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

We can’t imagine what’s going on. My mother glances at the oven every minute, scared it will explode. Then we roll in a kvass jug. Carefully we remove the pot from the oven and pour the mixture into the jug. Then we pour water in until the jug is filled a little more than halfway.

My brother Elyahu says, “Enough!” and consults the book From One Ruble — A Hundred! In a whisper he asks for a pen and a sheet of white paper. “These are the ones we write petitions with,” he whispers in my mother’s ear. He dips the pen into the jug and writes something on the white sheet of paper with a swirl and a flourish. He shows the writing first to my mother, then to my sister-in-law Bruche.

Both look at it and say to him, “It writes!”

They get back to work. After pouring in a few more pails of water, my brother Elyahu raises his hand and says, “Enough!” Again he dips the pen into the jug, again he writes something on the paper, and again shows the writing to my mother and my sister-in-law Bruche.

Again they both look at the paper and say, “It writes!”

This they do several times until the jug is full to the brim. There is no room for any more water. Then my brother Elyahu raises his hand and says, “Enough!” and the four of us sit down to supper.

C.

After supper we busy ourselves pouring the ink into bottles. My brother Elyahu has collected bottles from all over, all kinds of bottles and flasks, big and little, beer bottles, wine bottles, kvass bottles, whiskey bottles, and just plain bottles. He has also bought up old corks to save money. He bought a new funnel and an old quart measure with which to pour the ink from the jug into the bottles. Here he again whispers into my mother’s ear to lock the door. Then the four of us get down to work.

The work is divided evenly. My sister-in-law Bruche rinses out the bottles and hands them to my mother. My mother examines each bottle and then gives them over to me. I place the funnel in each one and hold it there with one hand and the bottle with the other. And my brother Elyahu has only one job: to pour the ink from the jug into the quart measure and then into the funnel and the bottles. The work is enjoyable and pleasant. The only problem is the ink. It stains your fingers, your hands, your nose, your whole face. Both of us, I and my brother Elyahu, look as black as devils. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my mother laugh. And you can imagine my sister-in-law Bruche — she almost splits her sides laughing. My brother Elyahu hates when someone laughs at him. He gets angry at my sister-in-law Bruche and demands to know why she’s laughing. That makes her laugh even harder. He gets even angrier, and she laughs all the more. The laughter keeps coming, in uncontrollable spasms! My mother finally begs her to stop and tells us to go wash up. But my brother Elyahu doesn’t have time. The last thing on his mind is washing. All he thinks of is filling the bottles.

Finally all the bottles are filled. No more bottles! Where to get more? He calls my sister-in-law Bruche off to the side, gives her money, and whispers to her to buy more bottles. She hears him out, looks him in the face, and bursts out laughing. He gets angry and calls my mother over and tells her the same thing. My mother goes off to buy bottles.

We continue pouring water into the jug, not all at once, you understand, but a little at a time. After each pailful of water, he raises his hand and says to himself, “Enough!” Then he dips the pen into the jug and writes on the white sheet of paper and says, “It writes!”

He does this several times till my mother comes back with a new supply of bottles. We get back to our original task of pouring ink into the bottles, till we again run out of bottles.

“How long can this go on?” says my sister-in-law Bruche.

“ Kayn eyn horeh, why stop a good thing?” says my mother.

My brother Elyahu shoots an angry look at Bruche, as if to say, You are my wife, but you are also a dunce, may God have pity on you!

D.

How much ink we make, I cannot tell you. I’m afraid it’s a thousand bottles! But what good is it if there’s no place to sell the ink? My brother Elyahu looks everywhere. Selling the ink retail, bottle by bottle, one at a time, doesn’t make sense. That’s what my brother Elyahu says to my neighbor’s husband Moishe the bookbinder. Moishe comes into our house and sees all those bottles — and springs back in fright. My brother Elyahu sees it, and a strange conversation follows between the two. I’ll relate it to you word for word:

ELYAHU: What scared you so?

BOOKBINDER: What’s in those bottles?

ELYAHU: What could it be — wine?

BOOKBINDER: Wine? That’s ink!

ELYAHU: Why ask then?

BOOKBINDER: What are you going to do with so much ink?

ELYAHU: Drink it!

BOOKBINDER: No, stop joking. You’re going to sell it retail?

ELYAHU: What am I, crazy? If I sell it, I’ll sell it ten, twenty, fifty bottles at a time. That’s called wholesale. Do you know what wholesale means?

BOOKBINDER: I know what wholesale means. To whom are you going to sell it?

ELYAHU: To whom? To the rabbi!

And my brother Elyahu goes off to the stores. When he comes to this big wholesaler, the wholesaler examines a bottle. But another wholesaler won’t even test the bottle in my brother Elyahu’s hand because it doesn’t have a label. “On the bottle,” he says, “there has to be a nice label with a design.”

My brother Elyahu says to him, “I don’t make designs. I make ink.”

The other one answers, “Suit yourself.”

Then my brother Elyahu hurries off to Yudel the writing teacher, who says something very nasty to him. He’s already bought a summer’s supply of ink.

My brother Elyahu asks him, “How many bottles of ink did you buy?”

Yudel the writing teacher says, “Bottles? I bought one bottle of ink. It will last and last, and when I run out, I’ll buy another bottle.”

How do you like that! Only a scribbler can think like that. First he says he’s spent a fortune on ink, and then he buys a bottle that will last forever. My poor brother Elyahu is beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do with so much ink. Originally he said he wouldn’t sell any ink retail, only wholesale. Now he thinks better of it. He will begin, he says, to sell it wholesale and retail. I would like to know what wholesale means.

This is what wholesale means. Just listen.

E.

My brother Elyahu brings back a large sheet of paper. He sits down and prints on it in large block letters:

INK SOLD WHOLESALE HERE

RETAIL —GOOD AND CHEAP

The words wholesale and retail are written so large, they take up almost the whole sheet. When the lettering dries, he attaches the paper on the outside of our door. I see through the window that many passersby stop to look.

My brother Elyahu also looks out the window and cracks his knuckles. That’s a sign that he’s upset. He says to me, “Just stand by the door and listen to what they’re saying.”

I stand by the door for half an hour and then come back into the house. My brother Elyahu asks me quietly, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What did they say?”

“Who?”

“The people who passed by.”

“They said it was nicely printed.”

“And nothing more?”

“Nothing more.”

My brother Elyahu sighs. Why was he sighing?

My mother has the same question. “Why are you sighing, silly? Wait a little. Did you expect in one day to sell out all the merchandise?”