I moved closer to him when I heard that. How does a Jew come by such a property? “I didn’t grow it in a compost heap,” he says. “It belongs to gentry and I’m the agent. I’ve come to Yehupetz with all the papers—the deed, the praysee, everything. What am I supposed to do now?” “For God’s sake, don’t do anything,” I say. “Who’s going to steal your property? Just pray the cops stay out of this attic.” After a while I gave him a poke and asked: “Have you found a buyer in Yehupetz?” “No,” he says, “not yet. I don’t trust the locals. They’re the worst kind of liars. You can’t believe a word they say. Maybe you know an honest real estate agent, someone reliable?” “Do I?” I say. “It’s an honor to be introduced! I’m a real estate agent myself. Not that I’ve ever dealt in country property—but if God sends me the right buyer, I’ll know what to do with him.” “I can see,” says he, “that I’m talking to an honorable gentleman. Give me your hand and let’s shake on it! It will be just the two of us. I’ll give you the papers and you’ll handle it.” In short, we’re now partners. He finds the properties and I look for the buyers. And since I’m busy and 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 my fondest greetings to the children (I hope they’re well) and to everyone.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. The scare in the boarding house was a false alarm. It was just a neighbor tapping on the window. But see how the Lord provides. If not for the neighbor there would have been no scare, if not for the scare we wouldn’t have run to the attic, if not for the attic I wouldn’t have met the Jew from Kamenetz, and if not for the Jew from Kamenetz I wouldn’t be selling country property. Now wish me success!
Yours etc.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEN-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, I have a bad cough. Your Yehupetz ladies should catch it from me. I’ve been drinking goat’s milk and went to see the doctor. Quite a living they make from me, the doctors! They should all drop dead and take the pharmacist with them. But at least we now have a second pharmacy in town and can haggle over prices.
Congratulations on your new business with all its counts and country properties! At this rate, you’ll soon run out of things to do. One would think someone as successful as yourself would be less critical of your former professions. But it’s as my mother says: “When a girl can’t dance, she blames the musicians …”
I fear, Mendl, that once you’ve tried everything, you’ll be reduced to peddling matches like Aunt Sosie’s son Getzl who ran off to America. He thought he would live like a king there and now he writes letters that could break a heart of stone. In America, he writes, you either work yourself to death or die of hunger. No one gives a starving man a crust of bread. A fine place it is, America—it deserves to burn with Yehupetz! Don’t say you haven’t been warned. “When there’s bread,” says my mother, “don’t hanker after sweets.” But perhaps there’ll be a miracle and we’ll hear better news from you—and sooner received than Getzl’s. I wish you nothing but the best,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
“Heaven and earth,” says my mother, “have sworn to let nothing vanish”—and so along comes a government investigator to sniff out what happened to the money that Moyshe-Mordekhai willed for the public good. Some young rascals ratted on you-know-who but he produced accounts showing he didn’t have it. Where could it be? Only the wind knows. I hope to God he rots in jail for what he did!
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, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I’m now holding over a million’s worth of country property. No one has ever seen the likes of it. Where, you ask, does it all come from? Listen to this.
One day while I was at the Exchange with my partner from Kamenetz, we let it be known that we had an estate. A group of agents gathered round, all with country property too, and pretty soon we decided on a joint venture. In a word, we pooled properties—we gave them our listings and they gave us theirs. It’s a no-lose proposition. If we sell their properties, we’ll make good money, and if they sell ours, we’ll make better. Either way, we stand only to gain.
The upshot is that I’m in tight with all the agents and have acquired quite a reputation. I sit with them in Semadenni’s at marble tables like Fanconi’s and drink coffee and eat French pastries. That’s how it works here, too: if you don’t order, you’re out in the street. Semadenni’s is the real Yehupetz Exchange. All the traders in town gather there. It’s as loud and noisy as (you should pardon the comparison) a synagogue. The entire place shouts, laughs, talks with its hands. There’s a lot of fighting and quarreling too, which usually ends up in court because no one can agree on splitting the commissions. Everyone swears, curses, uses his fists, and so do I. And being busy and 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 my fondest greeting to your parents and the children, God bless them, each and every one.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. One of my properties in Volhynia has a chateau. It has 66 rooms paneled with mirrors and an indoor garden called an orangeade with citrus trees growing all year round. That’s quite apart from the horses and carriages, which are a sight to behold—and it’s going for next to nothing! If God sends me a customer, I’m in the clover. Of course, country agents tend to exaggerate because their tongues run away with them, but I fear there’s nothing to be done about that. You can’t make a living by telling nothing but the truth.
Yours, etc.
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEN-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, the devil take all your fine letters! I’m ashamed to show them to a soul. “The worse heartache,” says my mother, “is the one you can’t bare.” I ask you, what kind of business is it to sit all day at Sima-Dina’s drinking coffee with French pastry as though it were a Saturday night? (And who the deuce is Sima-Dina, I’d like to know! We once had a healer in Kasrilevke by that name, but she’s long passed on to the other world.) You have a shanty with sixty-six rooms? Well, bless my soul! My enemies should die sixty-six times! What is it to the lord of Yehupetz if I break my back day and night for his children? Just yesterday little Leah had a fight with Moyshe-Hirshele and stuck a fork in his face. It was sheer luck he didn’t lose an eye. But what good does it do to tell you such things when they go in one ear and out the other? You’re a heartless fiend! I could write until I burst while his lordship sits in bloody Yehupetz drinking coffee and watching the traders trade punches at the Exchange. I wish to God someone would give you the punch you deserve! It might knock some sense into you. I am, from the bottom of my heart,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
You can flaunt your hoity-toity connections all you want, Mendl, but listen to a true story about our two Kasrilevke doctors, Dr. Kubeybe and Dr. Lakritz. They fight like alleycats. Not long ago Dr. Kubeybe went and told on Dr. Lakritz for overdosing a child. So naturally, Dr. Lakritz went and told on Dr. Kubeybe for insuring corpses with Fayvl the insurance agent. Then Dr. Kubeybe told on Dr. Lakritz for …but they should both fry for our sins and those of Jews everywhere!
FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteem
ed, & 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, I’m now in lumber. A country property without woodland, it seems, is like a house without a stove. Lumber is the magic word. It’s the key to success, men make millions from it.
Naturally, you’ll want to know how I came to lumber. Listen to what the good Lord can do. Being in country property and hanging around with all the agents, I ran into a real heavyweight one day. “Well, what have you got for me?” he asks. “Come, let’s have a look.” I opened my briefcase and showed him listings worth a million-seven and he says, “Excuse me for saying so, but all your properties aren’t worth a pinch of snuff.” “How’s that?” I ask. “It’s because,” says he, “they don’t come with anything. You’re selling a lot of earth and sky. Where’s the woodland? What do I want with a property that has no lumber? Don’t just stand there, man! Give me lumber, lumber!” It was such a shock to think I had been selling worthless property that I couldn’t get out a word. “Well, then,” I said at last, “show me a nice estate with woodland and I have the customer already lined up.” “That will be my pleasure,” he says. “I have a forest for you that no man has ever set foot in. It has trees old as the world, oaks high as the clouds. They’re the original cedars of Lebanon! And there’s a railroad on one side and a river on the other. Chop-chop, splash, and your trees are floating to the sawmill!”
Well, who needed to hear more? Off I ran to find a buyer. And don’t think God didn’t lend a hand! I heard of a customer and sent an agent to sound him out via a second agent who had a third test the water. (Don’t worry about that. If the deal goes through, God willing, there’ll be enough for us all.) Then I went to see the fellow myself. “For you,” I said, “I have a forest as old as the world. There’s a railroad on one side and a river on the other—chop-chop, splash, and your trees are floating to the sawmill!” He took a fancy to it at once and wanted to know everything: what was the forest called, and exactly where was it, and how many acres did it have, and what kind of trees grew in it, and how tall and how wide were they, and were they hardwood or softwood, and how high off the ground were the bottom branches, and how did you reach the place, and was there a good road to it, and did it snow there in winter …there were so many questions I couldn’t get in a word. On and on he went until he said: “But why waste words? Bring me a praysee and we’ll talk.” “What do you need a praysee for?” I said. “It won’t take a minute to find the seller. He’s better than a thousand praysees.” In short, I brought him to my man’s room. They took one look at each other and began to laugh so hard I thought they would have a stroke. “So this is the owner of your forest?” asks the first fellow. “And this is your buyer?” says the second. Just then the door opens and in walks a Jew from Belaya Tserkov. In no time the table is cleared, cards are brought out, and the four of us sit down to a hand of whist. Tomorrow we’ll try to close the deal. But as I’m busy and 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 my regards to your parents, and my fondest greetings to each of the children.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
FROM SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE TO HER HUSBAND MENAKHEN-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, I don’t call this a life. “If this is the transportation,” my mother would say, “let me off and I’ll walk …” I can imagine, God help us, what big businessmen you must be if you can afford to drop a deal worth millions to play whist. I wish you’d waste away from your whist as I’m wasting away from my cough! For God’s sake, has it come to this, that a husband who didn’t know what a deck of cards looked like is now a cardsharp? Is that what the tender young man I married wants to be in his old age? And you know what you can do with all your forests! What on earth do you know about trees? When did you last sit and watch one grow? My mother, bless her, would say: “What is the rabbi doing raising pigs?” If you ask me, your fine lumber business will go up in smoke like all your other golden occupations. Still, I wish you nothing but the best.
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
The whole world is talking about you. Not long ago my cousin Kreindl ran into my mother in the marketplace, near the fish stalls, and chewed her ear off. Why, she wanted to know, didn’t I divorce you and put an end to it? Mind you, my mother didn’t even try keeping up appearances. She didn’t argue. All she said was: “The pillow that sleeps two doesn’t need a third head…. Better an old pot than a new kettle…. Friends are like weeds: they pop up without being asked…. Criticism starts at home…. One man eats garlic and another smells of it…. An ox has a big tongue and still can’t blow the shofar …” She said a few other things too, my mother did. In fact, she left Kreindl speechless.
FROM MENAKHEM-MENDL IN YEHUPETZ TO HIS WIFE SHEYNE-SHEYNDL IN KASRILEVKE
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have 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, my woodland has turned out to be a wilderness. There wasn’t a tree in it, let alone a forest or a river. It was all one big waste of time, a lot of worn shoe leather! I now see, my dear wife, that lumber is not for me. I’m not made for dealing with liars. They’ll sell you castles in the air and stick you six feet in the ground.
What am I doing now? I’m in a new business—sugar mills. That’s something you can’t beat nowadays. Jews are buying sugar mills and the agents are cleaning up. There’s a fellow from Belaya Tserkov who goes every week to Radomishl, sells the Jews there two or three mills, and is back home in time for the Sabbath with 10 or 15,000 rubles in his wallet! What more could you want? Ordinary servants, ex–household help, are dealing in mills. They walk around with gold watches, speak German, send their wives to the best spas, take pills for their livers, and carry on like bluebloods! In a word, sugar mills are the only game in Yehupetz. The whole world is into them and so am I.
You must be wondering how I became involved with a business about which I didn’t know a blessed thing, even though it’s quite elementary. Listen to how God works. A while back I stopped going to Semadenni’s (and not, as you call him, Sima-Dina—he’s a man, not a woman, and a nasty one!). It wasn’t because we had quarreled but because I was tired of all that coffee and pastry. Besides, I had run out of money. And so I hung out in the street like the other Jews and one thing led to another until I met a mill agent, a fine fellow who knows the business inside out. There’s no one in sugar, he says, not even Brodsky, in whose home he doesn’t come and go. “Where,” he asks me, “do you come from?” “From Kasrilevke,” I say. “That is, I’m originally from Yampol and I’m registered in Mazepevke, but I have a wife in Kasrilevke and do business in Yehupetz.” “So tell me,” he asks, “this Kasrilevke of yours—is it a town or a village?” “A town?” I say. “Kasrilevke is a regular city.” “And a Jew can live there?” he asks. Honestly, what a question! “And a river,” he asks, “do you have a river?” “Do we have a river!” I say. “The Shtinkeylo flows right through the place.” “And a railroad?” he asks. “How far is the nearest railroad?” “The nearest railroad,” I say, “is no more than seventy versts off. But tell me, what makes you ask?” “First,” he says, “give me your hand and promise to keep this a secret. I tell you, Reb Menakhem-Mendl, we’re about to make a barrel of money! I just had an idea that comes to a man once in a hundred years. You see, everyone is out to buy a sugar mill these days but there aren’t any mills left. Those Radomishl Jews have bought them all and no one is selling. The latest thing is to build t
hem from scratch—and since Jews are barred from the villages, everyone is looking for a town. You can see for yourself,” he says, “that God created Kasrilevke to have a sugar mill—and as I live and breathe, I have the man to build it, an investor with half a million rubles. The problem is finding a site. Do you know anyone in Kasrilevke who can tell us if there’s enough beets and room for a mill?” “Do I?” I say. “You bet I do! My whole family lives there—my wife, my children, and my in-laws. I’ll write at once. You’ll have a thoroughly thorough answer in a jiffy!”
And so, my dear wife, please talk to old Azriel and Moyshe the redhead, since they pal around with Russian gentry. Find out how many beets we can count on and what they’ll cost and write me back at once, because it’s urgent. We can make a tidy sum from this, a good 10 or 15,000. But being busy and 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 my fondest greetings to everyone.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. I asked my new partner who his investor is and was told it was a Jew from Radomishl. He’s all fired up to make the deal because the Radomishl Jews are big on sugar mills. He’s even willing to buy an old windmill, he says, as long as it has a chimney that works. I pray to God it’s as good as it sounds and we’ll make some money from it, even though there are quite a few partners—it’s beginning to look like close to a dozen. But I hope this is the real thing at last. You know I put no stock in get-rich-quick schemes.
The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Page 9