_The Story of a Rabbi Who Lived in New York When it Was Captured
by the British in 1776._
A Sabbath hush brooded over the garden of the Rev. Mr. Gershom Mendes
Seixas, minister of New York's one synagogue, _Shearith Israel_. The
tall pink and white hollyhocks that bordered the prim paths nodded
languidly in the warm September breeze. From the trees came the
twitter of sparrows, now low and conversational, now high and shrill,
"just like people in the synagogue," thought little David Phillips, as
he strolled in his grandmother's garden on the other side of the
hedge. And if David had pulled aside the white curtains of the Rabbi's
study windows, he would have seen that the same Sabbath peace filled
the low-ceilinged room, the walls covered with books, most of them
rather forbidding in their musty, leather bindings. A peaceful,
restful room on the Jewish rest day; but, boy as he was, David would
have seen at a glance that Rabbi Seixas was not at peace with himself.
A keen-eyed, quick-moving young man of about thirty, he paced
restlessly up and down between the bookshelves, his hands clasped
behind his back, his brows knit in thought. Several times he glanced
at the tall clock his father had brought from Lisbon; it would soon be
time for him to go to the synagogue; but what message had he to give
his people?
Down the quiet street came the roll of drums, and David rushed to the
gate, wishing with all his heart that he might follow the soldiers.
But he knew that his grandmother expected him to take her to the
synagogue, and he did not dare to leave the garden; instead he stood
kicking holes in the path with his shining Sabbath boots which at that
moment he hated with all his might, just as he hated the ruffles of
fine linen that his grandmother had painfully stitched for him with
her loving, rheumatic old fingers, and his Sabbath suit in which he
was never allowed to romp or play. And at that moment, with the
British actually knocking at New York's front door, one could hardly
blame a small boy for growing impatient at the restrictions of a
doting old grandmother, no matter how much she might indulge the
orphan grandson whom his dying father had left in her charge the year
before. If he were only a man, thought David, longingly; only old
enough to be with General Washington's troops across the river. But a
ten-year-old boy, who couldn't even play the drum like Frank Morris,
the apprentice lad who had run away to join the army, couldn't serve
his country any better than a feeble old lady like Grandma or a
minister like the rabbi next door.
The roll of drums had startled the rabbi as well as his young neighbor
and he now appeared in his garden, walking with swift, nervous steps
to the gate. At first, he did not seem to see David; only stared down
the road with wide, eager eyes, his hands gripping the rails of the
gate until his knuckles showed hard and white; then, as the drums grew
fainter, his shoulders relaxed a little, he sighed deeply, and,
turning toward David, nodded kindly, even smiling, as though he had no
deeper thought in his mind than giving his young friend a Sabbath
greeting.
"Good _Shabbas_," said the rabbi. "I see you're all ready for service,
my lad."
"Yes, sir. I'm just waiting for Grandmother." From far off came the
last sound of the drums. "Did you hear the drums, sir? I wonder
whether more of our troops are coming to the city."
The minister's face darkened. "Rather the American troops are leaving
it, I fear," he answered gravely. "Mr. Levy who came by early this
morning told me that four British ships have already passed up North
River, and that there are about the same number anchored in Turtle
Bay. They may make a landing at any time--and if they do----" he
smiled somewhat grimly, "well, I fear, my lad, that we will be living
in a British province."
But David had heard too much from his cousins in Philadelphia of the
glorious doings of a few months before, the Declaration of
Independence signed in July, the ringing of the great Liberty Bell.
And he answered as sturdily as any other boy of 1776 might have done:
"No, sir. The British may take the city, but no true-born American
will submit to their rule."
Rabbi Seixas smiled a little at his fire. "But what will you do,
David? They are already at our gates. From what I have heard not even
General Washington, lying across the river with his troops, can stay
the British now. General Howe will hold a tight rein over the city
and we must learn to bow our shoulders to the yoke."
David stiffened his small shoulders stubbornly as though he actually
stood before the hated English officer. "The good people of Boston,"
he began, proudly, "were not afraid of the redcoats--" then stopped,
for his older companion did not have to remind him of the fate of the
Boston citizens shot down on the public common by the soldiers of King
George.
"Ah, little David," said the minister, sadly, reading his thoughts,
"we will be just as powerless before our foe as our ancestors were
before the Philistines."
A merry twinkle sparkled in David's eyes; he was a bright little
fellow and he had not studied Hebrew and Jewish history all the long
winter with the Rev. Mr. Seixas without learning a few lessons very
helpful in time of need. "Didn't David and his sling frighten the
whole Philistine army away?" he asked, mischievously.
The minister did not smile. "But the Lord was on David's side," he
answered, gravely. "Today he seems to have deserted His People."
Down the street came a man whose white hairs might have marked him as
aged had not his bright eyes and resolute bearing spoken of undying
youth. He paused a moment at the gate, bowing to the Rabbi with all
the formal courtliness of his day.
"Good _Shabbas_, Mr. Gomez," said the minister. "You are on your way
to the synagogue?"
"Yes. Perhaps it may be the last service we will have in _Shearith
Israel_ before the cursed British guns blow our roof about our ears,"
answered the older man. "Alas, Mr. Seixas, when you were elected our
Rabbi but a year ago, I predicted a long and fruitful term of service
for you in our midst. But now--" a hopeless shrug completed the
sentence.
"Believe me, I shall not fail in my duty as long as I serve the
congregation of _Shearith Israel_," answered the young Rabbi, rather
stiffly.
"I know--I know." The white head nodded gloomily. "You will do what
you can as a priest, but this war must be won by men. I have lived
almost seventy years, Mr. Seixas, and have always sought to be a good
Jew and hold up the hands of those who served the Lord, as I know you
strive to do. And in times of peace, a man of your learning and purity
of heart is a worthy leader. But in these times that try men's souls,
we need not priests, but men," he repeated and walked slowly away.
"What did he mean, Mr. Seixas?" asked David as the old man disappeared
down the street. His eager little ears had taken in every word of the
conversation; but he had not dared to ask questions while his elders
were conversing, and had remained silent as a well-bred lad of his day
was taught to do. "Does he mean we shouldn't have rabbis and ministers
when there's a war?"
The rabbi shook his head. "Not exactly that, David. But perhaps he
wishes that today we had fighting priests like the old Maccabees,
those men who went to battle with swords in their hands, prayers in
their hearts. And old Mr. Gomez is a fit descendant of those heroes,"
he cried with sudden warmth. "Old as he is, he offered to form a
company of soldiers for service and enlist himself. When he was told
that he was too old to take the field, he said: 'I could stop a bullet
as well as a younger man.' It is such a spirit that wins wars, David."
"That's splendid!" exclaimed the boy. "I know how he feels--just
sitting around New York and waiting for the British to come and rule
over us! If I were only old enough to go and fight, too! I wish,"
wistfully, "I were grown up like you. Then I wouldn't have to be here
today, waiting to go to the synagogue with Grandmother. I'd be with
Frank and General Washington and be fighting for my country."
The minister's cheeks flushed; he winced as though the boy's innocent
words had hurt him deeply. When he spoke it seemed that he was almost
thinking aloud; that he had forgotten his young companion on the other
side of the hedge.
"How can I lay aside my clergyman's cloak for the soldier's uniform?"
he asked, slowly. "And how can I leave my bride of a year--perhaps
never to return to her? And my people--I have not been with them any
longer: surely, my duty is to them; to guide and lead them in this
time of danger and uncertainty. Otherwise I would be like a shepherd
who rushes off to fight the robbers of the mountains, while his flocks
are torn by wolves that ravage close at hand."
He spoke as though he were reciting the words of a speech already
written and learned by rote, thought David, half-wondering if the
minister weren't learning his sermon for that morning. For how could
the boy know that Mr. Seixas had again and again repeated to himself
the very arguments he was now uttering aloud for the first time.
Suddenly the young man who had stood like one in a dream, leaning upon
the gate, his eyes looking far way, turned toward him and smiled
almost in apology.
"Have you wondered at my words, little David?" he asked, almost
lightly. "Ah, in days like these, one says many strange and unheard-of
things. I have tried to refrain from speaking, for now mere words are
idle and of little worth. But when I think of my New York--the city in
which I was born and reared--in the hands of the British, I must
speak, or my heart would choke me." His hand tugged at the linen stock
about his throat. "God of Israel," he muttered, "in these dark days,
give Thy servant light to see Thy ways--and strength to follow them."
David, feeling strangely awkward at hearing his rabbi pray, save in
the pulpit, looked longingly at the house, hoping that his grandmother
would come out and end the discussion which was becoming a little
difficult for him. But he knew how long it always took her to don her
Sabbath silk and long gold chain and earrings, and resigned himself to
listen, should the Rev. Mr. Seixas care to talk to him further.
For a few moments there was silence between them. Then the rabbi
turned to David again and continued to speak to him as though he were
really grown up, and not a little boy who had studied Hebrew and
history with him all winter.
"I am not afraid to go into battle," he said quietly, "but I feel
that it will take far more bravery to fight for our country right here
at home. I must be on hand to cheer and comfort my people; to teach
those who lose their dear ones on the battlefield to look to our God
for consolation; to teach those who stay at home to do their part too,
even if it be but knitting and baking dainties for our soldiers. That
will be easy," he mused, "but how can I endure living here under
British rule, feeling myself a slave among a slave people?" He threw
back his head, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. "Our people
have wandered, many of them, from Spain to Holland, from Holland to
this blessed land, to be free; how can I, a leader in Israel, bow down
to the sons of Belial who will come among us!" His hands clenched the
wickets of the gate; he breathed hard and was silent.
As he spoke in ringing tones, an almost forgotten picture flashed
before David's eyes. He was listening again to the rabbi's story of
the days when the Romans besieged Jerusalem and laid it waste and took
the people captive. He remembered how Mr. Seixas had glowed with pride
when he told of those ancient Jews--"Fighters all, David, who could
not live as slaves."
"Mr. Seixas," asked David, suddenly, "in the old days when the Romans
burned the Temple and everything, what did the rabbis do? Did they
fight like Bar Kochba and the other generals?"
With a visible effort, the rabbi wrenched himself back to the present.
"The Romans"--he repeated, vaguely. "What did the rabbis do?" Again
his voice thrilled with pride as it had done when he had first told
the child the story of Bar Kochba's rebellion. "They were brave men,
David; priests and warriors. Rabbi Akiba did the thing I must try to
do--kept the fighters brave and loyal; and when he could do no more,
he died as bravely as the bravest soldier of them all."
"But there was one rabbi who didn't die," insisted David. "I forget
his name, but I liked him better than all the others because he got
the best of the Romans. Don't you know--he pretended he was dead and
had his pupils take him to the Emperor in a coffin, that the guards
wouldn't stop them when they passed the gates. And when the Emperor
asked him what he wanted, he said 'Just let me build a school and I
won't trouble anybody! What was his name, Mr. Seixas?"
"You are thinking of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai," answered his teacher,
slowly. "You are right--he did 'get the best of the Romans,' as you
say. He would have died rather than breathe the air of a Roman court
like Josephus; instead he continued to fight the enemy of his people;
he handed down to his disciples the sword with which they were to
fight through the centuries."
"What sword?" asked David, puzzled.
"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 assembly 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
_Ashkenazim_, 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 sturdy 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 God 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 God 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 passing 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 God--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 reassure 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 friendship of the invaders. But the greater part of the
worshippers, those whose ancestors like the Pilgrim Fathers had come
to these shores to seek freedom before God, 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 shores."
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 God will
establish a refuge for His faithful ones and there will we worship 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 Washington as president of the United States.
At a word from the minister, the _Shammas_ (sexton) 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 worship 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 shine 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 passed among the silent
worshippers out into the warm September sunshine.
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 flashing 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 hardship before her. Then he
straightened his shoulders and spoke bravely.
"Some day," said Rabbi Seixas, "I will return to serve our God in a
city that He has made free."