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

by Sholem Aleichem

  Now that I’ve been snatched from the jaws of disaster, I can sit down and write you about it. You know from my last letter what a state I was in after the splendid match we arranged for two girls. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. I felt I was at the end of my rope—bye-bye, Menakhem-Mendl! And just then I ran into an inspector who works for the Acquitable Life Ensurance Company, which is a firm that ensures you against dying and does a fine business. He took out a book and showed me how many people he had ensured, and how many were dead or alive, and how they were all better off for it. If you ask how that can be, it’s quite simple. Suppose Acquitable sells me 10,000 rubles of life ensurance. That means I pay 2 or 3 hundred rubles a year until I die. If I kick off right away, I’m in luck: 10,000 R’s are nothing to sneeze at. And if I don’t? Then the luck is Acquitable’s. It employs lots of agents, mostly Jews with families that need to eat. Why begrudge them a living?

  The problem is that not everyone can be an agent. In the first place, you have to dress well—and well is well: a good suit, a starched collar and cuffs (paper ones will do, but they had better be clean), a nice tie, and, naturally, a top hat. And most of all, you have to speak well. An agent has to be able to talk—to talk up, to talk over, to talk back, to talk down, to talk into, and to talk on until your customer gives in and buys life ensurance. That’s why the inspector saw right away that I had the makings of a good agent myself.

  But I must explain to you, my dear wife, the difference between an agent and an inspector. An agent sells ensurance while an inspector inspects the agents. And there are inspector-majors who inspect the inspectors and an inspector-general who inspects the majors. That’s as high as you can get in Acquitable. It takes an inspector to become a major, a major to become a general, and so on. Whoever makes general is set for life. A general, my inspector told me, can earn 30,000 a year.

  To make a long story short, the fellow wanted me to join Acquitable. Nothing would come from my own pocket, he said. In fact, I would even get an advance for clothes and a briefcase. Not bad for starters! I thought it over and asked myself: what am I risking? Either I succeed and make it big, or I don’t and the marriage is off. And so I said yes and started a new life as an agent.

  Of course, it wasn’t as quick as all that. Before becoming an agent you have to see the general, because nothing cuts the mustard without him. And so my inspector took me to Odessa at his own expense to meet the inspector-general himself—a man, I was told, with 20 provinces and 1,800 agents working under him. That’s how big he is. That is, he isn’t so big himself, he’s just made a big deal of. But he does have big eyes that don’t miss a trick and a smile for everyone. His name is Yevzerel, and his office takes up a whole building with room after room, each with chairs and desks and files and books and agents going in and out. The place is jumping, the telegrams fly back and forth—it’s enough to make your head spin. Getting to hell and back in a barrel is easier than seeing the inspector-general! I was half-dead by the time I was ushered in to Yevzerel, who very kindly offered me a seat and a cigarette and wanted to know all about me.

  Well, I told him everything, the whole story: how I was bound for Kishinev, and ended up in Odessa, and dealt in Londons until I moved to Yehupetz, and worked on the Exchange buying and selling Putivils and Liliputs and other stocks & bonds, and traded in sugar, real estate, and lumber, and tried my hand at matchmaking, and even had a fling at writing. There was nothing in the world, I told him, that I hadn’t knocked my brains out doing and I still had nothing to show for it. Once a loser, always a loser!

  He listened to me, the general did, got to his feet, put a hand on my shoulder, and said: “Do you know something, Mister Menakhem-Mendl? I like you. I like your name and I like the way you talk. I can see you becoming one of our top agents—and I mean top! Take an advance, pick yourself a route, and good luck.”

  That’s just what I did. I was given some rubles, outfitted myself like a king (you wouldn’t have recognized me), bought a big briefcase, stuffed it with a wagonful of forms and brochures, and set out for the blue yonder—I mean, for Bessarabia, where the living is said to be good. That’s the place to do business, I was told. I could sell ensurance there like hot cakes.

  I took a train and then another and another and arrived in a little town, a damned hole in the middle of nowhere. If only it had burned to the ground before I got there! How was I supposed to know it had a reputation for the worst crooks and chiselers? And it was just my luck that it was the anniversary of my father’s death, so that I had to stop there to say the mourner’s prayer. God preserve you from such a dump! Something told me to stay on the train. But what can a man do when he has to say the kaddish? I looked for a synagogue and found one just as the evening prayer was beginning. When it was over the beadle came up to me. “An anniversary?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. “And where might a Jew like you be from?” he asks. “From the big world,” I say. “And what might your name be?” “Menakhem-Mendl,” I say. “Then welcome!” he says, shaking my hand, as did the rest of them. A circle formed around me and everyone wanted to know who I was. “An agent,” I said. “You mean a salesman?” “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m in life ensurance. From Acquitable. I ensure you against dying.” “What kind of bad news is that?” they asked. So I explained it while they stood gaping as if I were selling them the moon—all but two of them, whom I noticed right away. One was a tall, thin, stooped-looking fellow with a shiny, hooked nose and a habit of pulling the hairs of his beard. The other was short, stout, and dark as a gypsy with a shifty eye that spun like a compass and a way of smiling when nothing was funny. I saw they understood what life ensurance was, because they gave each other a look and one grunted: “It’s worth a try.”

  I could tell they were types you could do business with. And in fact, as soon as I left the synagogue they came after me and said: “Where are you off to, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? Don’t run away! There’s something we wanted to ask you. Were you really thinking of selling ensurance in a hick town like this?” “Why not?” I asked. “To Jews like the ones you just prayed with?” asks Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “All they’re good for is eating noodle pudding!” “Then what would you suggest?” I inquire. “Find a rich Christian,” says Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “Nothing beats a rich Christian!”

  Well, we talked for a while and it’s like this: the two of them are friends with a Christian gentleman, a Moldavian landowner they sometimes work for, and they’re sure he’d like to be ensured. “Then it will be my pleasure to do it,” I say. “I’ll even give you a cut. Share and share alike!” It was decided that in the morning, at the early service in the synagogue, they would let me know if he was interested. Their one request was to keep it confidential. I mustn’t tell anyone at my inn that we had talked business.

  At the crack of dawn I’m up and off to the synagogue. We reach the end of the service—my two friends aren’t there. Why hadn’t I taken their names and addresses? I couldn’t even ask the beadle for them because I was pledged to secrecy. At the last minute, though, just as we were shutting our prayer books, they showed up. I could have jumped for joy! But though I was dying to hear their news, it wasn’t the place for it.

  They rushed through their prayers and hurried out with me on their heels. “Well?” I asked. “Shhh!” they said. “Not here in the street! You don’t know this blamed town. Keep following us. We’ll settle things at home and have a bite to eat.” And with that Hook Nose makes a sign to Shifty Eye and Shifty Eye vanishes and leaves me alone in the dark alleys with Hook Nose. I walked behind him until we got there.

  The room we entered was small, dark, and smoky. Flies crawled on the walls and ceiling; a lamp with a paper shade painted with faded flowers hung above a table covered by a red cloth. By the stove stood a small, grease-stained woman, looking pale and frightened. She gave Hook Nose a questioning look. “Food!” he said, walking by her. In no time there were rolls, appetizers, and a bottle of brandy on the table. Soon Shi
fty Eye arrived. Waddling behind him was a three-hundred-pound behemoth with a big blue nose, two hairy mitts for hands, and the strangest legs you ever saw. They started out huge and grew so thin toward the bottom that you wondered how they could hold him.

  This was the Moldavian gentleman, who spied the brandy bottle and let out a great rumble from his stomach that sounded like: “Otse dobre dilo!” And so we each had a swallow of brandy (the gentleman had two) and chatted about the grain crop until Shifty Eye turned to me and whispered: “The man is loaded! He has 10,000 bushels of wheat, to say nothing of oats. Don’t be misled by how shabbily he’s dressed. He’s a terrible skinflint.” Meanwhile, Hook Nose is advising the gentleman to keep his wheat in storage until winter when prices will rise. “Otse dobre dilo!” says the gentleman, emptying more glasses between mouthfuls of food, which he’s putting away as though there’s no tomorrow. He blows his nose and lets out a big burp and when he’s finished Hook Nose says: “Now we can get down to business!”

  Well, I sat that Moldavian gentleman down in a corner and gave him such a spiel that I can’t tell you where it came from. I explained how important it was to have life ensurance. It didn’t matter, I said, if you were as rich as Rothschild. In fact, the richer you were, the more you needed ensurance, because an old age lived in poverty was harder on a rich man. A beggar, I said, was used to it, but a rich man would rather die first. “Otse dobre dilo!” says the gentleman, passing more wind like a bellows. I was still working up a full head of steam when Hook Nose interrupts, using Hebrew words the gentleman can’t follow. “That’s enough dabern!” he says. “Go get some niyor and ksive what you have to!” So Shifty Eye brings a pen and paper and I write out a policy for the gentleman to sign. He looks at it, he does, and breaks into such a sweat that he can barely write his name. Then I take him to the doctor for a checkup, receive a first payment, write out a receipt, and the deal is done.

  Back I go to my inn in fine fettle and order a meal. “So what’s new?” asks the innkeeper when he sees me. “What should be new?” I say. “I understand you deserve to be congratulated,” says the innkeeper. “What for?” I ask. “For selling a policy,” he says. “What policy is that?” I ask, playing innocent. “The one you sold to the Christian,” he says. “What Christian is that?” I ask. “The fat landowner,” he says. “But how do you know,” I ask, “that I sold a policy to a Christian landowner?” “What I know,” says the innkeeper, “is that he’s a landowner as much as you are.” “Then what is he?” I ask. “The bogeyman,” says the innkeeper, laughing right in my face. I turned pale, sat down, and begged him to explain what he meant. How did he know what I had been up to?

  Well, he finally realized I knew nothing, felt sorry for me, took me to the next room, and told me things about my two associates that made my hair stand on end. They were, it seemed, common swindlers; a worse pair of rascals couldn’t be found. “They’ve broken enough laws,” said the innkeeper, “to be sent a long way up the river. It’s their good luck that they always find someone else to take the rap. Your rich Moldavian is a bum, a rip-snorting, God-awful drunk, not the man in whose name you wrote the policy. If he’s not already pushing up daisies, you can bet he soon will be. Do you get the picture?”

  I nearly passed out when I heard that. A lot of good my new clothes would do me if I had to wear them to prison! I ran to the station as fast as my legs could carry me, hoping not to bump into my two friends. May they rot in hell with their Moldavian gentleman, and their lousy town, and their blasted Bessarabia, and their damned Acquitable, and the whole bloody business of death ensurance! Surely God can provide better livelihoods. I only pray I reach my destination safely—and since I have a long way to go, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more from Hamburg. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Say hello to the children, bless them. God keep them healthy and strong until we meet again in better times. My fondest greetings to your parents and to everyone.

  Your husband,

  Menakhem-Mendl

  P.S. I forgot to tell you where I’m going. I’m off to America, my dear wife! And not just me. A whole crowd is traveling with me. That is, each of us is heading for Hamburg and from there to America. Why America? Because they say it’s the place for Jews. The streets, they say, are paved with gold and money is dished out by the plateful. Why, a day’s work is worth a whole dollar there! And the Jews, they say, are lapping up the cream. Everyone says that in America, God willing, I’ll be a big hit. The whole world is going because there’s no future here, you can’t do business any more. And if everyone is doing it, why not me? What’s there to lose? I only hope you don’t have too a hard time of it, my dear, or think too badly of me. I swear always to remember you and the children, God bless them. I’ll work day and night, nothing will get in my way. And if the Lord lends a hand and I do well (and I’m as sure to as day follows night!) I’ll buy tickets for you all and send for you. You’ll live like a princess there—you’ll have nothing but the best—I won’t let a hair fall from your head. Upon my word, it’s time you saw a bit of the world too! Just don’t worry or take it to heart, for there’s a great God above looking after us.

  Yours etc.

  Motl, the Cantor’s Son

  Part One

  THE CALF AND I

  I’ll bet you anything no one felt as good in the warm, bright days after Passover as me and the neighbors’ calf Menye. By me I mean Motl, Peysi the cantor’s son. Menye was the name I gave the calf.

  Together we basked in the first rays of the sun, which only warmed up after Passover. Together we sniffed the new blades of green grass kicking off their blanket of snow. Together we sprang from our own dark holes to welcome each sweet, bright spring day—me, Motl, from a cold, wet house that smelled of sourdough and medicine, and Menye from a dirty stall that smelled worse, a miserable hutch with crooked walls that let in the snow in winter and the rain in summer.

  Let loose in God’s world, we said our thank-you’s to Nature. I stretched both arms high, opened my mouth wide, and took such a gulp of fresh, warm air that I felt myself growing taller, shooting up and up into the deep blue skullcap of the sky with its wispy clouds and birds that flashed by and were gone with a twitter and a zoom. Without thinking I broke into a song finer than any prayer of my father’s. It had no words—no notes—no melody. It was as natural as a waterfall or the sound of the waves, a song of songs, a heavenly rhapsody:

  Oy-yoy, Tate!

  Oy-yoy, Father!

  Oy-yoy-yoy-yoy-yoy, God!

  That was my way of telling the world how I felt. Menye had his.

  First he nuzzled the ground with his wet, black nose. Then he pawed it three times with his front hoof, raised his tail high, leaped straight in the air, landed on all fours, and let out a muffled “moo.” It was such a funny sound that I had to laugh and make it myself. Menye seemed pleased by this, because he repeated the whole act, ending with the same four-legged jump. Naturally, I did the same, mooing and jumping like Menye. It could have gone on forever, a moo from Menye and a moo from me, a jump from me and a jump from Menye, if something didn’t land on my neck. It’s my brother Elye’s hand, all five fingers of it.

  “Just look at you, almost nine years old and dancing with a calf! Get into the house, you rascal! Papa will give it to you!”

  Bull! Papa isn’t giving me anything. Papa is sick. He hasn’t led a synagogue service since Simkhes Toyreh. All night he coughs. We sent for Dr. Blackwhiskers, the doctor with the big mustache and merry eyes. He’s a friendly man who calls me “Bellybutton” and tickles me in the stomach. He told my mother to take my father off potatoes and put him on clear broth and milk, a steady diet of clear broth and milk.

  My mother listened and covered her face with her shawl when he left. Her shoulders shook. After a while she wiped her eyes, called my brother Elye, and spoke to him in a whisper. They were arguing. My mother wanted Elye to go somewhere and Elye didn’t want to. He said loudly:

  “I�
�d rather go to my grave than to them! I’d sooner lie down and die.”

  “Bite your tongue, you savage! How can you say such a thing?”

  Although my mother spoke quietly, she clenched her teeth and shook a fist as though to knock Elye down. But soon she backed off and asked:

  “What should I do, son? We have to help your poor father.”

  “We’ll sell something,” my brother said, glancing at the glass cupboard.

  My mother glanced at it too. She said softly:

  “What is there to sell, our souls? That’s all we have left. You can’t be thinking of that empty cupboard.”

  “Why not?” Elye asked.

  “Murderer!” screamed my mother. “How did I raise my children to be such murderers?”

  She turned red, began to cry, dried her eyes again, and gave in. The same thing had happened with my father’s books; with the silver collar of his prayer shawl; with our two gold-plated kiddush cups; with her good silk dress; and with all the other things we had sold one by one, each to a different customer.

  The books went to Mikhl the book peddler, a man with a stringy beard that he’s always scratching. Elye had to go for him three times before he came. My mother cheered up at the sight of him and raised a finger to her lips. Mikhl understood the need for secrecy. He looked at the bookshelf, scratched his beard, and asked in a low voice:

  “Well, now, what do we have here?”

  My mother signaled me to fetch the books. I didn’t have to be asked twice. I jumped up so fast I crashed into the table and got a clout from Elye for behaving like a wild man. Elye went to the bookshelf and laid the books on the table. Mikhl leafed through them with one hand and scratched his beard with the other while pointing out what was wrong with each book. This one had a torn binding. That one was split in the back. A third had no value. When he had gone through every book, backs, bindings, and all, he gave his beard a scratch and said: