IN the New York Ghetto the most fervent hour of the year had just gone by. It was the evening of Yom Kippur, Day of Atonement, when the fate of every Jew for the coming year is sealed above in the Book of Judgment, never again to be opened. So says the Talmud, warning all believers to save themselves by prayer before the ram's horn blows at sunset. For ten days since Rosh Hashonna, --the Jewish New Year's Day, - tenements, cafés, even sweatshops, had become synagogues, and through the Ghetto there had swept a deep frenzy of contrition and fear.

I had seen that frenzy rise to its climax; in that last hour of repentance I had stood jammed into one corner of a tenement bedroom. In front was a kitchen, and wedged into these two little rooms were some fifty men, rocking monotonously up and down, now staring at their Hebrew prayer books, now lifting streaming eyes to the sacred urin kodish the ark-before them. From the women's room behind came low sobs of anguish. The air thrilled with a tremulous chant, which swelled now and then into wailing cries for mercy. The room was stifling; many had not stirred from the benches nor tasted a morsel of food since sundown of the day before. But their faces, though haggard and bloodless, were rapt, their eyes were radiant, dreaming the old Ghetto dream of Haschumiäm, the Hebrew heaven, where they hoped to find the happiness which on this earth had been shattered by long ages of oppression in the name of Christ.

By dreaming this old dream the Ghettos in Europe have endured life for ages. But now, in New York, a new dream is crowding out the old. For, as in this largest Ghetto of the world the half-million of Jews already here is augmented each

"Dere ees no God!". -"Yer lie! Yer lie like hell!" Shrill cries burst out in the hallway. I opened my door, and in the dim light I saw a confused tangle of Jewish boys I knew, shouting, gesticulating, gripping each other's elbows. "Dere ees no God!" laughed Emile, the little infidel. "Dere is! Dere is!" panted Jake, the believer. I led them into the room. "Now cool down a minute before you start," I advised. "How did this fight begin?"

Jake pointed at Emile. "He laughed laughed at me ven I come out of de Schule.

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The four stood eying me. They were bursting to speak.

"Who says there is no God?" I asked. "Moi! Je dis-I say-I t'ink eet hard out I know dere ees not a God! I know!" Emile spoke with a French accent. He was fifteen years old, born in Roumania, but nurtured in Paris, whence his family had come here eighteen months before. He stood waiting, handsome, affable, radiantly smiling, the happiest little chap I have ever known.

To believe what followed you must know something of his home training. 1 Schule, synagogue.

The three small tenement rooms of his home were always scrupulously clean. The parents, though poor, had kept Emile steadily at school, first in Paris and then here, and now his brother had promised to keep him in high school to prepare for the City College. This brother of twenty-two made only twelve dollars a week,-in a cap shop,-working thirteen hours a day; but he had already become the leading spirit in a little Roumanian group of socialists who gathered nightly to drink coffee and discuss their new dreams until two o'clock, often until three. Emile worshiped this brother, and from this brother he had his ideas. "Dere ees no God!" he cried again, in triumph. "This - kid is right!" A series of short, explosive yells to my left announced Sam, the tiny Russian orator, aged twelve, whose spectacles could not hide the burning fire of his eyes. He already made Socialist speeches on the Ghetto streets at night. The vitality of a whole nation was in his shout, as he stamped on the floor, glared up through the ceiling, defying Heaven, and roared, "There ain't- no God!"

I heard a low, bitter laugh behind me. "Dese boys is bad-sehr, sehr schlecht." Thin Jake's deep voice trembled. He stood shaking with suppressed passion. I had seen him like this but once before, on the night when he told me of his mother's death in an old Galician Ghetto. Jake's deepest passion had been his love for her. From her he had his passion for religion. She was of the Chusid sect, most devout of all Jews, almost fanatics in their worship. When she knew that she was dying, she had repeated her commands to Jake that he go faithfully every morning and evening to the synagogue, that he study the Torah (Pentateuch), and try to learn enough to understand the Talmud. He must never sing or whistle, but give all his spare time to worship. He must spend Friday night and Saturday always with the rabbi. He must submissively endure his life of pain and toil. He must dream the old dream

of Haschumiäm, and live according to his dream, as his family had lived for ages. And so, at last, she had promised, he would meet the hundreds of generations of his family in that place where the old dream would all come true. Then she had turned her face on the pillow, and sobbed because she was leaving him to starve without a cent. Then her hand had grown cold as he held it. A month after that, Jake had come here to join his brother. He was thirteen then. His brother was eighteen. He had spent these last two years by his brother's side in the sweatshop,-two years of dark, grinding labor at the machine, with only the old dream to brighten it. Jake had no time for American schools; he spoke English brokenly; he could neither write nor read. So now there was little confidence in his bony face as he stood, ragged and dirty, to defend the old dream of his people. His face was set with dogged force; his dark eyes gleamed; but his voice shook with fear. For Emile the infidel had spoken of things so sacred that it was sinful even to hear him speak.

"Dis boy is a epikorus (blasphemer)! De rabbi he says dot a epikorus goes ven he dies down in Gehenim ter be burned!" Jake began. His gloomy, haggard little face fired terribly.

Ike suddenly drew away from Emile. Ike was the smallest of them all. He was only eleven years old.

"And you," I asked him; "what do you say?" His round eyes dilated with fear, and his mop of yellow curls seemed to stand up still farther.

"I-I don't know yet," he murmured. Like most East Side youngsters, he had transferred his allegiance from his old foreign parents to these fifteenyear-old teachers. By their dispute he now suddenly found his religion weighed in the balance. He stared solemnly from the gloomy Jake to the radiant, fearless Emile.

The combat began in earnest.

"Dis boy is bad," said Jake. "An' he makes odder boys bad, too."

"Am I bad?" asked Emile, appealing to me with a shrug and a smile. "Am I selfeesh? Do I lie? Am I a cruke? Am I bad? Mon Dieu! don' I get along as well widout dees God? Ain't it?"

"Yes! You do!" roared Sam. "You are good!"

- he

"You'se are not a bad boy," doubtfully admitted little Ike, staring at Emile. "He is bad!" cried Jake passionately. "Worse dan any liar already, — he lies about God! Worse dan all crooks, he tries ter steal de boys from God. De rabbi he tol' mein mudder before she die say dot de boy wot lies about God dot boy must be burned in Gehenim!" Emile stood fearlessly smiling. "What do dese old rabbi men know?" he asked scornfully. "Poor ol' men, who know notheeng―notheeng of proigréss. Dey cannot even speak de Engleesh. What boy here wants to be a rabbi? Do you? Do you?"

"No!" cried Ike and Sam. Emile had scored a big point. Jake grew desperate.

'De rabbi is a big man! He don't need no English. He knows de Torah und de Talmud. Say! don't God say already dot de Talmud says everyt'ing? De rabbi is big because he knows de Talmud. Und it stands bei de Talmud dot you'se vill be burned in Gehenim! Youse laugh!" Jake's voice broke. "Youse think yer right. But youse ain't! Youse ain't! God he has yer life-book already, an' every night he puts down all de bad you 'se done bei de day! Ternight he vill put down, 'Dis feller he laugh at me already five times terday.'

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Ike and Sam laughed. "No!" yelled the mortified Jake. "God don't talk like dot. I can't talk good like him! But I knows I knows vot he means. It stands bei de Talmud!" Jake stopped, with fists clenched, and glared at Emile.

"De Talmud ees a beeg lie!" cried Emile. "Who reads de Talmud now een New York? De rabbi he take hees old Torah in de cheder (Hebrew school). He make boys to stay een all afternoon from t'ree to seven, so dey get no good air,

no baskeet ball, no fun. Dey get seeck. An' what does he teach? Mon Dieu! He teach only to pray,—not to t'ink, only to pray." He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled up at me. "An' what good ees to pray when dere ees no God?" he asked. "Dere is! Yer lie!" shouted Jake. "Den show heem to me," smiled Emile. "I cannot see heem. Eet ees -how you say?-up- up to you."

Sam nodded vigorously. It was up to Jake. Jake's face was a study. He smiled painfully, and you could see how desperately his mind was groping for help. He looked down, tried to speak, swallowed hard, and again looked down. Emile took pity on him.

"Dere ees no hurry at all," he said. "T'ink eet out. Eef you can show me, I will believe you."

"I can't show it good," Jake muttered. "I got no good teaching in de cheder. I got no time. New York is very bad," he cried despairingly. "Dey give de boys so bad Hebrew teaching dot dey can't talk back to boys like you!"

Jake was right. The Talmud supplies believers with terrible weapons to use against infidels. But Jake had none of them to fight with. He had only a deep, vague reverence, and a few old superstitions.

"Bei de house vere I board," he began, "mein bett is in de corner. Seven odder men und ladies sleep already bei dose t'ree rooms. One night I got up in mein sleep an' valked, I vas so tired from de machine in de sweatshop, — I valked ven I vas asleep, und I t'ought I vas vorking de machine. I made a noise, und I made awake already de lady vot sleep bei de odder corner of de room. De lady did not call me und make me awake. For vy did she call not out my name?" He looked solemnly at little Ike. He had won a point, for Ike was visibly impressed. "Because," Jake spoke now slowly, watching Ike, "if she call out mein name, I vould have been made already dead! Und nobody knows vy! Only God, He knows."

Emile smiled scornfully. Jake glowered at him. "De avdulu!” Jake cried. "How is dot? On Soterday night," he explained, turning to me, "de fader he drink some vine, und den he spill some on de table, an' he lights it vid a match und makes it burn. Den he vets his hands bei dis vine, und he puts his vet hands bei all his pockets. Dot makes him good luck all de week. How it makes him luck, if dere ain't no God?"

Ike was now all on Jake's side. He pulled Jake's sleeve. "De evil eye!" he suggested.

"Yes! De aïn hora!” cried Jake triumphantly. "De evil eye dot looks at fine ladies already und makes dem die. Dot ain't from God, mein mudder tol' me. Dot is bei a devil. But if dere is a devil, dere must be already a God—ain't it ? Ain't it?

"Und vy," he went on, gaining courage, "vy can I valk in mein sleep sidevays out vid mein feet on de vall? Vy can I? Vy can I?"

Emile rocked up and down, convulsed by silent laughter. Suddenly he seized a piece of tissue paper, and began smoothing it against the wall. "My brudder he show me dees las' night," he said. “Here ees de difference between my brudder an' your mudder. Your mudder she tol' you God makes eet so a man can walk on de wall when he ees asleep; my brudder he tol' me science makes eet so dees paper steek to de wall. Your mudder did not show you a man walk; but my brudder he make me see de paper steek many times, an' he say, 'Every time you rub so eet will steek.' Now look." He took his hand off the paper. It stuck. "Dees ees science!" he cried. "Did your mudder tell you why de man can walk on de wall? No-she did not she only said eet was God. But my brudder he tol' me why de paper steek because dere ees no air between de paper an' de wall. He make me to t'ink hard before I see. Votre mère· your mudder make you not to see, an' so be 'fraid an' pray. But my brudder he make me to see, an' so not

be' fraid, and so to t'ink. It'ink some day de science men will make eet dat men can walk easy bei de walls!"

"Hu!" sneered Jake. "You'se make dese science men jes' like God. If you'se don't believe in God, vy do you 'se believe in dem? Vy?"

For a moment Emile was puzzled. "Wait!" he cried eagerly. "Wait! I believe dese men because because dey make me to t'ink. Dey give to me fine argoóments-dey measure everyt'ing wid a measure." He turned to the open window, and pointed up to the strip of blue sky between tenements. "Dere ees a star!" he said. "De science men dey tell me how many miles an' feet ees from here to dere! It may be ten million miles an' ten feet an' seex inches. It may be ten million miles an' seex feet an' five

inches. Dey can tell me, seex inches or five!"

Jake tried to hide his uneasiness by a silent, contemptuous smile.

But Sam went wild. "Say!" he shouted. "Let me put it already bei a speech! Listen! I will begin! Far off bei de air far off"

"Sam, shut up! Emile, go on!" I di

engine to go over de world! An' now'

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he drew a big ring near the edge of the paper "electreecity! He t'inks how to catch de electreecity, — he can talk to Roumania in one minute! No! In half one minute! An' now-look!" One minute Emile stared into the three fascinated faces. "Look!" he cried. "Dis paper ees now too small for proigréss; I mus' use de floor!" He drew a ring five feet wide. "Dis ees what dey will do next - Mon Dieu! - de beegest of all! Dey will make a man! An' den," - he cried, breathlessly rising to his feet,-"an' den we will all be Gods! Why? Why? Because we t'ink, an' we do not pray! My brudder he say, 'Emile! We t'ink-an' we are Gods!""

One moment the group stared in silence. At last Jake had a last desperate idea for an argument. "How can I t'ink like de science men?" he asked bitterly. "I got no time. I first come bei de buttonhole machine at six o'clock; I come avay at eight. An' mein brudder he vorks bei pants,―he vorks more hard dan me,

how can me an' mein brudder t'ink? It ain't no good for us. We mus' pray."

Emile's face changed. "Now!" he cried. "Listen to me! You have a bad time. You are slaves. Your mudder was; you an' your brudder, you are. Many million people are slaves - slaves bei de machine. You have no time now to t'ink. But you wil have de time! You will! How eet ees, I will tell you. Some smart men like my brudder dey make caps bei de machine all day. At night dey are feel mos' dead, but dey try not to feel dead; dey mus' t'ink, dey try to t'ink all de night! Dey sit bei de café an' talk, an' make some more men to t'ink. Dey speak on de wagons of de Social Democratic Party! Dey make Socialism! An' now nex' mont' de Socialists get a million votes sure! An' nex' time two million-sure! An' every year more an' more! An' when we are men, den every man works only five hour a day, an' every man have a t'ousand dollars a year, some men two t'ousand, some t'ree! An' den-my brudder he say

dot," - Emile's deep, fervid eyes dilated and grew dreamy, and he spoke very low, smiling, - "den at de las' dere will be already no money. I will make caps. An' if you tear your cap, you will come bei me an' say, 'Brudder, make for me a cap.' Et moi, I will say to you 'Brudder, I am glad - glad to make for you a cap.' An' when my shoes sont dechiré, den I will come bei you an' say, 'Brudder, make for me some shoes."" Emile smiled suddenly harder to hide his feelings. "An' den you will laugh, an' be glad to make for me shoes." He stopped, still smiling.

Orator Sam, who had been squatting on the floor, now looked up, and his fiery eyes glistened through his glasses. Little Ike stood staring at Emile. He was deeply puzzled. With one hand he kept slowly ruffling up his curly mop.

It was Jake's turn to laugh. "Vot do youse know about vork?" he sneered. "You'se only talk und go bei de school. I vork und ache und get afraid to lose mein job. Dot is vork. Dis is talk! Dis is foolish. It won't vork!"

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Emile sprang up. His smile had vanished. Why do you t'ink eet will not work?" he cried. "Why-why ?-because de sweatshop contracteúr he tell you eet will not! An' de rabbi an' de cop an' de raypublicaíne an' de democraticall de capitaleests dey shout, 'It will not work!' Dey tell you, dey are smart, dey can t'ink, dey make you to be so tire you cannot t'ink! You mus' t'ink. You mus' not be like your brudder, but like my brudder! You mus' t'ink at night! He stay till t'ree o'clock in de café; he read; he t'ink; he talk on de wagon! He sing de Marseillaise; he tell me de Marseillaise will be sung all over de worl'. You mus' t'ink! To t'ink good you mus' quit God. Dere ees no God! De capitaleest he make a fake God so you pray an' not t'ink. God make you wait for be happy after you die. You mus' be happy now! If you live for always after you die, den it ees already a good beezness, but you mus' not t'ink of after you die. You mus' t'ink of now. When everybody will quit