I can write, too, even though I never studied it. I can print all the letters in the prayer book. I make them look so real you can hardly tell the difference. It’s more like drawing than like writing. But I’d like to be able to write fast. That’s what they do in America. They do everything fast there, slam-bang. Everyone is in a hurry. I’ve heard that from the emigrants we’ve traveled with.
I know almost everything there is to know about America. People travel in trains beneath the ground and make a living. Just don’t ask me how they do it, because I have no idea. I’ll find out soon enough. I’m a quick learner. One look at anyone and I have him down pat.
Once I did a take-off of Pinye. I did the little hip-hop he walks with, and the way he looks at things like a blind man, and how he talks a mile a minute and smacks his lips. Brokheh nearly split her sides. My mother laughed until she cried. Only Elye didn’t think it was funny. He doesn’t let me do anything, Elye. I can’t figure him out. He says he loves me and he would beat me to death if my mother gave him half the chance. She tells him:
“If you want to be a child beater, have one of your own.”
Let someone else lay a hand on me, though, and Elye will tear his eyes out.
Once an emigrant gave me the “governor.” You don’t know what a “governor” is? You stick your thumb down a person’s throat and sock him so hard in the stomach that he’s ready for the Angel of Death.
The boy who gave me the governor was ten years old. Did he have a pair of hands!
I could have wished they’d dry up and fall off. He came up to me one day and asked me what my name was. “Motl,” I said. “Motl Piss-in-the-Bottle,” he says. “How come you’re calling me that?” I ask. “Because,” he says, “my name is Motl too and you’re a jerk. How would you like a governor?” “Why not?” I say. “Come a little closer then,” he says, “and I’ll give you one.” I came closer and he gave it to me. You should have seen me hit the ground. My mother began to scream. Along came Elye and beat the pants off him.
After that we became friends. Besides the governor, I learned all kinds of other things from him. Ventriloquism, for example. You don’t know what that is? It isn’t something you can learn. You have to be born with it. You shut your mouth, stand perfectly still, and bark like a dog or oink like a pig. I scared my family but good with it. Everyone began looking for a dog beneath the beds and tables. I bent down to look, too, and kept on barking. I tell you, it was a scream! In the end my brother Elye caught on and gave me a hiding. Since then I’ve given up ventriloquism.
We would have left Vienna long ago if not for the Alliance. Who’s the Alliance? I can’t rightly tell you. All I know is that everyone talks about him. The emigrants are mad at him. They say he isn’t doing enough. The Alliance, they say, has no pity. They say he doesn’t like Jews. Elye and Pinye go see him every day. They come back sweating as though from a steam bath.
“The Alliance should burn,” Elye says.
“Like a candle!” says Pinye.
“I’ll talk to the Alliance myself,” my mother says, taking me by the hand.
We all went together: my mother and me and Elye and Pinye and Brokheh and Taybl. I pictured the Alliance with a beard, a long black coat, a big black belt, and a red nose. Why a red nose? But why does the Judge have mean, beady eyes, fat lips, a couple of teeth, and a riding crop? Do you think I’ve seen him? Still, whenever Elye says, “Go tell it to the Judge,” that’s how I imagine him.
So off we went …and went …and went. Brokheh had a stitch in her side from all that walking. She wished the Alliance would break a leg. We barely made it. But what a house the Alliance lived in! Every Jew should only own one like it, even if it didn’t have a front yard. Vienna doesn’t go in for front yards. It goes in for weird huge windows and monster doors that are always locked. “They must be afraid we’ll walk off with the furniture,” Brokheh says. By now she’s down on Vienna, too.
There’s nothing Brokheh hates more than ringing doorbells. Myself, they don’t bother me as long as someone answers. But the Alliance doesn’t open so quickly. You can ring till you croak, that’s how much of a hurry he’s in. And don’t think you’re the only one. Lots of other emigrants are waiting for him too.
“Ring a little harder. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
That’s what they said, those emigrants, and laughed. They seemed in a pretty good mood. More and more kept arriving. Pretty soon there was a big crowd of men, women, and children. I like crowds. It would have been a swell scene if only the children had stopped bawling and their mothers had stopped screaming at them.
Thank goodness the door was opened at last. Everyone charged through it so fast you could have been trampled to death. It’s a good thing a red-faced Jew with no hat or beard was there to toss us back out like rubber balls. One woman with a child was thrown so hard that she’d still be looking for her teeth if Elye and I hadn’t caught her. First, though, she did three somersaults in the air.
It took a while to get into a room. That’s when the real party started. Lordy, lordy! Everyone was shouting all at once. Everyone made a rush for the desks. More hatless, beardless Jews were sitting behind them, laughing and smoking cigars. I couldn’t tell which was the Alliance. Neither could my mother. She asked:
“Who here is the Alliance? I’ve lost everything. All my linens were stolen at the border. My children and I were nearly killed. And they were orphans already, the poor dears! You see, my husband died young, he was a cantor all his life …”
That’s all she managed to say. Someone grabbed her and showed her the way out. I couldn’t understand a word he said. My mother screamed:
“Stop speaking German! Speak Jewish and I’ll pour out my bitter heart! I want to see the Alliance.”
“Mother-in-law! Let’s get out of here. If God brought us this far without the Alliance, He’ll bring us the rest of the way. He’s a merciful father.” That was Brokheh’s opinion.
“You’re right, my child,” my mother answered. “Let’s go. God is a father and Vienna is just another town …”
THE WONDERS OF ANTWERP
Did you ever think there could be a city called Antwerp? Well, there is, and we’re heading for it. How come? Because Yoyneh the bagel maker is sailing from it to America. When Brokheh heard that her father would be in Antwerp, she did cartwheels to get us to go there too. First she doesn’t want to hear of the place because it makes her think of ants. Now she’s in love with it.
Pinye says it’s time for us to part. He wants to go to London. That’s a place he has a yen to see. It’s almost America, London is. The people there speak English, have blond hair, and live in castles. It’s another world.
“You can have your Englishmen and your blond castles. We’re sailing from Antwerp!”
That’s Brokheh. Taybl turned the color of a red Indian. I’ve told you she blushes more than she talks. “What’s wrong?” Pinye asked. “I don’t like the English,” Taybl said. “What do you know about them?” Pinye asked. “You’ve never seen a single Englishman.” “And you?” Taybl said. “I suppose you have!”
The long and short of it is that we’re all sailing to America from Antwerp. We can sail from Hotzeplotz for all I care, as long as we get there. Pinye and I want to reach America the most. We’re sure we’ll make it to the top there.
Pinye is peeved at Elye. “We keep traveling and getting nowhere,” he says. “Who’s holding you back?” Elye answers. “You’re a free agent — go where you want!” “How,” Pinye asks, “can I go where I want when your mother has to make the acquaintance of every Committee in the world?” “If you’re so smart,” my mother says to Pinye, “suppose you tell me what we’ll do in America without linens.” Pinye has no answer to that. He’s decided to stick with us.