“In short, I fixed things via Nachman, drew up a list of donors, and managed to raise the funds—and a tidy little sum it was too, don’t you know, because you couldn’t cross a prefect’s palm in such a matter without giving it some good scratch … in return for which, he did his best to reassure us that we could sleep calmly that night because nothing would happen to us at all. Fair enough, no? The only trouble was that we still had our secret agent, whose reports went from bad to worse; the latest of them, which he of course passed on in such strict confidence that it was all over town in no time flat, was that he, Noyach Tonkonog, had personally seen a telegram that he very much wished he hadn’t. What was in it? Just one word, but a most unpleasant one: yedyem, it said—here we come! Back to our prefect we ran. ‘Your Excellency, it looks bad!’ ‘How come?’ ‘There’s a telegram.’ ‘From whom?’ ‘The same people.’ ‘What’s in it?’ ‘Yedyem!’ You should have heard him laugh. ‘You’re bigger fools than I thought,’ he said. ‘Why, just yesterday I ordered a company of Cossacks from Tulchin for your protection …’ Well, that put some spunk in us, don’t you know: a Jew only needs to see a Cossack to feel so courageous that he’s ready to take on the whole world! It was nothing to sneeze at, a bodyguard like that …
“In short, there was just one question: who would arrive first, the Cossacks from Tulchin or the roughnecks from Zhmerinka? It stood to reason that the roughnecks would, since they were traveling by train while the Cossacks were on horseback. But we had our hopes pinned on our Slowpoke: God was great, and the only miracle we asked of Him was to make the train a few hours late, which it usually was anyway, in fact, nearly every day … Yet for once, don’t you know, as though out of spite, the Slowpoke was right on time: it pulled in and out of each station like clockwork. You can imagine how it made our blood run cold to hear from our secret agent that another yedyemegram had arrived from Krishtopovka, the last station before Heysen—and this time, for good measure, the yedyem had a yahoo after it … Naturally, we went right to the prefect with the news, threw ourselves at his feet, and begged him not to count on the Cossacks from Tulchin and, if only for appearances’ sake, to send a detachment of police to the station so that the hooligans shouldn’t think the only law was that of the jungle. His Excellency didn’t let us down. In fact, he quite rose to the occasion. What do I mean by that? I mean, he put on his full dress uniform with all its medals and went off to the station with the entire police force to meet the train.
“But our local patriots, don’t you know, weren’t caught napping either. They had also put on their best clothes and their medals, taken along a pair of priests for good luck, and gone off to meet the train at the station—where, in fact, they asked the prefect what he was doing there, which was the exact same question he asked them. A few words were exchanged, and the prefect made it clear that they were wasting their time. As long as he was in charge, he said, there would be no pogroms in Heysen. He read them the riot act, but they just grinned back at him and even had the cheek to answer, ‘We’ll soon see who’s in charge around here …’ Just then a whistle was heard. It made our hearts skip a beat. We were all waiting for it to blow again, followed by a loud ‘Yahoo!’—and what that ‘Yahoo!’ meant, don’t you know, we already knew from other towns … Would you like to hear the end of it, though? There was a second whistle, all right, but there never was any ‘Yahoo.’ Why not? It could only have happened on our Slowpoke. Listen to this.
“The driver pulled into Heysen station, climbed out of the engine full of prunes, and headed straight for the buffet as usual. ‘Just a minute, old man,’ he was asked. ‘Where’s the rest of the train?’ ‘What rest of the train?’ he said. ‘Do you mean to say you didn’t notice,’ he was asked, ‘that your engine wasn’t pulling any cars?’ That driver, he just stared at them and said: ‘What do I care about cars? That’s the crew’s job.’ ‘But where’s the crew?’ he was asked. ‘How should I know?’ he answered. ‘The conductor whistles that he’s ready, I whistle back that I am too, and off I go. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head to see what’s following behind me …’ So he said, the driver—there was nothing wrong with his logic. In a word, it was pointless to argue: the Slowpoke had arrived without its passengers like a wedding without its band …
“As we found out later, that train was carrying a merry gang of young bucks, the pick of the crop, each man jack of them, and in full battle gear too, with clubs, and tar, and what-have-you. They were in a gay old mood, don’t you know, and the vodka flowed like water, and when they reached their last station, that is to say, Krishtopovka, they had themselves such a blast that the whole train crew got drunk too, the conductor and the stoker and even the policeman—in consequence of which, one little detail was forgotten: to hitch up the locomotive again. And so, right on schedule, the driver took off in it for Heysen while the rest of the Slowpoke, don’t you know, remained standing on the tracks in Krishtopovka! Better yet, nobody—neither the roughnecks, nor the other passengers, nor even the train crew—noticed what had happened. They were all so busy emptying glasses and killing bottles that the first they knew about it was when the station-master happened to look out the window and see the cars standing by themselves. Did he raise Cain! And when the rest of the station found out, all hell broke loose: the pogromchiks blamed the train crew, and the train crew blamed the pogromchiks, and they went at it hot and heavy until they realized that there was nothing to do but shoulder their legs and tote them all the way to Heysen. What other choice did they have? And that’s exactly what they did: they rallied round the flag and hotfooted it to Heysen, where they arrived safe and sound, don’t you know, singing and yahooing for God and country. Shall I tell you something, though? They got there a little too late. The streets were already patrolled by mounted Cossacks from Tulchin, who clearly had the whip hand—and I do mean whips! It didn’t take those hooligans half an hour to clear out of town down to the last man. They vanished, don’t you know, like a pack of hungry mice, or like snow on a hot summer’s day …
“Well now, suppose you tell me: shouldn’t our Slowpoke be plated with gold, or at least written up in the papers?”
(1909)
THE TALLIS KOTON
“Speaking of the Drozhne fire—would you like to hear a good one about how a skinflint of a Jew, a rich man who would sooner have parted with his life than with a penny’s worth of charity, was made to cough up a hundred rubles for the relief fund?”
The question was put to me one morning by my merchant friend from Heysen, who had finished his breakfast, lit up a cigarette, and extended one to me too. The story he proposed to tell appeared to amuse him greatly, because he burst right out laughing as though he had thought of the funniest thing. In fact, he laughed so hard that I was afraid he would choke. If you don’t let a man get it out of his system all at once, though, he’ll just laugh his way through everything. And so I waited for him to collect himself, let out a few last wheezes, and begin.
“I’ve already described a few local characters for you. Now let me tell you about another. His name is Yoyl Tashker and he’s certainly nothing to look at. You wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for him. A short little, thin little, prim little man with a wisp of a beard, and a walk—why, he scoots down the street as though the Devil himself were after him! And yet he’s a wealthy Jew, don’t you know. Did I say wealthy? The man is a millionaire! That is, I’ve never counted his money. He may really have a million and he may not have half that much. Believe me, though, whatever he has is more than he deserves, because the man is the world’s biggest tightwad. It’s easier to squeeze water from a stone than it is to squeeze a cent out of him. There’s not a beggar in town he ever gave a crumb of bread to. In fact, if someone you’ve given a handout grumbles about the small size of it, the stock answer in Heysen is, ‘Why don’t you try Yoyl Tashker, I’ll bet he’s good for more!’ That’s the kind of rich Jew he is. Please don’t get the impression, though, that the man is a cheat, or a lowlife, or
a boor. Far from it. He comes from a good family, he’s an educated fellow, and he couldn’t be any more honest. He goes by the rules in everything and only asks to be left alone: you keep to your side of the fence and I’ll keep to mine … do you get the picture? He’s a moneylender by profession, but he also owns houses and does business with our local gentry. And he’s a fiend for work, don’t you know, twenty-four hours a day; always traveling, always on the go, never eating or sleeping … and quite alone in the world too, without kith or kin, he won’t even hire an assistant. That is, he has children somewhere, but—I’ll be blamed if I know the reason why—he’s cut off every one of them. I’ve heard it said that they’re in America. After the death of his first wife, he simply went and drove them all out. And they say she died of hunger, too! Well, I suppose that’s just gossip … although who knows if there isn’t some truth in it, because the fact is that his second wife didn’t last two weeks with him either. Would you like to know why he divorced her? It was on account of a glass of milk. I swear, as I’m a Jew! He caught her with it one day and said, ‘One way or another, that does it! If you’re drinking milk for your health because you’re consumptive, a fat lot I need you around here. And if you’re drinking it just for the fun of it, the sooner I get rid of a spendthrift like you, the better.’
“I will say one thing for Yoyl Tashker, though (no one is ever all bad): he’s as pious as the day is long. Why, such piety could scare the pants off a preacher! I’m the last person to object to religion in a man: if that’s how he wants to live his life, who am I to tell him otherwise? But that’s not enough for Tashker. No, he wants the whole world to be as religious as he is, he thinks he’s God’s legal executor: a Jew going hatless is a personal insult, a married woman’s hair makes him see red, parents sending a child to a Russian school can expect to catch hell from him, and so on and so forth …
“Well, as fate would have it, this Yoyl Tashker has a tenant living next door to him, a notary public who is not exactly a paragon of devoutness: he goes about shaven and bareheaded, smokes on the Sabbath, and doesn’t miss many other tricks, either. Kompanyevitch is the name: a big, tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, baggy-cheeked fellow with the Devil in his eyes—but a quiet one, don’t you know, the kind that doesn’t flaunt his debauchery. He earns more at the card table than he does at his notary’s desk, and his place is a hangout for all our fine youngsters who enjoy a good game of triumph, a snack of pork sausage, and other such similar pleasures … Well, it’s as I was saying: if you happen to have a neighbor who’s no candidate for sainthood, why let him get under your skin? I’m referring to Yoyl Tashker, of course. This Kompanyevitch wasn’t proposing to his daughter, so why get all worked up over him? But no, it drove Tashker up the wall. How could Kompanyevitch dare put up his samovar on the Sabbath? Where did he get off serving a seven-course meal on a fast day like Tisha b’Av? Who did he think he was, not koshering his dishes for Passover? And so on and so forth: he poured fire and brimstone on him, he called him every name in the book, he went about telling the whole world, ‘Did you ever hear of such nerve in your life? The man pretends to be a Jew and makes tea on the Sabbath like a goy!’ … When Kompanyevitch heard that, don’t you know, he made sure to put up two samovars the next time. Our Yoyl nearly had a heart attack. What a card! He only had to terminate the lease in order to solve the whole problem, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Of all his tenants, he said, only the notary paid his rent on time. Can you beat that?
“I’ve already introduced you to two new characters. Now I want you to meet a third, a fellow by the name of Froike-Sheygetz. He’s a type too, and has a role to play in our story. In fact, there wouldn’t be one without him.
“Froyke-Sheygetz, don’t you know, is one of a kind, a hail-fellow-well-met, as they say, who dresses half like a Hasid and half like a Parisian dandy. He wears a long black gaberdine with a derby on his head, is partial to bright-red ties, and goes about with the fringes of his tallis koton hanging out of his shirt. There’s a rumor around town that he’s involved with a woman, and another man’s wife at that … yet when it’s prayer time in the synagogue, he’s there faster than a bat out of hell. In a word, he’s God’s own rascal! What does he do for a living? He’s a one-percenter: he brokers checks, loans, IOUs. A lot of rubles pass through his hands—thousands and thousands of them. And he’s the one person Yoyl Tashker ever had complete trust in. When it comes to lending money, don’t you know, even handing over a hundred gives Tashker the willies, but with the green light from Froyke, you could consider it as good as done. Personally, though, I wouldn’t jump from that to the conclusion that our Froyke is a model of financial integrity. He’s a shrewd, cunning son-of-a-gun, and one who doesn’t take no for an answer. I’d rather wind up in hell itself than in his clutches! Efrayim Katz, by the way, is his real name—and now you know why he’s called Froyke-Sheygetz.
“Well, having introduced my three characters, I can get on with the plot. Our story takes place during last summer’s fires, when the whole town of Drozhne, God save us, burned to the ground. Letters, telegrams, appeals for help—all began pouring in: we should send as much as we could as fast as we could, because a town full of Jews was sleeping in the streets and going hungry. I don’t have to tell you what a yammering there was in Heysen. Jews, have a heart! How can you just sit there? We have to do something! Between this, that, and the other thing it was decided to appoint a fund-raising committee. Who was on it? Myself, naturally, along with a few other leading citizens—among them, don’t you know, Froyke-Sheygetz, because we needed someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer. And so we began to pass around the basket. Who did we pass it to first? To our better-heeled Jews, of course. Which brought us to Yoyl Tashker. ‘A good morning to you, Reb Yoyl!’ ‘And a good morning to you! What can I do for you? Have a seat.’ You couldn’t have asked for a finer reception. Tashker, don’t you know, is the very soul of hospitality: knock on his door and he’ll ask you right in, bring you a chair, make you sit down, talk to you about anything at all … as long as it isn’t money. Try raising that subject, and his whole expression changes: one eye slams shut and the entire left side of his face begins to twitch as though he had the palsy. I tell you, it’s painful just to look at him! But that’s the sort of fellow he is.
“Let’s see now, what act was I up to? Yes; our committee called on Tashker. ‘Good morning, Reb Yoyl.’ ‘Good morning to you. Have a seat. What can I do for you?’ ‘We’ve come to ask for a contribution.’ Down goes one eye, and his cheek gives a jerk that I wouldn’t wish on my knee. ‘A contribution? Just like that, you want a contribution?’ Well, Froyke-Sheygetz didn’t take that for an answer. ‘It’s for a good cause, Reb Yoyl,’ he says, ‘the best there could be. You must have heard about it. A whole town, it shouldn’t happen to us, has burned to the ground. Drozhne …’ ‘What?’ cried Reb Yoyl. ‘Drozhne’s burned down? What are you talking about?! I’m ruined! How can it possibly have gone and burned, with all the uncollected debts I have there? I’m wiped out!…’ There was nothing Froyke didn’t do to convince him that his loans were perfectly safe, because the fire had broken out in the poorest neighborhoods where no one could afford to borrow money—but go try explaining something like that to someone who doesn’t want to listen! Tashker just wrung his hands, ran around the room like a madman, and kept moaning out loud, ‘It’s my luck! I’m wiped out! I can’t stand to hear another word! It’s the death of me! It’s more than a body can bear!…’
“How much longer were we going to sit there? We got up, said ‘Good day, Reb Yoyl,’ and walked out. Once we were in the street again, Froyke-Sheygetz said to us, ‘Listen here, all of you: if I don’t make that bastard cough up a hundred rubles for the Drozhne relief fund, my name isn’t Efrayim Katz!’ ‘Are you crazy, Froyke?’ we all said to him. ‘What’s it to you?’ said Froyke. ‘If I tell you he’s giving me the money, it’s as good as in my pocket already, because Efrayim Katz is damn well my name!’
Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories Page 29