THE
MENORAH
JOURNAL

[i]

The MENORAH JOURNAL

CONTENTS

[ii]

DIEGES & CLUST

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[261]

the
Menorah Journal

	The Menorah By Theodor Herzl Translated from the German by Bessie London Pouzzner DEEP in his soul he began to feel the need of being a Jew. His circumstances were not unsatisfactory; he enjoyed an ample income and a profession that permitted him to do whatever his heart desired. For he was an artist. His Jewish origin and the faith of his fathers had long since ceased to trouble him, when suddenly the old hatred came to the surface again in a new mob-cry. With many others he believed that this flood would shortly subside. But there was no change for the better; in fact, things went from bad to worse; and every blow, even though not aimed directly at him, struck him with fresh pain, till little by little his soul became one bleeding wound. These sorrows, buried deep in his heart and silenced there, evoked thoughts of their origin and of his Judaism, and now he did something he could not perhaps have done in the old days because he was then so alien to it—he began to love this Judaism with an intense fervor. Although in his own eyes he could not, at first, clearly justify this new yearning, it became so powerful at length that it crystallized from vague emotions into a definite idea which he must needs express. It was the conviction that there was only one solution for this Judennot—the return to Judaism. When this came to the knowledge of his closest friends, similarly situated though they were, they shook their heads[262] gravely and even feared for his reason. For how could that be a remedy which merely sharpened and intensified the evil? It seemed to him, on the other hand, that their moral distress was so acute because the Jew of to-day had lost the poise which was his father's very being. They ridiculed him for this when his back was turned—many even laughed openly in his face; yet he did not allow himself to be misled by the banalities of these people whose acuteness of judgment had never before inspired his respect, and he bore their witticisms and their sneers with equal indifference. And since, in all other respects, he acted like a man in his senses, they suffered him gradually to indulge in his infatuation, which a number of them soon began to call by a harsher term than idée fixe. He continued, however, with characteristic persistence to develop one idea after another from his fundamental conviction. At this time he was profoundly moved by several instances of apostasy, though his pride would not permit him to betray it. As a man and as an artist of the modern school, he had, of course, acquired many non-Jewish habits and his study of the cultures of successive civilizations had left an indelible impress upon him. How was this to be reconciled with his return to Judaism? Often doubts assailed him as to the soundness of his guiding thought, his "idée maîtresse," as a French thinker calls it. Perhaps this generation, having grown up under the influence of alien cultures, was no longer capable of that return which he had perceived to be their redemption. But the new generation would be capable of it, if it were only given the right direction early enough. He resolved, therefore, that his own children, at least, should be shown the proper path. They should be trained as Jews in their own home.
	Hitherto he had permitted to pass by unobserved the holiday which the wonderful apparition of the Maccabees had illumined for thousands of years with the glow of miniature lights. Now, however, he made this holiday an opportunity to prepare[263] something beautiful which should be forever commemorated in the minds of his children. In their young souls should be implanted early a steadfast devotion to their ancient people. He bought a Menorah, and when he held this nine-branched candlestick in his hands for the first time, a strange mood came over him. In his father's house also, the lights had once burned in his youth, now far away, and the recollection gave him a sad and tender feeling for home. The tradition was neither cold nor dead,—thus it had passed through the ages, one light kindling another. Moreover, the ancient form of the Menorah had excited his interest. When was the primitive structure of this candlestick fashioned? Clearly the design was suggested by the tree—in the centre the sturdy trunk, on right and left four branches, one below the other, in one plane, and all of equal height. A later symbolism brought with it the short ninth branch, which projects in front and functions as a servant. What mystery had the generations which followed one another read into this form of art, at once so simple and natural? And our artist wondered to himself if it were not possible to animate again the withered form of the Menorah, to water its roots, as one would a tree. The mere sound of the name, which he now pronounced every evening to his children, gave him great pleasure. There was a lovable ring to the word when it came from the lips of little children. On the first night the candle was lit and the origin of the holiday explained. The wonderful incident of the lights that strangely remained burning so long, the story of the return from the Babylonian exile, the second Temple, the Maccabees—our friend told his children all he knew. It was not very much, to be sure, but it served. When the second candle was lit, they repeated what he had told them, and though it had all been learned from him, it seemed to him quite new and beautiful. In the days that followed he waited keenly for the evenings, which became ever brighter. Candle after candle stood in the Menorah, and the father mused on the little candles with his children,[264] till at length his reflections became too deep to be uttered before them. When he had resolved to return to his people and to make open acknowledgment of his return, he had only thought he would be doing the honorable and rational thing. But he had never dreamed that he would find in it a gratification of his yearning for the beautiful. Yet nothing less was his good fortune. The Menorah with its many lights became a thing of beauty to inspire lofty thought. So, with his practised hand, he drew a plan for a Menorah to present to his children the following year. He made free use of the motif of the eight branching arms projecting right and left in one plane from the central stem. He did not hold himself bound by the rigid traditional form, but created directly from nature, unconcerned by other symbolisms also seeking expression. He was on the search for living beauty. Yet, though he gave the withered branch new life, he conformed to the law, to the gentle dignity, of its being. It was a tree with slender branches; its ends were moulded into flower calyxes which would hold the lights. The week passed with this absorbing labor. Then came the eighth day, when the whole row burns, even the faithful ninth, the servant, which on other nights is used only for the lighting of the others. A great splendor streamed from the Menorah. The children's eyes glistened. But for our friend all this was the symbol of the enkindling of a nation. When there is but one light all is still dark, and the solitary light looks melancholy. Soon it finds one companion, then another, and another. The darkness must retreat. The light comes first to the young and the poor,—then others join them who love Justice, Truth, Liberty, Progress, Humanity, and Beauty. When all the candles burn, then we must all stand and rejoice over the achievement. And no office can be more blessed than that of a Servant of the Light.

[265]

The Present Crisis in American Jewry

By Israel Friedlaender

ISRAEL FRIEDLAENDER (born in Russia, 1876), attended the Universities of Berlin and Strassburg (Ph.D., 1901); called to the Jewish Theological Seminary in 1903, where he is now the Sabato Morais Professor of Biblical Literature and Exegesis. Professor Friedlaender is not only the author, editor, and translator of a number of scholarly works but his wide observation of Jewish life in various countries, coupled with his broad historic knowledge, have enabled him to write and speak on present Jewish problems with exceptional authority and insight, as for example in his new book, "The Jews of Russia and Poland." His lectures before Menorah Societies have been particularly stimulating and have made him a great favorite with University students.

The situation is one that demands careful thought and delicate action. Only a few of us are in a position to influence the course of events by acting, but many of us may help to clarify the situation by thinking. A correct diagnosis is an indispensable preliminary to a cure, and it is only by finding out whether the issues underlying the present struggle represent a chronic and perhaps irremediable conflict, or are rather the effect of an acute and therefore curable misunderstanding, that a proper solution may be discovered and proposed. It is from this point of view that an attempt is here made to[266] analyze the present situation in American Jewry, to trace the causes which have produced it, and to point out the consequences which are unavoidable unless a remedy be applied in time.

Without any desire to lose myself in philosophic subtleties, I shall, for the sake of brevity, adopt the Hegelian language and explain the development of these issues on the principle of Thesis, Antithesis and Synthesis, i. e., of the initial prevalence of one extreme, of its yielding subsequently to the opposite extreme, and of the final harmonization of the two in a higher unity, combining the essential features of both. I shall endeavor to point out that the Synthesis forms the ground on which both parties may cooperate, without sacrificing an iota of their respective convictions.

The first issue, expressed in the formula "Diaspora versus Palestine," hinges on the question as to whether the Jewish people finds its best opportunities for development in the Diaspora, i. e., as an integral part of the nations in whose midst it lives, or, away from the other nations, as a separate entity, on its own soil in Palestine.

As time progressed, however, the "Diaspora" thesis gradually lost its force. Emancipation failed to fulfill the ardent hopes attached to it. The nations refused to allow the Jews to participate fully and unrestrictedly in the general life of the country. Anti-Semitism, manifesting itself in the crude form of hatred, or under the subtle guise of prejudice, turned, in many cases, the liberties previously granted to the Jews into a scrap of paper. On the other hand, the dangers of this extreme Diaspora Judaism, at first little thought of, began to loom larger and larger. The rush for emancipation threatened not only to disrupt the unity of the Jewish people throughout the world, which had been maintained during the ages of suffering and persecution, but it also led large and important sections of Jewry to assimilation, that is, to complete absorption.

It was not long before the antithesis, too, began to reveal its deficiencies. The difficulties of reaching the Zionist goal very soon proved far greater than had been anticipated in the blissful ecstasy of the Zionist honeymoon. The ultimate consummation of the national hope receded further and further before the longing gaze of the Jewish people, and no longer held out an immediate remedy for the pressing needs of suffering Jewry. The conviction also gradually gained ground that, even under the most favorable of circumstances, Palestine could only harbor a fraction of the Jewish, people, and that the vast bulk of Jews would still remain in the lands of the Diaspora. Zionists who were looking reality in the face could not accept the view of the extremists, who were ready to save a small portion of the Jewish people at the cost of abandoning to its fate the enormous majority thereof.

Hence the Jewish task became a double one: the Jews in every country, while participating to the full in the life of their environment—for the return to the Ghetto was neither desirable nor possible—had to endeavor to secure a maximum of elbowroom for the development of their own section of Jewry, while as part of universal Israel they had to keep up their contact with the Jews throughout the world and labor with them for the realization of the common Jewish hope, that of a spiritual center in the historic land of Judaism. Diaspora without Palestine was impossible, because without the refreshing breath of a healthy Jewish life in Palestine it was bound to wither and dry up. Palestine without the Diaspora was equally impossible, because it lacked the backing of the people as a whole, and was in danger of becoming a petty and obscure corner in the vast expanse of the Jewish Dispersion, a sort of Jewish Nigeria.

This synthesis was not a pale cast of thought, the flimsy product of an imaginative brain. It had its prototype in the actual facts of history. For during several centuries preceding the dissolution of the Jewish state, Palestine was the spiritual center of Judaism, in the sense just indicated. The Jews outside of Palestine were superior, not only in numbers, but also in wealth and influence, to those of Palestine. The Jews of Egypt, and the same applies to other countries of that period, were closely associated with the cultural and material aspirations of their environment. Philo was one of the most illustrious representatives of the Hellenic culture of his age; these Diaspora Jews even found it necessary to translate the Holy Writings into Greek. Yet they were, at the same time, loyal to Palestine. They paid their Shekel, they made their annual pilgrimages to Jerusalem, and looked upon the Holy Land as the spiritual center of all Jewry.

The departure of the Jews from the Ghetto and their entrance into modern life marked a turning point also in this direction. Filled with the desire of becoming part of the nations in whose midst they lived, modern Jews were ready, and thought they were compelled, to deny the national character of Judaism. The Jews were now labelled as Germans or Frenchmen of the Mosaic persuasion, who were divided from their fellow-citizens by the purely spiritual affiliations of religious faith—the same affiliations which divided the Christian population. Here, too, Reform Judaism was quick to meet the demands of practical life. It began to chop off all the elements in Judaism which betrayed a national character, both in the domain of doctrine and of practice, though it halted half way, and down to this day still acknowledges, in flagrant contradiction with its own theory, a number of rites and ceremonies which bear an unmistakable racial imprint.

This transformation of Judaism, or rather this transformation of Jewish terminology—for, in many cases, it was merely a question of terms—was greatly stimulated by the development of nationalism in Western Europe, where the structure of the modern state excluded, or was thought to exclude, a diversity of nationalities, while the principle of religious toleration left enough room for a variety of religious beliefs. As a result, those Jews who lost their religious affiliations were bound to feel that they were outcasts in the religious community of Israel: they became either konfessionslos or, by a curious perversion of logic and conscience, became members of the dominant faith.

Here, too, however, the synthesis was gradually paving its way, and the formula "Religion plus Nationalism" was supplanting the thesis "Judaism as Religion" and the antithesis "Judaism as Nationalism." The religionists, that is, the believers in the purely religious character of Judaism, began to realize the devastating effect of their doctrine on Jewish life and development, while the nationalists, without sacrificing their convictions—for religion, least of all sentiments, can be forced on modern men—began to appreciate the overwhelming influence of the Jewish religion as a historic factor in the life of the Jewish people, and were ready to acknowledge the difficulty and the danger of squeezing an officially nationalistic Jewry into the narrow frame of the modern Nationalstaat.

This mutual rapprochement resulted, gradually, in a tacit agreement—an agreement far more durable than a legal compact, because founded on sentiment rather than on law—which implied the recognition of Judaism as composed of Religion and Nationalism, but left sufficient room to include the two extreme types of Jews: those whose loyalty to Judaism was entirely fed from the fountain of religion, and those whose devotion to Judaism was altogether grounded in race consciousness.

These issues were of particular and immediate significance for the Jews in this country; for America has, in less than one generation, become the second largest center of the Jewish Diaspora, and bids fair to become the first, instead of the second, within another generation. No other country in the world offers, even approximately, such a favorable combination of opportunities for the development of a Diaspora Judaism, as does America: economic possibilities, vast and sparsely populated territories, freedom of action, liberty of conscience, equality of citizenship, appreciation of the fundamentals of Judaism, variety of population, excluding a rigidly nationalistic state policy, and other similar factors. It is no wonder, therefore, that in no other country did Reform Judaism, as the incarnation of Diaspora Judaism, attain such luxurious growth as it did in America. It discarded, more radically than in Europe, the national elements still clinging to Judaism, and it solemnly proclaimed that Judaism was wholly and exclusively a religious faith, and that America was the Zion and Washington the Jerusalem of American Israel.

This conflict of ideas became extraordinarily aggravated by numerous influences of a personal character. The division between the so-called German Jews and the so-called Russian Jews was not limited to a difference in theory. It was equally nourished by far-reaching differences in economic and social position and in the entire range of mental development. The German Jews were the natives; the Russian Jews were the newcomers. The German Jews were the rich; the Russian Jews were the poor. The German Jews were the dispensers of charity; the Russian Jews were the receivers[272] of it. The German Jews were the employers; the Russian Jews were the employees. The German Jews were deliberate, reserved, practical, sticklers for formalities, with a marked ability for organization; the Russian Jews were quick-tempered, emotional, theorizing, haters of formalities, with a decided bent toward individualism. An enormous amount of explosives had been accumulating between the two sections, which if lit by a spark might have disrupted the edifice of American Israel, still in the process of construction.

This cooperation found tangible expression in the recent participation of American Jews in the upbuilding of Palestine, a participation which one will vainly look for in a similar group (I am not speaking of isolated individuals) in other countries. The same desire for a better understanding was further embodied in the movement toward Kehillah organization, which, though centering around the Jewish religion, still clearly implied the national element in Judaism.

There was every reason to hope that this cooperation, which had been so happily inaugurated between the two sections, would become more intimate and more extensive, and that the interaction of the heterogeneous[273] elements of American Jewish life would resolve itself in a great and strong harmony. America bade fair to become an ideal Jewish center, where the practical wisdom of emancipated Jewry and the idealistic intensity of Ghetto Jewry would be merged in one united Jewish community, fully conscious of its duty as the future leader of the Jewish Diaspora and acknowledging its indebtedness to the center of all Jews in the land of our Fathers.

In this mood of distrust and prejudice, American Jewry was overtaken by the great crisis resulting from the World War, and the disharmony prevailing between the two factions soon found tangible expression in the struggle over a Jewish Congress. The two elements of American Jewry were clearly divided on the issue: the German or native Jews, represented by leading members of the American Jewish Committee, were opposed to the calling of a congress, while the Russian or immigrant Jews, speaking largely through the Zionist organization, clamored for it.

From what has preceded I believe it may be safely concluded that this demand for a congress on the one hand, and the opposition to it on the other, are not rooted in diametrically opposed and deeply implanted theories of Judaism but are rather the expression of different moods or temperaments. The immigrant Jews who were directly concerned in the war, since its horrors affected their homelands and the kin they left behind, and who were impulsive and sentimental, felt the burning need of crying out in their despair, and were ready to face the consequences which might result from this outcry. The native Jews, whose sympathy with their far-off brethren, profound though it was, could hardly, in the nature of the case, be more than indirect and whose accustomed reserve and self-restraint enabled[274] them to judge the issues more calmly, shrunk from the risks which in their opinion were implied in an open protest of the Jewish people before the inflamed public opinion of the non-Jewish world. It is not my intention, nor is it my function, to render judgment in so momentous an hour on an issue concerning which Jewish opinion is diametrically yet honestly divided. But it is necessary to point out that whichever side may be in the right: serious as may be the dangers of holding a congress or not, the dangers involved in a split over this question are incalculably more serious. Such a split may not only result in permanent and perhaps irreparable injury to the Jewish cause in America and to the Zionist movement in this country, but may also, by aligning the two sections of American Jewry against one another, spell nothing short of disaster to the Jewish people as a whole. The stakes involved in this conflict are infinitely greater than the issue which has given rise to it.

As for the Zionist movement, one cannot help doubting whether Zionism, even if it succeeded in defeating its opponents, would thereby obtain its object. I am not speaking of the very considerable material injury which the movement will suffer from the indifference and hostility of the other side. I am rather thinking of the dangers incurred by Zionism itself if, having[275] repulsed the so-called classes, it becomes a one-sided movement of the masses. Of course, no Zionist can be otherwise than deeply gratified by the prospect of Zionism becoming a cause of the people, but unless it manages to preserve the balance of power within the Jewish community, it will be exposed to risks from another source. Zionism is beset with so many difficulties that it dare not burden itself with problems extraneous to it. The injection of political or economic issues into the movement is fraught with incalculable consequences for the future of the movement in this country. These issues are so extensive in their bearings and so vital in their manifestations that if superimposed on the delicate structure of Zionism they may crush it, never to rise again.

Zionism must, therefore, remain neutral. While including all Jews, it dare not identify itself with any section of them. It dare not be either a movement of the classes or of the masses. While holding scrupulously aloof from the issues which divide modern Jewry as part of modern humanity, it must keep its eye fixed on one point, the securing of a Jewish center for the Jewish people as a whole, in which the ills that afflict humanity may be cured in the prophetic spirit of justice and righteousness.

Nor is the Jewry of America at liberty to choose. There is an ancient Jewish legend which, with a subtle touch of sarcasm, tells us that when the Lord, having descended upon Mount Sinai, was about to bestow the Torah upon the Jews, the latter, shrinking from the obligations imposed by it, made an attempt to refuse the proffered gift. Thereupon the Lord lifted the mountain over their heads and angrily exclaimed: "If ye accept my Law, well and good. If not, ye shall be crushed on the spot!" And the Jews, yielding no less to the promptings of duty than to the dictates of wisdom, quickly recanted and declared: "We will do and obey!" American Jewry will either be the leader of Jewry or it will not be. Let it fail to respond to the great call of history,—and it will unfailingly relapse into the obscurity and sluggishness of its former parochialism. This great world crisis will be either the making or the unmaking of American Jewry, and no Jew whose mind is unclouded by the ephemeral passions of party strife can do aught except ardently pray that the Jews of America may emerge in triumph from their supreme test.

[277]

Our Spiritual Inheritance

By Irving Lehman

IRVING LEHMAN (born in New York, 1876), educated at Columbia (A.B., 1896; A.M., 1897; LL.B., 1898). Justice of the Supreme Court of New York; associated with a number of Jewish institutions, including the Jewish Theological Seminary and the Y. M. H. & Kindred Associations. Justice Lehman has taken a particularly keen interest in Jewish University students, and as Chairman of the Graduate Menorah Committee since the formation of the Intercollegiate Menorah Association, he has been generously helpful in promoting the ideals which the Menorah movement embodies. Devoted Jew and public-spirited American, his personal example has been an inspiration to Menorah men all over the country.

To the old-time Jew a conference of rabbis meant a conference of men learned in the law and its authoritative interpretation in the Talmud—men whose duty it was to teach this law and who would confer among themselves upon the application of its abstruse and technical rules to the daily needs of their congregations. But they could recognize no questions and no problems not fully covered by that law; consequently they could recognize no right in any person not an authority on that law to take any part in such a conference except to ask for the advice of the rabbis appointed to teach the law. That was the attitude of our ancient leaders, and it met with the full and unqualified approval of the Jewish laymen, because it fulfilled all the requirements of our medieval condition. Until recent times we were a people apart, living among the nations of the world, but not a part of them. We had no right to join in the general civic life. Our life consisted in the memory of a national past and in the dreams of a national future. So far as the present was concerned, we were perforce interested only in the maintenance of our identity and in the preservation of our ancient law, so that we might be in a position some day to realize our dreams and to reëstablish our national state, founded on this ancient law. Deprived as we were of all right to live in the present, we could justify our existence and continuance as a[278] separate people and a separate religion only by laying stress on the importance of our ancient law, and striving to hand it down, pure and unaltered, to future generations. Therefore in those days the rabbis were naturally our only leaders, and their right to leadership depended solely upon their knowledge of the law. The observance of the Torah embraced all the limits of the life of the Jew.

Inconceivable as it would be to a medieval Jew that at a conference of Jewish rabbis a layman should preside and laymen should make formal addresses, it would be equally inconceivable to such a Jew that among the laymen who might make such addresses, there could be a professor at a great university, a worker in the general social activities of the city, and a judge. These changed conditions, this wide life now opened to the Jews, have produced new problems, and we demand of our rabbis, if they are indeed to remain the teachers and leaders in Israel, that they help us solve these problems.

As soon as opportunities were offered to us, we eagerly grasped them. We are too eager, too ambitious, too practical a people to continue to live in dreams of the past and visions of the future, when the present is thrown open to us. We have definitely and forever discarded the concept that we are a peculiar people, the "chosen of the Lord," in so far as that concept cuts us off from free participation in the life of the nations among which we live, or from serving in the cause of the general advance of humanity. We have demanded the opportunity to exercise civic rights, and as those rights have been granted, we have recognized that the opportunity confers also an obligation—the obligation to exercise those rights in no narrow spirit, but for the benefit of the whole people of which we are now a part.

We have discarded, as I have said and as I firmly believe, the ancient[279] concept that Judaism means membership in a peculiar people, the chosen of the Lord, except possibly in the sense that we have a peculiar obligation imposed upon us to demonstrate to the world the power and worth of a spiritual ideal. We Reform Jews have discarded the view that in any literal sense the Lord revealed himself unto Moses and gave unto him the tablets of stone. The words "Hear, O Israel, the Eternal is One, the Lord is One," are still dear to us, but many who call themselves Jews deny even the existence of a personal God. Why then do we still remain Jews, why do not those so-called Jews, who deny the existence of the Lord, frankly join the ranks of so-called universal philosophers while the rest of us join the Unitarians?

The answer comes not only from our heads, but from our hearts. Most of us could not renounce Judaism because deep down in our consciousness, aside from reason or logic, we know we are not as other men; we know we are Jews. We hear the cry of the suffering in Belgium and we answer to that cry because we are men and nothing human is alien to us,—but when we hear the cry of the suffering Jew in Poland and Palestine, then the true Jew answers that cry as the cry not only of a fellow human being, but as the cry of a brother.

During all the centuries since the dispersal, the Jews have had a common history, a common tradition, a common spiritual ideal, and they have survived by reason of the force of this common inheritance. It is this common inheritance of a past founded on a spiritual force that to-day, in my opinion, constitutes Judaism.[280]

That tradition at least is our own heritage, and he only is a Jew who recognizes the force of spiritual ideals, and by virtue of that inheritance also for himself assumes the obligation involved in being a member of a nation of priests and a holy people.

If that spiritual concept and not merely race constitutes the basis and the essential content of Judaism, then surely the question of whether the maintenance of Judaism will be a benefit to the country in which we live answers itself. In all civic matters we must work and be as one with our fellow-citizens, but America demands that each citizen give to its service the best of which he is capable.

Since Judaism means the recognition of a peculiar obligation imposed upon us by our past; since Judaism is founded upon a spiritual ideal,—adherence to our ancient faith and endeavor to live up to our past must be to us a source of greater moral and spiritual strength—strength that we must bring to the service of our country.

This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such a matter. For myself, I wish to say that if in the country where through our fathers the world first learnt the value of spiritual ideals, where it was prophesied that[281] "the law shall go forth from Zion and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem—" and "nations shall no longer lift up sword against nations neither shall they learn war any more," a community of Jews shall be again established who shall represent and contribute to the fulfillment of the prophecy, such a community would be from a spiritual standpoint a living force to keep Judaism alive throughout the world.

And it is the duty of our rabbis in the present just as it was in the past to lead us and strengthen us in our Judaism. A conference of rabbis to-day properly recognizes that Judaism consists no longer in the minute observances of the law; that the Jewish people are asking for the inner meaning of their religion, and not for dry formulas. In all humility as a layman, I say to them that the Jewish people again needs to be taught that what the Lord requires of them is "to do justice, to love mercy and to walk humbly with their God."

[282]

Lyrics

By Louis K. Anspacher

LOUIS K. ANSPACHER, poet and playwright, whose most recent plays, "Our Children" and "The Unchastened Woman," have won recognition for him as one of the most original and powerful dramatists of the present day. Born in Cincinnati in 1878, and educated at City College of New York, and Columbia University (A.M., LL.B.), he occupied the vestry pulpit of Temple Emanu-El, New York, for several years, and has lectured on ethics and the drama. A volume of his poems, to be published soon, will show more completely the depth and resourcefulness of the lyric power revealed in the accompanying verses. The portrait is from an oil painting by Franzen.

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Sholom Asch: The Jewish Maupassant

By Percy B. Shostac

PERCY B. SHOSTAC, born in 1892, in New York City, where he attended the Ethical Culture School and High School; graduate of the University of Wisconsin (1915), where he was an active member of the Wisconsin Dramatic Society and contributed frequently to the Wisconsin Play-Book. He is now teaching English at the University of Kansas. The present Essay was awarded the Wisconsin Menorah Prize for 1915.

Sholom Asch sat opposite me smoking his cigarette and sipping his coffee—a big man of thirty-five, with broad shoulders and a frame sturdy and substantial; thick black hair, a high forehead, a characteristically Jewish nose, a firm mouth, a little black moustache, and deep brown eyes—eyes that at times would seem to be unaware of anything surrounding them, yet one felt that they saw everything and understood everything. His complexion was that of a ruddy boy, yet his large handsome features had the sensitiveness which classed him unmistakably as an artist.

He was talking in Yiddish. His voice was soft and his sentences followed each other in musical cadence and beauty.

"Through the kindness of a friend we entered a house on one of the strange streets. Like most of the old houses its front was plain and unattractive. We went through a court and on to a balcony overlooking an enclosed garden. Such a garden I had never seen! It seemed a picture transported from the 'Thousand and One Nights.' In the center was a fountain of extraordinary workmanship, so inlaid with gems that after the water had gushed out it seemed to splash down again in a shower of ruby and amethyst. About the fountain were palms and fig trees. The flowers were more wondrous than the jewelled water or the many-colored mosaics of the walls and arches.

"On the grass sat a grey-bearded Mohammedan. He smoked his hookah in silence. Suddenly we heard voices. Three young women came from the house and bathed in the fountain. Their lord and husband sat stoically and smoked. They laughed and played in the splashing waters. And as I watched this old man and these beautiful women, I thought myself back in the ancient Damascus, in the city that I had thought was dead for a thousand years.

"The next day I visited a shop where hammered gold and silver, for which Damascus is famous, was sold. With the permission of the proprietor I went upstairs to the workroom. What I saw there I shall never forget.

"I found myself in a long but very narrow room, dimly lighted by a few dirty windows. In two long rows in front of two long tables sat fifty or sixty little girls huddled so close together that they touched one another. Each child was bent over the table and each held a little hammer. She was tapping on a piece of metal. The tapping was never-ending—a sharp clicking sound like the falling of hail. The children never spoke nor smiled. Near me sat a little girl. She was not more than eight years old. Her hammer had stopped tapping and her eyes were closed. She was asleep. The girl next to her, evidently her elder sister, seeing the foreman approach, pinched the child sharply. She opened her eyes and dully[287] began her tapping. As I left this room of darkness my eyes were wet with tears.

"I found out that only little girls were employed in this industry: that they began when eight or nine years old. When they were sixteen they usually were dead from the metal that had entered their lungs. The children were mostly Jewish, for you must know that when the Jews become part of a slow Eastern civilization they sink yet lower and become yet more phlegmatic and listless than the people among whom they have settled. I was indignant and asked if nothing was being done to remedy this terrible evil. Then I was told that there was one man who was devoting his life to freeing these children. It was the Jewish merchant who used the only electric light in Damascus. He gave every cent he earned to this work. He maintained an industrial school for Jewish children and was trying to interest the Jews of the world in the movement. And then I blessed this man's electric light. I think of him always as 'The Light of Damascus.'"

Sholom Asch was born and brought up in a little town in Poland, Kuttnow, near Lodz. His father was a merchant on a small scale. He bought sheep and oxen from the peasants and shipped them to be marketed in Lodz, in Germany, in France. He rode about the country and sometimes took Sholom with him, whom he loved especially because he studied so well. Sholom liked the sheep and the cattle, and he loved the melancholy Polish landscape—mystic, fearful.

His father was a healthy, normal, honorable Jew; not fanatical but deeply religious. He was philosophic toward life, he cared nothing for money and was content without it. His mother, on the other hand, was nervous and worldly. She was dependent on the externals of life and to her no money was misery. There was a big house with much food, many new clothes, much hospitality, and many big brothers and sisters; something like eleven children. The ceremonies of the Jewish faith were observed beautifully, the holidays kept happily. There was substance and spirit.

One day a peasant came to his house and Sholom went with him on his wagon. That was a wonderful day; he played hookey. The next day the rabbi, who believed in corporal punishment, expressed his views on the matter of absence.

Asch was extremely clever at learning the Talmud and the old history and philosophy of the Jews. He learned to reason from the Talmud and to-day he says, "Art is logic. There must be an 'Urkraft' (elemental strength) behind a man's work." And if there is one outstanding characteristic of Asch's work, it is this elemental, this passionately strong and elemental vein.

Max Reinhardt, whom Asch calls "Ein Dichter im Theater," loves Asch dearly. In his Deutsches Theater, the most artistic and best equipped theatre in the world, he produced Asch's God of Vengeance. This was a marked success and is still a most popular play in Germany, Russia, and in the Yiddish theatres of New York. Asch was only twenty-four years at this time. From this play he made much money and a whole village was made happy an entire summer.

Since then his income from his writings has increased steadily. Much of his work is now translated into Russian and German, but as yet not into English. The income from his translations far exceeds that from his Yiddish publications, and he is able to support his wife and four children in ease and comfort. Although he has been to America a few times during the last six years, it is only several months ago that his wife and children arrived from Poland and he settled here permanently.

And now since Perez's death, on Asch's shoulders has fallen the responsibility of being the greatest Jewish writer li