Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

Page 32 text:

28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. FAITH. The stage on which we play our dramas of life has for most of us but one setting. Characters come, move about, taking their leave by way of familiar exits. Palace or hovel is the setting for our figures. The echo of the faintly rumbling wheels on the muddy road could still be heard as Dora Sarkoff, the peasant wife, crooned a Jewish melody to her babe. The big black kettle swayed on its crane, and an atmosphere of content and cheerfulness prevailed over the simple scene in the shanty-hut. Her husband, Josef, and small son had departed for Moscow, the great city where all peasants display their country wares in exchange for other mer¬ chandise. This was their way of making a living. He scowled at the gather¬ ing clouds and urged the oxen on, refusing to confess to ' himself the dread of the destination which they were approaching. Not very far from the Sarkoff dwelling was a saloon where all the lower class of Russian peasants congregated to eat, drink, and plan their next mas¬ sacre of human lives. What heartless creatures they were! They glorified in seeing others suffer, especially women and children of other races than their own. A foreboding stillness hung over the liquor-sodden air as the men gathered around the bar. A few tables made of old barrels were scattered about the place, which was dimly lighted by flickering candles. Soon the stillness was broken by a loud shot that came from the doorway. This was the beginning of the massacre which will long remain in the memory of those who escaped their merciless slaughter. The peasants were so intoxicated with liquor that one rifle report meant a fight to them, and this was one thing they craved. Bottles were broken, shots rang out from all si des, and the angry cries of the bearded men could be heard far down the road. The candles were overturned and soon the building was a mass of flames. Out poured the angry mob car¬ rying lighted torches, screeching and yelling, setting aflame the small shanties, burning the poor innocent women and small children. Screams of pain and terror could be heard for miles. Innocent babes were dashed to death before the eyes of their mothers—pitiful sights. Upon hearing the loud moans and cries for mercy, Dora ran to the window and saw what she had already dreaded—a massacre. She felt faint and dizzy. They would soon be upon her! She would be tortured alive. She sank to her knees, and because of her unfailing faith in God, she uttered a prayer. “Oh God! Help me save my baby! Have mercy on me! Deliver me from these hungry plunderers!” The family across the way were already in their clutches, for the little children could be heard crying for their mother, and then slowly their cries were heard no more. Unoffending little Jewish children paying with their lives, because the murderous peasants glorified in seeing others suffer. There was no time to lose; she must act at once. A thought flashed through her mind. Yes, He had answered her prayer. She quickly overturned tables, chairs, boxes, broke dishes, tore the bed covering, smashed the windows, and Mattered pieces of torn clothing all over the floor. She did this so they would ink another group of their own kind had already reaped their harvest, ri Grasping the child to her breast, she climbed up on a ladder to a small dpening in the ceiling, pulling up the ladder after her. Here she crawled into

Page 31 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 rang out in the stillness and was echoed by a dull thud as the forward man dropped to the ground. Hastily Jameson put his pistol back in the holster and jumped from his horse. He exchanged uniforms with the lad who lay so still on the cold ground. Quietly he mounted again. “The wooden bridge—important papers—‘son of liberty’! ” he muttered over and over as he rode on. Awaiting him on the bridge was the messenger, James Hancock, a strong, sturdy patriot lad, who carried with him the precious papers. He paced up and down, pulling his coat collar higher as he shivered. His horse neighed impa¬ tiently. Hancock, too, was getting quite impatient. “I wonder why in the devil he doesn’t come; it’s after twelve now.” Then footsteps sounded. “Who goes?” came a sharp law command from Hancock, as he raised his pistol. The figure stopped. “A friend, ‘son of liberty’ ” he answered. Hancock’s fire arm came down with a jerk. “Glad you’ve come. You’re Webb, aren’t you?” he asked as he drew from his pocket a small package securely bound. He handed it to the spy. Jameson grasped it and thrust it inside his coat. “Cold, isn’t it?” Hancock asked jovially, lighter of heart, having exe¬ cuted his part of the affair. “Yes,” replied the spy, turning to go. “Have a hard time coming down?” “No.” The spy backed farther away. “Well, goodbye, and good luck to you.” But by this time Jameson was running down the road. Hancock turned to his horse. He stopped suddenly. “Hancock.” He heard his name called softly. Was his imagination play¬ ing with him or— “Hancock.” This time the voice was a little nearer. He ran across the bridge. A man stood there swaying back and forth, then fell against the railing. He gasped. “Get him,” he whispered, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of the fleeing Webb. “He’s—he’s a spy. “I’m—I’m the messenger—‘a son of lib¬ erty’—he tried to kill-” His voice trailed off into silence, and he fell with a shudder to the ground. Hancock stood too stunned to move. He didn’t understand. Then like a flash it came to him. He jumped on his horse, and rode like mad down the road after the fleeing figure who carried the precious papers. Thoughts raced through his mind keeping pace with the horse’s hoofs. A spy—the papers—he thought he killed Webb—Webb had come to the bridge after all. He must get the papers; he had to get the papers. He grasped his pistol till his knuckles were white. He urged his horse onward. The horse spurted forward with more speed. Hancock was gaining on the spy. Less and less, the distance came between them. He was gaining; he would be able to get the papers back. He urged his horse on more and more, still more. He stood in the stirrups and fired, but the fleeing horse did not lessen its speed. He reached for his other gun. It was his last chance, his only chance. He must shoot and kill. “Heaven help me,” he breathed. He fired again. The horse in advance reared on his hind legs, and th spy slowly slid to the ground. Elizabeth Sherburne, ’2

Page 33 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 29 a barrel, murmuring prayers to the Almighty that He fail her not in her hour of need. Heavy tramping in the passage-way told of the arrival of the drunken mob, crying for more lives to torture, but on seeing the room in such a state of chaos, they quickly left the house, satisfied that others had already performed their mur¬ derous work. Dora heaved a deep sigh of relief when she heard their loud talking die away, but she was afraid to come down—not because she doubted that God would disclose her hiding place, but because they might return and kill her outright. The village was a mass of flames which lit the sky—the whole thing looked like a roaring furnace. The pathetic cries of the women and children died down as the smouldering flames wiped out their lives. For two days Dora Sarkoff remained in her hiding place, without food or water, still clutching her babe tightly to her breast. She seemed hidden away from the eyes of eternity and she pictured her husband and son suffering horribly, her baby dead in her arms, and a living death for herself. She dared not look into the future ; she dared not think. Perhaps if she breathed too heav¬ ily, her life would be snuffed out just as the flame of a candle gradually dims down and in a second’s time is out. Each time she thought of her capture, she shuddered and trembled. She had but one comforting thought. Her baby was still alive—she had something to live for. God! if only He would let it live! Her faith in the Almighty was high, and her one comforting thought was that He would reach down and raise her from this sordid place. She prayed that He might look into the ver y depth of her soul and understand the faith she had in Him. When Josef arrived home from market on the second day, he was horror stricken. The full extent of the disaster was revealed—houses still smoulder¬ ing—dead women and children lying by the roadside. God, they were pitiful sights! He could hardly believe his eyes. Was he dreaming? Yes, his house was still there, one of the few that had escaped the plunders. The scene that met his eyes when he entered his little shack made his heart sink. Where was Dora? Did she escape their pillage? His little son was running back and forth crying wildly: “Mama—mama—we’re here; we came home—where are you. Mama, oh mama!” He dared not move for fear he would see his wife lying dead in some corner of the room. God—how cruel the world was! He must find Dora. She must be alive. No, they could not take her from him, from their little baby, and from their little boy, who needed his mother so badly. “Oh, dear God, spare her and bring her back!” he murmured in silent prayer. “I want my mama — o — oh 1 hear her—I hear her up there — quick, papa— get her up there!” gasped the little boy as he pointed to the opening in the ceil¬ ing. Josef climed up to the small opening and found his wife and baby still alive. After they had been brought down and nourished, Dora in a weak voice said: “Josef, it was my faith in God that saved us. He told me to do all this. Let us both offer Him a prayer of gratitude for He heard my pleas and answered me.” And they both knelt, offering their thankfulness to the Almighty. Myrtice Kurlansky, ’27.