Chapter 1
BEFORE THE TSAR-LESS TIME, AND A LITTLE AFTER

Both his Dad and Granddad worked.
Did he have less to do?
And therefore, little red-haired Motele
worked enough
for two.

He didn’t get what he desired
(but held fast to his dreams!),
Motele, who’d longed to go to cheder:
a tailor stitching
seams.
You’d think the tailor 
would have wept.
Instead: “That’s life, I guess!”
And so, he sewed a dozen patches
onto a single vest.
And
(this was long ago, it’s true,
but the past
can’t be dismissed) 
every Friday,
Motele davened;
Saturdays, 
he ate fish.

Once Upon a Time

The homes a person passes through
are countries of their own,
each home a separate motherland,
an ocean all alone.

And underneath each puny roof,
no matter what its state, 
dwell joys exclusively its own,
its own mice,
its own fate.

And rarely—
very rarely, in fact—
do two mice
share one space!

Just look: while Motele’s mending vests,
the inspector
totes his case.
And everyone in town knows of
the tailor’s hand-to-mouth life.
But the inspector sports
a luscious beard
and also a luscious
wife.

Happiness drifts 
differently,
depending on the spot:
real chicken flavors Motele’s dreams 
and fills the inspector’s
pot.

Happiness—it’s a tricky thing:
just you try and grab it!
Motele’s in love with Riva—but
her father is
the rabbi.

Over and over, the very same words
fall from the rabbi’s mouth:
“My daughter deserves
great happiness,
and also 
a great big house.”

The tailor has so little, feels
his heart moan in disgrace:
the sole big thing to Motele’s name
is the nose
upon his face.

You’d think the tailor 
would have wept.
Instead: “That’s life, I guess!”
And so, he sewed another patch
on trousers
and a vest.

……………………………………

Yes, underneath each puny roof,
no matter what its state, 
dwell joys exclusively its own,
its own mice, 
its own fate.

There’s always something more to lose—
each life involves some drama.
And Motele the tailor had
a mama,
an elderly Jewish mama.

Beloved, of course, like all mamas
(no one needs to say this!),
as good 
at stewing tzimmes as
she was
at birthing kids;
he marks each and every birthday,
each half-birthday, too…

But Motele lived in Kishinyov,
where cops kept watch on you,
where copious prayers were offered up
for those the tsar held dear,
where our Mister Inspector lived,
along with his beautiful beard…

It’s hard to imagine a whirlwind
before 
it’s at your door:
first one,
then two 
pogroms—
and Motele’s mama 
was no more.

You’d think the tailor 
would have wept.
Instead: “That’s life, I guess!”
And so, he sewed a patch, but not
on trousers:
on a vest.

…………………………………..

And someone drove and drove the days.
And the button stars hung high,
alongside the yarmulke
moon,
useless
in the sky.
Breaking the wretched, sleepy silence,
the mice squeaked scary, loud.
And someone there was busy sewing
someone else’s
shroud.

“What’s the Point” and “There Is No Point”

That day began so fresh, so new,
and like the dawn, so young!
For the very first time in Kishinyov,
no prayers for the tsar were sung!

These sorts of days are very rare:
this one compared to none.
They waited at the synagogue,
but the rabbi 
didn’t come.

Laugh out loud, 
trousers 
and vests:
celebrate this day!
They’ve thrown the Chief of Police 
in jail
and tossed the key away!
Oh, Lord, 
this is too much to grasp!

Policeman, shouldn’t
you laugh?
Rare, wise words 
then sprang to the lips
of Ilya the Cobbler. Said he:
“Motele, Jehovah’s not the point—
the point is you 
and me.”

………………………………….

And still the days kept rattling on, 
like the trader they called Med.
And the Jews argued among themselves:
would it be “no” or “yes”?
Words of wisdom opened up
so many novel thoughts
that every individual head 
became a synagogue.
Those trapped in the past were out of luck: 
they wailed and howled, instead.
“No,”
the inspector vowed, at last.
“Yes,”
the tailor said.

………………………………….

And someone drove and drove the days.
And the button stars hung high,
alongside the yarmulke
moon,
useless
in the sky.

In the wretched, sleepy silence barked 
a dog with a bloody mouth.
And someone 
stoutly, tightly
sewed
Tsar Nicholas
a shroud!

That day began so fresh, so new, 
and like the dawn, so young!
For the very first time in Kishinyov,
no prayers 
for the tsar were sung!

Chapter Two
KISHINYOV WONDERS

The First Wonder

Med, who works 
at the market,
worries,
Med 
and all 
who trade:
along the street, 
a squad of troops 
is marching 
in parade…
But most of all 
they worry about
who chose to heed the call:
Motka Blokh 
(to hell with him!),
Star of David 
and all.

He walks along the main street like
a general on display.
And so, Med worries at the market—
everyone feels
that way.

The Second Wonder

No matter what sort
of yardstick you choose,
there is a separate road,
a separate doorway that exists
for everyone, thank God.
Throughout the ages,
people have walked,
muddling, along that road,
little by little finding their way
amid the slush 
and snow.

Not many 
are granted a joyful path:
it’s all in the hand you’re dealt.
Some break their legs, 
some do the breaking.
That’s how it goes. 
Ah, well!

………………………………….

The wind that blows 
at the edge of town
echoes the rabbi’s sorrow.
The rabbi prays 
and makes his plans
according to the Torah.
He runs his fingers 
along his tallit,
its faded tips of red:
“Will this misery ever end?
How much lies up ahead?”

The candle shadows 
crowd around
and then turn cool, 
opaque,
and the room 
in which the rabbi sits
resembles a catafalque. 

“This is what we get for our sins!
Everyone knows 
what you’ve done!
‘Chaim Bez 
refused outright
to circumcise his son!’

This is a first for Kishinyov—
say why, imbecile!”
Chaim Bez says:
“Respected Rabbi,
Blood enough’s been spilt!”

………………………………….

As many as eyes: the number of roads
is multitudinous!
And it’s just as far from us 
to God
as it is from God 
to us.

More About the First Wonder

And where are they all hurrying to, 
strange hours on their way?
Oy, how their hearts 
are hammering,
clock faces disarrayed! 
Hush! 
Are they not chasing you?
So, stand off to the side,
and let the hours pass you by
like cavalry 
on the fly…

………………………………….

Standing in line, 
the people groan,
and soon 
they’ll start to shove:
“Why aren’t 
they handing 
sugar out?
Isn’t there sugar enough?”

“He’s just 
too lazy
to hand it out.
Is it hard to work an hour?

Let’s hope the life that Lenin leads
is half as good 
as ours!”
“Sarra, why waste your time
in line?
What can this man
provide,
when everyone knows 
a commissar’s clothes
can’t hide the tailor 
inside?
He really should be mending 
a shirt,
but he’s the one 
in charge!”

Standing in line, the people groan,
and soon the shoving 
will start.

The Third Wonder

Impossibly wise, 
these days—not days,
but tzadikim, instead!
They’ve even transformed golden hair
into silver thread.
Every month, we get more news,
it’s not a laughing matter:
the inspector’s wife weighs just five poods,
she used to be 
much fatter!

And Motele? 
Don’t you laugh at him,
it’s not a trivial act:
Motele chose to shave his side-locks,
shed his lapserdak.

Motele’s truly been remodeled
(he’s tasted first-rate soup!).
Now Motele says, 
“Get to the point!”
and sees things 
“bottom-up.”

Every month, we get more news,
it’s not a laughing matter:
the inspector’s wife weighs just five poods,
she used to be 
much fatter!

Her button nose 
is powder-free.
Her eyes 
have lost their gleam…
The days have grown impossibly wise—
not days, but tzadikim!

…………………………………..

You can find so many roads,
but there are never enough.
And if our life here 
has been blessed, 
elsewhere—
God help them—
it’s rough!

The wind dies down outside of town,
it listens and takes heed:
the inspector’s prayers aren’t for himself—
he prays for others in need.
His voice in prayer sounds steadily,
his words sink to a sigh:
“Please, God, 
send down a plague on Blokh,
and grant health 
to my wife…
Please, God, fulfill each separate prayer.
(Please, God, fulfill them all!)

God, let the local councils burn,
make the deputies fail…
Transform winter 
into summer,
fix everything 
that’s wrong…
Please, God, fulfill each separate prayer.
(Please, God, fulfill them all!).”

A Wonder Much Bigger Than Kishinyov

Much too loud and much too fast,
the uproar of these years,
unforeseen in the Torah or
the rabbi’s wildest fears!
Who would have thought, 
who would have believed,
could anyone have foretold?
Mice and doors
all tangled up,
the tangled threads 
of roads.

So rare, so special a thing, perhaps 
unmatched 
since Noah’s pluck:
luck as timid 
as a tailor, 
a tailor 
as bold as luck.  

Tumultuous, all-knowing din!
How could Inspector Bobrov
expect to live without pogroms
in a blissful Kishinyov?
Who would have thought, 
who would have believed,
could anyone have foretold?
Mice and doors 
all tangled up,
the tangled threads 
of roads.

Chapter Three
NEW TIMES—NEW SONGS

A Synagogue Song

The synagogue’s full 
of hubbub and noise, 
so loud it sounds 
like a riot!
Off to the side, the Jews all whisper,
“Shush! Hush! Be quiet!” 

Reb Abrum 
speaks. 
Hubbub and noise:
the synagogue’s 
gone mad!

………………………………….

Reb Abrum said: 
“Dear Lord, Dear God!”
The Jews said: 
“This is bad!”
Reb Abrum said: 
“Has it come to this?”
The Jews said: 
“It already had.”

………………………………….

Meanwhile, the rabbi 
sat and moaned—
quiet, humble, resigned.
He opened his mouth to say: 
“How awful!”
And Motele Blokh came
to mind.

Almost a Wedding Song

In autumn, a swan begins to dream
of the greenery of lakes;
a person who has eaten birds
doesn’t care for steaks.
Wise and clever Rabbi Isaiah,
so very wise! 
So smart!
He knows almost 
the whole Talmud,
start to finish,
by heart.
But all the same, he looks bad now:
a fish washed up on shore.
“I’ve come to see the Commissar!”
They showed him to Blokh’s door.

Whether help comes from heaven 
or hell,
it must be found somewhere!

“Comrade Commissar, I’ve got 
some business to declare.
Every Jewish father is blessed
with daughters full of plans.
And every father’s in need
of husbands
to take them off
his hands…
Commissar, you’re a handsome man,
the son-in-law you’ll be!
A son-in-law among sons-in-law!
Why don’t 
you take 
my Riva?
A father shouldn’t praise his child.
I’ve just one thing to say,
no disrespect to others: she’s 
a virgin 
to this day.”

There’s such a thing as white, white soot!
Frost comes to a summer rose!
Already, the rabbi seems to feel
Blokh has a… smaller…
nose!

A Song About “Pending Matters”

And where are they all hurrying to, 
strange hours on their way?
Oy, how their hearts are hammering,
clock faces disarrayed! 
Hush! 
Are they not chasing you?
So, stand off to the side,
and let the hours pass you by 
like cavalry on the fly.

………………………………….

One notable day,
the heavens thundered,
even the ramparts swayed!
Med saw 
the inspector leave his house—
with a freshly shaven face!
“He shaved his beard, 
I kid you not,
have you seen what he’s done?!”
And everyone in Kishinyov
let out a groan, as one.

Even dogs know how to cry,
to cry the way we do.
Just try to hit and wound a paw:
you’ll hear that dog boo-hoo. 
Yes, indeed—
a dog can cry.
And what about a man?
That day, a lot of hot, bitter, 
salty rivers ran.

But tears aren’t really good for the eyes.
“Enough!” 
he finally cried.
And in one stroke, the inspector lost
his beard,
as well as his wife.

Although his wife wasn’t truly lost,
still, she wasn’t the same.
A chicken without a tail, 
let’s say,
is what his Katya became.
“Happiness—it’s a tricky thing,
a riddle you have to crack.”
And so, he waited patiently:
“It’s likely to come back.”

But smoke won’t warm a naked man
when winter frost sets in…
So, the inspector hung his head,
his head with its beard-free chin.

Broken at last, once and for all,
humbly bowing low,
the inspector 
went to see the tailor,
said “yes,”
instead of “no.”

………………………………….

A pitiful excuse for a desk.
(One of its legs has shattered.)
The inspector sits and sorts through files
chock-full of “pending matters.”

A secretary’s road is rough:
such an important job!
So many important documents!
On each: 
“Bobrov” and “Blokh.”

It’s awful, all this oversight:
commissions meet and chatter…
The inspector sits and sorts through files
chock-full of “pending matters.”
And he daydreams—no more than that
(what’s left, when all else fails?)—
of how to get himself 
to Poland
and not end up
in jail…

The Big Picture

What does it mean, 
“I wish”? As if
only you have dreams!
Throughout the century, we all
have wished 
for golden streams.
We all crave sugar, so to speak,
but that’s not what we get:
it’s sure 
that if you wish to laugh,
you’ll wind up crying, 
instead.

But give life 
a new century,
a different iron, 
or roof:
the very same person might turn up
a full head taller
than you.

For birds, the nest is best. Come sun, 
dark corners all turn bright.
Here’s Motele, 
who sits 
in an angry office 
from morning until night.
“That’s life, I guess!” 
is not heard here—
here Motele rules the roost!
What could be the secret? The trick?
New century, 
iron, 
roof…

That’s how time twists, 
this way and that:
it’s bad, it’s good,
o-o-h, time!
And when it’s time 
for younger folks,
the older ones 
must die!

A Funeral Song

The room is quiet. Dusty. Blue.
Evening’s drifting in.
Now an alarm
begins to ring:
brrring…
Brrring…
Brrring…

The hour of death 
arrives so softly, 
you won’t hear it 
approach.
And happiness leaves silently,
and the mice 
will also go.
Only grief is constant now.
The Passover teapot rusts.

The walls themselves are lost in thought
amid the silence 
and dust.
At midnight, the white-fingered wind
blankets the earth with snow…

And no one needs the Talmud now,
no need for trousers, no.
It’s quiet. 
Twilight in the sky.
No dinner 
and no prayers…
Come to the table one more time, 
come, Rabbi Isaiah.
And then—you’ll go to a different place,
to heaven, I believe.

It’s quiet! 
Candles are burning out.
It’s quiet. 
Sarra grieves...

That’s how time twists, 
this way and that:
it’s bad, it’s good,
o-o-h, time!
And when it’s time
for younger folks,
the older ones 
must die!
Yes, when it’s time for younger folks,
the old ones go 
bye-bye… 

AFTERWORD

To Krakow,
it’s exactly forty,
and forty 
to Warsaw.
Of course, your very own hometown
is better than them all.
Could any palace ever replace
the tiny, patched-up homes,
the places people laugh and cry
and rest their weary bones?
Here’s both less and more for you.
You get to choose 
your savior!
Poland’s what
the inspector needs,
while Russia 
suits the tailor.

No matter what we’ve endured with her,
there’s still more to come.
Dearest, brightest motherland,
free land that is our home!
Gold can be worse than copper: it 
weighs heavier in your hand…
Not even America 
tempts Motele 
to leave behind
this land.

He walked in step with a difficult age.
Nope, it wasn’t in vain:
no need to be a commissar,
it’s enough to be—
a man!
You needn’t gallop to take your place:
a walk will get you there.
And Motele, erstwhile tailor, will sit
and patch up all our tears.

………………………………….

Dearest, brightest motherland,
free land that is our home!
No matter what we’ve endured with her,
there’s still more to come!!! 

1924-1925
Irkutsk—Moscow