Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories (32 page)

“Listen well, my dear friends, because what I’m about to tell you, I want you to know, is not some opera or fairy tale. It’s a true story, mind you, that took place right in Kaminka. My own father, God rest him, told it to me himself, and he heard it more than once from his father. I’ve heard it said that the whole thing was even written down in an old chronicle that was burned long ago. You can laugh all you like, but I tell you it’s a crime it was, because it had some fine stories in it—a sight better than what’s printed in your magazines and storybooks these days.

“In a nutshell, it happened in the reign of
Nikolai the First, back in the days of the gauntlet. But what are you smiling at? Do you know what the gauntlet meant? The gauntlet meant getting flogged while you ran it. You still don’t know what it was? In that case, I’d better spell it out for you. Just imagine, then: two rows of soldiers with iron maces stand facing each other, and you go for a little stroll between them some twenty times or more, and in your birthday suit, mind you, while they do what the rabbi did in the schoolroom when you weren’t paying attention to your lessons … Do you know what running the gauntlet is now? Then we’re ready to begin.

“Once upon a time it so happened that the governor—Vassilchikov it was, I believe—ordered a Jew named Kivke to run the gauntlet. Exactly who this Kivke was, or what he had done, are details I can’t tell you. Some say he was no great shakes, just a tavern keeper, and an old sourpuss of a bachelor at that. One Sunday, though, when he was chatting with some Russians in his tavern, God put it into his head to argue religion with them: your God, our God … until one thing led to another and the village elder and the constable were brought and charges of blasphemy drawn up. All he had to do, that barman, was give them a barrel of vodka and the whole thing would have been forgotten. But on top of everything else, he was stubborn: no, he says, Kivke takes nothing back! What must he have thought? He must have thought he’d be slapped with a three-ruble fine and business would go on as usual. Who could have guessed that he’d be made to run the gauntlet because of a few foolish words? In short, they took the old boy and threw him into the cooler until an honor guard could give him twenty-five good whacks of the mace, as God in His wisdom had decreed.

“Well, I hardly need to tell you what went on in Kaminka once the story got out. And when did the bad news break? At night—and not only at night, but on a Friday night too. The next morning, when everyone came to the synagogue for Sabbath services, the place was in an uproar. ‘Kivke’s in the clink!’ … ‘He’s been given the gauntlet!’ … ‘The gauntlet? How come? What for?’ … ‘For nothing. For a few words’ … ‘He’s been framed!’ … ‘What kind of framed? He’s a Jew with a mouth that’s too big for him!’ … ‘It can be eighteen sizes too big, but the gauntlet? How can they do that to him?’… ‘Since when do Jews run the gauntlet? And a local Kaminka Jew yet!’ …

“All day long the Jews of Kaminka stewed as if in a pot. On Saturday night, as soon as the Sabbath was over, they ran crying to my grandfather—Reb Nissl Shapiro was his name. ‘Why don’t you say something, Reb Nissl? How can you allow a Jew, and a Kaminkan no less, to be flogged?’

“You must be wondering why they all ran to my grandfather. I don’t mean to boast, mind you, but I have to tell you that my grandfather, may his soul dwell in Paradise, was the richest, most important, most cultured, most highly thought-of Jew in town, and a very brainy man with high connections. When he heard what the trouble was, he paced up and down the floor a few times (when he was thinking, my father told me, he always liked to pace back and forth), then stood still and announced: ‘Children, go home! No one will be hurt. God willing, it will turn out all right; here in Kaminka, the Lord be praised, we’ve never had a Jew flogged yet, and with His help we never will.’

“Those were my grandfather’s very words, God bless him, and it was common knowledge in town that whatever Reb Nissl Shapiro said was as good as done. He just didn’t like being badgered about how he intended to do it. When a Jew is rich and has connections, you understand, and he’s as brainy as my grandfather, you learn to tread lightly with him. And you know what? It turned out exactly as he said it would. What did? Listen and I’ll tell you.”

Seeing that the whole car was waiting with baited breath to hear what happened next, the Jew from Kaminka paused, took out a large tobacco pouch from his pocket, and slowly rolled himself a cigarette. So important had he become that several passengers jumped up to offer him a light. Having taken a few puffs, he resumed his story with fresh vigor:

“Now see how a clever Jew operates—I mean my grandfather, God bless his memory. He thought the matter over and cooked up a little plan, which is to say, he persuaded the authorities that the sentenced man, Kivke, should take time out to die while still in prison … but why are you all staring at me? Don’t you get it? Do you mean to tell me you think he was poisoned? Relax. That’s not how it’s done in Kaminka. What did happen, then? Something much more elegant: it was simply arranged for the sentenced man to go to bed fit as a fiddle one night and wake up a corpse in the morning … do you follow me now? Or do I have to feed it to you from a bottle?

“In a word, early one morning a messenger arrived from the prison with a message for my grandfather: Whereas notification is hereby given that a Jew named Kivke died in prison last night, and whereas Reb Nissl Shapiro is the president of the Burial Society, he, Reb Nissl, is requested to dispose of the deceased, that is, to see to his interment in the Jewish cemetery … How’s that for a neat piece of work? Not bad, eh? But don’t rush out to celebrate yet; it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Keep in mind that the departed wasn’t just another dead Jew. There was military brass involved … and a governor … and a gauntlet waiting to be run … do you suppose all that’s a laughing matter? The first order of business was preventing an autopsy, which meant going to the doctor and getting him to sign in black and white that he had examined the dead man and determined that the cause of death was conniptions of the heart, that is to say, general apoplexy, it shouldn’t happen to you—after which there were various other authorities to be taken in hand too, because they all had to sign the same document. Only then was the dead man really dead. Bye-bye Kivke!

“Needless to say, everyone in this car would be glad to make in a month what it all cost the Jews of Kaminka—and if you have any doubts about the wager, I’ll be happy to come in as your partner. And on whose say was the money laid out? On my grandfather’s, may he rest in peace. That was a man you could trust. I tell you, the way he had it worked out down to the tiniest little detail was a masterpiece! That evening the sextons of the Burial Society came with a bier to receive the distinguished corpse in grand style and transport it with the highest honors from the prison to the graveyard—that is, with a detail of two soldiers followed by the entire town. You can well imagine that Kivke never dreamed of such a state funeral in his life. And when they reached the gates of the cemetery, the two soldiers were given some vodka to drink and the late departed was brought inside, where Shimon the coachman (I’m passing on his name to you as my father did to me) was waiting for him with a team of four swift horses. Before the cock crowed, mind you, our dead hero was well across the town line on his merry way to Radivil, and from there lickety-split across the Austrian border to Brody.

“It goes without saying that no one in Kaminka slept a wink that night until Shimon the coachman returned from Radivil. The
whole town was beside itself with worry, and my grandfather most of all. What if our dear dead Kivke was apprehended at the border and brought back to Kaminka as alive and well as you and me? Why, an entire community might be banished to Siberia … With God’s help, however, Shimon the coachman and his team of swift horses returned safe and sound from Radivil with a letter from Kivke that said, ‘I wish to inform you all that I have arrived in Brody,’ and there was great joy in Kaminka. A banquet was given at my grandfather’s house, to which the jailkeeper and the constable and the doctor and all the authorities were invited, and a gay time was had by all: a band played music and everyone, mind you, got so drunk that the jailkeeper kissed my grandfather and his whole family as hard and as often as he could and the constable greeted the dawn by taking off his unmentionables and dancing on my grandfather’s roof. After all, ransoming a Jew is nothing to sneeze at—and one saved from a flogging yet! Not bad at all, eh? Well, take a deep breath, my good friends, because the real fun has yet to begin. If you want to hear the rest of it, though, you’ll kindly wait a few minutes, because I have to ask the station-master here how much time we have left to Baranovich. That’s not where I’m going, mind you, but I have to change trains there …”

There was nothing to do but wait. The man from Kaminka went to talk to the Stationmaster while we passengers in the car discussed him and his story.

“What do you think of him?”

“A swell fellow!”

“No nonsense about him!”

“He sure can talk.”

“And no need to be coaxed!”

“What about the story?”

“It’s a damn good one.”

“Let’s hope it’s a long one, too.”

Incidentally, there were even a few passengers who claimed that the same thing had happened in their towns. That is, not the exact same thing, but something more or less like it. And since every one of them was keen on telling it, the car soon turned into a free-for-all—but only until the Jew from Kaminka reappeared. As soon as he did, we all quieted down, crowded together to form a human wall, and gave him our undivided attention.

“Now where was I? We had just, thank God, said goodbye to a Jew named Kivke, hadn’t we? You agree? Well then, you’re wrong, my dear friends. A half year or a whole one went by, I can’t tell you exactly, and our Mr. Kivke, mind you, sat down and wrote a letter and addressed it to my grandfather. ‘In the first place,’ he wrote, ‘I wish to inform you that I am in good health and hope to hear the same from you. And in the second place, I’ve been left high and dry here without a cent to my name and no way of earning one, surrounded by Germans in a foreign land. They don’t understand my talk and I don’t understand theirs. If I can’t make a living, I’ll have to lie down and die. And so,’ wrote Kivke, ‘please be so kind as to send …’ A subtle fellow, no? What he wanted to be sent, of course, was money! Everyone, mind you, had a good laugh, and then that letter was torn up into little pieces and forgotten. Well, before three weeks were up, another letter arrived, again from the late Kivke and again addressed to my grandfather, with an ‘I wish to inform you’ at the beginning and a ‘Please be so kind’ at the end, but this time the end had a postscript. Could it be, Kivke wanted to know, that the Kaminkans had something against him? Better to have been flogged and gotten it over with, because his wounds would have healed long ago and he wouldn’t have been left penniless among Germans with nothing to do but watch his own belly swell from hunger …

“When my grandfather, may he rest in peace, received this letter, he called a meeting in his home. ‘What should we do? We can’t let a Jew die from hunger.’ Well, when you were asked to fork up by Reb Nissl Shapiro, you couldn’t be a pig about it. A fine collection was taken up (the biggest contributor to which, needless to say, was my grandfather himself), the sum was sent to Brody, and once more Kaminka forgot that there was such a person as a Jew named Kivke.

“Kivke, however, didn’t forget that there was such a place as a town called Kaminka. Another half a year passed, or maybe it was a whole one, I can’t tell you exactly, and guess what? Another letter arrived! Once more it was addressed to my grandfather and once more it had an ‘I wish to inform you’ with a ‘Please be so kind’ at the end, this time accompanied by some good news, Insofar and inasmuch, wrote Kivke, as he had recently become betrothed to a fine young lady from the very best of families, would the town kindly send him the two hundred rubles he had pledged
as a dowry, because otherwise the match was off. What a tragedy, just imagine: Kivke would be left without a bride! I hardly need to tell you that the letter made the rounds of Kaminka as though it were a pearl of great price, and people laughed at it until their ribs ached. It became a running gag around town. ‘Mazel tov, Kivke is engaged!’ … ‘Have you heard? She’s a steal at two hundred rubles!’ … ‘And from the very best of families too, ha ha ha …’

“The ha-ha-ing, mind you, didn’t last very long, though, because a few weeks later came another letter from Kivke to my grandfather—and this time without the ‘I wish to inform you,’ just with the ‘Please be so kind.’ He failed to understand, Kivke wrote, why the two hundred rubles for the dowry had not yet arrived. If he didn’t receive them at once, the wedding would have to be called off—in which case his disgrace would be so great that only one choice would be left: either to drown himself on the spot or to come hell-bent back to Kaminka …

“Those last words of his, mind you, wiped the laugh off everyone’s face. That same evening the town’s leading Jews got together at my grandfather’s house and decided that the most respected of them, my grandfather too, should go from door to door to raise a dowry for Kivke. What else could they do? And so as not to keep you in suspense, let me tell you that they not only sent him the money, they sent it with a mazel tov and wished the lucky bridegroom, as is the custom, many long years of happiness in which to raise children and grandchildren with his wife-to-be. What were they counting on? They were counting on his being so busy with his new marriage that he’d forget all about Kaminka. But do you think he did? A fat chance of that! Haif a year didn’t go by, or maybe it was a whole one, I can’t tell you exactly, and what do you think came along? Another letter from Kivke! What did he want this time? Insofar and inasmuch as he was now married, he had a God-given wife who would be the envy of any Jew. Nothing was perfect, though—in this case the bride’s father, who was such a liar, such a chiseler, such a gangster, such an out-and-out crook beside whom the biggest sinner could be mistaken for a saint, that he had defrauded our Kivke of his two hundred rubles and thrown him into the street with his wife. And so, he wrote, ‘Please be so kind as to send’—would his fellow townsmen have the goodness to forward another two hundred rubles to make up
for what he had lost. If not, he could either throw himself in the river or come hell-bent back to Kaminka …