Haim Hazaz*
THE SERMON
Yudka was no speaker. He didn't make public addresses,
never took part in the debate at general meetings or at conventions,
not even just to make a point of order. So he was considered a man
whose strength was not in self-expression. And, even though he was
not just as he was considered to be, his reputation had its effect;
it became second nature to him, so that he quite forgot how to open
his mouth in public and say something in proper form, whether it
was important or no more than a jest. That was why the boys were
astounded when they heard he proposed to deliver a formal state–
ment before the committee; and the committee, whose proceedings
were open only to its members and to individuals called in before
it, was convened at that time for no other reason than to hear
him speak.
The committee members sat in a single row at the green table,
right and left of their chairman, all clean-cut and positive, like cap–
tains and heroes in council. They eyed him curiously, waiting to
hear him say something not yet heard or known, except the chair–
man, who gazed straight at the table, apparently dreaming or
drowsing, with cool eyes.
Like a man doing his duty, the chairman spoke a few words of
introduction, and was silent and sat down as though he hadn't
opened his mouth, and there were no one else
in
the room.
Yudka drew up stiffly, looking harried and confused, so much
did he have to say and so little did he know how to begin.
*
Haim Hazaz, born in the Ukraine in 1898, began to write in the '20s in
Constantinople and in Paris, in the course of his protracted emigration from
postwar Russia to Palestine. He has been in Israel since 1932 and has written
prolifically all that time. His works include a four-act play, three novels, and a
tetralogy. Another novel,
Mori Sa'id,
is to appear soon in an English translation
under the imprint of Abelard Schuman.
