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‘Think of Me With Joy’ | The Nation

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‘Think of Me With Joy’

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Billboard advertises Fiddler on the Roof in Warsaw, 1984

Poland’s first billboard advertises Jerzy Gruza’s production of Fiddler on the Roof in Warsaw, 1984

The Worlds of Sholem Aleichem
The Remarkable Life and Afterlife of the Man Who Created Tevye.
By Jeremy Dauber.
Buy this book

Wonder of Wonders
A Cultural History of “Fiddler on the Roof.”
By Alisa Solomon.
Buy this book

Deciphering the cultural significance of the writings of Sholem Aleichem (1859–1916) is akin to opening a set of Russian nesting dolls: inside one set of meanings invariably lies another. The puzzle begins with the author’s name. Meaning both “How do you do?” and “Peace be unto you” in Yiddish, Sholem Aleichem was the pen name adopted by Sholem Rabinovich, the scion of a Ukrainian merchant. Fluent in Russian and Hebrew, he would leave his mark as a leader of the fin de siècle Yiddish literary revival. He married into money, lost it, then struggled financially despite his international renown as a short-story writer and novelist. As a playwright, he was mostly a failure, scorned by New York’s thriving Yiddish theater. The irony is that today he is most widely remembered for the adaptation of his Tevye stories into Fiddler on the Roof, with its sentimental, tragicomic view of Eastern European shtetl life.

Exploring the shifts in Sholem Aleichem’s reception, creative output and roller-coaster fortunes is a dizzying pursuit. Tracing the various cultural representations of just one of his characters—the loquacious, Old Testament–quoting milkman, caught between traditional imperatives and the modern world—is not much simpler. In both cases, the investigation necessarily ricochets between past and present, Europe and America, the tragedy of the pogroms and the greater tragedy of the Holocaust.

Two new books, complementary in their aims and conclusions, manage these daunting tasks with aplomb, even if they’re nowhere near as much fun as reading the writer himself. In The Worlds of Sholem Aleichem, Jeremy Dauber, professor of Yiddish literature at Columbia University, offers a sometimes irreverent—but also deeply serious—literary biography that attempts to channel his subject’s antic spirit. Episodic in feel, it is most effective as a work of criticism that identifies Sholem Aleichem’s affinities with literary modernism and postmodernism—a perspective that undermines the popular notion of his work as sophisticated folklore. 

Dauber also conveys a congenial picture of the man himself: devoted to his family, alternately competitive and collaborative with other writers, a committed wanderer perennially in search of cash and recognition. Without lapsing into long-winded historical digressions, he situates Sholem Aleichem in a sociocultural context that included violent Russian anti-Semitism, European war and the alluring but fragmentary promise of America. In his final pages, Dauber takes on what he calls Sholem Aleichem’s “afterlife,” including the development of Fiddler on the Roof, the focus of Alisa Solomon’s Wonder of Wonders

Solomon begins with a thumbnail sketch of Sholem Aleichem’s frayed relationship with the American Yiddish stage, as well as the success of Tevye der Milkhiker, an early play based on his Tevye stories. She finds her footing with the wonderfully gossipy creation tale of the long-running Broadway musical, a labor of love plagued by animosity between its temperamental director-choreographer and its rebellious star. She concludes with reporting on select instances of Fiddler’s staging and reception around the world, attesting to the show’s continuing power and relevance. 

Dauber’s biography, involving close analysis of individual works, has the salutary effect of sending the reader back to the originals. For those of us not literate in Yiddish, that means English-language translations that struggle to capture Sholem Aleichem’s signature humor and wordplay. In The Old Country, the first English-language collection of his stories, Frances Butwin (co-translator with her husband, Julius) addresses some of the challenges of the translator’s art: “Often what was entirely right and simple and flavorsome in Yiddish completely missed fire when translated literally.” In the case of Tevye, she adds, “some of the pungency and flavor of this most delightful and most completely realized of all of Sholom Aleichem’s characters was lost in translation.”

Both the title, The Old Country¸ and the publication date, 1946, are nonetheless resonant, evoking a world not just forsaken but destroyed. To postwar American Jews with only a Jungian collective memory of the shtetl, Sholem Aleichem signifies as the chronicler of all that fell victim not just to modernity and assimilation, the Cossacks and compulsory military service, emigration and escape, but to the Nazis and (in Ukraine) their murderously efficient Einsatzgruppen. Both Dauber and Solomon cite Ben Hecht’s review in The New York Times to this effect: “It is the epitaph of a vanished world and an almost vanished people,” Hecht wrote of The Old Country.

As Dauber notes, associating Sholem Aleichem with the ravages of the Holocaust is an entirely anachronistic reading of stories written in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. But Sholem Aleichem did witness the pogroms that served as both symbol and warning of worse to come. Seeing his work through this prism is in part a reverential act by second- and third-generation American Jews, who may be unable even to name the cities or towns abandoned by their émigré forebears. (I know the precise geographic origins of only one of my four grandparents, and even that was a recent discovery.) 

Some of the symbols Sholem Aleichem used, and that Fiddler on the Roof emblazoned in popular consciousness, serve as reminders of the links between the Old World and the New. The tailor Motel Kamzoil’s beloved sewing machine evolved into the garment industry of the Lower East Side, where my paternal grandfather worked as a dressmaker. Tevye’s itinerant dairy business had its mid-twentieth-century equivalent in my maternal grandparents’ Brighton Beach appetizing store, renowned for its smoked fish. “That store,” my cousin Bernie once told me enviously, “was a gold mine.” He might have been mimicking a character in a Sholem Aleichem story. 

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