The officer was not easily discouraged; the hours I passed
in that little room, with its smoky kerosene lamp, were terrible ones. I
realized, however, how tremendously important the question of the arms
was, and strength was given me to hold out until the officer gave up in
disgust and let me go home.
[ILLUSTRATION: HOUSE OF THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, EPHRAIM FISHL AARONSOHN, IN
ZICRON-JACOB]
My father, an old man, knew nothing of what had happened, but the rest
of my family were tremendously excited. I made light of the whole
affair, but I felt sure that this was only the beginning. Sure enough,
next morning--the Sabbath--the same officer returned and put three of
the leading elders of the village, together with myself, under arrest.
After another fruitless inquisition at the hotel, we were handcuffed and
started on foot toward the prison, a day's journey away. As our little
procession passed my home, my father, who was aged and feeble, came
tottering forward to say good-bye to me. A soldier pushed him roughly
back; he reeled, then fell full-length in the street before my eyes.
It was a dismal departure. We were driven through the streets shackled
like criminals, and the women and children came out of the houses and
watched us in silence--their heads bowed, tears running down their
cheeks.
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