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

  Never mind, though! With God’s help I hope to have a business going soon, at which time I’ll send you a money order. And regarding your question about rain, it’s really quite simple. Sugar, as you know, is made from beets, and beets can’t grow without rain. If God is good it will be a rainless summer and pests will eat all the beets. That means there’ll be no sugar, or rather, sugar will be worth its weight in gold. The speculators will make a killing, the traders will get their commissions, and so will I. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give the children my greetings, each and every one of them.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. As for your sister, if she isn’t engaged again, I have just the man for her. He’s a rare find, a Yehupetzer and still a bachelor, although not as young as all that. In fact he’s a graybeard and getting on in years. I can’t say he’s rich, either. But he has a good job—that is, he’s in sugar. It’s the perfect match, in my opinion, because he’s a very quiet fellow. If the notion takes your fancy, send me a telegram or post card and I’ll come out with him.

  Yours, etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, may all the bad dreams I dreamed last night, and the night before that, and every night of the year before that, come true for my enemies. Happy times are here again! If it doesn’t rain there won’t be beets, and if there are no beets there won’t be sugar, and if there is no sugar you may actually make some money. Talk about skinning the bear before it’s shot! Suppose I tell you, Mendl, that it has been raining cats and dogs, and that beets are growing like nobody’s business, and that there isn’t a pest in sight besides bedbugs and cockroaches. What would you say to that? I swear to God, I knew all along that nothing would remain of those fifty blasted rubles. Why remember you have a wife who may live to see you again when you can give all you have to charity? A year’s worth of heartburn I would have given! A fine lot of charity you’d get if ever you went knocking on Yehupetz’s doors. “Families,” says my mother, “have brothers. Pockets don’t.”

  But I have only myself to blame. Not everyone would do for a husband what I’ve done. All that fancy living has gone to his lordship’s head. He goes about Yehupetz like a count, has everything but rain and pests, and leaves me to lead a dog’s life. Nothing goes right for me. I have a little boy, Moyshe-Hirshele, drat his soul? Leave it to him to fall and split his lip. I have a wedding ring with gold filigree? Naturally, the servant girl steals it. I catch it coming and going. I should have listened to my mother when she said, “Never throw your luck out with the dish-water …”

  Was I right or not that fifty rubles can’t be had for the asking? And as for the lovely match you have for Nekhameh-Breindl, your old graybeard can split his gut first. Yehupetz won’t live to see the day we marry into it. Guess who my sister is being fixed up with now: her first fiancé, since married and divorced and ready for more! It seems the rogue is stuck on her for good. Well, better a thief you know than a rabbi you don’t, says my mother…. As soon as they’re engaged there’ll be a wedding, and I’d like to see you not show up for it. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  Our Kopl has done it again. He’s gone bankrupt for three hundred rubles and can now show his face without fearing the bailiff. And your Uncle Menashe’s son Berl had another fire—a hundred rubles’ worth of damage for which the insurance paid three-fifty. Something tells me it’s our last one, because they say the company has stopped insuring Jews. And I almost forgot: Miriam-Beyle has stopped wearing a wig and goes around with her own hair in public! I suppose she thinks she’s high society—pretty soon she’ll be playing cards. But I don’t like to gossip. “Mind your business,” says my mother, “and no one else will mind it for you.” …Just tell me about “courtasins” and “conquerbines.” What are they and what do you do with them?

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ 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. May we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

  Secondly, you’re absolutely right. The sugar business is not for me. There’s no competing with the big traders. You can’t close a deal without them muscling in—and go file a complaint against God. “It isn’t fair” cuts no ice in Yehupetz. Fairness is not at a premium here; no one owes you an explanation or apology. That’s for starters. And besides, I ask you: what kind of business is it in which you have to look at the sky every day and either pray for rain or against it? In a word, I’m not cut out for it. Not only do you have to be a bluffer, you have to work a seven-day week and jaw away at the speculators until they’re so flummoxed they break into a cold sweat. I assure you, it isn’t for me. And being as ready as the next man to earn an honest ruble, I now have, with God’s help, a more suitable line of work. In a word, I’m in finance—that is, I’m a factor—I mean I buy and sell loans at a modest discount. How does the saying go? “Earning less and sleeping well is earning best.” It’s a business in which you’re treated with respect, since lack of cash makes a man soft as wax; you should see them crawl to me on all fours and promise to pay me back mountains of gold! Why, just the other day God sent me a garment cutter from Berdichev who wants to start his own business. I first met him in my boarding house, a rare young man of sterling character. If only I can open him a line of credit for 10–15,000 rubles, he says, he’ll reward me so handsomely that I can give up factoring for good. Although I have yet to find him financing, I trust, with God’s help, that I will.

  All the factors do well and own horses. A good horse and buggy, you should know, is a big help in making a living, since here in Yehupetz a horse is worth more than a man. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. Kopl’s bankruptcy would be small potatoes in Yehupetz. No Yehupetz merchant is taken seriously until he’s gone bankrupt at least three times. Once the custom was for a bankrupt to leave town, but that’s no longer in vogue. It’s not even called bankruptcy any more. The expression is, “I’m in arrears.” In plain language that means, “Kiss my rear.” And as for your query regarding courtasins and conquerbines, they’re what’s known as pilagshim in Hebrew and Kepsweiber in German. Believe me, I wouldn’t waste a moment’s thought on them.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, I wish all my enemies would burst from the bellyful your last letter gave me. First you’re a sugar-pusher, now you’re a money-lender! Where do you get the money from? And if God helps you to a few rubles, must you blow them as fast as you can? Didn’t you promise to send me a money order as soon as you had some cash? How could you go back on your word? My mother, bless her, had your number when she said, “Don’t hold your breath waiting for him, because nothing good comes from a graveyard.” And not from a charming place like Yehupetz either, for which the flames of hell aren’t hot enough. “Daughter,” said my mother, “always remember this prayer: Protect me, dear God, from a Berdichev tycoon, an Uman fanatic, a Mohilev skeptic, a Konstantin servant, a Kamenetz politician, and a Yehupetz rogue.” Was she right or not? But what does his lordship care ab
out his wife and children? Day and night it’s Sheyne-Sheyndl do this and Sheyne-Sheyndl do that. I suppose you remember the kopeck that Moyshe-Hirshele swallowed last year. Well, this time he goes, the boy does (did I say boy? he’s a demon!), and all but takes leave of this world. One day he’s a healthy child and the next he’s barely alive, clutching his ear and screaming in a voice I don’t recognize. “What is it, my darling?” I say. “What hurts you?” But he only points to his ear and keeps screaming. I poke him, I kiss him, I pinch him, I hug him—he just screams and screams. On the third day I took him to the doctor. The first thing the genius asks is have I looked in the child’s ear. “Not only have I looked,” I say, “I’ve drilled with a knitting needle. There’s nothing there.” “Tell me,” he says, “what did you have for your Sabbath meal?” “We had the usual,” I say. “Radishes, onions, jellied calf’s foot, a noodle pudding—is that enough for you?” “How about beans?” he says. “Did you cook beans or peas or the like?” “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. “Since when do peas cause an earache?” “If there were peas around,” he says, “your child might have played with one and stuck it in his ear. It could have begun to sprout there …“ To make a long story short, he fetched a machine, tortured that poor child for half an hour, and pulled out a fistful of peas. Maybe you can tell me why the whole world stuffs itself with peas and nothing happens and my son makes medical history! But you know what my mother says: “With the right kind of luck you can break your nose falling on grass …”

  To get to the point, my dear husband, why lend money to Berdichev bankrupts and swindlers? Take your few rubles and come home! You’re sure to find a good business here. “Money,” says my mother, “can buy everything but a fever.” I am, from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  Do me a favor, Mendl. Write me no more about your Yehupetz charlatans and their Kepsweiber—I don’t want to hear the filthy word. They should all roast! Listen to this instead. The son of Levi Moyshe-Mendes, Berish is his name (that’s after his grandfather Reb Berishl, may the old scoundrel rest in pieces), turned up this week with two accomplices at Libe Moyshe-Mordekhai’s store and said to Libe’s daughter Feygl (Fanitshke she calls herself—what a name!), “Fanitshke, my love,” he says, “come let me look at your finger.” So Fanitshke shows him her finger and he slips a ring on it and tells his friends, “You’re my witnesses that I’ve taken Fanitshke as my wife according to Jewish law.” You should have seen the commotion! Libe fainted dead away. The whole town came running with its mouth open. Everyone put in his two cents. In the end they went to the rabbi, who told Berish to give Fanitshke a divorce. But Fanitshke said she didn’t want one. She was, she said, in love with him. The poor girl is hopelessly in-fat-you-ated, the two of them planned it together. Just put yourself in place of the father! And I thought I had problems …

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ 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, finance is strictly for beggars. Lending money is not a bad occupation provided the money is your own. When it’s someone else’s, all you get is the runaround. And God preserve you from falling into the clutches of a loan shark, one of your garden-variety Berdichev, Vinnitse, or Shpole twenty-percenters, let alone the big bankers, who give you such a hard time that you’re better off clipping lottery coupons…. In short, I’ve sent finance to the devil and now am in real estate. Why real estate? Because it’s all the rage. If you think buying a house in Yehupetz is like buying a house in Kasrilevke, you’re mistaken. The first thing you do here is take a mortgage from the bank; next you take a second mortgage; then you rent out the rooms and have an income. In a word, the house costs nothing and you’re its lucky owner! Why, then, you ask, doesn’t everyone buy one? Because not everyone can afford the down payment. If, with God’s help, the deal I’m working on pans out (I have several in the fire), I’ll buy a place for 20,000, not a red cent of which will be mine, and register it in your name. The arithmetic is simple: 15,000 comes from the first bank, 6,000 from the second, and a thousand stays with me. That’s enough to live off for a while, even minus the rent and other goodies. Where do you think all the fortunes in Yehupetz come from? But since I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to the children, each and every one.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. What you write about Levi Moyshe-Mendes’ son and Libe’s daughter would be back-page news in Yehupetz. Here falling in love is a must; without it there’s simply no match. It’s not unusual for a man to throw over his wife for another woman he’s fallen in love with, or for a woman to throw over her husband. Sometimes the woman who was thrown over falls in love with the husband of the wife who was thrown over—I mean, with the husband of the wife who threw over her husband. How did the rabbis put it? “What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.” That’s Yehupetz!

  Yours, etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, who ever heard of a man walking out on his wife, children, and in-laws, moving to a strange town, and changing his line of work twice a day? First he pushes sugar, then he lends money, and before you know it he’s buying houses on the house! I daresay it would be a fine business if only owning a house that you owe more for it than it’s worth weren’t worse than being trapped in a fire. (Speaking of which, why doesn’t one burn down Yehupetz?) Lucky me! As soon as his lordship’s chickens hatch, he’ll buy me a house in my name. What do I need another house for? Send money and I’d know what to do with it. As my mother, God bless her, would say, “Bring the bread and I’ll find the cutting knife …”

  I suppose I should make my peace with the fact that life has it in for me. Still, I can’t help thinking: here I am a Jewish wife like Blume-Zlate, she’s no prettier than I am, she’s certainly no smarter or cleverer—why do I end up in the doghouse while she gets more full of juices by the day? Dear God, I’d like to see her dry up like an old hag! And yet to be honest, what do I have against Blume-Zlate? What harm has she done me? I wouldn’t mind her reaching a ripe old age with her Nekhemye if only God were nicer to me. “Better to wish yourself well than another ill,” as my mother says.

  It makes my heart ache to see people living such fine lives when I have to sit here like a widow in black, waiting to hear from my fine breadwinner! Each day I think: this could be our lucky one. Perhaps a buried treasure will come your way and you’ll build me a palace in Yehupetz! But your fine Yehupetz wife-swappers can break all their bones before I throw away my wig and give up everything to become your Kepsweib there. I wish you well from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  My mother says, “It’s not brains or good looks that a person needs, it’s luck.” Take Nekhameh-Breindl and my Aunt Dvoyreh’s daughter Rokhl. Nekhameh-Breindl glows like the summer sun and Rokhl is sour as vinegar. So what happens? Poor Nekhameh-Breindl is a wallflower and Rokhl finds a husband—a fine, honest fellow, an idiot from Yampele. That is, he has his brains in his behind, but he comes from a good family. The only thing wrong with it, they say, is that a sister of his has been baptized. And his health is poor, too, which means he needn’t fear the draft. They’re a lovely couple—she doesn’t mind his not being too bright and he doesn’t mind her not looking so good. But beauty makes nothing good, my mother says. It’s goodness that makes everything beau
tiful.

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ 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, Yehupetz real estate is for the birds. I’m now in country property. Country property is a different kettle of fish. In the first place, you needn’t wear out your shoes. You mail a letter, get back an itemized praysee, send your customer for a look—and with God’s help, you’ve rung up a sale. And in the second place, you’re not dealing with a lot of poor devils. You’re talking landed gentry—princes, counts, grafs. How do I get to rub elbows with grafs? That’s a story in itself.

  You know I’m not supposed to be in Yehupetz. Well, now and then the police show up at our boarding house to search for bad apples. We’re always tipped off in advance by our landlady and away we melt like salt in water—some of us to Boiberik, some to Demyevka, and some to Slobodka. This time, though, the landlady wasn’t warned herself. A bad business! There we were, sound asleep in the middle of the night, when there’s a knock. The landlady jumps out of bed. The cat’s at the door, all mice in the straw! Naturally, there’s a rush for the exits. Half of us head for the cellar and the other half for the attic, including me. Next to me is a Jew from Kamenetz, and as we’re lying on the floor with aching ribs he lets out a groan. “What’s the matter?” I whisper. “I just remembered something,” he says. “I left my papers under my pillow. I’m worried sick about my papers!” “What papers are those?” I ask. “Oy,” he says, “very important ones. We’re talking half-a-million at the least.” Well, as soon as I hear half-a-million, I turn on my back and whisper, “What papers can be worth all that money?” “It’s country property,” he says. “I have property in Volhynia, a big estate with the latest equipment, and horses, and oxen, and more sheep than you can count, and water mills, and breweries, and farmyards, and top-notch gardeners, all in perfect condition!”