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

Elyahu pleads to be left alone, swearing that in his whole life he has never prayed on the pulpit during the High Holidays. But no matter how much he protests, he is forced onto the pulpit, a round table covered with a white cloth. Pinni grabs me by the ear: “Go, Peewee, do your work!” And we produce a Kol Nidrei for the passengers that they will remember for generations.

I.

What makes it a Kol Nidrei to remember? It isn’t so much the Kol Nidrei itself as the yaalehs , and not so much the yaalehs as the weeping. Men and women alike, they moan, sigh, and blow their noses at first. Then, as they wipe their eyes, the tears come quietly, then louder and louder. Wailing and keening begin, ending with much fainting. They are reminding themselves that just a year ago each of them was in his home, in his synagogue, at his proper place in his usual pew, prayer book in hand, listening to his cantor and choirboys. Now they are wanderers, chased and driven like sheep to the slaughter, packed tightly together so that it’s hard to catch their breath. Even the dressed-up passengers from first and second class, with shiny top hats on their heads, can’t control themselves and pretend to be wiping sweat with their silk handkerchiefs, but I clearly see tears in their eyes. The expression of sorrow is so moving that even the stewards and sailors stand at a respectful distance observing Jews wrapped in white prayer shawls standing on the deck swaying in prayer, weeping and wailing, as they realize how bitter their hearts are.

My brother Elyahu sings out, and I back him up. And there in a corner, among the women, stands my mother wearing her holiday shawl, her prayer book in her hand, bathed in tears.

My mother is in her glory. Today is her day!

J.

The following morning we wake up a little earlier in order to sing “Adon-Olam,” with its old familiar tune, but we can’t do it. Not only is it impossible to pray, you can’t stand on your feet, you can’t reach the pulpit. Everything’s dark. We can barely make one another out. Even taking a breath is unbearable. It’s bad, worse than bad — yes, we’re truly dying.

What’s happened? I’m too tired to explain, so I’ll leave it for tomorrow.

A.

I started to tell you about the unhappy incident that happened to us on Yom Kippur morning on the ship. It was terrible — we’ll remember it all our lives.

It started off innocently enough. Right after Kol Nidrei the night before, a little cloud, a thick black little cloud, had appeared in a corner of the sky. I and my friend Mendl saw it first because while everyone else was down below, crying and reading the Psalms after Kol Nidrei, we were walking around the Prince Albert. We found a little corner and sat quietly. It was still and warm, and we felt good but a bit sad. What Mendl was thinking I don’t know, but I was thinking about God, who was sitting up in the sky, and how great He must be to have created all this below. What must He be thinking when He hears so many Jews reading Psalms, praising Him and pouring out their hearts to Him? My mother says He hears and sees everyone, and He knows everything, even what I’m feeling in my heart this very minute. If that’s so, it’s not good, because I was just thinking about a good apple, a sweet pear, and a drink of cold water. The potatoes have given me heartburn, but we’re forbidden to drink. Who would think of drinking water on Yom Kippur after Kol Nidrei? My brother Elyahu would kill me. He says I have to fast till Yom Kippur is over tomorrow night. My mother says, “We’ll see.” In the meantime she’s searching all over the ship for me and can’t find me. A sailor shows her where we’re sitting at the bow of the ship. She shouts, “Motl! Motl?” “What is it, Mama?” “What do you mean, what is it? Go to bed! Tomorrow we have to wake up early, did you forget? It’s a holy day.” I don’t feel like going to bed, but I have to.

B.

When we wake up in the morning, the whole sky is covered. The ocean is working up a rage. The waves are heaving higher than the ship, tossing Prince Albert like a wood chip or a toy. The sailors run around like poisoned mice. The stewards are hanging on to the railings. The passengers cling to the walls, barely able to walk. Suddenly the rain comes pouring down. Claps of thunder follow one after the other. God is riding forth on His chariot — and on Yom Kippur! Lightning bolts briefly light up the dark, overcast sky. The Prince Albert creaks, sways side to side, up and down, and the rain beats.

What is this — another flood? Didn’t God vow to Noah that there’d be no more floods on earth?

“It’s the parting of the waters, like the Red Sea,” says my brother Elyahu, and his friend Pinni mutters, “Yes, it’s the parting of the Red Sea”—the first time these two agree. We’re going to pass through between the waves. The words “parting of the Red Sea” catch on. Whenever someone looks at the ocean, he agrees that that’s what it is. Then he runs off to the side railing and hangs over, emptying his stomach down to his mother’s milk, and we see him no more. Who could think of praying or of Yom Kippur? In a daze, we even forget where in the world we are.

C.

In our family, the first to break down is Bruche. She screams that she’s dying! Then she curses my brother Elyahu for talking her into going to America. America is like Siberia, she says, worse than Siberia — Siberia is paradise compared to America! My mother sticks up for her son and chides Bruche, saying we have to withstand everything because it’s all God’s doing. For instance, it’s written in the Bible. . But she can’t go any further because she suddenly feels nauseated. Looking at her, Teibl also feels nauseated.

Pinni has to put in his usual barbs: “These women are a skit, a comedy!” He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and pushes his cap to the side. “Fools! Idiots! Who cares if the ocean storms and the ship rocks? An intelligent person can figure out what to do. When the ship rocks this way, I bend that way. When the ship rocks the other way, I bend this way. It’s called balancing.”

Bending this way and that, Pinni shows us “balancing.” It makes even my brother Elyahu sick to his stomach, and both of them have to give up whatever’s inside them, as do the rest of the passengers. They’re barely able to drag themselves back to their bunks, where they fall like sheaves of wheat onto their beds. And that’s when the real hell of the parting of the Red Sea begins.

D.

I and my friend Mendl hold out longer than all the rest. Mendl met another emigrant, an “old sea dog,” who had traveled back and forth to America three times, so he knew how to cure seasickness. He tells us his remedy: stay up on the deck and look out toward the horizon, not at the ocean. It’s like you imagine you’re in a sled on the snow, not riding a horse. But the old sea dog ends up lying stretched out on his bunk, while Mendl and I get so soaked from the rain, you could wring us out like a dishrag. We can’t even find our bunks on our own. Someone has to lead us there by the hand.

E.

How long does the parting of the Red Sea last? A day or two, maybe three, I’m not sure. I only know one thing — when we wake up, it’s a joy to be alive. The sky is as clear as pure gold, and the water is like a mirror. The Prince Albert is moving along, fast and trim, slicing through the water, splashing, frothing, and spraying. The passengers come to life. They all come up, young and old, into the warm, lovely, bright world. Someone says we’ll soon be able to see land. I and my friend Mendl are the first to tell everyone the good news. From a distance it looks like a speck, a yellowish splotch, but it grows larger and wider. We can make out many tall-masted ships in the distance. All our troubles are quickly forgotten. The passengers dress up in their holiday best. The women pretty themselves up. My brother Elyahu combs his beard. Bruche and Teibl put on their shawls. My mother puts on her Shabbes silk kerchief. I and Mendl don’t have anything special to put on, nor is there enough time — we’re about to approach the shores of America. Eyes are shining, and people feel elated, just as the Jews must have felt after passing through the real parting of the Red Sea. We want to sing.