The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Read online

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  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 finished the landlady and am now writing up the lodgers. In other words, I’m describing the sad cases in my boarding house. If I do say so myself, it’s going well. Each boarder is a sorrier story than the next, but the one we call “Touch o’ Gold” takes the cake. All the ink and paper in the world aren’t enough for him. He comes from Zhvanitz, married a woman from Ladizhin and another from Soroke, and moved to Yekaterinoslav, where he started his first business. He was in gold—that is, some shady characters relieved him of his money in return for sacks of yellow sand. Well, you can’t just go and throw yourself in the river, so he took his walking stick and went to the Odessa Exchange, where he put together some deals, made a few rubles, and advertised for a partner. Sure enough, a fellow turned up, someone in iron—that is, the two of them bought land near Krivorog that was sitting on iron ore. Right off they were offered a few thousand rubles to lease the mining rights, but Touch o’ Gold turned it down: it was, he said, either half a million for the whole property or nothing. Well, nothing it was and Touch o’ Gold decided to try coal. He found a German engineer—I mean, a Jew who spoke some German—and rented a mine with him. The price was good, too, but the first shaft they dug, don’t ask me where it came from, they had a flood on their hands. Two pumps were brought to get rid of the water, but the harder they pumped, the more it kept coming. So Touch o’ Gold said to heck with the German and found a Jew in the egg business—stuffed eggs, not fresh ones, because the yolks had been used for something else, I don’t remember what. As luck would have it, the egg machine broke and the Jew took off and left Touch o’ Gold with a mountain of rotten eggs. After a while they began to stink and Touch o’ Gold received a summons. So one dark night he climbed out the window, leaving the eggs behind in Yekaterinoslav, and opened a cigarette paper factory in Kremenchug with the money he still had. It so happened that his new partner loved chess. He loved it so much, Touch o’ Gold says, that he played it all day and all night, without eating, drinking, or sleeping. Once the two of them discovered at the end of a long game that all their cartons of cigarette paper were empty. Where had the paper gone? It was anyone’s guess. Meanwhile Touch o’ Gold heard of a small-town pharmacist who was selling out his stock. He went and bought it for a pittance and stood to make a killing. How was he supposed to know it included a crate of gunpowder? Well, there was all this gunpowder traveling by train when it took a notion to blow up along with the car and the conductor, who barely came out of it alive. How’s that for the golden touch! He says he could kill the fish in a river just by looking at it. The man has a comeback for everything! He’s a little fellow, a real live wire with burning eyes, a hat pushed back on his head, hands in his pockets, and a mind that’s always working on something new. He never runs out of ideas. That’s because he’s made up his mind to become a millionaire. If he doesn’t, he’ll light out for America. Once he’s there, he says, things will work out. In fact, he wants me to join him. He says people like me keep their heads above water. But I would be crazy to push my luck by giving up a good literary career! And as I’m 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. My fondest greetings to your parents and all the children.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. I don’t understand why I haven’t received a response from the editorial board to my first piece. I haven’t gotten any money either. By now I’ve sent off two more pieces. God willing, I’m sure to hear from them tomorrow or the day after.

  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, dear husband, I beg you in God’s name to come home as soon as you get this letter, because my poor father is dangerously ill. The doctors consulted and found that he has, I dread to say, water in his stomach. The pain is unbearable. You can imagine the state that my mother, bless her, is in. She cares nothing for herself, all her thoughts are only of him. “If you had lived with someone in one room for thirty years, you’d feel that way too,” she says. And you sit in your lovely Yehupetz, describing cretins I wouldn’t mention with my father in one breath! As always, I wish you health and happiness.

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  For the love of God, be sure to come at once and send a telegram!

  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, your letter was like a knife in my heart. If I had wings, I’d fly to Kasrilevke. But I can’t afford to go anywhere. I’m flat broke and in debt to my landlady. Not only have I run up a large food bill, I owe her for paper and ink. I kept thinking I would hear from the editorial board, but after all my expenses, and all the fine things I wrote my fingers off about, it’s been as quiet as a mouse. Not very nice, I must say! If they didn’t like what I wrote, they could at least have told me to stop. But I suppose my time and effort don’t cost them anything. Anyone else would have raised Cain. To tell the truth, if I had the money for a telegram, I’d cable them to put up or shut up.

  There are no words for how heartsick I feel. I can hardly get my pen to write. Who would have thought it? They didn’t even have the decency to answer when I asked for a free copy of the paper. I could have made more money chopping wood! I don’t know how it is with other writers, but I’ve been treated like the lowest of the low.

  All that’s left is to pray to God. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. I’m at the end of my rope, worse than this it can’t get—and because 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 and send your father a full recovery. And may I soon see the children healthy and well, because I miss them so that I’m pining away.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. This letter has been with me for several days because I had no money to buy stamps. I kept thinking: what do I do now? It seems there’s no way of making a living in this world that I haven’t tried. The one thing left is matchmaking. There’s a matchmaker here in the boarding house, and to listen to him talk, he does all right. It may not be as respectable as literature, but it’s a sight better than trading. If only God would pitch in!

  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, I don’t know what to write. I showed your letter to my mother and she says it’s all my fault. The bed you make, she says, is the bed you sleep in. “If it had been me writing to that son-of-a-gun-in-law of mine,” she says, “I’d have brought him to his senses long ago. I’d have gone and collared him myself.” You’re in luck, she says, that my father is on his deathbed and the two of us are falling off our feet.

  The money I’m sending is from my mother. I hope you appreciate her kindness. May I never read another letter of yours again! And may Yehupetz sink into the ground like Sodom once you leave it, with all its
grand businesses, fortunes, traders, matchmakers, boards, and bawdy houses. I wish you much health and happiness, now and always.

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  It’s No Go: Menakhem-Mendl the Matchmaker

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL ON THE ROAD 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, it’s no go. The harder I try, the less it works out. As soon as I received the rubles you sent, I paid my bill at the boarding house and packed my things. What can I tell you? I was already on my way to Khvostov, where I planned to change for Kasrilevke.

  But God is greater than any of us. Listen to this. I mentioned in my last letter a matchmaker at my boarding house, Leybe Lebelski by name, who likes to boast that he has a fortune in his pocket—a list of the whole world. A while back he announced that he was going on a trip to arrange a match. He had received, he said, an urgent telegram, and was leaving his things with our landlady for safekeeping. Since then we’ve seen no more of him than you have. And so as I was saying good-bye, the landlady said: “Since you’re heading in the same direction, you might as well take Lebelski’s papers. Maybe you’ll run into the idiot and let him have them.” “But what do I want with someone else’s property?” I asked. “Never you mind,” she said. “It’s not money, it’s just a bunch of names.”

  No sooner said than done. And as I was sitting in the carriage, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the envelope and took a peek—a gold mine! Correspondences with other matchmakers, names of satisfied parents, even a list of eligibles in alphabetical order! I give it to you verbatim:

  Avritch—Khaveh d/o R. Levi Tankenog, Esq. & Miryem-Gitl. A+ family tree, tall & attractive, seeks young man w/ diploma, offering 4,000.

  Balti—Faytl s/o Yoysef Hitelmakher, Esq. Educated, Zionite, certified accountant w/ draft exemption, regular synagogue-goer, cash only.

  Boiberik—R. Mendl Lopita. Established, 3x widower, well-preserved ca. 70, seeking first-time bride.

  Dubno—Leah d/o Meir Karzik. Good family, short, redhead, speaks French, will pay well.

  Glokhiv—Yefim Bolosni. Pharmacist & part-time moneylender, beardless but prefers Jewish women, seeking brunette.

  Heysen—Lipe Brosh, b.-in-law Itsi Koymen, consultant Zalman Radimishler’s sugar mill, only son, handsome boy w/ devil in eyes, seeks well-feathered nest.

  Kasrilevke—Yoysef-Yitzkhok s/o R. Nosn Koyrakh. Father filthy rich & a wild man. Still-waters-run-deep intellectual type, knowledge of Hebrew, Russian, Torginnev & Darwen, seeks poor orphan but must be raving beauty, generous expense account. Pay the piper & I’ll dance to your tune.

  Khmelnik—Basya Flekl, Esq’ess. Widow & usurer, shrewd old bird, seeks scholar, money unnecessary.

  Kremenchug—educated run-for-your-life Cyanide, claims 100 incomes + total recall of Talmud. Chess whiz, can top all you say, talks and writes like the blazes, rumored to have wife already.

  Lipovitz—s/o Leibush Kapoti. Wild-eyed Hasid, lives in Odessa, 8th grade matriculation, violin & some Hebrew, presentable.

  Mezhbizh—R. Shimn Shepsl Shimmeles, widower w/ 2 never-weds @ 3,000 per, must first remarry himself, seeks never-wed too.

  Nemerov—Smitsik, Bernard Moiseyevish, of well-known Smitsiks. Divorced, lives alone, cornet & high connections, seeks first-time bride + 5,000 or divorcee +10.

  Perilok—high-school graduate, s/o Mikhl Fritog, Esq. Religious, Sabbath-observer, not a kopeck less than 20,000, will settle for half.

  Radomishl—g.s./o Naftoli Rademishler. Sugar mill, A+ family, half Sadegor Hasid & half Europinion Jew (short ear locks, long gabardine), knowledge of languages & rabbinic law, uncle has 1 m. in bank, seeks sincere, attractive, wig-wearing, Sabbath-candle-lighting wife w/ triple-A family + 200,000 +piano +French +voice & dance lessons + no previous boyfriends.

  Shpole—Ilye von Chernobyl, Esq. Currently residing in Yehupetz, sugar & real estate, partner Von Chernobyl & Babishke (the famous millionaire), only daughter, highly accomplished young lady seeking dream man, prefers professor to doctor, looks of Joseph + brains of Solomon +musical ability + triple-A family, money no object. Brodsky-class wealth, no draftables need apply. Cable sent to Radomishl.

  Smile—Perele Damme, divorcee w/ 10,000, seeking educated businessman.

  Talne—R. Avremele Fayntig. Widower, Bible-quoting Hasid, seeks widow with business.

  Tomeshpol—5 first-time brides, 3 presentable, 2 ugly as sin, seeking doctor w/ furnished apt. or lawyer w/ Yehupetz practice, correspondences mailed.

  Tsarytin—rich widower, wholesale fishmonger living in Astrakhan, standard commission +2 first-series lottery tickets. Have asked for 25 R’s for mailing costs and/or stamps.

  Vinitse—Khayyim Hekht. Solid income, own droshky, net worth 10,000, plays market like fiddle.

  Yampeli—Moyshe-Nisl & Beile-Leah Kimbek. Parvenus, hot for respectable match, will double all offers, prompt payment of commission on wedding night+ tip.

  Zhitomir—Shloymi Zalman Todotayke, Esq. 2 never-weds, both attractive, youngest slightly pockmarked, piano, German, French, seek educated men, no need for independent income.

  Well, there I was in the carriage with Lebelski’s list, reading it over and over and thinking: God Almighty, how many ways You have made for Jews to make a living! Matchmaking, for example. What could be finer, better, easier, more respectable? What does it take, after all? Nothing but a bit of common sense and enough brains to see who goes with who. Take Avritch, for example. There’s an attractive girl there with 4,000 looking for a young man with a diploma—and Balti has an educated Zionite with a degree in accounting and in need of cash. Anyone can see they’re made for each other. And Talne has a widower seeking a widow with a business—let him get together with Basya Flekl in Khmelnik, who doesn’t mind a poor scholar. Are you with me, my dear wife? If I went into matchmaking, I’d do it my own way. First I’d write every matchmaker in the world. Then I’d draw up a master list and get to work—at first on paper, of course—matching columns. And I’d have partners all over, one in each town, and go fifty-fifty with each. I might even open a central office in Yehupetz or Odessa with clerks to write letters and send telegrams. And I’d be the brains behind it, all the right combinations would be mine!

  You can imagine the thoughts that were flying through my head …and who the deuce should sit next to me just then but the hairiest old man you ever saw. He was carrying a bag and puffing like a goose and had the strangest way of talking, all friendly-like but most odd. “Young man,” he says, “is it conceivable that you might possibly make allowances for an old fellow like myself by troubling yourself to move over a bit, so that,” says he, “a Jew like me might have the pleasure of your company?” “Why not?” I say, making room. “Gladly. Where are you from?” “You mean my whences and wherefores?” he replies. “I’m from Koretz. My name is Osher and I’m known as Reb Osher the Matchmaker. With God’s help I have been,” he says, “for quite a while now, that is, believe it or not, for nearly forty years, a matchmaker.” “You don’t say!” I say. “That makes two of us!” “If I rightly follow you,” he says, “it might not be unreasonable to deduce from your learned remarks that you are a matchmaker yourself. In that case, we’re brothers. Howdy-do!” So he says, sticking out a fat, white, hairy hand for me to shake and asking most politely: “And what, if I may have the pleasure of knowing it, did you say your name was?” “It’s Menakhem-Mendl,” I say. “That,” says he, “sounds familiar. I believe I’ve heard it before, although I can’t quite place it. Listen here, Reb Menakhem-Mendl: I have a proposal to make. Seeing as how the tedium of travel is great, and the Almighty has providentially brought the two of us together, would it not be advisable, inasmuch as we now find ourselves under one
roof, so to speak, to put our time to constructive use?” “Well, now,” I say, “what use might that be?” “What would you say,” says he, “to some excellent wine in a shabby bottle?” “Well now,” I say, “what wine and what bottle are those?” “Lend an ear,” says Reb Osher, “and I will parse the matter for you thoroughly. The matter,” he says, “is this. I have in Yarmilinitz a superb piece of goods, the genuine article! Reb Itzikl Tashratz is his name. The man is up to his ears in pedigree. And his wife has even more. The problem is that he wants cash up front. Whatever he gives the young couple to start life with, he wants twice as much from the other side.” “Why” I say, “I’ll be hanged if I don’t have just the thing for you!” And I pull out Leybe Lebelski’s list, show him Yampeli, and say: “Here’s just what you’re looking for. Read it for yourself. ‘Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek, parvenu’—that’s new money. ‘Hot for respectable match’—he’ll do anything. ‘Will double all offers’—he’ll pay twice as much as the other side. Exactly what your man wants!”

  Well, Reb Osher thinks it over, sees where Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek promises prompt payment of the commission plus tip, rises from his seat, grabs my hand, and says: “Congratulations, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! We’re in business! If I’m not mistaken,” he says, “I happened to notice that you have in that basket of yours some egg cookies, a package of tea and sugar, and a few other provisions. I don’t suppose it would do any harm to have a snack now. Once we reach Khvostov, God willing, you can look for hot water, because I see you also have a samovar. We’ll have tea at the station, where I have reason to believe it will be possible to purchase some 114-proof vodka. With that in hand,” says he, “we’ll drink a toast on the way to my Yarmilinitz bluebloods and your Yampeli parvenus. This is indeed an auspicious occasion.” “Amen to that!” I say. “May your words go straight to God’s ears. But it’s not quite as simple as all that …” Well, he interrupts me, the matchmaker does, and says: “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! You have yet to learn whom you’re dealing with. I’m not wet behind the ears. I am the internationally famous matchmaker Reb Osher and I am responsible, God be praised, for more marriages in my life than I have hairs on my head. We should both,” says he, “have a ruble for every couple I have seen married and divorced and married a second time and divorced again. One look at your list is all I need to match ’em up. Your Moyshe-Nisl,” he says, “will do just fine. I can smell a rat there for sure. Why else,” he says, “would he be so desperate for a match and fall all over himself to tip us? Oh, there’s a worm here, my friend—a very wormy apple indeed!” “What, then,” I ask, “shall we do?” “What we shall do,” he says, “is very simple. We shall go our separate ways at once. I,” he says, “to Yarmilinitz and my Reb Itzikl Tashratz, and you to Yampeli and your Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek. We have our work cut out for us. Yours will be to squeeze all you can from your wormy apple and mine will be to hold my Tashratz to his word. A Jew selling pedigree can drive a hard bargain.”