In the Land of Happy Tears

by Yiddish Tales for Modern Times

  “So take me to the ruler,” the little boy blurted out. “I’ll ask him to stop ordering you to take away my samovar.”

  The guards smiled and, for curiosity’s sake, took him to their officer. The officer laughed when he heard the little boy’s request. He sent the boy to his own superior—and so it went until the little boy was at last given an audience with the ruler himself.

  The ruler had heard about the matter that the little boy had come to discuss. He addressed the boy with a smile: “What good is the samovar to you, little boy? I will decree that you shall receive other toys instead, much prettier toys than your samovar.”

  “I don’t need any toys to play with,” the little boy answered. “I can do without.”

  “So then why do you refuse to give up the samovar?” the interested ruler asked.

  The little boy burst into tears and in a choked voice cried out, “Because I don’t want my samovar to be used to make bullets that will kill someone else’s papa—the way my papa was killed.” And he wept even more bitterly.

  The little boy’s words sent chills down the ruler’s spine. He bent his head and pondered. Then he lifted the child onto his lap and kissed his forehead warmly.

  “You dear, wise little boy! No—your samovar will never be taken away.”

  The ending was as happy as could be. Thanks to the little boy’s words—which had touched the ruler so deeply—he issued a decree that very day, ordering all metalware to be returned to its rightful owners. It was no longer needed because the ruler had realized, at last, that too much blood had been spilled—and that there could finally be an end to all war.

  Translated by Ri J. Turner and David Stromberg

  In Khoyrez Land, there was a king who ruled only on Mondays and Thursdays. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and the Sabbath, he didn’t rule at all. On Sundays, he would sometimes stop by to work for an hour or two at his kingship, quickly rule about something, and go home to wash up—all before sitting to lick honey out of a jar.

  In Khoyrez Land, no one knew that the king ruled so little—that the kingship stood vacant five days a week and that people were paying its rent for nothing. Neither did anyone know that the king was licking honey out of a jar since he did it ever so secretly. The king’s servants would lower the curtains, turn out the lights, bolt the locks, lure all the shadows into a sack, and shake it out outside. Then the Royal Chamberlain would yell out, “And-all-a-mar-shack-y,” and this was a sign that the king could now stick his tongue into the jar and lick away.

  But a human being is nothing more than a human being.

  And the world isn’t asleep.

  And walls have ears.

  So it was found out. How was it found out? I’ll tell you.

  The clever people of Khoyrez Land sent in a spy, who snuck in a jar with a narrow lid. What did the king know? A jar’s a jar. First he shoved a finger inside (as the oldest kings of Khoyrez Land had done) and tasted it. Sweet? Sweet. He didn’t ask any questions and shoved his tongue inside, and—me-ee—he couldn’t pull it back out.

  The King of Khoyrez stomped around his palace. The jar swung from his mouth, and he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  The sages were rounded up with a whip, the stargazers were called together with a piercing whistle, and they were all told:

  “The king can’t take his tongue out of the jar. Do something! It’s not good for a king to go around with a jar hanging off his tongue.”

  The sages and stargazers started rubbing their foreheads with their fists, until they nearly rubbed holes into them—but they couldn’t think of anything. They grabbed their long beards with their hands and brought them up closer to their eyes, looking in their beards to see if they could maybe find something there, but it was useless.

  A full day and a night, the sages and the stargazers sat and thought and thought, and thought of nothing. Then they drank coffee with sweet cream and still they thought of nothing. Then they ate some canned peaches—and still they thought of nothing.

  On the third day, a court messenger came and said:

  “Any sages and stargazers who cannot figure out how to save the king will have to roll peas with their noses across the entire city, back and forth, and those who refuse will be hanged!”

  Seven elderly sages rolled peas with their noses. The others, in the meantime, sat and thought about how to save the king.

  “Hey, you know what?” called one of the stargazers. “Let’s lay the king down outside, put an anvil underneath his tongue, give it a whack with a hammer, and break the jar.”

  “And what will happen to the tongue?” asked a sage.

  “The tongue?” said the stargazer. “The tongue is a serious problem.”

  “Ba, ba, ba—if only there was no tongue?!” said the elderly sage, and shoved a little pea along with his nose….

  “Perhaps,” cut in a slightly stuttering sage, “perhaps if we kn-knocked out the k-k-king’s t-t-teeth, he c-c-could hold the j-j-jar ins-side his m-mouth, and n-no one w-would kn-kn-know it was there.”

  The sages and stargazers looked around. The seven who had been rolling peas produced little laughs and continued to sweep the earth with their beards—and no other suggestions were made.

  Meanwhile, all across Khoyrez Land, the rumor spread that the king was licking honey—so this was one thing! And that, having licked honey, it hadn’t done the poor guy any good—and this was a second thing! And anyway, how was it that he got to lick honey and his people didn’t? And this was a third thing!

  The republicans immediately started sharpening their knives and went off to the king. And their leader kicked with his foot and yelled in German, in a rough voice, to scare the king:

  “Where do you keep the thrrrrone?”

  “D’thro wite-eer!” answered the king with the jar on his tongue.

  (That’s to say, “The throne’s right here!”)

  “Shake it up,” the leader ordered the other republicans. “It’s time for the throne to shake!”

  They started shaking the throne back and forth until they broke one of its legs. When they did, they calmed down and left to eat pancakes with butter.

  As the republicans left, the democrats appeared, yelling and waving their hands.

  “Where’s the king? What’s this supposed to mean—the king’s licking honey and we aren’t?”

  “Nah yih cah thee huh buthy I’th bihn,” yelled the king, which is to say: “Now you can see how busy I’ve been!”

  “Busy or not,” yelled the assemblyman from the Thirty-Ninth District, “all this time, you’ve been licking honey—and we haven’t!”

  The king went onto his porch and gathered his in-laws, the head steward of his royal butcher knives, and all the sages and stargazers. And the king held forth with the following speech, the jar on his tongue:

  “Fliends and cidy folk,

  “We havl all come togeler wil da pulpose of conthidering the sidualion in oul kinlgdom. I delieve, my fliends and cidy folk, tlat dere ilsn’t duch to thay….Il id tlue, my fliends, tlat I havl licked hodey, dut look at wlat all dis licking hath blought me….”

  When the king’s in-laws and the head steward of his royal butcher knives and the sages and stargazers heard his speech, they all let out a painful cry, and they cried out an entire sea. And the king sat himself down in a ship and set out into the world—with the jar on his tongue and with the taste of past honey-filled days between his yellowing teeth, which protruded from under a thick, calf-like lip.

  Translated by David Stromberg

  Far, far off, in strange and distant lands, stood a deep, thick, dark forest. The trees and bushes were so overgrown that no one could pass through. The forest was full of animals—wolves, bears, foxes—each living in their own dens and burrows.

  In the hollows of ancient trees lived red sq
uirrels, and at the forest’s edge, tiny young rabbits plucked fresh shoots and buds from the trees.

  And there were so many birds in the forest! From earliest dawn, it was filled with the unceasing sound of their singing and chirping.

  And don’t even ask how many flowers grew in that forest! Insects and flies came from far and wide to collect the sweet nectar from the flowers.

  And in the middle of the forest, in a grassy clearing, stood the kingdom of mushrooms. A powerful old mushroom ruled the kingdom. He was cracked from old age and was even a little worm-eaten, but the mushrooms admired him and followed his rule because he was wise and good.

  Every time it rained, he’d command:

  “Milk caps—take cover under the pines. Chantrelles, yellow knights—hide under the bushes. Scaberstalks—don’t scatter across the forest, stay together! And what’s this? Get those crazy fly-traps out of here! All dressed up in red dresses and white pearls, full of themselves and good for nothing.”

  Each and every day, different types of worms, flies, and birds visited the kingdom. The mushrooms lived in peace with everyone. However, they got along best with the ants, who would often come to the green mushroom kingdom to collect ladybugs.

  Not far from the forest clearing, under an old, moldering pine tree, was their queendom, a great anthill. It was ruled by females—the queens—and not just one but many. The queens were also very wise, and every day they toiled and worked hard.

  Their anthill had several levels, with many chambers, storerooms, and corridors—long and short, wide and narrow, twisty and straight.

  Early each morning, the queens would divide up the work:

  “You sisters, go and make our palace bigger—it’ll be time to lay fresh eggs soon. You sisters must protect the eggs until they develop into respectable ants. Take them out into fresh air if it’s a nice day out, bring them back inside when it gets cold and rainy. You, my dear sisters, must provide us all with food. Bring us May bugs, earthworms, and milk. We need milk in our storerooms today. And what’s this? Drones? Drive those loafers out from our palace! They do nothing but fly around in the sunshine empty-handed.”

  The workers and their queens lived well. Everyone worked—both the queens, who could fly, and the ordinary workers, who had no wings. But anyone who didn’t work was cast out from the palace forever.

  On holidays, when the sun’s heat baked the earth, the ants would go to visit the green mushroom kingdom. Not everyone would go. The heads of households had to stay home to protect their belongings.

  Arriving at the mushrooms’ forest clearing, the ants would sit down. “So what’s new?” the mushrooms would ask. “Tell us!”

  “Today I cast out my son,” an ant queen said one day. “Can you imagine such a lazy drone!? We work all day long, and we love our work—and that loafer doesn’t want to work, he just plays and flies around in the sun!”

  The old mushroom king contemplated this sadly.

  “Yes, yes. If I had a son, I don’t think I would be able to cast him out. I’d try to do everything possible to make him into someone respectable! But I have no son. I have none, my dear friends!”

  The ants nodded with their long antennae, but they saw things differently: “Our sons are not respectable, they do not want to work, and lazy drones must be driven out.”

  Not always had the king been childless. Long ago, he’d had yellow, brown, and white mushroom children, daughters and sons. Unfortunately, they hadn’t grown well. Some rotted, grew worm-eaten, and died. The others were trampled by wild animals.

  Be that as it may, the king now had no heir.

  The visit wasn’t long. Work in the anthill couldn’t wait.

  And so the two kingdoms lived in peace.

  The summer passed, and it began to rain for a week, then two, then three. The rains soaked everything through, down to the hiddenmost mushroom spores. After the rains passed, the sun came out.

  The king awoke one beautiful morning, looked around, and could not believe his eyes: a son! A beautiful, healthy, fresh, and moist mushroom looked back at him tenderly.

  Soon the happy news spread across the entire forest. Lilies, dandelions, and wild bellflowers sang together and rang out with great joy. Two summer insects, a gnat and a cricket, invited everyone to the great feast. All the worms promised to watch over the young prince all day and all night and protect him from evildoers.

  The message arrived at the anthill very late. Imagine the preparations the ants made! First they went to the narrow river that flowed nearby, and washed off all the dust, each ant helping its neighbor. Then they set out. A large part of the forest, near the anthill and around some of the clearing turned black with ants. And look at all the guests who’d come! There wasn’t room for a pin, the forest clearing was so crowded. Mosquitoes and flies, bees and butterflies, even an orchestra! Crickets and horseflies, owls and cuckoos, and a colorful woodpecker to drum a beat.

  And the crowd began to dance. The May bugs flew around at a distance, for though the mushrooms had invited them, they were afraid of the ants.

  The celebration was in full swing when suddenly a wild bee arrived. Terrified and breathless, she sat on a tall linden tree and shrieked:

  “Something terrible has happened! A misfortune for the forest!”

  “What happened? Tell us!” Everyone made a dash toward the bee.

  “Bad news, my friends: A new forest keeper has moved into the forest with two children. You’ve never seen naughtier children in your life. They run around the forest all day, picking berries, plucking flowers, breaking the young bushes.”

  The old mushroom king thought for a while. Then he smiled and said to the bee:

  “My dear, wise friend, you exaggerate. So what if they tear off a few berries and gather flowers? That causes no harm. The flowers won’t bear a grudge against the children. They use them to weave beautiful crowns.”

  The bee was hurt.

  “Sure—you didn’t see how they picked the flowers, so you don’t know. Wait and see what tune you sing when they start to pick your own kind. It’s easy for you to say this now—just a few berries, a few flowers,” buzzed the furious bee. “It’s not just a few. They’re tearing and picking and ruining everything. They catch butterfies and tear off their wings. They pester the ants.”

  “The ants?” the queens cried in fear. “Sisters, come. Let’s return to our palace!”

  “They’re not sparing the mushrooms, either!” the bee buzzed quietly.

  “The mushrooms, too?” All the mushrooms let out a sad gasp.

  “Yes, dear friends. So what do you say now?”

  But she was unable to finish.

  They heard the sound of a chase. The earth trembled, branches cracked, and two pretty children’s heads appeared among the overgrown bushes.

  “Look at all the flowers! Look at all these mushrooms growing here. Let’s pick them!” cried out Sheyndele.

  “Pick them yourself. I’d rather catch flies!” And Hershele started chasing the flies with cries of joy.

  He ran and ran until he suddenly saw something that made him stop in wonder. Hordes of terrified ants were running to their palace. Hershele had never seen so many insects in his life. “A real army,” he thought, looking at the orderly rows of marching ants.

  Hershele stopped to think. He climbed onto something that resembled a little hill.

  Ants—terrified and startled—came pouring out from all sides. Without realizing it, Hershel had climbed onto their palace and destroyed its uppermost level.

  Afraid of the ants, who streamed out of the anthill and rushed straight toward the destroyer, Hershele dashed back to the spot where he’d left Sheyndele.

  Sheyndele, meanwhile, had been plucking mushrooms. The old king looked on with a trembling heart. His son, his only consolation! Perhaps she wouldn’t
notice him….

  Sheyndele, however, saw the fresh mushroom. She plucked him and left him lying on the ground—there was no more room left in her basket.

  “Come on, Hershel, let’s go home!”

  The children left. It grew quiet in the forest. The sun set. The old king stood silently by his dead son, and tears trickled slowly down his wrinkled face.

  And not far from the forest clearing, the ants began to pick up their crushed sisters and console them:

  “Don’t cry, my dears, don’t cry, my loves. In the morning, we’ll start building a new palace.”

  Translated by Debra Caplan

  1.

  Children, would you like to hear a story about a wise little hat? Let me tell you about it:

  There once lived an emperor named Yuhavit the Great. He was called “Yuhavit” because after almost every third word, he’d say, “There you have it.” And he was called “the Great” because he was so little, a real nothing, with thick feet and a belly that he shoved forward going “ep-hu.” And so he wanted people to call him nothing other than “the Great.”

  In short, Emperor Yuhavit the Great ruled over many lands full of soldiers, taxes, cholera every summer, typhus every winter—so plenty going on!

  Just like any other emperor, Emperor Yuhavit ruled “by someone else’s hand.” He himself preferred to eat the best of foods and to drink them down with the finest of wines, which were so old that the jars in which the wine was kept would be dead drunk and dance around between one cellar and another—you could hardly catch them.

  The kingdom was managed by two ministers: Meshgig, the court sage, and Getzim, the court fool. Meshgig the Sage took care of the kingdom’s businesses, composed documents whenever necessary, got mad at everyone, and sucked your soul dry. Getzim the Fool would make the ministers and military men and tax collectors laugh with all his foolishness so that they had the strength to do what Meshgig the Sage required of them.