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M A S M I D



YESRIVA COLLEQE
"MASMID"



NUMBER II CONTENTS JUNE. 1930



FACULTY 5

EDITORIAL , 8

WANDERER, by Joseph Kamineuky 8

JACOB OUT OF BOOKS, by Herbert Creenberg 9

DEFEAT, by Charles Hirshfeld 12

POT-POURRI, by Eegee 13

■■AMANS AMARE" by Trcbreh 14

RECALL, by Meyer Eskowitz 15

•ROUND TOWN 1 6

AGED OAK. by Lows Barishnikolf 18

MONGREL, by -H. A. S." 19

FATHER AND SON. by Jacob Agushewitz 20

LEAVES AND LIVES 21

SUMMER TIME, by Eegee 24

THE JEW IN THE GERMAN LITERATURE OF THE
FIFTEENTH. SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH
CENTURIES, by Bernard Creenberg 25



M A S M I D



FACULTY

BERNARD REVEL, Ph.D. ...._ President

SHELLEY R. SAFIR. Ph.D. Secretary of Faculty

and Professor of Biology

BERNARD DRACHMAN. Ph.D. Instructor in German

JEKUTHIEL GINSBERG, M.A, Assistant Professor of Mathematics

ABRAHAM B. HURWITZ, M,A Instructor m Physical Education

MOSES L. ISAACS. Ph,D,.. Instructor in Chemistry

RAPHAEL KURZROK, M.D., Ph.D Instructor m Physiology

ERASTUS PALMER. M.A Professor of Public Speaking

SOLOMON A. RHODES, Ph.D. Instructor in French

JACOB R. SILVERMAN. Ph.D Instructor in Physics

SOLOMON GANDZ, Ph.D. Librarian

JOSEPH GLANZ, B.S. Laboratory Assistant

ASSOCIATED FACULTY

CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D. English

Professor of English. College of the City of New York

ISAAC HUSIK, Ph.D. Cioilization

Professor of Philosophy, University of Pennsylvania

SOLOMON LIPTZIN, Ph.D. German

Instructor in German. College of the City of New York

NELSON P. MEAD. Ph.D. History

Professor of History, College of the City of New York

JOSEPH PEARL, Ph.D. Latin

Assistant Professor of Latin, College of the City of New York

*GUSTAV F. SCHULZ, M.A. Public Speaking

Assistant Professor of Public Speaking,
College of the City of New York
'^On leave of absence.



M A S M I D



Executive Council




Reading left to right

Hyman Muss, Ralph M. Weisberger, Julius Washer, President,

Heiberc Greenberg, Hyman Israel



M A S M I D



Board of Editors




Reading left to right

Bernard Greenberg, Abraham S. Gutterman, Hyman Muss, Charles Hirshfeld

Herbert Greenberg, editor-in-chief, Ralph M- Weisberger, Israel Upbin



M A S M I D



EDITORIAL



DOLDRUMS

Upon looking through other college pub-
lications whose predominant tone is good
cheer and jolly wit a definite uneasiness stirs
through us. If a college publication repre-
sents the frame of mind of the student body,
our temperament has surely not been a deni-
zen of the more sporty spheres. We have
had a serious dearth of articles of the jollier
sort. Our articles seem to be the weighty
articulation of sighing Hamlets — heavy-
hearted with soliloquies and ponderous medi-
tation.

Yet we feel the source of expressiveness in
us is the same as in our more jovial compeers.
We know we can learn to respond just as
warmly to good-chser and jolly wit — for we
feel a ripening congeniality in us. Yet our
laughter has been like the arrested smile of
the Mona Lisa — like the slow thawing of
ice-peaks. We know of a place where there
was no laughter — but it was the habitat of
Gulliver's senile Surbrugs. College, however,
is the habitat of youth — and youth without
jollity is a lesser form of spiritual impotence
or torpor.

Must this emotional jading come with in-
tellectual consecration? Then is not all



knowledge an insipid thing if it brings with
it an incapacity for joy in life? Perhaps we
need not go so far in denunciation. We feel
this half-baked lethargy cannot truly be
traced to devotion to books but rather to a
misdirected zeal and to an uncalled for clois-
tered isolation.

We have denied ourselves wholesome so-
cial lives that could include the virtues of
intellectuality without the vice of excessive
virtue. It is to this denial of a wealth of
extra-curricular experiences that our social
torpor can be traced. Where is a spokes-
man to represent us in oratory, in debates, in
dramatics? Our athlete is a sulking Achilles
— and we've a crying need for him.

We have been standing upon a fertile soil:
and a wholesome social tree should have long
ago, from deep-thrust root, have lifted leaves
of pleasant association. All we've achieved
is a weed here and there. Class room atmo-
sphere fades in time: but a walk, confidential
exchanges, fraternity, a rousing school song
and extra-mural competition — these engen-
der sentiments that linger after integrals and
\''ergil are forgotten. They are the oft-men-
tioned "ties that bind," infusing vigorous life
into colorless creatures of clay.



WANDERER

O wandering Jew! Soul without peace or rest!

Thou hast traversed the seas, the breakers' foam:

Hast wandered far from thy beloved home —

That holy land with milk and honey blest.

Thou travellest ever o'er East and West,

And art compelled, from land to land, to roam:

For branded as the student of one tome.

Thou art forever the unwelcome guest.

But Jew! Though wanderer, despised, disdained,

Thou hast refused to perish or to yield:

Thy faith in thy Creator has not waned.

Hast been devoted to His Word — thy shield.

And, Jew, such hope and trust must be repaid;

The Merciful will bless thee with His aid.

Joseph Kaminetsky



M A S M I D



Jacob out of Books

By Herbert Greenberg



i



T was shearing time in Padan-aram.
The warm air echoed with the swish
of the heavy shears and with the
trembhng "ma-a-a" of the bewildered
sheep. Sometimes a helpless ewe started to
stray away, but that only meant that Jacob
or another shepherd boredly shooed the wan-
derer back into place. The ewe never re-
belled; she just plodded dully back in meek
return to the flock.

The sheep were so utterly guileless in their
feeble bleating over repressed wants or sud-
den stabs from the shears that Jacob's heart
expanded with tenderness for them. Con-
fronted with wily Laban, Jacob, too,
had been feebly bleating, he brooded.
Away from Laban Jacob would become viol-
ently exasperated. How blandly the pomp-
ous sheik had again and again pretended
concern over Jacob's poverty: and Jacob had
been shooed into place again. There was no
rebellion — only a dull plodding. And pau-
pered Jacob had served while Laban's graz-
ing flocks had fattened and multiplied.



Memories were like bits of wool at shear-
ing-time, Jacob thought. You nimbly ran
through them: sometimes with an amused
smile on your lips. And sometimes you came
across some wool your shears had spoiled-
clean, soft wool, but your shears had cut into
it badly. It clung to your fingers and to
shake it off seemed villainous. It had been
so clean and pure — and a bit of a thoughtless-
ness of blind impatience had spoiled it.

There were memories that clung to Jacob
in just that way. There was the sad memory
of a half-blind old man in Canaan, sitting
silently at the opening of his tent. His face
was relaxed, and the peace of patient old age
was upon it. His beard was flowing white
and his blank stare was steady and piercing.
Then, too, one always felt that there were
hidden eyes behind the unseeing ones — sober.



hidden eyes that saw into the spirit of things!
When wronged they seemed to become hurt
and sad, and the hurt and sadness were more
troubling than the most venemous rebuke.
Those eyes still lived and judged in far-ofl^
Padan-aram — in the heart of Jacob.

The old man was quietly grieving with
the peace that comes with resignation and
humility. And with his grieving came wis-
dom and understanding. But it was a sor-
rowful wisdom. It was a humble insight,
that came with sadness for a son who had left
the strength of the earth of Canaan for the
refuge of Padan-aram. Yes, there was strength
in Canaan. The fertility of the earth showed
strength, and the languor of the warm air
was as strong as heady wine.

Age and death came to Canaan like a sun-
set, thought the old man. He thought how
the light of one's life dimmed slowly, the
warmth cooled, the twilight glimmered, lin-
gered for a beatifiic moment, and then slowly
lost itself in the vastness of the dark — and
the old man would be content. There was no
fear of death in Canaan. There was reverence
for it, and humble submission and trusting
impotence too, — at life's dusk. But who could
tell of the fright of death in Padan-aram, and
the panic of living there — and the haunting
death in life. But in Canaan there was
the contentment of a warm sun by day, and
the silvery beams of a hurrying moon by
night. And the cool, starry nights when one
wandered afield dreaming . . . when the scent
of the flowers strengthened, and cold laden
breezes freshened and clusters of stars twink-
led coldly; there were endless walks then for
lovers. And the old would feel a bit cold
and would wrap themselves more tightly
and nod asleep over vague recurring memo-
ries: while through the hush of night the fer-
tile land lay bared in peace.



10



M A S M I D



Then there would often come to Jacob the
memory of a gruff brother from whose rage
Jacob had fled. Jacob had mingled emotions
for red and hairy Esau. There was an in-
stinctive revulsion against Esau's grossness,
and there was fondness — as one is fond of
a husky, unruly child.

On the fields, one day, Esau had tasted a
bitter, unripe berry. He made fierce grimaces
and then out of one eye a tear pitifully fell.
Jacob, standing by, laughed at this naive
brother of his. and a deep feeling of compas-
sion for Esau welled up m him. He put his
white arm around Esau's broad shoulders,
while Esau sulked in waning distemper and
petulance. Esau was rather fond of Jacob
now that weak brother whom he could throw
with one heave! How he mocked Jacob's
frailty, meanwhile purring with the pride of
his own strength, grateful to Jacob for the
stimulus of the purring pride. He let Jacob
twist his arm playfully while he distorted his
face in mock pain. They were never closer
brothers than then. Esau soon forgot: and
in time Jacob too felt uncomfortable when he
recalled his intimacy with his sweating bro-
ther.

There was the repulsive vision of barbaric
Judith, Esau's wife. Jacob tried not to think
of her, but she loomed up in his mind like
a phantom — her body reeking of sweat and
filth. Refined Jacob, who dreamed of a ten-
der woman wholly detached from worldly
cares, would become chilled at the thought
of his brother gay beside the thick-set Judith.
Jacob's wife was to be slender and pliant as
the willow. She was to hum sweet tunes
for Jacob when the day's tasks were done as
he laid his warm head on her lap, while cool
breezes wafted the fragrance of her to him —
and he was lulled into a dreamy sleep.

Then a chaos of memories! A quivering
son kneeling before a half-blind father, and
a blessing "be a man among your brethren."
Then the berserk rage of Esau like the rage
of a wounded lion, and the flight of "the
man among his brethren"; the coming to
Padan-aram. and the welcome of a strange



people. Events happened so rapidly they
jumbled their impressions until there was
time for a future unraveling. And, often, in
lambing time, on the frosty nights when Ja-
cob would warm the shivering lambs, there
would come a pining for home.



Years and years of thinking passed until
clearness came. But a hurt still ached. It
was not clearness Jacob wanted — it was the
fullness of home life. Jacob had suffered,
and there were none at home to bear anger
against him anymore. The sorrowing father
had only anxiety, and surely Lsau had had
time to forget. But Jacob still foundered
in the waves of melancholy.

In those years there had been Leah and
Rachel and domestic cares that, at times, al-
most absorbed the entire Jacob. Jacob felt
dual-lived now. Was it really he who had
herded so many flocks until they exceeded
Laban's? Surely it was not the moody, in-
ner Jacob who had somehow acquired those
herds. It was a skin-deep, efficient Jacob
who had contrived to possess those grazing
flocks, and not a yearning, ever-mournful
Jacob.

It was shearing-time in Padan-Aram, and
Laban was away shearing sheep in a distant
mountain enclosure. From his tent Jacob
could see the mountain-peak swathed in
draping clouds, and he dreamed of the moun-
tains in Canaan covered with their mighty
trees. He had a vision of some tents rising
boldly among the tree monsters. There were
streams pouring out of the side of the moun-
tain. They were rapid streams, and they
seemed happy and free. And Jacob would
grow pensive thinking of the freedom of the
streams while he loitered in servitude.

It was shearing-time, and Laban was
away: but Jacob's mind was not on the
shearing. The air of Padan-aram seemed
to be stifling him, and the bleating of ihc
sheep held no more fondness for him. Just
now it was shearing time in Canaan too, and
aged Isaac would be needing willing hands.
At dusk there would be the clash of cymbals
and the purring twang of stringed instru-



M A S M I D



merits, Jacob knew. There would be rest
and cool breezes for the weary, and silhou-
ettes of distant hills for the dreamer. There
would be no greedy counting of the sacks of
wool, nor the tense gossiping of Laban's
sons. Jacob would no longer feel their
watchful eyes upon him. In Canaan were
soothing kindness and oriented thoughts: but
in Padan-aram were bewildering strangeness
and the slitted eyes of an envious kin . . .

Jacob laid his shears aside in despair. He
could not put his mind on the shearing
while there was shearing in Canaan. Then
the resolute, efficient Jacob shrugged off the
dreamer Jacob. Laban was away. Canaan
was calling: and there was an open road . . .



Jacob's heart was singing next morning:
for he was on his way home, and with him
was his household. He had left home in a
flight of fear, and was returning now in a
flight of exultation. Jacob had a new con-
fidence in his future dealings with Esau, and
he had a contempt for his father-in-law,
Laban, who would not know of the flight
until shearing was over.

There was one among the caravan whose
eyes did not strain only for the purple hills
of Gilead ahead. Rachel's anxieties were
more of the pursuit of Laban: for this daugh-
ter of Laban knew her father would pursue.
Hidden under her saddle-cushion were her
father's images. They somehow reminded
her of her dejected years of barrenness and of
the cheerless days and the cold nights. They
were the symbol of her departure from a maid
to a woman. They were the spirit of the
pagan daemons of Padan-aram and her
depriving Laban of them was an expression
of her acceptance of a new creed — a creed of
dreamers.

Jacob stumbled across her there. Jacob's
heart felt heavy for Rachel, and he remem-
bered how cold he had been to her because
of the enmity of her brothers. Now, how-
ever, she was no longer to be distrusted as a
woman of the dangerous Laban tribe. She
was a tender child who had been abused by
rough brothers and a treacherous father, and



deep compassion for her stirred in Jacob. She
had suffered for all the contempt Jacob felt
for her brothers. She had suffered alone: and
the burden had been lonesome nights with no
mate to share her grief. There were the end-
less nights of futile waitirig, the ghastly
dreams, the wells of salty tears ahd a heart
that seemed to melt with sorrow . . .

Laban was camped that night an hour's
journey from Jacob. With him were his
brethren, as alert as hounds achase. In them
was a hidden awe and a twinge of envy for
the wealthy heir, Jacob. Jacob was ascend-
ing Mount Gilead when Laban overtook
him. . . .



Laban was gone and with him his cere-
monious affection and his avowals of senti-
ment — when there existed only distaste. La-
ban had been wary of his speech, and Jacob
had hidden contempt with difficulty. Jacob
was glad the meeting was over, and Laban
was returning to Padan-aram. Canaan and
aged Isaac beckoned to him, and Rachel, with
her deep love sparkling in her eyes, was by
his side. Joy was bursting within him,
and he could not hide the song in his heart
and his smile on his lips. Gone was intrigue
and guarded speech forevermore. He dreamed
of the splendor of Canaan: the rustle of leaves
and the rushing of streams. The lure of dis-
tant hills would make him keen and new-
born with unfenced freedom. He seemed to
hear angelic music calling him into Canaan,
and the rush of wings of a host of angels
shutting Padan-aram away from behind.
He was hushed by the splendor of a new old
life and a new land before him — where an
old, old man was waiting for a tarrying son.



Through shining days the caravan plodded
along and when purple dusk came, when the
desert seemed like a silent, billowing sea,
they set up camp. At night the fires twin-
kled across the desert, through the weight and
darkness of the night, as if in mute commu-
nion with the stars. . . .

When all were hushed in sleep Jacob and
Rachel were still awake. The cold breath of
the desert night held them in huddled silent



12



M A S M I D



bliss, for the stirrings of their poignant
souls were far removed from earthly things
and purposes. It was a world of contentment
complete within itself. It was a gossamer
world of dream-stuff where naught existed
but the abstract tenderness of the present and
the honeyed promises of the future. Not a
word did the lovers say: but their silence
was of mystic clairvoyance, while their spirits
glided from their eyes and lips.

Then when Rachel slumbered Jacob wan-
dered off into the desert alone with a feeling
of sadness and with a presentiment of evil.
His happiness made him feel aged as if he had
lived through an eternity. All other things
were petty now for a new spirit had merged
with the two lovers from their own warmth
and felicity.

A prayer burst out of Jacob for strength
and guidance to keep this ardent soul thrust
upon his care forever youthful and happy.
For Rachel was with child. . . .

There came thoughts of a graying domesti-



cated Rachel, weaning children and mo-
ther of a household, her fervor hidden like
sidereal fires. It was depressing to think of
her ageing slowly, and the fire within her
cooling. She was an arrested flame and there
could be no embers of passion. Would
there be only an aching emptiness where the
flames had once licked, or would there be
two graying heads nodding asleep together?



On the road to Hebron Rachel died. Jacob
stood by the dry sand that covered her body
with wrinkled, new-born Benjamin in his
arms. Ben-oni — child of my pain — Rachel
had called him with her last breath. A deep
void within him bowed Jacob; too deep for
tears to reach or fill. A salty mist veiled his
eyes, and slowly he felt a youthful spirit
within him wither and fade away. And he
knew that when Rachel had gone two souls
were lost in an eternity of quiet.

Ben-oni was crying in Jacob's arms, and
an old, old man was waiting for a tarrying
son. And it was shearing time in Canaan.



DEFEAT?
Stir me not

To troubled aspirations
That torture me
On the rack of discontent.
Let me dream
Untroubled

Of things that must not be.
With the perfect happiness
Of dreams.

With the nebulous perfection
Of dreams.
Let me grasp
The unattainable.
Enter Paradise.
And, awaking, forget.
Oh, Domesticity,
Powerful mother,
Let me sleep in your arms.

Charles Hirshfeld



M A S M I D



13



Pot-Pourri



By EEGEE



Meanderings of a miscreant mentality.

1. Idiosyncrasy is the privilege of the
genius and of the successful but when pos-
sessed by the average citizen makes him the
subject for an alienist.

2. "Reading maketb a full man" sayeth
Bacon. Even a prohibitionist may indulge
in that form of dissipation.

3. Idealism is the saving grace of human-
kind. It is the line of demarcation between
the material and the mind. Without it life
would be entirely a struggle for existence, an
insenate desire for self-preservation — and
devil take the hindmost.

Idealism is the only excuse man has for
continuing to live.

4. A cynic is usually a person who, dis-
appointed in a petty personal affair, uses it
as a criterion by which to judge the rest of
the world.

5. Sarcasm is often a substitute for rea-
son.

6. The dogmatist tells us that "Vice is
Vice and Virtue is Virtue — and never the
twain shall meet," nevertheless there are sev-
eral things that may be both:

Pride is just as much a vice as it is a virtue.
Conceit is a vice, self-confidence a virtue —
yet both have the same origin. Vanity.

7. Stretching the truth is "hyperbole"
for the poet, but plain perjury for the lay-
man.

8. Of those who keep within the law,
fifty percent do so because they fear retalia-
tion; fifty percent because they haven't had
an opportunity to violate a law — the re-
mainder because they really have a moral
sense of right.

9. I fear that the problems arising from
a discussion of eugenics have addled my poor
brain sadly. If a m.an is but a composition
of good or bad characteristics inherited from



his ancestors why should he be commended
for talent or punished for wrongdoing — be-
ing personally irresponsible for the traits that
cause his actions?

However, were Society not to reward abil-
ity or punish crime, those born with talent
would have no incentive for exercising that
ability, and those born with criminalistic
tendencies, and who are kept from crime by
the fear of punishment under the present
seemingly unjust system, would make the
rest of the social organization suffer for their
own unfortunate condition.

The existing system of "justice" may be
fundamentally unjust, but it is necessary.

10. The pessimist is the fellow who con-
stantly tells the world that it is stuck in a
rut, instead of helping to extricate it.

11. "It takes two to make a quarrel,"
says the pacifist derogatorily, forgetting that
the holy state of matrimony itself has this
principle for its "raison d'etre."

12. Nothing is right unless its conse-
quences are more beneficial than harmful: and
nothing is wrong unless its consequences arc
more harmful than beneficial.

There are no exceptions to this rule.

13. Isn't it peculiar that those who least
expect to go to Hell are most interested in
it?

14. "Variety is the spice of life" — but
our modern brand is too seasoned for healthy
consumption.

15. Age that would be youth can never
be more than a synthetic imitation, nor can
it be more than a pathetic paradox, out of
its sphere, alien both to its kind and to that
which it seems to emulate.

Life's inevitable flow and ebb cannot be
arrested, and he who would stay the ebb-tide
finds loneliness and isolation at a time when
he needs most compassion and sympathy.



14



M A S M I D



16. There is no complacence like that of
the radical in ridiculing the smugness of the
conservative.

There is nothing so conventional as his
so-called "freedom from conventionalism."

17. "Beauty" covers a multitude of sins.

18. Lying isn't wrong — it's foolish. It
is not the original cost of lying that is the
greatest burden, but its upkeep.

19. Cat-like, Life plays with us, amused
at our puny attempts to escape the bounds
of its paws. Then, its enjoyment waning, it
idly destroys us.

20. Having obtained dominion over this
world by a series of fortuituous events Man,
in his colossal conceit, declares because he is
master of the Earth the entire Universe was
made for his benefit by a God whose main
concern is Man's welfare.

How bombastic is his fantastic faith to
believe that he, an infinitesimal speck on an
infinitesimal needle lost in an infinite hay-
stack, is the reason for the existence of both
the needle and the haystack!

21. There is nothing so good but that
there is a limit to its value and efficacy. Re-
ligion, overdone, becomes bigotry — logic, so-
phistry — civilization, decadence — patriotism,



junkerism — contentment, stagnancy. So it is
with charity, with ambition, with love, with
culture, with prosperity, with truth and with
everything else we consider desirable.

22. In many cases sympathy is a com-
bination of fear that you may become in-
volved in like circumstances, and relief that
you have not.

23. In choosing words to express our
thoughts adequacy is more important than
simplicity, but when simplicity is adequate
complex language is affectation.

24. Courage is either the repression or the
lack of imagination.

25. Many of us admire our friends be-
cause we endorse their admiration of us.
Much of our antagonism for others is prompt-


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