Features
The Red Inheritance – a short story
By H.C. Piloski
PART I — ROOTS
Foreword
The Red Inheritance is a work of fiction built on real histories. The political movements, neighbourhoods, and events depicted here — from Winnipeg’s North End to the Holodomor, the gulag system, and the ideological battles of the twentieth century — are drawn from documented fact. The characters themselves are invented. Their names, relationships, and private lives have been changed.
This story engages with difficult truths: the idealism that drove many to fight fascism, the blindness that led some to excuse Stalinist terror, and the intertwined traumas carried by Jewish and Ukrainian families who fled Europe’s catastrophes. It also reflects the historical record of the Soviet security organs and the diverse individuals who served within them. These realities are presented not to assign collective blame, but to illuminate the moral complexity of an era when ideology often overshadowed humanity.
What follows is fiction. But the shadows it walks through are real.
This story is one thread in a larger tapestry of inherited memory and consequence.
I. The Tape (1934 → 2026)
Rachel Levinson found the box on a humid August afternoon in 2026, tucked behind dusty binders in the archives room of the Jewish Heritage Centre. It was unlabelled except for two faint words:
CP — Private.
Inside lay brittle pamphlets, yellowing papers, and a cassette tape with a fading label:
Labour Temple. 1934.
Her grandfather, David Levinson, born in 1915 to Polish immigrants Sarah and Moshe, had been the youngest of four children — a fact that shaped both his stubbornness and his need to prove himself in the crowded Levinson household. He had been a young Jewish organizer in Winnipeg’s North End, swept up in the Jewish Youth AntiFascist League. He had told her stories of the confrontation at Old Market Square, when Jewish and Ukrainian youth chased the brown shirts out of the square in 1934.
But he had never mentioned a tape.
She slid it into the old player.
A click. A whirr. Then his voice — younger, sharper, filled with conviction.
A faded photograph showed him as he once was: lean, brighteyed, a mediumsized North End boy toughened by winter streets and by the old prewar YMHA — the building Jewish youth used before the Hargrave and Qu’Appelle “Y” existed. That building was long gone now, replaced decades later by the Asper JCC in the south end — another reminder that the world her grandfather moved through had vanished, leaving only photographs and memory.
Her grandfather spoke of fascism rising in Europe, of solidarity, of the Soviet Union as “the only nation standing unflinchingly against tyranny.”
Then another voice mentioned a poet. A furnace. Books burned.
The tape clicked off.
Rachel sat frozen, the silence louder than the recording.
II. The North End (1930s → 1990s)
She drove to the North End the next day, needing to remember before she judged.
Her grandparents’ house on Matheson Avenue still stood — modest, sturdy, with a vegetable garden in the back. She remembered Shabbat dinners: the smell of chicken soup, her Baba Rivka’s laughter, her grandfather’s gentle voice blessing the candles.
The North End had always been a world unto itself:
Ukrainian churches with onion domes catching the prairie sun
Jewish bakeries on Selkirk Avenue selling poppyseed rolls and rye bread
Old synagogues tucked between corner stores
Brick houses, stucco cottages, and woodframe homes built by immigrants who arrived with nothing but hope
It was a neighbourhood shaped by trauma and by the stubborn hope that refuses to die:
Jews fleeing pogroms
Ukrainians fleeing famine
Poles fleeing war
Indigenous families surviving despite everything
Her grandfather’s politics had grown out of this soil — out of fear, out of solidarity, out of the belief that collective action could save people from the horrors they had escaped.
But the tape suggested a darker truth.
III. Her Grandfather’s War (1939–1945)
Rachel dug through old family papers until she found his service records.
David Levinson Royal Winnipeg Rifles Enlisted: 1942 Served in England, Normandy, and the Netherlands Demobilized: February 1946
He had fought fascism directly, not just in rallies but on the battlefield. He returned home a decorated veteran, married Rivka in 1947, and began work as a skilled employee at CP Rail.
He had been everything a family man should be.
And yet he had remained a Communist — not the romantic kind who drifted away after 1956, but the loyal kind, the dogmatic kind, the kind who refused to believe that Khrushchev’s revelations at the 20th Party Congress were anything more than Western propaganda.
A Stalinist.
IV. The Letters Home (1942–1945)
Among the papers Rachel found were copies of letters David had sent home during the war — to his parents, his siblings, and to Rivka, his wifetobe.
They were eloquent, heartfelt, and full of longing.
To Rivka:
“The nights here are long, and the cold seems to seep into the bones. But when I think of you lighting the candles on Friday night, I feel warm again. I carry that light with me.”
To his parents before Normandy:
“I don’t know what tomorrow brings. But I know why I’m here. If we don’t stop them, they will burn the world. I want to come home to Matheson Avenue. I want to sit at your table again.”
To his younger brother:
“Study hard. Live well. Don’t let the world make you bitter.”
Rachel felt her throat tighten. These were not the words of a zealot. They were the words of a young man trying to hold onto hope in a world on fire.
V. Her Father’s Story (1950s → 1978)
Her father, Michael, listened quietly as she explained what she had found.
“I knew he was involved,” he said. “More than involved. Dedicated.”
He admitted he had briefly joined the Young Communist League in the 1970s, swept up in youthful idealism. He had even attended the World Youth Festival in Havana in 1978, a gathering steeped in revolutionary rhetoric.
“But I drifted away,” he said. “Your grandfather never did.”
“He wasn’t perfect,” Michael said, “but he was steady. He worked hard, showed up for people, and carried more than he ever complained about. Whatever his politics were, he was a good father.”
“And he had a quiet sense of humour,” Michael added. “He could make you laugh when you least expected it.”
Then he told her something else — something his father had shared only once.
“During the war,” Michael said, “the men in his unit used to say, ‘Thank God the Red Army is fighting on the Eastern Front, so we don’t have to die.’ He never forgot that.”
It wasn’t ideology. It was survival. The Eastern Front had been a furnace, and the Red Army had walked into it first. For David, that memory fused with politics, becoming part of the reason he believed the Soviet Union had carried the heaviest burden in defeating fascism.
She asked whether he thought David had known about the poet.
Michael hesitated.
“He wasn’t a cruel man. But he believed in the cause. Maybe too much.”
VI. Her Mother’s Silence (1970s → 2026)
Her mother, Elaine, folded laundry as Rachel asked what she knew.
“I wasn’t political,” Elaine said. “Your grandfather knew that. He never pushed it on me.”
She explained that she had gone along with his beliefs because they were simply part of the household — relics of his past, not demands for her future.
“He was stubborn,” she said. “But he wasn’t a bully.”
Rachel believed her. But the poet’s books had burned. And someone had stood nearby.
VII. The Professor (2026)
She met Dr. Samuel Rosenfeld, a historian of Winnipeg’s Jewish left, in his cluttered office at the University of Manitoba. Books were stacked in uneven towers, papers spilled across his desk, and a halffinished cup of coffee sat precariously close to a pile of archival photographs.
He recognized her grandfather’s name immediately.
“A committed man,” he said. “Fiercely loyal. Sometimes too loyal.”
He handed her a folder about a Ukrainian poet who had immigrated to Canada, published a slim volume of verse, and then — in a burst of misguided hope — returned to the Soviet Union in 1932.
He disappeared into the gulag.
His books were burned in the Labour Temple furnace by local Stalinists.
Mykhailo Horodetskyi (1905–1933?)
Dr. Rosenfeld recommended books: Let History Judge by Roy Medvedev; The Strangest Dream by Merrily Weisbord; The Harvest of Sorrow by Robert Conquest; Red Famine by Anne Applebaum; The Forsaken by Tim Tzouliadis; How People Live in Soviet Russia (1932 in Yiddish, English translation 2020) by Mendel Osherowich.
“That last one,” he said, “was written by a Jewish journalist from New York who visited Ukraine during the famine. It was ignored for decades. Your grandfather probably never read it.”
Rachel felt a quiet ache. Her grandfather had lived in a world where certain truths were simply not allowed to enter.
VIII. The Prague Spring (1968)
As Rachel continued reading, she found references to another moment her grandfather had never spoken about: the Prague Spring of 1968.
Czechoslovakia had tried to build “socialism with a human face,” loosening censorship, expanding freedoms, allowing people to breathe again. And the Soviet Union crushed it under tank treads.
Her grandfather had been in his mid50s — old enough to understand, young enough to choose.
Had he defended the invasion? Had he doubted for the first time? Had he stayed silent?
The Prague Spring was a fracture point for many Western Communists.
But not for him.
His loyalty endured.
IX. Her Friend from Ukraine (2026)
Her friend Oksana Melnyk, a refugee who had fled Russia’s genocidal war against Ukraine, listened carefully as Rachel told her everything.
“My grandparents fled Ukraine during the Holodomor,” Oksana said. “My grandfather saw the Bolsheviks murder his parents in their village.”
Rachel felt her breath catch.
“They walked for days,” Oksana continued. “They buried their dead in frozen ground. They survived because they refused to die.”
She told Rachel about the missile strikes, the mass graves, the deported children — the new war of erasure.
“Russia is trying again,” she said.
Rachel realized her investigation was no longer just about her grandfather. It was about two histories colliding — but not equivalent histories.
David had fought fascists abroad, returned home, married, worked, raised children, tended a garden, blessed candles, and lived a long life in a free and democratic country.
Oksana’s grandfather had survived a stateengineered famine and witnessed murder.
The moral terrain was uneven, and she needed to tread carefully.
X. The Poet’s Poem (1932 → 2026)
Oksana translated one of Mykhailo Horodetskyi’s surviving poems — smuggled out of Ukraine before he disappeared.
“Harvest Without End” Translated by Oksana Melnyk
We cut the grain with blistered hands, but the fields do not forgive. Each stalk remembers those who fell, each seed refuses to live.
The earth is full of quiet bones, the sky of unsaid names. We gather what the land still gives, and carry sorrow like a flame.
Yet even in the darkest dust, we plant because we must. For harvest comes to those who wait, and hope grows from the rust.
Rachel imagined the book burning in the furnace, the pages curling, the words disappearing into smoke.
She imagined her grandfather standing nearby.
XI. Two Funerals (1998 & 2011)
She remembered her grandfather’s funeral in 2000 — the cold wind, the Hebrew prayers, the earth falling onto the coffin.
She remembered her Baba Rivka’s funeral in 2011 — the thawing spring air, the gentle mourning.
Two graves. Two lives. Two histories.
And now a third history — Oksana’s — had entered her own.
XII. The Decision (2026)
Rachel sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and began to write.
Not to condemn. Not to absolve. But to understand.
Her grandfather had fought fascists. Oksana’s grandparents had fled Communists. Both had suffered. Both had survived. Both had believed they were fighting for a future.
She would tell all of it.
The heroism. The blindness. The love. The silence. The contradictions. The pain carried across continents and generations.
She owed that to her grandfather. She owed that to Oksana. She owed that to the truth.
PART II — THE SHADOWS
XIII. The Embassy Rug (Late 1950s → Early 1960s)
There was another story — whispered, half forgotten — that Rachel could not ignore.
In the late 1950s or early 1960s, senior leaders of the Communist Party of Canada were invited to the Soviet Embassy in Ottawa. They were presented with a customwoven rug, a gesture of fraternal solidarity.
Pinned inside the rug, hidden beneath the fabric, were several thousand dollars in mixed denominations.
No receipts. No explanations. Just quiet loyalty.
It wasn’t a purge. It wasn’t a gulag. But it was a reminder: ideology had its networks, its incentives, its subtle pressures.
Her grandfather had lived in that world. He had trusted it. He had defended it.
And yet he had also blessed Shabbat candles, tended a garden, and carried her on his shoulders when she was small.
Contradictions. Everywhere.
XIV. The MP Who Spied (1940s → 1950s)
Rachel found another thread woven through her grandfather’s world: Fred Rose, Canada’s only Communist Member of Parliament.
Rose had been elected in 1943 on a wave of wartime goodwill — a Jewish labour activist who spoke passionately about workers’ rights and antifascism. But after the war, the truth emerged: Rose had been an agent of Soviet intelligence, passing information to the NKVD.
He was arrested in 1946, convicted, and eventually deported.
Her grandfather had never mentioned him.
Rachel realized that the Party David belonged to was not just a political movement. It was part of a global network — one that demanded loyalty, silence, and sometimes complicity.
The rug in Ottawa had not been an anomaly. It had been a symbol.
XV. The Jewish People’s Cultural League (1930s → 2026)
A week later, Rachel visited a modest community centre in the North End — home to the Jewish People’s Cultural League, a secular leftwing Jewish organization that had once been a hub of Yiddish culture, labour activism, and socialist politics.
The room smelled of old books and percolated coffee. Posters of Yiddish poets lined the walls. A faded banner read:
JUSTICE • PEACE • CULTURE
An elderly volunteer explained that the League had run choirs, libraries, lectures, and children’s programs. They had fought fascism. They had defended civil rights. They had also — sometimes reluctantly, sometimes fervently — defended the Soviet Union long after its crimes were known.
Rachel listened, thinking of the poet’s burned book.
The volunteer showed her a photograph from the 1940s: a crowd gathered for a League event, her grandfather somewhere among them, young and earnest.
“These were good people,” the volunteer said softly. “But they were caught in something bigger than themselves.”
Rachel felt the truth of it. Ideology had shaped communities as much as individuals. And her grandfather had lived at the centre of that world.
XVI. The Councillor’s Shadow (1940s → 1986)
Later that night, Rachel reread the article about Joe Zuken. She realized he was the perfect embodiment of the contradiction she was trying to understand.
A Communist and lawyer by training, he had fought for the poor first as a member of the Winnipeg School Board, and later as a longtime City Councillor. He even ran for mayor one year — a campaign that drew support from a wide range of leftists and other progressives, generating headlines across Canada and even in The New York Times.
He was an impassioned orator — sharp, articulate, and unafraid to confront injustice headon. A Marxist who defended civil liberties. A man who believed in the Soviet project but also challenged inequity at home.
Her grandfather had admired him. She found a note in one of David’s old journals:
“Zuken speaks truth even when it costs him.”
Rachel wondered whether her grandfather had seen in Zuken the version of Communism — really democratic socialism, much like that practiced by the governing New Democratic Party — that he wished were real: humane, principled, uncorrupted.
But history had not been kind to such hopes.
XVII. Sontag’s Reckoning (1982 → 2026)
Rachel reread Susan Sontag’s famous 1982 speech at Town Hall in Manhattan — the night she stunned a room full of American leftists by declaring:
“Communism is fascism with a human face.”
The audience had gasped. Some walked out. Others shouted. But Sontag didn’t retreat. She insisted that moral clarity required naming the crimes of Stalinism without euphemism, without nostalgia, without excuses.
Rachel wondered how her grandfather had reacted when he heard about it. Had he dismissed Sontag as a traitor to the cause? Had he ignored it? Had he felt a flicker of doubt?
She would never know.
But she understood something now: the moral rupture Sontag described was not abstract. It lived inside families like hers — in the gap between David’s idealism and the realities he refused to see.
XVIII. The Conversation (2026)
She met Oksana at a café on Corydon Avenue. They sat by the window, watching people pass by.
Rachel told her everything — the tape, the poet, the furnace, the rug, the League, Zuken, and Sontag’s Manhattan reckoning.
Oksana listened quietly.
“My grandfather saw the Bolsheviks murder his parents,” she said. “He never forgave. He never forgot.”
Rachel nodded.
“My grandfather fought fascists. He believed he was saving the world.”
They sat in silence, two women carrying two histories — different in scale, different in suffering, but both shaped by the same century’s storms.
Finally, Oksana said:
“Maybe your grandfather wasn’t wrong about the fight. Maybe he was wrong about the system.”
Rachel felt tears rise.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
They sat for a long moment, the café noise fading into a soft blur around them. Outside, a couple walked a dog. A bus hissed at the curb. Life went on — ordinary, unthreatened, free.
Rachel thought of her grandfather’s life: the house on Matheson Avenue, the garden he tended, the letters he wrote home from Europe, the steady job at CP Rail, the Shabbat candles he blessed with a gentle hand. He had lived in a country where he could argue, vote, complain, hope. His convictions had shaped him, but they had not destroyed him.
Oksana’s grandfather had lived in a world where hope itself was dangerous.
Rachel finally said, “He lived a good life, Oksana. A safe life. He came home from the war, married my grandmother, raised children, worked hard, grew tomatoes, read the Free Press, and believed he was part of something noble. He didn’t suffer the way your grandfather did. Not even close.”
Oksana nodded, her eyes softening. “I know. And that’s why this matters. Your grandfather had the luxury of believing. Mine had the burden of surviving.”
Rachel exhaled, feeling something settle inside her — not peace, but clarity.
“I’m not writing this to judge him,” she said. “I’m writing it because I finally understand the scale of the world he lived in… and the world your grandfather survived.”
Oksana reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“That’s all any of us can do,” she said. “Tell the truth. Even when it’s complicated.”
Rachel looked out the window again. The lateafternoon light had shifted, turning the street a muted gold. Two histories — one sheltered, one scarred — had met in that small café on Corydon Avenue.
And for the first time, she felt she could carry both.
H.C. Piloski is a Winnipeg writer who works quietly at the edges of memory and history. His fiction often begins in archives and ends in the private places families rarely speak about.
Features
Do we treat our Arabs better or worse than the Tsars treated us?
By MARTY GREEN I know many Jews will be outraged at the very notion of comparing the two. “The pogroms!”, I hear you cry. “The Naqba!”, the Arabs might just as well respond. We all have our own simplified narratives regarding the rights and wrongs of the past; but just as the true story of Arab life in Israel is much more complicated than the Naqba, so the story of Jewish life is Russia was, for better and for worse, much more nuanced than the mere fact of the pogroms.
There are some obvious parallels between our respective stories. We came to be the authority over several million Arabs as an unwelcome by-product of our great victory in 1967. Similarly, Russia inherited some half million Jewish subjects over the course of the three partitions of Poland (1772-1795). We were hardly more welcome to the Tsars than the Arabs were to us. We sometimes mock the “genocide” allegations by pointing out how 1.2 million Palestinian Arabs in 1945 now claim to number over 14 million. But we were no pikers by comparison: in the course of the 19th century, our numbers in Russia grew anywhere from ten- to twenty-fold.
We remember how the Russian government quickly instituted the Pale of Settlement, restricting our mobility. Can the Arabs under Israeli rule not complain of similar or worse restrictions? It is true that we have obvious security concerns regarding the mobility of a hostile population. The checkpoint system has almost certainly saved lives. But by the same token, can we be sure that the Russians had no valid reason to worry about the loyalty of their Jewish subjects?
There can be little doubt that in the First World War, many Jews hoped that the German invaders would liberate them from their Russian oppressors. And even before the German invasion, as a large minority group speaking their own language and having close connections with their co-religionists in foreign not-always-friendly countries, surely the Russians had as good reason to be concerned with our loyalty as we have with regard to our Arabs?
(Incidentally, it is said that the Jews of 1812 might have whole-heartedly thrown in their lot with the invading Grand Armee, if not for the unlucky resemblance of the French Emperor’s name with the Yiddish word mapole (meaning “defeat”). But that is a tale for an alternate version of history.)
Finally, we remember well how Jews in Russia were not allowed to own land; the truth is, we mis-remember that “fact” because we did indeed own land, and when challenged our title was upheld in the Russian courts. Similarly, in the Occupied Territories the validity of Arab land titles under Ottoman Law are rigorously protected by the Israeli courts. Nevertheless, some residents of the Jordan Valley may argue that it is less than “rigorously” enforced on the actual ground.
Which brings us to the subject at hand. Because back in Old Russia, in der alter heim, disputes between us and our Gentile neighbors over land ownership and usage were an ongoing feature of life for centuries. For a somewhat poetic description of the nature of these conflicts, I turn to the words of memoirist Falek Zolf (1898-1962), who recalls this about his youth in the shtetl of Zastavia, a village of several hundred on the outskirts of Kamenetz-Litovsk. To preserve a bit of the flavor of the original, I have transcribed Zolf’s narrative here in a mix of English and Yiddish.
“The village led a poor, quiet life. We lived from what God gave us; this one from a manual trade, this one from farming, another from buying and selling, and so forth. A few dozen families pulled in a meager livelihood from working in Asher Guterman’s brewery, which was known throughout the region for its beer. Outside of that, almost everyone had his own garden and his own cow – most likely one which he had raised himself from a calf. You could always rent a small patch from one of the landowners who lived in the Gentile quarter; the vegetables and produce could be sold in the neighboring towns and villages: in Brisk, Kobrin, Orleh, Bialovezh, etc.
“Quiet and peaceful was the flow of life in the stäedtele. It was truly mit’n schwéiss vun sein ponim (by the sweat of his brow) that each one earned his own piece of bread, along with the vegetables which the good Mother Earth provided to everyone in full measure.”
Of course we all know that Jewish life in Russia was not quite so idyllic as Zolf makes it out to be in the preceding passage. Let us see what comes next:
“The stäedtele of Zastavia was at one time, according to the stories of the old men, entirely a Jewish peasant-village. The whole surrounding area with its fields, gardens, and hills had once belonged to Jews, who were originally men of the soil. But little by little, for a number of reasons, the Yiddische erd had passed over into Gentile hands. If a Jewish peasant needed to make a shidukh for his daughter, he might be driven to sell a strip of farmland to a Gentile; and with the money, he could put on a proper khasseneh with all the sheva brokhos. If his son didn’t want to go serve the Russian Tsar and had to run off azh ken Amerikeh, the Jew would once again cut off a piece of land and sell it to a neighboring Goy (to pay the 300-rouble penalty). If his grown children went off to seek happiness somewhere in the far-away, and the elderly parents simply didn’t have the koyakhto go out and push the plow, then the last stückel feld would be sold to the local meshtchan, and with the money they could enjoy the few years remaining to them. And so with time, the Yiddische erdfell largely into Goyische händt.
“In the end, all that remained to us was a large vihon, a communal grazing-field, which according to legend had once belonged to a rich Jewish landowner, who had donated it to the stäedtel. In the end, the Yiddische beheymos had actually been forced to share this pasture with Goyische khazerim. It was painful for us to have to watch those khazerim turning our Jewish vihon into a pigsty, but there was little choice; one was, after all, living in golus.”
Perhaps we should pause here to consider that while the Jews seem to have sold much of their land to the Russians due to economic pressure, there are nowadays, for obvious reasons, only the rarest cases of Arabs selling their lands to Jews. Furthermore, I am not aware of any situations where the Bedouins of the Jordan Valley willingly share their grazing land with the Jews of the hilltop outposts. Whether these differences are to our credit or theirs is not for me to say here.
In any case, we will see further that it was not only economic or social pressures which came into play:
“Unfortunately, the more the Goyischer Gass (the Gentile Quarter) grew at the expense of the Yiddischer Gass, the more brash and the more khutzpah-digker they became. They started to look for any pretext or opportunity to snatch away this last remaining piece of Jewish grazing land, so that not a single Yiddische beheymah should have a place to roam. They would sometimes show up armed with sticks, hoes, and pitchforks, ready to start a milkhomah….”
Sound familiar?
“….but on such occasions, the ZastavierYidden, who were in those days no pushovers, would quickly arm themselves with the implements of ha-yadayim y’dei Eysav and go forth to meet the Gentile foe. Blood would flow from both sides. For the Jews, it was a matter of kidush ha-shem, a case of milkheymes mitzvah, to uphold their Yiddischen koved and also to save and protect the Yiddische beheymah-lach from Goyische händt…”
And of course, in such situations, the Russians would call in local gendarmeria or even the dreaded Cossacks, and the Jews would be quickly dispersed, arrested, or even beaten.
Or were they….?
Perhaps not. Let us see how Zolf describes it:
“Fortunately, these little milkhomos would not last for long. The storm would quickly die down, and the stäedtel would soon go back to its normal, peaceful life, as though nothing had happened.”
And with those words does Zolf conclude his fond reminiscences of his childhood years. But of course that is not the end of the story.
We all know the devastation brought by the Second World War. But in the wake of the Holocaust, we are liable to forget the enormous impact of the First World War on the Jewish world. The collapse of empires was followed by the emergence of new, ideologically-driven regimes which. It is hard to say whether Communist Russia or nationalist Poland was more hostile to the Jews. In any case, Zolf’s village found itself on the Polish side of the border. And the Jewish way of life quickly became economically untenable.
Among the first the measures adopted under the Polish national slogan of “swój do swego“…that the Gentile should only patronize “his own people”….was the establishment of Christian cooperatives, so that the Polish peasants would not see their hard-earned money fall into the hands of Jewish intermediaries. Then there was the nationalization of entire industries like wine, alcohol and tobacco…again, with the purpose not so much of the betterment of the working class as the impoverishment of the Jewish merchant class. Then the strict enforcement of the Sunday laws, so that the observant Jewish shop-keeper would have to close down for two days of the week. Finally, the imposition of a host of new taxes, of which Zolf reels off the names: gruntovi, dokhodovi, handelyovi, obratov… (ed. Note: would be nice to get the correct Polish spellins of these)
The bailiff’s wagon, which quickly made it’s appearance in one Jewish community after another to haul away confiscated goods in lieu of unpaid taxes, was given the nickname “Grabsky’s Aguleh (hearse)”, after the infamous finance minister Grabsky, a notorious anti-semite. And in Warsaw, it was said to have been followed all to often by another kind of aguleh, this one from the khesed shel emes, to collect the bodies of bankrupt Jewish merchants who had thrown themselves from a fifth-story window.
The precarious condition of the Jewish staedtel could hardly go un-noticed by the local peasantry, and before long they had renewed their ambition to take over the last remaining grazing-field, the communal vihon, and make it once and for all Juden-rein. In Old Russia, the Jews had been ready to defend themselves with clubs and pitchforks; and interestingly enough, Zolf records that they had even sought and obtained recourse from the Russian courts:
“Back then the städtel had engaged the services of berühmte advokaten (famous lawyers) who fought the case azh in der gubernieh un in Petersburg. The protzess dragged on for years, until the Jews were able to secure once and for all séier recht zu mägen paschen séiere beheymos auf’n kehill’schen vihon, inéinem mit die Goyische khazerim.
Yes, there was now and then justice available to the Jews from the Russian courts. We sometimes forget that Mendel Beyliss was aquitted by an all-Christian jury. In this regard, it is noteworthy that the Arab villagers in the Jordan Valley have also been able to obtain favorable judgments from the Israeli courts on occasion.
But in post-war Poland, things were not the same. The villagers knew that in the course of the war and the fires that had destroyed Zolf’s shtetl, the Jews had lost the papers which gave them the right to to an equal share of the communal lands. In addition, the shtetl had been seriously weakened by the war, the Spanish Flu, and emigration to America. The end was in sight to one and all.
And so one bright summer morning, the Catholic and Orthodox peasants (who otherwise had little affection for one another) herded their flocks into the communal vihon. Zolf describes what happened next. One doesn’t need to understand word for word to get the general picture. Sadly, the same story seems to be repeating itself today in the Jordan Valley: only the roles have been changed:
“Their field-hands let loose the dogs auf die Yiddische beheymos, and drove them weit in a sumpign winkel. The Jewish cattle had to spend the rest of that day versunken in der tiefer blotte, searching in vain for a green stalk mit wâs zu stillen séier hunger, un nischt gekönnt gefinnen. Late that afternoon, they were led home, tired, hungry, and covered with mud. Locked away in their barns, they gnawed at the walls. Séiere hungerige geschreien hâben sich weit getrâgen über’n stäedtel.
“And in the pitiful cries of their hungry animals, hâben die Yidden gehört a min trauerign shoyphar-blâsen, which announced the end, not only for their teuere, liebe beheymellach, from whom they had derived at least a stückel khayunah…but also the end vun séier alt-eingesessene Yiddischen stäedtel.”
Falik Zolf left Poland in 1926 and became a Yiddish teacher in Winnipeg’s I.L. Peretz Folks-Schule. He published his memoir in 1948 under the title “Auf Fremder Erd” (On Foreign Soil).
Features
Embracing your femininity in Cheshvan
By ELENA KNIGHT Rosh Chodesh Sameach! Though last month’s article (Embracing your femininity in Tishrei) had far more holidays, thus more material, the month of Cheshvan is not as empty as it appears. It may contain no holidays or mitzvot specific to the month, but I take issue with the idea that Cheshvan is “bitter”.
Some people refer to this month as MarCheshvan, Mar meaning bitter, but Mar can also refer to a drop of water; this month is the beginning of Israel’s rainy season! We began praying for rain with Shemini Atzeret last month, so by this time, G-d has usually heard Am Yisrael and started sending rain to the Holy Land. To connect this to womanhood, let’s revisit last month’s article, where I explained the connection of water to femininity.
In Tishrei, I spoke of the divine feminine, and how rain is associated with the womb of creation, fertility, and gentle, life-renewing power. In Cheshvan, however, I’d like to focus more on feminist reclamation of water metaphors; in Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad , for example, when trying to protect herself from unwanted suitors, Penelope recalls her mother’s advice: “Behave like water… Don’t try to oppose them. When they try to grasp you, slip through their fingers. Flow around them.” We can take this literary advice and put it into practice in our lives this month. When in a position where we feel powerless, and in spaces where female assertion is unwelcome, we could do well to be like water. Nobody can hold water in the palms of their hands without losing control of it. Water is not easy to contain. Nor are we women.
Taking Mar of MarCheshvan to mean a drop of water, rather than bitterness, can be interpreted now as a call to action. This month can be the time when we refuse to be controlled, much like the prophetess Miriam. In Torah, Miriam’s connection with water is clear; in Exodus 15, she takes the Israelite women out from the community to sing a song of deliverance through the Red Sea. She is with her brother, our teacher, Moses, when he is sent down the Nile in a reed basket, and she is the one who ensures he is cared for at the Pharaoh’s palace in Exodus 4. In many Pesach seders, a cup of water is set out for Miriam, like the wine for Elijah, because she ensured that the Israelites had water while travelling through the wilderness during the Exodus journey.
Miriam is, clearly, a passionate leader, creating a specific space for Israelite women when they are so often overlooked in Torah stories. By establishing her place as a role model for the Israelites leading up to their freedom from Egypt, the Torah makes it clear that G-d accepts female leadership. This month, let us take a page from Miriam’s book, and lead when we are called to do so. Like I suggested in my last article, mentoring a young girl in your community may be the perfect way to lead.
Cheshvan is also said to be reserved for the time of Moshiach. To prepare for the Moshiach’s arrival, we can act in ways that will bring about Israel’s reformation, both in the land itself and in the diaspora. By supporting charities both in our home communities and in Israel, by acting with chesed, loving-kindness, even when we don’t really feel like it, and by studying–whether that be studying Torah, feminist theory, or any other subject that will improve the world–with fervent passion. By working on tikkun olam, repairing the world, as we have it now, we can bring about a better world for future generations. What better way to remove the bitter reputation of Cheshvan?
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CFTC Crypto Regulation Plans Put XRP and Solana in Focus as CLARITY Act Stalls
US crypto regulation is back in focus after the Commodity Futures Trading Commission opened a public consultation on October 5 on a potential framework for certain retail crypto transactions. With the CLARITY Act stalled in the Senate, the initiative raises questions about what the agency can achieve under existing law and why its plans matter for XRP and Solana.
For XRP and Solana, the development is particularly notable because US regulators have already identified both assets as examples of digital commodities. The emerging question is therefore not simply what happens to the CLARITY Act, but how far the CFTC can reshape the regulatory environment while the legislation remains stalled.
XRP and Solana price movements in focus
The XRP price and Solana price provide useful context for assessing market movements; comparing both assets over the same period helps distinguish their individual performance from broader changes across crypto markets.
XRP price movements and Solana price movements need to be assessed over a clearly defined period. An intraday range describes the distance between the session’s highest and lowest recorded prices; it does not establish which direction an asset will move next. A daily percentage change provides a different measure, comparing the latest price with a reference point.
Crypto market volatility can reflect changes in liquidity, interest rate expectations, network developments and broader risk appetite. The CFTC consultation adds regulatory context, but the announcement alone does not establish the cause of a particular price movement.
Why crypto regulation is shifting towards the CFTC
The Senate did not reach the 60-vote threshold required to advance the CLARITY Act in September. The result prevented the broader market-structure bill from moving ahead at that stage, but it did not end the push for clearer federal crypto rules.
The CFTC has now begun exploring another route. In its notice covering Regulation Crypto Asset Transactions and Regulation Crypto Asset Markets, the agency is seeking public input on a framework for certain retail crypto transactions and the platforms offering them.
The distinction matters. The CLARITY Act would have established a statutory framework passed by Congress. The CFTC initiative instead relies on powers the agency says it already has under the Commodity Exchange Act.
That means agency action can proceed while the legislation remains unresolved, although it cannot replicate every part of the congressional proposal.
What the proposed CFTC crypto rules could cover
The process centres on two concepts known as Regulation CTX and Regulation CAM. Regulation CTX concerns retail commodity transactions involving crypto assets, including transactions financed through margin, leverage or other forms of credit.
Regulation CAM would examine a specialised category of CFTC-registered market designed for those transactions. The aim is to create a federal regulatory option with requirements more closely tailored to crypto markets.
The framework could address areas such as market manipulation, customer assets, conflicts of interest and market conduct. The agency is also considering what information platforms should provide and how existing market safeguards can be adapted to crypto.
There is an important limit. The CFTC cannot require all spot crypto exchanges to enter that federal regime without action from Congress. Its chairman has described the proposal as an option for firms rather than a nationwide mandate.
That difference helps explain why the CLARITY Act still matters even as regulators move independently.
Why XRP and Solana matter in the regulatory debate
The CFTC consultation brings renewed attention to how the existing federal crypto asset taxonomy relates to XRP and Solana.
In his October 5 remarks, CFTC Chairman Michael Selig pointed to the joint federal crypto asset taxonomy, which identifies Bitcoin, Ether, Solana, Stellar, Tezos and XRP among examples of digital commodities.
For XRP and Solana, that classification helps explain why a CFTC-led framework deserves attention. Both assets operate on widely used blockchain networks and have a presence across global crypto markets, so changes affecting how US platforms can offer crypto products could influence market access, liquidity and institutional participation.
It does not mean the new rules would determine their prices. Interest rates, network activity, broader risk appetite and asset-specific developments remain important. Regulation is one part of the market environment, not a standalone price signal.
How crypto wagers relate to market movements
Crypto wagers based on market movements involve a bet on a specified outcome over a defined period. The relevant details include the asset, the condition that must be met, the closing time and the price source used to determine the result. Those terms matter because an asset can move in different directions within the same day.
Short-term price direction is also the basis for crypto wagers on Moon, a crypto betting platform where outcomes are tied to market movements.
For crypto betting, the significance of volatility depends on the wager’s conditions, including whether settlement uses a closing price or an event occurring during the specified period. A rise earlier in the day does not establish the outcome of a later wager, and a regulatory announcement does not guarantee a winning bet. An unsuccessful wager can result in the loss of the amount staked.
The connection between crypto wagers and market news therefore depends on the specific outcome and timeframe. News about XRP or Solana can provide context, while the terms of each wager determine how its result is settled.
How agency action differs from the CLARITY Act
The distinction between legislation and regulation is central to what happens next.
Congress can create new statutory powers and requirements that regulators cannot establish on their own. The CLARITY Act sought to define a broader market structure, including the responsibilities of federal agencies and obligations for intermediaries operating in digital asset markets.
The CFTC is working within authority it says already exists. That allows it to address some transaction structures and market protections but leaves wider questions for lawmakers.
The agency itself has acknowledged that regulatory action cannot indefinitely replace legislation. For markets, that creates a two-track process: regulators can develop rules under current law while Congress decides whether to revisit a broader statutory framework.
That makes the latest CFTC action more than a reaction to the failed Senate vote. It is also an indication of how US crypto policy could develop if Congress remains unable to reach agreement.
What US crypto regulation could mean for Canadian markets
The proposed CFTC framework would apply in the United States, not Canada. Its potential relevance for Canadian markets comes through cross-border capital flows, global liquidity and the role US platforms and institutions play in price discovery.
Canada also has established investment products linked directly to both assets. The Toronto Stock Exchange listed several Solana ETFs in April 2025, including the 3iQ Solana Staking ETF, giving Canadian investors regulated market exposure to SOL.
XRP followed with Canadian-listed products in June 2025, including the 3iQ XRP ETF.
That means regulatory developments affecting XRP and Solana in the United States can have relevance even when Canadian rules themselves do not change. Shifts in institutional participation, exchange access or global liquidity can still be reflected in assets and funds available in Canada.
Currency remains another consideration. Crypto assets are commonly quoted globally in US dollars, while Canadian investors may measure performance in Canadian dollars. Exchange-rate movements can therefore strengthen or reduce the local effect of a move in the underlying asset.
What comes next for the CFTC consultation and CLARITY Act
The CFTC consultation is now underway. The agency is seeking written comments on the Regulation CTX and Regulation CAM framework before deciding how subsequent rulemaking should proceed.
Congress could also return to the CLARITY Act or another version of market-structure legislation. The Senate result stopped the bill from advancing at that point, rather than resolving the broader regulatory debate.
For XRP and Solana, the most important signal is therefore no longer a single Senate vote. Attention has moved to whether the CFTC can turn its proposals into workable federal rules, how crypto platforms respond and whether lawmakers eventually establish a broader framework.
