“Naturally, they all made a beeline for my poor sap of a brother-in-law. Why him and not me? Because I stood there with my chin up — it’s when the fat is in the fire that you can tell the men from the boys — while Purishkevitch should only look as bad as he did. ‘Pravozshitelestvo, Gospodin Yevrei!’ they demanded, pouncing on him. He couldn’t get out a word. ‘Damn you,’ I said, trying to help him out of a tight spot, ‘why don’t you say something? Speak up! Tell them you’re Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele.’ And turning to the police, I begged them to go easy on him. ‘Please try to understand,’ I said, ‘he’s just a poor cousin of mine from Kennele, we haven’t seen each other in ages.’ I was trying so hard not to laugh that I thought I would burst. Just picture it: there I was, Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, begging for mercy for Moyshe-Nachman from Kennele, who was standing right next to me, ha ha! The only catch was that it did as much good as last winter’s snow, because they grabbed the poor sap like a sack of potatoes and quick-marched him off to the cooler. At first they wanted to take me too. That is, they took me, but I was released right away. What, I ask you, could they do to me? I had a perfectly good pravozshitelestvo, I was an obradchik in Brodsky’s synagogue, and I left behind a few rubles at the station just to be on the safe side, do you get it? That’s life! ‘Khorosho, Gospodin Obradchik,’ they said to me. ‘Now run on home and finish your noodles. Let this be a lesson to you not to harbor illegals on Malovasilkovsky Street!’… A lesson that hurt like a slice of fresh bread in the kisser, ha ha!..
“Do you want to hear the rest of it? The consultation, of course, had to be called off. Who could think of consultations when a brother-in-law had to be bailed out? I suppose you think I’m referring to the etap. I wish I were! There was no standing bail for that; the poor sap had to sit in jail — and believe me, he didn’t sit very pretty! It should only happen to Purishkevitch. We didn’t grow any younger in Kennele waiting for him to be let out — and when we finally brought him back there, our real troubles first began. Don’t ask me what I had to go through to arrange new papers with a new name for him. I only wish I earned in three months what it cost me, not to mention the fact that I’m now saddled with his entire upkeep, that is, with supporting his wife and children, because he claims I’m to blame for the whole pickle. It’s all my fault, he says, that he lost his pravozshitelestvo and his job with Brodsky. And he may even have something there. He’s just missing the point, ha ha. The point’s the quick thinking, the old switcheroo, do you get it? Just imagine: a Jew with a cough and asthma that Purishkevitch should only have, a touch of tuberculosis on the side, and no pravozshitelestvo—that’s life! — comes to Yehupetz anyway, stays on Malovasilkovsky Street right under the ex-police chief’s nose, and go climb a tree if you don’t like it!”
(1911)
THE TENTH MAN
There were nine of us in the car. Nine Jews. And we needed a tenth for a prayer group.
In actual fact, there was a tenth person there. We just couldn’t make up our minds if he was a Jew or a Christian. An uncommunicative individual with gold pince-nez, a freckled face, and no beard. A Jewish nose but an oddly twirled, un-Jewish mustache. Ears that stuck out like a Jew’s but a neck that was red like a goy’s. From the start he had kept his distance from us. Most of the time he just looked out the window and whistled. Naturally, he was hatless, and a Russian newspaper lay across his knees. And not a word out of him! A genuine Russian, the real McGoy, no?… On second thought, though, how could he be a goy? Who did he think he was fooling? The idea! It takes a Jew to know one; a Jew can smell another Jew a mile off on a moonless night. For goodness’ sake, God’s written it all over us!.. No, the man was a Jew for sure, I’d stake my life on it! Or was he? These days you never can tell … By the time the nine of us were through conferring in whispers, it was decided that we had seen his type before. What to do, though? If a Jew wanted to pass for a Christian it was nobody’s business but his own — yet just then we needed a tenth man and needed him badly, because one of us had a deathday to observe and wanted to say the mourner’s prayer. And it wasn’t any ordinary deathday either, the kind we all have for a father or a mother. No, this was the anniversary of the passing of a child; an only son’s, that’s whose it was … It had been a struggle, the boy’s father told us, just to get the body returned by the prison so that it could be brought to a jewish grave — and the youngster, he swore, was perfectly innocent, he had been railroaded at his trial. Not that he hadn’t been in thick with the other revolutionaries, but that was still no reason to hang him. Hang him they did, though; and his mother died soon after. Not as soon as all that, however. Oh, no! First she ate her heart out bit by bit — and while she did, made her husband gray before his time.
“How old would you say I am?” the man asked us.
We all looked at him, trying to guess his age. It was impossible. While his eyes were young, his hair was gray. His heavily lined face seemed on the verge of either laughter or tears. There was in fact something strange about his whole appearance. He was wearing a smoking jacket that was much too long for him, the hat he had on was pushed way back on his head, and the beard on his chin was an oddly rounded goatee. And those eyes of his … ah, those eyes! They were the kind of eyes that once you’ve seen, you’ll never ever forget: half-laughing and half-crying they were, or half-crying and half-laughing … if only he would unburden himself and let the tears out! But no, he insisted on being the very soul of gaiety. A most peculiar fellow.
“Well now, where are we going to find a tenth man?” asked one of us out loud, with a glance at the pince-nezed passenger, who gave no sign of having heard. He simply looked out the window and went on whistling some Russian tune.
“What do you mean, where?” asked someone else. “Don’t we have ten already?” And he began to go around the car with his finger: “One, two, three …”
“Count me out!” said the whistler — in Yiddish.
We stared at him openmouthed.
“You mean you’re not a Jew?”
“I am a Jew. I just don’t happen to believe in such things.”
For a long moment we sat there dumbfounded, looking at each other without a word. The bereaved father alone did not seem put out in the least. With his half-laugh, half-cry of a smile, he said to the whistling young man:
“The more power to you! You deserve a gold medal.”
“I do? What for?”
“To tell you the truth, that’s a rather long story. But if you’ll agree to be a tenth for prayers, so that I can say the kaddish for my son, I promise to tell it to you afterwards.”
With which our good-humored mourner took out a large handkerchief from his pocket, twisted it into a belt, girded his waist in the manner of a pious Jew, turned his face to the wall of the car, and began the afternoon prayer:
“Ashrey yoyshvey veysekho, oyd yehalelukho seloh …”
I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing I like better than a simple afternoon prayer. I prefer it any time to all the do-re-mi operatics that the synagogues are full of on Sabbaths and holidays. And our mourner led us in it with such feeling, with such soulfulness, that we were all touched to the quick — even, I daresay, our conscripted tenth man. Listening to a father pray on the occasion of his son’s deathday is not something that can leave a person cold, especially when the words are chanted in such a sweet, heartfelt voice that they’re like balm to one’s weary bones. And above all — the kaddish. The kaddish! A stone couldn’t help but be moved by a kaddish like that …