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

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

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.

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. You 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,

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