Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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M A S M I D 15 Recall By Meyer 1919 came and Allied statemen had ga- thered to piece together the fragments of justice left over by the War. Meanwhile, in a morgue of the Charney Hospital, some sur- geons were piecing together the fragments of humankind left over by the same relentless Mars . . . Silence, gloomy silence, filled the tiny morgue; and in oppressive ghostliness the spirit of a cadaver seemed to hover over some surgeons who were bowed over a still form. The lifeless eyes seemed to penetrate eterni- ties — seemed to have felt the depths of pain — seemed to be living in death . . . The fea- tures were stony cold, the heart evidently life- less — but it was the haunting ghastliness and living pain of the eyes that kept the sur- geons bowed over the body. Peace had been declared — yet one more gash of the surgeon ' s knife as a farewell to the maimed and the dead . . . One more stroke of piety for the eyes that refused to die. An incision was made in the cold body ' s breast — a hypodermic needle was thrust into the bloodless heart and a powerful stimulant was injected. Then the surgeons stepped back. They were hardened old codgers but they were held in breathless anxiety. They were calling life from the hollow chambers of the dead and were waiting for a ghastly re- turn or a decisive defeat. Defeat would be more quieting — and they hoped for a defeat. ESKOWITZ The body lay still . , . The surgeons looked at each other and smiled. They had been scared by just another ghost ... by a dead, cold man whose eyes refused to close. But their smiles froze on their lips .... Slightly, slightly — ever so tenderly — a breath of freshness seemed to fill the room . . . And on a cold slab an ashen face was taking on color — and life. The eyelids stirred, slowly the pale lips began to move, A hollow voice came from the dead: seemed to come from cold, distant climes. I see . . . I see . . . marching men . . . Bayonets . . . sunlight . . . Marching men going up front . . . They are smiling in the sunlight . . . They have never been up front — never seen the red of flames, the noise — never . . . I see other marching men . . , they are not smiling . . . Why some have no heads. Chests ripped open, entrails trailing . . . ban- daged — gored. They have fallen marching — in gory glory — but they have forgotten rest, have forgotten heaven after knowing hell . . . They remember marching, this un- smiling battalion . . . Oh, oh . . . I see my- self . . . myself . . . among the blood and the black . . . The voice stopped. The eyes closed. The ' ips were pressed together. The heart had stopped — forever. Recall was over. APROPOS THE CONFUSION OF SHORT HISTORIES: To begin with, there was much political chicanery and duplicity, and the facts could not be measured with a yardstick. America wanted to paddle her own canoe in the waters which flowed under the bridges and with which she washed her clothes in the open. As for MacDonald, he is a socialist, more than that, an Englishman: even better, a Scotchman: and the Englishman is proud of being illogical, though he has shown a brotherly love for China. The upshot was that the Germans had to tighten their belts, because you can ' t get blood out of a stone. However, if you find the nigger in the wood-pile and scratch him un- der the skin it might prove a boomerang in any election. We can easily find flaws in the Paris Peace Pact with a fine-toothed comb, since the first few words of a treaty are only window dress- ings. In fact there was a string attached to it — or rather, a rope. While France was afraid that Italy would stick her under the fifth rib. England said, A plague on both of you. That brings us to Mussolini, the Bull in the China-shop. He is known as the bad boy of Europe, the man with the chip on his shoulder, which is dangerous with so much loose powder lying around in Europe. The worst time to tread on his corns is when the shoe pinches. All of which raises the big question — what will happen when he shuffles off this mortal coili

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14 M A S M I D 16. There is no complacence like that of the radical in ridiculing the smugness of the conservative. There is nothing so conventional as his so-called freedom from conventionalism. 17. Beauty covers a multitude of sins. 18. Lying isn ' t wrong — it ' s foolish. It is not the original cost of lying that is the greatest burden, but its upkeep. 19. Cat-like, Life plays with us, amused at our puny attempts to escape the bounds of its paws. Then, its enjoyment waning, it idly destroys us. 20. Having obtained dominion over this world by a series of fortuituous events Man, in his colossal conceit, declares because he is master of the Earth the entire Universe was made for his benefit by a God whose main concern is Man ' s welfare. How bombastic is his fantastic faith to believe that he, an infinitesimal speck on an infinitesimal needle lost in an infinite hay- stack, is the reason for the existence of both the needle and the haystack! 21. There is nothing so good but that there is a limit to its value and efficacy. Re- ligion, overdone, becomes bigotry — logic, so- phistry — civilization, decadence — patriotism, junkerism — contentment, stagnancy. So it is with charity, with ambition, with love, with culture, with prosperity, with truth and with everything else we consider desirable. 22. In many cases sympathy is a com- bination of fear that you may become in- volved in like circumstances, and relief that you have not. 23. In choosing words to express our thoughts adequacy is more important than simplicity, but when simplicity is adequate complex language is affectation. 24. Courage is either the repression or the lack of imagination. 25. Many of us admire our friends be- cause we endorse their admiration of us. Much of our antagonism for others is prompt- ed by their dislike for us. 26. There are many people who spend their lifetimes trying to find out the purpose of existence and then realize that their cogi- tations occupied the time within which they ought to have lived. They were unable to comprehend that actual living is the purpose of life. 27. Being in hot-water makes us hard- boiled. AMANS AMARE My humble heart was gashed with ragged rents Ere you came. Another had already hacked with strands of hair And veiled eyes and skin of velvet Ere you came. All I could offer was a bruised pulp And in your charity you took me in — And the healing wounds again began to bleed. Now you ' re gone — Yet I feel the mightiness of my heart Exulting in its shattered bits. Trebreh

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16 M A S M I D ' Round Town PARK AVENUE Lower Park Avenue; Tall, huge apartment houses line both sides of the broad avenue. In the center is a fenced-in strip of grass and young trees. This, a city front yard, is the nearest to Nature even the rich may come. No heavy trucks rumble by here, no children play in the streets. The way is open for shiny purr- ing limousines. Occasionally a car glides to a halt in front of an awninged arch and a doorman, costumed like an admiral, rushes forward: obsequiously he bows and opens the door of the car. A matronly-bosomed dowager with a frozen, bored, woman-of- the-world look on her face, painted youthful, steps out — a spotless puppy in her arms. She marches stiffly into the house. The poker- faced, uniformed chauffeur nonchalantly un- folds a newspaper and spreads it on the steer- ing wheel. A white-clad, smiling nurse-maid passes, wheeling a perambulator and leading a pedigreed dog. The chauffeur continues reading the paper. The maid peeved, passes on: the chauffeur had not raised his eyes. Upper Park Avenue: As the elevated cars roar by the windows of the crowded tenement houses rattle. The ground floor of each house is usually occu- pied by a store. Each store has its variegated goods — from shoelaces to pickles and tin-pots — all on display on the front sidewalk. All races and colors jostle one another on the narrow, broken sidewalk as they dodge in and out among these store displays and the dickering shoppers. The windows of each store are covered with large, crude white- washed signs advertising the bargains to be had inside. To pause and examine one of these spurious bargains is to instigate a horta- tory sales-talk on the part of the ever-watch- ful owner or one of his family. Under the elevated is a triple row of push- carts. Paper-bags and old newspapers are jammed between the spokes of the cart- wheels. Large, scrawled figures written on paper bags placed on erect sticks announce the price of each article: some venders sell three grades of one ware. Only the regular cus- tomers are permitted to pick what they like from the carts. The peddlers are of all ages: middle - aged, decrepit old - age or young children in their teens, who continually shout their wares. Some women-shoppers shuflfe along the crowded way alone, straining under heavily loaded shopping bags. Others are accom- panied by a passive husband or a rebellious child who carries the more weighty purchases. Still others, afraid to leave the baby home alone, push baby-carriages alo.ig haltingly, amid the often-voiced irritation of the by- goers. Into the carriage with the baby or babies go the packages. A street-cleaning truck coir.cs along and the accumulated rubbish at each stand is shov- eled up and carried away. Constant bedlam clamors. The only reminder of the aristocratic Park Avenue some blocks further down-town is an occasional limousine, the price of which would keep most families happily fed for a year, which stops in a side street. From this the poker-faced, uniformed chauffeur non- chalantly walks to the market to do the family shopping, while the family and poodle wait boredly in the shiny limousine. R. M. W. THE FREE THEATRE Far off the beaten track, away from the electric glamor of Broadway, and swallowed up in the warm European odors of East 27th Street, is the Free Theatre. As one leaves the crowded subway-combed section behind one becomes conscious of a mysterious lengthen- ing of shadows gradually terminating in the big darkness of the East River. One is im- pressed by a feeling of approaching a trans- planted Europe. The signs on the store- windows change into crazy Russian symbols, the stores into steamy, evil-looking cafes. One hesitates to continue: then a feebly light- ed sign in good-old-English. and one breathes a deep sigh of relief and of quickened expecta- tion.