“Be well!”
“Have a good trip!”
“Write and tell us how you are!”
“The best of luck!”
“Don’t forget us!”
“A letter a week! Write at least once a week, for goodness’ sake!”
“Give our love to Moyshe, and Basye, and Meir, and Zlote, and Khaneh-Perl, and Soreh-Rokhl, and all their children!”
“We’ll be sure to! Take care! Be well!”
We all shout back from the wagon. We’re moving, I swear! Leyzer gives each of his eagles a crack of the whip. The wheels are turning. The wagon bumps and jolts. I jump with such joy I nearly fall off my seat. Something is tugging at my heart. I’m so happy I could sing. We’re off, off, off to America!
RUNNING THE BORDER
Traveling by train is a dream. Traveling by wagon wouldn’t be bad either if your ribs didn’t rattle so much. Leyzer’s eagles were really fast as lightning. By the time we reached the station we felt struck by it. No one could climb out under his own power.
I had the easiest time because I was next to the driver. Although the seat was so hard that all my bones ached, I jumped right down from it. That’s more than I can say for Elye, Brokheh, Pinye, Taybl, or my mother. The women were in a bad way. They had to be carried out one by one after unloading the linens. Leyzer did it himself.
He’s one mean cuss, Leyzer. Does he have a mouth! But he’s a good, faithful driver, even if he did throw us out of his wagon with all our things and leave us stranded in the station while he went off to look for a return fare.
Our first problem was the ticket agent. He made a fuss over our bundles. I mean it was more the pillows than the bundles. What was it to him how many we had? My mother tried talking to him nicely. She explained that we were going to America. The big oaf said that for all he cared, we could go somewhere else. I won’t repeat the word he used.
“The goy can be handled,” Elye said. “We’ll grease his palm.”
He said that to Pinye. Pinye is our leader. He’s our best brain and speaks Russian. He just happens to have a temper. So does Elye, but Pinye’s is hotter. He had a talk with the goy in Russian. In Jewish it went like this:
“Listen here, little man! A black year take you if we aren’t going to America with every last pillow and pillowcase. Here’s for a glass of vodka—and now shut your trap, you swine!”
Naturally, the goy didn’t want to. He called Pinye some names of his own. “Dog’s puss!” “Pig’s ear!” “Christ-killer!” “Jew’s ass!” We were afraid of a scene, even the police. My mother wrung her hands and said to Pinye:
“Who asked you to open your big mouth?”
“Relax,” Pinye said. “The goy will settle for an apology and half a ruble.”
And so he did. Both men apologized. Pinye kept talking a blue streak in Russian and the goy kept cursing like all get-out and carried our things into a big hall with high windows called the waiting room.
That’s when the real fun started. The goy said we wouldn’t be allowed on the train with so many pillows and rags. (He must have meant the quilts. I ask you: just because the lining is torn and a bit of padding is falling out, does that make a quilt a rag?) We had to talk to the stationmaster. Who did? Why, Pinye of course.
Pinye went with the goy to the stationmaster. I tagged along. With the stationmaster Pinye took a different tack. He waved his hands and tried to sound reasonable. I’ve never heard such crazy words in all my life. Columbus …Civilization …Alexander von Humboldt …Slonimski …Mathematics …I can’t even remember them all. Pinye must have won the argument, because the stationmaster didn’t answer back. A lot of good it did, though. We had to put our pillows in the baggage car and take a stub for them. My mother was beside herself. What were we going to sleep on?
My mother needn’t have worried. There was nowhere to sleep. There was nowhere even to sit. The car was so crowded you could hardly breathe. There were lots of passengers besides us, Jews and Christians, all fighting for a place. Because of the pillows we arrived at the last minute and barely found room on the floor for the women and bundles. My mother sat at one end of the car and Brokheh and Taybl at the other. They had to shout the whole length of it. That made everyone laugh. Elye and Pinye were left hanging in the air. Pinye is so blind that he kept bouncing off the other passengers.
I was fine. In fact, I was terrific. Despite the crush, I found a window to stand by. What didn’t I see through it! Houses, trees, people, fields, forests, all whizzing by. I can’t begin to describe it all. You should have seen that train fly! You should have heard those wheels turn! And the smoke! And the whistles! And the chug of the locomotive!
My mother was afraid I’d fall out the window. “Motl?” she kept screaming. “Motl!” A young toff with blue sunglasses made fun of her. “Motl?” he screamed in the same singsong. “Motl!” He had the Christians rolling in the aisles. The Jews pretended not to hear. It bothered my mother as much as last year’s snow. She only screamed “Motl? “Motl!” even louder. Then she wanted me to eat something. We had all kinds of good things: radishes and onions and garlic and cucumbers and hard-boiled eggs, a whole egg for each of us. I hadn’t feasted like that in ages.
The only spoiler was Pinye. Pinye had to stick up for the Jews. He didn’t like the Christians laughing at the way we ate garlic with our onions. He stood up straight and told the toff in Russian:
“I suppose eating pig is better!”
That made those Christians mad. One of them blew his stack. He hauled off and let loose with such an uppercut that Pinye’s head rang like a bell. Pinye isn’t the type to take that lying down. He threw two punches back. Being blind, he hit the wrong man. Luckily the conductor came along. What a scene! Everyone was shouting. The Jews blamed the Christians: a Christian had crushed a Jew’s toe with a suitcase. A Christian had thrown a Jew’s hat out the window. The Christians said it was a lie: the Jews were making it up. But the Jews had witnesses—Christian ones. One was even a priest. A priest, said the Jews, doesn’t lie. That’s only, said the Christians, because we had bribed him not to. The priest stood up and gave a speech.
Meanwhile a few more stations went by. Some passengers got off at each. The car began to empty out. Pretty soon our women were sitting on a bench with all their bundles just like princesses. The best seats were Elye’s and Pinye’s. We were having a fine old time when Taybl noticed that Pinye’s cheek was swollen. Pinye swore he didn’t feel a thing. That is, his cheek hurt but it was nothing. Pinye doesn’t like to talk about such things. He’d rather ask the other passengers where they’re going. Some said to America. America? A celebration!
“For heaven’s sake,” Pinye said, “why keep it a secret? We’re going to America too.” Pretty soon we were friends. Everyone knew where everyone came from and was bound for.
“You’re going to New York? We’re off to Philadelphia.”
“What’s Philadelphia?”
“A city like New York.”
“Hold on there! Comparing Philadelphia to New York is like comparing Eishishok to Vilna! Otvotsk to Warsaw! Drazhne to Odessa! Semyonevke to Petersburg!”
“My, my! A person might think you’ve been everywhere.”
“You bet I have! I can tell you every place I’ve been in.”
“You’ll have to wait until I can take the day off. Right now, tell me, all of you: how are we going to run the border?”
“You’ll run it the same as us, the same as everyone.”
They all went into a huddle to talk about running the border. I wasn’t sure what that meant. How fast could my mother run? But there was no one to ask. Not my mother, because what does a woman know? And not Elye, because he doesn’t like being pestered. (A boy like me, he says, should mind his own business.) And not Pinye, because he was too busy talking. So was everyone. Everyone was telling everyone some story about a border. One man says the best border to run is Novoselitz. Another says you can’t beat Brody. Says a third, “Ungeny’
s not bad either.” That brought down the house. “Ungeny! You call that a border? Next you’ll tell us Rumania is a country! You can have the damn place!”
“Hey! It looks like we’re at the border now …”
I had always thought a border looked special. Not at all. The town we were in had the same houses, the same Jews, the same Christians, even the same marketplace with the same stores and stands as Kasrilevke.
Brokheh and Taybl went to shop in the market. My mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight. Maybe she thought I would run the border without her. Elye and Pinye went off to talk to two strangers.
My mother said the strangers were called agents. That meant they would run the border with us. They didn’t look like they could run very fast. One had a green overcoat, a white umbrella, and eyes like a thief ’s. The other was better quality with a top hat. A third person, a woman, played peekaboo behind them. She was all pious-and-respectable-like and wore a wig. She kept dropping God’s name as though they were best friends and asked my mother where we planned to spend the Sabbath.
My mother said we would be across the border by then. “Amen!” the woman answered with a long face. “God grant it!” She was only afraid, she said, that we were being taken for a ride. The agents we were dealing with, she said, were no better than thieves. They would walk off with our money and leave us high and dry. If we wanted to run the border, she said, we should run it with her. With her, she said, it would be a breeze. Search me how she planned to run with that big wig.
By now Elye and Pinye were back. They looked pretty down in the mouth. It seems the two of them had quarreled. Each was blaming the other for having to spend the Sabbath in this place. And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that the two agents were threatening to rat on us. The next thing I know my mother is crying and Elye is scolding her for ruining her eyes. Because of her eyes, he says, we’ll never make it to America!
Elye and Pinye have broken off talks with the agents. “We’ve changed our minds,” they told them. “We’re not going to America after all.” Was I depressed! I mean I thought it was true. But it was only a trick. Leave it to Pinye. He told the agents a fib to get rid of them while negotiating with the woman. She took an advance and told us to be ready tonight. The night will be dark and moonless. That’s the best time for running the border. I can’t wait to see how you run it.
We spent all day arranging our things. Everything had to be repacked and left with the woman. She’ll send it across the border after us. People, she says, come first with her. Then she gave us instructions. At midnight, she said, we should walk out of town until we come to a hill. At the hill we turn left and walk as far as the next hill. At the next hill we turn right and walk some more to a tavern. We wait there while one of us goes inside. There’ll be two Christians drinking vodka at a table. The password is “Kaimove”—that’s their name. As soon as they hear it, they’ll come with us and lead us to a forest.
“Four more Christians,” the woman said, “will be waiting for you in the forest. Wake them up if they’re asleep. Apart from that you mustn’t make a sound. Anyone hearing you will shoot. There are soldiers everywhere. The four men will lead you downhill through the forest until you’re on the other side.”
Hills, taverns, forests—it sounded pretty grand to me. My mother was afraid. So were Brokheh and Taybl. We men laughed at them. A woman is scared of a cat.
The summer sun set. We said the evening prayer, ate our dinner, and waited for it to get good and dark. At the stroke of midnight we set out, all six of us.
The men went first. My mother, Brokheh, and Taybl followed as usual. The woman with the wig had given good directions. We left town, came to a hill, turned left, came to another hill, turned right, and reached a tavern. One of us went inside. Who? Pinye, of course. We waited half an hour, an hour, two hours—no Pinye. Brokheh and Taybl wanted someone to look for him. Who? Elye, of course. My mother didn’t like the idea. “Then I’ll go,” I said. She liked that even less.
But here’s Pinye! “Where have you been?” “In the tavern.” “Where are the Christians?” “Asleep.” “Why didn’t you wake them?” “Who says I didn’t?” “Why didn’t you give them the password?” “Who says I didn’t?” “And?” “And nothing.” “But that’s not good.” “Who says it is?”
Elye had a brainy idea. He and Pinye would enter the tavern together and try waking the Christians. Two are better than one.
That’s what they did. Half an hour later they all came out. The two Christians looked still asleep. They were drunk and cursed to wake the dead. The women were scared out of their wits. You could tell by how they sighed and groaned. Every minute my mother said “Oh, God, please” in a tiny voice.
We walked on. Where were the men waiting in the forest? Suddenly the Christians stopped in their tracks and asked how much money we had. We were too terrified to say a word. My mother was the first to find her tongue. We had no money, she said. “You’re lying!” said the men. “All Jews have money.” They took out two long knives, waved them in front of us, and said: “Fork up or we’ll slit your throats!” We stood there like dumb, frightened lambs until my mother told Elye to open his secret pocket and hand over the money.
That’s when Brokheh went and fainted. My mother saw her and screamed, “Help!” Taybl heard my mother and screamed too. A second later—rat-a-tat-tat! Shots echoed through the forest. The two men took off on the run. Brokheh picked herself up. My mother grabbed me by one hand and my brother Elye by the other and shouted:
“Run, boys! The God of Israel be with you!”
So this was running the border! Where did she get the strength from? We kept tripping over tree roots and falling. Each time we got up and ran some more. My mother turned around and asked in her tiny voice:
“Pinye, are you running? Brokheh, are you running? Taybl, are you running? Run, run, the God of Israel is with us!”
I can’t tell you how long we ran. The forest was already behind us. Dawn was breaking. We were sweating like mad, even though a cool breeze was blowing. We came to a street. Another street. A white church. Gardens. Yards. Little houses.
A Jew was coming toward us, driving a goat. He had the longest earlocks I’ve ever seen, a long, tatty gabardine, and a green shawl around his neck. We stopped to say hello. He stared at us. Pinye struck up a conversation. The Jew had a strange way of talking. I mean he talked our language, but he didn’t talk it like we do. Pinye asked if we were near the border. “What border?” the Jew asked. It seemed the border was far behind us.
“In that case, why are we running like lunatics?” So Pinye said, sounding like a different Pinye. He turned around, squared his shoulders, made a finger, and shouted in Russian:
“Take that, you lousy Ivans!”
We all began to laugh like mad. The women laughed so hard they collapsed on the ground. My mother raised both her arms. “Thank you, dear, dear God,” she said, and burst out crying.
WE’RE IN BRODY!
Would you like to know where we are? Smack in the middle of Brody! That means we’re getting near America. It’s a fine place, Brody is. You don’t see such streets and people back home. Even the Jews are different. I mean they’re the same Jews, they’re just more so. Their earlocks are longer, their hats are weirder, their gabardines have belts and hang to the ground, their shoes have no socks, and their women wear fancy wigs. And you should hear them speak German—I tell you, that takes the cake! They say beheimeh instead of beheymeh and sheigetz instead of sheygetz. And the way they sing their words! A person might think they were chanting the Torah.
We got the hang of it pretty quick. Pinye was the quickest. He was talking perfect German in no time. He says that’s because he studied it back home. But Elye says he never studied a word and picked it up just as well. I’m learning it too. The only one who doesn’t cotton to it is Brokheh. She goes on speaking Jewish. She’s on the slow side, Brokheh is.
My mother doesn’t want to speak Ge
rman either. She says she wants to talk the way she’s used to. Why twist her tongue for no good reason? She has it in for German. Back in Kasrilevke, she says, she thought all Jews who spoke it were honest. Now she sees that the German Jews are no saints. One even shortchanged her in the market. It seems you can be a thief in German too.
Brokheh joins the conversation. “I’ll say you can! Why, each is a worse thief than the next! At least back home we knew the thieves were Christians.”
“Back home, my dear, the Christians knew it too.”
My mother has a story about that. We had a Christian neighbor named Khimke, a fine woman and a thief like all her kind. If she came to visit and my mother left the room, Khimke made sure to leave it too. That’s how afraid she was of stealing if left alone.
Everything is different with the Germans. Even their money is different. They’ve never heard of kopecks and rubles. They have groschen and schillings. One ruble is worth a bunch of groschen. My mother calls them “buttons” and says they aren’t real money. Elye says they melt like snow between your fingers. He goes off each day to a corner, unstitches his secret pocket, takes out a ruble, and sews the pocket back up. The next day he opens it again and takes out another ruble.
The days go by and our baggage hasn’t arrived. It looks like the woman who ran us across the border has pulled a fast one. First her pals stick us up in the forest and now we’re stuck without our things. My mother wrings her hands and cries: “Our pillows! Our quilts! How will we go to America without them?”
Pinye has an idea. He’s going to file, he says, a zayavlenye, which is a protest, with a proshenye, which is a petition, to the natshalnik, who is the commander of the border post. Or else he’ll cross the border himself and find the woman with the wig. He’ll make her rue the day she was born. He’ll give her what for, Pinye will.
The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son Page 22