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, it’s beyond me, dear husband, what’s so special about your blamed Franconi’s. I may never have eaten creamed ice on marble, but I know enough to ask: where’s the money in it? And what kind of loon are you running around with who hears shooting in his dreams? He deserves to be shot dead himself! Is it wars that he wants? “One man’s blood is another’s water,” my mother says…. You’ve seen gold watches and bracelets in a window? Well, bless my great-grandmother’s soul! What are gifts in a window to me, Mendl? My mother says dumplings in a dream are a dream and not dumplings. You’d do better to step into a shop and buy new linen, cotton cloth for pillow cases, a couple of padded quilts, a few pieces of silver, and whatever else we could use around the house. Would you believe that Blume-Zlate has taken to preening herself each time she sees me? Let her preen till she bursts! So she has a pearl necklace, so what? For my part, let her choke on it. Is it my fault her husband gives her whatever she asks for? Some people have luck and mine was to be born on the wrong day. I have to remind his lordship of everything. All you think of is your longs and your shorts. I tell you to sell and what do you do? You rush right out and buy more! Are you afraid the world will run out of Lumdums? It’s some business you’re in and some city Odessa must be when a Sabbath is no Sabbath and a Jewish holiday is no holiday and a cantor has no beard. I wish he had my aches and pains! If I were you, I’d run from Odessa like the plague. But his lordship likes it there. Well, to quote my mother, a worm lies in horseradish and thinks there’s nothing sweeter. I’m asking you, my husband, to think again and give up your merry life there. Let Odessa burn to the ground! I am, from the bottom of my heart,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
And by the way, Mendl, who is this Franconi you’re spending all your time with? Is it a he or a she?
To my dear, 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 now earning in the high thousands. If my position holds, I’ll be a wealthy man. I’ll cash in my spread, come back to Kasrilevke, and bring you with me, God willing, to Odessa. We’ll rent a place on the boulevard, fill it with fine furniture, and live as only we Odessans know how to.
Meanwhile, I’m having stomach trouble. It shouldn’t happen to you but all that iced cream has done me no good. Nowadays at Fanconi’s I order a drink that’s sipped through a straw: it has a bittersweet, licoricy taste and two or three glasses are my limit. After that I have to hang out in the street and worry about the officer, which is no fun at all because he has his eye on me. But by the grace of God, I’ve given him the slip so far. What a Jew mustn’t do to earn a living! God grant the market goes my way and I’ll buy you two of whatever Blume-Zlate has, more than you could ever imagine…. And as for Gambetta, he may be a hothead but he’s no madman. God help the man who argues politics with him! He’s quite capable of tearing him to shreds. He’s sure war will break out any second — the calmer things are, the more certain it is. “It’s the lull before the storm,” he says. Yesterday I could have sold a few shorts on spot and come away with a nice little bundle, but Gambetta put his foot down. “I’ll skin you alive,” says he, “if you unload a single share now!” It won’t be long, he says, before 50 rubles of shorts are worth 2 or 3 hundred, even 4. Why, they could even top 1,000! Let him be half-right and I’m sitting pretty. I’ll take my profit, God willing, and switch to longs. I’ll buy rubles and sell Londons like crazy and show the world a thing or two about the market. But as 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. Regarding Fanconi (and not “Franconi,” as you write), it’s neither a he nor a she but a cafe. That’s a place where you drink coffee, eat iced cream, and deal in Londons. I wish I were worth half the daily volume there!
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, all three children have the measles and keep me up all night. And his lordship sits in Odessa drinking likrish-water! But why care about my worries in Kasrilevke when you’re all in a sweat to carry me off from here? You think it’s enough to say “Odessa” for me to sprout wings and f ly away to you. Listen here, Mendclass="underline" take a deep breath and get it out of your head. My great-grandmother managed without Odessa and so will I. Don’t think you can talk me into ditching my parents and good friends and moving to a wilderness. I’ll see Odessa in f lames first! Say what you will, the more I hear of it, the less I like it. Don’t ask me why — I just don’t. Something tells me you’re pushing your luck. “The best dairy dish is a piece of meat,” my mother says. Or are you afraid prices will keep rising and you’ll look foolish for selling now? Everyone should only be such a fool!
And as for your Gambetta (forgive me for saying so, but he’s stark, raving mad), I’d like to know what business of his or his grandmother’s it is. You can tell him to his face that I said so. What kind of wars is he dragging you into? For heaven’s sake, Mendl, listen to me: sell everything, and pull out now! You’ve made a few rubles? Quit while you’re ahead. How much longer can you go on like this? It’s a fine state of affairs when your Sheyne-Sheyndl’s opinion means nothing to you. I wish I had a mouth like Blume-Zlate, who gives her husband the nine-year pox each time she opens it! For the love of God, Mendl, be a dear soul and get out while you can. Just don’t forget to buy a dozen embroidered blouses and some satin for a dress for my mother — she deserves a souvenir from the days her son-in-law did business with madmen in Odessa. Get some calico, too, the latest prints, and as much glassware as fits into your suitcase, and whatever else you can think of and come home. I’m tired of taking it on the chin. My enemies should croak for every time you haven’t listened to me, but please do it now. I am, from the bottom of my heart,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
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 crashed just as futures, God help us, were being called. I’ll see the Messiah before I see my money again. Bismarck, they say, caught a bad cold and all politics went into a panic. No one knows what tomorrow will bring. Londons are worth more than gold, the ruble has hit rock bottom, and futures have fallen through the floor. But where, you ask, are the shorts I bought? That’s just it: the shorts aren’t short, the futures have no future, and call me a monkey’s uncle! The small-time operators I entrusted my shares with have been wiped out. Odessa has been hit by a whirlwind, you wouldn’t know the place. I should have made my move a day earlier. But go be a prophet! The dealers run around like chickens without their heads, you’ve never seen such pandemonium. They’re all screaming at the top of their lungs—“Londons! Give us our Londons!”—but there are no Londons to be had. All the curses and brawls on the Exchange (everyone fights and so do I) can’t produce a single one. In short, my dear wife, it’s a dark and bitter day. I’ve lost all my earnings, plus the capital, plus the jewelry I bought you. I’ve even pawned my Sabbath gabardine, it’s gone the way of all else …