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