Author's Note: This is a crossover of sorts involving characters featured in two of Sholem Aleichem's works: The Railroad Stories and the Tevye the Dairyman stories (later adapted into Fiddler on the Roof). It highlights a real social problem that afflicted Jewish women in the shtetls of Eastern Europe.
It was a clear morning early in the spring when the stranger stepped off the train from Kiev and into the town of Anatevka. He arrived wearing an elegant blue suit of English worsted, tailored to fit his stout frame. His red silk necktie was stylish and fastened in the middle with a real diamond pin, his spotlessly white shirt sported gold buttons and French cuffs, and his lacquered black shoes gleamed as he wandered through the town square, where peddlers and merchants feverishly prepared for the Thursday afternoon market. By the way his small, lively eyes darted back and forth as if trying to devour everything, one might have guessed, as many locals did, that he was an industrialist or an investor from the city. Or maybe that rapacious gaze hinted at a more sinister occupation - some whispered fearfully that the man could be part of the Okhrana, come to spy out and arrest opponents of the czar. In any case, he was an enigma not only because even Reb Lazer-Wolf looked like a poor commoner next to him, but also because a clean-shaven face was a rare sight in pious little Anatevka and made it difficult guess the man's age or marital status.
He walked through the square without stopping as if already familiar with the town's layout and headed straight for Reb Mordcha's tavern, where he stunned the tavern-keeper and patrons alike by loudly declaring that he would order a round of drinks for everyone in the place, which was filled to capacity with travel-stained, out-of-town merchants steeling themselves for a busy afternoon selling their wares. He waved a thick roll of rubles in front of Reb Mordcha's face to show his sincerity, saying, "I may not be a Rothschild, but I never forget the shtetl folk!" For himself, he ordered a mug of beer, a surprisingly homely choice for a man of such fine taste in clothing.
"Now, me, I'm from Buenos Aires in Argentina," he said to his neighbors at the bar, who thought it only fair that they listen to the stranger's story in thanks for the glasses of plum slivovitz he had just so generously bought for them. "At least, that's chiefly where I do my business. Originally, I was like you people — a down and out son of the shtetl, little Motek from Soshmakin near Mitava, dashing this way in that in search of a job that'd let me scrape by. In Libau I happened to fall in with the right crowd, and off I went to the New World. Oh, it's easy there — jobs tumbling your way from heaven! I had jobs offered to me from all sides! But in the end, I ended up a merchant like most of you — a broker, really, a peddler of fine wares. The finest! I never let anyone down. I've got the right merchandise for every discerning palate, and for the right price, too. But that's enough about me! Tell me all about your town here. Anatevka, is it?"
The man who called himself Motek from Soshmakin listened to the locals talk about their town, nodding and smiling all the while but still maintaining the air of a businessman. He was friendly, slapping a few backs here and vigorously shaking some hands there, the diamond-studded gold ring on his plump pinky finger twinkling merrily as he waved his hands about. Reb Mordcha, watching the ring as if mesmerized, estimated that it must've cost a cool six hundred rubles at least, if not more, and wondered whether he was dealing with some robber baron or smuggler. Still, he kept the drinks coming — and soon enough, the food as well — because the stranger continued ordering them and doling them out with extraordinary generosity.
"I like the common people," said the man from Buenos Aires as the tavern gradually emptied out in time for the opening of the market, "I really do. London, Paris, Budapest, New York — I've seen them all, I've wined and dined the best people, the cream of the crop… but at heart I'm still Motek from Soshmakin, a shtetl boy through and through… what beats a steaming bowl of kreplach and good conversation among Jews, eh?"
Tevye had woken up ill that morning and unable to bring his butter, creams, and milk to the market, so Golde left him in bed with a glass of hot tea with honey and drove the cart to the square herself, assisted by Shprintze and Beylke. "Rest up, Tevye," she had said to her husband. "I'll be back in time to make supper, or if not I'll send one of the girls along. At least you can be sure that I won't waste precious kopeks on vodka at Reb Mordcha's afterwards." Tevye, too sick to be angry at that barb, laughed — although his laughter soon devolved into coughing.
Golde, having set up everything in the little stall she and her husband usually rented for market day, had already made her first sale of the afternoon and had sent Shprintze with the proceeds to buy a few things she needed for supper when Efrayim the matchmaker came up with a milk jug.
"Golde, I was wondering if we could talk for a minute about your girls," he said as Golde began filling the jug. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "I know things have been hard for you and your husband after the last incident"—Golde instinctively winced at those words, knowing Efrayim was hinting at Chava's marriage outside the faith—"but there's no need to lose hope completely! I could help you work something out for your remaining three at an affordable price. You don't need to tell me that you've had a bad experience with matchmakers because of Yenta because I'm no Yenta! These will be good matches for your fine girls. Why, already I've heard that there's a well-heeled Jew in Kiev who—"
At that moment, Shprintze came running back almost out of breath, her basket empty. "Mama!" she cried, "There's a rich man in the market from Buenos Aires!"
"What's the matter with you, returning here when you haven't bought anything just to tell me some silliness? Go back and buy the things I told you — the fishmonger sells out of carp fast!"
"I mean it, Mama! I saw him! He came all the way from Argentina — wherever that is, it sounds far — to tell everyone how wonderful it is there! It's like America…"
"Shprintze…" Golde began, hardly noticing that she nearly caused Efrayim's milk jug to overflow.
Normally, that scolding tone would have been enough to make Shprintze listen, but she was far too excited. "Look! There he is!"
Even without Shprintze pointing him out, the man from Buenos Aires made his presence known as he strolled through the square with his top hat tilted to one side on his head and a stack of flyers under his arm, which he distributed to every family with able-bodied young members. "Jobs! Opportunity! Security!" he was crying over and over. "This is what awaits you in the New World! New York! Chicago! Buenos Aires!"
Shprintze and Beylke began whispering animatedly to each other. To them, these cities were exotic locales, far-off and dreamlike places where food was plentiful, pockets bulged with money, and there were no soldiers to break your windows or burn your house. Golde's younger brother Avrum had gone to New York to seek his fortune, and from the lack of letters he sent home, things seemed to be going well for him.
"Girls! Do you want to make a better life for your families? Do you want to find good Jewish husbands who will have enough means to take care of you? Look no further — I can help you!"
"This man will put me out of a job if he keeps on like this," Efrayim muttered bitterly, placing the money he owed on the stall's counter and shuffling off.
Golde felt uneasy, though she couldn't have explained why. "Help me mind the goods," she ordered, but her daughters' help was listless and distracted, their eyes locked on the stranger and his pile of intriguing flyers. He was walking directly toward them, stopping occasionally to chat with the old mothers or young women who came up to him with questions and never failing to give them a flyer even if they didn't ask for one.
At last, the man stopped in front of Golde's stall, his sweeping gaze taking in the merchandise and the women standing behind it all at once. "What a bevy of beauties!" he said with a charming smile. Golde's daughters giggled, despite the stern glance their mother cast in their direction. "You really have lovely daughters, ma'am."
"Thank you," Golde replied coolly. Golde was fiercely proud of her girls, and to her a compliment was a compliment even if she objected to the way it was delivered.
"Have any of them considered a job in the New World?" He picked up a small wheel of cheese, turning it in his fingers, and set down a few banknotes without even asking the price. "Times are tough and the czar is unforgiving…"
"We were considering it," said Beylke, blushing.
"No we were not," Golde snapped. "I'm sorry, but we're really not interested. Times haven't been the best, but we're not starving, either."
"Wait, wait, hear me out," said the man from Buenos Aires. "You're not starving now, but you frequently are, isn't that so? I'm a shtetl boy, myself — Mordechai from Soshmakin, but you can call me Motek. Everyone does. Anyway, I know how things are in a place like this. Why do you think I left? I came from nothing, quite literally scraping the bottom of the barrel, until I made my fortune in Buenos Aires. Now look at me! I buy my suits from a real English tailor, my shoes from a real Italian shoemaker, my hats from a French hatter…. Tell me, have you ever heard of a famine in the New World? No? I didn't think so. That's because famines don't exist there. You might think a whole roasted goose is a luxury for holidays, but in America? In Buenos Aires? You can eat a goose a day! Yes, every day, until your belly bursts!"
Shprintze gasped; roast goose was her favorite holiday food, and she could never get enough of it.
"And if you get tired of goose, you can go to the store and take your pick from the best meats and poultry, and you can buy whatever you want — and you know why? Because you can afford it! There your sweat and tears turn into real gold rather than into a seasoning for your soup!"
Her daughters' eyes widened, and the glisten of hope in them nearly broke their mother's heart, since it was the look of those who had known hunger their whole lives. Still, Golde would not relent. "Reb Mordechai, why are you only recruiting women, and young women at that?"
"Because…" Mordechai began, shifting his flyers to his other arm and rummaging in his waistcoat pocket. "Because, as it turns out, that's what my line of work calls for. When I say I can help young ladies find a job, it's not just empty promises. I don't lure them with a faint hope and just dump them on the shore — no, not Motek from Soshmakin! I own a few establishments, you see — clothing factories in New York and Chicago and Buenos Aires, where all my fine goods are made… aha!" He pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to Golde and her daughters. It was a color-tinted postcard of an impressively tall and wide red brick building on a busy street, with a caption printed in a language none of the women could speak. "There! That's my new main factory in Buenos Aires, just built a couple years ago. You hear the word 'factory' and think of the horror stories you may have heard — sweatshops! Filth! Cramped conditions! But no, not my factory. It's new, so it's clean, safe, and modern. The inspectors love me because I don't cut corners. I know factory work isn't ideal for any girl, but it's a steady job and pays better than anything you can get here. And on top of that you'll be in Buenos Aires, where you'll be free to worship and go anywhere and do anything you want without the authorities threatening to kill you! So, what do you say? It's decent, honest work, and your daughters can save up money and send for you later on, so soon enough you and your husband can live comfortably and worry-free!" He turned to Golde's daughters, holding out a flyer. "What do you think, girls? You want to lend your parents a hand, don't you?"
"Oh, yes!" Shprintze and Beylke said almost at the same time, each of them reaching out a hand and seizing the flyer.
Golde, the color drained from her face, snatched it from them before they could even look at it, ripping it in the process and letting the strips of paper fall to the ground. "No. My daughters will not go anywhere without me, and that's final." She caught sight of the banknotes that Mordechai had put down on the counter and crumpled them in her fist. "I have an inkling of what your business is really about, Reb Mordechai"—the way she said the honorific "Reb" oozed with sarcasm—"and I won't accept your flyers or your money. I suggest you hurry out of Anatevka with both right now, or else I promise you that the rest of your stay will be miserable because everyone will know who you really are." With that, she tossed the money at him, which he collected with one wide, nimble gesture.
"What you think you know doesn't alter the facts," he said, his formerly affable tone now masking something more dangerous. "They'd be a lot better off." He smoothed out the crumpled bills slowly and deliberately as if mocking her, then put them back into his pocket. With a mysterious smile, he straightened his top hat, turned on his heel, and disappeared in the market crowd.
Some hours later, toward evening when all the peddlers and merchants packed away what was left of their goods and disassembled the stalls, Golde did a quick count of the day's profits while Shprintze and Beylke finished loading the cart. They did this in silence for a little while, until Shprintze asked what had doubtless been on her and her sister's mind for much of that afternoon: "What was that all about with the man from Buenos Aires, Mama?"
"He just wanted to give us a flyer," Beylke added. "What's wrong with that?"
Golde sighed. "Do you remember that picture he showed us of the clothing factory? A woman came here some years ago when your father and I were selling butter at the stall with Tzeitel and Hodel helping us — you were both probably too small to remember — and she showed us that same exact picture, saying almost the same things about it. Later on, your father and I heard stories from other people, things we couldn't believe to be true…" She trailed off and stood quietly for a moment or two, thinking. At last, she said, "That's not a new factory, if it's even a factory at all."
Shprintze was puzzled. "But then if he's not selling clothing, what is he selling?"
Golde hugged her daughters close and kissed the tops of their heads. "Not Hanukkah candles, girls… not Hanukkah candles…"
Together, the three of them rode home, where Tevye was anxiously waiting for his wife to make her delicious chicken soup, which according to him was more precious than all the gold in the world.