The next day I began to pay for that stroke of arrogance. The classmates
who belonged to that man's fraternity snubbed me on the street.
It didn't matter much, I thought--but in reality, it did. Because these
men, as it happened, had been my closest friends. I was beginning to
worry myself into a maudlin state, and no doubt did attribute hostility
to altogether too many of the undergraduates. But it is hard to choose
and distinguish surely in a land that is generally hostile and strange.
I began to stay more and more within the shelter of my room, working at
my studies and at those activities which had already given me
recognition. I wanted to be plucky about it. I wanted to keep on
smiling--but there were times, I must confess, when I wished that I were
through with college and all its rough-and-tumble boyishness.
I did not care so much myself. There were all these freshmen who were
probably ten times lonelier than I was, ten times more bewildered and
disheartened by the welcome they had had. I tried to visit as many of
them as lived in dormitories. I wanted to talk things over with them, to
help them in some possible way. But it wasn't much of a success--I could
make no progress out of condonement and asking them to wait patiently
until the foolish campaign had dwindled away.
Then, one day, as I crossed the campus to a first recitation, I saw that
the brick walls of the oldest of the dormitories had been adorned with
huge painted letters:
"OUT WITH THE JEWS."
I went into a telephone booth and called up the house of one of the
professors with whom I had become friendly. He was a kindly,
well-meaning man, and an alumnus of the college.
His telephone line was busy when I called it. I heard him talking with
some one. I was about to ring off when suddenly I heard my own name
mentioned.
The professor was an alumnus member of one of the college fraternities.
And this other man--evidently an undergraduate, though I never tried to
identify him--was asking the professor what he thought of offering me an
election to this fraternity.
And I heard the professor sigh in his patient way.
"I like him--I like him very much, mind you," I heard him say, "but--er,
er--I do think it would be disastrous--nothing short of disastrous to
elect a Jew to any of our fraternities in the present situation."
I rang off. It was something to know that I was even being considered
for membership--but it was disastrous, that was all--disastrous!
When I was out upon the campus again I saw that painters were already at
work obliterating the sign. They had whitewashed the "_Out With the_"
away, and there was nothing left upon the wall but a huge, red
"JEWS."
And thank God, I could laugh at the incident!
XVII
MANY IMPULSES
Fair play comes first--and reasoning follows it. For fair play is always
an impulse. It comes when least expected.
That is how it was at the university. The incident of the big, painted
sign was practically the last demonstration against the influx of Jewish
boys. Waters, who made capital of everything, attempted to found a
formal organization dignified by the title of the Anti-Hebrew Collegiate
League, but when, at the first meeting, he was not elected to the
presidency, abandoned the project with bitter complaints against the
ingratitude of his fellow members. A little later on, when the tide had
turned in the opposite direction, he became the head of the Helping Hand
League, and was atop the wave of contrition.
For the tide did turn. Men are always afraid to carry their propaganda
beyond the point of the ridiculous. When tomfoolery turns to foolishness
its perpetrators are only too anxious for a chance to abandon it.
It was impossible to keep the thing out of the newspapers. The day after
that sign incident, there was a lurid story to be read at each of the
city's breakfast tables and in the evening subways. New York took it up
and made it a matter of shocked debate for a day and a half. The
president of the university, in his quarterly sermon in chapel, spoke
fervently of toleration and the gentle spirit.
The reaction was almost as hysterical as the movement itself. The little
Jewish freshmen--timid, frightened little mice, who had been going about
their classroom work and scurrying home and out of reach for so many
months--suddenly found themselves lauded as martyrs, as the best of
fellows.
One evening a deputation of them were waiting for me when I came in from
supper. They had formed a Jewish fraternity, and wished me to join with
them. Appeal to a Jewish philanthropist had brought them enough money to
lease a house near the campus. They were sure that they would have
sanction and support from the rest of the college, now that the
prejudice had abated. And since they could not join any of the other
fraternities, why should they not have one of their own?
I thought it over carefully. I wanted to be fair to myself as well as to
them. That same old repugnance of being identified with a distinctly
Jewish propaganda troubled me and made me turn from them. And yet it
wasn't only that, either. For when I thought it out, I knew that,
according to my point of view, theirs was not the proper solution. Fire
can fight fire, perhaps--in proverbs, anyhow--but discrimination is not
to be overpowered by a like amount of secularity. If Jewish college men
objected to that unwritten rule of fraternities; if they contended that
fraternities should be democratic; if they wanted equal rights in those
fraternities ... how, then, were they justified in standing apart and
founding a fraternity of their own--a brotherhood which should be open
only to Jews?
That is what I thought. I may have been wrong--and the excellent records
of the Jewish fraternity chapters in various colleges and universities
do perhaps prove me wrong--but I could not bring myself to join them. I
was heartily glad the whole heated question of race and race prejudice
was abated. I asked, for myself, only that I be given something of the
fair-play that other men had. I was working hard for the college. I was
doing all that my talents enabled me to do and I was sure that, sooner
or later, there would be the reward.
This reward did come, definitely. It came at the end of May when, at
the height of the reaction against the whole year of prejudice, I was
chosen for the college senior society. It was a public election, held on
the afternoon of one of the most important baseball games. There were
crowds to watch the ceremony--students and graduates, young girls and
parents ... so that the memory of the green campus and the banks of
pretty gowns and parasols, the sunshine and the cheering will be with me
till I die. I remember that there were tears in my eyes as I was chosen
... and that there came to me, with all the cool freshness of the spring
winds, the thought that this was the end, the salvation from out of all
the year's mean, squalid troubles. Here was I, a Jew, raised above all
the other Jews who had ever entered this college ... raised among the
highest, to be a power in the land, to be the champion of all those who
had suffered, the winner through hardship and handicap, a vindicated
Dreyfus, an example to all the lower classes.... For, at twenty-one,
alas, we are our own best heroes, and none can take our place!
College closed in a blaze of glory for me. There was even a note from
Aunt Selina Haberman, wishing me well of this new honor and informing me
that "Mrs. Fleming-Cohen, when she heard it, was green with envy!" Aunt
Selina wanted to know, was I going to be a wicked boy, however, and
stay away from her all next year, too. She was sure that, now I had won
out, we could get along much more smoothly than we had.
I fear I began to think a little too highly of my position in the
community. I was now capable of going to no less a person than the dean
of the college and talking over with him, as if man to man, the
possibility of an anti-Jewish agitation, the next year, and demanding in
none too deferential tones that, should it come, the college authorities
must do their share to stamp it out.
"Really, Mr.-er-er-,--what's your name?"
I told him very slowly, but it did not mean much to him. I rather pitied
the old gentleman for not paying more attention to the undergraduate
contests and triumphs.
But he did hear me out, and gave me information which I thought worth
acting on. The large majority of the Jewish boys in the freshman class
had prepared for college at one school--a large private preparatory
school in New York City. Perhaps it would be as well, suggested the
dean, for me to go to the principal of this school and talk things over
with him.
"Do you mean, I should warn him against sending so many of his boys to
our college?" I asked.
The dean appeared dreadfully shocked. "Oh, no--dear me, no. That
wouldn't do at all. Only--well, it seems that this school caters almost
entirely to the sons of wealthy Jewish men--and that this principal is
very fond of our college ... and so he grievously sends us all the boys
that he can. You know, so many boys don't know where to go to
college--and the principal often has a chance to suggest one, don't you
see!"
The dean had a very sober face, but his eyes were twinkling. It relieved
me to know, he was not taking this principal's bad judgment too
seriously.
"So you think it would be wiser if there weren't so many Jewish boys in
next year's entering class?"
"Precise--oh, no, I shouldn't dare say that, even if I thought so.
Remember, I am in an official capacity here. But come around to my house
tonight, when I've doffed my scholastic robe and am in my shirt
sleeves--and perhaps I'll tell you, then, the name of that principal."
I did not even bother to do this. Without waiting for further advice, I
went down to this school to beard the foolish principal in his den.
It was a hard matter to work my way into his presence. He had an office
and inner office, and stenographers to guard them both. I wrote on my
card, however, that I wished to speak to him regarding affairs at my
college, and evidently piqued his curiosity to the extent of his giving
me the interview.
In that inner office I found a youngish man whose face was adorned with
a heavy black beard. He seemed strangely familiar, but I could not place
him.
"Come in," he said, looking hard at me. His restless eyes did not leave
my face all the while I was talking.
"What is it you want me to do?" he asked me when I had given him some
stumbling hint of my mission.
"I think you ought to keep Jewish boys out of my college," I told him.
"It--it isn't altogether fair, and it would only provoke a renewal of
the prejudice, if there should be as many freshmen next year as there
were this."
"You are a Jew yourself," he said accusingly.
"Yes, I am. But don't judge by me.... I have always been an exception to
all that prejudice."
"Oh, have you? I wonder why?"
I resented his tone, but went on to explain how I had entered college
long before the antagonism had broken out; had worked hard, with
Christian friends to help me, until I had won honors which assured me
immunity from any unpleasantness.
"I congratulate you," he said dryly. "You no doubt deserve these honors.
Your sort always does."
I stood up angrily and looked him square in the face. Then suddenly I
recognized him.... Pictures of my public school days came up before
me.... The class room and the big, crippled bully, Geoghen.... That
finding of the Hebrew prayer book when the teacher was out of the room,
and the hooting and mocking ... and then the teacher's return--and the
fight.
It was Mr. Levi.
He smiled when he saw that I knew him, now. "I remembered you more
readily," he said. "You have no beard to change your appearance." But it
was more than his beard: there was a complete change in him from the
dreamy, pale young man who had learned so harsh a lesson in those old
days. There was a bitter twist to his mouth. His lips were set sternly,
his eyebrows were lowered, his brow crossed by scowling lines.
"There's one thing about you that I remember," he snapped at me. "You
were a Jew--and yet you stood aside and let those little cads take the
book of God and make nasty fun of it--and never raised your hand or even
your voice to stop them. That's the sort of boy you were. And, I
suppose, you're still the same. It'd seem so, anyhow. You probably won
all your college honors through standing aside. And now you have the
audacity to ask me to do the same, lest you be made uncomfortable by the
number of other Jewish boys at your college. You want me to stand aside,
do you? Well, I wish I had a thousand Jewish boys to enter into your
college's next year's class!"
He glared at me. "If you want to know the truth, I can't get a single
boy in my school to go to your college, now. I wish I could. Because I'm
training them to fight like men. They aren't the sort who win honors by
allowing themselves to be classed as exceptions...."
As for myself, I knew that he was half wrong, half right--and that there
was nothing more for me to say. I had learned what I came to learn. So I
got up to go.
"And if there's another such demonstration, next year," he sneered, "you
and your precious honors will have to stand aside again, eh? It must
keep you very light on your feet!"
XVIII
I STAND--BUT NOT ASIDE
Thus it happened that only five Jews enrolled in the entering freshman
class. One of them, of course, was Frank Cohen.
Mr. Levi's accusations had stung deeply. My anger at them was all the
more intense because my heart admitted half their truth. Nevertheless, I
was glad to see that there could be no possible aggravation this year:
surely, with only five Jewish freshmen, the percentage would be small
and unnoticed. It was all very well, that venom of Mr. Levi's--but it
was unreasonable. I would be glad if the Jewish question would never
again be mentioned during my college course.
The opening of the senior year found Frank Cohen and me on the
Palisades, talking eagerly of what his college course would mean to him.
He made me smile, his dreams were so like my own had been when I, too,
was a freshman. Made me wonder, too, how much I had fulfilled those
dreams. Something accomplished, yes--and as much unfulfilled,
disregarded, left undone. Well, perhaps, in this last year, I would
have the chance again--and would not flinch.
The chance came just two days after the opening of college. It came when
Frank Cohen burst into my room about nine o'clock at night, in company
with another Jewish freshman. The other one was dogged, frightened, and,
when he was behind my closed door, began to cry noiselessly. As for
Frank, who was made of stronger stuff, he sat silent in his chair,
grasping its arms and trying to control the intensity of some revulsion
which had come over him.
They told me quickly what had happened. They were just from a meeting of
freshman candidates for the college newspaper. The meeting had been
called in order to instruct these candidates in the rules and
qualifications of the competition. All men who cared to enter the
competition had been invited. Two men had made speeches: the
editor-in-chief and the managing editor of the paper, Sayer and Braley
by name.
These had been cordial speeches, urging all men present at the meeting
to work hard in this competition. There had been speeches of
encouragement, in glowing colors--and then, at the end of it all, in
front of the fifty-odd youths who were assembled there, Braley had
closed his speech with this:
"We wish to say that any Jew who may have it in mind to enter this
competition might as well save himself the pains. We shall not even
consider the election of a Jew to the board."
Immediately a gasp, then a snicker had run through the roomful; then
necks had craned and heads turned to catch looks at Frank and the other
freshman who stood, flushed and humiliated, in their midst.
Then the meeting had broken up, and the other candidates, taking their
cue from Braley's speech, stood aside to let Frank and his companion
pass down through whispering, giggling aisles. They had tried to go
calmly, unconcernedly, as if the shock of the insult meant nothing to
them. But the other Jewish freshman had broken down, and Frank had to
put his arm around him to keep him up and straight upon his path through
the crowd's midst, out upon the campus and over to my dormitory.
I sat a little while silent after I heard them tell of it. I was as much
stunned as they--and sickened too. I had thought all that sort of thing
was done with. I had hoped it was all past, even forgotten--and here it
was, leaping up again to confront, to threaten, to jeer at us. I had
only dimly imagined the possibility of it. I had no plan, no hint of how
I should go about it.
Two years ago, if this had happened, I should not have cared one way or
the other. I should have crawled away into a corner and buried my face
to hide my fear's approach. I should have waited to see how others
acted, how others fought--and then, at best I should have fought along
in a half-hearted, half-dreading fashion. Even now, I had nothing to
fight for. I knew what Judaism was--and that it was for the God and the
people of Judaism that I should be making my little fight--but--
I turned about and saw the eyes of the two freshmen glued upon me.
Frank's especially--and they were beginning to fill with a troubled
distrust which I had never allowed to be there before. I could not fail
Frank. I would do what I could.
"All right," I said, drawing on my coat. "Go ahead home and get to bed.
I will see what I can do."
I went with them across the campus to the other freshman's room. Frank
would sleep there for the night, though he usually went back to his
parents. I think he did not have the heart tonight to face them, and
when they asked their usual breathless questions of the day's work and
play, lie to them and hide from them the galling incident. He did not
seem to feel the insult for his own sake; he was thinking, rather, of
his mother and of how she would feel, should she ever know.
"Good night," said the other freshman soberly.
"Good night," said Frank--and I felt in his voice all of the cheery
obligation of friendship. He was expecting wonders of me.
Walking on alone, across the open gloominess of deserted paths and night
winds in the shrubbery, a thousand foolish fears tramped by my side and
sang into my ears. I had hidden my empty spirit from those two boys--but
I could not hide it from myself. I wondered what sort of a fight was
ahead of me, and how long it would last, and what would be the final
result. Those two men, Sayer and Braley, were among the most influential
of the class. They were members of my senior society. They could hold me
down by sentimental ties of brotherhood, much as Trevelyan had been held
down by his fraternity mates; failing that, they could use their
popularity, their clinch upon college opinion to force me literally into
silence. They could run me out of college, if they pleased. I knew this,
did not deny it to myself as I went forward to the first skirmish.
Once I turned around and almost retreated to my rooms. But the
remembrance of the sting that was in Frank's reproachful look would not
let me do that.
So I came to the steps of the big Y. M. C. A. building. They were many,
these white stone steps, and they shone in the moonlight with a mottling
of hazardous shadows. I mounted them and went into the huge assembly
hall on the first floor. I heard the awkward, self-conscious benediction
and adjournment of the meeting--for they were all young fellows, and had
not yet learned to be entirely glib towards their meetings--and stood
aside to let them pass out. As the first of them went through the door
and out upon the campus, they burst into the giddy laughs which
moonlight conjures--and I heard them singing foolish glees--snatches of
song that were utterly pagan and gleeful, and far from the heated
stuffiness of their prayer meeting. They seemed to have found their
Kindly Light more easily in the open.
The man for whom I now waited had always been the leader of my class;
this year, he was the idol of the entire university. Captain of
football, a 'varsity baseball man, he had the finest, sincerest
character that I had ever known. He was not merely popular, in our
undergraduate sense. Underclassmen worshipped him from afar, and
upperclassmen, who knew him and the life that he led, loved him and
respected him with a love and respect which few men can ever win.
He and I had become friendly, lately. It was due, perhaps, to the fact
that we now belonged to the same senior society. Before, I had
worshipped from afar; now I knew him well and warmly--and, as I look
back upon my college life, I am amazed to realize how much of his
influence went into the making of it.
As he came out, I noticed how his broad shoulders filled the doorway and
blocked out its light completely. But his face was above the shadows,
and I had a sudden sense of comfort from the resolute kindliness that
shone upon it.
"Fred," I said, "I want your help on something."
As president of the Y. M. C. A. he had a room allotted him in the
building where he might sleep. I knew that he had a suite in his
fraternity house, too--but he preferred to stay here, for some reason,
in this smaller, simpler place, where he would be nearer his duties.
When he had me in the plain little den, sitting before the miniature
wood fire which he heaped with broken twigs, he sat me down and gave me
a few minutes of tactful silence. I was thinking it all out. I wanted to
tell it to him fairly, concisely, with no imprecations, and yet with no
weakening of attitude. Then I did tell it, simply, just as the two boys
had told it to me.
I saw Fred's face grow troubled. Before I was through he had begun to
walk up and down the little room with a nervousness that made his pace
almost such a jog as football players use when they come out upon the
field.
"You're right," he said when I was done. "You're so right that
everything else connected with the incident is wrong--and that's the
hardest part for me to admit. You deserve to fight this out alone--it
belongs to you. I wish I had a fight like yours to make. But if you'll
let me help you--?"
"Let you? Why, I _need_ your help!"
"Then you'll have it. I'll be glad--mighty glad to chime in with you--"
He stopped short, his tremendous frame red-lined in the fire's glow, his
cheeks above his square jaw as bright as the flames themselves.
I could not answer him sentimentally. My comfort and gratitude were too
deep, my suddenly gained encouragement too surging for the narrow outlet
of words. But after a while we began to plan. We would fight it
together--and immediately.
When I got up to go, his Bible was lying open at the beginning of the
New Testament, with a ribbon and tiny silver cross to mark the place.
When Fred saw me looking at it, he must have felt some part of the
strange, shivery misgiving which had come over me. For he took the
ribbon in his fingers, so that the cross lay gleaming in his palm.
"It is Christ's symbol," he said. "It is the sign of one who
suffered--and who was a Jew."
Then, as if he must leave me no doubt of his meaning in my mind:
"Don't worry. The cross won't stand between us. Though--" His eyes
travelled slowly to the shelf above the fireplace. "Look! There's a
symbol of _your_ religion, too."
So I looked. Gleaming brass, its seven uplifting arms gracefully curved,
stood a--Menorah!
XIX
"BATTLE ROYAL!"
I awoke the next morning to an insistent knocking at my door. I sprang
out of bed and opened it. In the hall, their dress showing signs of much
haste, stood Sayer and Braley. They did not wait my invitation, but
strode at once into the room and, throwing the rumpled covers from the
bed, plumped down upon it.
"See here," said Braley, without prelude, "what's this talk about Fred's
calling a special meeting of the senior class for tonight? Do you know
anything about it?"
I smiled my way out of a pajama top. "Really?" I exclaimed. "Well, I did
hear Fred say something about it last night."
"Oh, so you talked it over with him? Did you ask for the meeting?"
I had thrown on a bathrobe. "Yes, I did. Why?"
"That's what we want to know. Why, why?"
I looked up from tying the cord about my waist. "That's just what I'm
not going to tell. Not until the meeting."
"Well, perhaps we know."
"You probably do. You deserve to."