Part 4 (1/2)
The minister did not smile. ”But the Lord was on David's side,” he answered, gravely. ”Today he seems to have deserted His People.”
Down the street came a man whose white hairs might have marked him as aged had not his bright eyes and resolute bearing spoken of undying youth. He paused a moment at the gate, bowing to the Rabbi with all the formal courtliness of his day.
”Good _Shabbas_, Mr. Gomez,” said the minister. ”You are on your way to the synagogue?”
”Yes. Perhaps it may be the last service we will have in _Shearith Israel_ before the cursed British guns blow our roof about our ears,”
answered the older man. ”Alas, Mr. Seixas, when you were elected our Rabbi but a year ago, I predicted a long and fruitful term of service for you in our midst. But now--” a hopeless shrug completed the sentence.
”Believe me, I shall not fail in my duty as long as I serve the congregation of _Shearith Israel_,” answered the young Rabbi, rather stiffly.
”I know--I know.” The white head nodded gloomily. ”You will do what you can as a priest, but this war must be won by men. I have lived almost seventy years, Mr. Seixas, and have always sought to be a good Jew and hold up the hands of those who served the Lord, as I know you strive to do. And in times of peace, a man of your learning and purity of heart is a worthy leader. But in these times that try men's souls, we need not priests, but men,” he repeated and walked slowly away.
”What did he mean, Mr. Seixas?” asked David as the old man disappeared down the street. His eager little ears had taken in every word of the conversation; but he had not dared to ask questions while his elders were conversing, and had remained silent as a well-bred lad of his day was taught to do. ”Does he mean we shouldn't have rabbis and ministers when there's a war?”
The rabbi shook his head. ”Not exactly that, David. But perhaps he wishes that today we had fighting priests like the old Maccabees, those men who went to battle with swords in their hands, prayers in their hearts. And old Mr. Gomez is a fit descendant of those heroes,”
he cried with sudden warmth. ”Old as he is, he offered to form a company of soldiers for service and enlist himself. When he was told that he was too old to take the field, he said: 'I could stop a bullet as well as a younger man.' It is such a spirit that wins wars, David.”
”That's splendid!” exclaimed the boy. ”I know how he feels--just sitting around New York and waiting for the British to come and rule over us! If I were only old enough to go and fight, too! I wish,”
wistfully, ”I were grown up like you. Then I wouldn't have to be here today, waiting to go to the synagogue with Grandmother. I'd be with Frank and General Was.h.i.+ngton and be fighting for my country.”
The minister's cheeks flushed; he winced as though the boy's innocent words had hurt him deeply. When he spoke it seemed that he was almost thinking aloud; that he had forgotten his young companion on the other side of the hedge.
”How can I lay aside my clergyman's cloak for the soldier's uniform?”
he asked, slowly. ”And how can I leave my bride of a year--perhaps never to return to her? And my people--I have not been with them any longer: surely, my duty is to them; to guide and lead them in this time of danger and uncertainty. Otherwise I would be like a shepherd who rushes off to fight the robbers of the mountains, while his flocks are torn by wolves that ravage close at hand.”
He spoke as though he were reciting the words of a speech already written and learned by rote, thought David, half-wondering if the minister weren't learning his sermon for that morning. For how could the boy know that Mr. Seixas had again and again repeated to himself the very arguments he was now uttering aloud for the first time.
Suddenly the young man who had stood like one in a dream, leaning upon the gate, his eyes looking far way, turned toward him and smiled almost in apology.
”Have you wondered at my words, little David?” he asked, almost lightly. ”Ah, in days like these, one says many strange and unheard-of things. I have tried to refrain from speaking, for now mere words are idle and of little worth. But when I think of my New York--the city in which I was born and reared--in the hands of the British, I must speak, or my heart would choke me.” His hand tugged at the linen stock about his throat. ”G.o.d of Israel,” he muttered, ”in these dark days, give Thy servant light to see Thy ways--and strength to follow them.”
David, feeling strangely awkward at hearing his rabbi pray, save in the pulpit, looked longingly at the house, hoping that his grandmother would come out and end the discussion which was becoming a little difficult for him. But he knew how long it always took her to don her Sabbath silk and long gold chain and earrings, and resigned himself to listen, should the Rev. Mr. Seixas care to talk to him further.
For a few moments there was silence between them. Then the rabbi turned to David again and continued to speak to him as though he were really grown up, and not a little boy who had studied Hebrew and history with him all winter.
”I am not afraid to go into battle,” he said quietly, ”but I feel that it will take far more bravery to fight for our country right here at home. I must be on hand to cheer and comfort my people; to teach those who lose their dear ones on the battlefield to look to our G.o.d for consolation; to teach those who stay at home to do their part too, even if it be but knitting and baking dainties for our soldiers. That will be easy,” he mused, ”but how can I endure living here under British rule, feeling myself a slave among a slave people?” He threw back his head, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. ”Our people have wandered, many of them, from Spain to Holland, from Holland to this blessed land, to be free; how can I, a leader in Israel, bow down to the sons of Belial who will come among us!” His hands clenched the wickets of the gate; he breathed hard and was silent.
As he spoke in ringing tones, an almost forgotten picture flashed before David's eyes. He was listening again to the rabbi's story of the days when the Romans besieged Jerusalem and laid it waste and took the people captive. He remembered how Mr. Seixas had glowed with pride when he told of those ancient Jews--”Fighters all, David, who could not live as slaves.”
”Mr. Seixas,” asked David, suddenly, ”in the old days when the Romans burned the Temple and everything, what did the rabbis do? Did they fight like Bar Kochba and the other generals?”
With a visible effort, the rabbi wrenched himself back to the present.
”The Romans”--he repeated, vaguely. ”What did the rabbis do?” Again his voice thrilled with pride as it had done when he had first told the child the story of Bar Kochba's rebellion. ”They were brave men, David; priests and warriors. Rabbi Akiba did the thing I must try to do--kept the fighters brave and loyal; and when he could do no more, he died as bravely as the bravest soldier of them all.”
”But there was one rabbi who didn't die,” insisted David. ”I forget his name, but I liked him better than all the others because he got the best of the Romans. Don't you know--he pretended he was dead and had his pupils take him to the Emperor in a coffin, that the guards wouldn't stop them when they pa.s.sed the gates. And when the Emperor asked him what he wanted, he said 'Just let me build a school and I won't trouble anybody! What was his name, Mr. Seixas?”
”You are thinking of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai,” answered his teacher, slowly. ”You are right--he did 'get the best of the Romans,' as you say. He would have died rather than breathe the air of a Roman court like Josephus; instead he continued to fight the enemy of his people; he handed down to his disciples the sword with which they were to fight through the centuries.”
”What sword?” asked David, puzzled.