The Maccabaean

idol. It is the religion of the prophets of Israel, an international ethics, our new ancient conception of social, of political righteousness. If it cannot face life, who would save it alive? If it cannot master politics and shape them, what is its 'missionary' value? Teacher, teach thyself.

“(11) You will be held responsible—unless you resign your Judaism. The glory will be yours, though you have not deserved it. And why remain a Jew unless you have faith in the Jewish people and the Jewish future? The word Jew has no value. It is this hope, this realization, this religious consecration that gives it value. It is not I that have dragged the Jewish people with me into Zionism. It is the Jewish people that with all its force is sweeping me—and even you—into the hope of this new Zion.

“I note that you do not advance the old hackneyed argument that Zionism is not practical. Why this sudden silence? Is it because the practical British Government has openly stepped forth to support us? Because scientists and economists and historians agree that our plans are good? But I have told you this, I told you so, for twenty years. The facts have not changed; only the attitude of the public. But one consoling doubt is left to you. What if after all the politicians should be playing only politics?—Speak it not aloud, lest the censor hear.

“But you are not one of those who will go to Palestine. I am no prophet. I cannot foretell what will happen to you. However, certain inferences are clear: As a citizen, your status will gain the added dignity of undivided allegiance. You will no longer be here because you were driven from somewhere else, and have nowhere else to go, but because you prefer to be here, even though your people has its own national home. As a Jew, you will gain freedom. You will be free to renounce Judaism without injuring our people, if you are so foolish as to desire it. Or

Relentless

you will be free here to develop Jewish religious and intellectual ideas and forms with the co-operation of our people in Palestine, without having your nationality or allegiance called into question, without being constantly on the defensive as the responsible representative of a homeless, a 'gypsy' people. You will no longer be the Jewish center. That center will be in Palestine.

“You—you as the Anti-Zionist—cannot continue to exist. Your nourishment is gone. But, Oh, be not utterly forgotten like Amalek, be not wiped from the page of history. But be remembered with pomp and circumstance, like those Jews who opposed Moses, or like the Hellenists who would have betrayed their people. Among all peoples seeking freedom, there are individuals who hug their slavery and melt away gladly into their over-admired surroundings. They add nothing to those surroundings except more flesh and blood, since they renounce whatever makes them distinctive. As individuals, they may be highly respectable. As representatives of a struggling people, whom they have deserted for motives of personal ease, their position is disreputable and shameful. As such, yours will go down in Jewish history and in world history.

“Why, you ask, have you not as good a right as I to represent the Jewish people? How can you expect to speak for the Jewish people when you deny that the Jews are a people, or else, admitting it, deny them the exercise of all those functions that properly belong to a people?”

Having delivered myself of that scathing remark, I turned to the Anti-Zionist and cast his scroll at his feet. But what was my horror, in gazing again upon him, to see that the luster had left his eyes; indeed, his features had been wiped from his face, which presented a flat, rough, yellow surface. His hands were whisps and stalks. The Anti-Zionist had turned into a man of straw. He, too, had disappeared.

Away, away, the days relentless flow, The months, the years—cruel time is pitiless! Sweet Youth, nigh overwhelmed beneath the stress That souls must strain beneath when forced to go By westward paths where western flowers blow, While hearts are yearning eastward where distress Bewails the wastes alone—sweet Youth, no less, Scarce known, is passed: must life itself end so!

Stop, time, thy maddened flight before I die, My task undone, my song choked back by dust! Or on thy wings, if climb and swoop thou must Quick, bear me where to live is not to lie! Ah, East, whose balms were famed in every clime, Can'st thou now soothe the wounds burnt deep by time?