7 THE JEWISH CHRONICLE Happy New Year, Gerty!" By Kate Friedmann "Yes," eagerly, "but in my cigar shop we talk Polish, Russian, Jew- ish—but English, no. Home they talk only little, so"—with a final flourish of the little hand, "I go to night-school. I learn hurry up." "When the war-drum throbs no longer and the battle flags are furled, In the Parliament of man, the Federa- tion of the world; "Then the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lap- ped in universal law." —Tennyson. "I know you will," said Kroner. "Ile sure to come tomorrow night ti-J1 I will bring you another book." Gerty's dimple flashed gratitude. '['hey had reached the car-line. She hurried forward. G ERTY sat very straight and still, her dark eyes fixed adoringly on the speaker, a tall, slender, grey-eyed youth, earnest in mien, impressive in bearing, with a ring of sincerity in his vibrant tones. It is true she didn't understand every word he uttered, but what matter? His gestures, his elo- quence, his earnestness were enough. Then suddenly, she gasped and pressed her hand to her heart, vainly attempting to strangle in infancy a recurrence of the pain that had seized her that morning when the foreman had unexpect- edly reproved her for "loafing." She groped for some invisible support, failed to find it, and slid quietly down in her seat. No one noticed. The speaker was near- ing his climax. He flung the words "life," "liberty" and "hap- piness" with reckless abandon in the face of his enthusiastic audi- ence and concluded amidst thun- dering applause. Thrilled and elated his listeners dispersed. Harry Kroner, the orator, with wilted collar and damp face, pre- pared to follow. A little huddled figure in the corner attracted his attention. Very often his audi- ence, composed mainly of Rus- sian immigrants, were moved, but few wholly overcome. He walked over and gently touched the girl's arm. She stirred, sat up hastily, and, finding the room strangely quiet and empty, turned a pair of frightened, wondering eyes on Kroner. "You finish?" she questioned timidly. "Yes," was the puzzled an- swer, "didn't you know?" "I—I—no. I get a sticking pain here," she pointed a tiny hand to her heart—"that's all." Her eyes begged forgiveness for inadvertance. She stood up very straight—all the five feet of her. "I go now," she said simply. Something in the pinched little face made Kroner fumble with a perfectly unoffending collar. "I'll walk to the car with you if you want me to," he said. A sudden smile lighted up her face. A dar- "Thank you," she said simply. "( ;ocd-night." "Good-night," he answered. Kroner watched the little figure reach for a strap, miss it, make another attempt ; then the car turned, and Kroner, smiling rem- iniscently, retraced his steps. Only six years ago he, too, had wanted to "learn English hurry up." What wonderful eyes ! MISS KATE FRIEDMANN Miss Friedniann bids fair to bring honor to the Jewish community of Detroit as a short story writer of considerable merit. She recently completed a course on the technique of the short story at the summer school of the Uni- versity of Michigan, and gave evidence of talent that prompted her instructors to advise her • to continue in her studies. She beco me a regular student at Ann Arbor at the opening of the school year in October. Miss Friedmann's. ability was first expressed in her contributions to "The Triangle," the student magaz.ine of Cass high School. She received a gold medal for the best short story of the year. "A Happy New Year, Gerty," is her first college attempt. It received high praise from the head of her department at the university and was used as a model for class room discussion. A brilliant future is predicted for Miss Friedmann, the attainment of which is the earnest wish of the Jewish community of Detroit. ing dimple forced its way to her cheek. She trembled with de- lighted excitement. Tomorrow she would tell the girl's at the shop that Harry Kroner, the for- eigner who had accomplished such wonders in only six years— Kroner, the organizer of clubs, the settlement worker, the speak- er at mass meetings, the night- school teacher, the strike-arbi- trator, Kroner the— The subject of future noon- hour discussions interrupted, "Do you get that sticking pain often?" "No, no," hastily and apologet- ically. Kroner changed the sub- ject. "Do you like to hear about America ?" "I like to hear—you—talk," was the frank and fervent reply. "It is a wonderful country," Kroner went on, lapsing uncon- sciously into the spirit of his re- cent oration, "a wonderful land, • full of golden oppo . rtunities, the home of a free people." Gerty didn't answer. Gerty's America was Division street, in the heart of the Ghetto, between a synagogue and a garage. Her golden opportunities in the cigar factory were limited to a speci- fied number beyond which she, a union worker, could not dare. Her freedom she exercised at night in a choice between the fleischige dishes and last week's ironing. "Don't you agree with me?" he questioned, now dimly realiz- ing the incongruity of his last statement. •' "Yes, yes," anxious to be aftee- able, "it is so, but I don't. talk so much English. I here only two year, but I learn quick now. I go to your school." She smiled hap- pily. "See," holding up a book, "I read twenty pages myself." Kron- er glanced at the book. "Do you want to learn quick- ly?" he asked. Gerty smiled too, a radiant, tremulous smile. a happy tear stole furtively down the olive cheek ; her eyes glowed with the dawning hope of better things. Harry Kroner had noticed her! "I will bring you another book," he had said and smiled his frank, hearty smile. Mechanically she alighted at the proper corner. A young voice, breathless and im- patient, aroused her. "Gee, Gerty, already twice I say 'Dave is waiting, Dave is wait- ing,' and you only look at me and don't say nothing:" Gerty shivered back to realities. Dave was wait- ing! Dave with his fringe of curly hair around a bald spot, rubber- collared and asthmatic; was wait- ing, as he always waited. She could see him now seated uncom- fortably and unhappily on the bench in front of her uncle's butcher-shop, slightly undersized and considerably. overweight, breathing of his profession and panting for breath. She could hear him as if at a great distance. Di- vision Street, when it did not con- verse in Yiddish, did so in Divis- ion Street English, a picturesque jargon interspersed with foreign words and phrases that baffled translation. "What's the matter so late?" he wheezed, by way of greeting, "Louie, Sadie, twenty minutes they're horrie already from night- school." Silently Gerty took her accustomed place beside him. The smile had fled, leaving no trace. Dave was speaking again. "To night-school you go," he panted. Bch, itch night-school. English you know enough for me. No more night-school. Tomorrow we go to the Co-operative. Kosher ."