Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son Read online

  “You’re rattling on like a madman,” they said to me. “You can’t be in your right mind! All these nonsensical old wives’ tales from A Thousand and One Nights! We hardly have the strength to stand on our feet. Except for a glass of coffee and a butter roll, we haven’t had a morsel of food in our mouths all day, and here you come along with crazy tales!”

  “If that’s the way it is,” said I, “that’s a different story. How do they say—you don’t go dancing before you eat. The taste of hunger I understand very well, you don’t need to tell me. I haven’t tasted or even laid my eyes on coffee or a butter roll for a year.” And as I was speaking, I envisioned a glass of hot coffee with cream and a fresh butter roll along with other delicious foods. Shlimazel, I was scolding myself, is that how I was raised, on coffee and butter rolls? A piece of bread and herring isn’t good enough for me? And he, the Tempter, may he be banished from our thoughts, insisted on coffee, insisted on a butter roll! I smelled the aroma of coffee, tasted the flavor of butter rolls—fresh, delicious, soul-satisfying.

  “Do you know what, Reb Tevye?” both women said to me. “Since we’re both standing here, would it be such a bad idea if we got up on your wagon and you kindly took us home to Boiberik? How does that idea strike you?”

  “That’s a fine how-do-you-do! I’m coming from Boiberik, and you want to go to Boiberik! How can I go both ways at once?”

  “What’s the problem?” they said. “A clever Jew could figure it out. He’d turn the wagon around and go the other way. Don’t worry, Reb Tevye,” they added. “Rest assured that, if God is willing and sees us home safely, we’ll make it worth your while. May we suffer as much as you’ll suffer for it!”

  What were they trying to tell me? I wondered. Something out of the ordinary was going on here! There leaped into my mind ghosts, witches, demons, and who knows what else. Oh, what a blockhead I am, I thought, standing there like a bump on a log. I should show the horse the whip and make tracks for home!

  But against my will, as bad luck would have it, out of my mouth came: “Climb into the wagon!”

  My new friends jumped right on—they didn’t wait to be asked twice. I turned the wagon around, cracked the whip—one two three, giddyap!

  Nothing doing! We weren’t going anywhere. The horse wouldn’t budge from the spot, even if you cut him in half. Nu, now I understood what women could do. What had made me stop in the middle of nowhere to carry on a conversation with women? Just picture it—the woods on all sides, the stillness and gloom, night falling, and then these two creatures approaching, women. The imagination could really play tricks on a person. I recalled the story of a coachman who was once riding through the woods all alone when he saw a sack of oats lying on the road. He didn’t waste any time—he quickly got off the wagon, hoisted the heavy sack onto his back with great effort, loaded it onto his wagon, and continued on his way. He drove for about a verst, then turned around to look at the sack. It was gone—no more oats. Instead a goat with a little beard was lying in the wagon. He tried to touch her with his hand, but she stuck out her long tongue at him, let out a weird, wild laugh, and vanished.

  “Why aren’t we moving?” the women said to me.

  “Why aren’t we moving? Don’t you see?” I said. “The horse won’t cooperate. He’s not in the mood.”

  “Show him your whip,” they suggested. “You have a whip.”

  “I thank you for your advice,” I said. “It’s a good thing you reminded me. But my boy here isn’t frightened of a whip. He’s as used to it as I am to poverty.” I threw in a little saying to make light of it, but inside I was shaking with frustration.

  Why should I bore you? I let out my bitter heart on the poor horse till finally God helped me. The horse decided to move and we were able to continue through the woods.

  Oh what a numbskull I was, I thought. I always was a pauper, and I’d always remain a pauper. God had arranged this encounter, something that happens maybe once in a hundred years—and I didn’t settle on a price beforehand. What was I going to get out of it? I was acting according to fairness, decency, righteousness, and law, according to edict, and according to anything I could think of under the sun. But even so, what would have been the harm in earning a little something while I was at it? I should pull up the horse, idiot that I was, and tell them what was what. I should say, “If I am paid so much and so much, all right, and if not, I beg you, if you don’t mind, please get out of the wagon!” But then I saw that I was being an ass. It’s not a good idea to sell the bear’s hide till you’ve caught the bear! I’d wait till we got there.

  “Why aren’t you going a little faster?” The women were poking me from behind.

  “What’s the rush? Haste makes waste.” I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye. They were ordinary women, one wearing a silk head scarf, the other a wig.

  They looked at each other, whispering together. “Is it still far to go?” they asked me.

  “As close,” said I, “as from here to there. Soon we’ll be going down a hill and then up a hill. After that, again down a hill and again up a hill, and then comes the really big hill, and from there on the road is straight ahead to Boiberik.”

  “What a shlimazel!” one of them exclaimed.

  “It’ll take us forever!” said the other.

  “It’s the last straw!”

  “Strikes me he’s a bit crazy!”

  She could say that again, I thought. I had to be crazy to let myself be led around by the nose!

  “Where, pray tell, my dear ladies, would you like me to drop you?” I called out to them.

  “What do you mean?” they said in alarm. “You’re going to drop us?”

  “It’s an expression,” I said, “that coachmen use. Someone who’s not a coachman would say, ‘Where would you like me to deliver you when we come to Boiberik safe and sound, if God will grant enough life?’ How is it said: ‘Better to ask twice than to err once.’”

  “Ah, so that’s what you mean. If you would be so kind,” they said, “take us to the green dacha near the lake on the other side of the woods. Do you know where that is?”

  “Why shouldn’t I know?” I said. “I know Boiberik like I know my own town. May I have as many thousands as I have delivered logs to people there. Why, just a year ago last summer I delivered to that same green dacha two loads of wood. This rich man from Yehupetz was staying there, a millionaire worth at least a thousand rubles and maybe even tens of thousands.”

  “He’s still there,” both women told me, glancing at each other, whispering together and giggling.

  “Wait,” I said. “Do you have some kind of connection to him? What I’m doing for you is no small thing. Would it be such a bad idea to put in a good word on my behalf, to do me a little favor, throw some business my way, a position maybe, or whatever? I knew a young man, Yisroyel was his name, who lived not far from our town, who was a good-for-nothing. He came to our town. To make a long story short, today he’s a regular big shot, makes maybe twenty rubles a week, if not forty, who knows? Some people have all the luck! Or take for example our ritual slaughterer’s son-in-law. What would have become of him if he hadn’t gone to Yehupetz? True, the first few years he starved, almost died of hunger, may it not happen to anyone. But now he even sends money home. He’s planning to bring his wife and children over, but they can’t live there without a permit. So, you might ask, how is he surviving? He’s really struggling. Never mind, where there’s life, there’s hope.

  “Here we are at the river,” I announced, “and there’s the large dacha.” I drove boldly right up to the front porch.

  As soon as the people inside saw us coming, there was great excitement; they shouted, made a real commotion! “Oy, Bubbe!

  Mama! Auntie! Here they are! Mazel tov! My God, where were you? . . . We’ve been out of our minds all day! . . . We sent out scouts looking for you in every direction! . . . We thought—who can tell?—maybe wolves, robbers, heaven protect us! What happened?”
r />   “What happened makes a good story. We got lost in the woods and wandered quite far away, maybe ten versts. Out of nowhere a Jew turned up. And what a Jew! A real shlimazel of a Jew, with a horse and wagon. We barely talked him into taking us home.”

  “What a terrible nightmare. . . . You ventured out alone, without escorts? What a story! Be grateful to God!”

  To make a long story short, they brought lamps out onto the porch and set the table. They carried out hot samovars with glasses of tea, sugar and preserves, delicious omelets, fresh, wonderful-smelling butter cakes, and afterward all kinds of food, the most expensive treats, rich, fatty soups, roasts, geese, along with the finest wines and tarts. I stood off to the side and marveled at the way, kayn eyn horeh, the rich folks from Yehupetz eat and drink, God bless them. I’d pawn everything I own, I was thinking, if only I could be rich. The crumbs that fell off their table would have fed my children for a week, at least till Saturday. God Almighty, compassionate, faithful one, is a great God and a good God, a God of mercy and justice. Why did He grant this one everything and the other nothing? This one got butter rolls, the other the ten plagues. But then I thought I was a great fool. I was giving Him advice on how to run the world? Most likely, if He wanted it that way, that was how it should be. The proof was that if it were meant to be otherwise, it would be otherwise. Ay! Well, why shouldn’t it be otherwise? The answer is this: Slaves we were once in Pharaoh’s day, and that’s why we are the Chosen People. A Jew must exist on hope and faith. He has to believe, above all, that there is a God, and he has to have faith in Him who lives forever and hope that someday, with His help, perhaps things will be better.

  “Sha, where did that Jew go?” I heard someone say, “Did that shlimazel take off?”

  “God forbid!” I called out from the shadows. “Do you think I’d leave just like that, without so much as a goodbye? Sholem aleichem! ” I said. “A good evening to you all. Blessed be those who dwell in this house. May you all enjoy your food and prosper!”

  “Come on over here,” they said to me. “Why are you standing there in the dark? Let’s at least have a good look at you, see your face. How about a little brandy?”

  “A little brandy? Ach,” I said, “who would turn down a little brandy? How does it say in the Talmud: Who giveth life giveth also the fruit of the vine. Rashi interprets it as: God may be God, but brandy is brandy. L’chayim!” I said, and knocked back a glassful. “May God grant that you always be rich and enjoy life. Jews,” I said, “should always remain Jews. God should grant them health and the strength so they can withstand all their troubles—”

  “What’s your name?” the rich man, a fine-looking Jew wearing a yarmulke, interrupted me. “Where are you from? Where do you live? What is your livelihood? Are you married? Do you have any children, and how many?”

  “Children? I can’t complain. If each child,” I said, “were worth, as my wife Golde tells me, a million, I’d be richer than the richest man in Yehupetz. The problem is that poor isn’t rich and crooked isn’t straight, as it is said in the havdalah service: He separateth the sacred from the profane—whoever has the cash has it good. Gold the Brodskys have. Daughters I have. And if you have daughters, it’s no laughing matter. But never mind, God is our father and He prevails. He sits on high, and we struggle down below. You plod, you haul logs, what choice do you have? As the Gemorah says: What place doth man have? The tragedy is that you have to eat. As my grandmother, of blessed memory, used to say: ‘If the mouth did not exist, the mind would be free.’ Pardon me, but there’s nothing straight about a crooked ladder and nothing crooked about a straightforward word, especially when drinking brandy on an empty stomach.”

  “Give the man something to eat!” the wealthy man called out, and there suddenly appeared before me every kind of food—fish and meat and roasts, quarters of chicken and gizzards and chicken livers in vast amounts.

  “Won’t you eat something?” they said to me. “Go wash up.”

  “A sick person you ask, a healthy one you give. But never mind,” I said. “I thank you. A little brandy with pleasure, but to sit down here and enjoy a whole feast while at home my wife and children, may they be well . . . you understand . . .”

  They apparently got my meaning because each of them began packing food into my wagon. This one brought a baked roll, that one a fish, this one a roast, that one a quarter of a chicken, this one tea and sugar, that one a crock of chicken shmaltz and a jar of preserves.

  “This you will take home as gifts for your wife and children,” they said. “And now tell us what you want to be paid for the trouble you went through on our behalf.”

  “You’re asking me,” I said, “to put a price on it? As much as you want to give, that’s what you should pay. How do they say, ‘One coin more or less won’t make me much poorer than I already am.’”

  “No,” they said, “we want to hear what you want, Reb Tevye! Don’t be afraid. No one will chop your head off, heaven forbid.”

  What was I to do? This was bad. If I said one ruble, I might get two, but that would be a shame. Then again, if I said two, they might look at me as if I were crazy—they’d wonder where I got off asking for two.

  “Three rubles!” popped out of my mouth, and such great laughter broke out among them that I wanted to sink into the ground.

  “Please don’t be offended,” I said. “That just slipped out. Even a horse with four legs stumbles, so what can you expect of a man with one tongue?” The laughter grew louder.

  “Enough laughing!” the rich man called out. He drew from his bosom pocket a large purse and from it removed—How much do you think? Go on, guess!—a ten-ruble note, may you and I live so long! And he said, “This is from me. And now the rest of you, give from your pockets as much as you think is right.”

  What more can I say? Flying onto the table came fives and threes and ones. My arms and legs were shaking, and I thought I was going to faint right then and there.

  “Nu, why are you still standing there?” the rich man said to me. “Pick up your few rubles from the table and go home in good health to your wife and children.”

  “May God reward you,” I said, “many times over. May you have ten times, a hundred times over what you possess now. May you have all that is good and enjoy great happiness!” I gathered up the money with both hands—Count it? Who had time to count?—and stuffed it into all my pockets. “Goodnight,” I said. “May you always be happy and healthy and enjoy much pleasure, you and your children and your children’s children and your whole family.” And I started toward the wagon.

  Then the rich man’s wife called out to me, she of the silk kerchief: “Wait a moment, Reb Tevye! I want to give you a gift of my own. God willing, come back tomorrow. I have a milk cow. She was once a wonderful animal, used to give twenty-four glasses of milk a day, but lately, maybe we bragged too much, she stopped giving milk. I mean,” she said, “she lets herself be milked, but there’s no milk.”

  “Long life to you,” I said. “May you never have any troubles. At my house your cow will let herself be milked and will give milk. My wife, God bless her, is so capable that out of thin air she makes noodles, with empty hands she concocts delicacies. With miracles she prepares the Shabbes, and with nothing but a box on the ear for supper she puts the children to bed. Forgive me,” I said, “if without thinking I ran on too long. Goodnight and God be with you and be well.” And I was on my way.

  I came out into the courtyard, went over to my wagon, and put my hand out to stroke my horse. Oy vey! A calamity, a disaster, a catastrophe! No horse! Nu, Tevye, I thought, now you’re really in trouble! I’d read somewhere an awful tale about a gang that spirited away a pious Jew, a Chasid, one evening. They took him to a castle outside the city, gave him food and drink, and then suddenly vanished, leaving him alone with a beautiful woman. The woman soon turned into a wild beast, the wild beast became a cat, and the cat a dragon. I’d better be careful, I thought, and make sure they weren’t putting some
thing over on me!

  “Why are you grumbling and fumbling around out there?” they asked.

  “An awful thing has happened!” I answered. “I’ve suffered a terrible loss—my horse . . .”

  “Your horse,” they said, “is in the stable. Over there.”

  I went into the stable and looked around. Yes, as I am a Jew! My handsome fellow was standing there very cozily among the aristocratic horses, deeply absorbed in munching, burying his muzzle in the oats with great relish.

  “Listen, smart aleck,” I said to him, “it’s time to go home. Don’t eat so much too quickly—it’ll make you sick.”

  I finally convinced him to kindly allow me to hitch him up to the wagon. We headed home, both of us, in a lively, happy frame of mind, I singing “God Our King” tipsily. My little horse was not the same as before—he seemed to have grown a new coat of fur. He didn’t even wait for the whip but ran like the wind. We arrived late that night, and with great excitement and joy I woke up my wife.

  “Good evening!” I said. “Happy holiday, Golde!”

  “A dismal happy holiday to you, a miserable one,” she said. “What makes you so jolly, my worthy breadwinner? Are you coming from a wedding or from a bris, my gold spinner?”

  “It’s a wedding,” I said, “and a bris! Just wait, my wife, and you’ll soon see the treasure I’ve brought home. But first wake up the children, let the poor things also enjoy the Yehupetz delicacies.”

  “Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind or just delirious? You’re talking like a madman, heaven help us!” She treated me to all the curses in the Bible, as a woman can do.

  “A woman,” I said, “remains a woman. No wonder King Solomon complained that even among his thousand wives he couldn’t find a proper one. It’s a good thing, believe me, that it’s out of fashion nowadays to have a lot of wives.”