Debbie Nathan

(Below: the real Trotsky)

When Moyshele from the Duville Hostel got notice that he’d have to close in a month because the building was about to be demolished, his roomers were distraught.

“Where in the world are we going to go?” asked Trotsky.

“What’s going to happen to everyone?” asked Paderewski.

“Which way are we headed?” asked Pilsudski.

“Woe is us!” said Jeremiah, in tears.

At first the gang was desperate. But the search for new digs had hardly begun when Trotsky came back one night with the news: he had snapped up a little place that was no worse than Moyshele’s. In fact, its wood-slatted beds weren’t so decrepit, and there was maybe, even, another improvement: fewer bedbugs than at Moyshele’s. So a few days later, the gang moved to a new hostel where the landlord was named “Meylekh” – King. Their first day there, Trotsky gave him the name “Shloimie Hameylekh” – King Solomon.

Trotsky wasn’t exaggerating when he said this new place had certain advantages over Moyshele’s. For one thing, King Shloimie wasn’t stuck up like Moyshele. He mixed with the gang as they played their heated card games, pushing back his stiff hat with the fastened brim and endlessly chewing his thin little beard. He had only one guiding principle: to always have something in his mouth – a glass of tea, a slice of cheesecake, a piece of strudel. All the pastries were made by King Shloimie’s queen, a Jewess with a double chin three times over who was very proud of her baked goods. Sometimes King Shloimie even tried his own luck and laid a five or ten spot on a card.

Trotsky felt as at home in the new place as the proverbial son in his father’s vineyard. “King Shloimie’s a regular guy,” he said. “Not a big thief like Moyshele.”

It wasn’t just Jews living at King Shloimie’s. There were also Poles and Russians, and indeed, the card room had more goyim in it than Jews. Before Trotsky, Pilsudksi and the rest of the gang had arrived, all one heard in King Shloimie’s realm was Polish, Russian and an occasional Yiddish vulgarity. But as soon as Moyshele’s tenants moved in, Trotsky suggested that Yiddish should become the official language of the kingdom.

“After all, everybody knows Yiddish,” said Trotsky. “And if not, let them learn. This is Eretz Yisroel – the Land of Israel – so Yiddish ought to be spoken here.”

The suggestion favorably impressed a Russkie with a red face, who exclaimed:

“Good! Good! I will speaking Yiddish!”

From then on, Yiddish was the official language, and Polish and Russian mere subordinates. Seeing how the goyim were speaking Yiddish, Trotsky beamed with delight.

“They’re really getting into it,” Trotsky rejoiced. “They actually speak like real Jews.”

And one did have to admit: If relations between Jews and non-Jews everywhere were like in King Shloimie’s realm, the Jewish Question would no longer exist anywhere in the world. With each cheesecake and every piece of gefilte fish that a goy ate, he let forth with such compliments for the Jewish people that King Shloimie felt truly proud to be Jewish and not – God forbid – a goy. Seeing how much the goyim loved the Jews, Trotsky got as chock full of liberal ideas as a pomegranate is with seeds.

“What does Jew matter? Or goy?” he yelled. “If you can play a hand of cards and do it fairly, you’re my brother, whether you’re a Jew, a goy, or even a Tatar. Right, Khamulyak?” he said, turning to a Ukrainian who was drinking a glass of tea with lemon and munching some cheesecake. “I ask you, isn’t this true? Put your two cents in. Don’t be shy!”

“True,” said the Ukrainian, licking his cheesecake-covered fingers.

The Ukrainian wanted to interject some of his own interesting notions about the matter. But since Trotsky had proclaimed Yiddish the official language of King Shloimie’s realm, and since the Ukrainian’s command of Yiddish was still a bit too weak to express such lofty ideas, he decided that the most concrete and vivid way to convey his thoughts and feelings was by inviting Trotsky to a game of Twenty-one.

In addition to the large brass samovar that sat on King Shloimie’s table and spouted steam that spread through the big, dark room, giving it the appearance of a steam bath; in addition to the cheesecakes and poppy seed cakes and egg cookies; in addition to the gefilte fish and all the other delicacies that the gang filled up on in King Shloimie’s palace – besides all these good things, King Shloimie kept in his pocket a bottle of Russian vodka with a green label, which meant it was 90-proof. King Shloimie didn’t buy it much. He hoarded it for good luck. But everyone who came over knew about the bottle in his pants pocket, and if anyone wanted a glass of alcohol, all he had to do was drop a hint to King Shloimie, or – if he wished to be up front about it – snap his fingers on his Adam’s apple.

King Shloimie understood perfectly what this meant. He would come over with a secretive air and look around, even though he knew full well that he was among friends. He would take the bottle of 90-proof and a glass from his pants, do the pouring, look around again, put the bottle and glass back in his pocket, and leave. Trotsky said if that bottle was real 90-proof, then he was the real Trotsky. But King Shloimie didn’t get riled at Trotsky’s facetious jokes.

Even so, a nasty incident occurred because of the bottle with the green label in King Shloimie’s pants pocket – an incident which, on the one hand, gave Trotsky and Pilsudski a chance to show the world they were willing to put themselves in danger for their people, even risk their lives. But it also put an end to international harmony in Shloimie’s kingdom.

One day, things in King Shloimie’s palace were going as usual: the gang was sitting around long tables playing cards, chugging tea, eating good pastries, smoking cigarettes and filling the place with a cloud of smoke. Trotsky and Pilsudski came in then with someone else: a tall, broad-shouldered Russkie whose mutton-chop sideburns had inspired Trotsky to call him Franz Joseph. The name had stuck.

The three arrived in high spirits and sat down expansively at a table. Trotsky winked at King Shloimie and made the sign on his throat meaning he wanted to taste some liquor from the bottle with the green label. As was his custom, King Shloimie went over to the three friends, looked around furtively, and put a hand in his deep pants pocket.

Trotsky told King Shloimie he had it wrong. The little bottle in his pants pocket wouldn’t be enough for even one of the three, because today was really a fine day and they were up for some serious drinking. King Shloimie jokingly answered that “At my place, you’ll not lack for trouble any more than you will for liquor. Finish off one bottle and I’ll bring you another.”

That was fine with Trotsky. But he had another request: that King Shloimie make an exception today and put some 90-proof on their bill instead of the stuff he always served, which was hard to say what it was, since it was too watery to be alcohol and to alcoholic to be water. What they wanted could be pricey, Trotsky said, as long as it tasted like whiskey.

Pilsudski said the same thing. “It’s OK if it costs more, as long as it’s got some liquor in it, a little kick.”

As far as Franz Joseph was concerned, “Money nyet problem. Good vodka!”

King Shloimie deliberated for a while and told Trotsky that the liquor he usually served really was 90-proof. Trotsky’s luck, he said, should be as good as this Ninety. But he’d do even better – they could have Ninety-six. In the blink of an eye, the bottle of 96-proof was drained to the very bottom. Trotsky called King Shloimie over and told him to serve 500, since 96 might still be too weak. He also ordered fish with egg cookies, and the gang had a hearty meal. Meanwhile, vodka bottles were being drained as fast as King Shloimie could serve them. Maybe faster.

After the gang had gotten good and warmed up, Trotsky stood and made quite a speech.

“Listen up, lads, to what I, Trotsky, have to say. The difference between Jew and goy is nonsense, I tell you. The main thing is that a mentsch is a mentsch. And if someone’s not a mentsch, he can be a Jew or a goy, but he might as well be six feet under, fertilizing the potatoes while someone makes the blessing over him: Borey pri adome – Creator of the fruit of the vine. This lad, for instance” – Trotsky pointed to Franz Joseph – “he’s a goy. I wouldn’t trade him for ten Jews, even if they all took a bath in the mikveh. If it weren’t for him, Trotsky wouldn’t be sitting here at King Shloimie’s drinking 500-proof booze. C’mere, Franz Joseph, gimme a kiss.”

After Trotsky and Franz Joseph had exchanged a joyful smooch, Pilsudski stood up and delivered a short speech:

“I no got the mouth to spin out words like do our Trotsky, but I say this to all you: long life Franz Joseph!”

Franz Joseph was very moved by all the honor and praise showered upon him. For his part, he started praising the Jews and Jewish food. First of all, he said, the fish and egg cookies he was eating here at King Shloimie’s were so good, they had no equal in the whole world. And the liquor was even better. Where else could one get such good alcohol? Franz Joseph said all this in a mishmash of Russian and Yiddish. Actually he would have liked to speak only Yiddish since he was so overwhelmed with love for the Jewish people. But what could he do, since he didn’t know how?

After the speeches the gang started drinking again. King Shloimie even stopped looking around in his secret way and instead simply took empty bottles from the table and replaced them with full ones. Because of his great love for Franz Joseph, Trotsky filled his glass over and over. He had put away the little glasses and stuck to pouring into big tea glasses. And truly, Franz Joseph did Trotsky proud. He downed the glass Trotsky filled in one swig, and gratefully kept lauding Jews and everything related to Jews. For the hundredth time, he praised Jewish fish. For the thousandth he said that the liquor you got a Jew’s house, you couldn’t get anywhere else.

When Franz Joseph was good and happy he stopped using the few Yiddish words he had been throwing in up to now. Yiddish had become too much work, and he started speaking only Russian. Downing a glass of whiskey in one gulp, he licked his lips and again began praising the Jews. By the time this praise ended, Franz Joseph was so hot and bothered that he started praising Jewish women – how beautiful they are, how chaste. He talked and talked, until Trotsky made a face.

“Ah, Jewish women!” Franz Joseph drooled and his eyes lit up. “Ah, Jewish women. What sweet little creatures they are! You Jewish men sure don’t know what you’ve got there. Ah, back when I could do whatever I wanted with Jewish women! Ah! Those were the days!”

Franz Joseph’s babbling was a bit much for Trotsky, who shoved him in the shoulders with an open hand and told him to stop talking such garbage — right now! But Franz Joseph was so warmed up from the whiskey and the scene he was recalling that he couldn’t help himself.

“Ah, Jewish girls,” he said, and saliva ran down his mouth. “Such loveable creatures. They yank out your heart and soul, but they’re so stubborn. They see they’re under your thumb and you can do whatever you want with them, and they tear and scratch with their nails. Ah, sweet little Jewish girls.”

Franz Joseph kept talking.

“You Jews really don’t know how fine your girls are – you look outside your own group and won’t have anything to do with them. Ask me, I’ll tell you. There were times when I had ten of them in one day. More, even: I couldn’t get enough of them. C’mere, Trotsky, and I’ll tell you what. Just imagine you’ve got a Jewish girl. A pale one, frightened, with those big eyes. You’re hot for her but she’s stubborn. She won’t, she won’t. You get down on your knees and beg her. You’re getting hotter. She just stays stubborn. You fall on her and cover her everywhere with kisses. She writhes under you, with her fingernails in your face and your eyes. You twist her little hands real good and…Ah! Sweet little Jewish girl!”

Trotsky and Pilsudski were riveted to their seats, listening to Franz Joesph’s praise for Jewish women. Everyone in the card room heard his words, and their blood boiled. Franz Joseph kept talking.

“One, a real looker, a real doll – she won’t give in even when she’s lying crushed under your hands. She kicks with her footsies, she gets one hand free, makes a little fist and gives it to you in the eyes. That gets you even hotter. You get so hot for the Jewish girl that you can’t wait anymore. You take your hand and give her soft, slim neck a little squeeze. Her little hands fall. Her big eyes close. Her feet go limp. Ah!”

Franz Joseph might have kept talking, but Trotsky pushed him down, grabbed a bottle from the table, and with all his might used it to hit the Russkie on the head. Pilsudski copied Trotsky, and soon was screaming:

“Gang, we must avenge Jewish blood!”

As though a storm suddenly hit, chairs rained on Franz Joseph’s head from everywhere, and bruiser fists started coming down on him. Franz Joseph became terribly confused from the sudden blows, and he sobered up fast. He wanted to make sense of why the Jews were being so ungrateful. Before he had time to ponder the matter, he was lying on the ground with a bloody face and froth spewing from his mouth. Trotsky and Pilsudski exited the hostel. Then, one by one, everyone else had a go and left Franz Joseph on the ground, covered in blood.

After this incident, Franz Joseph was no longer a friend of the Jews. “The rest of the world’s got a point,” he said. “There’s a reason why people hate them.”

Trotsky’s liberal ideas grew weaker, too. Not to mention Pilsudski’s.