There was a man, and behold he is no more...
(On the fresh grave of my teacher Reb Chaim Feldman, of blessed memory.)
The painful news of the passing of my teacher, my master and guide in the path I walk, reached me late — but I shall fulfil my duty as his pupil and pour out my soul on his fresh grave; in this way I shall pay him his last honour, the honour of a pupil to his teacher, and offer words of comfort to his mourning family, and in this way I too shall find comfort for my sorrow and rest for my bitter spirit...
There was a man, and behold he is no more... And the man was humble, quiet and calm in his ways; he sat in his tent and meditated over books. I remember those days when I would rise early and come first to the cheder, where I did not yet find any of my friends — I would find my teacher sitting at the table bent over his thick volume of "Hatekufah". Far from noise, he kept company with his pupils and his books, not only books of Talmud, Aggadah and codifiers but also books of enlightenment and science. He was one of those who broke through the fence of the Haskalah to the national movement; he knew how to bridge the Talmud and the books of enlightenment. In his cheder Hebrew became a living modern language. The grammar and syntax we learned in the cheder opened to us the gates of the language and brought us into its expanses. His cheder was one of the distinguished ones, and not everyone was privileged to be counted among his pupils. His cheder served as a corridor to the Hebrew school. Whoever finished his cheder went on to the school, and the transition was not hard, since it was suited to the school's studies and spirit. A graduate of this cheder was no longer unripe fruit — he knew Hebrew well, Bible, Aggadah, Talmud, and also the cantillation melody for reading the weekly portion every Friday. That Friday was a special day for us — on that day we brought the grade books in which our teacher recorded for each of us the grades in all subjects during the week — a page for each week with its own grades, and the parents' signature below. These books created competition among the pupils, and everyone tried to get precisely a 5, and thanks to this competition all knew well what they had learned and did well, and the cheder too gained a great name in Pruzhany. There in the cheder we also heard the ring of the modern bell for a break after each lesson, for it was a school in miniature, and it supplied pupils to the Hebrew school. Not with noise and not with propaganda did he conduct his work; calmly and peacefully, with devotion and faith he fulfilled his task, and this work was no burden or load to him — on the contrary, it added pleasure and interest, energy and strength. My last meeting with my teacher was during the intermediate days of Sukkot in Warsaw, when I was attending the courses in knowledge of the Land run by Braslavsky of the Land of Israel. I met him in a flat on Zamenhof Street, in the lodging of the Pruzhany people at Steinberg's. When I came in I immediately saw his pale face, so changed, and I was so struck — he did not recognise me, but after his son Yitzchak said to him, "Father, don't you recognise him? This is Aryeh," and he heard my name, he immediately remembered me and asked, "Can you still today read the portion with the cantillation as beautifully as then?" In our conversation he reminded me of days gone by and times that had changed, and especially complained that he had no work, stressing among other things, "If I had work, I would be healthy." His state of health had not allowed him in recent years to engage in teaching, and he had been forced to stop his beloved and faithful work. Faithful and devoted work did the man do in his life, and he left behind tens and hundreds of pupils who follow in his footsteps and in the light of his teaching and education. On the fresh grave of my faithful teacher I bow my head in honour and recognition, and express my sorrow and grief in the few words: There was a man, and behold he is no more...
Aryeh Birnbaum (Pipki near Volkovysk).