Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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MASMID 17 youth. The Haranites had gathered about Abram in uneasy, shuffling groups; their pallid faces flush- ing weakly. Abram ' s pleas were faltering. His opinions, haunted by doubts, had an exhortative appeal of sincerity — more to convince himself of their truths than to convince his audience. A sturdy woman, with arms akimbo, called out to Abram. Come, brother. Egypt will not hurt us. We are not frail as the willow. We are like the bramble that needs no tender care. We will feed in Egypt and we will be gone. Jus a bit hungry are we. She turned away resolutely. Abram looked after her and he saw the bare soles of her feet, gashed and bleeding, where the sandals had been worn away. And he thought of sedate Sarai — perfect mistress of his household — calmly await- ing his return. And he thought of the Haranite women who would only be remembered on infre- quent ruminations; like the stirring up of the faint embers of smouldering, poignant memories. THIRST I am vain in Love, And often muse Upon the mites of doubt That gnaw into the solemn, Sacred pledges of Love. Love and Friendship, Are mine. Still I crave, I want, I thirst. That thirst, I think. Will never be quenched Till someone shed, Over me, Tears salted with the overflow Of a loving heart. HUDY S.

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16 MASMID By TREBREH And Terah too Abram his son, and Lot, the son of Haran, his son ' s son, and Sarai, his son Abram ' s wife, and they went forth with them from the Ur of Chaldeas to go into the land of Canaan; and they came into Haran and dwelt there. — Genesis, Chapter XL I IS LIFE was a hurly-burly of plati- tudes, young Abram felt. He was bewildered at its vagueness. Within him flowed sentiment, kindliness for his brethren. But his surroundings flowed like a sluggish river — wearily, feebly. He fancied with trepidation the ready niche in life that awaited his occupancy. He was naively bewildered — like a frightened deer separated from the herd. At night Abram wandered below starry heav- ens, attracted strangely by the twinkles in the en dless space above him. They were so utterly beyond his ken they pained him with heartache and despair. They offered him refuge from his evanescent environment at least. They offered him a void whose immensity he could despair of. His own void he lived in was so utterly petty and trivial and crushing in its petty way. He did not feel contemptuous of himself, for his life was like the will-o ' -the-wisp. It always seemed distantly and vaguely annoying, although even under closer scrutiny he seemed to be bask- ing in content. Sarai, always sedate, cool and firm, did not soothe Abram now. Abram longed for the balm of an uplifted face, a sympathetic glistening tear on a tawny cheek gleaming in a cool, shimmering dusk. Not a cold sapience, but something warm and enveloping! The dark-eyed, lissome women of Haran lived vigorously and did not snivel over the day ' s tasks. In passing they always had a beckoning, significant nod. They had strength; strength to lift heavy earthen jars of Vv ater, strength to em- brace with passionate, crushing hugs — their lis- some bodies straining and swaying like an adder. Like the adder, they had venom in them, too, Abram knew. He could see it in the glints deep within their eyes. They had cruel laughter that had a mingling of hysteria and derision in it. Laughter that chilled one ' s marrow and left one shivering as with the ague! II The grass had shriveled into dry wisps and almost endless wanderings away from Haran had failed to discover new pastures. The herds were woefully thinning out and the Haranites walked about in ill-temper. Drought and winds had ruined pastures and hunger weakened the fret- ful nomads. Abram walked among the Haranites, who turned away from him to hide their resentment. Brethren of my heart, Abram cried out de- spairingly, your gaunt cheeks rend my breast more than is the power of your keen blades. I have taken you from Haran and you have built homes in strange places. Here you have famine; in Haran you can break bread with my father, cold Terah, and with leering Baal. To the south is Egypt, and there, too, is food to fill out your cheeks and your paunches. But you will live there shackled to content and gluttony. More than your hunger for food is your gnawing hunger for freedom. In Egypt you will have food, but you will live in fettered hospitality. Do Eroch or Babylon call you? Do you crave for the stifling crowds that din the ears? Babylon of the manifold voices and ugly cries; its huge towers that have housed mighty Nim- rod. The people of Babylon cannot leave their city. It is their pasture, and their gluttony has made them add wall upon wall. Now they are shadowed in darkness and a flicker of sunshine dazzles them. They are bustling but, like a tumbling brook, they know not whither. Sturdy brothers and loving sisters! Egypt calls with fattened cattle. Our gaunt desert calls with bare, outstretched hands, but with sunshine and stars at night and a cool breeze. And it has the evening music of Anu. In Egypt our women will be coveted like the murky river covets the cool, rapid streams. But our destinies are in Egypt; lest we bury each other in the sands we love. But our sojourning there must be short, ere we, in crawling obei- sance to comfort, forget the desert of our

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18 MASMID Jaffa By Maurice Persky shall never forget the day I saw 3 Jaffa for the first time. I was leaning over the rail while the ship was slowly swinging into position out in the harbor. It seemed to me that Jaffa was passing in review before my eyes. What I first noticed was the steep crag at one end of the city, which made me think of a fort. Out of the sea this monster of stone rose, forming the natural harbor of Jaffa. Its dizzy height seemed to mock the little city sprawling at its feet. What arrested my at- tention were the houses that are built on this huge, protruding rock. They rise tier upon tier, like the seats in a huge stadium. Up the steep incline they fight their way, tnose houses, until one of them — there is room for no more — seats itself upon the top, grinning trium- phantly. Old houses they are, and mud- colored. Squat little houses with the gaping cracks in their walls showing plainly in the light of the blazing sun. Slowly the moving ship left this jagged peninsula behind, but my eye lingered. Still full of wonder and admiration, my eye again traced the irregular outline of this miniature Gibraltar and finally rested upon the little hut seated all the way up there — on the top of the world. I envied that little hut. But soon the Old City, as Jaffa is called, came into full view. It wasn ' t much of a city! Not what we call a city, anyway. Countless houses, just like those on the hill — houses of every conceivable size, shap, and stage of decay — jammed together haphazardly. Here was an utter disregard for all the protective and sani- tary features of even our smallest villages. One thing about this jumble of houses left me wondering. They seemed to begin at no definite place, nor seemed to end — but mistily vanished in faint silhouettes. Still trying to discover the reason for this effect, I was distracted by somehing white a little distance behind the dark mass of the Old City. The Old City is built on level ground and behind it there rises a bit of a hill — a stretch of ground on a higher level. This hill rcemed to be cove red with something white that shone- brightly in the sunlight. The ship slid closer and I saw there were houses on this hill, too, but not like the others. These were sturdy, bright, white houses. The ship was moving nearer. Everything was becoming clearer and clearer now. There was a city on top of this hill — a New City. So new that everything was white as newly-fallen snow. Houses, pavements, streets, all so white that they dazzled the eye. It was bewildering. A modern city at this end of the world! City? Why it was Paradise! Paradise come to earth. Boy, that ' s Tel Aviv! I said to myself, unable to say more. Yes, that was Tel Aviv, the Jewish City — the New City. Some difference! I thought, looking back at that dark blot they call the Old City — between the rock and the hill. Yes, some difference! No sooner had the ship dropped anchor than we were rowed ashore. The harbor at Jaffa is, as yet, not provided with docks, and ships cast anchor quite a distance from shore. I ought to have been happy now that I had finally landed. I had often thought I should be the most joyful of beings when I should be done with rolling ships and stormy seas. Yet, I was far from happy. I couldn ' t understand it. Quite probably my surroundings had a great deal to do with my depression. Those old, mysterious houses — the narrow, winding alleys — the overhanging balconies that completely hid the sun and the sky. Those fierce-looking Arabs, dressed like the shepherds pictured in the old story books of the Bible. It was un- believable! Time seemed to have rolled back a score of centuries, and I seemed to be in another world, in another age. I felt oppressed and miserable, and then I became afraid. I seemed to have been picked up and dropped down at the other end of the world. And when I thought that I should have to live here — forever, perhaps — I instincu- ively looked back to the ship. How large, how safe it seemed to me then! How kindly, how sympathetically it seemed to be looking at me. It was my only hope, my only link with the outside world. I wanted to run to it, to shelter myself between its huge, steel sides — to leave this place forever. And when I realized that it, too, would soon be gone, my eyes burned with tears. I felt like one who.