The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Page 11
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
May I know no more sorrow in my life than I understood a word about your Dryfuss! How does a Jew get to be a captain? And what’s a memoveranda and how do you frame one? And why did Zola run away and why didn’t they shoot him to his face? But it’s as my mother says: “If you want to learn how to grow cabbages, ask the gardener, not the goat.”
FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!
Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I wish the Caucasus had been swallowed by the earth before I heard of it! I can’t show my face at the Exchange. How come? It’s very simple. Yesterday I’m there when Todres says to me: “Listen here, my fine friend, just where is this Caucasus of yours?” “Where should it be?” I say. “It’s in the Caucasus.” “Well,” he says, “I’ve been searching the map for it. Your oil fields are a lot of baloney.” “What do you mean by that?” I say. “I mean,” he says, “that there’s no town called Caucasus anywhere. You won’t even find it in the Bible. Just how does a Jew come to another Jew with a business deal made of whole cloth? And meant for whose ears? For Rothschild’s! Do you have any idea who Rothschild is?” “Of course I do,” I say. “What makes you think I don’t? Just don’t go blaming me. I only passed on the information.”
Off I go to look for Long Cape. I find him sitting in the cafeteria with all the Jews and put him over the barrel. “Suppose you tell me, old man,” I say, “where this business of ours is supposed to be.” “You’re asking me?” he says. “It’s in your hands. You’re the one bringing the customer.” “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I’m talking about the oil fields. Where are they? How do you get there? What’s the nearest town?” “To tell you the truth,” he says, “I don’t rightly know. You’ll have to ask my partner.” So we go and ask Weird Name and he tells us to ask Red Nose. Red Nose says he doesn’t have a clue; he only knows what he heard from Fat Lips, which is that Long Cape has a business in the Caucasus; he’ll be hanged if he knows where. In a word, the more we tried getting to the bottom of it, the more everyone pointed the finger at someone else until I was left holding the bag. Naturally! Who else would they stick with it?
Do you understand now, my dear wife, what I’ve been through? With luck like mine I might as well be buried alive. It doesn’t matter what I try. At first everything goes hunky-dory, the winning ticket is in my pocket, any day now I’ll cash in my chips—and then the wheel gives one more spin and it all blows up in my face. I reckon I’m not meant to strike it rich. Everyone in Yehupetz makes good but Menakhem-Mendl. The world parties and leaves me out in the cold, watching it count the millions I’m not allowed to touch.
But perhaps I haven’t found the right combination. No one knows when his luck will look up. It’s bound to happen if you wait long enough …but as I’m feeling low, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my greetings to your parents and write me how you are. And kiss the children for me and tell me what’s new in Kasrilevke.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. Misery loves company. The next man’s troubles makes your own easier to bear. Take the fellow sharing my room. He was a provisioner who owned stores and houses and now he’s in Yehupetz suing the government. He’s hoping for a settlement, a big one, but meanwhile he’s broke and staying with me. If he wins his case, God willing, he’ll keep me in mind.
I have another roommate, too, who’s even worse off. He’s a writer who writes for the papers and is working on a book; I’m putting him up until he’s done. Now and then the landlady pities him and brings him a glass of tea. And there’s a third fellow, a real pauper. Why, the writer has nothing on him! I can’t tell you myself what he does. He’s a part-time agent, part-time matchmaker, and part-time actor, besides being a singer and an exterminator. And a jolly Jew he is, though he’s dying of hunger and doesn’t have a cent! When you see so many troubles, you forget your own. Please write about your health and the children, bless them, and about your parents and everyone else.
Yours, etc.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ
To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!
First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.
Second, what did I tell you, you damned fool? You should kiss every word I write! “The wise man blesses the whip that flogs him,” says my mother. A fine businessman you’ve turned out to be, you and your rotten gang of provisionals, ragpickers, scribblers, singsongers, and mice chasers—what a laugh! I can’t think of better company in which to sit in a Yehupetz boarding house throwing rubles out the window.
Well, at least you show signs of coming to your senses. You say you reckon you’re not meant to strike it rich. Do you still doubt it, Mendl? I’ve been shouting at you at the top of my lungs to put all that nonsense aside. May my life be as hard and your brains stay as addled as you’ll ever see a million rubles. Forget it, Mendl! Forget there’s a Brodsky in the world! You’ll only be the better for it. “Keep your eyes on the ground, not the clouds”—isn’t that what our holy books say? Stop envying the Yehupetz Jews and their parties. Let them party till they croak. They can break every bone in their bodies! As always I am,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
Tell me, my dear Mendl, what’s gotten into you that you suddenly remembered Kasrilevke? And since when do you worry about my health? A body might almost think you miss us. My mother would say, “Let the calf run free, it will come home by itself when it’s hungry.” I’m waiting for a telegram telling me when you’ll arrive. It’s about time. I pray this is my last letter.
An Honorable Profession: Menakhem-Mendl Becomes a Writer
MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!
Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I’ve had it with business: no more Exchange, no more deals, no more Semadenni’s. They’re all a sneaking, thieving swindle! I have a brand-new profession, a much finer and more respectable one. I’m happy to say I’ve become a writer. In fact, I’m writing already.
How, you ask, do I come by literature? It seems I was born for it.
If you recall my last letter, I mentioned a writer who is staying with me in my boarding house. He writes for the papers and makes a living from it. The way it’s done is, he sits and writes and sends it off and gets a kopeck a line when it’s printed: the more lines, the more kopecks. Well, I thought it over and asked myself: Good lord, what does he do that I can’t? What’s the big trick? After all, I went to school just like he did and have a better handwriting—why not give it a try and toss off a line or two for the Jewish papers? What can I lose? No one will chop off my head. The worst that can happen is, I’ll get no for an answer.
And so I sat down and wrote a letter to the editor with my autogeography—how I played the market in Odessa and Yehupetz, and how I sold my soul for fool’s gold, Londons and stocks & bonds and every horse I could bet on, and how I went from rags to riches and back again, seventy-seven times a millionaire and seventy-eight a beggar. I cut no corners, wrote everything down to the last detail, and sent off ten pages. If they liked my writing, I said, they could have as much as they wanted.
Don’t think that a month and a half didn’t pass without an answer. The paper wrote that it liked my writing and wanted more. If it was as good as the sample I sent, it would print it and pay me
a kopeck a line. What do you say to that? I sat down and figured out that in summer, when the days are long, I can knock out a thousand lines per day. That’s a ten-spot right there—and there are thirty days in a month! Not bad, a starting salary of 300 rubles…. Straightaway I went out, bought a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, and got to work. And since I’m busy writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest regards to your parents and to the children, each and every one.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. If with God’s help I get ahead with my writing—that is, if I acquire the literary reputation I soon hope to—I’ll ask the editors to advance you a few rubles. I wish you, my dear wife, to benefit equally from my new line of work. It’s more honorable than business, which is why it pays an honorarium and not a commission. It’s an easy way to make a decent living.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ
To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem Mendl, may your light shine!
First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.
Second, my precious darling, what can I say? Bullets couldn’t stop you, much less words. One might as well shoot at a stone. My mother, bless her, was a wise woman when she said: “A sick man will recover and a black one will turn white before a fool stops being a fool.” You can’t tell me she wasn’t right! I weep to think of all the tricks you’ve played on me since I’ve had you for a husband …and now, as if all that weren’t enough, you decide to become a circus clown. A penny-a-liner! And to think there are even worse fools than you who will pay to read what you write! Who knows what new trouble your scribbling, God forbid, may get us into? From you, I’ve learned to expect the worst. As my mother says, there’s no need to show the beaten dog a stick…. Not that this will stop his lordship from chasing wild geese and dreaming of easy street. Far from it! He sits writing in his Yehupetz boarding house and leaves the children and me with the grippe in Kasrilevke. Every one of us is down with it, we’ve been sick for the past three weeks…. And as for the advances that I’ll get, I’m much obliged, but you’ll be lucky if that honorarity of yours is enough to buy your fine gang a hot meal. You’re one rarity of a nincompoop yourself! If you don’t want a wife who dies young with a clutch of orphans, give up your littleture and pipe dreams and come home. You’ll be a welcome guest. “Better to foul your own nest than another’s,” my mother says. As always, I wish you the best.
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
Do you remember Moyshe-Dovid the bill collector? He’s been wanting to dump his wife for some time and couldn’t think of a way, and so he finally took off for America. Well, she caught up with him at the border and taught him a lesson he’ll never forget. I wish he’d get the grippe himself.
FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!
Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I’m taking literature by storm, praise God. I’ve already appeared in the papers with all the writers and feel like a new man. The first time I saw my name in print—Menakhem-Mendl—I was moved to tears. What for? For there being such fine, honest people in the world! I’m speaking of the editorial board. After all, I’m not the only writer around, there are plenty of others besides me—and yet not only did it read every word that I wrote, it answered me in writing itself, in a letter delivered to my own mailbox, saying it liked my piece very much. It was just a bit on the long side—that was number one. And number two was, it doesn’t want me making things up. It wants a literary description—its very words—of life in Yehupetz with all its types. That means it wants to know everything.
You couldn’t ask for nicer people! And as I wasn’t about to be outdone, I rolled up my sleeves and sat down to write and have been writ-ing ever since. This is the third day I’m at it and I’m still going strong. And since I’m busy with my writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to the children and your parents,
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. Please let me know whether you’ve received an advance from the board. I asked it to send you some money. What’s a few smackers to it? It can deduct them from my pay.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ
To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!
First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.
Second, your lovely letters are making me spit blood. Money from boards I’ll be sent! Are you working for a newspaper or a lumber yard? You can put a match to your board and all its money! I need it like last year’s snow. To quote my mother: “Spare me your sting and you can keep your honey.”
Believe me, your board will turn to sawdust before I see an advance from it. An advanced case of heartburn I’ll get! If it’s my fate to have a scribbler for a husband, why must you scribble in Yehupetz? Isn’t there enough ink in Kasrilevke? There’s something fishy going on here. Bite into the apple, says my mother, and you’ll find the worm.
No, my dear husband, stop making excuses! Pack up your littleture and come home, because I can’t bear the children’s sorrow any longer. All they ever ask is, when will papa be here? On Passover I tell them Sukkes and on Sukkes I tell them Passover. And Moyshe-Hirshele misses you most of all. As smart as a whip he is—a lot smarter than his father, that’s for sure. I wish you all the best.
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
What do you say about my Nekhameh-Breindl? She’s now on her second divorce. No one knows why. Her husband showed me in secret an arm full of black-and-blue marks. He’s willing, he says, to let her keep the dowry and the wedding jewelry—anything to get rid of such a curse. My mother says an ounce of luck is worth a pound of gold, but luck in men is the one thing we lack.
FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!
Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I’ve already gone through two bottles of ink and am now on my third. Describing a city like Yehupetz is no mean task. I decided to begin with my boarding house, and first of all with my landlady. Why with her? On account of her husband. He was a soldier, and he’s been dead for thirteen years, and she was his second wife. She married him, she says, for the right to live in Yehupetz and she wouldn’t wish such a life on her worst enemies. She was, she says, twenty years younger than him and as pretty as a picture. All the men, Jews and Christians, were wild about her …and now she’s reduced to bringing Menakhem-Mendl a bowl of borscht or meat with horseradish each time he snaps his fingers. She has a son and daughter to support, too, both in high school, neither of whom lifts a finger to help. They sit and wait for her to serve them. She brings them coffee in bed every morning, and they expect to find lunch on the table when they come home from school whether there’s food in the house or not. And you should hear the racket they make if it isn’t waiting for them! But that’s the sort of children they are. One morning the daughter, the high-school girl, woke up and hollered for some soap. She actually ran half-naked with her neck showing into the dining room where we boarders were having breakfast and shouted at her mother in Russian: “What kind of flophouse is this?” Naturally, we gave her a scolding. Did she mean to tell us, we asked, that she was taught to behave that way in high school? “You should be grateful,” I sai
d, “that your mother slaves for you. She even shines your shoes while you sleep!” Those were my very words. I was about to give her another piece of my mind when her brother butts in and says: “Mind your own business!” The nerve of him opening his trap at me! I was so annoyed that I wrote it up for the papers, the poor woman and her darling children and the whole scene. I hope he learns his lesson when it’s published! Well, it’s a big world. You can bet there are plenty of other widows being driven to distraction by their children. Do you see now, my dear wife, what I’m paid to do? And being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to your parents and the children, God bless them, each and every single one.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. An editorial board is not a piece of wood. It’s a group of people that gets together to put out a newspaper. The board sends writers to different cities. It needs material and we’re paid to produce it. We send it in and it’s printed. I hope that makes the newspaper business clear.
Yours, etc.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ
To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!
First, thank God, we’re all well. I hope to hear no worse from you.
Second, I read your letter and couldn’t believe my eyes. A bad dream, that’s all I can say. A grand subject you’ve found to make a rhubarb from—a widow and her blasted bawdy house! Believe me, if I were you I would have minced no words with that young man and sent that naked hussy to peel potatoes in the kitchen instead of writing them both up in the papers. But I have a husband, it seems, who gets paid to be a stump preacher. My mother says it takes all kinds to make a world, but if you ask me, before sticking your nose into other people’s pots you might take an interest in your own. Are you your children’s father or not? You should hear Moyshe-Hirshele say his ABC’s—all your widows aren’t fit to carry his schoolbag! As soon as I’m up to it I’ll have a photograph made of him and the others, so that you can see what you’ve traded for your rotten boards and bawds. I wish you only the best.