The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Page 26

  “So you’re going to America?”

  “Where else?” we answered. “To Yehupetz?”

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

  “What doctor?”

  “Here’s his address. He’ll check your eyes. That’s the first order of business.”

  My brother Elye heard “eyes,” looked at my mother, and turned white as a sheet.

  We hurried off to the doctor. Everyone except my mother. She’d see him another time. Elye was worried about her. All that crying hadn’t done her any good.

  The doctor examined our eyes, wrote something down, signed it, and put it in an envelope. We thought it was a prescription and were scared. “What’s wrong with our eyes?” we asked, but he just pointed to the door. We reckoned that meant it was time to leave and took the prescription to Ezrah. Fraulein Seitchik opened the envelope, read it, and said:

  “Good news! The doctor says your eyes are fine.”

  Good news was right! But what about my mother? She was crying even now. “What are you doing?” we asked. “The doctor will flunk you!”

  “Don’t I know it! What do you think I’m crying for?”

  So she said, my mother, putting a hot compress on her eyes. It was given her by a barber-surgeon, an ugly puss of an emigrant with weird teeth, a dandy’s gold watch chain, and a name that sounded like the looks of him: Beeber!

  Beeber came to Antwerp with Pesye and Moyshe. He met them on the way and ran the border with them. They didn’t have adventures like ours. No one tried killing or robbing them. Still, they had a rough time. You should listen to some of their stories.

  Were they put through the grinder in Hamburg! It could make your hair stand on end. Why, Sodom is a resort town next to Hamburg. They treat emigrants no better than convicts there. If Beeber hadn’t saved the day, they would never have gotten out of it alive. He’s a terror, Beeber is. Did he put those Germans in their place—and without knowing a word of German! But he does speak a swell Russian. I’ve heard it said he knows more Russian than Pinye.

  Pinye says Beeber’s stories would be even better if they were true. He didn’t cotton to Beeber from the start. He’s even written a poem about him. When Pinye takes exception to someone, he puts it in rhyme. I can recite it for you:

  Beeber the medic

  Can give you a headache

  By telling a story

  Ten times or more. He

  Swears it’s all true,

  But between me and you,

  Even his small talk

  Is just so much tall talk!

  Beeber has promised to cure my mother’s eyes. He’ll see to it, he says, that no one finds anything wrong with them. He learned the trick of treating eyes back in Russia. And he’s been in Germany and watched the doctors there. They can make the blind see, that’s how good those German doctors are.

  “Are you sure they don’t do the opposite?” Pinye asked. Beeber blew his stack (he has a temper, Beeber does) and gave Pinye hell. Pinye, he said, is a wise guy. Wise guys don’t get far in America. Americans, Beeber said, don’t like monkey business. They say what they mean and mean what they say. A man’s word is sacred there. America is built on truth and honesty and justice and integrity and humanity and loyalty and compassion and …“You’re sure that’s all?” Pinye asked. That only made Beeber madder. It’s a shame the conversation was interrupted.

  How come? Because someone came to tell us people were looking for us. Who can it be? Guests! Special guests! Yoyneh the bagel maker and his family have arrived. A new gangful! We go through the whole song-and-dance. First Brokheh kisses her parents. Then Elye kisses his in-laws. Then Pinye kisses his friend-in-laws. Then Beeber kisses them too. “Who’s this?” Yoyneh and his wife want to know. “I’m Beeber,” says Beeber. Pinye begins to laugh. My mother cries. Elye squirms. He glares at my mother and tugs his beard. But there’s nothing he can say. If you can’t spare a few tears for your in-laws, for whom can you?

  “How did you run the border? Who stole your things and where?”

  That’s our first question. They have a bunch of stories for us. But I don’t have the patience to listen. I go off to a corner with Alte.

  Remember Alte? She still has two braids and looks like a bagel twist but she’s gotten older. I told her about Goldeleh, and about my friends Mendl and Big Motl, and about Ezrah and Fraulein Seitchik, and about the doctor who looks at your eyes. From there I went on to Vienna, and the Alliance, and Cracow and Lemberg, and running the border and saving our lives. I didn’t leave anything out.

  Alte listened and told me her own story. Her father had been wanting to go to America for some time. Not her mother Riveleh, though. That is, it was Riveleh’s family that was against it. They said you had to slave in America and Riveleh wasn’t used to hard work. But after she and Yoyneh went bankrupt and their creditors started knocking on the door, there was nothing to do but sell everything and go.

  There was one thing Riveleh refused to part with: a chemise Yoyneh had bought her back in the days when business was good. “What do you need a chemise for? Who wears them in America?” Yoyneh asked. “What do you mean, what do I need it for?” answered Riveleh. “For years I dreamed of a chemise, and now that I have one you want me to sell it?” Day and night that chemise was all they talked about. Riveleh’s family took her side. She and Yoyneh fought all the time. It almost led to a divorce.

  Who won? Riveleh, of course. The chemise wasn’t sold. They packed it and took it to the border. Comes the border—no more chemise.

  That’s what Alte told me. I didn’t care about the rest. Once I heard the chemise was gone, I lost interest. I took Alte for a walk around Antwerp. She wasn’t impressed. She had seen bigger cities, she said. I took her to the emigrant hotels and introduced her to my friends. That didn’t cut much ice either. She carries on like a grown-up, Alte does. She thinks a lot of herself.

  Later that day we all walked to Ezrah, our gang and Yoyneh’s. When we got there we ran into Pesye’s gang. Goldeleh was there too. She wanted to make friends with Alte but Alte didn’t want to. Goldeleh asked me why Alte was so snooty. I told her it was because we were engaged at my brother’s wedding. Goldeleh turned red as fire. She slipped away and went to wipe her eyes.

  Listen to our latest bad luck. We took my mother to the doctor. He looked at her eyes and said nothing. He just put another slip of paper in an envelope. We took it to Ezrah. Fraulein Seitchik was the only one there. She gave me a big smile (she always does when she sees me) but stopped smiling the minute she opened the envelope. “How are you today?” my mother asked. “How should I be, meine Frau?” said Fraulein Seitchik. “This isn’t good. The doctor says you can’t go to America.”

  Brokheh, as you know, likes to faint. Down she went. Elye’s face didn’t have a drop of blood in it. My mother turned to stone. She couldn’t even cry. Fraulein Seitchik went to get some water. She revived Brokheh, comforted Elye, consoled my mother, and told us to come back the next day.

  All the way to our hotel Elye lectured my mother. How many times had he told her not to cry! She couldn’t answer him. She just looked at the sky and said: “Dear God, do me and my children a favor and take me from this world right now!” Pinye claimed it was all that lying Beeber’s fault. We snapped at each other all day.

  In the morning we went back to Ezrah. We were advised to go to London. In London my mother’s eyes might be cleared—if not for America, at least for Canada.

  Where was Canada? No one knew. Someone said it was even farther than America. Elye and Pinye began to fight. “Pinye!” Elye said. “Where is this Canada? I thought you were a geographer.” Pinye said Canada was in Canada. To be exact, it was in America. That is, Canada and America were the same place, with a difference. “That makes no sense,” Elye said. “Sense or not, it’s a fact,” answered Pinye.

  Pesye, Moyshe, and their gang were sailing for America. We went to see them off at the ship. Whew, what a scene! Men, women, children, bundles, pillows, sacks
of linen, people running, yelling, sweating, eating, swearing! Suddenly, there’s a noise like some huge animal’s: HOOOOOOOOOOO!

  That’s the signal that the ship is leaving. Everyone is hugging, kissing, crying—a regular opera. They’re all saying good-bye and so are we. We kiss Pesye’s whole gang. Pesye tells my mother not to worry. They’ll soon see each other in America. My mother makes a gesture with her hand and fights her tears. Lately she’s been crying less. She’s been taking a pill against it.

  All the passengers are aboard. We’re left behind on the pier. Am I jealous of Bumpy! Just the other day the shoe was on the other foot. There he is on deck with his torn cap, sticking his tongue out at me. That’s his way of saying he’ll be in America before me. I give him the finger to hide how low I feel. That means: “Bumpy! You should break all your bones if I’m not in America before you know it!”

  Honestly, don’t worry. I’ll get there soon enough.

  THE GANG BREAKS UP

  Day by day the crowds of emigrants get smaller. Antwerp is emptying out. Every Saturday a new shipload sails for America. My friend Big Motl is gone too. I don’t know what it was about him that Elye didn’t like. I guess it started with Brokheh.

  Brokheh has a way of overhearing things, especially when they’re funny. She thinks everyone’s laughter is her business. You can be laughing at Pinye for stuffing his pockets with candies or at Beeber for the whoppers he tells—Brokheh is sure the joke is on her or her family.

  Mind you, she was right this time. We put on a play about Riveleh and her chemise.

  One day my mother had enough. “Oy, in-law!” she said to Riveleh. “Imagine if I talked about my stolen linens as much as you do about your chemise.”

  “As if there’s any comparison,” Riveleh answered in her gruff voice.

  “I suppose you think I stole them myself,” says my mother.

  “How should I know?” Riveleh says. “I never slept on them.”

  “In-law!” my mother says. “What kind of talk is that?”

  “As you say good morning to me,” says Riveleh, “so I’ll say good evening to you.”

  “But how have I offended you?” my mother asks.

  “Who says I’m offended?” says Riveleh.

  “Then why did you say there’s no comparison?” my mother asks.

  “Because,” Riveleh says. “I’m talking about my chemise and you come along with your stolen linens.”

  “I suppose you think I stole them myself.”

  “How should I know? I never slept on them.”

  And around it went again. Who needs tickets for the theater?

  Big Motl and I stayed up half the night rehearsing our play. It was Big Motl’s idea. “You’ll be your mother and I’ll be Riveleh,” he said. “I’ll be gruff and you’ll whine.”

  We dressed for the parts. Big Motl put on a wig and I wore a kerchief. We sent invitations to Mendl and Alte and Goldeleh and all the other boys and girls in our gang. Act I went like this.

  Little Motl (whining): Oy, in-law! Imagine if I talked as much about my stolen linens as you do about your chemise!

  Big Motl (gruffly): As if there’s any comparison!

  Little Motl: I suppose you think I stole them myself.

  Big Motl: How should I know? I never slept on them.

  Little Motl: In-law! What kind of talk is that?

  Big Motl: As you say good morning to me, so I’ll say good evening to you.

  Little Motl: But how have I offended you?

  Big Motl: Who says I’m offended?

  Little Motl: Then why did you say there’s no comparison?

  Big Motl: Because I’m talking about my chemise and you come along with your stolen linens.

  Little Motl: I suppose you think I stole them myself.

  Big Motl: How should I know? I never slept on them …

  Go guess that just as Big Motl said “slept on them” the door would open and in would walk Brokheh and Riveleh and Yoyneh the bagel maker with all his sons and my mother and Elye and Pinye and Taybl and Beeber with his yellow teeth and still more people—a regular mob! That rat Brokheh had brought the whole world to string me up. But the whole world didn’t have to. Elye did it himself. He gave me such a box on the ear that I woke up hearing bells the next morning.

  “The two Motls must be separated,” Brokheh declared. Make no mistake about it, Elye warned me: he would beat me like an egg white if he caught me with Big Motl again. But if you’re waiting to hear what that feels like, you’ve forgotten that there are mothers who would sooner lose both bad eyes than see their son treated like an egg white.

  My mother’s eyes aren’t getting any better. That means things are getting worse. A million dollars couldn’t buy her passage to America.

  It’s time to leave Antwerp. The doctors here are a lowdown bunch. They look at your eyes and go berserk if they find one little trachoma. They haven’t a drop of pity. We’ll have to get to America some other way. The question is how.

  There are plenty of possibilities. But we’re running out of cash. A lot has gone to the doctors and Beeber—all on account of my mother’s eyes. I’ve talked it over with Elye and Pinye. “Let’s go to London,” they say.

  I’d rather go to America. Pesye and her gang must have arrived there long ago. I’ll bet they’re already making a living. Bumpy must be walking around with his hands in his pockets, as happy as a nutcracker. Yoyneh, Riveleh, and their kids, including my fiancée Alte, decided not to wait for us either. They’ve sailed to America too.

  Was that a day! We didn’t let my mother go to the ship because she was sure to cry her eyes out. A lot of good that did! It just made her cry harder. We were robbing her of her only pleasure, she said. Crying is the one thing that does her good.

  No one was even listening.

  Do you know who’s glad that Yoyneh the bagel maker’s family is gone? You’ll never guess. Goldeleh! She nearly jumped for joy when she heard the news. That’s because she doesn’t like Alte. She said, her face burning like an oven: “I don’t want to see your red-braided bride again! She’s stuck-up.”

  “Since when are Alte’s braids red?” I said. “They’re brown.”

  That just made her angrier. She burst into tears and shouted: “They’re red! Red! Red!”

  When Goldeleh loses her temper, watch out! Usually she’s sweet as sugar. I feel like a brother to her. She tells me how hard she works to pay for her room and board. She cleans the rooms in her hotel, feeds the chickens, and puts the landlord’s twins to bed. (First his wife couldn’t have children, now she has two.) Every day she goes to the doctor. He treats her eyes with the same calamine he gives everyone.

  “If only I had my own. I’d see my mama and papa again.”

  It breaks my heart to see the tears in her infected eyes. I tell her: “You know what, Goldeleh? When I get to America and make a living, I’ll send you calamine from there.”

  “You will? Swear to me by all that’s holy!”

  I swear to her. If all goes well and I make a living, I’ll send the calamine.

  It’s final. We’re sailing for London on Saturday. We’re already preparing for the trip. My mother, Brokheh, and Taybl have been going from hotel to hotel, saying good-bye to the emigrants. They’ve had some heart-to-heart talks.

  Compared to some people, we’re not doing badly. You wouldn’t believe the down-and-outers we’ve come across or how they envy us. To listen to them talk, they all were once rich, lived in the lap of luxury, fed every beggar in the neighborhood, and married their sons and daughters to the upper crust. Now they’re a sorry bunch of drifters, every one of them.

  I’m sick and tired of their stories. Once, if I heard about a pogrom, I listened to every word. Today I run the other way. I’d rather hear something funny. There just isn’t anyone to tell it. The last person was that bull artist Beeber. He’s in America now.

  “Lying his head off,” Pinye says.

  “Don’t worry,” says Elye. “He
won’t get away with it. Americans don’t like types like that. A liar is worse than a pork eater there.”

  So Elye says. “What makes you so sure?” Brokheh asks. That’s when the shouting match begins. Pinye sides with Elye and Taybl sides with Brokheh. Whatever the two men say, the two women say the opposite.

  The Men: America is a land of unvarnished truth!

  The Women: America is a land of barefaced lies!

  The Men: America stands for truth, honesty, and compassion!

  The Women: America stands for theft, murder, and skulduggery!

  It’s a good thing my mother is around. “Children,” she says, “we’re still in Antwerp. Why fight over America?”

  She’s right. We’re in Antwerp. Not for long, though. In a few days we’ll be in London. Everyone is moving on, all the emigrants, the whole gang.

  How will Antwerp manage without us?

  SO LONG, ANTWERP!

  No place has been as hard to leave as Antwerp. It’s not so much the city as the people. I mean it’s not the people either, it’s the emigrants—especially my gang of friends. Some have left before us. Bumpy, Alte, and Big Motl are all making a living in America by now. Only Goldeleh and Mendl (Brokheh calls him “the wild pony”) are still here. Who will Ezrah have to help when we’re all gone?

  I’ll miss Antwerp. It’s a swell city. Everyone here deals in diamonds. They carry them around in their pockets. Everyone cuts them, faces them, polishes them. Some of our gang have decided to stay on and become diamond cutters. They wouldn’t go to America for the world. They want to make a cutter of me, too. My brother Elye thinks it’s good work. So does Pinye. If they were younger, they say, they’d learn it themselves.

  Brokheh laughs at them. She says diamonds are for wearing, not for cutting. Taybl agrees. She’d love to own a diamond herself. She spends her days looking at the shop windows and saying how the stones are cheap as dirt. That’s all she and Brokheh talk about. They’re so diamond crazy they see diamonds in their dreams. Pinye thinks it’s a big joke. He thinks all jewelry is. So is anyone who cares about it. You can bet he’s written a poem. It goes: