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

Pinye came to tell Elye a secret. I can’t hear about a secret without wanting to find out what it is. I’d find out every secret in the world if I could. I eavesdropped and here’s what I heard:

Pinye: How much longer are we going to hang around here?

Elye: That’s just what I ask myself.

Pinye: I read about a fellow who lit out with nothing but the shirt on his back. For half a year he slept in the streets and went hungry.

Elye: And then?

Pinye: We should only have his luck.

Elye: You don’t say!

Pinye: Today Rothschild is a pauper next to him.

Elye: Is that a fact?

Pinye: You bet it is! Would I pull your leg? I’ve talked things over with Taybl.

Elye: What does she say?

Pinye: What should she say? She’s ready to come with me.

Elye: She is? And your father-in-law?

Pinye: Who’s asking him? Would he be happier if I left Taybl behind? You can see I’m itching to go. I can’t waste another day here.

Elye: You think I can?

Pinye: Then let’s take off.

Elye: With what?

Pinye: The ship tickets cost nothing, you dope.

Elye: What do you mean, nothing?

Pinye: You pay in installments. That’s nothing.

Elye: But what about getting to the ship? There are railroad tickets, all kinds of expenses.

Pinye: How many tickets do we need?

Elye: You tell me. How many?

Pinye: It’s simple arithmetic. Taybl and me makes two. Brokheh and you makes four.

Elye: And my mother.

Pinye: That’s five.

Elye: And Motl.

Pinye: Motl can travel half fare. Maybe even for free. We’ll say he’s under six.

Elye: Are you crazy?

I couldn’t keep quiet a second longer and jumped for joy. The two of them turned and saw me.

“Beat it, you pest! Can’t you see this is an adult conversation?”

I took off on the run, jumping and slapping my legs. Just imagine: me, a traveler! Ships …trains …tickets …half fares! Where were we going? Who cared! What difference did it make? Somewhere — that’s all that mattered! I had never gone anywhere in my life. I had no idea what traveling was like.

Of course, that’s a bit of an exaggeration because I did once take a ride on the neighbor’s goat. I paid for it by falling off and getting a bloody nose and a whipping. But I wouldn’t exactly call that traveling.

I walk around in a fog. I’ve lost my appetite. Every night I dream of traveling. In my dreams I have wings and can fly. Hurrah for Pinye! I think a thousand times more of him now. I would kiss him if I weren’t embarrassed. What a Pinye Pinye is!

Didn’t I tell you he was a quick thinker?

We’re off to America! Where is that? Don’t ask me. I only know it’s far away. It takes forever to get there. You have to reach a place called Ella’s Island where they take off your clothes and look at your eyes. If your eyes are all right, come right in! If they’re not, you can go back to where you came from.

I’d say my eyes were pretty good. The only trouble they ever gave me was when some boys from school ganged up on me and blew snuff in them. Did they catch it from Elye! Since then I’ve had perfect vision. The problem, Elye says, is my mother. Who knows what all that crying has done to her eyes? She hasn’t stopped since my father died. Elye tells her:

“For the love of God! Think of the living, too. They’ll send us back because of your eyes.”

“Don’t be silly,” my mother says. “I’m not doing it on purpose. The tears come by themselves.”

That’s what she says, my mother, wiping her eyes with her apron and going over to the pillows by the wall. She’s redoing them all. America, it seems, has everything but pillows. It beats me how anyone sleeps there. They must get headaches all the time.

Brokheh is giving her a hand. I don’t mean to boast, but we have a lot of linens. Not counting the bedspreads, there are three big pillows and four babies. My mother is making the babies into another big one. That’s too bad because I like the babies better. Some mornings I play with them. They make a fine hat or even a cake.

“When we get to America, God willing, we’ll turn them back into babies.”

So my mother says, showing Brokheh what to do. Brokheh would rather stay put. It’s hard for her to leave her parents. Had anyone told her a year ago that she would be going to America, she would have laughed in his face.

“And if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be a widow …”

My mother starts to cry. Elye loses his temper.

“There you go again! You’ll be the ruin of us!”

As if that weren’t enough, along comes our neighbor Pesye, sees us working on the pillows, and hands us a sob story of her own:

“So you’re really going to America? God speed you and bring you happiness! He’s capable of anything, God is. Look at my only daughter Rivl, who went to America with her husband Hilye. They write that they’re breaking their backs and making a living. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve asked them to send us a long letter with all the whats, whys, and wherefores. All they ever write is: ‘America is a country for everyone. You break your back and make a living …’ But who am I to complain? I should be thankful they write at all. At first there wasn’t so much as a howdy-do. We thought they had sunk to the bottom of the sea. Then at long last comes a letter saying, thank God, they’re in America. They’re breaking their backs and making a living…. Well, I suppose that’s something to knock your brains out and redo all the pillows and travel across the ocean for!”

“I’m asking you for the last time. Stop being a wet blanket!”

That’s from my brother Elye. Pesye turns on him.

“A wet blanket? Still wet behind the ears, you are — and such a smart one! He’s going to America to break his back and make a living! To think of all the times I nursed you, held you in my arms, took care of you …Why don’t you ask your mother about the fish bone you swallowed one Friday night as a boy? If not for the three good whacks I gave you on your back, you couldn’t break it in America now.”

Pesye would have gone on if my mother hadn’t calmed her: “Please, Pesye darling! Pesye dear! Dearest Pesye, please be strong!”

She started to cry again. Elye hit the ceiling. He threw down the pillow he was holding, ran outside, and yelled as he slammed the door:

“To hell with it all!”

Our house is empty. It looks deserted. The little room is full of bundles and bedclothes. They’re piled to the ceiling. When no one is looking I climb to the top and sled down. Life has never been so good.

We’ve stopped cooking. For our meals Elye brings a dried fish and an onion from the market. What could be better than fish with onions?

Sometimes Pinye eats with us. He has more on his mind than ever. It doesn’t stop working for a second. Going to America has made a nervous wreck of him. That’s what my mother says. One pants leg is too high and one sock is too low. His necktie hangs every which way. He bumps his head each time he enters the house. My mother tells him:

“Pinye, bend over! You don’t realize how tall you’ve gotten.”

“He’s nearsighted, Mama.”

That’s Elye’s excuse for him. The two of them have gone off to finish the paperwork on the house. We sold our half of it to Zilye the tailor long ago. But don’t expect a quick closing from a tailor. What a wafflehead that Zilye is!

First he starts coming three times a day to look at the house. He taps the walls, he smells the stove, he crawls into the attic, he looks at the roof. Then he brings his wife — Menye is her name. Just the sight of her makes me laugh. Pesye’s calf was called Menye too, and this Menye reminds me of that one. Menye the calf had a white face with big, round eyes and so does the tailor’s wife.