If you’d like to take a few good years off such a person’s life — in fact, bury him so thoroughly that not even the Resurrection can put him back on his feet — all you need to do, provided there’s a Christian sitting next to him, or better yet, a young lady, is turn to him in any language at all, though Russian is preferable, and inquire, “Yesli ya nye oshibayus, ya imyel udovolstvye vstryetitsa s’vami v’Berdichevye?” (In Yiddish we would say, “If I’m not mistaken, didn’t I once have the pleasure of meeting you in Berdichev?”) Believe me, that’s a thousand times worse than any name you might call his father!
On the other hand, if you run into such a type in Podolia or Volhynia, Polish might be the better gambit. “Pszepraszam, Pana! “Jesli się nie mylę znalem ojca Pana z Jarmelyncu, który byl w laskach u jasnie wielmożnego Potokego?” (Roughly speaking that’s, “Excuse me, sir, but if my memory doesn’t betray me, I’m an old friend of your father’s from Yarmelinetz; wasn’t he in the service of Count Potocki there?”) That may not seem like any great insult, but Yarmelinetz and the service of Count Potocki just happen to spell J-e-w … Enough of this, though! Let me tell you a story I happened to witness myself.
It happened on the mail train. Since there’s no third class there, I had no choice but to travel second. Across from me was sitting a gentleman who could have been either a Christian or a Jew. To tell the truth, though, Jew seemed the more likely … or did it? Who could say? He was a handsome young fellow, smooth-shaven and sportily dressed with a black sash around his white pants — and a bit of a Don Juan in the bargain. Why do I call him that? Because he was showering his attentions on a pretty young thing, a mademoiselle with a high chignon and pince-nez on her small, turned-up nose. Although newly acquainted, they were already fast friends. She kept offering him chocolates while he amused her with funny jokes, first Armenian and then Jewish ones, until both of them were holding their sides. And they laughed hardest of all at the Jewish jokes, which the young man in the white pants told with a decidedly Christian-like relish without showing the slightest appreciation of the fact that I might be a Jew myself who could be offended by them … In short, the romance was getting on famously. Soon he was sitting beside her and looking deep into her eyes (at first they had been opposite each other) while she played with the chain of his watch, which was tucked into his sash. All of a sudden, at some remote station whose name I can’t even recall, the train was boarded by a lame, sallow-faced, perspiring Jew carrying a white parasol who stuck out his hand to the young sport and said in a plain, earthy Yiddish:
“Well, hello there! I recognized you through the window. I have regards for you from your Uncle Zalman in Manestrishtch …”
Needless to say, the young man made his exit at the same station and the pretty young thing was left sitting all by herself. But that’s not the end of the story. The mademoiselle — she must have been a Christian, because otherwise why would our Don Juan have made such a hasty getaway? — began to collect her things a few stations later and prepared to leave the train too, still without having said a word to me, or even so much as glanced in my direction. It was as if I didn’t exist. Yet waiting for her on the platform at the stop where she got off were — a patriarchal Jew with a beard as long as Father Abraham’s and a Jewess with a wig and two huge diamonds in her ears. “Riva darling!” the old couple called out, and fell upon their daughter with tears in their eyes …
No commentary is necessary. I simply wanted to introduce you to some of the types who travel second class and to persuade you not to go that way yourself, because even among your own, you’re always a stranger there.
When you travel third class, on the other hand, you feel right at home. In fact, if you happen to be in a car whose passengers are exclusively Jews, you may feel a bit too much at home. Granted, third class is not the height of luxury; if you don’t use your elbows, you’ll never find a seat; the noise level, the sheer hubbub, is earsplitting; you can never be sure where you end and where your neighbors begin … and yet there’s no denying that that’s an excellent way to meet them. Everyone knows who you are, where you’re bound for, and what you do, and you know the same about everyone. At night you can save yourself the bother of having to fall asleep, because there’s always someone to talk to — and if you’re not in the mood to talk, someone else will be glad to do it for you. Who expects to sleep on a train ride anyway? Talking is far better, because you never know what may come of it. I should only live another year of my life for each time I’ve seen perfect strangers on the train end up by making a business deal, arranging a match for their children, or learning something worth knowing from each other.
For instance, all the talk you hear about doctors, indigestion, sanatoriums, toothaches, nervous conditions, Karlsbad, and so forth — you’d think it was all just a lot of malarkey, wouldn’t you? Well, let me tell you a story about that. Once I was traveling with a group of Jews. We were talking about doctors and prescriptions. At the time, it shouldn’t happen to you, I was having problems with my stomach, and a fellow passenger, a Jew from Kamenetz, recommended a medicine that came in the form of a powder. It so happened, said the Jew, that he had been given this powder by a dentist rather than a doctor, but the powder, which was yellow, was absolutely first-rate. That is, it wasn’t yellow, it was white, like all powders; but it came in a yellow wrapper. He even swore to me by everything that was holy, the Jew did, that he owed his life to the yellow powder, because without it — no, he didn’t even want to think of it! And I didn’t need to use a whole lot, either. Two or three grains, he said, would make me feel like a new man; no more stomachaches, and no more money-grubbing, bloodsucking physicians; I could say to hell with every one of the damn quacks! “If you’d like,” he said, “I can give you two or three grains of my yellow powder right now. You’ll never stop thanking me …”
And that’s what he did. I came home, I took one, two, three grains of the stuff, and after a while — it didn’t happen at once, but later on, in the middle of the night — I had such pains that I thought I was kicking the bucket. I swear, I was sure I was on my last gasp! A doctor was called, and then another — it was all they could do to bring me back from death’s door … Well, now I know that if a Jew from Kamenetz tries giving you a yellow powder, you should tell him to take a powder himself. Every lesson has its price.
When you go third class and wake up in the morning to discover that you’ve left your tefillin and your prayer shawl at home, there isn’t any cause for alarm — you only need to ask and you’ll be given someone else’s, along with whatever else you require. All that’s expected of you in return, once you’re done praying, is to open your suitcase and display your own wares. Vodka, cake, a hard-boiled egg, a drumstick, a piece of fish — it’s all grist for the mill. Perhaps you have an apple, an orange, a piece of Strudel? Out with it, no need to be ashamed! Everyone will be glad to share it with you, no one stands on ceremony here. A train ride and good company, you understand, are two things that create an appetite … And of course, if you happen to have a wee bit of wine with you, there’s no lack of volunteer tasters, each with his own verdict and name for it. “It’s a Bessarabian muscat,” says one. “No, it’s an imported Akerman,” says another. “What kind of muscat?” says a third, getting angrily to his feet. “What kind of Akerman? Can’t you tell it’s a Koveshaner Bordeaux?” At which point a fourth fellow rises from his corner with the smile of a true connoisseur, accepts the glass of wine with an expression that says, “Stand back, you duffers, this calls for an expert,” takes a few sips, and pronounces, his cheeks flushed a merrymaker’s red: