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

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. As for where I’m lodging and eating, I can’t rightly tell you myself. Odessa is a monstrous big city and everything is very dear. The buildings are sky-high and you climb half-an-hour’s worth of iron stairs to get to your room at the top of them. And the window is as tiny as a dungeon’s! It’s a relief to get out and head for Greek Street, where I take my meals — that is, where I grab what I can. Who has time to sit and eat when you have to keep your eyes on Berlin? But fruit costs next to nothing here. People eat grapes in the street, not just once a year for Rosh Hashanah like Kasrilevkans. They’re not at all embarrassed to do it.

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, you write like a madman. Forgive me for saying so, but I hope to hear no more of your Odessa than I understand about your blasted shorts and hedgerows! You’re throwing rubles away like last week’s noodles. Money-shmoney, eh? I suppose it grows on trees over there. I’ll be blamed, though, if one thing doesn’t stump me: what kind of cat in a bag can you trade in but not see? Listen here, Mendl, I don’t like it one bit! I wasn’t raised in a home where we bought and sold air and God keep me from doing it now. From air you catch cold, my mother says. Who ever heard of a grown man playing in a market? You’d make more sense if you wrote in Turkish. And as for the profit you can turn on Menashe’s notes, I hate to be a wet blanket, but the proof of the pudding, my mother says, is in the eating. You know what, Mendl? Listen to your wife, tell Odessa where it can go, and come home to Kasrilevke. We have a place to live in at my father’s, you have five hundred rubles, opening a store is no problem — what more could you want? Why must I hear the world telling lies about your throwing me over for Odessa? Don’t think you’ll live to see the day! You can take your monster houses with their iron steps you climb like a lunatic and give me Kasrilevke any time. Because grapes are cheap there I should have a stomach ache here? Kasrilevke plums aren’t sweet enough? There’s such a glut this year that they’re a kopeck a bucket. But a lot we matter to you! You don’t even ask about the children. I suppose you’ve forgotten you have three of them, God bless them! Out of sight, out of mind, my mother says. I’ll be blamed if she isn’t right. I wish you all the best 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, the market has been hitting fearsome lows. I’ve bought another batch of Londons and covered myself with 8 orders for 17 shorts. If I can shave a few points, I’ll buy more. If only you understood, my dearest, how business is done on a man’s word alone, you would know all there is to know about Odessa. A nod is as good as a signature. I walk down Greek Street, drop into a cafe, sit at a table, order tea or coffee, and wait for the brokers to come by. There’s no need for a contract or written agreement. Each broker carries a pad in which he writes, say, that I’ve bought two shorts. I hand over the cash and that’s it — it’s a pleasure how easy it is! A few hours go by, the Berlin closings arrive, and back comes the broker with 25 smackers. The next morning the openings arrive and he has 50 more — and don’t think God can’t make it 100. 300 is no big deal either. Why should it be? We’re talking about the market! It’s a game, like roulette…. And as for your not believing in Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, I have news: I’ve made a tidy sum from them already. Where else would I get the money to buy so many futures on spot? The market is not, as you seem to think, a place that sells fruit and vegetables. You’re only called on futures when they’re due. That means, you’re a free agent. If you want to buy, you buy, and if you want to sell, you sell. Now do you understand what playing the market is? If God is out to boost Londons, he starts a war scare in the papers, the ruble drops, and Londons shoot up faster than bean stalks. Just this week there were rumors that the Queen of England was ailing: the ruble plunged again, and whoever bought short made a killing. Now the papers say she’s better, so the ruble has rallied and it’s time to buy long. In short, my dearest, never fear! Everything will be “tip-top,” as they say in Odessa. 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. Give my greetings to the children and my fondest wishes to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. We’re all burning up from the heat. At night we go around like melting wax. The streets are deserted. All Odessa goes to the public fountains or the seashore. You can find anything you want there. You can even bathe in the sea or listen to free music — it doesn’t cost a blessed kopeck.

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 having trouble with my teeth. I wish Odessa and its market had my toothache! It’s killing me. So are the children — and his lordship couldn’t care less. He lives in Odessa like God, buys seventeen pairs of shorts, and bathes in the sea to music! What more could a body want? Well, you may go around in short pants and half-shaven, but my mother would say you’ve outgrown your britches. For heaven’s sake, if you’re dealing in Lumdums, keep your mind on them and not on the Queen of England! Better yet, think of your wife. She’ll be around for a while, God willing. And you have three children, bless them. “Remember your own and you’ll forget the next man’s,” my mother says. All your winnings make my head spin. Blow me down if I can believe that a man just sticks out his hand and watches the rubles f ly into it. W hat kind of hocus-pocus is that? And you better not touch the dowry money, because my mother will make you rue the day you were born if a kopeck of it is missing. There are a few other things you might think about too. You know perfectly well I’m in desperate need of a silk shawl, some wool for a dress, and two bolts of Morazev calico. Though of course it’s too much to expect you to think of such trifles, especially when you’ve taken leave of your senses. My mother says a man with more ribs than brains needs a poke in them.

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 holding shorts in a big way. I’m sitting on a pile of Londons. Each transaction is for 10 or 20,000 pounds in one shot. Of course, this means buying on margin. By now they know me in every brokerage. I take my seat in Fanconi’s with all the dealers, pull up a chair at a marble table, and ask for a dish of iced cream. That’s our Odessa custom: you sit yourself down and a waiter in a frock coat asks you to ask for iced cream. Well, you can’t be a piker — and when you’re finished, you’re asked to ask for more. If you don’t, you’re out a table and in the street. That’s no place for dealing, especially when there’s an officer on the corner looking for loiterers. Not that our Jews don’t hang out there anyway. They tease him with their wisecracks and scatter to see what he’ll do. Just let him nab one! He latches on to him like a gemstone and it’s off to the cooler with one more Jew …