Yiddish – Page 5

Poet’s passion shines

From the moment I read Pat Johnson’s interview with Faith Jones prior to last year’s Limmud, I knew I wanted to read The Acrobat: Selected Poems of Celia Dropkin (Tebot Bach, 2014).

The title of the collection wasn’t mentioned but the topic was: “erotic Yiddish poetry.” Jones, who translated Dropkin’s work into English with Jennifer Kronovet and Samuel Solomon, gave an overview of the poet’s background, which is explained in more detail in The Acrobat. That Dropkin writes with and about such passion is notable given her life’s circumstances. Born in Belarus in 1887, she and her family had to rely on the charity of relatives after her father died. While difficult, it meant that she could receive an education, and she became a writer. In 1909, she married Shmaye Dropkin, a Bund activist whose political activities forced him to flee czarist Russia, and, in 1912, Dropkin (and their son) joined him in New York.

“There,” reads the Translators’ Note, “inspired by the foment of Yiddish culture she found, Dropkin shifted from writing in Russian to writing in Yiddish…. She became a part of the thriving Yiddish literary scene, publishing widely in Yiddish newspapers and literary journals. Yet, she was publicly criticized by her male contemporaries for the perceived extremity of her work. All this time, Dropkin raised five children; a sixth died in infancy. She occasionally wrote stories and novellas in serialization for money, especially during the Depression when her family needed the income. Although the bulk of her oeuvre dates from the 1920s and ’30s, Dropkin never stopped writing poems. She wrote almost until her death in 1956.”

The Acrobat is not a comprehensive collection, but rather, as Jones explained in an interview with Leah Falk at yivo.org, the translators “chose the ones that we thought we could make into good poems in English…. The poems, even some of her quite important poems, that we did not think we knew how to work with, or that lost something in the translation that we didn’t think would be regained, we didn’t keep…. We weren’t able to capture them in the way that we felt really did them justice.”

A page-facing translation – i.e. the Yiddish poem is on the page facing the English version – those who understand Yiddish can not only engage in discussions about a poem’s meanings, but its translation. For example, the title poem, which is generally translated as “The Circus Lady,” gives an idea of the complexity of language, and the different images that are conjured by words that basically mean the same thing.

Dropkin’s poems more than withstand the test of time. Eighty-plus years later, they retain their immediacy. As Edward Hirsch writes in the foreword, Dropkin’s “lyrics come fully loaded. They are erotically frank and emotionally unabashed, deeply engendered, relentlessly truthful. They are terse and musical, like songs, and carefully constructed to explode with maximum impact.”

More than a decade in the making, The Acrobat is, remarkably, the first collection of Dropkin’s work in English, and she could not have gotten a better group of translators. Their love of the poetry comes through, as does their skill. One could almost be forgiven for thinking that Dropkin wrote in English. The Acrobat is truly an inspiring – and sometimes challenging – read. But it is more than that.

In speaking to Johnson, Jones admitted another objective. “I would like people to think about re-envisioning our forbearers as people who were more like us,” she said. “We need to really explore the people in our past and, as a historian, this is what I hope for most: that people will explore the past, understanding that these people were not like us, but in other ways were very much like us.”

In this, she and her colleagues also succeed. This is your bubbe’s poetry, as much as it is yours. And, while thought may be a little unsettling, given some of the subject matter, it is also very cool.

***

He and She
by Celia Dropkin (from The Acrobat)

He is a branch;
she – the green leaves on the branch.
From him to her flows
dark power, thick fertile sap.
She shudders with each touch of wind,
whispers and laughs,
turns the silver
of delighted eyes.
He is simple, mute.
Autumn dyes her deep
colors. The cold wind cruelly
exiles her from the branch,
while he remains the same, simple,
robust, mute.

New book is first Jacob Dinezon work in English

Jacob Dinezon (1856-1919) was a Yiddish novelist and short-story writer, as famous during his lifetime as were his contemporaries, the three pillars of late-19th- and early-20th-century Yiddish literature, Mendele Mocher Sforim, Y.L. Peretz and Sholem Aleichem. All of these masters knew and were impressed with Dinezon’s work.

During his period of literary activity in the latter half of the 19th century, Dinezon at times even outshadowed the three founding fathers because his books touched thousands of readers and were more widely sold. In fact, one of his novels sold more than 200,000 copies, an unheard of success in Yiddish literature. Dinezon achieved fame at the age of 20 with the publication of his first novel and remained famous until the day he died. He was so well known and beloved that every major figure of Yiddish literature came to his funeral in 1919.

Even encyclopedias in English recognized him. The early 20th-century Jewish Encyclopedia lists Dinezon as an important Yiddish writer (like other classical Yiddish writers, he also established a reputation as a Hebrew author), praise that is echoed in the contemporary Encyclopedia Judaica.

Sometimes mazel plays a role in literary fame but, in Dinezon’s case, it seemed to express itself in income and not in posthumous regard. And now that the worldwide Yiddish-reading community is vanishing, a writer’s lot can be determined by translation, which can bring fame, and to discovery, which in turn can prompt translation. If a writer doesn’t find his translator/editor in another language, he suffers the misfortune of neglect, which is what happened with Dinezon. If you ask any knowledgeable reader familiar with Aleichem and other famous Yiddish writers if he has ever heard of Dinezon, the answer would probably be no.

Until now, we have not had any work by Dinezon in English. But this lacuna has been successfully filled with the wonderful book of 11 Dinezon stories, beautifully translated by Tina Lunson and edited by Scott Davis, who has also provided an illuminating introduction: Memories and Scenes: Shtetl, Childhood, Writers (Jewish Storyteller Press, 2014).

Dinezon was a social realist, accurately depicting small-town (shtetl) Jewish life. With a cinematic eye, he zeroes in on his characters, deftly telling fascinating stories while at the same time giving an accurate portrait of the mores, attitudes, speech and foibles of the men, women and children whom he depicts.

Like Dickens, Denizon wrote about the downtrodden and about poorly treated students in Hebrew schools with such realism that he actually brought about reforms. A cross section of Jewish society in Poland lives in his pages: the young and old, Chassidim and enlightened Jews, simple workingmen and rich householders. Every single one of his stories breathes with life and verisimilitude.

In this book of 11 stories, a collection published after Dinezon’s death in 1919, we have finely crafted tales – so in keeping with Jewish short-story writing at the turn of the 20th century – that recall vividly portrayed shtetl characters from Dinezon’s childhood years and memories of such literary figures as Mendele Mocher Sforim (Mendele the Bookseller, aka Sholem Abramovich), Peretz, and the playwright Avrom Goldfaden.

Dinezon also played an important historical role in the development of Yiddish as a literary language. In fact, he mentored, advised and befriended almost every major Jewish writer of his day. The list reads like a who’s who of late-19th- and early-20th-century modern Yiddish literature, including the writers mentioned above, as well as S. Ansky, David Frishman, Shimon Frug, Sholem Asch, David Pinski and Abraham Reisen.

In one of the superb stories, Mayer Yeke, we see how a boy’s great fear of the shtetl’s most righteous Jew, Mayer Yeke, turns to love and respect after he witnesses Mayer’s mitzvah assisting the town drunk. Sholem Yoyne Flask depicts a mild-mannered tailor transformed by the liquor in his flask into a fiery defender of the town’s poor folk – then something happens when a surprising discovery is made about his flask. With Motl Farber, Purimshpieler, we are introduced to a housepainter who languishes during the winter when he cannot work, but at Purim, he becomes the leader of a band of Purim players. When the troupe is arrested by the new Russian police chief, an unlikely “Esther” comes to their rescue.

A story that achieves the psychological depth of a Dostoevsky tale is Yosl Algebrenik and His Student. It tells the story of Yosl, an outstanding Talmud scholar, a genius some said, destined to become a great rabbi, who has a passion for mathematics. At age 30, for reasons no one remembers, he tosses away the Talmud and its commentaries for the study of algebra and algebraic logic. From then on, he spends all his time studying algebra, except for the few hours a week he devotes to tutoring children to eke out a living.

Another moving and profound story is called Borekh, after the name of the hero, a poor orphan living in the yeshivah. He doesn’t do well in talmudic studies but he has a talent for woodcarving, making dreidls, Purim groggers and toy animals for the children of the town. One day, he decides to leave the yeshivah and start anew, with hopes of making a great holy ark, “one that people have never seen before.” When he achieves that, he will send it to his friend in the yeshivah, who he knows will become a great scholar. He leaves without saying goodbye.

Some of Dinezon’s autobiographical sketches are as engaging as his fiction. In My First Work, he relates the childhood experience of reading his first Yiddish novel, a Jewish version of Robinson Crusoe. He is so taken by the book, he writes his own adventure story. In Sholem Yankev Abramovich, Dinezon tells how his debut novel, The Dark Young Man, was published and how he acquired his first copy in Moscow. At the same time, he learns that the Yiddish writer Mendele Mocher Sforim and the Hebrew author Sholem Abramovich are actually the same person.

It is not often that we are privileged to make a literary discovery of our own. With this book by Dinezon, the first in English, we happily encounter a master writer who deserves to be ranked with the great Yiddish writers whom he befriended and who admired him.

Curt Leviant’s most recent book is the short story collection Zix Zexy Ztories.

New York shows Marc Chagall

Seeing the Chagall show at the Jewish Museum in New York made me recall the year when Marc Chagall (1887-1985) was 90 and I decided it was high time that he, my favorite Jewish artist, and I meet. But first let me tell you about the current Chagall exhibit.

Until Feb. 2, lovers of Chagall’s works can see a fine selection of his paintings that were done between the early 1930s and 1948. Titled Love, War and Exile, the exhibit of 31 paintings, 22 works on paper and assorted photos and letters have been drawn from various public and private collections.

For me, Chagall was the ultimate Jewish artist of the 20th century. He combined artistic intelligence, vivid imagination, sensitivity to and awareness of Jewish history, and deep-rooted Jewish knowledge, based on his early education and the ambience of his Chassidic family in Vitebsk, Russia. Moreover, his knowledge of Yiddish and Yiddish lore expressed itself in many of his works.

Chagall’s colorful and fantastic paintings, with lovers in the air, suspended candelabras, a disembodied painter’s palette, roosters, flower-bedecked cows and snow-covered villages are seen in plenitude. In this show, there are also many crucifixion scenes, for Chagall saw the Jesus figure as representative of the martyrdom of the Jewish people during the 1940s. He himself, his beloved wife, Bella, who figures in so many of his paintings, and his daughter, Ida, were fortunate enough to escape from France and come to the United States in June 1941. The war in Europe was raging and it was just several months before the United States entered the battle in December 1941.

Chagall’s depictions of Jesus invariably have him wearing either a tallis or a tallis-like loincloth, thereby accenting his Jewishness. Although some viewers conclude that it is only during the l940s that Chagall began to paint Jesus on the cross, Chagall painted Jesus as early as 1908, when he was in his late twenties.

To understand Chagall’s works, especially those that are related to thoroughly Jewish themes, a deep understanding of the Yiddish language and Jewish culture are needed. Alas, even museums, which supposedly have knowledgeable staff, err in their interpretation because of ignorance.

To understand Chagall’s works, especially those that are related to thoroughly Jewish themes, a deep understanding of the Yiddish language and Jewish culture are needed. Alas, even museums, which supposedly have knowledgeable staff, err in their interpretation because of ignorance.

A classic example is his painting “Over Vitebsk” (not in this show), which depicts a village and its rooftops, and over the houses floats a bearded figure, with cap and cane, holding a stuffed sack. I remember visiting a museum once with my father, Yakov, and seeing this famous Chagall painting. The curator went to great lengths describing the scene. Reading this banal description, my father laughed and said, “They don’t understand this painting because they don’t know Yiddish and they don’t know Yiddish folk expressions. What Chagall is doing here is visualizing a Yiddish phrase: ‘geyen iber dee hizer’ – ‘going over the houses’ – an expression that actually means ‘going from house to house begging.’”

So, then, without a knowledge of Yiddish lore, Chagall’s brilliant rendering of this scene is misunderstood. What was mistaken as a typical Chagall “floating” scene is actually a rendering of a Jewish beggar going from house to house, as Jewish beggars did all over Eastern Europe, trying to collect food to put in their sacks.

In this show, too, we have one of Chagall’s crucifixion scenes in a shtetl, where there is a huge fire on the left side of the painting. The description on the little card says that it is a kind of crossing of the Red Sea. However, in reality, it is Chagall’s depiction of the Holocaust, a visual rendering of the Yiddish expression “mayn shteytl brent” – “my town is burning.”

I don’t know if the Jewish Museum’s administration is aware of the coincidence, but in the room that shows many of the artist’s crucifixion canvases there is a rather large cross-shaped blue sofa where visitors can sit and view the paintings.

One of the most fascinating parts of the show for me was the Yiddish letter that Chagall wrote to the mayor of Tel Aviv, accepting an invitation to visit. His calligraphy is clear and beautiful, showing the early schooling he had in writing the Hebrew letters, and his Yiddish is fluent and evocative. After all, he is a native Yiddish speaker. On view too is a letter to Hermann Struck, to whom Chagall writes that he hopes his visit will be beneficial to his art. Struck is identified merely as a “printer.” Missing from the description is the fact that Struck himself was a noted artist, who wrote a definitive book on etching. Moreover, Struck was a former teacher of Chagall.

Accompanying this show is a comprehensive catalogue, co-published by Yale University Press, entitled Chagall: Love, War and Exile. In addition to the paintings on view, the book also has many other related paintings, an English translation of some of Chagall’s Yiddish poems, and photographs. One particularly engaging photo is one of Chagall sitting in front of his painting of Bella, right next to Bella herself, who poses wearing a black dress with lace collar and holding a white lace fan.

Now I’ll return to getting to see Chagall in St-Paul-de-Vence, a small town not too far from Nice, in the Provence region of southern France. To see a very private artist, whose visitors were controlled by his managerial second wife, Vava, was not easy. For such an attempt one needs, as the Israeli expression has it: proteksia – or “pull.” I knew the then president of Hadassah, Miriam Freund, who had worked closely with Chagall when that organization commissioned Chagall to make the stained glass windows for the famous Hadassah Hospital synagogue in Jerusalem.

I explained my wish to Miriam, who gladly said she would try to be helpful. She gave me Chagall’s phone number and preceded it with a call to Chagall, telling him that an American writer would like to visit him. She told him that I knew Yiddish, and stemmed from a family whose origins were in Russia. And then she told him one more crucial fact that I had told her might clinch the acquiescence. I knew that Chagall’s first wife, Bella Rosenfeld, stemmed from a family named Levant, which was Bella’s mother’s maiden name. I asked Miriam to accent the fact that our family name, Leviant, might very well be connected to Bella’s family. Miriam also mentioned that I would be in Switzerland during the summer.

In short, Miriam was told that when I was in Europe I should call Chagall’s house. I couldn’t wait. Soon as I arrived in a little town in Switzerland, I dialed the number that Miriam had given me. A woman answered the phone, probably Chagall’s wife, Vava. I introduced myself, told her I had gotten the phone number from Miriam Freund of Hadassah, and hoped I could make the visit to see Chagall, since in a couple of weeks we would be in Nice, and would actually be in the town of St-Paul-de-Vence.

The reply was a very brief message in French: “The master [le maître] is not accepting visitors.”

And, so, that was the end of my Chagall adventure. In person, but not on museum walls.

The final irony of Chagall’s long and productive life is that the Jewish painter – who throughout his long life encapsulated Jewish themes, Jewish imagery, Jewish expressions and Jewish religiosity – was buried by his second wife, Vava (herself a Jew, from a noted Russian Jewish family), in the local Catholic cemetery in St-Paul-de-Vence.

Curt Leviant’s most recent book is the short-story collection Zix Zexy Ztories.