Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories (52 page)

“You’re wondering what made me laugh? I just happened to think of a joke that I played on Yehupetz, ha ha! You’d never guess it from looking at me, Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, a Jew with a cough and with asthma, would you? Well, did I put one over on Yehupetz—but one that will give them something to remember me by! If you’ll just excuse me for a moment while I cough … ai,
Purishkevitch should only have a cough like this … there! Now let me tell you what a Jew can do.

“One fine day I had to go to Yehupetz. Why does a Jew with a cough and with asthma have to go to Yehupetz? To see the doctor, of course. With my cough and my asthma, I don’t have to tell you, Yehupetz gets to see a lot of me, even if it’s not supposed to, since what business do I, Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, have in Yehupetz without a
pravozshitelestvo
, that is, a residence permit?… But when you have a cough and asthma and you need to see the doctor—well, that’s life: where else but Yehupetz can you go? You get there in the morning, you slip away at night, and you’re in a panic all day long, because if you’re caught and served a
prokhodnoyo
, that is, an expulsion order, you’re right back where you started from. Still, that’s nothing compared to an
etap;
an
etap
, you should know, is a criminal arrest—why, I’d die of shame three times before I could live through one of those! After all, I am, as you can see, a pretty solid citizen, praise God. I own my own house, I can afford my own cow, and I have two daughters, one married and one engaged. What can I tell you? That’s life …

“And so I came to Yehupetz to see the doctor—or rather, the doctors, because this time I meant to have a consultation with at least three of them. I wanted, you see, to have it out with them once and for all and to know what I was, fish or fowl. There wasn’t any question I had asthma, but how you get rid of it when you have it—that, you see, was a different story entirely. Each doctor had run all the tests on me. Each had tried everything. And each was at his wits’ end. For example, the first, a prince of a fellow named Stritzel, wrote me out a prescription for
codeini sacchari pulverati;
it wasn’t expensive and it even tasted sweet. The second doctor prescribed
tinctura opia
—why, you could have passed out from a drop of it! Then I went to see a third doctor; the medicine he gave me tasted almost the same, but it wasn’t
tinctura opia
, it was
tinctura tebiacca
. If you were me, you’d have called it quits by now, no? Well, I went to still another doctor; what he prescribed was as
bitter as wormwood and went by the name of
morphium aqua amigdalarium
. Does it surprise you that I know all that Latin? In fact, I’ve studied Latin the way you’ve studied Greek, but that’s life: when you have a cough with asthma, and a touch of tuberculosis on the side, picking up Latin is a breeze …

“And so I came to Yehupetz for a consultation. Where does a Jew like me stay in Yehupetz? Not in a hotel, of course, and not in a boardinghouse either. First of all, they fleece you but good there. And second of all, how can I stay in a hotel when I don’t have a
pravozshitelestvo?
The place I always go is my brother-in-law’s. I happen to have, you see, a schlemiel of a brother-in-law, a miserable beggar of
a heder teacher; Purishkevitch should only be as poor. And children—God save us from such a litter! You know what, though? The lucky devil has a
pravozshitelestvo
, and a perfectly good one at that. How did he come by it? Because of Brodsky; he’s got a little job with Brodsky on the side. Don’t think that means he runs a factory. In fact, he’s just a backbencher in Brodsky’s synagogue, but he happens to be
the Torah reader there. That makes him an
obradchik
, which is someone with clerical status, and gives him the right to live on Malovasilkovsky Street, not far from the ex-chief of police, though it’s all he can do to keep body and soul together. The one bright spot in his life is me. I am, so to speak, the moneyman in the family—and whenever I come to Yehupetz I stay with him, eat lunch and supper at his house, and find him some errand to run that will earn him a ruble or two; Purishkevitch should only earn as much. But that’s life …

“This time, though, as soon as I saw him and my sister, I could tell that something was wrong; they both looked like they’d just seen a ghost. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

“ ‘We’re in for it,’ they said.

“ ‘How come?’ I asked.

“ ‘Because there’s an
oblave,’
they said.

“ ‘Pshaw!’ I said. ‘Who’s afraid of an
oblave?
The police have been rounding up Jews since Adam was knee-high to a grasshopper.’

“ ‘You’re wrong there,’ they said. ‘It’s not just any
oblave
. This
oblave
is for real. There have been dragnets every night. If a Jew gets caught, they don’t care who he is—it’s an
etap
and no questions asked!’

“ ‘We’ll pay them off, then,’ I said.

“ ‘Impossible!’

“ ‘They won’t take a ruble?’

“ ‘Not a chance!’

“ ‘How about three?’

“ ‘Not even a million!’

“ ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’re over a barrel.’

“ ‘You’re right,’ they said. ‘And not just any barrel, either. This barrel is for real. First, there’s the jail sentence. Then there’s the criminal record. And then there’s having to face Brodsky …’

“ ‘Look,’ I said, ‘as far as Brodsky is concerned, I can either take him or leave him. I don’t intend to gamble with my health for Brodsky’s sake. I came here for a medical consultation, and I’m not going home without it.’

“Well, between one thing and another, the clock wasn’t standing still; I had to consult with my doctors. Did someone say doctors? Not when the first could only make it Monday morning, the second Wednesday afternoon, and the third the following Thursday—and go climb a tree if you don’t like it! I could see I was in for a long siege; why do a favor for Moyshe-Nachman of Kennele just because he has a cough with asthma and can’t sleep at night? (Purishkevitch should have insomnia like mine!) … Meanwhile it was getting late. We ate supper and went to bed. I had just dozed off when bing! bang! there’s a knocking on the door. I opened my eyes and asked, ‘Who is it?’

“ ‘We’re done for!’ my poor sap of a brother-in-law says to me. He looks like a corpse and he’s shaking like a branch in the wind.

“ ‘What do we do now?’ I ask.

“ ‘What do you suggest?’ he says.

“ ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It looks like we’re in a jam.’

“ ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘And not just any jam, either. It’s a real sour-apple jam.’

“Bangety-bang! goes the knocking on the door. By now all the poor little children are awake and screaming for their mama, who’s running around trying to hush them—what can I tell you, it’s a regular carnival! Oy, Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, I say to myself, are you ever between a rock and a hard place! Why couldn’t it have happened to Purishkevitch?… Just then, though, I had a brilliant idea. ‘Listen, Dovid,’ I said to my brother-in-law, ‘I have it! You’ll be me and I’ll be you!’

“He looks at me like the dumb bunny he is and says, ‘How’s that?’

“ ‘I mean,’ I say, ‘that we’ll pull the old switcheroo. You’ll give me your pass and I’ll give you mine. You’ll be Moyshe-Nachman and I’ll be Dovid.’

“A pumpkin head if there ever was one! He doesn’t know what I’m talking about, he stands there with a helpless stare. .‘Dummy!’ I say to him. ‘What don’t you get? It’s as simple as can be. Any child would understand. You’ll show them my pass and I’ll show them yours. That’s life. Has it gotten through your thick skull now, or do I have to knock it in with a hammer?’

“Well, it must have gotten through, because he agreed to the switcheroo. I gave him my pass and he gave me his. By then the door was nearly coming off its hinges. Bangety-bang! Bingety-bangety! ‘Hey, what’s the hurry?’ I called out. ‘Where’s the fire?’ Then I said one last time to my brother-in-law, ‘Now just remember, Dovid, you’re not Dovid any more, you’re Moyshe-Nachman’—and I went to open the door. ‘Come in, gentlemen, come in, what a surprise!’ In charges a whole company, Captain Flatfoot and all his little flatfeet. There’ll be a gay time in the old town tonight, I thought …

“Naturally, they all made a beeline for my poor sap of a brother-in-law. Why him and not me? Because I stood there with my chin up—it’s when the fat is in the fire that you can tell the men from the boys—while Purishkevitch should only look as bad as he did.
‘Pravozshitelestvo, Gospodin Yevrei!’
they demanded, pouncing on him. He couldn’t get out a word. ‘Damn you,’ I said, trying to help him out of a tight spot, ‘why don’t you say something? Speak up! Tell them you’re Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele.’ And turning to the police, I begged them to go easy on him. ‘Please try to understand,’ I said, ‘he’s just a poor cousin of mine from Kennele, we haven’t seen each other in ages.’ I was trying so hard not to laugh that I thought I would burst. Just picture it: there I was, Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, begging for mercy for Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, who was standing right next to me, ha ha! The only catch was that it did as much good as last winter’s snow, because they grabbed the poor sap like a sack of potatoes and quick-marched him off to the cooler. At first they wanted to take me too. That is, they took me, but I was released right away. What, I ask you, could they do to me? I had a perfectly good
pravozshitelestvo
, I was an
obradchik
in Brodsky’s synagogue, and I left behind a few rubles at the station just to be on the safe side, do you get it? That’s life!
‘Khorosho, Gospodin Obradchik,’
they said to me. ‘Now run on home and finish your noodles. Let this be a lesson to you not to harbor illegals on Malovasilkovsky Street!’… A lesson that hurt like a slice of fresh bread in the kisser, ha ha!…

“Do you want to hear the rest of it? The consultation, of course, had to be called off. Who could think of consultations when a brother-in-law had to be bailed out? I suppose you think I’m referring to the
etap
. I wish I were! There was no standing bail for that; the poor sap had to sit in jail—and believe me, he didn’t sit very pretty! It should only happen to Purishkevitch. We didn’t grow any younger in Kennele waiting for him to be let out—and when we finally brought him back there, our real troubles first began. Don’t ask me what I had to go through to arrange new papers with a new name for him. I only wish I earned in three months what it cost me, not to mention the fact that I’m now saddled with his entire upkeep, that is, with supporting his wife and children, because he claims I’m to blame for the whole pickle. It’s all my fault, he says, that he lost his
pravozshitelestvo
and his job with Brodsky. And he may even have something there. He’s just missing the point, ha ha. The point’s the quick thinking, the old switcheroo, do you get it? Just imagine: a Jew with a cough and asthma that Purishkevitch should only have, a touch of tuberculosis on the side, and no
pravozshitelestvo
—that’s life!—comes to Yehupetz anyway, stays on Malovasilkovsky Street right under the ex-police chief’s nose, and go climb a tree if you don’t like it!”

(1911)

THE TENTH MAN

T
here were nine of us in the car. Nine Jews. And we needed a tenth for a
prayer group.

In actual fact, there was a tenth person there. We just couldn’t make up our minds if he was a Jew or a Christian. An uncommunicative individual with gold pince-nez, a freckled face, and no beard. A Jewish nose but an oddly twirled, un-Jewish mustache.
Ears that stuck out like a Jew’s but a neck that was red like a goy’s. From the start he had kept his distance from us. Most of the time he just looked out the window and whistled. Naturally, he was hatless, and a Russian newspaper lay across his knees. And not a word out of him! A genuine Russian, the real McGoy, no?… On second thought, though, how could he be a goy? Who did he think he was fooling? The idea! It takes a Jew to know one; a Jew can smell another Jew a mile off on a moonless night. For goodness’ sake, God’s written it all over us!… No, the man was a Jew for sure, I’d stake my life on it! Or was he? These days you never can tell … By the time the nine of us were through conferring in whispers, it was decided that we had seen his type before. What to do, though? If a Jew wanted to pass for a Christian it was nobody’s business but his own—yet just then we needed a tenth man and needed him badly, because one of us had a
deathday to observe and wanted to say the mourner’s prayer. And it wasn’t any ordinary deathday either, the kind we all have for a father or a mother. No, this was the anniversary of the passing of a child; an only son’s, that’s whose it was … It had been a struggle, the boy’s father told us, just to get the body returned by the prison so that it could be brought to a jewish grave—and the youngster, he swore, was perfectly innocent, he had been railroaded at his trial. Not that he hadn’t been in thick with the other revolutionaries, but that was still no reason to hang him. Hang him they did, though; and his mother died soon after. Not as soon as all that, however. Oh, no! First she ate her heart out bit by bit—and while she did, made her husband gray before his time.