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,
Millions: Traders, Agents, and Speculators
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!”