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

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, words fail me in describing the grandeur and beauty of the city of Odessa, the fine character of its inhabitants, and the wonderful opportunities that exist here. Just imagine: I take my walking stick and venture out on Greek Street, as the place where Jews do business is called, and there are twenty thousand different things to deal in. If I want wheat, there’s wheat. If I feel like wool, there’s wool. If I’m in the mood for bran, there’s bran. Flour, salt, feathers, raisins, jute, herring — name it and you have it in Odessa. I sounded out several possibilities, none of which were my cup of tea, and shopped along Greek Street until I hit on just the right thing. In a word, I’m dealing in Londons and not doing badly! You can clear 25 or 50 rubles at a go, and sometimes, with a bit of luck, 100. On Londons you can make your fortune in a day. There was a fellow not long ago, a synagogue sexton, mind you, who walked away with 30,000 faster than you can say your bedtime prayers and now he cocks his snoot at the world. I tell you, my dearest, the streets of Odessa are paved with gold! I don’t regret for a moment having come here. But what am I doing in Odessa, you ask, when I was on my way to Kishinev? It seems God wanted to deal me in. Listen to what He does for a man.

I arrived at Uncle Menashe’s in Kishinev and asked for the dowry money. “How come you need it?” he asks. “I need it,” I say, “because I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Well, he says, he can’t give me cash but he can give me a letter of credit to Brodsky in Yehupetz. “Let it be Yehupetz,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” That’s just it, he says. He’s not sure there is cash in Yehupetz. He can give me a letter of credit to Bachrach in Warsaw. “Warsaw’s fine, too,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” “But why go all the way to Warsaw?” he asks. “Suppose I give you a letter of credit to Barabash in Odessa?” “Make it Odessa,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” “So how come you need so much cash?” he asks. “If I didn’t,” I say, “I wouldn’t be here.”

To make a long story short, he went round and round — it helped like cupping helps a corpse. When I say cash, I mean cash. In the end he gave me two promissory notes for 500 rubles, due in five months, a letter of credit to Barabash for 300, and the rest in banknotes to help cover my expenses.

Because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Be well and give my fond greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl.

P.S. When I brought the letter of credit to Barabash, I was told it was nothing of the sort. What was it? A letter to the tooth-fairy! First, I was told, let Uncle Menashe’s wagon of wheat arrive in Odessa and find a buyer — then I can see my money. Short, sweet, and to the point! Right away I sent a post card to Kishinev threatening to take action and send a telegram if the wheat wasn’t shipped at once. In short, a post card here, a telegram there — I didn’t have an easy time of it. But yesterday I received another 100 rubles from Kishinev and a promissory note for 200. Do you understand now why I’ve been out of touch? I had written off the 300 for lost. It just goes to show that a man should never give up! There’s a God in heaven looking after things. I’ve put all the cash into Londons, a nice batch of them. Sometimes they’re up and sometimes they’re down, but so far, thank God, I’m ahead.

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, I’m suffering from my old cramps again. I’d like to give them to your Uncle Menashe. You’ve made short shrift of the eighteen hundred rubles he owed us. Wouldn’t that be just our luck! My mother would say you’ve sent the cat to the dairy with the cream. Why I’d sooner get the pox from Menashe than one of his promise notes! Five months of fever I’d give him! May I be proved a liar but you’ll no more see those rubles than you’ll see the back of the head your shoulders carried to Odessa. Be thankful my mother knows nothing about it, because she’d tan your hide if she did. And as for what you write, Mendl, about all the money you’re making, you can be sure we’re pleased. See here, though: the devil take it if the next time you don’t write like a human being! Why can’t you tell a body in plain words what you’re dealing in? Does it sell by the yard or by the pound? For the life of me, I don’t know if you eat, wear, or smoke it. And what are these quick profits you talk about? What merchandise shoots up just like that? Even mushrooms, my mother says, need a rain to sprout. But if it’s gained so much value, you should sell. You’re not hoping to corner the market, are you? And why don’t you write where you’re staying and eating? A person might think I was a stranger and not your wife of twenty years, some kind of parrymoor, God help us. “When the cow goes to pasture,” says my mother, “it forgets to say good-bye.” If you’ll listen to me, you’ll wind up your affairs and come home with a bit of money. You’ll find better businesses here than those Lumdums of yours or whatever the deuce they’re called. 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!

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, I’m not surprised that you fail to grasp how Londons work. There are businessmen, serious Jews, who can’t make head or tails of them either, let alone a woman like you. Allow me to explain. Londons, you should know, are highly perishable. You buy and sell them on a pledge without seeing them. Every minute you have to check if they’re up or down — that is, if the ruble has risen or fallen in Berlin. It all depends on Berlin, you see; it’s Berlin that has the last word. The rates soar and tumble like crazy, the telegrams fly back and forth, the Jews run around as though at a country fair, and so do I. There’s such a racket you can’t hear yourself think. Yesterday, for example, I played the market for 50 rubles and by noon today I’d lost them all. But I haven’t told you what playing the market is. You can buy futures for 50 R’s, or double that, or hedge until closing time. (That’s the time between the afternoon and evening prayers in Kasrilevke.) Well, I bought short, the market was up, and there went my 50 smackeroos. That’s how you play it — but don’t you worry, my dear! Fifty smackers are nothing in Odessa. With God’s help my lucky number will come up. And as for Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, you’re mistaken. They’re as good as gold, a solid investment. I could turn a nice profit on them even now, but I’d rather not. I can always make money from hedging. But I don’t want to do that either. I prefer futures. There’s nothing like a night spent sleeping on them. And because 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.