less. Surely God would understand that the only language
these heathens knew was the language of force. The con-
gregation must respond in kind. In response to my father
the young men started ripping up the wooden benches,
while the rabbi began to pray in such earnest desperation
that the older men felt that God could do no less than heed
his pleas.

The door was pushed open and the mob of violent
anti-Semites poured in. But the younger men were ready
for them with planks of wood and anything else at their
disposal. Never had these ruffians encountered such a
sight. Resistance on the Sabbath was unknown. Always
the Jews had continued to pray even more loudly, wrapped
in their prayer shawls, tears streaming down their faces,
never lifting their eyes, except to God, until the synagogue
lay in shambles. This was something new--something
strange and unexpected. These young Jews were not pray-
ing; they were cursing in the Russian the mob understood,
and counterattacking with all their strength.

The enemy retreated with a few bruises, shaking their
bleeding, bewildered heads. In the synagogue the praying
continued, the congregation standing, for the benches had
been broken and put to a strange use. They all stood a little
taller, and their voices were raised in thankfulness to God,
who had delivered them once more.

When my father came home from shul that afternoon
and kissed the mezuzah on the frame of the doorway
leading into our home, he saw it very clearly. He would
not remain in this land of persecution and oppression. He
was still young and strong; he would go to America. He
knew exactly what he would do. He would be a farmer,
a homesteader. He had read in the Yiddish newspaper,

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