“If I remember correctly, spades were trump. I had the king, queen, and jack, the ace of clubs, the king of diamonds, and … but what was my sixth card? I’ve forgotten whether it was the nine or ten of hearts. I think it was the nine. Or could it have been the ten, after all? Well, it makes no difference. In short, I had a dream hand: forty points before a card was played, with a chance for three game-points. The only question was, what would my partner lead with? If he was a nice enough Jew to lead with a club, he’d make me a happy man. And don’t think that isn’t what he did! He thought and thought (good Lord, I wondered, how long can you think about a card?) and finally came out with none other than the ten of clubs. I could have kissed him for it! But when I play sixty-six, you know, it’s not like me to get excited the way some people do. Easy does it. What’s the rush? On the contrary, I like to have a bit of fun. And so I pulled my ear, made a face — why not? Let my partner have the short-lived pleasure of thinking I’m in a fix … How was I to know that a Jew was standing behind me and looking at my hand — he should stand on his head until his eyes fall out! Seeing as how I was taking my time, he reached over my shoulder, grabbed the ace of clubs, threw it on top of the ten, gave the deck of cards a whack right on the fat monk’s bottom, and shouted:
“ ‘The ace takes!’ …
“Well, a nest of angry hornets would have been easier to shoo off than that monk! May all his curses be on him! He kept threatening to get off at the first station and turn us in to the police … I ask you: why can’t a person be allowed to live?
“But that’s neither here nor there. I just wanted you to know what some people will go through for a good game of sixty-six. I’ve only gotten to the real story now. Listen.
“It happened in winter too, around Hanukkah time, and on the train again. I was on my way to Odessa with some money, a whole big wad of it — I should only earn so much in a month! It’s a rule of mine not to sleep when I travel with money. It’s not that I’m afraid of thieves, because I keep it — guess where? — right here in my jacket pocket, in a good wallet that’s tied twice to be safe. I pity the thief who thinks he can make off with it! It’s just that these days, you never know … riots, expropriations … why take chances?… Well, there I was, sitting that winter day all by myself. I don’t mean I was alone in the car; there were other passengers too, but none of them were Jews. What good did that do me? There wasn’t a soul to play a game of sixty-six with. Just as I was beginning to feel sorry for myself, though, the door of the car opens — we were still quite a few stops away from Odessa — and in walks a pair of our fellow Israelites. You know, I can spot a Jew anywhere, even if he’s dressed like a dozen Russians and speaking Russian too, or for that matter, Chinese. One of the pair was an older man and the other was a younger one, and you should have seen what fine fur hats and coats they wore. Fine isn’t the word! They put down their luggage, took off their hats and coats, smoked a few cigarettes, gave me one too — and we began to talk, at first, of course, in Goyish, and then in Yiddish. ‘Where are you from? Where are you going?’ ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To Odessa.’ ‘To Odessa? That’s where I’m going too!’ ‘Well, then, that makes three of us.’ We chatted about this and that until one of them says to the other, ‘Say, did you know that today is a holiday?’ ‘It is?’ says the other. ‘Have you forgotten that it’s Hanukkah?’ says the first. ‘Hanukkah, eh?’ says the second. ‘Why, I do believe that it’s a Jewish custom on Hanukkah to play a friendly game of cards. How about a little sixty-six?’ ‘Good idea!’ says the younger man, reaching into the older one’s pocket and taking out a pack of cards. ‘All right, Papa! Let’s play a game of sixty-six in honor of Hanukkah …’
“So the two of them were father and son: it tickled my funny bone to think of them playing sixty-six together! In fact, I had quite an urge to play with them myself, but I was resolved not to give in to temptation. Just watching them would be entertainment enough …
“They upended one of their suitcases, stood it between their legs, and dealt the cards. The father played first hand and the son second, and I sat looking on. After a while the old man turned to me and asked if I knew how to play. I had to laugh at that: it was a good one, all right — why, I had practically invented the game, and here I was being asked if I played it! In fact, it took a will of iron to sit watching quietly, because the way that old codger played his hand could have made you turn over in your grave. Just imagine: the man sits there holding the queen, jack, and nine of trumps, two spades, and the ten of clubs — he only has to take the first trick with the ten and exchange the nine for the deck trump, which happens to be a king, in order to declare a trump marriage. Not him! The old bumblepuppy decides to play the jack of spades instead — and with a perfectly good ten in his hand! So what does his son do? The young rascal takes the jack with a queen, declares two twenty-point marriages, draws the ace of clubs from the deck, tops the old man’s ten with it, and goes out as pretty as you please with three game-points, just as God would have wanted!
“That was a hand to remember!
“What followed, though, was even worse; I tell you, it could have made a man scream! Listen to this. The father has six game-points already, he needs just one more to win. His son has only three. Better yet, the old geezer draws a hand with three trumps and a twenty-point marriage to boot. He doesn’t declare it, though, even when he takes the first trick; no, he’s afraid to play the king or queen, he’s worried his son may top them. Well, his son takes the next trick, declares twenty points of his own, closes the stock, breaks up the marriage, and schneiders his father but good!.. That was already too much for me; such an agonizing Hanukkah I had never yet spent in my life. I couldn’t go on watching any longer. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I said to the old coot. ‘It’s a principle of mine never to kibitz, but I’m dying to know why you played that way. What were you thinking of? If your partner was holding junk, you had it made, no matter what. And if he wasn’t — if he happened to have a strong hand — what were you waiting for? What did you have to lose? One game-point at the most, when you were leading six to three anyway. How can a man cut his own throat like that?’
“The old loon didn’t say a word. Junior, though, he smiled at me and said, ‘Papa doesn’t play so well. Papa’s not so good at sixty-six.’
“ ‘Your father,’ I said, ‘has no business playing sixty-six at all. Tell him to move over and make room for me.’
“But the old hound dog refused to quit. He kept on playing and making such blunders that I thought I’d burst a blood vessel. It was all I could do to convince the old booger to let me play two or three hands. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘it’s Hanukkah. Let me celebrate too …’
“ ‘What stakes shall we play for?’ Junior asked me.
“ ‘For whatever you like,’ I say.
“ ‘A ruble a game?’ he asks.
“ ‘Let it be a ruble a game. My one condition is,’ I joked, ‘that your father promise not to look at your hand and give you any advice …’
“Well, he laughed at that and we started to play. We play one game, we play a second, we play a third — I’m going like a house on fire. My partner begins to get flustered. ‘Let’s double the stakes,’ he says. ‘If that’s your pleasure,’ I say, ‘then double it is.’ Of course, that only made him lose twice as much and get twice as flustered as before. ‘You know what,’ he says, ‘let’s double the stakes again.’ ‘If that’s your pleasure,’ I say, ‘then double again it is.’ That meant he was losing quadruple. By now he was foaming at the mouth. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘let’s play for twenty-five rubles.’ When his father hears that, the old Methuselah, he says he won’t allow it, but the young rogue pays him no nevermind. We play for twenty-five rubles — and I win. Well, the old goat is really sore now; he gets up, he sits down, he peeks at my cards, he hums a little tune, he snuffles up his nose — and the boy is mopping his brow as though he’s come down with a fever. The more he loses, the more flustered he gets, the more flustered he gets, the more he loses. The old hoot owl was beside himself. He grumbled, he scolded, he hummed, he snuffled, he peeked at my cards, while the young scamp kept losing hand after hand until he was the color of a burning barn. ‘I’ll be jiggered,’ says the father, ‘if I’ll let you play any more!’ ‘Papa!’ pleads the son, just one more game. I’d sooner die than quit now!’ ‘Just one more, I promise,’ I say to the old buzzard. ‘Come on, be a sport …’