2
the 'white man's burden.' But I
hardly recall any other example of
a white people crushed down by
another white people on the ground
of its admitted superiority. And
from a simple geographical point
of view what the ruling majority
claims is to bar one of the greatest
and oldest members of the human
family from access to nearly a sixt11
of the globe. And this insolent
and inhuman claim is enforced not
only against Russia's own Jews,
but against subjects of her Allies
like myself. The titter unreason
of this claim stands out more viv-
idly when it is recalled that in the
larger half of this prohibited area
—in Siberia—only ten millions of
people eke out a livelihood, and that
a continent half as large again as
the United States has been left al-
most in primeval forest. Is there
any reason why the Jews, instead
of being cooped up in stinking pov-
erty in the towns of the Pale,
should not be invited to carve out
a province with the ploughshare
from these vast neglected territo-
ries?
"The Russian Jews are, accord
ing to Mr. Graham himself, 'a great
people; even 'a people of genius.'
Physically they are a far finer type
than the Western Jews ; spiritually,
they bubble with artistic vitality of
every sort.
"And while the majority are sunk
in their native piety and poverty,
that feckless faith which our senti-
mental tramp adores when
when it is
tangled up with trinities,
is
an industrial and commercial mi-
nority which is infinitely more val-
uable to Russia than her deposits of
coal or petroleum.
"If Russia proper is an aggrega-
tion of analphabetic peasants, all
the more reason why that section
of her population which possesses
an ancient tradition of culture
should gratify its passion for edu-
cation.
"If Russia proper is inapt for
industry and has hitherto been ex-
ploited by her German enemies, is
not that the very reason why she
should now be developed by her
Jewish citizens, why she should
yoke their financial talents to the
service of the State ?
"These six millions of 'Jews are
here body and soul. They love the
soil which they have inhabited for
centuries, in some cases longer than
the 'true-born Russians.'
"The truest Christians in Russia,
they are ready to forgive the un-
speakable past. They ask nothing
better than to live' and die for
`Mother Russia,' and if the still
more ancient 'Mother Zion' has
been invoked these latter days, it
was from sheer hoplessness of ever
being treated as children of Russia.
"Was there ever a more deplor-
able example of muddled states-
craft ? A Tsar who throws away
so rich a tender of love and service
-is no 'Little Father' ; he is a 'Prod-
. igal Son.'
"Equal rights for the Jew—or
even equal wrongs with the Rus-
THE JEWISH CHRONICLE
NEWS FROM HOME
By Hannah Berman
Against his will, against his wish,
in direct opposition to every fibre in
his being, Joseph; the son of Zal-
men, the tailor, was compelled to
leave his native village and take
refuge in a foreign land; in a word,
to run away from home. He had
not the courage to face the con-
scription lest he might happen to
draw a wrong number, and so have
to carry a gun.
The day on which he arrived in
London was hot and sultry. Ilis
eyes were dazzled by the glittering
beams of the sun. And what with
the heat and the dust, the hurrying
crowds, the rushing vehicles, the
clanging trams, the flying motors,
the shops on top of each other, and
the dense throngs of people that
filled the broad pavements to over-
flowing—what with the glare . and
the glitter, the Whitechapel Road
was to him a marvel of marvels.
He found that while he counted no
more than a hundred, under his
breath, from his corner of the cab,
there passed by him on one side of
the street only, nearly twice as
many persons as were to be found
in the whole of his village, counting
even the little children that were
still at their 'mother's breasts. It
was marvellous , bewildering awe-
inspiring. Joseph thought it so
marvelous that he felt he ought, by
right, to pronounce a blessing on it,
as if lie were seeing a natural phe-
nomenon for the first time. And it
was only because he could not make
up his mind which blessing was the
most appropriate, that he said none
at all, but remained speechless, me-
chanically e milting from one to a
hundred. Over and over again, but
scarcely moving his lips. Soon he
gave up counting to wait—to wait
for he knew not what.
Meanwhile the cab rolled into a
narrow street out of which it rolled
into a still narrower one. The rush
and the roar had been left behind,
sian—would indeed bring a prob-
lem—but for the Jew the problem
of his dissolution in the melting-
pot of common :citizenship. But
to the Russian this enfranchisement
of the Jew would be the solution,
not the establishment, of a prob-
lem. And this problem was never
more than a mirage, a Brocken
spectre, a phantasm born of igno-
rance and fear, a superfluous addi-
tion to the sorrows of peoples and
the cares of kings. In know, in-
deed, no more tragic purblindness
in history than that Russia, en-
dowed with a human asset of value
incalculable and incomparable,
should see herself burdened instead
of enriched. •
"She has a treasure and can see
only a problem. The pity and folly
of it all."
but the echoes followed the rumb-
ling of the cab like so many growls
of thunder gathering and gathering
to one final outburst.
They stopped in front of a nar-
row, dingy house, on the steps of
which a dozen children were play-
ing. The whole street out into the
middle of the road was covered
with children, rolling about, rushing
here and there, playing in the gut-
ters, and lying tranquilly on the
pavements, kicking their heels in
the air and sucking their fists.
The cabman clambered down
from his box, stared at the piece of
paper he had taken from Joseph
at the railway station, muttered-
"14-14"—looked at the numbers
on the doors which stood open in a
row, selected one of them, muttered
something again, and knocked so
loudly that the whole street was on
the alert on the instant. The chil-
dren rushed over. The little heads
that were thrust forward in curi-
osity were so numerous that again
Joseph thought he had never seen
so many together in his life. But
he had no time to look about him
or question himself. Before lie
knew exactly what was happening
Ile found himself standing inside a
narrow, stuffy room crowded with
little tables, and highly colored
chairs, and a quantity of rugs. And,
facing him, examining him critic-
ally from head to toes, and from
toes to head again, was a tall, heav-
ily built woman, with bright eyes,
rosy cheeks, and a heavy wig plas-
tered down over her broad head.
This was his mother's cousin, i\lal-
ka, with whom he was to live for
the present, and to whom lie had
been sent direct by his parents.
"M—m!" she cried at sight of
him, "m—m! how like my cousin
Gittel you are ! How like your
mother you are—how like !"
"They say, aunt, that I'm like my
father's brother Pesach," he ven-
tured to remark timidly.
"There's news for you ! Who
says that ? Your father, the fool ?
Go, go! You are exactly like your
mother's mother, Chana, peace be
unto her !"
"I'm like my father's brother
Pesach," he replied, but in a feebler
voice than before.
"What will you tell me next ?"
demanded Malka, throwing out her
hands disdainfully. "Well, never
mind now whom you resemble, and
whom you don't resemble. While
we are waiting for your uncle Joel
to come home from his work, when
we will all have our tea together,
my son and daughter as well, you
can sit down and tell me some news
from home. All the news, my
young man—everything that there
is to be told, everything."
Joseph moved uneasily under her
fixed gaze. He did not know what
to say to her, where to begin his
news, what to tell, and what not to
tell, what might interest her, which
of the people of his village she re-
membered, and which she knew
nothing at all about. Along with
this feeling of doubt he was kept
silent by the overpowering desire to
tell M elka that he was far too tired
and hungry to say a word to any=
one. lie would have liked nothing
better than to stretch himself out
on the big, deep couch in the living
room of his mother's house with a
glass of tea in front of him. Ile
looked askance at the tiny sofa that
stood guiltily against the wall op-
posite him, as if it were ashamed of
its very existence, and could have
buried itself in the ground because
people not only called it a sofa, but
sometimes actually attempted to rest
themselves on it. Joseph saw that
there was nothing for him to do but
listen to Malka, and answer the
questions she was about to put to
him. I le resigned himself to his
fate.
All around him was the subdued.
rush and roar of the city. The dull
thud of a thousand feet came in
through the open door, and mingled
curiously with the cries and screams
and laughter of the children in the
street, the racuous voices of the
hawkers speaking in a jargon that
he thought lie would never be able
to make out, the clanging of bells,
the hoot of factory horns, and the
shrill and quick blare of motor-
horns. A thousand restless shad-
ows seemed to be moving to and
fro before Joseph's eyes dazzling
him, bewildering him, and frighten-
ing him as well. And through the
strange co-mingling of noises, wind-
ing in and out of • it, as it were,
came the sharp, staccato voice of
the woman who was questioning
him, over and over again, rapidly
and insistently, and without seem-
ing to care whether he answered her
or not.
"And I hear that old Samuel, the
beadle, is dead. Yes, is it so?" she
asked, and paused to see the effect
of her words, which, for some ob-
scure reason, she imagined were
highly charged with significance.
"It is so, aunty." Joseph made
haste to collect his wandering wits.
"He died four, maybe five years
ago."
"H—h! They wanted my hus-
'band to become a beadle when we
came here first, and he had nothing
to do, and did not know where to
turn. But he would not—not he!
Oh, no. Why should he have
people ordering him about. I
wouldn't have it, either. 'Have one
master, Joel,' I said to him. 'A mas-
ter is a master, but one is not many.'
And he took my advice. He always
does. Oh, no; I have nothing to
(Continued on• Page 14)