“What kind of job is that, giving nicknames?” Be thankful that he chose Tolstoy, you could have been given a name like Padatzur, Tselpakhad, Yona.”. “My name is Nerenberg,” said Shakespeare introducing himself. In Yiddish there are many, some in English. “There are a few Russian books, “ Shakespeare remembered “but very few, really only a couple. Tolstoy, astounded by Peskin’s manner didn’t even manage to smile at all and soon carried himself off to bed. Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Peskin looked each other over. Shakespeare, Mr Tolstoy wants a book, a Russian book. Here he comes.”Īnd by the time Shakespeare arrived, Peskin had chosen a name and made the introductions: “I myself even manage, thank God, without Turkish books. “Russian books?” He mulled over the request. This idea quickly entered his mind as he worked on finding him a suitable nickname. Peskin regarded Zibkov, listened to his Russian pronunciation, and decided that the guy was bluffing, he was not a Kiever. "Can you get Russian books here?" Zibkov asked in Russian. “What a question! I myself am from Moscow!” “ Konyetshno (of Course).” Zibkov replied, “But how.?”
“ Gavarite poh Rusku (Do you speak Russian)?” Peskin asked, pronouncing the words with an American-Yiddish accent. “Yes” Zibkov answered with pride, “I’m a Kiever.” Peskin was already a resident and knew that a newcomer doesn’t feel very festive so he went on with his questions, asking, “Where are you from?”Īnd learning that the newcomer came from Kiev, he wasn't shy about directly asking again, “Really from Kiev proper?” It seems though that Peskin didn’t realize how intelligent the newcomer was and in his usual manner came over to Zipkov, greeted him with a “ Sholem aleykhem,” and when he received a cold “ Aleykhem sholem” in return, didn’t give up.
After all, he came here to rest and get well.
He thought it not even particularly pleasant to find himself in such coarse company, but he consoled himself by thinking that he needn’t have much to do with them. On arrival in the hospital he looked around at his neighbors, and although he found them emaciated, scrawny, and pale faced, he saw not the slightest sign that they were cream of the crop, or refined or intelligent and decided unhappily that everyone here was a boor and he was the only intellectual. Zibkov, a young man of twenty-nine, warm and somewhat intelligent, had finished a second-class city district school, afterward read Verbitzky’s booklets and completed his studies in a shop where he served as senior sales clerk. Peskin renamed Zibkov “Tolstoy” following their acquaintance. When a new patient arrived in his section of the hospital it was his job to greet him with “ Sholem aleykhem,” size him up, say a few words and give him a suitable nick-name, like Posholtiel, Eliakim, Shakespeare, Shammai, Jonah, Gedaliah, and the name stuck so that the newcomer soon forgot his first and second name and when someone called out “ Posholtiel, Eliakim!.” he’d turn around knowing they were calling him. Peskin was a jokester, not much of a talker, and when he came up with a witticism, you had to laugh, although his specialty was giving nicknames. When the laughter ended, he would pepper the joke with a witticism and listen happily to the renewed laughter, while he himself remained quiet. But he himself did not laugh or even smile. Having delivered the joke, he’d listen with delight to their laughter. a Jew in his forties, tall, clumsy long hands and feet, an afflicted figure, sunken cheeks covered with beet-colored capillaries, seriously ill, forced to spend most of his time in bed, still made sure to make a joke at his own expense or that of his bedridden neighbors. Tolstoy - that’s the name Peskin gave him. "Tolstoys" tog-bukh - "Tolstoy's" JournalĪppears in Bleter faln (Fallen Leaves) (Los Angeles: 1926): 267-279.
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