I was drowning in shame and humiliation. Couldn’t there be another way to get married?
Sometimes it worked. They got $18, or even $180. It was all a matter of finding favor, a click. But there it was again, the language. It seemed like in these parts at least, Yiddish played a crucial role. Now, I know you don’t have to be a Yiddish speaker to be a successful schnorrer, but these were the people I was directed to. I wasn’t in Lakewood or Flatbush or Baltimore — I was in a very chassidish milieu, and I’d just have to make the best of it.
My turn came. “Vus vatzeilt a Yid? (What does a Yid have to tell me?)”
My Yiddish isn’t so good; I answered in Hebrew. “I’m a chassan who needs to marry himself off. The wedding is in two months and I’d be very happy if you could help me.”
I’m no fool, and I saw the face of the Hungarian gvir suddenly fall as soon as I started to speak Hebrew. There was no missing it.
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