Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 18 text:

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.

Page 17 text:

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

Page 19 text:

M A S M I D 17 In the dim gloom stands an old two-story building remodeled after the fashion of my- thological theatre-fronts of yore. It is set in from a row of houses, thus forming a little fenced-in courtyard where an eager crowd awaits the opening of the theatre doors. The glass-panel doors are diversely decorated with amateurishly printed signs: Next week — ' The School for Scandal. ' Today — ' The Affected Young Ladies, ' which names are a fine example of the spirit and purpose of the Free Theatre. The crowd is a motley one of lively youth and drama-thirsty age, most of them with more time than money. All are exuberant, light-spirited, exuding warm and buoyant companionship. One is caught in the swing of mutual good-feeling as one is jostled mer- rily about. These people are kind, well-wish- ing brothers in the search for amusement where money and rank are of no account. And so one ' s thought wander in a world filled with sentiment and healthy optimism when the doors open. A hurly-burly rush for the limited number of choice seats starts, and soon one is seated breathlessly and forcibly. The theatre is very small and quaint in- side. It reminds one of the old French theatre with the crude footlights and the low bal- cony. The curtain is a drab dusty one, in harmony with the dry, cracked appearance of the stage. The lone usher, a huge Cossack- like fellow who answers to the name of Grischa, hands out litrle programs to the ac- companiment of an English that sounds like water bubbling out of a bottle. He is kind and very solicitous of the comfort of the audi- ence, continually doing little favors for some- one. Above is a crowded balcony with a noisy audience filling every available seat. The jocose mood still prevails, characterized by chatting argument and hearty laughter. Well-meaning Grischa can still be seen bob- bing up and down. Suddenly the lights dim, faker and fade. Everybody waits in the hushed darkness. Then the curtain rises on the eternal, iron- fast and superb truths of Moliere C. H. NEW EUROPE Brownsville, the oldest Jewish pale of Brooklyn, is yielding its fame to newer com- munities. Nevertheless there are still some picturesque old synagogues in Brownsville. There are still small Chassidic synagogues. Newer fashions have not effaced the places of worship established years ago by sincere Jews who had come to America in order to live and worship in freedom. In a narrow, obscure street of Brownsville there is one of these schtieblich, the Poli- sche Schtiebel . This schtiebel is an ordi- nary red-brick house. Nothing but a small sign betrays its real identity. It was the last day of Passover. The ma- jority of the Chassidim were celebrating the departure of the holiday in true chassidic fashion. They had formed a circle, their hands interclasped, and were dancing and singing. The majority may have been Poles, but among them I saw all types of Jews dancing around the bimah. I saw the genuine Chassid with his payis , kapota , and gartel . I saw, also, the red-faced, heavily bearded Russian Jew with only a gartel , the stout German Jew with the Van Dyke beard, the dark-eyed, black- bearded Palestinian Jew, and the American, or rather Americanized Jew. Though out- wardly they were so different, inwardly they were all Chassidim. In their dance and song I was aware that these Chassidim were much more energetic — not physically, but spiritually — than the Chassidim I had seen before. I listened more attentively to their song. They were singing the Chassal sidur Pesach — The Comme- moration of the Passover is now accom- plished, according to its order... O, may we also merit the actual observance thereof.... O, hasten to lead the established plant to Zion with joyful song. Over and over again they sang it; on and on they danced... Energy of the spirit cannot support frail bodies too long, however: and reluctantly the Chassidim stopped their dance. Fatigued in body they sat down to rest a while. Now