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‘A Tsaddik (wonder-rabbi) was killed in the last pogrom,’ said David brutally. ‘You must join a Self-Defence band.’

The cobbler ceased to tap. ‘What! Go for a soldier! When the Rebbe caused me to draw a high number!’

‘Our soldiering is not for Russia, but to save us from Russia. We must all join together!’

‘Me join the Misnagdim!‘ cried the cobbler in horror. ‘Never will I join with those who deny the Master-of-the-Name.’

David sighed. Suddenly he perceived a stalwart Jew lounging at a neighbouring door. He moved towards him, and broached the subject afresh. The lounger shook his head. ‘You may persuade that foolish Chassid,’ said he, ‘but you cannot expect the rest of us to join with these heretics, these godless, dancing dervishes, who are capable even of saying the afternoon prayer in the evening!’

In the next house lived a Maskil (Intellectual), who looked up from his Hebrew newspaper to ask how he could be associated with a squad of young ignoramuses. His neighbour was a Karaite, drifted here from another community. The Karaite pointed out that Self-Defence was unnecessary in his case, as his sect was scarcely regarded by the authorities as Jewish. There were other motley Jews living round the market-place–a Lithuanian, who refused to co-operate with the Polish ‘sweet-tooths,’ and who was in turn stigmatized by a Pole as ‘peel-barley,’ in scarification of his reputedly stingy diet. A man from Odessa dismissed them both as ‘cross-heads.’ It was impossible to unite such mutually superior elements. Again weary and heart-sick, he returned towards the inn.

VIII

But his way was blocked by a turbulent stream of Jewish boys pouring out of the primary school. They seemed to range in years between eight and twelve, but even the youngest face wore a stamp of age, and though the air vibrated with the multiplex chatter which accompanies the exodus of cramped and muted pupils, the normal elements of joyousness, of horse-play, of individual freakishness, were absent. It was a common agitation that loosed all these little tongues and set all these little ears listening to the passionate harangues of ringleaders. Instead of hurrying home, the schoolboys lingered in knots round their favourite orators. A premature gravity furrowed all the childish foreheads.

With one of these orators David dimly felt familiar, and after listening for a few minutes to the lad’s tirade against the ‘autocracy of the school director’ and the ‘bureaucratic methods of the inspector,’ it dawned upon him that the little demagogue was his own landlord’s son.

‘Hullo, Kalman!’ he cried in surprise.

‘Hullo, comrade!’ replied the boy graciously.

‘So you’re a revolutionary, eh?’ said David, smiling.

‘All my class belongs to the Junior Bund,’ replied the boy gravely.

‘Then you’re not so peaceful as papa!’

The lad’s aplomb and dignity deserted him. He blushed furiously, and hung his head in shame of his Moderate parent.

‘Never mind, Comrade Kalman,’ said another boy, slapping his shoulder consolingly. ‘We’ve all got some shady relative or another.’

A shrill burst of applause relieved the painful situation. Turning his head, David found all the childish eyes converged upon a single figure, a bulging-headed lad who had sprung into a sudden position of eminence–upon an egg-box. He was clothed in the blue blouse of Radicalism and irreligion, and the faint down upon his upper lip suggested that he must be nearing fifteen.

‘Comrades!’ he was crying. ‘In my youth I myself was head boy at this school of yours, but even in those old days there was the same brutal autocracy. Your only remedy is a general strike. You must join the Syndical Anarchists.’

More shrill cheers greeted this fiery counsel. The members of the Junior Bund waved their satchels frenziedly. Only the landlord’s son stood mute and frowning.

‘You don’t agree with him,’ said David.

‘No,’ answered the little Bundist gravely. ‘I follow Comrade Berl. But this fellow is popular because he was expelled from the Warsaw gymnasium as a suspect.’

‘You must strike!’ repeated the juvenile agitator. ‘A strike is the only way of impressing the proletarian psychology. You must all swear to attend school no more till your demands are granted.’