Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

by Sholem Aleichem

  I can see I’ve digressed, though. Nakhzor le’inyoneynu harishon, then—let’s leave the prince on his horse, as you writers like to say, and see what the princess is up to. Where were we? Yes, in the chapter of Lekh-Lekho. But before we get to Lekh-Lekho, suppose we have a look, if you don’t mind, at the story of the Amalekites in the Book of Exodus. I know that the way things are done in this world, and the way they always have been, Genesis comes before Exodus, but in this case the Amalekites came first. And I suggest you listen to the lesson they taught me, because it may come in useful some day.

  In short, let’s go back to the days after the Japanese war, when the Constantution was in the headlines and we Jews were having a fine old time of it, first in the big cities and then in the smaller towns to which the pogroms spread. They never reached my own village, though, and they never could have. Would you like to know why not? For the simple reason that I was the only Jew among Christians and on good terms with every one of them. Why, Uncle Tevel was king of the roost there, a friend in need and indeed! Did someone want advice? “Let’s go ask Tevel.” A remedy for baldness? “Tevel’s sure to know.” A little loan to tide him over? Try Tevel again. Why be afraid of a silly thing like a pogrom when my Christian neighbors had promised me over and over that I had nothing to worry about—they simply wouldn’t allow it. And in the end they didn’t. Listen to a crazy story.

  One day when I came home from Boiberik—I was in my heyday then, selling cheese, cream, butter, and such stuff—I unharnessed my horse, gave him some hay and oats, and was about to wash up and have a bite myself when what do I see in my front yard but a big mob of peasants. The whole village was there from top to bottom, from Ivan Paparilo the elder to Trokhim the shepherd, all with an odd holiday air. For a second my heart skipped a beat, because I knew there was no holiday in sight. They’ve come to give you a Bible lesson, I thought, and “Then came Amalek and fought with Israel” is their text … only then I thought again: shame on you, Tevye! They may be Christians and you may be a Jew, but you’ve lived your whole life peacefully among them without a hair of your head being harmed. And so I stepped outside and acted my friendliest. “Welcome!” I said to them. “What brings you here, dear neighbors? What’s the good word? What’s new in the world?”

  “We’ve come to you, Tevel,” says Ivan Paparilo, stepping forward and getting right down to it, “because we want to have a pogrom.”

  How’s that for an opener? There’s nothing like breaking it gently!

  Well, I don’t have to tell you what I felt like. Don’t think I let them see it, though. Far from it: Tevye was no crybaby. “Congratulations!” I said to them in my cheeriest voice. “What’s taken you so long, though, my children? Everywhere else the pogroms are already over.”

  But Ivan Paparilo was in no mood to joke. “You see, Tevel,” he said, “we’ve finally made up our minds. Since you Jews have been beaten up everywhere, why let you get away with it here? We just aren’t certain what kind of pogrom to have. Should we just smash your windows, should we tear up your pillows and blankets and scatter all the feathers, or should we also burn down your house and barn with everything in them?”

  This time my heart did a flip-flop. I looked at all those good people whispering to each other as they stood leaning on their staffs and I thought, Tevye, this is serious! It’s bo’u mayim ad nefesh for sure, just like it says in the Bible—you’re in for it this time, all right. You’d better watch what you say, because who knows what these pigs’ snouts might do to you! And you’d better say it fast too, because this is no time to play guessing games with the Angel of Death …

  Why make a short story long, my dear friend? It was a miracle from God that I kept my wits about me, got a grip on myself, and said, not sounding the least bit put out, “Listen to me, dear neighbors and villagers. If that’s what you’ve decided, who am I to object? You must have good reasons for thinking that Tevye deserves to see his life go up in smoke. I just hope you realize, though, that there is a higher power than your village council in this world. You do know there’s a God above, don’t you? Mind you, I’m not talking about my God or your God—I’m talking about the God of us all, He who sits in His heaven and sees every low-down trick that we play on each other here on earth … It may very well be that He wants you to punish me for being guilty of nothing at all. But the opposite may also be true, my dear friends, and He may not want you to lift a finger against me. Who can know what God’s will is? Is there anyone here who would like to explain to us how God makes up His mind?”

  Well, they must have seen there was no outtalking Tevye, because he said to me, did Ivan Paparilo, “Look, Tevel, it’s like this. We have nothing against you personally. You’re not at all a bad sort for a kike. It’s just that that has nothing to do with it. A pogrom is a pogrom, and if the village council has voted to have one, then that’s what must be. We’ll have to smash your windows at least, because if anyone passing through here sees there’s been no pogrom yet, we’ll be in hot water ourselves.”

  I swear to God and hope to die, those were his very words! You’re a Jew who’s been all over, Pan Sholem Aleichem, you tell me: is Tevye right or not when he says there’s a great God up above?

  That’s the story of the Amalekites—and now let’s get back to Lekh-Lekho. You see, I was only recently given a lesson in its real meaning, against which none of the commentaries I knew helped one bit. Let me tell it to you exactly as it happened, blow by blow ka’asher ohavti, the way you like a story told.

  Vayehi bimey Mendel Beilis—it happened back at the time of the Beilis case, when Mendel Beilis was atoning for all our sins by going through the torments of hell and the whole world was talking of nothing else. One hot summer day I was sitting on my front stoop, the wheels spinning round in my head. How can it be, I thought, how is it possible that such a thing can happen in times like these, in such an intelligent world full of smart people? And where is God in all this—where, oh where, is our old Jewish God? Why doesn’t He do something? Why doesn’t He say something? Why, why, why, why, why …

  Well, once you get on the subject of God, you beat your brains out about other things too. What was life all about? Was there more of it after death? Why hadn’t the Messiah come yet? Ai, I thought, wouldn’t it be clever of him, the Messiah, to come riding down to us on his white horse right this minute! Just think how grand that would be! Why, we’ve never needed him so badly! There’s no knowing what goes on in the mind of a rich Jew, of a Brodsky in Yehupetz, for example, or of a Rothschild in Paris—the Messiah may be the furthest thing from it; but we poor Jews of Kasrilevke, and of Mazapevke, and of Zlodeyevke, and even of Yehupetz, and yes, of Odessa too, can’t wait for him any longer—no, we absolutely can’t wait another day! The only hope left us is for God to work a miracle and send us the Messiah right away …

  There I sat thinking all this when I happened to look up—and what do you suppose I saw? A white horse with a rider on it right in front of my house! “Whoaa,” he tells it, jumping down and tying it to the gate, while to me he says, “Zdrastvoy, Tevel!”

  “Zdrastvoytye, Officer, Zdrastvoytye,” I say, giving him a friendly greeting. It seems I only need think of the Messiah for Haman to appear right away—I mean the village policeman. “Welcome, sit down,” I say. “What’s the good word? What’s new in the big world, Officer?” Believe me, my heart was in my throat—what could he possibly have come for? He took his time telling me, too. He lit himself a cigarette slow and easy, blew out the smoke, and spat on the ground before saying, “Tell me, Tevel, how much time would you say you needed to sell your house and everything in it?”

  “But why,” I said, staring at him, “should I sell my house? Is it in anyone’s way?”

  “No,” he says, “it isn’t. It’s just that I’ve come to expel you from the village.”

  “Is that all?” I say. “And what good deeds have I done you to deserve such an honor?”

  “It’s not my doing,” he says.
“It’s the provincial governor’s.”

  “The governor’s?” I say. “What does the governor have against me?”

  “It’s not against you,” he says. “And it’s not just here, either. It’s in every village in the area, in Zlodilevka, and in Rabilevka, and in Kostolomevka, and even in Anatevka, which has been considered a town until now. You all have to leave. Every one of you Jews.”

  “Even Layzer Wolf the butcher?” I ask. “And lame Naftoli Gershon? And the rabbi? And the slaughterer?”

  “Everyone,” he says, knifing the air with his hand.

  Well, that made me feel a little better. Tsoras rabbim khatsi nekhomoh, as they say—misery never minds a bit of company. Still, I was burning up inside. “Tell me, Officer,” I said to him, “are you aware of the fact that I’ve been living in this village longer than you have? Do you know that my father lived hereabouts too, and my grandfather before him, and my grandmother also, rest her soul …”

  I didn’t stop there, either; I went on to list every member of my family who had ever lived and died in those parts. I must say he heard me out, but all he said when I finished was, “You’re a smart Jew, Tevel, and you’ve got the gift of the gab. But what do I care about your grandmother and your grandfather and all their old wives’ tales? They flew away to heaven long ago, and you had better pack your things and fly away to Berdichev.”

  That made me even angrier. It was bad enough to get such wonderful news from that big goy in the first place without his making a joke of it. He could fly away somewhere himself! “Officer!” I said. “In all the years you’ve been the law around here, have you ever heard a single soul in the village complain that I stole anything, or pilfered anything, or cheated anyone, or took the smallest item that didn’t belong to me? Go on, ask everyone if I wasn’t on better terms with them than their own next-door neighbors. In fact, how many times did I come on their behalf to ask you to stop being such a brute to them …”

  Well, that didn’t sit too well with him, because he got to his feet, snuffed out his cigarette with his fingers, threw it away, and said, “Listen, I don’t have time to chew the fat with you all day. I have a written order, and that’s that. Here, this is where you sign. I’m giving you three days to clear out. That should be enough to sell all your things and pack.”

  “So you’re giving me three days, are you?” I said, seeing it was a lost cause. “Well, for each of them I wish you a whole year of as much happiness as you’ve brought me. May God pay you back with interest for being the bearer of such good tidings.” And I proceeded to give him a good tongue-lashing, as only Tevye can do. What did I have to lose? Had I been twenty years younger, and still had my Golde—had I been, that is, the Tevye I once was—oho, I wouldn’t have taken it lying down: why, I would have settled his hash in a minute! But the way things stood … mah onu umeh khayeynu—just take a look at me now: I’m a shadow of myself, a walking corpse, a decrepit shell of a man! Dear Lord God, I thought, wouldn’t You like to play one of Your jokes on a Brodsky or a Rothschild for a change? Why doesn’t anyone give them a lesson in Lekh-Lekho? They could use it more than me. In the first place, it’s high time they too had a taste of what it’s like to be a Jew. And secondly, let them see for once in their lives what a great God we have watching over us …

  In a word, it was one big waste of breath. There’s no arguing with God, and you can’t tell Him how to run this world of His. When He says li hashomayim veli ha’orets, I’m boss of heaven and earth, all you can do is listen. No sooner said than done with Him!… So I went inside and told my daughter Tsaytl, “Tsaytl, we’re moving to town. Enough of this country life. It’s time to look for greener pastures … You get busy packing the linens, the samovar, and everything else, and I’ll take care of selling the house. We’ve just gotten a written order to be out of here in three days and find another roof for our heads.”

  My daughter burst out crying, and as soon as they saw her, the children began howling so loudly that you might have thought it was the day of mourning for the Temple. That was already too much for me, and I let it all out on her. “What do you want from my life?” I asked her. “What in the world are you wailing for, like an old cantor on Yom Kippur? Do you think I’m God’s only child? Do you think He owes me special consideration? Do you think there aren’t lots of other Jews who are being expelled just like us? You should have heard what the policeman told me. Would you believe that even a town like Anatevka has been declared a village, glory be, so that the Jews can be kicked out of it too? Since when am I less of a Jew than they are?”

  I was sure that would cheer her up, but my Tsaytl is only a woman. “How are we going to move in such a hurry?” she asked. “Where will we ever find a town to live in?”

  “Don’t be a sillyhead,” I said. “When God came to our great-great-great-grandfather, I mean to Father Abraham, and told him lekh-lekho meyartsekho, get thee out of thy land, did Abraham ask Him where to? God told him exactly where to, el ha’orets asher arekko—which means in plain language, hit the road! We’ll go where all the other Jews go—that is, where our two feet take us. What’s good enough for them is good enough for us. What makes you think you’re more privileged than your sister Beilke the millionairess? If sweating for a living with her Podhotzur in America isn’t beneath her dignity, neither is this beneath yours … Thank the good Lord that we at least have something to fall back on. There’s some money that I saved over the years, there’s what we got for the horse and cows, and there’s what we’ll get for the house. Every little bit helps—why, we ought to be counting our blessings! Even if we didn’t have a penny to our name, we’d still be better off than Mendel Beilis …”

  In a word, after managing to convince her that it was pointless to be obstinate and that, if a policeman comes along with an eviction order, it’s only sporting to sign without being piggish about it, I went off to the village to see Ivan Paparilo, an ox of a man who had been dying to have my house for years. Naturally, I didn’t breathe a word of what had happened—any way you look at it, a Jew is still smarter than a goy. “You must have heard, Ivan, old man,” I said to him, “that I’m about to say goodbye to you all.”

  “How come?” asks Ivan.

  “I’m moving to town,” I say. “I want to be among Jews. I’m not such a young man any more—why, I might kick off any day …”

  “But you can kick off right here,” says Ivan. “Who’s stopping you?”

  “I believe I’ll leave that to you to do,” I say, thanking him all the same for his kind offer. “You can even have my turn. I myself would rather die among my own. I just thought, though, that you might like to buy my house and garden. I wouldn’t dream of selling them to anyone else, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

  “How much do you want for them?” he asks.

  “How much will you give me?” I say.

  Well, we haggled a bit back and forth, I driving the price up by a ruble and he knocking it down by two, until at last we shook hands on it. I made sure he paid a good chunk in advance so that he couldn’t back out—I tell you, a Jew is smarter than a goy!—and, the whole shebang sold in one day for hard cash, although for a song, of course, off I went to hire a wagon for what little we had left in the house. And now listen, Pan Sholem Aleichem, to what can happen in this world. Just bear with me a little longer, because I don’t want to keep you, and it won’t take but a minute or two.

  It was time for the last goodbyes. The house looked more like a ruin than a home. The bare walls seemed to have tears running down them, and there were bundles all over the floor. The cat sat on the mantel above the stove looking like a little orphan … I tell you, it made me so sad that I had a lump in my throat; if I hadn’t been ashamed to be seen by my own daughter, I would have sat down and sobbed like a child. Why, I had grown up in this place, I had died a thousand deaths in it, and suddenly, out of nowhere—lekh-lekho! Say what you will, it was a depressing situation. But Tevye is no woman. And so I pulled myself to
gether, kept my chin up, and called to my daughter, “Tsaytl, where are you? Come here for a minute.”