Tevye the Dairyman & Motl the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  In the end, Mendl has his revenge. One night the snobs from first and second class come down to us in third class, and we all become equals.

  It’s the eve of Yom Kippur for the Kol Nidrei prayer.

  G .

  Because the Prince Albert sailed after Rosh Hashanah, we had to observe Yom Kippur on the ship. On the eve of Yom Kippur, we prepare for the fast by eating roasted potatoes. There is no kosher kitchen on Prince Albert, so we’ve been living on potatoes plus lots of bread, tea, and sugar every day. It’s not so bad—you could live all year like that. But Bruche says that your stomach swells if you eat too many potatoes. Is there anything she likes? She finds fault with everything! For instance, she doesn’t like Prince Albert because it moves so slowly. Who ever heard that a journey should last ten days? she says. We tell her it isn’t the ship’s fault, but the ocean’s fault. And our Pinni explains that there is three times as much ocean as dry land. My brother Elyahu says it’s only two times as much. Whatever you may say, he knows his geography better. The world, he says, consists of two-thirds water and a third dry land, so therefore the ocean is twice as much as dry land.

  “Three times!”

  “Two times!”

  They quarrel but quickly make up.

  H.

  Who will conduct the service? Who will sing Kol Nidrei? Naturally, it must be my brother Elyahu. Though he was never a cantor, his father was a cantor and a famous one. Elyahu has a good voice for chanting and knows the prayers. What more do you need? Pinni suggests that my brother be invited to sing Kol Nidrei. He spreads a rumor throughout the ship, whispering in people’s ears that this young man with the red beard (Elyahu) is a fantastic singer, and his praying extraordinary! And if his little brother (me) could help out with his soprano, we’d have a Yom Kippur for which God and man would envy us.

  Elyahu pleads to be left alone, swearing that in his whole life he has never prayed on the pulpit during the High Holidays. But no matter how much he protests, he is forced onto the pulpit, a round table covered with a white cloth. Pinni grabs me by the ear: “Go, Peewee, do your work!” And we produce a Kol Nidrei for the passengers that they will remember for generations.

  I.

  What makes it a Kol Nidrei to remember? It isn’t so much the Kol Nidrei itself as the yaalehs, and not so much the yaalehs as the weeping. Men and women alike, they moan, sigh, and blow their noses at first. Then, as they wipe their eyes, the tears come quietly, then louder and louder. Wailing and keening begin, ending with much fainting. They are reminding themselves that just a year ago each of them was in his home, in his synagogue, at his proper place in his usual pew, prayer book in hand, listening to his cantor and choirboys. Now they are wanderers, chased and driven like sheep to the slaughter, packed tightly together so that it’s hard to catch their breath. Even the dressed-up passengers from first and second class, with shiny top hats on their heads, can’t control themselves and pretend to be wiping sweat with their silk handkerchiefs, but I clearly see tears in their eyes. The expression of sorrow is so moving that even the stewards and sailors stand at a respectful distance observing Jews wrapped in white prayer shawls standing on the deck swaying in prayer, weeping and wailing, as they realize how bitter their hearts are.

  My brother Elyahu sings out, and I back him up. And there in a corner, among the women, stands my mother wearing her holiday shawl, her prayer book in her hand, bathed in tears.

  My mother is in her glory. Today is her day!

  J.

  The following morning we wake up a little earlier in order to sing “Adon-Olam,” with its old familiar tune, but we can’t do it. Not only is it impossible to pray, you can’t stand on your feet, you can’t reach the pulpit. Everything’s dark. We can barely make one another out. Even taking a breath is unbearable. It’s bad, worse than bad—yes, we’re truly dying.

  What’s happened? I’m too tired to explain, so I’ll leave it for tomorrow.

  II

  THE PARTING OF THE RED SEA

  A.

  I started to tell you about the unhappy incident that happened to us on Yom Kippur morning on the ship. It was terrible—we’ll remember it all our lives.

  It started off innocently enough. Right after Kol Nidrei the night before, a little cloud, a thick black little cloud, had appeared in a corner of the sky. I and my friend Mendl saw it first because while everyone else was down below, crying and reading the Psalms after Kol Nidrei, we were walking around the Prince Albert. We found a little corner and sat quietly. It was still and warm, and we felt good but a bit sad. What Mendl was thinking I don’t know, but I was thinking about God, who was sitting up in the sky, and how great He must be to have created all this below. What must He be thinking when He hears so many Jews reading Psalms, praising Him and pouring out their hearts to Him? My mother says He hears and sees everyone, and He knows everything, even what I’m feeling in my heart this very minute. If that’s so, it’s not good, because I was just thinking about a good apple, a sweet pear, and a drink of cold water. The potatoes have given me heartburn, but we’re forbidden to drink. Who would think of drinking water on Yom Kippur after Kol Nidrei? My brother Elyahu would kill me. He says I have to fast till Yom Kippur is over tomorrow night. My mother says, “We’ll see.” In the meantime she’s searching all over the ship for me and can’t find me. A sailor shows her where we’re sitting at the bow of the ship. She shouts, “Motl! Motl?” “What is it, Mama?” “What do you mean, what is it? Go to bed! Tomorrow we have to wake up early, did you forget? It’s a holy day.” I don’t feel like going to bed, but I have to.

  B.

  When we wake up in the morning, the whole sky is covered. The ocean is working up a rage. The waves are heaving higher than the ship, tossing Prince Albert like a wood chip or a toy. The sailors run around like poisoned mice. The stewards are hanging on to the railings. The passengers cling to the walls, barely able to walk. Suddenly the rain comes pouring down. Claps of thunder follow one after the other. God is riding forth on His chariot—and on Yom Kippur! Lightning bolts briefly light up the dark, overcast sky. The Prince Albert creaks, sways side to side, up and down, and the rain beats.

  What is this—another flood? Didn’t God vow to Noah that there’d be no more floods on earth?

  “It’s the parting of the waters, like the Red Sea,” says my brother Elyahu, and his friend Pinni mutters, “Yes, it’s the parting of the Red Sea”—the first time these two agree. We’re going to pass through between the waves. The words “parting of the Red Sea” catch on. Whenever someone looks at the ocean, he agrees that that’s what it is. Then he runs off to the side railing and hangs over, emptying his stomach down to his mother’s milk, and we see him no more. Who could think of praying or of Yom Kippur? In a daze, we even forget where in the world we are.

  C .

  In our family, the first to break down is Bruche. She screams that she’s dying! Then she curses my brother Elyahu for talking her into going to America. America is like Siberia, she says, worse than Siberia—Siberia is paradise compared to America! My mother sticks up for her son and chides Bruche, saying we have to withstand everything because it’s all God’s doing. For instance, it’s written in the Bible . . . But she can’t go any further because she suddenly feels nauseated. Looking at her, Teibl also feels nauseated.

  Pinni has to put in his usual barbs: “These women are a skit, a comedy!” He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and pushes his cap to the side. “Fools! Idiots! Who cares if the ocean storms and the ship rocks? An intelligent person can figure out what to do. When the ship rocks this way, I bend that way. When the ship rocks the other way, I bend this way. It’s called balancing.”

  Bending this way and that, Pinni shows us “balancing.” It makes even my brother Elyahu sick to his stomach, and both of them have to give up whatever’s inside them, as do the rest of the passengers. They’re barely able to drag themselves back to their bunks, where they fall like sheaves of wheat onto their beds. And t
hat’s when the real hell of the parting of the Red Sea begins.

  D .

  I and my friend Mendl hold out longer than all the rest. Mendl met another emigrant, an “old sea dog,” who had traveled back and forth to America three times, so he knew how to cure seasickness. He tells us his remedy: stay up on the deck and look out toward the horizon, not at the ocean. It’s like you imagine you’re in a sled on the snow, not riding a horse. But the old sea dog ends up lying stretched out on his bunk, while Mendl and I get so soaked from the rain, you could wring us out like a dishrag. We can’t even find our bunks on our own. Someone has to lead us there by the hand.

  E.

  How long does the parting of the Red Sea last? A day or two, maybe three, I’m not sure. I only know one thing—when we wake up, it’s a joy to be alive. The sky is as clear as pure gold, and the water is like a mirror. The Prince Albert is moving along, fast and trim, slicing through the water, splashing, frothing, and spraying. The passengers come to life. They all come up, young and old, into the warm, lovely, bright world. Someone says we’ll soon be able to see land. I and my friend Mendl are the first to tell everyone the good news. From a distance it looks like a speck, a yellowish splotch, but it grows larger and wider. We can make out many tall-masted ships in the distance. All our troubles are quickly forgotten. The passengers dress up in their holiday best. The women pretty themselves up. My brother Elyahu combs his beard. Bruche and Teibl put on their shawls. My mother puts on her Shabbes silk kerchief. I and Mendl don’t have anything special to put on, nor is there enough time—we’re about to approach the shores of America. Eyes are shining, and people feel elated, just as the Jews must have felt after passing through the real parting of the Red Sea. We want to sing.

  F.

  “Hello to you, Columbus! We greet you, land of the free! Oh, golden, happy land!”

  So our friend Pinni salutes the new land. He actually removes his cap, bends down, and bows his head. Since he’s nearsighted, he doesn’t notice a sweaty, ruddy-faced sailor running toward him, and they collide head on. The tip of Pinni’s nose strikes the sailor between the eyes—but luckily the sailor’s a good-hearted sort. He examines our Pinni’s bruised nose, smiles, and mumbles something under his mustache. It must be some curse in an American language.

  G .

  Suddenly there’s chaos. Third-class passengers are asked to please go back to their places. First they’re asked politely, then angrily. Whoever doesn’t hurry down gets shoved from behind by a sailor or a steward. They close the doors and hang iron locks on them. Young and old; men, women, and children; Christians, Turks, gypsies—we’re all crammed in together. It’s suffocating. We can only see through the portholes what’s going on outside. We’ve never felt so miserable, like prisoners. “Why? Why are they doing this?” my friend Mendl complains, his eyes burning with fury.

  H .

  It turns out we’ve arrived in America. Now what? The first- and second-class passengers have left the ship by going down a long ladder with about a hundred steps. And how about us? We’re also in America!

  “They shouldn’t treat us this way!” a Jewish tailor from Heissen cries. He’s all dressed up, wearing fancy spectacles. He’s not a bad fellow but he’s a bit of a pest, thinks highly of himself, and contradicts everyone. As soon as he hears what you have to say, he says the opposite. He and our friend Pinni have already gone at it. My brother Elyahu could barely separate them. Pinni had insulted him by calling him names—seamstress, tailor-man, pants-sewer—and asking him how many remnants he’d stolen.

  Now that we’re all locked up together, the Heissen tailor speaks up in Hebrew: “What are we? Who are we? We are like cattle. But even cattle have to be given consideration.”

  Pinni attacks him. He says that’s not a good comparison. If you’re talking about America, he says in his elegant language, as is his way, you have to wash your hands first. He can’t bear to hear a bad word about America.

  The Heissen tailor says he isn’t speaking well or badly of America. He’s only saying that everything is good and fine and nice but not for us. They won’t be letting us out so soon.

  Pinni loses his temper. “What then will they do with us? Pickle us?” he shouts.

  “They won’t pickle us,” the Heissen tailor says with spite and pleasure in his voice. “They’ll take us to a place called Ellis Island. There they’ll lock us up like calves in stalls until our friends and family remind themselves to come get us.”

  Pinni leaps up. “Just listen to this man! All this tailor-man knows is bad news. He’s not so old, but he’s very clever! We all know about Castle Garden, I mean Ellis Island, but I’ve never heard anyone say that Ellis Island rounds people up like cattle.”

  Pinni grows more excited. He moves closer to the Heissen tailor as if threatening him.

  The tailor backs off, a bit frightened. “Take it easy! Look at him—you’d think I’d stolen his coat! I said a bad thing about his America, but that’s not allowed. Well, when we’re all a few hours older, we’ll be wiser.”

  III

  IMPRISONED

  A .

  Our friend Pinni really hates Ellis Island. He’s ready to write a poem about it or fight with my brother Elyahu, but he keeps his anger to himself. Pinni doesn’t want the Heissen tailor to know that he, Pinni, is dissatisfied with America. He keeps quiet, but inside he’s boiling. “How can they take people and lock them up like cattle, like prisoners, like criminals!” he complains quietly to my brother Elyahu after they’ve brought us here.

  The Heissen tailor was right. Oh, he exaggerated a bit—he said they’d lock us up in prison cells. Actually they led us into a large, brightly lit hall and give us free food and drink. They seemed like good, kind people, so what’s the problem? Then we finally reach the hall—oh my! We have to walk single file across a long bridge. At every step we’re greeted by a new nuisance of an official who considers, scrutinizes, and prods us.

  The first thing they do is to turn our eyelids inside out with a white card to examine our eyes. Then they examine our arms and legs. Each examiner leaves a chalk mark on us and directs us where to go next, left or right. Then we enter the great hall I told you about. Only then can we look for one another. Until then we’ve been confused and separated. We’re as frightened as calves led to the slaughter.

  B.

  What do you think we’re so afraid of? Our fear is about my mother’s eyes. What will happen when they see her red, weepy eyes? But it turns out her eyes are examined less than anyone else’s.

  “You can thank your father for this, may he have a blessed paradise!” My mother embraces us all and weeps tears of joy. She doesn’t know what to do with so much happiness. My brother Elyahu too becomes another person. Usually when we’re upset and rushing around, he takes it all out on me. His slaps fly right and left, and Bruche helps him out with a curse. But now it’s as if he’s grown a new skin. He pulls from his pocket an orange left over from the ship and hands it to me. On the Prince Albert they distributed an orange every day. Whoever wanted one ate it, and whoever didn’t hid it in his pocket. I never hid mine. How can you see this fruit and not eat it up?

  But Pinni expresses his delight the best. He says to us: “Nu? Who’s the smart one, I or you? Didn’t I say that our enemies told lies about America, that they wouldn’t let in people with weepy eyes? They’re idlers, liars, gossips, bad-mouthers! They’ll soon be saying that America will force us to convert. Where is that Heissen tailor, a curse on his father’s bones?”

  Our Pinni has made peace with America.

  C.

  In all the excitement one of our company goes missing—my friend Mendl. Bruche notices it first. She gasps and claps her hands together: “Oh my God, where’s that Colt?”

  “I can’t believe it!” says my mother, and we all go looking for Mendl. He’s gone, as if he’s been swallowed up.

  It turns out he got himself into a mess. During the examination he got confused. First he preten
ded to be mute, as he had in Germany. Then he spoke, but in crazy nonsense. He said he was ten years old, and then he said he was already a bar mitzvah and was putting on tefillin. Finally he told the officials the whole story—that at the German border his parents had somehow lost him and we had befriended him. He didn’t know his parents’ address or the name of the city they lived in. If he did know, he wouldn’t need anyone’s help finding them, he’d do it himself. So they placed him, along with some others, in a separate room to be sent back later.

  D.

  When we hear this story, we all come to the defense of the unfortunate Mendl. My mother makes a fuss. She’ll have to explain things to his parents if she ever meets them, she knows.

  “Wait a second, you aren’t even out of the woods yourselves,” the Heissen tailor tells her.

  “Haman is heard from!” Pinni looks angrily at the tailor, ready to grab him by the throat.

  The tailor acts dumb and goes on lecturing as if he had been asked, really piling it on. He lists all the problems and woes that we have yet to endure. First, he says, they’ll take the addresses of our friends or relatives. Then they’ll take money to send them a telegram. We’ll have to wait until someone comes. And only when someone says he knows us, and can promise that we’ll be good and devoted to God and mankind, will they release us from confinement.