Yeshiva University High School For Boys - Elchanite Yearbook (New York, NY)

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GRIM DUTY CALLS! By David Greenberg They sTood massed abouT The iron gaTe, hushed, expecTanT, Their aTTenTion riveTed on The relenTlessly advancing poinTer, clicking on and oTT, Tlashing signiTicanT numbers, measuring The inTerminable momenTs OT awTul, nerve-wracking waiTing. Onward, irrevocably, inexorably, crepT The mechanical Tinger oT TaTe. lnch by inch - line by line - wiTh a descenT appreciable only aT inTervals ThaT seemed ages - down and sTill down iT came. Each insTanT broughT Them nearer Their desTinaTiong each Tlickering digiT porTended iTs approach. The seconds slipped by, each an inTiniTesimal grain oT sand in The hourglass oT eTerniTy, each an eTerniTy in iTselT. Time sTaggered on. The aTmosphere was Tense: The heaT was sTiTling. l-le TelT a curious sinking sensaTion aT The piT OT his sTomachg his hearT Tell wiThin him. He was oblivious To all, his senses lulled inTo a sTaTe oT passiviTy by The monoTonous drone oT The massive machinery as iT bore iTs cargo oT human misery down To subTerranean depThs, ThreaTening aT any momenT To TerminaTe iTs TearTul iourney. There was a pause in which all was blank, Then again sound and moTion, a mere consciousness oT exisTence, exisTence wiThouT ThoughT, Then very suddenly ThoughT, a sTabbing realizaTion oT his unTorTunaTe loT. PercepTion, like a blasT oT air on an exposed TooTh nerve, seT him Trembling in every Tibre. There was a sTrong desire To lapse again inTo blissTul insensibiliTy. l-le chided himselT and Tried in vain To Tind consolaTion buT could inoT reconcile himselT To his wreTched sTaTe. No TaTe could be crueler Than his. For iT was hard, especially when one was young, iusT married, and desperaTely in love, To be separaTed Trom one's soul maTe. lT was bruTally inhuman To be Torn Trom The arms oT one's beloved and pressed inTo The service oT some bloody capiTalisT. BuT, iT was his duTy, They had Told him. Only in so doing could he saTeguard his home and loved one. l-le recalled Thar lasT embrace, how proud she had been as he marched down The sTreeT resplendenT in his new uniform, his gold braid and buTTons gliTTering in The morning sun. IT had seemed so manly and noble, buT ThaT illusion had vanished, dispelled by The sTark realiTy oT duTy. l'le had been duped, moved so blindly, so uTTerly beTrayed, merely a puppeT in The dark hands oT greed, which proTiTed Trom his suTTering and privaTion. ThaT There was young warm blood coursing Through his veins, ThaT he wanTed To live, was unimporTanT To Them. They coldly reckoned his TaTe in Terms oT dollars and cenTs. l-le knew now ThaT They were The True enemy, The enemy oT all his kind. TwenTy-Two ELCHAN ITE

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l-le knew children. And having This qifT, he enioyed The love of all who came info conTacT wiTh him: for, somehow, in some mysTerious way, he realized ThaT all men are children, and acTed accordingly. l-le TreaTed his fellow Teachers no differenTly from his sTudenTs. l-Te beraTed Them for giving difficulf examinaTions: he saT in on Their lecTures when he had a Tree hour: he could noT keep away from Teaching. Toward The end of his years, when The heads of The Yeshiva asked him To reTire he said, in effecT. ReTire? BuT Teaching is my liTe. Pension? Please, if I had The money l would pay To Teach, noT be paid. And ThaT was how Mr. Soyer Took his job of Teaching. l-le was an arTisT. l'lis sons, who are well-known painfers acquired Their love of arT from Their Tafher. IT anyone did noT undersfand a word, Mr. Soyer drew The meaning in some sorT oT picfure language. lf The sTudenT sTill failed To grasp The idea, he acTed ouT The word. lTo illusTraTe The flighT of a bird, he would climb up on his desk, Tlap his hands, and descendl l-le knew ThaT sTudenTs had difTiculTy in learning all ThaT They mighT, because Teachers Took for granTed ThaT They had sufTicienT background in The subiecT. Mr. Soyer knew ThaT Those who saT in his class were bewildered children Trying hard To learn. So, wiTh love and pafience, he coached Them, TaughT Them, learned Their moods and caughT Their ioys and sorrows. He was a sTory Teller. Fafe desTined him To live among The children he loved, and had TiTTingly endowed him wiTh ThaT giTT. T-le Told of children who wondered abouT The ways of The world: he Told legends which capTured The imaginafion and Tragi-comic Tales OT American Jewish liTe. l-le wroTe books l A Generafion Passes , and The Book of Miraclesml, which Told Tall Tales wiTh gusTo and vigor, beauTiTul simpliciTy, and childlike naiveTe. l-le was a child himselT. DespiTe his years, and so-called old counTry background, he was of The world in which he moved. When his sTudenTs grew older and advanced To higher classes, or graduaTed, They Talked of him wiTh smiles on Their faces, wiTh chuckles in Their voices. They spoke wiTh reverence and smiled wiTh admiraTion. ThaT Goodbye Mr. Chips appeared when iT did seems no more Than poeTic iusTice. The Tender sTory of The warm-hearTed Teacher, who had only The love of his sTudenTs To keep him alive, was wriTTen abouf such a Teacher as Mr. Soyer. BuT no Mr, Chips could have won more aTfecTionaTe esTeem Than Mr. Soyer. To Those who knew him he was a grand old man wiTh all iTs warm connofafions. l-le was an experience, pulsaTing, and rich. ThaT he lived a Tull life by ordinary sTandards, and knew The respecT and admirafion of all who knew him, in no way lessens The sorrow of his passing. He should have lived forever. T-le shall live longer Than mosT people, people who are more famous and have aTTained greaTer recogniTion. Goodbye, lvlr. Soyerf' ELCT-TANITE Twenfy-one

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They were fhe cause of fhis universal misery, fhey, fhe oppressors and exploifers of mankind. He undersfood now fhaf free men could nof resf nor lovers meef unfil fhe chains of fheir fyranny were broken. There was a low undercurrenf of disconfenf, a subdued mumbling and murmuring which rose in crescendo. The poinfer had come fo a sfandsfill. The gafe had opened: fhey shuffled ouf. He felf fainf, and fhere was a sfrange buzzing in his head. His forfured brain was playing pranks. If seemed as if she had come. A vision of efhereal loveliness came foward him, an ephemeral angel in whife. He fried fo brush away fhe specfral picfure fhaf danced before his eye, buf if persisfed. Closer and closer if came, almosf overwhelmed by each succeeding wave of humanify fhaf fhreafened fo crush if, buffefed by fhe coarse mob, buf sfill advancing, closer and closer. Perspirafion bursf forfh from every pore, and sfood in big cold beads on his forehead. She pressed forward, foughf herself free and, rushed fo him. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes red, her face 'rear-sfained and swollen. His brain had cleared, her form was clearly ouflined now, nof hazy. lf was a frying sifuafion buf he rose fo fake confrol. If was she, undeniably real, her bosom heaving convulsively beneafh her lighf summer frock, as she fried fo sfifle a sob. She pressed her warm body againsf fhe cold machine of sfeel fhaf sfood befween fhem. All his penf up feelings surged wifhin him. His lip guivered fremulously, as he sfruggled fo masfer his emofions. Hasfily, he whispered, Darling, you shouldn'f have come here. - If will only be harder now. He grasped her frembling hand fhrough fhe iron grafing. Go now. Try fo believe fhaf l'll be home soon. There was a click of heels, heralding fhe approach of a superior. He snapped fo affenfion, rigid wifh frighf. Under fhe baleful glare of his over-lord, he relucfanfly furned fo his dufy, faking his place af fhe helm. There was a lasf lingering look, a muffled sob, and fhe iron door clanged shuf. There was a low hum, as he sef 'rhe massive machinery info mofion. He spoke: Going up, fhird floor, ladies wear, shoes, dresses, lingerie, going up! ELCHANITE Twenfy-Three