The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son

by Sholem Aleichem

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. Regarding Fanconi (and not “Franconi,” as you write), it’s neither a he nor a she but a cafe. That’s a place where you drink coffee, eat iced cream, and deal in Londons. I wish I were worth half the daily volume there!

  Yours etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN ODESSA

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, all three children have the measles and keep me up all night. And his lordship sits in Odessa drinking likrish-water! But why care about my worries in Kasrilevke when you’re all in a sweat to carry me off from here? You think it’s enough to say “Odessa” for me to sprout wings and f ly away to you. Listen here, Mendl: take a deep breath and get it out of your head. My great-grandmother managed without Odessa and so will I. Don’t think you can talk me into ditching my parents and good friends and moving to a wilderness. I’ll see Odessa in f lames first! Say what you will, the more I hear of it, the less I like it. Don’t ask me why—I just don’t. Something tells me you’re pushing your luck. “The best dairy dish is a piece of meat,” my mother says. Or are you afraid prices will keep rising and you’ll look foolish for selling now? Everyone should only be such a fool!

  And as for your Gambetta (forgive me for saying so, but he’s stark, raving mad), I’d like to know what business of his or his grandmother’s it is. You can tell him to his face that I said so. What kind of wars is he dragging you into? For heaven’s sake, Mendl, listen to me: sell everything, and pull out now! You’ve made a few rubles? Quit while you’re ahead. How much longer can you go on like this? It’s a fine state of affairs when your Sheyne-Sheyndl’s opinion means nothing to you. I wish I had a mouth like Blume-Zlate, who gives her husband the nine-year pox each time she opens it! For the love of God, Mendl, be a dear soul and get out while you can. Just don’t forget to buy a dozen embroidered blouses and some satin for a dress for my mother—she deserves a souvenir from the days her son-in-law did business with madmen in Odessa. Get some calico, too, the latest prints, and as much glassware as fits into your suitcase, and whatever else you can think of and come home. I’m tired of taking it on the chin. My enemies should croak for every time you haven’t listened to me, but please do it now. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN ODESSA TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE

  To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife, Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

  Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

  Secondly, the market has crashed just as futures, God help us, were being called. I’ll see the Messiah before I see my money again. Bismarck, they say, caught a bad cold and all politics went into a panic. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. Londons are worth more than gold, the ruble has hit rock bottom, and futures have fallen through the floor. But where, you ask, are the shorts I bought? That’s just it: the shorts aren’t short, the futures have no future, and call me a monkey’s uncle! The small-time operators I entrusted my shares with have been wiped out. Odessa has been hit by a whirlwind, you wouldn’t know the place. I should have made my move a day earlier. But go be a prophet! The dealers run around like chickens without their heads, you’ve never seen such pandemonium. They’re all screaming at the top of their lungs—“Londons! Give us our Londons!”—but there are no Londons to be had. All the curses and brawls on the Exchange (everyone fights and so do I) can’t produce a single one. In short, my dear wife, it’s a dark and bitter day. I’ve lost all my earnings, plus the capital, plus the jewelry I bought you. I’ve even pawned my Sabbath gabardine, it’s gone the way of all else …

  You can imagine the wretched state I’m in. I’m so homesick I could weep. I curse my luck a hundred times a day. If only I had broken a leg instead of coming to Odessa, where a man is worth nothing. Why, you can drop dead in the street and no one will stop to look at you! When I think of the brokers who f locked around me, begged me to throw them a bone …and now they don’t even know me! The man they called the Rothschild of Kasrilevke has become a big joke. I’m told I know nothing about futures. Not everyone understands Londons, they say. But where were all the big experts then? I’d get more sympathy if I were a corpse. In fact, I’d be better-off if I were one. And to make matters worse, that blasted Gambetta keeps blabbering about politics. “Ha!” he says. “Didn’t I tell you to buy short?” “What good are your shorts,” I say, “when there’s not a London in sight?” But he only laughs and says: “Whose fault is that? You have to know futures. You can’t buy and sell Londons likes potatoes …” I tell you, my dearest wife, I’ve had my fill of Odessa and its market and its Fanconi’s and its petty thieves! All I want is to get out of here. And since I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to all the children and to your parents.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. It’s not the custom in Odessa to go to a neighbor, friend, or relative when you need help as it is in Kasrilevke. That isn’t because people are too proud to ask but because they know what the answer will be. Zilch! What, then, is a man to do? He goes to a pawnshop, where he can get all the money he wants as long as he has something to hock. It can be gold, silver, bronze, clothing, a samovar, a stool, even a cow—anything that’s worth cash. The problem is that it’s valued very low, at half its real worth. And the pawnbroker makes up for it by charging such high interest that you’re left with nothing. Every two weeks the unredeemed items are auctioned off at bargain prices and he makes a nice pile. If I had money, I’d open a pawnshop myself and recoup my losses. I might even come out ahead—but that’s easier said than done. There’s no point being born poor in this world and if you are, you might as well not have been. Tell me about yourself, and what the children are doing, and give my fondest greetings to your parents.

  Yours etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN ODESSA

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, just look at what you’ve done, you fool! What devil brought you to Odessa? What made your nose twitch so? Creamed ice his lordship craved! Lumdums! Likrish-water! Roast pheasant! If you knew you’d been Lumdummed, you big dummy, why didn’t you settle for a percentage like a smart businessman? Where was everybody? Why didn’t you run to the rabbi? What, in God’s name, are futures-shmutures? You bought merchandise—where is it? You’ve made one holy mess of things, you have! I knew all along no good would come of your Odessa.

  I’m telling you, Mendl, leave now. Hang Odessa and its Lumdums, a plague on them both! Run for your life, Mendl! “When the walls shake, don’t wait for the quake,” my mother says…. But of course nothing I say means a thing to his lordship. I’m only that nobody Sheyne-Sheyndl when I should be Blume-Zlate. Was my mother the smart one! She warned me never to let a husband go to town by himself. “Keep your thumb on his neck,” she said. But what was I to do? I’m not a pushy one like Blume-Zlate. I can’t rub a man’s nose in the dirt, I simply can’t! If only you had her for a wife instead of me, you’d know what the fear of God was …

  And as for wanting to die, you big genius, you’re even more of a moron than I thought. It’s not up to us when to live and when to die. Since when does losing a dowry mean jumping off the roof? You’re a dunce to think it’s written in the stars that Menakhem-Mendl has to be rich. Is it a fight with God you want to pick? You can see He had other plans for you, so stop making such a fuss. Things could be worse. Y
ou might have been robbed in the forest or made to spend all your money on medicines for some blamed illness. Don’t carry on like an old woman, Mendl. Put your trust in the Almighty and come on home! To the children you’ll still be an honored guest.

  I’m sending you a few rubles for your carfare. Don’t go spending them on old junk or auctions. Stay away from all that. I beg you to say good-bye to your Odessa as soon as you get this letter with the money. May it catch fire the moment you leave and burn to ashes! I am, from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  Stocks & Bonds: The Yehupetz Exchange

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE

  To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

  Firstly, rest assured that I am, thank God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

  Secondly, I have left Odessa for Yehupetz (a fine town, I declare) and am no longer dealing in perishables—that is, in Londons. I am at present, praise God, a bonified investor in stocks & bonds. But what brought me, you may ask, to Yehupetz? That, my dear wife, is a long story that I’ll tell you once I ask your forgiveness for not writing. I simply had no news. And besides, I kept thinking I would soon be on my way home. But although God knows I hankered to be there, it seems I was fated for Yehupetz. I swear, my dearest, I was already in the coach for Kasrilevke when who sits next to me but a Yehupetz-bound Odessa investor. What takes him to Yehupetz, I ask. Stocks & bonds, he says. What kind of line is that, I ask. Well, he says, it’s nothing like Londons. With Londons you’re at the mercy of Berlin and Bismarck and the Queen of England. In stocks & bonds it’s Warsaw and Petersburg. And not only that, Londons are as airy as a dream, while stocks & bonds are solid items.

  You should have heard that Jew praise Yehupetz and its investors to the skies! Why, they’re straight as an arrow, he says; they’re the very soul of honor; he wouldn’t swap one of them for ten Odessa slickers. The fellow made me so curious that I thought, seeing as I’m passing through Fastov, why not detour to Yehupetz and see the market? And wouldn’t you know, the day I arrived it had sunk to such depths that stocks were going for a song with nary a kopeck up front. I decided to give it a try. What was there to lose? If the breaks went my way, I might earn some pocket money for the rest of my trip. And don’t think I didn’t! The market rose, I sold at a nice profit, reinvested my earnings, backed some more winners, and wound up with several hundred rubles in cash. At which point I thought: why pay someone a commission to sell me shares when I can be that someone myself? So off I went to an office in Petersburg and put together a portfoliage of every stock you can think of: Putivil, and Transport, and Volga, and Maltzev, and still more that’s bound to go up. Praise God, I’m growing all the time. But since I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to the children and your parents,

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. If you write, do it care of Boiberik, since Jews can’t stay nights in Yehupetz. I spend my days in the Kreshchatik Square market and come back to Boiberik every evening. All the investors live there in dachas and sit around playing cards. (Men and women together—that’s the custom.) The next morning they head for Yehupetz and so do I.

  Yours, etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, my dear husband, my enemies should have as much strength to go on living as I have to write you this short note. I can hardly get around on my legs and may need an operation. At least that’s what the new doctor says. He should catch all ten of Pharaoh’s plagues! The man thinks he’ll get rich from me. Would you like to know what the trouble is? My blood has bad corpsicles from all the heartache you’ve given me. Who ever heard of such a thing? I send you money to come home to Kasrilevke and you run off with it to Yehupetz! A good-for-nothing like you deserves to be buried alive. You’ve blown your nose all over your face, that’s what my mother would say…. A bonified business! Stockings & bands! And here I was thinking that, after his lordship’s precious Lumdums had gone down the drain, he would give me the pleasure of coming home less dead than alive. But what does my angel of a breadwinner do? He dreams a new dream: Yehupetz. May a black desert swallow it! A Jew like you, selling stockings in the market square! You know what you can do with a business like that! I read your letter, dear husband, and I thought: God in heaven! Either you’ve gone clear out of your mind or else I have. You’re speaking Chinese. Petersburg …Pottyboils …portfolderols …a haunt might be talking from your throat. By day it’s Yehupetz and by night it’s Boiberik, men and women together! What’s going on there? Who do you think you are? Make up your mind! If you don’t want me any more, come home to the rabbi and get a divorce, because if I’m going to be an abandoned wife with a house full of brats, I’d rather you vanished from the face of the earth in America like Yosl Leib-Arons and I never had to hear from you again. My enemies should be as sick as I am! It’s my rotten luck that I’m laid up with my aches and pains and can’t come after you, because I’d take the first coach from Kasrilevke and drag you home by the scruff of your neck. It’s as my mother says, though: if you don’t have a hand, don’t expect to give anyone the finger…. But don’t hold my harsh words against me. It’s just my bad corpsicles. I’ll get over them. A match, says my mother, flares up fast and goes out quickly. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

  Your truly faithful wife,

  Sheyne-Sheyndl

  FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE

  To my dear, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

  Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

  Secondly, stocks & bonds are not what you think. They come from Petersburg. Putivil, Transport, Volga, Maltzev, etc., are manufacturers. They deal in rolling and floating stock—that is, railroads and 100-ruble shares that go for 300. That’s because of the dividends. The more dividends, the more they’re worth. But since nobody knows how many there’ll be, you buy blind. That’s called a bull market; all the Jews are cashing in on it and so am I. You would not believe, my dear wife, how small-time investors have become millionaires! They live in huge dachas, travel to Europinian spas, drape their women in silks and satins, speak French, play the piano, eat jam, and drink jewlips all day long. Their children have governors and ride icicles. A ruble means nothing to them. They live high and the sky is the limit. And it’s all from stocks & bonds!

  You should see Kreshchatik Square. It’s mobbed with Jews. And why shouldn’t it be? We’re chased out of the brokerages and kept off the streets, and as we need to know the latest, it’s sheer bedlam. But I mean bedlam! Today a new issue of Putivil 187’s arrived from Petersburg. Well, who doesn’t want new Putivils? And since Maltzevs, so they say, closed at 1,350, who can resist Maltzevs? Shares are up every day. On my Putivils alone, praise God, I could clear a few hundred rubles. But you can flog me before I’ll sell them. In fact, I’m planning to buy 150 more, 5 Maltzevs, and a couple of Volgas—and some Transports too, if all goes well, because the word from Petersburg is, buy Transports for all you’re worth! The whole world is holding them: Jews, housewives, doctors, teachers, servants, tradesmen—who doesn’t have Transports? When two Jews meet, the first question is: “How are Transports today?” Walk into a restaurant and the owner’s wife asks: “What’s the latest on Transports?” Go buy a box of matches and the grocer has to know if Transports are up or down. In a word, there’s money to be made here. Everyone is investing
, growing, getting rich, and so am I. But because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give everyone my very fondest greetings.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. Regarding my nights in Boiberik, I’ve already explained that Yehupetz is off limits without a residence card. As soon as I balance my portfoliage, I’ll see about getting one and becoming a Yehupetzer. Meanwhile it’s best to lay low, for which there’s no better place than Boiberik. It’s full of dachas. The Jews who live in them commute to Yehupetz and so do I. Is everything clear now?

  Yours etc.

  FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ

  To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

  First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

  Second, we’ve had good and bad luck. Our Moyshe-Hirshele swallowed a kopeck! It was a Friday and I had just returned from the market with a Sabbath fish, a nice, fresh one, still flopping. I step into the house—the boy is crying his head off. He didn’t even stop when I gave him a good smack and then another. Well, I began to scream myself: “You brainless little brat! What’s the matter? You should only have my troubles! Here, here’s a kopeck to play with. I wish it were a bellyache!” It got me down so I hardly could speak.

  A few minutes later I remember the kopeck. “Moyshe-Hirshele,” I say, “where’s the kopeck?” “Topet go ’way,” he says, pointing at his mouth. Oh my God, I think: don’t tell me he’s swallowed it! I look in his mouth—it’s not there. I thought I would die. “Moyshe-Hershenyu! My darling! I’d give my life for you! What have you done with that kopeck?” I rocked him, I spanked him, I pinched him black-and-blue, but all he does is keep crying: “Go ’way!” To make a long story short, I took him to the doctor. The doctor told me to feed him potatoes. For two straight days I fed that poor child nothing but potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes, without even a drop of milk or water. I didn’t think he’d pull through. And then on the third day I pick up a pillow while cleaning and what do you think I find? The kopeck! Those doctors wouldn’t know beans if they saw them.