Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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20 MASMID By Israel Upbin AVE you ever had that sighing, restless feeUng while alone in your room? It makes you want to shout out loudly, and you are about to cry out feebly under tightly- pressed lips — half giving way and immensely troubled for slipping so far . . . chilled, lonely and isolated. Things are spectres, listening and bussing with their hushed whispers as they loom about you — watching you and shadowing you .... and a tremulous sigh slips out of you before you can stop it ... . and you are holding back a sob. Thoughts of your folks may have set you off dreaming maudlin dreams. Everything is distant and vague. YouVe tiny — too chagrined and bewildered with yourself to ... . well .... cry .... or at least stop that twitching and aching — and the burning in your eyes. Outside, down the corridor, there ' s laughter — and you somehow feel there ' s a dull, rasping rdge to it. Hoarse laughter, rushing through the corridors and stealing through your heart — leaving you cold and forlorn. You look wildly ibout you, your face twisted into a blank wry smile, to see if anybody is watching you. . . . Life is futile and overbearing. What the trouble is you don ' t know exactly, but you do feel things are harsh. You seek mental refuge in the familiarity of your home — at least the reminiscences of it. You dream. There ' s that Morris chair, your feet dangling lazily over the edge — you half sleeping, half day-dreaming in solid comfort .... Narrow strip ot garden in front of your home. It ' s nothing much, but yours is the only house on the street with a garden. Though that bit of earthly salvation from mediocrity is really nothing more than a few tufts of grass — almost withered wisps when you left them last — and a few bedraggled ferns, you ' re fond of it. Just now you ' d be straight- ening out that broken branch on that fern. . . There ' s warmth and comfort in your home You feel everything there is part of you; whem your thighs had worn off the edges of the leather upholstering and where your idle, dreamy scratching had made a gash in the wood. There ' s nothing prim or aloof about your home. Cigarette ashes and butts are strewn hap- hazardly near ash trays. Very few butts, thrown with your erring aim, have reached their mark. Then again, all the otner nousi-s on your street have an inevitable effulgence of laced floor-lamps but your home, devoid of this unsure-footed device, has an oddity you would not trade for the primmest of conventions. Two crossed foils, a few tattered banners, and some tennis rackets arrayed on the walls give your home the only virile air in the neighborhood. Here, you have sly shadows to shudder off .... Gee! you would like to re nome — well — no — then again .... yes, it would feel good! And then your eyes are suddenly brim- ming over with salty tears and you feel utterly lost! You hear your roomie ' s whistle along the corridor. You rub your eyes frantically, be- wildered. What to do next? . . . Open a book and start whistling! Mafce a mess of the tune and stop whistling as, Poking in that book again! Your roomie standing over you belligerently, puzzledly. You feel guilty and ashamed but . mething hard and resolute stiffens in your chest. You curse him peevishly and he slips out of the room, scratching his head dubiously and in mock despair. You fling the book across the room! Damn! Pick it up again, straighten the pages and go stolidly to bed. That night you hear your roomie mumbling to himself. Don ' t know what ' s come over that chap lately .... can ' t talk to him! And reading his book upside down . . . . And you curse wildly under your breath, and make wild grimaces, but you ' re afraid to disturb him . . . and you fall asleep, utterly exhausted! But with the realization that you ' ll meet him to morrow with laughter and gibes! Nit: ' How would you find the height of a building, using a thermometer? Wit: Tie the thermometer on a string and lower it down until it reaches the ground. Then mea. ' ure the string.

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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.

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MASMID 21 EARTHBOUND Wet, dark night! Harsh, cold rain! Rough, wild wind! Let me sleep! While all were plunged in senseless torpor, Two sleepless nights I spent. Purged was the world of human souls. Only divine clay was strewn upon the earth. Souls were on an ephemeral holiday — Only my spirit, shackled to the earth By worldly cares. Did not rise. And in the silence my soul clamored for hct soul In vain. But yesterday she came to me To soothe me in my yearning; I was happy And I thought I had outwitted you, Implacable world! But you still keep sleep from my eyes. Wet, dark night! Harsh, cold rain! Rough, wild wind! Let me sleep! JUDAH SHAPIRO