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

My heart aches for her. I want to console her but I don’t have the words. I look at her and think, God in heaven, what do you have against this girl? What has she done to you?

I take her by the hand and pat it. “Don’t cry, Goldele. You’ll see, I’ll go to America and will make a living, and the first thing I’ll do is send you a different salve to smear on your eyes. Then I’ll send you a steamship ticket, half price because you’re not ten years old yet. You’ll come to America, and at the Castle Garden your mother and father will be waiting for you. I’ll also be there. When you arrive in America, you should look for me in the Castle Garden. I’ll be holding this pencil in my hand — do you see? When you see a boy holding this pencil, you’ll know it’s me — Motl Peysi’s. Later, when you leave the ship, you’ll hug and kiss your mother and father. You won’t go straight home with them. You’ll just give them your things, and you’ll go with me. I’ll show you all of America because by then I’ll know it all by heart. Then I’ll take you home to your parents, and you’ll eat supper — a hot, fresh soup.”

Goldele does not want to hear any more. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me. I kiss her too.

D.

Bruche has a habit of showing up when you don’t want her. Exactly at the very minute I’m saying goodbye to Goldele, she has to turn up! She doesn’t say anything to me, but just utters, in her mannish voice, the drawn-out word “So-o-o-o?!”

Then she draws her lips together in a strange way and screws up her nose while letting out a little cough—“Ahem!”—and goes off straight to my brother Elyahu. What she tells him I do not know. I only know that when I leave the Ezra, Elyahu gives me a smart slap that sets my ears ringing.

“What for?” my mother asks him. “Why?”

“He knows what for,” my brother Elyahu replies, and we all return to the inn, where we find things in turmoil. Everyone is packing. We too must pack. I love to see how people pack. When it comes to packing, my brother Elyahu is a master. He takes off his coat and starts giving orders: “Don’t put the dirty laundry there!. . Mama, the teakettle. . the cap, Bruche, the hat, hurry!. . the galoshes, Pinni, you blind bat, you scarecrow, can’t you see? The galoshes are right under your nose!. . Motl, why are you standing around like an idiot? Lend a hand! All he knows is drawing figures! Figures!”

He means me. I jump up and help carry things and toss around whatever they put in my hands. My brother Elyahu gets angry because I’m throwing things every which way. He’s about to hit me, but my mother defends me: “What do you want of the child?” My mother calling me a child doesn’t sit right with Bruche, who gets into a spat with my mother, who reminds her I am an orphan and is about to start crying. My brother Elyahu says, “Cry, cry! Cry out the rest of your eyes!”

Soon we will be leaving Antwerp.

Goodbye, Antwerp!

A.

As long as I’ve lived, I’ve never seen a city that’s more like one big fair than London. Oh, the clattering, the clanging, the whistling, the whooping! And the people are as thick as flies! Where do all these people come from, and why are they always running? They must be hungry or have to get somewhere, elbowing one another aside, knocking people down and stepping on them!

Our friend Pinni, as you remember, is nearsighted. He walks with his head in the clouds, completely distracted, while his feet get tangled up. One day we just stepped out of the train. Pinni has one trouser leg rolled up, one sock rolled down, and his necktie to the side, as always. I’ve never seen him so excited — he’s burning as if with a fever. He spouts strange words, as is his habit: “London! England! Disraeli! Buckle! History of Civilization! ” It’s impossible to calm him down. Then an accident happens. Within two minutes he’s stretched out on the ground, and people are stepping over him as if he’s a chunk of wood. His wife Teibl screams, “Pinni, where are you?” My brother Elyahu rushes to him and pulls him up, rumpled and crumpled like an old cap.

That’s number one. The second mishap occurs that very same day, on the Jewish street they call by the strange name Whitechapel. Here they sell fish and meat, prayer books, fringed garments, apples, kvass, cookies and cakes, kippered herring, prayer shawls, lemons, eggs, glasses, pots, galoshes, noodles, brooms, whistles, pepper, and string — exactly as people do at home, not a hair’s difference. Even the mud is the same as ours, as are the smells and odors, often worse. We’re delighted to be in Whitechapel. Pinni overdoes his delight. “Berdichev!” he exclaims. “Good God, Jewish children! We aren’t in London, we’re in Berdichev!” Oh my, did he pay for that comparison. Berdichev! The Whitechapel Jews don’t like it at all. I thought they would have to take him off to the hospital. From that time on Teibl never lets him out of her sight. I look around at Whitechapel. My God! If London is like this, what can America be like?

But if you talk to Bruche, she says London should have burned down before we arrived. From the very first minute she takes an instant dislike to the city. “Do you call this a city?” she says. “It’s not a city — it’s a hell! A fire should have destroyed it last year!” My brother Elyahu tries to say nice things about it, to no avail. Bruche spouts curses and insults at the city, wishing it would burn down. That’s her only punishment for it — having it burn to the ground. Pinni’s wife supports her. My mother says, “Maybe God will have pity on us, and London will be our last ordeal?” But the three of us — I, Elyahu, and Pinni — think of London as the Promised Land. We are actually thrilled with the turmoil and noise, the hustle and bustle.

What do we care if it’s noisy and crowded? Let them push all they want! The one thing troubling us, however, is that we’re without work. We look for a committee but can’t find one. Whoever we ask doesn’t know or won’t answer. They have no time. They’re busy, also running! But we must find a committee. Without a committee we won’t have enough money to get to America. My brother Elyahu’s secret pocket is now empty. The money we made selling our house has gone up in smoke. Pinni pokes fun at Elyahu: “What’ll you do now with that pocket?” This angers Elyahu. He hates being teased. He’s a pessimistic sort of person, exactly the opposite of his friend Pinni, who calls him “the worried little boss of the family.”

I love Pinni because he’s always jolly. Since we came to London, he’s become even jollier. In Cracow, Lemberg, Brod, Antwerp, and Vienna, he says, we had to speak German. But here in London it’s a pleasure — we can speak Yiddish just like at home, which means half Yiddish, half Russian.

Their language is worse than German. Bruche says that three Englishmen are not worth one German. Who on earth ever heard of a street called Whitechapel? And money is called ha’penny, tuppence, and thruppence ! And there’s another word that has to do with money called a fife . We had an incident with this fife, if you want to hear about it.

B.

You already know we’re trying to find a committee in London, which is like looking for a needle in a haystack. But we do have a God. We’re walking along Whitechapel one night — that is to say, it isn’t really night but daytime. In London there isn’t daytime or morning. In London it’s always night. We run across a man in a short coat and an odd-looking cap who seems to be looking for someone.

“I could swear you’re Jews,” says the man.