Newspaper Page Text
The author of this episode is undoubtedly one of the most significant figures in
literature and a master story teller. He is the author of "The Case of Sergeant Grisha* I
THE POGROM
. . . And then the fury broke loose .
T HE ringing of shots awoke Eli Seamen. The
double wings of his window thrown wide
open, with their curtains dangling in the
wind like the bodies of gallows’ birds, admitted
the clear crack of the Browning pistols which
was carried over the roofs to his bedroom. He sat:
the sky above the city was touched with the red
either of a conflagration or of a multitude of
lights; but directly overhead the legions of the
stars worked through the infinite darkness. Against
the faint, distant glimmer the window cut out
a hard cross right in the centre of the Great Bear.
Seeing the arrangement of the stars, the hoy
thought it must be toward eleven o’clock; they arc
shooting. . . . The door to his father’s room was
flung wide open, and Inspector Seamen strode over
the threshold. “Get up, Eli,” he cried, his hard voice
wild with excitement. “Pogrom?” the son cried
back, leaping with both legs on to the carpet;
but no answer was needed.
He dressed himself with quick and trembling
hands, while his father sealed a letter by the light
of candle stump. The chess board still stood in
the throes of the struggle, as they had left it the
night before. The masterstroke had just been de
livered; the figures loomed black in the candle
light, mustered with their stiff shadows on the
divided board. Eli, filled with happy pride, threw
one glance at it: his father, strong player that he
was, had been compelled to yield in astonishment
before that last triumphant move. . . . But in an
instant he was pulled back into the present; while
he laced his shoes hastily the thought occurred to
him—and it gave him a sense of satisfaction—that
things were going badly now for his enemies, those
Jewish young boys who threw cakes of mud after
him and shouted that he was desecrating the Sab
bath and eating uncleanliness; and he felt that it
served them right, for they were many, and yet
never attacked him singly. “Well, are you ready?
Not yet.” The inspector, his fur cap on his head,
raged up and down in the doorway, stamping in
his high boots. He blew impatiently into his thick
black beard: “Are you afraid?” And suddenly—
he had never thought of this before—Eli realized
that he, too, might be assaulted, for the band could
not know that he and his father lived in a state of
enmity with the others. But he forgot it again on
the spot. “No, no,” he answered, angrily. “Here
I am. Let’s go.”
The father locked the letter in the writing desk.
“We must see. . . . We must help them out
there. . .
Then he turned his face on his son and ex
amined the six teen-year-old boy closely, as if he
were a piece of merchandise which had just been
delivered; no, he was not afraid.
“Listen, Eli. It’s possible that something might
happen over there ... to me, too . . . you un
derstand; and if I’m no longer here tomorrow—.”
“Father!” the boy cried, and his eyes became two
black holes. “Anything can happen. In that case,
listen—you return to Germany, at once. ...”
“Father!” “And then study something decent, see?
Engineering.” “Oh, please, please, stop,” the boy
cried in a dying voice, and with both hands he
seized his father’s arm. “In case you might need
it—you’re big enough—here!” He thrust the flat
pistol toward him. Eli seized the weapon in a
strong grasp, though his hands shivered. “Will
the police help us, Father?” But the inspector
had already rushed through the door, in one hand
his Browning, and in the other a formidable stick,
leather on the outside but iron within. His steps
sounded down the corridor ;
hastily the boy snatched his
mountain climbing stick
from the corner—a yellow-
oaken staff pointed with
metal at the end. Beyond
the outer door he found
his father, clearly unde
termined. “As a matter of
fact, 1 ought to leave you
here. What should you be
doing over there?. . .
“Without you? I won’t
let you go alone for a sin
gle instant.” “I want you
to obey me,” the father
said. “I’ll break the door
open, and follow you,” the
powerfully built bov cried.
The inspector knew his old
est son. “Well, if you must.
. . . It’s probably for the
best,” and smiling weakly
he turned the key strongly
in the lock.
They stumbled down the
three flights of steps and
crossed the broad yard of
the factory. In Eli the blood ran swiftly and joy
fully: adventure! And what an adventure! A
pogrom, right on the eve of Easter Sabbath! To
morrow songs of praise in the churches. He was
not at all frightened: his finger pressed happily
against the trigger of the weapon. Would he have
to shoot? And would he hit his man? Surely if
only his hand wouldn’t tremble too much. He prom
ised himself to get Gabriel Butterman, the red-head,
the throw-er of stones. That man he wouldn’t let es
cape . . . and he felt the advance happiness of envy
which the w’hole class—and his Brother Leo’s—
w’ould feel—w'hen he would tell them about it.
... He tightened his arm as though in exercise,
so that the muscles rose quickly. The schoolboy
of the fifth grade lifted up his face, with its arched
eyebrows, and its crow’n of black hair, to the night
THE DISCARD
dumb with horror
air. The gatekeeper was still awake; yellow ligkj
streamed from the window of his lodge. The m-
spector gave him the keys of the house and said
in Polish: “Open the door for me.” “It isn’t goof
to go out,” the old man argued, while his mus
tache, yellowed by smoking, wagged with b
speech. “It’s true, Janek. But I'll be back at onr
o’clock. And look after the keys for me. Tl*
door shrieked on its hinges; in the distance w*
heard a faint sound of shots. The father w-as a
such a hurry that Eli was nearly left behind. Tb
streets lay black, and deserted; only high up thert
were a few lighted windows. The two of thm
turned sharply to the right, went at a trot thr
whole length of the Petersburger Strasse—blun
dering into pools of mud and w’ater, straight aero*
the Patjomkinplatz and
right into the Schlussd-
strasse. The noise becan*|
louder, became a wild tu
mult. They met peoplt
more people. “What’s the
matter?” the father asktil
in Russian of a figure hur |
rying by in the dark
"They’re beating the infide
Jews up, uncle, hurry up
“And the police?” “Yo«
won’t find the soldiml
lazy,” the citizen answered,
laughing contentedly, and
hurried on. Elf made up h#
mind to shoot the soldier*
even if they .had killed
Gabriel.
The street grew brighter
in the light of lanterns and I
the lamps that streamed 1
from the houses; beforel
long they found themselvel
in the midst of crowds I
They thrust their
through roughly, and whe*|
the father could not pf
ceed fast enough he seized his son by the shouldf
and thrust him into the shelter of a high hou* 1
“Where now’?” the boy asked excitedly. “Come I
1 hey ran lightly, hastily, up tw r o, three, fotfl
flights ot steps. From the skylight, a small diml
opening, they peered out on the neighboring I
street, for none of the neighboring houses
more than two or three stories high. The squ^l
frames of houses enclosed a clear picture, small *1
the distance, but marvelously sharp in outline I
They saw’ flames flickering through the w’indo**|
and thickening smoke, streaked with red; tlx 1 1
saw’ people running, limbs flying, men and won** J
in knots and groups; they heard a deep roarin'
the scream of high-pitched voices, single shot' lx*
and there, and through the fierce whispe- ***
crack of conflagration (Please turn to page 1®I
POGROM
By Arnold Zweig
it
THE SOUTHERN ISRAI LlT*
[6]