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

“If you give me, Ivan’u, your hand on it that the council will obey what the Book of Psalms says, I will show you how.”

Ivan put out his hand to me. “Agreed.”

“If that is so,” I said, “it’s done. Now I will flip through the pages of the Book of Psalms, and as soon as my eyes catch the first word, I will say to you, ‘Be so kind and pious as to repeat it.’ And if any one of you can repeat it after me, it will be a sign that God commands that you do with Tevye what you will. And if not, that will be a sign that God says no. Are you agreed?”

Ivan the mayor and the council exchanged looks and said to me, “All right.”

I opened the Book of Psalms for them, and my eyes somehow caught the word vachalaklokos . “There you have it,” I said. “Can you repeat the word vachalaklokos ?”

They looked at one another and at me and asked me to say the word again.

“That’s fine. I’ll even say it three times, if you wish: Vachalaklokos! Vachalaklokos! Vachalaklokos! ”

“No, Tevel, don’t say hal hal hal ! Say it clearly with a beat, and slowly!”

“I’ll do it!” I said. “I will say it clearly with a beat and slowly. Va-cha-lak-lo-kos! Satisfied?”

The group thought it over and got down to work, each in his own way. One said, “Haidamaki,” another said, “Lomaki,” and a third actually came out with “Chaykolia.” What did he like about “Chaykolia” ?

I realized it was a story without an end. “You know what, children?” I said. “I see that the work is getting too hard for you. Obviously, vachalaklokos is not for you, so I will give you another word, also from our Book of Psalms: m’maamkim keraticha. ”

And the same business started all over again: one pronounced it “Lochanka kerosina,” a second pronounced it “Krivliaka buzina,” and a third simply spat out, “Forget it!”

Apparently they realized that with Tevye they would not win. Ivan Poperilo called out to me, “This is the way it is. We have nothing personal against you, Tevel, nothing at all. True, you are a Jew and not a bad person, but one thing has nothing to do with the other. We must make a wreck of things here. The council has decided, and it’s over. We will,” he said, “at least break a few windows, and if you wish, you can knock out a few panes yourself. That will silence their mouths, to hell with them! If the police ride by, let them see you didn’t get off. Otherwise they will punish us on account of you. And now, Tevel,” he said, “put up the samovar and be so kind as to serve us some tea and naturally some brandy to go with it, and we’ll drink to your health because you are, after all, a smart Jew, one of God’s people.”

That is what he said, those very words as I am telling you, may God help both of us!

So now I ask you, Pani Sholem Aleichem, you are a Jew who writes books. Don’t you agree with Tevye that we have a powerful God and that a person, so long as he lives, should never lose heart, and especially a Jew, and especially one who knows a Hebrew letter when he sees one? Above all, hear me, in the end it comes out, as we say in the daily prayer, worthy and good is he who can, that no matter how we keep from boasting about it, we must admit that we Jews are, after all, the best and the smartest people. As the Prophet says: Who can be compared to Israel? How can a goy compare himself to a Jew? A goy is a goy, and a Jew is a Jew, as you yourself say in your writings. You have to be born a Jew, blessed be the Jew. How lucky I was to be born a Jew and know the taste of exile and of always wandering, never sleeping where we spent the day. Since I learned the portion of Get Thee Gone —do you remember I once told you about that at great length? — I keep on going without a resting place where I can say, “Here, Tevye, you will remain.” Tevye doesn’t ask questions. They told him to leave; he left.

Today we met Pani Sholem Aleichem, right here on the train. Tomorrow the train can carry us off to Yehupetz. Next year it can drop us off in Odessa, or America, unless the One Above looks around and says, “Do you know what, children? I think I’m going to send you the Messiah!” I hope He does, even if it’s out of spite, our old God in Heaven!

In the meantime be well, go in good health, and give my regards to all our little Jews. Tell them not to worry: Our old God lives!

A.

I’ll bet you whatever you want that no one on earth is as happy with the warm sunny days after Passover as I, Peysi the cantor’s son Motl, and the neighbor’s calf Meni.

Both of us feel the first rays of the warm sun on the first day after Passover, both of us breathe in the fragrance of the first green blades of grass sprouting up from the newly thawed earth, and both of us crawl out of our dark, cramped corners to welcome the first sweet light of the warm spring morning. I, Peysi the cantor’s son Motl, emerge from a cold, damp cellar that reeks of sour-dough and medicines; and Meni, the neighbor’s calf, is let out of a worse-smelling spot — a tiny, dark, revolting, mud-covered stall with crooked, peeling walls through which the snow blows in wintertime and the rain whips in summertime.

Escaping into God’s bright, open world, Meni and I are filled with joy and gratitude to Nature. I, Peysi the cantor’s son, raise both arms, open my mouth wide, and draw in as much fresh warm air as I can. I imagine I am growing bigger and float up, up into the deep, deep blue skullcap of sky toward where the wispy, smoky clouds hover, where the white birds dip and swoop, appear and disappear, with a shriek and a twitter, and of itself from my full breast a song bursts forth more beautiful than any my father sings at the pulpit during holidays, a song without words, without notes, without any motif, a kind of nature-song of falling waters, racing waves — my own Song of Songs, a godly rapture, a heavenly inspiration: Oh! Oh! Papa! Oh! Oh! Father! Oh! Oh! Forever living G-o-d!

That’s how I, Peysi the cantor’s son, express my joy on that first spring day. It’s quite different from the way Meni the neighbor’s calf expresses himself.

Meni the neighbor’s calf first pokes his black, moist muzzle into the garbage heap, paws at the ground with his foreleg three times, raises his tail, then leaps up on all fours and lets out a flat meh ! That meh sounds so comical to me that I have to laugh and imitate it with the same tone as Meni. Meni apparently likes this, because he soon repeats it with the same tone and the same leap. Naturally, I imitate the tone and leap again, exactly like Meni. This happens several times: the calf leaps, I leap, the calf gives a meh, I give a meh . Who knows how long this game would have gone on had my older brother Elyahu not delivered a sharp rap to the back of my neck with the flat of his hand?

“Is that the way to behave, a boy of almost nine years wasting his time dancing with a calf! Into the house with you, you good-for-nothing! Papa’s going to give it to you!”

B.

Not a chance! My father isn’t going to give me anything! My father is sick. He hasn’t chanted the prayers in the pulpit since Simchas Torah. He coughs all night. The doctor comes for a visit, a swarthy, stout man with black sideburns and merry eyes — a cheerful doctor. He calls me Pupik as he flicks my belly button with his fingers. He always tells my mother not to stuff me with potatoes and to feed the patient only bouillon and milk. My mother listens to him, and when he leaves, she hides her face in her apron and her shoulders shake. Then she wipes her eyes and calls my brother Elyahu aside, where they whisper earnestly. What they talk about I don’t know, but I imagine they’re quarreling. My mother is sending him off somewhere, and he doesn’t want to go.