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

I leave my palace and my vineyard, and I walk up behind her, and I say in the same words as my brother Elyahu as tears pour from my eyes, “Mama! Today is yontiff, Mama, today is Shevuos, Mama! Mama, you’re not allowed to cry, Mama!”

A.

Never do I remember being as special as I am now. Why am I so special? My father Peysi the cantor, as you know, died on the first day of Shevuos, and I was left an orphan.

After the first day of Shevuos we began saying kaddish — I and my brother Elyahu. It was he who taught me how to say kaddish.

My brother Elyahu is a devoted brother, but he’s not a good teacher. He gets angry, and he gets into squabbles with me. But finally he opens up a prayer book and sits down to teach me.

Yisgadal v’yiskadash sh’may rabo . . He says the prayer through once and wants me to know it by heart. When I can’t say it, he repeats it again and again, from beginning to end, and tells me that now I should be able to say it myself. I try, but it doesn’t come out right. I get through part of it, but then I get tangled up. He jabs me with his elbow and says my head is obviously somewhere outside, or somewhere with the little calf. He isn’t lazy and repeats it with me again. I barely make it halfway through, leyla u’v’layla min kol birchoso u’shiraso tush b’choso, and not another syllable will come! He grabs me by the ear and says my father should rise from the dead and see what kind of son he has!

“Then I wouldn’t have to say kaddish,” I say to my brother Elyahu, and receive a smart slap from his left hand on my right cheek.

My mother hears it and gives him a good scolding, telling him not to hit me, because I’m an orphan. “God be with you! What are you doing? Whom are you hitting? Have you forgotten the child is an orphan?!”

I sleep with my mother in my father’s bed, the only piece of furniture in the house. She lets me have most of the blanket.

“Cover yourself up,” she says to me, “and fall asleep, my precious orphan. We have no food to give you.”

I cover myself up, but I can’t sleep. (I repeat the kaddish by heart.) I’m not going to cheder, I’m not studying, I’m not saying my prayers, I’m not singing. I’m finished with everything.

I have it good — I am an orphan.

B.

Mazel tov! I know the whole kaddish by heart, as well as the special kaddish. In shul I stand on a bench and chant the kaddish masterfully like an expert. I have a good voice, a true soprano, inherited from my father. All the boys stand around me and envy me. Women weep. The men give me a kopek.

Rich Yossi’s son, Cross-Eyed Henich, sticks his tongue out at me when it comes time for me to recite the special kaddish. He’s good at holding a spiteful grudge! He desperately wants me to start giggling. Just to spite him, I won’t giggle! Ahron the beadle notices him, takes him by the ear, and leads him out the door. Serves him right! Since I’m saying kaddish morning and night, I no longer go to Hersh-Ber the cantor’s and don’t have to carry Dobtzi around. I’m free!

I spend all day at the pond, or I catch fish, or I swim. I learned how to catch fish by myself. If you want, I’ll teach you too. You take off your shirt and tie a knot in your sleeves and go into the water slowly up to your neck. (You have to go for a long, long time.) If you feel your shirt getting heavy, it’s a sign that it’s full. Get out as soon as you can, shake out all the grass and mud, and look carefully at what’s left. Caught in the grass you sometimes find little frogs. Throw them back into the water — take pity on a living creature. In the thick mud you can often find a leech. Leeches are worth money. For ten leeches you can get three and a half groschens. Don’t bother looking for fish. Once there were fish, but now they’re gone. I don’t bother with fish. I’m satisfied to catch leeches. But this summer there wasn’t a single leech!

How my brother Elyahu found out I was fishing I don’t know. He almost tore off my ear on account of my wet shirt and pants!

Luckily Fat Pessi, our neighbor, saw it. Your own mother wouldn’t protect you as well. “Is that the way to treat an orphan?”

My brother Elyahu is ashamed and lets go of my ear. Everyone sticks up for me. I have it good — I am an orphan.

C.

Our neighbor Fat Pessi has fallen in love with me. She’s trying to convince my mother to let me stay with her.

“Why should that bother you?” she argues. “I have twelve to feed at the table, so he’ll be a thirteenth.”

My mother agrees reluctantly, but my brother Elyahu has his own opinion. “Who’ll watch over him, make sure he says kaddish?”

“I’ll watch over him and make sure he says kaddish. Nu, is there anything else you need to ask me about?”

Pessi is not a rich woman. Her husband is a bookbinder named Moishe. He has a reputation as a master of his trade. But that isn’t enough. You have to have luck as well. That’s what Pessi says to my mother.

My mother agrees. My mother says to be unlucky also takes some luck. She uses me as an example. Here I am an orphan, and everyone wants to look after me. Some are volunteering to keep me for good, but may her enemies never live to see the day when she gives me away for good! That’s what my mother says, and cries.

She discusses it with my brother Elyahu. “What do you think? Should he stay with Pessi for the time being?”

My brother Elyahu is already a grown-up, or she wouldn’t be asking his opinion. He strokes his bare, not-yet-bearded face as if he already had a beard and speaks like an adult. “Whatever you say, so long as he doesn’t get into trouble.”

And so I’ll stay with our neighbor for the time being, but on condition I don’t get into trouble. To them, whatever you do is called getting into trouble! Tying a piece of paper onto the cat’s tail so she’ll run in circles, to them is getting into trouble. Running a stick across the priest’s grating in the courtyard to attract all the dogs, to them is getting into trouble. Pulling out the stopper of Leibke the water-carrier’s barrel so half the water runs out, to them is getting into trouble.

“You’re lucky you’re an orphan,” Leibke the water-carrier says to me, “or else I’d break your bones! You better believe me!”

I really believe him. I know he won’t touch me now because I am an orphan.

I have it good — I am an orphan.

D.

Our neighbor Pessi, you should pardon me, told a big lie. She said twelve were eating at her table, but according to my count, I’m the fourteenth. It appears she forgot to include among the eaters Boruch the blind uncle. And maybe she didn’t include him because he’s so old and has no teeth. I won’t argue. He can’t chew, but he can swallow like a goose, and he grabs. Everybody grabs. The way they grab is out of the ordinary. I grab too. They hit me. They kick me under the table, and more than all of them, Vashti hits me. Vashti is a terror. His name is Hershl, but since he has a birthmark on his forehead, he is called Vashti. I haven’t the faintest idea why. They all have nicknames like Barrel, Tomcat, Buffalo, Stork, Stutterer, Give-Me-More, and Smear-with-Butter.

You can be sure every nickname has a reason. Pinni is called Barrel because he is fat and round like a barrel. Velvl is dark-skinned, so he is called Tomcat. Chaim looks like a buffalo, so he is called Buffalo. Mendl has a pointy nose, so he is called Stork. Feitl is named Stutterer because he can’t speak right. Berl is a big nosher. If you give him a piece of bread with chicken fat, he says, “Give me more.” Zorach got a bad name, Smear-with-Butter, for something that’s not his fault. His mother may be to blame because she neglected to wash his greasy hair during childhood. Then again, maybe she isn’t to blame at all. I’m not going to argue, let alone fight over it!