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

  And so you see, my dear wife, how what began as a joke, a mere lark, turned into a serious venture. Between one thing and another we reached Khvostov, where we had tea and a bite to eat and sat down to talk in earnest. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel a little queasy. Since when was I a matchmaker? And what was I doing with another man’s lists? You might even say I had stolen them. How was it any different from finding a wallet with someone’s money? And yet on the other hand, why blow it up out of all proportion? If anything came of it in the end, Lebelski and I would split the take. I wasn’t a stick-up man robbing strangers.

  In a word, I overcame my doubts and we parted, Reb Osher for Yarmilinitz and I for Yampeli. As soon as I arrived there, we had decided, I would poke around to find out what made Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek so eager for a match. If he and his family made a good impression, I would cable Yarmilinitz to arrange a meeting. Let the boy and girl hit it off and we could break out the champagne! “The main thing, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” says Reb Osher, “is not to stint on telegrams. In matchmaking, you should know, telegrams are half the battle. Parents go wild over them.”

  It was time to buy our tickets. Having spent his last rubles on telegrams, my new colleague was out of cash. “I tell you,” he said, “most people would be happy to earn in a month what telegrams cost me alone.” Would you believe it? That’s the kind of money there is in matchmaking! And since the train wasn’t about to wait, I laid out my last rubles on his ticket. Every business has its expenses. We exchanged addresses, bid each other a fond farewell, and went our ways—he to Yarmilinitz and I to Yampeli.

  Arriving in Yampeli, the first thing I did was check out Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek. “All things considered,” I was told, “he’s no worse than he is.” “Has he many children?” I asked. “Many children,” I was told, “are for poor Jews. Rich Jews have only one.” “What sort of child is it?” I asked. “A daughter,” I was told. “Grown-up?” “Enough for two.” “With a dowry?” “Double your money.” “How’s that?” I asked. I poked around—tap-tap here, tap-tap there—and got nowhere, so I put on my good jacket and went to see the man himself.

  I could describe his home for you, but what would be the point? It was as full of finery as a rich Jew’s home should be, and his family—pure gold! I introduced myself, explained why I had come, and was received royally and served with tea, honey cake, a delicious marmalade, and a bottle of vishniak. The father, Moyshe-Nisl, appealed to me at once: a good-natured fellow, without a mean bone in his body. And I took a liking at first glance to his wife Beile-Leah too, a fine, quiet, pious woman with a double chin. They tried to feel me out about the match. Was the young man of good character? In what direction did his talents lie? …How was I supposed to answer when I didn’t know myself! But a Jew with some learning is quick on his feet, and so I told them: “Let’s settle your side of it first. I need to know how much you’re putting up. And I want a look at the principal.”

  Well, he hears that, Moyshe-Nisl does, and says to his wife: “Where is Sonitshke? Tell her to come.” “Sonitshke is getting dressed,” says Beile-Leah, getting up and going out and leaving me with Moyshe-Nisl. We helped ourselves to a drop of vishniak, had some more marmalade, and made small talk. What about? Don’t ask me. Last year’s snow and the price of rice in China! “How long have you been a matchmaker?” Moyshe-Nisl asks, pouring me another glass of vishniak. “Since my wedding,” I tell him. “My father-in-law was a matchmaker too. So was my father. In fact, all my brothers are matchmakers. There’s practically no one in our family who isn’t …” I didn’t even crack a smile, although I could feel myself turning red. Don’t ask me where I dreamed up such malarkey. But what choice did I have? As your mother would say, “If you’re knee-deep in mud, keep on crawling.” All I wanted was a break from God to pull the match off, earn my share fair and square, and split it with Lebelski. Why shortchange the fellow? It could be argued of course that the whole commission belonged to him—but where would that leave me? Nothing would have happened without me; wasn’t my investment worth something too? I wasn’t telling all those lies just for my sake. Who could say it wasn’t God’s plan for Lebelski to lose his lists, for me to find them, and for all three of us to make a bundle?

  I was thinking all this when in walks Beile-Leah with the young lady—I mean, Sonitshke: a big, healthy, pretty, generously proportioned girl like her mother. I took one look at her and thought: “My God, that’s a tontshke of Sonitshke!” She was dressed, Sonitshke was, rather strangely, in a long evening gown that made her look middle-aged, not because she was old but because …but you wouldn’t believe the size of that child! Naturally, I wanted a word with her to see what kind of creature she was. Some chance I had with a father who wouldn’t stop talking! This time it was about Yampeli—and you’ll never guess the things he said. Yampeli, he said, was a town of bad-mouths, of backbiters, of grudge-bearers, of nasty-noses, every one of whom would gladly drown his neighbor in a spoon of soup. He would have gone on and on if his wife hadn’t cut him short and said: “Moyshe-Nisl! Haven’t you talked enough? Let’s ask Sonitshke to play the piano.” “Just say the word,” says Moyshe-Nisl with a wink at Sonitshke. And so she goes and sits at the piano, Sonitshke does, opens a big book, and bangs away for dear life. After a while her mother says: “Sonitshke! How come you’re playing all those haytoads? We’d like to hear The Volga Boatman, pozhaliste!” Well, Sonitshke begins playing that piano so fast that you can’t even follow her fingers—and all the while her mother is feasting her eyes on her, you can see her wanting to say: “How’s that for only two hands!” After a while she and her husband slip out of the room and Sonitshke and I are left alone. Now’s the time for a little chitchat, I think—let’s find out at least if the girl can talk. I’ll be blamed, though, if I could think of a thing to say! I rose, walked around the room, stood behind her, and finally said: “Excuse me for interrupting, Sonitshke, but there’s something I’d like to ask.” “Naprimer?” she answers in Russian, turning around with an angry look. “Naprimer,” I say, “suppose I asked: what is your heart’s desire? I mean, for example, what kind of husband would you like to have?” “Viditye,” she says to me a bit more softly, lowering her eyes. “Sobstevenno, I’d like him to have a degree, but I know that’s ponaprasno. Po krayne meri, he should be an obrazaveto, because even though Yampeli is considered a fanatitcheski place, we all have a Russian obrazovanye. An utshebe zavadyenye may be out of the question, but there’s not a barishnye who wouldn’t like to be znakome with Zola, Pushkin, or dazhe Gorky …” So she says to me, my beauty, half in Yiddish and half in Russian, although the Russian was more like two-thirds.

  At this point her mother returned. “Everything in good measure!” she says, followed by Sonitshke’s father, and the three of us get down to brass tacks: how big should the dowry be, and where will the get-acquainted meeting be held, and when is a good time for the wedding. I was about to go to the station to send a telegram when Moyshe-Nisl takes my arm and says: “Stay a while longer, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! First have a meal with us. You must be hungry.” We washed and sat down to table, and had another glass of vishniak, and Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek’s mouth didn’t shut for a second. It was Yampeli this, and Yampeli that, and Yampeli, Yampeli, Yampeli. “You simply can’t imagine,” he says, “the kind of town this is. It’s a lying, loafing place! Take my advice and don’t say a word to anyone. Above all, don’t tell them who you are and where you’re from and why you’re here—and whatever you do, don’t mention that you know me. Do you hear that, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? You don’t even know me!” He must have repeated that ten times.

  Well, off I went to send a telegram to my partner in Yarmilinitz as per agreement. The message was perfectly clear: Goods inspected first-class six thousand cable offer where do we meet. The answer arrived the next day—strangely phrased: Up ante ten gets half six suggest Zhmerinka cable back. Not understanding a word of it, I ran to my Moyshe-Nisl. He reads it and says: “What kind of Jew are you? It’s c
rystal clear! The man wants ten thousand for his three. You can write him back that he’s too smart for his own good. It’s double or nothing. And tell him,” he says, “that he’ll be beaten to it if he doesn’t get off his rear end.”

  With that in mind I sent off a telegram: Double or nothing if not off rear end will be beaten. Back cables my Osher: Agree to half twice less one a bargain. Off I go to Moyshe-Nisl. “It’s crystal clear!” he says. “That means your partner’s client will put up half as much as I do minus a thousand rubles. In short, my ten gets his four. He’s a clever one, your father of the groom—he thinks he can take me for a ride. It’s time he learned he’s dealing with a businessman! My final offer,” he says, “is double plus a thousand. That means his four gets my nine, his five gets eleven, his six gets thirteen. Got that? Let him say, yes or no, if he has a mind to go ahead.”

  I returned to the station and knocked off a telegram to Reb Osher: Four gets nine five eleven six thirteen say yes or no if he has a mind. Back comes a telegram: We’re on our way. Come.

  This last telegram arrived during the night. I don’t have to tell you that I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept trying to calculate the profit I would make if, with God’s help, I found matches for Leybe Lebelski’s whole list. Surely, that wasn’t too much to ask of God! I had made up my mind that, if we clinched the deal, Reb Osher and I would become full-time partners. He seemed a fine fellow—and a successful one. Of course, I would give Lebelski a fair shake, too. Why shouldn’t I? The poor devil was a father with children to support just like me …

  I rose early, said my prayers, and went to show my customers the telegram. Over coffee and rolls it was decided that the four of us would set out for Zhmerinka that same day. So as not to give away our secret, we arranged for me to take the early coach and the three of them to follow. That way I’d have a chance to find a good hotel and order us a decent dinner.

  And so I did. I reached Zhmerinka in advance and found the best hotel, which happened to be the only one in town—a place called the Odessa Inn. Straightaway I had a talk with the innkeeper, a fine, hospitable lady. “What,” I asked, “do you have to eat?” “What would you like?” she says. “Do you have fish?” I ask. “Fish,” she says, “can be bought.” “How about soup?” I ask. “I can put one up,” she says. “With what?” I ask. “Rice or noodles?” “Even soup nuts, if you like,” she says. “Well, then,” I say, “how about a roast duck to go with it?” “Duck,” she says, “can be had for a price.” “And the drinks?” “What drinks would you like?” “Do you have beer?” “Why shouldn’t I have beer?” “And wine?” “Wine,” she says, “costs more than beer.” “Wine will be fine, my dear woman,” I say. “Please make us a dinner for eight.” “Eight?” she says. “I count one.” “You’re a strange one, you are!” I say. “What’s it to you? If I say eight, that makes eight.”

  We’re still talking when in walks my partner Reb Osher. He hugs and kisses me like a father and says: “Something told me I’d find you at the Odessa Inn! How about some food?” “That’s already taken care of,” I say. “I’ve ordered dinner for eight.” “What does dinner have to do with it?” says Reb Osher. “Just because dinner is dinner, must we starve while we’re waiting for it? I can see,” he says, “that you know your way around here. Suppose you ask for a plate of meat and some vodka. I’m fearsomely faint from hunger!” And he steps into the kitchen to wash his hands, Reb Osher does, and tells the innkeeper what to bring.

  Well, we tuck in at a table—and as we eat Reb Osher tells me he’s worked wonders by getting his customer up to three thousand. Why, splitting the Red Sea would be easier! “But what are you talking about?” I say. “What three thousand? Four was the minimum we settled on.” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I know what I’m about. Reb Osher is not my name for nothing! Let me tell you,” he says, “that if my customer had had his way he would have offered a grand total of zero, because he thinks his family tree should be enough. And his is nothing compared to his wife’s! They should be paid, they say, for the right to marry them. In short,” says Reb Osher, “I had to sweat blood to make him promise two thousand.” “Two thousand?” I say. “What two thousand? You just said three!” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I’m an older hand at this business than you are. Not for nothing am I called Reb Osher! Once our parties get together, God willing, and the boy and girl have a look at each other, there’ll be dancing in the streets. I’ve never lost a match yet over a thousand shmegaroos. That’s why my name is Reb Osher! There’s just one thing that’s bothering me.” “And what,” I ask, “might that be?” “It’s the draft,” he says. “I’ve told my customer that your rosy-cheeked youngster can thumb his nose at it because he has an exemption.” “Draft?” I say. “What kind of horsefeathers is that?” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says to me. “My name is Reb Osher!” “It can be Reb Osher eighteen times,” I say, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Draft, shmaft! What’s that have to do with my Moyshe-Nisl? Since when do girls go to the army?” “Girls?” says Reb Osher. “We’re talking about your Moyshe-Nisl’s boy!” “Since when,” I say, “does Moyshe-Nisl have a boy? His daughter is an only child.” “Do I correctly understand you to be saying,” says Reb Osher, “that you have brought a girl to this match just like I have? But how can that be? We specifically spoke about a boy.” “Of course we did,” I say. “And it was you who was bringing him.” “Just what,” says he, “made you think it was me? You should have let me know you had a girl!” “And I suppose you let me know!” I said. He blew his top at that, Reb Osher did, and said: “You know what, Menakhem-Mendl? If you’re a matchmaker, I’m a rabbi!” “And if you’re one,” I say, “I’m a rabbi’s wife!” We traded insults for a while—“Know-nothing!” “Liar!” “Moron!” “Glutton!” “Stumblebum!” “Boozer!”—until he hauled off and hit me and I grabbed his beard and gave it a yank. God Almighty, what a scene …

  You can imagine how I felt. All the expense, the trouble, the time—the sheer disgrace of it! The whole town came running to see the grand partners who had met to marry off two girls. That blasted Reb Osher didn’t stick around for long. He took off and left me with the innkeeper and a dinner bill for eight. My luck was that I managed to slip away before the families arrived. I shudder to think of what happened when they did.

  Well, go be a prophet and guess that a damned matchmaker who runs around sending telegrams and talking a blue streak is going to match one young lady with another! It’s simply no go, my dear wife. Even jumping in the river wouldn’t help. And as I’m in a wretched mood, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Tell the children, bless them, that I miss them and give your parents and everyone my fond greetings.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. God never sends the illness without its cure. I left Zhmerinka thinking the sky had fallen in and praying my money would hold out till Kasrilevke—and even then I faced the devilish prospect of a night camped out on the railroad tracks. But there is a great God above! Who should be sitting in my carriage but a real devil of a character, a life ensurance agent, an inspector—and you should have heard the life he promised me if I became an agent too! But exactly what an agent does, and how he ensures a person’s life, are complex matters, and as I’ve already gone on long enough, I’ll leave them for the next time.

  Yours etc.

  Always a Loser: Menakhem-Mendl the Insurance Agent

  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, my dear wife, I’m on the run. I’ve had another setback—a severe one. I can thank my lucky stars I’m not in jail. The
devil knows what I might have gotten: forced labor or even Siberia. And yet I’m no guiltier than you are. But it’s as your mother says: once a loser, always a loser …