Nu, can you argue with today’s children? It turns out, as I told you in the beginning: I have nourished and brought up children—you labor for your children’s sake, knock your head on the wall, and as Isaiah says: They have rebelled against me—they say they know better. No, say what you will, today’s children are too smart!
But I have a feeling I’ve filled your ear more than I usually do. Please forgive me, be well, and have a good life!
HODL
WRITTEN IN 1904.
Are you wondering, Pani Sholem Aleichem, why you haven’t seen Tevye lately? Doesn’t he look like he’s suddenly aged, turned gray? Ah, if you knew what troubles, what heartache Tevye carries with him wherever he goes! How is it written—Man is but dust and dust is all that remains of him—a man is weaker than a fly and stronger than iron. That describes me perfectly! Wherever you find a misfortune, a problem, an affliction — it is not permitted to bypass me. Do you have any idea why this is so? Maybe it’s because I am by nature an overly trusting simpleton. Tevye forgets what our sages told us a thousand times: Respect him and suspect him—in Ashkenaz that means a man can’t trust his own dog. But what can I do, I ask you, if that’s the way I am? As you know, I am a trusting soul and never complain about the ways of Him the everlasting. Whatever He ordains is good. Just try it the other way around and do complain. Will it do you any good? As we say in the Slichos during the High Holiday prayers: The soul is Thine and the body is Thine—what does a person know and what worth has he?
I always argue with my Golde: “Golde,” I say, “you are sinning! We have a midrash—”
“Who cares about a midrash?” she says. “We have a daughter to marry off, and after that daughter, kayn eyn horeh, there are two more, and after the two — three more, may no evil eye befall them!”
“Ah, don’t worry your head about it, Golde! Our sages also prepared us for that. We have a midrash on that too—”
She doesn’t let me speak. “Grown daughters,” she says, “are midrash enough.” Try to argue with a woman!
Anyway, from what I was just saying, you can see I possess goods to choose from, one prettier than the other, kayn eyn horeh, may I not be sinning with these words. It isn’t proper for me to praise my children, but I hear what everyone calls them: “Beauties!” Especially Hodl — the eldest after Tzeitl, the one who fell in love with the tailor. Hodl is beautiful, believe me. As it is written in the holy Megillah: For she was fair to look on—pretty as a picture! And to make it worse, she has a head on her shoulders, writes and reads Yiddish and Russian, devours books like dumplings. You will ask, How does Tevye’s daughter come to books when her father deals in cheese and butter? Listen, that’s what I ask those fine lads who don’t own so much as a pair of trousers, begging your pardon, and all they want to do is study. As we say in the Haggadah: We are all wise, we are all learned—everybody wants to learn, everybody wants to study. Ask them: “What are you studying? Why are you studying?” They know the answer about as well as goats know why they jump into other people’s gardens! Especially when they aren’t even allowed to look at a book. Guard the cream from the cat! Still and all, you should see how hard they study! And who are they? Workers’ children, children of tailors and shoemakers, may God help me! They go off to Yehupetz or to Odessa, they sprawl in attics, they live on the ten plagues of Egypt, and for months on end they never see a piece of meat. Six of them can dine on a single loaf of bread and one herring, and as it is written, Thou shalt rejoice in thy feast—live it up, you paupers!
One of that crew made his way into our corner of the world, some shlimazel who didn’t live far from us. I knew his father, he was a cigarette-maker; there are no poorer. Well, I don’t blame the young man for that, because if the great rabbi Yochanan Hasandler could sew boots, why should this young man be above having a father who rolled cigarettes? There’s one thing that bothers me: why should a pauper be eager to study, to learn? True, to give him credit, he has a good head, a very good head on his shoulders. Perchik is his name, the shlimazel, but we called him Fefferl in Yiddish, and he actually looked like a little pepper. You should see him — like a little squirrel, small, dark-haired, homely, with a quick sharp tongue, but bursting with confidence.
Well, one day I was riding home from Boiberik, having sold my wares, a whole wagonload of cheese, butter, sour cream, and greens. I was deep in thought about man and God, about this and that, of course not leaving out the Yehupetz rich folks, how well they live, kayn eyn horeh, and about Tevye the shlimazel and his horse, who becomes more wretched every day. It was summer, the sun was hot, the flies were biting, and the world was in every way pleasant, ample. You felt like flying in the air, swimming in the river!
I raised my eyes — and saw a young man trudging along the path with a bundle under one arm, sweating profusely and panting heavily. “Rise, O son of Reb Yuckel ben Fleckel!” I said to him. “Sit down up here and I’ll give you a lift. I have plenty of room. If you come across your friend’s donkey it is written: Thou shalt surely help him and not abandon him—then why not a fellow human being?”
He laughed, the shlimazel, and didn’t need to be asked again before hopping onto the wagon. “Where is a young man like you coming from?” I said.
“From Yehupetz.”
“What,” I said, “is a young man like you doing in Yehupetz?”
“A young man like myself,” he said, “is preparing for his entrance exam.”
“What,” I said, “is a young man like you studying?”
“A young man like myself,” he said, “doesn’t know yet what he is studying.”
“If so,” I said, “why is a young man like you bothering your head for nothing?”
“Don’t worry, Reb Tevye. A young man like myself,” he said, “already knows what he has to do.”
“Then tell me, since you know who I am, tell me who you are.”
“Who am I? I am a person.”
“I see you’re not a horse. I mean whose are you?”
“Whose should I be? I am God’s.”
“I know,” I said, “you are God’s. It is written: All creatures and all cattle. I mean where do you come from. Are you one of ours or maybe from Lithuania?”
“I come from Adam, the first man,” he said, “but am from around here. You know me.”
“Who then is your father? Tell me already!”
“My father was called Perchik.”
“Damn!” I spat. “Did you have to string me along all this time? So you are Perchik the cigarette-maker’s son?”
“I am,” he said, “Perchik the cigarette-maker’s son.”
“And you are taking classes?”
“And I am taking classes.”
“Well, well, very nice,” I said. “A man and a bird and a duck all try to move ahead in this world. Tell me, my young rascal, what do you live on?”
“I live on what I eat.”
“Aha, that’s good. But what,” I said, “do you eat?”
“Everything,” he said, “that they give me.”
“I understand,” I said, “you aren’t fussy. If there is enough to eat, you eat, and if there isn’t enough to eat, you bite your lip and go to bed hungry. But it’s worth it so long as you are studying. You’re comparing yourself,” I said, “to the Yehupetz rich folks. As it says in the morning prayers: All are beloved, all are elect.” I quoted a portion to him, as only Tevye can.