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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]