Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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

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 20 text:

18 M A S M I D was an opportunity to view the schtiebel. The place was small, dark, and ill-ventilated. It was a typical European schtiebel . There were a few tables and benches in the room, a large reading desk in the center, a small one in front of the Ark, and book-closets all along the length of one wall of the room. The atmosphere was European: that is, it was not American. Chassidim are essentially emotional, and soon they started singing again. This time their mood was philosophical, sentimental; not the joyous chassidic tone of the dance. Again tliey sang the Chassal Sidur Pesach , but this time they sang it slowly. They did not look dreary; they still smiled, but now their song was really a prayer. O hasten to lead the established plant to Zion with joyful song. L ' shanah habah b ' yirusha- lyim - lem. ' Next year we shall be in Jerusa- The group song soon ended. Single ren- ditions followed. Chassid after Chassid stepped up to the small bimah and ren- dered his prayer-song . Meditatively the Chassidim hummed along with the singer. I felt far. far away from America. I was in a Polischc schtiebel in Poland... Even Chassidim can not live in the schtie- bel forever. They too have homes and families. At last the service was over. I stepped out of the schtiebel . The street was dark and deserted. The charm of the schtiebel was still upon me. I came to a busy avenue. Automobiles sped by, honking their horns. The spell was broken. I was in America... -J. K. AGED OAK. A broken thing lies dead upon the earth, A thing that breathed of beauty at its birth; For fashioned by the hands of the Divine It towered proudly stretching towards its shrine. Its trunk has seen the countless ages go To dusty death in Mother Earth below. It, too, has felt the trembling knife of youth That struck the heart with Cupid ' s swift-gone truth. But deep in dust it humbly lies forlorn. Of life and beauty now forever shorn. Oh, that it could its gathered wisdom speak And tell the ancient tales I still would seek. While I, wan lover of the forest shade, Forget the glory of the world ' s parade; A kindly friend of every fallen leaf — I walk the silent woods in silent grief. And still 1 turn old foot-worn paths to tread Among the stately memories of the dead. Louis Bacishnikoff