Part 4 (2/2)

”Not a real sword; the study of our Law, our Torah. He opened a school at Jabneh, you remember, and there he taught his scholars to be good Jews, even though Jerusalem was destroyed.” His eyes widened and again he seemed to be looking far away. ”Jerusalem was destroyed, even as the city of my hope will be taken from me. But Rabbi ben Zakkai escaped to Jabneh and continued the battle there!” He spoke almost in a whisper and a strange light glowed in his face. ”Have you been sent to teach me the truth, David? Truly, 'out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained truth.'”

Mistress Seixas appeared at the doorway, a bright-faced young woman, pretty in her Sabbath finery of gay silk mantle and flowered bonnet.

”I am all ready, Gershom,” she told her husband as she came down the path.

”And I am ready, too, Elkallah,” he answered so gravely that David felt he meant much more than the simple words implied.

David, as a boy who was not yet _Bar Mitzvah_, sat beside his grandmother in the _Shearith Israel_ synagogue that bright September morning, while the drums beat in the streets and the frightened citizens buzzed excitedly in knots upon the street corners, this man contending that the British would be defeated before they even crossed the Sound, his neighbor declaring that on the morrow the redcoats would surely be encamped in the city. Within the synagogue, the Jewish citizens of New York continued to hold their Sabbath services. A goodly a.s.sembly they were; Jews of proud blood from Spain and Portugal, descendants of the early settlers in New Amsterdam, when the city of New York was still in the hand of the Dutch; a sprinkling of _Ashken.a.z.im_, German and Polish Jews, who at that time were too few in number to have a congregation of their own. There were many children and young people there, pupils and graduates of the religious school the congregation had founded almost fifty years before for the teaching of Hebrew, modern languages and the common branches. While among the men sat st.u.r.dy patriots, Samuel Judah, Hayem Levy, Jacob Mosez and others whose names had appeared on the Non-importation agreement in 1769, when they with their gentile neighbors had dared to protest against the tyranny of Great Britain. Benjamin Seixas was there, too, one of the first Jews to become an officer in the American Army and several other Jewish soldiers in their uniforms of buff and blue sat nearby; while directly before him, his alert face thrust forward, sat old Mr. Gomez, drinking in every word of the sermon the young rabbi delivered after the Sabbath services were over; an English sermon, destined to make Jewish history in America.

At first Rabbi Seixas spoke quietly enough, reviewing for his people the causes which had led up to the break between the mother country, England, and her colonies. He spoke of the tyranny of the king and his slavish Parliament, the unjust taxes, the quartering of troops upon a law-abiding and peace-loving people. With quiet bitterness, he repeated the old story of the children of Israel who demanded that their prophet Samuel set a king over them, and of the prophet's warning that only evil would come to a people who served a king instead of the Lord of Hosts. ”And today,” went on Mr. Seixas, ”today, we the people of the Thirteen Colonies have a king over us far more tyrannical and unjust than the oriental monarch Samuel painted of old. To this day have I been silent, breathing no word against this Pharaoh of Egypt, for the mission of Israel has ever been peace, and next to G.o.d we have been loyal to the masters He has set over us. But in times like these we are serving Him best by defying those who rule in His name, but know not His laws of mercy and of justice. The time has come at last for us to enter the Valley of Decision. Where will you stand now, my people, when the redcoats thunder at our gates?

Shall we bow before Pharaoh? Nay, the same G.o.d who rescued our fathers from the Pharaoh of Egypt will rescue us and all who call upon Him, from this new tyrant who would bend our necks and fetter us like very slaves.”

There was a solemn hush in the synagogue, broken only by the murmur of the pa.s.sing crowds outside, the distant roll of drums. For the first time that morning David was glad he had not been allowed to run off to see the soldiers. This was not an every-week sort of sermon about keeping the Sabbath or about some dead kings with long, hard names; the rabbi no longer seemed just a quiet man in a dark coat who had a great many books and knew everything and taught him Hebrew and history. Instead, he appeared like those splendid fighting priests he had mentioned that morning, a man who talked to G.o.d--and held a sword in his hand while he prayed.

For a moment Mr. Seixas stood before his congregation, looking down into the tense, upturned faces, yet past them, as though his eyes saw visions no other man there might see. Perhaps he was thinking of what a great step he had just taken; how his words had outlawed him forever in the sight of the English king; had made him an exile from the dear city of his birth. Again his hands clutched at his stock and he breathed with difficulty, but only for a moment. For his eyes met those of his young wife, Elkallah, and he smiled to rea.s.sure her and give her comfort. When he spoke again, his voice was low and clear, but as strong as a trumpet call in battle.

”Tonight, perhaps; surely, tomorrow, the British will have entered our city--but they will not find me here. For I will not serve the Lord in a sanctuary from which Freedom has departed. I will leave the city and seek for a place of refuge where the soldiers of the colonies fight for freedom. And, my people, I ask you in the words of Mattathias, that warrior priest of other days--'Those who are on the Lord's side follow me!'”

Again a long silence, then an uproar from every side. ”He speaks truly! It is slavery if we remain!” ”I cannot leave my property to be confiscated by the Crown.” ”The British will never take the city.”

”They will be here by sunrise.” And suddenly little David's shrill voice ringing above the others, although he never realized until hours afterwards, when he was reprimanded by his grandmother, that he had dared to speak out with all the older and wiser members of the congregation:

”O Mr. Seixas, please take me along, too! I don't want to live in New York any more if the redcoats are here.”

”And I will follow you,” cried another voice, ”although my fortune be forfeit and my land be seized by the king.”

”And I--and I,” rang out from every corner of the synagogue.

Some were silent, those who were to remain behind, and as Tories, know the friends.h.i.+p of the invaders. But the greater part of the wors.h.i.+ppers, those whose ancestors like the Pilgrim Fathers had come to these sh.o.r.es to seek freedom before G.o.d, responded to their rabbi's call like true soldiers about their standard bearer.

”All that the Lord hath laid upon us, that will we do,” cried out a very old man, rising to his feet and trembling with age as he spoke.

”My eyes are dim, but He will not close them in death until they behold the rising of the sun of freedom upon these blessed sh.o.r.es.”

He spoke like an ancient prophet and a hush like death fell upon the people. Slowly, like a man in a dream, Rabbi Seixas walked to the Ark and took from it the Scrolls of the Law; with the eyes of a man who sees visions he clasped the Torah to his breast and spoke: ”When Jerusalem was destroyed, Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai rebuilt a spiritual Jerusalem in the little town of Jabneh where the faithful ones sat at his feet and learned the Law. I will not leave our precious Torah behind me to be used by those who remain here to serve King George instead of the King of Israel. Some time, some place G.o.d will establish a refuge for His faithful ones and there will we wors.h.i.+p Him as free men.” He spoke with a great hope in his heart, although at that moment he never dreamed how during the darkest days of the Revolution he would be allowed to labor and serve in Philadelphia until he should return to New York in triumph to witness the inauguration of George Was.h.i.+ngton as president of the United States.

At a word from the minister, the _Shammas_ (s.e.xton) and several members of the congregation quietly removed the velvet curtains from the Ark, taking the silver pointer, the _Ner Tamid_ (perpetual light), all the sacred symbols which had made their wors.h.i.+p beautiful for Sabbath after Sabbath during the years of security and peace. The congregation sat motionless, like people in a dream. Laying the Torah aside, Mr. Seixas came forward, his hands raised in blessing. His voice was tremulous with tears as he spoke: ”_Yevorekhekha Adonai we-yishm'rekha. Yaer Adonai panov eilekha wi'chunekha. Yisa Adonai panov eilekha weyasem lekha shalom._” (The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to s.h.i.+ne upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.)

Then, the Scroll again close to his heart, he pa.s.sed among the silent wors.h.i.+ppers out into the warm September suns.h.i.+ne.

One by one the people followed him as he stood before the synagogue where he had hoped to serve so many useful years. His face was grave, but his voice was firm, his bearing unafraid. His young wife, Elkallah, stood proudly beside him. Though threatened with exile, she held her head like a queen. From the synagogue came old Mistress Phillips, leaning upon David's arm. ”We will miss you sorely, Mr.

Seixas,” she said, sadly, ”both as rabbi and as neighbor. I--ah, I am too old to leave the city where I was born. But perhaps I will send David to his cousins in Philadelphia.”

”But I won't stay there,” cried the boy, his cheeks flaming with excitement. ”I'm going to be a soldier--just like the Maccabees.” He raised flas.h.i.+ng eyes to his teacher's face and something that he saw there made the happiness die out of his own. Boy that he was, he realized the ache in the rabbi's heart at leaving his work and his friends behind him.

”I'm sorry you have to go, Mr. Seixas,” he said simply.

The young minister turned his somber eyes back toward the synagogue which he had entered a year before, his heart burning with great hopes for the future. Now, with the Torah in his arms, his congregation scattered, he felt himself a fugitive on the face of the earth. He looked about him at the older folk like Mistress Phillips whose dying bedside he might never comfort, at the little children he could no longer teach. Lastly he looked down into the tearful eyes of his young bride--a bride of a year, with exile and hards.h.i.+p before her. Then he straightened his shoulders and spoke bravely.

”Some day,” said Rabbi Seixas, ”I will return to serve our G.o.d in a city that He has made free.”

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