Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

by Sholem Aleichem

  I looked at my companion from Buenos Aires and wondered, good God, what on earth does he do? What is this commodity he provides? What’s all this mumbo jumbo about spades? I could have interrupted him and asked, “Look here, my friend, just what do you deal in?”—but that was something I was loath to do. I preferred to let him continue.

  “Well now, where was I? Yes: my current business in Buenos Aires. Actually, it’s not just in Buenos Aires. I do business, you know, all over the world: in Paris, in London, in Budapest, in Boston—but my headquarters are in Buenos Aires. It’s a shame we’re not there now, because I’d show you around the office and introduce you to my men. Believe it or not, they live like Rothschilds on the job. They even work an eight-hour day, not a minute more. A man of mine is treated like a man. And do you know why that is? It’s because I was someone’s man once myself. In fact, I worked for my present partners. There are three of us. There used to be two, before they took me into the business. I was their right-hand man. The whole operation, you might say, depended on me: the buying, the selling, the sorting, the pricing—I had a finger in everything … I have a good eye, you know: believe it or not, one look at the merchandise is all I need to tell you what it’s worth and where it will sell. But that’s only a small part of it. A good eye alone won’t get you very far in our business. You need a nose too, you have to sniff some things out a mile away. It takes a sixth sense to tell a good deal from a clinker that can land you up to your neck in such hot water that you’ll rue the day you ever fell for it. There are too many sob sisters around, too many eyes looking our way—and ours is a business, you know, that doesn’t do well in the limelight. One false step can cook your goose for good. Before you know it, there’s such a big stink that it’s smeared all over the newspapers. That’s all they care about. The papers are in seventh heaven if they can find a bit of muck to rake up. They go to town with it, they turn it into such a federal case that the whole police force is breathing down your neck … although just between the two of us, we’ve got the police in our pockets all over the world. Why, you’d turn pale if I told you what they cost us in a single year! Believe it or not, ten, fifteen, twenty grand in fall money is peanuts to us …”

  The man from Buenos Aires made a motion with his hand as if throwing thousands into the air, the diamond glittering on his finger. He paused for a moment to see what impression he had made, then went on:

  “And if that still won’t do it, do you think I can’t up the ante? We have complete trust in each other—I’m talking about me and my partners. No matter what one of us spends on such things, no questions are ever asked. It’s simply put down to expenses. We never doubt each other’s word. We wouldn’t dream of welshing on each other—and if one of us tried, he wouldn’t get very far … You see, we know each other, we know Buenos Aires, and we know all the tricks of the trade. Each one of us has his own plants and canaries. Does that surprise you? But it’s always that way in a business based on trust … What do you say, though, to our hopping off the train at this station and wetting our whistles a bit?”

  My fellow passenger linked his arm in mine and fixed me with a candid look.

  Naturally, I had no objection and the two of us hopped off the train to wet our whistles at the buffet. One bottle of lemonade after another popped open to be downed by my companion with a gusto that I envied. All the while, however, I kept wondering the same thing: just what did he deal in, this Jew from Buenos Aires? And how could he have the police in his pocket all over the world? And what did he need plants and canaries for? Was he an international smuggler?… A diamond counterfeiter?… A fence for stolen goods?… Or simply a bull artist, one of that fine breed of gentlemen whose tongues have an odd way of making things swell to many times their true size? We commercial travelers have our own name for these tellers of fish stories: we call them “wholesalers,” that is, people who deal only in bulk. In plain Yiddish you’d say, “He’s as full of hot air as a steam kettle.”

  We lit up two more cigars, returned to our seats, and the man from Buenos Aires continued:

  “Where were we? I was telling you about my partners. That is, about my current ones. As I say, they used to be my bosses. I hope I haven’t made you think they weren’t good ones. Why shouldn’t they have been good to me, when I was as loyal as a dog to them? I looked after each cent of theirs as though it were my own. And I made some pretty big enemies because of them. Believe it or not, my loyalty almost got me poisoned. That’s right, poisoned! You know, forgive me for boasting, but no one could have been any straighter on the job than I was. I don’t mean to say I never looked out for my own self, because that’s something we all have to do. You can’t forget you’re only human: today you’re alive and kicking—but tomorrow?… And the fact is that I never had the slightest intention of working for them forever. After all, didn’t I have two hands just like they did? And two feet? And a tongue? I knew they couldn’t last a day without me—that they couldn’t and mustn’t! There were secrets, you know, really big ones, the kind there can be in a business … Well, one fine day I made up my mind, knocked on their door, and said to them, ‘So long, gentlemen.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ they asked, giving me a hard look. ‘It means,’ I said, ‘that it’s been good to know you.’ ‘What seems to be the problem?’ they asked. ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘except that I’m tired of playing second fiddle around here.’ They looked at each other and asked, ‘How much can you come in with?’ ‘However much it is,’ I said, ‘it will do for starters—and if it won’t, God’s in His heaven and Buenos Aires is a big town.’ You can bet they understood me. They’d have had to have their heads on backwards not to. Right then and there they took me into the business and gave me an equal share of the firm. There are no junior or senior partners with us. ‘Let God give and you and me live,’ is our motto. Why quarrel when we’re making good money and the business, God bless it, is growing? It’s a big world and prices keep going up. Each of us draws as much money as he needs from the kitty. All three of us are big spenders. Believe it or not, I can blow three times as much on myself as a married man can on his whole family. Lots of people, you know, would be happy to earn what I give away to charity alone. Everyone puts the touch on me: synagogues, hospitals, immigrant societies, benefits—Buenos Aires is a big town! Don’t think it’s the only one, though. Believe it or not, I even shell out for Palestine. Not long ago I received a letter from a yeshiva in Jerusalem. A nice letter it was too, signed by lots of rabbis, with a star of David and all kinds of stamps. And it was addressed to me personally, with a terrific beginning: ‘To His Illustrious Honor, Reb Mordechai,’ etcetera. Eh, I thought, here are all these fine people sending me a personal appeal—the least I can do is let them have a check for a hundred …

  “But that’s just petty cash. My hometown of Soshmakin is something else. Believe it or not, Soshmakin gets a barrelful of gold from me each year! The day doesn’t go by without a letter from there with news of some new cause or emergency—and I’m not even talking about routine things like the Matsoh Fund, which is an automatic hundred every Passover … I’m on my way to Soshmakin now, and believe me, this visit alone will set me back at least a thousand. What am I saying, a thousand? I’ll be happy to get away with two. Frankly, I’m even ready for three. It doesn’t happen every day that a man comes home again after so many years—why, I haven’t seen the place since I was a kid! But it’s still home to me, Soshmakin is. I can tell you that the whole town will be delirious. Everyone will come running at once. Hallelujah! ‘Motek is here, our Motek is here from Buenos Aires!’ … What a whoop-de-do there’ll be! You know, I’m like the Messiah for those poor, hungry devils. Every day I send them a telegram that’s signed ‘I’m on my way, Motek’ to let them know where I am. Believe it or not, I can hardly wait to get there myself. Just to be in Soshmakin again, to kiss the ground, to see my old house! I tell you, you can have your Buenos Aires. You can have your New York. You can have your London. You can even have
your Paris. Home for me is Soshmakin …”

  As he said these words, the face of the man from Buenos Aires underwent a change. It actually became different, younger and handsomer. The beady little eyes glimmered with a glad, selfless love, a love that couldn’t have been feigned … If only I knew what he did! Before I could pursue the matter, though, he went on:

  “You must be wondering why I’m bothering to go to Soshmakin at all. Well, it’s partly because I miss the place and partly to visit my parents’ graves. I have a father and a mother who are buried there, and brothers and sisters too—a whole family, in fact. I’d like to get married also. How long can I live the single life? And I want to marry a hometown girl from Soshmakin, from my own folks. I’ve even written friends there to look for the right one … and they’ve written me back that she won’t be hard to find once I show up. You can see how crazy I am … why, believe it or not, back in Buenos Aires I could have had the greatest beauties in the world. I’ve been offered women, you know, such as even the Turkish sultan doesn’t have—but I turned every one of them down flat. A wife I’ll find in Soshmakin. I want someone with character. A good Jewish girl. I don’t care if she hasn’t a penny to her name: I’ll dress her in gold, I’ll gold-plate her parents too, I’ll make them one big happy family. And then I’ll bring her back to Buenos Aires and build her a palace fit for a princess, do you hear? She won’t have to lift a finger. Believe it or not, I’ll make her the happiest woman in the world. Her whole life will be her house and her husband and her family. I’ll send all my sons to the university. One will study medicine, another engineering, another law. The girls will go to a special Jewish finishing school that I know of. Do you know where it is? In Germany …”

  Just then the conductor came along to check our tickets. He always (it’s not the first time I’ve noticed this) gets it into his head to check tickets just when you least want him to! A commotion broke out in the car. Everyone reached for their bags, myself included. It was time for me to change trains. While the man from Buenos Aires helped me get my things together, we exchanged a few last words, which I present here verbatim, exactly as they were spoken.

  The man from Buenos Aires: “My, what a pity you’re getting off here. I won’t have anyone to talk to.”

  I: “What can I do? Business is business.”

  The man from Buenos Aires: “Right you are. Business is business. I’m afraid I’ll have to lay out some more money and move to second class. Not, God bless me, that I can’t afford to travel first. When I go by train—”

  I: “Excuse me for interrupting, but we have only a half minute left. There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  The man from Buenos Aires: “And what might that be?”

  I: “It’s … but there goes the whistle! I wanted to ask what your business is. What exactly do you deal in?”

  The man from Buenos Aires: “What do I deal in? Ha ha! Not in Hanukkah candles, my friend, not in Hanukkah candles!”

  Even after I was through the door with my luggage, I still saw him before my eyes, the man from Buenos Aires, with his satisfied, smooth-shaven face and the fat cigar between his teeth, his laughter ringing in my ears:

  “Not in Hanukkah candles, my friend, not in Hanukkah candles!”

  (1909)

  ELUL

  “So you’re off to the festivities and I’m coming back from them! I’ve just finished crying my heart out and you’re about to begin … But why don’t I make some room for you? Here, move over this way. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Ah, that’s better!”

  So two passengers sat chatting behind me in the car. That is, one did the talking while the other murmured an occasional word.

  “My wife and I go together. That’s her, curled up over there. She’s asleep, the poor thing; she must have shed enough tears for all the Jews in the world. She didn’t want to budge from the cemetery. She simply threw herself on the grave and wouldn’t let me tear her away. I tried to reason with her. ‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Your tears won’t bring her back to life again.’ Try talking to the wall! And what’s the wonder? Such a tragedy! An only daughter, our pride and joy. As pretty as a postcard. And so gifted, bright as they come! Just out of high school, she was. It’s been two years now. Don’t think it was TB or anything like that. She couldn’t have been healthier. No, she did it herself, she went and took her own life!”

  “Dear me!”

  By now I understood what sort of “festivities” were being talked about. It was, I realized, the beginning of the penitential month of Elul with its midnight prayers, that sad but dear time of year when Jews travel to visit long-dead parents, children, and relatives. Pining mothers, orphaned daughters, mourning sisters, plain grief-stricken women—all go to have a good cry at the graves of their loved ones, where they can let out their sorrow and ease the bitter burden of an afflicted heart.

  It’s an odd thing: I’ve been a traveler for years and yet I can’t remember ever seeing such a run on the cemeteries as there was last Elul. The trains were doing a landslide business. Every car was jam-packed with somber-faced Jews, with shiny-nosed, puffy-eyed women on their way to or from the “festivities.” With the smell of autumn that was already in the air came a powerful, Elulish yearning … Without really wanting to, I listened to the conversation behind me:

  “Maybe you’re thinking she got into trouble like some other young folks—black shirts, red flags, prison, and all that? God forbid! That’s one thing I was spared. Or rather, that I spared myself, because I watched her like the apple of my eye. You don’t see such a gifted young girl every day, and an only child at that! Pretty as a postcard. Just out of high school. I did everything I could: kept track of where she went, and who her friends were, and what she talked about with them, and even what books she read. ‘So you like to read?’ I said. ‘Be my guest! Just let me know what you’re reading …’ I admit I’m no great expert on these things—but a bit of horse sense, thank God, I have. I don’t even care if it’s written in French, one look at a book is all I need to tell you what’s in it.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I didn’t want a child of mine playing with fire—anyone would have done the same. Don’t think I browbeat her, though. If anything, I tried making light of it. ‘Why pretend we can solve the world’s problems?’ I said to her. ‘Whatever will be, will be, there’s nothing you or I can do about it …’ That’s what I said, and do you know how she took it? She didn’t say a word. But not a peep out of her, as good as gold she was! So what does the good Lord do? The worst of it was already over, thank God; the Revolution, and the Constitution, and all those troubles were behind us. No more black shirts, no more red flags, no more short hair, no more hell’s-a-popping, no more bombs. My teeth could finally stop chattering. Do you think being afraid for her all the time was so easy? An only daughter, our pride and joy, and such a gifted child too. Just out of high school …”

  “So?”

  “In short, the nightmare was ended, God be praised. We could breathe easily again and think of a match for her. A dowry? No problem, if the right young man could be found. And so we began the whole routine: visits to matchmakers, lists of eligibles, and all the rest of it. I could see she wasn’t too keen on it. Why not? She wouldn’t tell us, not even to say she wasn’t interested. What was the matter, then? Wait until you hear the whole story.

  “I kept a sharp eye out and one day I made a discovery: she had a book that she was reading in secret. And not alone, either; she was reading it with a friend of hers, the daughter of the cantor of our synagogue, a bright high school girl herself, and with a third person—the boy from Navaredok. Would you like to know who he was? Well, there’s nothing worth knowing. An ugly, scruffy, moonfaced, pimple-cheeked, eyebrowless little creep with gold-rimmed glasses—you wouldn’t want to eat at the same table with him. And a pest too, a slimy little worm! Do you know what a worm-person is? Then I’d better explain it to you. There are all kinds of
people in the world. There are cow-people. There are horse-people. There are dog-people. There are pig-people. And there are worm-people. Do you get it now?”

  “Quite.”

  “How did this worm enter my life? Through the cantor’s daughter. He was a cousin of hers, a student of pharmacy, or dentistry, or law, or whatever the Devil it was. All I can tell you is that for me he was the Angel of Death. He and his gold glasses rubbed me the wrong way from the start. I told my wife that too. ‘Whatever can you be thinking of!’ she said. But I kept my eyes and ears open, and I didn’t like their reading together, or their talking together, or their arguing together so excitedly one bit … Once I even asked my daughter about it. ‘Tell me, missy,’ I said to her, ‘what’s that the three of you are smacking your lips over?’ ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, ‘just a book.’ ‘I can see it’s a book,’ I say. ‘I’m asking you what book.’ ‘And if I told you,’ she says, ‘would you know?’ ‘Why shouldn’t I know?’ I say. Well, she laughed at me and said, ‘It’s not the sort of book you think … it’s a novel called Sanine by Artsybashev.’ ‘The artsy pasha?’ I said. ‘Is he a Turk?’ That made her laugh even harder. Ai, missy, I thought, you’re laughing your father right into an ulcer! Who knows, I wondered, maybe they’re back to planning revolutions again … Don’t think I wasn’t itching to read that book myself!”