“Do you know the difference between a shlemiel and a shlemazel, Efraim? The shlemiel spills his tea and it always lands on the shlemazel. That’s what they say. But in reality, behind this joke there is something mysterious and quite profound. The shlemiel and the shlemazel are both immortal. Hand in hand they wander from country to country, from century to century, from story to story. Like Cain and Abel. Like Jacob and Esau. Like Raskolnikov and Svidrigailov. Or like Rabin and Peres. Or perhaps even, who knows, like God and Nietzsche. And while we’re on the subject of trains, I’ll tell you a true story. Once upon a time the director of our state railways went to take part in an international meeting of railway chiefs. A kind of Konferenz. Now the Lord opened the mouth of the ass, and our buffoon talked and talked; he simply wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t get down from the podium. Until the American train chief had had enough. He raised his hand and asked our man, ‘With all due respect, excuse me, Mr. Cohen, but just how many miles of track do you have in your country that you talk so much?’ Nu, so our delegate doesn’t lose his presence of mind; with the assistance of the Almighty, Who grants discernment even to the simple rooster, he says: The length I don’t rightly remember, Mr. Smith, but the width is exactly the same as yours.’ By the way, I heard this story once told by a foolish fellow who got it wrong and said Russia instead of America. He spoiled the whole point of the story, because the Russian railways have a different gauge from ours; in fact, it’s different from the whole of the rest of the world. No reason; just to be different. Or else so that if Napoleon Bonaparte comes back and tries to invade them again, he won’t be able to take his wagons to Moscow. Where were we? Yes, the honeymoon couple. In fact, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t bestir yourself and wed some lovely lady. If you wish, I’ll be delighted to help by finding the lady et cetera. But do get moving, my dear: after all, you’re not a stripling anymore, and as for me, nu, any day now the fateful tocsin will sound and I shall be no more. Baruch Nomberg is dead, signed God. The amusing thing in the story of the honeymoon couple is not the bridegroom having to ask the guard for instructions on how to handle a bride. No, sir. It’s the association with punching tickets. Although, on second thought, tell me yourself; what’s so funny about it? Is there really anything to laugh at? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for chuckling? It is really sad, even heartbreaking. Most jokes are actually based on the improper pleasure that we derive from the misfortunes of others. Now why is that, Fimuchka? Perhaps you can kindly explain to me, since you yourself are a historian, a poet, a thinker, why is it that other people’s misfortunes make us feel good? Make us guffaw? Afford us this curious satisfaction? Man is a paradox, my dear. A very curious creature indeed. Exotic. He laughs when he ought to weep. He weeps when he ought to laugh. He lives without sense and he dies without desire. Frail man, his days are as the grass. Tell me, have you seen anything of Yael lately? No? And your little boy? You must remind me later on to tell you a marvelous story from Rabbi Elimelech of Lizensk, a parable of divorce and longing. He intended it to be a parable about the relationship between the community of Israel and the Divine Presence, but I have my own personal interpretation of it. But first of all tell me about your own life and doings. This is all wrong, Efraim: Here am I prattling on just like our dear railway chief, and you’re saying nothing. Like the story about the cantor on the desert island. I’ll tell you later. Don’t let me forget. There was this cantor who found himself cast away on a desert island during the High Holy Days; it shouldn’t happen to us! But there I go again, chatting away while you are silent. Say something. Tell me about Yael and that melancholy child. Just remind me to tell you afterward about the cantor: after all, in a way we’re all like cantors on a desert island, and in a sense all days are High Holy Days.”