Well, one such character turned up in our neck of the woods, a real vagabond, too. In fact, I once knew his father, a man who peddled homemade cigarettes and was a beggar seven times over. But that’s a whole other story — and besides, if the Talmud tells us that Rabbi Yochanan the Cobbler made a living patching shoes, a person can be permitted a father who didn’t make one selling cigarettes. What annoyed me was something else: where did a pauper like him get off thinking he was a student? Not that he was born feebleminded, God forbid, because he had a good head on his shoulders. And though his name was Pertchik, we all called him Peppercorn, because that’s exactly what he looked like: a small, black, puny little ragamuffin. Still, they don’t come any brighter, and when he let loose with his tongue … whew, you had better step back!
Listen to how I met him. Vayehi hayoym, one fine day I’m on my way home from Boiberik, having sold a bit of merchandise, a whole wagon full of cheese, cream, butter, and other such vegetables. As usual I was thinking about the world’s problems, such as why in Yehupetz they had it so good, whether Tevye ever would, what my horse would say if he could, and so on and so forth. It was summertime; the sun was shining down; the flies were biting; and the whole wide world seemed such a delicious place that it made you want to sprout wings and fly off into it …
Just then I looked ahead and saw a young man trudging along by the side of the path, a bundle under one arm, all sweaty and falling off his feet. “Hurry up or you’ll be late for the wedding!” I called out to him. “Come to think of it, hop aboard; I’m going your way and my wagon is empty. You know what the Bible says: help the jackass of your neighbor if you pass him on the road, and your jackass of a neighbor too.”
He laughed and jumped into the wagon without having to be asked twice.
“Where might a young fellow like you be coming from?” I asked.
“From Yehupetz,” he says.
“And what might a young fellow like you be doing in Yehupetz?” I ask.
“A young fellow like me,” he says, “is preparing for his entrance exams.”
“And what,” I ask, “might a young fellow like you be planning to study?”
“A young fellow like me,” he says, “hasn’t decided that yet.”
“In that case,” I ask, “why’s a young fellow like you beating his brains out?”
“Don’t you worry, Reb Tevye,” he says. “A young fellow like me knows what he’s doing.”
“Tell me,” I say, “since you seem to be a personal acquaintance of mine, just who exactly are you?”
“Who am I?” he says. “A human being.”
“I already guessed as much,” I said, “because you didn’t look like a horse to me. What I meant was, whose child are you?”
“Whose child?” he says. “I’m a child of God’s.”
“I knew that too,” I say. “After all, it’s written, vaya’as eloyhim—and God made every creeping thing. I mean, who’s your family? Are you from hereabouts or from elsewhere?”
“My family,” he says, “is the human race. But I was born and raised around here. You even know me.”
“Then out with it!” I say. “Who is your father?”
“My father,” he says, “was named Pertchik.”
“The devil take you!” I say. “Did you have to take all day to tell me that? Are you Pertchik the cigarette maker’s boy, then?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m Pertchik the cigarette maker’s boy.”
“And you’re truly a student?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m truly a student.”
“And what exactly do you live on?” I ask.
“I live,” he says, “on what I eat.”
“Good for you!” I say. “Two and two is four, four and four is eight, and ate and ate and had a tummy ache. But tell me, my fine friend, what exactly is it that you eat?”
“Whatever I’m given,” he says.
“Well, at least you’re not choosy,” I say. “If there’s food, you eat, and if there isn’t, you bite your lip and go to bed hungry. I suppose it’s worth all that to be a student. After all, why shouldn’t you be like the rich Jews of Yehupetz? Kulom ahuvim, kulom brurim, as it says …”
Sometimes I like to cite a verse or a prayer. Do you think that Pertchik took it lying down? “Those Jews,” he says, “will never live to see the day when I’ll be like them. I’ll see them all in hell first!”
“Why, bless my soul if you don’t seem to have something against them,” I say. “I hope they haven’t gone and put a lien on your father’s estate.”
“It’s their estates,” he says, “that will be yours, and mine, and everyone’s some day.”
“You know what?” I say. “I’d leave that sort of talk to your worst enemies. I can see one thing, though — and that’s that with a tongue like yours, you’re in no danger of getting lost in the shuffle. If you’re free tonight, why don’t you drop over? We can chat a bit, and have some supper while we’re at it …”
You can be sure I didn’t have to repeat the invitation. My young man made sure to turn up at dinnertime sharp, just when the borscht was on the table and the knishes were sizzling in the pan. “You’ve timed it perfectly,” I said. “If you’d like to wash your hands and say the Lord’s blessing, go ahead, and if not — that’s fine with me too, I’m not God’s policeman. No one’s going to whip me in the next world for your sins in this one.”
Well, we ate and we talked — in fact, we talked on and on, because something about the little fellow appealed to me. I’m damned if I know what it was, but it did. You see, I’ve always liked a man I can have a Jewish word with; here a verse from the Bible, there a line from the Talmud, even a bit of philosophy or what-have-you; I can’t help being who I am … And from then on the boy began dropping in regularly. As soon as he finished the private lessons that he gave for a living each day, he would come to us to rest up and have something to eat. (Mind you, I wouldn’t wish such a living on anyone, because in the most generous of cases, I assure you, our local squires pay eighteen kopecks an hour to have their sons taught, for which they expect their letters to be addressed, their telegrams corrected, and their errands run in the bargain. And why not? Doesn’t it say bekhoyl levovkho uvekhoyl nafshekho—if you expect to eat, expect to pay the bill too!) The boy could count himself lucky to take his meals with us and tutor my girls in return for them. An eye for an eye, as it says — one good turn deserves another. Before we knew it, he had all but moved in with us; whenever he arrived, someone would run to bring him a glass of milk, and my wife made sure he always had a clean shirt and two whole socks, one for each of his feet. It was then that we started calling him Peppercorn. He really did seem like one of the family, because at bottom, you know, he was a decent sort, a simple, down-to-earth boy who would have shared all his worldly possessions with us, just as we shared ours with him, if only he had had any …