“In short, he kept getting his newspaper, I kept getting mine, and time went by. Until one day — it was during the cholera epidemic in Odessa (my neighbor and I both do business there) — a funny thing happened. We both went downstairs to meet the delivery boy, both got our newspapers, and were both reading them on our way back up, he his paper and I mine. What’s the first thing you read in a newspaper? The news bulletins, of course. So I looked at the first item from Odessa and it said, ‘Yesterday there were 230 new cases of cholera and 160 deaths. General Tolmachov summoned all the Jewish synagogue sextons to his residence,’ etcetera … Well, I could do without Tolmachov and the synagogue sextons. You couldn’t even call that news; if he didn’t find some new way of hassling Jews every day, his name wouldn’t be Tolmachov. What interested me was the cholera. And so I said to my neighbor (he was practically walking down the corridor on my toes — that’s how crude he is!), ‘What do you say about Odessa, eh? Cholera again!’
“ ‘It can’t be,’ he says to me.
“That riled me. What did he mean, it couldn’t be? So I took my newspaper and read the bulletin from Odessa out loud to him. ‘Yesterday there were 230 new cases of cholera and 160 deaths. General Tolmachov summoned all the Jewish synagogue sextons to his residence,’ etcetera. ‘We’ll see about that in a minute,’ he says and sticks his nose back in his newspaper. That riled me even more. ‘What do you think,’ I said, ‘that your paper has different news from my paper?’
“ ‘You never know,’ he mumbled.
“ ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ I said, getting still madder, ‘that your paper writes about a different Odessa, and about a different Tolmachov, and about a different cholera than mine does?’
“He didn’t even answer me. He just went right on searching that paper of his for news of the cholera from Odessa. Now go try making conversation with a primitive like that!
“No, sir. There’s a better way than that to kill time on a train, and that’s with a good game of cards. I mean with a game of sixty-six.
“In general, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that cards are the Devil’s own invention — but on a long train ride they’re a godsend. The time simply flies when you get a game going. Of course, it has to be with the right people. If it isn’t, God save you from the mess you’re liable to get yourself into! You have to make sure you don’t fall in with a bunch of card sharks who can play you for a sucker and take you for all you’re worth. It’s not all that easy to tell one of them from an honest man. In fact, most of those fellows make believe they’re poor innocent saps themselves. They’ll pretend to be more dead than alive, or moan and groan over each bad hand — but it’s all just an act to get you into the game. And even then they’ll let you win a few times … until little by little your luck turns bad and you begin to lose. That’s when they’ve got you where they want you. Believe me, before you’ve seen the last of them you’ll have gambled away your gold watch, and the chain that goes with it, and anything else of value you may have. Even after you realize that you’ve been had by pros, you’ll go right on playing like a sheep that can’t take its head out of the wolf’s mouth. Oh, I know them, I do! And I’ve paid dearly for the privilege … Why, I could tell you no end of stories! When you travel like I do, you get to hear them all.
“For instance, there’s the one about the cashier who was traveling with his boss’s money — and a nice little bundle it was. He ran into some sharpies, lost the whole caboodle, and nearly jumped out of the train window …
“Or else I could tell you about the young man from Warsaw who was coming back from his father-in-law’s with his dowry. He was relieved of the entire amount and passed out right on the train …
“And then there’s the case of the student from Chernigov who was on his way home for the holidays with the few hard-earned rubles he had made tutoring over the summer vacation. The money wasn’t for himself either, but for an old mother and a sick sister, the poor things, who were counting on every penny of it …
“You can see for yourself that each of these sad stories begins and ends the same way — and no one knows it better than I do. Believe you me, I won’t fall for it a second time! Once was more than enough. Why, I can spot one of those birds a mile away now. And I have a strict rule besides: no card games with strangers! I wouldn’t sit down to play with you if you offered me the world … except, that is, for a little two-hand game of sixty-six. Sixty-six — now that’s a different story entirely! What danger is there, I ask you, in a friendly game of sixty-six? And especially if the cards are my own — what’s to be afraid of? You see, I never travel without my own pack of cards. Just as a good Jew takes his tallis and tefillin with him everywhere, so I always have my cards.
“To tell you the truth, I like a good game of sixty-six. It’s a Jewish game, your sixty-six is. I don’t know about you, but I like to play it the old way, with marriages worth twenty and forty. If I’ve won a trick, I can exchange the nine of trumps for the deck trump, and if I haven’t, I can’t. Fair enough, no? That’s how we Jews play it everywhere, at home and on the road. I may not look the type, but if I get into a game of sixty-six while I’m traveling I can go on playing nonstop, day and night. The one thing I don’t like are the kibitzers. God forgive me for speaking frankly, but we Jews are a revolting people. It’s practically impossible to play a game of sixty-six with a crowd of Jews around. Before you know it, they’re standing all over you and telling you what card to play and whether to trump or not. You can’t get rid of them, they stick to you like flies! I’ve tried saying everything, but nothing makes them go away. ‘Look here, my friend, when I want your advice I’ll ask for it.’ Or, ‘Hey, Mr. Buttinski, why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?’ Or, ‘Would you mind not using me as a leaning post? If there’s anything worse than bad manners, it’s bad breath.’ You might as well talk to the wall!
“Once, you know, a kibitzer got me into such trouble that I was lucky to get out of it again. I can’t resist telling you about it.
“It happened one winter. On the train, of course. The car was packed with people and as hot as a Turkish bath. There were as many Jews as stars in the sky, far more than there were seats — why, you couldn’t stick a needle between them! And it was then of all times that who should turn up but the perfect partner for a game of sixty-six — a quiet, simple Jew, it so happened, but one every bit as wild for it as I am. We looked for a place to put the cards — there wasn’t a square inch available. So what does the good Lord do? Face-down on the bench right across from us is a monk in a sheepskin coat, having himself a snooze. As a matter of fact, he’s snoring away so merrily that you can hear him all over the car. I looked at my partner, my partner looked at me — there was no need for words. A big, fat, broad-bottomed monk with a nice, soft sheepskin on him … what better table for a game of sixty-six could you ask for? Without wasting any time, we laid the cards on his you-know-what and began to play.