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The Southern Israelite
Page 5
That Blind Faith
A Short True Story
By STANLEY BERO
HIS is more than a mere story. I he
author, well-known communal worker
for the last quarter century, whose
resourcefulness and versatile knowledge of
human character have been instrumental in
raising many millions for social reconstruc
tion work, here tells in his own inimitable
style of a strange, fascnating experience—
with a rather startling denouement.
^ r
au'". an organization bent upon the gather-
iM-iologieal data, surprised the native-born
New York City with a startling revelation:
ut population distribution showed that the
ngoted block in the metropolis was not in
wi-h quarter.
igle with humanity’s many varieties—even
, tor the purpose of collecting and jotting
tatiMics—predicated possibilities covering
n all its shades. From the car barns, docks,
ghterhouses, in which the polyglot majority
truants worked, to a bed that served three
keepers— that describes the picture. A
i-li storekeepers proved the exception. The
vliension of this canvas called for sympathy
than a trained social concept; and, naturally,
oked a protest of sentimental unripeness,
houses, ill-cared-for, reeked with smells un-
ihie. The occupants reflected their environ-
Itents varied directly as the amount of
that might penetrate to the unwashed
• tie of these flats—a tiny room and a tinier
a crapulent, childless widower had been
i thirty years. Disheveled and disgruntled,
O'Hara sat puffing at his mellowed pipe
e data-gatherer came to him. The pipe was
itong; the youthful investigator preferred
• the door open. The pale light, filtered
tm airshaft and dirty windows, with reluc-
•■vealed the old man’s stilted abandon,
a was blind, lie was half-deaf. lie was Irish,
wall hung a framed newspaper print of
in conference with Generals Grant and
in, and Secretary Seward. There was also
representing motherhood—a blond girl
pink-cheeked infant in her arms.
■venty-five years and two more, John O’Hara
n a horse-car driver. Then came the roomier
'• rapid electric car. The horse was shot,
s hide was worthless. Now O’Hara was
r' l > awaiting the end.
investigator put his questions in a kindly
tipped of the effectation sometimes used for
v,,r k by professional charity workers. O’Hara
r-tuod the visitor’s errand. His faulty
r l^d the old man to deduce that the sympa-
t riend came from the parish church. He
• d his questioner as “Father.”
• ncx pec ted visit seemed to gladden O’Hara’s
His pockets were empty except for his
1 pouch, his larder was badly in need of
lung. Soberly he answered, in his deep
he questions that were put to him.
young investigator, his sympathies aroused,
“d: “Who supplies you with food? Who
are of your flat?”
1 saving your presence, Father—I don’t
•> one to take care of my flat. I dust it
once in a while”—the testimony of the young
l \\es showed that the last “while” had been of
• ration—“and sometimes my niece comes in
New York s East Side—That Is Vanishing Slowly
But Surely
and gives the place a good cleaning. Though she
ain’t come in many a month now, what with her
husband sick abed and four kids to look after.”
“And «lo you do your own cooking?”
The old man touched his eyes. “I don’t cook none,
but the neighbors sometimes bring in a bit of their
dinners. Other times I just eat bread and butter,
or have some lunch in the saloon downstairs. It’s
good beer they have there, Father—and what’s a
man to do when he can’t make himself a cup o’tea?”
The selling and drinking of beer was quite legiti
mate in those distant pre-speakeasy days, yet
O’Hara waxed guiltily apologetic in the presence of
a representative of Holy Mother Church.
The old man grew reminiscent, began to boast of
his prowess in days gone by. He bad been the
pride of the Broadway horseear line. “Not an
accident in twenty-seven years, Father. I could
handle horses with the best of ’em. My old horse,
the last one, lie knew me like I was his own brother.
When we was both geltin’ old and blind he helped
me keep it from the boss he knew the road, even
if In* couldn’t see, and I couldn’t rightly see to
guide him.”
John O’Hara pointed to the old, stained whip,
hanging under the picture of Lincoln, like half
of a brace of crossed swords. He raised his thumb
and touched the bronze button on his lapel—his
badge of faithful service to his country during the
Civil War. Apart from these he had nothing to show.
The young man, having acquired all the informa
tion he needed for his survey—and a good deal
more—bade O’Hara farewell. The old man called
down God’s blessing upon the departing “Father.”
It would have been cruel to dispel that faithful
believer’s illusion.
The investigator a young man, as I have said,
and therefore full of youthful enthusiasm and desire
to help—went straight to the parish rectory. There
he found a calm-faced, aged priest. To him he told
the story of John O’Hara.
The priest was a kindly man, both learned and
wise. He invited the young man into his study and
listened carefully to all the details of the case of
O’Hara. Finally he assured the investigator that
help would be meted out to John O’Hara without
delay. The two men shook hands and the visitor left
the rectory, to continue gathering facts and figures.
Later the young man learned that O’Hara’s last
years were brightened considerably by the ministra
tions of the Church to her sightless son.
As tor any guilt felt by the investigator because
he had not corrected the impression gathered by the
blind man, who could not see what kind of collar
his visitor was wearing—to tell the truth, the young
enthusiast did not feel guilty at all. For no harm,
but only good, had come from his unintentional
masquerade.
And, indeed, he came to be proud of the role
he had played so briefly as a Jewish High Priest—
undetected by John O’Hara.
(Copyright. 1931, S.A.F.S.)