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

We would have left Vienna long ago if not for the Alliance. Who’s the Alliance? I can’t rightly tell you. All I know is that everyone talks about him. The emigrants are mad at him. They say he isn’t doing enough. The Alliance, they say, has no pity. They say he doesn’t like Jews. Elye and Pinye go see him every day. They come back sweating as though from a steam bath.

“The Alliance should burn,” Elye says.

“Like a candle!” says Pinye.

“I’ll talk to the Alliance myself,” my mother says, taking me by the hand.

We all went together: my mother and me and Elye and Pinye and Brokheh and Taybl. I pictured the Alliance with a beard, a long black coat, a big black belt, and a red nose. Why a red nose? But why does the Judge have mean, beady eyes, fat lips, a couple of teeth, and a riding crop? Do you think I’ve seen him? Still, whenever Elye says, “Go tell it to the Judge,” that’s how I imagine him.

So off we went …and went …and went. Brokheh had a stitch in her side from all that walking. She wished the Alliance would break a leg. We barely made it. But what a house the Alliance lived in! Every Jew should only own one like it, even if it didn’t have a front yard. Vienna doesn’t go in for front yards. It goes in for weird huge windows and monster doors that are always locked. “They must be afraid we’ll walk off with the furniture,” Brokheh says. By now she’s down on Vienna, too.

There’s nothing Brokheh hates more than ringing doorbells. Myself, they don’t bother me as long as someone answers. But the Alliance doesn’t open so quickly. You can ring till you croak, that’s how much of a hurry he’s in. And don’t think you’re the only one. Lots of other emigrants are waiting for him too.

“Ring a little harder. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

That’s what they said, those emigrants, and laughed. They seemed in a pretty good mood. More and more kept arriving. Pretty soon there was a big crowd of men, women, and children. I like crowds. It would have been a swell scene if only the children had stopped bawling and their mothers had stopped screaming at them.

Thank goodness the door was opened at last. Everyone charged through it so fast you could have been trampled to death. It’s a good thing a red-faced Jew with no hat or beard was there to toss us back out like rubber balls. One woman with a child was thrown so hard that she’d still be looking for her teeth if Elye and I hadn’t caught her. First, though, she did three somersaults in the air.

It took a while to get into a room. That’s when the real party started. Lordy, lordy! Everyone was shouting all at once. Everyone made a rush for the desks. More hatless, beardless Jews were sitting behind them, laughing and smoking cigars. I couldn’t tell which was the Alliance. Neither could my mother. She asked:

“Who here is the Alliance? I’ve lost everything. All my linens were stolen at the border. My children and I were nearly killed. And they were orphans already, the poor dears! You see, my husband died young, he was a cantor all his life …”

That’s all she managed to say. Someone grabbed her and showed her the way out. I couldn’t understand a word he said. My mother screamed:

“Stop speaking German! Speak Jewish and I’ll pour out my bitter heart! I want to see the Alliance.”

“Mother-in-law! Let’s get out of here. If God brought us this far without the Alliance, He’ll bring us the rest of the way. He’s a merciful father.” That was Brokheh’s opinion.

“You’re right, my child,” my mother answered. “Let’s go. God is a father and Vienna is just another town …”

Did you ever think there could be a city called Antwerp? Well, there is, and we’re heading for it. How come? Because Yoyneh the bagel maker is sailing from it to America. When Brokheh heard that her father would be in Antwerp, she did cartwheels to get us to go there too. First she doesn’t want to hear of the place because it makes her think of ants. Now she’s in love with it.

Pinye says it’s time for us to part. He wants to go to London. That’s a place he has a yen to see. It’s almost America, London is. The people there speak English, have blond hair, and live in castles. It’s another world.

“You can have your Englishmen and your blond castles. We’re sailing from Antwerp!”

That’s Brokheh. Taybl turned the color of a red Indian. I’ve told you she blushes more than she talks. “What’s wrong?” Pinye asked. “I don’t like the English,” Taybl said. “What do you know about them?” Pinye asked. “You’ve never seen a single Englishman.” “And you?” Taybl said. “I suppose you have!”

The long and short of it is that we’re all sailing to America from Antwerp. We can sail from Hotzeplotz for all I care, as long as we get there. Pinye and I want to reach America the most. We’re sure we’ll make it to the top there.

Pinye is peeved at Elye. “We keep traveling and getting nowhere,” he says. “Who’s holding you back?” Elye answers. “You’re a free agent — go where you want!” “How,” Pinye asks, “can I go where I want when your mother has to make the acquaintance of every Committee in the world?” “If you’re so smart,” my mother says to Pinye, “suppose you tell me what we’ll do in America without linens.” Pinye has no answer to that. He’s decided to stick with us.

The truth is he can’t stand to leave us. Brokheh and Taybl can’t live without each other. Not that they don’t fight and call each other names. They’re at each other’s throats all the time. If not for my mother, they would have stopped being friends long ago. But they always make up in the end. Brokheh can flare up like a match — she says so herself. Catch her on a bad day and you’ll get egg all over your face. A minute later she’s all sweetness and light. You’d never guess she was just tearing your hair out.

Brokheh and I have been feuding since the wedding. She knows I don’t like her. What annoys her the most is my making fun of her. I can’t look at her without her thinking that I’m laughing. I’ve told you I like to draw. Well, not long ago I drew a huge foot with chalk, a real monster. Leave it to Brokheh to decide it’s hers! How come? Because no one else, she says, has such big feet. She wears size thirteen galoshes, that’s a fact. She ratted to Elye and he yelled:

“More doodling, eh? Up to your old tricks again!”

I swear, even a foot by him is a doodle! He can drive you crazy, Elye can. But it’s true that the drawing bug is getting worse. I go around with a crayon I got from the boy who gave me the governor. I’ve told you about him. His name is Motl too. He’s Big Motl and I’m Little Motl. I swapped for it by drawing his portrait on the train to Antwerp, fat cheeks and all. I made him promise not to show it to anyone, because I didn’t want Elye laying into me. So naturally Big Motl goes and waves it in Elye’s face.

“This looks like my brother’s work! Just wait till I get my hands on the little doodler!”

That’s what Elye said, running off to look for me. He didn’t find me because I was hiding behind my mother, doubled up with laughter. A mother is the world’s best hiding place.

Thank God we’re in Antwerp! We barely made it in one piece, but here we are. What can I tell you? It’s some city! I don’t mean it compares to Vienna. Vienna is in another class. It’s a lot bigger and prettier. There are more people there too. But is Antwerp ever spick-and-span! It’s no wonder, either, what with how they wash the streets and scrub the sidewalks and clean the houses. I swear, I’ve even seen them soaping down the walls! I don’t mean everywhere. It’s not as bad in the emigrants’ hotels. In fact it’s a pretty swell scene there, the kind of damp, dirty, smoky, crowded place that I like.