(1911)
THE TENTH MAN
There were nine of us in the car. Nine Jews. And we needed a tenth for a prayer group.
In actual fact, there was a tenth person there. We just couldn’t make up our minds if he was a Jew or a Christian. An uncommunicative individual with gold pince-nez, a freckled face, and no beard. A Jewish nose but an oddly twirled, un-Jewish mustache. Ears that stuck out like a Jew’s but a neck that was red like a goy’s. From the start he had kept his distance from us. Most of the time he just looked out the window and whistled. Naturally, he was hatless, and a Russian newspaper lay across his knees. And not a word out of him! A genuine Russian, the real McGoy, no?… On second thought, though, how could he be a goy? Who did he think he was fooling? The idea! It takes a Jew to know one; a Jew can smell another Jew a mile off on a moonless night. For goodness’ sake, God’s written it all over us!… No, the man was a Jew for sure, I’d stake my life on it! Or was he? These days you never can tell … By the time the nine of us were through conferring in whispers, it was decided that we had seen his type before. What to do, though? If a Jew wanted to pass for a Christian it was nobody’s business but his own—yet just then we needed a tenth man and needed him badly, because one of us had a deathday to observe and wanted to say the mourner’s prayer. And it wasn’t any ordinary deathday either, the kind we all have for a father or a mother. No, this was the anniversary of the passing of a child; an only son’s, that’s whose it was … It had been a struggle, the boy’s father told us, just to get the body returned by the prison so that it could be brought to a jewish grave—and the youngster, he swore, was perfectly innocent, he had been railroaded at his trial. Not that he hadn’t been in thick with the other revolutionaries, but that was still no reason to hang him. Hang him they did, though; and his mother died soon after. Not as soon as all that, however. Oh, no! First she ate her heart out bit by bit—and while she did, made her husband gray before his time.
“How old would you say I am?” the man asked us.
We all looked at him, trying to guess his age. It was impossible. While his eyes were young, his hair was gray. His heavily lined face seemed on the verge of either laughter or tears. There was in fact something strange about his whole appearance. He was wearing a smoking jacket that was much too long for him, the hat he had on was pushed way back on his head, and the beard on his chin was an oddly rounded goatee. And those eyes of his … ah, those eyes! They were the kind of eyes that once you’ve seen, you’ll never ever forget: half-laughing and half-crying they were, or half-crying and half-laughing … if only he would unburden himself and let the tears out! But no, he insisted on being the very soul of gaiety. A most peculiar fellow.
“Well now, where are we going to find a tenth man?” asked one of us out loud, with a glance at the pince-nezed passenger, who gave no sign of having heard. He simply looked out the window and went on whistling some Russian tune.
“What do you mean, where?” asked someone else. “Don’t we have ten already?” And he began to go around the car with his finger: “One, two, three …”
“Count me out!” said the whistler—in Yiddish.
We stared at him openmouthed.
“You mean you’re not a Jew?”
“I am a Jew. I just don’t happen to believe in such things.”
For a long moment we sat there dumbfounded, looking at each other without a word. The bereaved father alone did not seem put out in the least. With his half-laugh, half-cry of a smile, he said to the whistling young man:
“The more power to you! You deserve a gold medal.”
“I do? What for?”
“To tell you the truth, that’s a rather long story. But if you’ll agree to be a tenth for prayers, so that I can say the kaddish for my son, I promise to tell it to you afterwards.”
With which our good-humored mourner took out a large handkerchief from his pocket, twisted it into a belt, girded his waist in the manner of a pious Jew, turned his face to the wall of the car, and began the afternoon prayer:
“Ashrey yoyshvey veysekho, oyd yehalelukho seloh …”
I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing I like better than a simple afternoon prayer. I prefer it any time to all the do-re-mi operatics that the synagogues are full of on Sabbaths and holidays. And our mourner led us in it with such feeling, with such soulfulness, that we were all touched to the quick—even, I daresay, our conscripted tenth man. Listening to a father pray on the occasion of his son’s deathday is not something that can leave a person cold, especially when the words are chanted in such a sweet, heartfelt voice that they’re like balm to one’s weary bones. And above all—the kaddish. The kaddish! A stone couldn’t help but be moved by a kaddish like that …
In a word, that was an afternoon prayer to remember!
Having finished praying and removed his makeshift belt, the mourner sat himself down opposite our tenth man and, with the same gaily tragic expression as before, commenced his promised story. He stroked his round little beard as he told it, speaking slowly like a man who has time.
“The story I’m going to tell you, young man, is actually not one story but three. Three little stories in one.
“The first story happened to an innkeeper in a village. Once, that is, an innkeeper lived with his wife in quite a large village. There were many Russians in it but no other Jews; they were the only ones. Not that it troubled them; far from it, it meant they could earn a good living without fear of competition. Better rich among Christians, as they say, than poor among Jews … In fact, they lacked only one thing: children. For years they had prayed for them in vain, and this made their life sorrowful. Finally, when they were nearly past childbearing age, God had mercy; the innkeeper’s wife conceived and gave birth to a healthy child. And a male child, too—what happiness! Of course, it was necessary to circumcise the boy. And so, on the eighth day, the innkeeper gladly harnessed his horse to his wagon, drove off to town, and came back with the rabbi, the circumciser, the beadle, and five other Jews. Naturally, his wife had a magnificent banquet ready for them when they arrived. Everything was just fine until the time came for the circumcision—at which point, it was discovered that they were missing a Jew. There were only nine of them. What had happened? Leave it to a country innkeeper: in counting to ten he had made the mistake of including his own wife! You can imagine what a good laugh the guests had. Meanwhile, though, the time was passing; what were they supposed to do now? It was a big village full of goyim, but there was nary another Jew. What a predicament!… Just then, however, someone looked out the window—and what did he see but a coach heading straight for the inn. In it was sitting a coachman. Well, let it be even a coachman as long as it was a Jew … ‘Welcome, stranger!’ ‘Sholem aleykhemi’ ‘A Jew! You’re just in time, we need a tenth for a minyan …’ No words can describe the joy there was! Tell me now, don’t we have a great God in heaven? A whole village of goyim couldn’t save the day—along comes a single Jew and sets everything right!
“The second story, my dear fellow, took place not in a village but in a town, and in a solidly Jewish one, too. It happened on the Sabbath, that is, on a Friday night, after the candles had been lit. A father came home from the synagogue, blessed the wine, washed his hands—and just as he was sitting down to eat with his family, a candle had the bright notion of breaking in two. They tried propping it up with the hallah to keep it from toppling over—to no avail; the burning candle fell on the tablecloth and threatened to set it afire. In a minute the whole house would be in flames. What were they supposed to do now? Put it out? But it was the holy Sabbath! By now the neighbors had come running, the whole street was gathered there; a great hue and cry broke out. ‘Jews, we’ll be ruined!’ … Just then, however, someone glanced up the street—and who should be coming down it but Chvedka the goy! ‘Chvedka, serdtse,’ they cried, being careful not to overstep the Law, ‘did you ever see such a queerly burning candle?’ And Chvedka, dumb goy though he was, got the hint
at once, spat on his hands, grabbed the burning candlewick between two callused Christian fingers, gave it a pinch—and the fire was out. I ask you: don’t we still live in an age of miracles? A town full of Jews couldn’t save the day—along comes one goy and rescues them all!
“And now I have to tell you my third story. This one concerns none other than a famous rabbi. This rabbi had an only son, an exceptionally capable youngster who was all a rabbi’s son should be. He was married off when still young, given a handsome dowry, and encouraged to study Torah all day long at his father-in-law’s expense. Indeed, that’s just what he did, and everything would have been perfect if there hadn’t been such a thing as the draft. On the face of it, of course, the boy had nothing to worry about: to begin with, he was an only son—and secondly, if it was a problem of money, money was no problem in this case. But the times, the times were bitter! Even only sons were being taken to the army, and ten thousand rubles couldn’t buy a boy’s way out of it. The authorities were ruthless, the doctor had a heart of stone; I tell you, it was a bad lookout. Just imagine, my dear young fellow, the rabbi’s son was stripped to the bone and brought before the draft board—why, never before in his whole life had he been without a hat on his head! And that’s what saved him, because he happened to have a canker there, a real running sore; there was nothing make-believe about it. He must have had it since childhood without knowing it—he had been so stubborn as a boy that he had refused to have his hair washed even once … Well, I needn’t tell you that the draft board sent him packing in a hurry!
“And now tell me, my dear young friend, do you understand your true worth? You were born a Jew, you’ll soon be a goy, and you’re quite a running sore already. Don’t you think you deserve a gold medal?”
At the very next station our tenth man slipped away.
(1910)
THIRD CLASS
This is not so much a story as a little chat, a few words of admonition and farewell from a good friend.
As we are about to part, dear reader, I would like to show my gratitude for your having borne with me for so long by giving you some useful advice, the fond counsel of a practical man. Listen carefully.
If you must go somewhere by train, especially if the trip is a long one, and you wish to have the feeling of traveling, that is, of having enjoyed the experience, avoid going first or second class.
First class, of course, is out of the question anyway. God protect you from it! Naturally, I’m not referring to the ride itself. The ride in first class is far from unpleasant—indeed, it’s sumptuous, comfortable, roomy, and with every possible convenience. It’s not that I’m talking about; it’s the people, the passengers. What can be the point, I ask you, of a Jew traveling in total solitude without a living soul to speak to? By the time you’ve reached your destination, you can have forgotten how to use your voice! And even if once in a blue moon you happen to run into another passenger, it’s either some vulgar country squire with crimson jowls like a trombonist’s, or some stuck-up lady who’s as sniffy as a mother-in-law, or some foreign tourist in checked pants whose eyes are glued so tightly to the window that not even a fire in the car could tear him away from it. When you travel with such types, you begin to have the most depressing thoughts—why, you may even find yourself ruminating about death. Who needs it?
Do you think second class is any better, though? There you are, surrounded by all sorts of people who are obviously no different from yourself, with the identical human passions. They would like nothing better than to talk to you; in fact, they’re dying of curiosity to know where you’re going, where you’re from, and who you are; but they sit there like so many tailor’s dummies and so do you, and all that happens is one big exchange of stares. The whole car has taken a vow of silence—shhh, watch out you don’t break it!
For example: across from you is a young dandy with manicured nails and a smart mustache whom you could swear you know from someplace, you just can’t remember where. Indeed, he shows every sign of stemming from Mosaic lineage, that is, of being a fellow tribesman of yours. What good does that do you, though, when you can’t get a word out of him? He’s finished twirling the ends of his mustache, and now all he wants is to look out the window and whistle.
If you’d like to take a few good years off such a person’s life—in fact, bury him so thoroughly that not even the Resurrection can put him back on his feet—all you need to do, provided there’s a Christian sitting next to him, or better yet, a young lady, is turn to him in any language at all, though Russian is preferable, and inquire, “Yesli ya nye oshibayus, ya imyel udovolstvye vstryetitsa s’vami v’Berdichevye?” (In Yiddish we would say, “If I’m not mistaken, didn’t I once have the pleasure of meeting you in Berdichev?”) Believe me, that’s a thousand times worse than any name you might call his father!
On the other hand, if you run into such a type in Podolia or Volhynia, Polish might be the better gambit. “Pszepraszam, Pana! “Jesli się nie mylę znalem ojca Pana z Jarmelyncu, który byl w laskach u jasnie wielmożnego Potokego?” (Roughly speaking that’s, “Excuse me, sir, but if my memory doesn’t betray me, I’m an old friend of your father’s from Yarmelinetz; wasn’t he in the service of Count Potocki there?”) That may not seem like any great insult, but Yarmelinetz and the service of Count Potocki just happen to spell J-e-w … Enough of this, though! Let me tell you a story I happened to witness myself.
It happened on the mail train. Since there’s no third class there, I had no choice but to travel second. Across from me was sitting a gentleman who could have been either a Christian or a Jew. To tell the truth, though, Jew seemed the more likely … or did it? Who could say? He was a handsome young fellow, smooth-shaven and sportily dressed with a black sash around his white pants—and a bit of a Don Juan in the bargain. Why do I call him that? Because he was showering his attentions on a pretty young thing, a mademoiselle with a high chignon and pince-nez on her small, turned-up nose. Although newly acquainted, they were already fast friends. She kept offering him chocolates while he amused her with funny jokes, first Armenian and then Jewish ones, until both of them were holding their sides. And they laughed hardest of all at the Jewish jokes, which the young man in the white pants told with a decidedly Christian-like relish without showing the slightest appreciation of the fact that I might be a Jew myself who could be offended by them … In short, the romance was getting on famously. Soon he was sitting beside her and looking deep into her eyes (at first they had been opposite each other) while she played with the chain of his watch, which was tucked into his sash. All of a sudden, at some remote station whose name I can’t even recall, the train was boarded by a lame, sallow-faced, perspiring Jew carrying a white parasol who stuck out his hand to the young sport and said in a plain, earthy Yiddish:
“Well, hello there! I recognized you through the window. I have regards for you from your Uncle Zalman in Manestrishtch …”
Needless to say, the young man made his exit at the same station and the pretty young thing was left sitting all by herself. But that’s not the end of the story. The mademoiselle—she must have been a Christian, because otherwise why would our Don Juan have made such a hasty getaway?—began to collect her things a few stations later and prepared to leave the train too, still without having said a word to me, or even so much as glanced in my direction. It was as if I didn’t exist. Yet waiting for her on the platform at the stop where she got off were—a patriarchal Jew with a beard as long as Father Abraham’s and a Jewess with a wig and two huge diamonds in her ears. “Riva darling!” the old couple called out, and fell upon their daughter with tears in their eyes …
No commentary is necessary. I simply wanted to introduce you to some of the types who travel second class and to persuade you not to go that way yourself, because even among your own, you’re always a stranger there.
When you travel third class, on the other hand, you feel right at home. In fact, if you happen to be in a car whose passengers are exclusively Jews, you
may feel a bit too much at home. Granted, third class is not the height of luxury; if you don’t use your elbows, you’ll never find a seat; the noise level, the sheer hubbub, is earsplitting; you can never be sure where you end and where your neighbors begin … and yet there’s no denying that that’s an excellent way to meet them. Everyone knows who you are, where you’re bound for, and what you do, and you know the same about everyone. At night you can save yourself the bother of having to fall asleep, because there’s always someone to talk to—and if you’re not in the mood to talk, someone else will be glad to do it for you. Who expects to sleep on a train ride anyway? Talking is far better, because you never know what may come of it. I should only live another year of my life for each time I’ve seen perfect strangers on the train end up by making a business deal, arranging a match for their children, or learning something worth knowing from each other.
For instance, all the talk you hear about doctors, indigestion, sanatoriums, toothaches, nervous conditions, Karlsbad, and so forth—you’d think it was all just a lot of malarkey, wouldn’t you? Well, let me tell you a story about that. Once I was traveling with a group of Jews. We were talking about doctors and prescriptions. At the time, it shouldn’t happen to you, I was having problems with my stomach, and a fellow passenger, a Jew from Kamenetz, recommended a medicine that came in the form of a powder. It so happened, said the Jew, that he had been given this powder by a dentist rather than a doctor, but the powder, which was yellow, was absolutely first-rate. That is, it wasn’t yellow, it was white, like all powders; but it came in a yellow wrapper. He even swore to me by everything that was holy, the Jew did, that he owed his life to the yellow powder, because without it—no, he didn’t even want to think of it! And I didn’t need to use a whole lot, either. Two or three grains, he said, would make me feel like a new man; no more stomachaches, and no more money-grubbing, bloodsucking physicians; I could say to hell with every one of the damn quacks! “If you’d like,” he said, “I can give you two or three grains of my yellow powder right now. You’ll never stop thanking me …”
Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories Page 39