I really mean it. Did the world show any interest in me when I was, may it never happen to a Jew, buried deep in poverty, perishing three times a day of hunger together with my wife and children? Only when God showed his favor to Tevye, suddenly made me rich so I could finally make something of myself, put away a few rubles, only then did the world take notice and Tevye become Reb Tevye — some joke! Many good friends suddenly began to show up, as the verse says: All are beloved, all are elect—when God grants a spoonful, people offer a shovelful. Every person came with his own advice. This one said a dry-goods store, that one a grocery; another one said a house, a good lasting investment. This one said wheat, that one timber, another auctioneering. “Friends!” I cried. “Back off! You are making a great mistake. Do you think I’m Brodsky? May we all have the amount less than three hundred, even two hundred and even one hundred and fifty, that I really have. It’s easy to imagine that another’s wealth glitters like gold, but when you get closer, it turns out to be a brass button.”
In short, our little Jews — don’t even mention them — gave me the evil eye! God sent me a relative, Menachem-Mendl was his name — a fly-by-night, a who knows what, a wheeler-dealer, a manipulator, may he never find a resting place! He roped me in and spun my head around with dreams of things that never were and never could be. You will ask how I met Menachem-Mendl. I will give you an answer: Slaves we were—it was fated to be. Listen to this story.
One day at the beginning of winter I arrived in Yehupetz with my little bit of dairy — some twenty or so pounds of the best fresh butter you can buy, and two fine wheels of cheese worth their weight in gold and silver, may we both have as much! Of course, I sold out my merchandise completely, nothing at all was left even if my life depended on it. I was so busy, I had no time to chat with my summer customers, the Boiberik dacha owners, who wait for me as if I were the Messiah because the Yehupetz merchants’ produce can’t hold a candle to Tevye’s. I needn’t tell you, as the prophet said: Let other men praise thee—good products praise themselves.
Having sold everything and thrown some hay to my horse, I decided to take a stroll around town. As it is said, Man is but dust—a man is only human. I wanted to see a bit of the world, breathe the air, and look at the fine goods that Yehupetz displays in its shopwindows, which seem to say, “Look with your eyes as much as you like, but to touch — don’t dare!” Standing just like that at a large shopwindow with a pocketful of coins and ruble notes, I thought, God in heaven! If I had a tenth of what I see here, I would never complain to God again. I’d make a match for my eldest daughter and give her a good dowry, besides wedding presents, a wardrobe, and wedding expenses. I’d sell the horse and wagon and the little cows and move right into town, buy a seat by the eastern wall of the shul. I’d get pearls for my wife, long may she live, and distribute charity like the biggest property owner. I’d see to it that the house of study had a metal roof, not a roof about to collapse any minute. I’d open a religious school in town and a hospital and a shelter like in other respectable cities so poor people wouldn’t have to lie around on the bare floor of the house of study. I’d get rid of Yenkl Sheygetz, the head of the burial society — enough drinking brandy and eating gizzards and chicken livers at the community’s expense.
“Sholem aleichem, Reb Tevye!” I heard someone call from behind me. “How are you?”
I turned and could have sworn I knew him. “Aleichem sholem,” I said. “Where do I know you from?”
“From where? From Kasrilevka,” the man said to me. “I’m a friend of yours. I mean, I’m your second cousin once removed. Your wife Golde is my second cousin.”
“Say now,” I said, “can you be Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s son-in-law?”
“You got that right,” he said to me. “I am a son-in-law of Leah-Dvossi’s, and my wife’s name is Sheyne-Sheyndl Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s son-in-law. Now do you remember who I am?”
“Be quiet a minute,” I said. “I believe your mother-in-law’s grandmother Sora-Yente and my wife’s aunt Frume-Zlate were cousins, and if I’m not mistaken, you are the middle son-in-law of Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s. But do you know, I’ve forgotten your name, it’s just flown out of my head. What is your name? What do they actually call you?”
“They call me Menachem-Mendl Boruch-Hersh Leah-Dvossi’s — that’s what they call me at home in Kasrilevka.”
“If that’s so, my dear Menachem-Mendl,” I said to him, “I really have to give you a proper sholem aleichem! Tell me, my dear Menachem-Mendl, what are you doing here? How are your mother-in-law and father-in-law, long life to them? How are things going for you? How is your health, and how is business?”
“Well,” he said, “as for my health, thank God, one lives, but business is not so rosy these days.”
“God will help.” I stole a glance at his shabby clothes, patched in many places, the shoes almost worn through. “You can be sure God will help you and things will get better. As it says in the Bible: All is vanity. Money,” I said, “is round, one day it rolls this way, another day it rolls that way, so long as you are alive. The most important thing is faith. A Jew must have hope. Ay, what if things really go bad? For that reason we are Jews. As they say, if you’re a soldier, smell gunpowder. The whole world is but a dream. But better tell me, my dear Menachem-Mendl, what brings you to, of all places, Yehupetz?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been here for a year and a half.”
“Is that so? Are you a native? A Yehupetzer?”
“Sshhh,” he said, looking around. “Don’t shout so loudly, Reb Tevye. I am living here, but it must remain between us.”
I stared at him as if he were crazy. “You’re here illegally,” I said, “and you’re out in the open in the Yehupetz market square?”
“Don’t ask, Reb Tevye,” he said. “That’s the way it is. You obviously aren’t acquainted with Yehupetz regulations. Come, I’ll tell you, and you’ll understand what it means to be a resident and not a resident.” And he gave me a long, drawn-out account of how you go crazy trying to get a permit to live there.
“Listen to me, Menachem-Mendl,” I said, “come to my place for a day, and you can at least rest your bones. You’ll be my guest,” I said, “and a welcome one too. My wife will be happy to have you.”
In short, he agreed. We drove home together, and everyone was delighted to see him — a guest! Here was our own second cousin, no small matter. As they say, “One’s own are not strangers.” Golde’s grilling began: “How are things in Kasrilevka? How is Uncle Boruch-Hersh? How are Aunt Leah-Dvossi and Uncle Yossil-Menashe and Aunt Dobrish? And how are their children? Who died? Who got married? Who got divorced? Who has given birth and who is expecting?”