You know, Bill, I may have exaggerated just a bit when I told you there were no outstanding individuals in our family history. Your father is the oldest male survivor of your branch of the family; he knows, although I doubt he will tell you... but you must not tell him that I told you to ask him." I turned around in the doorway, "What do you mean, Irv?" But he hastily closed the door and wished me a goodbye. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Needless to say, my curiosity was now stimulated to even greater heights. Wasting no time, I immediately sought out my father to resolve this growing mystery of some special ancestor. Was he a criminal, a traitor, perhaps even a communist spy on the lam? Predictably, my father adamantly denied any special knowledge.

"What exactly do you need to know? There is nothing to tell, I don't know what you are talking about." he answered abruptly, cutting off any further questioning; but I could see he was hiding something. One gets to know these things about one's parents.

Each year, we made the obligatory winter visit to Florida. Each year, I repeated my inquiry. Each year, he denied knowing anything, and each time, I detected that unmistakable anxiety that surely betrayed his lie.

"Why do you keep asking me about this?"

Finally, with a bit more prodding on my part, he reluctantly admitted to some special knowledge.

"Ask me again next year, and I will tell you, but not before New Year's Day!"

It seems like I thought of almost nothing else for the entire year. So come the millennium, I spoke with him at length. Here's what he told me:

Back in the Alte Haim (the old country) around the turn of the century, our great, great grandfather, Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - my he rest in peace), husband to our great, great grandmother, Bubbe Hentshe Freide (Zaicher 1'Vrucha - of blessed memory) eked out a living cutting firewood, milling grain then delivering his wares to the surrounding shtetls (villages) in the area of Galicia (hell). On one such occasion, our Zaide (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace) was loading up his rickety old wagon with sacks of freshly ground flour from the rickety old mill in his hometown of Yazlovitz (Yaslowitz). That morning like every other morning of his life, he was subjected to a long tirade from Bubbe (Zaicher 1'Vrucha - of blessed memory), "CHUNE, CHUNE, when will you find yourself a decent horse? That old broken down dray, it's a miracle he hasn't dropped dead already! You talk to that old horse like he was your brother, not your horse. Enough, already, get rid of him. One of these days he is going to drop dead right on the road and you'll be stuck but good.

But Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - may rest in peace) just shrugged it off and continued hitching up his old friend, Hershel dos Ferd (Harry the Horse). Chune was in no rush to sell his old companion; they had been friends for years, who would buy such an old horse anyway. So off they went, Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace) and Hershel, slowly creaking along pulling that heavy load. As they left the muddy shtetl, he gave the usual nod to his good friend, Nachum, the telephone/telegraph operator of Yaslowitz (who also worked as the shamus at the schul - it's no big deal).

"I'll see you back here tonight at schul for Shabbos, waved Chune from his creaky wagon. Hershel said nothing.

It was just about noon as Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace) and the overburdened Hershel dos Ferd pulled up to Potek-Zlote, yet another shtetl on their weekly delivery route of bulging sacks of flour. Chune slowly maneuvered the old lorry off the rutted trail. There he could eat his meager lunch, a large onion and a hunk of black bread. He offered his loyal companion a portion of the dried crust. To his surprise, the exhausted Hershel refused. "Hershelle, Hershelle, dein mittog, ess! ess! (Lunch, mange! mange!)."

But the hapless Hershel just looked up at his master with his huge watery brown eyes, took a deep breath, shook his head.. ..and died.

Poor Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace), this was not a good day for him; I suppose it wasn't so good for Hershel, either! With tears in his eyes, Chune summoned two local Polish boys, paying them a few kopeks to drag the heavy carcass off to the nearby town of Ozwiem, where they had it burned. If his grief were not enough, he realized that with the approaching Sabbath, he would probably be forced to spend the night on a hard cold bench in the last row of the shul in Potek-Zlote (no observant Jew would ever consider traveling on Shabbos). Hopefully, someone would extend an invitation to this stranded traveler to a Shabbos dinner.

For the first time in his life, Zaide Chune (Oleh .. .o.k. enough with the Oleh b'Sholoms already) hitched himself up to the harness and with great effort, pulled his own heavy wagon into town to deliver his wares before sunset. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself, that his wife was right, how humiliating. Worse yet, I will be the laughing stock of Yaslowitz, I will be heralded as the Shlemazel of Galicia (don't ask for translation, it takes too long). Right then, at the very nadir of his luckless life, providence struck!

Zaide Chune made a momentous decision; he decided to make a telephone call! A telephone call? Now what kind of momentous decision is a telephone call you ask? Remember, this is Eastern Europe at the turn of the century. There were no cell phones, no push buttons, not even a "Princess Modular Desktop" in your bedroom, in some cases not even a bedroom. In any event, making a telephone call truly was a big deal.. ..for Chune, spending a few kopeks on a call was an even bigger deal. Nonetheless, despite the fact that he had only used a telephone twice before in his entire life, he resolved to call home to alert his wife about his whereabouts. (His eldest daughter, Dora and her husband Saul, twice made prearranged calls to him from America, much thanks to the efforts of his good friend, Nachum, the telephone operator and honorary shamus of the Yaslowitz shul - (it's no big deal). Having made his decision, he proceeded to the local office of the Bureaukratike das Telephone/Telegraf dem Oesterreich-Ungarn (The Ministry of Telephone/Telegraph for Austria-Hungary a.k.a. BT&T).

As you may have guessed by now, Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace) was not much of a successful businessman, but he certainly knew how to stretch a kopek. You see, Chune knew that BT&T charged phone usage by the minute. Accordingly, Chune shrewdly also figured out that he would be paying for wasted time on the phone while Nachum, the telephone operator (also the shamus at the shul - its no big deal) ran down the street to get Bubbe Hentshe Friede (Zaicher 1'Vrucha - of blessed memory) to come to the phone. So, he prudently decided to make a person to person phone call to avoid the wasted minutes. You see, in those days there were only one or two telephones in each village. Of course, there was no direct line between Potek-Zlote and Yaslowitz (who would call?) So in order to make the call, you had to go through the operator in Chernovitz (a city today known as Tarnopol). As fate would have it, Volvadia, the BT&T operator in Chernovitz was a gentile (shiksa) girl who only spoke Ukrainian and Polish, not some verschleppte Galicianer dialect of Yiddish. With a tremulous hand, Zaide deposited his two kopeks into the wooden box, and waited for the operator, to respond.

Chune: "I want to make a person to person phone call to Hentshe Freide Letter in Yaslowitz, this is Chune Letter, here in Potek-Zlote."

No doubt, Volvadia was a sweet peasant girl, unfortunately, she had a very short attention span. She probably didn't get a lot of satisfaction from her 60 hour work week - how would you feel earning 12 zlote a week? Volvadia dialed Yaslowitz, got Nachum on the phone but then she mistakenly asked Nachum to summon Chune Letter instead of Hentshe Freide Letter. Of course, Nachum then correctly told her that Chune Letter wasn't here. Volvadia then told Zaide Chune (Oleh b'Shalom - May he rest in peace) that Chune wasn't in Yaslowitz.. .with that she abruptly terminated the call and disconnected the phone. The two kopeks dropped out of the return box onto the floor of the BT&T station.

Chune was fuming. "That stupid girl, what's wrong with her? Of course, I'm not in Yaslowitz, I'm right here in Potek-Zlote," he raged. Determined to reach his wife, he painstakingly repeated his efforts. Once again, the linguistically challenged peasant girl with a third grade education, could not correctly differentiate the caller from the callee.

By now, Chune was exasperated, he could hear the conversation between the operator and Nachum, his friend, the local receptionist in Yaslowitz (who was also the Shammus at the schul - it's no big deal); "Look," explained Nachum in his broken Ukrainian, "I already told you, Chune Letter is not here. Why just this morning, I saw him myself traveling to Potek-Zlote with Hershel das Ferd to deliver sacks of flour on his wagon."

Nachum could clearly hear Chune on the other end of the line fulminating to the operator, "You fool, I'm in Yaslowitz, I don't want to call myself, I want to call my wife!"

But poor Volvadia had no idea what anyone was talking about in that strange language. She pulled the wires and once again returned his two kopeks.

Sure enough, poor Chune was forced to spent a restless night sleeping on a hard bench in the Potek-Zlote shul that night.

Two days later, the weary downtrodden Chune dragged himself and his heavy wagon all the way back to Yaslowitz. He fully expected to be scolded by his wife and mocked by the entire town. He would be labeled a fool, cheapskate, and an inconsiderate one at that. Surprisingly, none of his fears were actually realized. Low and behold, the entire town greeted him with cheers. "Make way for the 'Hero of Yaslowitz' they cried. Bubbe Hentshe Freide (Zaicher Pvruchah - of blessed memory) stood in the doorway beaming proudly, her young infant, Yetta in her arms and her three remaining toddlers, Viche, Moishe and Esther hanging on her skirt, "Tatte, Tatte, unzere Graize (Papa, Papa, our great one)".

Chune was astounded, what could this be all about?

"Chune, you clever rascal," said Nachum, "That entire act of yours on the telephone, such realism, such dramatics, such genius. Of course, I knew all along what you were up to. I recognized it immediately. I said to myself, I'll bet Chune's horse died, he can't get back home before Shabbos, he'll have to sleep on a hard bench in the schul at Potek-Zloty, he's hoping for an invitation to Shabbos dinner and I should tell Hentshe Freide so she shouldn't worry. Such genius, you saved the entire cost of a telephone call."

Indeed, it was true. It seems Chune Letter had just invented the infamous "LONG DISTANCE PERSON TO PERSON COLLECT PHONE CALL TO MYSELF" routine. Future generations of travelers, college students, and vacationers would benefit from his genius. Over the next seven or eight decades, AT&T, MCI, and the Bureaukratike das Telefone/Telegraf dem Oesterreich-Ungarn would expend billions of dollars to find a way to defeat the COLLECT PHONE CALL TO MYSELF routine - they never succeeded!

That night the entire town celebrated Chune Letter's great victory. Fleisher, the butcher, Kugelman, the baker, and Lichtenstein the candle maker, all brought their wares to the schul at Yaslowitz for the celebration. Nachum also the Shamus (it's no big deal) told everyone who would listen, about how he knew all along what Chune was up to. Rabbi Gesundheit even made a public prayer of thanksgiving to Hashem pleading for Him to bless Chune Letter and his descendents for all time, "They should be fruitful and multiply and also come into much gold." The entire town made a vow that they would never disclose the secret; only the eldest son of their families would be entrusted with the sacred knowledge until such time that everyone could be told in the next millennium.

Years flew by, Zaide Chune (Oleh b'sholom - may he rest in peace) kept his vow, never divulging the secret of Yaslowitz.

Yet more years flew by. Chune's children all emigrated to America, but he remained.

In the year 1915, Yaslowitz was overrun by Czarist Russian troops. The thinly defended Austro-Hungarian lines melted away in the face of overwhelming hordes of undisciplined Cossacks who occupied all of Galicia. They not only brought pillage and rape, they also brought the dreaded plague, Cholera!

Chune and all the other Jews of Yaslowitz were forceably recruited to dig large trenches to bury the dead. Chune himself, soon contracted the dreaded disease. He wasted away among the others, dehydrated and diarrheatic. As he lay among the sick and dying in a filthy warehouse, he cried out to his God... "Reboneh Shalom (Master of Peace), Is this the reward promised to me by the rabbi? Have I not kept my promise, my covenant with You? Where is my fruitful family? Where is my gold? Fleishman and Kugelman and Lichtenstein all broke their promise, yet they continue to live and prosper among their children here in Galicia while I die alone penniless, my children all gone to a foreign land."

With that, Zaide Chune Letter (Oleh b'Sholom - may he rest in peace) looked up for his Master with his huge watery brown eyes, took a deep breath, shook his head, let out a great sigh... and died.

EPILOGUE: The Potek-Zlote and Yaslowitz of the past is no more. A great holocaust, even greater than the first war, swept them away. In its wake all the children of Fleisher, and Kugelman and Lichtenstein were taken to Oswiem. There in Oswiem, also known as Auschwitz, their carcasses were burned, just like Hershel dos Ferd. But all the Letters had emigrated to the Goldene Medina, the land of gold, the United States, and they prospered and they had many children just as the rabbi had promised. Even today, they still gather together to celebrate each other and to remember unknown heroes of their past. They still keep the covenant that sustained them all these years, and they speak in whispers of Hershel dos Ferd and they remember the Hero of Yaslowitz, (may he rest in peace)."

Written by William (Bill) Delit Newman, the great grandson of Chune Letter (aka Chune Latter).