Fiction: Grandfather

       “Jew! They say you’re smart.”

“Some do, some don’t.”

“I need some advice. Open the goddam door.”

Before the bearded old Jew could respond the Cossack kicked the door open, jamming his host against the wall. He strode in, his boots dropping piles of dark mud on the plank floor. The Cossack planted himself on the bench at the wooden table. 

“Do you expect me to talk when I’m dry?” he bellowed.

“Rivka, we have a guest. Perhaps we might offer him a little drink.” 

The wife rubbed her hands clean on her blue dotted apron and brought from the one cupboard a nearly full bottle of schnapps with two glasses. She set them down on the table before her husband, who had placed himself on the bench on the other side to the guest’s. When she started to pour the Cossack ripped the bottle from her hands.

“Here, I’ll do that. I didn’t think Jews were supposed to drink. It better not be poisoned. You go first.”

He poured a shot for his host, watched as he took a sip and swallowed, then pulled a long swig himself straight from the bottle. With his arm he brushed his glass off the table, across the room to the floor, where to the old Jew’s surprised relief it did not break.

The Cossack was a large man, six feet without his boots, heavy set, with hands that could rip the head off a chicken or choke a dog. He already wore the stench of  rough booze to which the Jew’s peach schnapps could only add a delicate inflection. After a second long draught he slammed the bottle on the table and – without releasing his grip on it – began.   

“I want to marry the mayor Ivanovich’s daughter. Not the old one, with the bad leg, the second. Malya. Hips on her -- she could deliver a bull.”

“Does she want to marry you?”

“Who cares? Her father doesn’t want me. That’s my problem.”

“Oh? You’re a strong, good-looking man. You have the most secure job in the shtetl. So why doesn’t he?”

“He’s a pig’s arse-hole, that’s why.”

“What’s his explanation?”

The Cossack drew another swig from the bottle. “Aach, he’s made up some stupid reasons, they’re not worth a fart in a windstorm.”

“Such as what?  He wants to marry off the older one first?”

“That’s part of it. She has a couple suitors, the crippled boy who cleans up the tavern and the drooler. But their parents wont accept Ivanovich’s dowry. They say she’s damaged goods. She was raped. They want more money before they give him their son. They want twice his last offer and he doesn’t want to pay, the cheap son of a bitch.”

“Olga was raped? I never knew.” Sadly, he glanced over to Rivka as if to ask if she knew. Rivka stuck her gaze on the pot she was scrubbing.

“Yeah, three, four months ago. She’s pregnant, too, everybody knows.”

“Do we know who’s the father?”

“Yes and no. There were four of us.  We were drinking when we came home on furlough. I was looking for Malya, we came across Olga in the field, the other boys jumped her. I joined in at the end. It could’ve been any one of us. Even me. Sure, I came in last, but my balls make the others look like walnuts.” To prove his point he took a double swig from the jug. 

“I see your problem,” the Jew said in his soft, creaking voice. “Is marrying off Olga the mayor’s only concern? If she marries would he have you for Malya?”

“Of course. He couldn’t afford to hold out for anybody else. Anyway, somebody else around here makes a move on her, I’d smear his bones on the floor like butter on a fresh loaf. I’ve made that known pretty clear around here.”

“Has he offered a suitable dowry for Malya?”

“The same as for Olga. But man to man, here, don’t tell anyone, but I don’t need his goddam dowry. Money I have. With that big ass on her, tits that could suckle a pig’s whole litter – and those hips? I’d grab her with a kopeck for a dowry.”

“Maybe there’s your solution, then. Go to the mayor and tell him this. If he gives you Malya you will be happy to help out his family. You would let him add her dowry to what he’s offered for Olga. That way she can get married before the poor momzer arrives. The family’s honour is preserved, the older daughter marries first, and you get your Malya.” 

      With a chuckle in his eye the old man added: “If you have a double wedding he could even save a little more. I wish you a happy, fertile marriage and a long, healthy life together.”

“Well, goddam!” the Coasack blurted, then drained the last of the bottle. “You’re right. That solves everything. I can see why people say you’re so smart. You’re a Jew so you know how the world works, don’t you? “

“Glad to be of help. I wish you luck. As my people say, Zoll zein mit mozzle.”

The Cossack planted both palms flat on the table and hoisted himself off the bench.   

“I suppose you expect me to thank you. Maybe you want I should give you something. Goddam Jews, I’ll sure give you something.”

With that he grabbed the schnapps bottle and in a sweep of his arm smashed it down on the old man’s forehead. The Jew slumped to the table, bleeding from the splinters. While Rivka rushed to him the Cosasck strode to the door and out to the howling night towards the fancy home of his new family.