My Brothers and Sisters, Avraham and Shmuel

The Jews outside Khosrova began returning to their homes and trying to rebuild their lives, but before they could regain their footing death struck again. Epidemics spread across the country and ravaged our family. My father alone was killed by gunfire; the others fell ill and repeatedly needed hospital care.

I had a sister named Hanna — the Emto mentioned earlier — and another, Sultan, who died of illness.¹ Sultan had three children, and they died one after another.² Then word arrived that my eldest brother Avraham had also died of disease in Tabriz.³

Before his death Avraham met an acquaintance named Nizam, the son of a prosperous family from Kuhna Shahr. He entrusted him with his money, gold, and valuables. “When you return to town, find out who in my family survived,” he said. “Ask first for my mother. If she is gone, give everything to another relative. If none are alive, you will have fulfilled my request and may keep what remains.”

Nizam reached the town, learned that we were in Golozan, and sent for “Ibrahim’s mother.” My mother and I walked to Kuhna Shahr. We had not visited for a long time. The Jewish quarter was empty and the entire town lay in ruins. Fire had scarred the walls of Nizam’s house; the family had cleared one corner and lived there like refugees.

From the entrance we asked, “Which of you is Nizam?” A man replied, “I am. As you can see, a great disaster happened here. Who are you?” Mother identified herself as Avraham‘s mother and me as her son. Grief filled his eyes and tears rose. “Dust upon your head,” he said.

Nizam told us that Avraham had died. “He was more than a friend,” he said. “I loved him more than my own brother. What can we do?” He produced a cloth bundle and placed it in Mother’s hands. “Your son entrusted this to me. I searched for you for a long time. Praise God that I found you and could carry out my dear friend’s wish.”

Mother could not believe him. “You are lying. How could Avraham die? He is not dead — he cannot be.” Nizam asked her to open the bundle. Inside I found a gold watch, a gold chain, ten gurushiye coins strung together, my brother’s book of debts, and two hundred and fifty silver tomans.

Nizam said that they had rented a place and buried Avraham there; once conditions were calm he would need to be moved to a proper resting place. We thanked him for his loyalty and humanity and walked back to Golozan.

As we approached our house, Ajam children ran towards us and said that a coffin had left it that day.⁴ When we departed, Avraham‘s wife Biyaz had been ill. Mother raised her hands to heaven. “Great God, whatever You do, You do for the good. This woman did not have to hear that her husband died.”

Inside we found Biyaz alive and breathing. Mother asked who had died. Shmuel’s wife answered through tears: “It was my husband. I would not exchange him for a hundred people who have tongues to speak. No one had his intelligence, goodness, and wisdom.” She struck her head with her hands; Mother did the same, and they continued until both lost consciousness.

The disasters did not stop. Almost every two days a funeral left our house. Of my mother’s eight children, only Shimon and I remained; of four daughters, only one survived. One day Mother raised her hands and said, “God, leave me these three, and I will weep no more.”