Autobiography Of A Criminal

Born into a religious Jewish family in Poland, Urke Nachalnik writes about his life of crime as one of Poland's most fascinating underworld figures. His biographical narrative garnered instant success, hitting bestseller lists and even being serialized in Jewish newspapers in New York.

Set against the backdrop of World War I, he brutally recounts his evolution from a struggling youth to a master thief, revealing the moral dilemmas, fleeting loyalties, and raw humanity of his experiences. 

Before I begin to recount the story of my life—a life filled with sorrow—I find it necessary to briefly explain the circumstances that led me astray. However, I ask for the reader's understanding as I begin this tale from the very moment of my birth.

In my mind, I can still see, as if through a fog, a small town stretched along the banks of the Narew River. At the heart of this town, near the market square, stands a two-story brick house. This house, unlike the others, has a distinct appearance. At its entrance, a porch with two benches welcomes visitors to a shop. Above the shop hangs a sign that reads: “Flour Trade,” bearing the name of a woman, N. N.

The owner, a tall man in his thirties, has a healthy appearance and gentle, disarming eyes that suggest great strength. His wife, an intelligent-looking blonde in her mid-twenties, complements him well. Together, they belong to the Jewish intelligentsia of their small town.

On a beautiful June day in 1897, the shop is closed to celebrate the birth of their first son. The house is filled with indescribable joy as relatives and friends come to offer their congratulations. In the bedroom, the mother lies in bed, dressed in white, her triumphant maternal smile brightening her slightly pale face. I am swaddled at her right side, while my father stands in the middle of the room, receiving well-wishes. He looks serious and pensive, but his eyes shine with happiness.

People come and go, their faces displaying either genuine or well-feigned pleasure. A growing crowd gathers outside, discussing the momentous occasion. Snippets of conversation drift in the air:

"God has shown mercy and answered their prayers by giving them a son."

"The wealthy always have good fortune."

A devout Jewish woman raises her hands, exclaiming, "A true miracle after five years of marriage. Nothing is impossible for the Almighty."

Another pale woman with raven hair timidly inquires if it's true that the mother visited the miracle-working rabbi in Libava and returned a month ago. An overweight woman pulls her aside, whispering conspiratorially about the rabbi's powers.

On the eighth day of my life, preparations are underway for the ritual to induct me into the ranks of the followers of Israel. The room gleams with cleanliness, and candles burn brightly in brass and silver candlesticks. Laughter fills the air from the women gathered in the mother's room. Meanwhile, men sit around tables arranged in a semicircle, with my father and relatives acting as hosts, seating each guest according to their status in the town's hierarchy.

The rabbi, with a long gray beard, recites prayers as everyone listens intently. Suddenly, the doors swing wide open, and a man with an imposing, Abraham-like presence carries me in on a pillow. As if sensing what awaits me, I scream at the top of my lungs. The pillow passes from hand to hand, and a red-haired man leans over me with his ritual knife, preparing for the operation.

My childish cries fade, and silence falls over the room. The old rabbi prays silently, then breaks the quiet with a joyous cry of "Mazel tov!" All present shake my father's hand and offer blessings:

"May God grant him health as he grows."

"May God let you see him wed."

"May God make him grow to be a tzaddik (spiritual leader)."

"May God let us live to see the days of the Messiah."

My father accepts these wishes with a beaming face. My mother calls for me, and I am returned to her side. After the rituals conclude, an array of foods and drinks is brought out, and the feast begins, filled with toasts in my honor, bawdy jokes, and lively discussions of local affairs that last late into the night.

Five years passed since the day I was counted among the followers of Moses. These years were not only the happiest of my childhood but also of my entire life, as they shaped my early education.

I remember it vividly. On my fifth birthday, I overheard my parents whispering about something during dinner. From the few words I caught, I realized they were discussing me, though I didn't know the details. Later, I learned it was an argument about my future.

My father wanted to develop my intellect rather than fill my head with tales of miracles, devils, and magic. He wished for me to attend the public school in town. However, my mother, the daughter of Hasidim, firmly believed that God had blessed her with a son through the tzaddik's intercession not to raise me as a gentile, but as a servant of God. She insisted that I begin my education in a traditional chede. Unable to reach an agreement, my parents decided to ask me what I preferred: school or cheder. Both tried to win me over with gifts and treats. On the day I was to decide my fate, my mother gave me a pretty toy horse, a lead soldier, and a bar of chocolate. Under her influence, I chose to attend the cheder.

I recall the day my mother first took me there. I see myself, almost through a fog, as a small boy sitting at a large table in the cheder, squeezed among a dozen or so urchins dressed in varying colors, depending on their parents' means. We were bent over books, shouting in different voices. In the middle of the cheder, on the dirty clay floor, several girls sat in various poses, each playing in her own way. In the corner, through the smoke, I could make out the silhouette of the rabbi's wife, grumbling something to her husband.

The room was small, located in a basement that had never been aired out. The students constantly filled it, breathing in smoke and fumes. The smoke stung our eyes mercilessly, and it was unbearably stuffy and hot. Presiding over this group of children was the rabbi, who stood upright in the center, almost menacingly. In his right hand, he held his scepter of authority—an all-powerful whip. Occasionally, the rabbi would test his power by lashing the backs of the nearest boys, more for practice than necessity. We huddled together so tightly that you couldn’t squeeze a pin between us. In an attempt to separate us, the rabbi would lash our heads with the whip and brandish it threateningly in the air.

This was the temple of knowledge that my father objected to, yet where I had to spend every day from 8 am to 9 pm due to the agreement I made, influenced by gifts. Each day felt like the last, with no changes. The rabbi never allowed the windows to be opened, claiming he might lose his voice, which beautified the Sabbath service in the synagogue. The sun never shone into our cheder either, as a barn where the rabbi kept his livestock—two goats and four kids—stood nearby.

The rabbi's goats were a real nuisance for the whole town. Villagers coming to church or running errands couldn't fend off these gluttons. They were everywhere, often snatching our breakfast, which we were told to place on the window ledge. Whether the rabbi did this deliberately remains unknown, but it certainly made things easier for the goats, who happily consumed our meals. The rabbi claimed there was no creature in the world more virtuous than a goat: "You don’t need to feed it, and it gives tasty milk."

The bleating of these goats and the children's shouts bothered me so much that I would have gladly fled this paradise to the ends of the earth. However, my fear of the rabbi was greater than anything else and kept me in place. There were days, though, when we could breathe freely in the fresh air. On those days, we would play in the courtyard, basking in the warm rays of the sun. Unfortunately, such days were rare and depended on the number of traditional weddings the rabbi participated in, where he played a major role as the badchen (jester). On those occasions, he would release us from his company, allowing us to play in the cheder's courtyard. It was a dump by any standard, but for us, it was a delightful playground.

It’s no wonder we closely followed the announcements of new engagements. Despite our young age, we already pondered the question: why do people get married? Each of us had our own explanations for this mystery until the shoemaker’s son, the oldest among us at ten, stepped forward to share what he had observed about his parents.

He told us about his father's and mother's behavior at night. I firmly denied it, calling him a liar. Srulek, as he was named, didn’t give up and even demonstrated how it was done. He appointed himself as "dad" and chose one of the girls to be "mom." However, there was a problem: to get married, one absolutely needed a bed. At least that’s what Srulek insisted. Seeing his uncertainty without a bed, we unanimously decided that a broken chest by the window could easily substitute for one. The girl, however, had no idea what was going on and refused to cooperate. Srulek grabbed her by the waist, trying to force her into the chest, but she fiercely resisted. Overpowered, she let out a terrifying cry as if calling for help. Without hesitation, I stepped in to defend her, leading to a fight between me and Srulek. In the end, I emerged victorious, and the game came to a halt.

When the rabbi returned and learned about the incident, he gave me ten lashes on a part of my body that, as he claimed, wouldn’t harm my head but might even make me wiser. This small event remains in my memory to this day because that girl would play a certain role in my later life, which I will mention later.