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

Who won? Riveleh, of course. The chemise wasn’t sold. They packed it and took it to the border. Comes the border — no more chemise.

That’s what Alte told me. I didn’t care about the rest. Once I heard the chemise was gone, I lost interest. I took Alte for a walk around Antwerp. She wasn’t impressed. She had seen bigger cities, she said. I took her to the emigrant hotels and introduced her to my friends. That didn’t cut much ice either. She carries on like a grown-up, Alte does. She thinks a lot of herself.

Later that day we all walked to Ezrah, our gang and Yoyneh’s. When we got there we ran into Pesye’s gang. Goldeleh was there too. She wanted to make friends with Alte but Alte didn’t want to. Goldeleh asked me why Alte was so snooty. I told her it was because we were engaged at my brother’s wedding. Goldeleh turned red as fire. She slipped away and went to wipe her eyes.

Listen to our latest bad luck. We took my mother to the doctor. He looked at her eyes and said nothing. He just put another slip of paper in an envelope. We took it to Ezrah. Fraulein Seitchik was the only one there. She gave me a big smile (she always does when she sees me) but stopped smiling the minute she opened the envelope. “How are you today?” my mother asked. “How should I be, meine Frau?” said Fraulein Seitchik. “This isn’t good. The doctor says you can’t go to America.”

Brokheh, as you know, likes to faint. Down she went. Elye’s face didn’t have a drop of blood in it. My mother turned to stone. She couldn’t even cry. Fraulein Seitchik went to get some water. She revived Brokheh, comforted Elye, consoled my mother, and told us to come back the next day.

All the way to our hotel Elye lectured my mother. How many times had he told her not to cry! She couldn’t answer him. She just looked at the sky and said: “Dear God, do me and my children a favor and take me from this world right now!” Pinye claimed it was all that lying Beeber’s fault. We snapped at each other all day.

In the morning we went back to Ezrah. We were advised to go to London. In London my mother’s eyes might be cleared — if not for America, at least for Canada.

Where was Canada? No one knew. Someone said it was even farther than America. Elye and Pinye began to fight. “Pinye!” Elye said. “Where is this Canada? I thought you were a geographer.” Pinye said Canada was in Canada. To be exact, it was in America. That is, Canada and America were the same place, with a difference. “That makes no sense,” Elye said. “Sense or not, it’s a fact,” answered Pinye.

Pesye, Moyshe, and their gang were sailing for America. We went to see them off at the ship. Whew, what a scene! Men, women, children, bundles, pillows, sacks of linen, people running, yelling, sweating, eating, swearing! Suddenly, there’s a noise like some huge animal’s: HOOOOOOOOOOO!

That’s the signal that the ship is leaving. Everyone is hugging, kissing, crying — a regular opera. They’re all saying good-bye and so are we. We kiss Pesye’s whole gang. Pesye tells my mother not to worry. They’ll soon see each other in America. My mother makes a gesture with her hand and fights her tears. Lately she’s been crying less. She’s been taking a pill against it.

All the passengers are aboard. We’re left behind on the pier. Am I jealous of Bumpy! Just the other day the shoe was on the other foot. There he is on deck with his torn cap, sticking his tongue out at me. That’s his way of saying he’ll be in America before me. I give him the finger to hide how low I feel. That means: “Bumpy! You should break all your bones if I’m not in America before you know it!”

Honestly, don’t worry. I’ll get there soon enough.

Day by day the crowds of emigrants get smaller. Antwerp is emptying out. Every Saturday a new shipload sails for America. My friend Big Motl is gone too. I don’t know what it was about him that Elye didn’t like. I guess it started with Brokheh.

Brokheh has a way of overhearing things, especially when they’re funny. She thinks everyone’s laughter is her business. You can be laughing at Pinye for stuffing his pockets with candies or at Beeber for the whoppers he tells — Brokheh is sure the joke is on her or her family.

Mind you, she was right this time. We put on a play about Riveleh and her chemise.

One day my mother had enough. “Oy, in-law!” she said to Riveleh. “Imagine if I talked about my stolen linens as much as you do about your chemise.”

“As if there’s any comparison,” Riveleh answered in her gruff voice.

“I suppose you think I stole them myself,” says my mother.

“How should I know?” Riveleh says. “I never slept on them.”

“In-law!” my mother says. “What kind of talk is that?”

“As you say good morning to me,” says Riveleh, “so I’ll say good evening to you.”

“But how have I offended you?” my mother asks.

“Who says I’m offended?” says Riveleh.

“Then why did you say there’s no comparison?” my mother asks.

“Because,” Riveleh says. “I’m talking about my chemise and you come along with your stolen linens.”

“I suppose you think I stole them myself.”

“How should I know? I never slept on them.”

And around it went again. Who needs tickets for the theater?

Big Motl and I stayed up half the night rehearsing our play. It was Big Motl’s idea. “You’ll be your mother and I’ll be Riveleh,” he said. “I’ll be gruff and you’ll whine.”

We dressed for the parts. Big Motl put on a wig and I wore a kerchief. We sent invitations to Mendl and Alte and Goldeleh and all the other boys and girls in our gang. Act I went like this.

Little Motl (whining): Oy, in-law! Imagine if I talked as much about my stolen linens as you do about your chemise!

Big Motl (gruffly): As if there’s any comparison!

Little Motl: I suppose you think I stole them myself.

Big Motl: How should I know? I never slept on them.

Little Motl: In-law! What kind of talk is that?

Big Motl: As you say good morning to me, so I’ll say good evening to you.

Little Motl: But how have I offended you?

Big Motl: Who says I’m offended?

Little Motl: Then why did you say there’s no comparison?

Big Motl: Because I’m talking about my chemise and you come along with your stolen linens.

Little Motl: I suppose you think I stole them myself.

Big Motl: How should I know? I never slept on them …

Go guess that just as Big Motl said “slept on them” the door would open and in would walk Brokheh and Riveleh and Yoyneh the bagel maker with all his sons and my mother and Elye and Pinye and Taybl and Beeber with his yellow teeth and still more people — a regular mob! That rat Brokheh had brought the whole world to string me up. But the whole world didn’t have to. Elye did it himself. He gave me such a box on the ear that I woke up hearing bells the next morning.

“The two Motls must be separated,” Brokheh declared. Make no mistake about it, Elye warned me: he would beat me like an egg white if he caught me with Big Motl again. But if you’re waiting to hear what that feels like, you’ve forgotten that there are mothers who would sooner lose both bad eyes than see their son treated like an egg white.

My mother’s eyes aren’t getting any better. That means things are getting worse. A million dollars couldn’t buy her passage to America.

It’s time to leave Antwerp. The doctors here are a lowdown bunch. They look at your eyes and go berserk if they find one little trachoma. They haven’t a drop of pity. We’ll have to get to America some other way. The question is how.

There are plenty of possibilities. But we’re running out of cash. A lot has gone to the doctors and Beeber — all on account of my mother’s eyes. I’ve talked it over with Elye and Pinye. “Let’s go to London,” they say.