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    Holiday Tales
    Holiday Tales
    Holiday Tales
    Ebook145 pages2 hours

    Holiday Tales

    By Sholem Aleichem

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    About this ebook

    Seven childrens' tales, from one of the world's greatest writers of Yiddish stories. Centering around the Jewish holidays, stories include "Benny's Luck," about the amazing good fortune of a young boy and his dreydl, and "Really a Sukkah!" a glimpse of a busy holiday celebration that ends less happily than it began.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateSep 21, 2012
    ISBN9780486146058
    Holiday Tales
    Author

    Sholem Aleichem

    Sholem Aleichem, pseudonym of Solomon Rabinovitsh (1859–1916), was one of the preeminent classical writers of modern Yiddish literature. His literary pseudonym was derived from the Hebrew expression “shalom aleichem,” meaning “peace be with you.” He arrived in New York in 1906 (after barely escaping a pogrom the previous year) as the world’s most famous Yiddish writer. Attesting to his popularity in the New World, Aleichem’s funeral was among the largest New York had ever seen. 

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      Book preview

      Holiday Tales - Sholem Aleichem

      1978

      Really a Sukkah!

      During the fall harvest festival of Sukkos, meals are eaten in a home-made shed or lean-to which is covered with leafy branches and is built behind the family dwelling.

      THERE are people who have never learned anything but who can do everything, who have never been anywhere but who know everything, who have never given a thought to anything yet understand everything.

      Golden hands! That’s the name given these people, and the world envies and respects them. Such a man lived in our town of Kasrilevka, and he was called "Really Moishe."

      We called him "Really Moishe because whenever he saw or heard or made something, he was fond of saying, That’s really something!"

      Supposing we had a good cantor in our shul. "Really a cantor!"

      Supposing we bought a big turkey for Passover. "Really a turkey!"

      Supposing a frost was expected. "Really a frost!"

      "My friends, you see before you a poor man—really poor!" And so for everything.

      Moishe was—I can’t quite tell you exactly what he was or how he lived. He was a Jew. But how he earned a living would be hard to say. He survived as thousands, shall I say tens of thousands, of Jews survived in Kasrilevka. He hung around the big landowner in town; well, not exactly around the big landowner himself but around those Jews who hung around the small landowners who hung around the big landowner. Whether or not he actually made a living was another story because "Really Moishe" was a person who hated to boast about his successes or to complain about his failures. He was always happy, his cheeks were always rosy. His moustache was lopsided, his hat tilted to the side, and his eyes were kind and smiling. Although he was always busy, he could be counted on to walk ten miles to help someone.

      That’s the kind of man our "Really Moishe" was.

      There was not a single thing in the world that "Really Moishe" couldn’t fix—a house, a clock, a machine, a lamp, a top, a spigot, a mirror, a bucket, a cage—you name it.

      True, no one could point to the houses or the clocks or the machines that he had repaired, but we were all convinced that Moishe could have done it. Everyone used to say that if only he had tools, he could have turned the world upside down. Unfortunately, he had no tools. (Actually, I mean the opposite: it was really lucky he had no tools and the world was not turned upside down.)

      It was a wonder that Moishe wasn’t pulled apart by all the people who demanded his services. A lock jammed? To whom did one go? To Moishe. A clock stopped? To Moishe. A plugged-up samovar? To Moishe. Cockroaches, beetles, and other nuisances crawling around the house? Whom did one ask? Moishe. A fox stole into the chicken coop and was killing the hens? To whom did one turn for advice? To Moishe. Again Moishe, always Moishe.

      True, the jammed lock was eventually tossed aside and forgotten in a closet somewhere, the clock had to be taken to the clockmaker and the samovar to the coppersmith. The cockroaches, beetles, and other nuisances apparently were not terribly frightened of Moishe, and the fox went on doing whatever foxes must do. But "Really Moishe remained the one and only Really Moishe as before—still golden hands." I suppose there was some truth in it; the whole world can’t be wrong. Here’s proof. How come people don’t go to you or to me with jammed locks, broken clocks, spigots, cockroaches, beetles, other nuisances, or foxes? Not everyone is alike and talent is, apparently, rare.

      It was with this same "Really Moishe that we became very close neighbors, living in the same building under the very same roof. I say became" because before then, we lived in our own house. But our luck suddenly changed and we came upon hard times. Not wishing to impose on anyone, we sold our house, settled our debts, and moved (it was the night before Rosh Hashanah) into Hershke Mamtzes’s house. It was an old ruin of a house, without a garden, without a courtyard, without a porch, without life or soul.

      Let’s face it, it’s a shack, my mother said with a bitter laugh, and I could see the tears in her eyes.

      Be careful, my father said to her, his face drawn and dark. Thank God for this.

      Why for this I don’t know. Because we weren’t living out in the street? I would rather have been living out in the street than here in Hershke Mamtzes’s house. I considered it a great injustice on God’s part that He took our house away from us. But even more than the house, I missed the sukkah we had there, a permanent sukkah, one that stood from year to year. It had a flap at the entrance that could be raised and lowered and a beautiful ceiling made of green and yellow branches laid out like Stars of David. Of course, our friends tried to comfort us, telling us that one day we would be able to buy our house back or that, God willing, we would build another one, bigger, better, and handsomer than the old house. But they were no more than words of consolation, cold comfort, just like the words of consolation I heard when I broke (accidentally, of course) my tin watch to bits. My mother had honored me with a spanking and my father dried my eyes, promising to buy me a new watch, bigger, better, and handsomer than the old one. But the more my father extolled the new watch he would buy for me, the more I wept for the old one. Unobtrusively, so my father wouldn’t notice, my mother pined after our old home while my father sighed. A black cloud settled over his face and deep creases were etched in his broad white brow. I considered it a great injustice on God’s part that He took our house away from us.

      Tell me, if you don’t mind, what are we going to do with a sukkah? my mother remarked to my father a few days before Sukkos.

      "I suppose you really mean to say, ‘What are we going to do without a sukkah?’ my father answered, trying to make a joke of it, but I could see that it was painful for him. He turned away so we couldn’t see his face, which had become dark and gloomy. My mother blew her nose in her apron, hiding her tears, and I stood there looking at them both. Suddenly my father turned his face directly toward us and said animatedly, Wait! Don’t we have a neighbor, Moishe?"

      "You mean ‘Really Moishe’?" my mother added, and I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or serious. Apparently she was serious because within half an hour the three of them—my father, Moishe, and Hershke Mamtzes, our landlord—were outside the house looking for a spot on which to put up the sukkah.

      Hershke Mamtzes’s house was not too bad a house as houses go, but it did have one fault: it stood too close to the road and had no yard at all. It looked as if someone had misplaced it. Someone had been walking along and lost a house, without a yard, without a real roof, the door on the wrong side, like a coat with the vent in the front and the buttons in the back. If you gave Hershke a chance, he could talk forever on the subject of his house—how they tried to condemn it, how he went to court over the house, how he won his case, and how the house finally remained in his hands.

      Where, Reb Moishe, do you figure on putting the sukkah? my father asked "Really Moishe," and Moishe, hat tilted to the side, was concentrating like a great architect deliberating over an important project and making measurements with his hands from here to there and from there to here. He let it be known that had the house not been placed so badly and had it had a yard, a sukkah with two walls could be built in one day. Did I say one day? In one hour! But since the house had no yard, and four walls would be required, it would take a little longer, but as a result, it would be a sukkah—really a sukkah! But most important, the proper material would be needed.

      Material we’ll get, but do you have tools? Hershke asked him.

      Tools can be found, but do you have lumber? Moishe asked. Lumber can be obtained, but do you have nails? Hershke asked.

      Nails are available, but do you have green fir branches? Moishe wanted to know.

      Somehow you’re very organized today, remarked Hershke.

      Me, organized? responded Moishe.

      They looked at one another and burst out laughing.

      When Hershke Mamtzes delivered the first few boards and a pair of wooden posts, Moishe predicted that, God willing, it would be really a sukkah. I was very curious to know how he would make a sukkah from these few assorted boards and a pair of wooden posts. I begged my mother for permission to watch Moishe build the sukkah. She agreed and so did Moishe. Not only did he allow me to watch but in fact said that I could be his assistant, which meant I could hand him whatever he needed and hold things for him.

      I was in seventh heaven. Imagine, I was helping build a sukkah! And I helped quite a lot. I helped by puckering my lips while Moishe hammered. I helped by joining him for lunch. I helped by shouting at the other children who were underfoot. I helped by bringing him his hammer when he needed a chisel and bringing him his pliers when he needed a nail. Another person in his place would have thrown the hammer or the pliers at my head for that kind of help, but Moishe was a person without malice. No one had ever had the opportunity of seeing him angry.

      Anger, he would say, is as useful as idol worship. Just as idol worship helps, so does anger help.

      Deeply engrossed as I was in the work, I never noticed how and by what miracles our sukkah came to be finished.

      Come, see the sukkah we’ve built! I said to

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