“ ‘Tefillin are one thing,’ suddenly said Kompanyevitch, who hadn’t let out a peep all this time. ‘You can take them or leave them, it’s not them I’m concerned about. But a tallis koton is something else. It’s simply beyond me why young people won’t wear it any more! After all, you can’t deny that tefillin are a nuisance. You have to put them on, you have to take them off … but a simple fringed undershirt such as the Bible tells us to wear — who could possibly object to it?’
“Those words were spoken by our infidel in such a calm, deliberate, assured tone of voice that Tashker, don’t you know, couldn’t have been more thunderstruck if the train had suddenly turned upside down or been hit by lightning. ‘I better have my ears examined!’ he thought. ‘The Messiah must have come! Would you listen to the pork lover talk about tallis kotons? Tallis kotons!!!’ And out loud to Froyke he exclaimed, ‘What do you say to this sheep in wolf’s clothing, eh? Did you hear what he said about tallis kotons?’
“ ‘But what’s wrong with it?’ asked Froyke, as innocent as a lamb himself. ‘Isn’t Mr. Kompanyevitch a Jew like you and me?’
“That was already too much for our Tashker. In the first place, since when was it Mr. Kompanyevitch? And in the second place, since when was Kompanyevitch a Jew? ‘A Jew? Don’t make me laugh! A Jew who puts the samovar up on the Sabbath? Who serves a seven-course meal on Tisha b’Av? Who doesn’t even kosher his dishes for Passover? That’s who’s talking tallis kotons?’
“ ‘But why not?’ persisted Froyke, still the picture of innocence. ‘What does the one thing have to do with the other, Reb Yoyl? If you ask me, a Jew like Kompanyevitch can do everything you say and still wear a tallis koton himself.’
“ ‘What?!!’ cried our Tashker at the top of his voice. ‘That beardless wonder? That degenerate? That living affront to man and God?’
“Everyone fell silent and stared at Kompanyevitch. Kompanyevitch, however, said nothing. Nor, for that matter, did Froyke-Sheygetz. All at once, though, he jumped to his feet like a man throwing caution to the wind and declared, ‘You know what, Reb Yoyl? It’s my considered opinion that the Jewish soul runs deeper than you think. If a Jew cares about tallis kotons, he must be wearing one himself. I’ll bet you a hundred rubles that Kompanyevitch is, the loser to donate the money to the Drozhne relief fund. Just say the word, and I’ll ask him to do us the big favor of opening his shirt and jacket and showing us what’s underneath them!’
“ ‘Bravo!’ cried everyone, breaking into such a clamor that the whole car was hopping with excitement. Kompanyevitch alone went on sitting there without a word, as if none of this concerned him in the least. You might have thought that someone else was being talked about. And our good friend Yoyl Tashker? The poor devil was as bathed in sweat as if he were turning on a slow spit. Never in his whole life had he wagered so much as a ruble on anything — and here he was being asked to risk a hundred! And suppose — no, it was too horrible even to think of — just suppose that the scoundrel was wearing a tallis koton, after all?… On second thought, though, Reb Yoyl reflected, ‘Come, now: Kompanyevitch? That renegade? I’ll be hanged if it’s possible’—and, screwing up his courage, he reached into his coat, took out a hundred rubles, and handed them to the two trustworthy Jews who had meanwhile been appointed as seconds. They, in turn, requested of Kompanyevitch that he undress. Who? Me? Not on your life! ‘What do you take me for?’ he asked. ‘A schoolboy? A vaudeville performer? Since when does a grown man strip naked in broad daylight in front of a crowd of Jews?’
“Kompanyevitch’s protests were music to Yoyl Tashker’s ears. ‘So!’ he said to Froyke, his face lighting up. ‘Who’s right? You can’t fool me! Why, the thought of a Jew like that with a tallis koton … what a laugh!’
“Things weren’t looking any too good. Everyone turned to Kompanyevitch. ‘How can you do this to us! One way or another, what do you have to lose? Just think of it: a hundred rubles for the Drozhne relief fund!’
“ ‘A hundred rubles for the relief fund!’ echoed Yoyl Tashker, doing his best not to look at his neighbor.
“ ‘Think of the poor Jews, men, women, and children, without a roof over their heads!’
“ ‘Without a roof, just imagine!’ echoed Tashker.
“ ‘Where’s the God in your heart?’ Kompanyevitch was asked.
“ ‘Where’s the God?’ Tashker wanted to know.
“Well, it wasn’t easy, but in the end Kompanyevitch was persuaded to remove his jacket, take off his vest, and unbutton his shirt. Didn’t I tell you he was a character? Under his shirt was a tallis koton, all right — and not just an ordinary tallis koton either, but a big, fancy, superkosher one with a blue border all around it and a double set of fringes that would have done a rabbi proud. It was a tallis koton to end all tallis kotons, let me tell you! Leave it to a rascal like Froyke-Sheygetz! True, he lost Yoyl Tashker’s business then and there. Froyke hasn’t dared show his face to Tashker ever since. But he did raise a hundred rubles for the Drozhne relief fund — and from whom? From a rich scrooge of a Jew who never gave a penny’s worth of charity in his life, not even a crust of dry bread! Doesn’t someone like that deserve a good whipping? I mean someone like Froyke, of course …”
(1910)
A GAME OF SIXTY-SIX
The following, which I heard on the train from a dignified gentleman of about sixty whom I took to be a commercial traveler like myself, is related here word for word, as has lately been my habit.
“You know, if you always had to pass the time traveling by making conversation with a fellow passenger, you could go out of your mind.
“In the first place, you never know who you’re getting involved with. There are some people who not only like to talk, they like it so much that they give you a headache — and there are others you can’t get a word out of. But not a single word! It’s anyone’s guess why you can’t. Maybe they’re in a bad mood. Maybe they have an upset stomach, or an attack of gall bladder, or a toothache. Maybe they’re even running away from some private hell at home — a house full of brats, a shrew of a wife, problems with the neighbors, a business that can’t pay its debts. Whoever knows what goes on inside another person?
“I know what you’ll tell me: if I don’t feel like talking, why don’t I read a newspaper, or take a look at a book? Ah, newspapers: if only they were the same on the road as they are at home! At home I have my regular paper, I’m as used to it, you might say, as I am to my own slippers. It may be that your slippers are newer than mine. In fact, mine are not only old, they’re so worn-out that they look, you should excuse the comparison, like a pair of cold blintzes. Still, they have one advantage over yours — namely, that they happen to be mine …
“Well, a newspaper, for all the difference between them, is just like a slipper. I have a neighbor back home who lives on the same floor of the same building as I do, in fact, right next door to me. He gets a paper delivered, and so do I. It’s just not the same one. One day I said to him, ‘What’s the point of the two of us getting two different papers? Why not go halves with me in mine, and we’ll share one paper between us.’ ‘Why not indeed?’ he says. ‘It’s a fine idea. Only why not go halves with me in mine?’ ‘Because your paper,’ I say, ‘is a rag. Mine is a newspaper.’ ‘Who says my paper is a rag?’ he says. ‘It so happens to be the other way around.’ ‘Since when are you such a big expert on newspapers?’ I say. ‘Since when are you?’ he says. ‘Eh!’ I say, ‘I never realized what an impossible Jew you were. What’s the point of even talking toyou?’ …