The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Page 17

Congratulations! You haven’t heard the news? My brother Elye is getting married.

  Hoop-de-doo! You should see the excitement. The whole town is buzzing with it. It’s all anyone is talking about. That’s what our neighbor Pesye says. She says it will be a grand wedding. Kasrilevke, she says, hasn’t seen such a wedding in years.

  Why all the fuss? Well, the groom is an orphan and his mother is a widow: that’s one reason to celebrate. And you have to give my father credit. My father had a good reputation. Not that anyone ever thought of it when he was alive. But now that he’s dead, Peysi the cantor has become a great man. It’s awesome, the things people say about him. I’ve heard them tell my mother that the bride’s father should pay for the whole wedding because his son-in-law is Peysi the cantor’s boy. Elye is embarrassed by such talk. It makes him stroke his little beard like a grown-up.

  He really is one now. He’s been one since his beard began to grow. I reckon that came from smoking. Elye took up smoking when my father died. His first cigarette gave him such conniptions that he nearly coughed to death. Now he lights right up and blows smoke through his nose. Big deal! You think I can’t do it too? I just don’t have any tobacco. I smoke paper, straw, whatever I can get hold of. Did I catch it from Elye when he found out! But how come he can and I can’t? It’s not my fault if I’m not nine years old yet. I promised him, I even swore on a Bible, that I’d lay off smoking for good. But how long does he expect me to keep my promise? Who doesn’t smoke nowadays?

  The world is coming to an end! That’s what Pesye says. She just came back in a huff from Elye’s father-in-law. It looks bad. He’s found out his watch is missing. A good silver watch, a gift to his son-in-law! Still, it’s not as though Elye gambled it away. He sold it to pay for medicines and doctors. It’s no crime to try saving your father’s life.

  That’s what Pesye said. But Elye’s father-in-law is no genius. What, he wants to know, does his watch have to do with anyone’s father? It’s not his lookout to support all the world’s fathers with his watches. Suddenly Elye has all the fathers in the world and they’ve all been given watches! Pesye says you can’t make a fur hat from a pig’s tail.

  She’s talking about Yoyneh the bagel maker. That’s Elye’s father-in-law. He’s a simple soul, a baker. “He should bake bagels in his grave,” Pesye says. That’s only a joke. Or is it? Who would buy them if he baked them there?

  He’s a rich man, Elye’s father-in-law. Pesye says he’s worth a fortune. She told him she would never marry into a family like his because she doesn’t like pigs. He put up with it because it’s best to hold your tongue when Pesye starts in on you. He was even ready to forget the watch if she’d lay off. But Pesye didn’t want to. Pesye wanted Yoyneh to buy Elye a new watch. Who ever heard, she said, of a young man getting married without a watch? Yoyneh the bagel maker couldn’t see what business it was of Pesye’s if his son-in-law had a watch or not. Pesye said it was her business because Elye is Peysi the cantor’s son and Yoyneh is a rich pig. That did it. “Go to hell!” Yoyneh said, slamming the door in Pesye’s face. “I’ll see you in hell’s ovens before me!” Pesye answered. “That’s where a baker like you belongs.”

  My mother was terrified that Yoyneh would break the engagement. Pesye said not to worry. No one ever calls off an orphan’s wedding. And who do you think won? We did! Yoyneh the bagel maker bought Elye a new watch. It’s silver like the first and even better. He brought it over himself.

  I’d give anything to own a watch like that. What would I do with it? First I’d take it apart to see what made it tick. And then? I’ll tell you. My mother wished Yoyneh many long years of life in which to buy Elye a gold watch. Then Yoyneh wished my mother many long years of life in which to marry off her youngest son. That’s me! I told her I wouldn’t mind getting married right now for a watch. She patted my cheek and said with tears in her eyes that a lot of water would flow under the bridge before my wedding. You can search me what my wedding has to do with bridges or why she has to cry.

  A day doesn’t go by without her crying. She cries the way other people eat or pray. If the tailor brings Elye the wedding suit Yoyneh ordered, my mother cries. If Pesye bakes a honey cake for the wedding, she cries. Now the wedding is tomorrow and she’s crying. Maybe someone can explain to me where all those tears come from.

  What a day! It’s late summer and the weather is late-summery. The sun no longer makes you sweat or want to jump in the river. It’s as soft and kissing-warm as a mother. The sky is spread out like a Sabbath tablecloth. The whole world is celebrating my brother Elye’s wedding.

  There’s a fair in town today. It opened this morning. Fairs are always where you’ll find me. I’m crazy about them. Just look at all those Jews, shouting, sweating, swearing, hustling their customers, running around like chickens without heads—a real carnival! The peasants are in no hurry. They walk slowly with their hats pushed back, inspecting the merchandise. They touch it, haggle over it, have a fine time looking for bargains. Women in weird bonnets stick goods in the bosoms of their dresses when they think no one’s looking. But the Jews are wise to them and keep an eye out. When they catch one, they try shaking the goods loose. That’s when the fur begins to fly.

  Once a peasant woman bought a candle in a church and stuck it in her bonnet. Some practical joker lit it without her knowing. The merchants saw and started to laugh. She didn’t know what the joke was and swore at them, and the more she swore the harder they laughed. It ended in a Jewish-Christian free-for-all. I tell you, it’s a carnival!

  The best part of the fair is the horse market. It’s full of horses, whips, Gypsies, Jews, peasants, country squires. The noise is so out-of-this-world you could go deaf. The Gypsies shout foul language, the Jews clap their hands, the squires crack their whips, and the colts scamper like crazy. I like to watch horses and listen to horse talk. I’m dying for a colt of my own. I like everything little, puppies and kittens too. Baby pickles, potatoes, onions, heads of garlic, anything that’s small. Not piglets, though. I hate pigs even when they’re babies.

  To get back to the horses: they run around, the colts run after them, and I run after the colts. I’m a ball of fire on my feet. I go barefoot and dress light: a pair of pants, a shirt, and my tallis koton. When I race down the hill with it flapping in the wind, I feel I have wings and could fly.

  “Motl! For God’s sake! Stand still for a second!”

  That’s Pesye’s husband, Moyshe the bookbinder. He’s hurrying home from the fair with a bundle of paper. I’m afraid he’ll get me in dutch with my mother and Elye will give it to me, so I walk slowly over to him with my eyes on the ground. Moyshe puts down his bundle, wipes my sweaty face with the corner of his coat, and says sternly:

  “Isn’t an orphan like you ashamed to run around with horses and Gypsies? And on a day like this! Have you forgotten your brother’s wedding? Get on home!”

  “Lord-a-mercy! Where have you been?”

  That’s my mother, clapping her hands and looking at my torn pants, sweaty face, and scratched feet. I have to hand it to Moyshe. He didn’t breathe a word about the fair. My mother washes me and dresses me in a new pair of pants with a little brimmed cap for the wedding. Don’t ask me what those pants are made of. They go on standing by themselves after I take them off and they make funny noises when I walk. Some pants!

  “Rip these and we’re finished.”

  So my mother says and I agree. The world could come to an end before you could rip a pair of pants like those. The most you could do is break them. The cap is an antique with a shiny black brim that you spit on and polish like shoes. My mother stands looking at me, tears of joy on her lined cheeks. She wants me to look good for the wedding. She says to my brother:

  “Elye! What do you think? The boy is dressed like a prince, touch wood.”

  My brother Elye looks at me and strokes his beard. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that princes don’t go barefoot.

  My mother pretends not to notice. Sh
e’s wearing a strange yellow outfit I’ve never seen before. It looks awfully big on her. I could swear I’ve seen it on Pesye. She has on her new silk kerchief, too. It still has all its crinkles. Don’t ask me to describe it because it keeps changing. It’s hot pink in daytime, yellow toward evening, and white at night, but it tends to green in early morning and sometimes it takes on a fine old shade of bright reddish dark greenish sky bluish colorless gray. You can’t knock a kerchief like that. It’s one of a kind. But it does look awfully strange on my mother. It doesn’t stick to her face. To be honest, it looks more like a man’s hat. Except even a hat goes better with a face than that kerchief.

  Take my brother Elye’s hat. It looks like it’s growing out of his head. He’s shaved his long earlocks—shaved? cut them clean off!—and is wearing a white dress shirt with a stiff, pointy collar and a red and white tie with blue and green polka dots. What a tie! Not to mention his squeaky boots with the high heels. They’re supposed to make him look taller, those heels, but they help as much as cupping helps a corpse. Elye is on the short side. Actually, he’s not as short as he looks next to that big, tall, red-faced, splotchy-skinned baritone he’s marrying. I mean Brokheh, Yoyneh the bagel maker’s daughter. A fine-looking couple!

  Enough of hanging around the bride and groom, though. I’d rather watch the band. And most of all, the bass fiddle and the kettledrum. That’s what I call instruments! If only I were allowed to play them. But I can’t even get near them without having a cheek slapped or an ear pulled. Those lowdown musicians would bite off the finger that touched anything.

  If she were good, my mother would let me be a musician. She’ll never agree, though. It isn’t because she’s bad. It’s because Peysi the cantor’s son mustn’t be a common wage earner. That’s what she tells me when we talk about my future. Everyone’s worried about my future: my mother, Elye, Pesye, even Moyshe the bookbinder. Moyshe wants to take me on as an apprentice but Pesye won’t agree. She says such work is beneath a son of Peysi’s.

  But here I am talking about myself and forgetting the wedding! The ceremony is over and we’re seated at the tables. The women and girls are dancing a quadrille. I blundered into it with my stiff pants and bounced off the dancers like a rubber ball. You should have heard what people said. “Get a load of the cavalier!” “He has two left feet and trips over both!” “I wish he’d trip right out of here!” Pesye began to shout (she was already as hoarse as a frog): “Are you crazy or are you crazy? The boy is the groom’s brother!”

  That put them in their place. Naturally, I was taken and seated at the bride’s table. Three guesses who they sat me next to! Three hundred wouldn’t be enough. It was the bride’s little sister, Yoyneh the bagel maker’s daughter Alte! She’s just a year older than me and has two braids tied under her chin with a ribbon. She looks like a bagel twist herself.

  Alte and I sat near the bride and groom and ate from one plate. Elye kept an eye on me to make sure I sat straight and used my fork and wiped my nose with my napkin and didn’t eat like a slob. To tell the truth, I didn’t enjoy that meal one bit. I don’t like being stared at. And to top it all off, Pesye lost her marbles. “I wish you health and happiness!” she shouted across the room to my mother. “Just take a look at these two lovebirds! A match from heaven!”

  That brought over Yoyneh the bagel maker, all duded up. Pretty soon the rumor is going around that Alte and I are a couple. Yoyneh has this half-smile on his face. I mean, he’s smiling with his top lip and crying with the bottom one. Everyone is looking at us. Alte and I stared at the floor and poked each other in the ribs. I held my nose to keep from laughing and turned as white as a blister. Another second and it would have burst and made a fine scene. Luckily, the band struck up a dreamy tune and all the wedding guests went into a trance.

  I looked up and saw my mother in her weird yellow dress and silk shawl. She was crying again. You tell me: is she ever going to stop?

  I LAND A SWELL JOB

  My mother has news for me. I have a job! Not to worry, though: I haven’t been apprenticed to a tradesman. Her enemies won’t see the day when Peysi the cantor’s son becomes a common laborer. My new job is an easy one, a good one. I’ll go to school every day and spend the night at old Luria’s house. Old Luria, my mother says, is a rich man. The problem is that he isn’t well. That is, there’s nothing wrong with him: he eats, drinks, and sleeps like a normal person. He just doesn’t sleep at night. At night he never shuts his eyes. His children are afraid to leave him alone then. Someone, they say, should be with him. It can even be a child if he’s trustworthy. In fact, a grown-up would be bothersome. A child is no more noticeable than a cat.

  “You’ll get five rubles a week and your supper,” said my mother. “A good supper, too, a rich man’s food! The leftovers from his table alone could feed our whole family. I’ll pick you up at school every day and bring you to old Luria’s. You won’t have to do any work there. And you’ll eat well and have a comfortable bed. Plus five rubles a week. I’ll be able to make some new clothes for you. I’ll even buy you a pair of boots.”

  That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? So why cry? But that’s my mother for you. It doesn’t count unless she’s cried.

  I go to school but I don’t really learn. Sitting in a classroom isn’t for me. Mostly, I help the rabbi’s wife around the house and play with the cat. The housework is a lark. I sweep the rooms, help carry wood, and run errands. It beats learning any day. Nothing is worse than that. Kometz-alef-aw, kometz-alef-aw, kometz-alef-aw—how many times can you listen to the same old thing?

  The cat, now—there’s someone with brains! People say cats are dirty. Take it from me, it isn’t true. A cat is a real clean animal. And don’t believe what they say about them getting into trouble. They’re as easy as pie to get along with. A dog will suck up to you and wag its tail. A cat just sits licking itself and shuts its eyes and purrs when you pet it. I like cats.

  But try to explain that. Talk to the boys at school and they’ll tell you the craziest things about cats. Touch one, they say, and you have to wash your hands. Hold one and you’ll lose your memory. They’re full of it. Still, they’ll give a cat a good kick every time they walk past one. I can’t stand seeing that. They just laugh at me, though. That’s because they have no feelings for animals. They’re murderers. And they call me Peglegs because of my new pants. They call my mother names too. “There goes your cry mama,” they say.

  That’s her now, coming to bring me to my swell new job.

  As we walked to old Luria’s my mother complained how “sad and dreary” life was. (Just plain sad isn’t enough for her!) God had given her two children and now she would be left without both. My brother Elye, she said, had married well—he was swimming in chicken fat, knock wood—but his father-in-law was a lout. A baker, God help us! What could you expect from a baker? She kept grousing, my mother did, all the way to my swell new job at old Luria’s. Old Luria, she told me, lived in a palace. That’s something I’d always wanted to see.

  Meanwhile, all I was seeing was the kitchen. But that wasn’t bad, either. The stove was so white that it sparkled, the dishes sparkled too, and so did everything else. We were asked to have a seat. My mother remained standing. Not me! After a while a woman dressed like high society arrived. She spoke to my mother and pointed at me. My mother nodded and dabbed her lips. Before leaving, she told me to be good. Then she cried a little and dried her eyes. In the morning, she said, she would come to take me to school.

  I was given my supper: soup with hallah bread—hallah in the middle of the week!—and meat, a whole bunch of it.

  After supper, I was told to go upstairs. The cook showed me where that was. Her name was Khaneh and she was dark with a long nose. The stairs had soft padding. I’d have loved to walk on them barefoot.

  Even though it wasn’t dark, the lamps were already lit. There were more of them than you could count. The walls were hung with all kinds of things, even pictures with little people in the
m. The chairs were made of leather. The ceiling was painted like our synagogue’s. But I don’t mean to compare them. Old Luria’s ceiling is nicer.

  I was shown into a big room. It was so big that if only I had been alone, I’d have run from wall to wall and rolled on the nubby rug that covered the floor. It looked perfect for rolling on. For sleeping on, too.

  A tall, nice-looking man with a high forehead, gray beard, silk house robe, velvet skullcap, and embroidered slippers: that was old Luria. He was sitting over a big book from which he didn’t look up. He just went on reading while chewing his beard, tapping his foot, and humming to himself. A strange Jew, old Luria! I couldn’t tell if he knew I was there. Most likely he didn’t, because no one had introduced us and he didn’t glance my way. The door shut behind me. All at once he called out, still without looking up:

  “Come over here, please. I’d like to show you something in the Rambam.”

  Who was he talking to? Me? No one ever said “please” to me. I looked around. There was no one else in the room. Old Luria growled again in a deep voice:

  “Please come and have a look at the Rambam.”

  I wanted to know what that was and stepped up to him. “Are you talking to me?”

  “You, you! Who else?”

  So he said, old Luria, looking at his big book and taking my hand and running my finger across the page to show me what was written in the Rambam. Once he got started, his voice grew higher and shriller. He actually turned red from excitement. He jabbed the air with a thumb, poked me in the ribs, and said: “Well, what do you say to that? Not bad, eh?”

  It could even have been very good. How was I supposed to know? I kept my mouth shut tight and let him carry on. The more he did, the tighter I kept it.

  A key scraped in the door. It opened and in came High Society. She went over to old Luria and spoke in his ear. He must have been deaf to make her shout like that. She told him to stop bothering me because it was my bedtime. Then she took me by the hand and led me to a couch with springs. The sheets were white as snow. The blanket was soft as silk. What heaven!