A Modern Deborah
From the Journal of a Dreamer in Israel
A GAIN I dreamed of Rebecca. It was a long time since our paths had crossed. And yet for all these long years she, like an accusing spirit, has not ceased to haunt me day and night. Dear Rebecca, wilt thou pursue me forever? Will those appealing eyes of thine follow me everywhere? Will that sweet, soft voice forever sound faintly, plaintively in my ears? Will that pale, reproachful face be always present to my agitated mind?
I came to this hustling, bustling metropolis. I thought to find here forgetfulness; forgetfulness of her whom I once so dearly loved, but who has later on, through no fault of hers, turned my life into gall. Oh, how readily I plunged myself into this stormy, all-absorbing American life! I wished to banish by force her memory from my mind. And all things in the New World seemed, as I had hoped, to put an end to the bitter dreams I had dreamed these long weary years. But, then, last night after a usual busy day and evening, I went to bed and again dreamed of her.
And now her image has pursued me the whole day long. Again she has become my constant companion, not leaving my side for a moment. She bids me to the theater of memory, where she plays the leading part in a stirring tragedy.
It happened a number of years ago. 1 passed my vacation at the East Sea in Germany. It was early in the morning, one of those beautiful, sweet summer mornings, with blue skies, soft breezes, and a very tender sun. I was taking an early stroll through the streets of the quiet little town when a female voice coming from one of the cottages along the coast, and falling upon the pure morning air, arrested my attention. I halted, and recognized the tune of Hatikvah—the Jewish national hymn— which she was singing to
her accompaniment on the piano. I was chained to the spot. Not only was the music beautiful, and the voice captivating; but there was so much feeling in that song, so much soul in that voice that it touched my heart deeply. It seemed to me that I had never heard so beautiful and so inspiring a voice.
When the singer came to the refrain: "Lost is not our hope of yore", I forgot that I was listening to the voice of a mere girl. With my mind's eye I saw before me the Jewish nation crying out in anguish that she has not given up her hope, and that, though brought low and trodden under foot, sooner or later, her hope will be realized, and she will return to her own soil, and take her former place as a nation among nations, respected and honored as in her glorious days of old.
I had heard this song before. Years and years ago, when I was still in my small native town in the Pale, I used to sing it with my classmates; my dear mother died with the words of this poem on her lips. But years had passed since; and I had in the meantime given up my childhood dreams and ideals. I had severed all my connections with my people; their hopes were no longer shared by me, their future was no longer identical with mine. I had come to look upon everything Jewish as sordid. I had left behind the dark and gloomy ghetto walls; I had freed myself from the stifling Jewish atmosphere to enter the brilliant light of civilized life.
And now, while listening to this hymn sung with so much pathos, so much feeling, the old memories of childhood overpowered me; and I gave myself up to the recollections of a long forgotten past. The thoughts, which this song called forth in me, had such an influence over me that I leaned against the wall, and wept. I, the rationalist, who believed he had sup-