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, the market has been hitting fearsome lows. I’ve bought another batch of Londons and covered myself with 8 orders for 17 shorts. If I can shave a few points, I’ll buy more. If only you understood, my dearest, how business is done on a man’s word alone, you would know all there is to know about Odessa. A nod is as good as a signature. I walk down Greek Street, drop into a cafe, sit at a table, order tea or coffee, and wait for the brokers to come by. There’s no need for a contract or written agreement. Each broker carries a pad in which he writes, say, that I’ve bought two shorts. I hand over the cash and that’s it — it’s a pleasure how easy it is! A few hours go by, the Berlin closings arrive, and back comes the broker with 25 smackers. The next morning the openings arrive and he has 50 more — and don’t think God can’t make it 100. 300 is no big deal either. Why should it be? We’re talking about the market! It’s a game, like roulette…. And as for your not believing in Uncle Menashe’s promissory notes, I have news: I’ve made a tidy sum from them already. Where else would I get the money to buy so many futures on spot? The market is not, as you seem to think, a place that sells fruit and vegetables. You’re only called on futures when they’re due. That means, you’re a free agent. If you want to buy, you buy, and if you want to sell, you sell. Now do you understand what playing the market is? If God is out to boost Londons, he starts a war scare in the papers, the ruble drops, and Londons shoot up faster than bean stalks. Just this week there were rumors that the Queen of England was ailing: the ruble plunged again, and whoever bought short made a killing. Now the papers say she’s better, so the ruble has rallied and it’s time to buy long. In short, my dearest, never fear! Everything will be “tip-top,” as they say in Odessa. 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. Give my greetings to the children and my fondest wishes to everyone.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. We’re all burning up from the heat. At night we go around like melting wax. The streets are deserted. All Odessa goes to the public fountains or the seashore. You can find anything you want there. You can even bathe in the sea or listen to free music — it doesn’t cost a blessed kopeck.
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 having trouble with my teeth. I wish Odessa and its market had my toothache! It’s killing me. So are the children — and his lordship couldn’t care less. He lives in Odessa like God, buys seventeen pairs of shorts, and bathes in the sea to music! What more could a body want? Well, you may go around in short pants and half-shaven, but my mother would say you’ve outgrown your britches. For heaven’s sake, if you’re dealing in Lumdums, keep your mind on them and not on the Queen of England! Better yet, think of your wife. She’ll be around for a while, God willing. And you have three children, bless them. “Remember your own and you’ll forget the next man’s,” my mother says. All your winnings make my head spin. Blow me down if I can believe that a man just sticks out his hand and watches the rubles f ly into it. W hat kind of hocus-pocus is that? And you better not touch the dowry money, because my mother will make you rue the day you were born if a kopeck of it is missing. There are a few other things you might think about too. You know perfectly well I’m in desperate need of a silk shawl, some wool for a dress, and two bolts of Morazev calico. Though of course it’s too much to expect you to think of such trifles, especially when you’ve taken leave of your senses. My mother says a man with more ribs than brains needs a poke in them.
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 holding shorts in a big way. I’m sitting on a pile of Londons. Each transaction is for 10 or 20,000 pounds in one shot. Of course, this means buying on margin. By now they know me in every brokerage. I take my seat in Fanconi’s with all the dealers, pull up a chair at a marble table, and ask for a dish of iced cream. That’s our Odessa custom: you sit yourself down and a waiter in a frock coat asks you to ask for iced cream. Well, you can’t be a piker — and when you’re finished, you’re asked to ask for more. If you don’t, you’re out a table and in the street. That’s no place for dealing, especially when there’s an officer on the corner looking for loiterers. Not that our Jews don’t hang out there anyway. They tease him with their wisecracks and scatter to see what he’ll do. Just let him nab one! He latches on to him like a gemstone and it’s off to the cooler with one more Jew …
Your doubts about the volatility of the market reveal a weak grasp of politics. There’s a regular at Fanconi’s, Gambetta is the name, who talks politics day and night. He has a thousand proofs that war is coming. In fact, he can already hear the cannon booming. Not here, he says, but in France. The French, he says, won’t forgive Bismarck in a thousand years. It’s a sure thing, he says — why, it’s surer than sure — that war will break out any day. There are no two ways about it. If you go by Gambetta you’ll sell everything, roll up your sleeves, and buy short, short, short all you can.
And as for buying you a coat, my dear wife, I’ve seen something better: a gold watch with a metalian, chain, and matching brooch, and a pair of bracelets in a window near Fanconi’s — all the very best quality. But being 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. This town is so rich, and its Jews are so busy getting richer, that no one thinks about Sabbaths or Jewish holidays. I needn’t tell you, though, that for me the Sabbath is still the Sabbath. I don’t care if it’s raining stones out, it’s my day to go to synagogue. The Odessa synagogue is something to see. It’s called the Choir Synagogue and everyone wears a top hat and sits on all sides of the cantor. His name is Pini and can he sing, even if he doesn’t have a beard! And he knows Hebrew a sight better than that old dodo of a Moyshe-Dovid in Kasrilevke. You can pass out just from listening to him. I tell you, they could sell tickets! And the choir boys wear the cutest little prayer shawls. If Saturday came twice a week, I’d go both times just to hear Pini. Don’t ask me why the local Jews stay away. Even those who come don’t pray. They sit chewing their cud in their little prayer shawls and ritzy top hats and — shhhh, not a sound! Try praying loud enough for God to hear you and a beadle comes over and tells you to hush. I never saw such weird Jews in my life.
Yours etc.