A Tale of Two Brothers
Here is another old favorite
of mine, probably as old as the hills and as wise. It belongs to the genre of shaggy dog
tales/tails, and benefits from being dragged out as long as possible. People
listen, however, because they are usually fascinated by the persistence of the
raconteur: Can he really go on and on like this forever? Let’s see.
Once
long long ago, way back in the last century, in Boro Park (Brooklyn) there
lived two brothers. In their whole life,
from the very first day, you could see one was a good boy and one was a
bum. Even when they were toddlers
rushing around the kitchen, one was obedient and gentle, the other a vilde chaya (a wild animal) and a
roughneck. One was the apple of his
mother’s eye, the other a stick driven into her soul. One listened to his father, tried to learn
his lessons in Chumush (The Five Books
of Moses) and a bit of Gemarrah (the
commentaries on the Mishna, the two
making up the Talmud); so one,
despite being a little slow, pleased his father and accompanied him to shul on the High Holidays, while the
other—enough said, he was a bum. That’s
right a bum.
The
good brother always did what he was told, studied hard in cheder, and
prayed three times a day to the Master of the Universe. Everyone pinched his cheeks and gave him a
big smooch kiss. Meanwhile, that bum of
a no good brother, what did he do? He
always disobeyed his parents and his teachers.
He never opened his books or handed in his homework. And as for praying, ffehh! He had no time for such boring things. People clucked their
tongues and wondered what would become of him.
So
what happened when these two brothers started to grow up? Everything you would expect. The good brother, as soon as he could, he
went to work as an apprentice with a tailor and soon became an assistant and
then a tailor with his own shop. A
little shop, but a shop nonetheless. More he probably could not have handled. From
morning to night he sewed and he sewed, by hand and with a machine he wound
with one hand, and later with peddles with his feet. At all the right times of the day he went to
the little shul around the corner, a shtibble
(a converted store, with a long table, around which mostly old men spent their
days in prayer and gossip and occasionally in lernin) and he davened
and was a regular member of the minyan.
He was too poor to get married, a big disappointment to his parents who
longed until their early deaths for grandchildren, so he had no wife and no
children—so who could afford?. But he
was an honest and upright man. Sometimes
people in the neighborhood noticed him but couldn’t remember his name.
And
the bum, who else but the other the other brother, what happened by him? He
left school as soon as it was legal and he ran around with other bums, they
should all suffer for it, at last a thousand years in the darkest corners of
the other place. All day long, he played
cards, hung around the pool hall, and ran errands for the numbers guys. Then, in due course, he was sitting in a car
and taking bets and was in charge of all of 47th and 48th
Streets. Weekdays, Shabbas, festivals and fasts, it didn’t matter to him one bit.
When
the boys’ parents died, each one after the other, the good brother, of course,
he sat shiva, he said kaddish, and he bought a tree in their
honor in the Holy Land. Every year he lit a memorial candle, a yahrzeit, and
prayed with tears in his eyes as was appropriate. And the bum?
I have to tell you? He sat for one
evening an hour with other mourners and then never again. The sacred memory of his mother-father went
right out of his head. For him dead is
dead and only right now counts. You know
what I mean.
In
a few years, while the good brother continued to be good, that other brother, there
he was, soon in the back of the barber shop as the head bookie for all of Boro
Park. Very soon he became a big shot
gambler and bookie for all of Brooklyn.
Instead of sitting in a car or hanging around in the back of a barber
shop, he had an apartment with three telephones. He was going really big time. Did he go to shul ever? Not even for the
High Holidays. Did he give gifts to
charity or visit the sick and grieving?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
In
a few years, let me tell you, the bum had not only the whole city of New York
under his control so far as numbers and girls and off-track betting goes, but
he was right away up there in the mob for the East Coast. You would expect he had trouble from the
Italians or the Irish gangs or maybe the shvartzas:
nehh!
For some reason the goyim liked
him. Even the cops and special
detectives overlooked what he was doing, accepted his bribes without a fuss,
and winked at each other when his name was mentioned. By the time he was in his forties, he was
moving from boss of the country east of the Mississippi into branches out west
and on the other coast. He lived in
style now, with limousines and chauffeurs and special goons to look after his
needs. This is the American Dream, let
me tell you. It makes person’s stomach
turn, if he has such a predilection.
And
then, while all this was happening to the Bum (we have to start to use high
class big letters already), for all those years, his brother the tailor
remained a simple tailor, and a regular member of the minyan at the little synagogue around the corner from his
shop. He lived in the backroom all by
himself. He was poor but honest, and he
always remembered the acts of charity which are mitzvoth. He woke up with a
prayer on his lips (modeh ani
lefanechah: here I am before thee) and fell asleep with another prayer, he
should have pleasant and holy dreams. He
was maybe a little lonely OK but he had no time to worry or complain. Well, so maybe a little, once in a while when
he heard about his brother, the bum, he worried. Like Job who said a word with God on behalf
of his sons whom he didn’t trust, the good brother worried about the
relationship between the Bum and the Name.
Then
one morning, he opens his mail, an important looking envelope with a golden
seal, and inside there is an invitation.
His brother has been promoted to having the bookie concession for the
United Nations in Manhattan, and there is to be a special celebration out on
the Island because of this. Nu, what
should he do? A brother is a brother,
even if he is a Bum, so he decides to go.
Thank God, it is on a Sunday evening, so he doesn’t have to miss work or
break the Sabbath.
So
on Sunday afternoon the good brother, the simple tailor, gets dressed up in his
best suit and his newly shined shoes. Puts
on a hat. Locks the shop and walks
out. He works out the directions on a
little map you get from the token window you get for free, and rides the subway
to one place, changes for the Long Island Railway at another, then climbs up in
the street and finds a bus to a big street, and then he has to hire a taxi for
the last few miles, until he comes to a mansion so big you wouldn’t believe. From far away you can hear the sounds of
several orchestras, you can watch the spotlights reflected in the clouds with
all kinds colors, and then there are the crowds to walk through, the guards to
show a pass to, and special goons who show him in when he says he is the Big
Bookie’s brother. All around are men in
fancy tuxedos and women half undressed with their unspeakable parts coming out
of gowns studded with all kinds of sequins and jewels. You would think you were Babylon or Gemorrah
or some other ancient sinful city. But a
brother is a brother, even if he is a bum.
Inside
the grounds of the house, he also sees a platform, like a bima in a big shul, a
temple, like the half-pagan American Jews go, only ten times bigger, on it are
crowds of fancy people with expensive suits—and a tailor, let me tell you,
knows quality when he sees quality—and luxurious gowns, each female person
there having less modesty than diamonds and rubies and other sparkling jewels
all over her body. And dignitaries he
can recognize, like mayors and governors and senators, and those he can’t, some
in foreign clothes, exotic costumes and hats, like it is a Hollywood movie
maybe. And there mitten derinnen, in the middle of everything, his brother, Mr Bum. Givalt!
So
then there are speeches, and famous singers singing, and more speeches, and
dancers dancing, and more speeches, and big shots of all kinds giving his brother
scrolls and plaques and ver vayst
(who knows) what else. Then Mr Bum makes
a speech, with applause and shouting and hoorahs, so much noise the good
brother can hardly hear and doesn’t know what the other brother says. So much pushing and shoving, it is impossible
to go up and say a word or shake a hand with his brother, something he thinks
he should do, though it turns his stomach into knots. Finally, he gets close, whispers a mazel tov, and starts away. The Bum calls some goods, and in a short while
the little tailor is riding in a fancy long limousine bigger than his whole
shop plus backroom and then he is home again before he can figure out how much
this risd is saving him in coins he would have had to put in taxis and buses
and trains and subways.
A
few hours later, as he lay tossing and turning in his bed, mulling over his
visit to his brother’s big party out on Long Island, listening in his mind to
all the speeches made about how wonderful such a Bum had become, the good
brother could stand it no more. He
slipped out of his bed, lit a little lamp, and clutching a siddur (prayer book) in his hand, he appealed to the Almighty:
Master
of the Universe, excuse me, a poor tailor, for taking up your time, but, nu, I
have a little question to put to you. Do
I have to introduce myself. You know me
well enough. Ever sicn e I was old
enough to learn the Holy Languages and to read in the Holy Books, I have
faithfully carried out the mitzvoth of our Holy covenant. I have said my morning prayers, I have said
my afternoon prayers, and I have said my evening prayers. Comes a Shabbas,
from Friday evening at sunset with candles to being part of the minyan in our shtibble, and then the next day for many hours, I have prayed, I
have chanted and meditated, and at times I have read from the Holy Sfcolls. When I can afford and when I could not
afford, I have made my charitable contributions. To the sick I have paid visits, to the lonely
I have offered to share a meal now and then.,
On all the holidays, the seasonal and the High Holidays, the Days of
Awe, I have attended synagogue. I have
prayed for the coming of Mosheach. I
have wept over the loss of the Holy Temple.
In honor of my beloved parents, may they rest in peace, I have lit
yahrzeit candles, chanted the annual Kiddush, and stood with other mourners to
lament the passing of all the children of Israel. Night and day, all through the weeks, through
the months, and through many years already, I have tried to be your humble and
faithful servant.
“So
let me ask you this. Last night I went
to see my brother the Bum at a house so big a whole city could live there. This Bum who never thinks of you, who commits
every sin you can imagine, who never gives charity or buys trees in Israel, a
gambler, a thief, a whore-monger, you should excuse the expression, this no-goodnik, this epikoros, nu: to him you
allow lots of money, fancy clothes, big cars, verpitzte and half-naked shiksa
women. You let him have fine food,
hundreds of important friends, all big shots, that sing his praises. He has fireworks in his own garden.
I am not complaing, ok, so maybe a
little, but what do I get? A little shop where I work all day from dawn to late
at night, a little dark room to sit and sleep, a piece of bread now and then, a
jar of pickled herring, not often a piece meat from a properly slaughtered
beast. An egg properly candled, a little
grape jelly and cream cheese to shmear on a bagel if I have some extra
money. I save what I can so I can do
what is right, and maybe that isn’t always a lot, but I try. Do I ever mix meat with milk? Do I ever buy from the goyim something you
shouldn’t eat? With the utmost
meticulousness I watch everything I do. Most
of all I pray to you. On regular days
and holidays I go through the prayers, spoken and silent. On the new month comes the moon I make a
prayer. I see something nice in a tree,
a leaf or a pretty bird, I make the prayer.
All the time, my dear little God, I pray and pray, and then, to my
brother you give everything while to me, for all my praying and davening, with my shuckles and bent knees when appropriate, what do I get? It could be said next to no Please, tell me
why? Why don’t you do something nice for me sometime?”
Suddenly, out of the sky, a big
boom, a flash of lightning, and then a voice.
Not the still silent voice that
comes in the wilderness, but a regular deep loud voice that bangs on your
ears: “Because you noodger me!”
Coda/Nimshol
So you don’t get
it. Don’t worry, neither did my wife
when I told her this on our first date in about 1964. It took patience and careful study of
important Yiddish words and concepts before she got it. Now, in the right mood, she still finds it
funny. For literary people, if you
haven’t read it already, go see the movie of The Great Gatsby, it might help you with certain imaginings. This is the story of a young man with a
mishugganah name of Nick Caraway that meets a fancy veteran of World War called
Gatsby (it’s got nothing to do with gotkas,
which are underpants) who is living it up in the 1920s on Long Island
(pronounced properly Lawn Gylan) and
yet deep inside him he has got worries. Anyway, to noodge means to irritate, bother, needle, keep asking for
something over and over with a whining voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment