Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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10 M A S M I D Then there would often come to Jacob the memory of a gruff brother from whose rage Jacob had fled. Jacob had mingled emotions for red and hairy Esau. There was an in- stinctive revulsion against Esau ' s grossness, and there was fondness — as one is fond of a husky, unruly child. On the fields, one day, Esau had tasted a bitter, unripe berry. He made fierce grimaces and then out of one eye a tear pitifully fell. Jacob, standing by, laughed at this naive brother of his. and a deep feeling of compas- sion for Esau welled up m him. He put his white arm around Esau ' s broad shoulders, while Esau sulked in waning distemper and petulance. Esau was rather fond of Jacob now that weak brother whom he could throw with one heave! How he mocked Jacob ' s frailty, meanwhile purring with the pride of his own strength, grateful to Jacob for the stimulus of the purring pride. He let Jacob twist his arm playfully while he distorted his face in mock pain. They were never closer brothers than then. Esau soon forgot: and in time Jacob too felt uncomfortable when he recalled his intimacy with his sweating bro- ther. There was the repulsive vision of barbaric Judith, Esau ' s wife. Jacob tried not to think of her, but she loomed up in his mind like a phantom — her body reeking of sweat and filth. Refined Jacob, who dreamed of a ten- der woman wholly detached from worldly cares, would become chilled at the thought of his brother gay beside the thick-set Judith. Jacob ' s wife was to be slender and pliant as the willow. She was to hum sweet tunes for Jacob when the day ' s tasks were done as he laid his warm head on her lap, while cool breezes wafted the fragrance of her to him — and he was lulled into a dreamy sleep. Then a chaos of memories! A quivering son kneeling before a half-blind father, and a blessing be a man among your brethren. Then the berserk rage of Esau like the rage of a wounded lion, and the flight of the man among his brethren ; the coming to Padan-aram. and the welcome of a strange people. Events happened so rapidly they jumbled their impressions until there was time for a future unraveling. And, often, in lambing time, on the frosty nights when Ja- cob would warm the shivering lambs, there would come a pining for home. Years and years of thinking passed until clearness came. But a hurt still ached. It was not clearness Jacob wanted — it was the fullness of home life. Jacob had suffered, and there were none at home to bear anger against him anymore. The sorrowing father had only anxiety, and surely Lsau had had time to forget. But Jacob still foundered in the waves of melancholy. In those years there had been Leah and Rachel and domestic cares that, at times, al- most absorbed the entire Jacob. Jacob felt dual-lived now. Was it really he who had herded so many flocks until they exceeded Laban ' s? Surely it was not the moody, in- ner Jacob who had somehow acquired those herds. It was a skin-deep, efficient Jacob who had contrived to possess those grazing flocks, and not a yearning, ever-mournful Jacob. It was shearing-time in Padan-Aram, and Laban was away shearing sheep in a distant mountain enclosure. From his tent Jacob could see the mountain-peak swathed in draping clouds, and he dreamed of the moun- tains in Canaan covered with their mighty trees. He had a vision of some tents rising boldly among the tree monsters. There were streams pouring out of the side of the moun- tain. They were rapid streams, and they seemed happy and free. And Jacob would grow pensive thinking of the freedom of the streams while he loitered in servitude. It was shearing-time, and Laban was away: but Jacob ' s mind was not on the shearing. The air of Padan-aram seemed to be stifling him, and the bleating of ihc sheep held no more fondness for him. Just now it was shearing time in Canaan too, and aged Isaac would be needing willing hands. At dusk there would be the clash of cymbals and the purring twang of stringed instru-

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M A S M I D Jacob out of Books By Herbert Greenberg i T was shearing time in Padan-aram. The warm air echoed with the swish of the heavy shears and with the trembhng ma-a-a of the bewildered sheep. Sometimes a helpless ewe started to stray away, but that only meant that Jacob or another shepherd boredly shooed the wan- derer back into place. The ewe never re- belled; she just plodded dully back in meek return to the flock. The sheep were so utterly guileless in their feeble bleating over repressed wants or sud- den stabs from the shears that Jacob ' s heart expanded with tenderness for them. Con- fronted with wily Laban, Jacob, too, had been feebly bleating, he brooded. Away from Laban Jacob would become viol- ently exasperated. How blandly the pomp- ous sheik had again and again pretended concern over Jacob ' s poverty: and Jacob had been shooed into place again. There was no rebellion — only a dull plodding. And pau- pered Jacob had served while Laban ' s graz- ing flocks had fattened and multiplied. Memories were like bits of wool at shear- ing-time, Jacob thought. You nimbly ran through them: sometimes with an amused smile on your lips. And sometimes you came across some wool your shears had spoiled- clean, soft wool, but your shears had cut into it badly. It clung to your fingers and to shake it off seemed villainous. It had been so clean and pure — and a bit of a thoughtless- ness of blind impatience had spoiled it. There were memories that clung to Jacob in just that way. There was the sad memory of a half-blind old man in Canaan, sitting silently at the opening of his tent. His face was relaxed, and the peace of patient old age was upon it. His beard was flowing white and his blank stare was steady and piercing. Then, too, one always felt that there were hidden eyes behind the unseeing ones — sober. hidden eyes that saw into the spirit of things! When wronged they seemed to become hurt and sad, and the hurt and sadness were more troubling than the most venemous rebuke. Those eyes still lived and judged in far-ofl Padan-aram — in the heart of Jacob. The old man was quietly grieving with the peace that comes with resignation and humility. And with his grieving came wis- dom and understanding. But it was a sor- rowful wisdom. It was a humble insight, that came with sadness for a son who had left the strength of the earth of Canaan for the refuge of Padan-aram. Yes, there was strength in Canaan. The fertility of the earth showed strength, and the languor of the warm air was as strong as heady wine. Age and death came to Canaan like a sun- set, thought the old man. He thought how the light of one ' s life dimmed slowly, the warmth cooled, the twilight glimmered, lin- gered for a beatifiic moment, and then slowly lost itself in the vastness of the dark — and the old man would be content. There was no fear of death in Canaan. There was reverence for it, and humble submission and trusting impotence too, — at life ' s dusk. But who could tell of the fright of death in Padan-aram, and the panic of living there — and the haunting death in life. But in Canaan there was the contentment of a warm sun by day, and the silvery beams of a hurrying moon by night. And the cool, starry nights when one wandered afield dreaming . . . when the scent of the flowers strengthened, and cold laden breezes freshened and clusters of stars twink- led coldly; there were endless walks then for lovers. And the old would feel a bit cold and would wrap themselves more tightly and nod asleep over vague recurring memo- ries: while through the hush of night the fer- tile land lay bared in peace.

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M A S M I D merits, Jacob knew. There would be rest and cool breezes for the weary, and silhou- ettes of distant hills for the dreamer. There would be no greedy counting of the sacks of wool, nor the tense gossiping of Laban ' s sons. Jacob would no longer feel their watchful eyes upon him. In Canaan were soothing kindness and oriented thoughts: but in Padan-aram were bewildering strangeness and the slitted eyes of an envious kin . . . Jacob laid his shears aside in despair. He could not put his mind on the shearing while there was shearing in Canaan. Then the resolute, efficient Jacob shrugged off the dreamer Jacob. Laban was away. Canaan was calling: and there was an open road . . . Jacob ' s heart was singing next morning: for he was on his way home, and with him was his household. He had left home in a flight of fear, and was returning now in a flight of exultation. Jacob had a new con- fidence in his future dealings with Esau, and he had a contempt for his father-in-law, Laban, who would not know of the flight until shearing was over. There was one among the caravan whose eyes did not strain only for the purple hills of Gilead ahead. Rachel ' s anxieties were more of the pursuit of Laban: for this daugh- ter of Laban knew her father would pursue. Hidden under her saddle-cushion were her father ' s images. They somehow reminded her of her dejected years of barrenness and of the cheerless days and the cold nights. They were the symbol of her departure from a maid to a woman. They were the spirit of the pagan daemons of Padan-aram and her depriving Laban of them was an expression of her acceptance of a new creed — a creed of dreamers. Jacob stumbled across her there. Jacob ' s heart felt heavy for Rachel, and he remem- bered how cold he had been to her because of the enmity of her brothers. Now, how- ever, she was no longer to be distrusted as a woman of the dangerous Laban tribe. She was a tender child who had been abused by rough brothers and a treacherous father, and deep compassion for her stirred in Jacob. She had suffered for all the contempt Jacob felt for her brothers. She had suffered alone: and the burden had been lonesome nights with no mate to share her grief. There were the end- less nights of futile waitirig, the ghastly dreams, the wells of salty tears ahd a heart that seemed to melt with sorrow . . . Laban was camped that night an hour ' s journey from Jacob. With him were his brethren, as alert as hounds achase. In them was a hidden awe and a twinge of envy for the wealthy heir, Jacob. Jacob was ascend- ing Mount Gilead when Laban overtook him. . . . Laban was gone and with him his cere- monious affection and his avowals of senti- ment — when there existed only distaste. La- ban had been wary of his speech, and Jacob had hidden contempt with difficulty. Jacob was glad the meeting was over, and Laban was returning to Padan-aram. Canaan and aged Isaac beckoned to him, and Rachel, with her deep love sparkling in her eyes, was by his side. Joy was bursting within him, and he could not hide the song in his heart and his smile on his lips. Gone was intrigue and guarded speech forevermore. He dreamed of the splendor of Canaan: the rustle of leaves and the rushing of streams. The lure of dis- tant hills would make him keen and new- born with unfenced freedom. He seemed to hear angelic music calling him into Canaan, and the rush of wings of a host of angels shutting Padan-aram away from behind. He was hushed by the splendor of a new old life and a new land before him — where an old, old man was waiting for a tarrying son. Through shining days the caravan plodded along and when purple dusk came, when the desert seemed like a silent, billowing sea, they set up camp. At night the fires twin- kled across the desert, through the weight and darkness of the night, as if in mute commu- nion with the stars. . . . When all were hushed in sleep Jacob and Rachel were still awake. The cold breath of the desert night held them in huddled silent