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

by Sholem Aleichem

  Pinye and America were friends again.

  In all the commotion no one had noticed that one of us was missing. That was my friend Mendl. The first to realize it was Brokheh. She clapped her head and said:

  “Oh my God! Where is Teeny?”

  “Lord almighty!” cried my mother. We jumped up to look for him, but Mendl was nowhere to be found. He might as well have fallen overboard.

  Later we learned it was his own fault. He had been tripped up in the questioning. At first he played deaf and dumb the way he had in Germany. Then he talked a lot of malarkey. One minute he said he was ten, the next thirteen, and the next he broke down and told the truth—which was that he was lost. That is, his parents had lost him in Germany and we had adopted him. He didn’t even know their address. Not that he was asking for any favors. He would find them himself. He knew what they looked like and he would recognize them.

  Now Mendl was being held in a room with some other boys who would all be sent back to Europe.

  As soon as we heard the news, we rallied to Mendl’s side. My mother raised a cry. The immigration officials, she said, would be responsible for making Mendl an orphan. What would they tell his parents when they met them?

  “Take a deep breath,” advised the tailor from Heysen. “You’re not out of the woods yet yourselves.”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Haman again!” Pinye declared. He looked about to go for the tailor’s throat. The tailor pretended not to notice. You would think he had been asked to give a public address, the way he piled stone after stone on our hearts with each trouble ahead that he listed. First, he said, we would be asked the names of friends and acquaintances. Then we would have to shell out money for telegrams and wait for them to come. We wouldn’t be released until they vouched for us and signed a guarantee.

  Naturally, Pinye exploded. With a glance at Elye he asked the tailor how come he was such an expert on Ella’s Island. The tailor replied that he was an expert because he had met an emigrant aboard ship who had been to America three times.

  He must have meant the old sea hand. He’s picked up all kinds of tidbits from him. He can even speak English and is already half an American. “Tshikn”—“kitshn”—“shuggeh”—“misteh”—“butsheh”—“bridzh”: those are just some of the words he knows. He won’t tell us what they mean, though. He says we’ll have to find out for ourselves. Pinye waved a hand and walked away as if to say: “Let the dog bark if it wants to.”

  Don’t think that tailor from Heysen didn’t know what he was talking about. He had it right down to the last detail. After getting the third degree from the doctors, we were asked who we knew in America. “Who don’t we?” my mother answered, eager to list all our friends and acquaintances. She’s a pleasure to look at now that they’ve let her in. She glows like a young woman. I haven’t seen her this way in ages.

  My brother Elye interrupted. He should do the talking, he said, because he had the addresses written on a piece of paper. That made Pinye declare that the officials wanted names, not addresses. Brokheh cut Pinye short. Both the names and addresses, she told him, belonged to our friends, not his. Pinye got sore. “Since when are Fat Pesye and Moyshe the bookbinder more your friends than mine?” he wanted to know. “I don’t give a damn about Pesye,” Brokheh said. “I’m talking about my father, Yoyneh the baker.”

  Elye was right. They wanted addresses, not names. The fun and games began all over again.

  Naturally, when it comes to reading addresses Pinye thinks he’s a world beater. He grabbed the paper from Elye, plastered it to his nose, and read aloud like a chanting rabbi. No one understood a word, especially since it all came out backwards. Elye snatched the paper back and handed it to a Shiny Buttons. The Shiny Buttons looked at it and said: “Awl reit.” No one knew what that meant except the tailor from Heysen. Awl, he explained, meant everything and reit meant to write. In short, everything was written on the paper.

  We shelled out change for two telegrams. One went to Moyshe and Pesye and the other to Yoyneh. Then we sat down to breakfast. The food wasn’t so hot. Brokheh said the tea could be eaten with a soup spoon. Still, it was free. Everything is free on Ella’s Island. At least we weren’t waiting on an empty stomach.

  Waiting was easier said than done. Our eyes were falling out by the time we saw our first acquaintances. They were Pesye and Moyshe. I mean we didn’t exactly see them, because we were in detention. We were told that a fat woman and her husband had come for us. It was maddening not to see them while they were being grilled outside. Someone suggested bribing a guard to have a look. Pinye said America wasn’t Russia. In America, he said, there were no bribes. “When it comes to bribes,” said the tailor from Heysen (there was nowhere that man didn’t turn up), “America and Russia are the same town. The rabbis say that money can even buy a father for a bastard.” For once Pinye had no answer.

  The tailor from Heysen was right again. It cost us a kvawdeh, which are four to a dahleh, to get to see Pesye through some bars. She smiled at us with her sweaty face and double chin and my mother bobbed her head back. They both had tears in their eyes. Moyshe the bookbinder peered out from behind Pesye’s broad back. He had on a real hat instead of his old workman’s cap.

  A minute later Yoyneh the baker turned up, looking as ornery as ever. He hadn’t changed a bit except for his beard, which—lord-a-mercy!—was gone. Riveleh-Chemise was there too. We wanted to shout hello, to hug, to kiss, to ask all kinds of questions. I was dying to hear about Bumpy and the rest of the gang, and about Brokheh’s little sister Alte. (You may remember we were engaged.)

  Go sue! We’re still in detention. All we can do is look through the bars like prisoners or animals in the zoo.

  I feel sorry for Pinye. He can’t look us in the eye. It’s a bad day for America. The way he goes around moping, you might think America was his personal property. He’s so mad that he’s begun a poem that goes:

  I sure would like to see in hell a

  Stinker by the name of Ella.

  That made my brother sore because Ella sounds like Elye. Pretty soon he and Pinye were fighting. Then Brokheh got into the act with one of her sayings. “There’s no need to show a beaten dog the stick,” she said. Don’t ask me what that means.

  AN OCEAN OF TEARS

  Even without all the tears cried by my mother since my father died and we started wandering, you would think we had enough problems of our own. But no, she has to cry for the rest of Ella’s Island too! Every minute there’s a new sob story. My mother takes each one to heart. She wrings her hands, buries her face in them, and weeps to herself.

  “You have no cause, Mama,” Elye says.

  I agree. What’s there to cry about? Our homeless days are over. We’ve made it across the ocean. In an hour or two we’ll be free men in America.

  But how can she resist? All the misery around her is like an ocean of tears.

  I could talk all day and night and not get to the end of the hard luck we’ve seen on Ella’s Island.

  For instance, here’s a case for you. A family of six, two parents and four children, are being held in detention. How come? Because one of the children, a twelve-year-old girl, can’t count backwards. Although she said “twelve” when asked how old she was, she couldn’t say how old she was a year ago. “Count from one to twelve,” she was told. She did. “Now count from twelve to one.” She couldn’t. Ask me and I’d have breezed right through it: twelveeleventennineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone. Big deal! But they won’t let that poor girl into America.

  Her family is taking it hard. Their suffering could break a heart of stone. The mother stares at her daughter and sobs. Brokheh and Taybl can’t stop wiping their eyes.

  Or how about this one. There was a woman with us named Tsivye. Her husband had disappeared, ditched her long ago. She sent letters trying to trace him and heard one day that he was in Sinsineteh. That’s a city in America. Well, off she goes to look for him. Aboard ship she’s told that when she gets to
New York she should find someone to say he’s her husband. That way they’ll let her in.

  The advice came from my old sea hand—I’ve told you about him. The tailor from Heysen put in his two cents too. The old sea hand arranged for a friend in New York to pretend to be the woman’s husband. But during the questioning the swindle came to light. The friend turned out to have another wife and was no more Tsivye’s husband than I’m her uncle.

  I’m telling you, was there a scene! All Ella’s Island was up in arms. It gave Pinye a chance to settle scores with the tailor from Heysen. He couldn’t pass up a dig:

  “Well, Mr. Needle Pusher, didn’t I tell you America wasn’t Russia? In America there’s no monkeying around. God bless Columbus!”

  Did Pinye catch it from my mother! Brokheh gave it to him even worse. Even Taybl let him have it. They all but scratched his eyes out for laughing at such heartache. My mother treated Tsivye like a sister just to put Pinye in his place. But they’ll send her back to Europe all the same. Her phony husband is in for it too. They’re both in detention. My mother is beside herself.

  And then there’s the young wife, all peaches and cream, on her way to join a husband in Bawstin. She was traveling with a child as pretty as a picture, a curly-haired little girl named Ketzeleh. I mean that was the nickname given her by her grandmother. Her real name was Keyleh. She could run and talk and sing and dance even though she wasn’t three years old. The Prince Albert was full of children, but Ketzeleh was the favorite. Everyone wanted to kiss her, hug her, play with her. Ketzeleh, come here! Ketzeleh, come to me!

  Ketzeleh’s mother practically became one of our family. She never left my mother’s side. She told us her whole story and read us the letters her husband had written her. She hadn’t seen him for over three years. He had never seen his own daughter. He dreamed day and night of her, thought only of seeing his Ketzeleh.

  At this point in the story Ketzeleh’s mother always broke into tears, my mother wiped her eyes, and I laughed, took Ketzeleh in my arms, and fed her pieces of apple and orange. I put them in her mouth and kissed her tiny warm fingers and she laughed back and stroked me with her little velvet hands.

  If only I had had a box of paints! I would have painted Ketzeleh with her silky curls, her pretty blue eyes, and her face of an angel. My friend Mendl laughed at me for spending so much time with a china doll. I swear, that’s what he called her.

  Well, we’re almost in America when Ketzeleh goes and gets sick. She …but it gives me the shivers just to think of it. That little girl took part of me with her when she went. I can’t talk about it. I don’t want to tell you what they did with her body. I’ll just tell you about her mother on Ella’s Island.

  She didn’t cry. She had the same glassy stare for everyone. She didn’t answer when she was spoken to. It seemed she’d gone out of her mind. Now they’re sending her back. My mother is moving heaven and earth for her. My brother Elye can’t take it any more. He’s had a bellyful of her tears. Pinye must be hiding. You don’t see him anywhere.

  Don’t think it’s only us Jews who have a hard time on Ella’s Island. Plenty of Christians do too. There was a gang of Italians with us on the Prince Albert, all wearing corduroy pants and wooden shoes. They sounded like a herd of horses when they walked. They were fine fellows, all of them, and crazy about us. They even had their own name for me. Piccolo Bambino, they called me and gave me nuts and raisins from their pockets. You bet I didn’t mind. I couldn’t talk to them because they knew as much Jewish as I know Italian, but I liked listening to them talk to each other. They hit their “r”s real hard. Buona serrrra! Mia carrrra! Prrrrego, signore!

  Well, as luck would have it, one of them blurted out something dumb during the questioning. He told the truth, which was that they were coming to work for a bridge contractor who had signed them up in London. In America, it seems, that’s not allowed. Now they’re being sent back to Italy. They go around talking with their hands and buzzing their “r”s: Santa Marrrria! It doesn’t do any good. We all feel sorry for them. They have tears in their own eyes, too.

  Mazel tov! There’s a wedding on Ella’s Island. Who’s the lucky couple? Wait and I’ll tell you.

  The bride is from Chudnov, an orphan called Leah, a lovely, dark-haired, sweet-tempered girl. She spent the whole voyage with Brokheh and Taybl. The three of them were always together. They told me she was traveling by herself and didn’t know a soul in America. She had worked from childhood on, managed to save some money, and decided to emigrate. Chudnov was not for her. Her father was killed in a pogrom and her mother died of sorrow, leaving her on her own. But she could sew and stitch and knit and iron—she had golden hands, my mother said. Everyone felt sure she would do well in America. They were sure she would find a husband there, too. The best! Leah blushed and lowered her eyes when they talked about that.

  Leah’s problem was that she had no one in America to vouch for her. And a husband was available on the Prince Albert. His name was Leyzer Bach and he was a carpenter on his way to an uncle in Chicago. Leyzer was a big, clumsy fellow with blond hair and thick lips, but I liked him because of his songs. He has a beautiful voice. And since he had an uncle to vouch for him, it was decided that he should marry Leah. Need I add that the suggestion came from my friend, the old sea hand?

  That’s what they did. When questioned at immigration, Leyzer said he was Leah’s husband and Leah said she was Leyzer’s wife. You would think that would do it, wouldn’t you? But they’re on to such games at Ella’s Island. A husband and wife need a marriage certificate. Leah cried her heart out. “Don’t be silly,” she was told. “You’ll get a divorce in New York and be the same Leah you always were.”

  But what if Leyzer didn’t agree to divorce her? And on the other hand, was being sent back any better? In short, the two had a wedding. A sad one, without any music. But it did have a real rabbi and real tears. Lots of them. A whole ocean.

  Only one person is satisfied. Would you like to guess who it is? It’s the tailor from Heysen. He’s had his revenge. Now everyone knows he knows best. Each time he walks past us, he strokes his beard and looks at Pinye through his snazzy glasses. But Pinye keeps cool. He sticks his long nose in a book and ignores him. Pinye doesn’t give a damn.

  Between our own and other people’s troubles, it’s hard to get excited about being in America. All we’ve seen and heard on Ella’s Island has worn us out. Now we stand staring at the big noisy city in the distance.

  Would you like to know what we’re like? A flock of sheep huddled in a field by some railroad tracks and staring at the trains that rush by and vanish! I could kick myself for not having a pencil and paper to draw us and the rest of Ella’s Island. Some people sit on their bundles, moaning and groaning. Others keep their sorrows to themselves. Or else cry buckets. Whole oceans of tears.

  ON SOLID GROUND

  If you’ve never been at sea for ten days and locked up on Ella’s Island with every conceivable human misery, you don’t know what it’s like to be on solid ground again.

  It felt so good that I could have done three somersaults if not for my brother Elye. But even a mope like Elye looked reborn. “I can’t believe we’re in America!” he declared, rubbing his hands. “Praise be,” my mother said with a look at the sky. She let out a sigh. “The living have lived to see the day. The dead are with the dead.”

  She was thinking of my father. There’s no place or time she forgets.

  Pinye is delirious. I hate to say it, but he’s gone clean off his rocker. He stood facing the ocean, raised his right hand in a fist, and delivered a speech:

  “Now hear this, all you bums, jackasses, drunkards, hooligans, and Jew-hating bastards! We want to thank you for having arrived in this freest, happiest of lands! Without your persecutions and pogroms we would never have heard of Columbus or Columbus of us! You’ll have a long wait before you see us again! You’ll see the back of your own ears first! One day you’ll realize there was a people called the Jews whom
you didn’t know how to appreciate! You’ll come to a bad end like Spain when it expelled us! You’ll howl like homeless dogs! You’ll long for us! You’ll offer to pay gold for each Jew, you’ll beg us to come back! Like hell we will, do you hear me?”

  Who knows how long Pinye might have kept it up if Yoyneh the bagel maker hadn’t laid a hand on his shoulder and said:

  “Pinye, for crying out loud! Who are you talking to, the stones? Come on, we’ll miss the ferry. Do you want to spend another night on Ella’s Island?”

  We took our bundles and headed for the ferry.

  But it wasn’t as quick as all that. You’ve probably forgotten that someone was left behind—my friend Mendl. The officials refused to release him and we weren’t going anywhere without him. My mother said she could never have a good night’s sleep in America if Mendl was sent back to be an orphan.

  Our luck was running into an outfit called Hakhnoses Orkhim. That’s “Hospitality” in Jewish. It had a representative on Ella’s Island, a fine, friendly fellow we were told to see. Right away we told him about Mendl. Naturally, we were all talking at once. He made us stop and choose a single speaker.

  We fought for a while and chose Brokheh. Why Brokheh? Because neither Elye nor Pinye can resist interrupting each other and my mother talks pretty well but too much. She can’t say a thing without beginning from the creation of the world: how I had a father, and how his name was Peysi, and on and on. No one could expect the Hakhnoses Orkhim man to sit through all that, and so we asked Brokheh to get to the point. As Moyshe the bookbinder likes to say: “Just sign on the dotted line.”

  Brokheh told Mendl’s story in a nutshell and the man from Hakhnoses Orkhim got to work. He ran off somewhere, came back, and ran off again. It wasn’t easy, but the second time he came back with Mendl.

  The man from Hakhnoses Orkhim took Mendl by the ear and gave him a talking to. “Listen here, young fellow,” he said. “We’re vouching for your good conduct. That means you’re in our custody for the next two years. We intend to keep an eye on you. Step over the line and you go back to where you came from!” He wrote down our names and those of our friends and acquaintances and all our addresses, and we were free to go where we pleased and do what we wanted.