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Updated: May 9, 2025
"No, I won't if I gotta tell the conductor I'm under five. I ain't going." Sammy's father coughed with some embarrassment. "Sha!" said Feodor Mishkin, removing his attention from the bowl of fruit, "I see it takes more than naturalization papers to change a landsmann from Kremetchuk." And he fastened a humorous eye upon Sammy's father.
"But you see," he added, turning to Mishkin, "it ain't on account of wanting to have a minyon that my son has such high ideas." "Yes, it do interfere with their game," said Bill Cochran, the deputy sheriff from Tom Freeman's office. He cut himself a slice of chewing tobacco and glanced meditatively out of the window of the Dearborn Street bastile. Whereat he repeated with gentle emphasis, "It do."
My friend here I want to tell a story to is a journalist and he will understand I am no 'antishemite' if I explain how it is that you want your son Sammy to tell the conductor he is under five." Turning to me Mishkin grinned and proceeded. "The Jews, as you know, are great travelers," he said. "They have traveled more than all the other peoples put together.
Of course, the car was full of rabbis or at least holy men and they were as usual riding with their beards folded up under the seats. "So," smiled Mishkin, "the prayer continued and some of the passengers who were listening began to smile. You can imagine. But the three Jews paid no attention. They went on with the minyon. And now, listen, now comes the whole story You will laugh. But it is true.
This is a Hebrew word that means Evil Angel and it was the signal for nothing doing. "The story I remember is on a train going but of Kiev," said Mishkin. "Years ago it was. I was sitting in the train reading some Russian papers when I heard three old Jews talking. They had long white beards and there were marks on their foreheads from where they laid twillum.
When he saw this whole car full of passengers he hadn't seen before he stopped in surprise. And the finish of it was that they all had to pay their fare extra fare, too. "It is a nice story, don't you think, Hershela" Mishkin laughed.
"His name?" said Feodor Mishkin. "Hm! Always you want names. Is life a matter of names and addresses or is it something else?" "But the story would be better, Feodor, with names in it." The rotund and omniscient journalist from the west side muttered to himself in Russian. "Better!" he repeated. "And why better?
He would actually rather cut off his right hand than talk to a woman in public that he didn't know. This was because Rabbi Mishkin, my father, was a holy man. But he was not above asking a woman to spread out her skirts so that the inspector coming through the train couldn't see him under the seat. "Of course, you had to pay the conductors.
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