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

Well, off I went to send a telegram to my partner in Yarmilinitz as per agreement. The message was perfectly clear: Goods inspected first-class six thousand cable offer where do we meet. The answer arrived the next day — strangely phrased: Up ante ten gets half six suggest Zhmerinka cable back. Not understanding a word of it, I ran to my Moyshe-Nisl. He reads it and says: “What kind of Jew are you? It’s crystal clear! The man wants ten thousand for his three. You can write him back that he’s too smart for his own good. It’s double or nothing. And tell him,” he says, “that he’ll be beaten to it if he doesn’t get off his rear end.”

With that in mind I sent off a telegram: Double or nothing if not off rear end will be beaten. Back cables my Osher: Agree to half twice less one a bargain. Off I go to Moyshe-Nisl. “It’s crystal clear!” he says. “That means your partner’s client will put up half as much as I do minus a thousand rubles. In short, my ten gets his four. He’s a clever one, your father of the groom — he thinks he can take me for a ride. It’s time he learned he’s dealing with a businessman! My final offer,” he says, “is double plus a thousand. That means his four gets my nine, his five gets eleven, his six gets thirteen. Got that? Let him say, yes or no, if he has a mind to go ahead.”

I returned to the station and knocked off a telegram to Reb Osher: Four gets nine five eleven six thirteen say yes or no if he has a mind. Back comes a telegram: We’re on our way. Come.

This last telegram arrived during the night. I don’t have to tell you that I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept trying to calculate the profit I would make if, with God’s help, I found matches for Leybe Lebelski’s whole list. Surely, that wasn’t too much to ask of God! I had made up my mind that, if we clinched the deal, Reb Osher and I would become full-time partners. He seemed a fine fellow — and a successful one. Of course, I would give Lebelski a fair shake, too. Why shouldn’t I? The poor devil was a father with children to support just like me …

I rose early, said my prayers, and went to show my customers the telegram. Over coffee and rolls it was decided that the four of us would set out for Zhmerinka that same day. So as not to give away our secret, we arranged for me to take the early coach and the three of them to follow. That way I’d have a chance to find a good hotel and order us a decent dinner.

And so I did. I reached Zhmerinka in advance and found the best hotel, which happened to be the only one in town — a place called the Odessa Inn. Straightaway I had a talk with the innkeeper, a fine, hospitable lady. “What,” I asked, “do you have to eat?” “What would you like?” she says. “Do you have fish?” I ask. “Fish,” she says, “can be bought.” “How about soup?” I ask. “I can put one up,” she says. “With what?” I ask. “Rice or noodles?” “Even soup nuts, if you like,” she says. “Well, then,” I say, “how about a roast duck to go with it?” “Duck,” she says, “can be had for a price.” “And the drinks?” “What drinks would you like?” “Do you have beer?” “Why shouldn’t I have beer?” “And wine?” “Wine,” she says, “costs more than beer.” “Wine will be fine, my dear woman,” I say. “Please make us a dinner for eight.” “Eight?” she says. “I count one.” “You’re a strange one, you are!” I say. “What’s it to you? If I say eight, that makes eight.”

We’re still talking when in walks my partner Reb Osher. He hugs and kisses me like a father and says: “Something told me I’d find you at the Odessa Inn! How about some food?” “That’s already taken care of,” I say. “I’ve ordered dinner for eight.” “What does dinner have to do with it?” says Reb Osher. “Just because dinner is dinner, must we starve while we’re waiting for it? I can see,” he says, “that you know your way around here. Suppose you ask for a plate of meat and some vodka. I’m fearsomely faint from hunger!” And he steps into the kitchen to wash his hands, Reb Osher does, and tells the innkeeper what to bring.

Well, we tuck in at a table — and as we eat Reb Osher tells me he’s worked wonders by getting his customer up to three thousand. Why, splitting the Red Sea would be easier! “But what are you talking about?” I say. “What three thousand? Four was the minimum we settled on.” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I know what I’m about. Reb Osher is not my name for nothing! Let me tell you,” he says, “that if my customer had had his way he would have offered a grand total of zero, because he thinks his family tree should be enough. And his is nothing compared to his wife’s! They should be paid, they say, for the right to marry them. In short,” says Reb Osher, “I had to sweat blood to make him promise two thousand.” “Two thousand?” I say. “What two thousand? You just said three!” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I’m an older hand at this business than you are. Not for nothing am I called Reb Osher! Once our parties get together, God willing, and the boy and girl have a look at each other, there’ll be dancing in the streets. I’ve never lost a match yet over a thousand shmegaroos. That’s why my name is Reb Osher! There’s just one thing that’s bothering me.” “And what,” I ask, “might that be?” “It’s the draft,” he says. “I’ve told my customer that your rosy-cheeked youngster can thumb his nose at it because he has an exemption.” “Draft?” I say. “What kind of horsefeathers is that?” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says to me. “My name is Reb Osher!” “It can be Reb Osher eighteen times,” I say, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Draft, shmaft! What’s that have to do with my Moyshe-Nisl? Since when do girls go to the army?” “Girls?” says Reb Osher. “We’re talking about your Moyshe-Nisl’s boy!” “Since when,” I say, “does Moyshe-Nisl have a boy? His daughter is an only child.” “Do I correctly understand you to be saying,” says Reb Osher, “that you have brought a girl to this match just like I have? But how can that be? We specifically spoke about a boy.” “Of course we did,” I say. “And it was you who was bringing him.” “Just what,” says he, “made you think it was me? You should have let me know you had a girl!” “And I suppose you let me know!” I said. He blew his top at that, Reb Osher did, and said: “You know what, Menakhem-Mendl? If you’re a matchmaker, I’m a rabbi!” “And if you’re one,” I say, “I’m a rabbi’s wife!” We traded insults for a while—“Know-nothing!” “Liar!” “Moron!” “Glutton!” “Stumblebum!” “Boozer!”—until he hauled off and hit me and I grabbed his beard and gave it a yank. God Almighty, what a scene …

You can imagine how I felt. All the expense, the trouble, the time — the sheer disgrace of it! The whole town came running to see the grand partners who had met to marry off two girls. That blasted Reb Osher didn’t stick around for long. He took off and left me with the innkeeper and a dinner bill for eight. My luck was that I managed to slip away before the families arrived. I shudder to think of what happened when they did.

Well, go be a prophet and guess that a damned matchmaker who runs around sending telegrams and talking a blue streak is going to match one young lady with another! It’s simply no go, my dear wife. Even jumping in the river wouldn’t help. And as I’m in a wretched mood, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Tell the children, bless them, that I miss them and give your parents and everyone my fond greetings.