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He bowed to the Rav and with a final "Sholom alaicham!" passed downstairs to the street. As he waited at the corner for a west-bound car he thought he discerned a familiar figure in the shadow of the house he had just quitted. He walked slowly up the block and Harkavy stole out of the basement area and slunk hurriedly past him. "Harkavy!"
In response a bent figure, clad in an alpaca caftan, appeared from an interior bedroom. He wore a velvet skullcap, and a thin gray beard straggled from his chin; his nose was surmounted by a pair of steel spectacles. "Sholom alaicham!" Morris cried, according the Rabbi that greeting, as ancient as the Hebrew tongue itself "Peace be with you."
But this month the west side is aglow with the genius of Sholom Ash and with the interpretative genius of Aaron Teitelbaum, who plays the dead man in uniform and who directed the production. I know of no performance today that rivals his. Here the city kind of runs over at the heel and flaunts a seven-year-old straw hat.
"Alaicham sholom!" the Rabbi answered, and then he resorted to the Yiddish jargon: "Do you look for me?" "I look for the Rav Elkan Levin," Morris said in a tongue to which he had long been unaccustomed. "I am the servant of the philanthropist Steuermann." "Steuermann?" the Rav Levin repeated. "I do not know him." "In America," Morris said, "his name is honored over the governor's.
But the abundance of the materials furnished by Jewish life would still give this author opportunity to give us more of the magnificently colored pictures that he gave us in his initial productions. Close to Youshkevich should be placed the two young writers, Sholom Ash and Izemann. Sholom Ash has principally depicted the Jewish world and its psychology.
Sholom Ash, who wrote this play, spent a time in villages abroad as a Jewish relief worker and he brought back this scene. A bedlam of despair, a merciless photograph that stares across the footlights for a half-hour. The story begins. There is a village leader in whose veins the will to live still throbs. He exhorts the shivering ones. There will be a wedding.
Shalom Aleichem's Jewish Children and Leon Kobrin's A Lithuanian Village surely belong, though their scenes are laid in Europe; as do Sholom Asch's vivid, moving novels Mottke the Vagabond concerned with the underworld of Poland and Uncle Moses concerned with the New York Ghetto the recent translations of which are slowly bringing to a wider American public the evidence that a really eminent novelist has hitherto been partly hidden by his alien tongue.
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