Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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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.

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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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MASMID 19 marooned on a strange isle, helplessly sees his last hope of rescue slip by. But it was too late to turn back. Too well did I know it. With heavy, dragging tread, I blindly made my way up the hill Three weeks later! What a change! How happy and carefree I felt! 1 waa nevei ' so joyful in all my life. I went on one signt-seeing tour after another. One round of coaches, buses, and hotels. I had never expected all this! All I had to do was to travel about and see the sights. Pass through the old, deserted towns that are mentioned so often in the Bible and pay my respects at the tombs of our holy ancestors. I visited the little, picturesque colo- nies that have been founded but yesterday. I witnessed sights that many would gladly have given years of their life to see! Not a care, not a thought in the world! Only the hope that I should have enough time to stop at all the places that I had in mind. I was fully at home now and eager to see ever more; yet in all my joy one thing troubled me. I couldn ' t understand why I cried when I first set foot on Palestine! ' ROUND TOWN By Ralph M. Weisberger Harlem There ' s a relieving coarseness about Harlem, the Negro ghetto. The black holes that pass for doorways conceal pits of secrets, you some- how feel. You see thick-lipped, broad-smiled bucks, overbrimming with complete, naive sat- isfaction and with life, shuffling out of the doorways and throwing back into the blackness hoarse, chortling farewells. And you envy the crudeness of living in this Negro ' pale. On sunny days those black holes pour out darkies like an overturned flagon pours out thick, dark wine. Negresses in flimsy ging- hams, darkie lads in patched corduroys, and huge, clumsy bucks — sleeves rolled and black chest bared — come tumbling out of the dark- ness into the dazzling sunlight. Then there ' s laughter and a free, easy gait for a Negro. A white feels stilted with insincere, feigned aloof- ness. And you notice a young Negro student in prim white ' s clothes and you somehow feel he mocks the conversion and sanity that keeps him from mingling freely with his color and keeps him under servitude — mentally rebellious for liberation. At night all life hides within those gaping black holes that pass for doorways. . . . :!c « :i: Coney Island — Summer There is no individual glimpse of Coney Island that can truly represent the composite impression of the Island. Screeching of sirens, Steeplechase, babel of voices, brilliance, Luna, fops sauntering on corners. Bowery, Feltman ' s — ' they all fuse into a vague impression of a trance of utter carefreeness, and then wane like stimulating drug slowly losing its potence. Just outside the brilliance and the noise are the slums of the Island. Frail bungalows are jammed together and in them are families in ' different to the reek of bad drainage and sweat- ing bodies. There is a glamor attached to the Island. Shop-girls strut there with significant anxiety radiating their creased, harassed features. Aged couples, with strange, new-born smiles, go there, too — fumbling their way through the crowds. Then there are exultant young couples and be- wildered, stumbling foreigners painfully aware of their obscure presence. And calling from the side-shops are wheedling, grasping red- faced individuals. Their select prey are foreign- ers. . . . Winter The shops are boarded up and at night the Island is pitch dark and silent, green knowing eyes gleaming in the darkness. The old boards creak and sigh as if with weariness. They seem to be mocking the eager soul of the Island, those warped boards — wrinkling their brows in senility and contempt for youth and laughter.