The Village Twins: The Village Life, #1

Dedication

For Richard and Robert, the twins

Those who leave Chelm end up in Chelm.

Those who remain in Chelm are certainly in Chelm.

All roads lead to Chelm.

All the world is one big Chelm.

– I.B. Singer

Chapter One

Oy

Oy!

Push!

Oy!

Push!

Jacob, stop that! Rebecca Schlemiel snapped at her husband. We’re moving a table, not giving birth. Not yet anyway.

I’m practicing, Jacob laughed. It’s going to happen any day now.

They both looked down at Rebecca’s bulging belly. It was huge, the size of a boulder, and just as heavy.

I can only wish, Rebecca said. She looked around the crowded kitchen, and not for the first time wondered how they were going to fit another person into their lives. The house was tiny. In fact, calling it a house at all was a gracious compliment. Two rooms – a bedroom and the kitchen, plus a privy out back. Do you think the crib is really going to fit between the table and the cupboard?

Relax, Jacob said. I measured it myself. The first knuckle of my thumb is exactly one inch long. The distance between the cupboard and the table is… He began measuring again.

Rebecca looked at her husband, inching his thumb along the floor, shook her head, and put on a pot of water for tea. This was going to take a while.

Jacob and Rebecca Schlemiel lived in the village of Chelm, a tiny settlement of Jews known far and wide as the most concentrated collection of fools in the world. Chelm was celebrated in Yiddish jokes, shaggy dog stories, foolish songs, and the occasional ribald limerick. If someone in Moscow did something stupid, it was blamed on Chelm ancestry. A silly accident in Warsaw begged the question, What part of Chelm did you come from? And when a new politician promised revolutionary change, he was laughed down as another wise man from Chelm.

Now, the villagers of Chelm did not think of themselves as doltish, stupid, slow, or otherwise mentally impaired. They kept to themselves, rarely traveling further than Smyrna for market day. If they were aware at all of the outside world’s low opinion of them, they ignored it. Or perhaps they took it as a compliment.

After all, as the learned Rabbi Kibbitz once said, Wisdom shmisdom. What good is knowing everything if you can’t laugh?

All of this is a roundabout way of saying that Rebecca Schlemiel didn’t think it at all unusual for her husband to measure a four-foot space with his thumb. She saw it purely as an opportunity to rest her aching feet.

This pregnancy business was much more difficult than she’d bargained for. When she’d complained to her mother about back pains, swollen toes, and hair falling out, her mother had laughed. You think you have problems? When I was pregnant with you, I couldn’t get out of bed. Your father had to use the hay winch to hoist me up in the mornings. Three days before you were born, he had a hernia. He had to hire a horse to pull the winch to pick me up. Then the rope broke and the horse ran away! Now those were problems.

These were the kinds of things mothers rarely told their daughters about in advance. Or if they did, they were ignored as nonsense. This was probably for the best because otherwise the human species might never have reproduced. The youngest of seven sisters, Rebecca wondered what else her mother hadn’t warned her about. For several months now, as her belly swelled, she found herself remembering the troubles she’d gotten into as a girl and shuddered at the faint echoes of her mother’s shrill curse, Just wait ‘til you have children of your own!

Foo! Jacob spat. Rebecca, is my right thumb bigger than my left? You know, I’m not sure the crib is going to fit.

Rebecca nodded. I told you that before, but you didn’t believe me. No… We had to move the kitchen table to see. Even if it did fit, I wouldn’t be able to open the silverware drawers.

Jacob was a wonderful carpenter, the best in all of Chelm. In the workshop that he rented from Reb Cantor, the merchant, he had built a beautiful crib of the finest polished oak. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to take measurements in their small house before construction. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure the crib could fit in the front door. This he didn’t dare tell Rebecca, especially not after moving the heavy table back and forth across the kitchen seventeen times.

What about next to the stove? Jacob asked.

Wonderful, Rebecca said sarcastically. I’ll be making a pot of chicken soup, I’ll sneeze, the pot will spill, and boiling water will pour on the baby…

Enough! Jacob interrupted. We could hang the crib from the ceiling. He’d be out of the way then.

Rebecca snorted. I am not going to have my child suspended above me like a bird in a cage. Besides, how do you know it’s going to be a boy? My mother had seven daughters and her mother had seven daughters. I’m the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter. You don’t think that means something?

I need boys to help me in the shop.

Boys are clumsy and slow, Rebecca said. Girls are careful. Imagine what wonderful work you could do with seven lovely assistants.

I’m sure they would do wonderful work, said Jacob, putting his hand to his heart. All I know is that I am not going to have seven daughters. Not unless you let me hang five or six cribs from the ceiling.

Rebecca laughed. Let’s not talk about seven. I’m worried enough about this one. Do you think we’re doing the right thing? The world is cold. Nights are dark and long. People get sick, there are robbers…

Don’t think of such things. Jacob stood, and put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. He began rubbing them softly. In the spring when the flowers come up, are they not the most beautiful and delicate things in the world? On a cold night a fire is warm. And as for robbers, what do we have to steal? I have you and you have me. A child is a blessing.

Rebecca sighed. It’s so quiet tonight. You know, after she is born, you and I will never be alone again.

He, Jacob emphasized, has to sleep some time. Rebecca looked so beautiful. He leaned down to kiss her forehead.

Oy! Rebecca said.

You know, we don’t have to move the table right away, Jacob said. We can try again in the morning.

Oy! Rebecca moaned.

All right, Jacob shrugged. I’ll push and you pull.

OY! Rebecca screamed.

Oy? Jacob said. His eyes widened. Oy? Oy! Oyoyoyoyoyoy!

And thus he ran shrieking out of the house to get the midwife.

The moment he was gone, Rebecca burst into laughter. She wasn’t due for another week. It wasn’t exactly nice to get Mrs. Chaipul out of bed to play a joke on Jacob, but Rebecca would make it up to her with a walnut strudel.

Rebecca looked at her nice neat kitchen. Even with the table wedged nearly against the far wall, it was clean and tidy and well kept – a good place for a daughter to grow up and learn how to cook.

The water on the stove came to a boil, and Rebecca began the slow process of hoisting herself up out of her chair.

Oy, she muttered. Then her eyes widened. Oh! OY!

It seemed that Mrs. Chaipul wasn’t going to be wasting a trip after all.

The Lost Father

Only in Chelm could a father get so lost going to fetch the midwife, that he misses the birth of his first child. Or perhaps only Jacob Schlemiel. If he’d turned right instead of left as he ran out of his house, who knows, perhaps his entire life would have been different. At the very least he never once would have heard his wife utter the complaint that would haunt him until the day he died, And your father couldn’t even bother to be present when you were born…

He didn’t do it on purpose. Who would do such a thing on purpose? He was on his way to the restaurant that Mrs. Chaipul, the midwife, owned. Her establishment, which served the finest chicken soup with the heaviest lead-ball knaidels, was less than two hundred yards from Jacob’s house. He had been there hundreds of times – only last Thursday for corned beef on rye with a dab of mustard…

But Jacob Schlemiel was in such a panic at the thought of Rebecca giving birth that he decided to take a short cut. Never mind that his short cut was in exactly the wrong direction. At the moment he made the decision to turn left, he was certain – absolutely certain – that he was going the right way.

Even then, all could have been well. Chelm is not such a large village. There are fewer than eighty houses clustered around seven or twelve streets (depending on whom you believe and how you count). You could crawl from one end of Chelm to the other in fifteen minutes. Twenty if you got stuck in the mud. Thirty if you enjoyed playing in the mud, as most of the children of crawling age did. So, it was quite reasonable that after a moment of confusion, Jacob Schlemiel would have realized his mistake and looked over his shoulder to get his bearings.

Which is exactly what he was doing when he had the good misfortune to run full speed into Reb Shikker, the town drunk. The two men met, collided, rebounded, and sprawled into the mud.

Now, for many years Chelm did not have a town drunk. Every other village, town, and city had at least one, if not dozens. So naturally, the people of Chelm put an ad in the regional Yiddish newspaper, and in a matter of months the position was filled. Chelmites no longer felt excluded when a visitor from Smyrna boasted of their drunk’s exploits. Why that is nothing compared to our Reb Shikker… they would answer, their voices trailing off mysteriously. For none of them were quite sure what it was that the town drunk was supposed to do.

Truth be told, it wasn’t easy being a drunk in Chelm. No one else in the village imbibed, except on the Sabbath and holidays and festivals. No one made vodka, so Reb Shikker had to import his vodka from Moscow. And that was expensive, so he had to work. As it turned out, Reb Shikker was a skilled bookkeeper, but he couldn’t keep his figures straight when his head was fuddled. And then there was his marriage to the Rebbe’s niece, Deborah, who sneezed at the smell of alcohol. So, although he had been fully qualified for the position, it was now quite rare for Reb Shikker to take even a sip from his flask.

In fact, the first words he uttered after finding himself sitting and mud-splattered were, I’m not drunk!

Nor am I. I’m sorry, answered Jacob Schlemiel. It was my fault. My wife is about to give birth…

Mazel Tov! said Reb Shikker.

They helped each other to their feet, and then Reb Shikker remembered his role in the village. Nu? Would you like a drink to celebrate?

I’m about to become a father, said Jacob, dusting himself off.

All the better, said Reb Shikker. He pulled out a steel flask and struggled to remove the cap. Once you’re a father, you can’t drink around the children. Besides, vodka will steady your nerves. Ahh. Here.

Reluctantly, Jacob Schlemiel accepted the offer of the flask. He took a long pull and then gasped.

Good, isn’t it? laughed Reb Shikker. But it’s not good to drink alone. You have a drink for me. Because, I can’t. I have to go back to work.

All right. Jacob took another. This time his face went as red as borscht.

Oh! And to the health of your child! said Reb Shikker.

Jacob took a swig for himself, and another for Reb Shikker. He coughed loudly.

And the health of your wife!

Again Jacob drank, and drank again. His eyes crossed.

You, my friend, said Reb Shikker, taking his flask, have had enough for both of us. I’m not about to lose my reputation.

With that, Reb Shikker clapped Jacob on the back and trotted off.

By now, on an empty stomach, Jacob Schlemiel was thoroughly kafratzed. He stumbled off and knocked on the first door he came to.

Esther Gold, the cobbler’s wife, opened the door. Jacob started to explain that his wife was in labor, and that’s as far as he got because Mrs. Gold had already been preparing a noodle kugel for just this occasion, and she only had to wrap it in a towel for Jacob to take home. Five minutes later, he was standing outside again with a warm kugel in his hands, still wondering which way to turn.

At every house it was the same. Reb Cohen, the tailor, gave Jacob a teeny tiny suit of clothes. Reb Cantor, the merchant, presented him with a live chicken tied to a string, like a dog on a leash. And so it went. Everyone was so cheerful and happy for him. Some gave him tea, others gave him bottles of wine. The baker gave him a challah. It was only when he arrived at the home of Rabbi Kibbitz, still struggling with boxes, bags, and the fussing chicken, that Jacob remembered that he was supposed to fetch Mrs. Chaipul.

Rebbe, Rebecca is in labor and I’m looking for the midwife! Jacob blurted.

Isn’t she at her restaurant? asked the rabbi.

I don’t know, Jacob answered. I forgot to go there.

Well, then we’d better hurry.

The rabbi pulled on his coat, and the two men rushed back toward the center of Chelm.

On the way, they naturally passed right by the Schlemiels’ small house, where they heard a peculiar mewling sound.

Isn’t that interesting? said Rabbi Kibbitz. That sounds just like a child crying.

Yes, agreed Jacob Schlemiel. And my wife is supposed to be having a baby any second now…

Jacob stopped in his tracks. She’ll kill me.

Nonsense, said the rabbi. You’re the father. If she killed you, she would probably be executed as a murderer and the last thing she wants is to give birth to an orphan.

Come in with me, Jacob begged.

Not a chance, said the wise old man, shaking his head. You’re on your own. He pushed Jacob through the door, and then backed away.

So, overburdened with packages and drink, Jacob stumbled into his house.

There was Mrs. Chaipul, in his kitchen, stirring the soup pot.

I’ve been looking for you all over Chelm! Jacob said. Rebecca’s gone into labor.

I know. Go on back, Mrs. Chaipul said, nodding toward the bedroom. Hurry.

Jacob dropped the kugel, challah, and the other various packages on the kitchen table. The chicken ran behind the stove.

Meekly, Jacob peeked his head into the bedroom. There he saw Rebecca, looking tired but beautiful. And wrapped in a blanket was the smallest and loudest creature he had ever seen.

It’s been six hours! Rebecca said. You couldn’t even bother to be present?

I’m sorry. I got lost, Jacob answered. Is it a boy?

Rebecca smiled. It’s… AiEEEEEE!

What? Jacob shouted. What?

AIYEEEEEEE!

Mrs. Chaipul came running. Get out of the way! she shouted, shoving Jacob into the kitchen. The door closed behind him.

What? he muttered. I said I’m sorry.

Sunset, Sunrise

It was to be the longest night of Jacob Schlemiel’s life, and it was just beginning.

A few moments later, Mrs. Chaipul returned with the newborn babe wrapped in a blanket.

Here. She handed him the bundle. Hold this.

Jacob stared at the package. He held it in front of him in both hands like it was a brisket on a platter. What am I supposed to do with this?

The midwife stared up at him. What, you never held a baby before?

Jacob shook his head. No.

Jacob was an only child born to a thirty-nine-year-old mother. He had grown up without young cousins or nieces and nephews. Although he had carved rattles for every family in Chelm, this was the first time that he’d ever actually held a baby in his arms.

Oy yoy yoy, Mrs. Chaipul chuckled. She showed him how to hold the infant close, how to support its head and neck. Then a shriek from the bedroom summoned her back to her patient.

And so, Jacob was left staring at the tiny red ball of a head cradled in his elbow. It was asleep. The whole face was sort of bent and smooshed in, as if someone had flattened it like a pancake.

You are ugly, Jacob thought. He would never say such a thing aloud. I hope you are a boy, because if you’re a girl you’re going to have some big problems finding a husband.

Outside, it was growing dark. The sun had just gone down, and the only lights in the house were from the stove and a single candle that Mrs. Chaipul had lit on the kitchen table. In the bedroom, Rebecca’s cries subsided, and the small house was suddenly very quiet. Jacob could hear the crackling of logs in the stove and the occasional footsteps of Mrs. Chaipul in the bedroom.

Jacob looked at the little one. So, you want to play cards? he whispered. I’ll teach you canasta.

No answer. Of course not. The little one was asleep. Besides, if the face was so small, how tiny would the hands be? Canasta would keep.

Then there was a shriek from the bedroom. Jacob was so startled he nearly dropped the bundle. The scrunched-up face opened in a look of surprise, followed immediately by a bellowing yell that was surely heard all the way to Jerusalem.

The baby’s screech was ear piercing. It stabbed through Jacob’s skull like an ice pick into a summer melon. He had drunk too much vodka and not enough of anything else. Jacob lurched toward the bedroom to ask Mrs. Chaipul what he should do, but another shout from Rebecca stopped him cold.

Make it stop! his was wife shouting. Please!

Something was going wrong and that frightened him more than anything had in his whole life. Just that afternoon he and Rebecca had been happy and joking. Yes, they’d bickered a little about where to move the kitchen table in order to fit the crib. Now, with his child screaming in his arms and his wife screaming in the bedroom, Jacob Schlemiel came face to face with the idea of a life he couldn’t bear to imagine. What if… Life without Rebecca? What if… His wife and his love? He stood frozen, suspended in fear.

It was the infant crying in his arms that brought Jacob back. The tiny life in his hand, red as a beet and bawling, reminded him that there were other things to do.

But what?

What can I do for you? he asked the yowling child, but he could barely hear his own words. Are you hungry? You must be hungry.

Jacob’s eyes darted toward the bedroom, but he was more afraid of interrupting Mrs. Chaipul than he was of the infant’s cries.

So, he did the only thing he could think of. He began to pray. And as he prayed, he davened, rocking back and forth, and the baby started to calm a little. But it felt funny, awkward, as if he was going to fall forward or drop the baby by accident, so instead, he began to daven from side to side, the way Rabbi Kibbitz sometimes did. A moment later, the little one was asleep, relaxed in his arms.

The candle burned slowly. Cries from the bedroom rose and fell like the waves of an ocean. Sometimes all seemed calm, and sometimes the fear rose in Jacob’s heart, but still he rocked and prayed. Somehow during the night, he managed to switch the baby to one arm long enough to take a drink of water. Then, inspired, he dipped the end of a clean napkin into his cup and watched in pleased surprise as the baby took the cloth and began to nurse.

As the red glow of morning rose from the east, Jacob noticed that his legs ached and his throat was hoarse from prayer. Still, the baby was quiet, sleeping and sucking on the tip of the napkin. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered himself down into a chair.

Suddenly, Jacob saw the baby’s face twitch.

No! Please don’t cry, he whispered. Hush, hush.

Then, in the dim light of dawn, Jacob saw the baby’s blue eyes open for the very first time, and he fell in love. What a perfect child! How wonderful.

He barely noticed as Mrs. Chaipul put her hand on his shoulder.

You have another boy, she said.

A boy, Jacob nodded, smiling back at the tiny one. So that is what you are.

Then a wrinkle passed over his face. He turned to Mrs. Chaipul. Did you say, ‘another?’

The midwife nodded and held out another red-faced bundle. Twins, she said. As identical as I’ve ever seen.

And they were. Now, Jacob Schlemiel held two babies in his arms. When he looked from one to the other, the only difference that he could see was that the first one was a little bit cleaner and a little less smooshed.

The two brothers stared at each other for a moment, and then with one voice they began to howl to the heavens.

Rebecca? Jacob shouted over the din as he jumped to his feet to resume his side-to-side rocking. How is my wife?

She’s fine! She’s asleep!

She’s the lucky one! Jacob grinned. No, that’s not true. We’re all lucky!

And with that, Jacob Schlemiel began to dance. He danced until, exhausted with joy, he and his two boys crawled into bed with their mother.

The crib could wait another day.

Soon, everyone was asleep, and the Schlemiel house was quiet.

For about ten minutes.

Chapter Two

Bris

You want what? Rabbi Kibbitz stared at Jacob Schlemiel. Had he heard correctly? You want me to perform the circumcisions differently?

Well, they’re identical, Jacob said.

Twins. The rabbi nodded. Yes. They frequently look alike.

No, Rabbi, Jacob said. These two are exactly the same. I can’t tell them apart. Their own mother can’t tell them apart. There aren’t any birthmarks. Their eyes are the same. They both have ten fingers and ten toes.

That’s good, said the rabbi.

But I don’t know which one is which.

Why is this a problem? They can’t be getting into much trouble yet.

But when they do, Jacob said, how will I know who to blame?

You’re going to make them drop their pants?

I don’t know, Rabbi. Jacob Schlemiel put his hands over his eyes. I just don’t know. Then he began to weep.

The rabbi sighed. The interview had gone relatively well up until then. When Jacob Schlemiel had knocked on the door to his study, the rabbi had given him warm congratulations and asked after the health of Rebecca and the new boys. Yes, Jacob had looked tired, but who wouldn’t three days after the birth of one, let alone two, infants?

It was only when Rabbi Kibbitz drew out his paper and pencils to jot down the details for the bris that the confusion began.

Usually, it was just a matter of scheduling. According to Jewish tradition, the ritual circumcision celebrating God’s covenant with Abraham took place eight days after the child’s birth. But, with one boy born just before sunset and the other born at sunrise… That was tricky. You might be able to say that they were both born the same day. But the local authorities never understood that the Jewish day didn’t begin at midnight, but at sunset the day before. And even worse, Mrs. Chaipul wasn’t totally certain whether the first one was born just before or just after sunset.

So, naturally, the rabbi had stalled by asking about the catering. It was clear that Jacob hadn’t given it a thought, perhaps because he hadn’t had time for more than a quick bite in days. Obviously, the rabbi had suggested that Mrs. Chaipul handle the whole thing. Jacob had nodded and shrugged.

So, what are their names going to be? Rabbi Kibbitz had asked.

We thought we’d call the first Abraham, said Jacob, after Rebecca’s great uncle’s cousin on her mother’s side. And then we’ll call the second one Adam, after my father’s brother’s father.

Rabbi Kibbitz scratched his head. Your grandfather?

Jacob nodded. Yes.

Why wouldn’t you call the first one Adam, since he was the first human? Rabbi Kibbitz asked. Although I suppose Abraham was the first patriarch of the Jewish people…

Rebbe, Jacob said, I would call the first one Adam, or I would call the second one Isaac. I would even call them One and Two. But who can be sure? When I first held them in my arms, I knew which was which. But the next morning, they both looked the same.

That was when Jacob had taken the rabbi’s hand and asked if the rabbi could help them figure out which boy was which – surgically.

Rabbi Kibbitz rummaged through his pockets until he found a clean handkerchief, which he passed to the poor weeping carpenter.

Listen, Jacob, he said, what you’re asking isn’t so easy. All my life, ever since I was trained and certified as a mohel to perform circumcisions, I have striven for only one thing during a bris – consistency and perfection. Two things. It’s not like building a table, where if one leg is a little short you saw off the other three to even things out. There’s not a lot to work with. I perform the circumcision the way my teacher taught me, and it’s not something you want to experiment with. Nu? You know?

Jacob sobbed loudly.

But wait! said the chief and only rabbi of Chelm. I have an idea. We’ll bring in another rabbi! I’ll do one boy, he’ll do the other. Since we’re not totally sure when either of them was born, we’ll do them both exactly at midnight. And then it won’t matter which was first. One will be Abraham, one will be Adam. And you should be able to tell the difference. Like a signature.

His cheeks still wet with tears, Jacob Schlemiel’s face broadened into a smile. Thank you, said Jacob. Rabbi Kibbitz, you are wise like Solomon.

Nonsense, the rabbi blushed. But when the carpenter left, he chuckled and admitted the possibility. And Solomon had only one baby to cut!

In a big city, rabbis are a dime a dozen, but in the tiny village of Chelm there was only Rabbi Kibbitz. He sent a note to his friend, Rabbi Sarnoff of Smyrna, but it seemed that there had been a baby boom in Smyrna, and the learned rabbi of that town would be unable to assist. So, Rabbi Kibbitz put a free advertisement in the Yiddish newspaper and hoped for the best.

Every day he went to the post office to see if there was an answer, but every day he was disappointed. He didn’t dare tell the Schlemiels. Why worry them? They were busy with the babies. Besides, who knew what would happen at the last minute?

Finally, the appointed night arrived.*

The Schlemiel twins’ bris was a strange event, even for Chelm. Usually, circumcisions were scheduled in the family’s home during the day when there was plenty of light, but in this case the ceremony would have to be performed by candlelight. Since the Schlemiels’ house was so tiny, the rabbi had argued that with all the guests (the mother alone had six sisters, six aunts, and at least thirty-six cousins) the synagogue’s social hall would be a better setting. Now, candles were expensive, but everyone in Chelm was glad to bring a candle or two with the promise of one of Mrs. Chaipul’s delicious bris brunches. Chopped liver, corned beef, pastrami…

Rabbi Kibbitz wiped a speck of drool from his lips. He was hungry.

He was also nervous. So far, there was no spare rabbi. Perhaps at the last minute…

But it was not to be. Rabbi Kibbitz waited outside the shul until five minutes before midnight. At last, wearing his best and most confident smile, he went in to perform that most delicate of duties.

The two boys were held, one on each of their grandfather’s knees. He gave them some wine to quell their cries and set his instruments on the table. Rebecca Schlemiel nearly fainted right then, but her mother propped her up.

You know, Rabbi Kibbitz said to Jacob, as the father, it is your duty to circumcise your sons, but you may delegate this duty to me. Under the circumstances, perhaps you could do one and I could do the other?

Jacob Schlemiel nodded solemnly, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the ground with a crash.

It was just an idea, said Rabbi Kibbitz. He shrugged and began the procedure as Jacob was quickly revived.

But which one should be done first? Which was Adam and which was Abraham? Did it even matter? He had to pick one to start, so he chose the one on his right.

A moment later, the baby began to scream, and the rabbi gave him another sip of wine.

Now, on to the second. Perhaps he could try something a little different…

Oops! the rabbi said.

The villagers of Chelm gasped.

Rebecca Schlemiel screamed, Oops?

Jacob collapsed to the ground again.

Relax! Relax! Rabbi Kibbitz shouted, quelling the near riot. Nothing’s wrong! They’re both the same. That’s what the ‘Oops’ was. I couldn’t do it differently!

Of course, in the chaos, the babies were switched once again, and not even Rabbi Kibbitz could tell which was who.

So, one was named Abraham and one was named Adam, but it would be many, many years before anyone in Chelm could tell the difference.

*----------

It has been noted by scholars that the circumcision ceremony is traditionally performed during daylight. Furthermore, since the new Jewish day begins at sunset it would make better sense to perform one bris before sunset and the other just after. However, and this is an important point, word had reached Rabbi Kibbitz that, on the very day that the Schlemiels were born, the territory that included Chelm had been traded by the King of Poland to the Czar of Russia for fifteen pounds of caviar and two boxes of Cuban cigars. Ultimately, the rabbi thought that for legal reasons it was crucial that the boys be circumcised as close as possible to their birth dates on the Polish and the Russian calendars.

Chapter Three

Termites in the brain

To say that Jacob Schlemiel went temporarily insane after the birth of his twin boys might be overstating the matter. The poor man certainly had a breakdown. His spirit, which had been as strong and as straight as a nail, was bent. His caboose went around the bend, off the track, and into the river. It was as if the mule pulling his wagon down the road of life had suddenly kicked him in the head.

You couldn’t really blame him. Jacob had been raised as an only child, which was a rare thing in those days. So, rather than growing up in an atmosphere of barely restrained chaos, he had grown up in a house that had been quiet and calm. His late father had been a great scholar, and Jacob’s earliest memories of his mother were the soft hushing noises she made when he cried. In his parents’ house, everyone spoke in a soft whisper.

It had, in fact, come as a complete surprise to Jacob’s parents when he’d taken up carpentry. How can you stand all the racket? his father had asked after he had confiscated the wooden mallet five-year-old Jacob had borrowed from a childhood friend. Eventually, the clamor had gotten so bad (and Jacob’s love of constant banging so great) that they’d been forced to send him away from Chelm for his apprenticeship.

Jacob couldn’t explain that the noise was something that his heart and ears longed for. The pounding of nails into wood, the harsh rasp of the saw, the repetitive burr of the plane… They were as calming to Jacob as a page of Talmud was to his father. He especially loved early mornings, when he unlocked the quiet carpenter’s shop, picked up a hammer, and began whacking away with unrestrained glee. The instant transition between silence and din was delightful.

Children, however, were another matter entirely. Hammering at least was under his control. He could stop it when he wanted. The inconsolable screams of two hungry babies with wet diapers were more than the poor man could stand. For one thing it never ended. No sooner was Abraham fed and cleaned than Adam was filthy and hungry. Jacob barely slept a wink at night. Even when the babies were calm, there were dishes to clean, laundry to do, and dinner to make.

Rebecca, bless her soul, was still flat on her back from the effort of twelve hours of childbirth. And of course she had to feed the twins herself, a task that took far more energy than Jacob could imagine.

You would have thought that one or two of her six sisters, six aunts, or dozens of cousins might have been able to lend a hand from time to time, but not all of them lived in Chelm, and the ones who did had families of their own to care for.

The grandmothers tried to help, but that was mostly during the day. He could see the feverish look of relief on their faces when he came home from work. The two of them were out the door almost as soon as he took off his coat. So, not only did the carpenter spend a good ten hours a day making the finest furniture for all of the villagers of Chelm, he spent an additional fourteen hours a day taking care of the boys.

If I could fill the bags under my eyes with gold, he joked to a customer, I could retire a rich man.

Actually, it was a wonder he survived those first weeks with all his fingers. One day, while hammering together the shelves of a bookcase, he actually dozed off in mid-blow. He only woke up when the hammer landed on his foot. He didn’t dare use his largest two-handed saw for fear of lopping off an arm.

Jacob’s day-to-day existence faded into a numbing blur. One morning he woke up, put his pants over his head, dumped a pan of scrambled eggs into his shoes, and didn’t notice that he was still wearing his nightshirt until he got to work, and reached into his pocket for his keys. An ordinary man might scream in frustration at such an occurrence (or conclude that he must still be asleep, having a nightmare from which he’d soon wake up). Jacob Schlemiel shrugged, found the keys in the pants pocket next to his ear, and went into his shop as usual.

At first, his friends and customers didn’t say anything. They knew that Jacob was suffering, but the transition between no children and children was something they’d all been through themselves. Yes, having children was difficult, one of the hardest adjustments of their lives. But you got over it. You got used to it. You muddled through.

It was when Jacob presented Reb Stein, the baker, with a brand new work table with only one leg that they began to worry. Even a two-legged table might have worked, if it could have been nailed into a wall. But the single leg was in the middle of the table. Reb Stein raised his eyebrows and started to object, but Jacob had fallen asleep on his way out the door. (As it turned out, the table actually worked quite well as a kneading board. Reb Stein gave his four apprentices a huge ball of dough, and they made quite a game of trying to prevent the table from tipping onto their side while pushing it over to somebody else’s.)

But not all of Jacob’s new creations were so successful. The milking stool with the legs sticking up from the seat, for instance, could only be used upside down. And the dowry chest he made for Reb Cantor’s oldest daughter, Leah, had seven lids and no sides. Jacob tried to explain that he had intended it that way – so that it could be opened from any angle, but Reb Cantor knew that the poor man was blithering.

Still, the villagers of Chelm were nothing if not polite and patient. They knew that sooner or later Jacob Schlemiel would get the hang of living, and working, and taking care of himself and his newly expanded family. They could wait for their carpenter to return to normal.

But one afternoon, Reb Levitsky, the synagogue’s caretaker, pushed on the door to Jacob’s shop and was surprised to find it locked. He knocked and peered in the windows, but the shop was dark and silent. Perhaps one of the children was sick. He decided to stop by the Schlemiel house and try to cheer them up with a song.

It was a warm day, so the door to the house was slightly ajar when Reb Levitsky arrived. Inside the house he found