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

  “Amen!” I said and got a whack from Elye.

  To make a long story short, Elye has a dzhahb and makes a living. He sells haht dawgz and waits on tables for five dahlehz a week plus two meals a day, which are also worth something. Not to mention working in a store where the whole world buys delikatesn! Every day he makes new friends with some of New York’s finest. We’re hoping he’ll go far. He’s liked by his boss and respected by the kahstemehz. They like being served by a young man who’s not your ordinary flunky.

  There’s just one problem with my brother. You wouldn’t want a beard like his. Without it he’d be awreit. And not only does he have a beard, it gets bigger and longer each day in America. Mostly it gets bigger. Pinye says he should give it a trimm. That’s what Pinye did. He went to a bahbeh shahp and sat in a tsheh and leaned back and said nothing because he didn’t know any English. Along came the bahbeh, grabbed Pinye by the nose, soaped Pinye’s face, ran a razor over it, and told him to stand up. Pinye stood and looked in the mirror and didn’t know who he was looking at. His cheeks were as smooth as a noodle board! There wasn’t a hair or whisker on them. The face in the mirror grinned back at him.

  Was he in a pickle! What was he going to tell Taybl? And in fact she fainted twice and felt so sick she took to bed. But that was only the first time. By now she’s gotten used to it. Her Pinye goes to the bahbeh for a shave every week and looks like a real American. He speaks English too and no longer swallows his tshooinkahm. If only his collar were straight, his tie stayed in place, and one pant leg wasn’t higher than the other, he’d be a real dzhentlmin. That’s also called a spawt.

  In fact, Pinye could make a living like everyone if he didn’t knock his brains out thinking of ways to get rich. (He comes from a brainy family, Pinye does.) He’s kind of making a living already. The trouble is that he goes from dzhahb to dzhahb. You have to hand it to him, though. No dzhahb in the world is beneath him. He’ll do anything he’s asked to earn a dahleh. Tell him to sweep the strit and he’ll sweep the strit. Tell him to shovel coal and he’ll shovel coal. Selling noospeypehz is fine too. America, Pinye says, is a free country. The only dzhahb to be ashamed of is a thief ’s. An American wouldn’t steal a bar of gold if you left it in front of him. He wouldn’t lie or cheat, either. Pinye is sure of that. He’s written a poem about America. I don’t remember it all, but here is some of it:

  This country of Columbus

  Is a place for every one-’f-us,

  The only one that’s giving

  Jew a chance to make a living.

  From New York City to Seattle

  You won’t hear a teapot rattle,

  Nor a blahfeh nor a liar

  From California to Ohio.

  It went on like that and ended:

  America’s a country where a person can go far. That’s why it’s got a prehzident and not some stinking tsar.

  Elye just laughed and said that “liar” and “Ohio” didn’t rhyme. Pinye said, “Here’s another poem for you. If you know a man named Shmiel, have him over for a meal, and if you know a man named Leyzer, tell him to go to hell. You say Leyzer and hell don’t rhyme? Then he can go to hell without a rhyme!”

  In case you’re wondering whether Brokheh and Taybl are making a living too, let me tell you they’re in the necktie biznis. That’s my mother and her synagogue’s doing again. A woman she knows there is an awreitnitshke named Kreyndl. Back in Kasrilevke, Kreyndl was a housemaid who worked for Rich Yosi. That’s a story in itself.

  In Kasrilevke lived a butcher named Meylekh who had a young assistant, Nekhemye. This Nekhemye fell in love with our Kreyndl and wanted to marry her. He just didn’t have with what. And so he hit on a scheme. The next time Meylekh the butcher sent him to the fair to buy a cow, he took the money and Kreyndl and lit out for America. He’s done pretty well here and now he’s an awreitnik with a tie factory.

  It so happened that Kreyndl the awreitnitshke had a memorial day for her mother and struck up an acquaintance with my mother in the Kasrilevke shul. When she heard my mother was Peysi the cantor’s widow, she offered to help. My mother said the only help she needed was work for her children. Well, one thing led to another and pretty soon the awreitnitshke talked to the awreitnik and got Brokheh and Taybl dzhahbz in his fektri. It’s up on Brawdvey. After they had worked there for a while, my mother used her influence and they were allowed to take home piecework instead.

  It didn’t last very long. Brokheh and Taybl kept busy until the end of the sizn. Then came slekteim and they were out of work. We tried not to let it get us down. As my mother says, “God is a father. He punishes with one hand and heals with the other.”

  That’s something I don’t get. Why punish and then heal? You could save yourself the trouble by skipping both.

  My mother also says, “God sends the cure with the ailment.”

  I’ll tell you what she’s thinking of. Just let me stop to catch my breath.

  GOD’S CURE

  It’s like this.

  My brother Elye has quit working for Hibru Neshnel Delikatesn. It wasn’t a job for him. He’s Peysi the cantor’s son, remember? He’s well bred and has a good voice. In fact, he’d make a fine cantor himself. What kind of job is bringing people haht dawgz?

  Bringing haht dawgz is no disgrace. But there are all kinds of people in the world. Some are well bred themselves. You take a young man from a good home—he orders his haht dawgz, eats them quietly, pays the bill, and bei-bei.

  But not everyone comes from a good home. Sometimes you get a rude moron who makes you sizzle. His haht dawgz aren’t hot enough. Or else you’ve forgotten the mustard. And he doesn’t say, “Excuse me, please, I’d like another awdeh.” He whistles or snaps his fingers and shouts, “Hey, vaydeh! Maw dawgz!”

  Elye isn’t used to such language. He loses his temper and refuses to answer. The moron doesn’t like that and shouts louder, “Hey, professor! Come over here!”

  “Since when am I a professor to you?” Elye asks.

  That causes the moron to shout so loud that the bawss comes running and says to Elye: “Vahts deh meddeh vid yu?” Elye doesn’t answer him either. “I’m asking you a question,” says the bawss. “Ask me proper and you’ll get an answer,” Elye says. “What’s proper by you?” asks the bawss. “Proper is Jewish,” Elye says. “And talking English makes me a monster?” asks the bawss. “It might,” Elye says.

  “In that case,” says the bawss, “I’m giving you the sek. In proper Jewish, you can stay in bed tomorrow.”

  “I’d rather starve than sell haht dawgz.”

  That’s what my brother Elye says. Pinye disagrees. America, he says, is a free country. You need to take things in stride.

  Don’t argue with Pinye unless you want to hear about his millionaires. I mean Kahnegi, Rahknfelleh, and Vendehbilt. Elye asks:

  “What makes you think you know all about them?”

  “What makes me think I know all about the Tsar?” Pinye answers.

  “All right, what makes you think you do?”

  “If you read as many novels as I have,” Pinye says, “you’d know all about him too.”

  Novels are the books that Pinye reads at Moyshe’s stend. Although they’re written in a plain, simple Jewish, they’re harder to understand than the Bible. Moyshe lends them out. He makes a living from it. One book can have a hundred readers. Most are women. Women are crazy about novels. On Saturday mornings Brokheh gobbles them up like hotcakes. My mother and Taybl listen to her read out loud. My mother falls asleep and Taybl sits there sighing. Sometimes she bursts into tears. She has a tender heart, Taybl does. If I were allowed to draw on the Sabbath, I’d sketch Brokheh reading while my mother sleeps and Taybl cries.

  But here I am talking and I still haven’t told you about God’s cure!

  First, though, let me tell you about the ailment. It’s no joke for a young man like Elye to be out of work. Elye isn’t Pinye. If Pinye needs money, he’ll take a shovel and shovel snow. Elye says h
e would shovel it too, but not in the strit. “I suppose you’re waiting for a home delivery,” Pinye says. Elye gets sore and answers:

  “I can see you’re in a grand mood.”

  “Of course I am. I’m in a grand mood every time I remember I’m in America and not in Pogromland.”

  “Your great-grandmother must be thrilled,” Elye says. He’s so depressed he decides to go to synagogue.

  And that’s where God sends his cure, right there in the Kasrilevke shul. Listen to this.

  I’ve told you how, the same summer we were walking the streets of Vaytshepl, there was a whale of a pogrom in Kasrilevke, plus a fire in the bargain. The hooligans stole all they could, smashed what they couldn’t, and burned what they couldn’t smash. It wasn’t so bad if you were poor. What did you have to lose apart from a few pillows? In fact, you thanked God if you were still in one piece, because not everyone was. Little children were torn limb from limb or left to die of hunger. That’s if you were poor.

  But the rich! One day you’re rolling in clover and the next you’re a beggar without a shirt on your back. Just thinking of it can send a chill down your spine, that’s what our Kasrilevke Jews say.

  There’s only one thing I don’t get. How come no one gets a chill thinking of the poor people and their children being torn apart? My friend Mendl doesn’t get it either. That’s how our Kasrilevke Jews are, he says. Let a poor Jew die of hunger and it’s nothing. Let a rich Jew become a poor Jew and it’s the end of the world.

  Well, one of our filthy rich Kasrilevke Jews went by the name of Moyshe-Noyekh. He not only owned his own house with its own yard and its own garden, he was so important that he went around all summer in his underwear. I don’t mean only in his underwear—he wore a dressing gown over it. But you won’t find a poor Jew dressed like that. You have to be a big deal not to care what anyone thinks of you.

  Anyway, we all knew that Moyshe-Noyekh had inherited three shops from his mother, all smack in the middle of the market. He had his own cow too, a real milker. Not that three shops weren’t enough to get by on. They were more than enough. But Moyshe-Noyekh’s wife Nekhameh-Mirl (we called her Dekhabeh-Birl because her nose was always stuffed) milked so much milk from that milker that she could have paid all their bills just from that. Of course, to keep the Evil Eye away, she told everyone that her “bilk cow” didn’t give a drop of “bilk.” That didn’t fool Kasrilevke, though. Everyone knew it was a lie. The bilkless bilk cow was full of milk.

  Would you believe a Jew like Moyshe-Noyekh running for dear life to America in his birthday suit? It could break a heart of stone. And what was he supposed to do when he got there? You couldn’t expect him to work in a shop. Nor his children. And so the Kasrilevke Synagogue Association took one look at him and made him the beadle of the Kasrilevke shul.

  A beadle in America is not small potatoes. He lives better than a businessman in Kasrilevke. He can get rich from memorial days alone. They’re very big on them here. All year long no one has time to pray. “Teim iz mahnee,” as they say. But comes the anniversary of a death and off to synagogue everyone goes. And after prayers the family goes to a restaurant for a memorial banquet. You can bet the beadle gets thrown a few bones then, to say nothing of bar mitzvahs. When a bar mitzvah comes along he’s in the gravy.

  Back in Kasrilevke, becoming bar mitzvah meant putting on tefillin and praying with the grown-ups. In America it’s a national holiday. They take the young man, put a prayer shawl on him, call him up to the Torah like a bridegroom so that he can chant in a voice like a rooster’s, and listen to him spout a speech he’s learned by heart—all in English. God forbid he should say a Jewish word! When he’s done he gets blessed by the rebbei, who’s as beardless as a Catholic priest. There are presents and the beadle gets his share.

  In short, Moyshe-Noyekh has a swell dzhahb. His only problem is having to make the rounds of the synagogue members every month to collect the dooz they’ve pledged. What kind of dzhahb is it for an ex-rich Jew to go collecting from house to house? Dekhabeh-Birl actually wept as she said to my mother, “I’b tellid you, every tibe by husba’d bakes the rou’ds, it’s a pudishbed.”

  That gave my mother an idea. Why didn’t Moyshe-Noyekh ask my brother Elye to be his collector? It would be a load off Moyshe-Noyekh’s mind and Elye would make a living.

  Needless to say, Moyshe-Noyekh welcomed the idea. It was Elye who balked at first. It didn’t appeal to him. Not until Pinye stepped in. He gave Elye a tongue-lashing as only he can. Did he let him have it!

  “It’s beyond me how you can be so snooty! What makes you think you’re any better than Kahnegi, Rahknfelleh, and Vendehbilt?”

  Excetra, excetra.

  Leave it to Pinye!

  Who would have thought that a little dzhahb collecting synagogue dooz would lead in the end to a big dzhahb? And not one big dzhahb but two—one Elye’s collecting for a foinitsheh biznis and one Pinye’s collecting for an inshurinks kahmpeni. Wait a minute and I’ll tell you what they do.

  WE’RE KEHLEHKTEHZ!

  One good thing about America is that everything gets delivered to your home. And you can buy it in installments for a dahleh a week and fix up your house like a lord’s. It’s called foinishink deh epahtment.

  Don’t ask me what kind of word foinitsheh is. Elye says it comes from “fein” and “tsheh.” Pinye says that’s ridiculous. In the first place, the word should be “feinitsheh.” And second, why a fine chair and not a fine mirror? Elye answers that only an idiot would say feinitsheh instead of foinitsheh. He says that’s the law of foinetiks.

  They went at it so that they nearly came to blows. Luckily, Brokheh came along and put an end to it. She made them agree to ask an American—I mean a Jew who isn’t a grinhawn.

  It turned out that the word is neither feinitsheh nor foinitsheh. It’s firnitsheh. Go figure.

  No one in America pays cash—not unless you’re a Jew like Dzheykip Shif. They say he’s the richest man in America. That’s according to Elye. Pinye disagrees. Kahnegi, he says, is richer. And Vendehbilt puts Kahnegi in his little pocket and Rahknfelleh makes them both look like pikers. “That’s a good one!” Elye says. “You’re talking real estate and I’m talking cash. Shif ’s got more cash than all of them together.”

  That was too much for Pinye. Elye, he shouted, didn’t know what he was talking about. Rahknfelleh gives away more cash in a year than all Shif ’s property is worth.

  Elye hit the ceiling. “Pinye,” he cried, “you’re an anti-Semite!” Shif, Elye said, is a Jew, even if Rahknfelleh is richer. If we Jews don’t stick up for each other, who will?

  “I don’t care if Shif is ten Jews!” Pinye said. “Does that mean I have to lie for him? You’re forgetting, Elye, that we’re in America. In America no one likes a blahfeh.”

  “If you’re talking about lies,” Brokheh said, “I’d like to see one of my enemies drop dead for every lie told each day in New York City. And that’s not including Bruklin, Brawnzvil, and the Brahnks.”

  She stopped that argument cold.

  If you’re going to charge a dollar a week for firnitsheh, you need someone to go get the dahleh. That’s your kehlehkteh. There are plenty of them.

  Every kehlehkteh has his own route with its own houses. He knocks on the door and says “Gud mawnink.” Then he says “Iz ah vehry neis dey,” takes your dahleh, writes out a receipt, and says “Gudbei.” That’s all there is to it. You don’t even have to take off your hat. It isn’t the custom. You can walk whistling into the richest man’s house with your boots on, or with a cigarette or tshooinkahm in your mouth, and no one will say a word. That’s America.

  Elye likes his new dzhahb. It’s a lot better than selling haht dawgz in a delikatesn and he makes more money. Some weeks he brings home eight dahlehz, and some ten or twelve. It depends on the veddeh. If the veddeh is good, he vawks. If it’s bad, he has to take the stritkah. That costs a nikl. Elye doesn’t like to part with his nikelz. He’s tight with his money.
He isn’t like Pinye.

  Pinye is a big spender. He almost never vawks. That’s because he’s nearsighted and could be run over. Actually, he says, he’s more absent-minded than nearsighted. He’s always thinking about something. He can’t let a minute go by without reading a book or a noospeypeh. Even when he’s writing, he’ll stop to think in the middle of a sentence. He doesn’t hear what you say to him then. All of a sudden he’ll grab a pencil, or a pen and some ink, and fill both sides of ten pages. Nobody knows what he’s writing or plans to do with it, not even Taybl. When Elye asks him, he says:

  “You’re too young to know.” We’ve grown older and still don’t know.

  Nevertheless, Pinye makes a living. He’s a kehlehkteh too. Not for firnitsheh. Pinye kehlehkts for leif inshurinks. Actually, it’s more like death inshurinks. Everyone in America has it: husbands, wives, children, parents, brothers, sisters. It costs a nikl to a dahleh a week, no cash down. The more inshurinks you have, the more you pay. There are families in which everyone, from the little babies to the grandparents, carries death inshurinks. If there’s anyone who doesn’t, it’s up to the kehlehkteh to see that he does.

  I can’t tell you exactly how death inshurinks works. All I know is that it’s a dzhahb Elye turned down. He’d rather be a firnitsheh kehlehkteh. Inshurinks means talking. And talking some more. And talking more than that. Pinye is good at it. He could talk a wall into falling down. Pinye could sell death inshurinks to the dead.

  Pinye couldn’t care less who you are. He has an answer for everything. If you already have inshurinks, you need more. If you don’t, you better take it out. If you don’t take it for yourself, you can take it for your wife, child, cousin, or nekstdawrikeh. Once Pinye gets you in his clutches, you’re done for.