Because I’m in a hurry, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Be well and give my fond greetings to your parents and the children, each and every one of them.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl.
P.S. When I brought the letter of credit to Barabash, I was told it was nothing of the sort. What was it? A letter to the tooth-fairy! First, I was told, let Uncle Menashe’s wagon of wheat arrive in Odessa and find a buyer — then I can see my money. Short, sweet, and to the point! Right away I sent a post card to Kishinev threatening to take action and send a telegram if the wheat wasn’t shipped at once. In short, a post card here, a telegram there — I didn’t have an easy time of it. But yesterday I received another 100 rubles from Kishinev and a promissory note for 200. Do you understand now why I’ve been out of touch? I had written off the 300 for lost. It just goes to show that a man should never give up! There’s a God in heaven looking after things. I’ve put all the cash into Londons, a nice batch of them. Sometimes they’re up and sometimes they’re down, but so far, thank God, I’m ahead.
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, I’m suffering from my old cramps again. I’d like to give them to your Uncle Menashe. You’ve made short shrift of the eighteen hundred rubles he owed us. Wouldn’t that be just our luck! My mother would say you’ve sent the cat to the dairy with the cream. Why I’d sooner get the pox from Menashe than one of his promise notes! Five months of fever I’d give him! May I be proved a liar but you’ll no more see those rubles than you’ll see the back of the head your shoulders carried to Odessa. Be thankful my mother knows nothing about it, because she’d tan your hide if she did. And as for what you write, Mendl, about all the money you’re making, you can be sure we’re pleased. See here, though: the devil take it if the next time you don’t write like a human being! Why can’t you tell a body in plain words what you’re dealing in? Does it sell by the yard or by the pound? For the life of me, I don’t know if you eat, wear, or smoke it. And what are these quick profits you talk about? What merchandise shoots up just like that? Even mushrooms, my mother says, need a rain to sprout. But if it’s gained so much value, you should sell. You’re not hoping to corner the market, are you? And why don’t you write where you’re staying and eating? A person might think I was a stranger and not your wife of twenty years, some kind of parrymoor, God help us. “When the cow goes to pasture,” says my mother, “it forgets to say good-bye.” If you’ll listen to me, you’ll wind up your affairs and come home with a bit of money. You’ll find better businesses here than those Lumdums of yours or whatever the deuce they’re called. I am, from the bottom of my heart,
Your truly faithful wife,
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 not surprised that you fail to grasp how Londons work. There are businessmen, serious Jews, who can’t make head or tails of them either, let alone a woman like you. Allow me to explain. Londons, you should know, are highly perishable. You buy and sell them on a pledge without seeing them. Every minute you have to check if they’re up or down — that is, if the ruble has risen or fallen in Berlin. It all depends on Berlin, you see; it’s Berlin that has the last word. The rates soar and tumble like crazy, the telegrams fly back and forth, the Jews run around as though at a country fair, and so do I. There’s such a racket you can’t hear yourself think. Yesterday, for example, I played the market for 50 rubles and by noon today I’d lost them all. But I haven’t told you what playing the market is. You can buy futures for 50 R’s, or double that, or hedge until closing time. (That’s the time between the afternoon and evening prayers in Kasrilevke.) Well, I bought short, the market was up, and there went my 50 smackeroos. That’s how you play it — but don’t you worry, my dear! Fifty smackers are nothing in Odessa. With God’s help my lucky number will come up. And as for Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, you’re mistaken. They’re as good as gold, a solid investment. I could turn a nice profit on them even now, but I’d rather not. I can always make money from hedging. But I don’t want to do that either. I prefer futures. There’s nothing like a night spent sleeping on them. And because I’m 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.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. As for where I’m lodging and eating, I can’t rightly tell you myself. Odessa is a monstrous big city and everything is very dear. The buildings are sky-high and you climb half-an-hour’s worth of iron stairs to get to your room at the top of them. And the window is as tiny as a dungeon’s! It’s a relief to get out and head for Greek Street, where I take my meals — that is, where I grab what I can. Who has time to sit and eat when you have to keep your eyes on Berlin? But fruit costs next to nothing here. People eat grapes in the street, not just once a year for Rosh Hashanah like Kasrilevkans. They’re not at all embarrassed to do it.
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, you write like a madman. Forgive me for saying so, but I hope to hear no more of your Odessa than I understand about your blasted shorts and hedgerows! You’re throwing rubles away like last week’s noodles. Money-shmoney, eh? I suppose it grows on trees over there. I’ll be blamed, though, if one thing doesn’t stump me: what kind of cat in a bag can you trade in but not see? Listen here, Mendl, I don’t like it one bit! I wasn’t raised in a home where we bought and sold air and God keep me from doing it now. From air you catch cold, my mother says. Who ever heard of a grown man playing in a market? You’d make more sense if you wrote in Turkish. And as for the profit you can turn on Menashe’s notes, I hate to be a wet blanket, but the proof of the pudding, my mother says, is in the eating. You know what, Mendl? Listen to your wife, tell Odessa where it can go, and come home to Kasrilevke. We have a place to live in at my father’s, you have five hundred rubles, opening a store is no problem — what more could you want? Why must I hear the world telling lies about your throwing me over for Odessa? Don’t think you’ll live to see the day! You can take your monster houses with their iron steps you climb like a lunatic and give me Kasrilevke any time. Because grapes are cheap there I should have a stomach ache here? Kasrilevke plums aren’t sweet enough? There’s such a glut this year that they’re a kopeck a bucket. But a lot we matter to you! You don’t even ask about the children. I suppose you’ve forgotten you have three of them, God bless them! Out of sight, out of mind, my mother says. I’ll be blamed if she isn’t right. I wish you all the best from the bottom of my heart.
Your truly faithful wife