Sholem Aleichem - Tevye the Dairyman and Motl the Cantor's Son

“That’s enough kissing,” I said. “It’s time to talk about practical matters.”

“What practical matters?” they said.

“About the dowry,” I said, “clothes, wedding expenses, this, that, and the other.”

“We don’t need anything,” they said.

“Then what do you need?”

“All we need is the wedding ceremony.” Have you ever heard of anything like that?

In short — I won’t bore you — but there was nothing I could do about it. They had a wedding, if you can call that a wedding! It certainly wasn’t the sort of wedding that befits Tevye. It was a very quiet wedding, God help us. Besides, I had my wife to deal with. She kept demanding to know why it had to be done in such haste. Try to explain to a woman what that rush was all about! Don’t you think I had to invent a story, a marvelous, wondrous story about an inheritance, a rich aunt from Yehupetz — anything so she would leave me in peace.

And sure enough, a few hours after that wonderful wedding I hitched up the horse and wagon, and the three of us got in, and off we went to the Boiberik train station. As I rode along with my young couple, I glanced at them from the corner of my eye. What a great God we have, and how cleverly He runs His world! I thought. What strange souls, wild creatures He has created! Here was this brand-new married couple: he was going away, who knew whereto, while she remained here without so much as a tear, not even for appearance’s sake! But I am not a woman. Tevye has time, watches, bites his tongue, and waits to see what will happen.

At the station several young fellows, good Kasrileukes with worn-down boots, came to say goodbye to my fly-by-night. One of them was dressed like a Russian peasant, forgive me, with his shirt over his trousers. They were whispering together quietly. Look out, Tevye, I was thinking. You may have gotten mixed up with a band of horse thieves, pickpockets, housebreakers, or counterfeiters!

On the way home from Boiberik with my Hodl, I could not restrain myself and spoke openly to her of my suspicions. She burst out laughing and assured me that they were honest, decent men whose lives were dedicated to helping others, without any concern for their own welfare. “The one with the shirt,” she said, “is the son of a rich man. He rejected his wealthy parents in Yehupetz and refuses to accept a groschen from them.”

“How about that! God’s wonders!” I said. “Quite a fine boy. If God would add to the shirt he was wearing over his trousers and his long hair a harmonica or a dog to follow him, he would really be quite a sight!” I tried to settle the score with her, as well as with him, by letting out my bitter heart at her — poor thing. And her response? Nothing! And Esther spoke not —she pretended not to understand what I was saying. I talked about Fefferl, and she talked about the well-being of the community, the workers, and other such things. “What do I care,” I said, “about the well-being of your community and your workers if you keep it all a secret? There is a proverb: Where there are secrets, there is thievery. So tell me straight out — where did Fefferl go, and why?”

“I’ll tell you anything,” she said, “but not that. Better not to ask. Believe me,” she said, “in time you will know everything. God willing, you will soon hear much good news!”

“Amen, let us hope so,” I said. “From your lips to God’s ears! May our enemies,” I said, “have as much good health as I understand what is happening with you and what this game is about!”

“That,” she said, “is the trouble. You won’t understand.”

“Tell me, is it so complicated? It seems to me that with God’s help, I understand far more complicated things.”

“It’s not something you can understand with your mind alone. This is something you must feel, feel with your heart,” Hodl said to me, her face shining and her eyes glowing. These daughters of mine, I tell you, when they get involved in something, it is with body and soul and heart!

I can tell you, a week and two and three and four and five and six and seven passed, and there was neither voice nor money —no letter, no news. “Fefferl is gone!” I said, and glanced at my Hodl. Her poor face was drained of color. She kept doing small chores around the house, trying to forget her great sorrow, but never once did she mention his name, as if Fefferl had never existed!

But one day I came home and found my Hodl walking around with eyes swollen from weeping. Not long before a shlimazel with long hair had come and taken her aside and had whispered something to her. Aha! I thought, it was that young fellow who rejected his parents and who wore his shirt over his trousers. So now I called my Hodl out into the yard and confronted her: “You must tell me, daughter, do you have news from him?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he, your husband?”

“He is far away,” she said.

“What is he doing?”

“He’s in prison!”

“He’s in prison?”

“He’s in prison.”

“Where is he in prison? Why is he in prison?”

She looked me straight in the eyes and remained silent.

“Tell me, my daughter, I assume it is not for theft. I don’t understand. If he isn’t a thief or a swindler, why is he in prison, for what good reason?”

She was silent. And Esther spoke not. She said not a word.

“If you don’t want to speak,” I said, “you don’t have to. He’s your headache, not mine. Serves him right!” But inside my heart was breaking for her. I am, after all, a father, as they say in the prayers : Like as a father pitieth his children —a father remains a father.

Well, it was the evening of Hoshana Raba, the last day of Succos. On holidays it’s a custom of mine to rest, and my horse also rests, as it says in the Torah: Neither thou nor thine ox nor thine ass —you and your wife and your horse. Also at that time of year in Boiberik there was almost nothing to do. One blow of the shofar at the end of Yom Kippur and off they all ran, the dachniks, like mice during a famine, and Boiberik was emptied out. At those times I like to sit on my stoop in front of my house. For me it’s the best time of the year. The days are rare gifts. The sun isn’t as hot as an oven but warms you gently, delightfully. The woods are still green, the pines give off their pungent tar aroma, and the woods look like they’re dressed for the holidays, like God’s succah. Right here, I thought, is where God celebrates Succos, not in town where it is noisy with people running around, panting for breath, chasing after a crust of bread, and all you hear is money, money, money!

I have not yet talked about the nights of Hoshana Raba. They are like paradise. The sky is dark blue, and the stars twinkle, shimmer, shine, and blink like human eyes. And sometimes a star shoots through the sky like an arrow, leaving behind a momentary green trail. It is a falling star — someone’s luck has fallen. As many stars as there are, that is how many Jewish fates there are. May it not be my bad luck, I thought, and Hodl came to mind. In the last few days she seemed to revive, to become livelier — her face changed. Someone had brought her a letter from him, her shlimazel. I really wanted to know what he was writing, but I didn’t want to ask. If she wouldn’t talk, I wouldn’t talk. Sha! Tevye is not a woman. Tevye has time.

As I was thinking about Hodl, along she came. She sat down next to me on the stoop, looked to all sides, and said to me quietly: “Listen to me, Papa. I have something to tell you. I must say goodbye to you now — forever.”

She said it so quietly, I could barely hear her. I will never forget the way she looked at me. I thought she meant she was going to drown herself. Why? Recently, may it not happen to anyone, a girl living not far from us fell in love with a village Gentile, and because of him — well, you know what happened. On account of that her mother became sick and died, and her father let his business go and became a pauper. The village Gentile thought it over and decided to go off with someone else. The girl then went to the river, threw herself in, and drowned herself.