Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  My brother Elyahu looks me over, strokes his little beard, and his eyes stop at my feet. He sees that the “prince” is barefoot. My mother sees it too but pretends not to. She’s wearing an odd yellow dress that I’ve never seen on her. It’s too big for her—I swear I once saw it on our neighbor Pessi. But she’s also wearing a brand-new silk head scarf that still has the original folds. The color of the head scarf is difficult to describe. It might be white, or yellow, or rose—it depends on the time of day. During the day it’s light rose, but in the evening it looks yellowish, and at night—white. Early in the morning it seems greenish, and sometimes if you look very hard it appears to be a light-rose-blue-dark-green-ash-gray. You can’t find fault with that head scarf—it’s a rarity. But it looks odd on my mother, very odd. Somehow it doesn’t fit her face. The head scarf is one thing and her face is another. A woman’s head scarf is like a man’s hat. The hat and the face must match and look as if they go together.

  My brother Elyahu’s hat looks like it belongs on his head. His sidelocks are now shaved clean off. He’s put on a white shirt with a hard collar and turned-up ends. His expensive new white and red tie has green and blue polka dots! The shiny, squeaky boots he bought have very high heels so he’ll look taller. But they’ll do him no good—he’s still too short. But he is not as short as his bride is large and tall, built more like a man. Her face is ruddy and pockmarked. Her voice sounds like a man’s. I’m speaking of Yoneh the baker’s daughter. Her name is Bruche.

  It’s a pleasure to see the couple under the wedding canopy, but I don’t have that much time to look at them. I’m busy. I have to look at the musicians, and not so much at the musicians as at their instruments, especially the contrabass and the kettledrum—two beautiful instruments! The problem is, I can’t get close enough to try them. Right away the musicians slap my hand or twist my ear. They go out of their minds if you so much as touch their instrument with the tip of a finger! They’re afraid you might break it! Ah, if my mother were a good mother, she’d let me become a musician, but that’s not what she wants for me. Not because she’s bad but because the world won’t allow Peysi the cantor’s son to be a musician. Neither a musician nor a workingman. They’ve already discussed what’s to become of me more than once—my mother, my brother Elyahu, our neighbor Pessi, and her husband Moishe the bookbinder. Moishe wants to take me on and teach me his trade, but Pessi won’t allow it. She says that Peysi the cantor, may he rest in peace, did not deserve to have his son become a workingman.

  I get off track and forget about the wedding. Long after the ceremony, people are getting ready to eat. The women and the young girls are dancing a quadrille. I move into the middle with my stiff trousers. The dancers pick me up and toss me from one to the other like a ball.

  “Who is this pain in the neck?” one says. “Some shlimazel!” says another.

  Pessi sees this and shouts in a voice already hoarse, “Are you crazy or out of your minds, or sick in the head? This is the groom’s little brother!”

  Aha! That hits home. They set me down at the table on the bride’s side. And do you know who they seat me next to? If you had eighteen heads, you could not guess! They seat me with the bride’s little sister, Yoneh the baker’s younger daughter, whose name is Alteh. She’s only a year older than I am, and she wears two braids tied together with ribbons like a braided bagel. Alteh and I eat from one plate not far from the newlyweds. My brother Elyahu signals with a look that I should sit like a mensch, use a fork, chew my food, and blow my nose. I tell you, I’m not enjoying this meal. I hate being looked at. On top of all that, just my luck, here comes our neighbor Pessi.

  “May you have a long life!” she shouts to my mother. “Just look over here! Why shouldn’t there be another wedding? A match made in heaven!”

  At this, Yoneh the baker appears, dressed in his holiday best, and he and Pessi decide that Alteh and I will one day be bride and groom. He laughs with only half a mouth, which means his upper lip is laughing and his lower one is crying. The whole crowd turns its attention to us. Alteh and I look down under the table and choke with laughter. In order not to explode, I hold my nose and blow up like a balloon. In a second the balloon will burst, and there will be the devil to pay. Luckily the musicians strike up a lively tune, a vollach . The crowd quiets down. I raise my head and see my mother in her queer yellow dress and silk head scarf. She is doing what she always does—crying! Do you think she will ever stop crying?

  V

  I HAVE A GOOD-PAYING JOB

  A .

  My mother gives me the news that I have a job. Not, God forbid, with a tradesman—her enemies, she says, will not live to see Peysi the cantor’s son become a tradesman. My job, she says, is an easy, good-paying job. By day I will still go to school, but at night I will sleep at old man Luria’s. He is a very rich man, she says, but also very sick. He is well enough to eat and drink, but he can’t sleep at night. His eyes never shut. His children are afraid to leave him alone at night. They want someone to be with him, but leaving him with an elderly person isn’t proper. They decide a child would be fine, like having a kitten.

  My mother adds, “They’re offering five rubles a week and supper every evening after school—a full meal, fit for a rich man. The crumbs from their table would feed all of us. Go, my child, to cheder, and at night you’ll come home first, and I’ll take you there myself. You won’t have any work to do, but you’ll have a good supper and a good bed to sleep in, plus five rubles a week. I’ll be able to make you some clothes and buy you boots.”

  It sounds good. Why does she have to cry? But she can’t do otherwise, my mother. She must cry!

  B .

  In the meantime I am going to Talmud Torah, but I’m not learning a thing. There isn’t even a seat for me. So I help the rebbetzin around the house and play with the cat. The rebbetzin’s work isn’t hard. I sweep the floors, help carry in wood, and do errands—it’s nothing, it’s not really work. I do everything but learn. Playing with the cat is more fun than learning. A cat, they say, is dirty. But that’s a lie—a cat is a clean animal. A cat, they say, is mischievous. It’s a lie—a cat is a devoted animal. A dog likes to flatter by wagging its tail. A cat grooms itself, and if you pet its head, it closes its eyes and purrs. I love a cat. But talk to my friends, and they’ll tell you a thousand stories about what’s wrong with cats. If you hold a cat, you have to wash your hands. If you hold a cat, it ruins your memory. What else will they come up with? Let a cat come near them, and they’ll kick it in its side. I can’t stand how they kick cats. They laugh at me—they have no compassion for poor living creatures. I’m talking about the children who go to Talmud Torah with me. They’re fiends. They laugh at me. They call me “stiff pants” and my mother “the weeper,” because she’s always crying.

  “There goes your weeping mother!” they say to me. She’s come to pick me up from cheder and take me to my good-paying job.

  C .

  On the way my mother bemoans her bitter and grief-stricken life. God gave her two children, but she’s a lonely widow. My brother Elyahu, kayn eyn horeh, has married very well, in fact stumbled onto a gold mine. But his father-in-law is a boor—a baker, after all. What can you expect from a baker?

  So my mother laments as we arrive at old man Luria’s. My mother says his place is like a royal palace. I’d love to live in a royal palace.

  We enter the kitchen, my mother and I. It isn’t too shabby. The stove is white and sparkling. The utensils shine, everything shines. They ask us to sit. A woman enters, elegantly dressed. She talks with my mother and points to me. My mother nods in agreement and wipes her lips but won’t sit down. I do sit. My mother leaves and tells me to behave like a mensch. As she says it, she gets in a good cry and wipes her eyes. Tomorrow she’ll come for me and take me to cheder.

  They feed me broth and challah (imagine, challah during the week!) and meat—lots of meat! After I finish eating, they tell me to go up, but I don’t know where “up” is. A cook
named Chanah, a dark-haired woman with a long nose, leads me up a flight of carpeted stairs, which are a treat for my bare feet. It isn’t night yet, but the lamps are already burning, endless lamps. The walls are decorated with knickknacks and pictures. The chairs are covered with leather, and the ceiling is painted like in a synagogue, but even more beautifully. They lead me into a large room, so large that if I were by myself, I’d run from one wall to the other, or I’d lie down and roll on the satin carpet. It must be wonderful for rolling around on. Sleeping on it probably isn’t too bad either.

  D .

  In the room is a handsome man, tall, with a gray beard and a broad forehead, wearing a silk robe, a yellow silk yarmulke, and embroidered sparkling silk slippers. This is old Luria. He sits bent over a big, thick book. He says nothing but chews the tips of his beard, looks into the book, shakes his foot, and mumbles quietly to himself. A strange man, this old Luria. I look at him and wonder, Does he see me or doesn’t he? He doesn’t seem to, because he isn’t looking my way, and no one has told him about me. They simply brought me there, left, and locked the door behind me.

  Suddenly old Luria calls out to me, still without looking at me, “Come here, and I’ll show you a bit of Rambam.”

  To whom is he speaking? To me? He speaks to me in the polite form of address? I look around. Except for me no one else is there.

  Old Luria mumbles again in his deep voice, “Come here, and you’ll see what Rambam says!”

  I want very much to go closer to him. “Are you speaking to me?”

  “You, you, who else?” old Luria says to me. I approach him. Still looking into the large book, he takes my hand, points with a finger, and tells me in a loud and passionate voice what Rambam says. He gets so worked up, he turns red as a beet. He gestures with his thumb for emphasis, and with his elbow he pokes me in the side repeatedly. “Nu, what do you say? It’s good, isn’t it?” he exclaims.

  That it is good I cannot say, so I stay silent. The more I stay silent, the more worked up he gets. The more worked up he gets, the more silent I stay.

  I hear the sound of a key from the other side of the door. The door opens, and in comes the elegantly dressed woman. She goes over to old Luria and shouts directly into his ear. He is apparently hard of hearing. She tells him to let me go now because I must sleep.

  She leads me to another part of the room and lays me down on a sofa with real springs in it. The bedding is white as snow. The quilt is silky and soft—paradise! The elegant woman tucks me in, leaves, and locks the door from the other side.

  As I lie on the sofa, old Luria paces the room, his hands clasped behind him. He looks down at his fine slippers while mumbling and grumbling and doing strange things with his eyebrows. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I want to sleep.

  Suddenly old Luria comes up to me and says, “I am going to eat you up!”

  I don’t understand what he is saying.

  “Get up. I am going to eat you up.”

  “Who? Me?”

  “You! You! I must eat you! It can’t be otherwise!” says old Luria. He paces the room, head down, hands behind him, forehead furrowed. He speaks more quietly to himself.

  I try to catch his words but can barely breathe from fright.

  He asks questions and answers them himself. This is what old Luria is muttering: “The Rambam says the world is not ancient. But how can that be? For one reason must have another reason! How can I prove it? Just by willing it. But how? Right now I want to eat him, so I will eat him up. Then what? Out of pity? It doesn’t matter. I will do my will. The will doesn’t settle matters. I’ll eat him up. I want to eat him up. I must eat him up!”

  E .

  What great news to receive from old Luria—he must eat me up! What will my mother say? I’m terror-stricken. I’m shivering all over. The sofa I’m lying on is set away from the wall. I manage to slip off the sofa and slide down onto the floor between the sofa and the wall. My teeth are chattering. I listen intently and wait for him to come eat me up. And how will he do it? Silently I call for my mother, and wet drops roll down my cheeks into my mouth. The drops are salty. I’ve never longed so hard for my mother as now. I also long for my brother Elyahu, but not as much. I remind myself of my father, for whom I am still saying kaddish. Who will say kaddish for me if old Luria eats me up?

  Somehow I must have fallen asleep for a good while, because when I wake up, I look around and wonder where I am. I touch the wall. I touch the sofa. I stick my head out and see a large, bright room with satin carpeting. The walls are decorated with knickknacks, and the ceiling is painted like a synagogue. Old Luria is still sitting bent over that large book he calls Rambam. I like the name Rambam—to me it sounds like bimbam. Suddenly I remember that just yesterday old Luria wanted to eat me up. I’m afraid he might see me and again want to eat me up. I hide between the wall and the sofa and remain silent.

  A key jingles outside the door. It opens, and in comes the elegantly dressed woman. Behind her comes the cook named Chanah, carrying a big tray with cups of coffee, hot milk, and fresh butter rolls.

  “Where is the boy?” Chanah looks all around the room, then sees me between the wall and the sofa.

  “You’re a rascal! What are you doing there? Come with me to the kitchen. Your mother’s waiting for you.”

  I jump out from my hiding place and run down the carpeted stairs in my bare feet, singing “Rambam, bimbam, bimbam, Rambam!” till I get to the kitchen.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry!” Chanah the cook says to my mother. “Let him at least have a glass of coffee and a butter roll! And you have some coffee too. They have enough. They won’t miss it.”

  My mother thanks her and sits down. Chanah serves us wonderful-smelling hot coffee and fresh butter rolls.

  Have you ever eaten egg kichel with sugar? That’s what the rich call butter rolls. Maybe they’re even better. The flavor of the coffee I can’t describe—it’s a taste of paradise! My mother holds the glass, sips, and savors it all. She gives me more than half of her butter roll.

  When Chanah the cook sees this, she raises a big fuss. “What are you doing? Eat, eat—there’s plenty!” Chanah gives me another butter roll, and now I have two and a half. I listen to their conversation.

  It’s a familiar conversation. My mother bewails her bad luck. She is a widow and has two children. One stumbled onto a gold mine—the other one you can see for yourself. I’d like to know how my brother Elyahu stumbled onto a gold mine. A gold mine? Chanah hears out my mother and shakes her head in sympathy.

  Then she starts to talk, bewailing her bad luck in having to work for others. She was her father’s favorite. Her father was once well-to-do but was badly burned in business. After that he fell ill, and then he died. If her father, she says, were to rise from the grave and see his Chanah working at a stranger’s oven! But she can’t complain, thank God for that. She has a good job. The only problem is that the old man is a little—and Chanah points to her forehead. I can’t figure out what that means. My mother listens and shakes her head. Then my mother starts talking again. Chanah listens to my mother and shakes her head. She gives me another butter roll for on the way.

  I show it off to the other schoolboys. They gather around me and can’t take their eyes off me as I eat it. It must be something special for them too. I give each of them a small piece, and they lick their fingers.

  “Where’d you get such a delicious treat?”

  I stuff my cheeks and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my stiff pants. I chew and swallow slowly.

  Then I do a little dance in my bare feet, as if to say, “Eh, you poor, flea-bitten good-for-nothings! These are a rare treat, these butter rolls, ha ha ha! You should try them with coffee, and then you would know what paradise on earth really is!”

  VI

  A GOLD MINE

  A .

  The only thought that keeps my mother going is that my brother Elyahu has stumbled onto a gold mine, thank God. That’s what my mother calls it,
and as is her way, she wipes her eyes even out of great pride. He is set for life, she says. Her daughter-in-law is no great prize (I agree!), but God sent her son a wealthy father-in-law, Yoneh the baker. He does not do the actual baking himself. He just buys the flour and sells the bread. On Passover he bakes matzo for the whole town. He is a whiz at running the bakery business, but as a person he is always grumpy, even angry. In fact, he’s a terror.

  Once when I’m visiting my brother, he catches me helping myself to an egg bagel. The bagel is fresh and warm, straight from the oven. The devil himself must have sent Yoneh the baker to catch me. You should have seen his furious face and his blazing eyes! From then on I never go back there. I will never again set foot in that place, even if I am paid in gold! That a man will grab you by the collar and throw you out the door with three swift kicks to your rear! I tell my mother what happened, and she runs right over there—she wants to give Yoneh what he richly deserves.

  But my brother Elyahu doesn’t allow it. He agrees with Yoneh and complains to my mother that I have shamed him. Whenever I visit him, he says, I eat bagels. He’d rather give me a kopek and let me go somewhere else to buy a bagel. My mother tells him he doesn’t have a drop of compassion for me. He doesn’t care at all that I am an orphan. My brother Elyahu tells her that even orphans aren’t allowed to grab a bagel from someone else’s oven.

  My mother warns him to speak a little more quietly. My brother Elyahu says he’ll shout to make sure everyone knows I’m a thief.