A Sephardi Life in Southeastern Europe. Aron Rodrigue

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      2/ Primary School (1874–1877)

      At the beginning of 1874, within this narrowly circumscribed environment in which I was passing my childhood, a capital event occurred that was to have a decisive influence on my entire future: the opening of the Alliance school. On the initiative of my uncles, who directed community affairs, the Central Committee sent to Samakov one of its professors, M. Nissim Béhar,¹ who had recently married Mile Melanie Rosenstrauss, herself a teacher.

      Like all children my age, I was enrolled as a student and began to learn the French language. Since I was used to the study of Hebrew subjects, which were far more dry and arid, French was for me a game, a relaxation. I dedicated myself enthusiastically to my studies and from the first day became the top student. Until the end of my studies, I do not remember ever being second, in Samakov, Balat,² or Paris. The severe discipline to which my father had accustomed me was of great usefulness now. Self-control and constant work came naturally to me. I was never punished or scolded by my teachers for being lazy or negligent. I studied with passion. Mme Nissim encouraged me as much as she could; she became as attached to me as a mother and I adored her with all my heart. I was less fond of her husband, whom, in fact, I rarely saw.

      Unfortunately, M. Nissim’s stay in Samakov did not last long; in July 1875, he was sent to Balat-Constantinople. With two comrades, I accompanied Mme Nissim, her mother-in-law, and her two children, Henriette and Isaac (who died soon afterward), to the Vada, four kilometers from the city. Upon leaving her, my eyes filled with tears: “Don’t cry,” she said; “Only mountains never see each other again.” Alas! Men too do not always see each other again. These words were the last I was to hear from her mouth. Less than two years later, she was to die in Constantinople. When I returned home, I was sad and dejected all day. I went to my room, covered my face with a book, and cried profusely.

      She often wrote me from Constantinople, begging me to join her, promising me I would be like a son in her home, that she would teach me, that she would send me to Paris, all at her own expense. My father refused to send me. I have never known why.

      M. Emmanuel Daffa, a young teacher fresh from college, succeeded M. Béhar. He was more concerned with his own pleasures than with his school. During the year he spent at Samakov, studies were greatly relaxed. Several months after his arrival, he took a trip to Volos,³ his native town, and in his absence I directed the school.

      If schoolwork left something to be desired, my leisure time was well spent. I borrowed many books from the library. My first readings were Robinson Crusoe, which I recounted to my mother chapter by chapter, something she enjoyed very much; Paul et Virginie, which left a profound impression on me and gave me a glimpse of what feelings of love could be; Plutarch’s Lives of Illustrious Greeks; science books such as Cartambert’s geography and Ganot’s physics, whose meaning I struggled to grasp. As for children’s literature, which is today the joy of our children, I didn’t even know it existed.

      The rest of my leisure time was occupied copying maps. I copied all the maps on the walls of the school and decorated our house with the result. In the series of moves the family made, these maps must have been lost in Samakov.

      It was in that year, 1876, that I made my first communion.⁴ On that occasion, I was taught a speech in Hebrew, which I recited at the temple. I have kept this speech among my papers. At the family meal that took place on that occasion, no one dared show any noisy rejoicing, since the revolution in Herzegovina was at its height, and our Turkish neighbors would not have looked kindly on anyone singing in a Jewish house.

      M. Daffa was replaced at the end of 1876 by M. Isaac Schulmann, who also came from Volos. But by that time, the level of studies had dropped so much that I no longer had any comrades as strong as I was, so to speak. Thus I dispensed with doing most of the homework that was given. In spite of that, the year I spent with M. Schulmann was for me one of the most profitable; it was this professor who initiated me into the beauties of French literature. He acquainted me with almost all the classics from various collections, the most important of which was Merlet. I learned a great number of pieces by heart. Everything there is to know about the great writers of the seventeenth century I already knew in Samakov. My later studies of literature in Paris were only reviews for me. But what formed my style and gave it the few qualities it may have today was an attentive reading of Fénelon’s Télémaque. The study of this book taught me to feel the harmony of language. Today it is fashionable to denigrate this author. That is a mistake in my view.

      And the war continued; the Russians, having crossed the Danube, were approaching. My maternal uncles, who no doubt had their reasons, decided to emigrate to Turkey. One part of the Arié family went to Lecce, Italy, the other to Constantinople. At the insistence of my mother, who feared the Russian invasion would be the end of the world, my uncles agreed to take me with them to Constantinople. Having said good-bye to my parents, I joined the caravan. We took the railroad to Sarembey in November 1877, and two days later we were in Constantinople.

      1. Nissim Behar (1848–1931) was an instructor at Alliance schools and a renowned pedagogue who pursued a long career in Jerusalem and the United States. He was considered one of the architects of the modern teaching of Hebrew.

      2. Balat, a quarter on the Golden Horn (Istanbul) with a large Jewish population.

      3. Volos, a port city of Greece (Thessaly).

      4. That is, his Bar Mitzvah.