The Isaac Babel Story
Last week,
I described the boardwalk on Brighton Beach. The story below, written by Isaac Babel, and translated by yours truly, gives a very vivid picture of the kind of characters that inhabited Odessa at the beginning of the 20th century, and whose decedents moved into Brighton Beach in the mid to late 70s. I have tried, to the best of my ability to maintain the non-standard idiom and usage of the Russian language as it is rendered by Babel. Anyone who has had any kind of interaction with old world Jews should, hopefully, find the conversational lilt very familiar.
Enjoy.
HOW IT WAS DONE IN ODESSA/Isaac Babel
I
I began.
'Reb Arye Leib,' I said to the old man, 'let us talk of Benya Krik. Let us talk of his lightning beginning and terrible end. Three black shadows obstruct the paths of my imagination. Look at the one eyed Froim Rook. The red headed steel of his acts – can it not endure comparison with the power of the King? Here is Kolka Pakovski. The simple-minded ferocity of this man contained within itself everything that was needed in order to reign. And could not Haim Drong recognize the glitter of a new and inextinguishable star? But why did only Benya Krik ascend to the top of the rope ladder, while all the rest hung at the bottom, on shaky steps?
Reb Arye Leib was silent, sitting on the cemetery wall. In front of us lay the green calm of graves. A man who desires an answer has to have patience. To a man who possesses knowledge, importance is befitting. Therefore Arye-Leib was silent, sitting on the cemetery wall. Finally he said:
"Why he? Why not they, you would like to know? So there, forget for a while that you have spectacles on your nose and autumn in you soul. Stop raising havoc at your desk and stuttering in front of people. Imagine for an instance that you raise havoc in the town square and stutter on paper. You are a tiger, you are a lion, you are a cat! You can spend the night with a Russian woman, and the Russian woman will be satisfied by you. You are twenty-five. If rings were fastened to the earth and sky, you would have grabbed these rings, and pulled the sky to the earth. And your daddy is the teamster Mendel Krik. Of what such a daddy thinks? He thinks of to drink a good shot of vodka, of to smash somebody's face, of his horses, and of nothing else. You want to live, and he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you have done in Benya Krik's place? You would have done nothing. But he did. Therefore he is the King, and you are scratching knuckles in your pockets.
He went to Froim Rook, who at that time already looked at the world with only one eye, and was then what he is now. He said to Froim:
"Take me. I want to drop anchor at your shore. That shore at which I drop anchor will be the winning one."
Rook asked him:
"Who are you, where do you come from, and what do you breathe with?"
"Try me out Froim," answered Benya, "let's quit smearing white porridge on a clean table."
"Let's stop smearing the porridge," answered Rook, "I'll try you out."
And they had a meeting, to think about Benya Krik. I was not at that meeting. But it is said that they had a meeting. The head man was the late Lyovka Bull.
"What's happening under his hat, with that Benchik?" asked the late Bull.
And the one eyed Rook gave his opinion:
"Benya speaks little, but his words are tasty. He speaks little, but you want him to say more."
"In that case," exclaimed the late Lyovka, "let us try him on Tartakovski."
"Let's try him on Tartakovski," they decided at the meeting, and everyone who still lodged shame blushed at hearing that decision. Why they blushed? You will find out if you go where I take you.
Tartakovski was called "Kike and a half" or "Nine raids". He was called "Kike and a half" because no single Jew could contain in himself so much insolence and money, as Tartakovski did. He was taller than the tallest policeman in Odessa, and had more weight than the fattest market woman. Tartakovski was nicknamed "Nine raids" because the firm of Lyovka Bull and Co. performed not eight and not ten, but precisely nine raids on his office. Benya, who was not King at the time, had the honor of performing the tenth raid on "Kike and a half". When Froim told him about that, he said "Yes", and got out, slamming the door. Why he slammed the door? You will find out if you go where I take you.
Tartakovski has the soul of a killer, but he is ours. He came out of us. He is our blood. He is our flesh, as though one mama bore us. Half of Odessa serves in his shops. And he suffered through his own Moldovanka people. Twice they've kidnapped him for ransom, and once during the pogrom he was buried with a choir. The bullies from Slobodska were beating the Jews of the Big Arnautskoya. Tartakovski escaped from them and met a funeral procession with a choir on Sofievskoya. He asked:
"Who is being buried with a choir?"
The passers by answered that it was he, Tartakovski, who was being buried. The procession went all the way to the Slobodsky cemetery. Then our Moldovanka boys took a machine gun out of the coffin and started spraying the Slobodskaya bullies with it. But "Kike and a half" did not foresee that. "Kike and a half" was scared to death. What boss would not have been scared in his place?
A tenth raid on a man who was already buried, it was a dirty move. Benya, who was not yet King, understood it better than anyone else did. But he told Rook "Yes", and on the same day wrote Tartakovski a letter, similar to all letters of that kind:
"Most venerable Ruvim Osipovich! Please be so kind and deign to deposit under the barrel with rainwater...etc. by Saturday. In case of refusal, as you have recently started permitting yourself, great disappointments await you in your personal life. Cordially, your acquaintance, Benzion Krik."
Tartakovski was not lazy, so he answered without delay:
"Benya! If you were an idiot, then I would write to you like to an idiot. But I don't know you as such, and God forbid you be known as one. You seem to pretend to be a little boy. Don't you know that they had such a harvest in Argentina that we are sitting on loads of unsold goods? And I'll tell you with my hand on my heart, that I am tired of eating such a bitter slice of bread in my old age, and to live through this nastiness, after I worked all my life like the lowest drayman. And what do I get after this endless hard labor? Ulcers, sores, worries, and insomnia. Stop this foolishness Benya. Your friend, more than you suspect,--Ruvim Tartakovski."
"Kike and a half" did what he was supposed to do. He wrote the letter. But the mail was not delivered to the right address. Not having received an answer Benya became mad. The next day he came to Tartakovski's office with four of his friends. Four youths wearing masks with revolvers rolled into the room.
"Hands up!" they said, and started waiving the guns.
"Work calmer, Solomon," Benya remarked to the one who was shouting louder than the rest, "don't develop the habit of being nervous at work, and," talking to the salesman, who was white like death, and yellow like clay, he asked him:
"Is 'Kike and a half' in the shop?"
"They are not in the shop," answered the salesman, whose last name was Mugenstein, was called Joseph, and was the bachelor son of aunt Pesya, a paltry vendor on Serdinskoya Square.
"Then who is going to be for the boss over here?" They started questioning the poor Mugenstein.
"I will be for the boss here," said the salesman, green like green grass.
"Then fix us up, with God's help, the register!" ordered Benya, and there began an opera in three acts.
The nervous Solomon was packing a suitcase with money, papers, watches, and IOUs; the late Joseph was standing in front of him with his hands up, and Benya was telling him stories from the life of the Jewish people.
"If he pretends to be a Rothchild," said Benya of Tartakovski, "then let him burn. Explain something to me Mugenstein, as to a friend: Here he's getting a business letter from me; why can't he take the tram for five kopecks and ride to my apartment, and drink a glass of vodka, and take a bite from what God had sent us? What prevented him from pouring his soul out to me? 'Benya,' he could have said, 'here's the story, that's my balance, give me a couple of days, give me a chance to breathe, give me a chance to spread my arms.' What would I have told him? Two pigs don't see each other eye to eye, but men do. You get me Mugenstein?
"I get you," said Mugenstain, and lied, because he did not get it. He did not get Why "Kike and a half", a respected rich man of stature, has to take the tram and break bread with the family of the teamster Mendel Krik.
And in the meantime misfortune was loitering under the windows like a pauper at dawn. Misfortune burst loudly into the office. And although this time it took the form of the Jew Savka Butzis, it was as drunk as a water carrier.
"Ho-ho-ho," screamed Savka, "forgive me Benchik, I'm late," and he started stomping his feet and waving his arms. Then he shot his gun, and the bullet hit Mugenstein in the stomach.
Are words necessary? There was a man, and then he was no more. The guiltless bachelor lived like a bird on a bough, and here he had perished through stupidity. A Jew, who looked like a sailor, came and shot not some sort of a bottle with a surprise, but a live human being. Are words necessary?
"Beat it," shouted Benya, and ran last. But as he was leaving, he had enough time to tell Butzis:
"I swear by my mother's grave, Savka, you will lie next to him..."
Now you tell me, young sir, who cuts coupons off other people's shares, what would you have done in Benya Krik's place? You would not have known what to do, but he did. Therefore he's a king, and you and I sit on the wall of the second Jewish cemetery, shielding ourselves from the sun with our hands.
The unfortunate son of aunt Pesya did not die immediately. An hour after he was delivered to the hospital Benya got there. He ordered the head physician and the nurse to come to him without taking his hands out of the cream trousers:
"I have an interest, that the patient Joseph Mugenstein gets well. Just in case, let me introduce myself – Benzion Krik. Camphor, air pillows, a separate room, provide all these with an open soul. Because if you won't, remember that every doctor, even if he is a doctor of philosophy, takes up only six feet of ground.
Nevertheless, Mugenstein died that night. And only then "Kike and a half" raised a cry over all of Odessa.
"Where do the police begin," he screamed, "and where does Benya end?"
"The police end where Benya begins," answered some sensible people, but Tartakovski did not calm down until the red automobile with a music box played the fist march from the opera "Laugh clown” on Seredinskaya Square. In bright daylight the car flew to the little house where aunt Pesya lived.
The car thundered with its wheels, spit fumes, glistened with copper, reeked of oiil and played arias on its horn. Somebody jumped out and went into the kitchen, where aunt Pesya was beating herself on the clay floor. "Kike and a half" was sitting on a chair, waiving his hands.
"You criminal mug," he screamed, recognizing the guest, "bandit, why doesn’t this earth abort you, a nice occupation you found yourself, killing live people..."
"Monsieur Tartakovski," answered Benya Krik with a quiet voice, "it is the second day that I am crying over the dear deceased, like he was my own brother. But I know that you spit on my youthful tears. For shame, monsieur Tartakovski, into what strong box did you cache your shame? You had the heart to send the mother of our deceased Joseph a hundred measly rubles. My brain stood up with my hair when I heard that piece of news...
Here Benya made a pause. He was wearing a chocolate blazer, cream trousers, and crimson shoes.
"Ten thousand on the spot," he roared, "ten thousand on the spot, and a pension till the day of her death, let her live a hundred and twenty years. And if not, then let us get off these premises, monsieur Tartakovski, and sit in my car..."
After that they argued. "Kike and a half" was arguing with Benya. I was not present at that quarrel, but those who were, they remember. They compromised on five thousand in cash, and fifty Rubles a month.
"Aunt Pesya," said Benya to the disheveled old lady who was lying on the floor, "if you need my life, you can have it. But everyone makes mistakes, even God. There was a terrible mistake, aunt Pesya. But wasn't it a mistake on God's part to place Jews in Russia, where they suffer like in hell? Would it be so terrible if Jews lived in Switzerland, where they would be surrounded by first class lakes, mountain air, and nothing but Frenchmen? Everyone makes mistakes, even God. Listen to me with your ears, aunt Pesya. You have five thousand in your hands, and fifty a month till your death, may you live to be a hundred and twenty. Joseph's funeral will be a first class one: six horses, like six lions, two chariots with wreaths, a choir from the Brodskoya synagogue, Minkovski himself will come to sing at the funeral of your son...
And the funeral took place the next morning. Ask the cemetery paupers about that funeral. Ask the shamases from the kosher paltry traders' synagogue or the old ladies from the second almshouse. Odessa had never seen such a funeral, and the world never will. The policemen put on knitted gloves. In the synagogues, which were covered with greenery and with wide open doors, the electricity was burning. On the white horses that were harnessed into a chariot, black plumages were swaying. Sixty choir members walked in front of the procession. The choir members were boys, but they sang with women's voices. The elders of the kosher paultry traders' synagogue walked aunt Pesya, holding her hands. Behind the elders walked the members of the society of Jewish shop assistants, and after the Jewish shop assistants were the jurists, doctors of medicine and midwives. On aunt Pesya's left side were the market women who traded poultry from at the old bazaar, and on her right side were the venerable dairymaids from Bugayevka, wrapped in orange shawls. They stomped their feet like gendarmes on table day. From their wide hips emanated the smell of sea and milk. And after them the workers of Ruvim Tartakovski were plodding along. There were a hundred of them, or two hundred, or two thousand. They were wearing black frock coats with silk lapels, and new boots that squawked like piglets in a sack.
And I shall speak as the lord spoke on mount Sinai out of the burning bush. Put my words in your ears. All that I've seen, I've seen with mine own eyes, sitting here, on the wall of the second cemetery, near the lisping Moyshe and Shimshon from the burial office. It is I who has seen it, Arye Leib, a proud Jew who lives by the dead.
The chariot rolled to the cemetery synagogue. The coffin was put on the steps. Aunt Pesya trembled like a little bird. The cantor got out of the phaeton and started the service. The choir seconded him. At that moment a red automobile flew from behind the corner. It played "Laugh, clown" and stopped. People were silent as though they'd been killed. The trees were silent, the choir was silent, and the paupers were silent. Four men got out from underneath the red roof, and with a quiet step lay at the chariot a wreath of magnificent roses. And when the service ended the four men put their steel shoulders under the coffin, and with burning eyes and rolled out chests strode with the members of the society of Jewish shop assistants.
Benya Krik, whom no one called King at the time, went in front. He was the first to approach the grave, ascended a knoll and extended his hand.
"What do you want to do, young man?" Koffman from the burial brotherhood trotted towards him.
"I want to say a speech" answered Benya Krik, "Gentlemen and ladies," said he, and the sun stood above his head like a sentry with a rifle, "you came here to give your final respects to an honest laborer, who died for a copper penny. From me, and for all those who are not present, I thank you. Gentlemen and ladies, what has our dear Joseph seen in his lifetime? He has seen a few trifles. What was his occupation? He counted someone else's money. What did he die for? He died for the entire working class. There are people who are doomed to die, and there are people who have not started to live. And a bullet that flew into a doomed chest penetrated Joseph, who, in his life, has seen nothing but a few trifles. There are people who know how to drink vodka, and there are people who do not know how to drink vodka, but who drink it anyway. So the first ones get pleasure from misery and from happiness, and the others suffer for all those who drink vodka, not knowing how to drink. Therefore, gentlemen and ladies, after we pray for our poor Joseph, I would like you to walk to his grave Savely Buzis, who is unknown to you, but already dead.
And having said that Benya got off the knoll. The people were silent, the trees and the cemetery paupers were silent. Two cemetery men took an unpainted coffin to an adjacent grave. The cantor finished the prayer with a stammer. Benya threw the first shovel and went over to Savka. The jurists and the ladies with the brooches followed him like sheep. He made the cantor sing a full service over Savka, and the sixty choir members seconded the cantor. Savka never dreamt of such a service, take the word of Arye Leib, and old, old man.
It is said that on that day "Kike and a half" decided to close shop. I was not present at that decision. But I have seen that neither the cantor, nor the choir, nor the burial brotherhood have asked for any money. This I have seen with the eyes of Arye Leib. Arye Leib, that is my name. And I could see nothing more, because the people, having quietly walked away from Savka's grave, run away like from a fire. They flew in phaetons, in carriages, or by foot. And only those four who came in a red automobile rode away in it. The music box played its march; the car shuddered and flew away.
"King," said the lisping Moyshe, looking after it. The same Moyshe who takes the away best spot on the wall.
Now you know it all. You know who first pronounced the word "King". It was Moyshe. You know why he did not name the one eyed Rook or the mad Kolka. You know it all. But what's the use, if you still have spectacles on you nose and autumn in your soul?
10:41:15 AM 
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