The Letters of Menakhem-Mendl and Sheyne-Sheyndl and Motl, the Cantor's Son

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen!

Secondly, words fail me in describing the grandeur and beauty of the city of Odessa, the fine character of its inhabitants, and the wonderful opportunities that exist here. Just imagine: I take my walking stick and venture out on Greek Street, as the place where Jews do business is called, and there are twenty thousand different things to deal in. If I want wheat, there’s wheat. If I feel like wool, there’s wool. If I’m in the mood for bran, there’s bran. Flour, salt, feathers, raisins, jute, herring — name it and you have it in Odessa. I sounded out several possibilities, none of which were my cup of tea, and shopped along Greek Street until I hit on just the right thing. In a word, I’m dealing in Londons and not doing badly! You can clear 25 or 50 rubles at a go, and sometimes, with a bit of luck, 100. On Londons you can make your fortune in a day. There was a fellow not long ago, a synagogue sexton, mind you, who walked away with 30,000 faster than you can say your bedtime prayers and now he cocks his snoot at the world. I tell you, my dearest, the streets of Odessa are paved with gold! I don’t regret for a moment having come here. But what am I doing in Odessa, you ask, when I was on my way to Kishinev? It seems God wanted to deal me in. Listen to what He does for a man.

I arrived at Uncle Menashe’s in Kishinev and asked for the dowry money. “How come you need it?” he asks. “I need it,” I say, “because I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Well, he says, he can’t give me cash but he can give me a letter of credit to Brodsky in Yehupetz. “Let it be Yehupetz,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” That’s just it, he says. He’s not sure there is cash in Yehupetz. He can give me a letter of credit to Bachrach in Warsaw. “Warsaw’s fine, too,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” “But why go all the way to Warsaw?” he asks. “Suppose I give you a letter of credit to Barabash in Odessa?” “Make it Odessa,” I say. “As long as it’s cash.” “So how come you need so much cash?” he asks. “If I didn’t,” I say, “I wouldn’t be here.”

To make a long story short, he went round and round — it helped like cupping helps a corpse. When I say cash, I mean cash. In the end he gave me two promissory notes for 500 rubles, due in five months, a letter of credit to Barabash for 300, and the rest in banknotes to help cover my expenses.

Because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Be well and give my fond greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl.

P.S. When I brought the letter of credit to Barabash, I was told it was nothing of the sort. What was it? A letter to the tooth-fairy! First, I was told, let Uncle Menashe’s wagon of wheat arrive in Odessa and find a buyer — then I can see my money. Short, sweet, and to the point! Right away I sent a post card to Kishinev threatening to take action and send a telegram if the wheat wasn’t shipped at once. In short, a post card here, a telegram there — I didn’t have an easy time of it. But yesterday I received another 100 rubles from Kishinev and a promissory note for 200. Do you understand now why I’ve been out of touch? I had written off the 300 for lost. It just goes to show that a man should never give up! There’s a God in heaven looking after things. I’ve put all the cash into Londons, a nice batch of them. Sometimes they’re up and sometimes they’re down, but so far, thank God, I’m ahead.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I’m suffering from my old cramps again. I’d like to give them to your Uncle Menashe. You’ve made short shrift of the eighteen hundred rubles he owed us. Wouldn’t that be just our luck! My mother would say you’ve sent the cat to the dairy with the cream. Why I’d sooner get the pox from Menashe than one of his promise notes! Five months of fever I’d give him! May I be proved a liar but you’ll no more see those rubles than you’ll see the back of the head your shoulders carried to Odessa. Be thankful my mother knows nothing about it, because she’d tan your hide if she did. And as for what you write, Mendl, about all the money you’re making, you can be sure we’re pleased. See here, though: the devil take it if the next time you don’t write like a human being! Why can’t you tell a body in plain words what you’re dealing in? Does it sell by the yard or by the pound? For the life of me, I don’t know if you eat, wear, or smoke it. And what are these quick profits you talk about? What merchandise shoots up just like that? Even mushrooms, my mother says, need a rain to sprout. But if it’s gained so much value, you should sell. You’re not hoping to corner the market, are you? And why don’t you write where you’re staying and eating? A person might think I was a stranger and not your wife of twenty years, some kind of parrymoor, God help us. “When the cow goes to pasture,” says my mother, “it forgets to say good-bye.” If you’ll listen to me, you’ll wind up your affairs and come home with a bit of money. You’ll find better businesses here than those Lumdums of yours or whatever the deuce they’re called. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen. Secondly, I’m not surprised that you fail to grasp how Londons work. There are businessmen, serious Jews, who can’t make head or tails of them either, let alone a woman like you. Allow me to explain. Londons, you should know, are highly perishable. You buy and sell them on a pledge without seeing them. Every minute you have to check if they’re up or down — that is, if the ruble has risen or fallen in Berlin. It all depends on Berlin, you see; it’s Berlin that has the last word. The rates soar and tumble like crazy, the telegrams fly back and forth, the Jews run around as though at a country fair, and so do I. There’s such a racket you can’t hear yourself think. Yesterday, for example, I played the market for 50 rubles and by noon today I’d lost them all. But I haven’t told you what playing the market is. You can buy futures for 50 R’s, or double that, or hedge until closing time. (That’s the time between the afternoon and evening prayers in Kasrilevke.) Well, I bought short, the market was up, and there went my 50 smackeroos. That’s how you play it — but don’t you worry, my dear! Fifty smackers are nothing in Odessa. With God’s help my lucky number will come up. And as for Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, you’re mistaken. They’re as good as gold, a solid investment. I could turn a nice profit on them even now, but I’d rather not. I can always make money from hedging. But I don’t want to do that either. I prefer futures. There’s nothing like a night spent sleeping on them. And because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. As for where I’m lodging and eating, I can’t rightly tell you myself. Odessa is a monstrous big city and everything is very dear. The buildings are sky-high and you climb half-an-hour’s worth of iron stairs to get to your room at the top of them. And the window is as tiny as a dungeon’s! It’s a relief to get out and head for Greek Street, where I take my meals — that is, where I grab what I can. Who has time to sit and eat when you have to keep your eyes on Berlin? But fruit costs next to nothing here. People eat grapes in the street, not just once a year for Rosh Hashanah like Kasrilevkans. They’re not at all embarrassed to do it.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, you write like a madman. Forgive me for saying so, but I hope to hear no more of your Odessa than I understand about your blasted shorts and hedgerows! You’re throwing rubles away like last week’s noodles. Money-shmoney, eh? I suppose it grows on trees over there. I’ll be blamed, though, if one thing doesn’t stump me: what kind of cat in a bag can you trade in but not see? Listen here, Mendl, I don’t like it one bit! I wasn’t raised in a home where we bought and sold air and God keep me from doing it now. From air you catch cold, my mother says. Who ever heard of a grown man playing in a market? You’d make more sense if you wrote in Turkish. And as for the profit you can turn on Menashe’s notes, I hate to be a wet blanket, but the proof of the pudding, my mother says, is in the eating. You know what, Mendl? Listen to your wife, tell Odessa where it can go, and come home to Kasrilevke. We have a place to live in at my father’s, you have five hundred rubles, opening a store is no problem — what more could you want? Why must I hear the world telling lies about your throwing me over for Odessa? Don’t think you’ll live to see the day! You can take your monster houses with their iron steps you climb like a lunatic and give me Kasrilevke any time. Because grapes are cheap there I should have a stomach ache here? Kasrilevke plums aren’t sweet enough? There’s such a glut this year that they’re a kopeck a bucket. But a lot we matter to you! You don’t even ask about the children. I suppose you’ve forgotten you have three of them, God bless them! Out of sight, out of mind, my mother says. I’ll be blamed if she isn’t right. I wish you all the best from the bottom of my heart.

Your truly faithful wife

Sheyne-Sheyndl.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, the market has been hitting fearsome lows. I’ve bought another batch of Londons and covered myself with 8 orders for 17 shorts. If I can shave a few points, I’ll buy more. If only you understood, my dearest, how business is done on a man’s word alone, you would know all there is to know about Odessa. A nod is as good as a signature. I walk down Greek Street, drop into a cafe, sit at a table, order tea or coffee, and wait for the brokers to come by. There’s no need for a contract or written agreement. Each broker carries a pad in which he writes, say, that I’ve bought two shorts. I hand over the cash and that’s it — it’s a pleasure how easy it is! A few hours go by, the Berlin closings arrive, and back comes the broker with 25 smackers. The next morning the openings arrive and he has 50 more — and don’t think God can’t make it 100. 300 is no big deal either. Why should it be? We’re talking about the market! It’s a game, like roulette…. And as for your not believing in Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, I have news: I’ve made a tidy sum from them already. Where else would I get the money to buy so many futures on spot? The market is not, as you seem to think, a place that sells fruit and vegetables. You’re only called on futures when they’re due. That means, you’re a free agent. If you want to buy, you buy, and if you want to sell, you sell. Now do you understand what playing the market is? If God is out to boost Londons, he starts a war scare in the papers, the ruble drops, and Londons shoot up faster than bean stalks. Just this week there were rumors that the Queen of England was ailing: the ruble plunged again, and whoever bought short made a killing. Now the papers say she’s better, so the ruble has rallied and it’s time to buy long. In short, my dearest, never fear! Everything will be “tip-top,” as they say in Odessa. And because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my greetings to the children and my fondest wishes to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. We’re all burning up from the heat. At night we go around like melting wax. The streets are deserted. All Odessa goes to the public fountains or the seashore. You can find anything you want there. You can even bathe in the sea or listen to free music — it doesn’t cost a blessed kopeck.

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I’m having trouble with my teeth. I wish Odessa and its market had my toothache! It’s killing me. So are the children — and his lordship couldn’t care less. He lives in Odessa like God, buys seventeen pairs of shorts, and bathes in the sea to music! What more could a body want? Well, you may go around in short pants and half-shaven, but my mother would say you’ve outgrown your britches. For heaven’s sake, if you’re dealing in Lumdums, keep your mind on them and not on the Queen of England! Better yet, think of your wife. She’ll be around for a while, God willing. And you have three children, bless them. “Remember your own and you’ll forget the next man’s,” my mother says. All your winnings make my head spin. Blow me down if I can believe that a man just sticks out his hand and watches the rubles f ly into it. W hat kind of hocus-pocus is that? And you better not touch the dowry money, because my mother will make you rue the day you were born if a kopeck of it is missing. There are a few other things you might think about too. You know perfectly well I’m in desperate need of a silk shawl, some wool for a dress, and two bolts of Morazev calico. Though of course it’s too much to expect you to think of such trifles, especially when you’ve taken leave of your senses. My mother says a man with more ribs than brains needs a poke in them.

I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m holding shorts in a big way. I’m sitting on a pile of Londons. Each transaction is for 10 or 20,000 pounds in one shot. Of course, this means buying on margin. By now they know me in every brokerage. I take my seat in Fanconi’s with all the dealers, pull up a chair at a marble table, and ask for a dish of iced cream. That’s our Odessa custom: you sit yourself down and a waiter in a frock coat asks you to ask for iced cream. Well, you can’t be a piker — and when you’re finished, you’re asked to ask for more. If you don’t, you’re out a table and in the street. That’s no place for dealing, especially when there’s an officer on the corner looking for loiterers. Not that our Jews don’t hang out there anyway. They tease him with their wisecracks and scatter to see what he’ll do. Just let him nab one! He latches on to him like a gemstone and it’s off to the cooler with one more Jew …

Your doubts about the volatility of the market reveal a weak grasp of politics. There’s a regular at Fanconi’s, Gambetta is the name, who talks politics day and night. He has a thousand proofs that war is coming. In fact, he can already hear the cannon booming. Not here, he says, but in France. The French, he says, won’t forgive Bismarck in a thousand years. It’s a sure thing, he says — why, it’s surer than sure — that war will break out any day. There are no two ways about it. If you go by Gambetta you’ll sell everything, roll up your sleeves, and buy short, short, short all you can.

And as for buying you a coat, my dear wife, I’ve seen something better: a gold watch with a metalian, chain, and matching brooch, and a pair of bracelets in a window near Fanconi’s — all the very best quality. But being in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl.

P.S. This town is so rich, and its Jews are so busy getting richer, that no one thinks about Sabbaths or Jewish holidays. I needn’t tell you, though, that for me the Sabbath is still the Sabbath. I don’t care if it’s raining stones out, it’s my day to go to synagogue. The Odessa synagogue is something to see. It’s called the Choir Synagogue and everyone wears a top hat and sits on all sides of the cantor. His name is Pini and can he sing, even if he doesn’t have a beard! And he knows Hebrew a sight better than that old dodo of a Moyshe-Dovid in Kasrilevke. You can pass out just from listening to him. I tell you, they could sell tickets! And the choir boys wear the cutest little prayer shawls. If Saturday came twice a week, I’d go both times just to hear Pini. Don’t ask me why the local Jews stay away. Even those who come don’t pray. They sit chewing their cud in their little prayer shawls and ritzy top hats and — shhhh, not a sound! Try praying loud enough for God to hear you and a beadle comes over and tells you to hush. I never saw such weird Jews in my life.

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, it’s beyond me, dear husband, what’s so special about your blamed Franconi’s. I may never have eaten creamed ice on marble, but I know enough to ask: where’s the money in it? And what kind of loon are you running around with who hears shooting in his dreams? He deserves to be shot dead himself! Is it wars that he wants? “One man’s blood is another’s water,” my mother says…. You’ve seen gold watches and bracelets in a window? Well, bless my great-grandmother’s soul! What are gifts in a window to me, Mendl? My mother says dumplings in a dream are a dream and not dumplings. You’d do better to step into a shop and buy new linen, cotton cloth for pillow cases, a couple of padded quilts, a few pieces of silver, and whatever else we could use around the house. Would you believe that Blume-Zlate has taken to preening herself each time she sees me? Let her preen till she bursts! So she has a pearl necklace, so what? For my part, let her choke on it. Is it my fault her husband gives her whatever she asks for? Some people have luck and mine was to be born on the wrong day. I have to remind his lordship of everything. All you think of is your longs and your shorts. I tell you to sell and what do you do? You rush right out and buy more! Are you afraid the world will run out of Lumdums? It’s some business you’re in and some city Odessa must be when a Sabbath is no Sabbath and a Jewish holiday is no holiday and a cantor has no beard. I wish he had my aches and pains! If I were you, I’d run from Odessa like the plague. But his lordship likes it there. Well, to quote my mother, a worm lies in horseradish and thinks there’s nothing sweeter. I’m asking you, my husband, to think again and give up your merry life there. Let Odessa burn to the ground! I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

And by the way, Mendl, who is this Franconi you’re spending all your time with? Is it a he or a she?

To my dear, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen. Secondly, I’m now earning in the high thousands. If my position holds, I’ll be a wealthy man. I’ll cash in my spread, come back to Kasrilevke, and bring you with me, God willing, to Odessa. We’ll rent a place on the boulevard, fill it with fine furniture, and live as only we Odessans know how to.

Meanwhile, I’m having stomach trouble. It shouldn’t happen to you but all that iced cream has done me no good. Nowadays at Fanconi’s I order a drink that’s sipped through a straw: it has a bittersweet, licoricy taste and two or three glasses are my limit. After that I have to hang out in the street and worry about the officer, which is no fun at all because he has his eye on me. But by the grace of God, I’ve given him the slip so far. What a Jew mustn’t do to earn a living! God grant the market goes my way and I’ll buy you two of whatever Blume-Zlate has, more than you could ever imagine…. And as for Gambetta, he may be a hothead but he’s no madman. God help the man who argues politics with him! He’s quite capable of tearing him to shreds. He’s sure war will break out any second — the calmer things are, the more certain it is. “It’s the lull before the storm,” he says. Yesterday I could have sold a few shorts on spot and come away with a nice little bundle, but Gambetta put his foot down. “I’ll skin you alive,” says he, “if you unload a single share now!” It won’t be long, he says, before 50 rubles of shorts are worth 2 or 3 hundred, even 4. Why, they could even top 1,000! Let him be half-right and I’m sitting pretty. I’ll take my profit, God willing, and switch to longs. I’ll buy rubles and sell Londons like crazy and show the world a thing or two about the market. But as I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Regarding Fanconi (and not “Franconi,” as you write), it’s neither a he nor a she but a cafe. That’s a place where you drink coffee, eat iced cream, and deal in Londons. I wish I were worth half the daily volume there!

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, all three children have the measles and keep me up all night. And his lordship sits in Odessa drinking likrish-water! But why care about my worries in Kasrilevke when you’re all in a sweat to carry me off from here? You think it’s enough to say “Odessa” for me to sprout wings and f ly away to you. Listen here, Mendl: take a deep breath and get it out of your head. My great-grandmother managed without Odessa and so will I. Don’t think you can talk me into ditching my parents and good friends and moving to a wilderness. I’ll see Odessa in f lames first! Say what you will, the more I hear of it, the less I like it. Don’t ask me why — I just don’t. Something tells me you’re pushing your luck. “The best dairy dish is a piece of meat,” my mother says. Or are you afraid prices will keep rising and you’ll look foolish for selling now? Everyone should only be such a fool!

And as for your Gambetta (forgive me for saying so, but he’s stark, raving mad), I’d like to know what business of his or his grandmother’s it is. You can tell him to his face that I said so. What kind of wars is he dragging you into? For heaven’s sake, Mendl, listen to me: sell everything, and pull out now! You’ve made a few rubles? Quit while you’re ahead. How much longer can you go on like this? It’s a fine state of affairs when your Sheyne-Sheyndl’s opinion means nothing to you. I wish I had a mouth like Blume-Zlate, who gives her husband the nine-year pox each time she opens it! For the love of God, Mendl, be a dear soul and get out while you can. Just don’t forget to buy a dozen embroidered blouses and some satin for a dress for my mother — she deserves a souvenir from the days her son-in-law did business with madmen in Odessa. Get some calico, too, the latest prints, and as much glassware as fits into your suitcase, and whatever else you can think of and come home. I’m tired of taking it on the chin. My enemies should croak for every time you haven’t listened to me, but please do it now. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife, Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, the market has crashed just as futures, God help us, were being called. I’ll see the Messiah before I see my money again. Bismarck, they say, caught a bad cold and all politics went into a panic. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. Londons are worth more than gold, the ruble has hit rock bottom, and futures have fallen through the floor. But where, you ask, are the shorts I bought? That’s just it: the shorts aren’t short, the futures have no future, and call me a monkey’s uncle! The small-time operators I entrusted my shares with have been wiped out. Odessa has been hit by a whirlwind, you wouldn’t know the place. I should have made my move a day earlier. But go be a prophet! The dealers run around like chickens without their heads, you’ve never seen such pandemonium. They’re all screaming at the top of their lungs—“Londons! Give us our Londons!”—but there are no Londons to be had. All the curses and brawls on the Exchange (everyone fights and so do I) can’t produce a single one. In short, my dear wife, it’s a dark and bitter day. I’ve lost all my earnings, plus the capital, plus the jewelry I bought you. I’ve even pawned my Sabbath gabardine, it’s gone the way of all else …

You can imagine the wretched state I’m in. I’m so homesick I could weep. I curse my luck a hundred times a day. If only I had broken a leg instead of coming to Odessa, where a man is worth nothing. Why, you can drop dead in the street and no one will stop to look at you! When I think of the brokers who f locked around me, begged me to throw them a bone …and now they don’t even know me! The man they called the Rothschild of Kasrilevke has become a big joke. I’m told I know nothing about futures. Not everyone understands Londons, they say. But where were all the big experts then? I’d get more sympathy if I were a corpse. In fact, I’d be better-off if I were one. And to make matters worse, that blasted Gambetta keeps blabbering about politics. “Ha!” he says. “Didn’t I tell you to buy short?” “What good are your shorts,” I say, “when there’s not a London in sight?” But he only laughs and says: “Whose fault is that? You have to know futures. You can’t buy and sell Londons likes potatoes …” I tell you, my dearest wife, I’ve had my fill of Odessa and its market and its Fanconi’s and its petty thieves! All I want is to get out of here. And since I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to all the children and to your parents.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. It’s not the custom in Odessa to go to a neighbor, friend, or relative when you need help as it is in Kasrilevke. That isn’t because people are too proud to ask but because they know what the answer will be. Zilch! What, then, is a man to do? He goes to a pawnshop, where he can get all the money he wants as long as he has something to hock. It can be gold, silver, bronze, clothing, a samovar, a stool, even a cow — anything that’s worth cash. The problem is that it’s valued very low, at half its real worth. And the pawnbroker makes up for it by charging such high interest that you’re left with nothing. Every two weeks the unredeemed items are auctioned off at bargain prices and he makes a nice pile. If I had money, I’d open a pawnshop myself and recoup my losses. I might even come out ahead — but that’s easier said than done. There’s no point being born poor in this world and if you are, you might as well not have been. Tell me about yourself, and what the children are doing, and give my fondest greetings to your parents.

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, just look at what you’ve done, you fool! What devil brought you to Odessa? What made your nose twitch so? Creamed ice his lordship craved! Lumdums! Likrish-water! Roast pheasant! If you knew you’d been Lumdummed, you big dummy, why didn’t you settle for a percentage like a smart businessman? Where was everybody? Why didn’t you run to the rabbi? What, in God’s name, are futures-shmutures? You bought merchandise — where is it? You’ve made one holy mess of things, you have! I knew all along no good would come of your Odessa.

I’m telling you, Mendl, leave now. Hang Odessa and its Lumdums, a plague on them both! Run for your life, Mendl! “When the walls shake, don’t wait for the quake,” my mother says…. But of course nothing I say means a thing to his lordship. I’m only that nobody Sheyne-Sheyndl when I should be Blume-Zlate. Was my mother the smart one! She warned me never to let a husband go to town by himself. “Keep your thumb on his neck,” she said. But what was I to do? I’m not a pushy one like Blume-Zlate. I can’t rub a man’s nose in the dirt, I simply can’t! If only you had her for a wife instead of me, you’d know what the fear of God was …

And as for wanting to die, you big genius, you’re even more of a moron than I thought. It’s not up to us when to live and when to die. Since when does losing a dowry mean jumping off the roof? You’re a dunce to think it’s written in the stars that Menakhem-Mendl has to be rich. Is it a fight with God you want to pick? You can see He had other plans for you, so stop making such a fuss. Things could be worse. You might have been robbed in the forest or made to spend all your money on medicines for some blamed illness. Don’t carry on like an old woman, Mendl. Put your trust in the Almighty and come on home! To the children you’ll still be an honored guest.

I’m sending you a few rubles for your carfare. Don’t go spending them on old junk or auctions. Stay away from all that. I beg you to say good-bye to your Odessa as soon as you get this letter with the money. May it catch fire the moment you leave and burn to ashes! I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, thank God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I have left Odessa for Yehupetz (a fine town, I declare) and am no longer dealing in perishables — that is, in Londons. I am at present, praise God, a bonified investor in stocks & bonds. But what brought me, you may ask, to Yehupetz? That, my dear wife, is a long story that I’ll tell you once I ask your forgiveness for not writing. I simply had no news. And besides, I kept thinking I would soon be on my way home. But although God knows I hankered to be there, it seems I was fated for Yehupetz. I swear, my dearest, I was already in the coach for Kasrilevke when who sits next to me but a Yehupetz-bound Odessa investor. What takes him to Yehupetz, I ask. Stocks & bonds, he says. What kind of line is that, I ask. Well, he says, it’s nothing like Londons. With Londons you’re at the mercy of Berlin and Bismarck and the Queen of England. In stocks & bonds it’s Warsaw and Petersburg. And not only that, Londons are as airy as a dream, while stocks & bonds are solid items.

You should have heard that Jew praise Yehupetz and its investors to the skies! Why, they’re straight as an arrow, he says; they’re the very soul of honor; he wouldn’t swap one of them for ten Odessa slickers. The fellow made me so curious that I thought, seeing as I’m passing through Fastov, why not detour to Yehupetz and see the market? And wouldn’t you know, the day I arrived it had sunk to such depths that stocks were going for a song with nary a kopeck up front. I decided to give it a try. What was there to lose? If the breaks went my way, I might earn some pocket money for the rest of my trip. And don’t think I didn’t! The market rose, I sold at a nice profit, reinvested my earnings, backed some more winners, and wound up with several hundred rubles in cash. At which point I thought: why pay someone a commission to sell me shares when I can be that someone myself? So off I went to an office in Petersburg and put together a portfoliage of every stock you can think of: Putivil, and Transport, and Volga, and Maltzev, and still more that’s bound to go up. Praise God, I’m growing all the time. But since I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to the children and your parents,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. If you write, do it care of Boiberik, since Jews can’t stay nights in Yehupetz. I spend my days in the Kreshchatik Square market and come back to Boiberik every evening. All the investors live there in dachas and sit around playing cards. (Men and women together — that’s the custom.) The next morning they head for Yehupetz and so do I.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my dear husband, my enemies should have as much strength to go on living as I have to write you this short note. I can hardly get around on my legs and may need an operation. At least that’s what the new doctor says. He should catch all ten of Pharaoh’s plagues! The man thinks he’ll get rich from me. Would you like to know what the trouble is? My blood has bad corpsicles from all the heartache you’ve given me. Who ever heard of such a thing? I send you money to come home to Kasrilevke and you run off with it to Yehupetz! A good-for-nothing like you deserves to be buried alive. You’ve blown your nose all over your face, that’s what my mother would say…. A bonified business! Stockings & bands! And here I was thinking that, after his lordship’s precious Lumdums had gone down the drain, he would give me the pleasure of coming home less dead than alive. But what does my angel of a breadwinner do? He dreams a new dream: Yehupetz. May a black desert swallow it! A Jew like you, selling stockings in the market square! You know what you can do with a business like that! I read your letter, dear husband, and I thought: God in heaven! Either you’ve gone clear out of your mind or else I have. You’re speaking Chinese. Petersburg …Pottyboils …portfolderols …a haunt might be talking from your throat. By day it’s Yehupetz and by night it’s Boiberik, men and women together! What’s going on there? Who do you think you are? Make up your mind! If you don’t want me any more, come home to the rabbi and get a divorce, because if I’m going to be an abandoned wife with a house full of brats, I’d rather you vanished from the face of the earth in America like Yosl Leib-Arons and I never had to hear from you again. My enemies should be as sick as I am! It’s my rotten luck that I’m laid up with my aches and pains and can’t come after you, because I’d take the first coach from Kasrilevke and drag you home by the scruff of your neck. It’s as my mother says, though: if you don’t have a hand, don’t expect to give anyone the finger…. But don’t hold my harsh words against me. It’s just my bad corpsicles. I’ll get over them. A match, says my mother, flares up fast and goes out quickly. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my dear, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, stocks & bonds are not what you think. They come from Petersburg. Putivil, Transport, Volga, Maltzev, etc., are manufacturers. They deal in rolling and floating stock — that is, railroads and 100-ruble shares that go for 300. That’s because of the dividends. The more dividends, the more they’re worth. But since nobody knows how many there’ll be, you buy blind. That’s called a bull market; all the Jews are cashing in on it and so am I. You would not believe, my dear wife, how small-time investors have become millionaires! They live in huge dachas, travel to Europinian spas, drape their women in silks and satins, speak French, play the piano, eat jam, and drink jewlips all day long. Their children have governors and ride icicles. A ruble means nothing to them. They live high and the sky is the limit. And it’s all from stocks & bonds!

You should see Kreshchatik Square. It’s mobbed with Jews. And why shouldn’t it be? We’re chased out of the brokerages and kept off the streets, and as we need to know the latest, it’s sheer bedlam. But I mean bedlam! Today a new issue of Putivil 187’s arrived from Petersburg. Well, who doesn’t want new Putivils? And since Maltzevs, so they say, closed at 1,350, who can resist Maltzevs? Shares are up every day. On my Putivils alone, praise God, I could clear a few hundred rubles. But you can flog me before I’ll sell them. In fact, I’m planning to buy 150 more, 5 Maltzevs, and a couple of Volgas — and some Transports too, if all goes well, because the word from Petersburg is, buy Transports for all you’re worth! The whole world is holding them: Jews, housewives, doctors, teachers, servants, tradesmen — who doesn’t have Transports? When two Jews meet, the first question is: “How are Transports today?” Walk into a restaurant and the owner’s wife asks: “What’s the latest on Transports?” Go buy a box of matches and the grocer has to know if Transports are up or down. In a word, there’s money to be made here. Everyone is investing, growing, getting rich, and so am I. But because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give everyone my very fondest greetings.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Regarding my nights in Boiberik, I’ve already explained that Yehupetz is off limits without a residence card. As soon as I balance my portfoliage, I’ll see about getting one and becoming a Yehupetzer. Meanwhile it’s best to lay low, for which there’s no better place than Boiberik. It’s full of dachas. The Jews who live in them commute to Yehupetz and so do I. Is everything clear now?

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, we’ve had good and bad luck. Our Moyshe-Hirshele swallowed a kopeck! It was a Friday and I had just returned from the market with a Sabbath fish, a nice, fresh one, still flopping. I step into the house — the boy is crying his head off. He didn’t even stop when I gave him a good smack and then another. Well, I began to scream myself: “You brainless little brat! What’s the matter? You should only have my troubles! Here, here’s a kopeck to play with. I wish it were a bellyache!” It got me down so I hardly could speak.

A few minutes later I remember the kopeck. “Moyshe-Hirshele,” I say, “where’s the kopeck?” “Topet go ’way,” he says, pointing at his mouth. Oh my God, I think: don’t tell me he’s swallowed it! I look in his mouth — it’s not there. I thought I would die. “Moyshe-Hershenyu! My darling! I’d give my life for you! What have you done with that kopeck?” I rocked him, I spanked him, I pinched him black-and-blue, but all he does is keep crying: “Go ’way!” To make a long story short, I took him to the doctor. The doctor told me to feed him potatoes. For two straight days I fed that poor child nothing but potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes, without even a drop of milk or water. I didn’t think he’d pull through. And then on the third day I pick up a pillow while cleaning and what do you think I find? The kopeck! Those doctors wouldn’t know beans if they saw them.

But after the last straw, there’s always more, as my mother says. Here I am, up to my ears with his lordship’s children, with the doctors, with haunts and hobgoblins in my own home, and Mr. Goldfingers couldn’t care less. He’s off to Odessa, to Yehupetz, to Boiberik! How is that? He’s made a great discovery: stockings & bands! Transports! Portfolderols! He only has to shut and open his eyes and he’s a millionaire! The worst illness, says my mother, is gullibillness. You’re a fool to think your big words impress me. Shares, shmares! I’d rather own a rotten egg. No one ever made money by counting on his fingers. You know what my mother says: invest a fever and you’ll earn consumption. Mark my words, Mendl, all your overnight Yehupetz tycoons will soon by the grace of God be the same beggars they were before. I have as much faith in your Transports and your Shmaltzevs as I had in your Lumdums. Why, I’d sooner believe in black magic than in your portfolderols. I tell you, if a mad dog ate my heart it would go crazy! When I think there are wives in this world who are listened to by their husbands and will know the reason why if they aren’t while I have to treat his lordship with kid gloves because God forbid he should hear a cross word from me! How I’d love once and for all to give you a piece of my mind instead of pretending to smile! “A pinch in the cheek,” my mother says, “makes it rosy.” But what’s a poor woman to do? Burn quietly like a candle, I suppose. Or else be consumed by bad corpsicles. The worst enemies of the Jews should have them in my place! Or better yet, your Yehupetz hot shots. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl.

Mum’s the word but your uncle Menashe’s son Berl is in hot water again. A week ago his house burned down and left him penniless, and now his enemies have ratted that it was insured at three times its value. It looks like he lit the match himself. He was even called in for questioning. But Berl’s no fool; he went and found witnesses to swear he was somewhere else that night. That’s why he was arrested. His wife Zlatke had such a scare that she gave birth in her seventh month. Congratulations, the baby is doing well!

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you live a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m soon off to Warsaw. I suppose you’ll ask why, when I’m investing in Petersburg stocks, I need to go to Warsaw. But don’t you fret. Warsaw is not a bad place. And does it have stocks & bonds! It’s an investors’ paradise, Warsaw is, not at all like Petersburg. 100-ruble notes are scrap paper there. Why, just this week Liliputs jumped in Warsaw from 1,200 to 2,000! I ask you: can a man twiddle his thumbs in Yehupetz at such a time? Or take Roads & Rails. A week ago it closed at 3 or 4 hundred and what do you think it’s worth now? Five times as much! No one even asks for a stock certificate. It’s a perfect crime, in my opinion, not to buy Roads & Rails in Warsaw while you can. Everything is on margin. You put down a few hundred smackers and pay the rest on the first of the month. (I mean the Christian month — they have them too.) And when the first arrives you have the option of taking your shares or not. But who lets you wait that long? Among God’s creatures are speculators who stop you in the street and ask: “Maybe you have some Liliputs for me? How about Roads & Rails?” They make you think it’s God’s gift to find a buyer. Just yesterday two fellows from Odessa got hold of me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They thought they had come across a sucker. “Brothers,” I said, “I’m all out. I should have as much on my conscience as I have Liliputs or Roads & Rails.” They kept at it until I had parted with my last 5 shares of each. Don’t think they got the best of me, though, because right away I bought those shares back from them at a slight mark-up. Lately, knock wood, whatever I’ve bought has gone up. They all say I have a gift for it. Let the first of the month come around and I’ll pay off my portfoliage. Then I’ll switch to another brokerage. The one I work in now has too many Jews for comfort. There’s a new scene there every week. The last time it even came to blows. But because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest regards to everyone,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. I can easily believe what you write about Berl. It’s the only way for a Kasrilevke merchant to survive. Mind you, such things don’t happen in Yehupetz. In the first place, we’re all doing well. And secondly, if a fire breaks out here, God forbid, we have ways to deal with it. Before it can spread a battalion in brass helmets rushes up and sprays it with a rubber gut. A Yehupetz fire is a sight for sore eyes!

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my dear husband, I pronounce you a certified lunatic. You might as well run naked through the streets! As if it weren’t enough for Odessa, Yehupetz, and Boiberik to know that M.M. stands for Market Maniac, you have to let Warsaw in on it too. First it was Lumdums and now it’s stockings, Pottyboils, Lilyfoots, portfolderols, Rack & Ruin! For a box on the ear you have to go all the way to Warsaw? God in heaven, find me the wizard who can box the nonsense out of you! You who happen to have, should she still be alive when you read this, a wife who is up all day and all night with your children, because if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Just yesterday one of them was almost burned to death by a colander of boiling water that barely missed it. There’s good luck even in bad, my mother says — but what does that have to do with his lordship? He’s too busy attending fires. He thinks Yehupetz is burning down just for him. It should burn and take Warsaw and Petersburg with it! I can’t walk the streets without good, God-fearing folk washing their hands in my blood. They point and say, “There goes the Yehupetzer’s Missus,” and I could crawl into a hole in the ground…. My mother, bless her, wasn’t joking when she said: “Never let a husband off the leash. Not even a carpenter knows where the chips will fly.” She never doubted, she says, that my marriage would come to no good end. I should have married for money, she says. If I was going to marry a swine, I should have married a rich one. “I’d sooner send your husband a ten-foot tapeworm,” she says, “than another letter!” She says a cane can accomplish more than a wink. I should bring you home on a broomstick, she says. No, on an oven poker!

I ask you: is she right or not? But what good does that do when a ninny like me believes all she’s told and never stands up for herself! Anyone else — Blume-Zlate, say — would have been in Yehupetz long ago, lining up the rabbis. She would have waylaid you in the street and given you a hiding to make you forget you’re Menakhem-Mendl the stocking dealer…. But what am I saying when all your fine gifts are proof of your wonderful business? The diamonds, the precious stones, the embroidered blouses, the goose-down mattresses — don’t think I’m not grateful…. I tell you, my husband, I’ve put up with as much as I can. Either you get yourself home in a jiffy and act like a human being — or else! As I wish my enemies an early death, so I am from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing things, amen.

Secondly, I’m going like a house afire. I’m growing all the time. The whole world is jealous that whatever I buy is worth more tomorrow. Roads & Rails are up 200 and my Liliputs, praise God, have broken 3,000. It doesn’t pay to sell, though, because word is the market will keep rising. Rumor has it that Europinian money is flowing into it. A syndicate — that’s a kind of high-class club — has been formed to buy us out down to the last share. If you’re wondering why, it’s quite simple. There’s a glut of gold in the world; they’re dumping gold in the streets. That’s driven down interest rates and 4 or 5 percent is now considered a good return. Well, suppose I can get you 10 or 15 on the Yehupetz Exchange, wouldn’t you call that a sound investment? …And as for what you incorrectly call “Lilyfoots,” I’ve already told you it’s a rolling stock that pays dividends. The factory is in Warsaw, the railroads are in Siberia, and the customers are in Yehupetz. Putivil, Roads & Rails, and Transport are the same. Don’t imagine you actually get to see them. That’s a common misconception I’ll explain. Suppose you have a yen for Transports. You go to a broker, put down a few rubles, and get a letter saying you’ve purchased X number of shares at so much per share for so many rubles. If Transports drop you still pay the full price — but that never happens, so it’s silly to worry about it. On the contrary, stocks keep rising. My position has never been so strong. If I can spare the time I’ll scoot over to register in Vasilkov so that I can stop being a commuter. All the big investors do it. You should see how they live, what they eat! And the jewelry on their wives! I’ve asked around for the best places for diamonds and have my eyes on some stones that will, I promise you, knock them out in Yehupetz no less than in Kasrilevke. But as I’m a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may he grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to everyone,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. You may think, my dear wife, that I’m the biggest investor around. Let me tell you that Brodsky is bigger. The difference is that I buy what I can while he snaps up 1, 5, 10 thousand shares at a time. You can’t take on Brodsky. The whole Kreshchatik trembles when he drives by. All the Jews doff their hats and so do I. Imagine my being a Brodsky too one day! A foolish thought — but nothing is impossible with God …

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my mother says you can’t make a fur hat from a pig’s tail. I’m referring to your charming sister-in-law Yentl. May she never live to see the day, but this week she spread the word around town that you’d run off to America and left me high and dry. What little bird told her that? She heard it from Soreh-Nekhameh, who had it from Leizi-Hirshke, who told her that Ben-Tsiyon’s son Borukh saw a letter to Moyshe-Shmul from Meir-Motl in America. Straightaway I ran to Moyshe-Shmul. “Where’s the letter?” I asked. “What letter?” he says. “The one Meir-Motl wrote you from America.” “Who says he wrote me a letter?” “Ben-Tsiyon’s son Borukh.” “But how,” he says, “could that lowdown sneak have told you that when I haven’t spoken to him in a year?” I ran to Borukh’s, half out of my mind. Wouldn’t you know he’d left town three weeks ago! Off I go to give Leizi-Hirshke an earful for the crock he fed Soreh-Nekhameh about a letter from never-never land. “Who, me?” he says, staring as if I were mad. It turns out that your Yentl made it all up! She should roast in hell for her sins — and for ours while she’s at it. Leave it to a tart like her!

But a lot you care when all you can think of is your fine Yehupetz ladies. They should gash themselves on their diamonds and bleed to death! Do you hear me, Mendl? I hate them so much I don’t want to hear about them. And I’m sick of being told of all your presents. I’ve already written you, my dear husband, that if you’re looking to buy me something, spare me your Yehupetz frippery. I don’t need to doll myself up like a lot of women who aren’t fit to tie my shoes. And I want to see you in person, not some piece of paper you’ve scribbled on. “Let’s have more food and less talk,” my mother would say. What are you waiting for? The business you’re in will finish you if you don’t finish with it first. Seeing is believing, say what you will. Not, God forbid, that I think you’re lying, but those Yehupetz smoothies are selling you a bill of goods. Who are you to compare yourself to Brodsky? Did the two of you roll in the same mud when you were boys? If your shares are worth something, sell them and don’t play hard to get. Some slick operators, you say, are out to get their hands on your treasure? Shake and call it a deal! Or as my mother would say: hold on to your hat and run!

But try talking to a madman! His lordship wants an address in Vasilkov, of all places. He’s so rich he doesn’t know where to live next. Why Vasilkov? But that’s a silly question. If it’s Yehupetz by day, and Boiberik by night, and Petersburg and Warsaw by the by, you might as well live in Vasilkov too — and why not in Hotzeplotz while you’re at it? Just be careful, Mendl, that you don’t turn into such a great success that I have to send you your carfare again. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

I have bad news for you, my dear husband. Your brother Berl-Binyomin has lost his wife. I had already sealed the envelope when word reached me. Yentl gave birth to twins. Both lived and she died. Now why couldn’t it have been the other way around? But God loves to be contrary, as my mother says. I should only be spared such a fate! It’s true that your sister-in-law and I, may she forgive my saying so, never got along, but at least she kept out of my hair. For my part she could have lived to be a hundred instead of leaving two little orphans, one tinier than the other. I even went to her funeral and cried so hard I could barely walk home. “Thinking of the dead,” says my mother, “makes you wonder about the living …”

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’ve been laid up all week in Boiberik. It’s more annoying than serious, thank God. I took a fall on my back and couldn’t turn over onto my stomach. Now I’m feeling better. All week long I thought I would go out of my mind. Just imagine, eight whole days away from the Exchange, with no way of knowing the latest prices! From what I hear, though, things are hopping. God willing, I’ll be back to work tomorrow or the day after. Meanwhile, I’m writing you this letter. It’s a chance to chat and let you know what I’m worth. You mustn’t think I’m raving if I tell you that I’m currently holding in my portfoliage 150 shares of Putivil, 100 of Transport, 5 Maltzevs, 5 Liliputs, and 5 Roads & Rails, quite apart from various premiums. The Putivils and Transports have been optioned for 3 rubles a share with the remainder due on delivery. If the deal goes through — and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t — I’ll clear 4 to 5 grand after expenses. I’ve also bought long on a few dozen Putivils and Maltzevs, which should be good for another 1,800.

That’s close to 7,000 rubles right there. My 5 Maltzevs are worth 4 G’s at a dead minimum and it will be a scandal if I can’t get 2 apiece for them despite their having dipped — that’s just a sell-off by the Petersburg margin traders to cover their debts. And I’m still left with the two jewels in my crown, my Liliputs and Roads & Rails. They’re as good as gold, both of them, with 18 whole days to go until the first! If Liliputs keep climbing at 100 a day, you have a surefire 1,800 x 5, which is 9,000 R’s. And with Roads & Rails you’re looking at 150 x 18 x 5, which comes, if I’m not mistaken, to 13,500. Mind you, I’m not even counting the Volgas, Dniepers, Dons, and other small change. In a word, once it’s all in the bank I’ll be worth roughly, in round numbers, give or take a bit, 40 to 50 grand! Let all go well until the first and I’ll take my profits, switch to buying short, and work the other side of the street; then I’ll go back to longs and rake it in again. If the good Lord wills it, my 50 G’s will be worth 100, my 100, 200, my 200, 500, right up to a million! What, silly girl, will be the difference between me and Brodsky then? He’s only human, Brodsky is: he eats, drinks, and sleeps just like the rest of us. Believe me, I’ve seen him with my own eyes and hope to see better.

In short, my dear, there’s no need for concern. I’ve got the hang of the market and have become so good at it that I’m even asked for advice. Being urged by you to quit is nothing new. But just look at Khinkes. That’s a big-time speculator who is also a fiend for gambling; he plays the market by day and the card tables by night. Just last week he dreamed a low card and ran off to Petersburg and Warsaw to sell off his entire portfoliage. Don’t think he isn’t tearing his hair out now. That will teach him to believe in dreams!

I can’t wait for tomorrow’s closings. As soon as I get to town, I’m going to a jeweler’s to pick up a diamond brooch and earrings. If I have time, I’ll also shop for linens, tablecloths, handkerchiefs, some smocks for the children, and a few other household items. You see how wrong you are to say I’ve forgotten you! And because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, God grant you health and success. Kiss the children for me and give regards to your parents and my fondest greetings to everyone. And tell Berl-Binyomin not to spend his nights playing klabberjass!

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. About Vasilkov, you miss the point. A half-year’s residence there is a must for a permit for Yehupetz. Once I’m established in Yehupetz, God willing, I’ll buy an apartment in the best neighborhood and send for you and the children at once. You would be less critical if you knew it better; it’s a lovely town, there’s no comparing it to Odessa. You couldn’t wish for nicer, more considerate people, men and women alike. Their only weakness is cards; they stay up calling “Deal!” until the wee hours. The older folk favor a game called Preference while the young ones play whist, rummy, and klabberjass.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my dear husband, in case you’re fearing more bad news, mazel tov! Your baby brother Berl-Binyomin has remarried in record time. He didn’t let two months go by before setting out for Berdichev, which is the world’s biggest supplier of stepmothers, and coming back with one for his children. And she’s all of nineteen, the lucky fellow! I tell you, it’s disgusting. How right my mother, bless her, is to say: “Better to bury a husband than a mother.” I suppose you might shed a few tears for me, Mendl, if God forbid I died before you, but I’ll never give your Yehupetz ladies the satisfaction because they’d be all over you like flies. They wouldn’t even wait for my unveiling. Well, the dirty pot deserves a dirty spoon, as my mother says. Think of the new life you can have in Yehupetz!

You say you’re going like a house afire, Mendl? Why don’t you jump into the flames! I wouldn’t come see you in Boiberik if you were on your deathbed! And don’t think your fifty thousand makes an impression. In the first place, you’re the same husband with or without it. And in the second place, it isn’t worth a pinch of snuff. “Money on paper is not even paper money,” my mother says…. I’ll tell you the truth, my dear husband: if you’re not pocketing a few rubles now because you’re waiting for them to turn into fifty thousand, you’re either a madman or a heartless murderer with no pity for your children or wife, if you still have one when this letter reaches you. His lordship is a great one for tomorrows. Tomorrow he’s going to the jeweler, tomorrow he’s off to buy linen …any time but today. For heaven’s sake, let God take care of tomorrow and do your shopping while you can! Strike while the iron is hot! You know what a clever woman my mother is. “What good,” she says to me, “are all his promises of tablecloths and handkerchiefs when he should be sending you cash? The Angel of Death doesn’t wait for a man to buy his shrouds…” Give me a few weeks to get my health back and I’m off to Boiberik, God willing — and I don’t envy you when I get there. I’ll dog your steps, I won’t leave you alone for a minute — believe me, you won’t wait for the morning to clear out! I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, the sky has fallen in. The Petersburg closings have knocked us for a loop. It’s like being struck by lightning or a bomb. Every broker is in mourning, the Kreshchatik looks hit by an earthquake. And once Petersburg lowered the boom, Warsaw followed suit. It’s a disaster, a calamity, a catastrophe! All the investors are wiped out and so am I. The market is finished. The brokerages are deserted. The banks are desperate. It’s as bad as the destruction of the Temple! Just imagine, my dear wife, that my Maltzevs, which I put at 2,000 come hell or high water, have gone and closed at 950! Or take Putivils: never in my darkest dreams did I imagine they would drop from 180 to 67. And don’t even ask about Transports — Transports are in the pits, no one will touch them. It’s the same with Volgas, with Dons, with every share on the board. And that’s still nothing compared to Warsaw. Warsaw is a shambles, there hasn’t been a slaughter like Warsaw in human history! In Warsaw your Liliputs nosedived from 2,450 to 620. And Roads & Rails! They were looking so good we were sure they would break 3,000. What do you think they’re worth now? Would you believe 400 shmegaroos? How’s that for a price? I tell you, it couldn’t be worse. Who would have thought it of Warsaw? Up, up, up it all goes and suddenly, out of the blue — poof! Nobody knows where it came from. This person says one thing, that person says another. It’s all a question of money — that is, of not having it. The Germans call it Geltmangel, but in plain Jewish it’s known as going broke…. But how can that be, you ask, when just yesterday the streets were paved with gold? A good question. Still, everyone is ruined and so am I. To tell the truth, Petersburg is not as bad as Warsaw. The market is down there too, but at least it fell gradually, 20 or 30 points at a time, such things have been known to happen. But Warsaw — Warsaw shouldn’t happen to a Jew! Sodom was nothing next to Warsaw. There isn’t a day that Warsaw doesn’t drop 100, 200, 300 points. We’ve taken one beating after another, we’re too punch-drunk to know what’s hit us. Millions have been lost in Warsaw, millions! Good lord, what were we thinking of? If only, my dear wife, I had listened to you, I’d have the world at my feet now. Not even Brodsky could have held a candle to me …

But it’s the will of God. My time, it seems, has not yet come. The one comfort is that my banker, bless him, hasn’t called in my debts. In fact, he’s feeling so sorry for me that he’s promised to help me make back a few rubles when things pick up. Right now, though, there’s nothing to be done. There’s not a rally in sight. The investors walk the floor like ghosts. The brokers are out of work. One man’s story is more horrible than the next’s. The market is dead and buried.

And yet if only I could, I would wait it out and hope for better times. Why take it to heart? It’s not, as they say, the end of the world. God’s in His heaven and Yehupetz is still on this earth; where there’s a will, there’s a way…. Only where is one to get the capital? Your mother is right about needing a hand to give the finger. I’ve tried talking a few fellows into a short-term loan, but they swear the whole city is cleaned out; the biggest operators are strapped for cash, everyone is flat on his back. It would take a miracle to save me. I tell you, my dear wife, I can’t take any more of this. I’d rather be murdered by cutthroats than starve in the streets of Yehupetz. Why, it’s beyond belief! There I was, riding high with everything going my way — and the next minute it’s drop dead! But as I’m feeling low, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, God grant you health and success. Write me about the children and how you are, and give my fond greetings to your parents and to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. There’s a saying that wealth follows a fire. In fact, now is the time to buy, since everything is dirt cheap. The best stocks can be bought on full margin. I guarantee you that anyone investing in Warsaw or Petersburg today will be a happy man tomorrow. When all is said and done, you see, I know the market inside and out. Only three things are needed to succeed in it: brains, luck, and money. Brains, praise God, I have as much of as any investor in Yehupetz. Luck comes from God. And money? Go ask Brodsky!

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, although there is much that could be said, I’ve run out of words. What good would they do when all that’s left is to stick you in the ground? I’m not like Blume-Zlate who eats men for breakfast. It isn’t like me to be a scold. Just tell me one thing, though: as surely as I pray for all my enemies to croak, didn’t I predict you would end up like this? Didn’t I warn you to run for your life? What did you need all those stockings & bands for? “Stay at home,” says my mother, “and you won’t wear out your boots!”

But his lordship didn’t want to listen. His lordship was sweet on Yehupetz. His lordship was in love with its fine ladies and gentlemen, who aren’t worth my little finger. I hope to God I never need a favor from any of them, may He give them a year’s worth of chilblains! Do you know what my mother would say? “Better late to synagogue than early to a rich man’s house.”

And there’s something else that baffles me, Mendl. You know it says in the holy books that no one decides when to enter this world and no one decides when to leave it. How can you talk such nonsense? Everything comes from God. You can see for yourself that He wants you to stop dreaming of the easy life in Yehupetz. It’s a Jew’s job to work hard, sweat blood, and put bread on his family’s table. Look at our neighbor Nekhemye. He’s a fine young man with an education just like yours — I wish I had as much myself. And yet see how he works like a donkey, goes on foot to all the fairs, runs himself into the ground! I daresay he’d fancy strolling around Yehupetz with a walking stick himself. I daresay he’d cotton to taking hot baths, selling magic charms called shares, riding a sleigh around Boiberik, and watching the ladies play cabbage-glass. But he happens to have a wife called Blume-Zlate. A look from Blume-Zlate and Nekhemye bites his tongue! A nod and he’s at her beck and call! Just let him go to Yarmilinetz without bringing her back a hat, a coat, a parasol, or whatever other weird thing she’s set her heart on! And what do I get from you? Pie in the sky! Not that I’m waiting with bated breath for your presents. I need your diamond brooches and bracelets like last year’s snow. All I want is to see you alive and well, which I’m beginning to doubt I ever will. Last night I dreamed of my Grandma Tsaytl, may she rest in peace, looking exactly as I remembered her. But I want to see you in more than just my dreams — the sooner the better! I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife, Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m through with investing. You can have it! It’s no occupation for a Jew. It’s made me old and gray before my time. I could write a book on all I’ve been through. Yehupetz is in ruins. The market has gone bust. There isn’t a ray of hope. The carnage, I’m sorry to say, is worse than it was in Odessa. Everyone is in the soup. Everyone is bankrupt and so am I. Filing for bankruptcy is the latest fashion.

What more can I tell you? The biggest bankers have flown the coop. The first to take off was the fellow who underwrote our Warsaw and Petersburg shares. One fine morning I dropped by his office to see about some Maltzevs and Putivils I still owed him for. Where’s the big cheese, I ask. It turns out he’s taken a powder — all the way to America! To make a long story short, there was a near-riot. His strongbox was broken into and they found a bottle of ink, an old coin, and the sound of his laughter …

The next safe to be searched had a box of old Jewish calendars dating back to 1873; its owner was on his way to Palestine. And there was a third fellow, too, who didn’t file in time, got clobbered for a few million, and lost everything in a week but his given name. Only Brodsky, by some miracle, came through unscathed. If it isn’t in the cards, it seems there’s nothing to be done.

Fortunately, I had the wits to look around and find another profession. In short, I’m now in commodities, a trader on the Yehupetz Exchange. They’re as common, traders are, as stars in the sky and I asked myself: what do they have that I don’t? If it’s two hands, two feet, two eyes, and a nose, I have that too, and not a few of them come from families as good as mine. If it isn’t beneath them to put on their walking shoes and peddle commodities, why not me also? It doesn’t take any expertise. All that’s called for is some cheek and a straight face — the straighter, the better. I swear, there are traders in Yehupetz who can barely sign their names and couldn’t land a job as a wagon driver or a shop clerk in Kasrilevke. Your mother would say about them: “If God wills it, even a broomstick can shoot like a gun.” You only have to put on a white shirt with a nice hat, circulate, make conversation, keep your ear to the ground, bow and scrape a bit, and—“My commission, please!”

A commission is the trader’s percentage. A more painless way to make a kopeck has yet to be devised. Just yesterday I earned 50 rubles — so help the two of us if I know what it was for. I also sold 300 tons of sugar as easily as smoking a cigar. That is, the sugar wasn’t mine, but I got into the act, which was good for 50 more. With God’s help, I’ll be back on my feet in half a year, because money is everything in Yehupetz. A man is trash without it. No one cares where you come from. You can be any joker in the deck as long as you have cash. But being in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fond greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Please write me all the news, and if there’s been rain, and how the beet crop is doing, and whether there are field pests. I need to know as soon as possible!

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I’m writing you, my sweetheart, to wish a cruel death to all my enemies. You fiend, you murderer, you wicked man! As if you didn’t know your wife was lying on her deathbed after being operated on by our wonderful doctor for her corpsicles, may they be poison in the blood of your Yehupetz ladies! I can hardly stand on my feet and your children have come down with every illness there is — their teeth, their throats, their stomachs, the whooping cough, diphtheria, all kinds of horrors I could wish on more deserving people. And you sit in Yehupetz without a word! There’s no excuse. If you’re dead, the least you could do is let me know, and if you’re alive, all the more reason to write.

But go argue with an imbecile! “A drunk grows sober before a fool grows wise,” says my mother, more health to her. Just imagine what we’ve come to when Boruch-Hirsh and Leah-Dvosi’s Sheyne-Sheyndl has to have a trader for a husband! But I suppose it’s worth being anything to live in Yehupetz — a bagel vendor, a dog trainer, even a trader. You write that you’ve made fifty rubles in your fine new business and hope to make as much each day. As if every day were payday! Have you forgotten your Odessa Lumdums, and your Pottyboils and your Lilyfoots, and all your golden opportunities that are ashes in my mouth? Your eyes, you dunce, will fall from your head fifty times before you see fifty rubles again! I don’t believe one bit in your Yehupetz windfalls, which start with a bang and end with a lot of hot air.

And as for your having your wits about you, permit me my doubts. What are you asking about rain for? Did you expect it to snow in midsummer? And what does a man like you care about beets? Now is the time for sorrel borscht. There won’t be beets before autumn. We have enough pests in the form of bedbugs without your becoming one too. Isn’t there enough to occupy you in Yehupetz, with all the sugar and rubles coming your way?

But it’s as my mother, bless her, says: When a madman breaks a window, it’s never his own…. Listen to me, Mendl: put aside your foolishness, and if you still have those fifty rubles, come on home. If you don’t, I’ll send you carfare. Keep in mind that you have a wife and little children who await you every day. It’s time I stopped being the talk of the town and my cheeks no longer burned with shame.

I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

If people interested you half as much as beets, I suppose you’d ask about them. But what’s it to you if my mother has broken off my little sister’s engagement? I suppose you think it was over money. Well, money had nothing to do with it. It started when my sister’s fiancé came for a Sabbath meal. He and my mother began to quarrel, and his father being a butcher, she said you can’t expect veal from an ox. One thing led to another and the blamed fellow went home and tore up the engagement contract. It’s the third time poor Nekhameh-Breindl hasn’t made it to her own wedding.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. May God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, you misconstrued what I wrote. My having given up investing for commodities is no reason to worry, because it’s all for the best. I’m not the only trader in Yehupetz. We have, I don’t mind telling you, a whole slew of them. There are sugar traders, and bond traders, and wheat traders, and money traders, and property traders, and lumber traders, and diamond traders, and manufacturing traders, and freight traders, and whatever else your heart desires. Nothing gets done without a trader — in fact without two, since someone with a seller needs someone with a buyer. Moreover, it’s not uncommon for a few more traders to come along for the ride. They split the commission, and if they can’t agree on it, they either ask an outsider to decide or resort to the tried-and-true Odessa method of pugilistic arbitration.

Now you know what a trader is. And the biggest traders of all are the sugar traders, since all the sugar passes through their hands. They’re rich as the devil, ride around in carriages, live in dachas in Boiberik, play cards all day long, and have courtasins and conquerbines. In a word, commodities are the best business because you needn’t invest a cent. It’s all off the top. If you and I strike a deal, the two of us make a pretty penny, and if we don’t, it’s off to bed for us both without our supper. Of course, you’re quite right: 50 rubles don’t come along every day. In fact, my first transaction was my last one and the 50 smackers didn’t last long, since I have so many debts that I don’t even own the hairs on my head. In the end I was left with a bit of change that I gave to charity and I’m now out of pocket again.

Never mind, though! With God’s help I hope to have a business going soon, at which time I’ll send you a money order. And regarding your question about rain, it’s really quite simple. Sugar, as you know, is made from beets, and beets can’t grow without rain. If God is good it will be a rainless summer and pests will eat all the beets. That means there’ll be no sugar, or rather, sugar will be worth its weight in gold. The speculators will make a killing, the traders will get their commissions, and so will I. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give the children my greetings, each and every one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. As for your sister, if she isn’t engaged again, I have just the man for her. He’s a rare find, a Yehupetzer and still a bachelor, although not as young as all that. In fact he’s a graybeard and getting on in years. I can’t say he’s rich, either. But he has a good job — that is, he’s in sugar. It’s the perfect match, in my opinion, because he’s a very quiet fellow. If the notion takes your fancy, send me a telegram or post card and I’ll come out with him.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, may all the bad dreams I dreamed last night, and the night before that, and every night of the year before that, come true for my enemies. Happy times are here again! If it doesn’t rain there won’t be beets, and if there are no beets there won’t be sugar, and if there is no sugar you may actually make some money. Talk about skinning the bear before it’s shot! Suppose I tell you, Mendl, that it has been raining cats and dogs, and that beets are growing like nobody’s business, and that there isn’t a pest in sight besides bedbugs and cockroaches. What would you say to that? I swear to God, I knew all along that nothing would remain of those fifty blasted rubles. Why remember you have a wife who may live to see you again when you can give all you have to charity? A year’s worth of heartburn I would have given! A fine lot of charity you’d get if ever you went knocking on Yehupetz’s doors. “Families,” says my mother, “have brothers. Pockets don’t.”

But I have only myself to blame. Not everyone would do for a husband what I’ve done. All that fancy living has gone to his lordship’s head. He goes about Yehupetz like a count, has everything but rain and pests, and leaves me to lead a dog’s life. Nothing goes right for me. I have a little boy, Moyshe-Hirshele, drat his soul? Leave it to him to fall and split his lip. I have a wedding ring with gold filigree? Naturally, the servant girl steals it. I catch it coming and going. I should have listened to my mother when she said, “Never throw your luck out with the dish-water …”

Was I right or not that fifty rubles can’t be had for the asking? And as for the lovely match you have for Nekhameh-Breindl, your old graybeard can split his gut first. Yehupetz won’t live to see the day we marry into it. Guess who my sister is being fixed up with now: her first fiancé, since married and divorced and ready for more! It seems the rogue is stuck on her for good. Well, better a thief you know than a rabbi you don’t, says my mother…. As soon as they’re engaged there’ll be a wedding, and I’d like to see you not show up for it. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Our Kopl has done it again. He’s gone bankrupt for three hundred rubles and can now show his face without fearing the bailiff. And your Uncle Menashe’s son Berl had another fire — a hundred rubles’ worth of damage for which the insurance paid three-fifty. Something tells me it’s our last one, because they say the company has stopped insuring Jews. And I almost forgot: Miriam-Beyle has stopped wearing a wig and goes around with her own hair in public! I suppose she thinks she’s high society — pretty soon she’ll be playing cards. But I don’t like to gossip. “Mind your business,” says my mother, “and no one else will mind it for you.” …Just tell me about “courtasins” and “conquerbines.” What are they and what do you do with them?

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. May we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, you’re absolutely right. The sugar business is not for me. There’s no competing with the big traders. You can’t close a deal without them muscling in — and go file a complaint against God. “It isn’t fair” cuts no ice in Yehupetz. Fairness is not at a premium here; no one owes you an explanation or apology. That’s for starters. And besides, I ask you: what kind of business is it in which you have to look at the sky every day and either pray for rain or against it? In a word, I’m not cut out for it. Not only do you have to be a bluffer, you have to work a seven-day week and jaw away at the speculators until they’re so flummoxed they break into a cold sweat. I assure you, it isn’t for me. And being as ready as the next man to earn an honest ruble, I now have, with God’s help, a more suitable line of work. In a word, I’m in finance — that is, I’m a factor — I mean I buy and sell loans at a modest discount. How does the saying go? “Earning less and sleeping well is earning best.” It’s a business in which you’re treated with respect, since lack of cash makes a man soft as wax; you should see them crawl to me on all fours and promise to pay me back mountains of gold! Why, just the other day God sent me a garment cutter from Berdichev who wants to start his own business. I first met him in my boarding house, a rare young man of sterling character. If only I can open him a line of credit for 10–15,000 rubles, he says, he’ll reward me so handsomely that I can give up factoring for good. Although I have yet to find him financing, I trust, with God’s help, that I will.

All the factors do well and own horses. A good horse and buggy, you should know, is a big help in making a living, since here in Yehupetz a horse is worth more than a man. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Kopl’s bankruptcy would be small potatoes in Yehupetz. No Yehupetz merchant is taken seriously until he’s gone bankrupt at least three times. Once the custom was for a bankrupt to leave town, but that’s no longer in vogue. It’s not even called bankruptcy any more. The expression is, “I’m in arrears.” In plain language that means, “Kiss my rear.” And as for your query regarding courtasins and conquerbines, they’re what’s known as pilagshim in Hebrew and Kepsweiber in German. Believe me, I wouldn’t waste a moment’s thought on them.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I wish all my enemies would burst from the bellyful your last letter gave me. First you’re a sugar-pusher, now you’re a money-lender! Where do you get the money from? And if God helps you to a few rubles, must you blow them as fast as you can? Didn’t you promise to send me a money order as soon as you had some cash? How could you go back on your word? My mother, bless her, had your number when she said, “Don’t hold your breath waiting for him, because nothing good comes from a graveyard.” And not from a charming place like Yehupetz either, for which the flames of hell aren’t hot enough. “Daughter,” said my mother, “always remember this prayer: Protect me, dear God, from a Berdichev tycoon, an Uman fanatic, a Mohilev skeptic, a Konstantin servant, a Kamenetz politician, and a Yehupetz rogue.” Was she right or not? But what does his lordship care about his wife and children? Day and night it’s Sheyne-Sheyndl do this and Sheyne-Sheyndl do that. I suppose you remember the kopeck that Moyshe-Hirshele swallowed last year. Well, this time he goes, the boy does (did I say boy? he’s a demon!), and all but takes leave of this world. One day he’s a healthy child and the next he’s barely alive, clutching his ear and screaming in a voice I don’t recognize. “What is it, my darling?” I say. “What hurts you?” But he only points to his ear and keeps screaming. I poke him, I kiss him, I pinch him, I hug him — he just screams and screams. On the third day I took him to the doctor. The first thing the genius asks is have I looked in the child’s ear. “Not only have I looked,” I say, “I’ve drilled with a knitting needle. There’s nothing there.” “Tell me,” he says, “what did you have for your Sabbath meal?” “We had the usual,” I say. “Radishes, onions, jellied calf’s foot, a noodle pudding — is that enough for you?” “How about beans?” he says. “Did you cook beans or peas or the like?” “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. “Since when do peas cause an earache?” “If there were peas around,” he says, “your child might have played with one and stuck it in his ear. It could have begun to sprout there …“ To make a long story short, he fetched a machine, tortured that poor child for half an hour, and pulled out a fistful of peas. Maybe you can tell me why the whole world stuffs itself with peas and nothing happens and my son makes medical history! But you know what my mother says: “With the right kind of luck you can break your nose falling on grass …”

To get to the point, my dear husband, why lend money to Berdichev bankrupts and swindlers? Take your few rubles and come home! You’re sure to find a good business here. “Money,” says my mother, “can buy everything but a fever.” I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Do me a favor, Mendl. Write me no more about your Yehupetz charlatans and their Kepsweiber—I don’t want to hear the filthy word. They should all roast! Listen to this instead. The son of Levi Moyshe-Mendes, Berish is his name (that’s after his grandfather Reb Berishl, may the old scoundrel rest in pieces), turned up this week with two accomplices at Libe Moyshe-Mordekhai’s store and said to Libe’s daughter Feygl (Fanitshke she calls herself — what a name!), “Fanitshke, my love,” he says, “come let me look at your finger.” So Fanitshke shows him her finger and he slips a ring on it and tells his friends, “You’re my witnesses that I’ve taken Fanitshke as my wife according to Jewish law.” You should have seen the commotion! Libe fainted dead away. The whole town came running with its mouth open. Everyone put in his two cents. In the end they went to the rabbi, who told Berish to give Fanitshke a divorce. But Fanitshke said she didn’t want one. She was, she said, in love with him. The poor girl is hopelessly in-fat-you-ated, the two of them planned it together. Just put yourself in place of the father! And I thought I had problems …

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, finance is strictly for beggars. Lending money is not a bad occupation provided the money is your own. When it’s someone else’s, all you get is the runaround. And God preserve you from falling into the clutches of a loan shark, one of your garden-variety Berdichev, Vinnitse, or Shpole twenty-percenters, let alone the big bankers, who give you such a hard time that you’re better off clipping lottery coupons…. In short, I’ve sent finance to the devil and now am in real estate. Why real estate? Because it’s all the rage. If you think buying a house in Yehupetz is like buying a house in Kasrilevke, you’re mistaken. The first thing you do here is take a mortgage from the bank; next you take a second mortgage; then you rent out the rooms and have an income. In a word, the house costs nothing and you’re its lucky owner! Why, then, you ask, doesn’t everyone buy one? Because not everyone can afford the down payment. If, with God’s help, the deal I’m working on pans out (I have several in the fire), I’ll buy a place for 20,000, not a red cent of which will be mine, and register it in your name. The arithmetic is simple: 15,000 comes from the first bank, 6,000 from the second, and a thousand stays with me. That’s enough to live off for a while, even minus the rent and other goodies. Where do you think all the fortunes in Yehupetz come from? But since I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to the children, each and every one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. What you write about Levi Moyshe-Mendes’ son and Libe’s daughter would be back-page news in Yehupetz. Here falling in love is a must; without it there’s simply no match. It’s not unusual for a man to throw over his wife for another woman he’s fallen in love with, or for a woman to throw over her husband. Sometimes the woman who was thrown over falls in love with the husband of the wife who was thrown over — I mean, with the husband of the wife who threw over her husband. How did the rabbis put it? “What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.” That’s Yehupetz!

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, who ever heard of a man walking out on his wife, children, and in-laws, moving to a strange town, and changing his line of work twice a day? First he pushes sugar, then he lends money, and before you know it he’s buying houses on the house! I daresay it would be a fine business if only owning a house that you owe more for it than it’s worth weren’t worse than being trapped in a fire. (Speaking of which, why doesn’t one burn down Yehupetz?) Lucky me! As soon as his lordship’s chickens hatch, he’ll buy me a house in my name. What do I need another house for? Send money and I’d know what to do with it. As my mother, God bless her, would say, “Bring the bread and I’ll find the cutting knife …”

I suppose I should make my peace with the fact that life has it in for me. Still, I can’t help thinking: here I am a Jewish wife like Blume-Zlate, she’s no prettier than I am, she’s certainly no smarter or cleverer — why do I end up in the doghouse while she gets more full of juices by the day? Dear God, I’d like to see her dry up like an old hag! And yet to be honest, what do I have against Blume-Zlate? What harm has she done me? I wouldn’t mind her reaching a ripe old age with her Nekhemye if only God were nicer to me. “Better to wish yourself well than another ill,” as my mother says.

It makes my heart ache to see people living such fine lives when I have to sit here like a widow in black, waiting to hear from my fine breadwinner! Each day I think: this could be our lucky one. Perhaps a buried treasure will come your way and you’ll build me a palace in Yehupetz! But your fine Yehupetz wife-swappers can break all their bones before I throw away my wig and give up everything to become your Kepsweib there. I wish you well from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

My mother says, “It’s not brains or good looks that a person needs, it’s luck.” Take Nekhameh-Breindl and my Aunt Dvoyreh’s daughter Rokhl. Nekhameh-Breindl glows like the summer sun and Rokhl is sour as vinegar. So what happens? Poor Nekhameh-Breindl is a wallflower and Rokhl finds a husband — a fine, honest fellow, an idiot from Yampele. That is, he has his brains in his behind, but he comes from a good family. The only thing wrong with it, they say, is that a sister of his has been baptized. And his health is poor, too, which means he needn’t fear the draft. They’re a lovely couple — she doesn’t mind his not being too bright and he doesn’t mind her not looking so good. But beauty makes nothing good, my mother says. It’s goodness that makes everything beautiful.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, Yehupetz real estate is for the birds. I’m now in country property. Country property is a different kettle of fish. In the first place, you needn’t wear out your shoes. You mail a letter, get back an itemized praysee, send your customer for a look — and with God’s help, you’ve rung up a sale. And in the second place, you’re not dealing with a lot of poor devils. You’re talking landed gentry — princes, counts, grafs. How do I get to rub elbows with grafs? That’s a story in itself.

You know I’m not supposed to be in Yehupetz. Well, now and then the police show up at our boarding house to search for bad apples. We’re always tipped off in advance by our landlady and away we melt like salt in water — some of us to Boiberik, some to Demyevka, and some to Slobodka. This time, though, the landlady wasn’t warned herself. A bad business! There we were, sound asleep in the middle of the night, when there’s a knock. The landlady jumps out of bed. The cat’s at the door, all mice in the straw! Naturally, there’s a rush for the exits. Half of us head for the cellar and the other half for the attic, including me. Next to me is a Jew from Kamenetz, and as we’re lying on the floor with aching ribs he lets out a groan. “What’s the matter?” I whisper. “I just remembered something,” he says. “I left my papers under my pillow. I’m worried sick about my papers!” “What papers are those?” I ask. “Oy,” he says, “very important ones. We’re talking half-a-million at the least.” Well, as soon as I hear half-a-million, I turn on my back and whisper, “What papers can be worth all that money?” “It’s country property,” he says. “I have property in Volhynia, a big estate with the latest equipment, and horses, and oxen, and more sheep than you can count, and water mills, and breweries, and farmyards, and top-notch gardeners, all in perfect condition!”

I moved closer to him when I heard that. How does a Jew come by such a property? “I didn’t grow it in a compost heap,” he says. “It belongs to gentry and I’m the agent. I’ve come to Yehupetz with all the papers — the deed, the praysee, everything. What am I supposed to do now?” “For God’s sake, don’t do anything,” I say. “Who’s going to steal your property? Just pray the cops stay out of this attic.” After a while I gave him a poke and asked: “Have you found a buyer in Yehupetz?” “No,” he says, “not yet. I don’t trust the locals. They’re the worst kind of liars. You can’t believe a word they say. Maybe you know an honest real estate agent, someone reliable?” “Do I?” I say. “It’s an honor to be introduced! I’m a real estate agent myself. Not that I’ve ever dealt in country property — but if God sends me the right buyer, I’ll know what to do with him.” “I can see,” says he, “that I’m talking to an honorable gentleman. Give me your hand and let’s shake on it! It will be just the two of us. I’ll give you the papers and you’ll handle it.” In short, we’re now partners. He finds the properties and I look for the buyers. And since I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to the children (I hope they’re well) and to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. The scare in the boarding house was a false alarm. It was just a neighbor tapping on the window. But see how the Lord provides. If not for the neighbor there would have been no scare, if not for the scare we wouldn’t have run to the attic, if not for the attic I wouldn’t have met the Jew from Kamenetz, and if not for the Jew from Kamenetz I wouldn’t be selling country property. Now wish me success!

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I have a bad cough. Your Yehupetz ladies should catch it from me. I’ve been drinking goat’s milk and went to see the doctor. Quite a living they make from me, the doctors! They should all drop dead and take the pharmacist with them. But at least we now have a second pharmacy in town and can haggle over prices.

Congratulations on your new business with all its counts and country properties! At this rate, you’ll soon run out of things to do. One would think someone as successful as yourself would be less critical of your former professions. But it’s as my mother says: “When a girl can’t dance, she blames the musicians …”

I fear, Mendl, that once you’ve tried everything, you’ll be reduced to peddling matches like Aunt Sosie’s son Getzl who ran off to America. He thought he would live like a king there and now he writes letters that could break a heart of stone. In America, he writes, you either work yourself to death or die of hunger. No one gives a starving man a crust of bread. A fine place it is, America — it deserves to burn with Yehupetz! Don’t say you haven’t been warned. “When there’s bread,” says my mother, “don’t hanker after sweets.” But perhaps there’ll be a miracle and we’ll hear better news from you — and sooner received than Getzl’s. I wish you nothing but the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

“Heaven and earth,” says my mother, “have sworn to let nothing vanish”—and so along comes a government investigator to sniff out what happened to the money that Moyshe-Mordekhai willed for the public good. Some young rascals ratted on you-know-who but he produced accounts showing he didn’t have it. Where could it be? Only the wind knows. I hope to God he rots in jail for what he did!

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m now holding over a million’s worth of country property. No one has ever seen the likes of it. Where, you ask, does it all come from? Listen to this.

One day while I was at the Exchange with my partner from Kamenetz, we let it be known that we had an estate. A group of agents gathered round, all with country property too, and pretty soon we decided on a joint venture. In a word, we pooled properties — we gave them our listings and they gave us theirs. It’s a no-lose proposition. If we sell their properties, we’ll make good money, and if they sell ours, we’ll make better. Either way, we stand only to gain.

The upshot is that I’m in tight with all the agents and have acquired quite a reputation. I sit with them in Semadenni’s at marble tables like Fanconi’s and drink coffee and eat French pastries. That’s how it works here, too: if you don’t order, you’re out in the street. Semadenni’s is the real Yehupetz Exchange. All the traders in town gather there. It’s as loud and noisy as (you should pardon the comparison) a synagogue. The entire place shouts, laughs, talks with its hands. There’s a lot of fighting and quarreling too, which usually ends up in court because no one can agree on splitting the commissions. Everyone swears, curses, uses his fists, and so do I. And being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greeting to your parents and the children, God bless them, each and every one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. One of my properties in Volhynia has a chateau. It has 66 rooms paneled with mirrors and an indoor garden called an orangeade with citrus trees growing all year round. That’s quite apart from the horses and carriages, which are a sight to behold — and it’s going for next to nothing! If God sends me a customer, I’m in the clover. Of course, country agents tend to exaggerate because their tongues run away with them, but I fear there’s nothing to be done about that. You can’t make a living by telling nothing but the truth.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, the devil take all your fine letters! I’m ashamed to show them to a soul. “The worse heartache,” says my mother, “is the one you can’t bare.” I ask you, what kind of business is it to sit all day at Sima-Dina’s drinking coffee with French pastry as though it were a Saturday night? (And who the deuce is Sima-Dina, I’d like to know! We once had a healer in Kasrilevke by that name, but she’s long passed on to the other world.) You have a shanty with sixty-six rooms? Well, bless my soul! My enemies should die sixty-six times! What is it to the lord of Yehupetz if I break my back day and night for his children? Just yesterday little Leah had a fight with Moyshe-Hirshele and stuck a fork in his face. It was sheer luck he didn’t lose an eye. But what good does it do to tell you such things when they go in one ear and out the other? You’re a heartless fiend! I could write until I burst while his lordship sits in bloody Yehupetz drinking coffee and watching the traders trade punches at the Exchange. I wish to God someone would give you the punch you deserve! It might knock some sense into you. I am, from the bottom of my heart,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

You can flaunt your hoity-toity connections all you want, Mendl, but listen to a true story about our two Kasrilevke doctors, Dr. Kubeybe and Dr. Lakritz. They fight like alleycats. Not long ago Dr. Kubeybe went and told on Dr. Lakritz for overdosing a child. So naturally, Dr. Lakritz went and told on Dr. Kubeybe for insuring corpses with Fayvl the insurance agent. Then Dr. Kubeybe told on Dr. Lakritz for …but they should both fry for our sins and those of Jews everywhere!

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m now in lumber. A country property without woodland, it seems, is like a house without a stove. Lumber is the magic word. It’s the key to success, men make millions from it.

Naturally, you’ll want to know how I came to lumber. Listen to what the good Lord can do. Being in country property and hanging around with all the agents, I ran into a real heavyweight one day. “Well, what have you got for me?” he asks. “Come, let’s have a look.” I opened my briefcase and showed him listings worth a million-seven and he says, “Excuse me for saying so, but all your properties aren’t worth a pinch of snuff.” “How’s that?” I ask. “It’s because,” says he, “they don’t come with anything. You’re selling a lot of earth and sky. Where’s the woodland? What do I want with a property that has no lumber? Don’t just stand there, man! Give me lumber, lumber!” It was such a shock to think I had been selling worthless property that I couldn’t get out a word. “Well, then,” I said at last, “show me a nice estate with woodland and I have the customer already lined up.” “That will be my pleasure,” he says. “I have a forest for you that no man has ever set foot in. It has trees old as the world, oaks high as the clouds. They’re the original cedars of Lebanon! And there’s a railroad on one side and a river on the other. Chop-chop, splash, and your trees are floating to the sawmill!”

Well, who needed to hear more? Off I ran to find a buyer. And don’t think God didn’t lend a hand! I heard of a customer and sent an agent to sound him out via a second agent who had a third test the water. (Don’t worry about that. If the deal goes through, God willing, there’ll be enough for us all.) Then I went to see the fellow myself. “For you,” I said, “I have a forest as old as the world. There’s a railroad on one side and a river on the other — chop-chop, splash, and your trees are floating to the sawmill!” He took a fancy to it at once and wanted to know everything: what was the forest called, and exactly where was it, and how many acres did it have, and what kind of trees grew in it, and how tall and how wide were they, and were they hardwood or softwood, and how high off the ground were the bottom branches, and how did you reach the place, and was there a good road to it, and did it snow there in winter …there were so many questions I couldn’t get in a word. On and on he went until he said: “But why waste words? Bring me a praysee and we’ll talk.” “What do you need a praysee for?” I said. “It won’t take a minute to find the seller. He’s better than a thousand praysees.” In short, I brought him to my man’s room. They took one look at each other and began to laugh so hard I thought they would have a stroke. “So this is the owner of your forest?” asks the first fellow. “And this is your buyer?” says the second. Just then the door opens and in walks a Jew from Belaya Tserkov. In no time the table is cleared, cards are brought out, and the four of us sit down to a hand of whist. Tomorrow we’ll try to close the deal. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my regards to your parents, and my fondest greetings to each of the children.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I don’t call this a life. “If this is the transportation,” my mother would say, “let me off and I’ll walk …” I can imagine, God help us, what big businessmen you must be if you can afford to drop a deal worth millions to play whist. I wish you’d waste away from your whist as I’m wasting away from my cough! For God’s sake, has it come to this, that a husband who didn’t know what a deck of cards looked like is now a cardsharp? Is that what the tender young man I married wants to be in his old age? And you know what you can do with all your forests! What on earth do you know about trees? When did you last sit and watch one grow? My mother, bless her, would say: “What is the rabbi doing raising pigs?” If you ask me, your fine lumber business will go up in smoke like all your other golden occupations. Still, I wish you nothing but the best.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

The whole world is talking about you. Not long ago my cousin Kreindl ran into my mother in the marketplace, near the fish stalls, and chewed her ear off. Why, she wanted to know, didn’t I divorce you and put an end to it? Mind you, my mother didn’t even try keeping up appearances. She didn’t argue. All she said was: “The pillow that sleeps two doesn’t need a third head…. Better an old pot than a new kettle…. Friends are like weeds: they pop up without being asked…. Criticism starts at home…. One man eats garlic and another smells of it…. An ox has a big tongue and still can’t blow the shofar …” She said a few other things too, my mother did. In fact, she left Kreindl speechless.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, my woodland has turned out to be a wilderness. There wasn’t a tree in it, let alone a forest or a river. It was all one big waste of time, a lot of worn shoe leather! I now see, my dear wife, that lumber is not for me. I’m not made for dealing with liars. They’ll sell you castles in the air and stick you six feet in the ground.

What am I doing now? I’m in a new business — sugar mills. That’s something you can’t beat nowadays. Jews are buying sugar mills and the agents are cleaning up. There’s a fellow from Belaya Tserkov who goes every week to Radomishl, sells the Jews there two or three mills, and is back home in time for the Sabbath with 10 or 15,000 rubles in his wallet! What more could you want? Ordinary servants, ex — household help, are dealing in mills. They walk around with gold watches, speak German, send their wives to the best spas, take pills for their livers, and carry on like bluebloods! In a word, sugar mills are the only game in Yehupetz. The whole world is into them and so am I.

You must be wondering how I became involved with a business about which I didn’t know a blessed thing, even though it’s quite elementary. Listen to how God works. A while back I stopped going to Semadenni’s (and not, as you call him, Sima-Dina — he’s a man, not a woman, and a nasty one!). It wasn’t because we had quarreled but because I was tired of all that coffee and pastry. Besides, I had run out of money. And so I hung out in the street like the other Jews and one thing led to another until I met a mill agent, a fine fellow who knows the business inside out. There’s no one in sugar, he says, not even Brodsky, in whose home he doesn’t come and go. “Where,” he asks me, “do you come from?” “From Kasrilevke,” I say. “That is, I’m originally from Yampol and I’m registered in Mazepevke, but I have a wife in Kasrilevke and do business in Yehupetz.” “So tell me,” he asks, “this Kasrilevke of yours — is it a town or a village?” “A town?” I say. “Kasrilevke is a regular city.” “And a Jew can live there?” he asks. Honestly, what a question! “And a river,” he asks, “do you have a river?” “Do we have a river!” I say. “The Shtinkeylo flows right through the place.” “And a railroad?” he asks. “How far is the nearest railroad?” “The nearest railroad,” I say, “is no more than seventy versts off. But tell me, what makes you ask?” “First,” he says, “give me your hand and promise to keep this a secret. I tell you, Reb Menakhem-Mendl, we’re about to make a barrel of money! I just had an idea that comes to a man once in a hundred years. You see, everyone is out to buy a sugar mill these days but there aren’t any mills left. Those Radomishl Jews have bought them all and no one is selling. The latest thing is to build them from scratch — and since Jews are barred from the villages, everyone is looking for a town. You can see for yourself,” he says, “that God created Kasrilevke to have a sugar mill — and as I live and breathe, I have the man to build it, an investor with half a million rubles. The problem is finding a site. Do you know anyone in Kasrilevke who can tell us if there’s enough beets and room for a mill?” “Do I?” I say. “You bet I do! My whole family lives there — my wife, my children, and my in-laws. I’ll write at once. You’ll have a thoroughly thorough answer in a jiffy!”

And so, my dear wife, please talk to old Azriel and Moyshe the redhead, since they pal around with Russian gentry. Find out how many beets we can count on and what they’ll cost and write me back at once, because it’s urgent. We can make a tidy sum from this, a good 10 or 15,000. But being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may he grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. I asked my new partner who his investor is and was told it was a Jew from Radomishl. He’s all fired up to make the deal because the Radomishl Jews are big on sugar mills. He’s even willing to buy an old windmill, he says, as long as it has a chimney that works. I pray to God it’s as good as it sounds and we’ll make some money from it, even though there are quite a few partners — it’s beginning to look like close to a dozen. But I hope this is the real thing at last. You know I put no stock in get-rich-quick schemes.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I must have read your song-and-dance a dozen times and I still don’t know what you want. Is there room in Kasrilevke? There’s enough room in our new cemetery alone to bury half of Yehupetz. And what is this river you talk about? I hope you and your partners have more luck than we have water in our river. By Passover time we’re drinking tadpoles and in summer it’s as grassy as a lawn. Let your Yehupetz bluebeards take a sip of it in the month of Tammuz and they’ll need their liver pills indeed.

No, Mendl, let their livers rot in Yehupetz and we’ll get along without their sugar mills here. “Passover cleaning,” my mother says, “comes and goes, but the house remains the same house.” Get all that claptrap out of your head. You’ll sell as many mills as you’ve sold forests, country property, Yehupetz real estate, and sugar. I promise you that your partners will clean you out before you know it, because you were born a sucker and a sucker you’ll always be. I wish you all the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

One more thing, Mendl. What’s this we hear about registering in Yehupetz to go to the Land of Israel? A forty-kopeck subscription, we’re told, will get you there. What’s the lowdown? Here in Kasrilevke it’s all anyone talks about. The young folk sit up discussing it all night at Yosl Moyshe-Yosi’s. In short, things are going from bad to worse. But if you want peace and quiet, my mother says, you should look for it in the grave …

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, sugar mills are in a slump. It’s sellers only. Money is so dear and sugar is so cheap that you can’t give the stuff away. The business is kaput. The millers are fighting to stay alive. The investors are gone, the agents are out of work, and so am I.

I suppose you think I’m in a bad way. Never fear, my dear wife. God’s in His heaven and Yehupetz is still around, too. You can trust me to land on my feet. In fact, I have reason to believe that I’m about to hit the jackpot, since my latest line promises a return of 100,000 to one. I’m talking ten million rubles, maybe more — the sky is the limit! That’s because gold, they say, will soon hit record highs. Well, then, I ask you: what about silver? What about iron? What about copper, tin, quicksilver? I’m not even talking coal and precious stones. There are tracts of land sitting on fortunes — why, you can pick up a gold mine, I’m told, for as little as three-million-five. They’re practically free! They’re just a bit far away. They’re beyond the Uropal Mountains and it takes three weeks to reach them because there aren’t any trains.

Whom can I interest in such a proposition? Brodsky, of course! The problem is getting to see him. To begin with, he has a doorman with gold buttons who looks you up and down: let him see a frayed coat and you’ll never cross the threshold. And if you’re lucky enough to get past the doorman, you can cool your heels on the stairs for hours, hoping to be let into Brodsky’s office, only to see him fly by like the wind to his carriage just as your turn is next. Go do something about it! It’s only polite to come back and try again the next day …and the next day the same thing happens. You have to hand it to him: he’s a busy man!

You can see that getting to Brodsky isn’t easy. I haven’t given up, though. One crack at him and I have it made. But being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to everyone and to the children,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Your question concerning the Land of Israel no doubt refers to the Zionites. They’re most serious people, though not well thought of on the Yehupetz Exchange. I’ve gone to a few of their meetings to see what it’s all about, but everything was in Russian — and lots of it. You would think it would be no skin off their backs to talk to Jews in a Jewish language! My friends on the Exchange just laugh when I mention them: “What? The Cyanides? Dr. Herzl? You call that a business too?”

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my sister Gitl is now a widow with seven orphans. My brother-in-law — may my life be as long as his was short! — has died of the toothache. Of course, his health wasn’t too good before that. I hope never to cough up blood the way he did. Still, we thought he’d hang on. Who could guess he’d have a tooth pulled by Shmelke the healer and lie down the next morning and die? It’s as my mother says: “Tomorrow is another day — but whose?”

And now poor Gitl is left by herself. Her grief is not to be described. If it had been the other way around, God forbid, and she had died and left Zalman-Meir a widower, I don’t suppose he would have wasted any tears on her. No, he would have waited a month and sent to Berdichev for a stepmother. All you men are the same — you’re not fit to fasten your wives’ apron strings. If you were, would a father of children go chasing pots of gold at the end of a rainbow? A millionaire he thinks he’ll be! His lordship is doing so well that he’s even made it to Brodsky’s front door! I’m afraid that’s as far as you’ll get. I swear, you’ll wear out your boots just standing there! Do you think Brodsky has nothing better to do than fly away with his millions to some blasted place beyond the Uropal Mountains just because Menakhem-Mendl has heard that gold and quicksilver are lying on the ground there? It’s the old story of the deaf man hearing the dumb man tell of the blind man seeing the cripple run …

I can already see your next letter informing me that your latest bonanza has fizzled out too. Not that you won’t dream up something even crazier and write that, since the cow jumped over the roof and laid an egg, you’re opening a hatchery. If only you’d get it into your head that you have a wife at home, provided she survives all this, and little children who await you like the Messiah, you wouldn’t be running from door to door with your lunatic notions that are sickening to think of. You haven’t learned a thing from your Yehupetz. I’d put a torch to it!

I wish you all the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Here’s an item for you. Do you remember Meir-Meshulams? He has a daughter, Shprintsl. She’s as strong and healthy as a horse — old enough to be married by now, it’s true, but still a fine girl. Well, who goes and falls for her but a book peddler, a fellow that goes from house to house with penny novels. Poor Shprintsl took such a fancy to them that she must have read a hundred and now she’s tetched in the head. She talks in strange words that no one understands, insists her name is Bertha and not Shprintsl, and says she’s waiting for a calvalier to carry her off through the window and the devil knows where, London or Stamboul…. You tell me: don’t the waffleheads who write such crazy stuff deserve to be strung up?

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, we have a great God! Just listen to this.

Now that I’m a regular at Brodsky’s, I’m known all over the Exchange. Traders come to me with a thousand different proposals: houses, country property, lumber, railroads, steamboats, factories worth millions, all on account of Brodsky…. Well, there are these two partners, neither from these parts. One goes around in a long cape with a hood and the other has a name that’s too weird to write. One day they get hold of me on my way to Brodsky’s and Long Cape says: “Listen here, Reb Menakhem-Mendl, we’d like a word with you. It’s like this. We’ve heard you’re friends with Brodsky. Don’t get us wrong. We have nothing against that.” “Well, then,” I say, “what is it that you want?” “What is it that we want?” they answer. “We want what everyone does: to make some cash. We’re traders ourselves, we have businesses. Let’s not quibble over who needs who more, because we’d like to make you a fifty-fifty offer. We’ll all earn a little less that way, but it will be money in the bank. Better a bird in the hand, as they say.” “Look,” I tell them, “let’s not beat around the bush. Don’t be shy and show me your cards.” “Praise God,” they say, “we have a full deck of them. We have coal in Poltava. We have iron in Kanyov. We have a burned-out mill in Pereyaslav. We have some brand-new machines invented by a Jew from Pinsk. We have a country squire out to trade a forest for a distillery. We have a Jew looking for a large, cheap house in Yehupetz. We have country property, woodland! Bring us the buyers and we have the estate; bring us the estate and we have the buyers.” “Nix to that,” I say. “I’m through with country property and forests. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole.” “Come, come,” says Long Cape. “You know every deal is not the same. Why, I have a property now in the Caucasus, a place sitting on fields of oil — whole geysers are gushing from the ground! They say it’s good for a million barrels a day.” “Now you’re talking!” I say. “That’s what I call a business. Count me in.”

The three of us went to the Jewish cafeteria. (I’ve stopped going to Semadenni’s because they just chuck you out anyway. The cafeteria is cozier and you can talk all day.) Just as we’re about to sign on the dotted line, in walk four more partners: a fellow I know with fat lips, a blond bluffer who sells watches, a bigger one with a red, warty nose, and another man, a widower. I needn’t tell you that I wasn’t thrilled by that, but Long Cape gave me such a lecture, with so many good points in it, that I agreed to go along. Of course, you can’t have partners without quarrels: everyone wanted a bigger share. Still, if we come to terms with the oilmen, God willing, as easily as we did with each other, we won’t be doing badly. It’s a million-smacker-apiece deal. Let it go through and I’ll rent an office on Nikolaievsky Street and be in the big time! But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fond greetings to the children, each and every single one of them.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. There was something important that I wanted to write you, but I can’t remember what it was. I’ll have to leave it for the next time.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I’ll be brief myself, because I have no strength left to write. A body might as well throw peas at the wall. “No bridegroom,” my mother says, “hears sad music at his own wedding.” Rolling in millions outside Brodsky’s door may make you a hero in Yehupetz, but you’re not such a big shot here. The millions roll past you to Brodsky and your fields of oil are a lot of water on the brain. All you’ll get from them is a good soaking! Listen to me and come home. Forget the past and anything mean I may have said. “Better a slap from a friend than a kiss from an enemy,” says my mother. Send a telegram and catch the first coach home. It will be the end of all my troubles.

I wish you nothing but the best,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

If you’d like to hear the latest news, the whole town is talking about it. Do you remember Moyshe-Meir’s Meir-Motl? He has a daughter named Ratzl and some Ratzl she is — an honest-to-God spitfire, a maddymissell with book-learning who speaks French and plays the pianer and wouldn’t give a young man the time of day. You’d never guess she came from a long line of butchers — but a miserly father makes a spendthrift son, my mother says. She’s gotten a heap of proposals, Ratzl has, and turned down every one. Nobody is good enough for her. The husband she marries has to have everything: looks, brains, money — a prince from a fairy tale! The matchmakers have tried everything. The last fellow they came up with was a real gem, a young man as rare as a drop-o’-cool fruit, a small-town boy from Avrich. They picked a halfway spot, brought the two of them there, and put them in a room to get acquainted. Right off Ratzl turns to the young man and asks, “So, what’s your opinion of Dryfuss?” “Dry-who?” he asks. “Who’s that?” “What?” screams Ratzl. “You’ve never heard of Dryfuss?” “No,” he says. “What’s his line?” The next thing you know Ratzl runs out of the room and faints and the poor fellow crawls back to Avrich with his tail between his legs. The devil take them both! Just tell me one thing: you keep smart company — who is this Dryfuss and what’s the fuss all about?

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, Brodsky and I have split up. Not that we’ve quarreled, God forbid. I simply steer clear of him. Why hang around with Brodsky when I’m about to see Rothschild in Paris?

You must be wondering why I need to see Rothschild. The answer is Caucasus oil. All the oil there belongs to Rothschild, even though he spends his time in Paris. How, then, do we bring the horse to water? Well, I had an idea. There was a big investor on the Exchange named Todres, a real go-getter. Back when the market crashed and we all took up trading, Todres went to Paris and became a millionaire. Now, by a stroke of luck, he’s in Yehupetz. I wasted no time, went to see him, and let him know loud and clear that I’m into land in the Caucasus that’s gushing with oil and needs capital. Right off the bat he says, “I have the man for you.” “And who,” I ask, “might that be?” “Rothschild,” he says. “You mean to say you know Rothschild?” I ask. “Do I know Rothschild?” he says. “I’ve lost count of how many deals we’ve done together and how much I’ve made from them.” “Excuse me for asking,” I say, “but would it be too much trouble for you to drop him a line?” “Writing Rothschild,” he says, “is no problem. The two of us are thick as thieves. But that’s neither here nor there. You have to have an itemized proposal. Otherwise there’s no point.”

To make a long story short, I went to my partners and came back with a proposal itemized seventeen different ways. What do you say now, my dear wife: is your Menakhem-Mendl a businessman or not? Let God give us the go-ahead from Rothschild and I’m at the head of the class! The only problem is that meanwhile I’m strapped for cash. You should see how hard-up all Yehupetz is. A day doesn’t go by without a new bankruptcy. But don’t you fret, my dear. It’s only temporary. All our trials, God willing, will soon have a happy end. As soon as I get word from Paris, I’ll do some shopping for us and for the children, bless them all. And being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to the children and to everyone,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. The story you ask about is an interesting one. It all begins with a Dreyfus who was a captain in Paris — that is, with a captain named Dreyfus. And Esterhazy was a major. (That’s higher than a captain, unless it’s the other way around.) Captain Dreyfus was a Jew but Major Esterhazy was a Christian and he wrote a memoveranda framing the captain. Dreyfus didn’t take that lying down and was sentenced to eternal life on an island in the sea. Along came Zola and made a stink showing that Dreyfus didn’t write the memoveranda. It was all the major’s fault, Esterhazy’s! And so Esterhazy went to jail. Then Zola upped and ran away and a colonel named Picquart raised a rumpus. That made a bunch of generals like Mercier and Roget tell more lies about Dreyfus. Pretty soon the Frenchies were fighting with themselves about bringing Dreyfus back from the island. There was a trial in Rennes with a big lawyer from Paris and they shot him in the back — the lawyer, that is, not Dreyfus. Then they wiped the floor with those generals and Dreyfus was convicted and set free. That’s because he was guilty even though he was innocent and go do something about it! I trust it’s all clear to you now.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, you’re a madman. You’re gushing with oil, you’re off to Paris, you’re throwing around millions! Next you’ll be howling like a dog in the streets. His lordship is one of your rich Yehupetz Jews, the proof being that he’s broke and so are they! “If it acts like a donkey and brays like a donkey,” my mother says, “it must be a donkey.”

Mark my words, Mendl: if you’re not brought home in chains, it will be in a straightjacket. One way or another, you’ll realize you have a wife, may she live to see the day, who knows better than you. And as for all your shopping, I thank you kindly. Yehupetz’s shops should have nothing but customers like you and your lying partners who are worth gadzillions and haven’t a kopeck! I only hope I’ve heard the worst of it. My very best wishes,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

May I know no more sorrow in my life than I understood a word about your Dryfuss! How does a Jew get to be a captain? And what’s a memoveranda and how do you frame one? And why did Zola run away and why didn’t they shoot him to his face? But it’s as my mother says: “If you want to learn how to grow cabbages, ask the gardener, not the goat.”

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I wish the Caucasus had been swallowed by the earth before I heard of it! I can’t show my face at the Exchange. How come? It’s very simple. Yesterday I’m there when Todres says to me: “Listen here, my fine friend, just where is this Caucasus of yours?” “Where should it be?” I say. “It’s in the Caucasus.” “Well,” he says, “I’ve been searching the map for it. Your oil fields are a lot of baloney.” “What do you mean by that?” I say. “I mean,” he says, “that there’s no town called Caucasus anywhere. You won’t even find it in the Bible. Just how does a Jew come to another Jew with a business deal made of whole cloth? And meant for whose ears? For Rothschild’s! Do you have any idea who Rothschild is?” “Of course I do,” I say. “What makes you think I don’t? Just don’t go blaming me. I only passed on the information.”

Off I go to look for Long Cape. I find him sitting in the cafeteria with all the Jews and put him over the barrel. “Suppose you tell me, old man,” I say, “where this business of ours is supposed to be.” “You’re asking me?” he says. “It’s in your hands. You’re the one bringing the customer.” “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I’m talking about the oil fields. Where are they? How do you get there? What’s the nearest town?” “To tell you the truth,” he says, “I don’t rightly know. You’ll have to ask my partner.” So we go and ask Weird Name and he tells us to ask Red Nose. Red Nose says he doesn’t have a clue; he only knows what he heard from Fat Lips, which is that Long Cape has a business in the Caucasus; he’ll be hanged if he knows where. In a word, the more we tried getting to the bottom of it, the more everyone pointed the finger at someone else until I was left holding the bag. Naturally! Who else would they stick with it?

Do you understand now, my dear wife, what I’ve been through? With luck like mine I might as well be buried alive. It doesn’t matter what I try. At first everything goes hunky-dory, the winning ticket is in my pocket, any day now I’ll cash in my chips — and then the wheel gives one more spin and it all blows up in my face. I reckon I’m not meant to strike it rich. Everyone in Yehupetz makes good but Menakhem-Mendl. The world parties and leaves me out in the cold, watching it count the millions I’m not allowed to touch.

But perhaps I haven’t found the right combination. No one knows when his luck will look up. It’s bound to happen if you wait long enough …but as I’m feeling low, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my greetings to your parents and write me how you are. And kiss the children for me and tell me what’s new in Kasrilevke.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Misery loves company. The next man’s troubles makes your own easier to bear. Take the fellow sharing my room. He was a provisioner who owned stores and houses and now he’s in Yehupetz suing the government. He’s hoping for a settlement, a big one, but meanwhile he’s broke and staying with me. If he wins his case, God willing, he’ll keep me in mind.

I have another roommate, too, who’s even worse off. He’s a writer who writes for the papers and is working on a book; I’m putting him up until he’s done. Now and then the landlady pities him and brings him a glass of tea. And there’s a third fellow, a real pauper. Why, the writer has nothing on him! I can’t tell you myself what he does. He’s a part-time agent, part-time matchmaker, and part-time actor, besides being a singer and an exterminator. And a jolly Jew he is, though he’s dying of hunger and doesn’t have a cent! When you see so many troubles, you forget your own. Please write about your health and the children, bless them, and about your parents and everyone else.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, what did I tell you, you damned fool? You should kiss every word I write! “The wise man blesses the whip that flogs him,” says my mother. A fine businessman you’ve turned out to be, you and your rotten gang of provisionals, ragpickers, scribblers, singsongers, and mice chasers — what a laugh! I can’t think of better company in which to sit in a Yehupetz boarding house throwing rubles out the window.

Well, at least you show signs of coming to your senses. You say you reckon you’re not meant to strike it rich. Do you still doubt it, Mendl? I’ve been shouting at you at the top of my lungs to put all that nonsense aside. May my life be as hard and your brains stay as addled as you’ll ever see a million rubles. Forget it, Mendl! Forget there’s a Brodsky in the world! You’ll only be the better for it. “Keep your eyes on the ground, not the clouds”—isn’t that what our holy books say? Stop envying the Yehupetz Jews and their parties. Let them party till they croak. They can break every bone in their bodies! As always I am,

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Tell me, my dear Mendl, what’s gotten into you that you suddenly remembered Kasrilevke? And since when do you worry about my health? A body might almost think you miss us. My mother would say, “Let the calf run free, it will come home by itself when it’s hungry.” I’m waiting for a telegram telling me when you’ll arrive. It’s about time. I pray this is my last letter.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’ve had it with business: no more Exchange, no more deals, no more Semadenni’s. They’re all a sneaking, thieving swindle! I have a brand-new profession, a much finer and more respectable one. I’m happy to say I’ve become a writer. In fact, I’m writing already.

How, you ask, do I come by literature? It seems I was born for it.

If you recall my last letter, I mentioned a writer who is staying with me in my boarding house. He writes for the papers and makes a living from it. The way it’s done is, he sits and writes and sends it off and gets a kopeck a line when it’s printed: the more lines, the more kopecks. Well, I thought it over and asked myself: Good lord, what does he do that I can’t? What’s the big trick? After all, I went to school just like he did and have a better handwriting — why not give it a try and toss off a line or two for the Jewish papers? What can I lose? No one will chop off my head. The worst that can happen is, I’ll get no for an answer.

And so I sat down and wrote a letter to the editor with my autogeography — how I played the market in Odessa and Yehupetz, and how I sold my soul for fool’s gold, Londons and stocks & bonds and every horse I could bet on, and how I went from rags to riches and back again, seventy-seven times a millionaire and seventy-eight a beggar. I cut no corners, wrote everything down to the last detail, and sent off ten pages. If they liked my writing, I said, they could have as much as they wanted.

Don’t think that a month and a half didn’t pass without an answer. The paper wrote that it liked my writing and wanted more. If it was as good as the sample I sent, it would print it and pay me a kopeck a line. What do you say to that? I sat down and figured out that in summer, when the days are long, I can knock out a thousand lines per day. That’s a ten-spot right there — and there are thirty days in a month! Not bad, a starting salary of 300 rubles…. Straightaway I went out, bought a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, and got to work. And since I’m busy writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest regards to your parents and to the children, each and every one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. If with God’s help I get ahead with my writing — that is, if I acquire the literary reputation I soon hope to — I’ll ask the editors to advance you a few rubles. I wish you, my dear wife, to benefit equally from my new line of work. It’s more honorable than business, which is why it pays an honorarium and not a commission. It’s an easy way to make a decent living.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, my precious darling, what can I say? Bullets couldn’t stop you, much less words. One might as well shoot at a stone. My mother, bless her, was a wise woman when she said: “A sick man will recover and a black one will turn white before a fool stops being a fool.” You can’t tell me she wasn’t right! I weep to think of all the tricks you’ve played on me since I’ve had you for a husband …and now, as if all that weren’t enough, you decide to become a circus clown. A penny-a-liner! And to think there are even worse fools than you who will pay to read what you write! Who knows what new trouble your scribbling, God forbid, may get us into? From you, I’ve learned to expect the worst. As my mother says, there’s no need to show the beaten dog a stick…. Not that this will stop his lordship from chasing wild geese and dreaming of easy street. Far from it! He sits writing in his Yehupetz boarding house and leaves the children and me with the grippe in Kasrilevke. Every one of us is down with it, we’ve been sick for the past three weeks…. And as for the advances that I’ll get, I’m much obliged, but you’ll be lucky if that honorarity of yours is enough to buy your fine gang a hot meal. You’re one rarity of a nincompoop yourself! If you don’t want a wife who dies young with a clutch of orphans, give up your littleture and pipe dreams and come home. You’ll be a welcome guest. “Better to foul your own nest than another’s,” my mother says. As always, I wish you the best.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

Do you remember Moyshe-Dovid the bill collector? He’s been wanting to dump his wife for some time and couldn’t think of a way, and so he finally took off for America. Well, she caught up with him at the border and taught him a lesson he’ll never forget. I wish he’d get the grippe himself.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’m taking literature by storm, praise God. I’ve already appeared in the papers with all the writers and feel like a new man. The first time I saw my name in print—Menakhem-Mendl—I was moved to tears. What for? For there being such fine, honest people in the world! I’m speaking of the editorial board. After all, I’m not the only writer around, there are plenty of others besides me — and yet not only did it read every word that I wrote, it answered me in writing itself, in a letter delivered to my own mailbox, saying it liked my piece very much. It was just a bit on the long side — that was number one. And number two was, it doesn’t want me making things up. It wants a literary description—its very words — of life in Yehupetz with all its types. That means it wants to know everything.

You couldn’t ask for nicer people! And as I wasn’t about to be outdone, I rolled up my sleeves and sat down to write and have been writ-ing ever since. This is the third day I’m at it and I’m still going strong. And since I’m busy with my writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to the children and your parents,

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. Please let me know whether you’ve received an advance from the board. I asked it to send you some money. What’s a few smackers to it? It can deduct them from my pay.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, your lovely letters are making me spit blood. Money from boards I’ll be sent! Are you working for a newspaper or a lumber yard? You can put a match to your board and all its money! I need it like last year’s snow. To quote my mother: “Spare me your sting and you can keep your honey.”

Believe me, your board will turn to sawdust before I see an advance from it. An advanced case of heartburn I’ll get! If it’s my fate to have a scribbler for a husband, why must you scribble in Yehupetz? Isn’t there enough ink in Kasrilevke? There’s something fishy going on here. Bite into the apple, says my mother, and you’ll find the worm.

No, my dear husband, stop making excuses! Pack up your littleture and come home, because I can’t bear the children’s sorrow any longer. All they ever ask is, when will papa be here? On Passover I tell them Sukkes and on Sukkes I tell them Passover. And Moyshe-Hirshele misses you most of all. As smart as a whip he is — a lot smarter than his father, that’s for sure. I wish you all the best.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

What do you say about my Nekhameh-Breindl? She’s now on her second divorce. No one knows why. Her husband showed me in secret an arm full of black-and-blue marks. He’s willing, he says, to let her keep the dowry and the wedding jewelry — anything to get rid of such a curse. My mother says an ounce of luck is worth a pound of gold, but luck in men is the one thing we lack.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’ve already gone through two bottles of ink and am now on my third. Describing a city like Yehupetz is no mean task. I decided to begin with my boarding house, and first of all with my landlady. Why with her? On account of her husband. He was a soldier, and he’s been dead for thirteen years, and she was his second wife. She married him, she says, for the right to live in Yehupetz and she wouldn’t wish such a life on her worst enemies. She was, she says, twenty years younger than him and as pretty as a picture. All the men, Jews and Christians, were wild about her …and now she’s reduced to bringing Menakhem-Mendl a bowl of borscht or meat with horseradish each time he snaps his fingers. She has a son and daughter to support, too, both in high school, neither of whom lifts a finger to help. They sit and wait for her to serve them. She brings them coffee in bed every morning, and they expect to find lunch on the table when they come home from school whether there’s food in the house or not. And you should hear the racket they make if it isn’t waiting for them! But that’s the sort of children they are. One morning the daughter, the high-school girl, woke up and hollered for some soap. She actually ran half-naked with her neck showing into the dining room where we boarders were having breakfast and shouted at her mother in Russian: “What kind of flophouse is this?” Naturally, we gave her a scolding. Did she mean to tell us, we asked, that she was taught to behave that way in high school? “You should be grateful,” I said, “that your mother slaves for you. She even shines your shoes while you sleep!” Those were my very words. I was about to give her another piece of my mind when her brother butts in and says: “Mind your own business!” The nerve of him opening his trap at me! I was so annoyed that I wrote it up for the papers, the poor woman and her darling children and the whole scene. I hope he learns his lesson when it’s published! Well, it’s a big world. You can bet there are plenty of other widows being driven to distraction by their children. Do you see now, my dear wife, what I’m paid to do? And being busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest greetings to your parents and the children, God bless them, each and every single one.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. An editorial board is not a piece of wood. It’s a group of people that gets together to put out a newspaper. The board sends writers to different cities. It needs material and we’re paid to produce it. We send it in and it’s printed. I hope that makes the newspaper business clear.

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, thank God, we’re all well. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I read your letter and couldn’t believe my eyes. A bad dream, that’s all I can say. A grand subject you’ve found to make a rhubarb from — a widow and her blasted bawdy house! Believe me, if I were you I would have minced no words with that young man and sent that naked hussy to peel potatoes in the kitchen instead of writing them both up in the papers. But I have a husband, it seems, who gets paid to be a stump preacher. My mother says it takes all kinds to make a world, but if you ask me, before sticking your nose into other people’s pots you might take an interest in your own. Are you your children’s father or not? You should hear Moyshe-Hirshele say his ABC’s — all your widows aren’t fit to carry his schoolbag! As soon as I’m up to it I’ll have a photograph made of him and the others, so that you can see what you’ve traded for your rotten boards and bawds. I wish you only the best.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, I’ve finished the landlady and am now writing up the lodgers. In other words, I’m describing the sad cases in my boarding house. If I do say so myself, it’s going well. Each boarder is a sorrier story than the next, but the one we call “Touch o’ Gold” takes the cake. All the ink and paper in the world aren’t enough for him. He comes from Zhvanitz, married a woman from Ladizhin and another from Soroke, and moved to Yekaterinoslav, where he started his first business. He was in gold — that is, some shady characters relieved him of his money in return for sacks of yellow sand. Well, you can’t just go and throw yourself in the river, so he took his walking stick and went to the Odessa Exchange, where he put together some deals, made a few rubles, and advertised for a partner. Sure enough, a fellow turned up, someone in iron — that is, the two of them bought land near Krivorog that was sitting on iron ore. Right off they were offered a few thousand rubles to lease the mining rights, but Touch o’ Gold turned it down: it was, he said, either half a million for the whole property or nothing. Well, nothing it was and Touch o’ Gold decided to try coal. He found a German engineer — I mean, a Jew who spoke some German — and rented a mine with him. The price was good, too, but the first shaft they dug, don’t ask me where it came from, they had a flood on their hands. Two pumps were brought to get rid of the water, but the harder they pumped, the more it kept coming. So Touch o’ Gold said to heck with the German and found a Jew in the egg business — stuffed eggs, not fresh ones, because the yolks had been used for something else, I don’t remember what. As luck would have it, the egg machine broke and the Jew took off and left Touch o’ Gold with a mountain of rotten eggs. After a while they began to stink and Touch o’ Gold received a summons. So one dark night he climbed out the window, leaving the eggs behind in Yekaterinoslav, and opened a cigarette paper factory in Kremenchug with the money he still had. It so happened that his new partner loved chess. He loved it so much, Touch o’ Gold says, that he played it all day and all night, without eating, drinking, or sleeping. Once the two of them discovered at the end of a long game that all their cartons of cigarette paper were empty. Where had the paper gone? It was anyone’s guess. Meanwhile Touch o’ Gold heard of a small-town pharmacist who was selling out his stock. He went and bought it for a pittance and stood to make a killing. How was he supposed to know it included a crate of gunpowder? Well, there was all this gunpowder traveling by train when it took a notion to blow up along with the car and the conductor, who barely came out of it alive. How’s that for the golden touch! He says he could kill the fish in a river just by looking at it. The man has a comeback for everything! He’s a little fellow, a real live wire with burning eyes, a hat pushed back on his head, hands in his pockets, and a mind that’s always working on something new. He never runs out of ideas. That’s because he’s made up his mind to become a millionaire. If he doesn’t, he’ll light out for America. Once he’s there, he says, things will work out. In fact, he wants me to join him. He says people like me keep their heads above water. But I would be crazy to push my luck by giving up a good literary career! And as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to your parents and all the children.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. I don’t understand why I haven’t received a response from the editorial board to my first piece. I haven’t gotten any money either. By now I’ve sent off two more pieces. God willing, I’m sure to hear from them tomorrow or the day after.

Yours etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, dear husband, I beg you in God’s name to come home as soon as you get this letter, because my poor father is dangerously ill. The doctors consulted and found that he has, I dread to say, water in his stomach. The pain is unbearable. You can imagine the state that my mother, bless her, is in. She cares nothing for herself, all her thoughts are only of him. “If you had lived with someone in one room for thirty years, you’d feel that way too,” she says. And you sit in your lovely Yehupetz, describing cretins I wouldn’t mention with my father in one breath! As always, I wish you health and happiness.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

For the love of God, be sure to come at once and send a telegram!

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, your letter was like a knife in my heart. If I had wings, I’d fly to Kasrilevke. But I can’t afford to go anywhere. I’m flat broke and in debt to my landlady. Not only have I run up a large food bill, I owe her for paper and ink. I kept thinking I would hear from the editorial board, but after all my expenses, and all the fine things I wrote my fingers off about, it’s been as quiet as a mouse. Not very nice, I must say! If they didn’t like what I wrote, they could at least have told me to stop. But I suppose my time and effort don’t cost them anything. Anyone else would have raised Cain. To tell the truth, if I had the money for a telegram, I’d cable them to put up or shut up.

There are no words for how heartsick I feel. I can hardly get my pen to write. Who would have thought it? They didn’t even have the decency to answer when I asked for a free copy of the paper. I could have made more money chopping wood! I don’t know how it is with other writers, but I’ve been treated like the lowest of the low.

All that’s left is to pray to God. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. I’m at the end of my rope, worse than this it can’t get — and because I’m feeling low, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success and send your father a full recovery. And may I soon see the children healthy and well, because I miss them so that I’m pining away.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. This letter has been with me for several days because I had no money to buy stamps. I kept thinking: what do I do now? It seems there’s no way of making a living in this world that I haven’t tried. The one thing left is matchmaking. There’s a matchmaker here in the boarding house, and to listen to him talk, he does all right. It may not be as respectable as literature, but it’s a sight better than trading. If only God would pitch in!

Yours, etc.

To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!

First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.

Second, I don’t know what to write. I showed your letter to my mother and she says it’s all my fault. The bed you make, she says, is the bed you sleep in. “If it had been me writing to that son-of-a-gun-in-law of mine,” she says, “I’d have brought him to his senses long ago. I’d have gone and collared him myself.” You’re in luck, she says, that my father is on his deathbed and the two of us are falling off our feet.

The money I’m sending is from my mother. I hope you appreciate her kindness. May I never read another letter of yours again! And may Yehupetz sink into the ground like Sodom once you leave it, with all its grand businesses, fortunes, traders, matchmakers, boards, and bawdy houses. I wish you much health and happiness, now and always.

Your truly faithful wife,

Sheyne-Sheyndl

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, it’s no go. The harder I try, the less it works out. As soon as I received the rubles you sent, I paid my bill at the boarding house and packed my things. What can I tell you? I was already on my way to Khvostov, where I planned to change for Kasrilevke.

But God is greater than any of us. Listen to this. I mentioned in my last letter a matchmaker at my boarding house, Leybe Lebelski by name, who likes to boast that he has a fortune in his pocket — a list of the whole world. A while back he announced that he was going on a trip to arrange a match. He had received, he said, an urgent telegram, and was leaving his things with our landlady for safekeeping. Since then we’ve seen no more of him than you have. And so as I was saying good-bye, the landlady said: “Since you’re heading in the same direction, you might as well take Lebelski’s papers. Maybe you’ll run into the idiot and let him have them.” “But what do I want with someone else’s property?” I asked. “Never you mind,” she said. “It’s not money, it’s just a bunch of names.”

No sooner said than done. And as I was sitting in the carriage, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the envelope and took a peek — a gold mine! Correspondences with other matchmakers, names of satisfied parents, even a list of eligibles in alphabetical order! I give it to you verbatim:

Avritch — Khaveh d/o R. Levi Tankenog, Esq. & Miryem-Gitl. A+ family tree, tall & attractive, seeks young man w/ diploma, offering 4,000.

Balti — Faytl s/o Yoysef Hitelmakher, Esq. Educated, Zionite, certified accountant w/ draft exemption, regular synagogue-goer, cash only.

Boiberik — R. Mendl Lopita. Established, 3x widower, well-preserved ca. 70, seeking first-time bride.

Dubno — Leah d/o Meir Karzik. Good family, short, redhead, speaks French, will pay well.

Glokhiv — Yefim Bolosni. Pharmacist & part-time moneylender, beardless but prefers Jewish women, seeking brunette.

Heysen — Lipe Brosh, b.-in-law Itsi Koymen, consultant Zalman Radimishler’s sugar mill, only son, handsome boy w/ devil in eyes, seeks well-feathered nest.

Kasrilevke — Yoysef-Yitzkhok s/o R. Nosn Koyrakh. Father filthy rich & a wild man. Still-waters-run-deep intellectual type, knowledge of Hebrew, Russian, Torginnev & Darwen, seeks poor orphan but must be raving beauty, generous expense account. Pay the piper & I’ll dance to your tune.

Khmelnik — Basya Flekl, Esq’ess. Widow & usurer, shrewd old bird, seeks scholar, money unnecessary.

Kremenchug — educated run-for-your-life Cyanide, claims 100 incomes + total recall of Talmud. Chess whiz, can top all you say, talks and writes like the blazes, rumored to have wife already.

Lipovitz — s/o Leibush Kapoti. Wild-eyed Hasid, lives in Odessa, 8th grade matriculation, violin & some Hebrew, presentable.

Mezhbizh — R. Shimn Shepsl Shimmeles, widower w/ 2 never-weds @ 3,000 per, must first remarry himself, seeks never-wed too.

Nemerov — Smitsik, Bernard Moiseyevish, of well-known Smitsiks. Divorced, lives alone, cornet & high connections, seeks first-time bride + 5,000 or divorcee +10.

Perilok — high-school graduate, s/o Mikhl Fritog, Esq. Religious, Sabbath-observer, not a kopeck less than 20,000, will settle for half.

Radomishl — g.s./o Naftoli Rademishler. Sugar mill, A+ family, half Sadegor Hasid & half Europinion Jew (short ear locks, long gabardine), knowledge of languages & rabbinic law, uncle has 1 m. in bank, seeks sincere, attractive, wig-wearing, Sabbath-candle-lighting wife w/ triple-A family + 200,000 +piano +French +voice & dance lessons + no previous boyfriends.

Shpole — Ilye von Chernobyl, Esq. Currently residing in Yehupetz, sugar & real estate, partner Von Chernobyl & Babishke (the famous millionaire), only daughter, highly accomplished young lady seeking dream man, prefers professor to doctor, looks of Joseph + brains of Solomon +musical ability + triple-A family, money no object. Brodsky-class wealth, no draftables need apply. Cable sent to Radomishl.

Smile — Perele Damme, divorcee w/ 10,000, seeking educated businessman.

Talne — R. Avremele Fayntig. Widower, Bible-quoting Hasid, seeks widow with business.

Tomeshpol—5 first-time brides, 3 presentable, 2 ugly as sin, seeking doctor w/ furnished apt. or lawyer w/ Yehupetz practice, correspondences mailed.

Tsarytin — rich widower, wholesale fishmonger living in Astrakhan, standard commission +2 first-series lottery tickets. Have asked for 25 R’s for mailing costs and/or stamps.

Vinitse — Khayyim Hekht. Solid income, own droshky, net worth 10,000, plays market like fiddle.

Yampeli — Moyshe-Nisl & Beile-Leah Kimbek. Parvenus, hot for respectable match, will double all offers, prompt payment of commission on wedding night+ tip.

Zhitomir — Shloymi Zalman Todotayke, Esq. 2 never-weds, both attractive, youngest slightly pockmarked, piano, German, French, seek educated men, no need for independent income.

Well, there I was in the carriage with Lebelski’s list, reading it over and over and thinking: God Almighty, how many ways You have made for Jews to make a living! Matchmaking, for example. What could be finer, better, easier, more respectable? What does it take, after all? Nothing but a bit of common sense and enough brains to see who goes with who. Take Avritch, for example. There’s an attractive girl there with 4,000 looking for a young man with a diploma — and Balti has an educated Zionite with a degree in accounting and in need of cash. Anyone can see they’re made for each other. And Talne has a widower seeking a widow with a business — let him get together with Basya Flekl in Khmelnik, who doesn’t mind a poor scholar. Are you with me, my dear wife? If I went into matchmaking, I’d do it my own way. First I’d write every matchmaker in the world. Then I’d draw up a master list and get to work — at first on paper, of course — matching columns. And I’d have partners all over, one in each town, and go fifty-fifty with each. I might even open a central office in Yehupetz or Odessa with clerks to write letters and send telegrams. And I’d be the brains behind it, all the right combinations would be mine!

You can imagine the thoughts that were flying through my head …and who the deuce should sit next to me just then but the hairiest old man you ever saw. He was carrying a bag and puffing like a goose and had the strangest way of talking, all friendly-like but most odd. “Young man,” he says, “is it conceivable that you might possibly make allowances for an old fellow like myself by troubling yourself to move over a bit, so that,” says he, “a Jew like me might have the pleasure of your company?” “Why not?” I say, making room. “Gladly. Where are you from?” “You mean my whences and wherefores?” he replies. “I’m from Koretz. My name is Osher and I’m known as Reb Osher the Matchmaker. With God’s help I have been,” he says, “for quite a while now, that is, believe it or not, for nearly forty years, a matchmaker.” “You don’t say!” I say. “That makes two of us!” “If I rightly follow you,” he says, “it might not be unreasonable to deduce from your learned remarks that you are a matchmaker yourself. In that case, we’re brothers. Howdy-do!” So he says, sticking out a fat, white, hairy hand for me to shake and asking most politely: “And what, if I may have the pleasure of knowing it, did you say your name was?” “It’s Menakhem-Mendl,” I say. “That,” says he, “sounds familiar. I believe I’ve heard it before, although I can’t quite place it. Listen here, Reb Menakhem-Mendl: I have a proposal to make. Seeing as how the tedium of travel is great, and the Almighty has providentially brought the two of us together, would it not be advisable, inasmuch as we now find ourselves under one roof, so to speak, to put our time to constructive use?” “Well, now,” I say, “what use might that be?” “What would you say,” says he, “to some excellent wine in a shabby bottle?” “Well now,” I say, “what wine and what bottle are those?” “Lend an ear,” says Reb Osher, “and I will parse the matter for you thoroughly. The matter,” he says, “is this. I have in Yarmilinitz a superb piece of goods, the genuine article! Reb Itzikl Tashratz is his name. The man is up to his ears in pedigree. And his wife has even more. The problem is that he wants cash up front. Whatever he gives the young couple to start life with, he wants twice as much from the other side.” “Why” I say, “I’ll be hanged if I don’t have just the thing for you!” And I pull out Leybe Lebelski’s list, show him Yampeli, and say: “Here’s just what you’re looking for. Read it for yourself. ‘Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek, parvenu’—that’s new money. ‘Hot for respectable match’—he’ll do anything. ‘Will double all offers’—he’ll pay twice as much as the other side. Exactly what your man wants!”

Well, Reb Osher thinks it over, sees where Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek promises prompt payment of the commission plus tip, rises from his seat, grabs my hand, and says: “Congratulations, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! We’re in business! If I’m not mistaken,” he says, “I happened to notice that you have in that basket of yours some egg cookies, a package of tea and sugar, and a few other provisions. I don’t suppose it would do any harm to have a snack now. Once we reach Khvostov, God willing, you can look for hot water, because I see you also have a samovar. We’ll have tea at the station, where I have reason to believe it will be possible to purchase some 114-proof vodka. With that in hand,” says he, “we’ll drink a toast on the way to my Yarmilinitz bluebloods and your Yampeli parvenus. This is indeed an auspicious occasion.” “Amen to that!” I say. “May your words go straight to God’s ears. But it’s not quite as simple as all that …” Well, he interrupts me, the matchmaker does, and says: “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! You have yet to learn whom you’re dealing with. I’m not wet behind the ears. I am the internationally famous matchmaker Reb Osher and I am responsible, God be praised, for more marriages in my life than I have hairs on my head. We should both,” says he, “have a ruble for every couple I have seen married and divorced and married a second time and divorced again. One look at your list is all I need to match ’em up. Your Moyshe-Nisl,” he says, “will do just fine. I can smell a rat there for sure. Why else,” he says, “would he be so desperate for a match and fall all over himself to tip us? Oh, there’s a worm here, my friend — a very wormy apple indeed!” “What, then,” I ask, “shall we do?” “What we shall do,” he says, “is very simple. We shall go our separate ways at once. I,” he says, “to Yarmilinitz and my Reb Itzikl Tashratz, and you to Yampeli and your Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek. We have our work cut out for us. Yours will be to squeeze all you can from your wormy apple and mine will be to hold my Tashratz to his word. A Jew selling pedigree can drive a hard bargain.”

And so you see, my dear wife, how what began as a joke, a mere lark, turned into a serious venture. Between one thing and another we reached Khvostov, where we had tea and a bite to eat and sat down to talk in earnest. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel a little queasy. Since when was I a matchmaker? And what was I doing with another man’s lists? You might even say I had stolen them. How was it any different from finding a wallet with someone’s money? And yet on the other hand, why blow it up out of all proportion? If anything came of it in the end, Lebelski and I would split the take. I wasn’t a stick-up man robbing strangers.

In a word, I overcame my doubts and we parted, Reb Osher for Yarmilinitz and I for Yampeli. As soon as I arrived there, we had decided, I would poke around to find out what made Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek so eager for a match. If he and his family made a good impression, I would cable Yarmilinitz to arrange a meeting. Let the boy and girl hit it off and we could break out the champagne! “The main thing, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” says Reb Osher, “is not to stint on telegrams. In matchmaking, you should know, telegrams are half the battle. Parents go wild over them.”

It was time to buy our tickets. Having spent his last rubles on telegrams, my new colleague was out of cash. “I tell you,” he said, “most people would be happy to earn in a month what telegrams cost me alone.” Would you believe it? That’s the kind of money there is in matchmaking! And since the train wasn’t about to wait, I laid out my last rubles on his ticket. Every business has its expenses. We exchanged addresses, bid each other a fond farewell, and went our ways — he to Yarmilinitz and I to Yampeli.

Arriving in Yampeli, the first thing I did was check out Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek. “All things considered,” I was told, “he’s no worse than he is.” “Has he many children?” I asked. “Many children,” I was told, “are for poor Jews. Rich Jews have only one.” “What sort of child is it?” I asked. “A daughter,” I was told. “Grown-up?” “Enough for two.” “With a dowry?” “Double your money.” “How’s that?” I asked. I poked around — tap-tap here, tap-tap there — and got nowhere, so I put on my good jacket and went to see the man himself.

I could describe his home for you, but what would be the point? It was as full of finery as a rich Jew’s home should be, and his family — pure gold! I introduced myself, explained why I had come, and was received royally and served with tea, honey cake, a delicious marmalade, and a bottle of vishniak. The father, Moyshe-Nisl, appealed to me at once: a good-natured fellow, without a mean bone in his body. And I took a liking at first glance to his wife Beile-Leah too, a fine, quiet, pious woman with a double chin. They tried to feel me out about the match. Was the young man of good character? In what direction did his talents lie? …How was I supposed to answer when I didn’t know myself! But a Jew with some learning is quick on his feet, and so I told them: “Let’s settle your side of it first. I need to know how much you’re putting up. And I want a look at the principal.”

Well, he hears that, Moyshe-Nisl does, and says to his wife: “Where is Sonitshke? Tell her to come.” “Sonitshke is getting dressed,” says Beile-Leah, getting up and going out and leaving me with Moyshe-Nisl. We helped ourselves to a drop of vishniak, had some more marmalade, and made small talk. What about? Don’t ask me. Last year’s snow and the price of rice in China! “How long have you been a matchmaker?” Moyshe-Nisl asks, pouring me another glass of vishniak. “Since my wedding,” I tell him. “My father-in-law was a matchmaker too. So was my father. In fact, all my brothers are matchmakers. There’s practically no one in our family who isn’t …” I didn’t even crack a smile, although I could feel myself turning red. Don’t ask me where I dreamed up such malarkey. But what choice did I have? As your mother would say, “If you’re knee-deep in mud, keep on crawling.” All I wanted was a break from God to pull the match off, earn my share fair and square, and split it with Lebelski. Why shortchange the fellow? It could be argued of course that the whole commission belonged to him — but where would that leave me? Nothing would have happened without me; wasn’t my investment worth something too? I wasn’t telling all those lies just for my sake. Who could say it wasn’t God’s plan for Lebelski to lose his lists, for me to find them, and for all three of us to make a bundle?

I was thinking all this when in walks Beile-Leah with the young lady — I mean, Sonitshke: a big, healthy, pretty, generously proportioned girl like her mother. I took one look at her and thought: “My God, that’s a tontshke of Sonitshke!” She was dressed, Sonitshke was, rather strangely, in a long evening gown that made her look middle-aged, not because she was old but because …but you wouldn’t believe the size of that child! Naturally, I wanted a word with her to see what kind of creature she was. Some chance I had with a father who wouldn’t stop talking! This time it was about Yampeli — and you’ll never guess the things he said. Yampeli, he said, was a town of bad-mouths, of backbiters, of grudge-bearers, of nasty-noses, every one of whom would gladly drown his neighbor in a spoon of soup. He would have gone on and on if his wife hadn’t cut him short and said: “Moyshe-Nisl! Haven’t you talked enough? Let’s ask Sonitshke to play the piano.” “Just say the word,” says Moyshe-Nisl with a wink at Sonitshke. And so she goes and sits at the piano, Sonitshke does, opens a big book, and bangs away for dear life. After a while her mother says: “Sonitshke! How come you’re playing all those haytoads? We’d like to hear The Volga Boatman, pozhaliste!” Well, Sonitshke begins playing that piano so fast that you can’t even follow her fingers — and all the while her mother is feasting her eyes on her, you can see her wanting to say: “How’s that for only two hands!” After a while she and her husband slip out of the room and Sonitshke and I are left alone. Now’s the time for a little chitchat, I think — let’s find out at least if the girl can talk. I’ll be blamed, though, if I could think of a thing to say! I rose, walked around the room, stood behind her, and finally said: “Excuse me for interrupting, Sonitshke, but there’s something I’d like to ask.” “Naprimer?” she answers in Russian, turning around with an angry look. “Naprimer,” I say, “suppose I asked: what is your heart’s desire? I mean, for example, what kind of husband would you like to have?” “Viditye,” she says to me a bit more softly, lowering her eyes. “Sobstevenno, I’d like him to have a degree, but I know that’s ponaprasno. Po krayne meri, he should be an obrazaveto, because even though Yampeli is considered a fanatitcheski place, we all have a Russian obrazovanye. An utshebe zavadyenye may be out of the question, but there’s not a barishnye who wouldn’t like to be znakome with Zola, Pushkin, or dazhe Gorky …” So she says to me, my beauty, half in Yiddish and half in Russian, although the Russian was more like two-thirds.

At this point her mother returned. “Everything in good measure!” she says, followed by Sonitshke’s father, and the three of us get down to brass tacks: how big should the dowry be, and where will the get-acquainted meeting be held, and when is a good time for the wedding. I was about to go to the station to send a telegram when Moyshe-Nisl takes my arm and says: “Stay a while longer, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! First have a meal with us. You must be hungry.” We washed and sat down to table, and had another glass of vishniak, and Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek’s mouth didn’t shut for a second. It was Yampeli this, and Yampeli that, and Yampeli, Yampeli, Yampeli. “You simply can’t imagine,” he says, “the kind of town this is. It’s a lying, loafing place! Take my advice and don’t say a word to anyone. Above all, don’t tell them who you are and where you’re from and why you’re here — and whatever you do, don’t mention that you know me. Do you hear that, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? You don’t even know me!” He must have repeated that ten times.

Well, off I went to send a telegram to my partner in Yarmilinitz as per agreement. The message was perfectly clear: Goods inspected first-class six thousand cable offer where do we meet. The answer arrived the next day — strangely phrased: Up ante ten gets half six suggest Zhmerinka cable back. Not understanding a word of it, I ran to my Moyshe-Nisl. He reads it and says: “What kind of Jew are you? It’s crystal clear! The man wants ten thousand for his three. You can write him back that he’s too smart for his own good. It’s double or nothing. And tell him,” he says, “that he’ll be beaten to it if he doesn’t get off his rear end.”

With that in mind I sent off a telegram: Double or nothing if not off rear end will be beaten. Back cables my Osher: Agree to half twice less one a bargain. Off I go to Moyshe-Nisl. “It’s crystal clear!” he says. “That means your partner’s client will put up half as much as I do minus a thousand rubles. In short, my ten gets his four. He’s a clever one, your father of the groom — he thinks he can take me for a ride. It’s time he learned he’s dealing with a businessman! My final offer,” he says, “is double plus a thousand. That means his four gets my nine, his five gets eleven, his six gets thirteen. Got that? Let him say, yes or no, if he has a mind to go ahead.”

I returned to the station and knocked off a telegram to Reb Osher: Four gets nine five eleven six thirteen say yes or no if he has a mind. Back comes a telegram: We’re on our way. Come.

This last telegram arrived during the night. I don’t have to tell you that I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept trying to calculate the profit I would make if, with God’s help, I found matches for Leybe Lebelski’s whole list. Surely, that wasn’t too much to ask of God! I had made up my mind that, if we clinched the deal, Reb Osher and I would become full-time partners. He seemed a fine fellow — and a successful one. Of course, I would give Lebelski a fair shake, too. Why shouldn’t I? The poor devil was a father with children to support just like me …

I rose early, said my prayers, and went to show my customers the telegram. Over coffee and rolls it was decided that the four of us would set out for Zhmerinka that same day. So as not to give away our secret, we arranged for me to take the early coach and the three of them to follow. That way I’d have a chance to find a good hotel and order us a decent dinner.

And so I did. I reached Zhmerinka in advance and found the best hotel, which happened to be the only one in town — a place called the Odessa Inn. Straightaway I had a talk with the innkeeper, a fine, hospitable lady. “What,” I asked, “do you have to eat?” “What would you like?” she says. “Do you have fish?” I ask. “Fish,” she says, “can be bought.” “How about soup?” I ask. “I can put one up,” she says. “With what?” I ask. “Rice or noodles?” “Even soup nuts, if you like,” she says. “Well, then,” I say, “how about a roast duck to go with it?” “Duck,” she says, “can be had for a price.” “And the drinks?” “What drinks would you like?” “Do you have beer?” “Why shouldn’t I have beer?” “And wine?” “Wine,” she says, “costs more than beer.” “Wine will be fine, my dear woman,” I say. “Please make us a dinner for eight.” “Eight?” she says. “I count one.” “You’re a strange one, you are!” I say. “What’s it to you? If I say eight, that makes eight.”

We’re still talking when in walks my partner Reb Osher. He hugs and kisses me like a father and says: “Something told me I’d find you at the Odessa Inn! How about some food?” “That’s already taken care of,” I say. “I’ve ordered dinner for eight.” “What does dinner have to do with it?” says Reb Osher. “Just because dinner is dinner, must we starve while we’re waiting for it? I can see,” he says, “that you know your way around here. Suppose you ask for a plate of meat and some vodka. I’m fearsomely faint from hunger!” And he steps into the kitchen to wash his hands, Reb Osher does, and tells the innkeeper what to bring.

Well, we tuck in at a table — and as we eat Reb Osher tells me he’s worked wonders by getting his customer up to three thousand. Why, splitting the Red Sea would be easier! “But what are you talking about?” I say. “What three thousand? Four was the minimum we settled on.” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I know what I’m about. Reb Osher is not my name for nothing! Let me tell you,” he says, “that if my customer had had his way he would have offered a grand total of zero, because he thinks his family tree should be enough. And his is nothing compared to his wife’s! They should be paid, they say, for the right to marry them. In short,” says Reb Osher, “I had to sweat blood to make him promise two thousand.” “Two thousand?” I say. “What two thousand? You just said three!” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says. “I’m an older hand at this business than you are. Not for nothing am I called Reb Osher! Once our parties get together, God willing, and the boy and girl have a look at each other, there’ll be dancing in the streets. I’ve never lost a match yet over a thousand shmegaroos. That’s why my name is Reb Osher! There’s just one thing that’s bothering me.” “And what,” I ask, “might that be?” “It’s the draft,” he says. “I’ve told my customer that your rosy-cheeked youngster can thumb his nose at it because he has an exemption.” “Draft?” I say. “What kind of horsefeathers is that?” “Hear me out, Reb Menakhem-Mendl,” he says to me. “My name is Reb Osher!” “It can be Reb Osher eighteen times,” I say, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Draft, shmaft! What’s that have to do with my Moyshe-Nisl? Since when do girls go to the army?” “Girls?” says Reb Osher. “We’re talking about your Moyshe-Nisl’s boy!” “Since when,” I say, “does Moyshe-Nisl have a boy? His daughter is an only child.” “Do I correctly understand you to be saying,” says Reb Osher, “that you have brought a girl to this match just like I have? But how can that be? We specifically spoke about a boy.” “Of course we did,” I say. “And it was you who was bringing him.” “Just what,” says he, “made you think it was me? You should have let me know you had a girl!” “And I suppose you let me know!” I said. He blew his top at that, Reb Osher did, and said: “You know what, Menakhem-Mendl? If you’re a matchmaker, I’m a rabbi!” “And if you’re one,” I say, “I’m a rabbi’s wife!” We traded insults for a while—“Know-nothing!” “Liar!” “Moron!” “Glutton!” “Stumblebum!” “Boozer!”—until he hauled off and hit me and I grabbed his beard and gave it a yank. God Almighty, what a scene …

You can imagine how I felt. All the expense, the trouble, the time — the sheer disgrace of it! The whole town came running to see the grand partners who had met to marry off two girls. That blasted Reb Osher didn’t stick around for long. He took off and left me with the innkeeper and a dinner bill for eight. My luck was that I managed to slip away before the families arrived. I shudder to think of what happened when they did.

Well, go be a prophet and guess that a damned matchmaker who runs around sending telegrams and talking a blue streak is going to match one young lady with another! It’s simply no go, my dear wife. Even jumping in the river wouldn’t help. And as I’m in a wretched mood, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Tell the children, bless them, that I miss them and give your parents and everyone my fond greetings.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. God never sends the illness without its cure. I left Zhmerinka thinking the sky had fallen in and praying my money would hold out till Kasrilevke — and even then I faced the devilish prospect of a night camped out on the railroad tracks. But there is a great God above! Who should be sitting in my carriage but a real devil of a character, a life ensurance agent, an inspector — and you should have heard the life he promised me if I became an agent too! But exactly what an agent does, and how he ensures a person’s life, are complex matters, and as I’ve already gone on long enough, I’ll leave them for the next time.

Yours etc.

To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!

Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.

Secondly, my dear wife, I’m on the run. I’ve had another setback — a severe one. I can thank my lucky stars I’m not in jail. The devil knows what I might have gotten: forced labor or even Siberia. And yet I’m no guiltier than you are. But it’s as your mother says: once a loser, always a loser …

Now that I’ve been snatched from the jaws of disaster, I can sit down and write you about it. You know from my last letter what a state I was in after the splendid match we arranged for two girls. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. I felt I was at the end of my rope — bye-bye, Menakhem-Mendl! And just then I ran into an inspector who works for the Acquitable Life Ensurance Company, which is a firm that ensures you against dying and does a fine business. He took out a book and showed me how many people he had ensured, and how many were dead or alive, and how they were all better off for it. If you ask how that can be, it’s quite simple. Suppose Acquitable sells me 10,000 rubles of life ensurance. That means I pay 2 or 3 hundred rubles a year until I die. If I kick off right away, I’m in luck: 10,000 R’s are nothing to sneeze at. And if I don’t? Then the luck is Acquitable’s. It employs lots of agents, mostly Jews with families that need to eat. Why begrudge them a living?

The problem is that not everyone can be an agent. In the first place, you have to dress well — and well is well: a good suit, a starched collar and cuffs (paper ones will do, but they had better be clean), a nice tie, and, naturally, a top hat. And most of all, you have to speak well. An agent has to be able to talk — to talk up, to talk over, to talk back, to talk down, to talk into, and to talk on until your customer gives in and buys life ensurance. That’s why the inspector saw right away that I had the makings of a good agent myself.

But I must explain to you, my dear wife, the difference between an agent and an inspector. An agent sells ensurance while an inspector inspects the agents. And there are inspector-majors who inspect the inspectors and an inspector-general who inspects the majors. That’s as high as you can get in Acquitable. It takes an inspector to become a major, a major to become a general, and so on. Whoever makes general is set for life. A general, my inspector told me, can earn 30,000 a year.

To make a long story short, the fellow wanted me to join Acquitable. Nothing would come from my own pocket, he said. In fact, I would even get an advance for clothes and a briefcase. Not bad for starters! I thought it over and asked myself: what am I risking? Either I succeed and make it big, or I don’t and the marriage is off. And so I said yes and started a new life as an agent.

Of course, it wasn’t as quick as all that. Before becoming an agent you have to see the general, because nothing cuts the mustard without him. And so my inspector took me to Odessa at his own expense to meet the inspector-general himself — a man, I was told, with 20 provinces and 1,800 agents working under him. That’s how big he is. That is, he isn’t so big himself, he’s just made a big deal of. But he does have big eyes that don’t miss a trick and a smile for everyone. His name is Yevzerel, and his office takes up a whole building with room after room, each with chairs and desks and files and books and agents going in and out. The place is jumping, the telegrams fly back and forth — it’s enough to make your head spin. Getting to hell and back in a barrel is easier than seeing the inspector-general! I was half-dead by the time I was ushered in to Yevzerel, who very kindly offered me a seat and a cigarette and wanted to know all about me.

Well, I told him everything, the whole story: how I was bound for Kishinev, and ended up in Odessa, and dealt in Londons until I moved to Yehupetz, and worked on the Exchange buying and selling Putivils and Liliputs and other stocks & bonds, and traded in sugar, real estate, and lumber, and tried my hand at matchmaking, and even had a fling at writing. There was nothing in the world, I told him, that I hadn’t knocked my brains out doing and I still had nothing to show for it. Once a loser, always a loser!

He listened to me, the general did, got to his feet, put a hand on my shoulder, and said: “Do you know something, Mister Menakhem-Mendl? I like you. I like your name and I like the way you talk. I can see you becoming one of our top agents — and I mean top! Take an advance, pick yourself a route, and good luck.”

That’s just what I did. I was given some rubles, outfitted myself like a king (you wouldn’t have recognized me), bought a big briefcase, stuffed it with a wagonful of forms and brochures, and set out for the blue yonder — I mean, for Bessarabia, where the living is said to be good. That’s the place to do business, I was told. I could sell ensurance there like hot cakes.

I took a train and then another and another and arrived in a little town, a damned hole in the middle of nowhere. If only it had burned to the ground before I got there! How was I supposed to know it had a reputation for the worst crooks and chiselers? And it was just my luck that it was the anniversary of my father’s death, so that I had to stop there to say the mourner’s prayer. God preserve you from such a dump! Something told me to stay on the train. But what can a man do when he has to say the kaddish? I looked for a synagogue and found one just as the evening prayer was beginning. When it was over the beadle came up to me. “An anniversary?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. “And where might a Jew like you be from?” he asks. “From the big world,” I say. “And what might your name be?” “Menakhem-Mendl,” I say. “Then welcome!” he says, shaking my hand, as did the rest of them. A circle formed around me and everyone wanted to know who I was. “An agent,” I said. “You mean a salesman?” “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m in life ensurance. From Acquitable. I ensure you against dying.” “What kind of bad news is that?” they asked. So I explained it while they stood gaping as if I were selling them the moon — all but two of them, whom I noticed right away. One was a tall, thin, stooped-looking fellow with a shiny, hooked nose and a habit of pulling the hairs of his beard. The other was short, stout, and dark as a gypsy with a shifty eye that spun like a compass and a way of smiling when nothing was funny. I saw they understood what life ensurance was, because they gave each other a look and one grunted: “It’s worth a try.”

I could tell they were types you could do business with. And in fact, as soon as I left the synagogue they came after me and said: “Where are you off to, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? Don’t run away! There’s something we wanted to ask you. Were you really thinking of selling ensurance in a hick town like this?” “Why not?” I asked. “To Jews like the ones you just prayed with?” asks Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “All they’re good for is eating noodle pudding!” “Then what would you suggest?” I inquire. “Find a rich Christian,” says Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “Nothing beats a rich Christian!”

Well, we talked for a while and it’s like this: the two of them are friends with a Christian gentleman, a Moldavian landowner they sometimes work for, and they’re sure he’d like to be ensured. “Then it will be my pleasure to do it,” I say. “I’ll even give you a cut. Share and share alike!” It was decided that in the morning, at the early service in the synagogue, they would let me know if he was interested. Their one request was to keep it confidential. I mustn’t tell anyone at my inn that we had talked business.

At the crack of dawn I’m up and off to the synagogue. We reach the end of the service — my two friends aren’t there. Why hadn’t I taken their names and addresses? I couldn’t even ask the beadle for them because I was pledged to secrecy. At the last minute, though, just as we were shutting our prayer books, they showed up. I could have jumped for joy! But though I was dying to hear their news, it wasn’t the place for it.

They rushed through their prayers and hurried out with me on their heels. “Well?” I asked. “Shhh!” they said. “Not here in the street! You don’t know this blamed town. Keep following us. We’ll settle things at home and have a bite to eat.” And with that Hook Nose makes a sign to Shifty Eye and Shifty Eye vanishes and leaves me alone in the dark alleys with Hook Nose. I walked behind him until we got there.

The room we entered was small, dark, and smoky. Flies crawled on the walls and ceiling; a lamp with a paper shade painted with faded flowers hung above a table covered by a red cloth. By the stove stood a small, grease-stained woman, looking pale and frightened. She gave Hook Nose a questioning look. “Food!” he said, walking by her. In no time there were rolls, appetizers, and a bottle of brandy on the table. Soon Shifty Eye arrived. Waddling behind him was a three-hundred-pound behemoth with a big blue nose, two hairy mitts for hands, and the strangest legs you ever saw. They started out huge and grew so thin toward the bottom that you wondered how they could hold him.

This was the Moldavian gentleman, who spied the brandy bottle and let out a great rumble from his stomach that sounded like: “Otse dobre dilo!” And so we each had a swallow of brandy (the gentleman had two) and chatted about the grain crop until Shifty Eye turned to me and whispered: “The man is loaded! He has 10,000 bushels of wheat, to say nothing of oats. Don’t be misled by how shabbily he’s dressed. He’s a terrible skinflint.” Meanwhile, Hook Nose is advising the gentleman to keep his wheat in storage until winter when prices will rise. “Otse dobre dilo!” says the gentleman, emptying more glasses between mouthfuls of food, which he’s putting away as though there’s no tomorrow. He blows his nose and lets out a big burp and when he’s finished Hook Nose says: “Now we can get down to business!”

Well, I sat that Moldavian gentleman down in a corner and gave him such a spiel that I can’t tell you where it came from. I explained how important it was to have life ensurance. It didn’t matter, I said, if you were as rich as Rothschild. In fact, the richer you were, the more you needed ensurance, because an old age lived in poverty was harder on a rich man. A beggar, I said, was used to it, but a rich man would rather die first. “Otse dobre dilo!” says the gentleman, passing more wind like a bellows. I was still working up a full head of steam when Hook Nose interrupts, using Hebrew words the gentleman can’t follow. “That’s enough dabern!” he says. “Go get some niyor and ksive what you have to!” So Shifty Eye brings a pen and paper and I write out a policy for the gentleman to sign. He looks at it, he does, and breaks into such a sweat that he can barely write his name. Then I take him to the doctor for a checkup, receive a first payment, write out a receipt, and the deal is done.

Back I go to my inn in fine fettle and order a meal. “So what’s new?” asks the innkeeper when he sees me. “What should be new?” I say. “I understand you deserve to be congratulated,” says the innkeeper. “What for?” I ask. “For selling a policy,” he says. “What policy is that?” I ask, playing innocent. “The one you sold to the Christian,” he says. “What Christian is that?” I ask. “The fat landowner,” he says. “But how do you know,” I ask, “that I sold a policy to a Christian landowner?” “What I know,” says the innkeeper, “is that he’s a landowner as much as you are.” “Then what is he?” I ask. “The bogeyman,” says the innkeeper, laughing right in my face. I turned pale, sat down, and begged him to explain what he meant. How did he know what I had been up to?

Well, he finally realized I knew nothing, felt sorry for me, took me to the next room, and told me things about my two associates that made my hair stand on end. They were, it seemed, common swindlers; a worse pair of rascals couldn’t be found. “They’ve broken enough laws,” said the innkeeper, “to be sent a long way up the river. It’s their good luck that they always find someone else to take the rap. Your rich Moldavian is a bum, a rip-snorting, God-awful drunk, not the man in whose name you wrote the policy. If he’s not already pushing up daisies, you can bet he soon will be. Do you get the picture?”

I nearly passed out when I heard that. A lot of good my new clothes would do me if I had to wear them to prison! I ran to the station as fast as my legs could carry me, hoping not to bump into my two friends. May they rot in hell with their Moldavian gentleman, and their lousy town, and their blasted Bessarabia, and their damned Acquitable, and the whole bloody business of death ensurance! Surely God can provide better livelihoods. I only pray I reach my destination safely — and since I have a long way to go, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more from Hamburg. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Say hello to the children, bless them. God keep them healthy and strong until we meet again in better times. My fondest greetings to your parents and to everyone.

Your husband,

Menakhem-Mendl

P.S. I forgot to tell you where I’m going. I’m off to America, my dear wife! And not just me. A whole crowd is traveling with me. That is, each of us is heading for Hamburg and from there to America. Why America? Because they say it’s the place for Jews. The streets, they say, are paved with gold and money is dished out by the plateful. Why, a day’s work is worth a whole dollar there! And the Jews, they say, are lapping up the cream. Everyone says that in America, God willing, I’ll be a big hit. The whole world is going because there’s no future here, you can’t do business any more. And if everyone is doing it, why not me? What’s there to lose? I only hope you don’t have too a hard time of it, my dear, or think too badly of me. I swear always to remember you and the children, God bless them. I’ll work day and night, nothing will get in my way. And if the Lord lends a hand and I do well (and I’m as sure to as day follows night!) I’ll buy tickets for you all and send for you. You’ll live like a princess there — you’ll have nothing but the best — I won’t let a hair fall from your head. Upon my word, it’s time you saw a bit of the world too! Just don’t worry or take it to heart, for there’s a great God above looking after us.

Yours etc.