What do you say, Pan Sholem Aleichem? You’re a Jew who writes books and gives the whole world advice — what should Tevye have done? Taken her in his arms, hugged her and kissed her, and told her, as we say on Yom Kippur, solakhti kidvorekho—come to me, you’re my own flesh and blood? Or turned a deaf ear as I did once before and said, lekh-lekho—get lost and stay lost! Put yourself in Tevye’s place and tell me honestly, in plain language, what you would have done …
Well, if you can’t answer that right off the bat, you’re welcome to think about it, but meanwhile I have to be off, because my grandchildren are getting impatient. Just look at them looking at their grandpa! I want you to know that grandchildren are a thousand times more precious and lovable than children. Bonim uvney vonim, your own children’s children — that’s nothing to sneeze at, you know! Be well, then, and don’t hold it against me if I’ve run on a little too long — it will give you something to write about. If God has no objections, I’m sure we’ll meet again someday …
What did you say? I didn’t finish the story of the Amalekites? I never told you if they smashed my windows? Well, as a matter of fact they didn’t, because it was decided to leave that up to me. “They’re your windows, Tevel,” said Ivan Paparilo, “and you might as well smash them yourself. As long as those damn officials can see there’s been a pogrom … And now, bring out the samovar and let’s all have tea. And if you’d be so kind as to donate half a bucket of vodka to the village, we’ll all drink to your health, because you’re a clever Jew and a man of God, you are …”
I ask you, Pan Sholem Aleichem, you’re a person who writes books — is Tevye right or not when he says that there’s a great God above and that a man must never lose heart while he lives? And that’s especially true of a Jew, and most especially of a Jew who knows a Hebrew letter when he sees one … No, you can rack your brains and be as clever as you like — there’s no getting around the fact that we Jews are the best and smartest people. Mi ke’amkho yisro’eyl goy ekhod, as the Prophet says — how can you even compare a goy and a Jew? Anyone can be a goy, but a Jew must be born one. Ashrekho yisro’eyl—it’s a lucky thing I was, then, because otherwise how would I ever know what it’s like to be homeless and wander all over the world without resting my head on the same pillow two nights running? You see, ever since I was given that lesson in Lekh-Lekho, I’ve been on the go; there hasn’t been a place I could point to and say. “Tevye, we’re here; now sit down and relax.” But Tevye asks no questions; if he’s told to keep moving, he does. Today, Pan Sholem Aleichem, we met on the train, but tomorrow may find us in Yehupetz, and next year in Odessa, or in Warsaw, or maybe even in America … unless, that is, the Almighty looks down on us and says, “Guess what, children! I’ve decided to send you my Messiah!” I don’t even care if He does it just to spite us, as long as He’s quick about it, that old God of ours! And in the meantime, be well and have a good trip. Say hello for me to all our Jews and tell them wherever they are, not to worry: the old God of Israel still lives!..
(1914, 1916)
The Railroad Stories
TO THE READER
I do a lot of traveling. You’ll find me on the road nearly eleven months of the year. Generally I go by train; most often third class; and almost always to towns and villages where there are Jews, since my business doesn’t take me to places Jews are barred from.
My goodness, the things one sees traveling! It’s a pity I’m not a writer. And yet come to think of it, what makes me say I’m not? What’s a writer, after all? Anyone can be one, and especially in a hodgepodge like our Yiddish. What’s the big fuss about? You pick up a pen and you write!
Come to think of it again, though, writing is not for everyone. We should all stick to what we work at for a living, that’s my opinion, because each of us has to make one. And if you don’t work at anything, that’s work too.
Still, since we travelers often spend whole days on end sitting and looking out the window until we want to bang our heads against the wall, one day I had an idea: I went and bought myself a pencil and a notebook and began jotting down everything I saw and heard on my trips. I don’t mean to boast, but you can see for yourself that I’ve gathered quite a lot of material. Why, it might take you a whole year just to read it all. What, I wondered, should I do with it? It would be a crime to throw it away. Why not, I thought, publish it in a newspaper or a book? God knows that worse stuff gets into print.
And so I sat down and sorted out my goods, throwing out whatever wasn’t up to scratch and keeping only the very best quality, which I divided up into stories — story number one, story number two, and so on, giving each a proper name to make it more professional. I have no idea if I’ll turn a profit on this venture or end up losing my shirt. Quite frankly, I’ll be happy to break even.
But whatever possessed me, you ask, to invest in such a business in the first place? For the life of me, I can’t tell you the answer. Maybe it was a ridiculous thing to do, but there’s no going back on it now. I did take one precaution, though, and that’s against the critics, because I’ve kept my real name a secret. They can try guessing it till they burst! Let them criticize, let them laugh at me, let them climb the walls all they want — it will bother me as much as a catcall on Purim bothers Haman. After all, I’m no scribbler, no ten-o’clock-scholar begging for a job — I’m a commercial traveler and I pay my own way!
COMPETITORS
Always, right in the middle of the worst pandemonium, when Jews are pushing to get in and out and fighting for each seat as though it were in the front row of the synagogue, there the two of them are: him and her.
He’s squat, dark, unkempt, with a cataract in one eye. She’s redheaded, gaunt, and pockmarked. Both are dressed in old rags, both have patches on their shoes, and both are carrying the same thing: a basket. His basket is full of braided rolls, hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and bottled seltzer water. Her basket is full of braided rolls, hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and bottled seltzer water too.
Sometimes he turns up with bags of red or black cherries and green grapes sour as vinegar. Then she also turns up with red or black cherries and green grapes sour as vinegar.
Both always appear together, fight to get through the same door of the same car, and give the same sales spiel, though with different manners of speaking. His is liquid, as though his tongue were melting in his mouth. Hers is lisping, as though her tongue kept getting in her way.
Maybe you think they undersell one another, vie for customers, war over prices? Not a chance! They charge the same amount for everything. The competition between them consists solely of seeing who can make you feel sorrier for whom. Both beg you to have pity on their five orphaned children (his five are motherless, hers have no father) while looking you right in the eye; both shove their goods in your face; and both talk such a blue streak at you that you end up buying something whether you meant to or not.
The trouble is that all their wheedling and whining leaves you confused. Whose customer should you be, his or hers? Because if you think you can get around it by buying from each, they quickly disabuse you of the notion. “Look here, mister,” they tell you, “you either buy from one or the other. You can’t dance at two weddings at once!”