Sholem Aleichem - Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

Ad kan hakofoh alef —that’s daughter number one. And as for number two, I mean Hodl, I hardly need tell you about her. You already know the whole story. She’s lost and gone forever, Hodl is; God knows if I’ll ever set eyes on her again this side of the world to come … Just talking about her gives me the shakes, I feel my world has come to an end. You say I should forget her? But how do you forget a living, breathing human being — and especially a child like Hodl? You should see the letters she sends me, it’s enough to melt a heart of ice! They’re doing very well there, she writes; that is, he’s doing time and she’s doing wash. She takes in laundry, reads books, sees him once a week, and hopes, so she says, that one glorious day her Peppercorn and his friends will be pardoned and sent home; then, she promises, they’ll really get down to business and turn the world upside down with its feet in the air and its head six feet in the ground. A charming prospect, eh?… So what does the good Lord do? He’s an eyl rakhum vekhanun , a merciful God, and He says to me, “Just you wait, Tevye. When you see what I have up my sleeve this time, you’ll forget every trouble you ever had …” And don’t think that isn’t just what happened! I wouldn’t tell anyone but you about it, because the shame is even worse than the sorrow, but hamekhaseh ani mey’Avrohom —do you and I have any secrets between us? Why, I don’t keep a thing from you! There’s just one request I have, though — that this stay between the two of us, because I’ll say it again: as bad as the heartache has been, the disgrace is far worse.

In a word, rotsoh hakodoysh borukh hu lezakoys , God wanted to do Tevye such a big favor that He went and gave him seven daughters — and not just ordinary daughters either, but bright, pretty, gifted, healthy, hardworking ones, fresh as daisies, every one of them! Let me tell you, I’d have been better off if they all were as ugly as sin … You can take the best of horses — what will it amount to if it’s kept in a stable all day long? And it’s the same with good-looking daughters if you raise them among peasants in a hole like this, where there’s not a living soul to talk to apart from the village elder Anton Paparilo, the village scribe Chvedka Galagan, and the village priest, damn his soul, whose name I can’t even stand to mention — and not because I’m a Jew and he’s a priest, either. On the contrary, we’ve known each other for ages. I don’t mean that we ever slapped each other’s backs or danced at each other’s weddings, but we said hello whenever we met and stopped to chat a bit about the latest news. I tried avoiding long discussions with him, though, because they always ended up with the same rigamarole about my God, and his God, and how his God had it over mine. Of course, I couldn’t let it pass without quoting some verse from the Bible, and he couldn’t let that pass without insisting he knew our Scriptures better than I did and even reciting a few lines of them in a Hebrew that sounded like a Frenchman talking Greek. It was the same blessed routine every time — and when I couldn’t let that pass without putting him in his place with a midrash, he’d say, “Look here, your Middyrush is from your Tallymud, and your Tallymud is a lot of hokum,” which got my goat so that I gave him a good piece of my mind off the top of it … Do you think that fazed him, though? Not one bit! He just looked at me, combed his beard with his fingers, and laughed right in my face. I tell you, there’s nothing more aggravating than being laughed at by someone you’ve just finished throwing the book at. The hotter under the collar I’d get, the more he’d stand there and grin at me. Well, if I didn’t understand what he thought was funny then, I’m sorry to say I do now …

In short, I came home one evening to find Chvedka the scribe, a tall young goy with high boots and a big shock of hair, standing outside and talking to my third daughter, Chava. As soon as he saw me he about-faced, tipped his hat, and took off.

“What was Chvedka doing here?” I asked Chava.

“Nothing,” she says.

“What do you mean, nothing?” I ask.

“We were just talking,” she says.

“Since when are you and he on such talking terms?” I ask.

“Oh,” she says, “we’ve known each other for a while.”

“Congratulations!” I say. “You’ve found yourself a fine friend.”

“Do you know him, then?” she says. “Do you know who he is?”

“Not exactly,” I say, “because I haven’t read up on his family tree yet, but that doesn’t keep me from seeing what a blue blood he is. In fact, if his father isn’t a drunk, he may even be a swineherd or a handyman.”

Do you know what my Chava says to me? “I have no idea who his father is. I’m only interested in individuals. And Chvedka is no ordinary person, that I’m sure of.”

“Well, then,” I say, “what sort of person is he? Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

“Even if I told you,” she says, “you wouldn’t understand. Chvedka is a second Gorky.”

“A second Gorky?” I say. “And who, pray tell, was the first?”

“Gorky,” she says, “is only just about the most important man alive.”

“Is he?” I say. “And just where does he live, this Mr. Important of yours? What’s his act and what makes him such a big deal?”

“Gorky,” she says, “is a literary figure, a famous author. That means he writes books. He’s a rare, dear soul, even if he comes from a simple home and never had a day’s schooling in his life. Whatever he knows, he taught himself. Here, this is his picture …”

And she takes out a little photograph from her pocket and shows it to me.

“This tsaddik is your Rabbi Gorky?” I say, “I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before. You can search me, though, if I remember whether he was toting sacks at the train station or hauling logs in the forest …”

“And is it so shameful,” says my Chava, “for a man to work with his own two hands? Whose hands do you work with? Whose hands do we all?”

“Of course,” I answer. “You’re quite right. It even says as much in the Bible: yegia kapekho ki toykheyl— if you don’t work yourself to the bone, no one will throw you one, either … But what’s all that got to do with Chvedka? I’d feel better if you and he were friendlier at a distance. Don’t forget meyayin boso ule’on atoh hoyleykh —just think of who you are and who he is.”

“God,” says my Chava, “created us all equal.”

“So He did,” I say. “He created man in His likeness. But you had better remember that not every likeness is alike. Ish kematnas yodoy , as the Bible says …”

“It’s beyond belief,” she says, “how you have a verse from the Bible for everything! Maybe you also have one that explains why human beings have to be divided into Jews and Christians, masters and slaves, beggars and millionaires …”

“Why, bless my soul,” I say, “if you don’t seem to think, my daughter, that the millennium has arrived.” And I tried explaining to her that the way things are now is the way they’ve been since Day One.

“But why are they that way?” she asks.

“Because that’s how God made them,” I say.

“Well, why did He make them like that?”

“Look here,” I say, “if you’re going to ask why, why, why all the time, we’ll just keep going around in circles.”

“But what did God give us brains for if we’re not supposed to use them?” she asks.

“You know,” I say, “we Jews have an old custom that when a hen begins to crow like a rooster, off to the slaughterer she goes. That’s why we say in the morning prayer, hanoyseyn lasekhvi binoh —not only did God give us brains, He gave some of us more of them than others.”