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, my dear wife, I’m on the run. I’ve had another setback — a severe one. I can thank my lucky stars I’m not in jail. The devil knows what I might have gotten: forced labor or even Siberia. And yet I’m no guiltier than you are. But it’s as your mother says: once a loser, always a loser …
Now that I’ve been snatched from the jaws of disaster, I can sit down and write you about it. You know from my last letter what a state I was in after the splendid match we arranged for two girls. I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone. I felt I was at the end of my rope — bye-bye, Menakhem-Mendl! And just then I ran into an inspector who works for the Acquitable Life Ensurance Company, which is a firm that ensures you against dying and does a fine business. He took out a book and showed me how many people he had ensured, and how many were dead or alive, and how they were all better off for it. If you ask how that can be, it’s quite simple. Suppose Acquitable sells me 10,000 rubles of life ensurance. That means I pay 2 or 3 hundred rubles a year until I die. If I kick off right away, I’m in luck: 10,000 R’s are nothing to sneeze at. And if I don’t? Then the luck is Acquitable’s. It employs lots of agents, mostly Jews with families that need to eat. Why begrudge them a living?
The problem is that not everyone can be an agent. In the first place, you have to dress well — and well is welclass="underline" a good suit, a starched collar and cuffs (paper ones will do, but they had better be clean), a nice tie, and, naturally, a top hat. And most of all, you have to speak well. An agent has to be able to talk — to talk up, to talk over, to talk back, to talk down, to talk into, and to talk on until your customer gives in and buys life ensurance. That’s why the inspector saw right away that I had the makings of a good agent myself.
But I must explain to you, my dear wife, the difference between an agent and an inspector. An agent sells ensurance while an inspector inspects the agents. And there are inspector-majors who inspect the inspectors and an inspector-general who inspects the majors. That’s as high as you can get in Acquitable. It takes an inspector to become a major, a major to become a general, and so on. Whoever makes general is set for life. A general, my inspector told me, can earn 30,000 a year.
To make a long story short, the fellow wanted me to join Acquitable. Nothing would come from my own pocket, he said. In fact, I would even get an advance for clothes and a briefcase. Not bad for starters! I thought it over and asked myself: what am I risking? Either I succeed and make it big, or I don’t and the marriage is off. And so I said yes and started a new life as an agent.
Of course, it wasn’t as quick as all that. Before becoming an agent you have to see the general, because nothing cuts the mustard without him. And so my inspector took me to Odessa at his own expense to meet the inspector-general himself — a man, I was told, with 20 provinces and 1,800 agents working under him. That’s how big he is. That is, he isn’t so big himself, he’s just made a big deal of. But he does have big eyes that don’t miss a trick and a smile for everyone. His name is Yevzerel, and his office takes up a whole building with room after room, each with chairs and desks and files and books and agents going in and out. The place is jumping, the telegrams fly back and forth — it’s enough to make your head spin. Getting to hell and back in a barrel is easier than seeing the inspector-general! I was half-dead by the time I was ushered in to Yevzerel, who very kindly offered me a seat and a cigarette and wanted to know all about me.
Well, I told him everything, the whole story: how I was bound for Kishinev, and ended up in Odessa, and dealt in Londons until I moved to Yehupetz, and worked on the Exchange buying and selling Putivils and Liliputs and other stocks & bonds, and traded in sugar, real estate, and lumber, and tried my hand at matchmaking, and even had a fling at writing. There was nothing in the world, I told him, that I hadn’t knocked my brains out doing and I still had nothing to show for it. Once a loser, always a loser!
He listened to me, the general did, got to his feet, put a hand on my shoulder, and said: “Do you know something, Mister Menakhem-Mendl? I like you. I like your name and I like the way you talk. I can see you becoming one of our top agents — and I mean top! Take an advance, pick yourself a route, and good luck.”
That’s just what I did. I was given some rubles, outfitted myself like a king (you wouldn’t have recognized me), bought a big briefcase, stuffed it with a wagonful of forms and brochures, and set out for the blue yonder — I mean, for Bessarabia, where the living is said to be good. That’s the place to do business, I was told. I could sell ensurance there like hot cakes.
I took a train and then another and another and arrived in a little town, a damned hole in the middle of nowhere. If only it had burned to the ground before I got there! How was I supposed to know it had a reputation for the worst crooks and chiselers? And it was just my luck that it was the anniversary of my father’s death, so that I had to stop there to say the mourner’s prayer. God preserve you from such a dump! Something told me to stay on the train. But what can a man do when he has to say the kaddish? I looked for a synagogue and found one just as the evening prayer was beginning. When it was over the beadle came up to me. “An anniversary?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. “And where might a Jew like you be from?” he asks. “From the big world,” I say. “And what might your name be?” “Menakhem-Mendl,” I say. “Then welcome!” he says, shaking my hand, as did the rest of them. A circle formed around me and everyone wanted to know who I was. “An agent,” I said. “You mean a salesman?” “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m in life ensurance. From Acquitable. I ensure you against dying.” “What kind of bad news is that?” they asked. So I explained it while they stood gaping as if I were selling them the moon — all but two of them, whom I noticed right away. One was a tall, thin, stooped-looking fellow with a shiny, hooked nose and a habit of pulling the hairs of his beard. The other was short, stout, and dark as a gypsy with a shifty eye that spun like a compass and a way of smiling when nothing was funny. I saw they understood what life ensurance was, because they gave each other a look and one grunted: “It’s worth a try.”
I could tell they were types you could do business with. And in fact, as soon as I left the synagogue they came after me and said: “Where are you off to, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? Don’t run away! There’s something we wanted to ask you. Were you really thinking of selling ensurance in a hick town like this?” “Why not?” I asked. “To Jews like the ones you just prayed with?” asks Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “All they’re good for is eating noodle pudding!” “Then what would you suggest?” I inquire. “Find a rich Christian,” says Hook Nose. And Shifty Eye adds: “Nothing beats a rich Christian!”
Well, we talked for a while and it’s like this: the two of them are friends with a Christian gentleman, a Moldavian landowner they sometimes work for, and they’re sure he’d like to be ensured. “Then it will be my pleasure to do it,” I say. “I’ll even give you a cut. Share and share alike!” It was decided that in the morning, at the early service in the synagogue, they would let me know if he was interested. Their one request was to keep it confidential. I mustn’t tell anyone at my inn that we had talked business.
At the crack of dawn I’m up and off to the synagogue. We reach the end of the service — my two friends aren’t there. Why hadn’t I taken their names and addresses? I couldn’t even ask the beadle for them because I was pledged to secrecy. At the last minute, though, just as we were shutting our prayer books, they showed up. I could have jumped for joy! But though I was dying to hear their news, it wasn’t the place for it.