News Brief

The wind was blowing hard. Wellington was living up to its reputation of a windy city. It is young and modern, and counts a population of some seventy thousand inhabitants. And – before I as much as had a good look at the four walls of my room in the hotel where I had put up – I was filled with an irresistible desire to meet the Jews of this antipodean city.

I had the telephone directory brought in and began perusing it, letter by letter, in quest of Jewish sounding names. Sure enough, they were to be found practically on every page – familiar surnames of my people. And then I came across a Dutch name prefaced by the title of Reverend. "Wonder if this is Rabbi," I said to myself. I picked up the receiver and gave his number to the operator. A sonorous, youthful voice inquired:

"Who’s calling, please?"

"Pardon me, are you the local Rabbi?"

"Yes, I’m the Rabbi of Wellington. And you?"

"A Yiddish writer from America – just arrived and impatient to get acquainted with a fellow-Jew."

"Good! I’ll be over in a short while."

It seemed certain it was a young man who spoke over the telephone – for his voice was vibrant with energy, not to mention his readiness to come to see me at once. It was therefore the surprise of my life when, half an hour later, a grayheaded gentleman of venerable appearance entered my room. Seventy years old, if a day, exceptionally neat and trim, in formal dress and silk hat, he looked more like a recently converted aged Gentile than a Rabbi.

He greeted me very wamly, with a cordial handshake and a Hebrew sentence or two. But when I began asking him questions about the Jews in New Zealand, a moment and surveyed me with his keen eyes. Finally he inquired in a rather severe tone of voice:

"What makes you so inquisitive about our brethren here?"

"My interest in the situation of the Jews in distant lands. I’m a Jew. What is the number of Jews in New Zealand?"

"One must not mention their number out loud."

"Why? Will it bring an ‘evil eye’ upon them?"

"Our neighbors must not suspect our number. Right here in Wellington we are about seven hundred strong, but the Gentiles think there are not more than two or three hundred Jews here, all told."

"What’s the idea?"

"Oh, they just don’t know our true number. If they did, trouble would follow."

"But the New Zealanders, I understand, are a friendly and liberal people. What does it mean, then, that the true number of Jews in the country should not be mentioned in their hearing?"

"Young man," my visitor took to admonishing me, "I assure you, I know what I am talking about. The most important thing is that the New Zealanders do not discover the true number of Russian Jews among us. Their number is larger than ours, and from the time they began coming here things have been changing for worse. I have been here for over thirty-five years. It was I who gathered the first ten Jews together. Everything was going nicely until the Russian Jews arrived and brought dissensions and criticism and what not along with them."

"I would greatly appreciate it, Rabbi, if you introduced me to the local Russian Jews."

He glanced at me, and such hidden anger and disappointment burned in his eyes that I could not help feeling he was regretting having humilated himself to the extent of calling on me. He made no reply to my request, rose abruptly, looked in the direction of the door, as if preparing to leave and, then, suddenly turned to me:

"We have a beautiful museum here. If you like to see it, I’ll take you there."

I felt quite uncomfortable Nevertheless I decided to accept the invitation. As I expected, the museum proved rather disappointing to one familiar with the great passed through a park where mimosa trees greeted us with their golden-yellow radiance. I kept silent. Nor did my companion utter a word. It seemed, we had nothing to talk about. A heavy, strained mood was on us…. Finally we came to a store of ready made clothing. He paused for an instant:

"Now I am going to introduce you to your own Jews, and if you are actually leaving tomorrow – farewell and bonvoyage."

He entered the store with me, introduced me to the Russian-Jewish proprietor, and walked out with a proud, dignified mien on his face. The storekeeper, a middle-aged man, with rather refined features, showered me with questions as to who I was and where I came from. When he discovered that we both had been born in the same province, he burst out crying like a child, and his grown up son, a native of New Zealand, seeing his father cry, followed his example, furtively casting interested glances in my direction.

Finally, the storekeeper, apparently ashamed of his weakness, forced a smile on his lips and spoke with great agitation:

"Well, well, I’ve got to notify everybody that you are here. Good God, a Yiddish writer! Are there really Yiddish writers in existence? I’ve lived here for over thirty years. Left my home town as a boy and went to London. My son was born here. He is twenty-six. And you are leaving us so soon. Perhaps you will stay to give us a talk? We have quite a Jewish community here. Wait till I call them up."

He got busy at the telephone. One by one, those he called appeared in the store. They eyed me with great curiosity. Instead of trying to attend to business, the storekeeper introduced me to every would be customer, not to mention those of his friends who came in response to his call. I found myself shaking hands even with the Gentile patrons. Instead of keeping their sectarian affairs a dark secret, the Jewish newcomers took to discussing them openly, in everyone’s hearing. Listening to them, one might think that Wellington could boast not of a paltry seven hundred Jews but of a goodly few thousand.

And yet, with all that, it was a great – and welcome – surprise to me when, a couple of days later, there came to my grandads, grannies and grandchildren. And with what eagerness they sat there waiting for the speaker to begin!

And when the chairman, in introducing me, apologized for the fact that the lecture would be in Yiddish, a wave of joy interrupted his excuses, and a heartfelt rejoicing swept the audience:

"Oh, Yiddish! Oh, Yiddish!"

I spoke at length. I told them about the Jews the world over. About our life in America and in other lands – as much as I knew about it. I talked to them about our Yiddish literature and its creators. They sat there and, with bated breath, drank in every word. But my greatest reward was yet to come – when I finished. A few children left their seats and stepped over to me, and one of them, a girl of twelve or so, addressed me in halting Yiddish:

"We thank you for having addressed us in Yiddish. Now we know that the language our parents speak is used all over the world."

I spent a few more days with the Jews of Wellington. The Rabbi sought me out and took me along to his home to spend an evening in his own family circle. And there, among his grown up children, sons and daughters, the Russian Jew in me was aroused once more. And the Rabbi kept complaining: "These Russian Jews are no respecters of persons."

And the Russian Jews had this to say to me about the Rabbi: "He has been here for over thirty-five years. He is more popular with the Gentiles than with the Jews. And – who knows – perhaps he loves the Gentiles better than us, Russian Jews."

Nevertheless, the silver-white image of the Wellington Rabbi has remained indelibly impressed in my heart. It was late at night when I left his house. The air was cold. The night was lavishly spangled with stars. The Rabbi saw me out. He stretched out his pale, white hand and pointed to the sky.

"Look," he remarked, "what big stars there are in the New Zealand sky."

And ever since, whenever I strolled alone on a cool, starry New Zealand night, I would remind myself of the pale, white hand that had pointed out to me the stars