“Whether I don’t understand her,” I said, “or don’t want to understand her, that’s something else again. We can discuss it a bit. But what does that have to do with you, little father?”
“It has quite a bit to do with me,” he said, “because she is now in my custody.”
“What do you mean, she’s in your custody?”
“It means she is now in my care.” He looked me straight in the eyes and stroked his fine old beard.
I sprang back. “My child is under your care? By what right?” I was about to lose my temper.
“Now don’t get excited, Tevel!” he replied rather coldly, with a little smile. “We can discuss this calmly. You know I’m not your enemy, God forbid, even though you are a Jew. You know that I admire Jews and that my heart aches because of their obstinacy, their stubborn refusal to accept the fact that we mean everything only for their own good.”
“Do not speak to me about my own good, little father,” I said. “Every word you say now is a drop of poison, a bullet in my heart. If you are as good a friend of mine as you say, I will ask you but one favor — leave my daughter alone.”
“You are a foolish man,” he said. “Nothing bad will happen to your daughter. Something good now lies ahead of her. She is taking a bridegroom — and what a bridegroom.”
“Amen!” I laughed ironically, but in my heart a hellish fire was burning. “And who, may I have the honor of asking, is the bridegroom. Am I permitted to know that?”
“You surely know him,” he said. “He is a very gallant young man, very honest and well educated, though self-taught. He is deeply in love with your daughter and wants to marry her, but he cannot because he is not a Jew.”
Chvedka! I thought, the blood rushing to my head. I broke into a cold sweat and could barely hold myself together. But to let him see that — no, he would not live to see the day! I grabbed the horse’s reins, gave them a snap, and fled without a goodbye.
When I arrived home — ay ay ay, the house was in turmoil! The children were in bed crying into their pillows, and my Golde looked more dead than alive. I searched for Chava. Where was she? No Chava! I did not want to ask where she was. I did not need to ask, God help me! I felt like a tortured sinner suffering in his grave. A fiery rage was burning in me, toward whom I did not know. I wanted to find something with which to whip myself, but instead I yelled at the children and let out my bitter heart at my wife.
I could not settle down, so I went outside to the horse’s stall to feed him — and found him with one leg twisted around a block of wood. I took a stick and beat him with it. “May you fall dead, shlimazel of mine!” I shouted. “You won’t get as much as one oat from me! Trouble, if that’s what you want, I can give you plenty, along with anguish, heartache, grief, and suffering!”
But even as I was yelling at the horse, I realized it was a poor innocent creature — what did I have against him? So I spread some chopped-up straw before him and promised that on Shabbes, God willing, he would have more to eat.
I went back into the house and lay down in a state of misery, my head splitting with contemplating what this all meant. What is my trespass? What is my sin? — how had I, Tevye, sinned more than anyone else, that I had been punished more than all other Jews? Oy, God in heaven, God in heaven! What are we and what is our life? — who am I that You always have me in mind? You never forget about me when it comes to disaster, catastrophe, or affliction!
Thinking all this, lying as if on hot coals, I heard my pitiful wife groan. It tore at my heart. “Golde, are you asleep?”
“No. What is it?”
“We are as good as dead,” I said. “Do you have any ideas about what we can do?”
“You are asking me,” she said, “what we can do? So it has come to this? A child gets up in the morning, healthy and strong. She gets dressed, hugs and kisses me — and begins weeping without saying why. I thought, God forbid, she had lost her mind! ‘What is it, daughter?’ I asked her. She said only that she would go out for a while to the cows. Then she vanished. I waited an hour, I waited two, I waited three — where was Chava? Chava was gone! I called to the children to run over to the priest’s.”
“How did you know she was at the priest’s?”
“How did I know?” she said. “Woe is me. Do you think I don’t have eyes or that I am not her mother?”
“If you have eyes and you are her mother, why did you keep quiet and not tell me?”
“I should tell you? When are you at home?” she said. “And if I tell you something, do you listen to me? No, right away you answer with a commentary or a quote. You stuff my head with biblical quotes and think you’ve solved every problem.”
While Golde was saying this, she was crying in the dark. She has a point, I thought, but what does a woman understand? My heart ached for her, and I could not bear to hear her groaning and weeping.
I said to her, “Golde, you are angry because I have a commentary on everything. But I must answer you with another one. It is written, Like as a father pitieth his children—a father loves his child. Why isn’t it written, Like as a mother pitieth her children? Because a mother is not a father. A father can talk to a child in a different way. You’ll see. Tomorrow morning, God willing, I’ll go see her.”
“Let’s hope,” she said, “you can see her, and him too. He’s not a bad person, even though he is a priest — he does have compassion for people. You’ll beg him, fall at his feet. Maybe he’ll take pity on us.”
“Who — the priest, cursed be his name? You expect me to bow down to the priest? Are you crazy or just out of your mind? Do not open your mouth to the devil! My enemies will not live to see that day!”
“Ach! See what I mean? You’re starting in again!”
“What, did you think I’d let myself be pushed around by a woman? I should live by your female reasoning?”
And with such conversations the night passed for us. At last came the first crow of the rooster. I got up, said my prayers, took my whip, and went directly to the priest’s house. A woman is truly a woman, but where else could I go? Should I bury myself alive?
To make a long story short, his dogs welcomed me with a fine good morning by preparing to ruin my caftan and taste my Jewish calves to see if they were good enough for their dogs’ teeth. Luckily I had brought along my whip and gave them to understand the quote Not a dog shall bark—a dog should have something to bark about. Hearing their barking and my shouting, the priest and his wife ran out, shooed off the happy throng, and invited me into the house. They received me as a guest and offered tea. I said the samovar wasn’t necessary, I had something to say to him, between the two of us. The priest understood and signaled to his wife to kindly shut the door behind her. I came to the point without any fanfare, asking him, first of all, if he believed in God. Then I asked him whether he knew how it felt to separate a father from a beloved child. Also I asked him what in his opinion was right and what was wrong, and what he would think of a person who stole into someone’s house and wrecked it.
Naturally he was confused by all my questions. “Tevel, you are an intelligent person — why do you ask so many questions at a time and expect me to answer them all at once? Be patient, and I will answer them all, the first one first and the last one last.”
“No,” I said to him, “you will never answer them, little father. Do you know why? Because I already know all your answers. Just tell me this: is there any hope I will get my child back?”