Sholem Aleichem - Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories

But Ivan Paparilo was in no mood to joke. “You see, Tevel,” he said, “we’ve finally made up our minds. Since you Jews have been beaten up everywhere, why let you get away with it here? We just aren’t certain what kind of pogrom to have. Should we just smash your windows, should we tear up your pillows and blankets and scatter all the feathers, or should we also burn down your house and barn with everything in them?”

This time my heart did a flip-flop. I looked at all those good people whispering to each other as they stood leaning on their staffs and I thought, Tevye, this is serious! It’s bo’u mayim ad nefesh for sure, just like it says in the Bible — you’re in for it this time, all right. You’d better watch what you say, because who knows what these pigs’ snouts might do to you! And you’d better say it fast too, because this is no time to play guessing games with the Angel of Death …

Why make a short story long, my dear friend? It was a miracle from God that I kept my wits about me, got a grip on myself, and said, not sounding the least bit put out, “Listen to me, dear neighbors and villagers. If that’s what you’ve decided, who am I to object? You must have good reasons for thinking that Tevye deserves to see his life go up in smoke. I just hope you realize, though, that there is a higher power than your village council in this world. You do know there’s a God above, don’t you? Mind you, I’m not talking about my God or your God — I’m talking about the God of us all, He who sits in His heaven and sees every low-down trick that we play on each other here on earth … It may very well be that He wants you to punish me for being guilty of nothing at all. But the opposite may also be true, my dear friends, and He may not want you to lift a finger against me. Who can know what God’s will is? Is there anyone here who would like to explain to us how God makes up His mind?”

Well, they must have seen there was no outtalking Tevye, because he said to me, did Ivan Paparilo, “Look, Tevel, it’s like this. We have nothing against you personally. You’re not at all a bad sort for a kike. It’s just that that has nothing to do with it. A pogrom is a pogrom, and if the village council has voted to have one, then that’s what must be. We’ll have to smash your windows at least, because if anyone passing through here sees there’s been no pogrom yet, we’ll be in hot water ourselves.”

I swear to God and hope to die, those were his very words! You’re a Jew who’s been all over, Pan Sholem Aleichem, you tell me: is Tevye right or not when he says there’s a great God up above?

That’s the story of the Amalekites — and now let’s get back to Lekh-Lekho. You see, I was only recently given a lesson in its real meaning, against which none of the commentaries I knew helped one bit. Let me tell it to you exactly as it happened, blow by blow ka’asher ohavti , the way you like a story told.

Vayehi bimey Mendel Beilis —it happened back at the time of the Beilis case, when Mendel Beilis was atoning for all our sins by going through the torments of hell and the whole world was talking of nothing else. One hot summer day I was sitting on my front stoop, the wheels spinning round in my head. How can it be, I thought, how is it possible that such a thing can happen in times like these, in such an intelligent world full of smart people? And where is God in all this — where, oh where, is our old Jewish God? Why doesn’t He do something? Why doesn’t He say something? Why, why, why, why, why …

Well, once you get on the subject of God, you beat your brains out about other things too. What was life all about? Was there more of it after death? Why hadn’t the Messiah come yet? Ai, I thought, wouldn’t it be clever of him, the Messiah, to come riding down to us on his white horse right this minute! Just think how grand that would be! Why, we’ve never needed him so badly! There’s no knowing what goes on in the mind of a rich Jew, of a Brodsky in Yehupetz, for example, or of a Rothschild in Paris — the Messiah may be the furthest thing from it; but we poor Jews of Kasrilevke, and of Mazapevke, and of Zlodeyevke, and even of Yehupetz, and yes, of Odessa too, can’t wait for him any longer — no, we absolutely can’t wait another day! The only hope left us is for God to work a miracle and send us the Messiah right away …

There I sat thinking all this when I happened to look up — and what do you suppose I saw? A white horse with a rider on it right in front of my house! “Whoaa,” he tells it, jumping down and tying it to the gate, while to me he says, “Zdrastvoy , Tevel!”

“Zdrastvoytye , Officer, Zdrastvoytye,” I say, giving him a friendly greeting. It seems I only need think of the Messiah for Haman to appear right away — I mean the village policeman. “Welcome, sit down,” I say. “What’s the good word? What’s new in the big world, Officer?” Believe me, my heart was in my throat — what could he possibly have come for? He took his time telling me, too. He lit himself a cigarette slow and easy, blew out the smoke, and spat on the ground before saying, “Tell me, Tevel, how much time would you say you needed to sell your house and everything in it?”

“But why,” I said, staring at him, “should I sell my house? Is it in anyone’s way?”

“No,” he says, “it isn’t. It’s just that I’ve come to expel you from the village.”

“Is that all?” I say. “And what good deeds have I done you to deserve such an honor?”

“It’s not my doing,” he says. “It’s the provincial governor’s.”

“The governor’s?” I say. “What does the governor have against me?”

“It’s not against you,” he says. “And it’s not just here, either. It’s in every village in the area, in Zlodilevka, and in Rabilevka, and in Kostolomevka, and even in Anatevka, which has been considered a town until now. You all have to leave. Every one of you Jews.”

“Even Layzer Wolf the butcher?” I ask. “And lame Naftoli Gershon? And the rabbi? And the slaughterer?”

“Everyone,” he says, knifing the air with his hand.

Well, that made me feel a little better. Tsoras rabbim khatsi nekhomoh , as they say — misery never minds a bit of company. Still, I was burning up inside. “Tell me, Officer,” I said to him, “are you aware of the fact that I’ve been living in this village longer than you have? Do you know that my father lived hereabouts too, and my grandfather before him, and my grandmother also, rest her soul …”

I didn’t stop there, either; I went on to list every member of my family who had ever lived and died in those parts. I must say he heard me out, but all he said when I finished was, “You’re a smart Jew, Tevel, and you’ve got the gift of the gab. But what do I care about your grandmother and your grandfather and all their old wives’ tales? They flew away to heaven long ago, and you had better pack your things and fly away to Berdichev.”

That made me even angrier. It was bad enough to get such wonderful news from that big goy in the first place without his making a joke of it. He could fly away somewhere himself! “Officer!” I said. “In all the years you’ve been the law around here, have you ever heard a single soul in the village complain that I stole anything, or pilfered anything, or cheated anyone, or took the smallest item that didn’t belong to me? Go on, ask everyone if I wasn’t on better terms with them than their own next-door neighbors. In fact, how many times did I come on their behalf to ask you to stop being such a brute to them …”

Well, that didn’t sit too well with him, because he got to his feet, snuffed out his cigarette with his fingers, threw it away, and said, “Listen, I don’t have time to chew the fat with you all day. I have a written order, and that’s that. Here, this is where you sign. I’m giving you three days to clear out. That should be enough to sell all your things and pack.”