But I have only myself to blame. Not everyone would do for a husband what I’ve done. All that fancy living has gone to his lordship’s head. He goes about Yehupetz like a count, has everything but rain and pests, and leaves me to lead a dog’s life. Nothing goes right for me. I have a little boy, Moyshe-Hirshele, drat his soul? Leave it to him to fall and split his lip. I have a wedding ring with gold filigree? Naturally, the servant girl steals it. I catch it coming and going. I should have listened to my mother when she said, “Never throw your luck out with the dish-water …”
Was I right or not that fifty rubles can’t be had for the asking? And as for the lovely match you have for Nekhameh-Breindl, your old graybeard can split his gut first. Yehupetz won’t live to see the day we marry into it. Guess who my sister is being fixed up with now: her first fiancé, since married and divorced and ready for more! It seems the rogue is stuck on her for good. Well, better a thief you know than a rabbi you don’t, says my mother…. As soon as they’re engaged there’ll be a wedding, and I’d like to see you not show up for it. I am, from the bottom of my heart,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
Our Kopl has done it again. He’s gone bankrupt for three hundred rubles and can now show his face without fearing the bailiff. And your Uncle Menashe’s son Berl had another fire — a hundred rubles’ worth of damage for which the insurance paid three-fifty. Something tells me it’s our last one, because they say the company has stopped insuring Jews. And I almost forgot: Miriam-Beyle has stopped wearing a wig and goes around with her own hair in public! I suppose she thinks she’s high society — pretty soon she’ll be playing cards. But I don’t like to gossip. “Mind your business,” says my mother, “and no one else will mind it for you.” …Just tell me about “courtasins” and “conquerbines.” What are they and what do you do with them?
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. May we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, you’re absolutely right. The sugar business is not for me. There’s no competing with the big traders. You can’t close a deal without them muscling in — and go file a complaint against God. “It isn’t fair” cuts no ice in Yehupetz. Fairness is not at a premium here; no one owes you an explanation or apology. That’s for starters. And besides, I ask you: what kind of business is it in which you have to look at the sky every day and either pray for rain or against it? In a word, I’m not cut out for it. Not only do you have to be a bluffer, you have to work a seven-day week and jaw away at the speculators until they’re so flummoxed they break into a cold sweat. I assure you, it isn’t for me. And being as ready as the next man to earn an honest ruble, I now have, with God’s help, a more suitable line of work. In a word, I’m in finance — that is, I’m a factor — I mean I buy and sell loans at a modest discount. How does the saying go? “Earning less and sleeping well is earning best.” It’s a business in which you’re treated with respect, since lack of cash makes a man soft as wax; you should see them crawl to me on all fours and promise to pay me back mountains of gold! Why, just the other day God sent me a garment cutter from Berdichev who wants to start his own business. I first met him in my boarding house, a rare young man of sterling character. If only I can open him a line of credit for 10–15,000 rubles, he says, he’ll reward me so handsomely that I can give up factoring for good. Although I have yet to find him financing, I trust, with God’s help, that I will.
All the factors do well and own horses. A good horse and buggy, you should know, is a big help in making a living, since here in Yehupetz a horse is worth more than a man. But as I’m busy and in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. My fondest greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. Kopl’s bankruptcy would be small potatoes in Yehupetz. No Yehupetz merchant is taken seriously until he’s gone bankrupt at least three times. Once the custom was for a bankrupt to leave town, but that’s no longer in vogue. It’s not even called bankruptcy any more. The expression is, “I’m in arrears.” In plain language that means, “Kiss my rear.” And as for your query regarding courtasins and conquerbines, they’re what’s known as pilagshim in Hebrew and Kepsweiber in German. Believe me, I wouldn’t waste a moment’s thought on them.
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, I wish all my enemies would burst from the bellyful your last letter gave me. First you’re a sugar-pusher, now you’re a money-lender! Where do you get the money from? And if God helps you to a few rubles, must you blow them as fast as you can? Didn’t you promise to send me a money order as soon as you had some cash? How could you go back on your word? My mother, bless her, had your number when she said, “Don’t hold your breath waiting for him, because nothing good comes from a graveyard.” And not from a charming place like Yehupetz either, for which the flames of hell aren’t hot enough. “Daughter,” said my mother, “always remember this prayer: Protect me, dear God, from a Berdichev tycoon, an Uman fanatic, a Mohilev skeptic, a Konstantin servant, a Kamenetz politician, and a Yehupetz rogue.” Was she right or not? But what does his lordship care about his wife and children? Day and night it’s Sheyne-Sheyndl do this and Sheyne-Sheyndl do that. I suppose you remember the kopeck that Moyshe-Hirshele swallowed last year. Well, this time he goes, the boy does (did I say boy? he’s a demon!), and all but takes leave of this world. One day he’s a healthy child and the next he’s barely alive, clutching his ear and screaming in a voice I don’t recognize. “What is it, my darling?” I say. “What hurts you?” But he only points to his ear and keeps screaming. I poke him, I kiss him, I pinch him, I hug him — he just screams and screams. On the third day I took him to the doctor. The first thing the genius asks is have I looked in the child’s ear. “Not only have I looked,” I say, “I’ve drilled with a knitting needle. There’s nothing there.” “Tell me,” he says, “what did you have for your Sabbath meal?” “We had the usual,” I say. “Radishes, onions, jellied calf’s foot, a noodle pudding — is that enough for you?” “How about beans?” he says. “Did you cook beans or peas or the like?” “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. “Since when do peas cause an earache?” “If there were peas around,” he says, “your child might have played with one and stuck it in his ear. It could have begun to sprout there …“ To make a long story short, he fetched a machine, tortured that poor child for half an hour, and pulled out a fistful of peas. Maybe you can tell me why the whole world stuffs itself with peas and nothing happens and my son makes medical history! But you know what my mother says: “With the right kind of luck you can break your nose falling on grass …”